Sunday's Child

  Her maid awaited her, clucking her disapproval as she helped Castil remove her thin cloak and dress. “Down in the vaults again, I see. If you insist on lingering there, you should at least dress for it.”

  Castil chuckled at the admonishment. “I didn’t think I would be so long.”

  The maid, a young girl named Thesla, tossed her dress in a basket for laundering. “That is the coldest place within the fortress. You would be warmer standing out in the courtyard in your shift.” She stripped Castil down to a thin chemise and handed her a fur pelt to wrap around herself. Castil huddled within it, standing as close to the hearth fire as was safe to stay warm.

  A mischievous glitter entered Thesla’s eyes. “Do you know the way to the mineral baths?”

  She did. Numerous natural hot springs dotted the landscape, most of them dangerous because of the boiling temperatures of the water. There were a few, however, that were no hotter than bath water. Two lay just outside the fortress and the Helenese were fond of frolicking in them on days when the weather was clear. This wasn’t one of those days. “That holds no temptation for me today, Thesla. The wind outside would freeze armor.”

  The maid shook her head. “No, not the common baths.” She raised the lid of the chest at the end of Castil’s bed to pull out a thick cloth and a heavy frock trimmed in fur. “There’s a small spring here, in the depths of the fortress, like the vaults. But it’s warmer there and reserved for the royal family.”

  The idea of relaxing in a pool of heated water not exposed to the outside elements had its appeal, especially now as she continued to shiver beneath the fur pelt. Still, Thesla said it belonged to the royal family, and she was not one of its members.

  “I think not. I don’t wish to cause offense by intruding where I don’t belong.” She gestured for the frock. “It would be best if I just dressed.”

  Thesla held the garment out of her reach. “You’re a guest of the king, madam. The springs are open to you.” Her voice turned coaxing. “Try them. You’ve been here two months now and never experienced the baths. Trust me. It’s something not to be missed.”

  A little more cajoling from the maid and Castil soon found herself back out in the corridors, her dry cloth and frock in hand. Following Thesla’s directions, she found the chamber housing the spring.

  The cloister wound downward and back, cutting deep into the heart of the mountain. Green witchfire flickering in the torches lining the walls lit her way, giving the hall a ghostly, iridescent glow. This was the product of magic, and the light gave off no heat as she paused, passing her hand over one of the emerald flames.

  She had seen such things in her time here in Helenrisia. The country bordered the Wastelands, its warped magic an awesome, living thing felt by all the denizens of the north. Nearly everyone she met could perform some small enchantment as the residual effects of ancient forces bled across the forbidden borders, touching upon anyone living nearby. Hel’s king was the most obvious recipient of its power.

  Unlike her own people, the Helenese didn’t find his appearance so strange or frightening. Castil had wondered about it until a few conversations enlightened her. It was Thesla who revealed the cause of Doranis’s coloration, or lack thereof, and his skill with the many enchantments he could perform.

  “His mother was abducted, you know.” She worked with Castil to fold back the bed linens and run the warming pan across the cold sheets.

  “Abducted? By whom?”

  “The Bahauran, when she carried His Majesty in her belly. My mother says the old king went nearly mad with rage.”

  Bahauran. Legendary denizens of the Wastelands. Descendents of the vanished Elders, they lived in the frozen, ruined cities, surrounded by the magic that twisted their bodies over eons of time. But where it took, it also gave back. There were tales told in scrolls and around campfires as far south as the Sedbar Islands, of the great sorcerers who lived in the ancient and forbidden Wastelands.

  “Why would they kidnap the queen?”

  The girl shrugged. “No one knows. She was returned four days later, her memory of her time among them gone. But you see what that sojourn did?”

  Castil nodded, her brow knitted. The prince had been marked before his birth by his mother’s capture. He was a magus king now, like and yet unlike the Bahauran. Leached of all color as they were, with the power of the Wastelands coming easily to him, he was neither misshapen nor mad. His people, who lived within the shadow of the forbidden territory, accepted him easily enough. It was only outside their borders that the fear abided, the uneasiness at gazing upon a man so obviously graced with an ancient and mysterious force.

  The green light brightened when Castil neared a door surrounded by numerous small torches. The hinges squeaked in protest as she opened it and stepped inside. Her delighted inhalation echoed in the chamber at the sight of a large bubbling spring, nearly hidden within swathing veils of steam drifting off the water. Narrow steps cut into the floor descended into the pool to disappear from view under the water.

  The chamber housing the spring was vast, with sloping tunnels that disappeared farther into the belly of the mountain. A skilled painter had depicted scenes of Helenese life on some of the smoother walls, and heavy tapestries covered portions of the floor to cushion one’s feet. It was a sumptuous place, especially among the more austere surroundings of the Frozen Maiden.

  Castil placed her dry cloth, tunic and shoes in a neat pile on one of the rugs before shrugging out of her robe and chemise. Without the protection of the garments, she shuddered from the damp chill. The water looked inviting, and she dipped her toe in to test its warmth. It was hot, but not so hot as to scald, and the effervescent bubbling tickled her feet. She descended the steps and sank into the water with a happy sigh.

  An amused, throaty voice shattered her assumption that she was alone. “That certainly took you long enough.”

  Castil yelped, startled by the unexpected company. Her heart pounded in her chest. She sank lower into the water and discovered Doranis swimming lazily toward her, his white skin flushed a pale rose from the heat. His light eyes were narrowed with laughter and something else as he waded closer to her.

  “You-you-your Majesty,” she stammered, “you scared me. I thought I was alone.”

  He circled her in a lazy lap around the pool, the motion emphasizing his muscled back and arms as he slid through the water. “Forgive me, Castil. It wasn’t my intention to frighten you.”

  She tracked his movements, pivoting so she always faced him. The water was cloudy, but offered very little modesty. And he certainly got an eyeful when she undressed, unaware that he lurked in the pool, watching. His eyes, lit with a faint, mocking humor, assured her of that particular truth.

  “You should have spoken sooner.” She scolded him, her voice severe. “Sire,” she added in grudging tones.

  Doranis laughed, swimming ever closer to her in diminishing circles. “Indeed? And why is that? I was treated to the most beautiful sight. A lovely woman descending into a bath is a blessing of the gods, Castil il Veras.”

  A hard ache settled beneath her ribs at his words. She knew her strengths. Intelligent, practical and friendly; these were all the things given to her at birth, traits of which she was proud. But beauty was not among them. “Plain as an unfinished door,” some of her less sensitive relatives had said, and she had come to accept that a lack of beauty combined with a lack of wealth would leave her locked from the marriage market. For who among the boyars would want a homely, dowerless scribes woman? Such a future had never bothered her. Until now.

  She looked beyond him to the ripple and slope of a rock wall at the chamber’s far end, her voice tense. “Why do you say these things?” She felt the water still.

  Small waves lapped gently around her as he drew close, his chest to her back. He leaned down to caress her throat with his fingertips, tendrils of his long white hair ghosting over her shoulder to leave rivulets of water trickling past her collarbone. A roiling flutt
er of heat erupted in her belly, spreading to her thighs when he curved his hands over her shoulders.

  “I say them because they’re true. You are the grace of all women. I have wanted you since you first translated my insignia.” His hands dripped water into her hair, and she felt the wetness of his cheek as he bent to kiss the soft skin at her temple. “I watch you, dream of you. Shall I tell you of my dreams? How I awake in the night, covered in sweat, my thighs wet with my own seed because I was lost in the illusion of thrusting between your sweet thighs? Tasting your skin?”

  The slide of his tongue along the curve of her ear sent heat sizzling through her blood, and Castil jerked forward, an involuntary response to the sensual caress. Doranis snaked an arm around her waist, splaying long fingers across her belly to steady her. She stared downward, hypnotized by the sight of the narrow white hand resting against her skin.

  “You have beautiful hair,” he whispered. His fingers fluttered against her abdomen while his other hand wrapped tendrils of her hair around his wrist, bringing it gently to his nose to inhale its fragrance.

  Castil didn’t move, transfixed by the softly spoken words and the knowledge that he was slowly making love to her through the husky vibrations of his voice and the deep sounds of his breathing against her flesh. His free hand released her hair, only to skim along her hip and down her leg, making her shiver.

  The weight of his scrutiny rested heavy on her, measuring, assessing the shape of her body, partially concealed by the hazy water. His lovely words made her reel, yet she wondered if he compared her plainness to memories of Kareena’s beauty or to other lovers who once shared his bed.

  He put her silent musings to rest when he traced a finger down her spine, leaving chills in its wake. “My dreams were as nothing to this reality. You are more beautiful than I could have imagined,” he murmured.

  Castil’s eyelids slid shut, her ability to reason, to think, even to talk, obliterated by the touch of his hands on her body, the whisper of his voice in her ear.

  So aroused by his seduction, she jumped when his hands gripped her hips, pulling her hard against him. Whatever doubts she had regarding his desire for her evaporated. His erection nudged the cleft of her buttocks, unmistakable proof that he wanted her with the same desperation she craved him. She responded by parting her legs and rubbing against him. He rewarded her with a drawn out groan, his fingers digging into her flesh.

  Her breathing shortened to pants as one of those graceful hands slid upward, across her ribs, to stroke one of her breasts. She gasped, arching her back as he lightly abraded her nipple. Oh sweet Mother! She wouldn’t survive this!

  He soothed her with slow caresses, all the while running his tongue along the outer curve of her ear. “Shh, fair Castil. This is only the beginning.”

  Whether threat or promise, he followed through, teasing her until she danced on the edge of an orgasm and begged him for mercy. He scooped her into his arms and waded up the steps and out of the pool. The rug under her back was rough, but she didn’t care. Doranis loomed over her, big, aroused, desire written in every line of his body and every sharp angle of his face. The lines bracketing either side of his mouth deepened, and his pale eyes gleamed like banked coals. Her lips parted instinctively as his head tipped towards her, giving silent welcome as his tongue slid into her mouth, invading and plunging, even as he ground his hips against hers.

  She felt more than heard the heavy groan emanating from his chest as she slid her hands around his back and down to his buttocks, curving her hands over the tight muscles. He continued to ravage her mouth and she was lost in wet, suctioning heat as he sucked on her tongue and nibbled lightly on her lower lip.

  Doranis broke the breath-stealing kiss to lower his face to her breasts. Castil moaned and rocked against him as he teased her nipples with his tongue, making her arch upward in a silent appeal for more.

  His voice painted spells on her skin. “You like this?”

  She buried her hands in his wet hair, cupping his head to hold him closer. “Yes,” she murmured, the word becoming a rhythmic chant as he suckled her with rapacious greed. He dragged her into a whirlpool of frenetic desire and sexual frenzy where nothing existed save the feel of lean muscle, the wetness of a ravening mouth and the swell of his erection riding between her thighs.

  Doranis slowly pulled away from her, breathing in slow, deep gasps. He wrapped an arm around her hips, tightening the embrace between them that melded her pelvis to his. “Gods,” he breathed, “you cradle me well.”

  She whispered his name when he slid inside her, implored gods when he set a rhythm that had her clutching his shoulders. His sounds of pleasure mimicked hers, gaining in volume until his back arched and his eyes rolled back, and he held still against her as his climax rolled through him. The sensual rub of his pelvis on just the right spot insured she followed him soon after, her legs squeezing his hips so tight, he grunted in protest.

  Wet with water and sweat and gasping for breath, he eased his full weight onto her before rolling them both to their sides. Castil scraped away the hair stuck to his forehead while trying to calm her own breathing. She mapped the planes of his face with one finger, noticing for the first time the way his pupils dominated his irises, turning his eyes almost black.

  “I think my maid suspected this might happen when she sent me here,” she said after a few moments of contented silence.

  Doranis grinned and tilted his head so he could kiss her fingertip. “Who is this maid so that I may reward her wisdom and elevate her to grand lady?”

  Castil chortled and pressed herself against him, luxuriating in such an indulgence. “That would set the tongues wagging in your court.”

  One muscular shoulder lifted in a shrug. “I am king. Whom I choose to raise in status is my prerogative.”

  “Being monarch certainly has its rewards,” she teased.

  “And its punishments.” He cupped her buttocks to nestle her even closer, and his features sobered. “You will come to my bed, and there will be no sleep for either of us this night.”

  She traced the thin bridge of his nose. “Are you asking or commanding, Sire?”

  Doranis’s eyes narrowed. “Which will bring you most readily to my chambers?”

  “What do you think?” Castil was confident in his answer. He was neither tyrannical nor stupid.

  His eyes drifted shut for a moment. When he opened them again, she swore she saw eternity in their depths. “Will you share my bed, Castil il Veras?”

  “Yes,” she said and captured his mouth in a brief kiss. “I will. This night and all nights that you will welcome me there.”

  4

  Early morning darkness still blanketed his bedroom when Doranis woke the first time from a deep sleep. He rolled onto his side, reaching for the sleek, warm body of his lover. His eyes snapped open when his hands found empty space, and he peered into the shadows of his room, trying to locate Castil. Shuffling noises from his bathing room reassured him that she had left his bed only to answer nature’s call. He dragged her pillow close and pressed his face into its softness, content simply to inhale her scent while he waited for her return.

  Some might say he was obsessed, consumed by a craving for a plain, unremarkable woman who didn’t compare with the stunning beauties of the Helenese court, or even the foreign infantas who vied for the position of second wife and royal consort. Doranis paid no attention to their puzzled conjectures. Castil il Veras was the summer sun to him—warm, beautiful, sometimes painfully intense.

  He jealously guarded the brief, private hours he reserved for her during the day in the library, and all soon learned that to disturb him during those moments incited an icy, formidable anger. She was good company, lighthearted and quick to laugh when he told her a humorous tale or offered some caustic, witty comment that sometimes made her gasp or choke on a giggle. She handled herself with confidence among the nobility of his own court, as much at home there as she had been among the Caskadanian boyars.
/>
  After their heated interlude by the spring, their relationship took a decided turn. There was no returning to the guarded, simmering longing that always lurked beneath the surface when they dealt with each other. Doranis knew of her continued visits to the burial vault, the shadow of guilt that sometimes lurked in her gray eyes, but it didn’t stop her from embracing him with the same insatiable hunger he felt for her.

  In the weeks that followed their first coupling, he took her numerous times, introducing her to the many joys of lovemaking. Long days of craving her were punctuated by even longer nights of loving her. As the winter days lengthened with the approach of spring, his need for her remained sharp, lingering. It went beyond the realm of the physical, for he thrived in her presence, was cheered by the simple pleasure of her sitting next to him in the library, reading through a scroll. And there was no doubting that she loved Joris, as much for the fact that he was a sweet child as that he was Kareena’s son.

  Doranis drifted off to sleep again, waiting for her to return, and it was much later that he awakened, the sun having risen at least two hours earlier. Castil was not beside him, but he shrugged off the uneasy feeling that began to blossom. It was likely that she’d returned to her rooms.

  His disquiet only increased as the hours passed and he caught no glimpse of her in his daily routine. And when she didn’t appear for their usual meeting in the library, his disquiet became full-blown alarm. He strode out of the room and headed for the burial vaults, praying he’d find her there. It was silent as always, no living soul to keep the dead monarchs company on that day. The two nursemaids jumped in unison when he burst into Joris’s nursery, his eyes bright with rage.

  “Have you seen Madam il Veras?” he snapped and they stared at him in confusion and no little fear.

  One, a woman named Ursa, placed the baby gently in his bed and turned back to the angered king, her expression bewildered. “I thought you knew, Sire. She stopped here this morning to say goodbye to the babe before joining the caravan leaving for the docks.”