Dur stepped out from behind the slender trunk or from within it, his tall figure a natural extension of the oak’s darkness. “It’s time for you to taste some of that power you crave, Mirabel.”
His appearance startled her so much she stumbled and had to grab hold of a lowlying branch to steady herself. “You frightened me!”
He gripped her hands and pulled them down between them. “Are you ready?”
She gasped in response to the heat and force of his grasp. “Please!” she whispered, her fingers aching from the sudden change in temperature. In his hold they felt stiff and cold as the tree’s sleeping branches.
He stared earnestly down into her eyes. “I won’t hurt you,” he promised.
“No!” she breathed, yet she made no effort to get away from him. Beneath the snow-filled sky his eyes made her think of a golden summer twilight, seducing her with the impossible. “This is wrong.”
“Why?” He felled her resistance with this one whispered word and when his lips opened against hers she willingly buried all her fears in his mouth. It was dark and deep as the grave around her, bottomless and all-consuming. She sensed her feet leaving the ground and yet did not feel his arms around her. “Stay with me!” he urged, yet she didn’t understand how he could have spoken because he was still kissing her…kissing her as she had never been kissed before. He was all around her, over and beneath her, lifting and supporting her. His tongue was powerful as a spiraling current in a rushing river, as light as a bird circling high in the sky, as energetic as a fish leaping. She was a falcon soaring around and around, staring hungrily down at the world, and then she was plunging toward the ground with such speed she cried out in terror, or it might just have been the wind shrieking in her ears as she fell. She became that darting fish again, now in the water, now in the air. Dur was pulling his face away from hers. “Thank you for trusting me, Mirabel.” He released her hands.
She was breathing as hard as if she had just run all the way up the hill from the keep, the cold air hurt in her chest and throat. “If that was only a taste, the full course would kill me!”
“No but it will take time and practice. If you rushed into it you would die. If I took you now…”
His irises became a sunlit pool in which she could see down to the bottom and her naked body lying there, pinned down by the heavy stones of his pupils…
He grasped her shoulders and shook her. “No.”
“You can’t keep teasing me like this, Dur!” She spoke like the princess she was. “Is it to be another four years before I see you again?” She shuddered at the thought.
He took possession of her hands again, more urgently this time. “When do you wish to see me again, Mirabel?”
“Do you know where Megran is?” The question burst from her lips like pulp from a fruit when he squeezed her hands. He looked away and she hungrily studied his face. His nose was strong yet elegantly shaped, its full, rounded ends easily flaring open to pick up a scent or to express intense feeling, as they did now.
“She is everywhere and nowhere.” He met her eyes again. “That answer has to be good enough for you right now.”
“But even if she’s reborn I won’t know her. She won’t be the same.”
“That’s right—she’ll be better. Now tell me, when do you wish to see me again?”
The first snowflakes began falling and suddenly she felt she was dreaming, as if her hands were her entire body and she was resting in her warm bed safe in Loric’s arms…
He released her again and she took a step back, then another one and another one because she had tripped on an exposed root and was unable to stop herself. Dur was gone. She had been conversing with a tree. “Tomorrow!” she cried and lost her balance completely. She tumbled down the hill a ways before she was able to free her arms from the cloak’s entangling folds. She knelt there for a long time, looking back up at the tree’s bare black branches. Finally she stood up and carefully descended toward the keep in company with the season’s first snow. It was her intention to seek Loric out at once and tell him what had just happened. He would know what to do. He would be able to help her. He would understand.
*
That night Mirabel welcomed the distracting commotion of the great hall. Its ever-shifting currents of conversation and laughter made it easy to drown her heavy thoughts. She and Loric occupied the high seat at the back and center where, looking down on everyone, she couldn’t help thinking that they would all die, every single one of them, their eyes the evanescent gleam of sunlight on water…
“You seem preoccupied tonight, my lady.” Loric’s strong hand swallowed hers where it rested on the black wood of her chair. “You’ve hardly touched your food. Are you all right?”
Mirabel winced inwardly at the hopeful rise in his voice, subtle as it was. “I’m not with child, if that’s what you mean!” She didn’t intend to snap at him but inevitably she took all her tense frustration out on him. He provided the world for the weather of her feelings, his patient statements a strong and enduring tree she regularly attacked with her restless gales. She always felt better afterward but if she looked closely she could see the strain this was on him—there were more faint lines branching out around his eyes and mouth. She had to stop abusing his love and understanding—it wasn’t right. Her behavior made her ashamed of herself, but controlling this self was like trying to ride an intelligent wild horse that reared and bucked when she least expected it— just when she thought she had tamed its destructive spirit so that it would be content to accept a rein and a saddle and a stable’s safe horizons. Loric was teaching her how to ride, in more ways than one.
“I know you’re not with child.” There was a justifiable impatience in his voice. “I’m well aware of the fact that you murder any possible fruit of our love every day with those evil teas of yours.” He abandoned her hand.
She glanced at him uncertainly. “I thought we had agreed…”
“I’m no longer sure we really agree on anything, Mirabel.”
The cold edge in his voice made her feel as if his sword was poised over her chest, ready to cut her unfaithful heart out. And she deserved it. Hadn’t she kissed another man that very afternoon and then not told him about it as she had meant to, as she knew she should? “What do you mean?” she whispered as if everyone could hear his displeasure with her.
“Nothing.” His mouth twisted bitterly.
“But how can we have a child when I don’t even know what I am?” She desperately clutched his hand again.
“You’re a stubborn and selfish young woman. I think that part’s obvious.” He sighed. “Yet you’re also kind and beautiful and I love you. These dark moods of yours are becoming more frequent however, and I don’t know what in the Lords I can do about them.”
“You can let me explore my powers,” she suggested tentatively.
“You still believe I’m jealous of you.” He gestured for an attendant to pour them more wine. “But the truth is I feel sorry for you.”
Mirabel was silent. She had to tell him what had happened that afternoon but if she lost his love she would have absolutely no defense against Dur’s temptations. “Do you love me?” she asked miserably.
“You know I do, Mirabel.”
She followed the direction of his fixed stare, reassured for the moment because she knew he would never lie to her. If he no longer loved her he would tell her so without mercy.
The hall had fallen oddly silent in the corner that was usually the most raucous—the table of young lords, for they were always seeking to impress the maidens seated across from them. To this end those blessed with talent often pulled out lutes and flutes and entertained everyone with songs. Tonight, however, they were listening intently to one of their number, standing around a speaker who was invisible behind the colorful bodies that had cropped up around him.
“Loric,” she began, “there’s something—”
A cheer went up from the group of young men as it parted to make
way for the figure in its midst. She was angry that their commotion interrupted her confession, because now she had to get her courage up all over again. When she saw who stepped into view, the control she exerted amazed her even as its dishonesty shattered her resolve. She couldn’t tell him. It was too late. Dur was walking toward the center of the hall. He was not dressed as he had been the other three times she had seen him. Tonight he looked magnificent in tight black leather leggings and a white shirt with broad, loose sleeves. She thought wildly, He kept his promise! It’s past midnight and I said I wanted to see him tomorrow!
“A humble lord from Moonshadow requests permission to sing for the princess.” His quiet voice carried to the farthest corners of the room without effort but she felt it directed at Loric like a drawn sword.
“There is nothing humble about your request,” the prince responded politely and Mirabel found herself able to breathe again as she realized he didn’t know what Dur looked like.
The young Dragon bowed gallantly, pressing the exquisite little lute he held against his chest, which was half exposed by his shirt’s open folds. “I await your permission.”
She squeezed Loric’s hand. “Don’t give it to him!” she whispered even while smiling for the court’s benefit. She knew what it was to listen to Dur sing. It was not the innocent act it appeared to be—it gave him an irresistible power over her.
“Why not?” her husband demanded quietly but with one of the most penetrating stares he had ever subjected her to. “Who is he? Do you know him?”
“Yes.” She kept her eyes off Dur, for if she looked at him she wouldn’t be able to speak against him. “He’s not from Moonshadow…” She couldn’t completely betray him.
But Loric was already on his feet. “The princess has a husband,” he stated amiably. “I suggest you offer the gift of your song to another one of our lovely ladies. There is a whole garden,” he gestured toward them, “for you to choose from.”
“I’m afraid that only the princess inspires me.”
The giggles and murmurs of approval occasioned by Loric’s gallantry died at once. Even through the haze of all the wine they had drunk it was clear to everyone that someone had just dared to challenge their prince.
Mirabel gave up and looked at Dur.
“That is a problem.” Loric was still being polite. “What do you suggest we do about it, my lady?” There was more pain and anger in the smile he flashed her now than in the whip he used on her. He said beneath his breath, “He’s one of those destructive little Dragons, isn’t he?”
The entire court awaited her response and that was suddenly too much for her to bear. Resisting Dur was denying her very soul even though Loric was her life. Her intensifying discontent was only making her spouse unhappy. She even selfishly refused to give him a child, yet she couldn’t leave him. Where would she go? She couldn’t simply shed her life like a snake its skin. What would she become? “Give him permission to sing me half a song,” she heard herself say. The longing she felt, staring at Dur, consumed everything and she could sense he was as obsessed with her as she was with him. He craved her focused sensuality as much as she desired his unbound power.
“Very well then, you have permission to sing my wife half a song.”
“I accept. After all,” Dur stared very seriously up at Mirabel, “half of something is better than nothing at all.” He adjusted the lute against him, embracing it tenderly, and a hush fell over the hall deeper than the snow outside as a purely expectant silence momentarily cloaked everyone’s varying emotions. The women’s hearts had turned cold against him when he dismissed them all in favor of Mirabel but a warm current of approval still flowed from the direction of the young lords, who found this challenge wonderful entertainment on a dull winter night. Mirabel belonged to the prince and nothing could change that, so they saw no harm in Dur sharpening his seductive skills on her since her position was as unalterable as stone. Everyone else didn’t know what to think but the wine cushioning their thoughts kept them from tensing up and taking the matter too seriously. This appeared to be a harmless sort of ritual challenge that was probably a custom in Moonshadow, so his audience settled even more comfortably into their seats and there was a sudden flurry of hands like leaves blowing in a gust of wind as many of the diners gestured to servants for more wine.
Dur rested his palm against the strings and stared down at them as if they were a maiden’s silver-blonde hair and he was listening to make sure they were alone before he caressed her, his lips parting as if to breathe in the first sweet notes. When his fingertips finally began plucking the lute, Mirabel felt as if he was actually playing the veins visible beneath the fine skin of her wrists and breasts. His eyes closed and the spirit of his voice ascended with a beautiful, supple power. The lyrics of the song praised her beauty by lamenting that it would soon begin to fade, the snow-filled sky her cold white bosom as she was laid to rest in a grave, the moaning wind her lover’s destructive grief…
“Enough!” Loric commanded. “That is, indeed, only half the story.”
The prince shocked everyone out of a delicious reverie, for the sad melody and Dur’s passionately controlled voice had blended very pleasantly with the wine they were drinking, a vintage the dark burgundy color of a maiden’s lost innocence—or of the blood of battles, especially the one they all fought in the end with their own traitorous flesh.
“Yes, the tragic half,” Dur agreed, casually running Mirabel through with a challenging stare.
Her dilemma was fatal no matter what perspective she took on it. It was bringing her only pain, attempting to save her life with Loric. Dur had already cut it to pieces with his four brief appearances and his one long, magical kiss. His irresistible nature had poisoned the roots of her marriage from the very beginning.
“Let him finish!” A male voice dared to demand, its owner remaining anonymous.
“It’s only a song!” another youth added reasonably and there was a general air of confusion as everyone saw only a handsome young man whose lovely music had been rather rudely interrupted. But, the Lords knew, the prince always took Mirabel’s side and she had inexplicably demanded that only half the song be played. It didn’t matter to her that all her subjects were eager to hear the rest of it.
“I realize,” Loric had seated himself while Dur sang but now he stood up again, “I should be honored my wife inspires you so.” His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his dagger and whether it was a deliberately threatening gesture or merely habit, no one could be sure yet. “Instead, the Lords only know why, it makes me angry.”
“I have respected her wish.” Dur glanced at him. “She has heard only half the song even though she deserves it all and I do not boast when I say the best is yet to come.”
“No doubt. Tell me, my nameless young lord from Moonshadow, is the fatal net of your music the only weapon you command, for I’m afraid the princess is allowed to inspire only one man to such great heights.”
“My lord!” Several guilty-faced youths rushed to Dur’s side and attempted to pull him back into their congenial midst. “He meant no harm! He wished only to honor our princess with the gift of a song!”
Without even seeming to try, Dur extricated himself from their nervous grasps and approached the steps leading up to the high seat. He did, however, give one of the youths his lute, thereby freeing his hands and abruptly drawing everyone’s attention to the fact that he carried another instrument at his hip—a silent, deadly one. “As a matter of fact,” he said quietly, “I command more than I can say.”
“Do you really think you can get away with this?” Loric whispered so no one else would hear.
“They will make it unpleasant for me, yes,” Dur replied just as quietly. “If they catch me. But what she and I might be able to achieve together is worth every risk.”
“I have been told,” Loric walked around the table at which he and Mirabel sat alone, “that you are as vulnerable to a blade as any man.”
She le
apt to her feet. “That’s not what the Lord said! If you try to use violence against him it will only hurt you!” But then she understood that his helplessness was precisely what made her husband so angry and that he was determined to fight it.
“Stay right where you are,” he commanded her.
The hall was in an uproar. The prince had pulled out his dagger. This was no longer innocent entertainment.
Dur held his position at the foot of the steps but did not bother to draw his own weapon yet. “I respect your courage.”
“Shut up and fight me, you bastard.” The prince started down the steps toward him and Mirabel watched in horror as Dur calmly slipped his dagger out of a black sheath and took a few steps back so they would meet on even ground. This was all her fault and she knew of only one way to stop them.
“The princess!” Someone screamed. “My lord!”
Loric paused at the bottom of the steps and glanced over his shoulder. “No, Mirabel!”
In both hands she gripped the hilt of a carving knife, holding the tip of the blade directly over her womb. She was clad in a violet gown that clung to her breasts and arms but flowed soft as water at twilight over the rest of her body. It was a comfortably loose dress to eat in but tonight it was her heart that was too full. “It’s the only way,” she explained numbly.
“Stop her!” Loric demanded of Dur, forgetting his pride and the entire watching hall.
But the young Dragon merely continued staring up at her silently and it was suddenly clear to her that he was waiting. She could read the lights in his eyes. It aroused him how quickly she had grasped what he wanted from her, the violent act necessary to begin realizing what they both desired.
When the double red wooden doors directly across from her were suddenly flung open, it felt like her own heart bursting with too many emotions. Dur’s companions ran into the hall almost as swiftly as hunting falcons plunging from the sky but that night she was not their prey.
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