Finding Destiny

by Jean Johnson

  She paused to let her words sink in, then turned to Sir Zeilas, letting her speech be heard by all.

  “Even in times of sadness, there is often some joy. Guildara has laid the foundations for firm alliances with our neighbors to the east and the west. There is still more work to be done to secure and stabilize that peace, however. Sir Zeilas, some of the greatest ties two nations can enjoy come not from words on parchment, but from the actions and deeds of two of its people. I wish to solidify our mutual peace and understanding, Guildaran and Arbran, with your assistance,” she stated, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin slightly, aiming for dignity in the face of her speech. “I would like to propose an alliance of marriage between a Guildaran and an Arbran, to symbolize the alliance of our borders in peaceful coexistence. What do you say to this idea?”

  “I think it’s a very wise idea. If I may suggest a particular couple ... Marta Grenspun, will you ‘mage’ me?” he asked, giving her a smile.

  It took her a moment to realize what he meant. The gleam of humor in his brown eyes helped free the laughter that bubbled up inside, even as his words caused confusion among the rest of their audience. She let herself chuckle out loud only for a few moments, then sobered. Somewhat.

  “Your Guildaran needs just a little more practice,” Marta teased, smiling at him, “since we say marry, not mage. But yes, I will marry you.”

  The cheer that rose up across the smoldering battlefield was ragged, but full enough to let her know that most of her people approved. Relieved—if mindful that everything was still being magically projected overhead—Marta accepted a quick kiss from her intended.

  “As it was said, so it was written,” Ellett murmured as the illusion ended. “We can delay three days, Milady Chief, but no longer, then we must return to His Majesty. It isn’t much time, but perhaps with our help, we can set much of today’s injuries and damages to rights, and still have time for a celebration of your impending personal alliance before we go?”

  “Your help would be deeply appreciated,” she acknowledged, eyeing the devastated land. “I wish this battle hadn’t happened, and that everyone was alive and well, but ... I don’t regret the alliances that were made.”

  SEVEN

  Left in the front room of the “chief suite” of the palace, Zeilas eyed his surroundings in curiosity. Like much of the palace, the floor and walls were covered in carefully joined strips of wood. They formed diamonds, circles, stars, zigzags, and braids, some dark, some light. Special attention had been paid to those areas that framed the doors, neatly carved in rectangular panels, and the windows, many of which were glazed with stained glass in yet more geometrical patterns. Not that they could be easily seen, since it was now late at night, but they would be similar to the other windows in this place, he was sure.

  There wasn’t much in the way of artwork on the walls just yet, but he thought the room didn’t need any, really. It had some padded chairs, a settee, a couple of tables, and a fireplace which crackled and glowed with a recently stoked fire. Oil lamps, slightly fancier than the lanterns which lit the halls outside the suite, burned in sconces here and there, adding their steady light to the dancing of the flames. They illuminated a room that was filled with furnishings, but empty of people.

  “... Hello?” he called out as a few more moments of solitude passed. “Milady Chief?”

  Footsteps heralded her approach. She hadn’t bothered to scrub her face—most of them hadn’t stopped for such niceties, cleaning up the aftermath of their short but horrid war—but Marta had taken the time to remove her riding leathers and unbind her waist-length hair. In fact, all she wore was a thick-knitted robe, sort of like an overgrown riding coat, only fuzzy and ankle-length, and fastened with a sash instead of buttons or buckles. Even her feet were bare of socks, though she had slipped them into casual toe-loop sandals, the sort his fellow Arbrans, and even the Sundarans, liked to use in their homes.

  It was a good thing he had removed his own battle gear. The first thought that ran through his head was the relief of knowing he could strip almost as fast as she could. The second thought was a blush for thinking such carnal thoughts. “You, ah, wanted to see me?”

  “Yes.” Holding out her hand, she caught his when he extended it, and pulled him through the next door, which proved to be an office of some sort. Beyond that was a smaller, more cozy parlor, and beyond that ... the bedroom. Where a pair of tunic-and-trouser-clad ladies were busy turning down the bedcovers on a large canopied bed. They slanted knowing looks at the two of them and exchanged smirks, and giggled when Marta shooed them out of the room.

  “Sleep well!” one called over her shoulder as she left.

  “Very well, when you get there,” the other quipped. Marta dropped his hand, mock-chasing the women out of the room for their impudence. Both giggled and darted across the private parlor, closing the door to the office as they left.

  “Ignore them,” Marta murmured, turning back to face her guest. She eyed him, then glanced back at her office, nibbled her lower lip, then shrugged. “Let me blow out the lamps—that door over there leads to the bathing room. Go on in, and I’ll meet you in there.”

  Zeilas wasn’t sure he was hearing her correctly. Not her words—they were clear—but the meaning behind them. “Beg pardon?”

  She glanced back at him from the office doorway and blushed. “Well ... I figured you’d want to clean up from the long day we’ve had, but I know there’s not much in the way of room in your suite. Not with several other Arbrans sharing it, and only one bathing room. And here I am, in this big suite, all by myself, with a big bath ...”

  “Ah.” So it was what he hoped she meant. Some of his tiredness lifted away at that. “I’ll just go and get ready for it, then.”

  She smiled at him, both sides of her mouth curving up in that beautiful grin. A smile, he realized, she often used around him. Grinning himself, he entered the indicated door.

  Rather than the spell-heated pipes he was used to seeing back home, or even a primitive cauldron over a hearth fire, the bathroom had some sort of flame-heated engine thing, with the flames under the copper tank fed by what looked like the same oil as the lamps illuminating this room. That light gleamed on a massive, white-glazed tub, easily big enough for two people, with sloping sides and a frothy mound of softsoap bubbles filling it not quite to the rim. They smelled of something herbal, some scent he couldn’t remember inhaling before. It wasn’t unpleasant, just unfamiliar.

  The rest of the room was tiled in yet more ceramic tiles, glazed and patterned in an echo of the geometry in the other rooms. A second door led, he discovered, to a refreshing room, which he quickly used, not wanting any untimely interruptions. Emerging after a few moments, he fingered the exotic, bleached cotton drying sheets resting on a varnished wooden bench next to the refreshing room door, and wondered at the expense of importing the soft, white fabric this far north.

  Other touches bespoke similar aesthetics. Someone had placed a delicately fluted, burled-wood table next to one end of the tub. On it lay a scrubbing cloth and a blown-glass pot of softsoap. A silver tray rested next to them, loaded with plates of bite-sized snacks, a pot of what smelled like fragrant, expensive Aian tea, and two empty mugs. No wine, he noted, but figured it was just as well; wine after a day like they’d just had would have put him to sleep, and sleep was the last thing he wanted to do right now.

  It was the site of a seduction for two lovers. Or a pampered reward for a pair of tired heroes. Or perhaps both. He wouldn’t mind if it were both. Using the bench briefly, Zeilas unlaced and removed his boots, then his socks. Standing, he pulled his wool doublet over his head, glad this bathing room was warm, even steamy. The heat relaxed his sore muscles, promising a good night’s sleep if he soaked up enough of it.

  He was in the middle of peeling off his trousers when Marta entered the room. Before he could step out of the fabric, she crossed the chamber and wrapped her arms around his bare chest, burying her face against hi
s skin.

  “I thought I’d lost you,” she whispered, clinging tightly. “It was awful.”

  Zeilas hugged her back. “I thought I’d lost myself, too. There wasn’t much air under all that metal. Nor much room. Whatever my head hit knocked me unconscious for a little while. If I hadn’t been wearing my armor ... When I woke up, it was so dark, I thought I was a ghost trapped in the Dark, between Life and the Afterlife. Except I could faintly hear sounds of battle, and Fireleaf lipped at my leg, letting me know I was still alive. But I didn’t know if anyone else knew I was still alive.”

  She hugged him harder, then turned her head and pressed her lips to his chest, kissing the hair-dusted flesh of his pectoral muscle. “I saw the horses vanish and thought you were dead.”

  “No, just unconscious. I didn’t know if you had made it free,” he confessed, kissing the top of her head. “I thought you had, but everything happened so fast ... You were beautiful—and injured,” he added, cupping her chin so he could tilt up her face and examine the scabbed line marring her cheek. With his experience as a fighter, he knew it wasn’t a serious injury. “If that’s the only place you were injured ... thank the Gods you won’t even have a scar to remind you in a couple of weeks. But I want you to know I’d take you even if you were missing an eye or a leg.

  “I promised myself as I waited that I’d tell you I love you,” he continued, quickly covering her lips with a finger as she started to speak. “I love you, Marta Grenspun. I was ready to give up my ambassadorship and ask to be granted leave to court you openly as an ordinary citizen—I’ll probably still have to give it up ...”

  She chuckled. “Then I’ll hire you as my personal consultant on all matters Arbran. Or maybe the government will hire you. Though I think your king would be a fool to insist you step down. You’re good at your job. After all, you can clearly separate duty ...” Her hands slid down his back, down past the drawstring for his undershorts. “... From desire.”

  “Mmm, yes,” he murmured, enjoying the feel of her fingers kneading his flesh. Part of him felt guilty for wanting to enjoy pleasure, to savor life itself, after so many others had been hurt. Part of him knew that this was what all that fighting had been about. To stop the invaders so they could all get back to their rightful lives. This was right, and therefore rightful.

  “The Precinct General says it’s not uncommon for soldiers to experience a ... rush of interest in life, right after a battle,” Marta said as he shifted his fingers to bury themselves in her unbound, ash brown hair. “The healers call it the survival instinct, the need to propagate more of one’s kind after a close brush with death. But the battle ended hours ago, yet I still want you. I also wanted you before it began, so it’s not a temporary rush, nor an instinctive interest. And yet, I want you even more because I almost lost you. Enough to find a way to keep you with me, if you were so inclined.”

  “Trust me, I’m inclined,” Zeilas agreed. Dipping his head, he kissed her. The touch of their lips was meant to be soft, seductive, but it quickly turned as heated as any previous kiss. More so, for this time, he was nearly naked, and she was just a thick knitted robe from being so. Nipping his way toward her ear, kissing gently along the line of that little cut, he pulled back with a grimace after only a moment. “Ugh ... sorry, but you taste like smoke. And something else.”

  “Munitions powder,” she admitted, sighing. “It gets on everything and lingers for hours. Days, if you don’t scrub it off thoroughly. We use a special softsoap to neutralize and remove it. I asked someone to send a pot of it to your companions, but ... I wanted to share this bath with you.”

  He tried not to smile too much, giving her a mock-serious reply. “I would be happy to let you demonstrate this residue-removing softsoap you’ve invented. You are the expert on all engineering-related matters, after all.”

  She tickled him on the ribs for the teasing, then when that didn’t make him squirm, gave up and led him to the edge of the bathtub. Or would have, if his ankles weren’t still tangled in his trousers. Laughing, she stooped and helped to free his feet. Then stared as he loosened the drawstring on his undershorts, baring himself completely. The sight of her mesmerized gaze fastened on his loins excited him. He didn’t pressure her, though, and after a moment, she cleared her throat, helped him step out of the linen garment, and stood back up. Catching his hands, she placed them on the sash of her robe and gave him a somewhat shy half smile.

  Untying the bowknot allowed him to coax the other half of her smile up into existence. Before opening the folds of her robe, however, Zeilas leaned in and kissed Marta twice, once on each corner of her lovely mouth. That made her smile all the more, though with a puzzled edge. Deciding he wouldn’t tell her just yet that it was her half-to-whole smiles that had first made him fall for her—that was something which could be saved for later, when they had been married for a while—he kissed her full on the lips and slid the thick-knitted wool from her shoulders.

  She was lovely. Absolutely lovely, with soft-curving hips and a narrow waist and breasts that would just fit nicely in the palms of his hands. She was also bruised in a few places, mostly along her left arm and leg. His armor was enchanted to cushion him from all but the most severe blows, which was why his brief concussion had concerned him, but her riding leathers apparently hadn’t been crafted with magic; her only protection had been the leather itself, and whatever Sir Catrine had managed to imbue into her motorhorse.

  “I’m sorry you were hurt,” he told her, his tone as soft as the finger he trailed down her mottled arm. “I tried my best to protect you and Gabria. I knew I loved you weeks ago, but ... I couldn’t figure out how to reconcile our careers.” Zeilas let the corner of his mouth quirk up. “That was very clever of you.”

  “That was very selfish of me, too,” Marta retorted. Catching his fingers, she lifted them to her lips for a kiss. “I had a handful of minutes in which to contemplate the rest of my life with out you. I didn’t like it.”

  “I’m glad you go after what you want—and if I may do the same,” he added, freeing his fingers so that he could scoop her off her feet, startling a squeak out of her, “what I want is to be clean and warm and tucked into your bed, after finally getting to do more with you than just kiss. A lot more.”

  “Thank the Gods you go after what you want, too,” she chuckled, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

  Lowering her toes-first into the ceramic tub, he climbed in after her. The frothy foam, herbal, tickled his skin. It also hid a delicious, deep amount of water. Some of the bubbles oozed over the rim of the tub as he settled in across from her, but he figured those giggling maids could mop up any mess from the floor in the morning. Easing back, he relaxed and let the heat of the bath soak in to his limbs. Until he felt her fingers ghosting over his feet and calves.

  “Are you trying to tickle me?” Zeilas asked, lifting his brows.

  She smirked. “Maybe.”

  “Sorry, but I’m not ticklish.”

  “That’s not fair! You’re always making me laugh.” She pouted, folding her arms across her chest and rearranging the bubbles sheltering them with the act.

  It was the pout on her face, the plumped-out lower lip, that made him laugh. It was a glimpse of her bare breast when she sat up and eyed him warily that made him grin. And it was the way she splashed forward, straddling his thighs, that made him groan and kiss her, meeting her incoming mouth willingly.

  Except that they both still tasted of smoke and munitions powder. Pulling back after a few moments, she wrinkled her nose. “Bath first. Lovemaking later. Um ... you have something on your ankle. Did you mean to get it wet?”

  It was his turn to smirk. Nudging her off that leg, he lifted it high enough to brace his heel on the rim. “Contraception charm. I bought a fresh one when I was in High Hold, so it’s less than half a year old.”

  She twisted to eye the braided thong with its rune-carved bead. “I’ve heard of them. But we don’t have the knowledge to make them.
Yet. Even our healer-mages were hunted down by the priesthood. We tried to hide them in other guilds and worked through herbal healers to get anything done. The closest we’ve ever had to a contraceptive is a potion they developed—which I took earlier tonight, hoping I’d be able to get you in here—but ... it doesn’t always work.”

  “These do,” Zeilas reassured her. Thinking of their function made him think of the fun things the two of them could do to test the bracelet’s enchantment. That led him to look down at her breasts, dusted with slowly vanishing foam. Beautiful breasts.

  Lifting his hands from the water, he cupped the soft, slick curves. Her blue eyes widened, but not with shock. Covering his fingers with her own, Marta showed him how to gently knead her flesh. She tipped her head back with a soft moan, enjoying his touch, then blinked and sat back. Disappointed, Zeilas lifted his brows.

  She gave him a half smile of reassurance. “We need to scrub away the residue now, before we get carried away.”

  “Right.” Twisting, he reached for the scrubbing cloth on the table, and the pot of softsoap. “Want me to scrub your back? And any other places?”

  That quirked up the other side of her mouth. “Please.”

  Soaping the knitted rag, Zeilas began with her arms. He used long, soothing strokes, being careful of her bruises, but thorough enough to remove the grime of their long, horrible day. In the steamy, herb-scented room, lit by the warm, gentle flicker of oil lamps spaced around the walls, the bathing room seemed half removed from reality. A sanctuary of peace. Not untouched by the grim reality of battle, but rather, a place to rinse it away.