Gard flung up his hands, fists clenching. “You are the most infuriating spirit ever to have existed!”
Tarn rather thought that applied more to Gard himself, but he shrugged one shoulder and simply said, “If you like. Will you dance again?”
“No!” Gard snapped and pushed away through the eagerly eavesdropping crowd. Tarn followed him, smiling slightly at those he knew, taking care to look as harmless as it was possible to do to people who knew his true nature.
Tarn caught up with Gard in the hallway outside the feasting hall. By night, torches lit the sea-smoothed stones of the hall, casting flickering light against the golden stone and the glittering lines of quartz that forked across it. Thick hangings had been rolled down over doorways to block the chill of the desert night. Where the sea had worn hollows out of the sides of the rock, forming natural alcoves, there were cushion-covered seats, just private enough for conversation or quiet kisses. As he hurried after Gard, Tarn caught sight of one of Ia’s archers curled around one of Gard’s temple dancers, their hands entangled and their heads bowed close.
He pressed Gard back into the next alcove, trapping him against the seats as he growled, “Why must you run from me? Stay and speak.”
“Why must you chase me?” Gard retorted, bracing his hands against Tarn’s chest and pushing. “You want and want, but you never explain what you want or why.”
“I want you,” Tarn said, slowing his voice to make his point even as he caught Gard’s hands and pressed them to his heart. “You, and all that you hold dear, so that I might keep them close and safe.”
“And I keep telling you that you cannot have what is already mine!”
“You should learn to share,” Tarn told him, and then muffled Gard’s snarl of outrage with a kiss, pressing his tongue between Gard’s lips to plunder that hot, angry mouth. For a moment Gard was tense and furious against him, but then he rose into the kiss forcefully, his fingers digging into Tarn’s chest as he lunged up, his lips rough and hungry. Tarn gathered him in, sliding his hand up to cup the back of Gard’s head, holding him close as Gard bit his lip and scrabbled to get nearer.
Heat was rising through Tarn’s body, reminding him that there were times when even human bodies burned inside. He buried his hand deep into the thick cords of Gard’s hair, using the other hand to jerk him up, pressing their cocks together so Gard gasped and twitched in his arms, grinding forward as he shivered against Tarn, fingers digging into Tarn’s shoulders through the silk. Tarn reached down, but there were no slits in Gard’s long tunic. He would have to strip it off completely to reach bare skin, so he merely molded the fine, thin cotton against the hard jut of Gard’s cock, stroking him firmly through the cloth. He had a bed fit for a king, and he would have Gard naked in it soon enough.
Gard’s kiss had gone clumsy as he rocked against Tarn’s hand, his breath coming hard. Tarn had missed this. Already it was wrong to go a day without touching Gard, and it made him as giddy as the wine had. He had never burned like this for any of his human lovers—but he wanted to have Gard, wanted to kiss him and bite him and mark him, make him moan and writhe and sob, and take him in every way.
And unlike his mortal lovers, once he won Gard, he could keep him forever, as long as there was a desert. Gard would not find a mortal lover or grow old and die. Tarn would be able to keep him.
The thought made him growl and release Gard’s mouth long enough to run his teeth down Gard’s straining neck and bite lightly at his throat.
“Tarn,” Gard stuttered and convulsed against him, his body shaking as he threw his head back. Tarn felt wet heat blaze and blossom against his leg and couldn’t stop himself from growling again, tight against Gard’s neck. He could feel Gard’s pulse thundering against his cheek, and smell him—warm dust, wine, and cinnamon—even as Gard went limp against him, his hands curling in Tarn’s sleeves.
Tarn pressed his aching cock against Gard’s weight, enjoying the warm pressure, and nipped his jaw, waiting for Gard to come back to himself.
When Gard sighed, Tarn’s hopes rose. He was still so ready he could barely think past this body’s demand, and he was torn between begging Gard to touch him now or dragging him up to his bed so they could spend the whole night with their bodies warring and meeting like this.
Then Gard asked, his voice dull, “Will you release me?”
Disappointed, Tarn loosened his arms.
“Not like that,” Gard snapped and leaned back a little. “I am still bound to this form.”
“For your own safety.”
“Release me.”
“No,” Tarn said, his heart sinking. He refused to lose Gard to the Shadow again, even if it cost him Gard’s love, and he needed Gard to join his hoard to protect him fully. “Not until you say you are mine, or the Shadow is cast down.”
He saw the fury flash across Gard’s face and stepped away with a sigh. There would clearly be no more kisses for him tonight, and his body would have no release. Why couldn’t Gard understand that all Tarn did, he did to keep his hoard, and its most precious member, alive and safe?
“I’m sorry,” he said, knowing it would probably just rile Gard more. “You must stay under my protection.”
Gard’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward, close enough that it would have promised a kiss only a few moments ago. Then he snarled, breath hot against Tarn’s jaw, “I will not let you conquer me!”
Then he was gone in a whirl of fury, and Tarn had to turn away and start the climb back to his vast and lonely chambers.
Chapter 20: Planning
HIS SPIRITS were still low the next morning. He soothed them by making his way onto the top of Myrtilis’s citadel. It stood higher than the mountains around it, separated from them by broad canyons. The top was an expanse of wind-rounded crags, veined by time and perfectly shaped for a large golden dragon to drape himself across and spread his wings toward the sun.
It must have been one more bitter blow to the mer king, he thought gloomily, to lose this as well as the ocean. Citadels so vast and proud were hard to come by, and the work of generations to carve from virgin rock. He himself had helped carve the halls of High Amel from the granite when he had first gathered his hoard and promised them a home beneath his wing.
Would Myrtilis let him home his new hoard here, or would he have to haggle with Gard for a mountain of his own?
“I see Dit wasn’t exaggerating at all,” an amused voice remarked by his front knee. “You really are ridiculously large.”
The dragon looked down to see Gard smirking up at him, and laid his head down where he wouldn’t have to look at him. “You know this form already.”
“Yes,” Gard said brightly, “but when I last saw it, I was also ridiculously large. You must be quite intimidating for mere mortals. How many can you fit in your mouth at a time?”
“I don’t eat people,” the dragon informed him, and then swiveled his head around in indignation when he felt hot human hands on his scales. “What are you doing?”
Gard climbed up the side of his leg as easily as a mountain goat, scrambling up from scale to scale to perch on his knee. “I couldn’t see you from down there. Is it safe for you to be up here? I rather like some of the people inside, and it would be a shame if the roof collapsed on them.”
“I have the queen’s permission,” the dragon told him and narrowed his eyes as Gard began to dig at a bit of moss that was still stuck between his scales. It had been irritating him, but not as much as Gard. “Stop that.”
“I’ve nearly got it,” Gard said. “You’re a lot cleaner in human form, you know. Understandably, of course—how could you find a bathhouse big enough?”
“Go away,” the dragon said. His fires were healthy, but he felt cold, aware again that he was without a proper hoard and weak. He wasn’t in the mood for Gard’s humor, especially at his expense. Was hating him not enough to satisfy the ridiculous sprite?
“But I want to know what you’re doing,” Gard protested, ar
ranging himself more comfortably along the dragon’s upper leg, stretching out with his legs crossed and his hands behind his head.
“I am watching for the dead,” the dragon informed him.
“And what are you going to do from up here?”
“Burn them,” the dragon murmured, letting a little of his frustration rumble out in his voice.
“Ah, like a really deadly spitting contest. Or is it more like when teenagers light their farts for amusement? Not necessarily their own amusement, of course, if the wind is in the wrong direction, but—”
The dragon was not amused. “If I transformed now, you would not have a comfortable landing.”
Gard grinned up at him. “You wouldn’t do that. You want to protect me, remember.”
The dragon couldn’t argue with that. Instead, he swung his head up and around, looming close enough to offer Gard a good view of his teeth. “Why have you come up here to irritate me, little sprite?”
“I just can’t help myself,” Gard said earnestly. “I think to myself, y’know, Alagard, you should be nice to Tarn today. Then I see you, and I just can’t resist trying to rile you up. It’s how I show my affection.”
“You have no affection for me.”
“Oh, I do,” Gard assured him, patting his leg fondly. “I’d have a lot more if you’d just set me free, though.”
“No,” the dragon growled.
Gard laughed, bright and quick. “Your terrifying scowl is nowhere near as attractive when you’re so big I could crawl up one of your nostrils.”
The dragon whipped his head away again then, and dropped it over his other leg so he could squint down the canyon and pretend he was alone.
Gard, however, was not so easily dismissed. His voice rippling with amusement, he demanded, “Tarn, did you come up here to sulk?”
The dragon ignored him, in the hope that he would go away.
After a few minutes, Gard began to whistle. It was tuneful enough, for a desert storm trapped in human form, but it began to grate on the dragon’s nerves before long. Hunching his shoulders, he tried to pretend he could not hear it.
Gard began to tap his foot against the dragon’s scales, and then, in a tiny scraping tickle, his nails as well.
The dragon swung his head up and down to glare at him so closely that the fires in his eyes were reflected in the beads in Gard’s hair. “What do you want?”
“Two things,” Gard said, as easily as if he was in no danger at all. “Firstly, I owe you an apology. I left you unsatisfied last night, though I had my pleasure of you. A true man is more considerate, and I apologize.”
“And?” the dragon rumbled. Such things did not concern him in this form.
“What, no appreciation of how graceful that apology was? Really? Secondly, you made it clear that I would not get my true form back until the Shadow is defeated. So, I am committed to the fight, which means you and I are allies. I still will not let you rule me, neither my body nor my spirit, but we can be civil to one another, can we not?”
The dragon pondered it, breathing heat and ash onto Gard, who merely basked in it, his eyes slitted and his body lax. He did not want to be a mere ally of Alagard. He wanted the desert, in its entirety, and he wanted, when he was in human form himself, Gard’s human body, to hold against his and never relinquish.
However, it was clear he would not get that immediately. Perhaps he should climb this mountain one step at a time, rather than merely soaring to its peak.
“I will consider it,” he conceded at last.
“Good,” Gard said, grinning up at him. “Upon which subject, Myrtilis has called a war council. We’re late.”
“And you waited this long to mention it?” the dragon demanded.
“It was funnier to watch you sulk,” Gard said blithely and slid down to the rocks. “Change into something small enough to fit through the door, and we’ll be off.”
The dragon transformed quickly, not caring if Gard was still close enough to have the ends of his braids singed. Ignoring Gard, Tarn stalked toward the narrow cave entrance that opened back out into the highest levels of the citadel.
“You’re a lot less shiny and pretty in this incarnation,” Gard remarked, falling in beside him. “Not quite so intimidating, either.”
Tarn continued to ignore him.
“Though that could be because you managed to find a human form that is the embodiment of dim-witted barbarian strength. Was that your intention, or did you just snarl and see what happened?”
Tarn did turn on him then. “This face belonged to a good man.”
“You stole it?” Gard exclaimed, widening his eyes in exaggerated horror.
“I copied it,” Tarn snapped.
“Why?”
“He was a good man. It was a way to remember him.”
Gard looked like he was about to make another snide remark, but then he visibly restrained himself. Instead, he asked, his voice remarkably free of mockery, “What was his name?”
For a long moment, Tarn couldn’t remember it. It was so long ago, and his human mind was too small to encompass millennia. Then it came back to him, a scrap on the wind, and he said, “Echta. He was a hill lord, two—no, three—thousand years ago.”
“So old,” Gard murmured, and there was something wistful in his tone. Then he shook himself and said brightly, “Well, your plan obviously worked. You remember him, even if no one else does.”
“He was the first man who ever kissed me,” Tarn murmured, caught in a sudden flash of memory—the cold hillside and the rocks rough below his human feet for the first time, how Echta’s eyes had been so bright and serious, how tender his hand had felt cupped around Tarn’s cheek.
For a while, that actually silenced Gard. Then he said, voice tight, “She’s in the small council chamber. This way.”
Tarn followed him down a long, twisting stairway, whose walls were set with dulled pearls, which he thought would have shimmered more brightly when the sea ran through these halls. Gard had gone quiet, and Tarn was surprised how much that discomforted him.
They found Myrtilis in a small chamber with only a few companions: Aline, a few of her aides whom Tarn vaguely recalled from before his sleep, and Ia. They all looked grim. The room itself was mostly taken up with a map table, built up to show a model of the desert and its neighboring countries.
“What news?” Tarn asked sharply.
“We’ve just had a message bird from one of the Selar tribes we trade with. They’re heading toward us and taking heavy attacks from the dead. I’ve sent some of the girls out to help them.”
“Do you want me out there too?” Tarn asked.
“No. Nor you, Alagard. Bad enough that the Shadow knows we’re all out here and waiting. Let’s not announce we’re allies until we’re sure of our next move.”
“It won’t be long before it works that much out,” Gard said. He shuddered quickly. “I have been trapped in its coils and felt its mind against mine, and it may be foul, but it is not foolish.”
Tarn squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. “You are under my wing now. If we draw its attention by rescuing the Selar, which we must, that pushes us to move soon, yes?”
“Hence this meeting,” Myrtilis said wearily. “Do we do what we did last time, or is there a less bloody road to victory?”
“We didn’t want it to be all-out war then,” Tarn pointed out. “And we cannot wage it now. You have one dragon now, not fifty, and there is no knowing if any of my kin will wake, nor when they will rise.”
“But the Shadow is weak too,” Ia said. “It has no demon kings to command and has only been established in Tiallat a few decades. By the time you took the battle to Eyr last time, it had been entrenched there for centuries.”
“A decisive blow now?” Tarn asked. “To force it out? We don’t have the numbers to destroy its armies. It won’t face me directly until it has run out of troops to spend, but we could chase it out of Tiallat. That would win us time to prepare for its return
.”
Myrtilis shook her head. “Can we win the battle and hold back the war until more dragons wake?”
Tarn considered it. “Perhaps, but I cannot guarantee any more of us will return. If they do wake, they will likely be more wounded than I was, and Drake Clan has left the north. Someone will have to go north to help them, and you will need me guarding this frontier, even if we win the first victory.”
“I can send word to my cloister if you have a pigeon that can reach Shara,” Ia said. “If that order comes from this city, every Myrtiline Daughter in the north will ride for dragon country.”
“See how handy it is to found your own religion,” Gard remarked lightly. “How very foresighted of you, Myrti.” When everyone turned to glare at him, he lifted his hands and said, more soberly, “A few decades is still time enough to build up significant defenses. Do we have the numbers for an assault on the capital?”
“Not from my girls alone,” Myrtilis said. “And the Selar tribes have been scattered by the dead.”
“How nomadic are they?” Tarn asked. “Will they consent to take shelter here?”
Myrtilis hesitated. “If we bring everyone in, the dead will descend on us.”
“You have stone walls,” Tarn pointed out, meeting her gaze. For a moment they glowered at each other.
Then Gard added lightly, “And a very grumpy dragon.”
Tarn transferred his scowl that way. “I will go with the attack on the Shadow, whatever form it takes.”
“No, no,” Gard said, shaking his head. “That’s what I’ll be doing, so you can’t possibly come along. You’d distract me.”
“I will not,” Tarn said, “because you will be here. Safe.”
Gard grinned, showing his teeth. “Oh, Tarn. I never thought you such an optimist.”
Tarn was about to argue when Ia flicked him in the ear, muttering, “Stop flirting, idiot. We’ve got a war to plan.”
Although it was Tarn’s ear that was stinging, Gard was the one who immediately sobered. “Have we heard anything out of Essam? If Tiallat shipped soldiers up the coast, they’d be vulnerable, but they’ve got a good control of the eastern trade routes, and a sea approach could help us.”
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