There was another side to it all as well—a kind of relief. I'm all right, I'm not she'chorne or anything. I'm not so different from the other girls after all. Daren wants me, and I want him....
That was not such a bad feeling, being wanted. He liked her as a friend, and wanted her as a woman—a good combination, if she could keep it from getting serious. She'd followed part of Tarma's advice; she was protected. That much Lenore had taught her; the moon-flower powder all the time to control moon-days as well as preventing pregnancy, or child-bane afterward—though moon-flower was better for you, easier on the body.
They reached the top of the stairs, and Kero was glad that there weren't any servants; there was no chance that they'd be interrupted or gawked at knowingly. She had the feeling anything like that would put Daren off entirely. She felt overheated; flushed and excited, and with odd little feelings in the pit of her stomach and groin.
Daren had to let go of her to get his door open, and that seemed to make him shy again; he followed her inside without touching her and made a great fuss of clearing off a chair for her to sit in.
He carefully avoided looking at the bed, and she followed his example, pummeling her brain for some way to make him feel comfortable again. If it had been warmer, she would have suggested they go out on his balcony—his room had one, hers didn't. But it was freezing out there, literally; the ice on the ponds would be thick enough to skate safely on, come morning. Cold hands and feet were not conducive to romance, and the temperature out on the balcony was likely to chill the hottest lust.
Her throat tightened, and she flushed for no reason. Suddenly she was afraid, though of what, she couldn't have said. To cover the fact, she ignored the chair and sprawled out on the sheepskin rug in front of the hearth, half reclinging against a cushion.
Talk. Say anything.
"If you could be anything in the world," she said, staring at the flames, as he sat down hesitantly beside her, "What would it be? Anything at all—anything you wanted, king, minstrel, beggar, whatever."
He thought about it; she took a sidelong glance at him, and saw that his face was set in a frown of concentration. "You know, I think I'd be a merchant. I'd get to travel anywhere, see everything I ever wanted to. I'd be a rich merchant, though," he added hastily. "So I could travel comfortably."
She chuckled. "Like one of Tarma's proverbs: 'What good is seeing the wonders of the world when you're too saddle sore to enjoy them?'"
He laughed, and relaxed a little, letting his hand rest oh-so-casually on hers. "What about you?"
"Being a rich merchant would be nice," she agreed. "But I'd rather be the kind of person that travels just because she wants to. Not tied to a caravan or a trading schedule."
"Ah," he said, nodding wisely. "A spoiled dabbler."
"A what?" she said, sitting up straight, pulling her hand away.
"A dilettante," he teased. "A brat. A—"
He didn't have any chance to go on, because she hit him with a pillow.
That attack engendered a wrestling match which he, heavier and stronger, was bound to win—unless she resorted to tactics which would have ended any further plans for the evening. But it was a great deal of fun while it lasted—the more so because she discovered his one weakness, and turned the contest into something much more even.
He was ticklish.
Very ticklish, especially down both sides and on the bottoms of his feet.
She managed to get his shoes off while tickling his sides. Protecting one meant that the other weak point was vulnerable, and the moment he curled up into a ball, she grabbed his feet and ran her nails along the soles. When he thrashed helplessly and got his feet away from her, his sides were exposed. Before long, she'd turned the tables on him.
She tickled him unmercifully, until they were both laughing so hard their sides ached. Finally neither one of them could breathe, and they tumbled together on the rug, completely unable to move.
"You—" he panted, "—cheat."
"No such—thing," she replied, trying to brush her hair out of her eyes with one hand while she held onto his bare foot with the other. "Just—obeying—my teacher."
"Exploiting the enemy's weakness?" He was getting his breath back faster than she was, and he managed to eel around so that her head was in his lap. "But Kero—I'm not your enemy."
"Aren't you?" she began, when he stopped all further conversation with a kiss.
It was in no way a chaste or innocent kiss. It picked up where the last of their tentative explorations had left off, and carried them to the logical conclusion. Kero let go of his foot, and groped for the laces of his tunic. His hands slid under her shirt and cupped her breasts with a gentleness that vaguely surprised her, stroking them with his callused thumbs.
The tunic-lacings foiled her hands, which seemed to have lost all dexterity. She broke off the kiss, and cursed the things; he laughed, and got out of the tunic without bothering to unlace it, tossing it off somewhere into the dark. The loose shirt, a copy of her own, was easy enough to slide her hands under—which she did, holding him closer to her, feeling her blood heat at the play of muscles under his skin.
"Beast," she said, and went back to the kiss. He sank slowly to the floor, taking her with him, his hands moving against her skin under her shirt. She pushed his shirt up out of the way, the better to touch him. He rolled over to one side to give her hands more room to roam.
This time he broke free with a yelp as his bare back came into contact with the stone floor. "I hate cold floors," he said ruefully, as she giggled at his woebegone expression. Then he scrambled to his feet, and pointed off into the dark. She couldn't see his face from that angle, and she couldn't see past the light cast by the fire, so she jumped to her feet—
Only to find herself scooped up, and launched across the room, to land in his bed. A moment later, he was beside her.
"Oh, my," she said, "Where do you suppose this came from?"
He didn't even bother to answer, and in a moment, she didn't really want him to.
Shirts and breeches were everywhere, being tossed out of bed or shoved to one side. Somehow she managed to get out of her clothing without tearing anything; he wasn't so lucky. He couldn't get the wrist-lacings on his shirt to untie, and with a muttered oath, he snapped them.
His hands and mouth were everywhere; well, so were hers. Every touch seemed to send a tingle all over her, seemed to make her want more.
They explored each other, a little awkwardly sometimes; she hit him in the nose with her elbow, once, and he knocked her head against the footboard. Kero hardly felt it when she collided with the carved wood, every inch of skin felt afire, and she was propelled by such urgent need that she could have pursued him over the side of a cliff and never noticed.
It hurt, when he took her—or she took him, whichever; she wanted him as much as he wanted her. But it didn't hurt that much, and he was as gentle as his own need would let him be. And she began to feel something else, something she yearned after as shamelessly as a bitch in heat. Just out of reach....
It was all over too soon, though, and she was left feeling as if something had been left undone; unsatisfied and still hungry somehow.
Sated, he just rolled happily over into the tumbled blankets, and went right to sleep.
She could have killed him.
Twice.
She curled up on her side, stared into the dark, and listened to him breathe. And wondered, What did I do wrong?
Later, she figured out she hadn't done anything wrong. Practice, as with anything else, made both of them more proficient, better able to please each other. Eventually the outcome equaled the anticipation, and neither went to sleep unsatisfied.
She finally understood what all the fuss was about—and the obsession. She understood—but she felt herself somehow apart from it; her desire was satisfied, but whatever it was that awakened real passion in others had not touched her.
And nothing ever quite made up for the letdown of th
at first night.
And he never understood, or even noticed.
Winter became spring, then seemed to run straight into autumn without pausing for summer. There were never enough hours in the day for everything. Kero often wondered what possessed her, to have consented to this.
She often wondered if she were doing the right thing. She had no doubt that a conventional life would be far, far easier.
And I wouldn't have to rise with the sun unless I really wanted to.
The wooden practice blades were nowhere in sight, which was a little odd. Kero exchanged puzzled glances with Daren, then looked away before the glance could develop into anything more intimate.
I don't know how much longer I can keep this as "just friends," she thought, staring at the sandy floor of the practice ring. Grandmother was worried about me getting my heart broken, but it seems as though it's going to be the other way around. I really like Daren—but—
But. Blessed Agnira, I'm a cold-hearted bitch. I ought to be on my knees with thanks that he's in love with me, or thinks he is. Instead, all I can think of is "how can I pry him loose?"
On the other hand, Tarma was right. There is no way I would ever be allowed to marry him—
Not that I'd want to.
Tarma's entrance broke into her ruminations, and she looked up gratefully at her teacher. All this thinking is making my head hurt. Daren, who had been reaching for her arm, stiffened, and pulled away a little, and Kero breathed a sigh of relief.
Tarma's eyes flicked toward Daren, though she gave no other sign that she'd noticed him moving. "I think you're ready now for something a little more serious," the Shin'a'in said gravely. "It's about time you both got used to handling the weapons you're going to fight with. Not that you're going to practice all the time with them," she added, holding up a long hand to forestall any questions, "But you're going to be working out at least a candlemark every day with them. I can approximate the weight and balance of your real weapons with your practice swords, but I can't duplicate it—and your bodies will know the difference."
She handed Daren a long-sword, two-edged, but with a point as well. The blade was magnificent, and the jewel in the hilt, a ruby so dark as to be nearly black, was worth Kero and all of her family combined.
For her part, she took up Need with a certain amount of trepidation. Although she felt a kind of tingle when she first set hand to hilt, the sword showed no other signs of life.
Which suited her very well. Over the course of that single night, she'd had her fill of being the tool instead of the wielder.
"Tarma," she said, hesitantly. "Is this a good idea? I mean, I thought I was supposed to be learning swordsmanship, but if I'm going to use Need—"
Tarma chuckled. "Don't worry about it. First off, you'll be bouting against me, not Daren, and she won't let you harm a woman. Secondly, she works in peculiar ways. Now that you've established your talents as a swordswoman, she'll never help you fight again. Ah, but magic now, that's where she'll protect you. So far as I know, there isn't a magicker in the world can harm you while you hold her."
"So that's how it works," she murmured without thinking.
"Exactly. That's why she did both for you when you went after Lordan's bride; you were neither fish nor fowl yet." Tarma grinned. "Now, since she's no more than a very good blade in your hands—defend yourself, girl!"
Blessed Agnira, it's been a long day. Kero hung her sword in its rack, pulled her armor off and draped it over its stand, and stretched. Tarma was right about having to get used to Need's weight and balance. There's a distinct difference between her and that practice blade. She stretched again, reaching for the ceiling, feeling shoulders pop. That hot bath is going to feel so—
She started for the bathing chamber—and realized she was still holding her sword.
That's odd. She frowned. I could have sworn I hung her up.
She turned back toward the wall rack, and tried to place the sword in its cradle. Tried.
She couldn't make her hands let go.
"Oh, no you don't," she muttered. "You've done that to me once. No more."
She put the sword in the rack, and concentrated on freeing her left hand, one finger at a time.
Let. Go. Of. Me. She stared at her hand as if it didn't belong to her, concentrating until she had a headache, a sharp pain right between her eyebrows.
One by one, she loosened her fingers; one by one she pried them off the scabbard. As she released the last of them, she felt something in the back of her mind stretch, and snap.
She pulled her right hand away, quickly, before the sword could take control of her again.
"I'll thank you to keep your notions to yourself," she told it frostily, ignoring the incongruity of talking to an inanimate object. Then she turned, and walked deliberately back to the bathing chamber. She "heard" something, as she "heard" thoughts, faint and at the very edge of her abilities to sense it. It sounded like someone grumbling in her sleep... disturbed, but not awakened.
She ignored it and drew her bath.
Whatever it was, it went away while she was undressing, and by the time she slid into the hot water she wondered if she'd only imagined it.
But as she lay back, relaxing, she began to feel a kind of pull on her mind, as if something had hold of her and was trying to tug her in a particular direction.
Since the direction was her bedroom, she had no doubt who that "someone" was.
She ignored it, and it grew more persistent; then painful, like a headache in the back of her skull. Stop that, she thought sharply, sitting up in the bath. The pain eased off, but the tugging was still there. She sat back and thought for a few moments, then she put up her very best shields, the shields even Warrl had not been able to break through.
The tugging stopped. She waited for several moments, but whatever the sword was doing did not seem to be able to penetrate the shielding.
You ruled my grandmother, sword. You're not going to rule me. She closed her eyes, leaned back again, and let the bath relax all her muscles for her.
Finally the water cooled, and she felt relaxed enough to sleep. She opened her eyes and stared at the wall, thinking. I can't keep shields like this up forever. If I'm lucky, I won't have to. If I'm not, though, this is going to be an interesting little power struggle.
She lowered her shields, slowly, waiting for the sword to resume its insistent nagging. You may be older, with all manner of magic behind you, she thought at it, but I'll bet I'm a lot more stubborn than you are.
Nothing.
It's a good thing Daren was too tired after practice to be interested in bed games tonight.
She waited for a moment, then left the shields down and climbed out of her bath. This is too easy. It's not going to let me off this easily. She dried herself, and went back into her room to lie down on the bed. If I were Need, what would I do? A straight-on attempt didn't work... anytime she starts on me again, I can bring my shields up and block her out. So the next logical move would be to try something subtle.
It occurred to her, as she pulled the covers up a bit tighter around her ears, that it was possible she had inadvertently weakened the sword's hold on her by not using it during the first few moons she'd owned it.
Those books of Grandmother's—they had something about soul-bonding in them. I think I still have them, in fact. She sighed. The bed was so warm—and the room was already getting chilly. And she was so awfully tired....
Still—I need the information more than I need the sleep. She gritted her teeth and flung back the covers resolutely, flinching as she swung her legs over and put her feet on the cold floor. At least the Tower was heated a lot better than the Keep. There, this deeply into winter, she could put a mug of water down beside her bed, and it would be frozen all the way to the bottom by morning.
She wrapped herself up in a robe, groped for the candle on the table beside the bed, and took it to the fireplace. She scraped away enough of the ash to expose a coal and lit her can
dle at it.
The books were right where she thought she'd left them; pushed into the corner of the bookcase next to her desk, ignored in favor of the volumes on the history of warfare and strategy and tactics that Tarma had given her to read. She'd been working her way through them with the interest and enthusiasm she hadn't been able to muster for the books of poetry and history her tutors had assigned her.
I think it was the red one, she decided, studying them as she tried to recall which one held the information she wanted. But—oh, never mind. There're only three of them. If there was one thing that studying under Tarma had taught her, it was never to discard a book. You never knew when something in it—even in so innocuous a volume as a book of poetry—could prove useful.
She pulled them out and scurried back to bed with them, putting the candle-holder beside the bed, and pulling the blankets up over her legs.
She began leafing through the first book, looking for the section on enchanted objects and soul-bonding. It was where she remembered it, and she read it carefully this time, paying special attention to anything that might apply to Need.
Finally she closed the book, put all three of them on the table, and blew out the candle. She turned over onto her side and watched the embers glowing in the hearth, while she thought about what she had read.
It seemed that, by her determination to learn sword-work on her own, she had inadvertently weakened the blade's hold on her. According to several sources quoted in that book, the first few moons were the critical ones in a soul-bonding. Close physical proximity was required after the initial contact, as well as frequent use of the object in question.
So by hanging her on the wall, and not touching her, I kept her from getting the hold on me that she had on my grandmother. And probably everyone else that had her over the past however-many years.
So the soul-bond had been set in, but lightly. Had Kero been a magic-user, this could have been an unfortunate situation. It might even have been a disaster, depending on how much the magic-user in question was likely to depend on the sword's ability to take over and provide fighting expertise. It was probably just as well that Kethry had been deeply soul-bonded to the thing, given some of the stories Kero had heard from her, and from Tarma.
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