by Renee Wildes
Bran didn’t have a beard.
Memories surfaced like an ocean behemoth coming up for air. She shifted to a slight twinge betwixt her thighs. Finora’s skin heated from what had to be the mother of all blushes as she recalled Trystan joining her on the cliffside…and what had followed. The first loving, so fierce. The next, deep in the night, slow and tender. Half in a dream, half awake. She snuggled closer to the warmth of his body.
“Thought ye’d still be asleep, lass,” his sleep-roughened voice growled in her ear.
“Nay,” she whispered. “I woke but a moment ago.”
“Startled t’ find someone in yer bed?”
“How’d you—”
“Yer heart took off skittering like a flushed rabbit.”
She rolled over, stiff with physical soreness and embarrassment.
His blue tattoo glinted almost silver in the moonlight, his hair tousled from sleep and her fingers. He frowned at the hesitation in her movement. “Did I hurt ye, lass?”
Her cheeks grew hotter. “Nay. I’m just…unused to…” Stars, she couldn’t even finish that statement.
Trystan chuckled and brushed her hair back from her face. “Why’s that? A beautiful woman like ye shoulda have yer choice o’ lovers at yer beck an’ call.”
His touch was so gentle. Finora leaned into his hand, not unlike Rona when she wished to be petted. “I’m too fey for most of them. My dreams make people uneasy. Truth be told, I didn’t want any of them, either. Not really. The moon just wasn’t enough of a reason to…”
“Ye faced that moon alone, every month for four years?” She searched for mockery in his disbelief, but found none. Rather, what she heard seemed almost…admiration. “I told ye, ye’re stronger than ye know.”
A part of her tired of being strong. She turned from that thought, and stiffened. The alternative to strong was weak, and she’d vowed to never return to weak again. Skin or no. His hand slid to her shoulder, rubbing the tension away. Finora sighed, trying to relax. “Until now. Until you.”
He leaned in to brush his lips across hers, an unspoken response to her confession. She froze, not sure she wanted to test the limits of her soreness. Trystan pulled back. “Easy now, lass,” he murmured. “Fear no’ that I’ll take ye again whilst ye’re still tender from the last.” He slid from the bed, and her gaze was drawn anew to the sleek muscled perfection of his warrior frame. He wrapped his plaid about his hips and grabbed the pitcher. “Be right back.”
Finora stared out the window. The moon sank low toward the horizon, but the sky had not yet begun to lighten. She sighed and cursed her wakefulness. She’d pay for it later, when the children ran circles about her and she fell asleep face-first in the supper pudding. For a fleeting moment she thought of Bree and her sisters, envying the mermaids their frivolous natures. Even in King Griogair’s court, she’d been cursed with an ever-practical mind. Her dam had oft chided her to show a lighter face to the world—to the bulls.
“It’s not the way of a cow to seem so thoughtly,” Fiona had told her daughter. “We’d not want the bulls fearing we could out-think them.” Her mother had showed their world what it expected to see. But Finora knew a weaker will could never have been able to keep the lesser cows of the harem in line, and suspected her sire knew it as well. King Griogair couldn’t be the only bull to tolerate a capable cow.
Unfortunately, Finora didn’t possess a frivolous bone in her body.
Certainly Matteo had never treated her with a bit of respect. The two times they’d met, under the close supervision of her parents, he’d confined his comments to superficial observations, as if she were incapable of a true thought or opinion. He’d never asked for one, and she’d not volunteered.
A possible lifetime of silence made her shudder.
“There ye go broodin’ again,” Trystan commented from the doorway.
“You’d prefer cooing and fluff?” Finora’s voice came out sharper than she’d intended, but there was no taking it back.
His head tilted as he considered her question. “No’ at all,” he stated. “I prefer straight conversation an’ knowin’ where ye’d stand on things. I’d have ye speak o’er broodin’.” He stalked forward to pour water in the basin, then set the pitcher down and tossed one of her washrags into the basin. He dropped his garment as one wholly comfortable in his own skin, wrung out the cloth and sat down on the edge of the bed aside her.
“Lie back,” he coaxed.
Finora did, to feel soothing wet heat on her tender flesh. She sighed, relaxing at the novelty of Trystan doing what she’d always done for herself. His touch was light, gentle and too matter-of-fact for her to summon any embarrassment. Asides, it eased the worst of the ache. He rinsed the cloth and repeated his ministrations several times afore leaving the rag in the basin and returning to bed.
“Better?” he asked.
She nodded, and he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer. She flipped the quilt back over them both.
“I take it ye’re done sleepin’?”
“I’d not bother you. I can go out into the other room,” she offered.
He shook his head. “Nay, I’ll close me eyes no more this night an’ I’d no’ risk wakin’ the littles afore ’tis time.”
“Mayhaps a bedtime tale, then,” Finora suggested.
“What would ye hear?”
“Well, you did promise me the story of this quest of yours.”
“So I did.” Trystan was silent for a long moment. “How far back would ye have me go?”
“Tell me whatever you wish. Whatever you’re comfortable with. I’d not have you share state secrets with me.”
“I told ye our clans are ruled by women, an’ they choose their own mates,” he began. “Ye’ve noticed my amulet.”
Finora felt her cheeks flush at his teasing tone, recalling the inopportune moment that unusual emblem had distracted her. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she defended herself.
“I’m sure,” he agreed. “There are few like it in the world. Sons take after their mothers’ clans an’ daughters after their fathers’. Me father bein’ Wolf Clan as I said, me sister Moira followed him. When King Hengist o’ Riverhead, in northeast Arcadia, offered for her, she accepted. His standard is an eagle, a golden eagle on an indigo background. The amulet was designed t’ show the union o’ wolf an’ eagle, the first o’ its kind. Those that Moira considers her close-kin alone doth possess these.”
“Your sister wed a king?” What did that make Trystan then? Didn’t royalty marry royalty in his land as well?
Trystan snorted. “A king o’ but a wee kingdom. Still an’ all, Hengist is a fair an’ just mon.” He paused. “Arcadia is a land in flux. The once ways, the world o’ the triple goddess—maiden, mother, an’ crone—are bein’ challenged by the one truth. One god, inflexible, intolerant. The truth-seekers o’ the one truth destroy all who refuse t’ convert t’ their way. They’re driven t’ annihilate all non-human races from the world.”
Finora shivered. “Like shifters and dragons?”
“Amongst others, includin’ any an’ all who use magic—seers, shamans, healers.” Trystan’s arms tightened. “Our guardians, and Hengist and Moira, fought t’ keep the once ways, but a shadow crept o’er the landscape. Riverhead’s nearest neighbor t’ the west is Westmarche, led by an ambitious madman named Jalad. He’d do anything for power, sellin’ his soul t’ a demon from the Abyss t’ aid him in his conquest.”
Finora felt as well as heard his growl, and felt a slight shifting beneath his skin. “Ssh…”
He caught himself and took a deep breath, easing his grip. “Sorra, lass.”
“I’m fine,” she assured him. “What happened?”
“Hengist an’ Moira were betrayed. Hengist had t’ go t’ the Arcadian high court, t’ witness the marriage o’ High King Sezeny’s son Tanis t’ some Princess Chandra. Hengist went as weel t’ ask for aid in disarming Jalad. Whilst he was gone, Jalad invaded. Most all the me
n were slaughtered. A few managed t’ sneak Moira out an’ send her northwardtoward home.”
“And you went to her rescue?’
“Aye. Us an’ another, tho’ we’d no’ ken it at the time.” Trystan rolled onto his back. Finora sprawled across him like a second blanket. “We found her in the Great Marsh, a miserable bug-infested bog. She was a sorra sight indeed.” His eyes were distant, focused on that scene from the past. “I’d barely caught up with her when he appeared, on a white steed like an avenging avatar warrior from legend. No’ ken who he was, I nearly skewered the mon afore Moira stopped me. He was a friend o’ Hengist’s, sent t’ find, help an’ protect Moira—t’ get her home. As if I needed any help. Still, he dinna ken o’ me any more than I o’ him. So.”
This was like a legend of old, like a singer’s tale. “And was she grateful, this sister of yours, with two great warriors out to rescue her?”
He snorted. “She blistered the both o’ us. Told us t’ dispense with the chest-beating.”
Finora choked down an unexpected giggle. “I think I’d like this sister of yours.”
“Ye would.” He shot her a sour look. “She was determined t’ go home, round up the troops an’ march ’gainst Jalad. Demon an’ all. Loren was just as fixed t’ stop her from riskin’ Hengist’s heir.”
She gasped. “She was pregnant?”
“Aye. Daft woman said ’twas o’ no consequence. Course Loren an’ I dinna quite see it in the same light as she.”
A pregnant queen should be pampered and spoiled, her every whim carried out. Finora couldn’t imagine one charging into battle at the head of a screaming war band. She could easily picture Trystan tying Moira up, to prevent such a folly, and said so.
“Ha. Dinna ken I’d no’ considered it. Would have, were it no’ for the fear that when she got free she’d order the two o’ us cut like second-rate colts.”
“Ouch.”
“Aye. Loren offered t’ take first watch, an’ Moira an’ I fell asleep. When I awoke, ’twas dawn an’ Loren was long gone. Moira an’ I made it home safe.”
“Did you ever see him again?”
“Aye. He ’peared in Badger-Clan a few days later, with a redhaired woman in dire straits. One o’ Hengist’s peasants who’d been Jalad’s prisoner. Loren went back t’ rescue her.”
Red hair? From what Trystan had told her and the children earlier…
He nodded. “Aye. She was, though at the time she dinna ken her own nature. She was the local healer, raised the daughter o’ peasants. Her name’s Dara.”
“What happened to her?” Being the prisoner of a demon couldn’t be good.
“She was branded as a slave—a bed-slave, or whore. She attempted t’ kill Jalad but failed. He offered her a job as assassin. When she turned him down she was beaten, thrown into the dungeon an’ starved. When she threatened t’ reveal Jalad’s other self, he gagged her and tried t’ burn her alive at the stake. Loren rescued her and brought her t’ us. The iron chains he bound her with act as a poison t’ dragon-kind, freezin’ their powers. The iron poisonin’ an’ the red hair were me first clues that she wasna what she seemed. But they’d been gone for so long, since long afore I was birthed, that I wasna sure.”
“And she was the dragon queen who sent you on this quest, in search of others like her?”
“Aye, she was but half, orphaned young an’ the daughter o’ Hengist himself.”
Finora frowned. “But I thought you said your folk had but one wife?”
“We do. Hengist knew Dara’s mother long afore he married Moira. She wished t’ know if she was the last.”
“Did you defeat Jalad?”
“Aye. Dara’d become a powerful fire mage, an’ Moira fought, too. I dinna ken she e’en was on the battlefield until ’twas too late t’ stop her. We were all fightin’ for our lives at that point. Afterward, I thought Hengist might die o’ apoplexy on the spot. I truly pitied the mon.”
Finora was in awe of such women. She wanted to be like such a woman as to earn that tone of admiration from Trystan, for all he’d probably never admit to admiring his sister. His tone suggested he’d considered strangling Moira a time or two. Stars, she couldn’t imagine a world more dissimilar to her own. They had naught in common, other than a powerful sexual attraction. And when he’d completed his mission, he would go home to his world of strong women and she would stay here, a shadow on the fringes of her own world. Of the sea, but not in it. On the land, but not of it.
“You said you traveled west when you were sent to follow the trail of the dragons.”
“Aye?” Trystan’s tone was wary.
“You said Westmarche was to the west of Riverhead. Jalad’s land.”
He stiffened and nodded.
“What happened? What was it like?”
He growled again. “None free. All slaves, serfs t’ work his land. The land tired, used up. The people half-starved, without hope. No color, no music, no laughter. No healers.” He turned to look at her. Ghosts haunted that gaze. “The once ways decree that the bodies o’ the dead be burned, so that their spirits may return t’ the Light. ‘Light t’ Light, from this world t’ the next.’ But no’ in Westmarche. Nay. The one truth buries the dead in earth, in darkness. Mass graves dug at night, so the dead are lost, without access t’ the Light. Old women, children, haunt the marches. Wailin’ spirits o’ the lost, with voices t’ drive a mon t’ despair.” He shuddered.
Finora pulled him close. He felt cold to the touch, and she rubbed her hands over his skin. “Is there naught anyone can do, a priestess or rites or something?”
“Aye. Mayhaps. Their first priority, Hengist an’ Moira, was t’ see t’ it that no more were lost. T’ get through the winter with no crops, t’ face spring with no seed for planting. When the livin’ are seen t’—then ’tis time t’ see t’ the dead. If the bodies can be exposed t’ the sunlight, burned on pyres in the once way, then the shamans can find their souls and send them off t’ the Light.”
He didn’t mean…digging up the bodies only to burn them? Finora couldn’t imagine a more horrific task.
“’Tis glad I am that I was no’ called t’ walk the path o’ shaman.”
She had to change the subject. “You mentioned Moira was pregnant?”
Trystan nodded.
“When was she due?”
“Later this spring. Within the month, I shoulda think. Moira’s convinced ’twill be a lad. They plan on the name Alvar, for Hengist’s grandfather.”
“Will you stop and see them, on your way back home?”
“Aye. Hengist missed out on the raisin’ o’ Dara. ’Twill do him some good t’ be driven t’ distraction chasin’ a wee one about.” His lips quirked, too briefly to be called a smile. “We need t’ hear the laughter o’ children again, t’ drown out the screams an’ the silence. I dinna know which o’ the two be worse.”
Stars, his nightmares were mayhaps worse than her own. “And what of you? You said you keep turning women away. Do you not wish for a family of your own?”
“Mayhaps someday, if the peace holds an’ the guardians can stand down a bit. With the one truth, the rievers an’ our secretive neighbor Shamar t’ the north, I have me doubts. Sometimes there’s a call for some t’ guard so’s others can live in peace.”
But if ever there was one deserving of peace… Ioain took to few people the way he’d taken to Trystan. He struck Finora as a man who’d become a guardian because he cared about what happened to his people, who’d taken responsibility for their welfare. Queen’s request or no, he’d taken on the assignment to demand an accounting from the guardians who’d placed their own wellbeing above that of their charges. Surely it was the warriors who needed peace most of all. Mayhaps they alone could truly appreciate how precious and sometimes fleeting it was.
His eyes searched hers. “There ye go, thinkin’ again.” His slid his hands down her back, over the curve of her backside. “What o’ ye, lass? What do ye think on?”
; Finora frowned. “I was wondering what I could do to help you with your search. Lots of people come and go through a port town like ours. Red hair is as uncommon in this land as your own. How long do dragons live?”
“Centuries, if left alone. Why?”
“Then you might want to examine the old logs in the meeting house. Bran’s grandmother, who used to run the Light, also kept records, but Bran had them moved to the meeting house after her death. Do you read?”
“Only clan and common,” he admitted. “A little Arcadian, but no’ much.”
“Then we’ll split the workload,” she said. “I can cover the Rhattany and Theressan records.”
“Ye dinna have t’ do this,” he said. “’Tis me own quest.”
“For shame.” She clucked her tongue and shook her head. “A clansman advocating going it alone? What would Niadh say?”
“Ye’re right. Verra weel, we have a deal. Partners?” He stuck out a hand.
Finora smiled. “Oh, I can do better than that, warrior.” She inched her way up his body, until her lips poised a breath above his.
“Hmm.” Trystan’s blue eyes ignited as his hands caressed the backs of her thighs. “I’ll bet ye can at that.” He raised himself to capture her lips in a burning kiss, continuing the motion until he sat up with her astride his lap. “So sweet,” he whispered against her lips.
Finora quivered as his hands glided over her skin, raising prickles of awareness in their wake. He rubbed small circles on her lower back, tilted his head to nibble down the side of her neck. Her nipples pebbled into the crisp curls on his chest, and she tangled her fingers in his grey hair. “Stars, what you do to me,” she confessed, her voice thin and breathless even to her own ears.
“Tell me if ye’re too sore for this, lass.” Trystan’s eyes held her gaze. “I ken there’s other ways t’ pleasure ye.”
She shook her head, reaching down to take his growing erection in her hand. His groan sent a tingle of heat through her. She leaned back on his thighs, and gasped as he bent his head to capture her nipple between his lips. Stars, the magic he worked with his mouth alone! Her body swelled and softened with every pull at her breast, and she felt each stroke of his tongue deep within. How he made her ache to fill the void, the emptiness.
