As they sat in the dining room enjoying the beauty of the sunset through the wavy panes, rainbows from the prismatic glass fell over each of them, illuminating their faces with colored light. She smiled; the song of peace was taking hold, her plantings were beginning to grow, and she had a place of her own to share with her friends.
She walked them down to the water’s edge and waved as they climbed aboard one of her two new boats. Rhapsody watched until they had passed from her sight, then turned back to her house, where the smoke curled contentedly up from the chimney and the lights burned in the windows, a growing warmth in the darkness of the grotto.
Once inside, she gently closed the door.
53
Rosentharn, Knight Marshal of Bethany, cleared his throat and knocked nervously on the door.
After what seemed an eternity, the Lord Roland’s voice answered.
“What? Who’s there?”
“Rosentharn, m’lord.” Even through the door he could hear the stream of muttered curses.
“What do you want? If it’s another of those blasted border raids, I don’t want to know about it unless they’re sacking my own keep.”
Rosentharn loosened his collar. “Nothing like that, sir. I just came from the northern gate, where news has come in that Lady Madeleine Canderre is on her way to Bethany.”
The door opened a crack, and the Lord Roland’s head emerged, his hair wildly tousled. “When?”
“She arrives sometime after dawn, m’lord.”
Tristan Steward ran a hand over his unkempt locks. “Ahem, yes. Well, thank you, Rosentharn.”
“My pleasure, m’lord.” Rosentharn waited for the door to close before giving in to a wide smile. Then he turned on his heel and returned to his post.
Fornication!”
A throaty chuckle came from across the room.
“As you wish, m’lord. That’s what I’m here for.”
Tristan smiled and retied the belt of his dressing gown.
“Sorry, Pru; my fiancée’s coming.”
Prudence laughed. “If you get over here quickly, perhaps Madeleine might be able to make the same statement.”
“You’re so naughty. It’s one of the things I like best about you.”
Tristan turned to the mahogany sideboard, poured two glasses of port from a crystal decanter, and carried them back to the bed. He handed one to Prudence and raised the other to his lips, allowing his gaze to roam over her body. The rim of the glass hid the melancholy look brought to his face by what he saw.
Each time he looked at her it grew harder to believe that they had been born on the same day, minutes apart. Despite the difference in their social classes they had always been together as children, growing through each awkward stage as a pair, almost as if they shared a single soul. And while time had not yet ravaged his flesh, still bequeathing him the muscularity of youth for the moment, Prudence was beginning to show the signs of age, inevitable in those not born from the bloodline of the Cymrians.
It was something he had always known, but had never thought about until recently. Perhaps his own impending marriage had made him take stock, caused him to try to account for the years that had flown by, leaving him unscathed, for now. Perhaps it was the fact that, when he was alone, lost in the solitude of his thoughts, he was not certain if there was anything to show for all that time.
Either way, it had made him look at her with new eyes, eyes that now saw the slight slackening of the dewy skin, the whisper-thin lines around her eyes and the corners of her mouth, the faint spots that dotted her hands, once as smooth and clear as alabaster. He swallowed, feeling the burn down his gullet.
Prudence pulled the comb from her hair and tossed her head, the long strawberry ringlets catching the light of the blazing fire on the hearth. In the fireshadows any hint of gray that Tristan thought he might have seen earlier was gone. She smiled knowingly at him and drew the satin counterpane up under her arms.
“What are you thinking, Tristan?”
The Lord Roland set his empty glass on the bedside table, and took back the one he had handed her a moment before. He sat down on the bed, facing her, and gently slid his hand up to the top edge of the counterpane, winding his fingers slowly over it, bringing them to rest at the base of her throat.
“I’m thinking that I hate her, Pru.”
Prudence leaned back against the pillows, her smile fading to a serious expression. “I know; I know you do. I still don’t understand why you chose Madeleine. I always thought you should propose to that nice girl from Yarim—what was her name?”
“Lydia.”
“Yes, that’s it. She was a pretty thing, and charming in a quiet way. Her father was well landed. Whatever happened to her?”
“She married Stephen; died a few years back in a Lirin raid.”
“Oh yes, of course. I remember now.” Prudence reached out and gently stroked the side of his face, his whiskers rough beneath her fingers.
Tristan’s eyes met her gaze and held it while he pulled the counterpane back. There was an understanding in her eyes, a depth that he could not even fathom, and it felt warm, surrounding him completely, like the hot spring they had once coupled in so many years ago. Their honesty was the only truly pure thing in his life. Prudence turned her face to the fire and closed her eyes.
From the crystal glass Tristan drew out a drop of the port, and dabbed it gently on her nipple. He felt the air come into her as she inhaled beneath his touch, the same way she had in their youth, on the night she deflowered him, and the arousal that had been eluding him began to build.
The skin of her breast had eased noticeably from the time he had first touched it thus. He closed his eyes and thought back to his first sight of it, firm with anticipation, warming to a deep rose color beneath his trembling hand. Now it was slack, loose, her breasts flecked with the same brown patches that marred the skin of her hands. Tristan lowered his lips and drank in the drop of port, trying to keep her from seeing the pain he knew was flickering across his face. He tugged the counterpane off her completely and dropped it to the floor.
Now laid bare, Prudence drew one knee up and began to untie his dressing gown. Her hands slid into his lap, stroking him gently.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s really bothering you, Tristan?”
His lips left her breast and slowly began to trace down to her abdomen.
“What makes you think anything is bothering me?”
Firmly she pushed him back and sat up against the headboard, pulling a pillow in front of her chest. Her eyes were angry.
“I was your father’s courtesan, Tristan; I always thought that I was your friend.”
The shock of her reaction snapped over him, shattering what little excitement he had felt. “Of course you are.”
“Then don’t play games with me. I’m too old for this nonsense. I can tell when something’s on your mind—I know your moods better than you do. Usually you tell me everything. Why are you playing coy tonight? It’s not very stimulating.”
Tristan sighed; she had caught him. It was more than the melancholy he was battling, watching the unfair ravages of time on her, more than the sickening sense that the woman he loved, and bedded regularly, was beginning to resemble his mother. It was even more than the horrific reminder of what that aging would eventually lead to, a loss he was not willing to contemplate.
He was struggling with the memory of Rhapsody.
He had not been able to get her out of his thoughts since the moment she had walked out of the keep. And more than that, it was the thought of her, subservient by choice to a Bolg warlord, that had made his skin burn with frustration. The image of her in the arms of a subhuman mongrel had been almost as upsetting as the strength of his own reaction to her; for the few moments they had spent together, he should hardly have even remembered her name.
He looked back at Prudence and smiled, seeing the intensity of the look in her eyes.
“All right,” he said. “I’
ll tell you, as long as you don’t allow anything I say to interrupt our lovemaking. Madeleine will be here soon, and I want to have you as many times as I can before she arrives.”
Prudence exhaled happily, and her hands returned to his lap. “As you wish, Your Highness.”
Tristan looked up at the ceiling, waiting for the stimulation of her hands and his hidden thoughts to return him to his former state of arousal. It happened quickly.
“You know the lands where the Cymrians once ruled, Canrif?”
“Vaguely,” Prudence said, massaging enthusiastically. “Somewhere in the mountains that lie to the east?”
“Yes, that’s right. It’s been overrun by Firbolg for four hundred years or so now.”
Satisfied with the results of her efforts, Prudence released him and ran her hand up his chest to his dressing gown. She slid both hands beneath it and onto his shoulders.
“Who is Firbolg?”
Tristan chuckled. “Not who, what. They’re monsters, humanoid beasts that eat rats and each other. And any human they can catch as well, by the way.”
Prudence shuddered comically and pulled the dressing gown off him, exposing his chest to the light of the fire. Her smile of amusement resolved into something more real at the sight of the fireshadows licking his muscular arms and shoulders. He looked the same as he had so long ago, on the first night he had come to her.
“Sounds awful.”
“They are, believe me. Every year I have to deal with them; the army goes and rounds up any we find marauding near Bethe Corbair. The time is approaching to do it again this year.”
Prudence drew up her knees and rested the soles of both her feet against his chest. With a gentle shove she pushed him off the foot of the bed and onto his knees on the floor.
“So if you do this every year, and have been for the last ten or so—”
“Almost twenty now. It was Father’s responsibility before that.”
“—all right, twenty; if you’ve been doing this for so long, why is it troubling you tonight?”
Tristan reached out and grabbed both of her thighs, and dragged her on her back, laughing, to the edge of the bed. He parted her legs and leaned between them, his hands cradling her hips, made rounder than he remembered by the passage of time.
“They have a new warlord, apparently, though what that really means I have no idea. A while back he sent an emissary, a woman, who came and told me in a most rude and insubordinate way that we were to desist the centuries-old tradition of Spring Cleaning.”
“That being the annual roundup of the marauders near Bethe Corbair?”
“Yes.” Tristan ran his hands up her abdomen, over her waist, until they came to rest on her breasts. He closed his eyes and imagined them smaller, firmer, more perfectly shaped, above a slender waist, a small gold locket dangling between them. The image made the arousal he had attained more intense, and he leaned into the edge of the bed below Prudence, his hands gently cupping her flaccid breasts, caressing her.
Prudence arched into his palms, running her feet over the back of his legs. “So why is this a problem for them? If they want to avoid the soldiers, all they have to do is desist attacking Bethe Corbair, right?”
“Right.”
“And you told the emissary this?”
“Yes—well, actually, I just sent her back to her warlord master, with a jeering message spurning his demands.” Tristan’s palms began to moisten as he remembered Rhapsody’s face, the shining tendrils of golden hair framing her smooth, rosy skin, her eyes kindling to an even deeper green as she listened to him.
Prudence took hold of one of his hands and placed it between her legs. “Then why are you so upset, Tristan?”
Rhapsody’s legs were impossibly beautiful, even swathed modestly in woolen trousers. He remembered the way she had crossed them, and his breathing became shallower. Tristan could feel his skin begin to burn and his hand trembled as he explored Prudence, guilt flashing intermittently for imagining her to be someone else.
“Because I don’t trust the warlord. I—I think he’s planning to attack this year, now that—now that the Bolg are—supposedly united.”
Prudence sat up to meet him, pressing her sweat-shiny chest against his, and wound her arms around his torso. The moves she was making were all the ones she knew he liked; a lifetime’s worth of practice and comfortable familiarity had made the act almost automatic. For some reason it was different tonight, more strained, with a darker passion bubbling beneath the surface.
Tristan’s hands moved to her hair, something he rarely touched during lovemaking. His fingers entwined in her curls, running the length of the strands and wrapping them around his palms.
Like liquid sunlight, he was thinking. Bound in a simple ribbon, black velvet of modest manufacture. His fury at her words had been the only thing that kept him from vaulting across his desk and tearing it from Rhapsody’s locks, pulling her golden tresses down with it.
“What are you going to do about it, then, Tristan?”
The Lord Roland couldn’t stand it anymore. He grabbed Prudence’s hips and pulled her onto him, shuddering as she wrapped her legs around his waist. In the heat that enclosed him he felt the fire he had seen in Rhapsody’s eyes, her internal warmth, the warmth he had imagined in his hottest dreams.
“I’m going to rout them,” he gasped. “I’m going to—send—every soldier I can spare and—and—destroy the bastard, and every—last—one of his—miserable kind.” His mouth closed on hers, ardently, vehemently, stealing her breath.
As he plunged desperately, repeatedly into her, Prudence’s lips broke with his, and went to his ear. She ran her hands through his glistening hair, damp with exertion and fury, then whispered as she clung to him as if for her life.
“Tristan?”
He could barely force the word out. “Mhhnmm—yes?”
“What is this woman’s name?”
“Pru—” he panted.
“Her name, Tristan.”
“Rhapsody,” he moaned, the fire exploding inside him. “Rhapsody,” he whispered again, as the thunder rose up and consumed him. He fell across Prudence, spent and ashamed.
He lay there until he returned to his senses, until he felt her body cool beneath him. When he couldn’t avoid facing her any longer he pushed himself up on his arms, suspending himself over her, and looked down.
The expression on her face was not at all what he had expected. Where he had feared he might see rejection, and embarrassment, and hurt, there was calm understanding, and nothing more.
“I’m so sorry, Pru,” he said softly, his face flushing.
Prudence kissed his cheek, then slid out from underneath him. “No need to be, dear,” she said, picking her dressing gown up off the floor and wrapping it around herself.
“You’re not angry?”
“Why would I be?”
Tristan ran a hand through his soggy hair. “How did you know?”
Prudence walked to the absurdly tall windows in the sitting area, and pulled back the drape, looking into the vast, starry sky beyond. After a long moment she turned back to him, the expression on her face solemn.
“I’ve known you all my life, Tristan. That was me, if you recall, that urchin daughter of your scullery maid, hiding from your father with you in the pantry. I’ve had your hand up my skirt for almost forty years; I can tell when it’s me you’re groping, and when your mind is elsewhere.
“I know you love me, and you know I love you, too; I always will. You don’t have to want me, Tristan; loving me is more than enough. In fact, these last few times when you’ve made love to me out of pity—”
“I have never done that, never,” he interrupted angrily.
“All right; lie to yourself if you have to, but I won’t. These last few times I’ve known there was someone else on your mind, and at least one other of your organs. You’re more aroused in your sleep lately than you have been for the last ten years during sex. I’m just grateful to know
it wasn’t Madeleine you were dreaming about; I was beginning to think you’d lost your mind. She’s a hag, by the way.” Prudence smiled, and Tristan smiled with her in spite of himself.
At last she came away from the window and went to the dressing table, where she picked up her dress, and donned it quickly while he watched. She ran his platinum comb perfunctorily through her tangled locks, then turned and regarded him seriously.
“If you don’t hear anything else I’ve said tonight, Tristan, hear this: whatever obsession you feel for this woman, whatever she makes your body long for, don’t lose your head, or the hand that holds your scepter. I sense you are considering this escalation in violence out of lust, or anger, out of something that comes from between your legs, not out of anything from your brain. Forbear, Tristan. Wars started over women only lead to disaster.”
Tristan’s face fell. “I’m astounded that you would say that to me,” he said in an injured tone. “Any commitment I make of Roland’s soldiers is purely out of concern for the safety of the provinces and our subjects. I can’t believe you think I would escalate a war to impress a woman.”
“No? Perhaps it is to pay back her master, then, for winning, for being her choice over you. Even if it is neither of those things, if it is your pride that’s injured, don’t fall prey to it.”
Tristan turned away, awash in angry emotions. It was painful to hear her say such demeaning things, and even more so to know she might be right.
“Prudence?”
When he looked back, she was gone.
54
The end of winter brought dread to the Bolglands each year, for a short time anyway. The annual thaw was the time of the Lottery, the means by which the most expendable citizens were chosen to be positioned in the artificial villages that were hastily constructed at the outskirts of the Teeth.
This yearly sacrifice to the bloodthirsty men of Roland, probably more than any other single factor, had convinced Achmed of the Bolg’s sophistication when he initially assessed their development. That this cunning, if grisly, program could be designed and executed for centuries without the invaders catching on was impressive enough, he reasoned, but the weighing of impact, of loss versus gain, proved to him beyond a shadow of a doubt that they were a force to be reckoned with. Even the system’s corruption by which it was regularly rigged pleased him.