Prince of Time

by Tara Janzen

  “I was never free to choose... until now,” she said, the solemnity of her voice giving him his first real doubts about the eventual outcome of their byplay.

  “Ah” was all he could say, at a loss again. She denied him because she finally had the courage to choose, of her own volition and with naught to do with her mother, and she did not choose him. What an odd twist of fate that would be, for her to have dragged him over half the Waste with all her talk of destiny and duty, and the minute he gave in, she changed her mind.

  Aye, that would just be bloody, friggin’ great—but he’d be damned if he’d let it all come to that.

  Unlike some of the youngbloods at Llywelyn’s court, he’d found no satisfaction in unrequited love or chivalrous adoration from afar. He’d always liked a woman warm and close, preferably wrapped around him where he and she could enjoy each other to the fullest.

  Of course, that had been in the past. In the future, he’d had no such luck. The best sex he’d had in the last ten years had been when the Carillion wine had taken him back into his past to relive a particularly fine bit of swiving, like that first time with Eiryl.

  Aye, he’d been there a few times, but Avallyn had taken all that away from him. He was free of the wine, thanks to her, and the price to drink again was too high, even for the pleasure of vividly remembered orgasms a mere ten thousand years old.

  Sweet Christe, but he was a sad case.

  She gestured for him to sit on the pallet, and after a moment’s hesitation, he obliged.

  “We have a great and perilous journey ahead, and I’d not have any ill will between us,” she said, stopping in the act of lighting the brazier and glancing up with a questioning look. “You do understand, don’t you?”

  He understood she was mad, simply mad to think he could have kissed her and not want more, simply mad to think they could avoid an act of consummation. Nature simply hadn’t designed him that way, and neither had Nature designed her to be satisfied with so little.

  “I understand better than you,” he said.

  The look of relief she cast in his direction proved his point.

  After unbuckling Scyld and setting aside his carbine, he took off his burned and tattered jacket. Avallyn went to draw water from the stream, while he stripped out of his shirt. Looking down at his left arm, he swore softly. The dragonfire had not been as unbridled as he’d thought. He’d been marked with the precision of a surgeon’s blade, marked with runes. He turned and saw the same marks on his right arm, running from his shoulder down to his wrist.

  “Ammon, bes, ceiul,” Avallyn murmured, kneeling beside him with the ewer of water. “The runes of refuge.”

  “Refuge?”

  “Protection. For you... for us.”

  “Tamisk cut a spell into my skin?” God’s balls, but the mage had taken a lot upon himself.

  “Nay. Tamisk’s magic is old, but this is far older, ancient beyond memory.” She reached up and lightly touched his arm. “The runes of refuge go back to the Dark Age, when the dragons were first born. ’Tis a firespell from Ysaia’s cauldron that has marked you thus.”

  ’Twas the finishing touch to his barbaric transformation, he thought ruefully. He had a leaf imprinted on his chest, a blaze in his hair with the mark of a time-rider down his body to match, half a hand’s-width of scar tissue wrapped around his torso, and now the scarification of a runic incantation running the length of both his arms. He wondered who he’d really been in the past, for what he’d become in the future seemed far more aligned by cosmic purpose.

  Avallyn chose some herbs from the array of dried plants hanging from the bower and put them to stew in the two pans she’d nested into the brazier’s coals. More than anything, her actions reminded him of Dain. In the Hart, even with all its changes, ’twas easy to feel close to his friend, a man who had been more of a brother to him than his own. Dain had filled the tower with plants, some drying, some growing, some blooming even in winter.

  If there was anyone he missed from his past, ’twas Dain Lavrans. They, too, had been bonded in blood and fire, and in sacrifice, Dain’s sacrifice. One thing Morgan had been in the past was afraid. As a slave in the Holy Land, lying starved and helpless in the filth of their desert prison, his leg half smashed, the pain more than he could bear, he’d known gut-wrenching fear. A crazy fear, for he’d been as afraid of living as of dying and could not have told his own mother which he would choose, if the choice had been his. It had not. Neither had it been Dain’s, yet Dain had chosen and bent the fates to his will that he and Morgan would live.

  Fear had been burned out of him during the thousands of years he’d lost in the weir, fear of anything except the wormhole itself. In the future, the creed of survival had replaced fear, a view much broadened by the vision he’d seen in Tamisk’s scrying pool. For ten years he’d been concerned only with his and Aja’s survival. Avallyn and dragonfire made the whole world his concern—and he felt the weight of it bearing down on him.

  He instinctively rose to his feet, needing to move, and rubbed the back of his neck. “How long until your infusions are ready?”

  “A few minutes for the tea,” she said, looking up. “A bit longer for the healing water.”

  He nodded in acknowledgment. “I’ll be back.”

  “I’ll come with you,” she said, quickly standing. “Tamisk has set traps against intruders. You might come across one.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I’ll be careful. I just need a few minutes.”

  A few minutes to find his balance, he thought, ducking out from under the bower, leaving her behind. A few minutes to think.

  He walked along the stream, until he realized that what he wanted was to be in the water, not next to it. At a place where the stream widened into a pool fed by a short fall of water, he pulled off his boots, removed his lasgun, and shucked out of his pants. The stream was cool, but not icy, and when he’d waded out to where the water deepened, he dove all the way in.

  Submerged, he kicked toward the waterfall and came up underneath it. Water poured over him, a steady force against the back of his head sluicing down his shoulders. ’Twas a relief, and he stood there for a long time, his feet dug into the sandy bottom, letting the stream wash him, letting the cool water numb the pain of his cuts.

  He’d been wrong. He didn’t need time to think. He didn’t want to think. He only wanted to feel the water flowing over him and around him, to see the green of the overhanging branches and watch the leaves swirling in the eddies of the pool.

  Leaning his head back, he filled his mouth with water and spit it out, then stepped out from under the falls and gave his head a shake. Water flew everywhere—but the thoughts he didn’t want remained firmly in place.

  Dharkkum. Christ save him, how was he to fight such a thing? He looked down at his left arm, turning it into the light. All the blood had been washed away, revealing the true delicacy of the runes. Ammon, bes, ceiul, she’d said. ’Twas a small price to pay, if they worked. But he wasn’t willing to risk Avallyn’s life on a firespell.

  Avallyn. A smile curved his mouth. Sweet desert nymph, he’d felt her response to every kiss and knew exactly what it meant, even if she didn’t. She had chosen him, aright. Her heart had chosen, her body had chosen.

  He would journey to the past without her, but not without loving her. She was ripe for making love, and he couldn’t leave her to take an un-shy Ilmarryn as her first lover—and she would. He didn’t doubt it, no matter what she said. Nay, for this span of time, she was his, the Prince of Time’s.

  He turned his other arm into the light, watching the leaves dapple his skin with shadows. He’d been born a prince of Wales. The title had been his by rights of law, but this—his gaze drifted down the neatly incised runes, a dragons’ orison—this went deeper than man’s laws, deeper than the skin it had been written upon. Everything else in his life paled in comparison to the bond of duty he’d made at Tamisk’s pool—everything except Avallyn. She had brought him here
. He would have followed no other.

  She was part of him. He’d known it when he’d first seen her in Racht. Then, he’d thought she was part of his past. Now he knew she was part of him for all time.

  Kicking off again, he floated out away from the waterfall and rolled onto his back. Mist swirled through the rays of sunlight streaming down from the glassed-in roof. Stretching his arms out, he felt something hit his right hand. When he turned to look, he realized the fragility of Tamisk’s magic. ’Twas more than sunlight streaming down from the top of the tower. Sand was leaking in, trickles of it falling into the pool in an intermittent golden stream.

  Not even the Hart would hold forever, not even with magic. What the darkness didn’t devour, the desert would bury in sand. Lowering his hand, he let the golden grains wash away. There were no fish in the stream, no minnows, just as there weren’t any birds or squirrels in the oak tree, and Morgan found himself hoping the Lost Forest wasn’t as barren. What use to save a forest, if it was silent?

  You think me silent? A voice, low and resonant, rippled across his skin.

  Morgan stilled.

  Had Llynya’s Oak just spoken to him? he wondered, willing to believe anything anymore.

  Have you not heard the wind and the water? The sound slowed to a rumbling vibration he felt all around. Have you not heard the leaves rustle and the branches sway?

  “Aye,” he said softly, turning toward the tree.

  Then listen deep, man-child, listen deep...

  Chapter 18

  Avallyn had panicked, nothing more, and now she wished she hadn’t.

  She stood at the edge of the bower, staring out at the thickening mist and telling herself he was safe in the Hart, that no harm would come to him in Tamisk’s tower, not when he was there by Tamisk’s command. Still, he’d been gone far longer than a few minutes, and besides the worry and the regret, she missed having him close. She missed him. Too much, she feared.

  Aye, she chided herself, her longing for him would be the death of her common sense. Easy enough to deny their attraction when she was frightened to death he might act upon it. Not so easy when she was alone, feeling bereft, and needing him to be by her side.

  Morgan ab Kynan, the Prince of Time and hers for the having, if she had the courage. He was no Ilmarryn sprite to seduce her from her duty. She knew as much. She’d watched the dragonfire run a course through his body. She’d seen the tempering of his convictions and watched them harden into steel. Her decision had been born in duty; his had been birthed in fire, and she didn’t doubt whose was the stronger.

  Aye, he would go back to the past to save the Lost Five, but first he had to come back to her. She’d heard no signs of trouble, but Tamisk—and his traps—were nothing if not subtle.

  She glanced up through the oak’s branches. Rain was coming. She smelled it in the air.

  A soft sound from the west brought her head down... and there he was, walking out of the heavy drape of mist, his hair wet and clinging to his nape, his pants streaked with dampness, his boots and lasgun in his hands.

  Relief flooded through her. She took a step toward him, then hesitated, holding herself in check.

  Morgan saw the relief and uncertainty on her face, and he saw the longing she couldn’t hide. ’Twas in the soft vulnerability of her expression, in the way she couldn’t tear her gaze away from him.

  “Is the tea ready?” he asked, stopping next to her and tossing his boots so they landed inside the bower. He leaned over and rested the lasgun against the bower wall. The nearly impossible was going to happen in a few minutes. It was going to rain in the middle of the Deseillign Waste, inside the Hart Tower of Wydehaw Castle. He felt the change in the air.

  And the not nearly as impossible was going to happen even before that. She was going to kiss him.

  “Aye,” she said, taking a step back.

  He caught her before she could take another, lifting his hand to her face and drawing her back to him.

  “Good,” he said, rubbing his thumb across her cheek.

  She was so exquisite, her skin softer than velvet, her eyes shining silver in the falling light. Clouds were forming above them near the ceiling, blocking the fierceness of the sun.

  “You should have a cupful,” her words came out hesitant, unsure, “... every hour.”

  “Later.” He brushed his fingertips over her lower lip, and her mouth parted. “You’re beautiful,” he told her, his voice husky with emotion.

  God’s truth, he was besotted with the fair elfin maid, with her delicately sculpted face and wild mop of silver blond hair, with her green-rimmed gray eyes and her pretty mouth, and with the brave heart that beat beneath the soft curve of her breasts.

  “Morgan?”

  He hushed her with a kiss, a gentle caress of her mouth before he softly bit her lower lip and then laved it with his tongue. He didn’t want her unsure of anything between them. He didn’t want her frightened. He just wanted her.

  “Morgan.” She breathed his name again, and he deepened the kiss, opening his mouth wider over hers. She moaned, a small sound of pleasure, and a heavy ache settled in his groin, hotly sweet. He really didn’t need to worry about the time weir or the crystal crater waiting for him in the caverns beneath Merioneth. If he couldn’t get closer to her, if he couldn’t get himself buried deep between her thighs and feel her come because he was there, he’d die of frustration long before they reached Claerwen. Even the thought of her climaxing was enough to push him close to the edge, to have her body stretched taut beneath his, to hear the catch in her breath as he pushed into her and made her give it all up for him.

  It had been a long, long time since he’d had a woman, but the feelings she aroused triggered all the right responses. He remembered how to kiss a woman breathless, how to kiss her until she melted, until mouths were hot and wet and a kiss itself became a consuming act of love. He remembered how to tease a maid out of her chemise and how to convince her to give him license to her secrets. In the past it had all been a gloriously sensual game where everybody won, and the only tears had been not because he’d ever taken too much, but because he hadn’t come back to take more. Aye, he’d long ago learned to wield tenderness to banish uncertainty or shyness in a woman. No maid had been shy with him for long, and even the shyest maids had learned the pleasures of wantonness in his arms.

  But Avallyn was no maid to be won. What was between them was no game to be played. He needed her beyond the release she could give his body. He needed their connection to be strong, strong enough to reach across ten thousand years and grant him peace after he was gone. Sex could be only one part of what bound them, because for certes they wouldn’t be making love again once he dropped into the time weir. ’Twas a painful truth that tightened around his chest like an iron band.

  He slowly broke their kiss and just held her, his hands wrapped around her upper arms, his head resting on hers. He held her and tried to catch his breath and somehow ease the ache of losing her.

  Christe, he was certifiably insane, and if he’d thought for a moment that there was any place in the galaxy he could take her and outrun his fate, he would grab her and be gone on the first off-world transport he could find.

  But there was no place to hide from what he’d seen and felt in Tamisk’s pool, no place to hide from the love he felt for Avallyn, which bound him to his fate as surely as Stept Agah’s blood.

  “For ten years I’ve wondered why I was brought here,” he said, his voice rough. “But it wasn’t until the first time I kissed you that I began to understand. I’m here to protect you, to fight by your side, to keep you from harm.” He lifted his head and dragged a hand back through his hair, a rueful grin curving his lips. “God’s truth, Avallyn, it seems the only reason for my existence.”

  Looking up at him, the taste of him still on her lips, Avallyn felt much the same, that her existence revolved around him, that his kiss was the light revealing her purpose.

  “That doesn’t keep me from w
anting you,” he went on, his brow furrowing, the wings of his eyebrows drawing together above the indigo gaze holding hers so intently, “but it can keep me from having you.” A breath of yearning crept into his voice. “And I want you so very badly. I want your mouth on mine, your hands on me everywhere.” He slid his hand around her waist, his voice softening to a murmur meant only for her ears. “I want to be inside you and feel you come undone all over me, princess. I want to take you someplace you’ve never been.”

  With gentle pressure, he drew her even nearer. His lashes swept down over his eyes, and he slid his nose along the side of hers, bringing their mouths closer and closer, but not touching.

  “I want your kiss, Avallyn, only yours.” His breath blew over her mouth. “What do you want? Tell me.”

  She couldn’t. She didn’t know the words for what she wanted, but held this close to him, his desire echoing in her own heart, she knew it was more than a kiss, more than an act of love. She slid her hand down his chest, smoothing it over his damp skin, tracing the ridge of his scar to where it crossed above his navel. The journey here had not been an easy one for him. He’d come a long, long way through incredible pain and been washed up on a hostile shore, alone, not knowing she’d been waiting her whole life for him.

  She slowly spread her hand down across his lower abdomen, across a taut plane of hard muscle and the line of dark hair arrowing below the waistband of his pants.

  His stomach tightened, and a soft sound—half sigh, half laugh—escaped him... and she knew exactly what she wanted.

  “I want you,” she whispered, lifting herself the bare inch necessary to touch her lips to his. He responded immediately, his arms coming around her, pulling her against the length of his body, his mouth opening over hers.

  Morgan... The taste of him flooded her senses, a mélange of flavors unique in all the universe. He was what she wanted, all of him. She wanted to feel him beside her, to be with him... always. This was the promise of the Red Book.