by Nunn, PL
Bloodraven moved very quickly when he chose and was looming over Yhalen before he realized the halfling had shifted. He grasped Yhalen’s jaw and covered startled lips with his mouth. The tongue that slipped into his mouth was more leisurely than demanding, and tasted of the watered wine he’d been drinking. It was velvety roughness on the top and slick beneath. Between it and the hand that slid down his bare back, splay-fingered and firm as it pressed his body hard against Bloodraven’s own.
Yhalen felt helpless little electric shivers rush through his limbs as heat tingled at his groin.
He moaned, winding his arms around Bloodraven’s thick neck and opening his mouth wider to accept all that Bloodraven had to offer. His thoughts scattered a little, but no more so than they ever did when libido came into play. Bloodraven’s hand squeezed his ass, and overtaxed muscles protested the notion of being stretched again so soon after such a thorough workout, bringing Yhalen very sharply back to his senses.
“Goddess!”
He gasped, pushing against Bloodraven’s shoulders to break the kiss. He was embarrassingly aware of his half-hardened cock caught between their bodies. Bloodraven had to be aware of it, as well. The ogr’ron lifted a brow, his breathing not nearly so erratic as Yhalen’s had become.
“Maybe a little is left,” Yhalen lied, knowing very well that it had been nothing of outside invocation that had quickened his blood this time. “Not much. Could you pl-please put me down?”
Bloodraven shrugged and did so, the bulge in his trousers more obvious by far than the one in Yhalen’s. Twice in an hour would kill him, Yhalen thought miserably, eyes fixed on that impressive hidden shaft. Well, at the very least he’d been regrettably sore for some time to come. He tore his gaze away, but Bloodraven’s face was no easier to look at, golden eyes shimmering with faint satisfaction.
“We will discuss this further,” Bloodraven declared, rising and stretching.
That caused an impressive display of muscle and ochre-tinted flesh that drew Yhalen’s eye like a moth to flame. He had to force his stare somewhere safer, and focused instead on the remnants of the meal. He had the sinking notion that now the door had been opened, wicked charm or no, it would not be so easily closed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Two days of nothing but blank walls, the regular arrival of meals, and Bloodraven’s uncomfortable company had Yhalen in a foul, dark mood. Guilty embarrassment had some small contribution to his state of mind. Though he felt no more irresistible urges towards his half human cellmate, he was well enough aware of his physical presence, well enough aware of the raw animal magnetism Bloodraven emitted to realize that, under different circumstances, he might not be so quick to shun his advances.
That realization annoyed him no end, and he spent the better part of a day casting dark, accusing glances at the ogr’ron’s broad back.
His dark glares seemed to bother Bloodraven not at all. Bloodraven, having little enough else to do, slept a good deal of the time, making Yhalen wonder if perhaps during the worst part of the mountain winters, ogres did not retreat into a sort of hibernation to wait out the intractable weather. Asking would have created a dialogue that he wasn’t willing to start, as he wasn’t willing in any way to give Bloodraven an opening to initiate more intimate activities. So he sat on a folded pile of cloth in the corner furthest from the comfortable pallet and brooded.
He grudgingly admitting that if Bloodraven had truly wished to dally between the furs then nothing Yhalen could have done would have stopped him. Honestly said, it would have been a spirited way to pass the slow drip of time, and Bloodraven had cast many a long, speculative look at Yhalen after the lady’s devious spell had faded, but he’d not acted upon them. Perhaps he was wary of all the magic practiced around him of late. Perhaps, Yhalen admitted reluctantly, he was simply honoring Yhalen’s obvious desire that he keep his distance.
Honor. That wasn’t a trait Yhalen would have associated with the brutal invaders from the north, but he couldn’t help but admit that throughout his association with Bloodraven, the halfling had shown the occasional trace of it. Though whether the ogre concept of honor, in all its aspects, was anything close to the human version was yet to be seen.
On the third day, the tromping of footsteps down the stair and the rattling of the sturdy lock happened before the usual appearance of their breakfast. Bloodraven made no move to stand, but Yhalen did, not able to feign the halfling’s air of casual courage quite so readily. There were a good deal more guards in the hall than what usually accompanied the arrival of meals, and not all of them wore the colors of this keep. Yhalen recognized Lord Tangery’s red and black livery on at least half of the men.
“You.” One of the prince Protector’s men jabbed a finger at Yhalen. “You’re given leave of this room.”
Yhalen blinked, a great wave of hope rushing through him. Freedom. Was he being granted his freedom from this unjust imprisonment?
There was a sound from the corner, a low growl and a quiet shifting of weight as Bloodraven rose.
Every guard in the room went tense, hands slipping to the hilts of weapons.
“Wait.” Tangery’s man held up a hand in warning, both to Bloodraven and the guards grouped around him, then said pointedly to Bloodraven, “He’ll be back. Lord Tangery only wishes to speak privately. When he’s finished, the boy will be returned, by the word of my lord.”
Yhalen shuddered, the brief optimism leaking away, having the distinct feeling that Lord Tangery would rather take the point of a sword than willingly break a promise given. He glanced at Bloodraven and saw him incline his head, accepting. The guards let out a collective breath of relief as one of Dunval’s men ushered Yhalen out into the hall, past servants struggling down the stairs with field chairs, a table, and what looked to be refreshments. Of Tangery himself, Yhalen saw no sign on his way up. He lost interest in looking quickly enough as he exited the basement door and saw true sunlight for the first time in what seemed weeks instead of mere days.
He stood in a square of light emitted from one of the high windows set along the length of the hall, breathing in the healing rays. Nothing could live without sunlight in some form or another.
He decided to test the limits of his freedom and walked towards the doors leading out into the yard. No one stopped him, but he felt the presence of a guard trailing behind him. People were just beginning to move around the yard, preparing for a long day of work. The smell of baking bread permeated the yard on the kitchen side of the keep. He wandered that way. Depending on how long a talk Lord Tangery planned to have with Bloodraven, Yhalen was likely to miss breakfast. He had no qualms about taking it above the crust of the earth, basking in daylight.
The cooks weren’t ready to start doling out breakfast yet, though. Bread was still baking and porridge still simmering. Half an hour, they claimed, shooing him and his guard away. He went to the barracks where he’d slept before being forced into Bloodraven’s company, remembering the wash trough in the garden attached to it. A few servants still dallied in the barracks. Where before, they had paid him little heed, now they stopped and stared, their mouths agape. No matter the secrecy of their lord’s plans, nothing escaped the gossip of servants. He refused to meet their eyes, though he couldn’t help the blush that stained his cheeks knowing what they must assume. Knowing the truth of those assumptions.
He washed in the trough, blinding himself to the guard’s presence. Bodily modesty had never been a Ydregi trait, though of recent Yhalen had started to become protective of his personal privacy. He dipped his head and scrubbed his hair and scalp clean with the sliver of soap left on the edge of the trough. He stood with the trough between himself and the guard and washed the rest of his body, then wiped himself quickly dry with the used cloths other servants had left before he redressed. He squeezed out his hair, toweling as much wetness as he could from it, then twisted it into a rope and tied it in a damp knot at the back of his neck to keep the back of his shirt dry.
&nbs
p; The kitchen was serving breakfast by the time he returned, and he stood in a line of guards, keep servants, and laborers, waiting for his portion. A hunk of bread and a bowl of porridge with a dash of honey, all washed down with plain water. Not as rich a fare as they’d been sending down of late to Bloodraven, but appreciated nonetheless.
He sat on the edge of a short stone wall and ate, his guard having gotten his own breakfast that he sat consuming not very far away. As he was sopping up the last of the porridge with the remaining bread, he caught sight of a familiar figure. Meliah paused in her passage, what looked to be a load of laundry in a basket on her hip, staring at him in surprise. Almost she made to approach, but Yhalen’s guard stood, a warning look on his face and the girl ducked her head, casting Yhalen a quick, pitying look before hurrying on.
Whether the pity bothered him more, or the guard’s interference, he couldn’t say. He supposed the guard had orders to keep Yhalen from spreading tales about what they were doing, what they had bartered for cooperation from a dread enemy. It wasn’t as if the people of the keep didn’t know. It wasn’t as if Meliah’s pity came from the fact that he’d been taken into the care of the lord and lady of the keep instead of being tossed out to fend for himself.
He suddenly felt sick to his stomach. He put the bowl down, hands shaking as he scanned the yard to see how many other eyes were drawn to where he sat. Quite a few, though most of them were furtive, and turned away to whisper to companions when they saw him looking. He rose, staring blindly ahead, and headed for the main building. At least inside the castle there were not so many idle bodies. At least there, he could find a private corner to wallow in his embarrassment alone. But the guard caught up with him once inside the doors, and latched hold of his arm, turning him towards the enclosed staircase leading to the upper floors.
“The lady wants you,” the man said bluntly.
Yhalen hissed, jerking his arm from the guard’s grasp, and refusing to set foot on the steps.
“I’ve no wish to see her,” he snapped, thinking foul things about the lady in question.
The guard stared mutely at him, determined in his mission. Another guard looked up from the hall at the commotion. All it would take would be a word and they would bodily haul him up those steps.
They’d already proved to have no qualms about forcing their will upon the reluctant.
He glared his distaste of them, straightening his back and climbing up the stairs before the man could dare to lay a hand upon him again. There would be violence done if he tried, of that Yhalen was sure. He’d taken as much manhandling as his pride would allow these last weeks. Though he had little enough choice with Bloodraven, who could snap him like a twig if he so desired, he wouldn’t tolerate it from these mere human men.
Two flights up, past more guards who seemed disinterested in his passage. The doors to the lady’s chambers were of richly carved oak. Whimsical etchings of birds and twining vines that were more suited to a lady of less intimidating nature, Yhalen thought, than Lady Duvera. Then again, it was an old fortress, and it was likely these rooms had belonged to many a lady before the present one had taken up residence.
The guard rapped on the door and a moment later a maid opened it, peering outside timidly before stepping back and ushering them into the outer room. Yhalen had never before been in a room like it.
The richness of the furnishings was overwhelming and somewhat garish to the eye. Colorful tapestries, fine silks, velvets embroidered with strands of gold and silver, and furniture inlaid with the same. The room was cluttered with the trappings of wealth, and Yhalen found none of it appealing. The lady’s maid in her plain smock seemed the only spot of refreshing plainness in the chamber. She assured the guard that the lady would see to them shortly. The guard seemed content to wait, putting his back to the door and staring blankly at a wall. Yhalen stood in the center of this cacophony of color and fabric thinking dourly that he preferred the cleaned out storage room he’d recently shared with Bloodraven to this pompous cage.
The lady kept him waiting. A good while. He’d begun to shift from foot to foot, taking small idle steps around the room to simply relieve the pressure of standing in one place for so long, when the door finally opened and the lady Duvera swept out, haughty and grand in her fine dress, her dark hair coiled on her head and her dark eyes lazy and amused.
“Did I keep you waiting?” she asked with patently false regard for the fact that she had. The little maid hustled back to stand out of her way against the wall, waiting expectantly for any signal of need from her mistress.
“You did,” Yhalen said bluntly, feeling no need for courtesy in the face of what she’d done to him with her witchcraft. “It was wasted time, better spent enjoying the sunlight you and yours have denied me of late.”
She laughed, genuinely amused. She approached him brazenly, standing as close as a man might who wished to intimidate by the mere invasion of personal space. He met her gaze levelly, refusing to flinch, but inside he strained to sense any mystical tampering on her part. She caught his arm, twining it with her own and urged him towards the inner room.
He tensed, rigid with anger and despising her touch. He refused to budge, but wasn’t quite willing to jerk his arm from the grasp of a lady, even if that lady were a witch who had practiced dark magic against him.
“Oh, come, don’t be stubborn. Or are you afraid of a mere woman? Are the Ydregi so timid?”
Yhalen glowered, his pride stung, and allowed her to draw him forward.
“If you hear me cry out,” she said lightly to the guard by the door. “Come beat this fellow to a pulp, would you?”
The guard inclined his head, the glint in his eye a telltale sign that he’d be all too willing to do just that.
The lady’s private chamber wasn’t so cluttered as the outer one. The furniture was just as rich, the tapestries just as fine, but there was less of it. The bed was a large four-poster affair, affixed with sheer draperies. He refused to move further into the room than a few steps past the threshold, and the lady shrugged, then closed the doors behind them before daintily seating herself upon the cushioned stool at the foot of the bed. She stared at him as if she were trying to decipher a table of some ancient text that she only half understood. He stared past her, to the pale light of day that seeped through a crack in her drapes.
“Was our barbarous guest satisfied with your performance?” she asked finally, a sly curve to her thin lips. “Were you enthusiastic enough in the performance of your duty?”
Yhalen ground his teeth, feeling his cheeks flame despite the surge of cold anger that seethed inside him. He wouldn’t grace her with a response.
“Oh come now, why so shy?” she said. “It was just a simple charm. It would never have worked if you truly abhorred the touch of the creature. Grant me just a few details of the act. You seem little worse for wear, so he must have taken care to be gentle with you. I made sure there were lubricants sent down with the supplies you were sent, but even so, with such a size…do you bleed when he enters you?”
“Witch,” he spat, having endured as much as he could in silence. “Foul, evil woman. You take a pure art and twist it to your wretched needs. I know of no Ydregi that would stoop so low.”
“Except one,” she smiled, showing no offense at his words as she responded. “One that stoops lower, taking the vitality of others for his own needs. For the need of his half-breed lover.”
She could have physically hit him and not scored so well. He felt the breath rush out of him so that his head swam wildly.
“He’s not,” he said indignantly,“ my lover.”
She laughed. “You’re naive. I haven’t yet decided whether it’s a fetching trait or a pitiable one. You think you’re the first one to abuse power. You think that even your forest-bred people are so pure that no one of them uses the power the gods granted them for more than altruistic purposes? If so, they’re not human.”
“You’re wrong,” he whispered, but he
remembered all the same the Ydregi who had, all those years ago, burnt down half the forest with the misuse of his powers. That man was only recalled and spoken about because of the magnitude of his misdeed. Were there others that had misused the power in smaller ways that no one ever mentioned? That no one ever knew about, because like Yhalen, they would never tell in fear of what such knowledge would do to their standing amongst the people?
“I’m not,” she assured him. “Even though the magicks you use and those that I practice are very different things, I think.”
“All power comes from the Goddess,” he repeated. It was what he’d been told a hundred times, but the lady laughed with derision.
“Fool. If your Goddess even exists, she has no claim to all the magicks that fill the world. What a hidebound, cloistered race of people the Ydregi must be, to believe such. My craft hails from far eastern lands. I learned it as a girl, under the tutelage of my foreign nanny. She taught me potions and chants and incantations. There’s nothing haphazard or left to the whimsy of the gods in what I do. Can you say the same?”
He swallowed uncertainly, off his balance and fighting for steady ground.
“I didn’t think your people,” he waved a hand helplessly about to indicate all of the peoples that inhabited the towns and duchies and cities that lay under the fiefdom of Lord Tangery’s royal brother the king as he spoke, “believed much in the practice of magicks.”
“They don’t,” she said simply. “But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist in a dozen different forms. That doesn’t mean they won’t turn their heads and countenance the use of it if it benefits them.” She lowered her head, staring up at him from under her lashes meaningfully. “Tangery might be a prince, a knight, and a devoted follower of the church, but that doesn’t mean he won’t look the other way to see his plans come to fruition. And he does so want our halfling complacent and cooperative.”
“For what?” Yhalen asked.
She smiled. “Maybe if you please master Bloodraven enough, he’ll tell you.”