The Price of Blood and Honor

by Elizabeth Willey

  “Oh, Freia. Sorry. Lost my head.”

  “I took it.”

  “You did. Grabbed it and wouldn’t let me have it back. Unfair. Holding it just out of reach like that.”

  “You found your tongue anyway,” she giggled.

  “Hah. Yes, here it is—”

  The rain fell and night drew close around the trees and water.

  “I want you forever,” Freia whispered in his ear in the rustling darkness. Now she had him: she wished to keep him unchanged, to lie beside him and curl around him, to think what he thought and be what he wanted and let him soak into her skin until they were inseparable. What made her happy overwhelmed him with joy; what made him happy sent her into near-painful ecstasy. An unending plateau of happiness stretched before them.

  Dewar kissed her neck, murmuring, “I want you. I dream about you every night. About looking for you. I should have made love to you on that haystack.”

  “It would have been cold and prickly,” Freia whispered, “and hasty. But I wish you had. I was afraid to—I hadn’t ever. I didn’t know—but this is—good, this is what I thought—what I wanted so much, always, but better.” She sighed, shivering with aftershocks of pleasure, even as a few silent tears—old pains, flicked awake—startled her.

  Dewar thought of things that might not have happened had he indulged desire then and delayed their journey to Perendlac, and he kissed her eyes as she spoke, tasting salt. “You’re probably right,” he murmured, and then, understanding why she’d been tense, taut, hesitant, “Dear love, dear Freia—” And memory arced through his sex-fogged brain. He froze for an instant.

  The Stone. His first-born. He was a fool.

  What had come over him?—but he knew: nothing he could do would avoid or delay the Stone, the working of the Balance.

  “What’s wrong?”

  It would be fitting, neatly fitting—she would pay with him—“Ah. Freia, ah, damn me, I should have been more careful—I didn’t think—I hope I, we, didn’t— If I’ve made you pregnant—”

  “Wrong time for me.”

  His sigh of relief embarrassed him an instant later as her voice purred on in his ear, sweet-toned with longing, “I’d like to have a baby this way.”

  “I can’t think why. I’m a proven fool.” He touched her body, apologizing to it with a gesture. She had just offered him a tremendous compliment, and he didn’t know how to answer. Of his will he would not make so obvious an offering to the Stone as that. Yet he loved her; she loved life; he wanted what she wanted, and if new life was what she wanted he would give it to her despite his sorcerous instinct, which screamed against such endangerment. “But if you wish,” he offered recklessly, courting the precipice.

  Freia shook her head, tucked herself against him. “I don’t think this would be the best year for it.” It didn’t feel like a good year to start anything; the blighted forest was visible advice.

  “And Prospero would be perturbed.” At the very least, Dewar thought, wrying his mouth. Prospero was a possessive man, and Freia was his.

  “He’d be very angry,” Freia muttered darkly, and she stretched and turned so that they were face-to-face on their sides. “I’m getting cold,” she said, and then softer-voiced went on, “Would you stay here? Tonight? With me?”

  Dewar smiled, and his voice held the smile. “You’re nice to sleep with, Freia. Cuddly. It’s wet and chill, though. May I offer better accommodations?”

  “A tent?” she suggested hopefully.

  “Come to my tower with me, and we can return here later.”

  Leave Argylle, with Dewar, for a safe place, undespoiled, to lie beside him—to sleep in his arms, to hear his voice in her ear, the dear warm note melting her bones in her body and every sadness in her soul—to listen to the language of his hands—to rest a night, a day, before going onward in the ashes—she desired it; she desired him.

  She touched him in the darkness, water running over her arms onto his chest, his throat, his face. In spite of her own heart’s desire, she thought, and Prospero’s shadow, invoked by Dewar, dimmed hope and lay cold over her.

  “If I went away with you now, I’m afraid I’d never want to come back,” Freia said.

  “I’m a glutton. I want you all to myself, all the time,” he admitted, “but, Freia, only if you want that too. I can never keep you against your will.”

  “I wouldn’t have any will left.” Freia pushed her face into the warm, damp nook where his neck and shoulder met. Dewar curled around her, saying velvet words that were only reassuring, meaningless sounds. “It’s not fair,” she whispered, “I don’t need a brother—I need you.”

  Dewar held her with one arm, gesturing with the other in the darkness, stretching and reaching. “A moment, love. A moment,” he said, and murmured something more. “That will keep the rain off us awhile.—You’re right, Freia, sweet love, it isn’t fair, I know, I want you to be something else, but you’re my father’s daughter, and we cannot—”

  “I’m not really your sister if I’m not really Prospero’s—”

  “You are, you are, though, Freia. You are of his blood, your soul in a body of odd engendering, but you are his—you are, Freia.” He held her.

  “You said—you said I’m not. You said I’m common clay—a thing Prospero made—like Caliban.”

  He realized it with coldness in his back: she did not remember their meeting with the Stone, or she would not be saying this. If she did not remember—no, he could not tell her, burden her with what he had paid for her life. It would be blackmail. “I was wrong,” Dewar said miserably. “I was wrong to speak thus to Josquin, but, Freia, how your body began is unimportant: you are Prospero’s blood, Prospero’s daughter.”

  “Then why—”

  “Because I was less than human myself. That you live now proves me wrong, for if you were not alive, alive and human to the soul, you could not be here now. Whence you came is nothing; what you are is all that matters. I have wronged you, and I beg you to put away from you all the wrongs I did you that day and let me make amends—now, for all my days—” His voice cracked with the strain of sincerity, and he whispered, “I love you. Will you come away with me?”

  “He’d kill me,” Freia said. “We could go away from here and never never come back again, that’s all. And I don’t want to do that because this is home. It’s the only place I have. I missed it so much,” and she seemed to be pleading now.

  Dewar licked her eyes and her salted cheeks, whispering. “It belongs to you, Freia, and you belong to it. You couldn’t stay away forever. It would come looking for you.”

  Freia thought of Trixie and smiled in spite of herself. “It did,” she said.

  “There. See? We’ll stay here. That’s settled.” Dewar kissed her mouth.

  “You’ll stay? You will? Here?”

  “Yes.” He kissed her again, promising.

  Freia sighed, feeling the liquid movement of his muscles, the slick smoothness of his skin. “I like being near you,” she said.

  “I like being near you, too. The sea loves the shore, wave by wave,” he whispered and Dewar this time was kissed. “Are you cold, still,” he asked after a while.

  “Yes. I have blankets in my saddle-bags.”

  “I think we shouldn’t sleep here. This is the stream’s bed, not ours, and the stream is rising to fill his bed.”

  “So he is. It’s too dark to wander around.”

  “Stop that, or we won’t get anywhere. I’ll make a light, love, and we’ll find your blankets and higher ground.”

  23

  ALTHOUGH THE BARON OF ASCOLET WAS out of favor, the Countess of Lys was not. This curious contradictory state of affairs was noted by the Court when the Countess arrived, at the Empress’s invitation, for a springtime visit. She brought a small entourage with her, and notably present was her daughter, a charming black-haired child in leading-strings, whose smile never failed and whose sweet good humor commended her—and her mother—to everyone she me
t.

  The Baron of Ascolet, learning somehow that his little family was at Court, appeared at the Palace gates just after sunrise about twenty days after the Countess’s arrival. The guards, who had no orders to bar him from the place, admitted him, and Fortuna would have it that the first person he met as he was leaving the stables was the Empress, who on fine days enjoyed an early ride.

  Of course, an Empress does not ride alone; six ladies were with her, and four amusing gentlemen.

  “Your Majesty, good morning,” said Ottaviano, and he bowed as gracefully as his all-day, all-night ride would allow.

  The Empress considered for a lightning instant ignoring him and his greeting; her courteous conscience would not allow it, though, and she said, “Ah, the Baron of Ascolet.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said, straightening.

  The Empress granted him a nod and continued in through the high-arched gate that led to the stables’ courtyard; he stood aside for her and her retinue, and she supposed the meeting was over. But when she came out, mounted and leading her attendants, he was still there.

  “Your Majesty!”

  Having noticed him once, she couldn’t cut him now. The Empress drew rein and looked down; it was not very far down, as he was a tall man and she was on a small horse. “You have something to say, Baron?”

  He glanced at her ladies and lords, behind her, and said, “Just a few words, privately.”

  Empress Glencora considered it, letting him see that she weighed it as a great favor to him. Then she held up her hand, walked her horse two steps, and stopped again. “Speak,” she said.

  “Your Majesty, I heard that my wife, the Countess of Lys, is here at Court,” said Otto. “Is she?”

  “Yes,” said the Empress, and his tone drew her eyes from the aigrette on her horse’s head to his face—sunburnt, a sleek unfashionable red beard contrasting with his blond hair.

  “And Cambia too? Is that true?”

  “Yes,” the Empress said.

  He nodded once. “I know I’m not particularly welcome in the Palace, Your Majesty,” he said, “but I haven’t—seen them in a while and—and I very much wish to. I’m telling you this so you know why I’m here. I’m here to see my wife and baby.”

  The Empress looked at Otto for a long, long moment. He swallowed, becoming uneasy with the examination.

  “The Emperor,” Empress Glencora said slowly, and in a tone not pitched to be heard by any but Otto, “did not see me, or the Prince Heir Josquin, for nine years after the Prince’s birth.”

  Otto’s brows drew together. “That may be all right for some people—”

  “Be welcome here,” said the Empress.

  His mouth fish-flapped, and he said, “Thank you.”

  “There have been some difficulties between you.”

  “Well, maybe, I mean I—yes.” He looked down.

  “The Countess is very devoted to Lys.”

  “Yeah. Yes, Your Majesty, she is.”

  She studied his head, his shoulders, his stance. “We wish you a pleasant and profitable visit, Baron,” she said then. “I believe the Hunt Rooms are vacant; Teppick will show you to them. Perhaps you and the Countess would join us tomorrow at our reception in the South-East Parterre.”

  Otto looked up, a grateful and burning look, and as he thanked her, bowing again, Glencora smiled, lifted her hand, and rode slowly away.

  Freia woke on her back, confused by the view overhead. She wasn’t alone, she was under a thick stand of karial trees, and she was wearing only her shirt. Birdsongs were pealing from the dark leaves; they were Argylle birds—

  She had come home. Yesterday. She and Trixie had woven their way through passes in the mountains that circled Argylle like a wall, and she had stopped to rest and sent Trixie off to hunt. The forest was a mess of tumbled trunks and ashes, and it had rained, and— Freia turned on her side and stared at Dewar, who was going to wake up and complain that she had taken all the blankets in a moment. She rolled back toward him and covered them both. Dewar, complaisant in his sleep, hmm’d happily and put his hand on her rump to hold her close; Freia pressed her face to his chest, moving her legs to clasp him, inhaling their blended smell.

  He moved some time later, withdrawing slightly and then halting.

  “Freia.”

  “Mmhm.”

  “Were you trying to …?”

  “If you … oh.”

  “I will if you do that,” Dewar invited her, moving against her. “You won’t mind if I sleep for another hour, hm?”

  She pushed him on his back and straddled him, kissing and nuzzling his stubbled neck and jaw, smoothing his day’s growth of rough short beard with her cheeks. His skin was so soft, save for the beard; his arms were softer than his cheeks, nearly.…

  “What a nice dream. I’m never going to wake up.” He smiled, eyes closed, pushing his hands up her thighs.

  She laughed. “I’ll make you.”

  The damp blankets were discarded as unnecessary and Dewar was fully awakened by the time the sun had brightened the air.

  “May I ask a favor of you, my love?” he said in her ear, rocking her on his lap.

  Freia sighed, opened her eyes. “Yes.”

  “I want your shirt.”

  “This shirt?”

  “This shirt covering you.”

  Freia sat back, looked at him to see if he jested, and pulled it over her head. “Here it is.”

  “Thank you.” Dewar set it aside and drew Freia toward him again: all skin now. He touched her, sighing with pleasure. Save the best for last: this was the best. “And thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I feel, mmm, more than alive.” She was smiling dreamily, eyes unfocused.

  “I know. So lovely, Freia.” He braced himself to dispel the glow around her. “We mustn’t let anyone know.”

  She twisted her mouth, blinked back two tears. Just for a moment, she had been truly happy, wanted and wanting, holding and held. But there was no point weeping over it: she knew he was right. His “anyone” meant Prospero, and she knew Prospero would disapprove. “Of course not,” she agreed, falsely brisk.

  Dewar stroked her face with both hands, seeing the tears. He kissed her eyes slowly, wanting to weep himself. “And it—we’d better not let this happen again.”

  He was right, and she knew it. Prospero had been at great pains to explain it to her and, later, to the Argyllines. Blood-kin mustn’t mate. It wasn’t done, shouldn’t have been done, and couldn’t be done again. And he had been at great pains to explain to Freia, on several occasions, that she was not to mate at all, not until the proper partner had been found for her. Were he to learn of any of this, his wrath would fell forests. She gulped. “I know.” A long, mutual gaze, each memorizing the other, followed.

  “But you’ll stay,” Freia whispered, despair seizing her. If he did not, how empty, how lonely …

  Dewar nodded. “I said I would,” he said. “I want to stay. If you want me here, here I am.”

  Another silence fell between them as they sat, breath-to-breath.

  “We’d better get dressed,” Freia said, still sad, “and eat something, and do things.”

  “Like talk about what things there are to do.”

  She nodded and edged off his lap reluctantly. He leaned forward and kissed her mouth as she moved, letting their lips separate when their bodies had parted. Lifting her hands, he kissed each of her fingers quickly and lightly in turn, then picked up her shirt and donned it.

  Kneeling on the leaf-litter, Freia looked at him with her head tipped to one side. “You,” she said, “are a romantic sot.”

  Dewar laughed. “And you are a eunuch’s torment. Go put on some clothes.” He found his own wet shirt and tossed it at her.

  The Emperor of Landuc sat on a golden throne on a crimson dais beneath a white awning, his Empress ivory-and-gold beside him. The awning was topped by a gilded flame, its bottom tasseled gold and crimson, and it glittered on the groomed grass of t
he parterre, and the gold and gems on the Emperor and Empress glittered within its bright shade. They sat and watched the Court amuse them and itself; favored intimates clustered around the thrones and lounged on the foot of the dais, juggling witty anecdotes and badinage, wagers and boasts. At the other end of the green, musicians played a sprightly springly dance and the younger members of the Court skipped through the steps, laughing.

  One might reasonably have expected the young Countess of Lys and her handsome husband to be among the dancers. They were not. Forgoing the other games the day offered, they were engaged in the strenuous pastime of not having a public argument.

  “You may come to Lys whenever you wish,” Luneté said, strolling between two low hedges, going further into the parterre.

  “You could come to Ascolet.” Otto paced beside her, his hands knotted behind his back.

  “We have already discussed that.”

  “If you have time to dally around at Court, you have time to come to Ascolet.”

  “My business at Court is for Lys, not pleasure. Perhaps you should spend more time at Court yourself, and improve your standing with the Emperor.”

  “My standing with the Emperor is my own concern, madame, and another of my concerns is my daughter and you.”

  “Then you should visit Lys, where we are, more often.”

  They had rounded a corner and descended into a sunken part of the garden where a four-tiered fountain cascaded. No one had followed them; no one seemed to be in earshot. Otto stopped and caught her elbow, halting her.

  “Luneté, why do I have to come to Lys all the time? Why do you refuse to even visit Ascolet? —And don’t tell me that you have business in Lys, or that this trip is all business. You’ve drawn it out beyond the two or four days of business there was, and you know it and I know it. Tell me the truth.”