by Jean Johnson
The realization aroused her even further. Arasa had been given instruction in the art of sexual pleasure, just as she had been taught how to ride, how to tally, how to wield a pen or a sword, and a hundred other lessons. She had taken well to her sensual lessons, and enjoyed the variety of them. Sometimes she wanted gentle, sweet lovemaking. Other times, she enjoyed a good, hard ride. Though his touch while scrubbing her had been deliciously attentive and gentle, Elrik looked like a stallion exposed to several in-heat Imperial Mares, taut-muscled and wild-eyed, the latter visible even through the rippling surface.
If she let him, he’d probably give her a good, hard ride, and that thought definitely appealed to her.
Rising from the water, she slicked the moisture away from her face, pushing her blond locks back behind her ears. He stared at her, only his eyes moving in his freckled face. Plucking the sponge from his fingers, Arasa tossed it in the direction of the cabinet, uncaring if it fell short or landed in the bushes. All this self-control was good; it spoke well of his character that he hadn’t pounced on her despite the desire burning in those gorgeous, exotic green eyes. She just didn’t think it was needed at the moment.
“Elrik,” she murmured, holding his gaze. “I appreciate your self-restraint; I find it admirable, and civilized. Gentlemanly, even. But I don’t need a gentleman; at least, not every single hour of the day. Sometimes…sometimes I want a barbarian.” The passion in his eyes intensified, even as he arched a brow at her. She drifted closer, adding candidly, “And sometimes I want to be a barbarian.” Her fingers found and encircled his flesh, palpably hot despite the coolness surrounding them. “Do you have a problem with that?”
“Gods, no,” Elrik rasped, glad she had penetrated his brain with such tacit permission. Pushing her hand away, he grabbed her hips, lifting her in the waist-high water. Muscles flexing, he sighed with relief as she helped him by parting and wrapping her legs around his waist. A prod, an adjustment or two, and he was in the right place. Hips bucking up into her, he pulled her down onto him at the same time, thrusting deep.
Arasa gasped, startled. She was ready for him, and it did feel good—very good—but it had also been a couple of years since her last joining. Everything was tight, to the point of stretchy-painful. A shudder passed through him, then a grimace; in the next moment, she felt his flesh pulsing within her, dragging a groan out of his throat.
Before any disappointment could sink in, he shifted his grip, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and hips. Squeezing her tight, he thrust into her again, burrowing deeper, pulling her down to meet each of his strokes. Contrary to expectations, he remained hard. Now that the initial sting of his girth versus her tightness had faded, the only thing remaining was the pursuit of a pleasure that literally made waves around them. Clinging to him, burying her mouth against his shoulder, Arasa shuddered with pleasure, then in a second, stronger quake of desire.
Feeling her squeezing around him, Elrik lost a little more of his control. Tangling his hand in her damp locks, he pulled her head back, ordering tersely, “Lean back.”
Reluctantly, wanting only to cling and enjoy, she complied. It helped that he shifted away from the stairs, farther into the water, until she was supported by it. The position drove him deeper with each stroke. It also, she discovered with a startled breath, allowed him to bend over and lick one of her breasts. He slowed his hips as he switched to suckling, dragging a moan from her with each circular rub and grind.
Burrowing her fingers into his curls, soft and slick from the crème, Arasa gave herself up to him, trusting in his masculine power. Almost a month of conversations had allowed her to learn the thoughts and opinions of her traveling companion, but only now was she getting to know the man. Unfathomable, intimate, tender yet demanding, he rolled his pelvis against hers until she cried out in a climax larger than the ones before—large enough to curl her toes, spasm her back, and claw her fingernails through his damp locks, arching and tightening against him—and then he gripped her firmly and resumed his previous hard pounding, taking his own pleasure a second time now that she had found hers.
It was exactly what she wanted. Clutching at his shoulders, pulling herself upright in his arms, she shuddered and groaned, enjoying the moment all the way through his stiffening, slowing, and final, deep, twitching-hot stroke. Despite the water helping to relieve some of her weight, her limbs trembled from the effort of keeping herself in his embrace, arms and legs wrapped tightly around his back. She didn’t want to let go. Didn’t want it to end. Not just for the breathless passion of their lovemaking, but because this moment, this clinging afterglow, was perfect.
Arasa could feel him trembling, too. She relaxed in his arms a little, but he clutched her closer, burying his face in the side of her throat. Freeing a hand, she stroked his damp, woolly-feeling curls. “It’s all right, you can let me down; I won’t go far.”
“If I let you go,” Elrik panted quietly, struggling to quiet the racing beat of his heart, “I’ll drown. Or I’ll die.”
“Or you’ll die?” she found the strength to quip. “If you drowned, wouldn’t that be, ‘and you’ll die’?”
“If I just let go, physically, I’ll collapse and melt into the water,” he clarified quietly. “But if I let go of you…No spell could have more power over me than you do.”
Craning her head, she looked into his eyes, his freckled nose almost touching her own. The sincerity and emotion in those green depths shook her. Resting his forehead against hers, Elrik continued, his words piercing straight through her.
“Please, do not take this the wrong way…but I don’t want you to be firstborn. A mere Taje-tan is at the very edge of my grasp, perhaps even beyond what I deserve…but the next Empress of the Flame Sea would be as far beyond my reach as the stars themselves.”
Arasa sought to put her own feelings into words. He was wrong, very wrong to doubt himself like this, but she couldn’t say it in so many words and have him believe. Searching for the right thing to say, she held his gaze. “Elrik…reach for me. Take me and accept me as I am now. Whatever happens, I will always be me, and the woman that I am wants to reach for and hold onto the man that is you. If you want me…don’t let go. Don’t ever let go.”
“Never,” he promised, burying his face once more in the curve of her throat. This time, his muscles trembled from relief, not release. She stroked him from scalp to spine, soothing his fears. Soothing, and re-arousing him. A rough laugh escaped him a few moments later. “Though I’ll have to let go, to finish washing your hair. And to find a bed, so that we won’t drown next time. But I won’t go far…not unless you tire of me, and tell me to go.”
“Never,” she promised in turn. Not ever, when he made her feel whole.
* * *
“Here it is,” Arasa murmured. “This is the one.”
Elrik abandoned the text he had been studying, joining her as she laid out a scroll. She kept her voice quiet because that was the feeling imposed by the massive, carved depths of the Temple Archives of the Mother Goddess; this deep into the canyon cliffs, the air was comfortably cool and dry, perfect for preserving texts. The spells the ancient mages had used on these scrolls didn’t hurt, either. It permitted her to open a six-century-old scroll without fear of the parchment cracking from brittleness.
Unrolling the staves a little further, she perused the inked characters, faded somewhat with age despite the runes along the top and bottom edges helping to preserve the parchment, but still legible.
“…Then the Mother Goddess spoke unto him, saying, ‘Stand you now in the Womb of the World, but a womb is the place of a child, not that of a man; from here, you cannot rule. Go you to the place that you would make the Heart, make of it a pilgrimage of Our Holy Covenant, and the Land will know you as a man, the firstborn and eldest of all. Be humble, for the power you would hold is not to be held with pride; if you wish to rule the Land, you must walk barefoot upon it, with nothing between your flesh and the sand but your skin so that
the Land may know and embrace you. Be faithful, for the trust you would find in those you would rule is a trust you must offer as well; if you wish to protect your people, make your pilgrimage weaponless, so that the Land will know its duty is to protect you from all that would bring harm to you.
“…Let this be the sealing of Our Holy Covenant, and when you reach the Heart, let the blood of your heart fall, anointing the Land, feeding it so that it may in turn sustain you. Let it know you for Firstborn in the blood you shed, and it shall know all of the firstborn of your Blood, and of their firstborn, and of theirs; let your Family be bound to the powers and responsibilities I give unto you, from now until the Land itself is no more, so long as a single drop of your Blood shall survive, so long as a single drop of your Blood shall be spilled, wherever else you and your Blood may go upon the Land.”
“…When the Mother finished speaking unto him, and holding himself in the faith of their Covenant, the First Emperor removed his sword and cast off his shoes, and walked in trusting penitence from the Womb to the place that was to be the Heart, from the sheltered life of a child to the responsibility of a man. The Land did indeed know him, and the Land did protect him, and the Land bound itself with him and to him when he spilled his blood upon the sand, rising up and sheltering him at his command…”
Arasa stopped reading at that point, since the rest of it pertained to the establishment of the capital. That one segment contained everything she needed to know about the journey to be made. Except for where the Womb was located, of course. Now that she knew a Womb was another name for a Temple, it made sense. Especially with that reference to “a womb is the place of a child,” and “from here, you cannot rule.” Temples were meant to be places of worship, not leadership.
Elrik wasn’t familiar with the archaic script—the runes along the edges were far more readable to him—but he had puzzled out enough of the words to know she had translated it more or less as it was written. “I see what you mean. It doesn’t say where this Womb was located, nor how long a journey he made, just that he had to make it, barefoot and weaponless. And it specifically mentions sand…so sand-demons are a worry.”
“But it says that ‘the Land did protect him,’” she returned, shifting her hand to point at the passage. The scroll, rolled up for centuries, immediately curled up on itself, making her laugh and smooth it back. A rueful sigh, and she shook her head. “Of course, like the explanation for ‘womb,’ the scroll doesn’t say how the Land protected him. But I know that there were mentions of sand-demons in even earlier texts, and that this is the best clue I have for figuring out who is firstborn, between the two of us. If Kalasa and I make a pilgrimage from the Mother Temple—and where else would a “womb” be found, but in the home of a mother—and we do so barefoot and weaponless…the Land will know which one of us is firstborn.”
“Yes, but the implication is that the other twin will not be protected,” Elrik observed dryly. “So that twin will risk having a sand-demon sting her. In fact…it looks like the only way to tell one from another is to let a sand-demon sting one of your feet. I strongly suggest you bring enough people along with you—with boots and weapons to protect themselves, though not you—so that they can lift and carry whoever must succumb. I don’t like it, but letting one of you fall unconscious from the venom looks to be the only way to tell for sure.”
“I agree,” Arasa concurred. “Whoever does fall should not be left on the ground for the sand-demon to colonize.” She shuddered at the thought. “That is a very nasty way to die.”
Elrik touched her arm, reassuring her. “I won’t let that happen to you. With my boots and my staff, I can protect myself, and I’m strong enough to carry you.” He wrinkled his nose and added wryly, “Unlike you, I don’t have the slightest chance of being firstborn, and no chance at all of the ‘Land’ protecting me. However it may do so.”
Nodding, she rolled up the scroll. “There’s nothing more to be done until my sister returns from the capital, except put this back where I found it.” She paused, bundled parchment in hand, then set it down and looked up at him. “You said you were interested in the Imperial Academy. Would you like to go and have a tour today?”
The offer was appealing. Elrik almost said yes, but then she licked her lips. It was just a reflexive act, moistening them without thought, but it reminded him of the way she tasted, and the way she felt.
She noticed his interest. “What would you like to do with the rest of the day?”
His mouth curled up on one side. “As you say, ‘whatever I like’…and I would like to spend time in your company. Private time. Not necessarily coupling—though that is on my list of things to do today—but just spending time with you.”
She smiled and stepped into his arms, wrapping her own around his waist. Being half a foot shorter, she was the right height to rest her cheek on his shoulder. It was a comfortable place to be, and even more so when he returned her embrace.
Elrik hugged her close, enjoying the musky-spicy scent of the softsoap he had used on her now braided hair. They weren’t traveling through the desert at the moment, so she had left her turban behind this morning. Just as he had left his woven hat, though he had been careful to stay out of the sun as much as possible on their way to the Mother Temple.
Of course, he hadn’t seen his hat since the bathing hall last night; their clothing had disappeared at some point after they had left, stopping in the antechamber for the towels and fanciful garments left in their place. Brocaded fabrics in rich colors, rather than the simple linens and cottons of desert travel. Shoes made of ankle-high soft leathers, rather than the stiffer, knee-high material of riding boots. She looked beautiful in shades of golds and creams accented with red, while someone had been smart enough to give him garments in hues of green and blue accented with silver. His best clothes, while brocaded, were made from cotton bought from the modest weavers of the Frost Wall, not silk that was grown, spun, and woven by the much more renowned weavers of the Cloth Wall, but they were in flattering blues and greens.
However, like everything else washable, they had disappeared. Even his worn leather belt had been replaced with a much newer, metal-studded version, though at least the servants had clipped his staff and slung his coin-pouch in the proper places on it. On the one hand, the new garments helped him blend in better with his surroundings. On the other hand, they weren’t his clothes; he knew it was meant as hospitality, not charity, but it was something he would have to get used to accepting, if they kept their relationship.
If she wasn’t firstborn, he would support himself as much as possible as a mage, to prove to her family that he would be an equal in their marriage, not a burden. If she was firstborn…he would have duties as her Consort. If she still wanted him in her life. Those duties would include public appearances, which would require suitable clothing befitting such a high station, but he wouldn’t be sponging off her. Even he knew a consort’s job helped a kingdom run more smoothly, and that it took a lot of work to be one. It was that way in the king-states of the southlands, and it would be that way here, as well.
Either way, he realized he would have to be a source of strength for her. It wouldn’t be easy, stepping back and letting her do the greater work, but he would do it if she turned out to be the firstborn heir. Certainly he could at least try to give her what a more likely prospective consort wouldn’t be able to, and that was a sense of normalcy in her life. Elrik wasn’t noble-born, wasn’t politically ambitious, wasn’t motivated by greed for all the wealth a position at her side would provide, either as the Consort to the Empress or the husband of a mere princess.
He was just a man, one who had fallen for just a woman. Just a wonderful, intelligent, delightful, funny, down-to-earth woman. A woman who shifted in his arms after he sighed in contentment, glancing up at him.
“What are you thinking?”
“That I’ve fallen in love with you.”
The unadorned, quiet truth held in his words made Aras
a blush. She cleared her throat. “Well. It seems we’ve been thinking the same thing. That I’ve fallen in love with you, too. I was just standing here, in your arms, thinking how I never knew I was missing something in my life, until you came along and helped me out. I’m thinking how much I care about you, now that you’re in my life. And how much I’m afraid of the future, in case things go wrong, or turn out to be overwhelming…because I’m afraid you might leave me, and make me face that future alone.”
A wry chuckle escaped him. Elrik kissed her braided head. “And here I was thinking I’d have to learn how to be a source of strength for you, so that you’d never feel you had to do it all on your own, from now on.”
“Well, if you’re planning on sticking around and helping me,” she dared to tease, snuggling closer, “then I should think of some way to reward you.”
“I think we should go back to your quarters before you give me this reward, so that we don’t end up accused of blasphemy for ‘unbecoming conduct’ in Djin-Taje-ul’s Temple.”
Chuckling, she left the scroll-filled room with him.
* * *
Head on her palm, elbow propping her sideways on the bed, Arasa studied the freckled, masculine face of the man sleeping next to her. Early-morning light seeped through a gap in the velvet curtains drawn over the windows, shutting out the cold of the night. The glow illuminated the room in soft gray-white. In direct sunlight, his curls gleamed with almost metallic highlights, but right now they just looked reddish-gold. Even his lashes were reddish-gold. In a land filled with pale blonds, golden blonds, ash blonds, dark blonds, the lesser-seen shades that were light browns, chestnut browns, medium browns, and a few with hair even darker than that, red was very rarely seen.
Certainly freckles were even more of an oddity. She wanted to touch them, to try to feel any tangible difference to his skin where it was spotted in brown, but knew there wasn’t. Elrik didn’t seem to think he was special, and maybe he wasn’t; maybe there were plenty of freckled men and women down in the southlands beyond the Frost Wall, but she had seen the appreciative looks her fellow countrywomen had given him. Coupled with refined masculine features, a nice, lean amount of muscle, and those green eyes when he was awake, he made her body ache, he was so extraordinary, so handsome.
