Shalador's Lady bj-8

by Anne Bishop

  “And to yourself,” Cassidy added softly.

  Reyhana met her eyes and nodded. “And to myself. That’s why Janos asked Darkmist to act as our chaperon tonight.”

  “Oh.” Shira pressed a hand against her mouth to stifle a laugh. “In that case, I apologize for treading where I had no reason to tread.”

  “As the court’s Healer, you had a right to express concern,” Cassidy said.

  *In that case,* Shira said, *I’ll ask if you’ve been drinking the contraceptive brew since your last moontime.*

  Cassidy felt the heat rising in her face. *Yes, I have.*

  *Good.* Shira sat on her stool and placed her smaller drum between her knees. “Ah, the Priestess is giving the signal. The rest of us will join the drumming in a minute.”

  Cassidy took her place and got her own drum in position. They had practiced for these dances over the past few weeks. Yairen had declared her ready to join the drumming for all but the Fire Dance.

  The Shalador women were gathering. Many stopped at a small stone altar and opened a vein over a large silver chalice—the blood the Priestess would use to cast the circle for the dance.

  Two more drums joined the first two drummers. Then two more, and two more. A simple rhythm that would split into something more demanding. Cassidy had been assigned the simpler beat, and Shira and Reyhana had chosen to stay with her instead of doing the more complex beat. She appreciated that when her turn came to join the drummers. There was plenty to think about, and when the drums were suddenly enhanced with Craft and the sound flowed out of The Dance, she felt the seduction and the power of this tradition.

  As the last drummer took up the beat, the Priestess’s voice rose in wordless song, calling the men to the dance. Another voice joined hers. Then another. And another.

  The first men arrived. Some were fathers with sons who were old enough for the Boys’ Dance. Most were older men, including Ranon’s grandfather Yairen, who would begin the celebration with the Wisdom Dance.

  The Priestess cast the circle with blood and Craft as the women’s voices quieted until it was only her voice and the drums calling, calling, calling.

  Cassidy drummed, grateful for the simple beat she could maintain and still observe the people.

  The Priestess extended her hand and brought Yairen across the circle. Then they both extended their hands to bring two more men into the dance. As she took the hand of the last elder who was participating in the dance, she stepped out of the circle.

  All the drummers except the lead drummer stopped and shook out their hands as the lead drummer made the transition to the new beat. Then the rest of the drummers joined in again, along with the musicians playing fiddles and flutes.

  A blur of images and sounds. Cassidy focused on the drumming, catching glimpses of the men as they danced the same formal steps their ancestors had performed centuries ago.

  She lost her rhythm through part of the Boys’ Dance because the younger ones—those who had recently gone through their Birthright Ceremony—turned into brainless puppies, forgetting most of what they had learned so they ended up bouncing along with the older boys. And more than a few of them stopped dancing altogether to wave at their mothers, which caused tangles as the boys still dancing tried to move around unplanned obstacles.

  Despite Shira’s earlier assurance that drummers dropped out of the music, Cassidy felt embarrassed that she’d lost the rhythm after so many weeks of practice. Then the Boys’ Dance gave way to the Youths’ Dance, and Reyhana lost all ability to drum because she was laughing so hard at Janos’s antics. Hearing other bursts of laughter followed by a stumble in the beat, Cassidy suddenly understood that perfection wasn’t expected during this joyous celebration. So she watched Janos and laughed with Reyhana.

  He performed the steps exactly as he should, but Cassidy learned a great deal about attitude. Most of the young men who were within a year or two of making the Offering and being considered adults were fiercely serious as they performed the dance. Janos gave the steps a lightheartedness, making fun of himself and the others who were on the cusp of manhood.

  Cassidy felt more than heard Shira’s sigh of relief and understood the feeling even while she laughed. Janos knew there were lines he couldn’t cross, and he’d done what he could to keep himself—and Reyhana—from temptation.

  The Youths stepped out of the circle as they brought over the last group of dancers. The adult men walked in a quiet circle as all but the lead drummer once again went silent.

  “Well done, Janos,” Cassidy said. Then she noticed Reyhana vanishing her drum and stool. “Aren’t you staying to see the last dance?”

  The two youngsters gave her startled looks.

  “No, Lady,” Janos finally said. “We’re meeting some friends at The Lady’s Pleasure. Then we’ll go back to my grandfather’s house for the night.”

  *Don’t ask,* Shira said as she vanished her smaller drum and called in the large drum, settling it between her thighs.

  One by one the drummers joined the lead drummer, and The Dance once more filled with sound.

  Noticing how many people were leaving, Cassidy leaned toward Shira. “Why aren’t they staying?”

  “The Fire Dance isn’t for children.” Shira began drumming.

  Gray circled with the rest of the men, letting their bodies shield him from Cassie’s view.

  His life, his dreams . . . everything came down to this dance.

  Ranon was on his left, but on his right, the side closest to the fire . . . a shadow. Primal. Lethal. Seductive.

  You ran from me once, something whispered. I can’t give you now what was lost then. But I can give you the rest if you’re ready to accept it. Will you run from me again? Or will you embrace the fire?

  Who are you?

  You know.

  A brush of heat against his right arm. A shivery awareness of what he still could claim for himself.

  The man. The Warlord Prince.

  Yes, I know who you are, Gray thought. You are Jared Blaed.

  Will you run from me again?

  Gray caught a glimpse of Cassie’s fiery hair and felt a hunger for more than sex—and knew how to get everything he wanted.

  No, I won’t run from you again. This time, I’ll take everything you can give me.

  Cassidy didn’t catch the signal, but moments after the last child left the park, the dance began.

  Clothes vanished with the first thumped step, and looking at a circle of men who wore nothing but their Jewels and their pride, she understood why the Fire Dance wasn’t witnessed by children.

  Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful!

  Shadows and fire. Hard bodies glistening with sweat as they performed that hot, grinding dance.

  She caught sight of Ranon and almost slid off her stool. Then she glanced at Shira and saw the same fierce glitter in those dark eyes. The Black Widow no longer played the drum as music. The beat, the sound, became a challenge, female to male, and every move and thrust of the dance was Ranon’s answer to that challenge.

  Then she looked at the man dancing next to Ranon, looked into a familiar face that held the glittering green eyes of a stranger.

  A dangerous stranger.

  “Gray,” she whispered.

  As he performed each turn and thrust of the dance, the shadow clung like a second skin—primal, lethal, seductive. Then it became his skin, filling him with a wild heat.

  And then, as he looked into Cassie’s eyes, it became him.

  Ranon and Gray moved on with the other dancers, stomping, thrusting, whirling. The scars on Gray’s back silvered in the firelight, and Cassidy had the feeling those scars would no longer be a source of shame; they would be a testimony of courage.

  Round and round. She couldn’t take her eyes off him, following his progression around the circle even when the fire hid him from sight.

  Round and round until the drums were a thrumming in her blood.

  The drums stopped w
ithout warning, and the silence was a painful scraping over her senses, over her skin.

  “Cassie.” A voice roughened by lust, by need, by something more than both.

  Her legs trembled, but she forced herself to stand and look Gray in the eyes.

  “Cassie.” His hands cupped her face. The slight tremble in his fingers helped settle her own nerves.

  Until he kissed her.

  Heat. Drums. A hot, grinding dance. A firestorm of feelings as his tongue swept into her mouth, asking and demanding.

  “Gray.” Ranon’s voice sounded just as rough. “Put some pants on and let’s go home.”

  How am I supposed to keep my hands off him long enough to get home? Cassidy wondered as she watched Gray call in a pair of trousers and put them on.

  The air was cool at this time of year, but Gray didn’t bother with a shirt or shoes. He just grabbed her hand and headed for one of the archways, followed by Ranon and Shira.

  She didn’t know who, if any of them, had contacted the silver twins to bring the horse and pony cart, but Lloyd and Kief were waiting for them. They piled in, Ranon and Shira on the driver’s seat while she and Gray shared the back bench seats with the Scelties.

  They piled out again in front of the Queen’s Residence. The silver twins headed back to the stables with the horse. Ranon and Shira headed around the back of the house while Gray grabbed Cassidy’s hand again and headed into the house.

  Ranon and Shira hadn’t moved into their own place yet, but it seemed they were going to spend the night there. Probably just as well, considering the way Gray hustled her up the stairs and into her room.

  He took her in his arms and pressed a soft kiss on her temple—a kiss that trembled with tenderness as well as the violence inherent in a Warlord Prince.

  “Cassie,” he whispered. “Let me love you. Let me be your partner in this dance.”

  She shifted enough to look at his face, to look into his eyes. The Fire Dance had burned out what was left of the scarred boy he had been. A man stood before her, waiting for her answer.

  “What about Lucivar’s rules?” Not that she gave a damn about Lucivar’s rules right now, but she had to ask while she could still think.

  “A useful leash that kept us both safe. But a man doesn’t need someone else to hold the leash. This has nothing to do with Lucivar. Not anymore. Just you and me, Cassie. Now it’s just you and me.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ll take you as my partner, as my lover.”

  “Cassie.” That was all he said. All he needed to say.

  Soft. Sweet. Hot. Hard. They touched and tasted, learning each other’s bodies as sweat-slicked skin slid across skin. He surrounded her—and she surrounded him—a claiming that went beyond the body. When he brought her up and over the crest a final time and poured himself into her, she knew everything had changed.

  Gray woke instantly, his arm tightening over Cassie as he listened for whatever had snapped him out of a sound sleep.

  Nothing. And yet, something kept scratching at his senses, demanding acknowledgment.

  He slipped out of bed and pulled on a robe. Whatever he was sensing wasn’t in this room.

  He reached for the door that opened onto the hallway. The scratchy, demanding feeling faded. When he stepped back from the door, the feeling returned.

  He probed the room again—and felt his temper sharpen, felt himself rising to the killing edge as a natural response to a potential threat to his Queen.

  That something wasn’t in Cassie’s room and it wasn’t beyond her room either. That left . . .

  He slipped into the adjoining bedroom. His room.

  A glint of light near the dresser caught his attention. Despite the scratchy feeling, he sensed nothing dangerous, so he walked over to the dresser, then used Craft to form a small ball of witchlight.

  He stared for a long time as his temper eased back from the killing edge. Then he extinguished the witchlight and went back to Cassie’s room.

  “You okay?” Cassie murmured when he slipped back into bed.

  “I’m fine.” He wrapped an arm around her and kissed the sweet spot on her neck. “Go back to sleep, love. It’s early yet.”

  She dropped back into sleep instantly, but he didn’t. He waited until there was enough daylight; then he went back to his room and stared at the globe Tersa had given him.

  The dragon, the symbol of himself as a whole man, stared back at him.

  CHAPTER 27

  TERREILLE

  Julien stood in the breakfast room doorway. “There is a man digging in the garden. He says he’s your cousin.”

  Theran set his coffee cup down, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and pushed away from the table. “Gray’s here?”

  Gray. Digging in the garden. Not coming near the house.

  Mother Night.

  He glanced at Kermilla and suppressed a sigh. This morning she wasn’t pleased with anyone who had a cock. Jhorma hadn’t returned. Neither had Bardoc. And the escorts who should have arrived for their rotation of service were still in Dharo.

  She’d accused him of not sending her letters to her court, claiming he was jealous of her men. That was true, up to a point. He craved her in a way he’d never craved anything else. She was a fever in his blood, and even when she did things that made him uneasy or they argued about money, he knew the problems were simply because she was a young, inexperienced Queen—and because she came from a family who had wealth he couldn’t imagine—and he still wanted to shape things to meet her wishes and will as much as he could.

  So, yes, he was jealous. But he was practical enough to recognize that having a couple of her First Circle here to help entertain her would have worked to his advantage.

  All in all, this wasn’t a good day to ask her to talk to Gray.

  “I’d better go out and see him,” he said.

  “Your cousin is the gardener, isn’t he?” Kermilla spread jam over her toast in a fussy manner and didn’t look at him. “It’s good he’s come back. The flower beds have been looking very weedy and unkempt lately. It gives visitors a bad impression.”

  Theran saw Julien’s face tighten. The butler worked in the garden as a way to relax and was doing what he could to keep things tidy. But the grounds weren’t part of Julien’s duties, and Kermilla preferred to enjoy the results of someone else’s labor—and complained when the results didn’t meet her expectations.

  “Julien, bring another pot of coffee,” Kermilla said, not looking at either man as she continued to spread the jam on the toast. “And tell the cook to pay attention to what she’s doing this time. This last pot tasted like wash water.”

  Julien turned and walked away. Theran followed him.

  “Julien?” Kermilla yelled. “Did you hear me?”

  Julien stopped and turned to Theran. There was a queer look in the butler’s eyes. “I’m not going back in that room. I have other duties.”

  “What are you doing this morning?” Theran asked.

  Julien’s mouth curved in an unnerving smile. “I’m sharpening the cook’s knives.”

  Theran hurried out to the garden. He hadn’t heard from Gray since Cassidy ran away to Eyota. Talon had written to him a couple of times early on, Master of the Guard to First Escort, and news filtered through from some of the Warlord Princes he knew, but he hadn’t heard from Gray.

  A large woven basket sat at the edge of the Queen’s flower bed. The bottom of it was filled with bulbs.

  “Gray?”

  Gray looked over and smiled at him. “Morning.” He brushed the dirt off two more bulbs and put them in the basket. Then he pushed the spade’s head into the soil to keep the handle upright. “This bed could use some water. So could the rest of them. I guess you haven’t had rain up here for the past few days.”

  “No, we haven’t.” Theran’s heart lightened. “I’m glad to have you back—and not just for the gardens.”

  Gray gave him a puzzled look and shook his head, still smiling. “I’m not stay
ing. I just came by to pick up some of the bulbs I got for Cassie. Figured I’d divide them. That will leave this bed looking a little sparse next spring, but it will fill in.”

  “You came back to Grayhaven for bulbs?”

  Gray shrugged. “I planted them for Cassie, and I paid a hefty sum for a few of them. Besides . . .” He looked around the garden. “I didn’t think you would care.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “What is the point?” Gray looked past Theran’s shoulder, and a dark, feral look came into his green eyes.

  Before Theran could ask what was wrong, Gray pulled the spade out of the soil. Except it was no longer a spade. It was a pitchfork, and Gray held it more like a weapon than a tool.

  For a moment, Theran just stared. It took a lot of skill in using Craft to vanish one object and call in another so smoothly a person couldn’t see the transition. Where had Gray learned to do that?

  Then he remembered that something had sparked his cousin’s temper and looked behind him.

  Kermilla pranced over the lawn toward them, her expression one of sharp delight. That expression usually meant she was going to delight in using the sharp side of her tongue.

  “It’s Gray, isn’t it?” Kermilla said. “The gardener? Have you finally remembered your duties and come back to be useful?”

  What Theran saw in Gray’s eyes made the queer look in Julien’s seem warm and comforting in comparison.

  “I don’t work for you, bitch,” Gray snarled. “I never will.”

  “Gray,” Theran said, shocked.

  Kermilla’s face went white with anger. “You should be careful about saying ‘never,’ gardener. Things change.”

  “Some things change,” Gray agreed. “Some things don’t.”

  Kermilla took a step closer. Gray raised the pitchfork, and there was no doubt of how he would use it if she came any closer.

  “I’m a Queen,” Kermilla hissed.

  “You don’t outrank me, and I don’t serve you, so that means nothing,” Gray snarled. “And nothing like you is ever going to lay a hand on me again.”