A Christmas story, running a little late. Oh, well, the story takes place after Christmas, in any case. Hope you enjoy, may be a little rough; wrote it fast.

Warnings: m/m homoerotic fiction. Explicit sex, as a minor element. A nice story, I think, not dark.

Lubbān wa Murr (Frankincense and Myrrh)

The moon rose on the rocks, pale silver casting shadows across the sands and lending an unworldly glow to the terrain. Or perhaps the pervasive eeriness was due more to the pull, the low star that seemed to beckon Qamar northwest, and that other—the will, like a spirit, that had been calling him forth for nearly a moon now. Strong enough that he'd had to heed it finally, to pack up supplies and travel west. Across dust and dry hills, scrub and hard rock, away from the wadi and its comforts.

Qamar stopped and held his hand up to the caravan. A camel huffed behind him, annoyed, and Qamar gestured impatiently for silence. He listened. To his heart, his breathing, the restless movements of his slave boy behind him. Pushing those aside, listening for something deeper, and though it wasn't the sort of sound overwhelmed by other noise, he heard it more clearly when still.

He angled his gaze northward, searching, and found the shadow of a gash. There.

Riding down into the cleft, he saw the telltale dark shadows, date palms among scrub and grasses. The musical tinkle of water reached his ear, and Ishāq murmured at his back, impressed, no doubt, by his master's skill at finding this private oasis, tucked among rocks.

Qamar let a smile cross his lips, grim and private. Not his skill. His lay in a different sort of mysticism, and not nearly so strong. No, this feat was the work of another—perhaps one he'd learn of tonight, if the satisfaction he sensed was any indication.

Around a bend, a tent came into view below him—two tents, pitched on a narrow strip of flat ground that surrounded the spring. A figure stood outside the larger of them, as though waiting, and Qamar knew at once that he'd been the one to guide him. A small figure, dressed in the robes of Qamar's own southern lands, although from the neighboring Himyar kingdom, the drape suggested.

Dismounting from a respectful distance, Qamar signaled Ishāq to hold the train in place. "Brother," he greeted, acknowledging their common provenance. "You are far from home."

The figure took three steps towards him. "As are you. Yet you found me."

"Had I a choice in the matter?"

The man said, "Yes, of course you did," seeming vaguely offended, though Qamar had meant his comment as friendly banter. "Yet I'd hoped you'd come. We are called by the same star, and the last leg of the journey will be less tedious with company." He gestured towards himself. "I am Irfan al-Talib ibn Ayoub ibn Mus'ad aal-Zafareen."

Qamar noted the name with surprise, known well in his own circles, and Zafar only three days hard journey from his own home far south. Nodding, he replied formally, "Qamar al-Akil ibn Amr ibn Utbah aal-'Adid. I do seek the star, bringing rich cloth and oils and lubbān for an auspicious birth."

"Indeed." Aal-Zafareen clapped his hands and a boy appeared from inside the tent, dressed in the breeches of that eastern kingdom, shoulders oiled and nearly black with the sun. "Bashar. See to his caravan, that his camels are unburdened and his boy fed. Aban will help you."

"Master." Bashar bowed and scurried towards Qamar's train.

"Please," the man said to Qamar. "My tent is large. The boy has made you a comfortable bed and just laid out supper. You will join me."

For a meal off a camel's back, the spread was fine indeed. No royal course, but varied and spiced, with preserved meats, dried fruits, grains and pickles in myriad bowls. Removing his headdress, Qamar sat, crossing his legs, and let his fingers run along the fine weave of the rug underneath them. "You honor me, a stranger in the desert."

"No stranger, al-Akil aal-'Adid; I have heard your coming for nigh on a moon now."

"So it would seem." Taking a piece of bread, Qamar scooped spiced meat into its fold and took a bite. As he chewed, he surveyed the man in front of him, not much height to him, no, but powerfully built—especially for a man of his occupation, seer to a king. Headdress removed, his dark hair shone in the lamplight, cut above his shoulders, wild and twisting locks that nevertheless looked soft. "I have heard of you, Irfan al-Talib, aal-Zafareen. Your reputation spreads wide."

"Does it?" aal-Zafareen said, plucking a dried apricot from a dish among figs and dates. He seemed not to care, but Qamar wondered. No one was indifferent to his reputation, were they?

Finding that he wanted to puncture that aloof exterior, Qamar smiled. "It does. The stories of your far-seeing are exceeded only by those of your…eccentric appetites."

Eyes shot up from aal-Zafareen's plate to glare, the flash of gold in brown a severe distraction from the anger he no doubt meant to convey. "It is in the nature of peasants to gossip about which they do not know."

"And so what they say is not true?"

"Why the great interest, aal-'Adid? Is it only tart gossip, I wonder?"

"Only deciding whether I must pitch my own tent to protect my honor."

"You will do as you see fit."

Qamar grinned, and stifled a laugh with a drink from his wine cup. The man was too easily baited; was probably made mince of in council debates. "Peace. I will stay," he said. "Please. I am Qamar to you. I thank you for your hospitality, Irfan aal-Zafareen."

"Irfan," Irfan conceded, eyes narrowing as he scowled. "But you will bathe first; your stink overpowers the strength of my incense."

This time Qamar did laugh.

#

By the time Qamar awoke, the sun was well up, the day already heating. He stretched, marveling at the comfort of this bedding, so much softer than his own pile of blankets.

He broke his fast in the shade of a rock overhang, sitting on grass that grew next to the water, glad to not be up and back on his camel today. Bashar brought an urn of steeping coffee, and Irfan followed soon after, settling down across from Qamar and pouring them both cups.

"How was your sleep?"

"Well. The pallet you laid was lush; I think I've not slept so well since leaving Iram."

"I am pleased." Irfan took a sip from his cup, and said, "I took the liberty of suggesting your boy wash out your robes and bedding. There is time to spend—I expect we will be here yet another few days."

"Oh?" Qamar set down his cup. "I'd thought to be out no later than tomorrow."

"You may do as you wish, of course. But I await a third."

"A third?"

Irfan nodded and looked down at his cup. "From valleys east of here."

"You know this man?"

"No. I only know that he comes—he is close, I think, three days, no more. It is on me that I need wait for him."

Qamar fell silent, because the visions came then, of court, of travel, of the sun at three backs. "I, too, see us arriving as three. I will wait with you." Like memories they were, flitting in his consciousness comfortably, like old, well-worn experience. "This Jewish King, he is a suspicious and jealous man, so the rumors run. I've see that he will expect us to report on this child."

"Report?" Irfan looked up now, catching Qamar's eye. "As though an infant plotted against him? What does he fear?"

Qamar shook his head. "Prophecies, perhaps, though that is only a guess. But I do not like this, playing the spy for a foreign king."

"Neither do I."

A camel snorted, and the indignant shouts of Ishāq pierced the murmur of camp. Qamar smiled. The boy still hadn't learned that one couldn't force a camel to do what he didn't have a mind to do on his own.

"So, you are a seer of what is to come."

"A gift more useful perhaps, if I saw also when events were to come." Qamar picked at a nutmeat he'd left in his bowl. "But, yes."

"Your visions came easily, just now. Are they always so gentle?"

"I suppose they are, but my gift is not strong. Fleeting impressions. I've heard stories of trances, but I get none of that. You?"

"Sometimes." Frowning, Irfan stood, ending the topic, though Qamar was curious. "I won't keep you. I expect you have much to do this day."

"I do, yes. Thank you for the coffee. Please, allow my house to provide tonight's meal. Ishāq is well-bred for that work."

"Thank you." Irfan paused. "I will look forward to it."

"As will I."

#

Qamar spent the rest of the day helping Ishāq with the cleaning. It had been well over a moon since they'd stopped for more than a night, and the pool where they rinsed blankets and robes turned yellow with silt. Tomorrow Qamar would tackle the rest of their gear, taking the time to repack and consolidate, imposing fresh order on a journey grown long.

As evening approached, Qamar directed Ishāq to spread a dinner for both camps, encouraging him to prepare the curried lentils he held so dear. That Qamar had long grown tired of them didn't mean that it wasn't a dish fit for a king's table.

Indeed, one taste coaxed a smile from Irfan, the first that Qamar had yet seen. "What is this?" he said. "The spicing is exotic; this is no dish that I know."

"It is the slave's recipe. He comes from a village along the northern coast. I gather it was taught to him by his grandmother."

"This is fruit in here, no? Raisins, and is this apricot?"

"You should ask Ishāq. I expect your interest would please him to no end."

They passed the supper easily, discussing the politics in their respective lands, the talks between them. Ishāq brought wine while Bashar removed dishes, and Ishāq failed miserably at hiding his pleasure when Irfan instructed his own slave to learn more of the curry. Qamar supposed he should scold Ishāq, but he chuckled instead, because really, a slave had little enough opportunity to take pride in their talents.

The wine was warm and sweet, and if Qamar drank a little more than he should have, it was only that he'd had little opportunity since the journey began. He settled back into the cushions, making of them a nest. He watched Irfan for a moment, the way he frowned at the rug as he drank. It seemed a permanent expression, this stoic displeasure. "So is it true?"

Irfan glanced up, puzzled. "Is what true?"

Qamar quirked a smile at Irfan, communicating that this was no serious discussion about jealous kings, national strife or infant threats. "What they say about you."

Narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips, Irfan said, "And what, pray tell, do they say?"

Lowering his eyes to his cup, lazily swirling the wine within it, Qamar gave thought to his reply. "They say that you will not take a wife, though your time is long past. That you still play the games of youth, seeking out boyish pleasures in brothels and giving yourself to other men." In fact, people disparaged him as like a woman sometimes, calling him not al-Talib, the seeker, but al-Nawar, the flower.

Irfan snapped, "Do I look like a woman to you?" As though hearing his thoughts—and indeed, well he might be.

"No," Qamar laughed. "Women do not glare so to make me afraid for my life."

Irfan fell silent. Qamar had broken his dispassionate mask, yes, but the glower replacing it was hardly any better. A sore subject, Qamar realized, perhaps too tender for jest.

"Your King values you, that he accepts this rumor."

"He does not accept it."

"So will you take a wife? They have their uses."

"I will not. I want no mother following me around, nagging me, sticking her fingers in my scrolls and my charms. Women are nattering fools."

Qamar chuckled at the vehemence in his tone, but acknowledged, "I cannot say that I entirely disagree."

"And you are married?"

"I am not."

"And do these rumors swirl around you?"

"No. But then I am more an ascetic. I do not allow men to have me." Irfan said nothing—an admission, Qamar supposed. "If you would but restrict yourself to…say young Bashar, there, he is a pretty one."

"Boys are too soft, and slaves, worse so. Despite what you may have heard, I've no interest in pretending to be a child the rest of my life."

"No, I suppose not."

"Anyway," Irfan said, and he tossed back the last of his wine. "I fail to see how it is of any interest to you. I am turning in."

Nodding acquiescence, Qamar called for Ishāq to clean the last of their meal away. Then, as Irfan was already curled into his blankets, he snuffed the last of the lamps and tucked into his own until morning.

#

"So this third," Qamar said. "He comes from the east?"

"Yes, Persian, I think. From the Tigris valley." The day had grown hot, and they took their noon rest in the shade of the tent—sharing coffee again, black and bitter and sweet.

"He will be here tomorrow? The next day?"

Irfan shrugged. "He approaches, close I think, but I can't say for sure—he is…not like us."

"In what way, not like?" Qamar smirked. "Has he two heads?"

There was no whisper of humor in the impatient glare that aal-Zafareen sent his way. "I read you from afar, easily. He is more fog and mud-brown impression. My presence confuses him, whereas you seemed almost…eager. But he comes." Irfan sat back into his pillows and gazed towards the flap of the tent. "He brings gold—perhaps he is a prince. Would explain much, royal blood sings to me sometimes, but not as strongly as that of one such as you."

"But he is pulled by the star."

"Yes. He is that. We three."

"To pay homage to an infant." Qamar squeezed the bridge of his nose. "I confess I understand little of this. The suspicion of a king, three of us called with rich gifts. Who is this child that he merits such close attention? A prophet, a hidden king? Is he so important?"

"Yes."

Irfan's voice had gone rough, so hollow that Qamar snapped his head up in alarm. Irfan stared for a moment, his gaze vacant and frozen.

"Irfan?"

Irfan fell back, his arms flailing outward, fingers and wrists curled into claws, and trembled violently.

"Irfan!"

His leg shot out, tipping the urn and splashing hot black liquid onto Qamar's arm.

"Ishāq! Bashar!" Bellowing their names, and who was the other again? Qamar upended his own cup as he scrambled towards where Irfan shuddered, wanting to stop him from this madness that took him, but not knowing how. So he grabbed and held on, pinning Irfan's arms at his side and pulling him into a desperate embrace. "Ishāq!"

The tent flap flew open and Bashar flew in. He stopped, eyes widening as he took in the situation. "Al-Talib!", he cried, and moved again, quickly, dropping to knees beside Irfan and scrambling to clear the area of dishes. "Al-Akil," he said, eyes imploring Qamar, but calm. "Let him go." He worked as he spoke, stopping to shove a pillow against a chest near Irfan's elbow. Grabbing onto Qamar's arm, he shook him and said, "Please. The gods have him; it does no good to fight their will."

Qamar only stared at the slave boy, holding tight onto a still thrashing Irfan. "He will hurt himself!"

"He will not, unless he struggles against you. Please, al-Akil. It is by his instruction. Let him go."

So Qamar did, because he realized that this was usual, that Bashar spoke from experience and training.

"This happens sometimes." Bashar's voice held a mixture of apology and reassurance. "He will recover. But nothing you or I do can stop the will of the gods."

The room filled with the stench of soiled clothes, and still Irfan shuddered and twitched. For what seemed like forever. "How long?"

"Not long. It is almost over, I think. If you will watch him, I will go to fetch water."

Qamar nodded dumbly, unwilling to loosen his vigil from the trembling man before him.

"Only see that he does not hit something."

No sooner did Bashar leave than the trembles subsided, and Irfan was left panting on his back.

"Irfan?"

No answer, but Irfan struggled to roll onto his side, giving the whimper of a hurt child as he did. Qamar went to him, his own limbs weak with fear, exhausted now that the danger seemed past. Bashar returned with water and cloths, and began to wash Irfan's skin to cool it.

Qamar seated himself near Irfan, drawing his head into his lap, and took a towel to his forehead. "So these are your visions. No mere trance."

"No." Irfan said, voice weak. "He…the child. Change surrounds him. War, hatred, death."

Stroking Irfan's head, untangling the curls, Qamar kept his eyes on Irfan's face while Bashar cleaned him of the soil of the fit. "Your kind always see death," he said, voice kept low and soothing. "…yet everyone dies."

"Not in a swirl such as this. He swims in it, so much blood, so much suffering."

"Yet not all of them in our lifetimes."

"No?" Irfan tilted his head to look up at Qamar. "What do you see?"

"Ah, al-Talib, you pollute me, for now I, too, see death, and it spans the ages, all in the name of this child and who he becomes."

"Yet I think this is not what he comes for," Irfan said.

"He will have a hard life."

"That too, I see, as a stench that chokes him."

Qamar smiled grimly. "And this is the boy we bring gifts?"

"I bring murr to anoint him. It is fitting, is it not?"

"Indeed, it is." Qamar let an easy laugh go, glad to have humor break this mood.

Bashar broke in now, having washed the worst from Irfan's skin. "Are you recovered enough to bathe, al-Talib? Allow me to take you, then you can rest until supper."

Qamar helped a naked Irfan from the tent, bracing one arm under his shoulders as Bashar held onto his opposite arm. They led him down to the far end of the spring, where water flowed back into the desert, and eased him down by the edge of a pool.

"Bashar," Qamar said, and he stripped off his robe. "Why don't you go ready his bed? I can help him wash."

"Don't be stupid," Irfan groused, then held his hand out towards Bashar, ignoring Qamar. "This is why I have him; he knows how to help me."

"I think I can puzzle out the bathing procedure, Irfan." Gesturing towards Bashar, bidding him leave, Qamar grinned and said, "Credit me with some wit."

"Shouldn't you be disgusted by me? Or have you already forgotten the perversity of my tastes?"

"Disgusted?" Qamar chuckled, and led him into the water. "Is that what you think? That I am disgusted? No, my friend, merely interested. And a little amused." Turning, he saw the slave boy standing by water's edge, looking concerned. "Bashar," he said. "Leave us. Go clean the tent and warm al-Talib some wine. Send Ishāq down with another clean blanket."

At Irfan's gruff nod, Bashar scurried away, and Qamar took up the cloth to begin scrubbing Irfan down. "See there. You need a wife to care for you, not a child. A slave such as he can provide care, but no comfort."

"What need have I of a wife when I have you?"

Such venom in those words, yet Qamar could do nothing but respond with a laugh.

#

Supper was good, a late affair, and casual. Irfan ate little, picking at dishes here and there, and after the dishes were removed, Qamar studied him, sitting wrapped in a blanket, leaning forward. It took a lot out of him, the visions did, and Qamar found himself thankful that his own gift manifested so gently.

Bashar brought in wine, gently warmed and spiced, pouring a measure for both of them, and then setting the flask on the carpet. Then he left, quietly, off to join Ishāq and Aban for their own meal. Irfan sipped gingerly, hands wrapped about his cup. When he shivered, Qamar crossed over to him and arranged the pillows just so before settling behind him and pulling him back to his breast.

Irfan stiffened at the intimacy, but Qamar said, "Shh, friend, relax," and he relented, giving into exhaustion, perhaps, and loosened by an afternoon of wine. Qamar said nothing, simply let him lay boneless against him.

After a time, Irfan spoke, voice hoarse and slow. "I've tried, I tell you. I courted a few, but could see in their eyes the dread that they held. No woman deserves such as me. I am weak, and a woman wants a family, a home—not a boy who bends for her friend's husbands. The status of a king can't make up for all that I am."

"You are not weak."

Irfan laughed, a bitter sound. "I shook on the floor, breaking cups, spilling coffee. I shit myself, man."

"Ssh. You were touched by the gods. That is strength, not weakness. I dare a lesser man to survive it."

Bashar entered the tent, checked that the flask hadn't been emptied, and asked if anything else was desired. At Irfan's negative reply, Bashar gave a quick bow of his head. "Does al-Talib desire that I make my bed in here tonight?"

Sitting up, Irfan began, "Yes, I would you—"

"No." Qamar broke in. "Leave us. If he has a need, I will see to it."

Irfan cast a startled glance towards Qamar, but then nodded his acquiescence. "Very well. As al-Akil says. In any case, I doubt I'll do much but sleep." He waved a hand towards Bashar. "Go. Get to your own bed. I am fine for the night."

Bashar bowed and left, and Qamar reached for the vial of oil of murr that sat by Irfan's bed. Settling into the pillows again, he pulled Irfan down with him, between spread legs, laying back against his chest. "Come. Relax." Pouring a small measure of oil onto fingertips, he anointed Irfan's temples and began a slow massage. "I have never had a fit. Never seen one. For me, it is only as if I am hearing another tune, layered onto the noises that surround me. At worst, the world fades into an uninteresting lull. But you…you remember nothing of this, do you? Of my shouting?" Of his fear.

"No, nothing." Irfan's words came slow and slurred, and Qamar smiled. Irfan's skin was smooth and resilient, golden brown with the oil, and with each stroke of Qamar's fingers, his body seemed to sink deeper into lethargy. "Some comes back later," he said. "But the rest…nothing. I only remember thinking that this Persian might be a prince."

"You were sitting on carpet. Do the visions ever take you as you stand?"

"But of course. Once I left my home, stepped across my threshold. I awoke to a crack in my skull, blood and piss already drying on the steps. It was then the king gave me Bashar." Irfan laughed, but Qamar heard mockery there, and found no humor in it at all. What if he took a fall from his camel? From atop a high wall?

Pushing those thoughts from his mind, Qamar touched his nose to Irfan's hair, smelled the must of sleep and sweat that was Irfan. When he ran a hand inside Irfan's blanket, down his smooth chest, Irfan stiffened, relaxation gone. A pity. Clasping arm tight around Irfan's waist, he pulled him back, let him feel Qamar's interest.

"What are you doing?" Irfan's voice had gone caustic again. So suspicious.

"What do you want me to be doing?" Qamar grinned, then bit gently at Irfan's neck, tweaking a nipple while he did so—just to make his intentions clear.

Jerking away, Irfan snapped, "I am no woman." He shook, anger taking him. "Recovering or no, be assured I can best you in a ring."

"No doubt." Pulling the blanket from Irfan's shoulders, Qamar raked eyes over his broad shoulders and strong back. "Not a raisin's worth of soft on you. I bet you could pin me and do as you wished. It might be interesting to try." Pushing his own hips forward, pressing into Irfan, he said, "And see what the thought has done for me?"

Scooting away quickly, Irfan turned and pinned Qamar with a stare. Puzzling him out, perhaps, and that thought delighted Qamar enough that he laughed.

"Another night perhaps. Tonight you relax." Qamar reached for Irfan's crotch, going for bold, because he doubted Irfan would relent any other way. Still soft, but stirring with interest, Qamar cupped Irfan's cock through the drape of his hip shawl and gave it a firm stroke. "Come now, am I so ugly as all that?"

"You are not ugly," Irfan said, eyes narrowed to slits, watching Qamar closely.

"Of course I am. Too thin, too tall, eyes like mud."

Irfan shook his head. "What game are you playing?"

"No game, Irfan. Come. Turn…let me…"

Qamar coaxed him around and tugged at the fabric knot at his waist, letting it fall as Irfan's legs spread to straddle Qamar's lap. Taking hold of Irfan, Qamar toyed with his foreskin, stroking it lightly against the crown. Other than the swelling of his arousal, Irfan stayed still, seeming frozen, only watching Qamar's hand as he touched him.

As Irfan seemed disinclined to join in, Qamar helped himself, tugging the ties of his own robe and letting it fall open. It was gratifying to see Irfan's gaze shift, taking in Qamar's own blood filled erection, crawling upwards over his chest until, finally, it reached Qamar's eyes.

Smiling, Qamar gripped them both in one hand, and smiled more widely to see the flutter of Irfan's eyelids. With his free hand, he reached for the vial of oil, thumbed the stopper out, and dribbled a thread onto their joining.

"Don't waste that," Irfan whispered, voice gone husky and deep.

"Not a waste, Irfan. And there is plenty for the babe, is there not?"

"Yes," Irfan moaned, as Qamar took up a firm stroke, spreading oil around them, between them.

Leaning back into the pillows behind him, Qamar encouraged Irfan forward. Pressing against Qamar, Irfan began a slow grind, his hips deciding for him how he'd respond to Qamar's advances. His eyes closed, as if afraid, but he thrust into Qamar's fist, erection slipping against Qamar's, slick and hot, both of them.

Qamar remembered then, how good this had been in youth, back when boys were free to discover each other, learn how to work their tools, what felt right and good. He'd always regretted that loss, and now, with Irfan—no boy at all, but hard, tight muscle and bone.

That Irfan's eyes were shut tight made it easier to study him, fascinated by his changing expressions. The way he gnawed at his lower lip, brow furrowed in concentration, now lips parting to draw in a ragged breath. Qamar watched until that moment of paralysis, the frozen look, his body gone rigid, and as Irfan's first pulse shot through him, Qamar pulled him down into a kiss, no gentle woman's kiss this, but violent and greedy, and Irfan responded in kind as he groaned.

When the waves had receded, and Irfan's issue pooled hot on Qamar's skin, Qamar let his mouth go. Irfan broke away, sitting up, but locked on Qamar's gaze. His eyes, not flat like Qamar's, but flecked with amber and light, alive and penetrating. They captured him now, staring as Qamar—mingling hot seed with oil—gave himself those last few frantic strokes.

He reveled in Irfan's hot gaze—watching pleasure sweep across Qamar's cheeks—and hoped that Irfan received half as much pleasure from study as he had. When Qamar's peak hit, he held on tight as he cried out, one hand digging fingers into the shoulder above him, the other feeling the pulses that came, rolling through him like a storm.

#

Qamar awoke to an empty tent, the sun barely up, air still cool from the night. He arose, splashed water on his face, and arrayed his robes about him, chuckling at the crackle of dried pleasure yet flaking from his belly. Stepping outside, he found Irfan standing near the spring, facing east. Bashar stood off to one side, waiting on his master.

Qamar approached him. "The prince comes?"

Irfan nodded. "Were we not in this cleft, I think we would see him already."

"Ah." Unfortunate, this prince's timing. Irfan had not yet covered his head from the sun, and Qamar reached to take a lock in his fingers.

Irfan turned, eyes dark, and studied him for a moment before returning his gaze dawn-ward. Unperturbed, Qamar continued to pet him, until Irfan said, "You should not do that."

"No? Are you afraid that your slaves report back to your king?"

"No." Irfan pulled away, trying his best to ignore Qamar. "Do not mock me."

Frowning, Qamar said, "I tease you, that I'll grant. But I have never once mocked you."

"You—" Irfan began, then snapped his mouth shut. He turned away again, and was silent for a time. When he spoke again, his voice was flat. "I will not return."

Qamar thought about that, trying to decipher Irfan's meaning. "You mean you will not go back home?"

"I have no home."

Studying Irfan's back, Qamar saw the tension there, straight spine, shoulders tight, unforgiving. "Your king will be angry—"

"He has that right."

"Where will you go?"

"North. Into Athens, perhaps. I hear they are more forgiving of perversions such as mine. And perhaps they will find use of my gifts." Irfan sneered the last word, and after what Qamar had witnessed yesterday, who could blame him.

"I will go with you."

Irfan froze and Qamar let his fingers trail up Irfan's spine, tracking the cleft through his robe. When it became clear that Qamar would say no more, Irfan said, "Why?"

Qamar shrugged. "You need a keeper. Bashar is a slave; he can keep you at home, but not in society."

A shout came from above. "Bashar," Irfan said, and Bashar approached. "Go up there and wave them in. Tell them we wait with food and a cool bath."

Bashar bowed, and in feet bare and dusty, scrambled up rocks in the direction of the voices.

"I need no one," Irfan said.

"Perhaps not. Yet I think you would want me, am I right?"

"No."

Qamar smiled behind Irfan's back. "Perhaps I want to. Will you deny me? They would easily think us cousins, one devoted to the care of his kin. Then no one need know."

"You have a home, you will find a wife. You have no reason to leave."

"My king has no use for me. My allowance is paltry, and my desire for a wife is no greater than yours. I prefer my lovers strong, I think. Strong enough to put me in my place when I think myself too clever."

A figure popped up above the rock face, backlit by the sun, and hailed down. Irfan waved back, and shouted, "Well met. You have had a hard night. Come. Eat and rest."

There was shouting above them, agreeable sounds, all of them, and Bashar showed again on the path, followed by a troupe of no less than seven camels, laden with gear. Royalty, indeed.

"Will you take me as companion, Irfan al-Talib?"

Irfan turned, and his eyes were gold, as though the morning sun dwelt within them. After a moment of studying Qamar's gaze, he relaxed into a smile. "Qamar al-Akil. I will."