by Brenna Lyons
He crossed to the desk and sat facing her. “Gola cures mother’s sickness?” he asked, stunned.
“It does, but I am not permitted to teach the skills that will save these women.” Deliya cursed her emotions as another sob fought to break free. “I trusted you.”
Ro sank to his knees and gathered her to his chest. “My vow on Mag’s name, I had no idea,” he managed in a hoarse voice. “I never thought—”
“Why else would someone grow a poison?” she asked miserably. “Of course it has a practical use beside killing off enemies foolish enough to eat it.”
“It was never my intent to take something so precious from you. Please, believe me. I have too much respect for what you do to do that to you.”
“Then you will let me teach the healers?” she sniffed.
“I—” His hand fisted in the back of her dress, and he groaned as if he were in desperate pain. “It is not possible.”
Deliya pushed him away. “It will help these women,” she argued.
“When the Lengar are no more,” he promised. “You have my vow.”
“But why?” Hopelessness welled in her.
“We have an advantage in the gola we transplanted. The Lengar have not connected their losses to it. We— We made certain they would not.”
“How?”
“Volunteers. Men who let the Lengar we know are lurking see them eat the berries.”
“And were immediately given Triclum?” she guessed.
Ro nodded and touched her cheek. “Since our men are walking around, though not doing much else for more than a week afterward—”
“Inspired,” she breathed.
“Then you understand that the secret to Triclum must stay with you and our most trusted doctors.”
“For now,” she qualified. “I have your vow that the healers will have this knowledge when it is of no tactical advantage against the Lengar?”
“You have my vow.”
Deliya nodded slowly.
“You trust me?” Ro asked.
“I do trust you,” she assured him.
Ro planted his hands on either side of her body, a possessive look on his face. “We could test your trust,” he suggested.
“Iri blossoms are not yet in bloom,” she mused, “but Burgel is.”
“Is it?” he teased, feigning a look of surprise.
“Yes. It is.” Deliya smiled.
Ro ran his hand over their child, heating her blood for him.
“Later,” he whispered, pulling her dress up. “I need you.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Fim 1st, Ti 10-460
“Must you go now?” Della asked, the tears in her eyes glittering in the light of the lamp he lit to push back the predawn light.
Ro grimaced. Della had borne up every absence in stoic silence until now, but their child would be born in little more than a month. If the campaign was long and arduous and the babe earlier than the expected time, Della might be forced to accept another’s healing for the birth.
He stroked her cheek. “If I could avoid this, I would. You know I would.” But, the farmer who’d ridden in to bring the news of the attack at Dariden could not be ignored.
She nodded. “You do as often as you are able to,” she conceded. “Much more often than Donic and your other generals are happy with.”
Ro cradled her to his chest, his heart aching. He’d argued this with himself many times. This was why he’d decided it would be cruel to take a bride. “I wish I could crush Jurel this moment,” he whispered. “I would never leave your side again.”
“The gods do not grant such frivolous wishes.”
“No, they do not,” he agreed. “You have my vow. If the fight stretches past two weeks, it will do so without me.” Ro caressed the mound of the babe between them. “Our child will not arrive without me.”
Della shook her head. “You cannot,” she began weakly.
Ro captured her mouth in a quick kiss to still her words, smiling his determination. “I am a Magden king. I do as I please.”
She chuckled, her cool skin heating under his fingers. “And what is it that the mighty Ro Ti pleases?” she teased.
“That my bride would see fit to anoint me before I leave for battle. I would ask Fion’s mercy in sending me home to Her daughter with the gods’ pace.”
Della nodded. “And it will be as Ro Ti wishes.”
She pushed to her feet and pulled out the mixed herbs for a circle that she now kept on hand, having anointed him many times in the last half a year. The blessings were said hurriedly and the circle closed. Della took up the large bottle of oil she’d mixed at the same time as her herbs for the circle.
Ro peeled off his tunic and boots and knelt before her, waiting for her blessing as he always did before he left her.
Della looked at his upturned face, stilling. “No,” she breathed.
His heart hammered in his chest. “No? You will not anoint me?”
“Stand. Oh, Ro. Please, stand.”
He pushed to his feet slowly, taking Della’s shoulders in his hands. “What is it? This is the way you have always anointed me.”
It was always the same. Ro would kneel to Mother Deliya, while she massaged the blessed oil, lightly scented with protective herbs, into his chest and back, arms and neck, saying prayers to her Goddess as she anointed his face and laid kisses at his brow, heart and lips.
Della’s hands worked at the ties on his trousers.
Ro sucked in his breath in surprise, his cock rising fast to her touch. “Della,” he rasped. “If you continue, I will defile the ceremony.”
“No. You will not,” she assured him.
“But, the anointing—” Ro closed his eyes as his trousers pooled around his bare feet.
“When the battle will be fierce, a priestess will spend her last moments with her true mate,” she whispered. “It is a silly thing to do. Rather than saving their strength for battle, priestesses with a true mate prefer to meet death in the afterglow of their union.”
“An admirable tradition,” he managed in a thick voice.
Ro shivered, as she leaned away from him and then back. Her hands stroked the oil over his shoulders, tracing every inch of his upper body as she always did. He dropped his hands, as Della moved around him, repeating the process on his back. As always, the oil woke his body to sensation, every touch of her fingers or the flat of her hand a gift from Fion’s goodness, a feast of pleasure.
Della paused. “Kick your trousers away,” she instructed.
He nodded, complying silently. Ro stilled as her freshly oiled hands played over the meat of his buttocks. He looked over his shoulder breathlessly.
“Be still,” Della soothed him, her eyes locked on his body as she continued to anoint him.
“I will not last,” he decided.
A smile curved her lips. “You will. Close your eyes, Ro.”
He did as she bade him, groaning in the certainty that he would ride into battle as weak as a babe. Ro tried to track her, a wisp of air over his sensitized skin announcing her movement.
Her hands caressed his calf muscle, and his body felt wonderfully alive. Della worked tirelessly, exploring every dip and curve of him from his feet to his knees. Ro reached for her shoulders, steadying himself as Della’s hands stroked his inner thighs, nearly cupping his aching sac.
Della removed his hands from her shoulders and oiled his callused fingers one at a time, showing infinite care in her blessing. She lowered his hands and paused again. Fresh oil coated his thighs, enflaming his need.
Ro tensed, certain that his sac and cock would be next, certain that even the anointing oil would make him throb for her as the Dolgen oil did. Della’s hands caressed his forehead, tracing the line of his nose then his cheeks. He groaned, as she teased at his lips and chin.
“Now,” she whispered. Della cupped his cheeks and tipped his face forward, kissing his forehead. She stepped back and laid a kiss over his still-hammering heart.
<
br /> He held himself rigidly in control as he waited for kiss that would brush over his lips, knowing he would fall on her like a buck in rutt when she did it, that his control would disintegrate into ash as if incinerated on a pyre. “Please,” he begged, the strain of waiting making his body pulse for her.
Della tipped Ro’s palm up and deposited some of the oil in his hand.
“I—” Ro gasped, opening his eyes wide as Della pressed her naked body to his, her hardened nipples playing at his oiled chest and her woman’s curls tangling with the nest surrounding his cock. Droplets of the oil splashed onto her skin and rolled down the curve of her breasts. “What must I do?”
She pulled the handful of oil to her upper chest, leaning back as more dribbled off his fingers so that their child pressed to his taut abdomen. “Touch me,” she begged. “Anoint me, as I anointed you. Take me as you do.”
Ro held her gaze as he spread the oil over her shoulders and chest, circling her already coated nipples then teasing them to greater peaks. Della bit her lip, pressing herself further into his hands and helping his anointing by sharing that which she had spread on his body.
He smiled, oiling the swell of her womb, feeling her skin like a brand under the flat of his palm. “It feels wonderful,” he crooned. “Does it not?”
Della nodded shakily. She closed her eyes and laid her head back.
In her schen, the anointing must be maddening to her. “Have you ever been anointed before?” Ro asked quietly.
“Yes. Before I left Rintal. For— For a safe journey,” she whispered.
Ro massaged her arms and hands without comment, wrapping a hand around her waist when Della leaned into him. He gathered more of the oil and smoothed it down her back to her buttocks. “Who anointed you?” he whispered, lifting her gently and tipping Della to play his cock in her waiting fluids.
“My mother,” she gasped. “I had not reached my ch—” She pressed her face to his chest, whimpering into his skin, seeking his possession.
He settled on the bed, seating himself deep inside her and grasping her hips. “Do not move,” he ordered. Ro stroked his oiled hands over her legs then played his fingers between their bodies, seeking her hood.
Della ground her core against his fingertips. “I need you,” she pleaded.
“In a moment,” he soothed her.
Ro ran his hands over her throat and face. He cupped the back of her head and pulled her face to his, kissing her forehead. He released her, kissing her breast. Ro cupped her head again and pulled her mouth to his. He took her with no mercy, his mouth urgent on hers, his body rising into hers over and over, his hands stroking her oiled skin.
Della’s hands joined the dance, molding to the lines of his body, firing nerves brought to life. Their bodies moved together, sliding sensuously, every finger-width alive to slick, silin feel of the other.
Ro held back, praying he would satisfy her fully before losing his battle with his rising orgasm. As if reading his desperation, Della pushed her hips hard to his, her body inviting his loss of control with the sweet contractions pulling at his length. His composure broken, Ro joined her, holding Della to him as their bodies became one. She cried out at his possession, laying her cheek on his shoulder.
“Ask me not to go,” he breathed. “I would forsake my duty for you.”
“I cannot ask that. You took a vow to protect those who need you most. Your people need you, Ro. The Lengar attack, even now. I could not be the cause of their suffering.” Her fingers played in the locks of his hair at his neck. “Nor could I allow you to break your vow.”
“I would give you anything.”
“Speed home to me.”
“You have my vow.”
*
Deliya yawned, squinting in the bright morning sunlight, unsure at first what woke her. She snuggled her face into Ro’s pillow, drinking in his scent as the sound of blade on blade reached her. The captains were obviously using the decreased workload of Ro’s absence to add extra training for the men left behind. The shouts from the courtyard were awfully loud for so early, but the men were always excited when they took bets on the training.
She came up off the bed at the sound of a harsh battle cry. That wasn’t training. Deliya peeked past the curtain, cursing the sight of Lengar troops within the walls. Her eyes locked on the deep choc war-buck with the flowing black mane. The rider’s black armor flashed in the sunlight streaming over the walls. He was a dark spot in the sea of mundane tan plate armor around him.
“Jurel,” she breathed. Only one man wore black armor and rode a buck like that. There could be no doubt.
The rest of the battle played out in her imagination. If Jurel was within the gate with so many men, there was a traitor, one who let them in a side gate in the gray hours after Ro’s departure. Ro’s troops could not win this battle. Jurel would know their number, positions, and weaknesses. There was only one reason Jurel would do this. Deliya was his target.
As if confirming her suspicions, Jurel turned his face up to Deliya’s window, surging into the melee with shouted orders that were lost in the thunderous battle cry of Ro’s troops. The men tried desperately to push back the larger numbers of incoming troops, but it was a futile fight.
Deliya ran from the window, throwing open her cabinet. She couldn’t meet her enemy naked from her husband’s bed. Her armor was out of the question, and her trouskit and trousers were no better. Ro had decreed a ban on all but carriage riding when their baby began to show, so none of her riding gear had been fashioned large enough to fit over their child.
Deliya grimaced at the thought of meeting Jurel in one of the short Magden dresses she wore for Ro, and the presentation dress was for Ro alone. Her hand lingered on the last gown in the cabinet. Deliya pulled it free with a resigned nod.
“What could be more appropriate? A priestess should show what she is.” She dressed quickly, pushing her feet into her boots unsteadily.
The fighting grew closer — inside the house, then up through the levels.
Deliya sent her thanks that the woman healers had returned home until after her mother’s fast. Ro sent his schente away when he began his pursuit of her in earnest. Only Laril and a handful of other female servants remained in residence, and there were no children inside Ro’s home. That was a blessing. There were fewer innocents in Jurel’s path than there might have been.
She didn’t leave the royal chambers. There was nowhere to run. The Lengar were around the house and within. The palace Ro was constructing for her had hidden passageways not unlike the ones in Fion’s tower at Gidlore, but this home had no such amenities.
There was nothing to do but meet Jurel proudly. Deliya unsheathed her abinatine and tossed the jeweled sheath to the bed. She cast a look of longing at the sword she could not wield effectively. Deliya would take as many Lengar with her as she could, but it would be more difficult with the shorter blade.
She held her breath as pounding feet closed on her position. There was no doubt that they were Lengar. There was too much clatter and confusion for the soldiers to be Ro’s.
“That room,” a strange man barked.
“Yes, General Fil.”
Deliya met the young man’s eyes, as he barreled through the door. His eyes locked on her blade and narrowed. He put up calming hands, and Deliya noted that he was suspiciously devoid of weapons. So, Jurel meant to take her alive. She considered her babe and sobered. She could not stop that.
She raised her abinatine in challenge. “Come for me Lengar, if you wish to die.”
“My orders are to take you alive, Priestess. Put down your dagger, and you will not be harmed.”
“As my people were left unharmed?” she spat. “I would gladly show you the same hospitality your damned lord showed them.”
Two more soldiers stepped in behind the first, unarmed as their counterpart. The first came at her with the other two fanning out to circle her.
Deliya didn’t hesitate. The first man ducked too
late. The other two fell back, as he flailed, his lifeblood pumping from his severed neck artery.
“Who will be next?” she challenged.
“General,” one called uncertainly, undoubtedly deciding that his assignment was a suicide mission as it stood.
Three more soldiers entered the room. Deliya panned her eyes over the five enemy faces and raised her chin resolutely. Her aim had not changed. She would take as many of them with her as she could.
They came at her in a bunch. One fell back, coming away with a deep slice to his upper arm. A second pressed a hand to the cut across his cheek. Then they were on her.
Deliya pulled at the arms that held her: kicking, punching, clawing at anything she could reach. She bit back a cry of pain, as one of the soldiers crushed her hand in the gauntlet he wore, and her abinatine was snatched away.
The hands holding her tightened, and her abinatine clattered to the floor. Deliya dug her nails into a face too close to her hand for its safety, and a soldier cried out in fury. She stilled, a blow to her head making her eyesight blur. Deliya crumpled into the net of Lengar hands.
“You struck her, you fool,” one soldier exploded.
“She attacked me.”
“His Majesty will kill you for this.”
Deliya tried to clear her head, confused visions of Ro gathering her up and striking the man dead dancing in her muddled mind. A new voice sent chills down her spine.
“Yes. He most certainly will.”
She forced her eyes open, her field of vision full of shining black armor. Then another blackness closed on her.
*
Ro furrowed his brow, the overwhelming sense of something not right washing over him. Villagers surged toward the soldiers, but there were no Lengar in sight.
“They took flight when you drew near,” Donic suggested uneasily.
“No. This is something else. Jurel wanted to draw me here. But, why?”
“A trap?” Donic sounded unconvinced. Even if it were a trap, Jurel knew Ro would not run from it. Not while his people were in danger.
“No. It is more likely a diversion, but what is the true target?”
Donic rode off to meet the villagers, probably hoping for some clue to Jurel’s motive.