David Feintuch: The Still

“Imps take his grandfather, anyway.” I kicked at a pillow.

It was ancient history. First came Varon of the Steppe, who wrested Caledon and Eiber from Cayil of the Surk, and held them as fiefdoms. The son of his second marriage was Rouel, grandfather of Tantroth, the Duke of Eiber. But Varon’s son by his first marriage was Tryon, my mother’s father.

On Varon’s death the Steppe collapsed, overrun by the fierce Norlanders. Tryon seized Caledon, the most prosperous province, and was able to hold it even without benefit of the Still. His half brother Rouel, who seized Eiber, claimed Caledon was his by will of their father.

Over a generation’s time the Seven Wars decided the issue in our favor. After Tryon died, Mother was able to wield the Still, which balanced Eiber’s Cleave that sundered friends and allies. Now, the descendants of Rouel were the Nordukes, who held Eiber, in theory, as a vassalage of Caledon.

“Curse them all you wish,” said Rust. “It won’t help Elena hold the realm.”

“If only she had the …” My voice trailed off.

We almost never spoke of the Power.

“Yes, it would help.” A quick grin. “But then you wouldn’t be among us.”

A soft knock at the door forestalled my reply. “It’s me, Sir Rustin. I had time before supper.” The door opened; a pretty little wench with russet hair peered in, hands twisting at her apron. “I’m so sorry! I–I mean-forgive me!” She glanced round in confusion, curtsied, and fled.

I growled, “What was that all about?”

Rustin shrugged. “Chela. She helps in the kitchen.” Under my gaze his cheeks reddened.

“Why would she-oh!”

His words came in a rush. “She’s just-we’re not particularly …”

“It’s nothing to me,” I said, fighting for composure. “You’re grown.” Casually, I stood. “Well, I have business to attend. See you another day.” I escaped to the stairs, rushed out to the stable.

By the time I’d unknotted Ebon’s bridle, Rust had caught up to me. “I’m sorry she burst in.” His hand fell on my arm. “Wait.”

I shook him off. My voice was tight. “Another time.” I flung up a leg.

He caught me before I could mount. Ebon whinnied in alarm. “I’m sorry, Rodrigo. It must be hard for you, never having-”

I swung a knotted fist, and knocked him to the straw-scattered floor.

Rust lay on the planking, half-dazed.

“Don’t speak of it,” I said. “Ever.”

Hard for me? He couldn’t possibly imagine.

I was near sixteen, sported a faint moustache, tall almost as a man. The castle servants, young visiting cousins, my town companions, and, for all I knew, my little brother, rutted like stallions, while I writhed alone in the damp sheets of my chamber.

I could not lie with a woman.

“Roddy, I-”

I howled, “Shut thy mouth!” I clutched at Ebon.

Not that I was physically unable. Were I impotent, I’d be spared the frenzies of desire, the sticky sheets, the unbearable humiliation. But I must withhold my yearning.

Prince Rodrigo, heir presumptive to the throne of Caledon, must remain a virgin.

Else he could not wield the Still.

My vision blurred, I clawed blindly for the saddle. A sob. My own. I swung up my leg to mount.

A lithe form hurtled across the floor, hauled me from my steed, toppled me to the dung-specked straw. We rolled and thrashed. I pummeled Rustin’s arms, his chest, his face, until at last he pinned me helpless under his legs. “You’ll listen,” he grated. “As we are friends, by the Lord you will listen!”

“Get off! I’ll have your life!” I bucked and kicked. “Mother will-”

“Oh, stop your nonsense!” His palm lashed out in a slap that spun my head and rang against the rafters.

I squawked. “It’s treason to lay hand on-” I faltered, as he raised his hand again.

“Stop your foolery! Think you Elena Queen of Caledon cares if two youngsires tussle in the hay, as we have for years? Fah!” He flung a loose tuft of straw at my face. I blinked, unhurt. Rustin rolled to one side, releasing me. “Roddy, I’ve known for years how miserable your need makes you. Never do you speak of-”

I aimed a kick at his side, which he avoided by a dexterous twist. Again, he swarmed atop me, pinning my shoulders. His strong fingers seized my jaw, held it still. “You’ll listen, or I’ll stuff this hay down your throat!” He snatched up a handful, waved it in my face. “By the Lord of Nature, I will have my say!” His eyes blazed.

I sobbed in frustration, but knew better than to try to break free. When Rustin’s temper was well and truly ignited, he was a formidable adversary. After a time, I lay quiet. “Have your way.”

“Your word, that we will not fight, and you will hear me.

I had no choice. I nodded. He rolled aside, helped me to my feet.

“We’ve horse dung all over us.” He wiped his knees. “Let’s wash and change. Then we’ll talk.”

I followed him to the well, where we poured icy water on our leggings and shirts, until the worst of the mess was rinsed. Then, soggy and shivering, we ran up the stairs to his chamber and shucked off our soaking clothes outside his door for a servant to gather.

Inside, naked as I, he tossed me a towel and pawed through a trunk while I dried myself. He found clothes for himself, and dug to the bottom of the chest for his discarded, smaller garments. “These will do for now.”

I stole a glance at his parts while we dressed. Rustin had always been bigger than I. Hair adorned his chest, while I had none.

He sat me in a chair, pulled up another across. “I was four, when first I remember my father taking me to the castle. Even from the safety of his shoulder, it seemed immense, except for you, on your stool at Elena’s skirts. Then, you were barely two. We’ve been friends ever since. Why hide your grief from me?”

“Rustin, I beg you, don’t.” A wave of shame.

“Aye, I’ll do the talking; you promised to listen, not to speak. You think I haven’t seen how hard it was for you? When you were twelve, and your cousin Bayard began to moon over Lady Agora, speaking of her without cease until we wanted to plug our ears, I saw your expression for the first time. You stopped playing with Bayard then, and haven’t spoken to him since.”

I shifted, tried to look as if he talked of things that mattered not.

He studied me, gauged his words. “As each of our friends found a girl’s company, you withdrew from him because you couldn’t do likewise. I was the only one you didn’t abandon.”

I yearned to shut my ears, but I could not. I’d given my word.

“Surely you know Chela wasn’t my first. I’m sorry she came to my room. I’ve tried not to rub it in your face that I could satisfy myself, while you are barred.”

“I beg you, Rustin-”

“Speak of it! Before it destroys you!”

Frightened, I drew back. Rustin hunched forward in his oaken chair, eyes locked to mine. The silence lengthened. I waited for him to urge me further, but he did not.

An eon passed.

Abruptly my words gushed forth in a torrent, as if spring floods had broken a decrepit dam. “I’m more than a boy, though everyone treats me as one. Mother threatens a strapping, and even old Griswold considers me a child. But I have a man’s feelings, and a man’s”-my voice quavered-“needs. Even horses do it in the pasture. Why should I, of all the kingdom, be the only one denied?”

“For the-”

“I know. The Still. The precious force of Caledon. Someday I’ll wield our Power, if I haven’t sullied myself first.” I hesitated; this was as much as ever we’d spoken of things sacred and arcane. “And from all I hear, I’ll need the Power. Our line is not so secure after two generations that rivals won’t rise.”