Signi took the bread in her hands, closing herself inside her private grief.
A squirt of wine for each, brought by the innkeeper’s son, and Jeje felt the wine burn pleasantly through her, assuaging some of the ache in her thighs and butt, the intensifying stiffness of muscles she had not known she had.
Inda had gone distant as he participated in the ritual; only Signi was aware of the trembling of his fingers.
Inda breathed in the scent of the rye bread, his eyes blurring with tears. He’d gotten used to those. He closed his eyes as he ate and drank, thinking over and over, I am truly home.
After a filling supper, accompanied by more of the drumming and chanted songs—mostly in Marlovan and thus unintelligible—Jeje began sliding toward sleep right where she sat. She rarely drank, but Tau had called for mulled wine. It was served in curiously shallow, flat round cups that required two hands to hold. The mulled wine here was more tart than sweet, mixed with hockleberry and spices rather than the cloves and the citrus common elsewhere. Jeje found it delicious, and lapped at it, her chin dipping toward the table, until her eyelids started drifting down.
She roused at the sound of Inda’s voice. “. . . two beds? That will be fine.”
Jeje sat up, her sleep-thick boredom banished by the question of who would be sharing with whom. Jeje had assumed she’d bunk with the dag, leaving Tau and Inda as bunkmates. Signi murmured something and Inda smiled at her, whispering back, then he slid his arm around her. Signi glanced back at the Restday singers with a look that seemed melancholy to Jeje.
They vanished in the direction of the rooms, leaving Jeje thoroughly awake and unready to consider the prospect of sharing a bed with Tau. She said, “Inda never took a lover all the years we knew him. I like her—don’t think I don’t—but I don’t see how he ended up with her. Why not Gillor or someone our own age?”
Tau leaned toward her, his smile pensive. “He has been lost for nine years. She is now lost. I think it was inevitable they would find one another.”
Jeje sighed. She liked Tau better than anyone alive—when she was younger she had struggled against an awful passion for him—but there were times he simply did not make sense. “Lost? Her, maybe. But he’s going home!”
“Yes. Home. Think about that, Jeje.” Tau ran his fingers lightly around the rim of the shallow wine cup. “No, think about this. Until very recently, do you remember ever hearing Inda laugh?”
“Of course! Well—oh, I don’t know.” She sat upright on the bench, her entire body expressive of protest. “What are you getting at? That Inda’s a stick?”
Tau flickered his fingers. “No. No. Let me try another way. Why are we along to protect him? No, think first. He’s got a rep—earned as one of the most dangerous men in the entire southern half of the world. He may or may not be able to beat Fox, but you and me?”
“I know.” Jeje snorted softly. “Dead in three heartbeats.”
“Probably at the same time. And yet here we are, changing our lives yet again, because we felt he needed protection. Why?”
Jeje felt the urge to protest, argue, deny. But as she considered his words the instinct to protest weakened, then vanished. “It is odd,” she admitted. “All right, so tell me why we did it. All I know is I thought he needed protection. Yes, his old friend is a king, but is that a good thing? The only thing I am certain about with kings is that they can order their killing done easy as a sneeze.”
Tau laughed soundlessly, then sobered. “I think the reason we want to protect him is that until a few weeks ago Inda remained the boy we’ve known for nine years. I don’t mean physically, but here.” He touched his heart. “And in some ways, here, too.” He touched his head. “That seems to have changed when he was a prisoner in Ymar, and changed again when he neared home, then decided the time had come to end his exile. But part of our impulse to come along is that we think he needs watching over.”
Jeje pushed her cup between her fingers back and forth along the rough table. “All right. Maybe. But the other reason I’m here is because I don’t trust these Marlovans. Or this king, old friend or not. What’s your other reason?”
Tau thought, Because of you.
What if she took it the wrong way? Sentiment could be so sickening. So provoking of false expectations, which destroyed the clean, uncluttered bond of friendship.
But he couldn’t lie to Jeje.
Jeje watched his profile, outlined against the roaring fire on the other side of the inn room. Gradually the sounds of other merrymakers intruded into her awareness: the clink of crockery, the soft tap of drums and chanting voices punctuated by laughter. The smells of spiced wine, of the peppered vinegar that the locals put on their fried fish, the sweetish scent of brown onion simmering somewhere to be mixed into the steamed cabbage and rice balls.
“I . . . I think we need to make certain his past hasn’t turned lethal.” Tau raised his voice as someone nearby began another of those galloping drumbeats, this time accompanied by a syncopated cymbal. “He believes this king is a friend.”
A song began, sung by women—a jolly, rollicking tune.
“Aha! You don’t trust him either.”
Tau raised a hand. “I don’t mistrust him because he’s become a king. What I mistrust is how things might have changed in nine years. Inda says he knows everything might be different, but I don’t think he believes it. Because in so many ways he hasn’t changed in nine years. That clearer?”
Jeje nodded. “Bringing us to that past. Let’s have that business about Inda using his right name.”
“How much do you remember about Inda?” Tau tipped his head, ducking out of the way of a young woman’s elbow as she danced by, her embroidered robe swaying.
“His name isn’t Inda Elgar, it’s Indavun Algraveer, or whatever it was you said back on the coast.” Jeje jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “I remember that much. And I remember what you said about his father being a prince, and some scandal or other, hoola hoola hoola. But he’s home, so why not speak up and use his name?”
The dancing women whirled near.
“Because.” Tau leaned toward Jeje. “One thing that’s fairly clear about Marlovans—besides their rep for conquering—is their notion of honor. That seems to include very long memories for old troubles.”
He scooted up next to her, their thighs touching, as two or three young women danced very close to their table, hands clapping to one side then the other, point and counterpoint, hips swaying. The top of one’s hand brushed against the back of Tau’s head, lingering on his silky hair.
Jeje scowled at the table, finger drawing the Vixen’s long, elegant shape in the moisture ring from her mug as she tried not to be aware of the warm press of his leg against hers.
So she’d think about Inda. Old troubles, yes, like a thirty-year-old murder in the previous generation. Like Inda and Barend—an old shipmate and a Marlovan. Upon discovering that Barend’s father had hired people to kill Inda’s father’s first family all of thirty years ago, Inda had acted like it happened three days ago.
At the sight of her straight black brows lowered in a line across her forehead, Tau said, “Whatever it was that Inda did as a boy to get him exiled, it might not make sense to us. But what happened matters to Inda.”
“And so if he walks right into trouble, thinking he deserves it, we’ll haul him out if we can.” Jeje huffed. No use in complaining about the crazy ways of Marlovans. She’d forced herself on this quest of Inda’s, which meant she had no right to complain.
So she turned her attention outward again; it sure had gotten noisy and crowded all of a sudden.
Then she laughed. It was mainly noisy right in their corner: the young women gathered for their Restday socializing seemed to be aiming their songs and dancing at Tau. They sang in his direction, as the boldest danced as close to him as they could get, despite the jumble of tables and shoved-back chairs they had to navigate around.
He smiled absently when one bumped her hip i
nto his shoulder then leaned down to apologize. He opened his hand in polite salute, but no invitation. She withdrew, hips rolling, and glanced back once, but he wasn’t watching. Jeje was. She met the woman’s eyes and the woman gave her a rueful grin. Jeje grinned back.
Tau whispered to Jeje, “We’re being crowded out. Let’s get some sleep. You know Inda—we’ll be riding before the sun rises.”
They rose together; as the innkeeper handed Tau a candle in a ceramic holder Jeje looked back at the women to encounter several appreciative glances directed at Tau’s backside and long legs, outlined as they were in the deck trousers—narrow at the hips, gradually widening down. The same woman as before gave Jeje a flick of fingers to heart in respect.
If only you knew he thinks of me as a sister, Jeje thought with an inward flutter of laughter as she followed Tau to the room the innkeeper had pointed out. No, more like a little brother.
The door shut and they were alone.
It was a small room, smaller than the one she’d had to live in for that long harbor stay in Bren, and no sound of the sea. The room smelled of wood, and faintly of mildew, and herb-laced leddas-wax candles; it had only a tiny table next to a bed. There were hooks on the wall for clothes. The air was sharply cold after the warmth of the inn’s main room.
Tau set the candle on the table and moved to the window to look out. While his back was turned she flung off her tunic, kicked off her trousers, stockings, and shoes, then climbed hastily under the quilt and lay straight, and as close to the edge of the bed as possible. Tau sighed, “Ooh, I’m sore,” as he yanked the laces free on his shirt and pulled it up over his head.
Jeje had conquered her old girlhood passion, thoroughly and competently. Yes, she had. What she struggled against now was a young woman’s awareness of candlelit golden hair; a long, lean form with hard muscle moving under smooth, golden-brown skin; the smell of male—a compound with sea brine and sweat and a faint whiff of horse. Unexciting smells when considered separately, but combined, emanating from Tau’s flesh, they evoked all the old passion and desire. And so she pulled the quilt to her nose, sniffing in its faint aroma of mildew, and resolutely shut her eyes. Though she was acutely aware of the soft sounds of shifting cloth as Tau finished undressing and neatly hung up his clothes.
Then he puffed, and the red light on her lids went out. The bed shifted, and she fell inward as Tau’s weight settled beside her. The aged mattress—stuffed with old horse blankets—promptly slid her toward the middle. She arched away, hoping he wouldn’t think she was encroaching.
The bed shifted, and Tau said, “My ass aches.”
She dared the smallest peek. In the cool blue moonlight from the tiny window he was barely visible lying back, arms crossed behind his head. She caught herself wanting to sniff more deeply of his scent, and pressed the quilt firmly over her nose. “Ump.”
Tau exhaled softly. “All right. Let’s sleep.”
And—she almost could have counted his breaths—he soon was. His breathing slowed to a light snore that she found amazingly endearing, until he turned to the side and his breathing quieted.
She lay there staring upward, her emotions midway between laughter and exasperation. Much deeper, her young self wailed over what might have been, and she wondered how many years this night would last. But tiredness conquered awareness at last, and she dropped gradually into a jumble of restless dreams.
When she woke, the blue light of impending dawn diffused the shadows in the dingy little room. The air on her face was chilly.
She was at once aware of a warm back pressed against her side. Tau! She eased away, her inner thighs sending white-hot lightning bolts of pain to prickle tears in her eyes.
“You awake?” came a drowsy, husky voice. “How do you feel?”
“Sore.” She was not going to say where.
“Me, too. How can these people do that every day, all day? Though I guess they could say the same about us. I remember when I first came aboard the Ryala, and Fassun set me to the hardest ropes until my hands bled. Kodl thrashed him for it. Remember Fassun? How long ago that seems!”
Jeje said in a gruff voice, “I hope Testhy is all right.”
“He would be. He’s like me, always seeks comfort first.”
Jeje snorted.
“You don’t believe me?” Tau shifted to face her, raising himself up on an elbow, hand supporting his head. His eyes were clear and smiling, his hair loose and spilling across the pillow; the end of a lock almost touched her.
Once—after they’d been captured by the pirate Gaffer Walic—he’d cut his hair off with a sword and thrown it into the sea, just because the pirate’s woman Coco had loved playing with it. It had nearly grown out to its old length again.
Jeje gritted her teeth, her arms crossed across her middle, her hands balled into fists.
Tau’s brows came together. “Are you in that much pain?”
A way out of this impossible situation? “Yes.”
“Oh, well, then, turn over. Let me work on you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” And, because he not only looked surprised but a little hurt, she added, somewhat desperately, “I know you hate being touched. That means you must hate touching other people.”
His long lashes lifted. “That’s not true.”
“I’ve seen you when people grab at you. Caresses. Fingering. Coco, and others. How disgusted you were. They couldn’t see it, but I did.”
The curve of Tau’s mouth thinned to a white line for a moment. “That’s not touch, that’s possession. It’s true, I hated being regarded as someone’s pet lapdog, and I have always wondered if dogs feel the same. It’s why I never wanted a pet. But you’ve never done that to me, tried to make me a possession. You’ve never made any move toward me at all.”
“Well, then, I’m glad to be of service.”
Tau was puzzled by her flush. Anger? Her voice, so deep—she’d had the deepest voice of all until the boys crossed the threshold of puberty—was like the rough, chesty growl of a big feline.
He laughed. “Jeje, you are impossible to understand at times. Will you, or will you not, permit me to use some of my trained trickery on you? Inda has asked me often enough, when his wounds trouble him. I believe we survived the encounters.”
Jeje flumped over, her arms stiff at her sides. She knew her shift was awry, her drawers twisted, but she wouldn’t fumble at her clothes. Wouldn’t move.
Fingers traced lightly along her back muscles, leaving tiny trails of warm prickles. She shut her eyes and clenched her teeth harder. Tau’s fingers expertly found the knots and kneaded deeply, a rhythmic, soothing sensation that really did ease the aches gathered all along her lower back—aches she hadn’t even been aware of because of the worse ones down below.
Despite her control her breathing eased as the pain faded, leaving the warmth of . . . no. No! But when his fingers moved to her legs, and he worked his way along her pain-stiffened thigh muscles, the easement, and the attendant crescendo of building desire, made her unable to resist when he gently tugged at her to turn over. She kept her eyes shut, but her flesh and nerves tingled with expectancy.
“Ah,” Tau breathed. “Ah.” And his hands drifted up her body, so gently, so softly, she didn’t even realize he’d lifted her shift until the cold morning air touched her charged flesh.
He chuckled, the sound sending another flare of insistence through her.
She opened her dark brown eyes. He gazed down, enjoying very much the confusion he saw in her usually capable, closed face. Jeje the wise, the considerate, the cool hand with bow and arrow who sailed through the worst fire-fights, and there were two, no, three, arrow scars to prove it. Not that she had ever complained, or even let anyone see them.
He saw them now, and bent to kiss each. Long, soft kisses, and he sniffed her warm, slightly salty scent, and then bent to kiss her brow, and when her breathing altered, the tip of her nose, and then her parted lips.
She growled, the jagged purr
of a mountain cat.
Now thoroughly enchanted, Tau pressed soft kisses on her collarbones, and she lay with her hands open, eyelashes fluttering on her cheeks as he, with infinite care, moved downward—
A thud on the door startled them.
“Sunup! You awake?” Inda yelled through the flimsy wood.
“No,” Tau called, and grinned down at Jeje, a laughing grin that brought an even deeper flush to her cheeks, and her own rare, endearing grin in return. “We’re busy.”
“Well, hurry up!” And, diminishing down the hall, Inda’s plaintive addition, “Why didn’t they think of that last night?”
“Should we go?” Jeje asked.
Tau was delighted to see his own want reflected in her steady dark eyes. “Let them linger over their breakfast,” he suggested, and she laughed.
Chapter Four
CHERRY-STRIPE Marlo-Vayir and his brother, Buck, watched from the dining chamber windows as their father limped across the courtyard below toward the stable. When old Hasta was out of sight, his thin gray-white horsetail flopping on his broad back, Cherry-Stripe elbowed Buck. “See that? He’s like a boy again.”
Their father had returned for a short time from the enormous horse stud the Marlo-Vayirs maintained in their plains, a day’s ride to the north. He had begun this past winter brooding and quiet. Though no one referred to it, they could not forget that shortly after the previous New Year’s Convocation, Hasta had been drawn into Mad Gallop Yvana-Vayir’s conspiracy, which had led to a royal bloodbath.
When it came time to depart for the royal city for this winter’s Convocation, as all Jarls had to do each New Year’s in order to renew their oaths, Hasta had insisted on his elder son going to make his vows to the king as the new Jarl of Marlo-Vayir. “Young kings need young Jarls,” he had said. His son obeyed—but he’d been afraid he’d return and find his father dead.
Instead, old Hasta had retired to the horse stud, where he seemed happier than he’d been for years. He came back only to consult with Buck about the crop rotation and arrange for some supplies, then he was off again.