Khatrene.
How little Talis had seen of her these past weeks, and how his heart had ached for her company which was now freely given to her betrothed. Today, her husband.
Pagan turned. ‘You look nearly handsome,’ he said, eyeing his cousin critically. ‘No doubt your betrothed will take pleasure in that.’ He reached up to straighten one of the ribbons that fell from Talis’s shoulders to his chest.
‘Speak well of her,’ Talis warned. ‘Or we will quarrel.’
‘I need say nothing,’ Pagan replied. ‘Her character reveals itself.’
Talis shook his head. ‘I wish to discuss another matter. Have you heard anything of the Elder Sh’hale? It was strange that he did not attend the lifeday celebrations to honour the arrival of The Light. But last week his son was made Champion to the King and still he did not come.’
Pagan picked up his newly polished sword belt and looped it around his hips. ‘I thought this strange myself,’ he replied, ‘and when I asked Kert his father’s whereabouts, he told me that his father was ill. A complaint of the stomach.’
‘Ill?’ Talis felt a prickle of foreboding. ‘He is of noble blood. Why does he not call for a Guardian to heal him?’
‘I asked the same of Kert, who told me the illness was nothing.’ Pagan looked up from securing his belt buckle. ‘A surfeit of ale. Nothing that would not pass with time.’ He turned to the looking glass to adjust the position of his sword, just so.
Talis pondered these words. ‘The Elder is old,’ he said, ‘And prone to intemperance. Perhaps an overindulgence has laid him low.’
‘And fearing to reveal his weakness, he does not call for a Guardian but rests in solitude.’
The explanation rang true. Yet it was still a concern that the father was not present to direct the behaviour of his son. Talis himself listened to the counsel of his uncle and was the wiser for it. What Kert might do with no senior male to direct him worried Talis.
Pagan turned back from the glass. ‘Your quarrel with Sh’hale will be put to rest when you are parted tonight,’ he said, sensing his cousin’s disquiet. ‘He remains in the Volcastle while you journey to Be’uccdha. And do not fear; as I train with him I will speak to soften his grievance and bend his heart toward friendship with you.’ Pagan’s face was set in an earnestness Talis had not often seen in his cousin.
‘I want our rivalry to end,’ he said, ‘yet I fear you will labour in vain to soften Sh’hale.’
‘Let me try,’ Pagan asked, and Talis could only agree, pleased to see this new maturity in his cousin. His willingness to ease another’s trouble would greatly please his father who had waited a long time for any sign of the man he would become.
‘Shall we go to the Great Hall?’ Pagan said, snatching up the lorthen bouquet he would gift to the bride’s maid before their procession to the altar behind The Light. ‘I dare not be late or my partner in this marriage dance may think me uninterested.’
Talis looked to his cousin, surprised by his banter. ‘Why would you try to win the favours of The Light’s maid? She leaves the Volcastle this very night as part of our wedding party to Castle Be’uccdha.’
Pagan smiled. ‘There are many hours before that departure, and surely many minutes when Ghett will not be occupied with her Lady.’
‘And the setting for this romantic tryst?’ Talis asked. ‘Will it be some dim corner or unused kitchen pantry?’
‘Nothing so crude, Cous,’ Pagan said. ‘I have secured a room near the Banquet Hall complete with soft bed, warm fire and sweet wine.’
‘I am impressed with your preparation,’ Talis admitted. ‘Although I would prefer you to enter battle with such well-laid strategies, rather than save them all for the pleasure bed.’
‘It is all practice, Cous. Wooing and warring are much alike,’ Pagan said, as though to instruct his elder. ‘The assessment of your enemy, the preliminary reconnoitre, engagement, and then …’ He smiled. ‘… battle to the death.’ Pagan lingered over this last word, savouring the taste of it in anticipation of the act.
Talis prodded his chest. ‘Have you spoken of this practice to your good father? I’ll warrant he appreciates your earnest efforts to better yourself.’
‘Mock me if you will,’ Pagan replied airily, ‘but we shall see who becomes the better warrior.’
‘The better for bedding half the realm?’ So much for maturity.
‘Only half?’ was Pagan’s reply.
Talis turned away and took up the bouquet he would gift to The Light on behalf of her royal brother. This would be before he escorted her to the Temple and her vows. The sweet ahroce blossoms reminded him of the child Princess, and for a moment he tricked his mind into thinking it was she, and not the Khatrene who filled his dreams, whom he would take to be wed.
From behind him Pagan said. ‘You have fallen quiet, Cous. Have I grieved you?’
Talis shook his head and sighed, ‘I feel a sadness, that is all,’ he said. ‘A sadness out of time with the celebrations at hand.’
‘Perhaps you are jealous,’ Pagan said. ‘I will own that I am.’
Talis felt his heart quicken in apprehension. ‘How do you mean, jealous?’ he asked.
‘Who would not want to be as happy as The Light in her chosen marriage,’ Pagan replied carelessly. ‘I’ll warrant it will not be long before Castle Be’uccdha echoes with the squalling of a babe.’
Talis nodded, and found that Pagan’s words did not wound him as he would have thought. ‘The Light already looks with love on her betrothed,’ he agreed. ‘This much is plain. Perhaps destiny plays a part in such a match.’ And perhaps Talis should dwell on her happiness, rather than his own lack of it.
Pagan sighed. ‘My father will likely foist a “good breeder� on me. Some woman of sturdy body and robust health.’ He made a face of disgust. ‘And you ask why I take my pleasure while I can.’
‘That’s a clever excuse for licentiousness,’ Talis replied.
Pagan tilted his head to accept the compliment. ‘But returning to the matter of our conversation, would you deny that you envy The Light’s good fortune?’
‘I would deny it,’ Talis said in truth. ‘For I believe I will be happier with Lae than any other woman I could marry.’
Pagan clasped his arm. ‘And there we will end our conversation, Cous, before my prejudice spoils the happy future you foresee.’
Talis shifted his bouquet to the other hand and clasped Pagan’s arm also. ‘Agreed,’ he said, and there they parted, Talis in solemn contemplation and Pagan with the happy smile of a man who is guaranteed joy.
*
Djahr of Be’uccdha waited in the vestry of the Volcastle temple until his bride was in position and he was called to the altar, its mullioned glass panels now sparkling with Otherworld hues. When his eyes became adjusted to the dazzle, Djahr was met by the vision of his bride, resplendent in the swathe of pale fabric he had designed to cling to her skin as tightly as a lover’s touch.
Only he, Khatrene, and perhaps her maid knew she wore nothing beneath it — a secret that would heighten his bride’s passions, even as it frightened and embarrassed her. Would she ask him how the unusual fabric was constructed? The softness of the texture, the way it warmed to the touch? Would he tell her?
The craftsman who laboured over the gown had newly lost his tongue and could not give The Light details of the Plainsmen who had offered their skin â€
¦ well, their lives in fact, to have the honour of stealing a moment of time against the tender flesh of The Light. Smoothed by the buffeting of the Plains storms, it was far more suitable than the unevenly textured Cliffdwellers’ hides.
Would Khatrene find such sacrifice worthy? Or would she think him cruel?
Djahr smiled. There would be many weeks before she would discover his true nature. Time enough to anticipate the expression of her horror and add depth to an experience the Shadow Woman had already assured him would be most satisfying.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Pagan reached for Ghett but his grasp met empty air. His hand fell back.
‘Am I so easily left?’ he asked her, rubbing his chest, remembering the way her lips had traversed it on a journey of such pleasure that Pagan felt his body stir at the mere thought of it. ‘Surely your lady will not want you yet.’ He rolled onto his side to watch her dress, her movements delicate, hands sure, just as they had been only minutes earlier when the whirlwind of love had them both in its grasp.
He patted the bed beside him. ‘Come, lie with me again.’
‘You, My Lord …’ she said, and though Pagan had no claim to the title it pleased him greatly to hear her address him thus, ‘… would wear me out.’ She frowned at him, yet her eyes sparkled and Pagan knew her to be teasing.
‘Inside and out,’ he agreed, patting the bed again, yet she merely continued to lace the bodice of her underdress, its fabric thin enough to reveal the darker colour of her peaked breasts beneath. Her nonchalance intrigued him and his resolve to have her strengthened. A parting kiss,’ he bargained. ‘You cannot leave me without a parting kiss.’
Ghett paused to glance at him. ‘One kiss before I leave,’ she said, her eyes warning him even as they looked into his with the promise of shared pleasure.
Pagan’s smile was all triumph. ‘One kiss,’ he promised, but did not add and no more, for he meant to have her again. ‘I am a man of my word,’ he added, for he would be sure to kiss her only once.
‘Then my virtue is safe in your hands, My Lord,’ she replied, and such seduction shone in her eyes that Pagan felt himself achingly ready to have her, a fact which was revealed when the bedding that lay between them was removed. ‘Although …’ She gazed at his form, her eye lingering on the readiness of his ardour. ‘… perhaps it is not your hands I should fear.’
‘You promised a kiss,’ Pagan said, the banter in his voice now edged with determination. Ghett was more woman than any he had bedded and he would have her again before she left him. How he cursed that he had not discovered her wiles before now. In a few hours she would be gone and he would be back to kitchen maids.
‘And I am a woman of my word, My Lord,’ she assured him, ‘but I would have you come to me.’ And with this she stepped back from the bedside and donned her dress, much to Pagan’s displeasure. Then she stood before him, tying its bodice laces as she spoke. ‘How I have dreamt of just such a kiss. I in my finery. You, My Lord, in nothing save your fine skin.’ Her gaze licked over him and Pagan felt himself more a man than he ever had before. That a woman of such skill and passion should dream of him naked. He did not know that women had such thoughts. ‘Many a night have I lain in bed,’ she said, her fingers busy with her laces, ‘dreaming of just such a meeting. Of the touch of your warm flesh against the thick brocade of my best gown. Your large hands on my bodice,’ her hands moved to touch herself there and Pagan slid to the side of the bed, ‘Your lips on mine …’ She looked into his eyes then and Pagan felt such fire in his soul as he would kill to have her.
‘Wait no longer,’ he said hoarsely, and in two steps he was upon her and they were pressed to the door, the kiss she had granted a furnace between them, on and on, dizzying Pagan’s mind as his hands took what pleasures they could find through the thick fabric of her gown. He was mad for her, and she seemed to be the same for him until he heard her gasp.
‘My Lord.’ She broke away, her eyes wide with apprehension. ‘I hear My Lady’s voice.’ And with a shove that surprised Pagan with its force, she released herself from imprisonment against the door and swung it wide to the corridor and the voices beyond.
‘Wait,’ Pagan called, but she did not, and lusty though he might be, foolish he was not. The concealment of the bed beckoned and Pagan dove into it, even as the door slammed shut behind her. The sheets of their joining still held her scent and he ached for what he could clearly not have. ‘Damnation!’ he shouted, then struggled into his own finery, the insistence of his ardour hampering his efforts.
Why should he wait for what would not return? Pagan was a warrior. He would hunt her down and bring her back, and be damned about the wedding party. Perhaps if she was not found when they left, she would have to stay in the Volcastle.
Quickly then, he made for the Banquet Hall to find her and offer some excuse to steal her from her mistress. But while striding down a darkened corridor which took him faster than the main hallway, he saw two people together and his steps slowed to a halt.
Ghett and Kert Sh’hale. Even in the shadows Pagan knew that form. As he watched, he felt his mouth dry and his heart beat an odd rhythm. Their stance was not intimate, yet as they continued to talk he had to assume they were acquainted.
Then he heard Ghett laugh, a low sound of shared humour, and he wondered what business lay between these two so that they should meet in darkness. It burned, too, that she should flee from his arms in an anguish of duty only to stand and talk to Sh’hale as though time was of no consequence.
Was she Sh’hale’s lover also?
Pagan turned away and left as quietly as he’d come upon them, damning his Guardian legacy. Why couldn’t his father have been born a noble with a castle and lands of his own? In truth, Guardians were revered and Pagan’s status was not below that of Sh’hale, but what woman would not choose to marry for a castle full of servants and a wardrobe of gowns, rather than take a man who must rely on his King for all his necessaries?
‘Ho, Pagan.’ Talis backed up a pace, startled to have been nearly knocked down by his cousin emerging from a side corridor into the main. ‘I came to look for you. I leave with the royal party and we have not said goodbye.’
‘Goodbye to you then,’ Pagan said and slapped his arm.
Talis frowned and looked at Pagan again. ‘What paltry farewell is this? Does something bother you, Cous? Did The Light’s maid escape your well-laid siege?’
‘I had her.’ Pagan looked away, ‘But she left my bed for the arms of another, the callous wench. Sh’hale’s is the next bed she’ll warm, I’m sure,’ he said, and was unprepared for his cousin’s swift reaction.
Talis snatched at his arm and said close to his face, ‘Do you speak of Kert Sh’hale dallying with Ghett?’
‘I do,’ Pagan said. ‘She steps into his bed still warm from my own.’
‘Where and when?’ Talis demanded, and too late Pagan saw the reasoning behind his cousin’s frenzied thoughts.
‘I do not know for sure,’ he corrected himself. ‘I only saw them together just now in a dark hallway. They had the look of conspirators. And they met to talk secretly.’
‘If he can be proved to have lain with another,’ Talis said, looking in the direction Pagan had come, ‘he must cease his suit for Lae. But here comes your maid,’ he whispered, his gaze over Pagan’s shoulder. ‘Ghett,’ he said and pulled Pagan to one side to let her pass. ‘Your lady calls for you.’
‘Still,’ Pagan added, unable to keep jealousy from his voice.
Ghett bobbed a c
urtsy to Talis and sent Pagan a glance that fired his loins despite his anger with her. ‘Then I must hurry,’ she said, and left them with a dry swishing of skirts.
Pagan fell back to the wall and closed his eyes. ‘The woman has more magic in her eyes than a Guardian in his blood.’
‘Do you think that she lay with Sh’hale?’ Talis asked.
‘There was not time,’ Pagan said, and found reassurance in the thought. Perhaps their conversation had been innocent. Talis was silent beside him and Pagan dragged his errant thoughts back. ‘I wish you good fortune in Be’uccdha,’ he said, ‘and look forward to standing with you at your own wedding.’
‘Close enough to bicker with my bride,’ Talis said, but a smile touched his lips to soften this accusation. ‘I go now to escort a radiant bride to her husband’s home.’ It was a joyous duty yet something sad lay in his words.
‘As your bride will be,’ Pagan assured him, to which Talis nodded.
They parted then but Pagan remained where he was long after Talis had disappeared from view. ‘Go to your betrothed, Cous,’ he said softly. ‘And do not fear your past, for I will uncover what lies in Sh’hale’s heart for both our futures.’
This he promised.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Khatrene pretended to be asleep. Not something she’d ever imagined to do in Djahr’s presence. And yet here she was.
DO YOU FEAR YOUR HUSBAND? the voice asked her.
Should I? she replied.
The roomy, cushioned litter that carried them from the Volcastle towards Castle Be’uccdha swayed gently as it had done since they’d left. Currently, it was close to dawn on the fourth morning. What was that? About … seventy-seven hours?
Without Mihale.
It felt like seven years.
Khatrene bit the inside of her cheek and struggled to keep herself from crying. How had she come to miss him so much? It wasn’t as though ‘goodbye’ meant forever.
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