VirtualWarrior (12 page)

Rewind. No condoms.

If he slept with her, he’d be responsible for her. He was
suddenly grateful she’d turned shy on him.

Lien hated funerals, and Tol’s took the cake. It was the funeral
of all funerals. The man was carried out onto the plain in a long procession by
six Tolemac warriors. Despite the cold, Ralen, who followed the pallbearers,
wore a white sleeveless tunic. The man was pretty ripped, and his warrior arm
rings reminded Lien that men without them had no status in Ralen’s world.

Ardra and Deleh walked side by side behind Ralen. Ardra wore
a loose lavender robe. It looked like a ceremonial thing. Her hair had been
braided into a crown around her head, and she looked regal and humble at the
same time.

Deleh wore the same thing she’d worn while looking after Tol
the day before. In contrast to Ardra, the old woman was a wrinkled mess. She
wept the whole way, her head bowed.

When they were at some distance from the camp, they stopped
and Tol’s body was placed on a wooden platform. The pallbearers lighted torches
and handed them to Ralen and Ardra, who requested one for Deleh. Lien was close
enough to hear Ralen refuse and Ardra insist. Finally, Ralen acquiesced.
Good
girl
, Lien thought,
show them who’s boss.
A third torch was given to
Deleh.

Moments later, Lien gasped as Tol went up in a whoosh of
flame. Cremation—in the open. Lien felt sick as the smoke and scent of death
reached him.

They all knelt and bent their heads. As time dragged on,
Lien felt the pain of the kneeling position in his spine. He found he could
forget the sight of Tol’s burning body if he stared at Ardra. He realized there
was a pattern woven into her loose robe. Each time she shifted, the flames
caught the design of swirling lines twisting on themselves. More symbolic
knotwork.

The pyre died away until all that remained was a pile of
ashes. The procession returned to the camp. Ralen went to Samoht’s tent,
probably to find out why the high councilor hadn’t attended the funeral. Lien
hoped Samoht’s balls were the size of grapefruit.

Ardra went directly to her puffy-cloud home away from home.
He followed her. She was incredibly beautiful. He imagined her in ancient times
walking down the nave of a massive Gothic cathedral to be crowned at the side
of some worthy king.

He, on the other hand, could play the part of court jester
at the party afterward. He too was a wrinkled mess. His beard itched, and he
wondered how Ralen and Ollach shaved. How did he ask without looking like a
complete idiot?

He rapped his knuckles on one of the tent poles, and Ardra
called out for him to enter. She stood at the table washing her hands. “Ah,
Lien. I am so glad to see you.”

She had dropped the lavender robe over the bed. Under it she
must have had on this other dress, because there was no way she could have
changed so quickly. The dress looked like a long gold column covered by a tight
ivory jumper that laced at the sides. Little chunks of amber were stitched down
the front of the jumper thing.

He frowned. Maybe she was a Marie Antoinette, feasting while
her people starved. “If the Selaw are poor, why don’t you sell a few of those
amber stones on your dress and distribute the proceeds?”

Ardra’s hand went to her breast. She touched the stones
stitched into an intricate pattern there. “Do you think me so unfeeling of my
people that I would harm them to my benefit? The stone is sacred, but not
valuable.”

She wiped her hands on a towel, and he saw that her amber
eyes were shot with red. He imagined she had done her grieving in private.

“I’m sorry. I guess that was pretty stupid of me.”

“Aye,” she said, so softly he could barely hear her.

He shrugged out of his cloak and tossed it over a bench,
then touched her shoulder. “It was bad timing, too.”

She turned and leaned into him, her forehead on his chest.
If he put his arms around her, he’d pick her up and take her to bed. The urge
was visceral and intense.

Instead he stood there, his arms at his sides. After a few
moments, she stepped back and looked up at him. There was something more than a
little spellbinding about her sad eyes, innocent and weary at the same time.

“I’m sorry about Tol,” he said. It was one of the empty
things he’d heard a hundred times at his mother’s funeral. It did nothing for
the pain, but he now understood why people said it. You had to say something.

“Thank you.” She touched his bruised cheek. “This looks
better today. Why do you not shave so I can see if it is clean?”

He shrugged. What should he say?
Without my electric
razor I’m lost?

She put her own interpretation on his silence. “Forgive me.
Of course, everything you had was stolen. Sit. I will shave you. It is a small
service in exchange for all you have done for me.”

“Uh, you don’t have to do that.” Actually, it sounded great
to him. Like going to a barber, and he wouldn’t have to spy on Ollach and
Ralen, or flub the effort in front of them.

“Sit, Lien. You protest too much over trivialities. Do unto
others as you would have them do unto you.”

“We have the same expression where I come from,” he said.

She pulled the heavy water pitcher from the brazier and
poured some water into a basin that appeared to be made of marble. Next, she
opened a wooden box and withdrew a rolled bundle and what turned out to be a
cake of soap wrapped in cloth. She flipped the rolled bundle open and displayed
a collection of blades—sharp ones.

“Ah…that is, maybe I’ll grow a beard. Nilrem has a beard—”

She smiled. “Are you afraid? You need not be. I may not be a
personal slave, but I shaved Tol all the time. Now sit.”

He sat on a bench. His heart raced like an Indy car.

She stood between his thighs. One of his pistons misfired.
Then she lifted his chin with the tip of one finger and ran her thumb back and
forth along his jawline. His engine flat-out stalled.

“Does this hurt?” she asked, lingering on the bruise.

“No. Yes. Maybe.”

With a slight smile, she lathered her hands, smoothing soap
on her palms and then on his face. He recognized the scent of the soap as the
one he’d smelled in her hair. When she put a blade against his cheek, he closed
his eyes and tried not to tense up.

Her legs were warm against the insides of his. Each time she
stroked the knife along his cheek, her breath whispered along his freshly
shaved skin.

“Breathe,” she said. “I will not hurt you.”

Finally, she was done. She stepped from between his thighs
to wet a cloth and wipe his face. She held the warm cloth to his cheeks and
examined his bruise.

“This is healing nicely on its own, but I think ‘twould
serve well to keep your face shaved.”

She bent and kissed his mouth. He wrapped her up and pulled
her into his lap. He lifted his hips and pressed against her.

She moaned. An instant later, he held a wild creature. She
raked her fingers into his hair. Her mouth moved on his—lips, tongue, breath—in
a maelstrom of sensation.

Her laces defied him, but finally parted. He pulled the
jumper thing aside and cupped her breast. It was small, firm, warm through the
linen. He clasped her nipple in his fingertips and rugged. She jerked in his
arms, and the sounds she made in her throat were low, guttural—feral. They
inflamed him.

A braid uncoiled and slithered across his hand. He took the
silky gold rope, pulled her head back, and put his mouth on the long, slim
column of her throat.

Her pulse throbbed beneath his lips. He dropped her hair and
took the sweet mound of her breast into his hand again. She pushed against his
palm. Hard metal grazed his knuckles as he caressed her. Armrings. Encircling
her upper arm. He held a woman of status, one far above him in her world.

She kneaded his hip and he forgot why it mattered. Her
fingers were so close. His heart began to thud in his chest. He wanted her hand
on his erection.

He dropped his hand over hers. “Ardra,” he said softly.

She opened her eyes. They were hazy, lost. Then they
widened.

“Nay.” She pulled out of his embrace. “Oh, forgive me. I am
not wanton, truly I am not. I just…forgive me.”

He got up and embraced her from behind. She froze the
instant his body touched hers. “Yes, I want you.” He kissed her neck. A small
quiver went through her, but she was tense in his arms.

If he let go, she’d walk away. He needed her to walk away.
He opened his arms. She took a step and fumbled with her jumper thing, pulling
the laces tight.

“What’s going on here?” he asked.

She shook her head and another braid fell down. With a small
sound of dismay, she tried to put them up but made a mess of it.

“I just want to understand what message I’m getting here,”
he said.

“What message?” She touched her breast. His insides danced.

“If you hadn’t called a halt just now, we’d have ended up
over there—” He jerked his thumb at the chaise. “In about ten minutes, you and
I would have been buck naked and screwing our brains out.” He cupped her face.
“Is that what you want?”

Her eyes widened, and she drew back. She picked up a comb
and ran it through her hair working out the remnants of her plaits. He gave her
time to think.
He
needed time to think. She tied her hair at her nape
with something that looked like gold cord.

“I like your kisses,” she said, “but I have never wanted
what follows.”

And that did it for him. Maybe not physically, but it did it
for the rest of him. What kind of lifemating had she had, to not want what
followed kissing? He scooped up his cloak.

“I do not know why I kissed you, Lien.” Her eyes were wide,
and she tipped her head and drew the ponytail over her shoulder, then twisted
her fingers in the ends.

“You’re mourning Tol. Maybe you just wanted comfort.”

“That must be it. I wanted comfort.” She took the rope of
hair in her two hands and stroked it over and over.

Blood surged through his veins.

“Kisses lead to other places, Ardra. I don’t want you making
love to me just because you feel bad. The only thing you’re going to feel
afterward is regret. Let’s not go there again.”

“Agreed.” Her abrupt acquiescence suited him but also
disappointed him.

“Ardra, just out of curiosity, how do you prevent pregnancy
here?”

The soft, vulnerable look on her face disappeared.

“Why? Are you concerned that your fine Ocean City blood
might be tainted by association with a Selaw woman? That I might bear a mixed
child and shame you?”

“Absolutely not. That’s not what I meant. I was just
curious, nothing more.”

She threw open her coffer and tossed in her comb. “All know
that a child born of a slave and a free woman is a slave. I would not subject a
child to such a life. If I wanted to lie with a man, especially one with such a
questionable status as yours, I would take the proper herbs.”

Her chin was up in the air, her hands on her hips, but her
eyes were huge and glittery.

“You haven’t a clue. You may know that some herbs or
whatever exist, but I’ll wager my left hand you’ve never taken them.”

She hissed through her teeth. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“No. I’m saying I’ve kissed enough women to know you haven’t
kissed many men—”

“Out.” She pointed at the tent flap. “Out.”

He ran his hands over his hair. “Okay. Fine.”

Ardra turned her back on him, wiped off the knife blade
she’d used to shave him, and began to wrap up her bundle of blades. He was glad
she wasn’t pitching them at him.

Time to escape. He pulled up the tent flap.

“Lien. Wait.” She held the basin of shaving water in the
circle of her arms and walked slowly toward him, her hips swaying.

If she wanted another kiss, she wasn’t getting it.

“Please find Ollach and tell him I want Tol’s men ready to
leave at the sunrising. Tell him I want him to stand guard outside my tent
after the scattering of Tol’s ashes so I may rest undisturbed.” She thrust the
basin into his arms. “Please dispose of this.”

Ardra led the Procession of the Ashes out of camp when night
fell. No moons guided them tonight, and a misty rain fell. It caused the
torches to smoke as Tol’s mourners wound their way across the level ground
toward the mountains.

Finally they halted. Ralen handed her the stone jar
containing Tol’s ashes and then led the rest of the procession back to Samoht’s
camp.

Tradition required that she do this alone, but Deleh stood
with her. When the many torches were out of sight, Ardra took a deep breath.

Despite Deleh’s presence, Ardra had never felt so alone as
she did standing on this silent, wet plain. Her thin mourning robe offered no
protection from the rain.

She opened the jar. “Hold my hand,” she said to Deleh.

They walked in a circle eight times, eyes closed, scattering
the ashes, chanting the ancient words that would accompany Tol’s soul to the
next life.

It should be just Deleh here. The love between her and Tol
was so strong, death could not end it.

Finally the jar was empty. Now they must find their way back
to camp.

“Which way?” Deleh asked. Her thin hand trembled.

“Away from the mountains.” Ardra frowned. The light rain had
become a downpour. It pelted her shoulders and turned the rough ground muddy.
Were they facing in the right direction?

She put her arm around Deleh’s shoulders and directed her to
stand still. Where were the mountains? Why could she not see torches?

She listened for the river, but heard only the hiss of rain.

“We are lost, Ardra, are we not?” Deleh whispered. “‘Tis
Samoht’s wish that we perish.”

“Stop it,” Ardra said, but she shivered.

“Why are there no guards to make sure we find our way back?
All know that to walk in circles with one’s eyes closed makes one dizzy and
disoriented. We will perish.” The old woman began to weep.