Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [43]
The door opened, and a slim young man stood there wearing only a flimsy robe. High cheekbones, thin lips, a wicked grin that Brynd could never stay away from too long. The young man brushed his sleek black hair back with his fingers. “Well, if it isn’t my big war hero. Haven’t seen you for a while.”
“I’ve had a hell of a week,” Brynd breathed, his gaze flickering from Kym’s face to the ground. In a way it was a refusal to see himself reflected in Kym’s eyes.
“You look like you have, too,” Kym said. “You look bloody terrible. And you haven’t even come in uniform. Well, you’re a right scruff, but I can live with that.”
“If someone catches us together while I’m in uniform we’ll both be hanged. And think of how my unit would react if they discover the truth about me. My fellow soldiers are suspicious enough of me already.” Having no wife might arouse suspicion normally, but at least being an albino gave him an excuse to hide behind.
Kym said, “You’re just paranoid because of the color of your skin, honey. So stop being so self-conscious. People give less of a shit about you than you believe.”
“I didn’t come here to argue,” Brynd said.
“Well, in that case, you may as well come in.”
Still hesitant now. “Are you … alone? No one else here?”
“Of course I am, otherwise I’d say so.”
Brynd followed him inside, looking around carefully before he closed the door. Kym was always so casual, and there was something deeply attractive about his carefree attitude. Or was it more carelessness? His lack of care was seen as a sign of strength by many. Women in particular were attracted to the deep confidence from which he drew his plenitude of sarcasm and humor and surreal wisdom. They felt the urge to be noticed by him, but he always came back to Brynd in the end.
“That a cut on your face?” Brynd had noted a thin line under Kym’s eye, in this clearer light.
“Experienced some rough treatment, you know how it is. Well, you don’t quite, I suppose, being all military and precise. This was just a little bit more than name-calling, though, a threat to inform the Inquisition. Just so happens the guy I was seeing at the time was tough, tall and muscled. Gave the guy who did this a broken jaw, poor bastard. Can’t eat his meals without help now.” Kym gave the gentlest of smiles.
“Indeed.” Brynd was not sure whether to feel jealous or angry. He had no right to be either. “So how’ve you been? I see you’ve decorated the place again.”
Brynd indicated the metal frame chairs, the elaborate new murals, the stylish new lanterns that cast shades of green and blue all around them. He found it impressive, Kym’s ability over the years to always find something new to do with the place.
The first time they’d met was when Brynd was just a captain in the Second Dragoons. He didn’t have such a high reputation to protect, so they were good days, relatively stress-free, when he could spend his evenings in lovemaking and easy companionship. The two of them would visit the galleries, even stroll on the bridges through the warmer evenings, just to get closer to the stars. But always in the darkness of the executioner’s shadow because of a few lines in an ancient Jorsalir text. Back then, the Freeze was not something people even thought about, and he didn’t have a crucial role to play in the Empire’s development or safety, so he was less bothered about his reputation.
In those more directionless younger days, he went about the city screwing man after man. There were always places to find it, discreet clubs dark enough so married men could be hypocrites. He’d felt a discreet thrill at the fact that he could be killed simply for being what he was. It always made sucking a cock so much more exciting. Brynd had now settled on just one man—in personality a strange opposite that he needed more than chose, for reasons he never wanted to investigate. Perhaps it was the distinct lack of machismo in Kym, a quality that was so evidently postured during his time in the army.