Mazes of Power

by Juliette Wade

  So it was true: he didn’t know anything. It was so horrible, so offensive, that Aloran’s nerve wavered, and he almost walked out. But speaking was his only hope.

  “Young Master,” he said, more gently. “Lady Della will be as frightened as you. Probably more, as we cannot assume she has experience of the same nature as yours.”

  Tagaret winced, but nodded.

  “If you love her, sir, and if you hope to have her love you in return after this, you must always think of her pleasure before your own.” Was his advice too Imbati? Selflessness was less than natural for a Grobal, but it was the only right way he knew. “Watch her eyes and her lips as you touch her, especially when touching her sensitive parts. When she smiles, and when she breathes as you breathe, continue. If she stops, or shows any discomfort, stop. For if you can’t give her pleasure, you will certainly give her pain, and she will always remember it.”

  Tagaret moaned, “Oh, mercy of Heile.”

  “I have given offense, young Master,” Aloran said, and bowed low. “I shall withdraw.”

  “No,” Tagaret cried. “Aloran, please—you’ve done this. You have to help me. I’m not even sure I know . . . which parts are sensitive.” He reddened. “Hearsay doesn’t count.”

  In the end, Aloran ran through the Maze to his room, and brought back one of his medical books so they could look through relevant sections together. He left the book, and the young Master clung to it as if it were a rope to pull him out of an abyss.

  If only it could.

  Aloran returned to his abandoned Lady prepared for the worst—even a flying rabbit wouldn’t have surprised him. But Tamelera was standing quietly, gazing out the window.

  “Did you speak to Tagaret?” she asked without turning.

  “Yes, Lady. I apologize for leaving my post.”

  “It’s of no consequence.” She gazed a while longer, and finally turned around. “What did you say to him?”

  He should have chosen the polite denial. But the reckless presumption was still too close to the surface. “About how a man need not hurt a woman, in love,” he said. “About how to protect her heart from invasion, and not just her womb.”

  Tamelera wrapped both arms tightly around herself.

  Garr had done this to her. Garr had taken the partnership vows, playing the role of Sirin, whose love and trust had so moved the Maiden Eyn that she would return to him, and only him, for all time. And then Garr had forced himself on a tender, frightened girl. For eighteen years, he’d used sex as punishment for his own satisfaction—Mai the Right and Father Varin between them should tear his soul from his body!

  Aloran shook with rage; quickly he knelt and lowered his head to the floor, hoping she wouldn’t see. “I’m sorry, Lady.”

  “It was good of you. For her, it’s not too late.” Her quiet voice took on an ironic note. “If I’m lucky, I’ll never have a man touch me again.”

  Aloran closed his eyes and wished he could sink into the floor.

  “Lady, please—” his voice broke. “Please, tell me we don’t need to go to the medical center.” In this state, he might do worse than Sorn: strangle a half-dead nobleman with his bare hands.

  “No,” Tamelera said. The rustle of her skirts told him she was walking to the lounge chairs. “I don’t wish to trouble Premel by delaying his lunch schedule anyway.”

  “You are considerate, Lady.”

  “Could you brush my hair instead?”

  “Of course.”

  Bless her, she must have known how it would comfort him. The meditative calm of removing pins, unwinding braids, holding and moving the brush was just what he needed.

  “Aloran?”

  “Yes, Lady?”

  “You braided my hair a bit too tightly today . . .”

  He sighed. “Please forgive me.” Nervous as he’d been about their visit to the medical center, that was small excuse for letting his tension creep into his work.

  “No, no, I don’t mean to criticize.” She sat silent for several seconds. “I mean . . . my head is hurting.”

  “Do you wish medicine, Lady?”

  She turned slightly, as if she’d considered looking at him. “Can you rub my scalp, please?”

  Aloran blinked. Was this some kind of apology? But no; he was no man in her eyes, just as he was no guest in the room of her son. It meant nothing. He returned the brush to his pocket and softly touched her temples. When she made no complaint, he pressed gently, moving his fingertips among the roots of her heavy hair. Tamelera sighed and leaned into his touch.

  Such small comfort he could offer. His throat ached, but he wished the moment might never stop.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Della

  It turned out that midnight assignations were one of Kuarmei’s specialties.

  The small Imbati woman came around front to fasten the new coat she’d purchased for him, while Tagaret tried to keep hold of the thoughts whirling in his head.

  Disobedience had never seemed so terrifying. The days when a misdirected glance could invite Imbati retaliation appeared mild in comparison. Yet, Della had the courage to propose it. He’d imagined the trap already closed, but she’d kept her eyes open for one last way out. Those eyes . . . More than emerald, they were as green as the plants that grew in sunlight. Hers was the kind of courage that could brave Father Varin’s heat without flinching, and she challenged him now, just as she’d first challenged him with the sound of her voice, and with the promise of music. The risk in this plan was double for her, but she embraced it, and he must do the same.

  I embrace it.

  Of course, now he had to do it without getting caught.

  “I wish it weren’t at her house,” he said. “Everyone knows I’ve been there before.”

  “Sir,” said Kuarmei, fastening the top button at his left collarbone. “If she met you anywhere else, it would appear she had voice in the plan.”

  “Oh. Right.” Which meant they wouldn’t be invited in, either. “There are no windows on the street level in front. I suppose we’ll have to break in using the Akrabitti way?”

  Kuarmei wrapped a long scarf of slate-gray silk around his head so that it tickled across his face, and one end shimmered to his waist. “With your permission, sir, yes. I’m impressed you know of that method.”

  “And you can break us in?”

  She swiftly applied a black scarf to her own head, hiding everything but her eyes. Even her Imbati mark was invisible. “I believe so, sir. We shall see.”

  They walked inward along the first-floor hall, fortunately deserted at this late hour. Kuarmei took him to an exit at the juncture of the west wing and the central section. Here, Arissen laughter echoed from a small room off the hall, and no guards flanked the door. Kuarmei pressed herself to the wall. Tagaret tried to do the same, though at his height he felt as obvious as a shinca in the dark. Reaching the guardroom, Kuarmei stole a quick glance in and beckoned; he tried to imitate her silent footsteps across the opening. Then Kuarmei opened the outer door, and he slipped into the dark gap.

  The Arissen didn’t react. Maybe they hadn’t noticed; maybe they didn’t care.

  Rather than leaving a record of their departure at the Conveyor’s Hall, Kuarmei convinced him to remain on foot. It was easier than he’d feared to slip through the skimmer exit when a cargo vehicle passed—but strange to feel like part of the shadows, and not the light. Strange, too, to feel the soft touch of silk across his face. Kuarmei took him on a roundabout route through the northern districts, on streets he did not recognize at all, avoiding mercantile areas and often threading through Akrabitti alleyways. At last, she stopped before a door.

  “This is it, sir.”

  Tagaret’s stomach squirmed, but he nodded. Della, I’m here for you.

  Imbati Kuarmei removed a slender metal tool from one of her pockets and pr
ied on the edge of the door at three points, looking up and down to check its motion. Seemingly satisfied, she hid the tool away and applied herself to the lower of the two locks. It made a horrible scraping noise, and Tagaret’s heart started pounding. After far too long, Kuarmei stood up, wrapped the trailing end of her scarf around the handle, and opened the door.

  Della’s Yoral was standing in the laundry room.

  Tagaret gasped—then swallowed it. Yoral was on their side. In all likelihood, he hadn’t helped them with the door because to be seen helping an invader was more than his job was worth.

  Oh, sweet Heile—was he taking Yoral away from Della just by being here?

  “Yoral,” he whispered.

  “Tagaret, sir,” said Yoral resignedly. “I have already vowed not to speak of encountering you here. I’m glad you were able to manage the door without my help.”

  “Can we—do anything?” he asked. “Somehow, make it look like you resisted and were overcome?”

  Yoral’s gaze sharpened. “Someone accompanies you?”

  Tagaret glanced over his shoulder; obediently and wordlessly, Kuarmei stepped inside.

  The relief on Yoral’s face was astonishing to see. “Castemate,” he said, “to get to my Lady’s bedroom, exit this door behind me and take the hall to the right. Climb the first stairway you will see on your left, all the way to the top floor. Continue straight ahead to the corner and enter the door on your left.”

  Kuarmei gave a sharp nod. Yoral bowed, then turned his back. Kuarmei clamped her arm around his neck. Yoral didn’t struggle, but after several seconds his arms moved strangely, as if voicing independent protest. Then he staggered and collapsed onto the floor.

  “Gods!” Tagaret squeaked. “You strangled him?”

  “I surprised him from behind,” said Kuarmei. “He’ll waken again soon.” She removed her scarf and tied Yoral’s hands and feet together behind him. “In case he’s found,” she said. “We should go.”

  She’d obviously had no difficulty memorizing the directions. Kuarmei went ahead to the top of the stairs, then motioned him up. Despite the dimness of the light, their dark clothes stood out against the white plaster walls. His heart beat as loud as a drum. If the family wanted him here, surely the Household would have been told to stay in bed tonight?

  Kuarmei beckoned him to lean close when they reached the door in question. “I’ll stay outside,” she breathed. “If there’s trouble, I’ll knock three times.”

  Tagaret closed his fists and nodded. Wrapping the end of his scarf around the door handle as she had done, he opened the door and went in.

  “Tagaret?”

  Oh, that honey voice . . . I embrace it. He quivered from head to foot. “It’s me,” he whispered. He pulled off his scarf and stuffed it in his coat pocket.

  The only light came through sheer white curtains on both outside walls. Della sat partially silhouetted in the milky dimness. Aloran had said to watch her face; he crept closer one step at a time, searching for a glimpse of it. Her clothes were pale, her hair tumbling over her shoulders like a fall of dark water. She didn’t stand to meet him. As he drew near, she shrugged a robe off her shoulders—hesitated, then pulled it back up.

  Something about the gesture stopped him.

  “Della? Are you all right?”

  “Where’s my Yoral?” she asked.

  Mercy, what should he say? He gulped a breath. “Downstairs. We—I, wanted to make sure he wasn’t seen as helping me.”

  Della sat up straighter. “What did you do?”

  “He asked me to,” Tagaret said quickly. “I had my servant knock him out, so he could say he had fallen defending you.”

  “Heile’s mercy!”

  “I’m sorry. Della, if you lost him over this, I’d never forgive myself.”

  She made a small, inarticulate sound.

  Mai help him . . . “I’m just trying to protect you. You want me here, don’t you?”

  “I—” She took a deep breath. “You’re right, Tagaret. I do.” She shrugged the robe off again and reached toward him.

  Tagaret took her hand in his. Every part of him awoke instantly at her touch. When she pulled him forward, he sat down beside her. Oh, the warmth of her fingers, the smell of her, the sweet accidental brush of her leg against his—it was what he’d ached and dreamed for, just what he’d wanted all along.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he sighed, then gulped, instinctively searching the room for a servant who wasn’t there. This time it was different. No one would tell him he couldn’t speak to her. No one would tell him he couldn’t put his arm around her. Kiss her. Touch her. Take off her clothes. Take . . .

  It was too much. He trembled just imagining it, but it made him so hard and hot and dizzy he nearly felt sick. She wasn’t Reyn. She didn’t know him that way—she barely knew him at all.

  Start small.

  He lifted his hand and pressed her hair back from her forehead, feeling the strands tickle and slide between his fingers. Her head tilted back, and her breath came faster. He followed the sound of it to her lips. Oh, the softness of her mouth opening beneath his—it was like falling into the deeps. Cradling her head in one hand, he reached across with the other and pulled her closer, tighter in. Her hand stroked up his back, and her breast pressed against him, oh, Sirin and Eyn yes, this, more of this . . . Her fingers tickled buttons loose, and suddenly traced pure, startling pleasure across his chest. A moan squeezed out of him.

  Della pulled back with a gasp. “Are you all right?”

  At first, he couldn’t speak. “Fine,” he managed. “It—it feels good.”

  Next her touch came upon his cheek, and she stroked his neck down to his collarbone, then crept lower—he reached for her again, this time with one arm around her back, and the other hand over the crook of her knees. He pulled her into his lap and covered her neck in kisses.

  She wriggled. “Tagaret . . .”

  He panted, trying to look at her. He mustn’t forget to watch her face, but he could hardly see her face at all. Her breathing did sound like his, didn’t it? “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know.” She wriggled again—it felt so good he could have died. He clamped his arm across her lap and pushed her downward, grinding hard.

  “Gods—Della—”

  Della’s breath was fast but uneven, like hiccups. “It’s just—ooh—what should I do, Tagaret, should I be—” She clung to his neck, wriggling lower, and her breasts nudged against his chest. He found one with his hand, stroked the nipple that pressed at him through her silk nightgown.

  This time they both moaned at once. She gave a strange gulp.

  “Tagaret,” she whispered. “I feel—strange. There’s something wrong with me, my stomach feels . . . and my—” She broke off. “Yoral didn’t say I would feel like this.”

  “Nothing,” he panted. “Nothing’s wrong with you.” He reached for her knees, slid his fingers between them, stroked up along the gentle curve—

  “Tagaret, stop.”

  It was like trying to stop gravity. He clenched his teeth, his stomach, his fists, everything he had, and managed not to touch her there. Half-foundering in the warm wave, he pulled his hands back to the surface of the bed.

  “What is it?” he asked. “You’re not feeling—bad, are you?”

  “No.” She slid off his lap. Even in the half-dark, he could tell she was looking down at him. But she’d just been—on there, so she must know—wouldn’t Yoral have told her what to expect?

  What if he hadn’t known what to tell her, good or bad?

  Tagaret took a deep breath. “Della, it’s supposed to feel good. I want you to feel good.” He reached for her, but she only pulled further away.

  “You’ve done this before.”

  Oh, no. “Y—no,” he stammered. “Not this.”

 
“Not this? Have you been with a boy?”

  “Holy Twins—”

  “You have, haven’t you.”

  Tagaret rubbed his face with both hands. Would she hate him now?

  “Tagaret,” she said sternly. “You must tell me the truth. If I can’t trust you, then why shouldn’t I take Innis in partnership? He would be the same.”

  It wasn’t fair. Innis couldn’t be the same—Innis would be like Father, and he could never be like Father, never, never! If he were truly to be her Sirin, he must show he was worthy of his Eyn’s trust.

  “I have,” he said.

  “Oh!”

  “Please don’t hate me. I couldn’t lie to you. He’s a close friend, but I’m not in love with him. You are everything to me—you’ve never left my thoughts since the minute I first saw you.” The sheets rustled, and her fingertips touched his hand. He turned his hand to hers and held it tightly.

  “It’s all wrong, Tagaret,” Della said. “I wish we could run away. Live out on the surface with the wysps of the wilderness, where I could want you, and have you, and it wouldn’t matter what anyone else wanted.” She sighed. “It would just feel good. I wouldn’t have to feel like I was playing their game.”

  “You did find a way to break the rules,” he said. “If it works, and I can make you mine, we could go to Selimna.”

  She sighed again. A heartbroken sound. “So we break the rules,” she said. “What then? We’re still subject to them; we’ll feel the consequences. I’d rather play a totally different game.”

  Out of the dark an idea struck him, so strong and clear, he could not doubt it was a gift—from Sirin and Eyn for undying love, and from Mai for justice. “We can. Della, we can.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re here together, alone. Who’s to say we haven’t done as you planned?”

  She grabbed his arm. “Oh, Tagaret, would it work? But what if the Council wants to examine me?”

  He shuddered at the thought. “They can’t examine you themselves, can they? Wouldn’t they ask Yoral?”