By the Sword (25 page)

She stopped for a moment, then gave his hand a squeeze. He returned it, and caressed her palm with his thumb as she tugged at his hand and got him moving out the door. She shielded her mind with studious care; right now she couldn't afford any leakage....

She knew what was going on; she'd begun to hope he found her attractive several moons ago, and it was a distinct thrill to see him responding, though she truly wasn't trying to flirt. Even if she hadn't figured it out, Tarma had taken care to let her know a couple of days ago.
“You're young, attractive, and here.” she'd said bluntly. “He's young, attractive, and not very sure of himself-though I doubt he's a virgin. You're a friend, so you aren't threatening. If you want to go to bed with him, go right ahead. But make sure you're protected. ”

She'd been relieved—but disappointed.
“Is that all it is? Just—availability? ”

Tarma had shaken her head. “Child, even if it was love
everlasting—which we both know it isn‘t—he's a prince of the blood, and you're going to be a common mercenary. He can't afford to marry you, and you shouldn't be content with anything less. Your potential is enormous, or that damned sword of Keth's wouldn't have spoken for you. You have no right to fritter your life away as Prince Daren's mistress. You have things to do—so enjoy yourself now, but know that when it's over, you're going to go out and do them. ”

But with Daren's hand holding hers possessively, and then Daren's arm around her shoulders as they climbed the stairs together, it was difficult to keep Tarma's advice in mind.

There was another side to it all as well—a kind of relief.
I'm all right, I'm not she‘chorne or anything. I'm not so different from the other girls after all. Daren wants me, and I want him....

That was not such a bad feeling, being wanted. He liked her as a friend, and wanted her as a woman—a good combination, if she could keep it from getting serious. She'd followed part of Tarma's advice; she was protected.
That
much Lenore had taught her; the moon-flower powder all the time to control moon-days as well as preventing pregnancy, or child-bane afterward—though moon-flower was better for you, easier on the body.

They reached the top of the stairs, and Kero was glad that there weren't any servants; there was no chance that they'd be interrupted or gawked at knowingly. She had the feeling anything like that would put Daren off entirely. She felt overheated; flushed and excited, and with odd little feelings in the pit of her stomach and groin.

Daren had to let go of her to get his door open, and that seemed to make him shy again; he followed her inside without touching her and made a great fuss of clearing off a chair for her to sit in.

He carefully avoided looking at the bed, and she followed his example, pummeling her brain for some way to make him feel comfortable again. If it had been warmer, she would have suggested they go out on his balcony—his room had one, hers didn't. But it was freezing out there, literally; the ice on the ponds would be thick enough to skate safely on, come morning. Cold hands and feet were not conducive to romance, and the temperature out on the balcony was likely to chill the hottest lust.

Her throat tightened, and she flushed for no reason. Suddenly she was afraid, though of what, she couldn't have said. To cover the fact, she ignored the chair and sprawled out on the sheepskin rug in front of the hearth, half reclinging against a cushion.

“If you could be anything in the world,” she said, staring at the flames, as he sat down hesitantly beside her, “What would it be? Anything at all—anything you wanted, king, minstrel, beggar, whatever.”

He thought about it; she took a sidelong glance at him, and saw that his face was set in a frown of concentration. “You know, I think I'd be a merchant. I'd get to travel anywhere, see everything I ever wanted to. I'd be a rich merchant, though,” he added hastily. “So I could travel comfortably.”

She chuckled. “Like one of Tarma's proverbs: ‘What good is seeing the wonders of the world when you're too saddle sore to enjoy them?' ”

He laughed, and relaxed a little, letting his hand rest oh-so-casually on hers. “What about you?”

“Being a rich merchant would be nice,” she agreed. “But I'd rather be the kind of person that travels just because she wants to. Not tied to a caravan or a trading schedule.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding wisely. “A spoiled dabbler.”

“A
what?”
she said, sitting up straight, pulling her hand away.

“A dilettante,” he teased. “A brat. A—”

He didn't have any chance to go on, because she hit him with a pillow.

That attack engendered a wrestling match which he, heavier and stronger, was bound to win—unless she resorted to tactics which would have ended any further plans for the evening. But it was a great deal of fun while it lasted—the more so because she discovered his one weakness, and turned the contest into something much more even.

He was ticklish.

Very ticklish, especially down both sides and on the bottoms of his feet.

She managed to get his shoes off while tickling his sides. Protecting one meant that the other weak point was vulnerable, and the moment he curled up into a ball, she grabbed his feet and ran her nails along the soles. When he thrashed helplessly and got his feet away from her, his sides were exposed. Before long, she'd turned the tables on him.

She tickled him unmercifully, until they were both laughing so hard their sides ached. Finally neither one of them could breathe, and they tumbled together on the rug, completely unable to move.

“You-” he panted, “-cheat.”

“No such—thing,” she replied, trying to brush her hair out of her eyes with one hand while she held onto his bare foot with the other. “Just—obeying—my teacher.”

“Exploiting the enemy's weakness?” He was getting his breath back faster than she was, and he managed to eel around so that her head was in his lap. “But Kero—I'm not your enemy.”

“Aren't you?” she began, when he stopped all further conversation with a kiss.

It was in no way a chaste or innocent kiss. It picked up where the last of their tentative explorations had left off, and carried them to the logical conclusion. Kero let go of his foot, and groped for the laces of his tunic. His hands slid under her shirt and cupped her breasts with a gentleness that vaguely surprised her, stroking them with his callused thumbs.

The tunic-lacings foiled her hands, which seemed to have lost all dexterity. She broke off the kiss, and cursed the things; he laughed, and got out of the tunic without bothering to unlace it, tossing it off somewhere into the dark. The loose shirt, a copy of her own, was easy enough to slide her hands under—which she did, holding him closer to her, feeling her blood heat at the play of muscles under his skin.

“Beast,” she said, and went back to the kiss. He sank slowly to the floor, taking her with him, his hands moving against her skin under her shirt. She pushed his shirt up out of the way, the better to touch him. He rolled over to one side to give her hands more room to roam.

This time he broke free with a yelp as his bare back came into contact with the stone floor. “I hate cold floors,” he said ruefully, as she giggled at his woebegone expression. Then he scrambled to his feet, and pointed off into the dark. She couldn't see his face from that angle, and she couldn't see past the light cast by the fire, so she jumped to
her
feet—

Only to find herself scooped up, and launched across the room, to land in his bed. A moment later, he was beside her.

“Oh, my,” she said, “Where do you suppose
this
came from?”

He didn't even bother to answer, and in a moment, she didn't really want him to.

Shirts and breeches were everywhere, being tossed out of bed or shoved to one side. Somehow she managed to get out of her clothing without tearing anything; he wasn't so lucky. He couldn't get the wrist-lacings on his shirt to untie, and with a muttered oath, he snapped them.

His hands and mouth were everywhere; well, so were hers. Every touch seemed to send a tingle all over her, seemed to make her want more.

They explored each other, a little awkwardly sometimes; she hit him in the nose with her elbow, once, and he knocked her head against the footboard. Kero hardly felt it when she collided with the carved wood, every inch of skin felt afire, and she was propelled by such urgent need that she could have pursued him over the side of a cliff and never noticed.

It hurt, when he took her—or she took him, whichever; she wanted him as much as he wanted her. But it didn't hurt that much, and he was as gentle as his own need would let him be. And she began to feel something else, something she yearned after as shamelessly as a bitch in heat. Just out of reach....

It was all over too soon, though, and she was left feeling as if something had been left undone; unsatisfied and still
hungry
somehow.

Sated, he just rolled happily over into the tumbled blankets, and went right to sleep.

She could have killed him.

Twice.

She curled up on her side, stared into the dark, and listened to him breathe. And wondered,
What did I do wrong?

 

Later, she figured out she hadn't done anything wrong. Practice, as with anything else, made both of them more proficient, better able to please each other. Eventually the outcome equaled the anticipation, and neither went to sleep unsatisfied.

She finally understood what all the fuss was about—and the obsession. She understood—but she felt herself somehow apart from it; her desire was satisfied, but whatever it was that awakened real passion in others had not touched her.

And nothing ever quite made up for the letdown of that first night.

And he never understood, or even noticed.

 

Winter became spring, then seemed to run straight into autumn without pausing for summer. There were never enough hours in the day for everything. Kero often wondered what possessed her, to have consented to this.

She often wondered if she were doing the right thing. She had no doubt that a conventional life would be far, far easier.

And I wouldn't have to rise with the sun unless I really
wanted to.

The wooden practice blades were nowhere in sight, which was a little odd. Kero exchanged puzzled glances with Daren, then looked away before the glance could develop into anything more intimate.

I don't know how much longer I can keep this as “just friends, ”
she thought, staring at the sandy floor of the practice ring.
Grandmother was worried about me getting my heart broken, but it seems as though it's going to be the other way around. I really like Daren-but-

Tarma's entrance broke into her ruminations, and she looked up gratefully at her teacher.
All this thinking is making my head hurt.
Daren, who had been reaching for her arm, stiffened, and pulled away a little, and Kero breathed a sigh of relief.

Tarma's eyes flicked toward Daren, though she gave no other sign that she'd noticed him moving. “I think you're ready now for something a little more serious,” the Shin‘a'in said gravely. “It's about time you both got used to handling the weapons you're going to fight with. Not that you're going to practice all the time with them,” she added, holding up a long hand to forestall any questions, “But you're going to be working out at least a candlemark every day with them. I can approximate the weight and balance of your real weapons with your practice swords, but I can't duplicate it—and your bodies will know the difference.”

She handed Daren a long-sword, two-edged, but with a point as well. The blade was magnificent, and the jewel in the hilt, a ruby so dark as to be nearly black, was worth Kero and all of her family combined.

For her part, she took up Need with a certain amount of trepidation. Although she felt a kind of tingle when she first set hand to hilt, the sword showed no other signs of life.

Which suited her very well. Over the course of that single night, she'd had her fill of being the tool instead of the wielder.

“Tarma,” she said, hesitantly. “Is this a good idea? I mean, I thought I was supposed to be learning swords- manship, but if I'm going to use Need—”

Tarma chuckled. “Don't worry about it. First off, you'll be bouting aginst me, not Daren, and she won't let you harm a woman. Secondly, she works in peculiar ways. Now that you've established your talents as a swordswoman, she'll never help you fight again. Ah, but magic now, that's where she'll protect you. So far as I know, there isn't a magicker in the world can harm you while you hold her.”

“So
that's
how it works,” she murmured without thinking.

“Exactly. That's why she did both for you when you went after Lordan's bride; you were neither fish nor fowl yet.” Tarma grinned. “Now, since she's no more than a very good blade in your hands—defend yourself, girl!”

 

Blessed Agnira, it's been a long day. Kero hung her sword in its rack, pulled her armor off and draped it over its stand, and stretched.
Tarma was right about having to get used to Need's weight and balance. There's a distinct difference between her and that practice blade.
She stretched again, reaching for the ceiling, feeling shoulders pop.
That hot bath is going to feel so—