Unicorn Quest

by Unicorn Quest (lit)

  For the first time he confronted the shattering truth--that he was willing to leave his people for her. He’d fight for her. He’d die for her. The one thing he couldn’t do was lose her.

  Sahra had trepidations of her own. She, too, had gotten to know the very heart of Ry. She no longer blamed him for what he had done. Everything he had done was designed to protect his clan, the people who depended on him. Would she have done less if she had never experienced life as an A’tril? With an innocent sister such as Raya to protect?

  Sahra no longer knew. All she knew was the senior council waited within the forest. A band of A’tril warriors led by Ja’rah had hidden themselves within the throngs of clansmen. Any uban willing to meet with the council would be escorted to the council, while Sahra dazed the crowd with a psychic blizzard.

  She had only been able to do limited tests and although the results had been satisfactory, she had been weak and useless for hours afterwards. The full fury of the storm might incapacitate her for weeks, or worse. It came to her that she might not survive her own storm, that her only chance to be with Ry, to acknowledge her love, was now.

  "We have time," he said in that hushed tone he had adopted when speaking to her. "Would you like something to eat, to…."

  "Nay," she interrupted, her gaze taking in the sleek lines of his robes, and the sculpted muscles hard and taut beneath those robes. She took a step forward. "Ry…."

  "Aye?" he said. She hadn’t called him by his name since he had abducted her. She simply avoided using his name despite the hours upon hours that they were together.

  "I…." she began again, took another step forward. "Please be careful during the race, remember all I taught you. Listen to Dagda, let him have the lead, give him control."

  "I know, love," he said.

  The gentle endearment struck at her heart. She stood there in their stone-walled chamber, trembling, eyes brimming with unshed tears and untested yearnings.

  Ry didn’t know that the moment the race ended Sahra would take advantage of the crowd’s open, excited minds. She would link her mind to Dagda’s. In his energized state, she’d be able to broadcast the truth, truth that the clans had been blinded to for centuries.

  Once Ry knew she had concealed her intentions from him, his love for her would die. She knew this as surely as she knew that he tilted his head to one side when in thought, that he liked his morning citrus room temperature and that he liked to sleep on his back with one arm thrown over his head. He would not forgive her in much the same way he thought she hadn’t forgiven him, but the truth was that she had. Somewhere in the last few weeks, her anger had dissipated and her love had grown beyond anything she thought possible.

  For a moment longer, she questioned the wisdom of what she was about to do. Was it better to have him this once, yet never again feel his touch, his kiss, his love again? Or was it better to never know, never experience the totality of their union?

  She realized that she knew the answer to that question, had known it from almost the moment she’d met him. Fate had taken a hand in their lives for a long time, pushing them together and tearing them apart. This time, Sahra intended to do some pushing of her own.

  "Ry," she said yet again, this time without hesitation.

  His concerned expression prompted her to continue.

  Her fingers twisted in the scarf covering her hair, hair he hadn’t seen since their wedding night. She slowly unwound the wealth of lavender folds and dropped to her knees as he had foretold the day she proposed the ill-fated bargain. "I love you, Ry. I never stopped loving you. I beg you to make me truly your wife."

  Chapter Nine

  Ry couldn’t have been more shocked if Sahra had struck him. He looked at her, seeing the lavender eyes wide with a mixture of hope and anxiety, seeing her breath coming in short, hard pants. She was afraid, afraid of giving herself to him, and yet he sensed the simple, heart-wrenching sincerity beneath her words.

  She truly meant what she was saying. This wasn’t a diversion or a tactic on her part, simply the truth. She wanted him.

  He stared at her, seeing her moon-pale hair tumbling around her shoulders, wild and untamed, and a wave of arousal hit him. A wave of more than mere physical lust.

  A wave of overpowering love, so strong it almost knocked him to his knees.

  As if drawn by a strand of chi’nyr, he stepped toward her, bent, and gathered her into his arms. Her arms went around his neck, and he lowered his lips to hers and kissed her.

  She tasted of the fresh citrus juice she had sipped at breakfast, sweet and tart all at once, and her lips were soft and yielding beneath his own. Physical impressions mingled in his mind with psychic ones, the sweetness of her lips jumbling together in his brain with the basic sweetness of her character, the softness of her lips contrasting with the solid stone that was at her innermost core.

  It came to him that he knew this woman more truly than he had ever known another person in his lifetime. Knew her--and admired her.

  He was intensely grateful for the fate that had drawn them together at last.

  Dropping onto the sky blue quilt that adorned their bed, he sank into the softness of the feather mattress, pulling her down on top of him. Her body fit easily against him, aligning with his perfectly, as if they’d been made for one another. Perhaps they had been. He was no longer inclined to question fate, merely to embrace it.

  Her small, strong hands slid up beneath his robes, finding and caressing the muscles of his abdomen, and his breath caught in his throat at the intensity of the sensation. The soft silk of her hands against his bare skin was as erotic as anything he’d ever experienced, and he craved her touch the way a thirsty man craves water, with a sharp, all-encompassing longing. He could think of nothing else but her.

  She peeled the robes from him, so that he lay bare-chested beneath her. Her long, unbound hair, as brilliant as sunlight and as fine as a light summer shower, cascaded over him, caressing his skin, driving him wild with wanting.

  He could sense impressions from her, wildly erotic, half-formed thoughts, but since she was still basically an innocent, her fantasies were vague and unfocused. He was uncomfortably aware that the jumble of thoughts she was picking up from him were far from vague. She knew every desire, no matter how base, knew every innermost secret longing he had. It should have disturbed him, embarrassed him, and yet he found it powerfully exciting.

  His hands shoved eagerly at her lavender robes, and they fell away, leaving her fully naked.

  His breath caught again as he stared at her. She was lovely, all soft golden skin and gently contoured body. She reminded him of her jaguars--sleekly muscled yet incredibly graceful, fierce and beautiful all at once. The only mark on her flawless skin was the brand that marked her his wife. Her breasts were small and shapely, her waist slim, her hips gently flared.

  And beneath the physical, with his mind’s eye, he could "see" her innermost self, a mixture of unbending, powerful determination and gentle caring.

  She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. The most beautiful woman he could have imagined.

  Her hands pulled at his lower garment, loosened it, and flung it to the floor, leaving him utterly naked beneath her. She rose to a kneeling position and stared at his erection, hard as stone and aching for her touch, and he could sense her shocked impressions. She had seen him once before, but had never had the opportunity to look as long as she wanted. He lay still and let her stare, while his erection twitched beneath her wide-eyed scrutiny.

  And then her hand reached out and encircled him.

  He drew in his breath explosively, then groaned as her fingers began to explore the soft, delicate skin. He could feel her memory of the climax he’d brought her to, could sense her curiosity as to whether it felt the same for him. He opened his mind to her fully and let her sense the incredible pleasure she was bringing him.

  He heard her shocked gasp, then felt the feminine delight she took in pleasing him. She apparently sen
sed the sharp longing that had flitted through his mind, the fantasy he was unable to fully suppress, because her hand pulled his erection upward, and she bent her head and took him into her mouth.

  Heat and moisture surrounded him, and agonizing pleasure shot through him, making him gasp and thrash beneath her. Vaguely he felt heat and moisture where she rested on his thighs, and he knew she was as excited, as ready, as he was.

  He reached for her hair, caught at it, pulled gently. She raised her head and looked at him with a feline smile.

  "Do you wish me to stop?"

  The pleasure was so intense that he would have given almost anything for her to continue, but they had limited time, and what he wanted most of all was to share the pleasure with her. He wanted to be a part of her, in body as well as mind. Reaching down to her narrow waist, he caught her and drew her up his body, until her moisture rested snugly against his achingly hard heat.

  "I want you," he whispered harshly. "All of you."

  The teasing expression fled, and her eyes turned serious and dark. "I want you as well," she admitted softly. "More than anything."

  Love, hot and overpowering, filled his chest and tightened his throat, and he caught her hips, lifted her, and in one smooth motion slid into the wet, soft depths of her body.

  He felt the brief pain she experienced as her fragile barrier was torn, but the pain ebbed almost instantly, to be replaced by a feverish pleasure. He felt the pleasure as well, almost unbearable in its intensity, as she began to slide up and down on his shaft, coating him with her moisture, sheathing him in her heat, until he couldn’t bear it any longer. And yet somehow he found the strength to control himself until he felt the first tremors of her climax, until he felt warm spasms of ecstasy filling her mind as well as her body.

  And then he surrendered to the greatest rapture he’d ever known.

  * * * *

  "It is time."

  Ry lifted his head from the soft, feather-down pillow and looked at the ornate golden timepiece that sat next to the bed. Sahra was right. It was time to ready Dagda for the race.

  He should have been drained, exhausted by what they had just shared, and yet he felt strangely energized. He sat up, pulled her up with him, and kissed her.

  "I will see you later," he said softly.

  She clung to his neck and stared into his eyes. "Everything may have changed by the next time we speak."

  "Everything has already changed," he said with a suggestive smile.

  "Yes. But we are only the start. The whole world needs to be changed, and I will be the one to change it." She swallowed hard and lowered her eyes. "Trust me, Ry. Whatever happens … please trust me."

  He wrapped a hand in the glorious depths of her hair and gently forced her to look at him. "Believe me, Sahra," he said softly. "I do trust you."

  Chapter Ten

  Dagda was full of nervous energy as Ry rode him to the starting line. Huge and muscular as the animal was, he drew a great many startled stares from members of the other clans, and Ry was certain he heard the word "unicorn" muttered more than once. But of course no one would be foolish enough to seriously suggest a thing in public. Dagda was clearly a horse, solid black but for the small white patch of hair in the middle of his forehead--a remarkable horse, to be sure, but nevertheless merely a horse.

  Only Ry and his clan knew that the circular white patch marked the place where a great spiraling antler had once grown, and would grow again in the spring.

  The other riders, mounted on the best horses their clans had been able to breed, sent him looks of hatred. It was, he realized, not merely because Dagda made their best horseflesh look like ancient, swaybacked nags. They hated him because he was of the Ror q’Trall, because his clan had raided theirs for years to increase their wealth and holdings. They had hated him and his people enough to kill the Clan of Blood’s best stallion, and they would not hesitate to kill him and Dagda now if they could manage it without dishonor and disgrace.

  It was a sickening realization, that every person outside of his own clan would be happy to see him dead. Perhaps Sahra was right. Perhaps the ways of the clans were destructive and futile. In the end, none of them could ever hope to be secure or content. They were too occupied with hatred.

  Against his will, he contrasted his way of life with the way the A’tril lived, and he thought longingly of a life of peace.

  As Dagda danced up to the starting line, he saw Sahra on the outskirts of the crowd, wearing the crimson robes of the Ror q’Trall. Seeing that she had changed into the robes of his clan warmed him. He gave her a reassuring smile, and saw her wave, but the expression on her face was serious. He thought of her last words. Trust me, Ry. Whatever happens … please trust me.

  He had long been aware she had a plan, some ulterior motive in helping him tame Dagda, and now he suspected she was ready to carry it out. But he didn’t have time to worry about what she planned. He had to win this race, to make his people safe. And then, his duty accomplished, he would consider what to do, whether he should remain among his clan or go live with the A’tril. It would be a wrenchingly painful choice, and yet one thing was vividly clear to him.

  He would never leave Sahra.

  * * * *

  Sahra watched as Dagda, his muscles rolling and rippling beneath his glossy ebony hide, pranced up to the starting line. On his back Ry looked regally confident. He held the reins easily, although of course the tack was mostly for show--his link with the unicorn was enough for control. But had he ridden the beast bareback and without a bit, there would have been questions.

  She let her mind reach out and touch the unicorn. He was full of animal excitement, aware that something important was happening without the slightest comprehension of what the purpose of the event might be. He understood only that he was to run and to win. But he was virtually glowing with energy, and that was what she needed. The excitement of winning the race would provide an enormous burst of psychic energy that she could focus and reshape for her own ends.

  If he won.

  Her momentary flicker of doubt must have shown on her face, because a small hand caught her crimson-robed arm. Sahra looked down to see Raya. Her lovely, innocent face was flushed with excitement.

  "Don’t worry, Sahra," Raya said softly. "He will win."

  Sahra swallowed and tried to smile with confidence. "Yes, of course he will. He has the best horse by far."

  "And he is the best rider," Raya said with pride.

  Beneath Raya’s air of cheerful excitement, Sahra sensed an edge of fear. Of course, if Ry lost Raya had a great deal to lose as well. The thought of this sweet, harmless child stolen away from the only home she’d ever known, forced into slavery or marriage, and quite possibly raped or abused, turned her stomach.

  But if Ry won … hopefully, Sahra thought with determination, young and innocent girls like Raya would no longer have to fear the raids of men from other clans. If she was successful in creating the storm, in unifying the clans, other girls might never have to see their families lying dead on the ground, become slaves, or be forced to wed men they had never met.

  There was much more at stake here than Raya could possibly realize.

  Sahra, however, realized it all too well, and the heavy weight of her responsibility suddenly seemed to descend upon her shoulders. She lifted her chin, smiled confidently, and waved at Ry. He inclined his head to her, then turned his head and focused on the sweep of sand that lay ahead.

  And then a flag dropped, and the horses leapt away from the starting line. Ry felt the powerful muscles bunch beneath him as Dagda shot away from the other horses. The race would be run on a circular course, five venta long, that passed through the desert, the grasslands, and then the desert again, and even Dagda could not last that distance over difficult terrain at a dead run. Out of habit, Ry tightened the reins slightly.

  Not yet, he thought.

  He felt the unicorn’s annoyance--the animal had no real comprehension of distance--but Dagd
a obediently slowed a bit. Ry looked behind him. The nearest horse was Warrior, a brown-spotted stallion known for his speed, and on his back was Brec Para, r’uban of Ror q’Para, the Clan of the Eagle--the clan closest to the Clan of Blood in standings. If Warrior and Brec won, the Clan of the Eagle would be First Among Clans. And Brec would very likely claim Raya for himself. Knowing Brec had killed the stallion and ordered Ry’s death, Ry hated to think of his sister’s fate at his hands.

  He forced himself to focus on the race. He had to win. He would win. Warrior, though a very fine horse, could not hope to compete with Dagda.

  Dagda galloped easily over the hot crimson sand. Ry followed the course, steering the unicorn with little effort. The course wove through some large reddish rocks which blocked the view of the path ahead, but Ry did not ask his mount to slow down. They had practiced racing through similar courses many times before, and he was confident that the surefooted beast could maneuver the narrow path without slipping.

  The unicorn raced through the rocks at a headlong speed. As he rounded a sharp corner, Ry saw an obstruction ahead--a pile of rocks and brush as high as his head. An obstruction which should not have been there. Before he even had a chance to formulate a thought, he felt Dagda’s muscles bunch, and the unicorn sailed into the air, bounding over the obstacle as if it were inconsequential.

  They came down with a jolt on the other side, and Ry looked back over his shoulder. Some of the other horses had attempted to take the unexpected hurdle and failed--one horse had tripped and fallen, and several of the others stumbled over him as they landed and fell hard to their knees. Oddly, Warrior did not seem to be among the fallen. Ry shifted his attention back to the course, while a part of his mind continued to worry at the problem.

  Jumping was not part of the race, as clan horses were not bred for jumping ability, but for speed and endurance. The course had been checked yesterday, and no such obstacle had been reported. Therefore, someone had worked overnight to deliberately set up that obstacle, just on the far side of a blind corner, to remove as many of his opponents as possible. That person would probably have taken a slightly less direct route around the obstacle.