Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  She needed that kind of setting, with her spare, hard-edged beauty. Unlike Nyara, who would never look anything other than lush and exotic, sleek and sensuous, no matter what she wore.

  Nyara sat on the opposite side of Skif, glancing sideways at him; Skif couldn't take his eyes off her. She had proved, once revived, not only cooperative but grateful that all Treyvan had done was put her to sleep. Her reaction—completely genuine, so far as Darkwind was able to determine—had shamed him a little for behaving with such suspicion and cold calculation toward her.

  On the other hand, she herself had confirmed what Darkwind and Treyvan had suspected; that she was a danger. She confessed that she could be summoned by her father at any point, and if unfettered, she would probably go to him, awake or asleep. She did not know if he could read her thoughts at a distance, but was not willing to say that he couldn't.

  "If you have any doubt, you must send me to sleep again, and tie me," she had said humbly. "Do not waste shields upon me that you may give to the little gryphons."

  That last had won Treyvan; Darkwind was still not so sure, but his own misgivings were fading. She had given them an amazing amount of information about Mornelithe's stronghold; the problem was, the place was a miracle of defensive capability. Nyara bitterly attributed her easy escape now to the fact that her father had wanted her to get away. Extracting Dawnfire from that warren was looking more and more difficult. Active discussion had died before the sun sank into the west.

  But Elspeth was still thinking about the problem and not simply admiring the sunset. "Darkwind, she's a bird, right? What about getting in, turning her loose, and making some other bird look like her?" Elspeth turned toward Darkwind as the last sliver of sun vanished. "One person, maybe two, could get away with that."

  :Now that is the kind of sortie I know how to run,: the sword put in.

  Darkwind looked pointedly at Nyara.

  She coughed politely. "This would be a good time for me to absent myself. Could I take a walk, perhaps?" she asked. "Could someone go with me?" And she glanced significantly at Skif, who flushed but did not look as if he would turn down the invitation.

  Darkwind found himself torn by conflicting emotions. He knew very well what was likely to happen as soon as those two found themselves alone, and while on the one hand, he was relieved that Nyara had found herself a safer outlet for her needs than himself, he also was unreasoningly jealous.

  He didn't trust himself with her. He didn't trust her; she had already told them that Falconsbane had ordered her to seduce and subvert him. Doing anything except exchanging pleasantries with her was the worst possible idea at the moment.

  That didn't stop his loins from tightening every time she looked at him.

  And it didn't stop him from being envious of anyone else she cast those golden eyes upon.

  "I've done my share of breaking into buildings in my misspent youth," Skif said hesitantly, with one eye on Nyara. "But I have the feeling you're thinking of using magic, and that's where you lose me. I suppose we could go take that walk, out of earshot. If only one person goes in, I guess it wouldn't be one of us Heralds—so what I know is pretty superfluous."

  Darkwind glanced at Elspeth; he thought he saw a little smile playing at the corners of her mouth, but the light was fading, and he couldn't be sure. He wondered if she would be so amused if she knew what he knew about Nyara.

  But there didn't seem to be any reason to object. "Stay within the ruins," he said, curtly. "Skif, I hold you responsible for this woman. Remember what she's told us; she can't even trust herself."

  Skif nodded, but he also rose to his feet and courteously offered Nyara his hand to help her rise as well. Nyara took it, though she didn't need it any more than Darkwind would have. And she held it a moment longer than she needed to.

  I don't think he has any idea of what he's in for. She just may eat him alive.

  He stopped himself before he could say anything. She isn't my property. She's too dangerous right now for me to touch. It doesn't matter what I want. Acting on what you want is something only children think is an adult prerogative.

  So he held his tongue and watched the two of them walk slowly into the shadows of the ruins, side-by-side, but carefully not-touching.

  The sexual tension between them was so obvious that they might just as well have been bound together by ropes.

  "I know I'm being incredibly obnoxious to ask this," Elspeth said behind him. "But were you two lovers?"

  "No, lady," he said absently, as he struggled to get his jealousy under control. "No, we weren't. She has that much control of herself; her father ordered her to seduce me, therefore she would not. Otherwise—" he paused, then continued, sensing that this particular young woman would not misinterpret what he was saying. And sensing that he could somehow reveal anything to her, without fear of coming under judgment. "Otherwise we might well have been. She was created for pleasure, I think you know that, or have guessed. It drives her before hunger or pain. She is probably quite—adept at it. She has had most of her life to learn it, and practice."

  Elspeth considered his words for a moment, as he turned back to face her. "You aren't angry at Skif, I hope."

  He uttered a short, humorless laugh. "Angry, no. She cannot help what she is. Envious—yes. Much as I hate to admit it. Envy is not a pretty trait. And you?"

  Her soft laugh was genuine. "I am so relieved that he has finally found someone to—well—"

  "Drag off into the ruins?" Darkwind suggested delicately.

  "Exactly. I can't tell you how relieved I am. He has been a very good friend for many years," she said, tilting her head to one side as she sat silhouetted against the indigo sky. "And he has been under a great deal of strain lately."

  "And were you lovers?" Darkwind asked sharply, in a tone that surprised even him. Why should I care? he wondered. They're Outlander’s. They'll get what they need and leave, like the breath of wind on a still pond. The only impression they can make is a fleeting one.

  She didn't seem to notice. "I haven't been entirely candid with you, Darkwind—though mostly it was because I didn't think rank was going to impress you any, and might have made you reject us out of hand."

  Ah, so my surmise was right.

  She took a deep breath. "I'm next in line for the throne. Not that I particularly want it," she added, and there was a kind of chagrined surprise in her voice, "Which is odd, because when I was little, I thought that being made Heir was the highest possible pinnacle of success. But there it is; now I have it, and I rather wish I didn't. Skif has always been a kind of big brother to me, and there were always rumors about the two of us."

  "But were they true?" he persisted. He shifted a little; not because he was uncomfortable outside, but because he was acutely uncomfortable inside. Jealousy again, and this time for no damned reason!

  It must be overflow from Nyara, he decided. Gods of my fathers; this is embarrassing... have I no self-control?

  "No," she said calmly, relieving his jealousy by her answer. "No, he always thought of me as a little sister. Until we went out on this trip together. Then he suddenly decided that he was in love with me." She sounded annoyed, to his great satisfaction. "I cannot for the life of me imagine why, but that's what he decided, and I've been trying to discourage him. Maybe once I would have been happy for that, but—it's not possible, Darkwind. I have duties as the Heir, if I ever get back in one piece. If I were to make any kind of alliance, I have to consider my duties first. And anything permanent would be weighed against them. Love—even if genuine—could only be secondary. Mother married for what she thought was love the first time, and it was a total disaster. Skif is so blinded by his own feelings that he won't even consider anything else."

  "Ah," he replied, "I take it that you are far from convinced that what your friend feels is love."

  She snorted. "Infatuation, more like it. I've been trying to emulate my teacher—Kerowyn—since we left Valdemar, and he worships her. That may
have been the problem."

  So she feels no tie beyond friendship for this Skif, he thought, with a feeling of satisfaction. Well, if she is going to learn magic, that's just as well. She'll have a great deal to learn, coming to it this late, and she'll have no time for anything but study. "That may have been the situation," he responded, sensing she was waiting for some kind of a reply. "But—you sounded very annoyed just now with him. May I ask why? If there is friction other than what you have told me, I need to know."

  "Nothing other than that once he became infatuated, he wanted to wrap me in silk and stick me in a jewel box," she replied, the annoyance back in her voice. "I think I have him cured of that, but in case I haven't, the problem may come up again."

  He nodded, forgetting that it was dark enough that she wouldn't see the nod, then coughed politely. "Thank you, Elspeth. That could cause some problems. I hope I have not caused you distress by asking you these questions."

  "No, not at all," she replied, surprise in her voice. "You are a very easy person to confide in, Darkwind. Thank you for giving me the chance to unburden myself. My Companion thinks Skif is perfect for me, and Need thinks he's an utter loss, so any time I say anything to either of them, all I get is lectures."

  Companion? Oh, that must be the spirit-mare. But she said it as if it were a name....

  "Companion?" he asked, as the first breath of the evening wind flowed through the stones and breathed the hair away from his face.

  "My not-horse," she replied, and there was a smile there that he felt across the darkness between them. "The one you have very graciously been treating not like a horse. We call them 'Companions'; every Herald in Valdemar has one—they Choose us to be Heralds."

  "They—" he hesitated in confusion. "Could you please explain?"

  "Certainly, if you don't mind my coming closer," she replied. He peered through the darkness at her to see if she was being flirtatious—but she appeared to be swatting at her legs. "There seem to be some kind of nocturnal insects on this rock, and they like the taste of Herald."

  "By all means, come sit beside me," he replied, grateful to the night-ants. "There are no night-ant nests here."

  She rose, brushing off her legs, as he moved over on his rock to give her room.

  "Now," he continued, "About these 'Companions' of yours—"

  "Shouldn't we be discussing how to get Dawnfire free?" she replied as she seated herself, her tone one of concern. "It's easy to get distracted."

  "We are discussing Dawnfire," he told her, a little grimly. "You and this 'Companion' of yours may be better suited to the task than I. I need to know as much as possible about you."

  "But Skif—"

  "Won't be back for some time," he assured her. "And I have but two concerns regarding him. The first—that her father not attempt to contact or call her while he is with her."

  "And the second?" she asked.

  He sighed, and leaned back on his hands. "That she leave enough left of him to be useful."

  She chuckled, and he felt the corners of his mouth turning up in a smile. "Now," he continued. "About this 'Companion'...."

  Nyara could have shouted her joy aloud, as Darkwind gave them tacit permission to go off alone. Skif could have been ugly, foul-breathed, pot-bellied, bow-legged, bald and obnoxious, and she would not at this moment have cared. He was safe, that was what mattered. Mornelithe had not ordered her to seduce him; did not even know that he existed, so far as she knew. She could ease the urges that had been driving her to distraction since her body began to heal, and do so without the guilt of knowing she would be corrupting him—do so only to pleasure herself and him, and not with any other motive of any sort.

  That he was cleanly handsome, well-spoken, well-mannered—that turned the expedition from a simple need to a real desire.

  She wanted him, in the same way she wanted Darkwind, but without the guilt. Likewise, he wanted her. She guessed, however, that he was shy, else he would have proposed dalliance when they were first alone, in the gryphons' lair. So, it would be up to her.

  She had a cat's hearing, to be able to discern a mouse squeak in the high grass a furlong away; and a cat's eyes, so that this light of a near-full moon was as useful to her as the sun at full day.

  So when he had just begun to turn to her, to tentatively reach for her hand, she already knew that they were well out of earshot, and that there was a little corner amidst the pile of rocks to their left that would suit his sense of modesty very well. No ears but those equal to hers would hear them; and no eyes but an owl's would spy them out.

  Thank the gods—not Mornelithe—that she had learned trade-tongue, and that these strangers spoke it well.

  "Nyara," Skif said shyly (oh, she had been right!), taking heart when she did not pull her hand away, "I'm sure this sounds pretty stupid, but I've never met anyone like you."

  "You have no Changechildren in your lands?" she asked, stopping, turning to his voice, and standing calculatedly near him. Near enough that her breast brushed his arm.

  He did not (oh, joy!) step away. "No," he replied, his voice rising just a little. "No Ch-changechildren, no magic."

  "Ah," she purred. And swayed closer. "You know what my father made me for? Darkwind has told you?"

  A slight increase in the heat of his body told her he blushed. "Y-yes," he stammered.

  "Good," she replied, and fastened her mouth on his.

  He only struggled for a moment, mostly out of surprise, and the anticipation that this was part of a ruse, that she meant to escape. Since that was the last thing on her mind, she told him so, with every fiber of her body.

  He stopped struggling, believing her unspoken message. She molded herself to him, each and every separate nerve alive and athrill. Then, as he finally began responding instead of reacting, she led him back into the little alcove, step by slow, careful step.

  She was on fire with need, and so was he; she felt it, and, for the first time in her life, Felt it as well, a flood of emotion and urgency that washed over her and mingled with her own.

  That was such a surprise that she came near to forgetting her own desire. She melted in his need, pulling him down into the shadows, marveling at this precious gift from out of nowhere. To Feel his pleasure, his desire—it heightened her own beyond any past experience.

  I am an Empath? I had never dreamed—my own hatred and fear must have shielded me.

  But that didn't matter at the moment. All that was truly important was getting him out of his clothing. Or part of it, anyway.

  He pulled away, and she clutched him, ripping his shirt with her talons. Why was he trying to evade her? She could Feel his overwhelming need so clearly.

  "—rocks!" he gasped, as she tried to fasten her mouth on his again. "You'll hurt your—"

  She proceeded to prove to him that the setting didn't matter, and neither did the rocks. Soon they were writhing together, joined in body and mind, and she bit her hand to keep from screaming her pleasure aloud. Mornelithe knew her body as no one else; he knew every way possible to elicit reactions of all sorts from her. But this was pleasure unmixed with anger, hate, self-hatred. She had never been so happy in all of her short life.

  He reached the pinnacle; she followed, and they fell together.

  They lay entwined, panting, sweat-soaked and exhausted. He stroked her hair, with a gentle hand, murmuring wonderful things that she only half heard. How amazing she was; astonishing, a dream come to life. These things were never to be believed if a would-be lover whispered them before the bedding—but after?

  She probed his feelings delicately, taking care with this new sense. And there was some truth there, a little something more than mere infatuation. Yes, he was infatuated, but he thought her brave for even trying to resist her father, he thought her admirable for giving them the aid that she had.

  And he thought her lovely, desirable, beyond any dream. Nor did he despise her for using her body as she had, or even (and she held her breath in wonder) for bein
g used by her own father.

  But there was a bitterness to the joy; he imagined her to have been forced into submitting.

  He could never understand the forces that had been bred and formed in her; that her father would call, and she would come, willingly, abjectly, desiring him as fervently as she desired anyone....

  She resolved not to think about it. The chances were, she would never see him again after the next few days. If they freed Dawnfire, she would use the Tayledras' gratitude to enable her to put as much distance between herself and her father as her feet would permit.

  If they did not—

  She would not think of it. Not now. And there was a most excellent distraction near at hand.

  She reached for Skif again; he pulled her closer, pillowing her head on his shoulder, thinking she only wished comfort.

  She was going to give him such a lovely surprise....

  In speaking to Elspeth, Darkwind found himself baffled and dazzled by turns. By the time Skif and Nyara returned, disheveled and sated, smelling of sweat and sex, Darkwind had begun to realize that there was even more to this complicated princess than he had thought.

  She had her flaws, certainly. An over-hasty tongue; not in saying what she should not, but in doing so too sharply, too scathingly. A habit of speech, of speaking the truth too clearly and too often that could earn her enemies—and probably had. A hot temper, which, when kindled, was slow to cool. The tendency to hold a grudge—

  Hold a grudge? Dear gods, she treasures a grudge, long past when it should have been dead and buried.

  She would, without doubt, pursue an enemy into his grave, then make a dancing-floor of it. Then return from time to time for a jig, just to keep the triumph alive.

  She flung herself into the midst of disagreements before she entirely understood them, basing her response on what had just happened, rather than seeing what had led to the situation. She was impatient with fools and scornful of those who were ruled by emotions rather than logic. And she took no care to hide either the scorn or the impatience; without a doubt, that had earned her enemies as well.