The stallion tossed his head and stamped. It was not Euan he wanted to carry—it was Valeria. If Euan happened to be a part of that, so be it.
This was not a thing Euan had ever wanted to do, even in his boyish dreams. But it seemed there was no choice. His heart beat foolishly hard as he grasped rein and mane and pushed his foot into the stirrup.
The stallion stood like a rock. He grunted when Euan’s ungraceful weight landed on his back, but he neither staggered nor collapsed. He was wide enough to strain Euan’s thighs apart.
Euan gritted his teeth. It was going to be a long, long ride to Dun Mor.
Conory passed Valeria up to him, wrapped securely in Euan’s plaid. There was no way Euan could control the horse while he held her, but he doubted he could control one of these horses in any case. He was a glorified pack saddle, and that was all there was to it.
As soon as Valeria was safe in Euan’s arms, the stallion flowed into motion.
Euan had never felt movement like that in a horse before. It was like riding a boat in a long swell. Smooth fluid power surged up from behind and through the saddle and up in front of him.
It did strange things to his own back, not painful but disconcerting. He had to will himself not to lock up, because when he started to, the blasted beast snaked its head around and snapped at his leg.
Stop that, said a voice in his head. Be still. Breathe. Be.
Euan almost lost his seat with the shock of it. Unlike any other horse he had ever heard of, this stallion had no intention of losing him or the burden he carried. That improbably supple back shifted to stay under him, and that clear inhuman voice spoke once again. Forget who you are. Be wind and rain.
It should not have made sense, but it did. When Euan was running or dancing or fighting, he let his awareness go and became pure movement.
It was most like dancing and a little like fighting. The edge of panic was almost pleasurable once he gave in to it. Even the discomfort rising to pain, because he was never made to sit on a barrel, seemed an inevitable part of it.
The rain blew away and the sun came back. It was hot, but not nearly as hot as it had been. The wind was in his face, carrying away the reek of the drowned fire. The moor ahead of him was washed clean.
This was not his own country—that was the fierce and tumbled landscape around Dun Eidyn in the Caletanni lands—but he was learning its ways. He rode into Dun Mor in the bloodstained light of sunset, mounted on a white god from Aurelia and carrying the still unconscious rider.
The women and children of the high king’s clan had seen him coming. They had an ox roasting and the hall ready and a song of welcome prepared, shrilling across the moor.
His mother met him at the door to the hall. The stallion carried him straight up to her and then stopped, hunching his back in a way that warned Euan not to linger.
Hands were waiting to take Valeria. Euan tried to dismount at least decently, but the best he could do was a lurch and a drunken stagger.
The stallion spared him the lash of scorn. Pity was not much better, but it was fleeting. The beast submitted to a somewhat shaky hand on his rein—one of the boys from the royal clan, so wide-eyed he looked like a startled owl—and went off placidly to be unsaddled and rubbed down and fed.
And here was Euan, thinking of a horse with a hall full of curious people to deal with and Valeria vanishing into the women’s quarters with his mother in close attendance. He pulled himself together before any of them saw his preoccupation as a weakness. The Ard Ri must never seem weak.
The ride had been long but the night was longer. He had to laugh, feast, and be king to his people, when all he wanted to do was hover over Valeria.
He did it because he had to. He put Valeria out of his mind and sat in the hall under the heavy carved beams, wreathed in smoke from the firepit in the center, and drank mead and ate roast ox until the last of his warband rolled snoring under the table.
Then he could escape. The mead had barely taken the edge off. He was wide awake and cold sober.
It was work to get up. His legs had had enough many leagues ago. Walking hurt like fury, but the pain brought him into focus.
He had to stop and think before he went looking for his mother. In Dun Eidyn the queen’s rooms were well away from the hall, whereas in Dun Mor they were almost directly behind it. Here she could put her ear to a certain wall and hear everything that was said—a useful thing sometimes for the king as well as the queen.
As long as Euan had no queen, his mother was entitled to the queen’s place. Murna would not sleep in the queen’s bed, but she had no objection to the rest of the rooms, which were large, convenient and well appointed.
Murna’s women were asleep when Euan came looking for her, but she was awake. She had ordered Valeria to be laid in the bed that she herself would not claim. It was the largest and most comfortable bed in the dun, and the room had windows to let in the light and air.
Tonight a soft rain was falling. The scent of it filled the room, damp and clean.
Valeria was dressed in a linen shift, lying perfectly still under a light sheet. She looked like the dead laid out for burial.
Euan leaped toward her. She was still alive—her breast rose and fell. Relief almost felled him.
“Don’t fret,” his mother said from the other side of the bed. “There’s nothing wrong with her that a good night’s sleep won’t heal. She’ll wake in the morning with the mother of all headaches, ravenous as a bear in the spring.”
“How do you know that?” Euan demanded. “Do you know what she did?”
“I know,” Murna said. Her voice was soft, but it reduced Euan to wide-eyed silence.
“You did well,” she said. “You kept her warm, let her sleep and brought her where she can be looked after. She’s a strong young thing. She’ll be none the worse for it.”
“Pray the One you’re right,” Euan said. He pulled a stool up beside the bed and perched on it. “I could have sworn she was dead.”
“It would look that way,” Murna agreed. She bent over Valeria, smoothing the black curls on the ivory forehead. “This one may be worth keeping.”
“In spite of everything she is?”
“Because of everything she is.” Murna stooped to kiss her son. “If she gives her heart to you, you’ll have a more powerful ally than any high king before you.”
“I had thought of that,” he said.
“I know you have,” said Murna. “Good night, my heart. Sleep if you can. She’ll not be dying tonight.”
Euan stared for a long while at the place where his mother had been. She had vanished as if she were a mage herself, but it was only a dark mantle and a slant of shadow and an inner door.
He wanted with all his heart to believe what she had said. Valeria did look more alive than dead. Her hand was warm when he folded it in his.
He breathed in the clean smell of her. The herbs were familiar—his mother used them on herself. The smell of horse was much reduced, but it would never quite go away. It had soaked into her skin until it was a part of her.
The bed was big enough to hold them both without crowding. He only meant to lie down for a moment, to rest his eyes and let go the tension that had ridden in him since she fell from her stallion’s back. Of course that was foolish, but he was too tired to care.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Valeria opened her eyes and wished she had not. A spear of light pierced her skull.
She squeezed her eyes shut until the pain died to a dull throb. Then with utmost care she cracked one eyelid. The light was still dazzling, but after a while she could almost bear it.
She had never been royally drunk in her life, but this was what everyone said it was like. She chased down scattered fragments of memory. The last she knew, she had been sitting on Marina’s back on a moor, calling the rain.
It must have come—she could smell it. But she was not on the moor. Whatever she was lying on was much softer than heather and bracken.
It was Euan Rohe, and this was a bed, and she was in a room that she did not recognize at all. The stallions were quiescent behind her eyes. If there had been any danger, they would have known.
She considered being angry, but there did not seem to be anything to be angry about. She would have been angrier if it had been Kerrec—either because the rest of it had been a dreadful dream or because she was not ready to take him back.
She might never be ready for that. Whereas Euan…
He was deep asleep and snoring softly. He still wore the heavy torque that marked the high king. His breeks were on and securely belted.
She would have known if he had done anything to her. Not that he would have done it in any case, not without her consent. Euan was capable of many things, but rape had never been one of them.
She lay nursing her pounding head and watched him sleep. Very soon she was going to be ravenously hungry, but at the moment food was not what her body wanted.
It had been a long while since she felt this way. It was an ache in her, a fierce and pleasurable pain, tightening her breasts and melting between her legs. Her breath came quickly. Her skin felt strangely tender, as if a glance could burn.
She laid her hand ever so lightly on his cheek. Stubble pricked her palm. His moustaches were smooth and silky. His lips beneath were surprisingly soft. They tasted of mead, which was honey kissed with fire.
His eyes were open, clear and unclouded with sleep. She brushed the lids with a kiss.
His arms closed around her. She caught her breath, but not in protest.
His belt was little enough obstacle, his breeks even less. The shift she had been dressed in was long gone. She rose above him, hands locked with his, and took him inside her.
His back arched. He brought their joined hands together to cup her breasts. She found a rhythm that she well remembered.
It was like the language he spoke, deep and rolling. Its high notes made her cry out.
At that he laughed, a rumble of mirth. She swooped down and stopped it with a kiss, and then another, and a third.
She trapped their hands between them, pressed body to body. His delight sang in her. His pleasure fed hers as hers fed his, until she could not tell which was which.
Gods, he loved her. She—yes, she loved him. She always had. Not in the same way that she loved Kerrec, but with equal intensity.
Her body spasmed. Her mind emptied of thought. There was nothing left but pure sensation.
Euan Rohe purred when he was happy. He was not aware that he was doing it and would have sputtered denial if Valeria had told him. The soft rumble reminded her of a cat on a village hearth.
She lay with her head on his chest and listened to it. Her body was more deeply relaxed than it had been in a long time. Her mind was avoiding certain difficult thoughts.
She would have to let them in sooner or later, but for now she chose later. She deserved a little contentment.
No one troubled the high king when he was in bed. The dun was awake and humming, but the door remained shut and his people stayed on the other side of it. Valeria watched a spot of sun work its way along the wall.
When it was halfway to noon, Euan’s purring stopped. Valeria raised her head. He looked down at her, eyes narrowed slightly, deep in thought, though he smiled when her gaze met his.
“My heart,” he said in his own language.
It was more than an endearment. It was truth.
Valeria’s fingers brushed his lips. He kissed them as they passed. “Do you know where we are?” he asked.
“Dun Gralloch?”
“Dun Mor,” he said.
Her brows rose.
“It was closer,” he answered, though she had not asked the question aloud. “This is the queen’s chamber. Do you like it?”
“I like the bed,” she said, “and what is in it.”
He grinned. “Do you now?”
“I hope its usual occupant doesn’t mind,” she said—the first difficult thought, and probably the easiest.
Strange that she could bear the thought of him having duns full of wives. He was barbarian and a king. That was what they did.
Then he said, “There is no usual occupant.”
That surprised her, though there could be a sensible reason for it. “It’s too soon, I suppose. You can’t have been Ard Ri for long.”
“Since spring,” he said. “Kings and chiefs have been throwing their daughters at me. Sometimes I’ve caught one, kissed her and praised her and sent her home again.”
“You didn’t inherit the old king’s harem?”
He snorted. “That’s the east you’re thinking of—where is it, Parthai? When a king dies here, the women who don’t accompany him to his barrow are free to go back to their clans. They might decide to stay, but mostly they go.”
“That’s a merciful thing,” she said.
“It’s practical. They go on living to bear sons, and the new king makes alliances with other clans.”
“Wise,” she said. “I’m glad there’s no queen yet. It might have been uncomfortable.”
“It’s worse than that with him. Isn’t it?”
And that was another difficult thought. Valeria faced it more steadily than she had expected. Aurelia seemed unreachably far away, and Kerrec’s face though burned in her heart could not quite overcome the sight of Euan Rohe naked in the high queen’s bed.
“It’s not as bad as it was,” she said.
He smiled. If he had been smug she would have recoiled, but he was simply happy. The purr was back, very soft, hardly to be heard. “I’m glad,” he said.
She let the silence go on for as long as it wanted to. When Euan broke it, she was half in a dream, though she could never have said what that dream was. “This could be your bed. If you choose.”
“Oh, no,” she started to say. “I don’t need the best bed in the dun.”
Then she realized what he had said.
“I’m from Aurelia,” she said. “I’m a mage—a rider, no less. What will your people say?”
“That you brought the rain and saved the people.”
“That doesn’t overcome the rest.”
“Oh, but it does. We’re practical, remember.”
“You’d use me.”
“Of course. And you’d use us—to cherish you, serve you, be your people.”
“My people?” She contemplated the long leanness of him, the bright hair and the wolf-eyes and the tracery of battle scars that marked his milk-white skin. She was fair-skinned and tall for an Aurelian, but her hand was a small brown mouse of a thing next to his big white one.
There were imperial citizens who looked like him—First Rider Gunnar for one. It was not the body that made the difference. His mind, the way he thought of magic, the god he worshipped and the things he believed in were alien.
He would happily destroy everything her father and grandfather had fought for, bring down the empire and enslave her people. His god was the Unmaking, his devotion given to death and pain. He had tried three times to kill or maim the rulers of Aurelia and would try again without a qualm.
And yet…
She laced her fingers with his. “Let me think about it,” she said.
He nodded. He did not seem too disappointed.
He knew her well enough to understand how enormous this decision was. If she chose him, everything would change for her. She would live in a new world.
From this there would be no going back. She kissed his fingertips and rose, hunting for her clothes.
They were folded on a stool, clean and brushed. She would have liked a bath, but there was none to be seen. There was a chamberpot—its use was obvious, and she did use it—and that was all.
She dressed and combed her hair with her fingers. Euan was asleep again, or pretending to be. She took a deep breath and braved the door.
>
The only lock was on the inside. She opened it on a short passageway with closed doors on either side of it. At the far end of it was a narrow stone stair.
The hum and buzz of a royal hall in the daytime grew louder as she went down. On this bright day she could suppose that most of those who lived in the dun were out and about, but there were still a good two or three dozen idling in the long stone chamber.
Some were sleeping or communing with cups of mead or ale. A good few listened to a singer with a harp. He had established himself in a corner and was chanting in a strong musical voice.
It was Master Pretorius, dressed in brown leather and looking very much at ease. His command of the language was notably better than Valeria’s.
He took no notice of her until his song was done. Then he passed the harp to the man next to him, smiling and shaking his head when his audience begged him to give them another song. He stood and bowed and left them.
“Did the whole camp come here overnight?” Valeria asked him when he came up beside her.
He smiled. “Only a few of us. A frantic messenger came to drag me off. He seemed to think you were dead or worse.”
“They don’t know mages here,” she said.
“So I told him,” said Pretorius, “but he was insistent and I have an aversion to violence. I let myself be persuaded.”
“I’m sure it suited your purpose,” she said.
He shrugged, still smiling. He began to walk toward the door of the hall. Valeria followed.
Even as crowded as the dun was, the wall that surrounded it was deserted except for the men on watch—one at each corner, alert and diligent. They had little interest in a pair of imperials jabbering in their own language.
Halfway down the eastward wall was a stone bench, so ancient its edges were worn smooth. Pretorius sat on it. Valeria preferred to lean against the parapet.
“Now I need the truth,” she said. “What exactly am I supposed to be doing here?”
“What do you want to be doing?”
“No,” she said. “Not that game. Not now. You knew what I was riding to. You foresaw what I would do. You know what has come of it. What do you expect of me?”
Shattered Dance Page 23