The Sword

by Jean Johnson

  “So you did?” she inquired as she leaned closer, wide-eyed and avidly curious.

  “Kelly!”

  “Oh, don’t be scandalized, Saber! I do it myself,” she pointed out, flicking drops of water at him with her fingertips. “It’s perfectly natural…and it totally beats abstinence hands down.”

  He colored again. Two seconds later, Kelly realized how her common-phrased cliché could have been taken.

  And laughed out loud, throwing her head back so hard, the towel wrapped around it slipped free, tugging on her still-damp hair as it fell to the floor. Saber grinned back, flashing his nearly even teeth at her. Then grimaced and splashed quickly out of the tub, heading for the refreshing room door once more.

  TWELVE

  His fingertips finally pruned three hours later. Despite her promise to stay awake, Kelly had drooped about an hour and a half ago onto her forearms, and was dozing lightly while slouched in her chair. Tired but elated over the proof of his cure, Saber pulled the plug, drank the last of the juice as the bathtub drained, patted himself dry enough to climb into bed, and mustered just enough strength to swing her up into his arms and take both of them to her bed.

  Her mattress was less lumpy than his own, he discovered. Not that it was exactly comfortable, trying to fall asleep while holding her lightly clothed body against his naked one. But he wouldn’t have let go of her if the whole donjon was on fire…and when she snuggled closer in her sleep, murmuring something indistinct, he knew his annoying youngest sibling was right.

  One couldn’t escape one’s Destiny.

  He wasn’t even going to try anymore, and he was content with that. Pleased with it. She would make him one hell of a wife. A hell-raiser, though thankfully not a literal one. Actually, she’s like a cat, fiercely independent, unafraid to unsheathe her claws if needed, yet capable of purring and nuzzling whenever she is pleased.

  It’s a good thing I admire and like cats, he mused as he drifted off.

  When Saber woke again, her chemise hem had risen to the top of her thighs, which were tangled with his own; his hips, in a morning-roused life of their own, were flexing, rubbing himself intimately against her dampness.

  He jerked back, cursing himself under his breath as he crawled free of her body. She woke and blinked sleepily, while Saber quickly stripped the bedcovers back and checked for virginal stains. Nothing. He hadn’t sheathed himself in her yet, though he wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to, especially looking at her, pushed half up on her elbows, her knees splayed, her sleeveless chemise nightgown pooled at her waist, giving him a torturous glimpse of copper-curled heaven between her thighs.

  One minute she was blinking sleepily at him, making him hard and randy just from the sight of her. The next moment, her eyes snapped wide, her knees slapped together, and her hands yanked down the muslin of the undergown in belated decorum. Her lightly freckled cheeks turned a little more than pink; they turned decidedly red, in fact. Then she rubbed her fingers through her already rumpled hair and gave him a wry smile, still blushing but recovering her composure.

  “Good morning. Nice to see you’re alive.” Her gaze drifted down to his naked hips, and the corner of her mouth quirked up. “Very alive…”

  “Quite.” Even though he knew his own cheeks were heating at her blatant innuendo, Saber did feel incredibly alive. And thirsty. He backed up, found his trousers—mostly dried where he had tossed them to the floor yesterday—and did his best to pull the damp fabric on. He had to turn around, stare determinedly out the window, and wait a few moments to be able to get the lacings fastened, but it didn’t take too long, all things considered. He heard her slide out of the bed and pad into the refreshing room; once she was gone from immediate view, he managed to relax a little more, enough to be able to bend over and finish dressing.

  A mug appeared around his arm as he finished tugging his tunic down into place, wrinkled but more or less dry, like his pants.

  “Water?” Kelly offered, holding up the mug.

  Groaning ruefully, Saber took it anyway. He lifted it in a brief, mock-toast before drinking from it. “I think I have seen enough water for the next week. May Jinga keep me from seeing more.”

  “For at least the next month,” Kelly asserted, drinking from her own mug.

  “The next year!” he saluted, turning and clinking mugs with her.

  “Halleluia, Brother, you’re preachin’ to the choir!” she drawled. At the arch of his brow, she shook her head. “Never mind. Just one of my otherworldly oddities; it’s a cultural reference.”

  “Ah.” He finished draining his mug, wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, then frowned thoughtfully. “I believe I have forgotten something.”

  “Underwear? You weren’t wearing any to begin with,” Kelly mused, tipping her own mug up for the last drop. She grimaced a moment later. “I do hope the diarrhea is over with?”

  He nodded. “More or less. Though neither of us will feel normal, inside or out, for another day or two. And it’s best to keep drinking, to ensure the dehydration doesn’t return. Which it has been known to do.”

  “Oh, that’s reassuring.” Shaking it off, she eyed him. “So, what did you forget?”

  “This.” Hooking his left arm around her waist, he pulled her up against him, bent his head, and took her mouth in the kind of kiss they hadn’t allowed themselves to indulge in before. His lips nipped hers, his tongue flicked in a taste, and her own opened to tangle with him in a hot, wet, oh-my-good-morning! kind of kiss. Her breath hitched, her fingers curled around his shoulders, knocking him in the back with her pottery mug, and she arched against him, burrowing her breasts into his chest, her belly into his groin and let out a little whimper.

  Saber liked that sound. He flicked her lower lip, caught it in his own teeth as she every so often did with hers, then sucked on it. Making her emit that tiny mewl of pleasure again. With one arm around her back, he transferred the mug in his other hand to it, then slid his now freed right hand down to the curves of her bottom, lifting and squeezing them to press her in against him. After a month of regular, frequent meals putting on some much-needed pounds, her backside was becoming nicely cushioned, perfect in his palm. He slid his other hand down there, too, feeling her around the handle of the mug.

  She liked that so much, she rewarded him by teasing his tongue into her mouth with strokes of her own, then sucking on it. Making him groan.

  Bam-bam-bam.

  Reluctantly, they pulled apart a little. Saber sighed and dropped his forehead against her own. “Remind me to kill my brothers for their sense of timing.”

  She shook her head, rolling her forehead against his with a wicked smile. “Nah. It’s much more fun when you can plot to do the exact same thing to them, one day.”

  That reminded Saber of the Curse; not of the coming Disaster, exactly, but of the fact that there were seven more women destined to come into their exiled lives. He tried picturing seven more versions of Kelly and failed. One was exactly enough for him—and only one, no more. He wasn’t sure yet what he would do if they ended up having a daughter as boisterous as her…or worse, a son with some of her more redheaded traits. Saber tried to picture that, too, and failed again.

  One of his brothers knocked on the door again. “Hey! Anyone still alive in there? This door is spelled shut, you know!”

  It was Evanor. Releasing his strawberry-haired Destiny reluctantly, Saber crossed to the door, passed his hand over it with a murmur of the release word, then opened it.

  The light-haired, brown-eyed brother beamed at Saber the moment Evanor realized he was dressed. “An excellent morning to you! Is it safe to come in?” he added politely, a jug of something fresh-squeezed in his hand.

  Saber glanced back at Kelly. She was still clad in the chemise. “Would you put something on?”

  “I am wearing something,” she retorted

  “Something more decent?” he asserted.

  She planted her hands on her hips. “By my world’s standa
rds, this is ‘more decent’!”

  Evanor made a psst sound at his brother and whispered to him, “Should we be on the alert for a Disaster, or just another fight between the two of you?”

  “Very funny,” Saber growled. “No Disaster, no fight.” He looked back at his bride-to-be. “Find your best gown. We will go to the chapel, clasp hands over the eight altars, and be wed before breakfast.”

  She gaped at him. Then rolled her eyes and glared at him, hands going to her hips again. “Ha! If I’m marrying you, buster, we’re doing this right! Which means you have to wait until I’ve made my best gown.” As his brows lowered in a frown and his lips parted to argue, she cocked her hip, hands resting in their usual place, and smiled at him slyly. “Out of that gorgeous aquamarine silk you brought me yesterday. I believe there is even enough of it to make you a matching tunic. That way we’ll look like we belong to each other.”

  “And it would give the rest of us time to finish—uh, start making your wedding gifts,” Evanor added.

  Saber mock-glared at him. He felt too good to give his blond-haired brother the real thing, though. “Fine. How long will it take you to make your best gown?” he asked Kelly, twisting to face her. “Two days? Three?”

  She gauged the time, adding up the difference between normally having a sewing machine and now having to do everything by hand. Even with an enchanted needle that created four stitches for every one she made. “One month. If I work on nothing else but your clothes and mine.”

  “A month!” He wasn’t going to last that long! He turned back to his brother. “Evanor, you’re the best with clothing among us; use your magic to help her. You have two weeks at most.”

  “Two weeks?”

  At that too-familiar, dangerous tone in her voice, at the matching arch of her brow and the hands once again firmly planted on her hips, Saber abandoned the door and crossed to stand in front of his bride-to-be. He slipped his hands around her waist, tucking them into the space formed by her braced arms, and rested his forehead against hers, stooping a little to do so. Evanor looked elsewhere, humming quietly to himself, as Saber murmured in Kelly’s ear.

  “That is as long as I think I can wait for you, my love. As it is, I shall have the torment of remembering how we spent the night in your bed, and how we woke up together, so natural and right together, to torture me for all of the intervening time.” He brushed her mouth with his own. “Please don’t make me wait any longer—please?”

  “All right,” she murmured, kissing him back. “Since you asked so nicely.”

  Ending their exchange before he could do anything that he wouldn’t want his brother to see, Saber kissed her brow. Then caressed that ripe feminine bottom because he simply couldn’t resist. “Get dressed and join us for breakfast, then. We’ll plan for the celebration, among other things.”

  Hanging in the air at the end of his words was the fact that they would also have to plan for whatever vaguely Prophesied Disaster would come from the fallout of their wedding. But he said nothing more, just nuzzled the tip of her slightly pert, freckled nose with his own straight, lightly tanned one, and left her to get dressed.

  Evanor left the pitcher of juice just inside the door for Kelly’s use and accompanied his older brother back down the stairs. “So, you finally embraced your Fate, Brother?”

  Saber gave Evanor a dirty look. “Your turn is coming soon, Brother.”

  Evanor smiled serenely, and slyly. “Yes, well, we all have our Destiny—in preordained order—to bear.”

  “I have it!” Morganen burst into the great hall four days later, fist raised high. Rydan, in the act of setting out the plates, eyed his youngest sibling.

  “Have what?”

  “I have the solution to our plague of deadly infestations!”

  Kelly raised her brow, setting out the silverware behind the one brother whom she only ever saw at this post-sunset evening meal. “How often have you had these invasions, anyway?”

  “About once every week or two,” Wolfer rumbled, hefting a keg onto the table and pulling out the knife at his belt to pry the cork out of the bunghole; he wanted to thrust in a new tap so they could pour the stout everyone seemed to prefer for their evening drink.

  Not that she could fault their choice of beverage; one, they were men and would naturally want to drink something to put a little more hair on their otherwise lightly dusted chests, and two, proper, thick, dark stouts like this one were usually full of vitamins and nutrients, simply from the way they were made. She even kind of liked the nutty taste, especially with the spicy-sweet honey-nut pastries Evanor had showed her how to make for dessert. But the second eldest’s comment caught her attention as his meaning sank in.

  “Once a week? That often?” Kelly asked as her eyes widened, alarmed by the frequency.

  “Not for the first two or so months, but after that, they came, increased, and stayed at a pacing of roughly one a week, though not always evenly spaced. It’s only since you came that they have lessened in their frequency. Which makes no sense, if you are meant to be our Disaster-bringer,” Wolfer added, though he winked one golden eye at her to show he didn’t mean any insult. “Are you certain you’re the one meant to wed my twin?”

  “No, my dear brother,” Morganen all but caroled, thumping his sibling on one thickly muscled shoulder as he strode around the table. “You are wrong!” He continued around, and caught up Kelly as she finished laying the last fork and spoon down. Sweeping her around, arm at her waist, his hand catching hers, he hummed a little tune, dancing with her in a rocking little two-step.

  “Morganen!”

  The roar made Kelly jump, blinking at the rage in Saber’s voice, as he came into the hall.

  “Just celebrating with my sister-in-law-to-be, dear brother!”

  “He’s in a good mood,” Trevan quipped to no one in particular, helping Saber fetch the steaming platters of food from the kitchens at the base of the north wing, next to the great hall.

  Saber narrowed his gaze, but his youngest brother wasn’t touching her improperly; one hand was at her back, above her waist, the other held her hand, and there was a full hand-span of distance between their bodies. He grunted and allowed it. “Why are you dancing with my bride?”

  “Because she made us clean the hall!”

  Dominor snorted from up on the second balcony level, where he was knocking the lightglobes into life. His voice echoed down to them. “And you thank her for it with your little dance?”

  Morganen twirled Kelly out, la-la-la-ing to the tune he had swept her into. “But of course, lalalaaaah!” He caught her as she came back again, and dropped a brotherly kiss on her forehead before stepping back and bowing over Kelly’s hand in a courtly way, while his eldest sibling glared. Morganen ignored his brother. “My dear lady, we all owe you a deep debt of gratitude!

  “Think about it, my brothers,” he added, releasing her fingertips and turning to look at the others. “At first there were no teleported invasions. Then they slowly began increasing, and within a span of five months, were coming frequently. If our unknown assailant had any paintings of this hall, then it would have taken him or her time to adjust to all of the dirt and grime in his mind’s eye for accurate, successful teleportation. It would be a painting, since all of our mirrors are enspelled against scrying, and the distance to the mainland’s coast is too far to do it easily by such directly scryed means. That would also explain the five or so months it took our tormentor to focus firmly on us.

  “But,” he added, holding up a finger, “once we started cleaning the hall, scrubbing and painting the walls and moving the furnishings, it changed the look of all the rooms!”

  “And as every mage knows,” Rydan added, speaking the most words Kelly had yet heard from him, especially since he was glancing at her with his night-dark eyes as he explained it for her, “only through deep familiarity can a mage teleport something elsewhere, or through an indirect but accurate scry, such as a painting.”

  Af
ter a quick double-blink, his twin, Trevan, got over the shock of Rydan speaking so much to them all at once and continued Morganen’s line of reasoning and Rydan’s proffered explanation. “But only after deep meditation and with great strength, perhaps even with some forgotten article we left behind in Corvis; it cannot be easily done over any great distance, and not one noticeable thing must be different between what is known and what is actually here, which means that the task is exceedingly difficult. There can be some minor differences of the sort that would take a second or third look to register, but nothing stronger than that.”

  “You cannot teleport anything without knowing exactly where it will fit into the part of the universe it goes to,” Wolfer added in his rumble, his mouth quirking up slightly on one side. “Or it will not go there at all. So I will thank you, too, Lady Kelly, for working our knuckles raw with so much soap, spell, and water.”

  “Wait, wait; there’s more!” Morganen asserted gleefully, eager to recapture everyone’s attention. “It will take a little preparation and a very careful layering of spells and paint, but I have come up with a way to ensure that no one not intimately familiar with the new look of Nightfall Castle can ever teleport anything into it from afar! And again, I have you to thank, Lady Kelly—or rather, my peeks into your universe to ascertain the settling flow of its aether, to thank.

  “They have these boxes,” he continued, relating the tale to his brothers now, “that glow and flicker with different images, as if the most detailed of paintings had sprung to life. They call it the teevee, and while it does make most who sit before it slack-jawed and witless—no offense, Kelly—it does constantly change.

  “So I was thinking, perhaps I could come up with a type of paint that changes from hour to hour, day to day, in its colors and images—murals of panoramic, pastoral scenes, perhaps, or drifting clouds, or maybe even both. Something subtle and tasteful, but still there, and still changing,” he stressed as his deeply interested brothers slowly nodded, agreeing with him. “Not enough to distract from everyday life, but certainly enough to change each wall from hour to hour, and thus change the vital appearance of each room, altering them too much for our unknown mage to easily reach us again! Even if he sends more creatures to peek in through our windows, the trick won’t work more than just the once, in that very moment!”