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From: Maureen Lycaon <maureen_lcn@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Doubts Part 2 {Maureen Lycaon} (M/M, D/s, bond, fant, magic)
Date: Fri,  1 Jun 2001 19:10:07 -0400
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<1st attachment, "DOUBTS1.7Usenetreadypt2.txt" begin>

DOUBTS (Part 2)

@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 2)

By Maureen Lycaon


Mazruar was in the library, studying an ancient-
looking tome that lay open on the wooden desk, with 
the glow of a magelight illuminating the pages. 
Candles and oil lamps were banished from the library 
as too dangerous, with so many valuable (and 
combustible) books around. A second chair stood by the 
desk, in case a visitor needed to be accommodated. 

He looked up as Palin entered, his eyes warming as he 
gazed upon his student.

"Palin. What brings you here?"

"Honored Teacher, I . . . I need to talk."

Mazruar smiled and looked into his eyes. Then, seeing 
the expression on his student's face, his own eyes 
turned gravely serious. "Sit down with me, then, and 
speak. What troubles you?"

Palin took the extra chair, glancing at the book as 
the Adept carefully, unhurriedly closed it and pushed 
it to one side, out of the way. He couldn't identify 
the language of the gilt-lettered title. The tome was 
probably several hundred years old and would 
ordinarily be kept under a stasis spell to protect it 
from further aging.

He turned his mind back to his teacher's question.

"I . . . yes, there is," he answered, feeling sorrow 
weighing heavy in his heart. *I don't want to lose 
him. Not after all these years of wanting, wondering . 
. .*

"What we did today -- what I let you do to me -- I 
fear that it's wrong."

He opened his mouth to continue, and then realized 
he'd already spoken the core of it.

Mazruar's face was expressionless now, his undivided 
attention focused on Palin. Only when it became clear 
that his apprentice wasn't going to continue did he 
give him a nod of acknowledgement.

"Why might it be wrong, do you think?" he asked, his 
voice gentle but devoid of emotion.

Palin tried to sort out his thoughts, and found he 
hadn't done so as clearly as he'd believed. What 
indeed was wrong about what had happened between them 
this morning -- the mere fact that he had lain with 
another man? Or something about what they'd done?

"I'm not sure," he confessed. He'd already learned 
that under the Adept's tutelage: when you don't know 
something, admit it instead of trying to save face. He 
swallowed nervously.

"Let us explore this, then," Mazruar said, still with 
that same gentle tone. "You meditated upon this and 
believed you understood it before you came to me, 
didn't you?" It was more a statement than a question.

Palin paused, then nodded and answered: "Yes."

"But now, it doesn't seem so clear."

"Yes."

"Palin . . . I would never ask you to do anything you 
believe is wrong. Believe me when I say that, pupil." 
When Palin had silently nodded his acknowledgement, 
Mazruar went on. "Now, when you meditated upon this, 
what came to your mind?"

He thought back carefully, remembering.

"That my father would be angered if he knew of it," he 
said. "No -- 'angry' is too mild a word for it." He 
managed a wry smile. "And that anyone who knew me back 
home would think less of me, if they saw me kneeling 
before you in your bedchamber like that --" He was 
felt hot warmth on his face and realized he was 
blushing.

Mazruar nodded encouragingly. If anything Palin had 
said so far aroused his disapproval, he didn't show 
it. "Go on."

"And then -- Father Iljan, our family priest. He'd say 
it was wrong. In fact, he'd denounce me as mad, or 
evil, or -- or *something*."

There was a flicker of sympathy in Mazruar's eyes. 
"And what else?"

"That -- my friends would laugh at me. They would 
think I'm not a man. That I'm dishonorable." He fell 
silent.

The silence stretched out, while the Adept's gentle 
gaze remained upon him. At last Mazruar asked, "And of 
these people, whose disapproval would disturb you 
most?"

"Father Iljan's," he said after a moment's thought.

"Why? Why not your father's?"

He blinked, thought.

"Because . . . Father Iljan is a priest. He would 
*know* if it's wrong, better than anyone else."

To his surprise, Mazruar actually smiled, as if he 
approved of what Palin had just said.

"Caring about right and wrong before all else . . . I 
don't think you are evil, Palin," he said. "If you 
were, you would hardly worry about such things. But 
what would Father Iljan say, exactly? What has he said 
in the past? I know we have talked of this before, but 
let us go over it again."

They had indeed, after Palin had made his first few 
visits to his teacher's bedchamber.

He had thought his doubts about the rightness of lying 
with another man had been quelled by the conversation 
that had followed. Yet those doubts had returned, and 
so he again repeated Father Iljan's words to his 
teacher.

"That . . . that there is nothing higher in the 
Goddess Dolgida's sight than holy marriage." He smiled 
wryly, realizing he was using nearly the precise words 
of the marriage ritual. The ul Raomnar family honored 
Dolgida as their chief deity, and a fine statue of 
Her, sculpted from Shenazin white marble, graced their 
private shrine. "That it's a son's duty to beget heirs 
to carry on his family line. That not to do so is a 
failure in duty to one's family and to Dolgida."

Mazruar nodded quietly. "Now, you have two brothers, 
and your eldest brother was married two years ago, and 
already his wife has born a son, you have told me. So 
your father already has his first grandson, and is not 
likely to lack for heirs to whom he can pass on his 
trade and his estate. Is that not so?"

Palin nodded in reply. "Yes." As Mazruar had said, 
they had discussed this before.

"So . . . Father Iljan said nothing of two men? Or of 
two women, for that matter?"

Palin laughed shortly. "No."

"So, perhaps the real question is whether there is 
something else wrong, something sick, about those 
things we did this morning. Might that be the root of 
your doubts?"

"Yes!" Palin agreed, suddenly understanding that was 
indeed the root of what disturbed him.

"Do you believe what we did this morning was 
dishonorable? Worthy of shame?" Mazruar asked, his 
eyes serious.

Palin thought carefully.

"I feel as if it were," he said.

"What, do you think, causes you to feel that, if 
Father Iljan never spoke even of men together?"

There was another long pause. The anxiety and dread 
Palin had felt earlier had almost gone; weariness was 
taking their place. Mazruar's questions demanded so 
much soul-searching -- he was no longer surprised at 
that, because that was his teacher's way. It was part 
of becoming a mage; and, he suspected, of being one. 
But it was painfully hard labor.

"I feel that I shamed myself," he said slowly.

"How so, do you think?"

"That . . . I knelt before you. That I let you bind 
me." He was sure he was blushing again; his face felt 
hot.

Mazruar nodded deliberately, showing that he had 
heard. "And what, about that, is dishonorable?"

Palin blinked. This was one question he had never 
expected; he'd thought it obvious, and at first he 
didn't know how to answer. He thought even more 
carefully, feeling how desperately important it was to 
get this right.

"It makes me less than you," he managed. "As though I 
were -- a slave."

He felt more heat in his face at the last word. He had 
to make a conscious effort to take a breath after 
saying it. He wanted to take the word back, but he 
could not.

"You are not less than I, Palin," the older mage said 
firmly. "You're as worthy of love and respect as I am. 
Never doubt that."

Palin stared back at him.

"You do not understand that, do you?" Mazruar said, 
and his expression was pure compassion. "No, I cannot 
read your thoughts, unless you let me, but I can guess 
what you're thinking."

"I -- no, I do not."

Mazruar nodded. "With thought, and time, it might 
become clearer to you. Now, what did you feel, while 
you were on your knees with your wrists bound, as I 
touched you?"

That was easier to answer.

"So naked and -- warm. I felt warm all over," he 
began. "And -- good. A little scared." He managed a 
small smile, which Mazruar returned. "And -- I was 
aroused, yes. I wanted -- more."

After a few moments, when it became clear he would not 
go on, Mazruar prodded: "And was there anything else?"

Palin was about to say that there was nothing else, 
and then the thought came to him, so strong that it 
was irresistible.

"I felt -- at peace -- while I was kneeling. While I 
was bound. As if -- I knew you would not be disgusted 
or offended by my feeling pleasure . . . and that made 
me feel better." And he was sure that he might have 
put it so much more clearly, but he couldn't think of 
the words for it.

"'Accepted'? Might that be what you felt?"

He nodded emphatically. "Yes! And I felt so -- so glad 
of that. As if I'd kept a secret for so long . . . and 
I didn't need to keep it any more."

Mazruar nodded slowly at all this, and now his eyes 
were a study in compassion. "You do not need to, 
Palin. You have kept too many secrets from those 
around you for too long. Your secrets are safe with 
me, I promise you."

Tears welled in Palin's eyes, surprising him. 
Something about those words seemed to pierce his soul, 
as if they were lancing an abscess deep within. He had 
to turn away to regain control, rubbing his eyes.

The older mage waited patiently, saying nothing of his 
tears. When Palin returned his gaze to him, he spoke 
again as if choosing his words with great care.

"You felt as if . . . kneeling before me fed something 
that goes down to your very soul. Did you not?"

The words were almost like a physical shock. Again 
there was that feeling of an abscess being lanced.

"Yes . . . yes, it does." His voice broke, thick with 
feelings welling up in him that he couldn't 
understand.

"So I thought," Mazruar said after a few moments, 
nodding slowly. "But -- what you need to know is, do 
the gods accept this? Is it wrong? Perverted?"

Palin nodded firmly. "Yes! That's what preys upon me."

"And you fear *you* are somehow wrong? Marred forever 
in who you are?"

"Yes." Fresh tears came to Palin's eyes, but he did 
not shed them.

"Palin." Mazruar's voice was pure gentleness. "I do 
not think you are marred, or insane, or wrong in your 
being.

"But what matters most is not what *I* think, what 
mages think . . . but what is the truth of this 
matter. Do you agree?"

"Yes . . . I think so." A moment later he was more 
sure. "Yes, I do."

"I see." And then Mazruar leaned back in his chair. He 
closed his eyes for a long moment, seeming to be 
considering something, and then opened them again to 
regard his pupil.

"Palin, would you call yourself pious?"

He blinked at the change of subject. "Er, no, not 
really. I make the offerings as I should, and I try to 
be proper toward Father Iljan, but . . ." He trailed 
off.

When it became clear that once again he had no further 
words of answer, Mazruar spoke.

"And yet, I can see that this is important to you. 
That you strive to do what is right, and to avoid 
doing wrong. Would you say I am correct? That this is 
your greatest concern, and not simply whether Father 
Iljan approves of you?"

Palin thought. "Yes . . . I think so." He became more 
certain of it as he spoke the words, and he nodded.

"I will ask you a question that may seem strange. What 
did he teach you of Dolgida's brother? Of the God 
Irizen?"

The blond apprentice paused. He'd seen the statue of 
Irizen that Mazruar had in one of the gardens, made of 
the same white marble as his family's statue of 
Dolgida. It was one of the things that had made him 
uncomfortable early on.

If Mazruar was as devout concerning Irizen as Father 
Iljan was about the proper respect of Dolgida, he 
could be in dangerous waters. But the Adept had never 
brought up the subject with him before.

He took a deep breath, remembering Mazruar's frequent 
admonishments to be completely honest with him.

"I was taught that He's --" Palin sought for the right 
word --"dangerous. And dishonorable."

He looked anxiously into Mazruar's eyes, but there was 
no anger or disapproval there, only the same grave 
sympathy.

"By Father Iljan?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because He makes people lust, tempts them to do 
dishonorable things, to dishonor their marriage vows."

Mazruar merely nodded.

"Palin." The voice became a statement, not a question. 
"I will say this again, and as many times as you need 
to hear: I will not ask you to do anything you believe 
is wrong. Please believe that. But I will not tell you 
what is right and wrong here, because you must decide 
that for yourself. All I ask is that you think, as 
clearly as you can. What matters most is not what *I* 
think, what other mages think . . . but what you 
believe is the truth. Do you agree?"

"Yes . . . I think so." A moment later he was more 
certain. "Yes, I do."

"And I would reassure you there, too, but I cannot 
truly do so. You have had to question everything, all 
you have been taught. And so anyone who reassures you 
is subject to question, too. Neither I nor anyone else 
can any longer dictate to you what right and wrong 
are."

Palin blinked, but offered no contradiction.

"Tell me, what must you do if you decided what we do 
together is wrong? What would you ask of me?"

He closed his eyes a moment and thought. Then, "I . . 
. would have to leave you. Or -- ask you never to do 
it again." The lump welled in his throat with fresh 
force.

"Palin," and that gentle voice was rich with sympathy, 
"if you ask it of me -- if you decide what we have 
done is wrong -- I will never again make love to you 
in that fashion. Indeed, I will not lay a hand on you 
unless you wish it.

"I will still teach you, if you wish, and I will do 
the very best I can for you. Or I could find you 
another mage who could tutor you, if you prefer. But I 
think you would do yourself a grave wrong, and you 
would never become the mage you could be."

Palin swallowed, fighting down the lump in his throat 
with some success.

"Tell me a thing," the Adept continued. "Have you ever 
spoken with a priest other than Father Iljan?"

Palin blinked. "No, I have not."

"You will find that even the priests and the 
priestesses differ in their opinions on some things. I 
hope that you will speak to some here in Berjil 
Province on these matters, and learn what they think."

Palin blinked again. "But -- wouldn't they *know*? I 
mean, the priests speak to the gods . . ." he trailed 
off.

Mazruar might have made a small sigh of his own; if 
so, it was barely perceptible, and Palin wasn't sure 
he'd actually seen it.

"Yes, so they do, so they do," he answered, nodding 
briefly. "They are trained to do so. And yet, they 
must *ask* first. The gods do not simply tell them 
everything. And unless it is a matter of the most 
basic importance, they tell us only what we are ready 
to hear. They do not seek to dictate mortal affairs. 
They intervene only when they are asked -- and even 
then, as little as possible."

Palin blinked, taking this all in. It was not a thing 
that Father Iljan would ever have said. He realized he 
could not fully understand it all at once.

Mazruar waited patiently. When the apprentice's eyes 
met his again, he smiled gently. "I know that is much 
to swallow in one gulp, my student. You may think it 
over at length later. But now, let me suggest a thing.

"This will be a very hard decision for you, Palin, and 
there is little I can do to help you with it. You must 
make it for yourself. But I can suggest to you a way 
to find out for yourself, to get an answer from 
Something you may be able to trust, above the words of 
other men or of women.

"Not many people can do it, because they cannot quiet 
their souls enough to hear the answer. That is one 
reason why there are priests.

"But you have had the beginnings of mage-training, 
Palin. You were able to silence the chattering of the 
thoughts long enough to meditate upon your doubts 
today, and already you have been able to speak to some 
of the least of the elementals. Why not find a quiet 
spot and ask the gods yourself what is right and what 
is wrong here? Perhaps even Lady Dolgida Herself."



It was mid-afternoon as Palin rode out on the bay-
colored mare one of Mazruar's stablehands had supplied 
him with. He was no horseman, but the gentle little 
beast was easy to control.

He took her out past the gate into the lands beyond 
the gardens, the woods that were part of Mazruar's 
holdings but were innocent of the plow and scythe.

Men might clear the forests, but almost everywhere in 
the known lands large areas were left inviolate, so 
that game animals could be hunted and those divinities 
and spirits that preferred wildlands could dwell there 
and were not angered.

Mazruar permitted the farmers to hunt on his lands for 
what meat they needed, and to collect firewood near 
the village. It was actually more than enough for them 
to live well on, and he was on better terms with them 
than most nobles were with their villagers.

The land he was riding through now was open oak 
woodland, the massive trees widely spaced so that the 
grass underneath them grew lush and emerald-green, 
dotted with scarlet wild poppies. No breeze blew, and 
the afternoon heat was just short of oppressive; the 
only movement he saw was that of foraging honeybees 
drifting above the grass from flower to flower.

The Goddess Dolgida had Her shrines in the dwellings 
of men, but it was said that before men lived in 
cities and built shrines of brick and mortar and 
stone, Her worshippers honored Her in groves of the 
tallest trees -- the arjin.

There was a hillside on Mazruar's lands where a dense 
stand of arjin trees stood, and this was where Palin 
was headed.

In perhaps half a candlemark, guiding the mare along a 
narrow deer trail winding through the grass, he 
reached the grove and entered its cool shadows.

He had never been in an arjin grove before, and it 
awed him. He had glimpsed the legendary huge trees 
from the upper stories of the tower of Mazruar's hold, 
but the demands of his training had limited his forays 
outside the grounds to the occasional visit to the 
nearby town of Gelthazin.

Sunlight slanted through the feathery leaves far 
overhead, filtering between the great furrowed red 
trunks to spotlight the forest floor below, so that 
the grove felt like some natural temple. All sound 
seemed swallowed up in the profound quiet. Soft 
birdcalls sounded now and again; nothing else broke 
the silence except the equally soft hoofsteps of his 
mare.

He wondered if the farmers ever entered this grove, 
instead of using the village shrine.

Was there a right spot that was better than others? If 
so, how would he know?

In the end, he simply picked a tiny sunlit opening 
that was mostly occupied by a great boulder half-
buried in the earth, towering twice his height. The 
rest would have to be in Dolgida's hands.

Palin halted the mare, climbed down and looked around 
for a place to tie her.

The opening in the treetop canopy allowed a few 
straggling shrubs and a huge clump of ferns to grow 
beside the boulder. Finally he chose a sturdy sapling 
that grew among them and looped the reins around a 
branch, within reach of a patch of grass growing in 
the open sunlight.

He'd brought an offering to Dolgida, and now he gave 
it: a few drops from a flask of oil poured out on the 
earth near the stone, and then a fragment of bread 
crumbled and scattered about. Dolgida was not 
impressed by lavish offerings; that was all She 
required except on feast days.

Walking around the boulder, he found a spot where its 
white-flecked gray flank reared up almost 
perpendicular to the ground, forming a convenient 
backrest. After sweeping away the fallen leaves and 
small twigs with his bare hands, he sat down and 
folded his legs into the usual meditation posture. 
Then, closing his eyes, he sought to shut out the 
world and slip into a receptive trance.

The tiny sounds of the grove -- the mare's occasional 
snort, the soft twittering of unseen birds, the 
rustling of a squirrel's paws on a tree trunk not far 
away -- disturbed him for a little while. But he was 
trained to filter out such distractions; as he sank 
deeper and deeper into trance, they faded from his 
awareness.

Other, more serious distractions took their place. 
Palin found himself becoming terribly anxious about 
the outcome, afraid he would fail, afraid he would 
succeed . . . afraid he would have to give up 
Mazruar's love, or even magic. Again and again the 
emotions and thoughts welled up in his mind, 
disrupting his trance. Again and again he forced his 
mind back to quiet.

At last, he had gained a measure of internal calm. He 
cast the protective shield as he had this morning, 
guarding himself from disturbance by any passing 
elementals or other, less friendly beings.

Thus secured, he began the real work.

A goddess such as Dolgida couldn't be summoned like a 
minor elemental; he hadn't been taught how to summon 
anyway. Instead, he opened his mind and simply prayed, 
hoping that *She* would hear *him*.

He concentrated on the thought of Her, on the image of 
Her statue in his family's shrine. In his mind, he 
reached out for Her, hoping She would sense his 
calling, his questions and his need . . . and that he 
would be able to sense Her in return if She responded.

The mare gave up her grazing on the few straggling 
tufts of grass in the tiny meadow. She lifted her head 
to peer over at her rider. Seeing no movement and 
getting no attention, she pulled briefly at her reins 
before settling down to doze on her feet, horse-
fashion, ignoring the squirrel that scuttled across 
the forest floor nearby.

The squirrel noticed the motionless human, though it 
smelled him more clearly than it saw him. It had seen 
other humans here before, entering the grove for their 
own incomprehensible reasons. On such occasions, they 
often left bits of food. Now, exploring the ground 
quickly and warily, it found this to be the case 
again. It nosed and scuffled through the earthy 
debris, tail jerking nervously, until it found the 
crumbs of the bread offering Palin had made. Then it 
picked them up and began to nibble them, one by one.

Palin, sunk deep in trance, did not hear the squirrel.

At last, he felt Something stir . . . deep within 
himself, but not *of* himself.

The sensation shook him to his core. It would have 
brought him out of trance, but he was far deeper than 
he had ever been before. This Being felt nothing like 
the elementals he had met in Mazruar's workchamber. It 
was far more powerful, too powerful to be controlled 
by any mere human being.

A face coalesced in his mind, a face that he had seen 
before only in colorless marble: long wheat-blonde 
hair, woven into two braids like ears of grain at the 
front; a strong-boned yet feminine face that spoke of 
an endless, steadfast strength. A face like that of a 
woman who spends her days working in the fields, lined 
and weathered, but somehow wiser, more Knowing, than 
any mortal woman could ever be.

There was immeasurable compassion and gentleness in 
Her gaze as She looked upon Palin.

The Goddess's eyes were all colors in turn: a deep, 
almost stern brown like rich, freshly-turned soil; a 
green as rich as new grass; a blue as brilliantly 
clear as a cloudless summer sky; the dusky violet of 
twilight; dark gray like storm clouds swollen with 
life-giving rain; other colors, surely every color 
that existed.

Her eyes were focused upon him, and their color 
settled into a soft, gentle green. And then, even 
before he could collect his thoughts to speak, the 
face faded from his inner vision . . . though he could 
feel that immeasurably vast, powerful Presence still 
with him.

*Lady Dolgida?*

He sensed rather than heard an affirmation.

He struggled to put his questions into words, to 
explain as simply as possible what he needed to know 
so desperately. How much did he need to tell Her, and 
how much had She already read in his heart? He had no 
idea.

*Am I wrong, or sick? Are the mages wrong?*

A rush of worry welled up on him on the heels of that 
question. He had so many emotions vested in the 
answer, and now those emotions rebelled against his 
fragile enforced calm. Despair rose; surely he would 
never hear Her answer through the storm of his own 
turbulent wishes and fears . . .

And then the Presence touched his soul in a way he 
would never be able to put into words later, and the 
tempest calmed, leaving a great stillness and peace in 
its wake.

*No*, he felt the gentle voice in his mind reply, and 
the relief was so great that for a moment he could not 
think or feel, only listen. *What you and your teacher 
have between you is Good. Let your love, from which no 
children can arise, lead you to the house of My 
Brother and there you will find welcome."

And still he could not quite believe . . .

*But -- what of Father Iljan . . .?*

Her essence seemed tinged with something almost like 
regret. *I reveal to My worshippers and My priests as 
much as they are ready to hear -- though not always 
what they wish to hear.

*You are ready to hear this. Take what I have told you 
as a sign, not of special favor, but of 
responsibility, for with the gifts of power and 
knowledge comes duty. Remember this, when you become a 
full Mage.*

And then the Presence was departing, fading from his 
soul. He found himself wanting to draw Her back, to 
ask yet more questions, but he could no more hold Her 
than he could hold water or smoke.

And then She was gone.

Slowly, he began to return from the place he had been. 
He felt utter, soul-deep relief, as if a vast weight 
had been removed from his heart . . . or a painful 
wound in it had ceased to ache and at last begun to 
heal.

When at last he opened his eyes, it was almost dusk. 
The grove was a place of shadows and deeper shadows, 
and the sun's last slanting rays struck gold and ruddy 
light from the massive trunks of the arjin trees.

There was no sign that a Goddess had been here . . . 
except for the calmness and joy the encounter had left 
in his soul. Palin wondered if he had ever felt so at 
peace before.

He got up slowly, feeling the familiar stiffness in 
his muscles from sitting still for a long time. He 
stretched carefully, then looked over at the mare. She 
was where he had tied her, standing quietly, having 
woken from her doze when he moved.

He paused to scatter another thank-offering of more 
bread and oil, as he said aloud, "Thank you, Great 
Lady."

He untied the mare's reins and threw them over her 
back, climbed into the saddle and started back toward 
Mazruar's hold.

By the time he reached the outer wall of Mazruar's 
hold, it was nearly full dark, and the first stars 
were coming out.



Mazruar had resumed his study of the ancient book he'd 
been reading earlier when Palin had entered the 
library. Every now and then he would pause to jot down 
notes in his own careful, clear handwriting on a sheet 
of parchment.

An Adept needed to control his mind, so Mazruar sought 
not to dwell on the matter of his apprentice. Hoping 
and worrying served no useful purpose; it would not 
affect the outcome. Palin needed to make his own 
decision, no matter what he might feel for the young 
man . . . or how he might grieve his loss.

Finally, when the pressure of his emotions became too 
great, he carefully laid the quill aside and paused to 
deal with them.

*He has a bright future, if only he can grasp it*, he 
thought.

Already Palin's natural talent was obvious. He'd make 
a truly superb mage, on a level with Mazruar himself -
- perhaps even better, perhaps one of the finest ever 
trained -- but only if he could make peace with 
himself and his true nature.

*Even as I did, once*, the Adept remembered with a 
little smile.

Then again, his home province of Nichat hadn't been 
nearly as traditional and backward as Deshnar.

It was remarkable, really, how many of the greatest 
Adepts were unusual in such matters. Some wizards 
believed it was more than coincidence, that whatever 
led to great power in a mage also often led to needs 
of desire that could only be described as special -- 
perhaps a certain freedom of the psyche, a special 
eccentricity.

After all, to understand magic, one could not simply 
accept the bounds of tradition and custom without 
question. Perhaps that applied even below the level of 
the thinking mind, to the rest of the soul.

Approaching footsteps in the hallway outside 
interrupted his reverie. He turned in his chair as a 
servant appeared in the doorway -- Chahivin, one of 
the stablehands.

"Lord -- Master Palin has returned. I'm reporting as 
you asked."

Mazruar let none of his emotions show on his face. 
"And how did he seem?"

"Joyous, sir! As if he had received happy news." 
Chahivin smiled.

Mazruar smiled as well, nodded, but would not yet let 
himself hope. "Thank you, Chahivin. That is all for 
now."

Chahivin gave him the customary small informal bow and 
then departed.

The master mage took a deep breath, picked up his pen 
and returned to his work. If his student wished to 
speak to him, he would come.

He had only jotted down two more sentences of comments 
when footsteps again sounded in the hallway outside, 
and then the blond apprentice *was* there, standing in 
the doorway.

Once again he laid down his pen to turn toward Palin. 
One look at the pure joy in that handsome young face, 
the sparkling blue eyes, confirmed Chahivin's message 
even before Palin said, "Honored Teacher, I would 
speak."

Mazruar turned fully to him. "Enter then, and speak, 
pupil."

"I've chosen to stay, if you will have me."

The master wizard felt as if a vast weight had 
suddenly been lifted from his shoulders. Dropping his 
usual mask, he smiled broadly.

"I will, beloved. Never doubt it," he replied, opening 
his arms in invitation.

Palin stepped forward, and then they were in each 
other's arms in a tight, loving embrace.



Later that night, as he lay in his teacher's arms, 
Palin awoke and lay staring into the shadows of the 
room, which was lit only by the flickering light of 
the hour-candle. He listened to Mazruar's soft 
breathing, the only sound, felt the softness of the 
blue quilt on his skin, and thought of what had 
happened in the grove.

He found himself doubting again.

Was it really a Goddess who had spoken to him, or had 
his hopes and fears and wishes caused his under-mind 
to conjure up a false vision? Could he trust what he 
thought had happened?

But if not, what proof could he ever find that could 
possibly convince him?

Palin mulled that thought over, gazing at the shrine 
in the mural upon the wall. But he made no move to 
escape his sleeping lover's embrace.

He could wonder and doubt and question forever, no 
matter what happened, he realized.

Finally, he made up his mind once and for all to trust 
his own judgment, to have faith that the vision had 
been a true one.

Mazruar stirred. "Is something wrong, love?" he 
murmured, his voice heavy with near-sleep.

Palin closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth and 
nearness of his lover.

"No, Beloved Teacher," he answered, feeling a smile 
form on his lips. "Nothing is wrong." And he felt the 
rightness of his words, and the rightness of Mazruar's 
arms around him.

He drifted back into sleep.
   

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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