The Fall of The Kings (Riverside) by Ellen Kushner, Delia Sherman Page B
Authors: Ellen Kushner, Delia Sherman
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lives on in the present, in our laws and our customs, even in the way we think and speak. Stop that, Theron, I’m making a speech.”
Theron lifted his head and smiled. “It’s a very good speech,” he said, “and I don’t disagree with you. I’m hoping to find immortality through my poems, when I finally write some worth saving. At the moment, though, I’m far more interested in you and your body and my body and the pleasure we can give each other.”
Since he’d been busy with his fingers as he spoke, Basil was in no state to argue with him, and Theron’s moment spread to encompass Basil’s past, present, and future in one brief eternity of perfect sensation. They were just sinking into sleep when Theron sat up suddenly. “There’s the bell striking five, and if I don’t hurry, I’ll be late to dinner again and I promised Sophia faithfully that I would be on time. Shall I see you tomorrow?”
He was out of bed now, picking up his clothes from the floor and the bed. Basil pulled the quilts around himself and watched his lover dress, stopping him once to kiss the oak leaf drawn along his collarbone before it disappeared under his linen shirt.
“You haven’t told me about that tattoo yet,” Basil said as Theron shrugged into his braided jacket.
“No,” said Theron shortly. “I haven’t. It’s a long and silly story, and I don’t want to waste our time on it.”
He put on his cloak, then half-knelt on the bed to kiss Basil’s mouth. Basil caught his face in his hand and held it firm. “I’ll hear it tomorrow,” he said. “Dine with me—I’ll have Bet send up a pie. We’ll have the whole evening.”
The greenish eyes looked into his. “It may take all night,” Theron said.
“Good,” said Basil, his heart racing. “I like long stories.”
chapter VII
TO PLEASE HIS MOTHER, THERON WAS NOT LATE FOR dinner at Tremontaine House. He was, in fact, early, which gave him time to wander about the wet gardens of its impressive grounds. He was drawn to some of his favorite childhood spots: the rose bower, where a few autumn blossoms doggedly bloomed, and the boxwood walk, dotted with classical sculpture. From old habit he touched the nose of the piping Goat God for luck, and even walked past the Transformation of Laurel with his eyes closed. He always used to hate the sight of the young man being engulfed in bark. He was far too old for such fancies, but he felt it again this time, a frisson of fear such as a child feels, who dreamed and cannot remember what frightened him.
There was nothing to fear. Life was good. He had a new lover, the young magister, so brilliant, so eager; it was just what he’d wanted, exactly what he’d dreamed of happening between them all these weeks. But Ysaud, too, had filled him with this crystal joy at first.
Theron broke a twig off and crushed it. Ysaud had chosen him, seduced him, really, with her artist’s eye and her craftsman’s hand. Her master’s hand. And he had been her master-piece for a while. He smelled the crushed yew rich on his fingers and something else as well, and sighed with sensual pleasure. Basil, he had chosen for himself. Just when Theron had thought his heart was frozen forever he’d seen the magister in a tavern and been drawn to him, and wondered. And so he’d gone where Basil St Cloud had gone, watching him cast off those bright sparks of wit and insight, passion and faithfulness to learning that bespoke an honest man, a sincere man, a man to be pursued. For a while, Theron had wondered whether Basil’s eye would ever fall on him at all, and if it did, whether it would regard him with favor. Now he knew.
Theron found himself looking straight up at the dangerous Laurel sculpture. Rain had washed some dirt down it, and lichen was growing there, making the sculptor’s highly textured tree seem even more lifelike in the twilight. A young man with marble skin reached out beseechingly from the bark encasing his legs, his thighs .
Theron lifted his head and smiled. “It’s a very good speech,” he said, “and I don’t disagree with you. I’m hoping to find immortality through my poems, when I finally write some worth saving. At the moment, though, I’m far more interested in you and your body and my body and the pleasure we can give each other.”
Since he’d been busy with his fingers as he spoke, Basil was in no state to argue with him, and Theron’s moment spread to encompass Basil’s past, present, and future in one brief eternity of perfect sensation. They were just sinking into sleep when Theron sat up suddenly. “There’s the bell striking five, and if I don’t hurry, I’ll be late to dinner again and I promised Sophia faithfully that I would be on time. Shall I see you tomorrow?”
He was out of bed now, picking up his clothes from the floor and the bed. Basil pulled the quilts around himself and watched his lover dress, stopping him once to kiss the oak leaf drawn along his collarbone before it disappeared under his linen shirt.
“You haven’t told me about that tattoo yet,” Basil said as Theron shrugged into his braided jacket.
“No,” said Theron shortly. “I haven’t. It’s a long and silly story, and I don’t want to waste our time on it.”
He put on his cloak, then half-knelt on the bed to kiss Basil’s mouth. Basil caught his face in his hand and held it firm. “I’ll hear it tomorrow,” he said. “Dine with me—I’ll have Bet send up a pie. We’ll have the whole evening.”
The greenish eyes looked into his. “It may take all night,” Theron said.
“Good,” said Basil, his heart racing. “I like long stories.”
chapter VII
TO PLEASE HIS MOTHER, THERON WAS NOT LATE FOR dinner at Tremontaine House. He was, in fact, early, which gave him time to wander about the wet gardens of its impressive grounds. He was drawn to some of his favorite childhood spots: the rose bower, where a few autumn blossoms doggedly bloomed, and the boxwood walk, dotted with classical sculpture. From old habit he touched the nose of the piping Goat God for luck, and even walked past the Transformation of Laurel with his eyes closed. He always used to hate the sight of the young man being engulfed in bark. He was far too old for such fancies, but he felt it again this time, a frisson of fear such as a child feels, who dreamed and cannot remember what frightened him.
There was nothing to fear. Life was good. He had a new lover, the young magister, so brilliant, so eager; it was just what he’d wanted, exactly what he’d dreamed of happening between them all these weeks. But Ysaud, too, had filled him with this crystal joy at first.
Theron broke a twig off and crushed it. Ysaud had chosen him, seduced him, really, with her artist’s eye and her craftsman’s hand. Her master’s hand. And he had been her master-piece for a while. He smelled the crushed yew rich on his fingers and something else as well, and sighed with sensual pleasure. Basil, he had chosen for himself. Just when Theron had thought his heart was frozen forever he’d seen the magister in a tavern and been drawn to him, and wondered. And so he’d gone where Basil St Cloud had gone, watching him cast off those bright sparks of wit and insight, passion and faithfulness to learning that bespoke an honest man, a sincere man, a man to be pursued. For a while, Theron had wondered whether Basil’s eye would ever fall on him at all, and if it did, whether it would regard him with favor. Now he knew.
Theron found himself looking straight up at the dangerous Laurel sculpture. Rain had washed some dirt down it, and lichen was growing there, making the sculptor’s highly textured tree seem even more lifelike in the twilight. A young man with marble skin reached out beseechingly from the bark encasing his legs, his thighs .
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