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  When he finally finished for the day, he trudged back to his cabin, dreading spending another night alone with only his thoughts to keep him company. He considered checking on Mestor’s welfare and decided against it. He could no longer guarantee he would act properly.

  Even though he had no appetite, he picked up his late-meal and brought it with him. When the doors to his quarters swished open, he was not prepared for the sight that greeted him. The scent of incense was heavy on the air, and Mestor lay on the sleeping platform wearing only a pair of short pants and his bandages. Sohm’lan was too stunned to contemplate how his waterson had broken into his cabin without security being notified. Shaking off his stupor, he stepped inside and quickly secured the door, setting his meal down on the small dining table, and crossing to where his prince lay.

  With his movement, the lights switched on, rousing Mestor from slumber. As soon as he sat on the bedding, Mestor slowly rolled to his side and gazed up. Those red-gold eyes caught and held him. He clenched his hands into fists to keep from running his palm over Mestor’s brow ridge.

  “Are you done with your duties for the day?” Mestor asked, his voice raspy, heavy with sleep.

  He tore his eyes away from that arresting gaze to assess what he could see of Mestor’s wounds. A thick swath of bandages around his torso and his arms told him how injured Mestor really was from the practice ring. “How long have you been here? You should have called for me.”

  “I was unsure if you would agree to see me. Especially with how you left my cabin.” Mestor watched him intently. The mischievousness that was usually in his expression was subdued.

  He glanced away, knowing his earlier behavior had been unseemly. His gaze caught on the low table where Niobe’s items of remembrance sat. The wide-mouth bowl holding grave dirt sat in the middle of the surface, and not one but two incense sticks burned within. That Mestor had not only noticed his tribute but acknowledged Sohm’lan’s love and grief by lighting the ceremonial sticks meant more than he could voice. His heart warmed at Mestor’s thoughtfulness and intuitiveness, recognizing how important Niobe still was to him and acknowledging it.

  “She was very beautiful,” Mestor said softly, following Sohm’lan’s gaze.

  Just as he had experienced yesterday with Zeus, Sohm’lan’s heart squeezed but the emotions that usually overwhelmed him when he spoke of Niobe did not attempt to crush him. He refused to delve into the reason why. Instead, he changed the topic. “What visions did you see that caused you to command your guard to beat you senseless?”

  He was one of the few people the Vondorians trusted with their secret. He had helped Valdor through the harrowing results of his farseeing many times. The twins inherited the gift, but with different capabilities and varying consequences. He wanted to draw Mestor close and comfort him, only able to imagine the difficulties he experienced. Mestor saw the future of someone when he touched something belonging to that person, but only if he touched the item with that intention. Occasionally it was helpful, other times not so much. Sohm’lan had always attributed the rise of Mestor’s temper to the awakening of an ability that was more of a burden than a gift. He would take the weight from Mestor’s shoulders if he could.

  “Explain what happened,” Sohm’lan urged before rising and bringing over the tray holding his late-meal. He set it on the sleeping platform between them, grabbed additional pillows from storage, then helped Mestor to lounge on his side. He bit back a hum of pleasure when Mestor made an appreciative noise over the bowl of hearty soup. He liked providing for his loved ones, always had.

  He listened intently as Mestor voiced his concerns over Canry sending Zeus to solicit help from the Feteine and how he had decided to look for his own answers.

  “I found there are too many branches of possibilities connected to the upcoming meeting with the Qrxzl.” Mestor spooned a bite and gave a barely audible moan before digging in with enthusiasm. When was the last time his prince had eaten?

  While he waited for Mestor to continue, he moved to his small preparation area. It was just a counter and refrigeration unit where he kept his personal stores. He pulled out a cutting board and retrieved a cylinder of hard meat, cutting it into thin slices. He found one of his special treats, a block of sharp cheese, and sliced that as well. The dairy product was relatively new to Atlainticia. It was part of the first experimental import from one of the Terren worlds that intrigued the Mar’Sani. Valdor sent a delegation to see the process firsthand and when they returned home, they took what they learned and applied it to their own livestock with varying degrees of success. It was a treat Sohm’lan indulged in as often as he could. Feeding his private stock to Mestor filled him with a satisfaction that he refused analyze too closely.

  “What happens on Qestaire is pivotal to our future as well as Valespia’s,” his prince finally said. “I thought that if Canry had foreseen a path, then I could as well. But the possibilities revealed are fleeting, giving me only a sense of what could happen. There could be peace, there could be fighting.” He paused, his expression of sorrow so stark Sohm’lan reacted without thought, pushing the tray away. He moved to Mestor’s side, carefully drawing him into his arms. “Or there could be a bit of both.” Mestor snuggled closer with a low noise of appreciation.

  “I have seen endless variations of Zeus, Dargon, or you being hurt. There were even one or two of you dying. I refused to let it happen! But when I resolved to do something, such as accompany Zeus or require Dargon and Alpha to stay aboard the ship or have Azaes go instead… every single time I resolved on a course of action, the future shifted, becoming more fraught with danger and the death of innocents.”

  He rubbed circles over Mestor’s shoulders. “Then you do nothing. Some things you cannot change, my prince.”

  “I refuse to believe that, but in this case, I cannot do anything or else the precarious situation will be compounded. I cannot even make suggestions.”

  Sohm’lan slid his palm down Mestor’s back, plucking lightly at the bandages. He could do something about the injuries, but so could one of the guards. Why had Mestor not been healed by one of them? The thought of another putting their mouth on Mestor’s body made Sohm’lan bite back a hiss.

  “I have already arranged our detail and had the monitoring bracelets taken from inventory,” Sohm’lan soothed. “You and Azaes will be able to track our wellbeing while we are away. If something goes awry, you can come to our rescue.”

  He snorted. He could not imagine a situation where they would need to be rescued. But Mestor had seen complications and violence with a few of the future pathways. According to him, taking precautions against such had only caused more chaos. Sohm’lan would continue to treat the expedition as any other diplomatic foray and deal with each situation as it arose.

  Sohm’lan carefully removed the medical tape and lifted the gauze to peer at Mestor’s wounds. He had to be in a great deal of pain with the soft tissue protruding from between the scales. “Now, tell me why you foolishly commanded the Monticore to fight you until you could no longer stand? I do not think I have to express how stupid I find that course of action.”

  “The scenarios that could lead to your death they… haunt me. I could not sleep. I tried to find a solution to every branch of the future that presented itself, so you would live. I already told you I failed in that endeavor, and even though the branches of time where you were injured, or worse, were only a fraction of the possibilities… those visions plagued me the most. I could not banish the images of your lifeless body lying on the sand. So, I went to work out, hoping physical exhaustion would shut down my mind. But the more I thought about it, the more I despised my inability to do something. Either farseeing is an unreliable tool or I am too stupid or too weak to use it properly.”

  He wanted to cuff Mestor on the back of the head. “You were angry with yourself? At your inability to stop what is more than likely inevitable? You thought you should punish yourself over something you have no control over?”
Sohm’lan sighed. “Idiot. I have no fear of death.”

  Mestor hissed, long and loud. “I refuse to accept any future that does not include you.”

  Sohm’lan attempted to keep him in place, but Mestor threw off his staying hand and rose to his knees, his hiss-clicks of pain making Sohm’lan flinch. “Prince Mestor—”

  Mestor pressed his face close to Sohm’lan’s. “No!” he bellowed, so loud Sohm’lan’s ears rang. “You do not get to give up. I forbid you to leave me!” When Sohm’lan did not react, merely quirked a brow ridge, Mestor snarled.

  His prince breathed deeply, as if marshalling his control.

  “Do I look as if I am giving up?” he inquired.

  Mestor glanced to the remembrance table and Niobe’s items gathered there. “Do you think I do not know? You have been biding your time, waiting for the Fade to finally take you.”

  “Mestor, I am not searching out death,” he cajoled.

  “But neither will you fight it. Is that why you refuse to consider me as a lifemate?”

  Sohm’lan did not recoil when his face was cupped between warm palms. He breathed in Mestor’s scent even while searching for the words that would make him understand. “I am too old for you.”

  “In what world? We are both considered young by Mar’Sani customs.” When Mestor rubbed a cheek against his, Sohm’lan unconsciously pushed into the caress.

  “I am your waterfather.”

  “I am past the age at which your duty would bind you in such a way. You have instructed me well, and now that era is over. You have been my friend and mentor, but it is time for you to become my amor, my partner. You think you are clever at hiding your yearning, your desire. But I see you, Sohm.” He closed his eyes at the sound of his shortened name coming off his prince’s tongue, hearing the endearment it was meant to be. Mestor put his fingers over Sohm’lan’s mouth when he made a rude noise. “Do you know how long I have loved you? How long I have waited for you to see me?”

  His chest constricted as he said, “It is not fair to you, to be given only a small piece of my heart. You are a young bull, full of life and with such promise. I will only hold you back. You deserve to have a virile, beautiful person on your arm. Not this battered, old soul who is so shattered that the pieces do not fit back together correctly. I will always love Niobe, and I miss her every single day. I cannot, will not give up my love for her and our unborn youngling.”

  “Open your eyes and look at me, Sohm.” Mestor’s voice was… calm. Assured.

  He did not know if he wanted to, unsure if he could handle Mestor’s dejected expression. Stealing himself, he reluctantly looked up to Mestor where he still knelt over him. The Vondorian sunrise-yellow eyes glowed with warmth and acceptance. “I would never ask you to stop loving anyone. That loyalty is part of the reason why I adore you. I do not see you as old or irrevocably broken. To my eyes, you are perfect just the way you are.”

  Right then and there Sohm’lan knew he should escort Mestor back to his cabin, but his resolve faltered when Mestor nuzzled his cheek. The youngling could not possibly know what he was saying… but Mestor was not a youngling anymore, was he? He had grown into a bull of worth, had he not? Sohm’lan was exhausted from trying to convince Mestor he was not the best match, and yet, he wondered for the first time if his prince was the one who needed convincing. He suddenly realized he had stopped saying no to Mestor. Somewhere in the last two days he had wandered off the path he had been walking for so many summers, restricting himself to an emotionally solitary life. He was now considering… more. When had that happened?

  “Come, lie on the sleeping platform and allow me to inspect your wounds,” he coaxed. Mestor held his gaze for several heart beats before complying. “Why have you not had one of the Monticore heal you? There is no reason for you to still be walking around this injured.” If he did not know better, he would think Mestor was getting hurt just so he could have Sohm’lan take care of him.

  Mestor rolled over and raised his hands over his head, halting Sohm’lan’s chastisement. The deep lines around Prince Mestor’s mouth telegraphed his discomfort. Carefully, Sohm’lan used a claw to cut through the bandages. His mouth went dry as the cloth fell away, revealing a muscular torso. Even damaged, his prince was magnificent.

  “Do you want someone else to touch me, Sohm?” Mestor asked, his gaze intent. “Should I pick out a guard and have him use his tongue on me, have him rest between my thighs. Should I find out how someone else’s mouth feels?”

  He did not mean to snarl; the sudden and overwhelming fury coursed through him and clouded his mind as he grabbed Mestor when he attempted to leave the sleeping platform.

  “No.” The uncharacteristic menace in that one word brought him back from the edge of violence. He could not bear the thought of another with Mestor, and he had just revealed that fact to the one person who should never know.

  Mestor’s smile lit up the room and Sohm’lan knew he was lost. “Then put your mouth on me.”

  Sohm’lan did not even fight his need. Instead, he pulled Mestor back down, skating a hand over Mestor’s hip. Yes, he would put his mouth on his prince and savor every second. In the morning, he would deal with the attack of conscience he knew would come. But for now, he scooted down and licked softly along a cluster of bulging scales. When Mestor cupped the back of his head and moaned, he allowed himself to become lost in the taste and feel of the forbidden.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sohm’lan

  * * *

  As soon as they stepped out of the shuttle onto Qestaire’s landing pad, Sohm’lan sensed they were being watched. He was not the only one who detected the prying eyes, for Captain Dargon practically bristled.

  As Chief Warlord for Emperor Valdor, Sohm’lan had been in farseeing blackouts before. The familiar frustration clung to his shoulders like a mega sea slug he could not dislodge. One would think that after all this time he would be used to the restrictions of knowing, but not knowing.

  Mere days ago, Mestor had searched for the answer to why Canry had tasked Zeus, and not Azaes or Mestor, with soliciting the help of the Feteine. Unfortunately, Mestor had been sidetracked by Sohm’lan’s possible futures and did not find the answers he sought. Valdor always said that seeing the future was tricky. The pathways of possibility changed with every choice or decision. But Mestor had said that when he or Azaes attempted to interfere in the first contact with the Qrxzl by altering the away team or going themselves, each successive result was worse. Sohm’lan did not know what that implied and spent the remainder of the night turning the information over.

  As he had mulled it over, he held Mestor close, aware that once he reached Qestaire’s surface he might never get the chance again. He savored every passing minute, counted Mestor’s inhalations, listened intently to the small dream-induced moans, and reveled in how Mestor clutched him and held on like a barnacle, his grip unbreakable even in slumber.

  Contrary to what Mestor thought, Sohm’lan was not waiting for the day death would drag him into the Fade. He could not protect the youngest prince if he died on the Qrxzl’s planet. The goal was to get through the upcoming meeting alive, if a bit battered, which was an almost certain possibility. Mestor implied there were endless scenarios of Zeus, Dargon, and him being injured, so he anticipated they would not come away from this expedition unscathed.

  As the hours waxed and waned, Sohm’lan contemplated his options, concluding that Canry would not send Zeus to his death. Yes, Canry was not raised with his family, and one could argue that without the family ties, he would not feel connected to or consider Zeus family. He could be sending Zeus to his death to spare Azaes and Mestor. But when Sohm’lan had sought out Zeus and asked him about Canry, he had put away his suspicions. He trusted Zeus’s assessment and his instincts. Over time Sohm’lan had learned that Zeus had an uncanny ability to sense deception. So Sohm’lan surmised that Canry sent Zeus because he was the one most likely to emerge alive. Perhaps Zeus had an advantage that
the twins did not.

  The hot wind off the white sand dunes carried whispers that Sohm’lan could barely hear but not make out the words. It was as if a someone was having a conversation on a different wavelength, just out of hearing. His scales crawled with apprehension.

  Why was the prospect of Azaes and Mestor coming to this first meeting so detrimental? He could only surmise that it was the possessive and aggressive behavior the twins exhibited when Zeus was present. Any sign of disrespect or hostility toward Zeus always triggered outraged retaliation. With the knowledge of their behavior forefront in his mind, Sohm’lan expected that Zeus would experience some level of bigotry while on Qestaire.

  Since they were a part of the Valespian Pact, the Qrxzl would know of the Mar’Sani, but they had forfeited representation on the Council of Neighn since they loathed leaving their planet. Familiar or not with the Mar’Sani, they would have no real knowledge of Zeus, other than he was adopted by the Vondorians. What prejudice they could have against him, Sohm’lan could not say. Of course, there could be other reasons why there would be danger if the princelings came along. What he could do, though, was allow Zeus to handle the situation. Sohm’lan would not—could not—act until Zeus commanded him to. He was not sure he would be any more successful than the twins, but he had to do his very best, especially since the outcome of this meeting relied on him doing the right thing at the right time. His responsibility would be to get Zeus and his mates off the planet alive, injured or not.