Feast of Souls (57 page)

Slowly she shook her head. “No.”
Not wounded, not by mortal weapons
.

The answer did not seem to comfort him. He laid back his head with a sigh of resignation. “I am sorry,” he whispered. “I should have told you—”

She said nothing. It seemed she could hear his heart pounding… or perhaps that was her own.

“I suppose I should have told Netando, too, back at the Third Moon… but then he would not have let me come with you.” He sighed again. “You should know the truth, Lianna, since you saved me. The reason I fell—”

She put a finger to his lips to silence him. “Quiet,” she whispered. “Do not say it. I know.”

His lips were warm to her touch, so very warm. Was that because of the living soulfire inside him, or did he simply seem warm in contrast to the chill of the abyss that had taken root in her own soul? One wrong thought, one moment of regret over his dying, and she would plummet down into that darkness forever. A terrifying thought.

Her heart was pounding. His life fueled every beat. She could feel it inside her, his strength rushing through her veins, warming her flesh, supporting each breath. She could feel it inside him as well.

His reached up to take her hand from his lips, and whispered, “Were you a woman to the others, as well?”

For a moment she did not realize what he meant. Then she glanced down and saw that the wrappings which normally constrained her breasts had come loose during the battle. The neck of her doublet was open, and as she leaned down over him the natural curves of her body were undisguised. “It doesn’t matter,” she said softly. “I use spells…”

…
born of your life force
. She couldn’t bring herself to say it.

He reached with his free hand to the edge of her doublet, and ran a finger along the inner curve of her breast. His rain-drenched touch was cold against the warmth of her skin… but that was surely not why she shivered. “Yet you use no spells with me.”

“No,” she whispered. Mesmerized by his voice, his touch. “Not with you.”

His hand slipped inside the neck of her doublet, stroking the fullness of her breast. She should have protested—wanted to protest—but she couldn’t. It was
his
heat rushing through her veins now.
His
desire making her legs feel weak. His hand caressed her lightly, suggestively, and then, when she offered no resistance, more firmly; he slid his other arm around her and pulled her close to him.

And then he kissed her. She had never allowed a man that liberty before. With all the indignities she had suffered to satisfy male passions, all the manners of degrading services she had sold at various prices, she had never given any man that. How could she explain what such an intimacy meant to her, or why she guarded it so fiercely? For a moment, as his lips touched hers, she stiffened, and she almost drew back from him… but then she heard him sigh softly in pleasure, and she tasted the sweat and the sweetness on his lips, and she knew that this was different than anything which men had asked of her before.

“Netando,” she breathed. “He will come looking for us—”

“Let him look,” he whispered, and he kissed her again. There was an urgency to his touch that could not be denied. Little wonder. He had faced death tonight, and needed to reinforce his ties to life. She could taste the need in him, as powerful a driving force as the hunger to survive. It flowed into her veins as well, along with his athra. Energizing. Intoxicating.

Together they slid down onto the floor of the wagon, until they lay in the narrow crevice between the close-packed crates of spices and perfumes. A fine dust of some red substance, whose crate had been damaged by the rigors of the road, trickled down the back of her neck. Part of her knew that what she was doing was madness; Magisters did not become intimate with their consorts. But the words were empty things, drowned out by the pounding of her heart, and by the growing spark of her own desire.

Slowly, she peeled the sodden cloth of his shirt back from his torso, and ran her fingers over the smoothly muscled flesh beneath. There were scars that cut across his chest, parallel ridges long since healed; touching her lips to them, she tasted the memories they contained.
The joy of freedom. The exhilaration of the hunt. The rush of hot blood as a great beast comes close, too close, but even that pain is a kind of pleasure, an act of communion with one’s prey
. It seemed that memories from his entire life shimmered along his skin, and flowed into her as if they were her own when she touched him. Heady memories, which she savored as she ran her tongue slowly along his wounds, drinking in their energy like a fine wine.

Ah, my prince… would we have this pleasure to share if you did not belong to me?

Men’s voices sounded near the wagon suddenly. For a moment she thought of using her sorcery to make sure no one tried to look in on them, but that would be a poor answer to his passion. Let it be enough that every breath she took was stolen from him, that every heartbeat which resounded in her chest meant one less beat would sound in his, that the very heat in her loins was drawn from his own hunger. She would take no more from him than that. Not now.

The owners passed by on their own and the sounds faded. Kamala had not realized until that moment that she’d been holding her breath. Talesin caressed her lips softly as she exhaled and then kissed her again.

“It doesn’t matter,” he whispered.

They think I am a boy… they cannot find us like this
… Then his hand slid between her thighs, his touch leaving rivers of hunger flowing across her skin. She moaned despite herself and shut her eyes, transported by the sensation. Let the rest of the world be damned. She would drink in this moment for what it was worth, and worry later about the consequences.

Sliding his hands up to her waist, he tried to untie the cords that held her leggings in place. It was a difficult task in such cramped quarters, but boy’s wear did not allow the kind of freedom a woman required for love-making, and so they must be taken off. For perhaps the first time in her life Kamala found she regretted not wearing women’s clothing; the thought was so unexpected that she laughed softly at herself. Talesin looked up in concern, but she smiled and put a finger to his lips and then followed it with her own kiss, turning his attention back to more pressing issues.

And then the ties at her waist finally came loose, and with trembling hands he slid the leggings down over her hips, over her thighs, free of her legs entirely. She slipped loose the closure of his own breeches, drawing him free from the confining cloth as she parted her thighs to receive him. And then he was quickly inside her, not only his flesh but his spirit as well, his athra surging through her veins anew with every thrust. The sensation was so intense that she almost cried out, but she did not; instead she bit down on her lip so hard that it bled, determined not to make any noise that might draw other people to their hiding place.

And then all those other people ceased to exist, and so did the world they inhabited. And for a short while there was only hunger, and fire, and a pleasure so forbidden it did not even have a name.

* * *

Peace.

It was a rare and precious thing in his life. A brief time when struggles and fears could be set aside, forgotten. A moment to savor the simple here-and-now of human passion, and drink in the peace that came at the end of it.

The witch Lianna rested against his side, her hand on his chest, breathing in time with his heartbeat as if there was nothing wrong in the world. As if he was not soon to die.

For that one precious moment, he could almost believe it himself.

Thank you
, he thought to her. Not knowing how to say the words aloud without feeling foolish.
Thank you for giving me this
.

Voices rose in the distance. He could not say what about them made him suddenly come alert, but Lianna was startled as well. This was not just a few random speakers who happened to be heading in their direction, like before. Some kind of argument was going on, and it was rapidly coming closer.

Quickly he helped her back into her clothing. It wasn’t easy in the small space. As they struggled to get her leggings tied back on the voices came closer; with a sinking heart he realized the speakers were heading right towards their wagon. There was no time to restore her disguise, or do anything other than avoid total indecency; if she wanted to convince the men outside she was not a woman she would have to rely upon her witchery for it, for her clothes would no longer serve. Not in their current state.

They will see me coming out of this wagon with a half-dressed boy
, he mused, as he pulled his own shirt and breeches back into order. It was darkly amusing.

He didn’t loosen the oilcloth cover, but simply slipped out the small opening that Kamala had left. She did the same. Outside, the companies of both merchants seemed to be circling around some new arrival, like nervous hounds that wanted a sniff of a strange new dog but were afraid to get too close. That didn’t bother Talesin. Taking her hand, he led her through the outer ranks of the group until they were close enough to see the man about whom the circle had formed. He was tall and slender, with the olive skin and almond eyes of the eastern races. His black clothes were dry despite the rain, as was his long, jet-black hair, and when Andovan looked closely he could see that the rain was not falling in the place where he stood. Everywhere else on the road, but not there. It was the kind of display of power that left no doubt as to what he was, and how dangerous he might be to any man that chose to cross him.

The newcomer’s eyes fell upon Andovan then, and it was clear that everyone else in the circle had ceased to be of interest to him. “Ah, you are here after all. These fools insisted you were not.”

It took him a minute to find his voice. “Colivar? What are you doing here?”

The Magister glanced at Lianna. It was clear from his expression that he was seeing right through whatever witchery she used to disguise herself, and that didn’t leave much question about what had been going on between them. He raised a thin eyebrow but said nothing, asked nothing, merely turned his attention to Andovan once more.

“We need to speak,” he said quietly. “In private.”

He nodded toward Netando’s coach. If Netando had any objections to a Magister commandeering his vehicle, he did not voice them. Smart man.

Andovan wanted to look back at Lianna and reassure her, but he didn’t.
Never appear weak before a Magister
, his father had taught him.
They are like wolves beneath those black robes, and will tear a man to pieces if he gives them the opening.

Knowing himself a prince of royal blood, trying to display the kind of confidence a prince should have, he led the way to Netando’s carriage, and did not look back.

The interior of the carriage was dark and musty but passably dry, its seats covered with once-opulent silk cushions that had been beaten flat by the rigors of past journeys. Colivar gestured for Andovan to precede him inside, wanting one last look at this witch his wayward prince had found.

How quietly she stood there. How patient. Not gawking, like the morati were. Not nervous, like the guards were. More… defiant. Her eyes glittered like cold, hard diamonds, and in truth they were the only part of her that he could see with any clarity; the spells of disguise that were wrapped around her were too tightly woven—too
skillfully
woven—for him to unravel them without considerable effort. Oh, Andovan’s own thoughts had revealed her as a woman, and bore witness to their recent intimacy, but trying to read her directly was like trying to read a book that had been sealed shut. All he could do was study the cover and wonder at the contents.

The spell he had cast on Andovan back in Danton’s realm was gone now; that much was clear to Colivar the first moment he saw the young prince. Which meant one of two things: either it had accomplished its purpose and expired naturally, or someone had banished it. Which was the more intriguing possibility? Could this diamond-eyed witch wrapped in the seeming of a young man be the one that all the Magisters were hunting? Parasite of princes, killer of Magisters, perhaps even a sorcerer in her own right? Even asking the question was dangerous, Colivar realized. If Andovan was truly her consort, then any attempt to scrutinize the link between them with sorcery might prove a fatal enterprise. Which is why he had not tried to do so yet.

A strange rush of excitement rippled through his veins at the sight of her. Let morati men drink in their fill of undying love and political passions; such things lost their power to affect a human soul after the tenth, hundredth, even thousandth repetition. For a Magister there was nothing more exciting than novelty, nothing more maddening than a mystery not yet explored. How many centuries had it been since Colivar had last seen something new come into the world? He could not even begin to count. Yet here there was something genuinely new, something that appeared to break all the rules of the world he lived in, perhaps the very first creature of its kind—and he was unable to give her the attention she deserved. Maddening.