The Tower

by Jean Johnson

  We’re making good time, he reminded himself, glancing at Myal. She stood down by the chilled end of the table, poking a gelatin dessert with a clean spoon just to watch it jiggle, a silly grin on her face. She is magnificent as a partner. She’s saved my hide directly a good three, four times, and indirectly many more.

  She’s brilliant, swift, kind, smart, strong, funny . . . sexy as anything, Kerric acknowledged, smiling at her. A moment later, he had to smother another yawn. Even though she was half the table away, she yawned, too, in unconscious sympathy and equal exhaustion. Damn. As soon as we’re done eating, we’ll be too sleepy to do anything right away . . . but I suppose there’s always after we power nap and wake up again.

  That thought perked him up. As he watched, she stopped jiggling the dessert and smothered another yawn. Making his way down the table toward her, Kerric lifted his chin at the door beyond the end of the table. “Do you need the refreshing room?”

  Myal thought about the question, then nodded. She set the spoon on the table, along with her used plate. “Yes, please.”

  Nodding, he continued past her. Wiping out the chalk marks with a brush of his forearm and a touch of his power, Kerric opened the door. A peek inside proved the lounge room was empty. Like the other refreshing room, it had three more doors, one to the rest of the Tower and one to each of the actual refreshing rooms for women and men. Murmuring a request for her to wait, Kerric checked both inner rooms. Satisfied they were empty, he returned to the lounge and warded the outer door.

  “There. Now we won’t be interrupted,” he stated, satisfied they would be safe.

  “What if someone needs the safety of a refreshing room?” Myal asked him.

  He shook his head. “They should’ve reached one by now. If they haven’t . . . well, the area right in front of a refreshing room door, and for about five feet or so in either direction, all of it is neutral territory. Nothing will attack adventurers in that zone.” He pinned her with a look. “Don’t tell the other adventurers that, though. It’d spoil the dangerous atmosphere we try to cultivate in here.”

  She smiled and shook her head. “I won’t. I’ll be back soon.”

  “Feel free to strip off your armor and relax for a bit,” Kerric added, working on the buckles for his own. “The more comfortable you are physically, the more effective the sleep-spell will be.”

  Myal laughed at that. Backing up toward the ladies’ door, she gave him a sly smile. “Is that an excuse to see me naked?”

  Kerric hadn’t meant it that way, but he wasn’t one to refuse a good idea. Giving her a sly look of his own, he replied, “Maybe.”

  The door swung shut between them, cutting off most of her chuckle. He could still hear her voice behind the panel, a reminder that doors didn’t guarantee privacy in the Tower, not when those doors were currently linked physically to each other. Spells could, however.

  Double-checking the chalked wards on the outer door, he added an extra mark against eavesdropping, then finished removing his armor, dropping it on one of the lounge couches. Then wasted a tiny bit of magic, conjuring a hairbrush that could soothe the itch formed by the combination of the helmet flattening his locks and the sweat raised by all their exertions. Three deep scratches on the leather-wrapped, metal-lined cap had proven its worth in combat, protecting his skull from blows that had gotten through his spells.

  The brush alone wasn’t doing much; what Kerric needed was a bath, or at least a shower. Pulling a toiletry kit of soap and toweling cloths from his backpack, he retreated into the gentlemen’s refreshing room. Adventuring was messy, sweaty, muscle-aching work. A hot scrub would feel very good. The sound of running water, thrumming faintly through the thin stone barrier separating the two refreshing rooms, let him know that he wasn’t alone in that idea. On the other side of that wall, the tall, beautiful, shapely Myal was now scrubbing herself clean.

  Kerric wasn’t quite so tired anymore.

  Turning the levers to activate both water and temperature, he imagined what that tattoo-colored body would look like with steaming water and soapsuds streaming down over her curves. That image was so distracting, he forgot to remove the cloth undershirt and shorts that had protected his skin from his armor. The feel of the damp cloth clinging to his skin made him grin and wrinkle his nose. Fine, so the rest of me gets cleaned and dried, too . . . Maybe I should offer to clean Myal’s things?

  On the other side of the wall, Myal finished scrubbing herself and her underclothes, and shut off the shower so she could wring out the garments. Activating a tattoo curling just under her sternum, one shaped like a tornado, she blew a stream of air on the garments, drying them in a rapid flutter of wind-tossed, swirling cloth. The empowered breeze fluttered the showering stall’s curtain and blew away the droplets clinging to her skin.

  It also tossed around her long hair, but that couldn’t be helped. The sight of the dark, tangled mess in the mirror over the sink, one marked with anti-scrying runes around its frame, stirred an old memory, however. Long ago, a young Myal had watched her mother come in from the garden after a sudden wind had sprung up, and had watched her father first gently tease his wife, then offer to brush out the knots. The tenderness with which he did so, and the loving little looks her mother had given him, had left an impression on the young girl.

  It was the little things that created and fostered a true sense of intimacy between two people. Her parents had done little things for each other, taken the time to both speak and listen, shared chores, given compliments . . . little things, all of which added up at the end of each day. I think I have a comb in my bags—other than the one we picked up. I’m not sure that one’s safe to use on actual hair. If surviving this gauntlet means having an attachment to each other, then we should work on forming several layers of intimacy.

  . . . I think Kerric might be the kind of man who enjoys brushing out hair, she decided, giving her naked image a critical look. The faint thrum of running water in the other refreshing room shut off, letting her know Kerric was done. Making up her mind, Myal reached for the toweling cloth still knotted around her belt. Wrapping it around herself instead, she carried her things back out to the lounge and started searching for a non-magical comb or brush in her adventuring kit.

  Wrapped in his own gauntlet-borrowed towel, his own spell-cleaned garments bundled in his hands, Kerric emerged as well. He did so just in time to see Myal bending over, her long, ink-decorated legs rising all the way up the hem of her wrap, and a hint of the curves the cloth didn’t quite conceal. Clothing flumped to the floor, spilling out of hands no longer governed by his mind. All he could think of was touching that beautiful, tanned, tattooed skin.

  Straightening quickly, Myal turned around. Catching him staring at her, she blushed and smiled. He was definitely ogling her legs now. “I thought you liked my hips more than my legs. And what about my breasts?”

  “Hips, legs, breasts . . .” he murmured, flicking a hand in a gesture both dismissive and inclusive. “You’re rapidly converting me to the whole package—and you’re ruining my intentions, you know,” Kerric added, shifting to plant his hands on his cloth-wrapped hips. “I was going to transfigure a separate bed for each of us, and ensure we got a good night’s speed-sleep. Chastely, at that. But no, you just have to show up looking more delicious than all the desserts in the Banqueting Hall. If you’re not careful, young lady, I’ll eat you up like a midnight snack.”

  Myal ducked her head a little, not quite used to such compliments, but didn’t hide her grin. Looking down at the brush she had found, she held it up. “I was thinking . . . if you’re willing . . . you could brush my hair?”

  Dragging his gaze up the length of her body, Kerric took in the tangled mass of fine black strands. If it hadn’t been so windblown, it would have reached nearly to her waist. As it was, brushing it smooth would take a while . . . but it would allow him to touch her that entire time. It would give both of them a feeling of intimacy.

  Kerric was no fool. M
yal the Mendhite might be quiet, even shy, but she was not dumb. She would have considered that before making her offer, he was sure. Nodding, he scooped up his fallen garments and pitched them onto the cluttered end of the lounge sofa, then climbed onto the other half. Turning, he seated himself on the padded armrest, and gestured for her to take a seat on the cushion.

  Brush in hand, Myal complied. “I wasn’t sure if using the comb we picked up would be a good idea or not. I found a brush, though.”

  “It probably wouldn’t do any harm,” Kerric murmured, adjusting his towel so that it wasn’t trapped awkwardly by the way she settled between his knees. Accepting the brush, he lifted her hair in one hand and started stroking the bristles through the very tips of her locks with the other. “But we’d have to make sure to remove all hairs from the teeth before using it, just to be sure.”

  “What does the comb do?” Myal asked, glad he was brushing out the tangles properly from the bottom up, rather than trying to force everything from the top down. She had learned to brush her own hair that way, too.

  “It creates a barrier, one that lasts just long enough to get us through a certain room without actually fighting anything. Your hair is really soft. Is there a tattoo for that?” he teased lightly.

  “Is there a spell for making yours so curly?” Myal retorted, teasing him right back.

  Chuckling, he brushed more of her hair, working over a hand-length’s worth with the boar-bristle brush. “Actually, there are spells for that. I don’t know them well enough to pop one off right now, but I’ve seen them and others in books and scrolls.” He brushed a few inches higher, then started following the brush with his free hand, petting the thick, straight locks. “Spells for hair, spells for clear skin, spells for enhancements . . .”

  “Oh?” Myal asked. “What sort of enhancements?”

  “Skin sensitivity . . . breast size . . . or lengthing the tongue. Ways to ensure two lovers are a good fit for each other, neither too large nor too small,” he added in a murmur. Her hair wasn’t hopelessly knotted, just a bit tangled. “Spells to make a woman extra wet, spells to make a man hard for a full hour . . .”

  Myal blushed. “I, ah . . . have heard that there are certain tattoos for the same things. Even tattoos to enhance virility, fertility . . .”

  “Wait, fertility?” Kerric asked, confused. “But I thought that tattoo on your belly stopped that from happening?”

  Myal shook her head. “That shifts the fertility in a non-mage into being able to focus life-energy into magical effects. If a mage becomes a Painted Warrior, they can retain their fertility. The navel-tattoo is subtly different, and they can still cast spells,” she explained, enjoying the soothing feel of the brush working its way through her hair, inching higher and higher as her locks untangled. “It’s just very difficult to cast spells and use tattoo-based abilities. There are limitations to what spells can be turned into tattoos, but there are limitations on what spells can do, versus tattoos. From what I understand, a mage has to know a spell to be able to cast it without shaping it via sound and gesture, or augmenting it with herbs and such, yes?”

  “That is correct,” Kerric confirmed. His palm smoothed down her back and over her shoulders, following in the wake of each brushstroke. “Some I can cast with the ease of familiarity, others I need assistance with. And certain mages have certain affinities. Some cast easier by shaping their spells via sound or song, while others are natural alchemists, turning spells into potions and salves.”

  “It’s similar for Painted Warriors. With a tattoo, you just flex it the right way to activate it and channel your magic, or your life-force, through the tattoo. No memorization needed,” Myal told him. The brush was now at the base of her skull, her hair almost completely smoothed. She felt like purring under each stroke. Rolling her head, she encouraged him to work the brush all over her scalp. “That feels really good . . .”

  Watching his hand smooth her long, black tresses in the wake of the brush, Kerric glanced over her shoulder. A silent double-take confirmed his brief impression. Her towel had loosened, giving him a lovely view of the shadowed cleft between her ink-swirled breasts. Daringly, he leaned forward, left hand stroking her hair more than the brush, now. “You know what else feels good?”

  “Mm, what?” Myal hummed, enjoying the caresses.

  His fingers slipped down under the worn fabric of the toweling cloth, warm and gentle. Cupping her left breast, he lifted it with the slightest squeeze, and let his thumb play over the nub at its tip. “This . . .”

  She shuddered. It was a bold touch, confident. Practiced, even, for he seemed to know exactly how to gently tweak her nipple between his thumb and the edge of his forefinger, teasing her with a little sting of stimulated nerves. Breath catching, she arched her back a little, pushing her breast higher into his hand. “Ahhh . . . yes. That is good.”

  The movement finished loosening her towel. It slid down, sagging onto her lap. Kerric trailed the brush through her hair with his right hand, smoothing the last of the mussed strands, then ghosted it down over her curves, before very lightly brushing her right nipple with the boar-bristles. She gasped and arched her back further, pushing against his chest with her head. That forced him to tighten his abdomen against the threat of being toppled off the side of the couch.

  Chuckling, Kerric brushed his knuckles over her right breast instead of the bristles. His left hand gently squeezed and kneaded. “I do believe there is another set of locks which I could brush for you, if you’d like.”

  The absurdity of his offer made her tip back her head with a laugh, accidentally thumping him in the chest a second time. “You—you want to brush my nethers?”

  Overcome with giggling, she curled forward, hands covering her mouth. Rather than let himself be put off by her mirth, Kerric shrugged philosophically and abandoned the brush to the cushions. Scooping her hair to either side, he leaned forward and licked the nape of her neck, then kissed it.

  “I want to get my hands on every inch of your skin, Myal,” he murmured, dredging up the words he wanted to express himself with, though it wasn’t easy to focus through his rising desire. “I want to stimulate every tattoo you have, and tease every ink-free patch, until you’re begging me to paint you with the colors of my desire.”

  “You, ah, have a word with ways—I mean, a way with words,” Myal corrected herself, blushing. His fingers were now brushing the sides of her ribs, tickling and teasing her skin in sensual caress. She couldn’t quite dredge up a proper glare, though she did voice a complaint. “You’re making my mind melt!”

  “Good. All that adventuring without any lovemaking is far too unbalanced a way to live,” Kerric said. Then stilled his hands, realizing he hadn’t asked an important question. “Ah, that is . . . I’m not interfering with any relationship you currently have, am I?”

  She tipped her head back, giving him an amused, sardonic look out of the corner of her eye. “Do you think I would have agreed if there was anyone right now?” Leaning back further, she relaxed against his chest and shoulder, enjoying the feelings stirred as his hands began moving again, the brush set aside. “There hasn’t been anyone for months. You?”

  “Almost two years, and that’s counting professionals,” he confessed. “Though I prefer real relationships to paid ones. It’s hard to see anyone intimately when you’re the one in charge of everything. There’s always an inequality of power and position to worry about. Am I pressuring them inadvertently, are they simply trying to take advantage of my status and resources, will they . . .”

  Myal shushed him with a finger lifted to his lips. The angle was a little awkward, but she traced her knuckle lightly over his mouth, then along his freshly shaved cheek. “I already have everything I want in my life. Except maybe getting my stories published farther away than just Penambrion.”

  He smiled a little at the half-tease, and kissed her knuckle. “I’ll see about arranging a chat between you and the printing house that publishes my works.
No guarantees, of course, but at least you’ll be able to talk. The rest is up to you and your skills as a writer. I don’t write adventure stories, but I do know they are popular. Hopefully yours will be good enough for large publication.”

  “I hope so. It’s my sacred duty to leave some sort of written mark upon the world,” Myal sighed. “I know I’m supposed to worship the local God or Goddess, but Penambrion seems to lack a specific Patron Deity . . . so I worship mine as best I can.”

  “The Tower has a strict all-Deities-are-welcome policy,” Kerric admitted, wrapping his arms around her. He turned his palms up as his forearms crossed, cupping her breasts. “We have a long-standing tradition of doing just that left over from prior to the Shattering, back when Aiar hosted the Convocation of the Gods, and too many foreign visitors still dropping by, almost two hundred years later, not to acknowledge and honor the Patrons of whoever may visit.”

  Enjoying the way his thumbs teased her curves and their sensitive peaks, Myal daringly asked, “Is there a Goddess of Nipples, by any chance? Since you seem to want to worship Her.”

  His laughter was swift and hearty, caught off guard by her teasing quip. Hugging her, Kerric released the Mendhite woman. “Up, and I’ll transform this couch into something much more suitable as an altar to the God Pashon and Goddess Pashana, Patron Deities of Love and Desire. That’s the closest I can think of, at any rate.”

  Nodding, Myal scooted off the couch, clutching at her towel. Not that she was afraid to drop it; she just didn’t want to lose track of it. Finding her belt, she tied it back in place, then sneakily grabbed Kerric’s and pulled it from his hips while he was clearing the belongings set on the other end of the cushioned sofa. He gave her a surprised look, then grinned, passed her his belt for the same treatment for his towel, and went to work on enchanting the sofa into a bed.