Amy Rae Durreson's Blog, page 12

Remembrance Sunday

I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air—
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.
 
It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath—
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.
 
God knows ’twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear…
But I’ve a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.
 
Alan Seeger (1888 – 1916)

Chatting about Steamed Up

Hi

I’m going to be over at the Dreamspinner blog for the next few hours, chatting about the release of the new Steamed Up anthology of m/m steampunk stories. Do come and join me!

A new release, Christmas comes early, and Sjurd gets possessive…

Another busy fortnight, with lots of edits to work through, but it’s ended with a wealth of rewards for my hard work. Tomorrow is the release of Dreamspinner’s Steamed Up Anthology, which includes my story, ‘The Clockwork Nightingale’s Song’, a tale of an engineer, an inventor, a floating pleasure garden, and a brass nightingale with a broken heart. I’ll be blogging in more detail about the story later this week, and will be on Dreamspinner’s blog with some of the other authors on October 27th to do a live chat about the book – watch this space for details!

The Love Has No Boundaries anthologies are now being released. The Lodestar of Ys is in Volume 4 (the green one) with some very good company. And that’s not all You can now order Dreamspinner’s Advent Calendar package, which includes my story Gaudete. If you want the full package, now is the time, as it’s on offer until the end of October, but you can also buy individual stories when they’re released in December. My story is all about the Christmas Market that takes place in the grounds of Aylminster Cathedral. Callum and Jonah meet there as children, when Jonah is a chorister and Callum’s mum runs a market stall. When Jonah comes back to the cathedral as an adult, they meet again.

And now, to reward you for slogging through all that news, have a little look at Sjurd and Celyn and their everyday life, five years after the events of Lodestar.

Disclaimer: This story is written for an adult audience and contains material unsuitable for minors. Please turn back if you’re not old enough to be here.

Sjurd barely looked up at the sound of a ladder rattling down from the sky two stories above him. He had seen the shadow of the incoming ship cross his window a few moments ago, but he didn’t feel the need to go up and greet her, not when the rain was coming hard out of the east, full of sleet. He had lieutenants for that, and a quartermaster who would organize moving the supplies out of the ship’s hold and down into the tower. He had more urgent problems, foremost amongst them how he was going to spread only two companies of soldiers across twenty leagues of border.

“Is it the Gylfinir again this week?” Lieutenant Thordarsson asked, sitting back and rubbing his eyes.

“Aderyn, coming up from the capital. If we abandon the mine at Northorpe, can we reroute patrols to hold the pass?”

“The Ysians won’t like it,” Thordarsson observed. “We’re gradually losing sources of lodestone.” He glanced up wistfully. “From the capital, you say? Think she might have brought our mail?”

“I damn well hope so,” Sjurd muttered. The last mail ship had been diverted after the hounds overran Owston Hold, and he had a fort full of soldiers who hadn’t heard from home for weeks.

“At least we get regular deliveries now,” Thordarsson said cheerfully. “Hurrah for the alliance and the benefits it brings.”

“No quarrel here,” Sjurd said, trying not to think about the benefit of the alliance he missed most. Maybe there would be a letter for him too, and if he was lucky, and wise enough to read it in private this time, it might not make him blush and spit out his wine in front of the entire garrison.

“If we shift miners up here and get as much from the vein as we can before we blow the mine,” Sjurd mused, “can we hold the current line until they’re done?”

“Put a training company at the mine to defend them,” Thordarsson suggested. “Then reroute some of the big freight ships to move the stone. Who’s Aderyn’s captain? Can he advise us?”

“Let’s ask,” Sjurd said, hearing footsteps in the hall outside. He stood up as the door opened, ready to offer his hand to the visiting captain.

It was no doughty sailor who strolled in, however. As Sjurd gaped in dismay, Celyn beamed at him from the doorway, lifting a hand to wave cheerfully.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Sjurd demanded.

“Hello darling,” Celyn replied lightly. “I’m so glad to see you too, and yes, I’ve been well, thank you for asking.” He wandered across the room to press a warm kiss to Sjurd’s cheek and then perch on the edge of his desk, where he nodded to Thordarsson. “Well met, Einarr. How are you?”

“Well enough, your highness,” Thordarsson replied, barely hiding his smile behind his hand. “You?”

“All the better for seeing you both. Your sister sends her regards, and says it wasn’t twins in the end, just one more boy to eat her out of house and home.”

“Still not a daughter?” Thordarsson remarked, shaking his head, and then obviously noticed Sjurd’s glower. “I’ll leave you alone, my princes.” He snagged the map off the table and made a hasty retreat.

Sjurd barely waited for the door to slam behind him before he swung round to snarl at Celyn. “Go home!”

“No,” Celyn said, mildly but in a tone Sjurd knew all too well after five years of marriage.

“Celyn,” Sjurd choked out. He wouldn’t beg, but he couldn’t cope with this. The only comfort he had, here on the ragged frontier where too many good men died, was that Celyn was safely distant. He couldn’t think like a general if Celyn was here, at the heart of the danger.

“Sjurd,” Celyn said softly and stood up to link his arms around Sjurd’s neck. He looked even less real this close: his fair hair curling softly and cleanly against his collar, his jaw clean-shaven, the lines around his gray eyes put there by smiling. Sjurd felt rough and dirty and ruined in comparison: he hadn’t shaved properly in days, and everything he wore was just faintly grubby, with the dirt that no camp laundry could quite scrub out. He wanted to grab Celyn close, breathe him in, and then knock him over the head and dump him back on board the Aderyn, preferably chained to his bunk until they got back to Holmebury.

“Did you miss me?”

“No,” Sjurd lied, and wasn’t surprised when Celyn kissed him, his mouth warm and tender. Sjurd closed his eyes and sank into the kiss, because he wasn’t strong enough to refuse this, even if he was going to send Celyn straight home again.

“I missed you,” Celyn told him, when their kiss broke.

“Don’t think that’s going to make me less angry,” Sjurd grumbled, but folded his arms tightly around his husband. The part of himself that he locked away every time he left home was opening out in his heart again, and he couldn’t afford it here. On the front line, he existed for one purpose, and that alone. He didn’t know how to be Celyn’s husband here; he couldn’t be happy in the face of death, no matter how much lighter Celyn’s presence made him feel.

“Unfortunately, I’m not here for fun,” Celyn admitted. “My queen has sent me. Probably for the sake of the auditors. I’m not sure Rhiannon trusts you not to just feed them straight to the next misthound that comes along.”

“What auditors?” Sjurd demanded.

“Didn’t you get the dispatch?”

“Last ship got turned back. We haven’t had any letters from home since Aderyn was here last.”

“Ah,” Celyn said, and drew a breath, his shoulders bracing a little. “In that case, I should start by saying that I haven’t brought the entire Ysian treasury council with me.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“Depends how long it takes them to get the nerve to leave the ship,” Celyn said thoughtfully, and patted Sjurd’s ass. “Also, whilst I have no objection in principle to being taken over your desk, this one looks a little too splintery for comfort.”

“Celyn.”

“Three delegates, and I insisted that they pick people with some self-defense training and a smidgen of common sense. They want to see life on the border.”

“Fine,” Sjurd muttered. “They can glance over the rail and then go home again.”

“I love your optimism.”

“And King Snorri agreed to this?”

Celyn looked serious for a moment. “You know we’re still facing some opposition about the requisitioning of ships and the disruption to trade. Many of these ships are the most precious and beloved things an island owns, and there’s a lot of unhappiness about putting them at risk. Just scare the spit out of these three so they can go home and explain why it matters so much.”

“Are they easily scared?”

Celyn pursed his lips, thinking, and Sjurd had to rein in the urge to kiss him, plundering that pretty mouth until Celyn was all limp and compliant in his arms (it rarely ended that way, but that was no reason not to keep trying).

“Two of them are steady enough,” Celyn said at last. “Members of two of the big trade families from the central islands. Then there’s Aelwyn. He’s some sort of cousin of mine, if you go back a few generations. He’s…”

“He’s what?” Sjurd prompted eventually.

“I’m trying to think of something nice to say.”

Sjurd waited. And waited. Then, after a long silence, he growled, “Celyn.”

“I’m still thinking.”

“When I finally kill you and dump your body off the side of a ship, no one will blame me.”

Celyn laughed. “No, but you’d be so miserable without me that they’d probably drop you straight after me.”

It was true, but Sjurd wasn’t going to admit it. Swallowing back his smile, he said, “So, how long do you think we have before your guests arrive?”

Celyn quirked his head, as footsteps sounded on the stairs. “No time at all, from the sound of it.”

BY EVENING, the news of their visitors had spread, and every soldier in the tower turned up unusually promptly to gawp at the Ysian delegates. Sjurd couldn’t blame them.

Oh, the two young merchants were unremarkable enough: Trefor was a sturdy young man of about Celyn’s age, fair-haired and soft-spoken. His father was a wool merchant, he explained, from high Callestr, and he himself had spent three years as his father’s factor in Holmebury, where he had drilled with the guard from time to time. “To impress a local girl, mostly,” he admitted with a wry smile. “Never thought a little skill with a sword would bring me here.” Enid, with her long sun-bright braids and easy smile, attracted more attention and was more forthright in her opinions, but she freely admitted that her main concern was how little the ordinary folk of Ys knew about where their ships were sailing. “My husband’s captain of the Ysguthan,” she said, naming one of the ships on the northernmost supply run. “If he doesn’t come home one day, I want to be able to tell my daughter it was for a worthwhile cause.”

Celyn was ignored for the most part, though a few people smiled to see him, or directed smirks in Sjurd’s direction. He ignored them, because you couldn’t be a soldier without being the butt of someone’s jokes at least once.

The problem, and the main attraction for those eating at the benches below, was Aelwyn ap Arthfael of Ynys Llys. There was no denying that the man was handsome, being weasel-thin and pretty-faced, with pale hair that streamed down his back like a banner. He knew it too, which didn’t endear him to Sjurd, any more than the fact he had chosen to come to the frontier dressed in brightly coloured silk, bound to his wrists by golden ribbons. He was charming enough, chattering merrily to Celyn and the guardsmen around them with a mixture of flattery, careful curiosity, and sly sarcasm. There was an edge to his wit that Sjurd didn’t like, though, and some of the questions made him remind himself firmly that this was an ally, with a right to know about their life.

All the same, he muttered, “Popinjay.”

“One who is close to the throne,” Celyn warned softly.

“He’s not courting Rhiannon, is he?” Sjurd demanded in horror.

“Rhiannon? No,” Celyn said, and then hurriedly changed the subject. “Although there’s a chance there will be an announcement soon. She finally made her mind up, and he’s not a bad choice. Not that I can tell you who he is, not until she makes a formal offer, but…”

Sjurd stopped listening, narrowing his eyes. What was his husband hiding now?

By the end of the next day, he had a clue. Despite assigning his guests to three different lieutenants, Aelwyn kept appearing wherever Sjurd went, often having shaken off his guardian. At first Sjurd endured it, because he was in a particularly good mood (his bed might be a narrow pallet in the corner of his war room, but he and Celyn had slept in worse, and they’d put it to good use). The third time Aelwyn showed up, however, he demanded, “Did you have a question?”

“Just enjoying the scenery, highness,” Aelwyn said airily. “Pretty country, with all the trees and mountains and what not.”

Sjurd cast a skeptical glance at the small window. “You’ll see it better from the roof. If you’ll excuse us, we have work to do.”

Aelwyn ignored him to turn to Celyn. “Perhaps you could point out some landmarks, Celyn?”

“No, he can’t,” Sjurd said shortly. “I need him here.” Celyn knew the shipping routes better than anyone, and they needed to make an informed decision about the mine. He wasn’t going to waste the opportunity that Celyn’s arrival offered, even though he didn’t want him here.

“I’m afraid I don’t know the area,” Celyn said. “You could ask Lieutenant Gunnarsdaughter, if you can remember where you left her.”

“Oh, I may just stay here,” Aelwyn remarked and dropped into one of the chairs. “So many maps. Don’t you get confused?”

He had very thick eyebrows, Sjurd noticed, the sort that would puff out when he hit old age, and there was a certain satisfaction in realizing that the man wasn’t all polished prettiness. Grunting, he turned back to his maps. “If we put another ship on the Holmebury to Belton run, that takes the pressure off the southern loop, doesn’t it?”

“And we could bring the Eigra up here,” Celyn noted. “Or better, switch her with the Ysguthan, which has a bigger hold but is slow, especially on that long loop. She’s moved lodestone before, as well, which means her crew are well suited for it.”

“Taking more of our ships, are you?” Aelwyn commented. “We do have a need for them at home, you know. Our people are suffering.”

“Better suffering than dead,” Celyn snapped, before Sjurd could get the words out. “The Empire would have made it to the coast by now if we weren’t supporting the border.”

Aelwyn yawned a little. “So you say, but it really doesn’t seem that exciting up here.”

“Exciting,” Sjurd repeated blankly, exchanging an irritated glance with Celyn. “My people aren’t dying for the sake of some excitement.”

“No?” Aelwyn said, drawing the word out.

Celyn stood up hurriedly. “And that would be a good moment for us to leave the room, Aelwyn. How about a tour of the infirmary? I’m sure the medics would be delighted to explain the risks of border duty to you.”

Aelwyn smirked over his shoulder at Sjurd, as Celyn bustled him out. Slowly, Sjurd unclenched his fists and looked across at Lieutenant Thordarsson, who looked back with a similar grimace. Then, with a sigh, he said, “Three months and a tough enough sergeant and we’d make something of him. Young.”

“Very,” Sjurd agreed. “And, unfortunately, both a guest and politically significant.”

“Can’t make him scrub pots until he’s humble, then.”

“No.” Sjurd looked up as hooves sounded outside. “Red patrol coming in.”

He went down to meet them. They dismounted, and boys came running out to take their horses. The air was still crisp, though it was near noon, and the horses’ breath steamed in the air, as if they too were mistbeasts. Sjurd saluted them and dismissed all but their leader, a tall woman with a hawkish air. “Mist sign?”

“None along the route, though we spotted mist over the river when we looked down from the ridge. Hard to tell the colour from that distance. Ogre trails across the path three leagues out, and they were clearly moving at speed. Hoofprints on the mine road two days ago, but they were old.”

“Green patrol picked them up when they were fresh,” Sjurd said. “Took out a party of raiders who were trying to lay traps over the wagon route. Go. Rest.”

“Sir,” she said, and headed into the tower, her steps weary.

“Are you running an army or a nature survey?” Aelwyn asked from the top of the steps, where he had managed to drape himself along the banister to sneer at them.

“Major raids come after misthound incursions,” Sjurd said. “We track mist sign and disturbances. Ogres run from hounds, and cause significant damage if they make it down into the foothills and attack farmsteads.” He glanced up to see Celyn come hurrying out of the tower, looking irritated. Aelwyn was clearly too good at slipping away from his minders. Ignoring the Ysians, he turned to the gate guards, boys on their second tour, too young to throw against the hounds but old enough to be reliable. “Notify me as soon as blue patrol come in. I want that mist mapped.” Each patrol rode roughly the same two-day route, at two hour intervals, along the ridges between here and the mine road, where they met the patrols from the next tower.

He stalked back to his maps, ignoring Aelwyn. On the way he encountered Enid, who actually had been to see the infirmary, and took a moment to reassure her, seeing the fear that sobered her merry face. Trefor, she told him, was in the kitchen.

He didn’t get Celyn back that afternoon, which annoyed him. It annoyed him even more when he finally made it to the mess hall, after collating more elusive hints of mist over the river, to find Aelwyn had stolen his seat and was leaning in close to Celyn, leaving Sjurd to perch at the end of the bench. He wasn’t going to cause a scene in front of his men, so he went to talk to Enid and Trefor instead. They both seemed subdued, and he wondered what they had expected.

“Everyone seems to just accept that they will probably die or get hurt up here,” Trefor said slowly, crumbling his bread into his soup with a distracted frown. “It feels like it’s in the air. I wasn’t expecting…” He trailed off.

“It’s not like the stories,” Enid said. “It’s not all action and glory, is it? Just waiting and checking and always preparing for the worst.” She swallowed. “I want to go back to Ys. I want to hold my little girl.”

“I want you to go,” Sjurd told her. “There’s no place for civilians on the front line.”

“But Prince Celyn comes here?”

“Not if I can find a way to stop him,” Sjurd said, and added sourly, “Which is easier to say than do.”

She patted him on the arm, laughing a little. “Oh, I’ve got one of those too. A good thing they make it worth our while, aye, these husbands of ours?”

Sjurd glanced across to Celyn, who had obviously just said something particularly cutting to Aelwyn, judging by the way he was sitting back and grinning. Looking back at Enid, he smiled wryly. “Good thing for them as well.”

Then he tensed in disbelief as Aelwyn leaned forward, putting his hand on Celyn’s thigh, as he made some rejoinder.

Sjurd was on his feet and storming across the room in seconds. He loomed over Aelwyn, and scowled as fiercely as he could, letting his anger show in the tensing of his shoulders.

Aelwyn moved his hand, very fast, and Celyn said mildly, “Oh, there you are. I was just explaining to Aelwyn here how you won your reputation. Something about inhaling ogre brains, wasn’t it?”

Sjurd ignored that. “I have dawn watch tomorrow. Can’t wait up for you.”

“Should I amuse myself for the night, then?” Celyn asked, a smile deepening the corners of his mouth.

“No,” Sjurd said flatly and grabbed Celyn by the elbows. One heave was enough to throw his husband easily over his shoulder (he’d practiced the move over the years), and then all he had to do was smile nastily at Aelwyn and say, “Do enjoy your evening.”

“Goodnight, cousin,” Celyn said cheerfully, and Sjurd could hear the laughter rippling through his voice. As he strode off, he felt Celyn shift a little, and was pretty certain that meant he was waving goodbye. Sjurd rubbed his ankle in approval.

As he left the mess hall, he clearly heard Enid say, “Oh, please. Everyone knows it was a love match. They’ve been caught under every tree on Gwydr.”

“I don’t know,” Celyn remarked as Sjurd carried him down the hall. “I’m sure we’ve missed a few, and there are some spots we’ve used more than once. It all averages out, though, I’m sure. Are you planning to put me down at all?”

“No,” Sjurd growled, feeling quite satisfied with himself.

“You’re making a fool of yourself in front of your people here.”

“My people know me. They already think I’m love-sotted.”

“And are you?” Celyn inquired archly, his hand slipping under Sjurd’s belt. “Seriously, lover, don’t carry me up the stairs. I don’t want you to fall.”

Sjurd snorted his opinion of that, but put his husband down. Celyn, back on his feet, grinned at him brightly and then bestowed a hard kiss against his mouth. “So, I hear you need to get some sleep?”

“Fuck sleep.”

Celyn backed away along the corridor, wincing. “You’ve been out here too long. It’s going to take weeks before you get your city manners back, isn’t it?”

Sjurd stalked after him, keeping his pace deliberately slow. “And what are you going to do about that?”

“Oh, I thought I’d try teaching you some of the basics again now. We could start with please.” Celyn stopped, letting Sjurd draw close, and then added, leaning in. “Can you say, ‘Please, Celyn.’”

“I’d rather hear ‘Please, Sjurd.’”

“And if you do, will you say thank you?”

“If I do, you’ll be thanking me.”

Celyn shivered, a quick shudder running through his whole body. “I think we need to take this out of the corridor.” His breath was coming fast.

“To bed, then,” Sjurd said, so close that he could feel Celyn’s breath gusting against his lips. He stopped, leaving it to Celyn to step away.

Celyn did, wetting his lips, and he backed all the way up the stairs and into the war room. Sjurd followed him at the same slow pace, fixing his gaze on the pulse in Celyn’s throat and the quick heave of his breathing.

The room was dark, with only the last hint of dusk showing outside the window. There was a moon, shining through the whirling wisps of wind-torn cloud, and the trees were sighing below them like the sea below the islands. Sjurd closed the door behind them slowly, shutting out the light, and turned the lock with a quick clunk. He heard the rasp of a flint, and a flame leapt up in the lantern on the tabletop. It was just enough light, yellow and flickering, that he could glimpse Celyn standing there, his pale eyes full of reflections.

As Sjurd stared, his breath catching in his throat, Celyn stripped off his clothes, letting each layer slide away. The candlelight danced across his pale skin, and Sjurd watched breathlessly as Celyn’s nipples puckered against the cold air and then, as he shook off his braies, his cock rose, flushed and golden in the dim light. Celyn lifted his head and smirked slowly. “Well?”

“Well,” Sjurd growled back, not even knowing what he was saying, and then he moved. In two strides, he had Celyn locked into his arms, their mouths crashing together in a rough and desperate kiss. He felt the pull and sting as Celyn’s hands locked in his hair, and dug his own fingers into the back of Celyn’s thigh, pulling him so close that the jab of Celyn’s erection against his belly hurt. Three more strides, carrying Celyn with him, and they were pressed against the wall, the loose edges of the sleeping pallet crushed under his feet.

Celyn cried out sharply as Sjurd pressed him against the cold wall. Sjurd caught the cry and softened the kiss enough to make Celyn go boneless again. Then he slid to his knees, bracing his hands on Celyn’s shaking thighs, and swallowed down his cock. He couldn’t cram it all into his mouth, but he managed enough that Celyn let out a shocked gasp above him, shuddering hard. Sjurd sucked hard, and then pulled back slicking his tongue over the head of Celyn’s cock, and then plunged down again, his hands tight against Celyn’s thighs.

It was sloppy and wet and rushed, sucking and slurping and shaking at every noise Celyn let out. He had to reach down in the end, and release his own cock, so he could jerk himself off roughly as he feasted on Celyn. He could taste every drop of musk and salt oozing out of Celyn as his cock jerked and tightened between Sjurd’s lips. He felt the moment when Celyn’s self-control broke and his back arched off the wall as he thrust forward, hard enough to almost choke Sjurd. He kept sucking, his mouth wet and full, and his hands clenching as Celyn wailed his name and came hard, in a hot, choking rush.

Sjurd drank it down, his hand clenching around his own cock. When he couldn’t swallow any more, he pulled back, feeling the last splashes against his face, and that was enough. His own balls tightened and he spilled into his hand, throwing his head back to groan.

When he could see past the stars that filled his eyes, Celyn had slumped down to the pallet, and Sjurd was resting against him, still mostly dressed. He found the energy to paw off his own clothes, and then climbed back into Celyn’s arms, which closed warmly around his back.

“I should make you jealous more often,” Celyn murmured at last.

“Who said I was jealous?” Sjurd muttered. He was feeling entirely satisfied, and more than a little smug.

Celyn snickered against his shoulder. “Oh, so what was that for?”

“I don’t need to be jealous. You’re mine.”

“Agreed,” Celyn said, though Sjurd could hear the mirth that trickled through his voice. “I was about to deal with him tactfully and discreetly, you know.”

“Better this way,” Sjurd declared, gathering Celyn close and groping for a blanket. They, and the bedding, were a sticky mess, but he could live with that. It wasn’t as if he was finished yet. The night was still young.

“Oh, I think he knows better now. Poor Aelwyn.”

Sjurd laughed at that. “Serves him right. What makes him think he can touch you?” Then something Celyn had not quite said earlier came back to him. “Wait. You said it wasn’t Rhiannon he was courting.”

Celyn wriggled uncomfortably and said, in his brightest tone, “Well, it wasn’t.”

“He was chasing after you?”

“Not seriously,” Celyn said. “I mean, I was betrothed by the time I was fourteen. It was nothing, really.”

“What was nothing?”

“It was just a kiss.”

“You let that prattling fool kiss you?”

“We were sixteen,” Celyn protested, and then added reflectively, “And very drunk. It didn’t mean a thing.”

“Does he know that?”

“If he doesn’t, he’s an idiot.”

“That much is obvious.” Sjurd settled them back against the pillows, close enough that he could capture Celyn’s mouth in a quick kiss. “He can’t have you.”

“I don’t want him.”

“Good.” Sjurd swallowed hard. He rarely said this, and almost never said it first. “I love you.”

Celyn propped himself up, frowning down at him worriedly. “And I love you. Really, you have nothing to worry about. I’ll never want anyone but you.”

That was reassuring, but still. “And if I get eaten by the next misthound?”

“I will still never want anyone else.”

He should have wanted Celyn to be happy with someone else. Instead, that soothed all the edges off his nerves, and he smiled up at Celyn. He looked good by candlelight, which cast gold lights into his hair, and made his eyes gleam. “Good. Kiss me.”

Celyn obeyed, for once, his mouth sweet and soft against Sjurd’s, and they sank back against the bedding together, their legs tangling. Sjurd closed his eyes, and trusted Celyn to lead the kiss. They still faced almost certain doom, but here and now, even in the heart of danger, he was loved, and that was enough. Whatever the morning brought, whether it was disaster or more small irritations, he could be strong, because he knew, and would always know, that Celyn loved him.

A canal, a cemetery, and a clockwork nightingale: how I spent my Saturday

Firstly, look what appeared in the post yesterday! I’d had a fairly tough week and these thrilled me. If you want to get a copy of that delicious cover art yourself,  Steamed Up will be released on October 21st. I’m very excited about it The Clockwork Nightingale’s Song was my very first attempt at steampunk, and I’m thrilled to be included.

That excitement done, and a few of my deadlines ticked off on time, I was delighted to wake up this morning to sunshine. I’d been anticipating a weekend of rain against the windows, hot tea and red wine, but actual sunshine was too good to waste, even if I hadn’t crawled out of bed until after nine, so I grabbed my bag, shoved on my walking boots, and headed off down the towpath. The trees are just starting to turn now, and we’ve had lovely misty mornings all week. The canal is barely used by boats, even on the odd days when the full length is open, so the water tends to be still, dark and full of reflections. So, I took photos…

Pretty, but evil. This is Himalayan balsam, an invasive species which clogs up many British waterways. Isaac, my lengthsman character from last year’s Advent story, would not approve of me taking pretty pictures of it.

An abandoned barge. The canal was never a huge commercial success, and the last commercial barge stopped sailing in about 1910. There are abandoned barges moored all along the banks, most of which now support significant wildlife.

One of the locks in the Deepcut Flight, which crams fourteen locks into about five miles of canal.

 

Edit: Okay, so I forgot all about the cemetery I mentioned in the title. My walk ended at Brookwood. As I’d just missed a train, I walked on into the cemetery, which you can access right from the station. Brookwood cemetery is the biggest in the UK, iirc, and dates from the 1850s, when it was part of an effort to find burial space outside London. It once had its own dedicated railway, the Necropolis Railway, which operated from a special station near Waterloo Station in London until 1942, when its London terminus was bombed during the Blitz. It’s unusual because it contains a number of subsections – there are a number of military cemeteries inside its grounds, including a tiny set of fourteen simple graves of members of the Turkish Air Force killed in World War Two. My wanderings brought me into the Zoroastrian cemetery, which dates back to 1863. One wonders if the sleepers there ever dreamt they would end up buried in suburban Surrey. I passed a woman born in Bombay who had married an English doctor and died in 1935 in London, aged 42; a 25 year old medical student from India who had died in Glasgow in 1905; a respected Indian magistrate who died in Marseilles; the doctor from Shanghai, who was shot trying to get between Indian freedom fighter Madan Lal Dhingra and his target, Indian Office Official Sir Curzon-Wylie (the doctor’s name was Cawas Lalkaka and I found a blogpost about him here). Many of the older graves had their epitaphs and dates laboriously translated into English and western dating systems in neat brackets beside the original. When I got home, I discovered that this is still the only Zoroastrian cemetery in the UK. I think what fascinates me about old graves is not the morbid awareness of death’s inevitability, but the lives they hint at and the stories they don’t quite tell.

That detestable unmentionable and ignominious vice

I’ve finally got a clear sense of the plot to the second Reawakening book, and it’s going to involve a plague. As a result, I’ve spent my weekend reading through a pile of books about medical history and the Black Death. It’s enough to make me very thankful to live in an era of modern medicine and disease control.

I’ve always been fascinated by the 14th century (I’m a Chaucer and Gower fangirl at heart), and although a lot of my reading was grim, it also threw up some references to the more colorful characters of the era, including one I hadn’t encountered before. Here, from London records of 1395, is an account of the questioning of ‘Eleanor’ aka John  Rykener…

On 11 December, 18 Richard 11. were brought in the presence of John Fressh, Mayor. and the Aldermen of the City of London John Britby of the county of York and John Rykener., calling [himself] Eleanor, having been detected in women’s clothing, who were found last Sunday night between the hours of 8 and 9 by certain officials of the, city lying by a certain stall in Soper’s Lane committing that detestable unmentionable and ignominious vice. In a separate examination held before the Mayor and Aldermen about the occurrence, John Britby confessed that he was passing through the high road of Cheap on Sunday between the abovementioned hours and accosted John Rykener, dressed up as a woman, thinking he was a woman, asking him as he would a woman if he could commit a libidinous act with her. Requesting money for [his] labor, Rykener consented, and they went together to the aforesaid stall to complete the act, and were captured there during these detestable wrongdoings by the officials and taken to prison. And John Rykener, brought here in woman’s clothing and questioned about this matter, acknowledged [himself] to have done everything just as John Britby had confessed…

You can read the full story of Eleanor’s colorful career and how Victorian scholars suppressed the story over here. It’s a very 14th Century reminder that appearances can be deceptive, the supposedly righteous are never beyond reproach, and just how broad and complex sexuality was even in eras we perceive as being repressive. Unfortunately, history does not record whether “But I totally thought he was a girl” was a good enough excuse to exonerate John Britby.

Sunday Smooches (from my current WIP)

*sheepish* I was planning to write a teeny Celyn/Sjurd snippet this weekend for you guys, but real life in the form of my crazy garden intervened. What looked like a small job on Saturday morning (weed and replant my plant pots with bulbs and winter pansies) turned into a two-day battle, mostly because I hadn’t realized that the Great Bramble Incursion had made it that far along the fence. I had to cut half the pots out before I could replant them.

(My garden, for those wondering, is actually my landlady’s garden. She’s a very sweet lady in her early seventies who occasionally pops round and wages a hopeless war against the brambles for an afternoon. There is also what the letting agency described to me as ‘the gardener’ who is actually Mr Landlady, who cuts the grass once a fortnight or so, and ignores the rest. I have pots of pansies and occasionally offer my help with the rest, which is always turned down).

Anyhow, since I feel bad at going without any smoochies at all on a Sunday, have a teeny bit from my current WIP. It’s not really safe for work, so the underage among you should not click on the cut. Val owns a sweetshop in Chester in 1920, and Jasper is a WW1 veteran with a mystery to solve, and one thing leads to another, as these things tend to do…

 

His first instinct had been right, Val thought, closing his hand gently around the hot jut of of Jasper’s cock, feeling it twitch as if it was trying to break through the serge. This was a man who needed to be touched.

Val watched Jasper’s face, spellbound by the faint flush in his cheeks and the way his teeth were caught in his bottom lip. He had pretty eyelashes this close, long and curling and pale, and there was sweat gathering on his cheekbones, even on the damaged side. If Val even met the doctor who’d taken such care with this man, he’d shake his hand.

He needed to be gentle, he realized, another rush of heat rising through him. He’d been with other damaged veterans since the Armistice, and he was trying to remember what they’d needed to reassure them they weren’t broken forever. None of it quite seemed relevant now, not to this man, who was more special than any nameless backroom fuck.

 

This is my first (and probably last) attempt at historical. The research is breaking my brain.

Don’t mind me, I’m just sitting here in the corner and drooling at this cover art…

No, seriously, there’s not much I can say to match the sheer appeal of this art. Here’s the cover of Dreamspinner’s Steamed Up anthology, which will be released on October 21st and includes a short story of mine. I had this cover pinned above my desk while I was writing, and I’m sure you can see why. Isn’t he inspirational?

I’m very excited about this one, and all the stories sound awesome. Here’s the official blurb and contents list from the Dreamspinner site:

Inventors, pilots, tinkers, and soldiers; magical metals to replace an aging heart or a ruined limb; steam-powered fantasy worlds of clockwork nightingales, automatons, dirigibles, and men. The stories in this anthology visit diverse times in the history of modern man, and the men who populate these tales face war and cruelty, masters and autocrats, illness and poverty and greed. Yet the heat of romance outmatches even the steam engines, and time and again, the gears of love rule the day.

Stories included are:

The Clockwork Nightingale’s Song by Amy Rae Durreson

Caress by Eli Easton

Swiftsilver by Bell Ellis

The Clockwork Heart by Kim Fielding

The Galatea’s Captain by Anka Grace

Screws by R.D. Hero

The Golden Goose Mark Lesney

Spindle and Bell by Augusta Li

Ace of Hearts by Mary Pletsch

Five to One by Angelia Sparrow

Untouchable by Layla M. Wier

Sunday Smooches (Celyn/Sjurd)

Hello, all. Am I the only one who has had a really busy week? First week back at work after the long summer, and I’ve been doing the first round of Gaudete edits too, so that’s kept me nicely busy. I’ve also seen the cover art for the Steamed Up anthology, which is just gorgeous, so watch this space. I’ll be sharing it soon.

In the meantime, have a little treat. Here’s a bit more of Sjurd and Celyn for those who asked. This really is short, unlike Emyr’s Smile, and is nothing more than sex and snark when Sjurd gets home from the front ahead of schedule , but I thought some of you guys might like it.

~#~

Not for anyone underage. Click the little back arrow, m’dears.

Some soft sound woke Celyn, and he groped for the knife under his pillow before he opened his eyes. “Who’s there?”

“Because that’s a useful thing to say to a potential assassin, is it?” a familiar voice said, and Celyn sighed and relaxed, letting the hilt of the knife go. Sjurd.

“What did I do this time?” he complained sleepily, happiness rising through him in a warm haze. “I thought you’d given up wanting to throttle me?”

“It’s always tempting,” Sjurd muttered, and Celyn could see him in the dim light now, kicking off his boots and starting to shed his clothes. The moonlight was shimmering through the curtains, but the night was quiet, even here in the center of Holmebury. It had been well past midnight when Celyn had finally made it back to their room in the palace to settle into a bed that was far too wide and empty for his tastes, and his body was limp and comfortable enough that he must have had a good few hours sleep, at least. Sitting up, he pushed some of the pillows he had purloined from Sjurd’s side of the bed back into their proper place and asked, yawning a little, “When did you get back? I thought you had another four days up at Belton Fort?”

“Misthound incursion at Scotter,” Sjurd said, pulling the leather tie out of his hair and tossing it across the room. “We put them down, but not before the Gylfinir had to divert away from the border on her route home. Brought her into Belton early.”

“She safe?” Celyn asked, watching as the moonlight caught on the pale cloth of Sjurd’s shirt as it went sliding to the floor.

“All fine. Docked above town not long ago, and all the crew are still tucked warmly in their bunks.”

“But you came here,” Celyn said gleefully. It was a nice feeling, being wanted. “Did you miss me? How sweet.”

“I missed having a bed which didn’t sway when the wind blew,” Sjurd muttered and he must have got rid of the rest of his clothes because he was moving towards the bed now. “Wasn’t expecting to find it already occupied.”

“You did marry me,” Celyn pointed out. “Repeatedly, if I recall correctly. Did you really think I’d stay in the guest quarters after that?”

“No such luck,” Sjurd muttered, but then the mattress was sinking under his weight and he was pressed against Celyn and his mouth was brushing Celyn’s, soft and warm. Celyn sighed into it, all his relief coming out in one great breath as he wrapped himself around his husband and kissed him back. Sjurd was a warm and weary weight against him, still smelling of the front: sweat and metal and leather. His mouth was sweet though, tasting of aniseed and alisander, which meant he’d taken time to freshen his breath before crawling into Celyn’s bed. So many ways for Sjurd to show him tenderness, Celyn thought in amusement, sliding his hands down Sjurd’s bare back to check every inch, and none of them used words.

Sjurd pulled away from him. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?” Celyn asked, groping Sjurd’s ass on the way to his thigh.

“Feeling for new scars. I’m not hurt.”

“Oh, and you’d tell me if you were, would you?”

“Yes,” Sjurd snarled, and Celyn shivered happily. He’d missed being growled at.

Relenting, he pulled his hands back up, and patted Sjurd’s ass affectionately. “Well, in that case, this is just for fun.” And he slipped his hand round to wrap around the lovely jut of Sjurd’s cock. “Hello, soldier. Standing at attention for your favorite ambassador, are you?”

“Shut up, Celyn,” Sjurd said fondly, but pushed forward to nestle his cock against Celyn’s palm. “Mmm.”

Funny how shut up could sound so like I love you from this man. Celyn’s own cock was rising now, trapped under his nightclothes and he squirmed pleasantly as Sjurd bit his ear and breathed, “This is why you should sleep naked.”

“Wasn’t expecting company,” Celyn managed, stroking Sjurd’s cock as he lifted his hips for Sjurd to push up his nightshirt. A moment later, Sjurd’s hand was on him and he sighed happily, turning his face into the crook of Sjurd’s neck. “So glad you’re here. Oh.”

Sjurd twisted around to kiss him, his hand slow and relentless, and they moved against each other, their mouths grazing softly. Every time one of them gasped or shuddered, the kiss fell apart and then they had to find each others’ mouths in the dark again, soft and sloppy. The heat gathered slowly under Celyn’s skin, and it wasn’t until Sjurd slipped his free hand up to pinch his nipple softly that he realized how close to coming he was. “S-Sjurd! Oh!”

“Celyn,” Sjurd said back, and his voice was so glad and warm that Celyn lost it then and there, snapping his hips up hard and coming with a slow groan, the world going loose and easy around him. He had enough wit left to loop his arm around Sjurd’s neck and hang on as Sjurd pushed him flat and pressed him down, his cock shoving through the slick heat on Celyn’s belly as his breath came hard and hot. Celyn clung to him, gasping as the echoes of his own coming shivered through him with every gasp Sjurd let out.

“Celyn!” Sjurd groaned again, his voice shaking, and went taut above him, wet heat splashing out over Celyn’s belly. Then, with a groan, he slumped down, rolling them over so they were tangled together in each others’ arms, the pillows soft and cold under their pillows.

Celyn cuddled against him until he could breathe again, his hands splayed across Sjurd’s back. Then, when he could form proper words, he murmured, “Mess. Let me get a cloth.”

Sjurd didn’t release him, just breathing slowly into Celyn’s hair.

Suspicious, Celyn poked his shoulder lightly. “Sjurd?”

But his husband was asleep.

“It’s a very good thing I love you,” Celyn told him sternly. Then he pulled the blankets up over their shoulders and cuddled back against Sjurd. They could clean up in the morning. There would be time enough for that, at least (and perhaps a few more kisses, and there was a jar of oil under his pillow, next to the knife, and one of the few things they didn’t argue about was the importance of lazy morning sex…)

Still plotting, Celyn slid back into sleep, locked warmly into his husband’s arms.

© Amy Durreson 2013

Emyr’s Smile (a Lodestar of Ys bonus story)

Gosh, summer disappeared fast, didn’t it? We’ve had misty mornings and rain this week, and my central heating is back on (as is my spare freezer, which is steadily filling up with apples and blackberries). As a little final flourish, though, have a treat. Towards the end of the run-up towards the release of The Lodestar of Ys, I started writing a little side story to thank my regular commenters. It grew a little in the telling, this being me, and is now just over half the length of the main story.

I’m posting it here too, again as a thank you. I’ve had so many lovely comments, reviews and ratings for Lodestar, and this is to show my appreciation. It’s lighter and sweeter than the original, but I hope you enjoy Heilyn and Emyr’s story.

Emyr’s Smile

Heilyn’s living a free and easy life, travelling from island to island on the floating ships of Ys. Why settle down in one place when you could be painting the whole world? Then an unfortunate encounter with an angry bull introduces him to Emyr, a sad-eyed merchant living on the quiet island of Sirig. Heilyn decides that he’s going to make Emyr smile before he leaves Sirig. But will a simple smile be enough for either man?

Read it here…

I’m hoping to make a download available later in the autumn, but that’s a whole new skill set for me, so it may take a few weeks.

The Lodestar of Ys, some more news, and some lonely marshes

So my Love Has No Boundaries story, The Lodestar of Ys, went up yesterday! Hurrah! (For those who don’t know what I’m wittering on about, the m/m romance group on Goodreads runs a huge story exchange every summer. They’ve been posting 1-3 stories a day since the end of May. Mine is a big fantasy romp with flying ships and snarky princes and an evil Empire threatening invasion. You can find it here (where you will be greeted by a very nice picture of Richard Armitage, who was the inspiration for my grumpypants Prince Sjurd) or go here for a download.

I’ve had a fantastic time both writing this and taunting chatting with the lovely people who’ve been cheering me along the way. It’s been a really good experience and I can only hope that the release of Reawakening in the New Year is just as rewarding I have been writing an extra bonus story in the discussion thread over there as a thank you, which I’ll post here as well when it’s done. You can read Emyr and Heilyn’s story over here There’s also a playlist in the post before this one.

I’ve also been busy with other things. Mum and I have spent a few days walking along the North Kent coast. The marshes outside Faversham looked my mental image of Sjurd’s country of Axholme, so there are a few pictures under the cut. Strange to think that all of this is less than fifty miles from London and was once full of bustling wharfs (the remains of some still appear out of the edges of the marsh, worn and splintered.

I’ve also, of course, been writing. After all the noble sentiments I expressed about not forcing myself to write a Christmas story this year, I gave into temptation. Gaudete will be part of Dreamspinner’s Advent Calendar this year. It’s the story of the Christmas market outside (the invented) cathedral of Aylminster in Sussex, and of two little boys who form an unlikely Christmas friendship. Jonah is a chorister, and Callum is the son of one of the market traders, and the story moves back and forth between their childhood and the Christmas when they meet again as adults.

With that in the mix as well, it’s going to be a busy autumn. The Steamed Up anthology is the first excitement, and I’m hoping to be able to share cover art with you soon. Then there will be Gaudete at Christmas and Reawakening early next year, with all the edits and promotion and associated fun. Hopefully I’ll be able to find some writing time as well!

Okay, I’ll stop wittering now, and get on with the pictures

Faversham marshes. Originally, Axholme was inspired by Lincolnshire. I spent most of my Easter holiday hiking and backpacking around that eerie part of the country. I actually started the first draft of Lodestar in a lovely guesthouse in John Wesley’s home town of Epworth on the (landlocked) Isle of Axholme, and borrowed the name as a temporary solution until I thought of something else. It rather suited, though, as Holmebury, the capital, is loosely based on Lincoln, I ending up keeping it. Kent is in some ways a similar landscape, flat and only fascinating once your eyes adjust to how far away the horizon lies, and this felt like Axholme to me.

 

This one isn’t anything to do with the story, but is just of something cool. These are traditional Thames barges, with their distinctive coloured sails. In 1900 there were 2500 barges working the river. Today there are about twenty left. Peter Ackroyd in his biography of the Thames, which I’m currently reading, refers to their sails as “the colour of the Thames,” and goes on to comment, “They endured for a thousand years, but then, like their sails, slowly mixed with sunset.”

 

And here, just as a bonus, some of my inspiration for Ys. I don’t have any pictures which evoke quite as directly as these do Axholme, as I don’t have any real experience of flying islands crowned by forests of derwen trees lit by glowing starflowers (if only). However, I did draw on a trip around the Hebrides I made a few years ago. Here’s a couple of views down the Firth of Lorne from Oban.

 

*facepalms* I spent a fortnight wandering from island to island by ferry. I saw the islands awash with sunshine. Could I find any photos which contained both both islands and sunlight? Nope.