How I Took the King on a Bone-a-Fide

Quest of Piracy, Piemu, and Profit:

Bone 3 (How I Stole the Princess's
White Knight and Turned him to Villainy
Book 9) Aj Sherwood
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 Table of Contents

Title Page
Copyright Acknowledgement
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Ready for Bone 4? Get it HERE!
Books by AJ Sherwood
Author
This book is a work of fiction, so please treat it like a work of fiction. Seriously. References to real people, dead people, good guys, bad guys, stupid politicians, companies,
restaurants, events, products, locations, pop culture references, or wacky historical events are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. Or
because I wanted it in the story. Characters, names, story, location, dialogue, weird humor, and strange incidents all come from the author’s very fertile imagination and are
not to be construed as real. No, I don’t believe in killing off main characters. Villains are a totally different story.

HOW I TOOK THE KING ON A BONE-A-FIDE QUEST OF PIRACY, PIEMU, AND PROFIT
Bone 3

Copyright © 2024 by AJ Sherwood

Cover by Katie Griffin
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 One

Devan

To say that Devan was still perturbed by…you know what…would be the understatement of the century. He’d thrown up
inside his mouth upon seeing her. Albeit a puppet of her former self, seeing Serenity’s skeleton walking and talking was not an
experience he had wanted in this lifetime. Ever. Yes, he’d told Niran he could have her, but at the time, Devan hadn’t been
thinking clearly. He’d only thought about how it would serve her right to be in someone else’s service. To be stuck waiting on
someone hand and foot, without complete autonomy or the power to leave. Devan had many, many emotional scars from that
woman, and putting her in a position where she had no power had been a siren’s song to his trauma.
That said…seeing her like that had felt like she was alive again. As her executioner, he couldn’t stomach the sight. He’d
felt like the nightmare would start all over again. Tan, despite being flirty and nonchalant in front of the others, had sat with him
for a good hour, working him through his panic and bone-deep shivers. Devan feared he was reliving the nightmare they’d
barely escaped from. He knew, rationally, that would never happen. Niran would cut her spell if Serenity tried something and
make sure she’d never rise again.
But emotions weren’t rational.
Tan had done his best to distract him with comfort and sex—and it had worked for a time—but even though he was
physically satiated, Devan couldn’t sleep. Despite the late hour, his mind was too active, churning with ideas that weren’t even
plausible, and it left him restless. While Tan snoozed after a very satisfying romp, Devan had snuck off to the empty balcony,
intending to call Wells. He needed a voice of reason. More than anything, he knew Wells would get it. Wells had lived the same
nightmare, obeying orders they didn’t agree with just to keep the fragile peace, having to sneak behind Serenity’s back to
mitigate the damages of her whims. If anyone could relate with aching empathy, it was Wells.
He answered promptly through the ring, “Unless it’s on fire or threatening international relations, I do not care.”
Ah. That stage of the day. Well, week, as it was the weekend tomorrow. “You got booze on hand?”
There was a pregnant pause. “Do I need to…? Stupid question, hang on.”
Rummaging sounds, a sigh as a leather cushion was compressed under weight, then Wells let out a groan.
“Gods above, getting off my feet feels like a blessing. Everything that could possibly go wrong today, did. Now, I
stand by what I said. Unless it’s on fire or threatening international relations, I do not care—”
“Serenity.”
Devan knew that one name would cut Wells off like nothing else would.
Wells sounded beyond cautious and paranoid as he asked, “Do I want to know?”
“No.”
“But you’re going to tell me anyway.”
“Misery needs company right now.” Devan sucked in a breath. Let it out. Didn’t feel any better for the gesture but for
some reason wanted to do it again. “Niran was serious when he took Serenity’s body away. He turned her into a skeleton
named Sery. I…met her earlier.”
“Right. So I’m never, ever visiting Niran’s castle.”
“Smart.”
Devan heard sounds of gulping before Wells grumbled, “I’m not drunk enough for this. He seriously did it. I’d thought
he’d been joking.”
“I’d honestly forgotten about it.”
“How can you possibly forget him asking for her spine?”
“Willpower, mostly.”
“Ah. Fair.” Wells paused. “Honestly, hearing she’s at the beck and call of someone else for decades to come sounds
like just punishment to me.”
“I’m not disagreeing. That’s why I’d told Niran he could have her. For how haughty she was, serving another faithfully
must burn on some level. It’s just…” Devan trailed off, unsure how to phrase his thoughts. “I think it was hearing her voice—
her skeleton’s cadence is so similar, yet so different. If I’d closed my eyes, I would have believed she was still alive. Knowing
someone I killed is upright and talking…it’s giving me doubts. I did kill her, right?”
 “You did,” Wells said in support. “I saw her corpse.”
Devan let out a shuddering breath. “Sometimes, I honestly feel like I’m in a dream. A dream where I got to love and
marry Tan and escape Serenity. Seeing her like that made everything feel too surreal.”
Wells made a sound as if choking back a strong emotion. “Yeah. Yeah, I hear that. Sometimes, I wake up and feel like
I’m back where we were two years ago. Back before you met Tan, when we had no hope of the situation getting better.”
“You too, huh? Waking up next to Tan helps snap me out of that.”
“I wish I had someone to help with that. I tried changing up my ceiling, had an artist paint a scene of the forest at
night, and oddly enough that’s helped. It gives me instant proof I’m in the now and not in the past.”
“Painting the ceiling? I would have never thought of that.”
“Well, it’s the first thing I see every morning.”
“I didn’t say it was a bad idea. I’m in awe of your genius.”
Wells snorted a dry laugh. “As you should. It’s sad that two grown men still have nightmares.”
“Seeing her skeleton added to my nightmare fuel.”
“Yeah, I bet it has.”
Devan cringed as the scene from earlier came to mind. “I think I need another drink.”
“I know I do, and I’m not even there. This is a more-booze situation.”
“Completely agree. All right, I’m going to find the wine cellar.”
“Do so. Don’t call me tomorrow, I’ll be hungover. Bye.”
“Bye.” Devan would likely be hungover too. Perhaps the booze would help him sleep through the night. Having a level
head would make the whole situation more palatable. What he needed to focus on was Serenity getting what she deserved—not
that she was un-alive and still moving about.
Tan popped out onto the balcony, looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for someone who’d been snoozing moments ago.
“There you are! It was lonely waking up without you. Everything okay?”
“Talked to Wells,” Devan said.
Taking in Devan’s expression—which was bound to be a complicated one—bubbly Tan disappeared, replaced with the
serious man who lay underneath all the carefree smiles. The one who had Devan’s back no matter what went down. Half the
reason Devan had married Tan was because he knew that at the end of the day, Tan would always be there, giving him whatever
he needed.
He held out an arm, and Tan snuggled right under it, wrapping both arms around Devan’s waist.
“Seeing her really did disturb you,” Tan murmured. “I didn’t think it would make you this uneasy.”
“Hearing her speak made me feel like I was living in a dream,” Devan explained, letting out a long sigh. “Like I hadn’t
escaped her after all.”
“Oh.” Tan tightened his arms around him. “I promise you, you have. Want me to tell Niran to put her back in a grave? I
will if it’ll make you feel better.”
“I…” Did he want that? It felt wrong for some reason. “I think the petty part of me prefers her serving under Niran for
another fifty years.”
“I mean, I’m petty enough to relish the idea, but I’m surprised you are.”
“Wells felt the same way, so it’s not just the two of us.” He leaned to rest his head atop of Tan’s. It felt comforting to have
his husband so close.
“I’m glad that you have Wells to commiserate with, but you know you can talk to me about anything, right?”
“I know.” He did know. Tan had never rebuffed him when Devan had something to say. “This was a misery-wants-
company situation.”
“Ah. That’s okay, then. If you want me to blast her silly into a million pieces, say the word. I’m game.”
Tempting as that was… “No. Leave her be. After we depart, she’ll be out of sight.”
“Out of sight, out of mind, huh? All right. If you change your mind, let me know.”
Devan snugged him in harder, the icy chill that had chased him onto this balcony finally relenting under the love and
warmth Tan showed him. This was the other reason Devan had married him. Tan was the only place where he could let his
heart rest.
They stood there for an indeterminate time before Tan lifted his head, giving Devan a wicked smile.
“I feel like you could use another distraction.” He untangled his arms and walked backward, beckoning Devan. “For
round two, I’ve summoned a bottle of fine wine, snacks, and lube, and have it all laid out in our bedroom. Focus, focus right on
me. Good, now come here.”
Wine, snacks, and more sex? Devan nearly whimpered in relief. He obeyed the summons like a siren’s song. “You do
love me.”
“I do.” Tan waggled his fingers some more, a satisfied grin in place. “That’s right, come to me and enjoy my offerings.”
Marrying Tan was the best decision he’d ever made. “You’ll fuck me stupid, right?”
 Tan’s grin turned filthy. “With pleasure.”

+~+
Devan was in a far more charitable mood the next morning. Hot sex with his husband the night before and finding two
major pieces of Steve had a lot to do with that. It meant the world to him that Tan would set everything aside to help him
through the shock of seeing Serenity. After his husband’s thoughtful care and their conversation, he felt far more at peace with
the world. He sat at the dining table with the map of barbarian lands spread out in front of him, a second cup of coffee in hand,
and logistics whirling in his brain.
With more speed than prudence, Lesia entered the picture, throwing an arm around his shoulders, which had to feel
awkward as she was slightly too short to fully manage. “Mr. Devan, whatcha doing?”
“Thinking. Here, pull up a chair.”
She promptly did so, coming in closer.
Lesia, as Devan had discovered, was a cuddler by nature. She and Tan got along splendidly that way. She had no
problem getting right into Devan’s personal space, and it was rather a novel thing for him. He had always been so much bigger
than everyone else, and small children especially seemed to view him as something of a monster. Or a giant to be wary of.
Lesia was of the age, and the size, to mirror his past experiences with kids. She was a petite thing even for her age group;
frankly, his thigh was wider than her. But she’d never been intimidated by him, not once. The first time they’d met, she’d
looked up at him, blinking as if taking him all in, then grinned and asked if he was Tan’s husband.
Her attitude bemused him, but more than anything it delighted him. That a child could see he was no threat made his heart
a little lighter.
She was a good kid. Devan had something approaching hope for the future generation because of her and Zi Rui.
He pointed to a spot on the map, right where they had been yesterday. “We were here when we found the ribs. Steve
didn’t feel anything but that one set, ergo, there’s nothing else within ten miles of that area.”
Lesia nodded, making an agreeing noise in the back of her throat, eyes on the map. “Right, so no point in going back to
the same spot.”
“That’s my thinking. We previously talked about going to Zaynab, and now I’m even more sure that’s the right choice.”
He pointed to the port city that was on the southeastern edge of barbarian territory. It was just as lawless as its northern
neighbors, but the difference lay in its anarchy. The barbarians had something like rules and society among their own people.
But Zaynab? Not even the barbarians were insane enough to try and take it over.
“Why there?”
“Two reasons. One, the tail in Niran’s storage tells us that Steve’s body was chopped up and scattered quite some
distance. Feasibly, some part of him could have gone that far east. Zaynab has always been a hub for trade and black markets,
so it would be the best place to sell dragon bones. Two, I’d rather not troop through more barbarian lands than I absolutely
have to.”
She blinked innocent eyes up at him. “Are you afraid of us being ambushed?”
“No, I’m afraid of Tan burning the northern lands by flinging fireballs because he’s annoyed at the lack of progress.”
“Oh yeah. Master Tan would totally do that.” Lesia smiled while saying that, making it clear she wholeheartedly
approved. Then again, Lesia was the child who had shown up in a black cape with a kitten in hand, determined to be the
fiercest black sorceress the world had ever seen.
The thought triggered a question that had lingered in Devan’s mind for a while. “Lesia. I’m curious. You address Tan and
me differently. Why am I mister, but he’s master? Is it because he’s your teacher? You didn’t call him master at first, though.”
She beamed at him, and without a trace of embarrassment or apology, explained, “Master Tan gives us one gold a month
to call him master.”
With perfect timing, Tan chose that moment to enter the dining room. Devan speared his husband with a look. “You pay
them an extra gold to call you master?”
“I will take no questions at this time.” Tan skipped around the table to lean on Devan’s other shoulder. “Whatcha doing,
sexy?”
He gave up. Pressing Tan for answers never got him anywhere. “Trying to plan our next move. How do you feel about
portaling to Zaynab and then going from there?”
“Ahh, Zaynab,” Tan said with nostalgia. He sighed, a sinful grin curling up the corners of his mouth. “So much fun to be
had in Zaynab.”
Oh gods above. Devan knew his husband enough to ask the real question. “How many laws did you break in Zaynab and
are you wanted?”
“Pssh, it’s Zaynab. Is anything really illegal there?”
“So at least one?”
“Very, very minor,” Tan assured him airily. “It was years ago. I’m sure the tavern has forgotten all about it.”
 Devan looked at his spouse, not believing a single word. Whenever Tan waved away things like this, it was never
promising.
Putting a hand to his heart, Tan reared back, trying—unsuccessfully—to look hurt. “Doubtest thou the Tan?”
“Verily, verily, I doubtest the Tan,” Devan deadpanned. “It’s like you think I don’t know who I married.”
“You love me either way.”
“I do. For some reason.”
Lesia interrupted, leaning eagerly over Devan’s arm. “Master Tan, what did you do?”
“I can’t tell you, sweetie; it’s a wildly inappropriate story for a child. I’ll tell you when you’re older. Then show you
how to do it so you won’t get caught.”
Devan would be willing to bet that Tan had done that wildly inappropriate thing as a child, with Master Keb encouraging
him. Tan wasn’t willing to say anything right now because he knew Devan’s reaction would not be pretty. Out of earshot, he’d
no doubt tell his apprentice all the details. It’s all right, Devan could wait. Once Tan told Lesia, Devan could bribe her for the
story.
He patiently got them back on track. “Zaynab?”
“Hell yeah, I’m all for it. No reason to go back where we were. There’s nothing else in that area of Steve’s.”
“Good, glad we’re in agreement. Where’s Niran and Zi Rui, anyway? They disappeared right after breakfast.”
Tan pointed upward, toward the second floor. “They’re up there with Steve. Something about getting proper
measurements so they can figure out how much room they’ll need to reassemble him.”
“So they’re playing.”
“Pretty much.”
“Go get ’em, I want to portal over to Zaynab and get this quest back on the road.”
“You got it.”
Trying to get sorcerers and apprentices together was akin to herding cats. Devan should know, as he’d herded Tan’s cats
before. Still, he managed it sometime after lunch, and Tan portaled them to the outskirts of Zaynab. The kids had their own
horses this time as they were decent enough riders, and frankly speaking, gallivanting around half the known world would be
excellent riding practice. Everyone had reins in hand as they arrived.
One glance at the outskirts of the large city told Devan that nothing had changed. They were right outside the main city,
where a shanty town of salvaged boards and blankets had been erected. Beyond it were the remains of the city walls, which
had never been updated or repaired, slowly falling apart from neglect. Through the large gaps in the wall, he could see the old
buildings—the original part of the city—in various states of neglect.
Even from here, he could smell the refuse as if there had never been a proper cleaning of the sewer system. It stank to
high heaven of human waste, sweat, and other unsavory things best not identified. The summer heat did everything to intensify
the smell, the only relief coming from the ocean breeze sweeping over them. There would need to be something of a
government to organize such facilities, but Zaynab was run solely by money and violence, not structure.
Devan could say with conviction that he had not missed this place.
He kept a sharp eye on the kids as they headed for the remnants of the city walls. Too often there were dead and decaying
bodies on these streets—until someone got tired of the stench and towed them away—and he didn’t want such gruesome sights
to scar the kids.
Some thirty feet outside the city’s entrance there were people in the stocks, having been caught for some crime or another,
begging to be let out. Lesia seemed to take it all in with morbid curiosity. Zi Rui didn’t even flinch, and sadly, he might well
have seen worse when he’d been sold as a slave.
They’d barely started moving before Steve started keening and wiggling excitedly on his cart. Tan had cast a glamour
spell so Steve would appear as boring wooden boxes, but the rocking motion dispelled that illusion pretty quickly. Devan shot
the skull an aggravated look.
“Would you be still?”
“Two! I feel two of me!”
“You know,” Tan observed rhetorically to the air, “out of context that sounds so wrong.”
“With context it sounds wrong,” Devan muttered. “Steve, where are the parts?”
“I…” His excitement faltered. “Um.”
Devan was decidedly not a fan of ‘um.’ Nothing good ever followed it. He eyed the bone head, waiting for the other shoe
to drop.
“There seems to be two, but there also doesn’t seem to be two?”
“What is this, Schrödinger’s bone?” Niran walked around Dan to look Steve in the eye sockets. “What exactly are you
saying?”
“I feel myself,”—Steve said the words slowly, like he was figuring it out as he spoke—“but the bones are going in two
different directions. I’m quite certain there’s two bones, but I’m confused by the sensation.”
 That sounded potentially problematic. Then again, what else had Devan expected from Zaynab? Zaynab was just
problems wrapped up in trouble.
“Focus on the bright side.” Niran gave Steve a pat on the head. “There’s two parts of you here. That’ll speed matters
along.”
True, that was indeed the case. Devan was personally all for it. The faster they finished the quest, the quicker he could go
back to what he should be doing. Namely, running a kingdom and keeping Tan from adopting all the cats in said kingdom.
Guess which one was the harder job.
Seeing they’d gained some curious onlookers from the shanties, he urged people to mount and got them moving. Lingering
in the area was like wearing a target on their backs. The horses alone spoke of wealth, never mind Devan’s chain mail and
everyone else’s clothing. Devan would prefer a quick in and out, not hopping from one fight to another.
They started riding, Steve and Niran leading the way, Devan and Tan flanking the kids, who were riding in the middle.
“Master Tan?” Lesia was the definition of innocence as she asked, “If someone attacks us, can I cast spells?”
Sounding besotted, Tan agreed. “You absolutely may. With extreme prejudice.”
Devan judiciously added, “Make sure your allies are behind you when you do. Friendly, fire isn’t.”
She gave him a thumbs-up. “Got it. Ooh, now I hope someone attacks us. I need victims to practice on.”
Should Devan have sent advance notice to Zaynab? Somehow, he felt like bringing Tan and his two apprentices into the
city without forewarning wasn’t sportsmanlike.
Ah, well, surely Zaynab had seen and dealt with worse.
Zi Rui asked the more prudent question. “Which bone are we heading toward first?”
“The closest one.” Whichever that one was. “Steve, point the way.”
“I have no hands.”
“You know what I meant. Which way?”
“East. I think one of them might be close to the sea?”
East. Sea. Oh gods above, please don’t let the bones be on a ship. That would throw a rather complicated and vexing
wrench into their quest. After all, the only ships that would be daring enough to use dragon bones were pirate ships, a symbol
to display their prowess.
Devan would rather not. Please and thank you.
 Two

Tan

With Steve’s resonance spell, it should have taken no time at all to find the first bone. Alas, Steve was leading the way,
so that’s not what happened. Instead, it went something like this:
“Warmer, definitely getting warmer. Wait. I think we turned too soon. Go back.”
Change streets. Repeat.
“Warmer… Warmer… Too cold! Sorry, backtrack. I think we missed it. These streets are confusing.”
Tan knew who was confused. And it wasn’t the—admittedly crooked—streets.
Niran growled from behind Steve’s cart, “I have a bone to pick with you. Didn’t you say earlier we had to go east?”
“Don’t worry, we’re getting closer,” Steve said. “I feel it in my bones.”
“Uh-huh.” Devan sent Steve a side-eye that shouted disbelief.
For Tan’s part, this was free entertainment. They rode up and down the streets, Steve gibbering in excitement the whole
time. Kind of like a talking parrot except, you know, not. Under a glamour, too, so it looked like a bunch of wooden boxes were
talking.
Did they get some very strange looks from people as they passed?
You bet.
Was Tan endlessly amused by these looks?
Naturally.
Maybe Niran could hook him up with a skeleton parrot that sat on his shoulder and hurled insults at people. That would
be amazing. Niran always claimed Tan was impossible to get birthday presents for, right? There you go, easy present.
Yup, that was a thing totally now happening.
Anywhosies, back to the present. After three or four hours of wandering around (Tan had honestly lost count), Steve led
them down to the docks. He said as they traveled toward the water, “I’m sure! It’s dead ahead. Er…somewhere.”
Niran huffed. “I don’t see a single thing nearby that even remotely resembles— Oh?”
Now, Tan had much experience with his brother’s ‘ohs.’ They ranged anywhere from ‘that looks nice’ to ‘trouble spotted,
prepare for combat.’ Needless to say, he went on the alert.
At first glance, nothing looked out of place. Seagulls cawed overhead as they flew by, water lapped against the sides of
the ships and docks, people went about on their own business. At this time of the afternoon, most of the ships were unloading,
the sailors heading in for food, drink, and probably illegal activities. None of that would catch Niran’s attention, so Tan took a
second look at where his brother stared. Namely, at the rather ugly man standing near the docks, talking to two other men. Tan
could tell the man was either a pirate or a mercenary. Likely a mercenary, judging from his outfit. He wore riding boots that had
seen better days, had a large sword strapped to his back and a hat crammed down over greasy locks, and he looked the type to
consider rain as proper bathing. It’s not that Tan could smell him from here, but his eyes could, and that was enough, thank you
very much.
They were still several feet away when Devan stopped and looked the situation over. Tan had seen that face many a time
before. That was Devan’s maybe-diplomacy-would-work face.
Spoiler alert: diplomacy never won the day.
Still, Tan was a supportive husband. If Devan wanted to try talking first, he would restrain himself and not cast offensive
spells right off the bat. It was further proof of how much he loved the noble man.
Devan asked Steve, “Are you sure it’s on him?”
“I’m sure, I’m sure,” Steve chattered, bouncing on his cart like a child spying a favorite treat. “It’s on him somewhere.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Devan slid out of Dan’s saddle, handing the reins to Niran, and walked toward the man in question.
The trio of men were right off the main street, across from the docks, so they weren’t in the way of people unloading and
loading the ships. Tan had a clear view and was close enough he could hear the conversation as Devan approached the three
men.
“Excuse me.” Ever polite, his Devan. Something about being a former knight probably played into that. “Might I have a
word, sir?”
The hulking mercenary turned his head and looked Devan up and down, his brow crumpling in confusion. “You looking
to hire?”
Granted, that would be the obvious assumption. Tan couldn’t fault him there. Why else would a man dressed in high-
quality chain mail approach a mercenary?
“No, I’m not. This might sound off-the-cuff, but do you have a dragon bone on you?”
Niran commented as an aside, “I don’t see how that’s strange.”
Lesia, bless her, tried to explain. “It’s like if you walked up to someone on the street and said their dead mother loved
them.”
“Uh…is that not normal, either?”
Bless the necromancers, for they have no common sense.
The burly mercenary seemed to find the question normal. He chortled, a swagger coming into his posture. “Heard of me,
have you? Aye, I’m Tungsten of the Dragon Sword.”
The whomst?
Devan, bless his diplomatic heart, just rolled with it.
“Might I see the sword?”
“You’re not the first to ask. Impressive, isn’t it? A bone sword made of a dragon’s leg. Not many can claim to have one.
Took it off a man who thought he was a better dueler than I. You can see how that worked out for him. Why, he was just in
pieces over the loss.” Chortling at his own joke, Tungsten pulled the sword free of its scabbard. He gave the distinct
impression of one who liked to show his sword off.
To be fair, if Tan had a sword made of dragon bone, he would not be much better.
Pulled free of its scabbard, Tan was able to appraise the sword. It was nicely shaped. Someone had whittled down the
bone to a razor’s edge on one end, and the ball-and-socket joint had been shaved down to form a pseudo-hilt guard. It was a
pearlescent ivory, honed to a fine edge, and looked quite cumbersome. The sheer width alone made it more of a broadsword.
Now, Tan was no expert on dragon legs, so he wasn’t sure, but…that one seemed on the shorter side. Leaning sideways
in his saddle, he asked Steve, “Were you short-legged in life?”
“The hell I was!” Steve sounded horrified. “That’s nowhere near long enough. Right, Niran?”
Niran gave a judicious grunt. “Yeah, that’s not enough length.”
Steve let out a wail. “Nooooo! My poor leg!”
“Looks like it’s only half your leg.” Niran observed, evaluating. “Which probably means there’s another half-leg floating
around somewhere.”
Ah. Glory, that was going to be fun to chase down a second time. How the two pieces would be rejoined was Niran’s
problem. Tan wasn’t even going to waste brain cells thinking about it.
Devan looked the situation over and then half turned, sending Niran a questioning look.
Niran nodded in confirmation. Yes, that was Steve’s bone.
That was all his husband needed to know. Devan turned back and asked, “Can I buy it off you?”
Ahhh. That’s what he’d been scheming earlier. It was a nice thought, but if Tan knew mercenaries, he didn’t think—
Tungsten threw his head back on a laugh. “No way in hell. Only the strong like myself are capable of wielding it! You
look like a strapping, pretty man, but I doubt you’re on my level.”
—the man would let it go that easily. He likely got a lot of work because of that sword.
Zi Rui and Lesia, sitting on their horses beside him, whispered something and shook hands.
Intrigued, Tan asked, “You two betting on this?”
“Yeah.” Lesia shrugged. “I bet Mr. Devan clobbers him in a minute flat.”
Zi Rui gestured toward the sword. “He’s got a dragon sword, so I bet it would take more than a minute.”
These two brought such joy to his heart. Not a drop of doubt in them that Devan would win. They only bet on how long it
would take him to win. Tan had always considered himself to be Devan’s first and most loyal fan, but he did appreciate his
apprentices joining the ranks.
Apparently, Devan lacked the patience to try diplomacy again. Or he, too, sensed the inevitable. He just sighed,
shoulders sagging for a second. Then he straightened back up.
“I take it that I have to challenge you for it.”
Tungsten laughed some more, his two friends also snickering like Devan was the most amusing thing they’d seen all
week.
“Better men than you have tried, my friend!” Tungsten’s smile turned ugly.
“Indulge me.” Devan drew his sword, one foot sliding back as he fell into a guard stance.
Tan realized two things right off the bat. Devan had not drawn his normal short sword as it was still hanging on Dan’s
saddle. No, he had drawn his other sword.
 The Sword of the Sea.
And the ocean was right there.
When exactly had he talked Topaz into letting him borrow it? An evil laugh bubbled up in Tan’s chest and came out of his
mouth. His reaction caused his apprentices to look at him sideways as if afraid he had suddenly lost it.
“What’s funny, Master?” Zi Rui asked the question hesitantly.
“You’re about to lose that bet, Zi Rui.”
“Why?” Zi Rui’s attention snapped back to Devan, apparently realized which sword was in his hand, and then groaned.
“Shit.”
The three morons facing Devan didn’t realize what he held, of course. Not many could recognize the sword at a glance.
The holy sword had a distinctly blue sheen to its blade, the hilt elaborately carved to mimic a rising wave. It was ancient, the
style unlike anything modern, so if anything it just looked like a relic of a different time. Which it was. A very powerful relic.
Tungsten also fell into a guard stance, and his smile suggested he was already plotting to take everything Devan owned.
Poor man had no idea what he faced. His two cronies moved off a little to the side, shouting crude encouragement. The
passersby glanced their direction in part curiosity, part avoidance, as they had no wish to get tangled up in whatever was going
on.
Was Tan looking forward to the man’s comeuppance? Without question. He wouldn’t even pretend otherwise.
Lifting his sword higher, Tungsten charged with a yell, swinging as he went.
Devan looked…bored. Just utterly done with the whole situation. He swung, but as the holy sword arced through the air,
light gleaming off its polished metal, the sea rose in unison, answering the sword’s call. A large section of water sliced through
the air, following the sword’s path with strength and gusto.
The wave slammed into Tungsten’s chest. He tried to block it with the dragon sword, but a single blade couldn’t stop the
force of that much water. He was thrown off his feet, sent sailing through the air, and landed against a nearby stack of crates
with a resounding crack. Devan must have held back the sword’s power since the mercenary hadn’t crumbled like aged cheese,
but he’d likely be very bruised from the impact.
The man slumped to the ground, barely propped up by the broken crates, obviously unconscious. The dragon sword lay
lax in his hand before falling from his fingers altogether.
The fight had taken about five seconds, if that.
Lesia crowed in delight and thrust out a hand. “Pay up, Zi Rui.”
Poor Zi Rui sighed in defeat and handed a coin over. “I really shouldn’t bet against you.”
“You really shouldn’t, but feel free to do so again.”
Devan eyed the two remaining mercenaries, who were gobsmacked at the scene, jaws dangling. “I’m going to claim that
sword. Any problem with that?”
They shook their heads. Not willing to fight a holy sword and its wielder, eh? Well, Tan couldn’t blame them. They likely
weren’t equipped to deal with such an opponent.
Devan strode forward, grabbed the ivory sword, then walked back without a care in the world to where they were all
waiting.
Steve was still crying and whimpering. “Thank you, thank you, but my leeeeeeg. My poor leg!”
Niran had dismounted and was handing Dan’s reins back to Devan, but stopped to give Steve a pat. “Don’t worry, I can
fix it.”
“You can?”
“I can. Although it’ll be easier if we can find the rest of this leg. You still feel another bone, right? We might be lucky and
that’s everything else it’s missing.”
“Regardless,” Devan observed as he handed the sword over to Niran, “we’ll need to find it. Steve, where to next? I’d
like to find this other bone so we can portal back to Sol before it gets much later. There’s a storm coming in.”
Portaling wasn’t advisable once the sun started to set, anyway. If they couldn’t find the other bone before sunset, it would
change their plan of portaling out for the evening. Tan figured it was fine if they didn’t find it in time. A night’s stay in Zaynab
wouldn’t hurt anything.
Steve oriented himself before saying, “Uh, northeast-ish?”
“Okay, navigate as we go. Try not to get us lost this time.”
Steve was stammering out a defense, but Tan ignored him and waited until Devan had swung back into Dan’s saddle
before leaning over and whispering, “You were hot, honey.”
Devan gave him a smile he adored, one that said he knew precisely what was going through his husband’s mind and was
secretly amused by it. “Me taking him down in one shot turned you on, didn’t it?”
“It did,” Tan purred.
Niran cleared his throat, loudly and pointedly. “For now, let’s find a bone.”
 Three

Devan

Niran seemed quite positive that the bone sword was, in fact, a leg cut in half. He was certain they currently had the top
half of the leg. Which begged the question of where the bottom half was. Devan assumed he knew that because of the shape, or
something, and chose not to ask questions. Niran was the authority on all things bone-related, after all.
What were the odds that the second bone wandering around the port city was the other half? It’d be pure luck but would
make their lives infinitely easier.
Hopefully they’d find out soon. Devan really, really did not want to be wandering around the streets of Zaynab at night. It
felt like a suicidal thing to do. Not for Devan, mind you, but for anyone who crossed paths with Niran and Tan and pissed them
off. Devan would prefer not to demolish an entire city. Diplomatic relations, y’know.
Steve and Niran led the way through the docks, going farther and farther northward. Devan followed, but his unease grew
with each step. Were they headed outside the city? Devan had heard stories of how the northside, outside the walls, was the
worst section of Zaynab. He’d prefer just to go off those stories rather than having actual experience. Please and thank you.
The conditions of the streets they were on certainly got worse, and they hadn’t started out smelling like roses to begin
with. The northern section of docks looked more worn, shabbier, with obvious holes in the wooden planks. The buildings
looked patched with straw and mud, no effort wasted to refine the finishes. And the people, well, they matched their
surroundings. Worn-in, shabby, and they eyed Devan’s party with naked greed as the horses passed. These strangers wandering
through the streets were rich fare to them. If not for Devan’s obvious chain mail and weaponry, they might have tried for it.
Yup. The sooner they got out of here, the better.
Steve let out a trill, like a magpie sensing a shiny. “We’re getting very close! Go left.”
Oh thank fuck. Yes, please, find the bone and get out of this area, pronto.
Niran turned left at the next street, which smelled rank and foul, like an open sewer with the runs. Likely an accurate
description. Having a sewer that wasn’t maintained was, in a way, worse than not having one at all.
Eww, and there it was, dead ahead. The sewer was so backed up it ran over into the street. They’d need cleaning spells
after leaving this street; otherwise, the stench would follow them for days.
“There, there! In there!” Steve crowed.
“Use your words,” Niran chided.
“You bastard, it’s not like I can point!”
“Which is why I’m telling you to use different words.”
“Into the graveyard!”
Of course they were going into a graveyard in failing light with a mother storm rolling in off the ocean. Of course they
were. Had Devan failed to give the appropriate sacrifices to the gods of luck? Or was this Tan’s luck messing with them?
The graveyard was on the northern edge of the city and looked utterly abandoned. More weeds than grass, snags with
spindly branches reaching for the heavens as if praying for salvation. If there ever was a gate, it was long gone. The remaining
bits of fence loosely ringing the graveyard were now a disintegrated mess held together by…who knows what, Devan couldn’t
see a reason why the wooden slats were still standing upright.
The storm made itself known. Strong winds began blowing through the area, ruffling leaves and clothes alike, carrying
with it the scent of ozone and rain. It would hit very soon, within half an hour, and Devan would highly prefer to be indoors
when it happened.
They clopped inside the graveyard and Devan turned his head, checking on the kids riding alongside him. Why he
bothered, even he couldn’t explain. Zi Rui’s dark brown eyes were alight with glee, looking all around him as if he was at a
carnival. Lesia wasn’t any better, grinning like a loon.
Of course they were happy in a graveyard. Black-sorcerers-in-training that they were, why would they react like normal
children? Devan should’ve known better.
Well, as long as they weren’t scared, it was fine.
He heard someone before he could get eyes on them. The graveyard had many graves from a bygone time, when this part
of the city had been more upscale. Huge tombstones and mausoleums were decorated with mature trees that had obviously
suffered damage in a previous storm. Widow-makers hung at odd angles, brushing up against the ground. It gave the whole area
a very neglected feeling. Grave robbers would love this place as based on its state, no one cared about the souls resting here.
Hence person up ahead? Devan would lay good odds on that being the case.
They rounded a large weeping willow and lo and behold, a man with a shovel was digging away at one of the burial
plots.
Called it.
Devan held a hand on the hilt of his short sword the whole time, but now he gripped it, ready to draw, a warning building
in his throat.
Niran beat him to it. “Hey! Get your grubby paws off that grave!”
The man straightened, peering up at them from underneath a shadowed hood. “Fuck off.”
Steve rattled on his cart some more. “It’s on him! Or near him. Either way, my boooOOOooone!”
“Ho?” The grave robber looked up at Steve with more interest. “A sentient skeleton? How much you want for ’im?”
Oh, to be able to take that offer. Alas, contracts. Wait, was he able to see through Tan’s glamour? No, he wasn’t looking
at Steve directly. Must be able to sense the bone, like a necromancer radar. Not to mention hear him. Steve wasn’t exactly
quiet. His reaction didn’t bode well.
Niran took lead this time. “He’s not for sale. It’s because of him we’re here. You have a dragon bone on you.”
The leer, under the hood, was sinister and greedy. “Damn right I do. Fight me for it, Necro. I’ll take that bone as my
prize.”
Niran was all too eager to hop off his horse, already drawing out his bag of holding. Then again, he probably didn’t get
offers for a duel very often. So of course he was all in. Devan had zero interest in interfering. Possibly less than zero.
The other necromancer charged, unleashing the first spell from his wand, but Niran was ready for him, and their powers
collided. Devan flinched on instinct but knew Tan had already erected a shield to protect bystanders. Sure enough, a green bolt
from Niran glanced right off the domed shield and sheered harmlessly upward into the darkening sky.
The fight looked strange to Devan. He’d seen Niran fight before. Many times, in fact. But never against another
necromancer. Seeing the magic slung between the two of them felt borderline creepy, the heavy, dark atmosphere from the
storm heightening the eerie feel. Niran’s power was a vibrant green, threads of black outlining the harsher spells. He was
precise and lethal with his spells, exuding confidence with each strike. But the other necromancer, he seemed more self-taught.
To Devan’s eyes, it looked as if he was hashing random spells together. His magic was every color under the sun, often fused in
a way that looked much like a catastrophe waiting to happen. The colors weren’t deep in hue, just…chaotic, which indicated
he wasn’t all that powerful and was overcompensating with his magic.
The kids “oohed” and “aahed,” cheering as Niran pulled out two skeletons and a zombie to help with the fight. The other
necromancer promptly did the same, yanking them out of his bag, and the two undead armies clashed theatrically with many a
sword waving and clanging.
“For Bone Daddy!” Niran’s skeletons cried out, attacking with fervor.
The skeletons were all engaged, swinging at each other with something that resembled decent form, which meant their
swords clashed more often than not. It was like watching animated figurines dueling. Devan was having a hard time taking it
seriously. Especially when Niran called out encouragement like a proud papa.
“Good, good, hit ’em again! That’s my skelebabies.”
As free entertainment went, the scene was a good one. Shame Devan didn’t have a tankard or a snack or something.
Enjoyable fights called for ale and snacks. On second thought, the smells around them might bring it all back up again.
The rustle of a bag brought his head around and he saw Tan pop something into his mouth before chewing. Seeing his
inquisitive look, Tan explained, “I have leaves.”
“As in medicine, spices, or something you picked up off the ground?” With Tan, he literally never knew.
“Mint. Want some? Helps with the smell.”
Devan made gimme hands. His husband promptly handed the bag over and he grabbed two leaves to chew on before
offering some to the kids. They took it, but their eyes were utterly focused on the fight. Steve was too, for that matter.
Devan wasn’t worried. For one, Niran was crazy strong, one of the more powerful necromancers in the known world.
For another, if by some chance he did fail, Tan would be right on the enemy’s ass before the man could even turn around.
Niran spun like a dancer to avoid an attack, his lean form graceful, and threw a hard combination of three spells, all in a
row. Devan had no idea what spells, only that they all resembled bright green-and-black fire. He really had to find a moment to
ask Niran how he made his fireballs a different color.
Two missed, but the third one landed true, hitting the necromancer dead in his solar plexus. He gasped on impact, his skin
melting to his clothes in a sickening way, shrieking in an airless gasp as he hastily cast a spell to cancel the fire.
Niran gave him no chance to recover. With ruthless precision, he cut the man down with a sheering spell, beheading him
on the spot. With a meaty thud, the body fell backward, along with the raised constructs as their spells ceased alongside their
dead master.
 As expected, Tan hadn’t needed to provide backup. Devan chewed some more on his mint. Good mint, too.
Niran put hands on hips and beamed down at his vanquished opponent. “You know, every time I hit him, I felt better.
Mentally and physically.”
“No, you can’t resolve the pain that way,” Devan said. “That’s going to the dark side.”
“Did you forget who you’re talking to?”
Ah. Right. “Never mind. So where’s Steve’s bone?”
“My boooOOOooone,” Steve wailed, making pitiful noises like he was snuffling. Seriously, how was he doing that when
he didn’t have the necessary tissue or muscle to even make such noises? For that matter, how did he vibrate in place?
“I think it’s the sword.” Niran reached down and plucked the large sword out of the loot stacked near the grave.
Devan turned to the kids. “Lesia, Zi Rui, take a good look at this man. This is a man you will never become because you
will loot the live bodies.”
Niran waved him off. “Alive. Dead. Semantics. Anyway, it’s definitely the sword. They apparently used one leg to create
twin swords.”
It certainly looked that way. The sword in Niran’s hands was nearly identical to the one Devan had won earlier today.
The only difference was the hilts, as the new one was wrapped in leather.
If the leg had been cut in two, then…? You know what, that was a Niran and Steve problem. Devan didn’t have to figure
out how to glue those two parts back together. For all he knew, Niran had the magical version of a permanent cast or something.
Steve did a happy dance on his cart. “I’m so glad you reclaimed it. Thank you, Niran. You can put them together, right?
They’ve been carved into weird shapes, after all.”
“Oh sure, no worries, fixing bones is something I do all the time. Not like skeletons are pristine when I find them, after
all.”
A good point. One Devan should have realized sooner. “What about the foot?”
“Still missing, looks like. Which doesn’t bode well for me. I can only hope it turns up at some point.”
Lesia took the sword from Niran, cackling with pure evil glee. It took two hands and was nearly as tall as her, but she
held firm, the tip of the sword barely off the ground. She looked just like Fa with that wild expression, and Devan felt a sense
of gloom roll in like the thunderclouds above. Shit, ten years from now, he might have two Fas to contend with.
“I will use this for evil, I promise you,” she informed Steve.
“What? Child, no! That’s not what it’s for! Have I taught you nothing?”
“You have literally taught her nothing,” Tan drawled. “And no, Lesia, you may not play with that.”
“Why?”
“You’ll become corrupted by necromantic power and the next thing I know, you’ll want your own skeletons.”
“I thought it was because I’d stab people with it.”
“No, honey, people need to be stabbed sometimes. That’s fine.”
Devan had to cut that conversation short before the kids were influenced even further. Also because at this point it had
started to drizzle, a precursor to heavy rains. Unfortunately, they had lost their window to portal back to Sol. “On that note,
let’s go find an inn. In a more reputable part of the city.”
Both brothers looked at him like he’d lost his mind.
“In Zaynab?” Tan asked in amusement.
“I misspoke. In a place people are less inclined to rob us or try to kill us.”
“Again, in Zaynab?”
Ugh. “Can I at least have a bed that isn’t crawling with vermin or diseases and have a chance to wash this filth off?”
“Oh, that we can probably manage. I know a good place, follow me.”
 Four

Tan

Tan got them three rooms at a very fine inn. Meaning it was upscale enough to have its own security (a necessity in
Zaynab), clean enough to avoid bedbugs, and each room had its own private onsen. Honestly, he was just happy to be out of the
raging monsoon outside.
Why, yes, Tan might have chosen this particular inn for its indoor hot springs. Ulterior motives? Him? You betcha.
Niran made noise about eating dinner in his room, measuring the bones, evaluating them and such. Tan waved his brother
away. One less person to interrupt was fine by him. The kids ended up wanting to go with their uncle, as they were both curious
about how he intended to fuse the bones.
Tan might have mentioned boning Devan to Niran, and his brother had only responded, “Say no more, we’re gone.”
Which meant that abruptly, he had Devan. To himself. Inside a rather steamy, private room with an onsen all to
themselves. It was one of those rare moments when Tan’s plans had aligned perfectly. Was he questioning this gift from the
heavens? Absolutely not.
He closed and locked the door behind him, taking no chances, peeling off his clothes. Then hit the clothes with a cleaning
spell as Devan had a point about the stench from the streets. Their boots especially were yuck. If the cleaning spell didn’t
work, he might well have to resort to extreme measures. Like fire.
The room’s onsen was perfection. It was situated right outside with a roof overhead and protective charms surrounding
it, likely in part to keep it insulated from the weather, also to keep out any ruffians. Sitting on the higher ground of the inn, it
looked out over the ocean, which was probably a beautiful view any other day, but right now showcased the ongoing monsoon.
The bamboo slats on either side gave them privacy while allowing the cool ocean breeze to wash over them, keeping the
steamy atmosphere from becoming stifling. Yuzu fruits bobbed in the water, emitting a citrusy scent, and Tan spotted several
bottles of yuzu oil waiting off to the side. Likely meant for massages, but that wasn’t what Tan would use it for, no siree.
Devan, being the efficient man he was, had already stripped and was under one of the free-standing showerheads, rinsing
off the worst of the grime that the rain had missed.
For a moment, Tan was frozen in place, his eyes sweeping Devan from head to toe. Despite being lovers and married for
several months, Tan could never get used to the sight. All that lovely muscle rippling whenever Devan shifted or moved, the
way the mellow lighting of the lanterns played over his amber skin, like a subtle foreplay. Tan damn near drooled. He
swallowed hard, his groin heating.
Never mind that he’d had hot jungle sex with the man the night before. Never mind that he was a touch sore today
because of it. None of that mattered.
Must. Get. Hands. On. That.
He skipped right over, using both hands to cup those firm cheeks and give them a loving stroke.
“Can I help you?” Devan drawled, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“You have such a nice ass,” Tan complimented, eyes completely absorbed in what his hands were doing.
“So do you.”
He glanced up to catch the wink Devan threw at him. Look at his husband, being all flirty. If he got any cuter, Tan
wouldn’t let him out of bed tonight.
Tan closed in, slipping hands around Devan’s waist, then sliding one down in search of treasure. He pressed a kiss
against Devan’s shoulder blade before purring, “You know, we have no kids right now.”
“I did notice that, yes.”
“If we chose to have a little fun, there would be no interruptions.”
Devan chuckled. “Twist my arm. The question is, are you wanting to top me?”
Oooh, tempting. Devan likely asked because Tan had been admiring his fine ass. “I wouldn’t be upset about it, but don’t
you want to lift me up against the wall here?”
“Is that supposed to be a trick question?”
Tan laughed, stroking the very nice dick in his hand. It steadily hardened under his attention. Devan tilted his head back,
sighing in pleasure and relaxing into Tan’s hold. Tan loved it when Devan let go. He knew precisely how hard-won this man’s
trust was. The fact that Tan had such trust, well, it never failed to give him a rush.
“If you’re wanting to be fucked into the wall,” Devan murmured, tone wicked, “then I think it’s time to turn the tables.”
For such a large man, Devan’s reflexes were lightning fast. He spun around, dropping to his knees as he got his hands
under Tan’s thighs, lifting him up against the bamboo wall before Tan could register what was happening. His back thumped
against the humid wood, a startled laugh erupting from him as he relaxed into the hold. Devan would never drop him, he was
sure of that.
Devan playfully bit his inner thigh, sending a warm shiver racing along his skin, anticipation building within him. Tan
watched through hooded eyes as his husband nibbled and licked his way closer to Tan’s dick, taking his time to nuzzle the skin.
He knew it drove Tan crazy.
He also knew Tan loved being driven crazy.
When that warm mouth engulfed his tip, lightly sucking, it felt like a relief and a tease all at once. As much as he loved
the sensation, Tan was not satisfied with stopping there, either.
“Devvvvv,” he whined, hands stroking over that short, textured hair.
Devan withdrew his mouth and whispered in a hot, moist rush against Tan’s sensitized skin, “Summon the oil for me.”
First the man drove him crazy, and now he was asking Tan to somehow locate brain cells and drag them above his
beltline before making them work? What was this, some kind of creative torture?
Then again, if he didn’t summon it, it meant Devan would either have to put him down (hell to the no), or there would be
no wall fucking (also not acceptable).
Dammit, fine. He was sure he could find two brain cells to rub together.
Tan used willpower and desperation to fuel him as he got his brain in working order long enough to summon the small
vial of oil he always kept in his pocket. He was a man of eternal optimism and opportunity, sue him. The vial leapt out of the
basket where he’d put his clothes and flew to him, and wow, he even caught it. Go him. Tan totally impressed himself.
Devan rearranged Tan’s legs to sit on his broad shoulders, freeing up his hands, and Tan relaxed into the position as the
vial was taken from him. Between the wall supporting his back and Devan’s shoulders, there was no chance of him falling.
Devan’s mouth and tongue worked his shaft up and down in a leisurely way, the sounds of mouth on skin absolutely obscene.
A blunt-tipped finger, slick with oil, breached him gently. Ever so tender, this man, and Tan honestly loved him for it. Tan
sighed as pleasure seeped through him, the slight burn as a second finger slipped inside only heightening his feelings of delight.
It was dangerous, the game Devan played. Tan could feel his pleasure building, and he might well come at the rate Devan
was going. His whole body felt hot, and it wasn’t solely because of the steam rising from the hot springs nearby.
“De—” Come on, mouth, cooperate. “Devan, I’m—”
His lover pulled his mouth free again, this time also retracting his fingers. Fuck yes, thank you, any god listening. Tan
was seriously on edge now. He needed Devan in him.
With casual strength that somehow—impossibly—turned Tan on even further, Devan lifted him once again by the thighs,
standing as he did so, holding Tan in place until he was in position, and then lowered him slowly. Tan’s whole front rubbed
against Devan’s chest in a hot, slick glide, and fuck—that felt amazing against his dick. Well hello, look who else was hard as a
rock.
Tan seized Devan’s head with both hands, slanting his mouth over Devan’s hungrily, his kiss demanding. Devan kissed
back, but his hands were busy holding Tan up so he could—
“Ngh.” Tan groaned into Devan’s mouth as that hard cock breached him. His whole body flexed and shuddered under the
penetration. His fingers dug into Devan’s shoulders, needing purchase, something to ground him.
The second Devan was fully seated, he shifted his grip so Tan could wrap both legs around his waist. Devan felt so
inconceivably deep, like he couldn’t possibly be any farther inside, not even with gravity assisting. It felt so perfectly amazing.
Tan loved the stretching sensation, every second he was connected with his lover.
Devan’s hips drew back and thrust in, a short thrust, like he was finding his angle. Then he widened his stance a little,
shifting Tan’s back so that he was angled against the wall, and his next thrust in was perfection itself.
Little grunts and pants escaped Tan’s mouth as his husband found the right rhythm, his pace picking up. Tan’s whole body
became overwhelmed with pleasure, wave after wave crashing through him with every thrust. He had no time to collect
himself, to even try and manage each emotion before the next wave swept through him. All he could do was cling to Devan,
breathe, and enjoy it as the storm raged above them.
Those hard abs rubbing against his dick with every thrust was like a dual attack of pleasure. Tan stood no chance against
it. He felt his groin tighten, knew he was close, and tried to warn Devan, but it all came out as inarticulate noises.
He came hard, shuddering under the force of it, clinging to Devan for dear life as he instinctively needed something to
ground him.
Devan groaned, thrusts becoming erratic as he sought his own release, slamming into Tan’s channel several times before
stilling. Then he sagged a little, breathing hard against Tan’s shoulder, panted breaths warm against heated skin.
“Delightful,” Tan said on a sigh, the afterglow making him a little loopy. A pleasant lassitude swept through him and his
desire to do anything else waned sharply. Lounging against Devan in the hot springs was his next goal. Anything more
industrious was beyond him.
Devan kissed his shoulder. “Yes. You are.”
Such a sweet talker, his man. “Bet I can pin you against the wall next time.”
That was not at all what he’d planned to say next. Mouth, must you be like this?
Lifting his head, Devan gave him a curious look. “How many spells would go into that?”
“Two…er, maybe three.” It’s not like he’d planned it out.
Yeah, okay, that was a bald lie. Tan had fantasized about all sorts of positions. He’d never been quite sure if Devan
would be willing to switch on that particular one.
His husband knew him well. He gave Tan an arch look. “Don’t act like you haven’t planned this all out.”
Busted. “Fine. Two and a swing. A specially made swing.”
“Oh, is that what you’ve been hiding in the back corner of your workroom?”
Tan’s eyes popped wide, both surprise and outrage running through him. “How did you—? It better not have been Thing
One and Thing Two telling tales!”
“Actually, it was Lesia with questions. Many, many questions.”
“Oh. Damn. Sorry?”
“Please glamour your sex toys in progress, for both our sakes?”
“Definitely will from now on, promise.” It proved how patient Devan was, that he was amused instead of reaming Tan
out for being careless around curious kids. Still, he felt like he owed Devan something for his good attitude. “How about we
wash up and I’ll give you a nice oiled massage after we soak?”
Chuckling, Devan pressed an affectionate kiss against his mouth. “Yes, with that you’ll be forgiven.”
His husband really did know him all too well.
It was sexy as sin, too. Tan had zero complaints.
 Five

Devan

Devan shifted in bed a little, eyes still closed and mostly asleep. Some part of his brain insisted something was
happening. But he was comfortable, Tan was a warm weight in his arms, and he had zero inclination to move. Besides, it was
still too early to consider getting out of bed. He didn’t even hear birds, and getting up before the birds was a no.
And yet, something was teasing at the edge of his awareness. Feet pattering in the room next door, doors opening and
closing noisily, all hinting at urgency. Devan tried to will it away. Not his circus—
From the other side of the wall, there was a wail. “My booOOOOOoooooOOOOooone~!”
—but apparently his monkeys. Dammit.
Tan turned toward him a little and slit one eye open. “Is that Steve?”
“Who else would be wailing about a bone?” Devan didn’t have enough wakey wakey in his system for that.
“Could be Niran.”
Ah. True. “No, Niran should be on the other side of us.”
There was a digestive pause. “You can remember stuff like that before coffee?”
“Survival skill.”
There came a hard knock before their door opened and Lesia called out, “Get up, Master! Steve said there’s a bone
nearby and it’s moving away from the city!”
That imparted, she immediately shut the door.
Shit. Devan exploded into action, reaching for clothes and pulling them on. Then he hastily exited their room and went
into the one next door, the one the apprentices and Steve were sharing. Did it count as sharing if Steve didn’t sleep…?
Devan set that thought aside—after he had coffee—and took in the scene in front of him. The skull was visibly vibrating
on one of the beds, like a neurotic dog longing for a forbidden treat, all while staring out the dark window.
“It’s there,” Steve insisted, voice becoming higher and higher pitched. “It’s there, near the ocean…somehow, and it’s
moving away!”
Devan heard ocean plus moving and there was only one explanation: ship.
Well, wait. It could be on a wagon heading somewhere and just so happened to be near the ocean. But Devan wouldn’t
bet on it.
Fucking hell, what a day this was turning out to be, and it wasn’t even properly morning yet.
“Steve, you sure?” Zi Rui turned to look Steve in the socket.
“I’m very sure,” Steve insisted. “The feeling of my bone is growing more distant by the second. Devan, please, we must
act quickly!”
He had this sinking feeling he would not be getting breakfast. Or coffee. Devan was more upset about the coffee.
“Right. Kids, pack up and get ready to move. Lesia, go wake Niran first.”
“On it.” She was out the door in a flash.
Instructions given, he turned smartly on his heel and hustled back into his and Tan’s room.
Tan was irate even as he pulled on a boot one-handed, his other hand close to his mouth as he spoke into his ring. “—yes,
I’m fucking sure. Get your pale, lily-white ass out of bed right now. Steve’s damn near in hysterics.”
That wasn’t far off. “Tan, I think it’s on a ship, one going out with the morning tide.”
Tan flopped his head dramatically. “Of course that might be the case. I’ve got kids and horses. You get transportation.”
That was why they worked so well together. They didn’t need to hash out every detail. Devan grinned at him, leaning in
long enough to smack a kiss against his mouth before pulling away. “Meet you at the harbor.”
After saddling Dan, there was only the barest hint of sunlight seeping over the horizon, but it was a lighter version of
night rather than proper day. Steve should have felt this other bone last night, but if the ship had sailed in while everyone slept
—having been delayed due to last’s night storm—and was departing first thing with the morning tide? Then it made sense. A
quick pit stop for supplies before moving on was not unheard of.
All right, time to hunt down a ship for hire. A schooner would be best, something he and Tan could handle, as no one else
really knew how to sail. Plus, a schooner would be far faster than a frigate, meaning they’d have a much better chance of
catching up. Devan estimated it would take at least thirty minutes for everyone to pack up, get to the docks, and then load onto
the schooner.
Time ticked away steadily, and not in their favor. Devan felt that ticking time like an itch on the back of his neck. Pursuits
were hard on the pursuer. They had no real supplies, no ship lined up, and Devan had no idea if they would be able to catch
their target. Even if he raced to get them on a ship, it would take some magical cheating to pull it off.
Zaynab was a city that never slept. No matter the time, day or night, people were always up and about. Usually in the
midst of cons or larceny, granted. Dawn was no exception, so Devan didn’t have a clear path to the docks, but luckily it wasn’t
his first time in the city. He hauled ass down the uneven, rain-slicked streets, dodging people and carts. Dan, having not had
breakfast, with Opinions About Not Having Breakfast, might have headbutted a few people who failed to get out of his way in
a timely fashion.
In ten minutes flat, Devan got to the docks, which were already bustling with activity, and cast about for the right sign.
After three false starts, he found a small building perched on the edge of the dock with the sign, Rent-a-Ship.
Perfect. Hopefully.
He beelined for that store, with its peeling blue paint and questionable front stoop, and gave the aging wood a hard
knock.
From the other side of the door, he heard grumbling from a creaking voice. “Damn and blast, who the hell would be
pounding on a man’s door this hour of the morning—”
The door was yanked open and a stooped old man with white hair and only one eye peered up at Devan. He did not look
pleased.
Devan wasn’t either, but he tried for a smile anyway. Felt forced. Well, he’d tried. “Apologies about this hour, good
master. I’m not happy about it either, but I need a ship urgently. Do you have any schooners to let?”
The man blinked up at him, scowl firmly etched into the tanned lines on his face. He looked Devan up and down, no
doubt taking in his urgency as well as his clothes. Devan hadn’t pulled on his chain mail—no time—leaving it to Tan to bring
with him. The lack of protection left Devan looking like a muscular merchant. An armed one. The man likely came to
conclusions that did not favor Devan’s pocketbook. “I do. Two, in fact. I’ve got Angel’s Wings, she’s in port but hasn’t yet been
cleaned from the last customer. Then there’s Harbringer, but it’s not due in until noon. Which ya fancy?”
That took no thought on Devan’s part. He didn’t care if the ship wasn’t pristine, he just needed a hull and sails right now.
“Angel’s Wings, please. How much?”
“Fifty gold a day should do ya. Deposit required.”
Ouch. Devan felt that hit right in his miserly soul. See? Being well-dressed in Zaynab never helped. He thought quickly
and offered, “Thirty, and I’ll bring her back clean.”
The old geezer’s mouth stretched into a grin. “Done. Better be shipshape, though.”
“Oh, she will be.” He had two sorcerers with cleaning spells, it would be fine. “Deposit of sixty gold fine?”
“Fine by me.”
Devan handed the money over, then followed him down the dock to the schooner in question. He’d half expected
something a little worse for wear, but apparently the man’s ships were better maintained than his office building. She looked
fine, perfectly seaworthy, and Devan’s anxiety went down by half. Only half, though, as he still had to figure out where that ship
carrying a dragon bone was headed.
The old man gestured to the schooner with a wave of his hand. “There she be. You, er, do know how to sail?”
“Grew up on ships,” Devan assured him. “I won’t scuttle her.”
“Ah. Good. All right, when do you expect to be back?”
“Hopefully within a week, but make it two just in case. We’re trying to catch up with someone.”
“Two weeks, got it.” He unbent enough to give Devan a nod. “Good luck.”
“Thank you.”
As the owner moved off at a shuffle, Devan spotted Tan and company reaching the dock area. It was busy here, and with
Tan at that distance, there was little chance he’d be able to find Devan in the crowd. Devan didn’t even try to get his attention.
He lifted his ring to his mouth and said, “Tanawat Ritthirong Salvino.”
“Hubby, where are you?”
“Turn left, go down three spots. I’m on the very edge of the docks near the blue and white schooner.”
“Ah! I see you. Coming. Steve keeps whining that his bone is getting farther and farther away. Niran’s meeting us
here. He’s bringing breakfast with him and feed for the horses. I’ve got a signal going so he can portal straight to me.”
Breakfast? For tummies? Devan really did like his brother-in-law some days. “Good. Dan and I are both hungry. Come
quickly, let’s set sail.”
While waiting on them, he chivvied Dan up the ramp, then settled him in the forecastle, the best place to keep the horses
out of the way. Before he had that done, he heard the others arriving. And by others, he mostly meant a complaining Steve.
“Do you think this boat is fast enough? I don’t know anything about human ships, but will this one work? What if we
figure out which boat it is, but we’re not fast enough to catch up?”
“Well,” Tan drawled, “I do have a spell for that.”
“You do? What is it?”
“You click your heels together and say, ‘There’s no place like boat.’”
Right, so Tan was apparently in a fine mood. Devan did snort at the dry humor, even as he turned to greet everyone.
Steve’s bullshit meter was good, and he was able to pick up on Tan’s sarcasm quite well. “Ha, fine. I’ll ask Devan.”
“Why ask Devan?”
“You think I haven’t figured this out by now? Devan’s the only responsible one in this whole party.”
That was sadly true. Sad for Devan’s sake, at least.
He might as well assure Steve before someone gave in to temptation and threw him into the ocean. By someone, he meant
himself. Poised at the railing, he looked down as people lined up on the ramp to board.
“Steve, a schooner is very fast. We should be able to catch up. Especially with two sorcerers here to boost the wind if
we need it.”
Steve’s attitude did an about-face, turning optimistic. “Good! I knew I could count on you, Devan.”
“Uh-huh. Hurry up, we’re losing time as it is.”
Niran popped on board, a basket in one hand, two crates at his feet. He looked around, taking it all in, and nodded in
approval. “Good find, Devan. This should help us catch right up.”
Devan’s full attention was not on the schooner, but on his grumbling stomach. “Niran, where’s my breakfast?”
Niran held up a wicker basket. “Right here. Biscuits, bacon, and coffee thicker than blood.”
“You are a gem among brothers-in-law.”
“I do try. You get the boat moving.”
“That’s called setting sail.”
“Yes, that.”
Never mind, he’d never get any of these guys to be sailors. Devan wrote off that possibility and started the process for
casting off. Anchor up, mooring line in, sails down—it was all so ingrained that Devan could likely do it in his sleep.
Childhood training would never leave him.
In minutes, they were off, the schooner pulling out into the open ocean. Quite a number of ships set sail with them, all
headed to their own destinations. He estimated a good two dozen ships, of all different sizes. It meant watching all angles to
avoid a collision, but he was used to such scenes. Devan kept one hand on the helm, the other occupied with breakfast. Damn,
these were good biscuits. And the coffee was bliss upon his soul.
Niran came up with a container of coffee and topped him off. He was a good brother-in-law that way. “Do you even
know where we’re headed?”
“It’s my job to sail, not navigate.”
“You act like this isn’t your problem.”
Devan sighed, a deep sigh straight from his toenails. “Why is it my problem?”
“Look, if it’s not your problem, then it’s my problem, and since it’s your problem, it’s definitely not my problem.”
“Everything’s my problem!”
On the deck behind Devan, Steve chirped, “Present!”
“Dammit, you’re actually with me.” Devan turned and glared at him. “All right, you. Be useful. Which way?”
“Straight ahead.”
Devan gave Niran a pointed look. “Why correct me when I’m going the right way?”
“I was simply asking a question!” Niran protested, free hand spread in innocence.
“Uh-huh. You understand the only reason I haven’t thrown you overboard is because you gave me coffee.”
“Well, why do you think I gave you coffee?”
“Sometimes, it’s very obvious you and Tan are brothers.” In all the wrong ways, but also in the most hysterical of ways.
Niran was lucky the good still outweighed the bad. He was toeing the line to be fish food, though.
Thankfully, it was a good day for sailing. Winds were strong, barely a cloud in the sky after last night’s storm. They
should make good time even without any magical help. He could feel the clean ocean breeze lifting his mood, the smell of
water and brine acting like a welcoming committee. It honestly felt like a boon to be out on the ocean again. Maybe he should
do this periodically, give himself a break from running a country. He could feel cobwebs leaving his brain as he let himself
indulge in wind and waves, taking in the vibrant sunrise.
He felt that life had significantly improved in Glane after taking the throne. Truly, anything would have been an
improvement over what Serenity had done. He still came across damaged areas, or towns that had been abandoned after losing
most of their population, and when he did his heart broke all over again. But for every scar upon the land, he could look at
another place that thrived, where people lived happily and with hope for the future. He took great pride in that.
Sometimes—like when he was in his office, buried in paperwork—he regretted becoming king. Just a little. Mostly
because he missed fieldwork, and fighting, and going on adventures with Tan. He had missed days like today.
Maybe he should try to find more of a middle ground when they return home. Find ways to leave the office for a week
here and there, get the blood pumping. Little vacations that involved mayhem were good for the system.
Oooh, that idea was two birds with one stone. If he told Tan he wanted to go on mini-quests, his husband would
immediately agree. And then Devan could have more alone time with his very cute husband. Hmm, yes, that idea was genius. It
meant having to hire at least one more person to help with all the administrative tasks—he couldn’t dump everything on Wells,
that wouldn’t be fair—but it was doable. When they returned with half of Steve’s vault, they’d be in the financial position to
hire.
Devan sipped coffee and sailed straight ahead, all while plotting. For that matter, he rather hoped someone would give
him an actual target soon. Quite a few ships had left at dawn that morning, so there was no telling which one was their quarry.
Lesia skipped up onto the quarter deck, her expression serious. That expression normally heralded an incoming heart
attack or stomach ulcer for Devan, so he braced himself. Or tried. He never knew what was going to come out of that child’s
mouth.
“Mr. Devan, I have a question.”
Niran was the one who encouraged her. “What?”
“Okay, if a boy’s ass is a bussy, and a girl’s ass is a gussy, then—”
WHAT?! Devan choked on his coffee and had to take a second to get his wind back before rasping out, “Why are these
words that you said out loud?”
Steve muttered, “I just took psychic damage from that. Oh my god, please decapitate my hussy.”
Niran hushed him. “Stop, you’re killing Devan!”
So, Lesia’s questions had now upgraded to giving Devan mini-strokes. Good to know. “Lesia, where did you even hear
that?”
She gave him an uncertain look. “Uh, Uncle Niran?”
Devan’s eyes snapped to him, his urge to restrict Niran’s airway coming in hard and fast. Niran, of course, had survival
instincts. He booked it to the forecastle where the horses were.
Lesia looked even more uncertain. “Uh…was that not right?”
“None of that was right and please don’t repeat it ever again.”
“Oh. Okay.” She shrugged that off, hit Steve with a shrinking spell, making him something closer to a cow’s skull—wait,
why hadn’t they done that sooner?—then leaned down and scooped Steve up. “There, now you can see better. Are we getting
closer?”
“We are.”
Thank you, any god listening, for good news. Devan had needed some after that mind-melting conversation.
They kept sailing. It felt like minutes were hours, but the sun rising in the sky would attest that barely an hour had passed
before Steve piped up again.
“We’re getting so close! Devan, go west a little, they’re turning in that direction.”
West? Southwest, really, as they’d been going south this entire time. Were they following the coastline? Sure, most ships
did, usually aiming for the next port for trade or such. If they docked soon, that would make life much easier. No need to catch
them on the open sea. Instead, negotiations could be done in a pub with alcohol involved, which always went over better.
Was it too early for Devan to hope for the easier method?
The ships started thinning out, going in different directions, or falling behind as they were heavily weighed down
frigates. Eventually, the only two ships ahead of them were both frigates, and one of the frigates was quite obviously heading
farther west, splitting from the other. It was too far away to make out the sails.
Devan had a sinking feeling for some reason. He wasn’t sure why, but his gut was telling him he would not like what
happened next. Still, he had to ask.
“Steve, which ship?”
“The one on the right, closer to the coastline.”
Well, he had a firm target now. Why was he feeling so anxious, though?
Tan hopped up the stairs to join him at the helm, a spyglass in his hand. “Found this down below, and since ours got left
behind, figured we might as well use it. We got a ship pinpointed yet?”
“The one hugging the coastline.”
“Cool beans.” Tan lifted the spyglass to his eye and peered ahead for a long second.
Then another second. And another. The silence was oppressive. Devan’s eighth sense, The Bitch, raised its head.
“Tan. Why aren’t you saying anything?”
Tan lowered the scope but kept looking in that direction. “Darling, I need you to remember that you love me very much
and that our marriage license says you can’t abandon me when the situation has gotten too ridiculous.”
The hell…? “I don’t remember that on our marriage license.”
 “It’s there.”
“It’s a marriage license. What else could you have possibly added?”
“An asterisk.”
Fuck. Now he had to go find the asterisk section—wherever Tan had hidden that—and figure out what else he’d
somehow agreed to. That was neither here nor there at the moment, though. “You said ridiculous. Are we talking comedic
ridiculous or dangerous ridiculous?”
“More the latter but with some of the former mixed in?”
“Okay, I need you to understand that if I’m going to stare into the abyss and regret my life choices, I want to do it from my
own bed.”
Tan, being a supportive husband, hugged him around the waist. “I’ll let you decompress after this, I promise. Ready?”
“Hit me.”
“Our target is a pirate ship flying the Death Skulls’ Jolly Roger.”
A…pirate ship. With a notorious crew. Death Skulls was, arguably, the pirate ship of the modern world. No one had
ever successfully captured even a single member of its crew. The bounties on the captain alone would buy a kingdom. He’d
heard hair-raising stories about this ship and its crew. Made his own family of smugglers look like pampered children.
Of course it had to be this bloody fucking crew. Of course it did. He let his head thunk against the wheel. Even with the
Sword of the Sea on his hip and two black sorcerers, all of that would only even their odds. Devan wasn’t sure if they were
equipped to go up against the Death Skulls. Trying to take off with their ship only promised they’d make enemies very shortly.
Enemies that liked mayhem for breakfast.
Tan smoothed a hand up and down his back. “Think of abs and ocean, abs and ocean, come back to me. We’ve faced
worse things. We’ll be fine.”
“We’ve got two black sorcerers, me, a talking skull, and two apprentices. Sure, we can totally take a pirate ship on the
open sea.”
“That’s the spirit!”
“It’s not nice of you to ignore my sarcasm.”
Beside him, Lesia let out an excited squeal. “That’s a pirate ship! We get to fight pirates?”
“See?” Tan poked him in the shoulder. “We can’t disappoint the kids.”
Devan mentally begged the universe to restart that conversation. Or even the day. Because this? This would not end well.
 Ready for Bone 4? Get it HERE!
If you missed out on Zi Rui’s story, How Tan Acquired an Apprentice, you can check it out HERE!

Looking for a funny (cracky, let’s be honest), slice of life read? Poor Ross is up to his ears in supernatural problems,
which is what happens when you’re a PA for a supernatural clan. It’s a good thing his vampire boss is so sexy. And gives him
hazard pay. That helps too.
The Tribulations of Ross Young, Supernat PA

Are you a fan of exclusive art and mini-fics? Special editions? Merch? Check out my Patreon!
 Books by AJ Sherwood

Gay 4 Renovations

Style of Love

Structure of Love*

Haelan
The Magic That Binds

Fated Mates

Fated Mates and How to Woo Them

Fated Mates and Where to Find Them

Jon’s Mysteries

Jon’s Downright Ridiculous Shooting Case

Jon’s Crazy Head-Boppin’ Mystery

Jon’s Spooky Corpse Conundrum

Jon’s Boom-Shaka-Laka Problem

Jon and Mack’s Terrifying Tree Troubles

Mack’s Marvelous Manifestations

Brandon’s Very Merry Haunted Christmas

Mack’s Perfectly Ghastly Homecoming

Mack’s Rousing Ghoulish Highland Adventure

R’iyah Family Archives

A Mage’s Guide to Human Familiars

A Mage’s Guide to Aussie Terrors
A Mage’s Guide to Wicky

Ross Young

The Tribulations of Ross Young, Supernat PA

LARPing

Common Sense Deserts Again

The Sorcerer’s Grimoire

A (Non) Comprehensive Guide to Sea Serpents

Dealing with Mapinguari and Dogged Engineers*

Unholy Trifecta
How to Shield an Assassin

How to Steal a Thief

How to Hack a Hacker

Villainy

How I Stole the Princess’s White Knight and Turned Him to Villainy

How I Took the King on a Quest of Piracy, Piemu, and Profit

How Tan Acquired an Apprentice

The Warden and the General

Fourth Point of Contact

Zone of Action

Single Titles

How to Keep an Author (Alive)

 Marriage Contract

Books by AJ Sherwood and Jocelynn Drake

Scales ‘n’ Spells

Origin

Breath
Blood

Embers
Wish (a Christmas novella)

Wings ‘n’ Wands

Dawm ( a novella)

Ruins

Rise

Soar*

*Coming soon
 Author

AJ’s mind is the sort that refuses to let her write one project at a time. Or even just one book a year. She normally writes
fantasy under a different pen name, but her aforementioned mind couldn’t help but want to write in the LGBTQIA+ genre.
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In her spare time, AJ loves to devour books, eat way too much chocolate, and take regular trips. She’s only been outside
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mouth, and the beautiful broad brow drooping with the weight of
thought, and yet with an eternal youth and freshness shining out of it
as from the morning forehead of a boy, are all remarkable, and their
harmony with each other in a placid tenderness not less so.

Chaucer’s beginnings as an author were translations from the

French and Italian. Imitations they should rather be called, for he put
himself into them, and the mixture made a new poem. He helped
himself without scruple from every quarter. And, indeed, there is
nothing more clear than that the great poets are not sudden
prodigies, but slow results. Just as an oak profits by the foregone
lives of immemorial vegetable races, so we may be sure that the
genius of every remembered poet drew the forces that built it up
from the decay of a whole forest of forgotten ones. And in proportion
as the genius is vigorous and original will its indebtedness be; will it
strike its roots deeper into the past and into remoter fields in search
of the virtue that must sustain it.

Accordingly, Chaucer, like Shakspeare, invented almost nothing.

Wherever he found anything directed to Geoffrey Chaucer he took it
and made the most of it. Indeed, the works of the great poets teach
us to hold invention somewhat cheap. The Provençal rhymers did
the best to invent things that nobody ever thought of before, and they
succeeded in producing what nobody ever thought of again. He must
be a very great poet indeed who can afford to say anything new.

In the great poets I think there is always a flavor of race or country

which gives them a peculiar nearness to those of the same blood,
and where the face of the individual nature is most marked, it will be
found that the type of family is also most deeply stamped. It is
remarkable that Chaucer, who probably spoke French as often and
as familiarly as English, who levied his contributions upon Norman,
Italian, and Latin writers, should yet have become (with an
exception) the most truly English of our poets.

In endeavoring to point out what seem to be the peculiar

characteristics of Chaucer, I think we shall find one of the chief to be
this—that he is the first poet who has looked to nature as a motive of
conscious emotion. Accordingly, his descriptions are always simple
and addressed to the eye rather than to the mind, or to the fancy
rather than to the imagination. Very often he is satisfied with giving a
list of flowers with no epithet, or one expressive of color or perfume
only.

Mr. Lowell here read a number of passages from the “Assembly of

Fowls” and other poems of Chaucer, with an extract from Spenser.

Now I observe that all Chaucer’s epithets are primary, or such as

give birth to the feeling; and all Shakspeare’s secondary, or such as
the feeling gives birth to. In truth, Shakspeare’s imagination is
always dramatic, even in his narrative poems, and it was so
abundant that the mere overflow of it has colored the very well-
springs of the English language, and especially of English poetry. On
Chaucer, nature seems to have always smiled (except in winter,
which he cordially hated), and no rumor of man’s fall appears to
have reached the trees and birds and flowers. Nature has taken to
thinking lately, and a moral jumps up out of a blossom, like a jack-in-
a-box.

Another characteristic which we find in all the poems where Chaucer

speaks in his own person is a sentiment of seclusion. He always
dreams of walking in a park or a garden walled-in on every side. It is
not narrowness but privacy that he delights in, and a certain feeling
of generous limitation. In this his poems are the antithesis of Milton’s,
which always give a feeling of great spaces.

In description it would be hard to find Chaucer’s superior. His style is

distinguished always by an energetic simplicity, which is a
combination exceedingly rare. It was apparently natural to him. But
when he is describing anything that he loves, here is an
inexpressible tenderness, as if his eyes filled with tears. His narrative
flows on like one of our inland rivers, sometimes hastening a little,
and in its eddies seeming to run sunshine; sometimes lingering
smoothly, while here and there a beautiful quiet thought, a pure
feeling, a golden-hearted verse opens as quietly as a water-lily, and
makes no ripple. In modern times the desire for startling expression
is so strong that people hardly think a thought is good for anything
unless it goes off with a pop like a gingerbeer cork.

In Chaucer’s pathetic passages (and they are many), the presence

of pity is a thing to be noticed—and the more so as he is the best
pathetic story-teller among the English, and, except Dante, among
the modern poets. Chaucer, when he comes to the sorrow of his
story, seems to croon over the thoughts, and soothe them, and
handle them with a pleasant compassionateness, as a child treats a
wounded bird which he cannot make up his heart to let go, and yet
fears to close his fingers too firmly upon.

Mr. Lowell, in illustration, read from the “Man of Law’s Tale,” and
other of the poems.

What I have said of Chaucer’s pathos is equally true of his humor. It

never invades a story, but pervades it. It circulates through all his
comic tales like lively blood, and never puddles on the surface any
unhealthy spots of extravasation. And this I take to be the highest
merit of narrative—diffusion without diffuseness.

I have not spoken yet of Chaucer’s greatest work, the “Canterbury

Tales.” He has been greatly commended for his skill in the painting of
character, and, indeed, nothing too good can be said of him in this
respect. But I think it is too much the fashion to consider Chaucer as
one of those Flemish painters who are called realists because they
never painted the reality, but only the material. It is true that Chaucer
is as minute in his costume as if he were illuminating a missal.
Nothing escapes him—the cut of the beard, the color of the jerkin,
the rustiness of the sword. He could not help this, his eye for the
picturesque is so quick and sure. But in drawing the character it is
quite otherwise. Here his style is large and free, and he emphasizes,
but not too strongly, those points only which are essential, and which
give variety to his picture without any loss to the keeping. For he did
not forget that he was painting history and not a portrait. If his
character of the good parson (which still stands not only unmatched
but unapproached by the many later attempts at the same thing)
seem an exception, it is yet in truth a confirmation of what I have
said. For, in this case, for the very sake of keeping, it was necessary
to be more full and careful, because the good parson alone must
balance the friar, the pardoner, and all the other clerical personages
who are almost unmixedly evil. Justice is always a leading quality in
great minds, and by this single figure on one side and the group on
the other Chaucer satirizes the Church, as it can only be satirized, by
showing that it contrasts with that true religion with which it should be
identical. And was there ever anything so happy as Chaucer’s satire!
Commonly satire is unhappy, but Chaucer’s is positively more kindly
than the panegyric of some poets.

In calling Chaucer genial I chose the word with forethought. This

geniality made it impossible that his satire should be intellectual. The
satire of the intellect deals with the outside only, trying the thing
satirized by a rigid standard. But it results from Chaucer’s genial
temperament that justice in him is so equipoised by love that it
becomes mercy, which is the point of rest between absolute law and
human frailty. Therefore Chaucer, properly speaking, is not a satirist
but a humorist; in other words, his satire is imaginative, and thus, in
perfect subordination to narrative (though not to dramatic) art, he
makes his characters satirize themselves. I suppose that no
humorist ever makes anybody so thoroughly an object of satire as
himself—but then one always satirizes himself kindly because he
sees all sides. Falstaff is an example of this. Now this is just the
character of imaginative or humorous satire, that the humorist enters
his subject, assumes his consciousness, and works wholly from
within. Accordingly when Chaucer makes his Frere or Pardoner
expose all his own knaveries, we feel not as if he said, “See what a
precious scamp this fellow is,” but “This is the way we poor devils
play fantastic tricks before high heaven.” The butt of the humorist is
Man (including himself and us); the butt of the satirist is always
individual man. The humorist says we; the moralist and satirist, thou.
Here is the strength of the great imaginative satirist of modern times,
Mr. Thackeray.

In satire, the antithesis of Chaucer is Pope; as a painter of life and

manners, Crabbe, who had great powers of observation without
imagination. Therefore what is simplicity in Chaucer is poverty in
Crabbe.

Chaucer is the first great poet who held up a mirror to contemporary

life in its objectivity, and for the mere sake of its picturesqueness—
that is, he is the first great poet who has treated To-day as if it were
as good as Yesterday. Dante wrote life also, but it was his own life,
and what is more, his own interior life. All his characters are
represented in their relation to that. But Chaucer reflected life in its
large sense—the life of men, from the knight to the ploughman. Thus
it is that he always quietly and naturally rises above the Conventional
into the Universal. And so his great poem lives forever in that
perennial contemporaneousness which is the great privilege of
genius. Thus the man of genius has a double immortality—in heaven
and on earth at the same time; and this is what makes it good to be
a genius at all, that their beauty and their goodness live after them,
and every generation of men can say of them—They are our friends
also.

I know not how to sum up what we feel about Chaucer except by

saying, what would have pleased him most, that we love him. I would
write on the first page of his volume the inscription which he puts
over the gate in his “Assembly of Fowls”:

Through me men go into the blissful place

Of the heart’s heal, and deadly woundes cure;
Through me men go into the welle of Grace,
Where green and lusty May shall ever endure.
This is the way to all good aventure;
Be glad thou reader, and thy sorrow offcast.
All open am I, pass in, and hye thee fast.
 LECTURE VI
SPENSER

(Friday Evening, January 26, 1855)

VI
Chaucer had been in his grave one hundred and fifty years before
England had secreted choice material enough to produce another
great poet. Or, perhaps, we take it for granted that Nature
understands her own business too well to make such productions
cheap. Beauty, we know, has no charm like that of its eternal
unexpectedness, and the best delight is that which blossoms from a
stem of bare and long days.

Or is it that the spirit of man, of every race of men, has its fatal ebbs
and floods, its oscillations between the fluid ideal and the solid
matter-of-fact, so that the doubtful line of shore between is in one
generation a hard sandy actuality, with only such resemblances of
beauty as a dead sea-moss here and there, and in the next is
whelmed with those graceful curves of ever-gaining, ever-receding
foam, and that dance of joyous spray which knows not, so bright is it,
whether it be sea or sunshine.

What English Poetry was between Chaucer and Spenser there is no

need to say. Scotland had given birth to two or three poets of that
kind which is qualified by the epithet national, which is as much as
saying that they took account only of the universe to the north-
northeast corner of human nature instead of the whole
circumference of it. England in the meanwhile had been enriched
with Sternhold and Hopkins, but on the whole, the most important
event between the death of Chaucer and the publication of the
“Faëry Queene” was the introduction of blank verse. Perhaps the
blank poetry suggested it.

Before the “Faëry Queene,” also, two long poems were printed and
popular—the “Mirror for Magistrates,” and “Albion’s England.” How
the first of these was ever read it is hard to conceive, unless we
accept the theory of some theologians that our earth is only a kind of
penal colony where men are punished for sins committed in some
previous state of existence. The other was the work of one Warner, a
conveyancer, and has a certain philological value now from its
abounding in the popular phrases of the day. It is worth notice, also,
as containing the most perfect example in the English language of
what is called a conceit. It occurs in his account of Queen Elinor’s
treatment of Fair Rosamond:

With that she dashed her on the lips

So dyed double red;
Hard was the heart that struck the blow,
Soft were the lips that bled.

Which is nonsense and not poetry, though Dr. Percy admired it. Dr.
Donne, and the poets whom Dr. Johnson called metaphysical (as if
all poets are not so), is thought to be full of conceits. But the essence
of a conceit is not in a comparison being far-fetched,—the
imagination can make fire and water friendly when it likes,—but in
playing upon the meanings of two words where one is taken in a
metaphorical sense. This is a mark of the superficial mind always;
whereas Donne’s may be called a subterficial one, which went down
to the roots of thought instead of playing with its blossoms.

Not long after the “Faëry Queene” were published the “Polyolbion” of
Drayton, and the “Civil Wars” of Daniel. Both of these men were
respectable poets (especially Drayton), but neither of them could
reconcile poetry with gazetteering or chronicle-making. They are as
unlike as a declaration in love and a declaration in law.
This was the period of the Saurians in English Poetry, interminable
poems, book after book and canto after canto, like far-stretching
vertebræ, prodigious creatures that rendered the earth unfit for the
dwelling of Man. They are all dead now, the unwieldy monsters—
ichthyo-, plesio-, and megalosauri—they all sleep well, and their
huge remains are found imbedded in those vast morasses, the
“Collections of the Poets.” We wonder at the length of face and
general atra-bilious look that mark the portraits of that generation;
but it is no marvel when even the poetry was such downright hard
work. Poems of this sort might have served to while away the three-
centuried evening of antediluvian lives. It is easy to understand how
our ancestors could achieve great things when they encountered
such hardships for mere amusement. If we agree with Horace in
pitying the pre-Homeric heroes because they were without poets, we
may sincerely commiserate our forefathers of that generation
because they had them. The reading of one of these productions
must have been nearly as long a business as the taking of Troy, and
deserved a poet to sing it. Perhaps fathers, when their time on earth
was up, folded the leaf down and left the task to be finished by their
sons—a dreary inheritance.

The popularity of such works shows the insatiable thirst of the

human soul for something which at least tried to be beyond mere
matter-of-fact. This thirst for the ideal transmuted these books into
poetry, just as the eternal drought of the desert turns muddy water
into nectar, and the famine of the shipwrecked sailor gives a flavor
beyond French cookery to a soup made of old shoes (potage aux
choux). But meanwhile Nature, who loves surprises, was quietly
preparing a noble one. A new poet had been born, and came upon
that arid century fresh and dewy as out of the first dawn that waked
the birds in Eden. A great poet is always impossible—till he comes,
and then he seems the simplest thing in the world to the
commentators. He got this notice here and the other there; similar
subjects had been treated by such a one, and the metre first used by
another. They give us all the terms of the equation; satisfy us that a
plus b minus c equals x, only we are left in the dark as to what x is.
The genius continues to be an unknown quantity. The great poet is
as original as to-morrow’s sunrise, which will take the old clouds and
vapors, and little household smokes of our poor, worn-out earth to
make a miracle out of, and transfigure the old hills and fields and
houses with the enchantment of familiar novelty. It is this power of
being at once familiar and novel that distinguishes the primary poets.
They give us a new heaven and a new earth without the former
things having passed away,—whose very charm is that they have
not,—a new heaven and a new earth that we can possess by the
fireside, in the street, and the counting-room.

Edmund Spenser was born, like Chaucer, in London, in 1553, when

Cervantes was six years old. That sixteenth century was a
miraculous one. Scarce any other can show such a concurrence of
great brains. Mothers must have expected an attack of genius
among their children, as we look for measles or whooping-cough
now. While Spenser was yet delving over the propria quæ maribus,
Shakspeare was stretching out his baby arms and trying to get the
moon to play with, and the little Bacon, chewing upon his coral, had
already learned the impenetrability of matter. It almost takes one’s
breath away to think that at the same time “Hamlet” and the “Novum
Organon” were at the mercy of teething and the scarlet fever, unless,
indeed, destiny takes care to lock the doors against those child-
stealing gypsies when she leaves such precious things about.

Of Spenser’s personal history we know very little. He was educated

at Cambridge, where he took the degree of Master of Arts in 1576.
He is supposed to have passed the three following years with some
relations in the country, where he wrote verses and fell in love with a
lady whom he calls Rosalind, and of whom we know nothing further
unless we are satisfied to take the portrait which Shakspeare has
associated forever with the name which he complimented by
adopting. He is said to have been employed to carry a despatch or
two, but Lord Burleigh did not fancy him. Poor Lord Burleigh! Sidney
and Raleigh, however, were luckier. He was recommended to the
great queen, and received at last a grant of Kilcolman Castle and
three thousand acres of land in the south of Ireland. Here the “Faëry
Queene” was in great part written. At last came a rebellion. The wild
kernes and gallow-glasses had not the delicacy of the Emathian
conqueror, and they burned the castle, from which Spenser and his
wife with two of their children barely escaped, leaving an infant to
perish in the flames. Spenser came to London and died broken-
hearted three months afterward, on the 16th of January, 1599. That
rare nature was like a Venice glass, meant only to mantle with the
wine of the sunniest poetry. The first drop of poisonous sorrow
shattered it.

In 1579 Spenser published the “Shepherd’s Calendar,” a series of

twelve eclogues, one for each month in the year. In these poems he
professedly imitated Chaucer, whom he called his master, but
without much success. Even with the light reflected upon them from
the lustre of his great poem, one can find but little in them that is not
dull. There are indications in these poems, however, here and there,
of a nice ear for harmony in verse.

Spenser was the pure sense of the Beautiful put into a human body
only that it might have the means of communicating with men. His
own description of Clarion, the butterfly in his “Muiopotmos,” gives,
perhaps, the best possible idea of his own character.

Over the fields, in his frank lustiness,

And all the champaign o’er, he soared light
And all the country wide he did possess,
Feeding upon their pleasures bounteously,
That none gainsay, and none did him envy.

The woods, the rivers, and the meadows green,

With his air-cutting wings he measured wide,
Nor did he leave the mountains bare unseen,
Nor the rank grassy fens’ delights untried;
But none of these, however sweet they been,
Mote please his fancy, or him cause to abide;
His choiceful sense with every change doth flit,
No common things may please a wavering wit.
To the gay gardens his unstaid desire
Him wholly carried, to refresh his sprights;
There lavish Nature, in her last attire,
Pours forth sweet odors and alluring sights;
And Art, with her contending, doth aspire
To excel the natural with made delights,
And all that fair or pleasant may be found,
In riotous excess doth there abound.

There he arriving, round about doth flie,

From bed to bed, from one to the other border,
And takes survey with curious busy eye,
Of every flower and herb there set in order;
Now this, now that, he tasteth tenderly,
Yet none of them he rudely doth disorder;
He with his feet their silken leaves displace,
But pastures on the pleasures of each place.

And evermore with most variety

And change of sweetness (for all change is sweet),
He casts his glutton sense to satisfy,
Now sucking of the sap of herbs most meet,
Or of the dew which yet on them doth lie,
Now in the same bathing his tender feet;
And then he percheth on some branch thereby
To weather him, and his moist wings to dry.

And whatsoe’er of virtue good or ill,

Grew in his garden fetched from far away,
Of every one he takes and tastes at will,
And on their pleasures greedily doth prey;
Then, when he hath both played and fed his fill,
In the warm sun he doth himself embay,
And there him rests in riotous suffisance
Of all his gladfulness and kingly joyance.
 What more felicity can fall a creature
Than to enjoy delight with liberty?
And to be lord of all the works of Nature,
To reign in the air from earth to highest sky?
To feed on flowers and weeds of glorious feature,
To take whatever thing doth please the eye?
Who rests not pleased with such happiness
Well worthy he to taste of wretchedness.

What poet has ever left us such a portrait of himself as this? In that
butterfly Spenser has symbolized the purely poetical nature. It will be
seen that there is no recognition of the moral sense whatever. The
poetic nature considered abstractly craves only beauty and delight—
without any thought beyond—

And whatsoe’er of virtue good or ill,

To feed on flowers and weeds of glorious feature.

The poetical temperament has nowhere been at once so exquisitely

defined and illustrated. Among poets, Spenser stands for the
temperament personified.

But how did it happen that this lightsome creature, whose only
business was

To reign in the air from earth to highest sky,

should have attempted in his greatest work to mix together two such
incoherent things as sermon and poem? In the first place, the age
out of which a man is born is the mother of his mind, and imprints
her own likeness more or less clearly on the features of her child.
There are two destinies from which no one can escape, his own
idiosyncrasy, and that of the time in which he lives. Or shall we say
that where the brain is in flower of its conceptions, the very air is full
of thought-pollen, or some wandering bee will bring it, we know not
from what far field, to hybridize the fruit?

In Spenser’s time England was just going through the vinous stage
of that Puritanic fermentation which became acetous in Milton, and
putrefactive in the Fifth Monarchy men. Here was one motive. But,
besides this, it is evident that Spenser’s fancy had been colored by
the Romances which were popular in his day; and these had all been
allegorized by the monks, who turned them into prose. The
adventure of the San Grail in the “Morte d’Arthur” reads almost like
an extract from the “Pilgrim’s Progress.” Allegories were the fashion,
and Spenser put one on as he did a ruff, not because it was the most
convenient or becoming thing in the world, but because other people
did.

Another reason is probably to be found in the nature of the man

himself. The poetical temperament, when it comes down to earth
and mingles with men, is conscious of a certain weakness. On the
unsubstantial skyey floors of its own ideal world it walks firmly
enough, and speaks the native language of the shadowy population
there. But there is a knell at which that beautiful land dissolves like
the baseless fabric of a vision—and that is the dinner bell. The
poetical temperament becomes keenly conscious that it also has a
stomach. It must dine, and commonly it likes rather better dinners
than other people. To this end it must carry its wares to market
where the understanding is master. Will the understanding pay hard
money for the flowers of speech! Only what is practical will do there.
“Fine words,” grumbles the Understanding proverbially, “butter no
parsnips; and then, to make the matter worse, the parsnips are
ideal.” “But, my dear sir,” remonstrates Temperament mildly—“Dear
me no dears,” growls Understanding. “Everybody must earn his own
salt—I do.” “Let me read you my beautiful poem.” “Can’t comprehend
a word of it. The only language I know a word of is my old mother
tongue, the useful. Look at the towns and ships I’ve built. Nothing
ideal there, you’ll find. Ideal, I suppose, is a new-fangled way of
spelling idle. It won’t go here.” Suddenly the useful seems a very
solid and powerful thing to our poor friend, the Poetic Temperament.
It begins to feel a little absurd in talking enthusiasm to such a matter-
of-fact generation. The problem is how to translate the ideal into the
useful. How shall Master Edmund Spenser make himself
comprehensible to Master John Bull? He will try a picture-book, and
a moral one, too—he will write an Allegory.

Allegory is the Imagination of the Understanding, or what it supposes

to be, which is the same thing. It is the ideal in words of one syllable,
illustrated with cuts, and adapted to the meanest comprehension.

Spenser was a good and pure-minded man, and wished probably to

combine the sacred office of Teacher with that of Poet. The
preaching part of him came afterwards in Jeremy Taylor, who was
Spenser with his singing-robes off.

Spenser’s mind was so thoroughly imbued with the beautiful that he

makes even the Cave of Mammon a place one would like to live in.

I think it is the want of human interest that makes the “Faëry

Queene” so little read. Hazlitt has said that nobody need be afraid of
the allegory; it will not bite them, nor meddle with them unless they
meddle with it. It was the first poem I ever read, and I had no
suspicion of any double meaning in it. If we think of the moral as we
read it will injure the effect of the poem, because we have an
instinctive feeling that Beauty includes its own moral, and does not
need to have it stuck on.

Charles Lamb made the most comprehensive criticism upon

Spenser when he called him the “poets’ poet.” This was a magic
mirror which he held up to life, where only shapes of loveliness are
reflected. A joyous feeling of the beautiful thrills through the whole
poem.

I think that Spenser has come nearer to expressing the unattainable

something than any other poet. He is so purely a poet of beauty that
with him the meaning does not modulate the music of the verse, but
the music is a great part of the meaning. No poet is so splendidly
superfluous as he. He knows too well that in poetry enough is
parsimony. The delight of beauty is that it is like a fountain, forever
changing, forever the same, and forever more than full.

Spenser has characterized his own poem in the song which the
Sirens sing to Sir Guyon in the twelfth canto of the second book. The
whole passage also may be called his musical as distinguished from
his picturesque style.

In reading Spenser one may see all the great galleries of painting
without stepping over his threshold. Michael Angelo is the only artist
that he will not find there. It may be said of him that he is not a
narrative poet at all, that he tells no stories, but paints them.

I have said that among our poets Spenser stands for the
personification of the poetic sense and temperament. In him the
senses were so sublimed and etherealized, and sympathized so
harmoniously with an intellect of the subtlest quality that, with Dr.
Donne, we “could almost say his body thought.” This benign
introfusion of sense and spirit it is which gives his poetry the charm
of crystalline purity without loss of warmth. He is ideal without being
merely imaginative; he is sensuous without any suggestion of flesh
and blood. He is full of feeling, and yet of such a kind that we can
neither call it mere intellectual perception of what is fair and good
and touching, nor associate it with that throbbing warmth which leads
us to call sensibility by its human name of heart. In the world into
which he carries us there is neither space nor time, and so far it is
purely intellectual, but then it is full of form and color and all earthly
gorgeousness, and so far it is sensual. There are no men and
women in it, and yet it throngs with airy and immortal shapes that
have the likeness of men and women.

To appreciate fully the sensuous intellectuality of this divine poet,

compare him for a moment with Pope, who had an equal subtlety of
brain without the joyous poetic sense. Pope’s mind was like a
perfectly clear mirror hung in a drawing-room, and reflecting with
perfect precision of outline and vividness of coloring, not man, but
good society, every grace and every folly that belong not to human
nature in its broad meaning, but as it is subordinated by fashion. But
Spenser is like a great calm pool that lies brooding in delicious
reverie over its golden sands in some enchanted world. If we look
into it we know not if we see the shadows of clouds and trees and
castles, of bright-armored knights and peerless dames that linger
and are gone; or whether those pellucid depths are only a
mysterious reservoir, where all the fairest dreams of our youth,
dreams that were like hopes, and hopes that were but dreams, are
visionarily gathered. Anon a ripple, born of no breeze, but of the
poet’s own conscious joy, startles it into a dance of sunshine that
fades away around its shores in a lapsing murmur that seems the
shadow of music rather than its substance.

So entirely are beauty and delight the element of Spenser, that

whenever in the “Faëry Queene” you come upon a thought or moral
reflection it gives you a shock of unpleasant surprise, a kind of grit,
as when one’s teeth close upon a bit of gravel in a dish of
strawberries and cream. He is the most fluent of our poets.
Sensation passing over through emotion into reverie is the
characteristic of his manner.

And to read him puts one in the condition of reverie—a state of mind
in which one’s thoughts and feelings float motionless as you may
see fishes do in a swift brook, only vibrating their fins enough to keep
themselves from being swept down the current, while their bodies
yield to all its curvings and quiver with the thrills of its fluid and
sinuous delight. It is a luxury beyond luxury itself, for it is not only
dreaming awake, but dreaming without the trouble of doing it
yourself; letting it be done for you, in truth, by the finest dreamer that
ever lived, who has the art of giving you all his own visions through
the medium of music.

Of the versification of Spenser we need attempt no higher praise

than that it belonged to him. If we would feel the infinite variety of the
Spenserian stanza, as Spenser uses it, its musical intricacies, its
long, sliding cadences, smooth as the green slope on the edge of
Niagara, we have only to read verses of the same measure by other
poets.
As showing his pathos, Mr. Lowell read Una’s lament on her
desertion by the Red Cross Knight, and other pieces, calling
attention particularly to the fact that his females were not women,
like those of Shakspeare, but ideal beings.

We are accustomed to apologize for the grossness of our favorite old

authors by saying that their age was to blame, and not they. Spenser
needs no such excuses. He is the most perfect gentleman among
poets. Through that unrefined time, when ladies drank a quart of ale
for breakfast, and even Hamlet can say a coarse thing to Ophelia,
Spenser passes pure and chaste as another Sir Galahad.

Whoever can endure unmixed delight, whoever can tolerate music,

and painting, and poetry, all in one, whoever wishes to be rid of
thought and to let the busy anvils of the brain be silent for a time, let
him read in the “Faëry Queene.” There is a land of pure Heart’s Ease
where no ache or sorrow of spirit can enter. If there be any poet
whom we can love and feel grateful toward, it is Edmund Spenser.
 LECTURE VII
MILTON

(Tuesday Evening, January 30, 1855)

VII
Between Spenser and Milton occurred the most truly imaginative
period of English poetry. It is the time of Shakspeare and of the other
dramatists only less than he. It seems to have been the moment in
which the English mind culminated.

Even if we subtract Shakspeare, the age remains without a parallel.

The English nature was just then giving a great heave and yearn
toward freedom in politics and religion, and literature could not fail to
partake of the movement.

A wave of enthusiasm seemed to break over England; all that was

poetical in the people found expression in deed or word. Everything
tasted of it—sermons and speeches as well as verses. The travelers
could not write a dry journal, but they somehow blundered into a
poetical phrase that clings to the memory like a perfume. The
sensations of men were as fresh as Adam’s, and the words they
found to speak them in could be beautiful or fragrant with as little
effort as it costs violets to be blue.

It is a remarkable fact that the poetry of Shakspeare is at the same

time more English and more universally human than any that was
ever written. The two great poets who came before Shakspeare had
both of them enlarged the revenues of the English muse. Chaucer
had added character and incident, and had shown the capacities of
the language and of the metre. Spenser left it enriched with a luxury
of diction, with harmony of verse, and with the lovely images of the
classical mythology. But Shakspeare came in like an unthrift heir. He
squandered everything. From king to clown he used up all character;
there is no passion, or fancy, or feeling that he has not spent; no
question of philosophy, morals, politics, or metaphysics that he has
not solved; he poured out all the golden accumulations of diction like
water. And his younger brethren, the other dramatists, helped him.
What was there left? Certainly, this wonderful being has expressed
every sentiment, every thought, that is universal in its relations. All
the poetry of this world he exhausted. Accordingly, in the time
immediately following this splendidly imaginative period, we find only
a development of fancy under one or other of its disguises. Fancy
deals with limited and personal experiences, and interests us by the
grace or perfectness of its expression of these. The Dramatists were
tremendously in earnest, as they had need to be, to please a people
who were getting in earnest themselves. But now the time itself was
preparing a drama, and on no mimic scene, but with England for a
stage and with all Europe for spectators. A real historical play was in
rehearsal, no petty war of York and Lancaster, but the death-grapple
of two eras. The time was in travail with the Ishmael of Puritanism
who, exiled from his father’s house, was to found here in this
Western wilderness an empire for himself and his wandering
descendants. England herself was turning poet, and would add her
rhapsody to the great epic of the nations.

That was a day of earnest and painful thinking, and poetical

temperaments naturally found relief in turning away from actual life
to the play of the fancy. We find no trace of high imagination here.
Certainly, Herbert and Vaughan and even Quarles are sometimes
snatched into something above common fancy by religious fervor,
but how cold and experimental is the greater part of their poetry—not
poetry, indeed, but devotional exercises in verse. Cowley wrote
imaginary love-songs to an imaginary mistress, and Waller the same
sort of stuff to a real one. Catullus revived in Herrick, a country
parson. Wither, a Puritan, wrote some poems full of nature and
feeling, and remarkable for purity of sentiment. Donne, a deep
thinker, carried on his anatomical studies into his verse, and
dissected his thoughts and feelings to the smallest nerve. A great
many nice things got said, no doubt, and many charming little poems
were written—but the great style appears no longer.

It was during this lull, as we may call it, that followed the mighty day
of the Dramatists, that Milton was growing up. He was born in
London on the ninth of December, 1608, and was therefore in his
eighth year when Shakspeare died. His father was of a good family,
which still adhered to the Roman Catholic faith. What is of more
importance, he was disinherited by his father for having adopted
Puritan principles; and he was a excellent musician. Milton was very
early an indefatigable student, even in his twelfth year seldom
leaving his books before midnight. At the university he was
distinguished as a Latin scholar and writer of Latin verses. He was
intended for the Church, but had already formed opinions of his own
which put conformity out of the question. He was by nature an
Independent, and could not, as he says, “subscribe slave.”

Leaving the university in 1632, he passed the five following years in

a studious seclusion at his father’s house at Horton, in
Buckinghamshire. During these five years he wrote most of his
smaller poems. In 1638 he set out for Italy. The most important
events of his stay in that country were his meetings with Galileo, and
the Marquis Manso, who had been Tasso’s friend. After refreshing
his Protestantism at Geneva, he passed through France and came
back to England to find the Civil War already begun.

Dr. Johnson sneers at Milton for having come home from Italy
because he could not stay abroad while his countrymen were
struggling for their freedom, and then quietly settling down as a
teacher of a few boys for bread. It might, with equal reason, have
been asked of the Doctor why, instead of writing “Taxation no
Tyranny,” he did not volunteer in the war against the rebel American
provinces? Milton sacrificed to the cause he thought holy something
dearer to him than life—the hope of an earthly immortality in a great
poem. He suffered his eyes to be put out for the sake of his country
as deliberately as Scævola thrust his hand into the flame. He gave to
freedom something better than a sword—words that were victories.