Bloodraven (34 page)

That look struck a chord of annoyance with Yhalen. That arrogant woman had cast a charm on him, and a wicked one at that, and he’d fallen prey like the densest of fools. He snatched the portion of the bread that Bloodraven had not eaten and tore a hunk off, chewing furiously. His mother wasn’t a charm caster, but his grandfather was—as were a few other of the Ydregi gifted with the blessing of the Goddess. Of course, charming a person against their will, was as frowned upon as say, for instance, draining the forest of its vitality or stealing the life force from a person. Ydregi charms were used to help. A man might desire one to overcome his fear of something or to help break a bad habit—they were not used to garner unwilling sex.

Bloodraven pushed the platter towards him. There was a good piece of meat left, and vegetables softened and stained by the pork juices and spices. Bloodraven was methodically sucking grease off his fingers.

The pork was very good. Tender and seasoned. Yhalen chewed and simmered, wondering how he was going to go about avoiding falling prey to Lady Duvera’s invocations again. He’d heard too much of it, he thought, recalling that whisper in his mind that a person without the gift would never have noticed. He’d been too exhausted and off his balance to catch the scent of it sooner, or he might have cast her out like he’d done at the end of her chant. That had obviously been far too late to do him much good.

“Good meat,” Bloodraven observed, having finished grooming himself of pork grease.

“Oh, shut up,” Yhalen snapped, hardly considering short ogrish tempers or prickly ogrish pride.

Bloodraven lifted a dark brow, frowning, looking very much perturbed by the suddenness of Yhalen’s temper.

“Oh, by the Goddess, she charmed me, you idiot!”

Bloodraven continued to stare.

“You don’t think I was so desperate for your attentions suddenly that I could hardly wait till she was out of the room? It was a spell. Didn’t you have a notion?”

Brows furrowed and black-fringed eyes narrowed. “Mind your tongue with me, or I’ll take you across my knee to teach proper manners. You seemed honest in your enthusiasm.”

Yhalen slapped the pallet in frustration. “You called me a witch, but she’s one in fact and she cast a charm on me to make me...do what I did. It was no want of mine.”

“You seemed to enjoy it.”

“I didn’t....”

Yhalen trailed off, realizing that for a blatant mistruth. He’d gotten intense pleasure out of the act, almost more than he’d been able to bear—but he was uncertain if that had been the charm telling him he wanted it, or his body in truth responding to Bloodraven’s attentions.

“That’s not the point.” He dropped his head into his hands, cheeks flaming, so very acutely aware of the soreness in his backside and the sensitivity that still stung his nipples.

“Why did she not place some spell on me, then, to force my cooperation?”

“I don’t know,” Yhalen admitted. “Perhaps you’re not so easy to spell, being only half human. How should I know, not having studied the practice?”

“Easy enough to heal, though, eh?” Bloodraven said dryly.

“It's not the same thing,” Yhalen snapped.

Bloodraven sat and pondered and finally asked, “Is it gone, this spell?”

Yhalen blinked, lifting his head, not having considered the lasting effects of the lady’s charm, only bemoaning the initial reaction. How did one know, save from not losing all reason and falling upon Bloodraven in a desperate passion? He didn’t hear the tiny whisper in his head urging him on, so perhaps the spell had dissipated after passion had spent itself.

“I don’t know,” he admitted in a small voice. “I think so.”

“Shall we see?”

Bloodraven moved very quickly when he chose and was looming over Yhalen before he realized the halfling had shifted. He grasped Yhalen’s jaw and covered startled lips with his mouth. The tongue

that slipped into his mouth was more leisurely than demanding, and tasted of the watered wine he’d been drinking. It was velvety roughness on the top and slick beneath. Between it and the hand that slid down his bare back, splay-fingered and firm as it pressed his body hard against Bloodraven’s own.

Yhalen felt helpless little electric shivers rush through his limbs as heat tingled at his groin.

He moaned, winding his arms around Bloodraven’s thick neck and opening his mouth wider to accept all that Bloodraven had to offer. His thoughts scattered a little, but no more so than they ever did when libido came into play. Bloodraven’s hand squeezed his ass, and overtaxed muscles protested the notion of being stretched again so soon after such a thorough workout, bringing Yhalen very sharply back to his senses.

“Goddess!”

He gasped, pushing against Bloodraven’s shoulders to break the kiss. He was embarrassingly aware of his half-hardened cock caught between their bodies. Bloodraven had to be aware of it, as well. The ogr’ron lifted a brow, his breathing not nearly so erratic as Yhalen’s had become.

“Maybe a little is left,” Yhalen lied, knowing very well that it had been nothing of outside invocation that had quickened his blood this time. “Not much. Could you pl-please put me down?”

Bloodraven shrugged and did so, the bulge in his trousers more obvious by far than the one in Yhalen’s. Twice in an hour would kill him, Yhalen thought miserably, eyes fixed on that impressive hidden shaft. Well, at the very least he’d been regrettably sore for some time to come. He tore his gaze away, but Bloodraven’s face was no easier to look at, golden eyes shimmering with faint satisfaction.

“We will discuss this further,” Bloodraven declared, rising and stretching.

That caused an impressive display of muscle and ochre-tinted flesh that drew Yhalen’s eye like a moth to flame. He had to force his stare somewhere safer, and focused instead on the remnants of the meal. He had the sinking notion that now the door had been opened, wicked charm or no, it would not be so easily closed.

Two days of nothing but blank walls, the regular arrival of meals, and Bloodraven’s uncomfortable company had Yhalen in a foul, dark mood. Guilty embarrassment had some small contribution to his state of mind. Though he felt no more irresistible urges towards his half human cellmate, he was well enough aware of his physical presence, well enough aware of the raw animal magnetism Bloodraven emitted to realize that, under different circumstances, he might not be so quick to shun his advances.

That realization annoyed him no end, and he spent the better part of a day casting dark, accusing glances at the ogr’ron’s broad back.

His dark glares seemed to bother Bloodraven not at all. Bloodraven, having little enough else to do, slept a good deal of the time, making Yhalen wonder if perhaps during the worst part of the mountain winters, ogres did not retreat into a sort of hibernation to wait out the intractable weather. Asking would have created a dialogue that he wasn’t willing to start, as he wasn’t willing in any way to give Bloodraven an opening to initiate more intimate activities. So he sat on a folded pile of cloth in the corner furthest from the comfortable pallet and brooded.

He grudgingly admitting that if Bloodraven had truly wished to dally between the furs then nothing Yhalen could have done would have stopped him. Honestly said, it would have been a spirited way to pass the slow drip of time, and Bloodraven had cast many a long, speculative look at Yhalen after the lady’s devious spell had faded, but he’d not acted upon them. Perhaps he was wary of all the magic practiced around him of late. Perhaps, Yhalen admitted reluctantly, he was simply honoring Yhalen’s obvious desire that he keep his distance.

Honor. That wasn’t a trait Yhalen would have associated with the brutal invaders from the north, but he couldn’t help but admit that throughout his association with Bloodraven, the halfling had shown the occasional trace of it. Though whether the ogre concept of honor, in all its aspects, was anything close to the human version was yet to be seen.

On the third day, the tromping of footsteps down the stair and the rattling of the sturdy lock happened before the usual appearance of their breakfast. Bloodraven made no move to stand, but Yhalen did, not able to feign the halfling’s air of casual courage quite so readily. There were a good deal more guards in the hall than what usually accompanied the arrival of meals, and not all of them wore the colors of this keep. Yhalen recognized Lord Tangery’s red and black livery on at least half of the men.

“You.” One of the prince Protector’s men jabbed a finger at Yhalen. “You’re given leave of this room.”

Yhalen blinked, a great wave of hope rushing through him. Freedom. Was he being granted his freedom from this unjust imprisonment?

There was a sound from the corner, a low growl and a quiet shifting of weight as Bloodraven rose.

Every guard in the room went tense, hands slipping to the hilts of weapons.

“Wait.” Tangery’s man held up a hand in warning, both to Bloodraven and the guards grouped around him, then said pointedly to Bloodraven, “He’ll be back. Lord Tangery only wishes to speak privately. When he’s finished, the boy will be returned, by the word of my lord.”

Yhalen shuddered, the brief optimism leaking away, having the distinct feeling that Lord Tangery would rather take the point of a sword than willingly break a promise given. He glanced at Bloodraven and saw him incline his head, accepting. The guards let out a collective breath of relief as one of Dunval’s men ushered Yhalen out into the hall, past servants struggling down the stairs with field chairs, a table, and what looked to be refreshments. Of Tangery himself, Yhalen saw no sign on his way up. He lost interest in looking quickly enough as he exited the basement door and saw true sunlight for the first time in what seemed weeks instead of mere days.

He stood in a square of light emitted from one of the high windows set along the length of the hall, breathing in the healing rays. Nothing could live without sunlight in some form or another.

He decided to test the limits of his freedom and walked towards the doors leading out into the yard. No one stopped him, but he felt the presence of a guard trailing behind him. People were just 105

beginning to move around the yard, preparing for a long day of work. The smell of baking bread permeated the yard on the kitchen side of the keep. He wandered that way. Depending on how long a talk Lord Tangery planned to have with Bloodraven, Yhalen was likely to miss breakfast. He had no qualms about taking it above the crust of the earth, basking in daylight.

The cooks weren’t ready to start doling out breakfast yet, though. Bread was still baking and porridge still simmering. Half an hour, they claimed, shooing him and his guard away. He went to the barracks where he’d slept before being forced into Bloodraven’s company, remembering the wash trough in the garden attached to it. A few servants still dallied in the barracks. Where before, they had paid him little heed, now they stopped and stared, their mouths agape. No matter the secrecy of their lord’s plans, nothing escaped the gossip of servants. He refused to meet their eyes, though he couldn’t help the blush that stained his cheeks knowing what they must assume. Knowing the truth of those assumptions.

He washed in the trough, blinding himself to the guard’s presence. Bodily modesty had never been a Ydregi trait, though of recent Yhalen had started to become protective of his personal privacy. He dipped his head and scrubbed his hair and scalp clean with the sliver of soap left on the edge of the trough. He stood with the trough between himself and the guard and washed the rest of his body, then wiped himself quickly dry with the used cloths other servants had left before he redressed. He squeezed out his hair, toweling as much wetness as he could from it, then twisted it into a rope and tied it in a damp knot at the back of his neck to keep the back of his shirt dry.

The kitchen was serving breakfast by the time he returned, and he stood in a line of guards, keep servants, and laborers, waiting for his portion. A hunk of bread and a bowl of porridge with a dash of honey, all washed down with plain water. Not as rich a fare as they’d been sending down of late to Bloodraven, but appreciated nonetheless.

He sat on the edge of a short stone wall and ate, his guard having gotten his own breakfast that he sat consuming not very far away. As he was sopping up the last of the porridge with the remaining bread, he caught sight of a familiar figure. Meliah paused in her passage, what looked to be a load of laundry in a basket on her hip, staring at him in surprise. Almost she made to approach, but Yhalen’s guard stood, a warning look on his face and the girl ducked her head, casting Yhalen a quick, pitying look before hurrying on.

Whether the pity bothered him more, or the guard’s interference, he couldn’t say. He supposed the guard had orders to keep Yhalen from spreading tales about what they were doing, what they had bartered for cooperation from a dread enemy. It wasn’t as if the people of the keep didn’t know. It wasn’t as if Meliah’s pity came from the fact that he’d been taken into the care of the lord and lady of the keep instead of being tossed out to fend for himself.

He suddenly felt sick to his stomach. He put the bowl down, hands shaking as he scanned the yard to see how many other eyes were drawn to where he sat. Quite a few, though most of them were furtive, and turned away to whisper to companions when they saw him looking. He rose, staring blindly ahead, and headed for the main building. At least inside the castle there were not so many idle bodies. At least there, he could find a private corner to wallow in his embarrassment alone. But the guard caught up with him once inside the doors, and latched hold of his arm, turning him towards the enclosed staircase leading to the upper floors.