Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 (26 page)

 
          
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He
was waiting for her, as she had asked. In shadow, in a chair, hands resting
unquietly on the downward sweep of each armrest. A ring glittered on one
finger: sapphire set in silver. On yet another, jet, rimmed with delicate gold.

 
          
Blythe
shut the door quietly, looking at him in concern. The flesh was drawn too
tautly over the bones of his face. It made him look almost feral. "It may
be nothing," she said. She had already said it twice, on the way to meet
him in private.

 
          
He
did not move at all, not even to agree, or to shake his head. He was angry,
frightened, confused, but afraid to admit it. Afraid he had no right. She saw
it in his eyes.

 
          
She
walked slowly across the chamber to stand in front of the chair. The man seated
in it did not look into her eyes, but stared as if transfixed at the girdle
spanning her waist. Silver chimed as she moved, swinging with her skirts. It
stopped even as she did; the silver sang no more.

 
          
She
could hardly bear to look at him without touching him. It had been so from the
beginning, from the very first time they had met. She had put no credence in
such tales, consigning them to silly serving-girls dreaming away the hours, but
then Tevis had come down from his mountain exile bearing an invitation from
Ilsa to spend as much time as he liked. They were of an age, she and Tevis, and
like-minded about many things. The instant attraction had flared into something
far more physical; and yet the knowledge they dared not fulfill what they most
desired increased the tension tenfold. That her parents approved was implicit
in Ilsa's invitation; it was, Blythe knew, their way of telling her Tevis was
suitable in all the ways that counted for kings and queens.

 
          
The
last way was hers to decide: could she love and live with the man?

 
          
He
filled her days and nights. She judged every man against him, comparing the
shape of facial bones, the set of eyes, the line of chin and jaw. Even the way
hair grew; in Tevis, easy to see because he cropped it short. She thought him
everything a man should be to light up a woman's world. The chatter among the
serving-girls and court women told her she was correct; he lighted more worlds
than her own, or would, had he the chance to stray.

 
          
But
Tevis had never strayed.

 
          
He
was a man, even as men judged one another. And yet sensitive as a woman. It was
the contradictions in him that appealed to her most: the quietude that spoke of
privacy and deep thought; the understated power of personality that, allowed to
flare, might consume them all.

 
          
Blythe
drew in a breath and released it carefully. She put out both hands and locked
them into his hair, palms pressing against his head as she threaded fingers
tightly. Near-black hair was cropped short, displaying the elegant shape of his
head. At the back of his neck it was longer, trying to curl; thick springy
waves seduced her.

 
          
Slowly
she drew him forward. It was a measure of her own apprehension and anguish that
she touched him as she did, forcing the intimacy they wanted so badly, but had
not shared. Neither of them had dared. Now, she knew, they had to.

 
          
His
breath caressed the girdle; she pressed him closer yet, turning his face
against her pelvis. The arch of his cheek, through the velvet, was hard.

 
          
She
fought to keep her voice even. "We cannot be certain—"

 
          
Lean,
long-fingered hands clasped her hips. His words were muffled by skirts, but she
heard them. "Aye, I think we can." The hoarse tone was firm, but
underscored with despair. '"He has made no secret of it: the heir to
Homana has come to Solinde to find a wife."

 
          
She
felt the flutter of trepidation in her breast. Her hands in his hair tightened.
"If you were to go to my father—"

 
          
"He
already knows."

 
          
Desperation
rose. "And have you spoken to him? Have you actually
told
him you want to marry me?"

 
          
He
withdrew from her sharply, taking his hands from her. A spasm twisted his face.
"No. Of course not. How can I? He is the Prince of Solinde, and I am—"

 
          
"—kin,"
she finished flatly, "—to the
Queen
of Solinde."

 
          
It
was a tangled sovereignty. Hart still used his Homanan title, forgoing the
loftier Solindish ranking until his father died, when he would inherit fully.
But Ilsa was Solindish, the highest of the highborn, and the Solindish Council
had bequeathed her the title when she married Hart. Their petty revenge, Blythe
knew; she knew also it did not matter. Her father did not care.

 
          
Just
now, it might help.

 
          
He
rose and moved away from her. The room was her own, a private sitting chamber
adjoining her personal apartments, and they both knew it unwise. She was
allowed great freedom, but only because of trust. She wondered if they would
betray it.

 
          
He
turned. In the dullness of late afternoon, ale-brown eyes were dark. His face
was expressionless, but she knew how to peel back the mask and look at the man
beneath.

 
          
Steadily,
he said, "He will make you Queen of Homana."

 
          
Blythe
lifted her head. "
Will
he, then?
Even without my permission?"

 
          
The
flesh by his eyes twitched. "What woman would not want—"

 
          
She
did not let him finish. "The woman who would rather live in Solinde, in
the high northern fastness of High Crags."

 
          
He
shut his eyes briefly. Fleeting pain ruined his brow; it smoothed almost
instantly. "You are Cheysuli," he rasped. "I have heard of the
prophecy."

 
          
For
a moment, all she could do was stare. Her heritage everyone knew—they had only
to look at her father—but it had never been an issue. Not with Tevis. He had
come down out of his mountains knowing nothing of her race, and had no reason
to fear it.

 
          
Nor
to remind her of her duty.

 
          
She
controlled her emotions with effort. "I was born in
Solinde
. I am
of
Solinde.
I would rather serve my home than a collection of foreign words."

 
          
For
a moment, he only stared. And then laughed aloud. "A 'collection of
foreign words'!" Tevis laughed again. Blue

 
          
and
black glinted on his hands; the two rings were his only vanity. "Do you
know what your father would do if he heard you blaspheme so?"

 
          
She
felt strangely calm. "I imagine he would be somewhat put out with me. I
imagine he might even take it into his head to instruct me in Cheysuli history;
certainly I would be told yet again about the
tahlmorra
in us all." Briefly, Blythe grimaced. "But it
has nothing to do with me. I am much more than merely Cheysuli."

 
          
Brown
eyes were black in the shadows. "Much more," he agreed softly,
reaching out to touch her face. The fingers barely brushed the curve of her
chin. Another step, and he touched her mouth; a third, the sweep of temple
meeting cheekbone with a caress that burned her flesh.

 
          
Blythe
leaned into it. Tension sang between them.

 
          
Abruptly
he let her go. "I know what I am. Do you?"

 
          
She
did not soften it. "The nephew of a traitor."

 
          
The
curves of his face hardened. "They will say it is my revenge."

 
          
Blythe
smiled. "Perhaps it is."

 
          
"You
are the eldest," he said, "and there is no male heir."

 
          
"Within
a week, that could change—"

 
          
"And
if it does not," he persisted. "If the child is another girl, and the
queen bears no more—"

 
          
"There
will be no more."

 
          
It
stopped him instantly.

 
          
"No
more," she repeated. "It has been decided. This is the last, boy or
girl… if it is a boy, Solinde has an heir."

 
          
"And,
if not—?"

 
          
A
bubble of laughter broke. "You said it yourself, did you not? I am the
eldest. From me will come the next."

 
          
Bitterness
pinched his tone. "They will say I
planned
it."

 
          
"Does
it matter?" she asked. "I must marry someone."

 
          
"Then
why not Aidan?"

 
          
"Because,
you
ku'reshtin
, he is not the one I
fancy."

 
          
Tevis
did not smile. "They could force you."

 
          
She
shook her head.

 
          
"If
Aidan demanded it—"

 
          
"He
is too proud to do it."

 
          
"Pride
has little to do with marriage when a prince desires a wife."

 
          
She
smiled. "You know nothing about his life. The last thing Aidan would want
is a wife who loves another. Believe me, I
know
."

 
          
His
hands closed over her shoulders. "If I lost you now—if they took you from
me—"

 
          
"No."
She shook her head.

 
          
"But
they
could
. Blythe, have you no wits?
You are too valuable to waste on a crude mountain lordling when there is a
prince in the offing!"

 
          
Blythe
unclasped her girdle. Silver dripped from her hand, then spilled onto the
floor. "Then I will rid myself of value. No prince can afford to marry a
woman whose virtue no longer exists."

 
          
He
caught her hands and held them so tightly she gasped in pain. "Not like
this!" he hissed.

 
          
"I
want it.
You
want it; you would not
dare deny it!"

 
          
"No,"
he rasped. "No. You know better than that."

 
          
Blythe
pulled her hands free and cupped his jaw in her palms. "Then forget
everything else. Set everything else aside. Let this merely be
us
, because we want it so much."

 
          
"They
can execute me for this!"

 
          
One
wild laugh escaped her. "In this, I will be Cheysuli. I will invoke my
heritage."

 
          
"Blythe—"

 
          
"Clan-rights!"
she hissed. "I give them freely to you. Now let them argue with
that
!"