Trinity Rising: Book Two of the Wild Hunt (Wild Hunt Trilogy 2) (4 page)

At the chief’s tent, Ytha stepped inside and left Teia waiting between the two guards at the door. The warriors made no attempt to hide their interest in her, their eyes roaming hungrily over her body, tracing her shape beneath the new dress. Cheeks burning, she fixed her gaze on the tent flap ahead. Macha, why didn’t they just grab at her bottom and be done with it?

After a moment or two, Ytha reappeared and beckoned to her.

‘Now remember,’ she said, hand on Teia’s shoulder, ‘do as you are bid and all will go well for you and your family. If you please the chief, your father could become a very rich man, well able to give your husband a dowry that will make up for your lost innocence. A more pleasant option than the wedding fair, yes?’

Teia swallowed a sudden stab of humiliation and nodded.

‘Yes, child, I know it stings, but a woman who cannot go innocent to her marriage bed goes to the wedding fair. It is the way of the clans and always has been.’ She squeezed Teia’s shoulder. ‘Think of what you have to gain here.’

‘I will. Thank you, Speaker.’

Ytha smiled, nodded once, then held the tent flap open for her. Teia stepped inside to face her chief.

He shared little of his father’s tastes. Gone were the simple rugs woven in traditional clan patterns; the ground-skins were spread with furs, strewn with cushions almost as opulent as the Speaker’s, and hangings in dark reds and purplish browns draped the tent sides. All that remained of Drw were the silver oil-lamps that hung from the tent poles, their yellow flames winking on the bronze and leather war gear heaped by the entrance, the chief’s sword leaning against the pile lest anyone be in any doubt as to whom the tent belonged.

Drwyn lounged on a cushion in the centre, his shirt unlaced and his muscular legs crossed casually at the ankles. He was much the same height and breadth as Drw had been, and shared his father’s dark, blunt features and near-black eyes, even wore the same close-cropped beard framing his mouth. A large gold earring gleamed amongst his thick hair.

‘Be welcome, Teia.’ He gestured to the cushions beside him. ‘Please, join me.’

‘My chief.’

Eyes demurely lowered, Teia sat on the adjacent cushion and accepted the cup of wine handed to her. She took a gulp for courage and almost choked as the raw red stuff scraped her throat.

‘Would you care for something to eat?’ Drwyn gestured to a nearby platter heaped with choice foods.

The savoury smells made her stomach churn, but she did not dare refuse. ‘You are very kind.’

He filled a plate for her, his large hands awkward with the fork, and handed it to her. She took it, dismayed by how much he’d served; she made a show of sampling everything, but her mouth was so dry she needed more wine to wash the bread and meat down. All the while Drwyn watched her. His eyes measured the curves of her body, lingered on her breasts and thighs, his gaze as blatant as a touch.

Teia managed another bite of bread, then put the plate aside.

‘Does it not please you?’ Drwyn asked.

‘I’m just not very hungry.’

‘Ah.’

He watched her again as she sipped her wine. Teia felt sick. She was too hot and, in spite of the shift underneath, the new woollen dress Ytha had given her was prickling the backs of her legs.

To distract herself from the intensity of his gaze she looked around the tent, pretending to admire the furnishings, but all she felt was queasy. The butcher’s-bucket colours of the thick hangings, the furs spread around her feet, made the tent feel like the inside of a crag-cat’s den.

A flash of light caught her eye and she stared, startled to see her own reflection looking back at her from an object hanging from the tent pole. ‘What’s that?’ She pointed.

At once Drwyn was on his feet to fetch it for her. ‘It’s a looking-glass.’

‘I’ve never seen anything like it before.’

The glass was small, not much bigger than the palm of her hand and set in an ornamented metal frame. She peered at her reflection. It was much clearer than in Ytha’s bronze mirror. She could see the freckles that dusted her skin, the colour of her eyes – violet-blue, like sunlight on a raven’s wing. Her complexion was paler than the norm for her clan, she had always known that, but she had never appreciated just how pale she was. Her reflection in a basin of water – even in a vision – did not compare to this.

‘Where did it come from?’

‘South of the mountains, I think. I found it amongst my father’s things. Do you like it?’ he asked. She nodded. ‘Then keep it. It’s yours.’

She turned to thank him and realised he had sat down on the cushions much closer than before. The arm he leaned on was behind her back and his free hand was resting on his thigh just inches from hers. Though he was barely a hand taller than her, his thick build, his nearness, was intimidating. She fiddled with the glass, trying to appear fascinated by the intricate knotwork pattern on the frame, but she knew what was going to happen – had known it since Ytha had dressed her in fine new clothes, like a doll for a child. Why else would a new chief send for the old chief’s bedmate, if not to ensure he could claim any offspring as his own? She knew Drwyn knew that she knew, too. Nonetheless her heart lurched as he took the glass from her and tossed it aside.

‘Teia.’ He held her hand in his. His breath was hot on her cheek and smelled of wine. ‘I can see why my father chose you. You’re very beautiful.’

He attempted to kiss her cheek but was foiled by her hair, so he dropped her hand and turned her face towards him. His dark eyes were even more intent now. Before she could catch her breath he had pulled her against him and his mouth was eagerly exploring hers. At first she tried to drag her head back, but his grip was too strong. She shut her eyes and let her mouth open under the pressure of his tongue.

Once he realised she was pliant, his free hand began to roam over her body. She sat quite still as he ran it along her limbs, as if she were a horse he was buying, then squeezed and kneaded her breasts. His kisses grew no gentler. If anything they became more urgent as he tried to push her dress up. The skirt was too narrow and he growled in frustration.

‘Take it off,’ he said, tugging impatiently at his own shirt ‘Take it off, now!’

Teia bit her lip, then knelt and pulled the dress up over her head, and the shift along with it. There was nothing else for it. She could not run or fight – Drwyn was physically too strong for that. His musculature was clearly defined despite the mat of hair that covered his chest and belly. He could snap her in two if he chose.

Her hair fell forwards, hiding her breasts, but he pushed it back and cupped them in his hands, sucking hungrily at her nipples. Teia shut her eyes tight. His beard prickled her tender skin like the bristles of an animal.

When he released her she opened her eyes again to see him plucking at the fastenings of his trews. He freed his erection and grasped it with one hand, a warrior testing the heft of a spear. His lips drew back from his teeth, somewhere between a grin and a snarl. His other hand twined in her hair and urged her head down.

Teia gagged at the taste and the bulk of him moving in her mouth almost choked her. Drwyn groaned his pleasure, apparently unaware that her stomach heaved with every thrust. Tears spilling down her face, she wrenched her head back, even though the pain of her yanked hair brought more tears to her eyes.

Drwyn stared at her, then without warning backhanded her across the mouth. ‘Bitch!’

The force of the blow flung her across the cushions. She tasted salt; when she touched her mouth her hand came away smeared with red.

Drwyn lunged for her, seizing her arms and flipping her over onto her hands and knees. Then he was behind her, kneeling between her legs. One hand grabbed her hair and twisted it into a rope around his fist; she yelled again and was rewarded with another slap, this time across her buttocks. The breath whooshed out of her at the sudden sting. That seemed to excite him, for he struck her again, left and right across her rump. She flinched but stifled her cries, knowing without quite knowing how that if she showed her pain he would only hit her harder.

Eager fingers probed between her thighs, followed by his thick member. Grasping her hips, he pulled her hard against him. Teia squealed, but at least he had released her hair. Pushed face-first into the pillows by his weight, every breath was a struggle. Drwyn’s fingers gripped her hips with bruising force, his dense body hair coarse against her skin. Each thrust of his pelvis jabbed painfully at her insides.

Eyes screwed shut, Teia clenched her jaw. It would be over soon, Macha willing. The panting and heaving would end, if she could just endure. His movements quickened. Teeth clamped on her shoulder and she bit into the pillow under her face to keep from screaming. Soon now, it had to be soon now. Harsh breaths, harsher words that grew into a bellow of triumph as he strained hard against her buttocks. His breath fanned her ear for a minute and then he rolled off her.

Teia drew her legs up slowly, keeping her face hidden in her hair as she turned onto her side. It was all she could do not to cry aloud: her shoulder was on fire. Through the strands of her hair she saw him, chest heaving, mouth open in a broad grin of satisfaction. She smelled sweat, stale wine and the bitter realisation that although he echoed Drw physically, there the resemblance ended.

Sometime towards morning Drwyn took her again, with as little tenderness, before falling into a sated sleep. Teia stared up at the tent roof, too exhausted to cry. After a while she dozed, too, but his rasping snores soon woke her again. Birds chattered outside and a finger of pale light edged across the carpet from the door flap.

She sat up, raking her tangled hair back from her face. Between her legs she was abominably sore, but when she touched herself she found no blood, only Drwyn’s sticky residue. She looked across at him, sprawling and slack-mouthed. Still asleep, praise Macha.

Slowly she slid out from under the covers and stood up. Her knees refused to support her at first and she almost fell. Taking very small steps, she made her way to her clothes. She put on her dress, rolled up the shift and pushed her feet into her shoes. After a second’s thought she stuffed the little looking-glass into the middle of the bundle, then peeked outside.

Nothing stirred around the camp but a few dogs squabbling over discarded bones in the grass. Even the chief’s guards had disappeared. The sun was a pale disc in an oyster-grey sky, its light thin and colourless as the smoke rising from the heap of ash that was all that remained of the celebratory fire built on the embers of the old chief’s pyre. She thought of Drw, and how different her life had been then, and her throat closed up with tears that wouldn’t fall.

Teia stepped outside. Normally the camp would be teeming at this hour; women building fires and kneading bread, men checking their gear and feeding the horses before going hunting. No doubt everyone had celebrated the new chief’s anointing so enthusiastically that they were still too drunk to lift their heads.

Clutching the bundled shift, she hurried through the clusters of tents to the stream where she had gone to fetch water the night before, then downstream a little further, to the next shallow place. From there the camp was barely visible; no more than the peaks of the tents to be seen above the tall grass. That would hide her well enough. She crouched down on the sandy bank and took out the looking-glass.

A ghost-white face stared back at her, eyes red from weeping circled with sleepless shadows. Dried blood crusted the corner of her mouth and her lower lip was thick and purpled. She explored the bruise cautiously, pulling her tender lip out to see where her teeth had cut it.

A glimpse of more bruising at the edge of her reflection made her loosen the lacing at the neck of her dress and push it down over her shoulder. Imprinted in her flesh were the marks of Drwyn’s teeth. The bruise filled the glass. Fresh tears filled her eyes.

Macha preserve her.

She dropped the glass, clawed the dress off and kicked out of her shoes. The stream was bitingly cold but she couldn’t wait to heat water. She had to be rid of him, rid of the juices clotting inside her.

Squatting in the deepest part of the stream, she scrubbed herself as hard as her tender flesh would bear. She scrubbed at his sweat and the memory of his touch, scrubbed until her body shuddered with the cold and her feet and hands had no feeling. Then she fell to her knees in the stream and wept.

When she walked back into the camp, people were stirring. Cook-fires had been lit and there were two guards outside the chief’s tent again, grey-faced and bleary. She did not go back there. Instead she returned to her parents’ tent to change the dress for one of her own. She couldn’t be rid of the one Ytha had given her soon enough.

Her father was sitting on a stool at the entrance, mending a bridle. He was a lean, wiry man, tough as rawhide thongs, with salt-and-pepper hair tied back in a horsetail and long moustaches that drooped to either side of his thin lips.

When her shadow fell over his work he stopped, but did not look up.

‘Father?’