Unicorn Quest

by Unicorn Quest (lit)

  The brand descended, marking her with his seal. She screamed, and it wasn’t just because of the pain. He hadn’t branded her forearm, deeming her a slave, but her right shoulder, turning her into something much worse. His wife.

  Chapter Five

  "What have you done?" she demanded in a horrified whisper.

  Ry lifted his weight off her and began to rummage in his leather bag. She was too shocked, too horrified, by what had just transpired to gather her wits enough to attempt escape.

  Indeed, she could not escape. She was his now, bound to him forever, in a way that could not be questioned by the laws of their world.

  She gritted her teeth, seeing all her carefully laid plans reduced to ashes by this man.

  Ry began smoothing an ointment onto the brand mark on her shoulder, and the pain of the burn began to recede almost instantly. "A foolish question," he said mildly. "Even though you are A’tril, even though you have been without a clan for two years, you know well enough what I have done."

  "But I did not agree to marry you!"

  "Your agreement, or lack thereof, is irrelevant," he said with maddening calm. "I am the r’uban of Ror q’Trall. I may take any unattached woman for my wife that I choose."

  "And you would choose me? A woman with no clan? Simply because I tamed the unicorn that you wanted?" She snorted contemptuously. "You are a fool, Prince."

  He looked up, meeting her gaze, and she saw a volatile flash of anger deep within his eyes. Anger--and something else. Vulnerability, perhaps? The anxious fear that he had made the wrong decision, and that his clan would pay for it later?

  Sahra knew all too well how that felt. The other A’tril were not her clan, by the laws of her world, yet they meant as much to her as her own clan ever had. And she had lowered her guard, allowing herself to be captured and taken by this stranger.

  She had failed them.

  He was silent for a long moment, his eyes roaming over her face and form in a way that she found, oddly, both disturbing and pleasurable. "I did not choose you merely because of your psychic connection with Dagda," he said at last, in a low voice.

  She lifted her eyebrows and looked at him inquisitively, with as much hauteur as she could manage.

  "I desire you," he said softly. "I have never desired a woman so greatly."

  The honest, candid need in his voice took her breath away. No man had ever gazed at her with that heavy-lidded, absorbed expression before. When she had become A’tril, she had only been seventeen summers, as tall as she was now, but skinny and awkward and coltish, and no man had given her a second glance. She knew that she had grown since then, that she had developed a woman’s body, but among the A’tril she was respected as a leader, and not a single one of the male A’tril noticed her feminine attributes or saw her as a woman.

  Ry Trall, she knew, saw her as a woman.

  She responded instinctively to the heat in his eyes, opening her mind to his as a wave of male lust, raw and hot, broke into her consciousness. Her lips parted in a startled gasp, and he leaned toward her.

  For the second time that evening, his lips pressed to hers.

  His mouth crushed hers, demanding and warm, and his strong, muscled arms slid around her waist. She could not stop herself from wrapping her arms around his wide shoulders in return. She knew she ought to fight, but somehow she could not bring herself to resist him. There seemed to be little enough reason to resist, anyway. He’d soon realize he instinctively mated the right woman even if their mating could turn out disastrous for them both.

  He was in her mind, and she in his, already--what greater intimacy could there be?

  Of course, he could not read her deeper thoughts with any great degree of accuracy, any more than she could read his. Which was for the best, or she might have inadvertently betrayed the plans of the A’tril. But she could feel his emotions, a boiling mixture of physical lust and emotional longing, could see the vibrant sexual images that rioted through his mind.

  And for an untouched woman who had never known a man, who had never even had the slightest notion what relations between a man and woman might be like, those images were a startling revelation. They were far more inflaming than the ones the kiss had prompted.

  Her mind swam with visions of her lying beneath him on the azure grass, her long limbs pale in the moonlight, his mouth suckling eagerly at one nipple at a time. Their bodies melding together as one in a heated liquid embrace. His hard, hot body thrusting into hers until she screamed with pleasure.

  She moaned as his tongue delved into her mouth, unable to resist, swept away by the overwhelming jumble of imagery.

  The grass was soft beneath her as he slid his hand up beneath her sarong top, gently caressing the soft skin of her breast, until she felt an unfamiliar tension in her nipple, an ache she’d never known before. His fingers slipped higher, stroking across the taut flesh of her nipple, and a soft cry was torn from her mouth. He teased her, doing it again and again, until she felt a rush of liquid warm her inner thighs, an almost frantic sensation of need and yearning she’d never felt before and didn’t fully understand.

  He pulled her robes off, so that she was naked in the moonlight. His eyes raked over her body, searing her flesh as if they touched her with fire, and a strange excitement pooled within her. She had never realized the power she could exert over a man, never realized the almost mystical control that a woman’s body could wield. But she clearly felt his aching, desperate need, the sharp sword edge of desire that cut through his every thought, and realized that she did indeed have power over him. It intoxicated her like the finest wine, quickening her pulse.

  And yet the power ran both ways. He made her feel sensations she’d never felt before, made her desire things she’d never imagined in her lifetime, and she knew he could control her as much as she could control him. It was as if they were both master, and both slave.

  "You are beautiful," he said hoarsely.

  The simple, honest words brought a lump to her throat. Never had she been called beautiful before. She sat up, aware of his hot gaze on her breasts as they shifted and bounced with her movement, and lifted her hands to her head. For the first time in the presence of anyone other than her mother, she deliberately unbound her head cloth.

  Her hair cascaded free, shimmering past her waist.

  She heard his sharp, quick intake of breath, felt the urgent stab of arousal in his mind. Men never saw women with their hair exposed, but for their wives--and some wives were too chaste to ever let their husbands see their hair. Only the boldest of women would permit their husband to see their hair unbound on their wedding night. She knew it was brazen of her to let down her locks, but she cared not.

  Just for tonight, she was going to be brazen.

  His hand reached out slowly toward the thick mass of her hair. "It’s glorious," he said softly, his voice heavy with passion. "Like honey. Like sunlight."

  In point of fact, her hair was yellow, but she didn’t object to hearing it described more poetically. His fingers slipped through it, exploring the texture, and she sighed with pleasure.

  And then he wrapped his hands in her hair gently, studied it for a long moment as if seeing something familiar in its silky depths. He shook his head slightly as if shaking off a thought, then tilted her chin up and kissed her again.

  Tentatively, she let her own hands explore his shoulders. She could feel through their connection that he liked it, and she pushed at his crimson robes eagerly. They fell away, exposing the broad expanse of his chest, bronze in the moonlight, and she let her hands slide across his flesh, exploring his heat, his solidity.

  His robes fell to the ground, and he pushed her back to the grass, very gently.

  He loomed over her, his body tense, aroused, ready, his erotic thoughts crowding her mind so that she couldn’t think, could only feel. She felt the anticipation that curled tightly within him, and it excited her almost beyond bearing. His hard flesh nudged against her softness, and she felt anot
her gush of moisture between her legs, warm despite the coolness of the night air.

  Something very hot and very hard began to ease its way into the humid heat of her body.

  And then his weight lifted from hers, very abruptly. Sahra yanked upright and saw him surrounded by angry men and women, all wearing the black, anonymous robes of A’tril.

  Her people had come to rescue her. The realization should have filled her with relief, but somehow it didn’t.

  The fact was, she wasn’t certain she wanted to be rescued.

  Chapter Six

  Ry glared at Sahra in the moonlight. She came to her feet, her long hair streaming around her shoulders, her lithe, slender body any man’s dream.

  His brand on her shoulder.

  "Bitch," he snarled under his breath. "You kept me occupied so they could capture me."

  She shook her head, looking wryly amused. "I can only wish that had been my intention all along, but I’m sorry to say it wasn’t."

  "You lay with him willingly?" demanded Ja’rah. A big, rather ugly man, he was second-in-command according to the rough power structure among the A’tril. Second only to her in the respect he commanded among the Outcast. He was her loyal friend, however, and she saw the shock and disbelief in his eyes. A woman did not lie with strange men, ever, but only with the man she wed.

  She gestured toward her bare shoulder and its fresh brand, lurid in the moonlight. "He is my husband," she said.

  There was a shocked silence, then a babble of voices. Sahra leaned down, retrieved her headcloth, and quickly wrapped her hair--loose hair being much more scandalous than a naked body. She then reclaimed her robes and covered her nudity, aware of the moisture on her thighs, aware of an ache that hadn’t been assuaged.

  She could see by the moon’s light that Ry’s ache hadn’t been assuaged, either. His erection was still gloriously full. Magnificent. Other Outcast women were eying him surreptitiously, their eyes wide, and she was aware of a sudden stab of jealousy and possessiveness.

  "Cover him," she said tartly, picking up his crimson robes and thrusting them toward Ja’rah. "And then bind him with chi’nyr."

  She turned away, toward the unicorn. He stood a short distance away, his glorious head high, his nostrils flaring. She called to him softly, and he pranced toward her, his ebony coat gleaming in the moonlight. She caught hold of his mane and managed to scramble up onto his back.

  She heard the sounds of a scuffle, then the sound of a fist meeting flesh, and Ry’s low cursing. Glancing back, she saw that Ry was securely tied at the wrists, and a loop of the chi’nyr was around his throat to ensure his good behavior. There was a red mark on his cheek where Ja’rah’s beefy fist had struck him. It would turn purple before long.

  "Bring him back to the encampment," she said.

  "Wouldn’t it be best to kill him?" Ja’rah asked.

  Her hands tightened on Dagda’s mane. "We are A’tril, Ja’rah. We do not kill unnecessarily. Let us leave that sort of behavior to the clans."

  "But … he branded you."

  "Aye, and it was no choice of mine that he did so. But I begin to see how this unexpected event might be turned to our advantage. Look at his robes, Ja’rah. He belongs to the Clan of Blood."

  At the mention of the Ror q’Trall, several A’tril spat on the ground. Sahra nodded. "I know. I have no love for his people either. But they are nevertheless the most powerful clan. If we can win them to our side…."

  "My people have no interest in Outcasts," Ry growled.

  "You are married to an Outcast," she pointed out. "By your own actions, and by your own choice."

  "And as a result of my actions, you are no longer A’tril. You are of the Ror q’Trall now. And my princess."

  "I will not abandon my people."

  "These are not your people, damn it! They are not a clan. They are merely Outcasts."

  "They are as important to me as your clan is to you." She looked down at him for a long moment. "Bring him along," she said. "We will attempt to make him see things our way once we reach the encampment."

  She spoke to Dagda through the psychic connection, and he started off at a high-stepping trot. Her people followed on foot, dragging Ry along with them.

  * * * *

  With two armed warriors guarding the camp, Brec warmed his hands by the fire. The heat of the day had given way to unseasonable cold by night. He had been busy making plans while his father wasted the day away with numerous slaves. He had bribed officials into revealing the race route. He would practice it until he could do it blindfolded. He had a few more interesting ideas that would add excitement to the race, and take out the competition. One could never be too sure.

  Just what was Ry Trall doing? Where was he? Brec still had trackers trying to locate him, but he suspected the prince would not appear until he was good and ready.

  "You seek my services?" A man dressed in A’tril black appeared out of the shadows.

  Brec had been expecting the man and didn’t bother to glance up. "Aye, they say you are an archer of worth."

  "The best."

  "And once a prince who has a score to settle with the Clan of Blood."

  "Aye, this is also true."

  Reaching into one of the many pockets of his cloak, he fished out a pouch of coins and tossed them at the man’s feet.

  "I have a job for you."

  * * * *

  He was an idiot.

  Ry berated himself as he staggered along through the silvered darkness of the night. The big, beefy man--Ja’rah?--yanked on the chi’nyr every time he slowed down, half strangling him.

  Only a fool would have allowed himself to be captured in such a way. He had allowed Sahra to use her body to blind him with lust, to lull him into a false sense of security. Letting down his guard had led to his capture. And very probably to the loss of his clan’s status as First Among Clans.

  The thought of his beautiful younger sister, captured, forced to marry a man she didn’t love for another clan’s political gain, struck at his heart. By his idiocy, he had almost certainly doomed her to such a fate … marriage to a stranger. Or worse yet, Brec of the Clan of Eagles. The thought of that unscrupulous snake getting his hands on his sister was more than he could tolerate.

  But wasn’t that precisely what he had done to Sahra?

  He tried to shrug off that thought. Sahra, after all, was A’tril. She ought to be grateful to be married into a clan, let alone to be a princess. And not just any princess, but the princess of the Ror q’Trall, the First Among Clans.

  And yet he suspected she wasn’t grateful in the least.

  Oh, she had been willing enough to mate with him. The strong psychic connection they had forged made it almost inevitable that they would succumb to their physical desire, fulfill the lust that raged between them. She had wanted him, no denying it. But had there been the slightest trace of gratitude in her thoughts?

  He was fairly certain the answer was no.

  And it made sense to him now. She had been cast out of her clan two years ago and had found a home with this ragged group of A’tril. They were not really a clan, but in a world where family loyalty was everything, it was not surprising she had developed such an attachment to this group. Her strong sense of loyalty was an admirable characteristic, and an excellent trait in a princess. But she was his princess now, and he would have to somehow impress that fact upon her. Somehow he needed to get her away from these people and back to his clan.

  Because he cared absolutely nothing for the fate of a pitiful group of loathsome Outcasts.

  At that moment, Sahra glanced back at him. Their gazes collided. He knew his own brimmed with fury. He expected triumph in hers, but saw only concern and an emotion that ran akin to loving.

  * * * *

  The next morning, Sahra woke in her own tent. Considering the late hour they had arrived, she had decided not to rouse the secondary council, but to confront them in the morning. She had placed her husband in a tent similar to
her own with warm bedding, food and all the makings for a fire. In the mountains, the air remained crisp and cool even at the heat of the day. At night one could see their breath frost the air, but Sahra preferred it this way. The cold kept her alert, clear-headed. In this realm of insanity, she needed to be as lucid as possible.

  She had left Ry unbound, but ordered her pet jaguars, Fuzz and Tote, to prowl the circumference of the tent. The sleek, speedy animals, golden-coated with a spattering of black spots along their backs, were utterly trustworthy, in a way that even the most loyal human could not be. She had raised them from kittens, and as a consequence they were psychically bonded to her in a way that made their eyes her eyes. She knew Ry’s every attempt at flight along with every curse he uttered.

  His antics would have amused her if the situation wasn’t so grievous. The council weren’t murderers like their clan peers, yet she knew they would never accept anyone from the Clan of Blood. Most outsiders weren’t aware that many A’tril had never been ousted from any clan, but were simply the scattered remains of invaded clans. They didn’t have any family left after many had been slaughtered or enslaved. Many in this very encampment had tasted the steel of Ry’s clansmen. If this way of life didn’t end, the clans would end up destroying themselves.

  Over the years, the A’tril had built a peaceful, hidden society that lived on a bartering system. They weren’t the renegades or murderers that clansmen thought. Besides those that no longer had family, many had been ousted for political reasons, others had failed to bring their clan to victory during the race, yet others possessed skills or talents or persuasions that didn’t fit with their family’s traditions or morals.

  Those that were thrown out of a clan were usually either too meek to defend themselves, or willful enough to cause a stir. True criminals never had a chance to become A’tril since the clans dealt with even misdemeanors quickly and lethally. Amongst the A’tril, Sahra had found true honor and loyalty, diversity and freedom, acceptance and respect.

  The A’tril’s original plan had been to simply wait out the clans’ self-destruction, but the loss of human life and the insanity of slavery weighed heavily on their collective conscience. Besides, the A’tril were becoming too numerous to hide. This was just one of many encampments. The main compound was a day’s journey. It was the senior council that delivered the laws and organized the A’tril into a network of self-sufficient yet diverse groups. No encampment was better than the other and each could live easily without preying off each other. The exchanges were never about material goods or livestock. Each group managed their own essentials. If another encampment had a need, people from various encampments would volunteer to become a part of that group and help build up what they lacked. If an encampment was raided by clansmen, the survivors would be absorbed, with open arms, by other groups.