Unless she and Elspeth, too, were suffering from something that often happened with young mages; where the body was so unused to carrying the energies of magic that basic needs like hunger and thirst were ignored until the mage collapsed. Just as the impetus of fear or anger made the body override hunger and thirst, so did the use of magic—at least until the mage learned to compensate and the body grew used to the energies and no longer confused them.
"If you two aren't hungry, you should be," he told them. "Elspeth, I warned you about that happening, but I don't think I told Gwena; it never occurred to me that she might be susceptible."
Gwena paused, her eyes soft and thoughtful for a moment. :I should be starving. Hmm. I think I shall find a hertasi, and have a good grain ration. If you'll excuse me?:
With a bow of her head, she trotted up the trail, leaving them alone.
"A wise lady," he observed. "Let's drop by Iceshadow's ekele long enough to give him the good news from k'Treva, and then take this conversation to somewhere there's food for us.'
Elspeth grinned. "I think I'm used to magic enough now because my stomach is wrapping around my backbone and complaining bitterly. Let's go!"
Iceshadow was overjoyed at the good news from k'Treva and almost as pleased with the news about Starblade. They left him full of plans to inform the rest of the mages, and with unspoken agreement, reversed their course, back to the mouth of the Vale.
There were "kitchens" on the way, but somehow, that "somewhere" wound up being Darkwind's ekele, where his hertasi had left a warm meal waiting. The hertasi information network was amazing; word must have gotten around the moment they'd crossed into the Vale. Before them were crisp finger vegetables and small, broiled gamehens; bread and cheese, fruit, and hot chava with beaten cream for two for desert. Darkwind dearly loved chava, a hot, sweet drink with a rich taste like nothing else in the world. Sometimes the hertasi could be coaxed into making a kind of thick cookie with chava, and the two together were enough to put any sweet lover into spasms of ecstasy.
And while he had a moment of suspicion over the fact that the hertasi had left food and drink for two, he had to admit that they had done so before. And given his past, perhaps the preparation was not unwarranted. Until Elspeth had entered his life, he had certainly eaten and slept in company more often than not. This was a lovers' meal, though. And they knew very well that he had not had any lovers since they had begun serving him. Was this an expression of hope on their part? Or something else?
Well, the chava could be used as bait to tempt Elspeth into his bed, that was certain. He knew any number of folk who would do astonishing things for—even with—the reward of chava.
It was Elspeth's first encounter with chava, and Darkwind took great glee in her expression of bliss the moment she tasted it. Once again, another devotee was created. They took their mugs over to the pile of cushions in the corner that served as seating and lounging area.
"You look just like Hyllarr when Starblade started scratching him," he told her, chuckling. "All half-closed eyes and about to fall over with pleasure."
"No doubt," she replied, easing back against the cushions with the mug cradled carefully in her hand, so as not to spill a single drop. "Complete with raptorial beak, predator's eyes, and unruly crest."
She spoke lightly, but Darkwind sensed hurt beneath the words. That was the same hurt he had sensed when she spoke of being afraid that most men were interested only in her rank, not in her. "Why do you say that?" he asked.
She snorted, and shook her head. "Darkwind, I thought we were going to be honest with each other. I've mentioned this before, I know I have. Can you honestly say that I am not as plain as a board?"
He studied her carefully before he answered; the spare, sculptured face, the expressive eyes, the athletic figure, none of which were set off to advantage by unadorned, white, plain-edged clothing—or, for that matter, the drab scout gear she wore now. The thick, dark hair—which he had never see styled into anything other than an untamed tumble or pulled back into a tail. "I think," he replied, after a moment, "that you have been doing yourself a disservice in the way you dress. With your white uniform washing out your color and no ornaments, you look very functional, certainly quite competent and efficient, but severe."
"What I said: plain as a board." She sipped her chava, hiding her face in her cup. "I like the colored things the hertasi have been leaving out for me, but they don't make much difference that I can see."
"No," he corrected. "Not 'plain as a board.' Improperly adorned. Scout gear is still too severe to display you properly. You should try mage-robes. Mages need not consider impediments such as strolls through bramble tangles."
Many Tayledras costumes were suited to either sex; Elspeth, with her lean figure, would not distort the lines of some of his own clothing. There were a number of costumes he had designed and made, long ago, that he had never worn, or worn only once or twice. When Songwind became Darkwind, and the mage became the scout, those outfits had been put away in storage as inappropriate to the scout's life. They were memories that could be hidden.
And, truthfully, he had not wanted to see them again. They belonged to someone else, another life, another time. Their cheerful colors had been ill-suited to his grief and his anger. He had not, in fact, even worn them now that he was a mage again and in the Vale, though he had brought them out of storage, with the vague notion that he might want them.
They were here, now, in this new ekele, in chests in one of the upper rooms. He studied her for a moment, considering which of those half-remembered robes would suit her best.
The ruby-firebird first, he decided. The amber silk, the peacock-blue, the sapphire, and the emerald. Perhaps the tawny shirt and fawn breeches—no, too light, they will wash her out. Hmm. I should go and see what is there; I can't recall the half of them.
"Wait here," he said, and before she could answer, ran up the ladderlike stair to the storage room at the top of the ekele.
Maybe the tawny with a black high-necked undergarment for contrast....
He returned with his arms full of clothing; robes and half-robes, shirts and flowing breeches in the Shin'a'in style, vests and wrap-shirts, all in jewel-bright colors, made of soft silks and supple leathers, and scented with the cedar of the chests. Light clothing, all of it, made for the gentle warmth of the Vale. There were other mage-robes, heavier, made to be worn outside the Vale, but none of those were as extravagant as these outfits. Tayledras mages did not advertise their powers in outrageous costumes when outside the confines of their homes, unless meeting someone they knew, or knew would be impressed.
"Here—" he said, shaking out the ruby-colored silk half-robe and matching Shin'a'in breeches, cut as full as a skirt, and bound at the ankles with ribbon ties. The half-robe had huge, winglike sleeves with scalloped edges, and an asymmetric hem. "Try this one on, while I find some hair ornaments."
She stared at him, at the clothing, and back again, as if he had gone quite mad. "But—"
He grinned at her. "Indulge me. This is my art, if you will, and it has been long since I was able to spare a moment for it. Go on, go on—if you're modest, there's a screen over there you can stand behind to dress."
He turned to his collection of feathers and beads, crystals and silver chains, all hung like the works of art they were, on the walls. By the hertasi, of course; when he'd lived outside the Vale he'd had no time to sort through the things and hang them up properly. They winked and gleamed in the light from his lamps and candles as he considered them. Some of them he had made, but most had been created by other Tayledras. Most of them, sadly, were either dead or with the exiles. But the delicate works of their hands remained, to remind him that not every hour need be spent in war and defense.
After a moment he heard Elspeth rise and take the clothing behind the screen; heard cloth sliding against cloth and flesh as she undressed, then the softer, hissing sounds of silk against that same flesh. He closed his eyes for a moment, refl
ecting on how good it felt to be doing this again—after all that had happened, that there was still a skill he could use without thought of what it meant tactically.
A moment later, she slipped from behind the screen, and he heard her bare footfalls against the boards of the ekele floor. "I hope I have this stuff on right," she said dubiously, as he selected three strands of hair ornaments from among those on the wall.
He turned, his hands full of beaded firebird feathers, and smiled with pleasure at the sight of her.
She made a sour face, and twisted awkwardly. "I look that silly, do I?"
"On the contrary, you look wonderful." She pursed her lips, then smiled reluctantly. He admired her for a moment; as he had thought, the variegated, rich rubies and wines of the half-robe heightened her otherwise dull coloring. With her face tanned by the wind and sun, and her dark brown hair, without the help of color reflected up from her clothing, it was no surprise that she thought herself plain. But now, she glowed, and her hair picked up auburn highlights from the ruby-red silks. And with her hair braided and ornamented instead of being simply pulled back from her face—
She is going to look magnificent when her hair turns white, he thought admiringly. But now—no, this severe style is not going to work. Color's a bit too strong. It looks wrong now.
Before she could move, or even protest, he had his hands buried in her hair, braiding the beaded cords of feathers into one side. Then he created a browband with another cord, pulling some of the rest of her hair with it across her forehead to join the braid on the other side. It didn't take long; her hair was ridiculously short by mage-standards, and even many of the scouts wore theirs far longer than hers. But when released from that severe tail, it had a soft, gentle wave that went well with the braids and beaded feathers.
"There," he said, turning her to face the mirror that had been left covered, as was customary, with an embroidered cloth. He whisked the cloth away, revealing her new image to her eyes. "I defy you to call yourself plain now."
Her mouth formed into a silent "Oh," of surprise as she stared at the exotic stranger in the mirror. She flushed, then paled, then flushed again, and her whole posture relaxed and softened.
"I would give a great deal to see you appear in your Court dressed this way," he said, a little smugly. He was rather proud of the way she looked in his handiwork. Better than he had imagined, in fact. "I think that you would set entirely new fashions."
She moved carefully, holding out her arms to see the fall of the sleeves, twirling to watch the material slip about her legs and hips, her eyes sparkling with unexpected pleasure. "I had no idea. The last time I wore anything like this, it was for Talia's wedding. I was a cute little girl, but, well, cuteness wears off. I never thought I could look like this." She shook her head, her eyes still riveted to the mirror. "I thought that the clothing the hertasi had been leaving for me was nice, but compared to this—"
"Scout's clothing, it was, really," he said, with a shrug. "Quite as practical as your Herald uniforms. Mages tend to prefer more fanciful garb, and certainly more comfortable. These are for delight. Showing off. Dancing. Display, as our birds do, for the sheer joy of doing so, or for—" Before she could respond to that, he had picked out a full robe in monochrome intensities of vivid blue. "Come," he said, coaxingly. "Let us try another. I wish to see you in all of these."
"Me? What about you?"
"What about me?" he repeated, puzzled. "What have I to do with this?"
"You're a mage, aren't you? And aren't these your costumes?" She folded her arms stubbornly across her chest. "I'd like to see what you look like in these things!"
Try as he would, he could not dissuade her. Before she would consent, she insisted that if she was going to prance about in bright feathers, he would have to do the same. So nothing would have it but that he must don a set of dancing gear before she would change her costume for another. The evening hours passed, the two of them playing among the costumes like a pair of children at dress-up, laughing and admiring together.
Some time later, he had draped her in a swath of amber-gold that brought sunlike highlights to her hair and a Tayledras-sheen to her skin. Any of the vivid colors suited her, but she glowed in the warm colors, he had decided. This particular robe, though he did not tell her so, was a lounging robe—a dalliance robe, in fact. A lover's robe. Meant for display to one person, not to many. He had made it for himself, but had not liked the color once he had tried it on—one of the few times he had misjudged color for himself.
But on her—
"You must keep that," he whispered, as she turned and twisted, plainly taking sensuous pleasure in the soft slip of the silk against her skin. "No, indeed, you must," he insisted, as she turned to protest. "It was never suited to me, but I think I must have somehow designed it with you in mind."
The words had been meant to come out teasingly, but somehow, they turned in his mouth and hung in the air between them with more meaning in them than he had intended. He reached delicately to a glass box and opened it, and before he knew what he was doing, he reached toward her, his hand holding a single brightly beaded feather.
Not one of Vree's—though at this moment, he would have offered her that, if he had thought she might take it. But he dared not. He hardly believed that he dared this.
She knew what that meant now—and as she stared at it and at him with her expression gone quiet and unreadable, he feared that he had just undone all that had been built between them.
But her hand reached for his—and gently took the feather.
And carefully, as if it, or she, might break, she braided it into her hair, then took a deep breath, her eyes wide and dark, waiting.
They both stepped forward at the same moment; he reached up with both hands and cupped her face between them, as carefully as he would grasp a downy day-old falcon. Her skin was as soft as the washed silk she wore, and very warm beneath his hands, as if she was flushed or feverish. It occurred to him then that she might—no, must—be shy, of him, and of what was to come; with a last, weary exercise of his magic, he dimmed the mage-lights.
The comparison and the contrast was inevitable; this was no Dawnfire. Elspeth, for all her courage elsewhere, all her eagerness, was trembling and half-frightened with him. It came to him in a rush how far away from her home she was—all the trials she had faced, and now this—it was up to him to take the lead. She was unsure of herself and not certain what he wanted of her, but there was desire there.
So, he would go as gently with her as he would with caring for a frightened wild bird. She was not likely a virgin, but it did not necessarily follow that she was experienced in lovemaking; he could by accident frighten her with a technique she had never experienced. With all sincerity, he hoped there would be ample times in the future to explore.
He kissed her, once, then dropped his hands, catching hers, and led her back to the bower of cushions on the floor. He slowly drew her down beside him, and there they stayed while he caressed her, letting the silk slide over her body beneath his hands. He touched her gently; shoulders, back, breasts, neck—let the silk carry the movement of his hands. She shivered again, but now it was not from half-formed fear, but from anticipation.
Her lips parted in a gentle moan of pleasure, and she lay her head back with a visible expression of delight.
After a moment, she returned his caresses, hesitantly at first, then with more boldness. Her hands wandered as freely as his, and he kept careful control over himself, lest he move too quickly with her.
But it had been a very long time since his last lover... a very long time. Controlling himself was as difficult as any magic he had ever attempted.
Now they drew closer, and her lips met his.
If he had any thoughts until that moment that she might regret having accepted his feather, they were dismissed by the eagerness with which she returned his kiss. He allowed his mind to brush hers for a moment, as his mouth opened for her. He garnered two important things
from that brief contact; she was by no means as experienced a lover as he, but she was as perfectly willing to be his pupil in this as in the other subjects he had taught her. She had confidence in his skill abed.
So; take things slowly. The greater her desire, the calmer at first, the more fully she felt their bodies, the better the experience.
He slid his hands under the silk of the robe, and continued his slow, sensual caresses; continued until any thought of fear was a long-forgotten triviality. Then he joined his mind to hers, very lightly, and showed her wordlessly what would pleasure him, as he noted what pleasured her. She was soft silk in his hands, and warm honey in his mouth; feather-caress and nectar. Her scent was of sandalwood, cinnamon, and herbs. His was of musk and rich chava. Her skin tasted salty-sweet, and where their bodies touched, liquid fire poured between them.
When their minds were so entwined that there was no telling where one ended and the other began, only then did he join his body into hers.
A pair of hawks spiraling slowly up a thermal, talons entwined, they rose together, and soared into the sun....
Elspeth lay in silk and warmth, and thought of absolutely nothing, content to savor the warm glow that bathed every pore. Content to listen to Darkwind breathing beside her. Content, for the moment, to forget everything she was, and simply be.
Darkwind lay quietly beside her, his breathing slow and even. She listened to him, thinking that sleep could not be far off for her, either, but hoping to hold it away a little longer, and savor the moment.
"I trust I achieved your expectations."
She started; he laid a calming hand on her shoulder, and she laughed, breathlessly, willing her heart to calm. "I thought you were asleep," she said. "I mean, you sounded like you were."
"That would be unforgivably crude," Darkwind replied, with just a hint of laughter in his voice. "At least, it would be by our customs."
She thought of the few—to be honest, three—lovers she had taken to her bed, not counting the almost-lover whose tryst Talia had interrupted so long ago. Skif had never been one of them—which might have accounted for the way he had overreacted when they were alone on the road together. They were all friends, she and her lovers, but never more than that, and they had trysted with the understanding that it would remain that way. Heralds, all of them, of course; Talia had been right about that. Only a Herald could be trusted to be completely discreet about making love with the Heir. Two of them had always fallen asleep immediately afterward, and she had slipped out of their rooms to return to her own.
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