“I’ll be in good company, then, won’t I?”
“I can’t promise I won’t kill you,” he said, agonized honesty surfacing, overriding the saner impulse to gloss a lie that would ease him out of this idiotic situation.
“Same here. You’re fairly aggravating yourself, you know.”
He broke into laughter, helpless to stop himself. Her own sober expression split into another cheerful grin.
“All right,” he said when he caught his breath. “All right. You’ve convinced me.”
“Good.” Before he quite knew what was happening, she’d writhed out of his lap and rolled from the bed.
“What—”
“Let’s go get married,” she said. “You did say you wanted to, right?” She crossed to a tapestry, thrusting it aside to reveal a rack of robes, skirts, and dresses. Nothing the least bit teyanain sober in the mix; the clothes looked to be a mixture of Water’s End brazenry and relative northern modesty.
“But—”
“I’m sure there’s a legitimate priest around here somewhere,” she said. “And Heads of Family serve as official witnesses, don’t they? So Lord Evkit could do the job, if we asked nicely.” She pulled something slithery and green from a hanger and held it up, head tilting as she examined the cut.
“You want the teyanain to marry us?” Already off-balance, he couldn’t find the words to explain why that was an insane idea, even to himself.
“Why not? Nice big bonfire, remember. And I’m not waiting around for you to change your mind, either.” She held the dress against herself and looked down, assessing the fit.
He stared, mouth hanging open.
“This should do,” she said, then pulled the dress over her head, tugged to settle it in the right spots, and turned to face him. “How’s it look?”
The general line drew the eye from narrow shoulders well down towards the navel, showing generous cleavage; wrapped tightly around her slender hips and flared out on its way to the floor, gathering in an emerald puddle behind her heels. The front hem lay indecently high, by northern standards—more than calves, the damn thing showed knees, and the back of the dress only covered the range from the lower spine to the floor.
He couldn’t breathe for a moment; then remembered she had nothing else on underneath and almost choked.
“I think,” he said with care, “I’ll be beating away everyone in ten miles who still has a pulse. You can’t wear that for a wedding!”
“If it’s insane for us to get married in the first place,” she said, reasonably, “what’s the difference? And who’s going to know, except the teyanain—and I doubt they’ll mention it.” She paused, watching his face, then grinned. “And wouldn’t it be fun to watch them trying not to stare...?”
He shut his eyes and scrubbed his face with both hands. “Alyea. There’s insane, and then there’s fucking suicidal,” he said. “Don’t tease the teyanain.”
She made a disappointed sound. “You’re right,” she said. “I’ll find something else.”
He opened his eyes and looked at her from behind as she turned to search through the rack. His pulse sped up. “You don’t—have to change out of that—just yet,” he said hoarsely.
She looked at him over her shoulder, one eyebrow arching in mock inquiry, a grin tugging at her mouth. “Not much for delayed gratification, are you?”
“There’s nothing godsdamned delayed about that outfit.”
“I’ll be sure to ask if I can take it home with me,” she said, still smiling.
“It’s yours to take,” he said, already moving towards her. “Don’t ask. Not with the teyanain. You tell them—” His hand tangled in her hair, tilting her face to his.
“And if they argue?” she murmured against his mouth a few moments later.
“Then you persuade,” he said, and slid his other hand across various sensitive areas on her body, tickling nerve endings with more than touch. Her response was immediate and gratifying; the dress slid and bunched under his hands, like cool water turned slippery-solid.
With no remaining pressure to feed, he let himself give in to the human side of his urges more thoroughly than he had done for hundreds of years; and Alyea, more than any desert lord he’d ever taken before, matched him all along the way.
Chapter Forty-five
The formal audience, as expected, ran long on ceremony and short on content. Also as expected, before they cleared the boundaries of the audience hall Fimre had multiple offers, some subtle, others outrageously blatant, for his favor in or out of bed.
“And they think we’re barbarians?” Fimre muttered in Sessin dialect as they worked through the equally crowded hallways. His silken garments were dark with sweat, and his immaculately braided hair had developed a distinct aura of frizz.
Eredion found it dreadfully satisfying that even a young desert lord like Fimre struggled when faced with Bright Bay humidity and hours of political smog. It made him feel less at a disadvantage. And Eredion had received his own share of offers, as well, which didn’t hurt his ego at all.
“This way,” he said without commenting on any of that, and steered Fimre down a slightly less crowded hall, then through an ornately worked door into an empty room.
“Thank the gods,” Fimre said, promptly plopping down in a wide-bottomed chair and fanning himself with one hand. “Thank you.”
Eredion allowed himself to grin for the first time in hours. “Not done yet,” he said. He flipped the lock on the door over. Moments later, the handle turned, caught, then rattled violently. A woman’s voice uttered a string of vile curses.
“Gods,” Fimre said, staring. “Do these northerns have no respect?”
“You’re exotic,” Eredion said. “And I believe that’s Lady Ena out there. She’s exceptionally persistent when she’s intrigued. I suggest avoiding her when possible. She likes to brag and sells personal gossip like it’s suka taffy.” He turned to face the far wall and whistled; a panel promptly slid aside. “Come on.”
The Hidden in the passage had already withdrawn from sight as they stepped through the opening. Eredion left the panel alone, knowing the Hidden would replace it as soon as they were around the corner.
“This is amusing,” Fimre commented.
“Shhh,” Eredion warned. This is supposed to be a secret passage; doesn’t do much for that if they hear you talking in the walls.
Fimre snorted, but quietly. Where are we going, anyway?
To the real audience with Oruen, of course.
Oruen had shown the foresight to have a laden tray and several bottles of fine wine ready in his casual room. Eredion and Fimre, not surprisingly, arrived first and set to work on the offerings. By the time Oruen slipped through another concealed door, the contents of the tray had considerably diminished.
The king waved Fimre back into his seat when the younger desert lord began to rise. He stripped off ornate robes and headdress, draped them over a chair, then sat down on another chair, sighing heavily.
“I hate Special Court days,” he said. “I’ve been in that damned chair since dawn, listening to nobles complain and whine about each other. The most interesting case involved an invasive bamboo planting that went wild over several estates, so you can imagine the rest of the day. I actually prefer normal Open Court days; the commoners usually have quite entertaining problems to solve.” He poured himself a brimming goblet of white wine and tossed it back like a shot of desert lightning, then slouched back in his chair with another heavy sigh. “Welcome to Bright Bay, Lord Fimre.”
Fimre grinned. “I’ve heard Lord Sessin complain along those same lines, Lord Oruen,” he said. “Although I don’t believe he finds the commoners any more interesting than the nobles.”
“I imagine any ruler competent to serve would whine a bit sooner or later,” Oruen said. He shut his eyes for a moment, then leaned forward and grabbed a peasant roll. “You didn’t help my day any, with that damn carnival you brought to town.”
Eredion sip
ped his wine and made no comment. Fimre’s smile remained amiable. “I’m surprised to hear that Lord Eredion didn’t warn you of that aspect of southern custom.”
Eredion pursed his lips at that sideways attack. Oruen blinked, deceptively slow and lazy, then said, “Lord Eredion has been exceptionally helpful in my understanding of southern custom. Unfortunately, the rest of Bright Bay hasn’t had such direct benefit of his wisdom. My people, from the fishmongers to the nobles within the Gates, are a touch rattled by your flashy arrival. A warning as to the extent would have been nice.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Fimre returned, no less relaxed than before. “The show was intended as an honor, Lord Oruen. I would hope your...people understood that. Or perhaps Eredion hasn’t been quite as helpful as you think?”
Oruen looked down at the coarse roll in his hand and sighed again.
“Eredion,” he said quietly, not looking up.
“Fimre,” Eredion said, in Sessin dialect, “stop being an ass.”
Fimre shot him a dark, narrow-eyed stare. After a moment he shrugged and sat back in his chair. “As you like. Lord Oruen. I have somewhere over forty men and woman waiting for me in front of the palace. Do you have lodging for them?”
“Of course I do,” Oruen said with mild irritation. “And for yourself, Lord Fimre. They’re being directed there as we speak.” He slanted a glance at Eredion, then added, “It’s at the western edge of town, I’m afraid, not within the Gates; but it’s the only estate suitable for your unexpectedly large entourage. We’ll try to sort out quarters closer to the palace over the coming months.”
Eredion nodded, amused and intrigued all at once, but left questions for another time.
Oruen returned the nod, then looked back at Fimre, his tone turning desert-dry. “When you say somewhere over forty, by the way, I’m assuming you know the exact number—because we do know how to count. I’d take it poorly if your entourage lost any members on the way to your new quarters. Or at any point afterwards.”
Fimre shot Eredion a sour glare and didn’t say anything.
“First thing you need to learn,” Eredion said mildly, “is that the king isn’t a complete idiot.”
“He’ll forget anyway,” Oruen said, smiling, and bit into the roll. “They always do,” he added around a mouthful of crumbs.
Fimre tapped his wine goblet against his chin, his gaze speculative now, and settled back more comfortably in his chair.
Settling Fimre’s large and complicated retinue would take time and inevitably prompt a few fights; Eredion steered Fimre to his own quarters within the palace to wait for word that matters had been sorted out. No point dropping Fimre into more chaos than necessary, and Eredion wanted a word or two with him in quiet and relative privacy.
They had to go through the open hallways this time: the Hidden’s path from the king’s casual room to Eredion’s suite ran past far too many watch posts. Oruen wouldn’t want Fimre knowing the extent of the spy-holes throughout the Palace, and the Hidden would be offended by having their territory invaded by outsiders for mere convenience.
Still, Eredion knew back hallways and how to cut through connecting rooms. A few times he was able to signal a friendly servant into the path of an approaching, unwanted conversation-seeker. Fimre stayed quiet, watching everything with a focused intensity that told Eredion he’d remember the route, the helpful servants, and the people Eredion had avoided.
Amused in spite of himself, Eredion wondered—carefully shielding the thought—whether he’d been that keen in the beginning. It was hard to believe the ornamented halls around them had ever provoked a sense of wonder in him. After so many years of dodging and ducking certain faces, it was hard to remember a day when he hadn’t walked with an escape route always in mind.
Sessin Fortress didn’t have nearly as many ways to slip away unobserved...For the first time, he admitted that he would really miss Bright Bay. That some days—most days—it was even hard to remember what Sessin Fortress looked like.
I’ve been here too long. The thought held a different inflection than it usually did. This time, he found himself wondering if, after all he’d been through, going back to Sessin Family lands would be such a good idea. I’m becoming a northern, gods help me.
He opened the door to his suite; caught Fimre’s amused glance and realized he’d sighed with relief. Then realized he always did, never thinking much about the small sound. He felt his face heat.
“Long day,” he muttered, avoiding Fimre’s gaze, and turned his attention to getting them through the door and shutting it behind them.
“My lord?” Wian, curled up in his favorite chair and shrouded in a thick blanket, lifted her head and blinked sleepily. A moment later, seeing Fimre, her eyes widened. “My lords.” She slithered upright, clutching the blanket around her. Her face tinted a deep rosy shade, and the color flared down almost to her bare shoulders. Her feet and lower legs were bare, and from her obvious embarrassment, so was the rest of her.
Eredion bit his lip and motioned to the bedroom with one hand. She nodded, bobbed a bow, and edged hastily from the room, careful to keep the blanket clutched around her the whole time. The bedroom door slammed. Eredion let out another, rueful sigh and tried not to meet Fimre’s gaze directly.
“So she’s not too shy,” Fimre observed, “to be sleeping nude in your chair.” He looked around the room with a clear, assessing gaze. “I thought you said you didn’t have any kathain.”
“I said I’d managed without them for years,” Eredion corrected. “And she’s not trained as a kathain, exactly. She’s...a unique case.” He grimaced and indicated a chair. Fimre, still studying the room, took his time accepting the offer.
Finally settling into the chair, Fimre said, “Will she be coming back out, or are you keeping her all to yourself?”
Before Eredion could answer, the bedroom door opened. Wian emerged in a simple, peasant-style blue and green dress, likely the easiest thing she’d found to slip into. She hesitated, glancing at Eredion for a cue; he quirked an eyebrow and motioned her forward, seeing no alternative. He wished she’d taken more time about dressing. Fimre would see her haste not as respect, but as an indication that she got in and out of clothes rapidly. Too late now: Fimre’s eyes were already brightening with interest.
“My lords,” Wian said, offering a respectful, if shallow, curtsey.
“Lord Fimre,” Eredion said, “allow me to present Wian.”
“Wian,” Fimre said. His smile widened. “Lovely.”
The flush came back to Wian’s face. She ducked her face, avoiding their stares.
Fimre lifted a hand, beckoning. “Please come here, Wian,” he murmured; Wian blinked and went to stand tamely beside him. Another slight motion and whispered request, and she perched as readily on his knee.
“Fimre,” Eredion said, warning. “Let her be.”
“I’m hardly even asking,” Fimre said, his attention entirely on Wian’s face. “Gods, you have her trained well.”
“I’m not the one responsible,” Eredion said. “Let her go.”
“I’m not holding her,” Fimre said. He reached up and traced a finger lightly along one side of Wian’s face. Her eyes slid half-shut, her back arching a little. “Gods, she’s wide open.”
“She’s been conditioned to react that way to the slightest nudge.” Eredion watched Wian’s blank expression for another moment, then sighed. “Wian,” he said softly. “Get up, please. Come here.”
Wian blinked, straightening, and glanced into Fimre’s smile. A wave of color rose, then as swiftly drained from her face. She almost leapt the short distance to stand beside Eredion’s chair; her fingers dug into his shoulder in a panicky grip. He patted her hand reassuringly.
“It’s all right,” he told her. “It’s all right, Wian. You’re all right.”
Panic turned to a fierce glare. He saw her sense of betrayal rising, and shook his head.
“Wian,” he said, with enough command i
n the word to stop her from storming away. “Lord Fimre doesn’t understand, that’s all. Could you show him, please?”
She stared at him, her face turning a chalky white now; obviously horrified and disbelieving that he’d ask that of her. He stared back, implacable. Fimre needed to understand Wian wasn’t a whore, nor a kathain, and nothing Eredion could say with words would convince him. Eredion also needed to show that he was in charge, here in his own suite; he’d get no respect from Fimre if Wian defied him. None of that could be explained aloud.
“Show him,” Eredion said, keeping his tone very quiet. “Please.”
She bit her lip and said, in a small voice, “A-all of it, my lord?”
Eredion held back a flinch at the look in her eyes. “Yes.”
She swallowed, her whole face drawing in for a moment; then, in a swift movement, pulled the sash loose and stripped the dress off over her head, letting it fall to the floor in a rumpled heap. As quickly stepped out of her drawers, and stood, eyes shut, face dead white, trembling slightly.
“Good gods,” Fimre said, starting wide-eyed to his feet.
Eredion didn’t say anything. Fimre walked a cautious circle around Wian, studying the array of old scars laced over her body, the still-fading bruises and healing scabs in some areas.
“Who the hells did all that?” Fimre demanded at last, turning back to Eredion with a ferocious glare.
“Rosin Weatherweaver,” Eredion said. “And a few other roughs along the way. All right, Wian. Thank you.”
She opened her eyes and glared at both of them, color flooding back into her face. “Seen your fill?” she said blackly. “Sure you don’t want some of this, Lord Fimre? Now that you see the reality of what you were drooling over?”
Eredion bit the inside of his cheek and didn’t interfere. Wian had earned the right to a bit of attitude at this point.
Fimre blinked, taken aback; then grinned amiably. “If you’re willing,” he said, “a few scars don’t bother me. Anytime and anything you like, sweet. Just let me know.”
Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4) Page 36