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From: Maureen Lycaon <maureen_lcn@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Doubts Part 2 (Maureen Lycaon) {Mdom/M, bond, fant, magic}
Date: Sat,  2 Jun 2001 20:10:02 -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


(Continued from Part 1 . . .)

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


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