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From: Maureen Lycaon <maureen_lcn@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Doubts Part 1 (Maureen Lycaon) {Mdom/M, bond, fant, magic}
Date: Sat,  2 Jun 2001 20:10:01 -0400
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DOUBTS

@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

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, please check
the notes at the beginning for the URL. My author's
notes are *integral* to my stories.


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