One: Jennail Is Starved

September 3, 1983- Ethelden Palace; Amhurst, Veronaville



Jennail was free. Her eyes darted towards the over-grown door at her back, anxious not to hear her name ringing from the battlements. This was the first time that she had ever dared to run out on the other ladies but if she had to be party to another conversation about make-up application or fine stitching or eligible men, she might have slit her throat with a letter opener.

Jennail reached into her pocket for the bit of carrot cake that she tucked away and shoving a small piece into her mouth, she peered through the bushes in front of her. The brusque chill of autumn was already hanging in the breeze. It stung her cheeks and sank through her sleeves like water.

Jennail stood on her toes, trying to get a better look at what awaited her on the other side of the shrubbery. Beyond the tiny waxen leaves, there were only more leaves. She walked the length of the shrubs, dragging her fingers along the stone wall at their base until she reached an opening.



She knew that there were a few hedge mazes on the grounds but she had never stumbled across one before now. The Magi made a practice of navigating mazes as a form of meditation. This one was potentially several miles in length. Jennail produced a large hunk of cake from her pocket, intent on leaving a trail for as long as the cake held out.



The clouds rolled past, leaving only the lapis-colored sky in their wake. Jennail turned her face upward and drank in the sunlight. How many days like this had she wasted indoors, bent over her sewing? She didn't like to think on it.

The air inside the hedge maze was different, heavy with the scent of loam. When the wind blew, the walls around her contracted. She felt as though she were tunneling, Pinocchio-like, down the intestines of a giant whale.



Through the breeze, Jennail could hear water trickling. She turned to her left, following the sound. After only a few minutes of wandering, she caught sight of the fountain that marked the center of the labyrinth. This small triumph was enough to make her smile at her own cleverness.

Bells rang in the distance, signaling afternoon mass. Jennail contemplated running back to the palace but thought that she would have a drink of water before she exited the maze. Spinning on her heel, she approached the center.



Jennail paused before she reached the fountain, caught off guard by the sight of a boy reclining on a bench. He was about her age, maybe a little younger and dressed in the thick woolen mantle of an acolyte. Jennail took a step back as he raised his head to look at her. His chestnut hair fell over his eyes but he did not bother to push it away. Jennail stuffed her mouth full of cake, foolishly thinking that it was the best way to disguise her unladylike habit of carrying around food in her hands.

If the boy had any feeling either way about the intrusion, he was hiding it well. Jennail stood frozen to the spot while he swung his legs over the edge of the bench.

"I don't know how you found me but you may tell the Magister Templi to go fuck herself. I'm not coming," he said. There was both an edge and a finality to his tone. Jennail gasped, never having been spoken to in such a fashion in all her life. The boy rose an eyebrow. "What are you still doing here? Go."



"I-- I'm not from the temple." Her words were muddled by the fullness of her mouth. The boy stood and Jennail had the peculiar urge to kneel. On his feet, he was rendered somehow formidable-- a lion poised on its haunches.

"What are you eating?" he asked incredulously. Jennail swallowed as much as she could before answering.

"Carrot cake." She didn't know how she had managed to sound so infantile over the space of three syllables but she scolded herself for it. The boy tossed his hair over his shoulder and approached. She fought the urge to wipe her hands on her dress, feeling that she would only embarrass herself further.



His expression was unreadable; not blank but open, not empty but devouring. She understood then what made her want to drop to her knees at his feet. He carried himself with the confidence of someone who sat at the heads of all tables.

"What's your name?" he whispered. Jennail kept silent. Her heart was pounding in her throat. She did not need to ask his name. When she failed to respond, he came closer. She held his gaze, not daring to move. The Sheut threw his arms around her shoulders and she grabbed the front of his robe to steady herself. Her hands were sticky with confectionary but their bodies were mashed too tightly for her to pull away.



"Don't swallow." His voice was deep and throaty. Before Jennail had time to register what he was saying, his lips were pressed firmly against hers. He licked the opening of her mouth in request for entry and despite her better judgement, she acquiesced.

She had been kissed before but never this way and never with such an intention. The Sheut slid his tongue across the roof of her mouth where much of the cake had lodged its self. Jennail was reminded of a bird regurgitating into the mouth of its young. Her revulsion compelled her to push him at the center of his chest and to her surprise, he let go.



"You really shouldn't eat unless you've brought enough to share with the whole class," he said. Jennail bit her lower lip, trying to contain the unholy mixture of disgust, embarrassment and worst of all, longing that ebbed throughout her body, forcing her to shiver. She wanted him to do it again.

"Don't tease me," she whispered. The boy snaked his hands down to the small of her back.

"Don't tell me what to do."



He backed away from her slightly and her breath quickened as though she had spent the previous moments starved for oxygen. She wanted to be angry. She wanted to be furious. How dare he? No matter who he was. But it was impossible to be angry when her heart was fluttering. He raised her wrist to the level of his lips and gently kissed the back of her hand. Then he turned her hand over and she closed her eyes out of sheer disbelief, anticipating what he was going to do before he did it.

The Sheut kissed each of her fingertips in turn before flicking his tongue across her soiled palm. Jennail tried to pull out of his grasp but he held her wrist firm. With his free hand, he stroked her side, stopping underneath her breast with each stroke, just close enough to make her worry. Then all movement ceased. Jennail opened her eyes, apprehensive about what could possibly come next. The Sheut closed her fist and then, staring her dead in the eye, placed her index finger in his mouth.



The actual sensation of it was much what she would have expected. His mouth was warm and wet as mouths tended to be. But the result that the flirtation had on the rest of her body was unimaginable. His teeth grazed her skin and her stomach stirred pleasantly. His tongue encircled her finger and her muscles clenched. Heat rose throughout her torso. Her knees weakened. She was ashamed of herself and her traitorous body, particularly when she realized that he had let go of her wrist some time ago. Jennail pulled her finger out of his mouth slowly, her arousal intensifying as he held her gaze.



"You're awful," she said, wiping his mouth with the back of her hand.

"If I am, you're worse for being excited by it." Jennail dropped her hand from his face. She made an indignant sound from the back of her throat but could think of no retort. Her heart continued to hammer in her chest. The situation was so mortifying. Part of her demanded that she run away in tears. She had only just met Kvornan Tanner and he had succeeded in making her want him. But more than that, she wanted not to want him. "You may kiss me if you like," he said simply.

"I don't want to kiss you." It was a lie but she was too proud to say or do otherwise.

"If not now then later. Consider this a standing offer." He smirked. Sensing that she had been given leave to go, Jennail picked up her skirts and jogged away.



Her crumbs were left even in the places where she had made wrong turns and Jennail was too frustrated to concentrate on the way she came. Now that he was no longer looking at her, now that he was no longer touching her, fury pounded in her temples. She remembered something that her professor had taught her about the Sheut of the Fifth Age-- that his name at invocation, Lux'xief, was old Ashkay for 'Bear Unto Me The Torch'. Jennail could not have said what that meant but after this, she felt like she understood intuitively.

It was sacrilegious and generally wrong but before Jennail reached the exit to the maze, hot, angry tears were rolling down her cheeks. She knew with full clarity that she hated him.