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From: Maureen Lycaon <maureen_lcn@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Doubts Part 1 {Maureen Lycaon} (M/M, D/s, bond, fant, magic)
Date: Fri,  1 Jun 2001 19:10:06 -0400
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<1st attachment, "DOUBTS1.7Usenetreadypt1.txt" begin>

DOUBTS (Part 1)

@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 (Part 1)

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.

 


(This is part 1 of "Doubts". Part 2 will follow.)
Email comments and criticism to: maureen_lcn@yahoo.com . 
If you want to read more of my stories, check the 
notes at the beginning for the URL. My author's notes 
are *integral* to my stories.

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