DOUBTS

@Copyright Maureen Lycaon, May 2001. This story may be 
distributed freely via electronic means, provided no 
money or other consideration is charged and that the 
story remains intact as posted, including these notes 
and the headers. You may also print out a hard copy 
for personal use. All other rights reserved under the 
Berne Convention. Charging viewers for access to this 
file is *expressly forbidden*.

WARNING: Besides homosexuality, dominance and 
submission, this story includes sickeningly positive 
romantic and bucolic themes and imagery . . . not to 
mention a piece of fuzzy woolen yarn. If you shouldn't 
be reading this, don't.

MANDATORY DISCLAIMER: This story portrays a 
relationship between an apprentice magician, 18 years 
of age, and his teacher, a much older mage. It's a 
fantasy, but fantasy is a poor guide for real life. In 
reality, such a great difference in power always leads 
to its being abused. But this is *my* fantasy, and 
Mazruar can be as incorruptible, wise and trustworthy 
as I want him to be.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is an origin story for Palin, the 
apprentice mage who also appears in "Shamelessness" 
and "Palin's First Flogging".

Yes, the arjin trees are based on sequoias, but they 
are not the exact same species. They have no 
counterparts in the so-called real world.

I live for feedback. Send it to maureen_lcn@yahoo.com. 
You can read more of my stuff at:

http://velar.ctrl-
c.liu.se/vcl/Authors/Maureen/Web/index.html
(note the new URL!)

My thanks once again to Ron, whose critiquing was 
invaluable.


Doubts

By Maureen Lycaon


   A glowing ball of golden magelight illuminated the 
large stone-lined chamber, revealing the two men 
within. They sat cross-legged on the floor within 
touching distance of each other, side by side -- one 
very young, the other older. Both wore the robes of 
mages.
   The older man's dark hair was shot through with 
streaks of silver; his strong features were marked 
with the lines of early middle age. His robe was the 
deep, rich blue of a Thirteenth-Level Adept. 
   The younger man's glorious blond mane flowed over 
the white robe of the beginning apprentice, showing he 
had not yet even attained the First Level. Though his 
body was hidden under the robe, his clean-shaven face 
was as fine-boned and beautiful as a skilled 
sculptor's vision of youthful perfection.
   The dark-haired mage watched his student intently.
   On the surface, there seemed nothing for him to 
see: the blond apprentice's eyes were closed, his 
handsome face relaxed in trance. But like any Adept, 
Mazruar had senses other than his eyes, and he was 
using them now.
   At the moment, Palin was unaware of that gaze. He 
was unaware of anything outside his mind and the flow 
of living magic as he strove to build the protective 
shield around himself.
   To accomplish this, it was necessary to quiet the 
mind, to suppress the stray, fleeting thoughts and 
emotions that inevitably sprang up when one tried to 
concentrate.
   It had been impossible to do at first, but he had 
been practicing for four months and was now proficient 
at the task.
   In fact, Mazruar mused as he watched, the 
apprentice was shielding with a skill one normally saw 
in a student with eight months of training.
   The air around Palin shimmered. At first it was as 
vague and evanescent as something glimpsed out of the 
corner of one's eye. As the moments passed it took on 
more substance, becoming an iridescent sphere that was 
sunk halfway into the floor, transparent but shining 
whitely at the edges, enclosing Palin.
   The protective shield wavered, at last grew solid 
and stable.
   Palin stirred, and opened his eyes. Then he turned 
his head to look at his teacher. The shield remained 
firmly in place without so much as a flicker.
   Mazruar nodded once to show his approval, smiling. 
"Well done, student."
   The young apprentice did not smile, but his blue 
eyes shone with pride.
   The older wizard allowed him to enjoy his sense of 
accomplishment for several moments, then said, 
"Dismiss it now."
   Dismissing the shield was much easier than creating 
it. Palin spoke the formal words of dismissal, then 
directed the power back into the ground to disperse 
harmlessly. The iridescent sphere wavered again, then 
seemed not so much to collapse as to flow downward, 
vanishing into the slate floor.
   "Excellent," Mazruar said. "Now, bring yourself 
back, and close."
   Palin closed his eyes, lips moving in the ritual 
incantation that helped him emerge from his trance. 
When he was finished, he sat quietly, eyes open again.
   "The lesson is over," Mazruar told him, and began 
to get up slowly. So did Palin, stretching to get rid 
of the stiffness that came from sitting so long 
without movement.
   When he stood up, it was easier to see the 
astonishing sky-blue of his eyes, eyes that still held 
most of the clear innocence of youth. He turned to 
look at his mentor again.
   The older mage smiled, his gray eyes now showing 
affection and approval. "You did very well, Palin."
   "Thank you, Honored Teacher." Palin bowed slightly.
   "Would you like to join me in the rose garden, once 
we've changed clothes?" Mazruar asked. "We can talk, 
or merely be together."
   Palin smiled a warm, joyful smile. "Yes, gladly."
   Mazruar opened the heavy oak door for them, calling 
the magelight after him so that it bobbed along in 
their wake like some otherworldly dog. They departed 
the workroom into the small room beyond. Brass hooks 
on the wall awaited their robes; their regular clothes 
lay on the wooden benches where they had left them.
   The two stripped without embarrassment and began to 
put on their regular clothing. Those who had little 
contact with mages often thought of them as always 
wearing the flowing robes of their profession. In 
fact, Mazruar preferred trousers and a shirt or tunic 
when he was not in the workroom or in formal company, 
as indeed did most mages.
   When they had both finished, the master wizard 
dismissed the magelight entirely, and Palin followed 
him out of the room.


   Morning's soft light flooded the garden.
   Mazruar's rose garden was like a little kingdom 
unto itself. Almost as large as his Great Hall, it 
held enough room for dozens of rose bushes. The walls 
were plastered and painted a soft pale tan; half again 
as high as a man, they afforded privacy without giving 
the visitor a claustrophobic feeling.
   The Adept and his apprentice sat on the big wrought 
iron and wood bench in the center of the garden, 
surrounded by the roses.
   To the unaided eye, Mazruar appeared middle-aged: 
his once-black hair was silvering, and there were 
wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and laugh lines 
beginning to form around his mouth, but they were not 
the deep fissures of old age. Like all accomplished 
mages, he knew the secrets of prolonging his life; and 
like most, he chose to use them. He was in fact one 
hundred and fifty-three years old.
   He was turned sideways to face his pupil, gazing 
with more affection than might seem warranted for a 
mere apprentice.
   "Are you happy you came to my hold?" he asked, 
smiling in the manner of one who already knows the 
answer.
   An answering smile touched Palin's lips as he gazed 
back at his mentor, his eyes soft. "Yes, I am," he 
answered, no longer using the honorific.
   "I know it has been difficult for you," and 
Mazruar's face turned serious. "You have had to 
unlearn so much you thought fixed and certain, haven't 
you? I can only hope in the end you find it 
worthwhile."
   Palin's expression turned grave, reflective.
   "Yes . . . Yes, it has been. And it's been worth 
it."
   Mazruar nodded with equal seriousness. "Good, 
beloved. I am glad for you."
   Then he reached up and stroked Palin's golden hair 
with one hand, and there was no mistaking the 
tenderness of the gesture.
   The young man responded by leaning forward to get 
closer, lifting his own arms, and then they were in a 
lover's embrace on the bench, the sun casting golden 
light over them as they kissed.
   Once, Palin would have dreaded the servants seeing 
them thus and gossiping about it, of the talk reaching 
the ears of his family. He no longer feared that; he 
knew better now. Mazruar's servants never gossiped 
about the doings of their master; they had been chosen 
for, among other things, their ability to hold their 
tongues when speaking to others. Word of what went on 
within the walls of the hold never left it.
   So he opened his mouth unashamedly for his lover 
and teacher, and they kissed and held each other for 
long, uncounted moments on the bench, Mazruar's gentle 
hands slipping softly up and down his body through the 
fabric of his shirt.
   "Shall we go to my bedchamber?" Mazruar murmured in 
his ear. "Would you like that?"
   Palin's arms tightened around him. "Yes, I would."


   As they walked down the corridor, a memory came to 
Palin of the first time he had lain with Mazruar.
   They'd been sitting in the garden, just as they had 
this morning, talking about inconsequential things as 
they often did. After a time the talk had dwindled and 
they had simply sat side by side on the bench, 
enjoying each other's company.
   Mazruar had leaned against the back of the bench, 
eyes half-closed, seeming to lose himself in the 
pleasant warmth and the sweet scents of the roses. 
They were his pride and joy, the roses; he had more 
than a dozen kinds growing there and could distinguish 
each one by its aroma alone, or so he said.
   Palin had looked at him and screwed up his courage.
   "Honored Teacher?"
   Mazruar's eyes had opened slightly. "Yes?"
   "I know" -- his tongue had stumbled slightly -- 
"the mages see no wrong in a man lying with another 
man, that you yourself do so."
   Mazruar had nodded almost absently. "Yes."
   "Might a student lie with his teacher?"
   Mazruar had opened his eyes fully and turned to 
look at him, his face expressionless. "Yes, that 
sometimes happens. What causes you to ask that 
question?"
   "Because -- because I wish to lie with you." And 
how he'd blushed, feeling his face grow hot . . .
   Warmth had come into the older mage's eyes then, 
and he'd smiled. "And how long have you so wished?"
   "I think . . . since the first month I came here. 
Since we first melded minds together."
   "I have wanted you as well, Palin," Mazruar had 
replied, his voice as gentle as his eyes. "I'm sure 
you have been told you are beautiful. But I remained 
silent, because I did not wish to take anything from 
you that was not freely offered. Are you offering 
yourself to me, now? Is this truly your wish?"
   "Yes!" Palin put all his certainty and his longing 
into that reply.
   "Then ask me. Ask me, right now -- not as Honored 
Teacher, but using my name."
   Palin had blushed again, but managed to find his 
tongue.
   "Mazruar, please -- make love to me. Lie with me."


   He had yet to regret that request, in the months 
since as desire had turned into something more. He 
hoped and prayed that he never would.
   He walked side by side with Mazruar into the great 
bedchamber. Magelights weren't practical to use 
constantly and everywhere, because each one was a 
continual drain upon its creator's power. Instead, the 
Adept made a single, simple hand gesture that lit the 
candles in their black iron sconces on the walls. In 
their soft golden light, the room lay revealed.
   The plaster walls on three sides had been painted a 
soft pale golden yellow. The fourth wall, to the right 
of the doorway, was covered by a fresco depicting a 
small rustic shrine in a sunlit meadow surrounded by 
the trees of a great forest. The shrine was of the 
type that rural peasants often set up to honor any and 
all of the gods. Mazruar had had the fresco painted 
after the bedroom was built, by an artist reckoned to 
be one of the finest masters of the craft, more than a 
hundred years ago.
   Thick woven carpets from the province of Rudistha 
covered the wooden boards of the floor.
   The wavering light revealed two wooden cabinets, 
one large and one small, a solidly-built chair with 
accompanying footstool, a well-stocked bookcase, a 
nightstand, and Mazruar's magnificent bed with its 
sapphire-blue quilt of luxurious silk.
   A small fireplace offered warmth during the winter, 
but now it was summer and the hearth was unlit.
   There was one curious piece of furniture standing 
against one wall: a little thigh-high wooden dais with 
three steps leading up to the top, which was covered 
with soft, padded brown leather much like that of a 
chair.
   Mazruar had yet to explain its purpose to him. 
"When you are ready to learn, I will show it to you," 
he'd once said, with a mysterious smile.
   Now, as he quietly closed the door, the master mage 
spoke.
   "I would like us to do something new this time, 
Palin."
   Palin, already reaching for the thin leather cord 
closing the top of his shirt, turned around.
   Mazruar was smiling that subtle, warm, confiding 
smile of his. "Are you willing?" he asked.
   He couldn't help but smile in return. "Yes. I think 
so."
   "I will direct how you remove your clothes. I will 
tell you to take them off piece by piece, but I am 
going to remain dressed for now. Will you do that?"
   That gentle face held his gaze, stilling any 
questions that might have come to his lips. There was 
never any doubt; he would obey his lover's wish.
   "Yes. I will."
   Mazruar nodded. "Remove your shirt, and lay it on 
the chair."
   He obeyed, untying the cord and carefully pulling 
the shirt up over his head and off, then laying it on 
the chair. Already he felt his nipples stiffening, 
knowing they were exposed to his lover's view.
   "Take off your shoes."
   As so often happened, he felt silly for a few 
moments as he bent over to struggle with them. But he 
got them off and laid them on the floor by the chair.
   "Now, take off your breeches."
   The last barrier. He found himself pulling them 
down slowly, almost reluctantly -- not out of fear or 
shame but because he wanted to take time to feel 
himself doing this. This time would be different 
somehow, he sensed. He didn't know how, but he knew 
that it would be important.
   When he was finished, he stood naked and revealed 
before his still-clothed lover, unable to put a name 
to the mingling of emotions he felt.
   Mazruar smiled again, a warm, approving smile, the 
way he did when Palin did some small thing precisely 
right in the workroom. He opened his arms invitingly.
   "Come to me, beloved."
   And he gladly obeyed that order as well, melting 
into his lover's embrace.
   He was naked, yet Mazruar had not even taken off 
his tunic. Something about that felt very vulnerable, 
almost embarrassing, as the older mage took him into 
his arms . . . and yet it felt good, even wonderful, 
as if he were more naked than naked to this man. The 
soft cloth of Mazruar's tunic pressed against his bare 
skin, warm with the heat of his lover's flesh. He 
wanted to open himself and his body to him still more, 
in a way he didn't yet understand.
   Mazruar gently pushed him away a little, then 
looked deeply into his eyes. The mage's face was a 
study in tenderness; then a glimmer of humor showed in 
his own gray eyes, as if he were about to reveal a 
pleasant secret.
   "Palin," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. 
"Let me show you something."
   Palin's own voice dropped to the same half-whisper. 
"Show me."
   Mazruar's hands were on his shoulders now, pressing 
down gently.
   "Kneel now." At his slight surprise and hesitation, 
"Go ahead, try it. See how it feels."
   Slowly, carefully, uncertainly, Palin knelt on the 
thickly carpeted floor, feeling knubbled wool pressing 
into the bare skin of his knees. Now he had to crane 
his neck to look into Mazruar's face.
   The older man's expression had changed from 
confiding to serious. *He is going to question me*, 
Palin thought. He felt his own soul go quiet, 
focusing.
   Mazruar's hands had left his shoulders when he 
knelt. Now his right hand slipped under Palin's chin, 
gently holding his head up. Mazruar, the entire room, 
seemed lit by that warm golden glow that Palin had 
felt when they'd embraced and kissed in the garden.
   And he became aware of a growing warmth in his 
organ.
   He was so utterly sensitive, so attuned to 
Mazruar's every sound and touch, that the mage's voice 
sent a shiver through him that was almost a shock.
   "What do you feel, Palin?"
   Kneeling nude before his lover . . . such a 
subservient, vulnerable position. He took a deep 
breath.
   "I feel -- naked." The older man's expression did 
not change, and Palin thought for a few moments. "Very 
naked. And as if -- as if I want to -- to submit to 
whatever you command. I want you to tell me to do 
something more . . . so I can obey." Suddenly, "I want 
you to touch me. As if you'd be touching my soul."
   Now Mazruar's eyes were filled with warm approval, 
and a smile was forming on his lips. Palin had 
scarcely time to wonder *Does my answer please him 
so?* before his lover had bent down and was holding 
his head tenderly in his hands, kissing his lips 
softly but fervently.
   What the apprentice felt then couldn't be described 
as a shock; it wasn't painful. It was more like an 
orgasm of the soul, a feeling that would have brought 
a lump to his throat and tears to his eyes, except 
that it was so all-encompassing, so profound that it 
moved him beyond even that. As Mazruar himself went 
down on one knee and embraced and kissed him, his own 
arms reached up to return the embrace. He turned his 
face into the older man's neck, murmuring things that 
made no sense but which expressed his willingness to 
give the mage his very life and soul, if he wished it.
   When the welling feeling of love and closeness had 
subsided a little, Mazruar released him and stood up, 
still smiling.
   "Well, then . . . let me show you more," and the 
apprentice nodded eagerly. "First you must get up, to 
your feet."
   Palin obeyed him, standing up so that he was once 
again almost eye to eye with his lover. Mazruar 
slipped an arm around his shoulders, turning, guiding 
him -- toward that mysterious little dais.
   He walked over to it, Mazruar beside him. At the 
older mage's silent tactile urging, he mounted it and 
stood on that padded leather top, so that now he was 
looking down at him.
   Mazruar's hands reached up to once again press 
gently on his shoulders. Once again Palin slowly 
slipped to his knees, onto the padded surface of the 
dais.
   Now his head was at the level of the older man's 
shoulders. Mazruar's arms slipped around his torso, 
and he eagerly returned the embrace, laying his head 
on the older mage's shoulder.
   Something Palin could only describe as peace welled 
up in his soul. He closed his eyes, immersed in bliss.
   He could not remember ever feeling this happy and 
content.
   For a long time Mazruar simply held him as he knelt 
there, occasionally softly kissing his head or the 
back of his neck, stroking his shoulders and long 
golden hair. Palin leaned against him, wishing he 
could purr like a cat.
   Those beloved arms slipped from him, releasing him 
slowly so that he would not feel the end of the 
embrace as an unpleasant shock. He lowered his own 
arms to his sides, accepting the parting. Mazruar drew 
away slightly and looked down at him, smiling, 
affection shining from his eyes.
   "Wait, my love."
   He turned and walked away, to fetch the footstool. 
Returning, he set it down before the dais. Then he sat 
down upon it, facing Palin, now looking up at him.
   And then he reached toward the golden-haired 
apprentice again: not to embrace, this time, but to 
touch, to fondle him.
   Those knowing hands slipped over Palin's skin, 
caressing every place that could bring him joy. 
Gently, possessively holding his chin for a moment, 
then caressing his shoulders and arms, palms running 
down his flanks, stroking his belly, fingertips 
teasing his nipples to make them stiffen still more. 
At this last, Palin arched his back with delight, 
resting his hands on his hips.
   Now he understood the purpose of the little dais. 
It was meant for a man to kneel upon, so that another 
could stand or sit before him and easily and 
comfortably touch him anywhere as he knelt.
   He felt his organ respond, swelling, growing 
firmer. Mazruar glanced down at it and chuckled in 
approving pleasure.
   "Would you like me to touch that?" he asked.
   "Yes, please!"
   "Offer it to me, then. Not with words, but with 
your body."
   It took Palin a moment to understand his meaning, 
but when he did he obeyed gladly. He thrust his hips 
forward, pushing his manhood into Mazruar's 
outstretched hands.
   The older man's smile lingered as he began to 
caress that sensitive flesh with knowing fingers, 
gently stroking, slowly running his hands up and down 
its length, giving Palin still more joy as it 
stiffened to full hardness. The blond apprentice 
rocked his hips in response, closing his eyes as the 
ecstasy seemed to fill his very soul.
   Something strange was happening. Normally he would 
have wanted to satisfy his lust quickly. This time he 
felt no need to do so. There was none of the impatient 
urgency to reach fulfillment that he usually felt when 
aroused.
   Mazruar kept his touches slow, soft, letting Palin 
simply enjoy his own arousal, and the golden-haired 
apprentice was quite content to do just that. There 
was no hurry, no urgency, only the wonderful rhythmic 
stroking of those practiced hands as he thrust 
hungrily into them, modesty forgotten . . .
   Eventually he became distracted by having to keep 
his own hands out of the way. He tried to rest them on 
his hips.
   "Beloved," Mazruar murmured, never stopping those 
delicious caresses. "Clasp your hands behind the back 
of your neck, underneath your hair. Go ahead, try it."
   He obeyed, feeling a strange vulnerability at so 
doing, at keeping his hands there as if he were a 
prisoner. The feeling seemed to stiffen his organ all 
the more, and he continued to thrust again and again 
into Mazruar's hands.
   His nipples were so stiff that they almost hurt. 
All his body's most sensitive places were swelling, as 
if trying to get closer to those caressing hands. He 
tilted his head back, moaning with shameless delight 
as he spread his thighs apart to keep his balance and 
to offer himself all the more.
   Eventually he was distracted again, this time by 
the growing weariness of his arms. Holding them behind 
his neck required effort, and he was beginning to feel 
it.
   The fondling stopped, and he whimpered before he 
caught himself.
   "Are your arms tiring?" Mazruar asked.
   He was so lost in wordless ecstasy that it took him 
a moment to remember how to speak. "Yes . . . They 
are."
   The older man touched his shoulder affectionately, 
then stood up and turned away. As Palin looked on, he 
walked over to one of the cabinets and reached inside 
to get something.
   He returned, and showed the object to Palin: it was 
merely a long piece of fuzzy black woolen yarn. 
Puzzled, Palin looked at it, not sure what it 
portended.
   Mazruar smiled, eyes twinkling.
   "If you will accept it, I can bind your wrists 
behind your back with this, so that you need not keep 
holding them in place. You can break it if you wish, 
so you will not truly be helpless."
   It never occurred to Palin to refuse; in that 
moment, the very thought of fear would have seemed 
absurd. He nodded in acquiescence, and kept his arms 
motionless as Mazruar carefully looped the yarn around 
his wrists and tied it off loosely.
   He tested his bonds cautiously. The soft yarn did 
no more than keep his wrists comfortably behind his 
back when he relaxed his arms; it was weak enough that 
he could free himself if he really wanted to.
   Now Mazruar was sitting before him again, smiling. 
A moment later, the caresses and stroking resumed.
   Palin lost all track of time as he knelt on the 
dais, moaning and sighing with ecstasy as his lover 
fondled him, commanding his passion. Mazruar did not 
take him to climax, but he didn't feel deprived or 
frustrated. The arousal and bliss that those touches 
brought him were more than enough; he prayed it would 
never end as he thrust sensuously, rocking his hips to 
the rhythm of his own craving for those skillful 
fingers upon his heated flesh, his slowly seeping 
fluid moistening them and his organ, dripping down 
onto the leather of the padding.
   Sometimes one hand would abandon his organ to cup 
and fondle and gently pull at his swollen testicles, 
making him gasp with unexpected delight. "Ohh . . . 
ohhhh . . ."
   Every now and then, Mazruar would murmur words of 
love to him. "So beautiful . . . that's it, beloved, 
thrust into my hands . . . give me your passion . . . 
give me your sweet swollen manhood . . . You are truly 
beautiful. How I love you." Those gray eyes glittered 
with a curious but wonderful mixture of lust, delight 
and tenderness.
   Whenever Palin was in danger of losing his balance, 
Mazruar would stop stroking just long enough to catch 
his shoulder and steady him, and then the wonderful 
fondling would resume. Soon he lost the fear of 
falling and simply trusted his lover to catch him, 
letting his arms stay relaxed behind his back.
   At last, after what seemed like an eternity of joy, 
his passion took on its more familiar urgency. His 
lover's skillful caresses speeded up as his arousal 
mounted. His body tightened like a bow being drawn to 
fire its arrow. Finally he climaxed, crying out and 
shuddering as his seed spurted again and again into 
those blessed hands for long, breathless moments.
   He nearly lost his balance; Mazruar's wet hands 
steadied him, holding his shoulders as he slumped down 
to sit on his knees, head hanging. Little quivers of 
remaining pleasure passed through his organ as the 
last seed dripped from its tip.
   Mazruar stroked his hair as he recovered. Then he 
reached behind the blond apprentice again to gently 
pull off that flimsy twist of woolen yarn, and he 
dropped it to the floor.
   They embraced again, Palin melting into his lover's 
arms as his whole body relaxed into delicious languor. 
The dark-haired mage kissed him tenderly, 
passionately.
   Long moments afterward, Mazruar helped him off the 
little platform to stand on the floor, one hand on his 
shoulder.
   "Tell me," the mage asked softly, "if I were to 
unlace my breeches, do you think that now you would 
like to take my organ in your mouth?"
   The act Palin had never yet been able to bring 
himself to do . . . though Mazruar had done the same 
for him many times, and though he often wondered what 
it would be like. He wanted so to do it -- but . . .
   He swallowed and gave the older man a tiny shake of 
his head. "No."
   The hand on his shoulder squeezed gently, 
reassuring him that his lover was not hurt or angry. 
"Well, then, perhaps you could simply kiss me once, 
through my breeches. Would you do that?"
   "Yes. I think so," Palin decided.
   He knelt again before the older man. Looking, he 
could see the outline of Mazruar's aroused organ 
bulging against the cloth.
   He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to his 
lover's sex, feeling the heat of the stiffened flesh 
separated from his lips by only a thin layer of 
fabric.
   He drew away almost reluctantly. And then, obeying 
some strange impulse, he turned his head and laid his 
cheek against Mazruar's groin, closing his eyes, just 
savoring the contact. Palin could feel that warm, 
hard, aroused member through the cloth, warming his 
face. He sighed once, deeply.
   Mazruar's hand gently stroked his hair. Warm 
currents of love flowed between them.
   Only when the moment faded did Mazruar break the 
silence. "I would like you to satisfy me with your 
hands, then, beloved."
   Palin smiled. "Gladly, sir."
   The "sir" came out of his mouth unexpectedly but 
naturally, without forethought. Somehow, at this 
moment, it seemed more fitting than "Honored Teacher".
   He glanced up quickly to see his lover's reaction. 
Mazruar's sudden smile held both surprise and delight.
   Not troubling to get up off of his knees, Palin 
reached up and began undoing the drawstring of his 
lover's breeches.


   They dozed in each other's arms on the bed for 
perhaps a candlemark afterward. Then they got up and 
parted to bathe and resume their tasks.
   Only later, while he was in his own quarters, did 
Palin feel shame. Only later, as he sat on his bed and 
studied a primer on magic.
   Shame . . . guilt . . . doubt.
   How much of his shame and guilt was really merited 
by what he had done, and how much was simply what he 
had been taught? He put down the book, trying to 
understand his feelings.
   His father, Lisaf ul Raomnar, who had continued to 
build the family fortune his grandfather had founded, 
hadn't approved of his youngest son becoming a mage in 
the first place. If he could, he would have forbidden 
it. While many might consider it a high calling, it 
simply wasn't as respectable or as sensible as the 
linen trade. Respectable people dealt with gold and 
goods, not with magic and the insubstantial.
   Mother, at least, had tried to understand and had 
spoken in his favor, with her usual quiet confidence 
in his judgment. And for once Father Iljan had 
supported him as well. "You should do what the gods 
clearly call upon you to do, Palin," he'd said.
   But he doubted that even Father Iljan knew how 
different the mages truly were.
   It still astonished him that he loved another man, 
and that he could believe that there was no ill in 
that. He hoped neither his parents nor Father Iljan 
would ever learn of *that*. He himself could still 
barely accept it.
   Never mind what he had done this morning . . .
   Vivid images rose unbidden in his mind, of his 
parents' shock and anger, of Father Iljan's stern 
outrage, of his friends turning their backs on him and 
trading his name in snickering gossip.
   He sighed, and got up off the bed, moving to the 
window to gaze out and distract himself for a few 
moments.
   It was another brilliantly sunny and warm summer 
day, with the walled gardens and the distant trees of 
the forest basking in the light. A vagrant breeze 
brought him a whiff of mingled odors from the herbs.
   Well, when in doubt of the right course of action, 
calm your mind and meditate upon your own thoughts. 
That was what Mazruar had taught him.
   He returned to the bed and lay down on his back, 
arms at his sides, closing his eyes. 
   Only after he had gone through the routine of 
relaxing every muscle did he begin again to consider 
the roots of his feelings. He began to concentrate 
upon his breathing, seeking to clear away the muddled 
confusion of his thoughts and emotions.
   When at last he had imposed some quiet upon his 
mind, he began sorting through his shame, his guilt 
and his doubts, trying to make sense of them.
   Shame: he knew how he would have looked to anyone 
who knew him, on his knees before Mazruar like an 
abject supplicant. But they had been alone in his 
mentor's bedchamber; no one else had seen him. No, 
Palin decided, that wasn't the root of the matter.
   No, the root of it all lay elsewhere, he suddenly 
realized -- in the things he had felt when he obeyed 
another man's orders and knelt before him.
   Something about that had been so . . . intimate. 
Frighteningly intimate, as if it had brought out and 
exposed to the light something hidden deep inside his 
innards. Something he had known was there all his 
life, but which he had never dared speak of even to 
himself.
   And he knew what it was.
   Slavery had been abolished in the kingdom of 
Jarivol more than three hundred years ago. History 
books described its horrors and how, at last, as times 
became more enlightened and the kingdom's wisest and 
best folk had urged its dissolution, it had finally 
been ended.
   But when he let his mind play over the stories of 
chained and shackled men being displayed and sold in 
the marketplace, the emotions they stirred were more 
complex than mere horror. They had fueled the 
fantasies he had dwelled upon alone at night, 
fantasies he had never before dared to think about by 
the light of day.
   And surely Mazruar had seen them as well when he 
had looked into his mind. Had seen them, and never 
said a word, showed no disgust or disapproval.
   Should he cease to trust Mazruar? Mind-melding 
tended to work both ways. What he saw in his teacher 
was no more than vague glimpses compared to the 
Adept's deep, clear vision into his soul; still, he 
had glimpsed nothing in Mazruar's mind but kindness 
and affection.
   Mazruar understood things about him that he didn't 
yet understand himself. Already he could feel a heart-
bond of love and trust between them.
   Whatever the future held, whatever the truth of the 
matter was, he knew of no reason to fear or distrust 
him.
   *I do trust him*, he thought, with conviction.
   But was there truly cause for guilt here? Was it 
wrong, what he had done this morning, or lying with 
another man? Was Mazruar wrong?
   That question seemed the important one. And that 
was the harder one to answer.
   Once, back at home in Deshnar Province, he would 
have "known" both of those things were wrong without 
having to think about it.
   Nobody in the ul Raomnar family even talked about 
what men did with women, let alone the possibility of 
men doing the same with other men. Respectable people 
did not speak of such vulgar matters even in private.
   Nor did Father Iljan, except for his remarks about 
the sacredness of marriage.
   The other youths of the merchants' quarter in 
Tharach *did* occasionally talk about it –- in crude, 
sniggering jokes about whores and pennyboys. Those 
jests had always made him feel different and alone. He 
had dared not confide, even to those he considered his 
closest friends, the fact that it was other men he 
thought about when he pleasured himself.
   Let alone what he sometimes imagined those other 
men doing to him . . .
   He had no doubt at all about what the opinion of 
Father Iljan would be.
   A memory came to him of the first time he had 
melded minds with an Adept -- with old Tholarn, who 
had agreed to examine him when he had passed his 
eighteenth birthday to determine whether he had the 
makings of a mage. That had been five months ago, 
early this spring.
   He had been so frightened, knowing that Tholarn 
would see the truth about him, terrified that the mage 
would declare him unfit to learn the arts of magic. 
Only his lifelong burning desire to grasp the flame of 
magic gave him the courage to approach the Adept. 
That, and the fact that mages *never* spoke of what 
they saw in a petitioner's mind -- even in those 
benighted long-ago times when they sometimes faced 
torture and death for so refusing. It was among their 
most sacred traditions.
   When they had parted minds, Tholarn had smiled at 
Palin and told him that he was acceptable, that he 
knew the teacher who could best instruct him. And that 
he was not alone in his desires.
   He vividly remembered his amazement and feeling of 
release over that. Afterward, when he had been alone, 
he had burst into tears of mingled relief and joy. He 
could not remember ever feeling emotions that powerful 
before.
   Later, the old Adept had given him a warning.
   "Palin," Tholarn had said, "you should know this 
now, before you choose to join our company. There is 
much about us that remains secret, that we reveal to 
no one but our apprentices and our servants. You will 
find that we are . . . different . . . in many ways. 
We think differently, we even believe differently from 
what you have been taught. Be prepared for some 
surprises, and to question some things you never 
thought to question. Magic makes unique demands upon 
the spirit."
   Palin felt a bitter laugh rising in him. It was all 
too true.
   And now there was this . . . the feelings he'd had 
as he'd knelt before Mazruar with his wrists bound by 
that mere length of yarn. He doubted that even most 
men who desired other men had such feelings -- or had 
the fantasies he sometimes imagined when he pleasured 
himself, alone in his quarters.
   So much . . . so fast . . . he felt as if he were 
drowning in urges and fears and confusion.
   Concentrating on his breathing, Palin took slow, 
deep lungfuls of air, forcing his mind to calm again.
   Ten breaths. Twenty breaths.
   There. He returned his thoughts to understanding 
his doubts and his guilt.
   Could Father Iljan be wrong? Or was Mazruar? Who 
was right, the priest he knew, or the mages? The 
priests were the living, mortal ambassadors of the 
goddesses and the gods, after all. Surely the priests 
knew what was right and wrong better than anyone else.
   Palin didn't want to believe that; he didn't know 
if he could face the consequences of its being true. 
What he enjoyed with Mazruar in his bedchamber felt so 
-- *right*, as if it nourished something rooted in the 
very depths of his being that had long been starved . 
. . something beautiful, like the roses in the garden.
   He didn't want his feelings to be wrong. He didn't 
want to lose Mazruar, or his lovemaking.
   Perhaps he was misunderstanding something, or 
overlooking it . . . something basic that would shed 
light on the muddy confusion in his mind.
   He mulled it over a little while longer, but no 
solution came to mind.
   Finally he gave up, cleared his mind again, and 
opened his eyes.
   When he felt he had returned fully to the world, he 
got up slowly from the bed, stretching to force the 
blood back into his limbs.
   Wherever the truth lay, he was a long way from 
Deshnar Province. The only person he could speak to 
was Mazruar himself.
   Palin got up to go look for him.


   Mazruar was in the library, studying an ancient-
looking tome that lay open on the wooden desk, with 
the glow of a magelight illuminating the pages. 
Candles and oil lamps were banished from the library 
as too dangerous, with so many valuable (and 
combustible) books around. A second chair stood by the 
desk, in case a visitor needed to be accommodated. 
   He looked up as Palin entered, his eyes warming as 
he gazed upon his student.
   "Palin. What brings you here?"
   "Honored Teacher, I . . . I need to talk."
   Mazruar smiled and looked into his eyes. Then, 
seeing the expression on his student's face, his own 
eyes turned gravely serious. "Sit down with me, then, 
and speak. What troubles you?"
   Palin took the extra chair, glancing at the book as 
the Adept carefully, unhurriedly closed it and pushed 
it to one side, out of the way. He couldn't identify 
the language of the gilt-lettered title. The tome was 
probably several hundred years old and would 
ordinarily be kept under a stasis spell to protect it 
from further aging.
   He turned his mind back to his teacher's question.
   "I . . . yes, there is," he answered, feeling 
sorrow weighing heavy in his heart. *I don't want to 
lose him. Not after all these years of wanting, 
wondering . . .*
   "What we did today -- what I let you do to me –- I 
fear that it's wrong."
   He opened his mouth to continue, and then realized 
he'd already spoken the core of it.
   Mazruar's face was expressionless now, his 
undivided attention focused on Palin. Only when it 
became clear that his apprentice wasn't going to 
continue did he give him a nod of acknowledgement.
   "Why might it be wrong, do you think?" he asked, 
his voice gentle but devoid of emotion.
   Palin tried to sort out his thoughts, and found he 
hadn't done so as clearly as he'd believed. What 
indeed was wrong about what had happened between them 
this morning -- the mere fact that he had lain with 
another man? Or something about what they'd done?
   "I'm not sure," he confessed. He'd already learned 
that under the Adept's tutelage: when you don't know 
something, admit it instead of trying to save face. He 
swallowed nervously.
   "Let us explore this, then," Mazruar said, still 
with that same gentle tone. "You meditated upon this 
and believed you understood it before you came to me, 
didn't you?" It was more a statement than a question.
   Palin paused, then nodded and answered: "Yes."
   "But now, it doesn't seem so clear."
   "Yes."
   "Palin . . . I would never ask you to do anything 
you believe is wrong. Believe me when I say that, 
pupil." When Palin had silently nodded his 
acknowledgement, Mazruar went on. "Now, when you 
meditated upon this, what came to your mind?"
   He thought back carefully, remembering.
   "That my father would be angered if he knew of it," 
he said. "No -- 'angry' is too mild a word for it." He 
managed a wry smile. "And that anyone who knew me back 
home would think less of me, if they saw me kneeling 
before you in your bedchamber like that --" He was 
felt hot warmth on his face and realized he was 
blushing.
   Mazruar nodded encouragingly. If anything Palin had 
said so far aroused his disapproval, he didn't show 
it. "Go on."
   "And then -- Father Iljan, our family priest. He'd 
say it was wrong. In fact, he'd denounce me as mad, or 
evil, or -- or *something*."
   There was a flicker of sympathy in Mazruar's eyes. 
"And what else?"
   "That -- my friends would laugh at me. They would 
think I'm not a man. That I'm dishonorable." He fell 
silent.
   The silence stretched out, while the Adept's gentle 
gaze remained upon him. At last Mazruar asked, "And of 
these people, whose disapproval would disturb you 
most?"
   "Father Iljan's," he said after a moment's thought.
   "Why? Why not your father's?"
   He blinked, thought.
   "Because . . . Father Iljan is a priest. He would 
*know* if it's wrong, better than anyone else."
   To his surprise, Mazruar actually smiled, as if he 
approved of what Palin had just said.
   "Caring about right and wrong before all else . . . 
I don't think you are evil, Palin," he said. "If you 
were, you would hardly worry about such things. But 
what would Father Iljan say, exactly? What has he said 
in the past? I know we have talked of this before, but 
let us go over it again."
   They had indeed, after Palin had made his first few 
visits to his teacher's bedchamber.
   He had thought his doubts about the rightness of 
lying with another man had been quelled by the 
conversation that had followed. Yet those doubts had 
returned, and so he again repeated Father Iljan's 
words to his teacher.
   "That . . . that there is nothing higher in the 
Goddess Dolgida's sight than holy marriage." He smiled 
wryly, realizing he was using nearly the precise words 
of the marriage ritual. The ul Raomnar family honored 
Dolgida as their chief deity, and a fine statue of 
Her, sculpted from Shenazin white marble, graced their 
private shrine. "That it's a son's duty to beget heirs 
to carry on his family line. That not to do so is a 
failure in duty to one's family and to Dolgida."
   Mazruar nodded quietly. "Now, you have two 
brothers, and your eldest brother was married two 
years ago, and already his wife has born a son, you 
have told me. So your father already has his first 
grandson, and is not likely to lack for heirs to whom 
he can pass on his trade and his estate. Is that not 
so?"
   Palin nodded in reply. "Yes." As Mazruar had said, 
they had discussed this before.
   "So . . . Father Iljan said nothing of two men? Or 
of two women, for that matter?"
   Palin laughed shortly. "No."
   "So, perhaps the real question is whether there is 
something else wrong, something sick, about those 
things we did this morning. Might that be the root of 
your doubts?"
   "Yes!" Palin agreed, suddenly understanding that 
was indeed the root of what disturbed him.
   "Do you believe what we did this morning was 
dishonorable? Worthy of shame?" Mazruar asked, his 
eyes serious.
   Palin thought carefully.
   "I feel as if it were," he said.
   "What, do you think, causes you to feel that, if 
Father Iljan never spoke even of men together?"
   There was another long pause. The anxiety and dread 
Palin had felt earlier had almost gone; weariness was 
taking their place. Mazruar's questions demanded so 
much soul-searching -- he was no longer surprised at 
that, because that was his teacher's way. It was part 
of becoming a mage; and, he suspected, of being one. 
But it was painfully hard labor.
   "I feel that I shamed myself," he said slowly.
   "How so, do you think?"
   "That . . . I knelt before you. That I let you bind 
me." He was sure he was blushing again; his face felt 
hot.
   Mazruar nodded deliberately, showing that he had 
heard. "And what, about that, is dishonorable?"
   Palin blinked. This was one question he had never 
expected; he'd thought it obvious, and at first he 
didn't know how to answer. He thought even more 
carefully, feeling how desperately important it was to 
get this right.
   "It makes me less than you," he managed. "As though 
I were -- a slave."
   He felt more heat in his face at the last word. He 
had to make a conscious effort to take a breath after 
saying it. He wanted to take the word back, but he 
could not.
   "You are not less than I, Palin," the older mage 
said firmly. "You're as worthy of love and respect as 
I am. Never doubt that."
   Palin stared back at him.
   "You do not understand that, do you?" Mazruar said, 
and his expression was pure compassion. "No, I cannot 
read your thoughts, unless you let me, but I can guess 
what you're thinking."
   "I -- no, I do not."
   Mazruar nodded. "With thought, and time, it might 
become clearer to you. Now, what did you feel, while 
you were on your knees with your wrists bound, as I 
touched you?"
   That was easier to answer.
   "So naked and -- warm. I felt warm all over," he 
began. "And -- good. A little scared." He managed a 
small smile, which Mazruar returned. "And -- I was 
aroused, yes. I wanted -- more."
   After a few moments, when it became clear he would 
not go on, Mazruar prodded: "And was there anything 
else?"
   Palin was about to say that there was nothing else, 
and then the thought came to him, so strong that it 
was irresistible.
   "I felt -- at peace -- while I was kneeling. While 
I was bound. As if -- I knew you would not be 
disgusted or offended by my feeling pleasure . . . and 
that made me feel better." And he was sure that he 
might have put it so much more clearly, but he 
couldn't think of the words for it.
   "'Accepted'? Might that be what you felt?"
   He nodded emphatically. "Yes! And I felt so -- so 
glad of that. As if I'd kept a secret for so long . . 
. and I didn't need to keep it any more."
   Mazruar nodded slowly at all this, and now his eyes 
were a study in compassion. "You do not need to, 
Palin. You have kept too many secrets from those 
around you for too long. Your secrets are safe with 
me, I promise you."
   Tears welled in Palin's eyes, surprising him. 
Something about those words seemed to pierce his soul, 
as if they were lancing an abscess deep within. He had 
to turn away to regain control, rubbing his eyes.
   The older mage waited patiently, saying nothing of 
his tears. When Palin returned his gaze to him, he 
spoke again as if choosing his words with great care.
   "You felt as if . . . kneeling before me fed 
something that goes down to your very soul. Did you 
not?"
   The words were almost like a physical shock. Again 
there was that feeling of an abscess being lanced.
   "Yes . . . yes, it does." His voice broke, thick 
with feelings welling up in him that he couldn't 
understand.
   "So I thought," Mazruar said after a few moments, 
nodding slowly. "But -- what you need to know is, do 
the gods accept this? Is it wrong? Perverted?"
   Palin nodded firmly. "Yes! That's what preys upon 
me."
   "And you fear *you* are somehow wrong? Marred 
forever in who you are?"
   "Yes." Fresh tears came to Palin's eyes, but he did 
not shed them.
   "Palin." Mazruar's voice was pure gentleness. "I do 
not think you are marred, or insane, or wrong in your 
being.
   "But what matters most is not what *I* think, what 
mages think . . . but what is the truth of this 
matter. Do you agree?"
   "Yes . . . I think so." A moment later he was more 
sure. "Yes, I do."
   "I see." And then Mazruar leaned back in his chair. 
He closed his eyes for a long moment, seeming to be 
considering something, and then opened them again to 
regard his pupil.
   "Palin, would you call yourself pious?"
   He blinked at the change of subject. "Er, no, not 
really. I make the offerings as I should, and I try to 
be proper toward Father Iljan, but . . ." He trailed 
off.
   When it became clear that once again he had no 
further words of answer, Mazruar spoke.
   "And yet, I can see that this is important to you. 
That you strive to do what is right, and to avoid 
doing wrong. Would you say I am correct? That this is 
your greatest concern, and not simply whether Father 
Iljan approves of you?"
   Palin thought. "Yes . . . I think so." He became 
more certain of it as he spoke the words, and he 
nodded.
   "I will ask you a question that may seem strange. 
What did he teach you of Dolgida's brother? Of the God 
Irizen?"
   The blond apprentice paused. He'd seen the statue 
of Irizen that Mazruar had in one of the gardens, made 
of the same white marble as his family's statue of 
Dolgida. It was one of the things that had made him 
uncomfortable early on.
   If Mazruar was as devout concerning Irizen as 
Father Iljan was about the proper respect of Dolgida, 
he could be in dangerous waters. But the Adept had 
never brought up the subject with him before.
   He took a deep breath, remembering Mazruar's 
frequent admonishments to be completely honest with 
him.
   "I was taught that He's --" Palin sought for the 
right word --"dangerous. And dishonorable."
   He looked anxiously into Mazruar's eyes, but there 
was no anger or disapproval there, only the same grave 
sympathy.
   "By Father Iljan?"
   "Yes."
   "Why?"
   "Because He makes people lust, tempts them to do 
dishonorable things, to dishonor their marriage vows."
   Mazruar merely nodded.
   "Palin." The voice became a statement, not a 
question. "I will say this again, and as many times as 
you need to hear: I will not ask you to do anything 
you believe is wrong. Please believe that. But I will 
not tell you what is right and wrong here, because you 
must decide that for yourself. All I ask is that you 
think, as clearly as you can. What matters most is not 
what *I* think, what other mages think . . . but what 
you believe is the truth. Do you agree?"
   "Yes . . . I think so." A moment later he was more 
certain. "Yes, I do."
   "And I would reassure you there, too, but I cannot 
truly do so. You have had to question everything, all 
you have been taught. And so anyone who reassures you 
is subject to question, too. Neither I nor anyone else 
can any longer dictate to you what right and wrong 
are."
   Palin blinked, but offered no contradiction.
   "Tell me, what must you do if you decided what we 
do together is wrong? What would you ask of me?"
   He closed his eyes a moment and thought. Then, "I . 
. . would have to leave you. Or -- ask you never to do 
it again." The lump welled in his throat with fresh 
force.
   "Palin," and that gentle voice was rich with 
sympathy, "if you ask it of me -- if you decide what 
we have done is wrong -- I will never again make love 
to you in that fashion. Indeed, I will not lay a hand 
on you unless you wish it.
   "I will still teach you, if you wish, and I will do 
the very best I can for you. Or I could find you 
another mage who could tutor you, if you prefer. But I 
think you would do yourself a grave wrong, and you 
would never become the mage you could be."
   Palin swallowed, fighting down the lump in his 
throat with some success.
   "Tell me a thing," the Adept continued. "Have you 
ever spoken with a priest other than Father Iljan?"
   Palin blinked. "No, I have not."
   "You will find that even the priests and the 
priestesses differ in their opinions on some things. I 
hope that you will speak to some here in Berjil 
Province on these matters, and learn what they think."
   Palin blinked again. "But -- wouldn't they *know*? 
I mean, the priests speak to the gods . . ." he 
trailed off.
   Mazruar might have made a small sigh of his own; if 
so, it was barely perceptible, and Palin wasn't sure 
he'd actually seen it.
   "Yes, so they do, so they do," he answered, nodding 
briefly. "They are trained to do so. And yet, they 
must *ask* first. The gods do not simply tell them 
everything. And unless it is a matter of the most 
basic importance, they tell us only what we are ready 
to hear. They do not seek to dictate mortal affairs. 
They intervene only when they are asked -- and even 
then, as little as possible."
   Palin blinked, taking this all in. It was not a 
thing that Father Iljan would ever have said. He 
realized he could not fully understand it all at once.
   Mazruar waited patiently. When the apprentice's 
eyes met his again, he smiled gently. "I know that is 
much to swallow in one gulp, my student. You may think 
it over at length later. But now, let me suggest a 
thing.
   "This will be a very hard decision for you, Palin, 
and there is little I can do to help you with it. You 
must make it for yourself. But I can suggest to you a 
way to find out for yourself, to get an answer from 
Something you may be able to trust, above the words of 
other men or of women.
   "Not many people can do it, because they cannot 
quiet their souls enough to hear the answer. That is 
one reason why there are priests.
   "But you have had the beginnings of mage-training, 
Palin. You were able to silence the chattering of the 
thoughts long enough to meditate upon your doubts 
today, and already you have been able to speak to some 
of the least of the elementals. Why not find a quiet 
spot and ask the gods yourself what is right and what 
is wrong here? Perhaps even Lady Dolgida Herself."


   It was mid-afternoon as Palin rode out on the bay-
colored mare one of Mazruar's stablehands had supplied 
him with. He was no horseman, but the gentle little 
beast was easy to control.
   He took her out past the gate into the lands beyond 
the gardens, the woods that were part of Mazruar's 
holdings but were innocent of the plow and scythe.
   Men might clear the forests, but almost everywhere 
in the known lands large areas were left inviolate, so 
that game animals could be hunted and those divinities 
and spirits that preferred wildlands could dwell there 
and were not angered.
   Mazruar permitted the farmers to hunt on his lands 
for what meat they needed, and to collect firewood 
near the village. It was actually more than enough for 
them to live well on, and he was on better terms with 
them than most nobles were with their villagers.
   The land he was riding through now was open oak 
woodland, the massive trees widely spaced so that the 
grass underneath them grew lush and emerald-green, 
dotted with scarlet wild poppies. No breeze blew, and 
the afternoon heat was just short of oppressive; the 
only movement he saw was that of foraging honeybees 
drifting above the grass from flower to flower.
   The Goddess Dolgida had Her shrines in the 
dwellings of men, but it was said that before men 
lived in cities and built shrines of brick and mortar 
and stone, Her worshippers honored Her in groves of 
the tallest trees -- the arjin.
   There was a hillside on Mazruar's lands where a 
dense stand of arjin trees stood, and this was where 
Palin was headed.
   In perhaps half a candlemark, guiding the mare 
along a narrow deer trail winding through the grass, 
he reached the grove and entered its cool shadows.
   He had never been in an arjin grove before, and it 
awed him. He had glimpsed the legendary huge trees 
from the upper stories of the tower of Mazruar's hold, 
but the demands of his training had limited his forays 
outside the grounds to the occasional visit to the 
nearby town of Gelthazin.
   Sunlight slanted through the feathery leaves far 
overhead, filtering between the great furrowed red 
trunks to spotlight the forest floor below, so that 
the grove felt like some natural temple. All sound 
seemed swallowed up in the profound quiet. Soft 
birdcalls sounded now and again; nothing else broke 
the silence except the equally soft hoofsteps of his 
mare.
   He wondered if the farmers ever entered this grove, 
instead of using the village shrine.
    Was there a right spot that was better than 
others? If so, how would he know?
   In the end, he simply picked a tiny sunlit opening 
that was mostly occupied by a great boulder half-
buried in the earth, towering twice his height. The 
rest would have to be in Dolgida's hands.
   Palin halted the mare, climbed down and looked 
around for a place to tie her.
   The opening in the treetop canopy allowed a few 
straggling shrubs and a huge clump of ferns to grow 
beside the boulder. Finally he chose a sturdy sapling 
that grew among them and looped the reins around a 
branch, within reach of a patch of grass growing in 
the open sunlight.
   He'd brought an offering to Dolgida, and now he 
gave it: a few drops from a flask of oil poured out on 
the earth near the stone, and then a fragment of bread 
crumbled and scattered about. Dolgida was not 
impressed by lavish offerings; that was all She 
required except on feast days.
   Walking around the boulder, he found a spot where 
its white-flecked gray flank reared up almost 
perpendicular to the ground, forming a convenient 
backrest. After sweeping away the fallen leaves and 
small twigs with his bare hands, he sat down and 
folded his legs into the usual meditation posture. 
Then, closing his eyes, he sought to shut out the 
world and slip into a receptive trance.
   The tiny sounds of the grove -- the mare's 
occasional snort, the soft twittering of unseen birds, 
the rustling of a squirrel's paws on a tree trunk not 
far away –- disturbed him for a little while. But he 
was trained to filter out such distractions; as he 
sank deeper and deeper into trance, they faded from 
his awareness.
   Other, more serious distractions took their place. 
Palin found himself becoming terribly anxious about 
the outcome, afraid he would fail, afraid he would 
succeed . . . afraid he would have to give up 
Mazruar's love, or even magic. Again and again the 
emotions and thoughts welled up in his mind, 
disrupting his trance. Again and again he forced his 
mind back to quiet.
   At last, he had gained a measure of internal calm. 
He cast the protective shield as he had this morning, 
guarding himself from disturbance by any passing 
elementals or other, less friendly beings.
   Thus secured, he began the real work.
   A goddess such as Dolgida couldn't be summoned like 
a minor elemental; he hadn't been taught how to summon 
anyway. Instead, he opened his mind and simply prayed, 
hoping that *She* would hear *him*.
   He concentrated on the thought of Her, on the image 
of Her statue in his family's shrine. In his mind, he 
reached out for Her, hoping She would sense his 
calling, his questions and his need . . . and that he 
would be able to sense Her in return if She responded.
   The mare gave up her grazing on the few straggling 
tufts of grass in the tiny meadow. She lifted her head 
to peer over at her rider. Seeing no movement and 
getting no attention, she pulled briefly at her reins 
before settling down to doze on her feet, horse-
fashion, ignoring the squirrel that scuttled across 
the forest floor nearby.
   The squirrel noticed the motionless human, though 
it smelled him more clearly than it saw him. It had 
seen other humans here before, entering the grove for 
their own incomprehensible reasons. On such occasions, 
they often left bits of food. Now, exploring the 
ground quickly and warily, it found this to be the 
case again. It nosed and scuffled through the earthy 
debris, tail jerking nervously, until it found the 
crumbs of the bread offering Palin had made. Then it 
picked them up and began to nibble them, one by one.
   Palin, sunk deep in trance, did not hear the 
squirrel.
   At last, he felt Something stir . . . deep within 
himself, but not *of* himself.
   The sensation shook him to his core. It would have 
brought him out of trance, but he was far deeper than 
he had ever been before. This Being felt nothing like 
the elementals he had met in Mazruar's workchamber. It 
was far more powerful, too powerful to be controlled 
by any mere human being.
   A face coalesced in his mind, a face that he had 
seen before only in colorless marble: long wheat-
blonde hair, woven into two braids like ears of grain 
at the front; a strong-boned yet feminine face that 
spoke of an endless, steadfast strength. A face like 
that of a woman who spends her days working in the 
fields, lined and weathered, but somehow wiser, more 
Knowing, than any mortal woman could ever be.
   There was immeasurable compassion and gentleness in 
Her gaze as She looked upon Palin.
   The Goddess's eyes were all colors in turn: a deep, 
almost stern brown like rich, freshly-turned soil; a 
green as rich as new grass; a blue as brilliantly 
clear as a cloudless summer sky; the dusky violet of 
twilight; dark gray like storm clouds swollen with 
life-giving rain; other colors, surely every color 
that existed.
   Her eyes were focused upon him, and their color 
settled into a soft, gentle green. And then, even 
before he could collect his thoughts to speak, the 
face faded from his inner vision . . . though he could 
feel that immeasurably vast, powerful Presence still 
with him.
   *Lady Dolgida?*
   He sensed rather than heard an affirmation.
   He struggled to put his questions into words, to 
explain as simply as possible what he needed to know 
so desperately. How much did he need to tell Her, and 
how much had She already read in his heart? He had no 
idea.
   *Am I wrong, or sick? Are the mages wrong?*
   A rush of worry welled up on him on the heels of 
that question. He had so many emotions vested in the 
answer, and now those emotions rebelled against his 
fragile enforced calm. Despair rose; surely he would 
never hear Her answer through the storm of his own 
turbulent wishes and fears . . .
   And then the Presence touched his soul in a way he 
would never be able to put into words later, and the 
tempest calmed, leaving a great stillness and peace in 
its wake.
   *No*, he felt the gentle voice in his mind reply, 
and the relief was so great that for a moment he could 
not think or feel, only listen. *What you and your 
teacher have between you is Good. Let your love, from 
which no children can arise, lead you to the house of 
My Brother and there you will find welcome."
   And still he could not quite believe . . .
   *But -- what of Father Iljan . . .?*
   Her essence seemed tinged with something almost 
like regret. *I reveal to My worshippers and My 
priests as much as they are ready to hear -- though 
not always what they wish to hear.
   *You are ready to hear this. Take what I have told 
you as a sign, not of special favor, but of 
responsibility, for with the gifts of power and 
knowledge comes duty. Remember this, when you become a 
full Mage.*
   And then the Presence was departing, fading from 
his soul. He found himself wanting to draw Her back, 
to ask yet more questions, but he could no more hold 
Her than he could hold water or smoke.
   And then She was gone.
   Slowly, he began to return from the place he had 
been. He felt utter, soul-deep relief, as if a vast 
weight had been removed from his heart . . . or a 
painful wound in it had ceased to ache and at last 
begun to heal.
   When at last he opened his eyes, it was almost 
dusk. The grove was a place of shadows and deeper 
shadows, and the sun's last slanting rays struck gold 
and ruddy light from the massive trunks of the arjin 
trees.
   There was no sign that a Goddess had been here . . 
. except for the calmness and joy the encounter had 
left in his soul. Palin wondered if he had ever felt 
so at peace before.
   He got up slowly, feeling the familiar stiffness in 
his muscles from sitting still for a long time. He 
stretched carefully, then looked over at the mare. She 
was where he had tied her, standing quietly, having 
woken from her doze when he moved.
   He paused to scatter another thank-offering of more 
bread and oil, as he said aloud, "Thank you, Great 
Lady."
   He untied the mare's reins and threw them over her 
back, climbed into the saddle and started back toward 
Mazruar's hold.
   By the time he reached the outer wall of Mazruar's 
hold, it was nearly full dark, and the first stars 
were coming out.


   Mazruar had resumed his study of the ancient book 
he'd been reading earlier when Palin had entered the 
library. Every now and then he would pause to jot down 
notes in his own careful, clear handwriting on a sheet 
of parchment.
   An Adept needed to control his mind, so Mazruar 
sought not to dwell on the matter of his apprentice. 
Hoping and worrying served no useful purpose; it would 
not affect the outcome. Palin needed to make his own 
decision, no matter what he might feel for the young 
man . . . or how he might grieve his loss.
   Finally, when the pressure of his emotions became 
too great, he carefully laid the quill aside and 
paused to deal with them.
   *He has a bright future, if only he can grasp it*, 
he thought.
   Already Palin's natural talent was obvious. He'd 
make a truly superb mage, on a level with Mazruar 
himself -- perhaps even better, perhaps one of the 
finest ever trained -- but only if he could make peace 
with himself and his true nature.
   *Even as I did, once*, the Adept remembered with a 
little smile.
   Then again, his home province of Nichat hadn't been 
nearly as traditional and backward as Deshnar.
   It was remarkable, really, how many of the greatest 
Adepts were unusual in such matters. Some wizards 
believed it was more than coincidence, that whatever 
led to great power in a mage also often led to needs 
of desire that could only be described as special -- 
perhaps a certain freedom of the psyche, a special 
eccentricity.
   After all, to understand magic, one could not 
simply accept the bounds of tradition and custom 
without question. Perhaps that applied even below the 
level of the thinking mind, to the rest of the soul.
   Approaching footsteps in the hallway outside 
interrupted his reverie. He turned in his chair as a 
servant appeared in the doorway -- Chahivin, one of 
the stablehands.
   "Lord -- Master Palin has returned. I'm reporting 
as you asked."
   Mazruar let none of his emotions show on his face. 
"And how did he seem?"
   "Joyous, sir! As if he had received happy news." 
Chahivin smiled.
   Mazruar smiled as well, nodded, but would not yet 
let himself hope. "Thank you, Chahivin. That is all 
for now."
   Chahivin gave him the customary small informal bow 
and then departed.
   The master mage took a deep breath, picked up his 
pen and returned to his work. If his student wished to 
speak to him, he would come.
   He had only jotted down two more sentences of 
comments when footsteps again sounded in the hallway 
outside, and then the blond apprentice *was* there, 
standing in the doorway.
   Once again he laid down his pen to turn toward 
Palin. One look at the pure joy in that handsome young 
face, the sparkling blue eyes, confirmed Chahivin's 
message even before Palin said, "Honored Teacher, I 
would speak."
   Mazruar turned fully to him. "Enter then, and 
speak, pupil."
   "I've chosen to stay, if you will have me."
   The master wizard felt as if a vast weight had 
suddenly been lifted from his shoulders. Dropping his 
usual mask, he smiled broadly.
   "I will, beloved. Never doubt it," he replied, 
opening his arms in invitation.
   Palin stepped forward, and then they were in each 
other's arms in a tight, loving embrace.


   Later that night, as he lay in his teacher's arms, 
Palin awoke and lay staring into the shadows of the 
room, which was lit only by the flickering light of 
the hour-candle. He listened to Mazruar's soft 
breathing, the only sound, felt the softness of the 
blue quilt on his skin, and thought of what had 
happened in the grove.
   He found himself doubting again.
   Was it really a Goddess who had spoken to him, or 
had his hopes and fears and wishes caused his under-
mind to conjure up a false vision? Could he trust what 
he thought had happened?
   But if not, what proof could he ever find that 
could possibly convince him?
   Palin mulled that thought over, gazing at the 
shrine in the mural upon the wall. But he made no move 
to escape his sleeping lover's embrace.
   He could wonder and doubt and question forever, no 
matter what happened, he realized.
   Finally, he made up his mind once and for all to 
trust his own judgment, to have faith that the vision 
had been a true one.
   Mazruar stirred. "Is something wrong, love?" he 
murmured, his voice heavy with near-sleep.
   Palin closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth and 
nearness of his lover.
   "No, Beloved Teacher," he answered, feeling a smile 
form on his lips. "Nothing is wrong." And he felt the 
rightness of his words, and the rightness of Mazruar's 
arms around him.
   He drifted back into sleep.
   

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