Reawakening

by Amy Rae Durreson

  As everyone’s eyes turned toward him, he slammed his fist against his chest, meeting Myrtilis’s eyes, and said, “Hail to thee, Myrtilis, brightest flame in battle.”

  She returned the salute, rising to her feet. “Hail to ye, Tarn of High Amel, oldest of the firstborn. Will you sit at my table?”

  “Gladly,” Tarn said and mounted the dais to take the seat beside her.

  As he sat, he heard Gard, at Myrtilis’s other hand, murmur, “Splendidly barbarian.”

  He wasn’t convinced it had been meant for his ears, but he turned anyway and remarked, “You like me that way.”

  “I don’t like you at all,” Gard snapped back, slouching down in his chair.

  “Liar,” Tarn said amiably and settled down into his chair. It was cushioned and comfortable, and he relaxed. It made a nice change from the saddle.

  A server brought them polished goblets of deep red wine, and he looked to Myrtilis. “A secret citadel, and you still manage to trade for wine?”

  She sighed gloomily. “Local cider tastes like piss, and you can’t grow hops here for trying, but we have some vines.” At his raised eyebrow, she added, “I told you we had a garden.”

  “I remember your garden,” Gard said suddenly and then scowled when he saw Tarn looking at him. “What? There aren’t many green places in the desert, you know.”

  “I’m glad you love this one,” Tarn told him. “Perhaps you could show me later why you prize it so much.” Then he yelped as Myrtilis rapped him over the knuckles with her fork.

  “No sex in the vineyard,” she commanded. “Not when I’ve assigned you a perfectly good bedchamber.”

  “I am not going to have sex with Tarn!” Gard proclaimed, just as ten brightly clad dancers filed in and the room went quiet. In the sudden, startled hush, Gard groaned and dropped his head on the table.

  “Not in the vineyard, at least,” Tarn clarified and took a sip of his wine, letting it linger on his tongue. “A good vintage, brave queen.”

  “It is,” Myrtilis agreed, her lips twitching as Gard banged his forehead against the table. “But hush now for the dancing. We give thanks.”

  The dancers were spreading across the floor before the dais. They all wore wide-skirted dresses like Esen’s, in bright bold colors, unpatterned and unadorned. Their hair hung loose, and they had white ribbons and bells linked around their wrists. They all dropped to one knee, facing the dais, and Tarn recognized Esen at the front, her blue dress cleaned and mended and her body posed in a still readiness that was a contrast to the jittery nerves she had shown on the road.

  The pipes sounded with a low lilting note, and the dancers dipped forward, pressing their foreheads to the polished floor. Then they rose, presenting their open hands toward the place where Gard sat, the chagrin on his face fading into wonder. As the sound of the pipes rose in lilting, layered rounds, and the rattle of sistrums joined in to pick out a quickening beat, the dancers lifted one hand toward heaven and lowered the other toward the floor and began to turn.

  It was slow at first, a quiet motion among the flare and promise of the music. Then their steps quickened, and they began to spin, faster and faster, colored skirts spreading around them like bells, ribbons trailing from their wrists, dark hair whipping in the still air as the trumpets joined in, singing out. Tarn saw Esen’s face as she spun, her eyes closed and her mouth open, lost in movement, turning like the world turned, and he felt, for a moment, that he was the false one, his stillness artificial.

  He heard Gard gasp and tore his gaze away from the dancers to look at him. Gard was sitting up, his fists clenched around the edge of the table, and his face was blind with the same lost ecstasy as the dancers.

  Then Tarn felt it rushing past him. The dancers had given themselves over to the desert, and their love was spilling over him, toward Gard. His hoard had gathered around him in easy affection, gathering their families to share their lives with him. Gard’s people, scattered over the cruel desert, loved him with dance and music.

  Gard’s face was wet with tears now. Tarn wanted to rise up and stand behind him, lending him strength, but he stayed in his seat. This was about Gard and his people and belonged to Gard alone.

  When the first dancer staggered in exhaustion, a little girl in a white tunic ran out to catch her hand, easing her to the ground, where she knelt in a ring of scarlet cloth, her chest heaving as she gasped for breath.

  One by one, they tired and were helped down, until only Esen was still spinning, her face lifted in ecstasy. She seemed oblivious to the world, turning and turning and turning as the pipes trilled and the sistrums shook and the trumpets piled note upon note. For the first time since they had found her in the temple in Istel, Tarn thought she looked free.

  When at last she began to stumble, she didn’t stop, but forced herself round again and again, until the little acolyte had to tug on her hand to slow her. When she sank to her knees, she was trembling, but she held her head high, gazing at Gard as her eyes filled with tears.

  The trumpets rang out a final salute as the pipes and sistrums went quiet. Then, into the silence, a voice spoke, clear and steady. Turning, Tarn saw that Aline was on her feet at the end of the high table.

  “We give our thanks,” she said, “to Alagard. When our queen came into this newly made desert, broken and close to death, he gave her life and gave us shelter, concealing us out of time in the very heart of the desert. We thank you, Alagard.”

  “Alagard,” every woman in the hall murmured.

  Gard was on his feet, and his eyes were bright as he said suddenly, “I remember. The desert was full of mist and salt. Everything was dying, becoming fog and echoes. There were so many bones, the creatures of the sea drowning in the sand. Even their ghosts screamed at the touch of the sun, and there, to those cries, I was born.”

  “Into a new world,” Myrtilis said, voice gentle. “One free of the Shadow. The stars were bright to welcome you.”

  The bleakness dropped from Gard’s face, his mouth curving up, and he said softly, “And I laughed.”

  Tarn smiled, affection curling warmly in his chest.

  “And I chased those spirits back into the cold dark places where they belong, and I said to the creatures of the dry earth, ‘Come now, and live with me in the warmth of my heart.’”

  “And we came,” Myrtilis said, her voice formal and grave.

  “You taught me the ways and words of men,” Gard said, smiling at her.

  “And you gave us in return healing and shelter out of time, here in the desert’s heart.” She rose to her feet and lifted her goblet. “And so we start our feast, as we always do, with gratitude.”

  Tarn drank to her toast, and Gard grinned out at them all and drank too, his lips dark with the wine.

  “And now,” Myrtilis continued, still on her feet. “All formalities done, let us feast.”

  The food was good and plentiful. It wasn’t the sort of feast Tarn was used to—no boar or venison carried in with gilded tusks and horns. Instead, it was a succession of small delicacies: skewers of glazed meat, pastries filled with spiced lamb or spinach and goats’ cheese, stuffed grape leaves, patties of chickpeas or lentils flavored with spices, and mint-laced yogurts to cool the tongue.

  It was a meal, Tarn thought, watching Gard enjoy it, that would suit lovers.

  By then, they were on to desserts, little knots of pastry and nuts drenched in honey. Tarn sucked the sweetness off his fingers, meeting Gard’s eyes, and Gard stuttered partway through his story, his hands stilling midgesture.

  “Stop taunting the boy,” Myrtilis muttered at Tarn.

  “But it amuses me,” he protested mildly. The wine had left him warm and relaxed, and he wanted nothing more than to sit with friends and be easy.

  “Aye, but there’s no need to spoil my appetite with your flirting. Take it somewhere private.”

  “If I can convince him,” Tarn sighed.

  “Can you still dance, old snake?”

  “I’
ve gone a long time since I tried.”

  She laughed and rose, offering her hand. “I doubt that will stop you. Hoy, swordmaids all! Shall we clear the floor for dancing?”

  Chapter 19: Dancing

  BEFORE LONG the tables were pushed back against the wall, and the drums were pounding out a less sacred rhythm. Myrtilis’s warriors tugged most of the caravan onto the floor, obviously eager for new company. Even Cayl was in the circle opposite Sethan, despite protesting that he would trip over his own feet mid-dance.

  Tarn stood up with Myrtilis, which garnered him a few seething looks from some of the younger warriors. Amused, he made his opening bow deeper and more courtly than usual, and then caught her hand as the dance started, pulling her forward between the dancers as her laughter rang out, and everyone else followed them.

  He knew less than half the dances, and relinquished Myrtilis into her girls’ eager arms when he began to fumble his steps. After retreating back to the high table, he drank deeply, letting the cool rush of the wine shimmer through him, and then turned to prowl along the back of the dais to where Gard still sat, watching the dancers as he cradled his drink, his shoulders loose and his smile fond.

  “She dances well, your fosterling,” Tarn remarked, leaning lazily on the back of Gard’s seat.

  Gard jumped, splashing dark wine onto his fingers, and then looked up with a scowl. “Do all dragons like to creep up on people, or are you just special?”

  “I’m special,” Tarn affirmed, letting his eyes linger on those beads of wine until Gard sucked them off his knuckles with a glower. “For stalking our prey, we are all renowned.”

  “If you’re trying to reassure me, don’t make it sound like you want to eat me.”

  Tarn leaned in farther, letting the long twists of his hair fall to brush Gard’s cheek. Then he murmured, putting a little growl into it, “I do want to eat you. I like the way you taste.”

  Gard groaned and leaned forward to bang his head on the table. “Oh, I dug myself into that one, didn’t I? What do you want, lizard?”

  Tarn grinned at him, not even trying to hide his teeth as he would with a mortal lover, and Gard squinted up at him and then groaned again, slapping his hand over his eyes. Taking pity on him, Tarn asked, “Do you not dance?”

  “Not with you.”

  “A shame,” Tarn said. “We shall have to talk instead. Or go early to bed, if you so prefer.” He was feeling loose from the wine, and he eyed Gard thoughtfully, wondering how easy it would be to just slide around the side of the chair and curl himself onto Gard’s lap.

  Some of his intention must have showed, for Gard hurriedly pulled his chair forward against the table, leaving Tarn no space to maneuver. He was forced to steal the chair next to Gard’s instead, pulling it closer just to watch Gard huff irritation. He had been a charming little dust devil, but indignation was prettier still on a human body.

  “What do you want?” Gard demanded.

  Tarn shrugged, sprawling back comfortably. “Your company.”

  Gard narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to retort. Then he paused, tilting his head with the same curiosity as the caracal whose form he had taken, and commented, “You’re different here.”

  “Here,” Tarn tried to explain, “I am loved.”

  “Oh, please,” Gard muttered, finishing his drink with a sigh.

  “As are you,” Tarn said, smiling at him. “Through their dancing, your own show their love for you, and you—you shine with it. The rest are my hoard, still, and I am their keeper. So.”

  “This would be easier if you were actually speaking another language,” Gard complained. “You never make sense to me.”

  “No matter,” Tarn assured him. “I understand you.”

  “I don’t want to understand you,” Gard snapped back, his shoulders going up.

  Tarn shrugged, and turned in his chair just enough to slide his foot under the hem of Gard’s robe and rub his ankle against Gard’s. “Still, come kiss me and be friends.”

  Gard whipped his ankles away, tucking them primly under his chair, and snapped, “I am not going to kiss you.”

  “Be friends, then,” Tarn coaxed, trying to look harmless. It was not something he’d had much practice at.

  Gard scowled at him. “I don’t understand what you want, Tarn. Why are you here?”

  Tarn felt some of the good humor the wine had brought fade away. “My hoard are dead.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I am alone,” Tarn said, frowning because he had just watched the dancers pour their love into Gard until the walls around his memory shattered. Gard should understand this, better than anyone else in the hall. Suddenly, as Gard frowned at him in incomprehension, Tarn missed his old hoard so fiercely that his throat closed and his eyes stung. Myrtilis and her girls were still here, but all the rest were gone: his brotherhood of dragons, Arden, Halsarr, and Sharnyn; his human hoard, Jillis, Gortan, and little bright-eyed Shana; Killan, who would have been so quietly entertained by this court their dear Myrti had stolen out of the heart of the desert.

  Killan, whose eyes would have crinkled with amusement, who would have danced with him here under strange skies, respected Ia’s fierce nature and Cayl’s quiet strength, and joined in all the laughter of the guards and merchants, even when Tarn did not understand the jokes. Killan would not have regarded him with suspicious eyes when he came to flirt.

  Killan had been dead more than a thousand years.

  He wanted Gard, but he had taken enough hostility and suspicion for one night. Shoving to his feet, he bowed to Gard and pushed his way back into the dance, then moved across the floor to the beat of the drums. He let his hips sway and his shoulders roll as he moved, so it wouldn’t be obvious he was escaping, and he almost made it to the door before warm hands closed over his hips.

  He tried to pull away, but the hands tightened with more than human strength, and he turned to face Gard with resignation.

  At once, Gard crowded close, his hands spreading to Tarn’s back to pull him in. He didn’t know this dance, which seemed to have no pattern or shapes to follow. Instead, everyone had split into pairs, tangled around each other as they swirled across the floor to the beat of the drums.

  Gard was moving to the beat, though, his whole body sliding to the music, as lithe and boneless as if he were still the wind curling merrily around desert rocks. He slid one hand up from Tarn’s hip to press against the back of his neck, but did not pull him closer.

  Tarn leaned in to say. “I don’t know the steps. Let me go.”

  Gard turned his head, cheek brushing against Tarn’s, and said in his ear, “I know what I’m doing. Follow me.”

  He had never learned to follow, but he tried to let Gard steer him across the floor, watching the way his shoulders shifted for cues, even as Gard pressed on his hip to turn him. It was still a dance, the music flowing around him like wind or fire, and he began to catch the rhythm of it after a few turns. The drums were loud now, the music drowning out anything Gard could have said, and he felt a little of his sorrow lift as he focused on moving.

  Gard was good at this, as any spirit venerated with dance ought to be, and he was warm and easy in Tarn’s arms. He kept watching Tarn, even as he moved them around the floor, his eyes thoughtful. And Tarn, who did not want to explain past lovers to him, because there were some subjects too precious to expose to that sharp-edged tongue, averted his eyes.

  When he felt the bond between them shiver, it startled a shudder out of him, chills running up his spine. It felt so strange, and so good, to have Gard touch his mind, his thoughts like the rough brush of sandpaper against the flame that burned in Tarn’s heart.

  “You are a creature of the mountains,” Gard thought at him, brighter and clearer than the music that pounded around them. “Why do you want my desert?”

  “Because it is loved,” Tarn replied, and he saw Gard’s eyes widen at the roar and rumble of his mind’s voice. “Because you love it so much.”<
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  Gard’s frown tightened again, and he thought, with the whine of the desert wind clear in his voice, “I love it, so you want to take it away. That’s cruel, Tarn.”

  Tarn blinked at him, aware they had pressed closer as their minds met, his hands steady on Gard’s back as they swayed together. “I would never take your hoard from you, Alagard. Let me keep you both so you are safe to love what is yours.”

  “My desert is not a hoard,” Gard snapped. “It’s not cold metals and ancient things. It is the wind and the sun and the people who follow the herds.”

  “Yes,” Tarn agreed impatiently, distracted by his body as Gard pressed closer to him, their mouths a breath apart and their hips locked together. “Be the heart of my hoard.”

  “You don’t own me, Tarn,” Gard started, a rasp of irritation flashing through his mind. Then Tarn rolled his hips, hitching Gard forward to press against his thigh, satisfied to feel Gard’s cock warm and swollen against his leg. At that, Gard’s thoughts scattered into bright shards, and he startled back.

  “Do you think of nothing else?” he snarled aloud, as the drummers lashed into their final roll.

  “Accuse yourself,” Tarn replied, shaken out of the warm rhythms of the dance and Gard’s presence in his mind. “You are no maiden to be ravished.”

  “I never asked you to seduce me!” Gard accused him.

  Tarn crossed his arms, aware that the dancers around them were staring. He reminded himself that he was a hoard lord and kept his voice level. “You did not refuse my advances. You have no cause for complaint.”