The Forests of Dru

by Jeffe Kennedy

  “Go ahead,” he told her, not playing his games, stroking a hand over her hair. The leather made it crackle like fire. “Explore, if you like.”

  “Spread your legs,” she told him, smiling to herself when he obliged. Cupping his balls, she weighed them, fascinated by the way the firm insides, like eggs, moved inside the looser outer skin. Lonen groaned, hand tightening in her hair. “Does that hurt?” she asked.

  “No. It’s good. So good. Touch me, love.”

  So, she kept one hand holding his jewels, cupping and massaging them, taking his cock in the other, stroking the velvet over his shaft so it went smooth in one direction, against the nap in the other. Both made him groan and shudder in turn.

  “Enough,” he gasped, urging to her feet and pushing her back onto the bed. “Spread your legs for me, as I told you.”

  She did, with not even an inkling of refusing him. There was a power in this, too, lying back on her fur cloak and parting her thighs for his avid gaze. He grasped her knees, pushing them wider apart and back. “This is pink, too,” he told her. “Blushing for me like you do when you think about having me.”

  Of course, she blushed at that, that he read her so easily. An irony that she could feel shyness over that when she was so totally physically exposed.

  “Hold your knees apart for me like that, so I don’t accidentally touch you,” he instructed, putting one knee on the bed and stroking the now wet and rougher leather down the tender skin of the inside of her thighs. His cock bobbed over her, enticing, and she wished she could put her mouth on it, or put him inside her.

  “Why do you get leather gloves and I get velvet?” Her breaths came in pants as he toyed with her, brushing his fingers along the outside of her burning core, not quite where she needed it most.

  His fierce silvery gaze lifted to hers, his hair loose now, snaking in curls around his strong shoulders. “You can have leather. I’ll wear velvet. I’ll have gloves made for us both in every fabric imaginable, so we can torment each other with the textures.” He pushed a finger, made thicker by the glove, inside her. “How’s this one?”

  She couldn’t answer, her eyes rolling back in her head, her breath stolen away. The invasion penetrated deeper than the physical, all of him coming into her. Having his finger, even gloved, inside her body permeated her with his particular energy, that core vibrance that had drawn her from the first moment.

  He slid the finger in and out of her, mimicking the intercourse they couldn’t have, and she lifted her hips in answer thrusts. “Yes?” he asked, a purr in his voice saying he knew the answer.

  “Yes,” she panted. “More.”

  “More,” he echoed, working a second finger inside her. It stretched her, the pleasurable ache making her keen. “Look at me,” Lonen commanded and she opened her eyes. He’d moved so he hovered over her, bracing himself on an elbow next to her head, a breath away from laying himself on her. Below, beyond the plank of his body, his fingers thrust in and out of her, diligently building the fire within. But all she could see was his face, so close to hers, his gaze mirroring the love and desire that radiated through her, from his touch inside her and wafting off his skin along with his intense body heat. Consciously or not, he undulated with her, moving as she did, and she could almost believe he made love to her in truth.

  She reached down and took his cock in her velvet grasp. His mouth fell open slightly, his face taking on a strained mien. Fingers thrusting harder, the hilt of his hand slamming against her, knuckle rubbing her pearl of pleasure, pressure building. Building.

  With a crash and a scream, she orgasmed, funneling her convulsion into her grip on his cock, angling it toward her entrance.

  “Oria…” Lonen gasped, straining to pull his hips back. “Love—”

  “Yes,” she demanded, working him faster.

  He went rigid, neck arching back and face suffusing with blood, a guttural roar erupting from his throat. Liquid splashed against her entrance—she hoped. Between his thrusting fingers and her own copious juices, she couldn’t be sure, but he knew. Veins bulging in his temples beside bright sliver eyes, he worked himself in her hand, echoing the movement with his fingers.

  “This is my cock,” he whispered, as he had on their wedding night. “Planting my seed in your fertile soil. My wife. My lovely sorceress. My queen.”

  With a fervent wish, she took him in. All of him, savoring and tucking it away, as she had with the forest breath. Keeping it safe. With any luck they’d made a child.

  Arill make it so.

  ~ 14 ~

  He made love to his wife twice more, until she fell into a deep sleep after the third round. All of her moods enchanted him. Submissive, queenly, angry, sweet, passionate, powerful, gasping and begging, fiercely demanding—he loved it all. From sleekly gorgeous, her slim, pale nakedness framed by the fur cloak, ribboned socks, boots and those Arill-forsaken scarlet gloves, to sleepy-eyed and rumpled, hair tousled from sex and sleep, every face of his personal goddess ruled his heart.

  Putting his seed inside her, even if only by close proxy, had given him such a powerful rush. Totally unexpected. Absolutely transporting. He couldn’t get enough of her.

  He had big plans for another session in the morning when she’d recovered—which quickly ground to a halt. Because of him, not her. Though his cock was ready enough, when Oria pulled on a glove to grasp it, he swore viciously, knocking her hand away.

  She blinked at him, puzzled and a little hurt. “What’s wrong?”

  Sitting back on his heels, he examined himself. Erect, yes, but also nearly as crimson as Oria’s gloves. His cock glowed with more than aroused color. The entire shaft looked rubbed raw, the head bloodred. Now that her velvet grasp had awakened the nerves, his entire cock throbbed with agony. Not at all a smart thing to do. Good thing his brothers would never know, or he’d hear about this until his deathbed.

  Oria raised dubious eyes to his, giving him a weak smile that became a grimace. “Too much chafing?”

  Gritting his teeth, he nodded. Really stupid. And inconsiderate. “How about you—are you sore?”

  Experimentally she pressed her thighs together, then shrugged a little. “Slightly. In a lovely way. I’ll probably walk funny.” She blushed as she made the joke, as if she hadn’t panted and begged and screamed her pleasure, encouraging him to penetrate every part of her. “I think I had more…lubrication.”

  Of course she had. Arill shouldn’t let his seed take root. He didn’t deserve to reproduce.

  Oria bit her lip in sympathy. Then he realized it was to keep from laughing. He scowled at her. “Laugh even a little and I’m flipping you over and spanking your bottom until it’s the same color as my cock.”

  With an amazing amount of control, she swallowed every hint of amusement, her face smoothing into a serene mask. Never forget her ability to assume an emotionless demeanor. She sat up, clutching the furs to her breast. “Perhaps some salve of some sort?” she suggested with polite reserve.

  The thought of that potential burn made him choke. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “I could—”

  “It’s my cock,” he snapped. “I’ll handle it.”

  “I’m sure you will,” she murmured as he yanked his shirt over his head, and he thought he detected a ripple of laughter in her voice, but when he whirled on her, she looked as demure as ever. The leather pants scraped his still-engorged cock abominably and he was hard pressed to keep from cursing further, willing the thing to subside already.

  “I’m going to check on Buttercup and rescue Chuffta,” he said. After the door slammed shut, a peal of laughter rang out, silvery magic riding it like frost on a mountain breeze.

  Nice to know he could make his sorceress break hwil and laugh—even at his expense.

  He stopped to make water on the way back, which turned out to be its own special nightmare. Worth it though. He shook his head at himself. What a night. He’d figure out something for the next time. Smooth leather gloves for he
r hands, maybe. And oil.

  Lots of oil.

  Setting those thoughts firmly aside, as they did not help with easing his arousal, he went back in to find Oria had already sponge-bathed with water warmed by the fire, and she had nearly finished adding all forty-seven layers of clothing. Why she didn’t melt inside all of that, he didn’t know, but the flushed and happy expression on her face—along with the sated and sensual smile she greeted him with—spoke volumes.

  He could live his whole life happily this way—warm, passionate nights, mornings with laughter. Get through all of this and they would. He would make it happen.

  Holding up the tools he’d brought from the extra packs stowed with Buttercup, he pointed to the chapel. “I’m going to do your grave-robbing. If Arill smites me, you’ll have to get off the mountain on your own.”

  She nodded, giving him a serious look, though her eyes sparkled. “I’ll stand ready to bargain for your immortal soul.” Exchanging a thought with Chuffta, who lolled belly-up in front of the blazing fire, she lost the smirk and added, “Try not to touch the mask though, if you can help it.”

  He turned back. “Why not? I touched your mask, back in Bára.”

  She picked up his hair tie and went to him, bidding him to turn around. Gathering his loose curls together—which in truth he’d forgotten about—she tied it back for him. “I don’t know,” she finally said, a remote sound to her voice. “A feeling I have. Chuffta thinks so, too.”

  “Someone would have had to touch it to inter it with her ashes,” he pointed out.

  “Still.” She went to get her cloak. “Why take the chance?”

  “You’re the sorceress. I’m just the muscle.” He opened the door and entered the dark and considerably chillier chapel. Oria followed behind, bringing a lantern from the cabin. “I’d light the fire, but this shouldn’t take long.”

  She nodded, shivering and drawing the cloak tighter around her, casting a long and pensive look at the retablo of her ancestress. “I wonder what happened to her children,” she said, as he began chipping at the loosest part of the mortar at the top.

  With any luck the cover stones would come free and they could extract the mask without further disturbing the ashes. Oria might like to tease him and imply that he was superstitious, but why risk angering the goddess? Why take the chance? Oria had said. Each of them with their own talismans for dealing with unknown powers.

  “I imagine they lived out their lives,” he answered.

  “But wouldn’t they have had a sensitivity to magic, being her get?”

  “No temple to train them, though.” The mortar gave a little, but not as easily as he’d hoped.

  “That would be even worse. The magic comes to you anyway—and makes you kind of crazy if you don’t know how to deal with it.”

  “Well, then they probably didn’t survive long among the Destrye. I can vouch that crazy people are barely tolerated now—back then would have been much worse. They’d have been exposed to the elements as babes or young children, or left behind if the tribe moved. If they made it to adulthood, the boys would have died in duels and the girls killed by angry husbands. And that’s only if the families managed to marry them off.” With a grunt, he applied more leverage, and the capstone grated free. “Got it!”

  The thing was heavy so he skewed it to the side, hoping to avoid lifting it off entirely. “Bring the candle here and see if—” He broke off, seeing Oria’s face streaming with tears. “What? What happened? Did…” Oh.

  She wiped the tears away with an impatient hand, bringing the candle closer. “Don’t mind me. I’m just emotional for some reason. Being here, in her tomb, where she was buried so far from home among a people who didn’t even give her a name. And then thinking of her children, killed so ruthlessly, because of something they couldn’t control…”

  He took the candle and set it down. His idiocy record for the morning continued in full strength. Putting his hand over hers where it rested on her belly—had she been aware of the gesture?—he ran his other over her shining hair, once again brushed smooth. “Speculation only. And that won’t happen to you or our children. You have a name and I’ll make sure all of Dru—and Bára—knows forever of the mighty Sorceress Queen Oria of the Destrye. Our children will be protected and blessed by both Arill and the magic you’ll bring them. They’ll grow up to be kings and queens in their own right. Maybe one in charge of every one of your sister-cities.”

  She laughed, a little watery. “Ever the optimist.”

  “That’s right.” He cupped the back of her head and kissed her hair just over her forehead. As much as he regretted her unhappiness, it also moved him a great deal that she already felt so deeply for their future children. The way she held her hand so protectively over her belly… well, it seemed women sometimes knew these things instinctively. Perhaps they’d made a baby last night. A child conceived in this sacred place, where warrior and sorceress had joined before, would have to be specially blessed.

  “I should have told you,” he said, waiting for her to look up at him, copper eyes dark with tears. He pointed with his chin to the opposite wall. “Odymesen’s ashes are interred here, too. This isn’t just her place, but their place. I don’t know if it helps to know it, but she was never alone.”

  A smile trembled into place on her lips. “It helps.”

  “Good. Now come fetch your treasure.”

  Her eyes widened. “It’s in there?”

  “Of course it is. You knew it all along.” The gleam of gold hadn’t surprised him in the least.

  “I guessed.”

  “Uh huh.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him, which made him happy to see her saucy again. Taking the candle over to the sepulcher, she leaned over and peered in. A long breath sighed out of her. “It is in there.”

  “On a tile like you had in Bára for yours, I think.” He looked over her shoulder, the mask now clearly illuminated in the niche built for it. “Her ashes are sealed beneath, I suspect, so you’ll be relieved to know there should be no smiting imminent.”

  “I am beyond relieved,” she said in a dry tone. “Will you hold this?”

  She handed him the candle, noting the tightness around his eyes. For all his joking, Lonen harbored concerns about this project still. More than his dislike of her old mask. But he’d set aside his apprehensions and helped her do what she asked of him.

  And there it was. Radiating old power, hot as the sun on her face. Lonen might not have doubted what they’d find, but she hadn’t been certain of what she perceived. With sgath sight, the thing didn’t look like a mask at all. It reminded her of how the Trom appeared on that other plain, like black suns radiating a kind of non-light. Not moonlight, not sunlight, but something the reverse of both.

  The dreams came back to her, Chuffta’s eyes going matte black, as if they absorbed light instead of reflecting it. Yar’s eyes, looking like that after he summoned the Trom. You’ve taken not one, but several steps farther down your path, the Trom had said to her. Was this another of those steps? She shuddered with more than cold.

  But the course hadn’t changed. Lonen and the Destrye needed her. The Bárans back home, laboring under Yar’s deranged regime needed her. Food, water, safety—all of that called for magic, and a great deal of it. Did she dare attempt to wrestle these ancient magics?

  “I need you,” she called to Chuffta and he winged in, landing on her shoulder. “What do you think of this?”

  He snaked his head around, angling it from side to side, peering at the artifact with brilliant green eyes. “It looks like any Báran mask to me.”

  “Do you think it’s safe for me to take it?”

  “I think you have to.” His mind-voice sounded unusually somber.

  “Why?”

  “Because you feel it. There’s a reason you wanted Lonen to dig it out. A reason it called to you.”

  “I don’t know what the reason is though. And… it could be more than I can handle.”

>   “We shall no doubt find out.” Now he lifted his head, looking at her. His long tail slipped up her sleeve, finding a spot of skin above the glove, coiling around, infusing her with his cool, dry presence. “Go on, take it. I’m ready.”

  “Here we go,” she said aloud. Lonen unstrapped his battle-axe, holding it at the ready.

  He shrugged a little self-consciously when she raised her eyebrows at him. “Can’t hurt, right?” he said.

  Her barbarian, ever ready to protect her, even from the unseen. Reaching in with her gloved hands, she took up the mask. Heavier than hers had been, the thing sang of the weight of centuries. What must have been ribbons crumbled away into dust as she lifted it out of its niche. The candlelight caught the gold, the flicker of shadows on the subtle molding of the eyeless mask giving the illusion of a face.

  For a startled moment, she thought it smiled at her. Then it subsided, losing the momentary illusion of animation and becoming simply a mask again. Very old, very heavy, but only that.

  Mostly. In the back of her heart, a soundless tune hummed. A chime, like the breathing of the forest or the chime of the stars dancing together at the oasis. She strained to hear it better, but it retreated, like a memory from childhood she couldn’t quite reconstruct.

  Holding the mask in one hand, she nipped at her glove with her teeth, drawing it off and letting it fall to the floor where it lay on the chill gray stones like the discarded skin of a scarlet snake. Hovering her fingers over the metal, the sense of radiation from it sang louder. Dragons roaring far away. A distant silhouette of wings. A bloom of fire. More. But not enough. She drew in a deep breath, reaching for all her hwil, bracing for the impact.

  “Oria, love.” Lonen gripped her shoulder, tense concern flooding into her. “Don’t rush things. There’s time for you to study it.”

  She gazed up at him, that craggy, scarred face, hard and yet tender. So beloved in such a short time. Time and time and time. “There isn’t.”

  And she laid her bare hand on the mask.