by Jean Johnson
“This one,” Eduor said, lifting the one in his hands.
“That basket, then, on the altar platform,” she agreed. “That will be the first fruits to the Goddess. This one would therefore be the second fruits for the priesthood and the dyara.”
The tap-tap of dyara Kedle’s cane, which she had started using in the last month, heralded the approach of the chief priestess. “That is a very small offering of first and second fruits, young man. Important, in that you brought it so soon, and I’ll trust you gave as much care in selecting the first fruits as you’ve shown in everything else you’ve done so far ... but it is customary to bring a larger tithe of the harvest than that.”
“With respect, reverend dyara,” Eduor said, giving her a bow, “I did not feel right about giving the full tithe. The land is not mine, and the seed was not mine, nor the bushes, nor the trees. Only the effort in growing it has been mine. The larger share of it still belongs to the absent owner, Falkon. In his name, I will bring a larger portion in a few days’ time, when the full harvest begins. This is just what I felt I could bring to represent the value of my own labors.”
Kedle paused, studying the young man, then smiled. “You show wisdom ... and the mind of a law-sayer, to parse your responsibility so fine. But only by the letter of the law. If Falkon and his followers haven’t returned by now, either they are dead at the hands of their enemies or they have been indentured to their captors ... or perhaps they have taken to the warrior’s life like an animal takes to an oasis. Somehow I doubt the boy will return before the end of harvest. If he does not ... then all but that portion of the first fruits would be your tithe to the Goddess of Water and Flame, and what you have brought today would be his.”
“With respect, reverend dyara,” Eduor started to protest. Kedle lifted her hand, forestalling him.
“The greatest portion, young man, comes not from the seed to sow and the land to sow it in, but the act of sowing it. You cannot have a good hen to lay eggs if her own egg is not first carefully tended and hatched,” Kedle reminded both of them. “Now, set the first fruits on the altar dais, and take the second fruits up to the kitchen,” she directed them. “Dyara Chanson, have you finished polishing the brazier?”
“Well, no, reverend dyara,” Chanson admitted. “I was almost finished, but I paused so that I could accept his offering.”
The elderly woman chuckled. “That’s not the only thing he’s been offering—have you given her a kiss yet, young man?”
Eduor blushed, his cheeks darkening further under his tan. “Well, no, but ... I thought it best to first honor the Goddess, and to not think of such things in Her temple.”
“The Goddess enjoys a good romance, the same as any of us—passion has been compared more than once to a flame, after all. Sometimes it warms us and sometimes it burns us, but it is a vital part of our life. Now, I can polish the rest of the brazier, if you will deal with the baskets. The rubbing cloth is the lighter of the two loads, after all. Go on,” the reverend dyara urged, gesturing with the tip of her cane toward the stairs to the second and higher floors. “Make sure he shows you his appreciation as he helps you with the second fruits.” She smiled, wrinkling her face with definite humor. “Just don’t be late for the noon prayers. Or too noisy.”
Eduor flushed with embarrassment.
Blushing herself, though she knew it wouldn’t be as visible on her own brown cheeks, Chanson nudged him into moving. She guided him toward the altar, letting him set the basket of first fruits on the raised stone platform, then handed him the basket of second fruits and shooed him toward the stairs.
“Go on, take it up. Please,” she added as his brow creased in a faint frown. That’s right, I keep forgetting he has bad memories of being ordered around. “Would you please carry it up to the kitchen storeroom for me, Eduor?”
The hint of a wrinkle smoothed. Nodding, he headed for the stairs. They had kissed a few times since the Festival of Mid-Dry, but nothing further, and Chanson thought she knew why. I’ll have to phrase this very carefully, then, and be mindful of his past and its memories. Because Kedle is right, our Goddess does enjoy a good romance.
When he put the basket in the kitchen storeroom and carefully added the figs to the shelves and the grain to the bin, she didn’t tell him what she wanted to do. Instead, she smiled and held out her hand. He eyed it warily, but she didn’t pressure him, just left her fingers up in a silent offering. Eduor hesitated a long moment, then placed his hand in hers. Still smiling, Chanson led him out of the kitchen area and up the next flight of stairs to her own room.
But not straight to her bed. Instead, she tugged him over to the recessed window looking out across the village, and sat on one end of the cushion-strewn bench. “This is my favorite place to sit and think,” she said as she looked up at him. “Would you like to sit?”
Nodding, he settled near her. Not so close that their thighs brushed, but close enough that their hands, still joined, rested comfortably between them. His blue gaze skipped around her room, first glancing toward her bed, then toward the steel mirror by her clothes cupboard, then back to the bed, before glancing at the door that led to her private refreshing room. And back to the bed again.
Chanson didn’t have to guess what was going through his mind. She figured it was in a muddle. Wanting a little more privacy, she adjusted the wooden blinds on her window, pulling on the cord, which tilted them just enough to block out the view from below. “Eduor ... I want to ask something of you.”
That pulled his gaze back to her face. “What is it?”
His reply wasn’t entirely defensive, but she did notice a hint of wariness in his gaze. Choosing her words carefully, she laid out her thoughts. “I would like to ask you to do something for me. I would like you to tell me what you want. From me, with me, about me ... about us. Because I like you—I really like you—but I know you had some bad experiences in your past.”
He didn’t bother to pretend ignorance. Wrinkling his nose, Eduor rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand. “I don’t like being told to ... go share a bed with someone, or the activities involved. And I no longer feel comfortable telling someone else to do those things, either. It doesn’t feel right. I can’t ...”
Squeezing his hand, Chanson soothed him. “I know, I know ... but, Eduor, if you don’t say what you want, how can I know? The Gods gave us the privacy of our thoughts, but that in turn means that we must share them of our own free will. I don’t want you to tell me what to do, either. At least, not in the expectation that I’d have done it regardless of my own feelings,” she allowed dryly. “It might turn out to be something that I want to do, but I know that you don’t want to order me around. Nor do I want to boss you around. For one, it’s exhausting, and for another, that would be an abuse of my power as dyara and the next reverend priestess in training.”
“Quite,” he agreed. He frowned softly, thoughtfully. “You’re saying I do have to tell you, in the sense of just saying it so that you’ll know. And then ... let you decide for yourself whether or not you’ll do it?”
She smiled, relieved. “Yes, exactly. And I promise you that I will do the same. We should also remember to ask what the other person wants, and if at any time, anything makes us uncomfortable, we should feel free to say ‘stop’ and know the other one of us will stop, yes? So. Do we have an agreement between us?”
He considered her offer for a mere moment before nodding. “Yes. We do. So ... I should go first, I guess. What do you want?”
Chanson grinned, happy that he had not only agreed but asked. “I want you. Now would be lovely, but I can also wait for later. I made sure to buy a fresh contraceptive amulet from the mage-vendor when he visited last month, same as many of the other young ladies around here, so that worry is taken care of for the next whole year. As for what I want in specific regarding you ... well, I want to do a lot of things with you, but the first thing I would like to see, if I may, is your chest.”
“My chest?�
� he repeated. “Just my chest, for now?”
Chanson nodded, all but holding her breath, and he gave her a half smile of his own. Freeing his fingers, he lifted both hands to the laces holding the long, overlapping folds of his thawa in place. The garment was a fanciful version of the kind worn out among the fields. Once unlaced, the neckline opened down to the waist where it was usually belted or sashed, though the sleeves could also be used to tie the garment around the hips. Slipping free of those sleeves, Eduor left them puddled at his hips, baring his arms as well as his upper body.
Scooting a little closer, Chanson lifted her hand, then paused. “May I touch your chest?”
“You may.”
She laid her hand on his sternum and spread her fingers. The contrast in shades of brown, hers dark and rich, his warm and golden, made her smile. “Look at that,” she murmured, gently sliding her palm up, then down. “You and I together are so different, and yet beautiful.”
“I’ve usually been called handsome, not beautiful,” he allowed, following her fingers with his gaze. “But usually by women who were either ordered to think that, or ...”
“Well, I will say there are a couple of men in this village who are slightly better-looking,” Chanson teased, grinning, “but none so exotic, and none that I want as much as you.”
Eduor chuckled. “I’m not exotic. Blond, maybe, but I’m just a man.”
“Nonsense. Everything about you is different. Even your chest hairs,” she told him. “They’re long and straight, instead of short and curly. And your eyes remind me of spring skies between the rains. You yourself are different, inside. You’re educated, and you’ve traveled—”
“—Involuntarily,” Eduor agreed wryly.
“Yes, but you’ve been well beyond the next village,” she reminded him. “You think about things that are larger than just the little world of Oba’s Well, and it’s easier for you because of your travels. I like talking with you, not just at you. And I like looking at you ... and thinking about you. I do that a lot, when I sit here in the mornings.”
“I think about you whenever I see the color blue,” Eduor said. She looked up at his face and saw his almost-shy smile. He covered her hand with his, holding it still, then glanced down at it. “I want ...” He flushed and looked away, biting his lower lip.
Chanson waited patiently, wanting him to feel free to say whatever was on his mind. “Yes?”
“I want you to ... touch me. All over. And ... And give me pleasure. But only if you want it,” he added quickly, meeting her gaze with a directness that underscored his seriousness on that point.
She grinned. “I was hoping you’d ask. Would you please stand?”
Complying, he stood and loosened the sash. Without being prompted, Eduor pulled both sash and thawa over his head. He dropped them on the cushion-padded bench, leaving him in the loincloth favored by Sundaran men. He had once described to her the many layers of a Mandarite nobleman’s clothing. She hadn’t been able to picture it very clearly even with his attempts at drawing it for her. Now, almost naked, she couldn’t imagine him any other way. He stood in his skin and his sandals, facing her with the plain linen cloth wrapped around his hips and groin, and did so with a mixture of dignity and self-awareness.
His thighs fascinated her. Chanson knew he was paler than a Sundaran; one only had to look at his golden-brown face to see it. But his thighs, between hips and knees, were as pale as sand. Wanting a closer look, she slipped off the bench onto one knee. Eduor jumped back.
“What—don’t do that!” he exclaimed, eyes wide with shock and what looked like a little fear.
Confused, Chanson blinked up at him. “Do what?”
“Don’t ...” He flushed, closed his eyes for a moment, then wrapped his arms around his chest. “Back ... in Mandare ... As the son of an Earl, it was customary in our household to be greeted every day by our slave-women. Greeted by them ... They’d get on their knees, and ...” He couldn’t seem to get the words out, though he tried. “Just don’t kneel in front of me. Please. You aren’t a slave, and I don’t have any right to ...”
She still didn’t get it. “Right to ... what?”
He flushed even redder and bit out the words with a grimace. “... Expect you to suckle me.”
Comprehension dawned, aided by the bulge now evident in his loincloth. If he had that done to him every day, it must have trained his body to respond in expectation from the moment a woman kneels in front of him, like the way a pampered horse or donkey would learn to expect a bit of fruit before and after being harnessed to the plow. But now he doesn’t want to expect it, in the sense of demanding it as a right. Though surely it can’t be good for him to suffer without release; Sundra knows he hasn’t courted any other woman since coming to the village, or I’d have heard of it by now.
Rising to her feet, Chanson caught his hands and gently drew them out from under his elbows. She smiled at him gently, letting him know it was alright. “Then I won’t kneel ... even though I find your pale thighs rather fascinating and just wanted a closer look.” She flashed him a grin and he relaxed a little. “Maybe when I feel like it at some point in the future ... but since you don’t want me to do it right now, I won’t. So come, sit on the bench with me. Like equals. Equals sit together, yes?”
Nodding, he relaxed further and let her guide him back onto the cushions of her window seat. “Yes, equals sit together.”
A thought occurred to her, and she smiled wryly. “Actually, to be equal, I’d have to take off my blouse and skirt. Shall I do that?”
From the instant interest in his exotic blue eyes, she figured she didn’t really have to ask. But she waited until he gave her a quick, eager bobble of his head, then stood. It didn’t take long to untie the lacings at the ruffled neckline of her blouse, but she took her time in letting that neckline droop down over her shoulders. She also watched her soon-to-be lover, enjoying the way his blue eyes roved over her skin.
She didn’t let it down quite far enough to expose her breasts just yet, but instead removed the belt holding the aquamarine fabric in place, then loosened the lacings of her skirt. That, she let slide to the floor, exposing her legs down to her sandals. That also dragged his gaze down to the floor, and he took his time bringing it back up again.
From the increased shape of his loincloth, he was enjoying the view. Once his eyes returned to her face, she loosened her blouse just a little bit more and let it flutter to the floor. His gaze lingered on her breasts, long enough to make them feel tight with the longing for a more tangible caress. He lowered his focus to her hips, next.
Like his, her loincloth was crafted from plain, undyed linen, bleached only by repeated dryings in the sun. And like his, hers had the same long, ribbonlike tapes that wrapped around her hips, as well as the fall which passed from back to front, looped around the waistband, and returned to back where it was tucked into itself once more. Unlike his, which blended in with his pale thighs, hers stood out prominently against her sun-dark skin.
“I find,” Eduor murmured, staring at her loins, “your own thighs fascinating. Very dark and exotic.”
Pleased, Chanson stepped out of the light blue puddle of her clothes. Before he could protest, she straddled his pale thighs and settled on his knees, bringing their contrasting flesh together. His hands lifted as if to ward her off, then hovered a moment, no doubt unsure if he had the right to touch her. She could only imagine what he had gone through. Catching his fingers, she brought his palms down on the tops of her thighs.
“I want you to touch me,” she murmured. Sliding her fingertips to his wrists, she explored up his forearms. Here, his skin wasn’t as pale as his thighs, but rather tanned to a nut brown from long exposure to the sun. “And I want to touch you. What do you want, Eduor of Oba’s Well?”
Knowing he wanted to fit in, she watched his eyes brighten with her intentional phrasing. “I want ... you. I want to touch you.”
She smiled. “I want you to.”
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nbsp; His hands, resting on her thighs, moved. They slid up and down, caressing her legs, then moved to her waist. She drew in a breath of pleasure, only to squirm a moment later when his fingertips grazed her ribs a little too lightly.
Blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully. She stared back at him. He wriggled his fingers again. She squirmed a second and gave him a dirty look, but it was spoiled by her grin. He matched it with a wicked one of his own, and attacked. Within heartbeats she was squirming and laughing so hard, she could hear her voice echoing off the walls of her room, and no doubt across the roofs of the buildings beyond her open window.
Somewhere in the middle of arching her back, he swooped down and captured the tip of her left breast. Her laughter turned into a choked gasp, then a moan as he suckled and licked. Swirling and flicking his long, agile tongue, he tasted her from one breast to the other and back.
She wasn’t sure which one of them moaned first, or who groaned in reply. Nor was she sure when her fingers buried themselves among the thin braids confining his soft curls, though she did note that every time she tugged gently, he suckled more strongly. Murmuring his name, she stroked and tugged in encouragement. His arms hooked around her hips and pulled her close, until her linen-wrapped groin was snuggled enticingly tight against his. Well, as tight as her restless circling and his own rocking would allow.
He mumbled something against her breasts. She managed a noise of inquiry between moaning breaths, and he dragged his lips from her flesh.
“I need,” he panted.
“Need?” Chanson asked, attention distracted by the way he flicked his tongue in circles around her right nipple.
“Need ... to be inside you,” he groaned.
“Oh, yes,” she agreed, shivering with anticipation. He hitched her closer, then stood. Clutching at his shoulders for balance, Chanson pressed a kiss to Eduor’s forehead. He crossed to her bed and laid her down, then reached for the tapes on her loincloth. Pushing up on one elbow, she reached for his, smirking as they untied each other’s final garment. If one didn’t count their sandals.