She shook her head, her hair brushing lightly against his bare shoulders. “Didna’ do any such thing,” she said, her voice low and slurred with drowsy contentment. “Can only sleep so long.”
Madoc made a wordless sound of agreement, running a hand down the smooth tightness of her side. There was another scar there, faintly raised to his fingers, this one a rough semicircle: a spear point, mayhap. He passed it, making her shiver, and went onward to the rise of her hip.
“Ah,” she said and nibbled on his neck, at the same time throwing a leg across his hips and wriggling against his already-hard cock. “I could fancy this way of waking.” She flicked her tongue across his earlobe and added, pretending apology, “But I’d not wish to keep you, if you’re wanting to be out of bed.”
“No.” He cupped her arse, stroking and squeezing. “Not at all.”
“Not…” Her breath caught. “Restless, then, or hungry?”
“Both, in a way,” Madoc said and threw back the covers.
The Caduirathi kept their dwellings warm. He’d often appreciated it, but never so greatly as when he and Moiread both lay bare to the world, when he could spread her thighs with his hands and leisurely bring his mouth to the cleft between them, until she swore and begged and tugged at his hair and finally peaked with a long, rapturous sigh.
Only then did Madoc slide up and enter her, savoring the ongoing tremors around his member as long as he could before he had to give way to the strongest of impulses, burying himself in Moiread again and again until his moment of crisis came. She was as eager for it as him, wrapping her legs around him, urging him on with voice and body alike, and finally holding him tightly through the final throes.
It was the best morning he’d had in a good while.
* * *
Afterward, Moiread put on her now-dry tunic and went back down the hall and up the stairs to her room, sneaking at first and then moving with more confidence when she saw nobody. Gilrion’s people seemed to get by without servants even more than the MacAlasdairs did at Loch Arach, and Moiread wouldn’t have begun to know where the courtiers were, especially as she’d no idea what time of day it was.
Satisfied as she was with the morning and the previous night, and much as she liked the luxury and security, the palace was damned disorienting. Moiread felt no connection to anything real. The world beyond the hall might have been the same formless mists they’d come through, and the world beyond that only a dream. Cathal had spoken of sailing in similar terms, but there he’d had the sun and moon, light and dark to go by. She put out a hand and touched the marble wall to feel its solidity, and then grimaced at her own thoughts.
Food would help.
Despite her hunger, she bathed again when she got back to her room, as much for the indulgence of it as to get clean. Soft towels sat by the tub, fresh and dry after the night before. When she went back to the wardrobe afterward, she found a small array of robes such as the Caduirathi wore, all brightly colored, and a pair of Roman-style sandals. She chose a deep-rose-colored robe and found that it and the sandals both fit her perfectly.
Well, magic.
Like the others she’d seen, Moiread’s robe came down to her knees and pinned behind her neck as the tunic had the night before, leaving her back and shoulders bare, her breasts and thighs covered only by a thin layer of silk. She’d never fussed over modesty, but she thought of going into the hall so attired and cringed. It’d be akin to those dreams where she stood naked at mass, with everyone watching her.
But they won’t be, she told herself, or not for your clothes. Everyone wears such things here.
Nobody except the guards had worn weapons in the hall, so she left her sword and its belt behind. That wouldn’t save anyone from an attack here. It was by no means worth angering the queen. The belt of fine gold mesh for her eating knife did little to salve Moiread’s feeling of exposure, but nobody—as her mother had often said about other matters—had promised her life would be a walk in a garden.
She did the best she could with her hair, finding neither wimple nor cords for plaiting it but only a wide gold fillet, which she tied around her head. If her hair had been longer, Moiread reflected, she’d have looked about twelve.
Then, dressed as best she could manage, she headed out into the hallway and said, “The great hall, please.”
On the wall, a strand of pale-blue light appeared, stretching out along the course she was to take.
Moiread followed, down stairs and through hallways, past large doors that led off to unknown parts of the palace and wide crescent windows that looked out over the city, and finally into the queen’s hall.
She smelled food as she drew nearer, and entering indeed showed her that many of the Caduirathi sat at long oval tables full of dishes, which Moiread hadn’t seen the night before and which looked far too large and solid for anyone to have carried into the room. Now that she wasn’t so tired, she also noticed that the floor was clean and polished, without any rushes to be found.
Magic was a wonderful thing.
Most of those assembled didn’t bother looking at her, and of those who did, most noted her with brief curiosity. A few glanced toward the dais and the small table there—where Queen Gilrion sat with a few of her people and Madoc—then, reassured by their queen’s calm, turned back to their meal or their conversation.
As Moiread hesitated, Gilrion’s eyes lit on her, and the queen smiled with far more warmth than she had the night before. “Lady MacAlasdair,” she said, and stretched out a slim, glittering hand. “Come and eat with us.”
Bowing, Moiread ascended the stairs to the dais, relieved at the invitation. For one, though she’d never minded taking her meals with the men-at-arms, she’d no idea who those were in this hall, nor where to find them, nor how to speak to them. For another, it was always better to have royalty friendly than not, particularly when the royalty in question ruled a magical realm and she had no easy means to escape it.
She was careful about her curtsy and her smile, and thanked Gilrion again for her hospitality before she sat. She neither looked too long at Madoc, who sat on the queen’s right hand, flanked by one of her men, nor avoided doing so. She gave him the same smiling nod she would have had they passed the previous night in separate beds. Even she had learned discretion over a few centuries, and this was not the first time she’d used it, though she wished she could have spoken a few words to Madoc. Familiar company would have been good, and the dark-green robe he wore suited him well.
“I’m pleased that I could provide comfort,” said the queen. She’d changed her gown for one of pale blue that shone less, and she wore a thin gold circlet in her hair rather than her crown. Moiread guessed daytime, or whatever this was, was informal. “I hope you found it to your liking.”
“Very much,” Moiread said, and laughed quietly. “You may be fortunate in having gotten me, Your Majesty. A few of my family would have driven themselves mad by now, trying to discern how all is done here, and quite probably would have pestered your people to madness as well.”
“Oh?” Gilrion asked, surprised but, praise God, amused with it. “Craftsmen, are they?”
“Scholars, more like. My sister in particular.”
“Is she the one who fashioned the illusion necklace?” Gilrion glanced to Moiread’s neck, which was now bare. “My border captain told me of it, and it sounds like a work cleverly done.”
Being a queen, and good at such things, she had no trace in her voice of either for a mortal or but of course it didn’t fool us for a moment. She might not have thought it. Moiread would have, in her place, but she knew herself to be a nasty superior sort from time to time.
“That one was my brother’s work,” she said, “but it was Agnes who discovered the way of it.”
A sound of trumpets from outside cut off Gilrion’s reply and sent her mind to other matters: namely, to the maiden who
floated into the hall, almost a copy of the queen save that her eyes and hair were deep violet. She wore no circlet, but small white stones glinted in her braids, and her robe was long and deep blue. A dark-haired man walked at her side and barely took his eyes off her to see the court, while at one of the higher tables, a richly dressed silver-haired man rose as soon as the maiden entered the room.
Two other women followed her, but although Moiread hadn’t seen any of their people looking less than breathtaking, the violet-haired lady’s presence made them seem dimmer, and the intensity with which she and the two men regarded one another made it clear that they were the primary players in whatever scene would next take the stage.
Madoc smiled with both recognition and pleasure, and Gilrion positively beamed.
“Namwynne,” she said, “my youngest daughter. She’s been briefly abroad, to meet and bring back the son of my old friend and ally, the Sea King. It is fortunate indeed that you’ve arrived. Now she’ll truly have her choice.”
“Her choice, Your Majesty?” Madoc asked.
“Why, yes,” Gilrion said with an affectionate look at her daughter as she came toward them. “We have no pressing need of alliance now. She is of age and inclination, and I will be indulgent, as I can. She may choose a husband as she pleases, for I have faith in her judgment—within reason, of course.”
“Of course,” said Madoc. He didn’t sound nearly as poleaxed as Moiread would have under such circumstances.
Then again, he knew more of this place and its royalty than Moiread did. Perhaps he’d expected some such announcement. Perhaps he’d even been looking forward to it.
Twenty-three
In retrospect, Madoc couldn’t be entirely surprised. He was a fairly young man, and an eligible one as his father’s heir, even if Rhys had been shy about arranging matches in the last few years. Now that Madoc came to think about it, his father might well have broken his reticence and sent a few messages when he’d heard of the journey—though his mother was the most likely coconspirator with Gilrion, if such existed.
Yet he hadn’t thought of the matter, particularly not in Gilrion’s realm, and he was conscious of Moiread’s presence as he rose to greet Namwynne.
“You’ve aged, hall brother,” she said cheerfully as he rose from bending over her hand. “It suits you well.”
“You’ve not, and it suits you better,” Madoc replied, only half forcing his courtly good humor. He’d always liked Namwynne. Under normal circumstances, this would be a joyous meeting indeed. “It’s been too long since we’ve met. I bless the luck that sent me here so close to your arrival. May I present Lady Moiread MacAlasdair, who has kindly accompanied me and saved my life several times by so doing.”
“The lady of the dragon-folk?” Namwynne turned to Moiread with an eager smile and a graceful curtsy, her silver wings fluttering as she rose. “You are most deeply welcome here, and I am so glad to meet you. I’ve heard tales of your kind, but never thought to meet one.”
“Daughter,” said Gilrion, lifting a jeweled hand and a golden brow at once.
“Oh, forgive me. My tongue often runs away.”
“Not at all,” said Moiread. She smiled, and it looked as though she meant it. “I could say the same thing, but I think my stories are probably a wee bit less accurate than yours. We should trade a few, perhaps, and see if we can’t get at the truth of things.”
“I’d like that very much,” said Namwynne. “And this is Lord Arbelath”—she gestured to the dark-haired man—“another guest, for it seems my mother is set on welcoming many visitors indeed.”
“Say rather that it seems the time for such,” said Gilrion, “and I am not one to stand in the path of what wants to be.”
The new arrivals sat, and the meal went on. There was roast boar and sliced fruit, nuts and the strangely flavored bread made from them, good mead and sharp cheese. As Madoc watched, Moiread ate well, joined easily in the conversations or listened with interest, and looked neither sad nor angry, neither awkward nor reproachful.
He hoped she was sincere in that. It was a pleasure and a relief, though not a surprise, to find that she wouldn’t make a scene. Yet she was her father’s daughter and had centuries of practice in keeping her countenance, and he would be riding on with her after a few days. He watched carefully, therefore, and not without worry.
* * *
Later, as the court danced to welcome its youngest princess home, Madoc finally had the chance to speak with Moiread.
The Caduirathi’s dancing usually happened on the wing. In the palace, such festivities took place in a large square surrounded by slender trees and artfully crafted crystal spires. The patterns of the dances held layers on layers, with partners trading above and below as well as down lines or across circles as humans did. In some, one partner would trail ribbons for the other to catch, or drop flowers onto the ranks below.
In kindness to their guests, they’d included a few sets where one could remain on the ground. Madoc knew what was expected and partnered with Namwynne for the first of those, while Moiread danced with Sir Cauldir, the silver-haired Caduirathi who’d been very attentive to the princess’s entrance. During the second, Moiread and Madoc found each other.
The court’s wardrobe masters had dressed Moiread in a soft velvet gown the color of amber, pinned at one shoulder, and had fastened her short hair up with small star-shaped blue stones. She resembled a statue of some ancient goddess, with all the color and vitality of a living woman. A man could have taken the sight of her to his grave and been content, Madoc thought, but he could have wished she’d been less lovely at that moment. Words stuck in his throat at first.
“Congratulations?” she asked, as they touched hands and stepped together. “Or good hunting, is it?”
He should have expected no less, not from her. There was no trace of anger about her, nor any wish to see him uncomfortable, but she wasn’t a woman to shrink from matters at hand. “Neither, had I my own will in matters,” Madoc said honestly.
“Oh, come now. I’d be happy enough for such a match, in your shoes.”
The figures of the dance spun them away from each other and sent them processing with other partners through a curtain of multicolored ribbons from above. Moiread danced as she fought, with less elegance than precision, but she kept up well and followed the beat of the woodwinds and harps well enough.
When they took hands again, Madoc continued. “I’ll not say it’s any hardship. If I could insult Her Majesty by refusing, I’d be unwise to do so. The alliance would be a fair one, and the two of us are friends from my childhood. But it’s nothing I came seeking, or knew of until the moment the queen said it. I vow I’d have told you otherwise, before—”
Moiread chuckled and squeezed his hand. “Chivalry becomes you,” she said, “but dinna’ worry yourself. You made me no promises, nor would I want any. I’m no betrayed maiden in a song. ’Twas a pleasant night. I’m glad for what it was, and I’ll no’ ask more.”
Her bluntness gave Madoc his breath back and took it away in the same instant. He was glad of the dance, which took them spinning away once more and joined him briefly to Erulhieth, who danced in silent and calm joy and lent a little of that serenity to all her partners. By the time Madoc came back to take Moiread’s hands and dance in a circle, he’d worked out what to say next.
* * *
Moiread knew the substance of Madoc’s words before he spoke. There could be no other, however she wished it as she watched him come toward her, dark hair tousled and pale face glowing above a deep-red robe.
“I would gladly give you another night, or many such nights,” he said, “and count myself fortunate indeed. But here and now, with the queen herself suggesting the courtship—”
“Aye, the last thing we want to do is offend her,” Moiread said, and meant it. Even had she not wanted Madoc to succeed in his quest, they were t
wo mortal guests in Gilrion’s court. The woman could probably make life difficult—literally impossible—if she wished, and with no earthly authority there to intervene.
The night before had been good indeed, in a way that sent shivers of pleasure through Moiread when she remembered it. It was not, however, good enough to risk death for.
She smiled to see the relief on Madoc’s face. “I could almost be insulted myself,” she joked, “for you thinking I’d have little enough sense to be angry.”
“I’d thought better of you, yes, but…well, best to be sure.” He sighed as the dance wound down, and he started to lead her toward the side of the square. “It’d be easier if you weren’t a lady in your own right, you know.”
“I do,” said Moiread.
Any man could dally with a lowborn girl, and only the most foolish or pious of prospective brides would take any notice of such things. Taking one’s leman to travel would have raised eyebrows, but wasn’t unheard of. At least, that was the way of the mortal world. The Caduirathi might have taken matters differently, but one set of manners seemed to translate well enough.
But Moiread came of nonhuman and noble blood. Had she and Madoc obviously been lovers, once the queen had suggested him as a suitor, it could have been a not-very-veiled refusal at best, and a slap in the face in all probability.
Matters went that way betimes. Not all desires saw fruition. Moiread was long grown and long experienced in the world. She smiled at Madoc and parted amiably, joined one of the Caduirathi for a goblet of mead, and spent the rest of the night in dancing, feasting, and conversation. She enjoyed herself, at that. The court was new and fascinating, the people pleasant, and the food just short of divine.
If her bed felt cold that night, it was still soft and wide and well furnished with thick blankets. If her room seemed a touch too silent, a shade emptier than she’d have liked, it was still a room of her own, soft carpeted and well appointed, with luxury she hadn’t even known at home. She could have been in the field, trying to find a few hours’ sleep on rocks and mud beneath her bedroll, or on the floor of an inn where they changed the rushes once a year if that.
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