Love. Love. Love, it seemed to say and Khatrene had never felt more cherished, more loved. He stepped behind her and she lost sight of his eyes. Closed her own. The music grew faster but conversely, Djahr’s movements slowed. They continued to sway as he continued his dance of the hands and Khatrene felt her breasts tingle and the nipples waken, stretching against the fabric of her dress, searching for his touch.
If breathing hadn’t been an involuntary mechanism, Khatrene would have passed out.
Yet she longed to feel the warmth of skin against skin and had Djahr not ingrained in her the art of anticipation, she would have felt frustrated. Instead, the delicious abandon of giving her pleasure into his hands all but overwhelmed her. His invisible, almost-felt caresses drove her to heights of excitement she’d never thought to experience standing up.
Finally, miraculously, she lay on the bed, although Khatrene was unsure in the dizziness of her desire how she’d arrived there. The music had stopped and all she could hear was the pounding of blood in her ears. Her limbs lay helplessly spread amid the cushions and her legs trembled from the need to be touched. To be taken.
Yet, perversely, she didn’t want it to be over quickly. She wanted Djahr to kiss her first, to make her wait. He stood beside the bed looking down at her, his eyelids heavy with anticipation and Khatrene, who was panting, had to lick her dry lips. She smiled in open invitation.
Djahr smiled back.
Simultaneously, she felt heat against her wrists and ankles.
Her startled expression made no impact on his smile, and for a moment she wondered if her discomfort was a custom that had yet to he explained. She tried to move a hand and found it trapped. Fear returned then and her gaze darted to her wrists but there was nothing to see. Nothing was holding her. Yet she was held fast.
She looked back to Djahr, genuinely alarmed.
‘Fear not, my bride,’ he said, reaching down to grasp the front of her gown. Khatrene caught her breath at the feel of his fingers between her breasts. ‘I have magic of my own, not unlike the Guardian power which saved your life. Only this power is used solely for pleasure.’ Without warning, he tore open her beautiful wedding gown and though she gasped and was pulled off the bed by the motion, when her back hit the mattress again she forced her panic down, telling herself it was like smashing plates after dinner. A simple custom and no harm done.
‘So pale and perfect,’ he said.
Her arms and legs were still splayed by the invisible force that held her and a hot blush washed over her as he inspected her body, now devoid of any covering. She panted, with shock as well as with desire. Then she felt something else. The warmth that restrained her ankles began drifting slowly up the inside of her legs and she couldn’t help gasping and stiffening in horror. Further it came, up the inside of her thighs and she felt embarrassment, arousal. ‘Is this …?’ Her mind was filling up with sensations. She couldn’t put words together.
‘Magic?’ he asked, watching her reactions with interest.
Khatrene gasped again as the warmth closed over her loins, resting there a moment while her flesh quivered in helpless anticipation. ‘I just want … you,’ she said, and felt tears on her cheeks even as her loins trembled. There was no reason to cry, only that her body’s responses were spiralling out of her control.
‘I would give you all the pleasure a woman can know,’ he purred, his words somehow contused in her mind with the undulating heat between her legs.
She shut her eyes a moment, searching for sense. ‘Are you doing this?’ she asked, thinking that would make it all right. Wouldn’t it? But what about his hands? She’d longed to feel his skin against her own, to glory in the contrast of dark against light. When would that come?
As though answering her internal questions, the warmth at her wrists slid down the inside of her arms, lingering in her armpits before sliding across to her breasts. Her eyes snapped open and she stared at Djahr.
He was breathing heavily and she wondered at that. Was the magic working on his body as well? He growled low in his chest and closed his eyes. Not looking at her. Not touching her. Khatrene felt her tears quicken but could do nothing to stop the fierce pleasure building inside her.
‘Please. Please,’ she whispered, and then watched shamelessly as he removed his clothes. Like her gown, his robe covered nakedness, and as it fell to the ground she felt her breath catch and shudder inside her. He was more beautiful than she could have imagined and she ached to touch him, to caress that dark perfect skin with her own hands. The hands that were trapped on the bed.
Then the building storm of pleasure clouded her vision, her mind, her emotions and she could think of nothing clearly. Djahr moved over her, yet all she felt was continued manipulation from the warmth that restrained her. He himself trembled with the power it had over him. One lunge? Two? While he held himself away from her, depriving her of the satisfying weight of his body on hers. Then they were both shuddering in mighty heaves, Djahr bellowing out his release while Khatrene cried out in little gasps, on and on, longer than she would have believed possible.
And then she was just crying, huddled in a ball, her body and her mind drained, empty and achingly unsatisfied. For a long time she cried, and then in complete exhaustion, she slept.
Djahr watched her tears with growing satisfaction. It was exactly as the Shadow Woman had predicted. He moved away from the bed and asked softly, ‘Will she be with child?’
The Shadow Woman, now in solid form, waited for him behind the stone lattice screen. ‘Not this time,’ she replied.
‘Good.’ Djahr did not care to hide the fact that he desired Khatrene. The confusion on his wife’s face had added satisfaction to his pleasure. He wanted that again. Many times. ‘When can I next join with her?’
‘Tomorrow night,’ the Shadow Woman replied, ‘Though you may call me sooner if you have need of quenching.’
‘I have such need now,’ Djahr said, for despite the power of his release, the sight of his sobbing bride had awoken him to fresh passion.
‘Very well then,’ she replied, and Djahr felt her touch on his body, a hand like a tongue, her other hand covering his mouth that he might not cry out and disturb his sleeping bride.
An hour later Djahr slept.
In the morning Khatrene woke to a cold empty bed and she simply couldn’t help herself. She cried and cried and cried.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Djahr raised his glass to his lips, then stilled. There it was again. That glance. Intercepted between Talis and Khatrene.
Lae leant forward a moment and Djahr was forced to do likewise, that he might further observe the expression on Talis’s face.
Khatrene looked back at her plate, yet Talis continued to gaze at her with more attention than seemed fitting. Djahr hesitated to call the glance one of desire. More of sadness and something else.
Certainly, the interest was not returned. Khatrene desired only Djahr’s attention, which he gave her in lavish quantity during the day. The nights were a cruel disappointment to her, but Djahr could tell by her manner that she blamed herself for the inadequacies of their joining.
The refinements of the Shadow Woman’s torture were so sweet Djahr could barely wait for nightfall so that he could watch Khatrene’s innocence erode under the onslaught of thunderous muscle spasms devoid of any emotional content. How she ached for his touch, and this he would grant, sparingly, when they were in company. Once they were alone, however, he gave her nothing but his seed.
A week had passed in this fashion and Djahr’s appetite for destruction was barely awoken, yet already he sensed a withdrawal in her. Was there cause to fear that? Might she become discontented? Or even go so far as to attempt to make him jealous? Djahr glanced again at Talis who was now listenin
g to Lae, yet he did not glance at her, and even as Djahr watched, the Guardian’s eyes strayed again to Khatrene.
Djahr pondered this and after the meal found occasion to speak to Talis alone. ‘Do you call Be’uccdha home now, Talis?’ he asked.
‘My Lord, I do,’ Talis replied, his manner showing deference. ‘And I long for the time when Lae and I shall be wed.’
Djahr thought to test him in this. ‘My daughter urges speed,’ he said. ‘I suspect she desires to lure you to her bed and wring babies from your loins.’
Talis smiled at this, but he looked unsure. ‘My Lord, The Dark … you told me once you did not wish Lae early with child. Her mother’s birthing difficulties …’
To which Djahr replied with a weary nod. ‘Yet she is now a woman and will not be denied,’ he said. ‘I fear I was foolish to believe I could hold back a surging tide with mere words. Therefore take my blessing.’ Djahr waited a moment, watching close before he said, ‘Does this not please you, Talis?’
‘My Lord, yes,’ he answered quickly, yet Djahr saw hesitation in his eyes.
‘Then ready yourself for feats of endurance,’ he said and stepped closer as conspirators do. ‘For a wife can sap the strength of a man from dusk till dawn if she is not restrained.’ Djahr’s smile was wide yet Talis looked away and struggled with a frown. ‘If it were not my solemn duty to fulfil The Light’s destiny,’ Djahr went on. ‘I swear I would ask for respite from the —’
‘My Lord, I have remembered a task uncompleted,’ Talis said, and with the scantest bow, excused himself and strode away, his shoulders stiffer than a day-old corpse.
‘Very well,’ Djahr called after him, ‘yet come to me in the Altar Caves in an hour and we will lay plans for your wedding.’
Talis did not acknowledge this command, from which Djahr concluded there was indeed substance to his growing suspicions. The Light’s Champion was in need of guidance before his affections strayed from their rightful recipient towards the woman who was Djahr’s alone. This would not be a difficult task for the Guardian was honourable. Had this not been the case, Djahr would not have gifted Lae to him in betrothal.
But a prodding would remind him where his duty lay. And Djahr had devised just such a lesson.
Before he left for his habitual solitary devotions in the Altar Caves, Djahr called on Khatrene to invite her to join him there for an intimate embrace. At first she hesitated to agree but she was soon swayed with a few soft words and the promise of more. The potent aphrodisiac Ghett continued to administer to her mistress had served Djahr well.
On reaching the caves he dismissed his spiritual assistants and led Khatrene to his pulpit — the balcony which could be seen from any section of the cavern. Behind them hung dripping spears created by the water falling from the ceiling, and as he laid her by his side he made much of comparing her hair to the sparkling droplets, and her eyes to the magic of the Sacred Pool. When she wanted to speak, Djahr silenced her with the briefest touch of his lips on hers. Her breath stilled in her chest and he marvelled at the power he held over her, power he now wielded to hold her patient while he waited for their audience to arrive.
The guard outside had previously been ordered to admit only Talis and soon enough, while feigning to study his wife’s lips in great detail, Djahr saw a shadow drift through the cavern entrance and knew the moment had arrived. Without further preliminaries, he startled Khatrene by pressing his lips to hers in a confident manner, as though a kiss was no stranger to their marriage.
Ignorant of their hidden audience, Khatrene fell easily to his will with a rapture that was as flattering as it was arousing. And in truth, the kiss was not unpleasant for Djahr who had, for many years, known only the kisses of the Shadow Woman. There was an innocence in Khatrene, a helplessness he found most stimulating. However, his greater pleasure was found in the knowledge that somewhere in the shadows stood a soul in silent pain.
Khatrene delivered a pleasing amount of noise, taking extravagant delight in the pleasures they shared, and to mark the occasion Djahr let himself be wanton, offering her intimacies he had so far denied. As though they were regular practice, he gave her the touch of his hands, his lips, and a tender smile when she lay quiet at last in his arms, the very model of a loving and devoted wife.
All in all, a masterful performance. Djahr could only hope that his audience appreciated the effort.
*
Talis stood drained of colour. Sick to death. Broken of heart. And yet he could not tear his eyes away from what he ached not to see. He felt battered, his soul bruised, his mind numbed.
To know that Khatrene gave her love to another was anguish enough, but to witness the act, to see the woman on whose heart he’d locked his own, wrapped in love’s embrace with another man was more mortal a wound than any blade could deliver. And to stand unseen and watch such flagrant intimacies without thought of shame at his own actions … Talis did not know himself. Everything within him was transposed as he watched The Dark rob him of his dreams and in defence, blind anger rose to protect him from despair.
Even if The Dark was her husband, Talis ached to kill him. Yet he knew he would not. For what would such a death serve? To hasten his own demise. To break her heart as she had broken his? For surely she loved her husband. Talis had only to look at the tenderness with which she stroked his face, the reverence of her kiss. These were the actions of sure devotion.
The very actions Talis dreamt of every night.
And what of his suspicions of Djahr, roused by the memory Talis had seen in her mind? Obviously founded on jealousy alone. For though fierce hatred burned in Talis, he could not deny that Djahr was a loving husband, and deserving of his respect.
Neither could he love Khatrene the less for her actions. But he could ache for the emptiness this hour had opened in his soul. Wide, yawning emptiness that scoured joy and burned away the memory of peace.
Duty, which had once saved him from grief, was a hollow memory. He walked on legs that felt no connection to his body, stopping at the edge of the battlements to look down onto the hungry rocks below. A bitter wind pushed him back yet he leant against it, staring down at his doom.
Not even the thought of his precious Guardian blood splattering in waste could rouse him from destruction. Then came a voice behind him.
‘Beloved.’
Talis turned, his action heavy with reluctance. Lae stood before him with Mooraz at her back.
‘Mooraz delivers me to your keeping,’ she said and smiled. ‘He leaves to seek after Plainsmen in the veiled mists.’
Talis nodded, but he could bring no expression to his face.
Lae’s smile faltered. ‘Are you well, beloved?’ she asked.
Talis simply looked at her, his soul suddenly so weary he could not perform the simple action of shifting his gaze.
‘I fear you are not well,’ Lae went on. ‘And I am no nurse to aid you. I can scarcely look after myself.’ She turned a nervous glance on Mooraz, ‘Do you think Talis is ill?’
Mooraz studied Talis, seemingly in great detail. ‘Your Champion requires the dry air of the Plains,’ he said at last. ‘I will take him with me.’
‘But …’ Lae looked from one to the other. ‘Who …’ She frowned and wrung her hands together.
‘The Dark has trebled the Castle guard,’ Mooraz told her, ‘You will be safe here till we return.’
Lae shook her head but did not argue, cast another quick glance at Talis then turned and walked quickly in the direction of her chambers.
Talis transferred his empty gaze to Mooraz, who considered him a moment before speaking.
‘Gather what you need to heal yourself, Guardia
n. We leave in an hour.’
Talis made no move to obey, and neither did he speak.
‘You are to wed my Lady of Be’uccdha,’ Mooraz said, no concession in his tone. ‘She needs you whole in body and spirit.’
At last Talis found he could speak. ‘I will not kill Noorinya,’ he said.
‘Best you kill no-one,’ Mooraz replied, and glanced to the parapet behind Talis. Then without further word or glance he departed, leaving only the sound of the waves far below and the beating of Talis’s own heart.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Noorinya stalked the perimeter of her camp. It galled her that three of their women lay in childbirth, and for that reason they could not attack The Dark’s party which was currently camped half a day away near the foot of the Echo Mountains. The Dark’s men had been easily evaded in the mists, yet Noorinya would have preferred to raid their camp and steal enough supplies to see her people through the coming weeks. One day they would be strong enough to march on Be’uccdha and strike at The Dark himself and Noorinya would take much pleasure in destroying the miasma of evil which hung over the black castle, just as the castle itself hung over the Everlasting Ocean.
Sometimes at night she dreamt of Castle Be’uccdha falling into the ocean, breaking into pieces so small they could be held in her hands. In her dreams she had eaten those pieces — eaten his castle as he had eaten her brother.
Noorinya’s footfalls slowed. She must not think about that. Must not remember the small body falling, blood flowing from a dagger wound she knew would end his life. True to her training she had let him fall and had fought on, pausing only to help those who might live. Yet when the skirmish was over and the time for grieving upon them, Preeshuz’s body could not be found — taken by The Dark’s men, her lieutenant had said, as was another, uninjured child.
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