Raging Sea (15 page)

Soren pulled himself free and pushed her onto her back, climbing over her and pushing his legs between her knees. She opened to him, to his gaze, to his touch, closing her eyes and arching before he even did as he'd planned.

“Do not move,” he growled.

He kissed and suckled the tips of her breasts, rubbing his face against her as he did. Soren took the puckered buds between his teeth, one then the other, and tugged on them, loving the sounds of her pleasure when he did. He hungrily kissed and sucked his way up and down her body until she lay trembling with need beneath him. If she arched up against him, he pressed her down with his palm over her mons. Using but one finger, he teased her flesh, making her shake and quiver for more.

Then, even though his own flesh could bear no more, he moved between her legs, his mouth on the sensitive skin on the inside of her thighs. Ever closer to the heated core of her, he slowed if she moved against him. She'd liked these games of time and pleasure and her body response and wetness told him she remembered them well.

Knowing she was past ready, he lay between her thighs, opened her wider with his shoulders against her knees and kissed her intimately. His tongue outlined her glistening cleft and he slid his finger deep within her. Smiling against her flesh, he licked her hard, using his tongue to find the tight nub at the top of it.

When he drew that between his teeth and began rubbing it with the end of his tongue, her body began to open in response. With his mouth there, he pushed his tongue deep inside her, mimicking what his prick would do, rubbing the sensitive flesh until he felt her body begin to release against his mouth. Sucking the now-erect bud, he tasted her arousal and her release, the sound of it made it only sweeter. Her hands slid into his hair now, pushing him against her as she arched and pressed against his mouth.

Soren sucked and licked and bit until she screamed and writhed, her body pouring out its release. As he felt the shudders lessen, he moved, climbing up onto his knees and lifting her hips.

“Fill me.”

She did not have to ask him for that; he thrust into her in one deep push, filling her with his hardened flesh. His cock lengthened and widened, as the tightness gripped him.

“Again.”

It was an order and so he laughed. She knew what she wanted and told him. And he plowed her more deeply.

“More,” she whispered, her voice filled with arousal. “Deeper.”

He drew back until he was almost out of her body and then, using the muscles of his thighs and his arse, he thrust back in so hard that he moved them along the ground. If he worried that he'd been too rough, her body and her words told him otherwise.

“Ahhhh.” She let out a long sigh and tilted her hips under him. “Now, Soren Stormblood,” she whispered, meeting his gaze. “Take me.”

And he was lost. His body responded to her call, thrusting deep and hard, over and over. She wrapped her legs around his waist and met every thrust, drawing him in and clenching around his flesh to make his withdrawal more difficult. The feel of it, the way her deep muscles tightened on him, brought his own release ever closer.

But not until she did.

Leaning down, he took her mouth, thrusting his tongue inside, deep, and shared the taste of her own essence with her. She grew tighter and tighter around his flesh until she arched and screamed out her release. He did not relent, he did not stop, plunging completely into her and feeling the ripples of her peak. Only when she was done, when her flesh inside relaxed, did he allow his release. His body tensed and his seed sprayed against her womb in wave after wave of heated wetness.

He stayed within her, listening to her breathing until it grew slow-paced and even. Then, rolling onto his side, he took her with him, keeping his cock within her for every possible last moment. She tucked her head under his chin and against his chest and he felt her every breath on his skin.

If God or the gods were merciful, this would not be the last time they shared this physical bond. If they had any mercy, Soren would be able to claim her as his own and keep her for all their lives.

But, as with other gods—the Greeks or Romans—the gods liked to play . . . god with humans. And he feared that this would end badly.

S
he wanted him back inside her as soon as he'd withdrawn.

Ran's body ached, with need, from use, from pleasure, and yet, she wanted him to do that again and again. She could never get enough of his strong body within her. If truth be told, it was like an unending craving in her for him—a need that was never satisfied, always grew and never stopped. So, having him once would only make it worse. Her body begged her for more.

Lying here in his arms, she could almost imagine that all was right in the world. That they were once again together. That they would be. Easing her arm from under him, she gathered her hair and tried to pull it from his grasp. With his eyes closed and his breathing deep and even, she thought him asleep.

She reached over and moved his hair from his eyes. Those eyes opened and met her gaze.

Ran was not ready for this to be over, so she leaned up on one elbow, her hand holding her head, and traced his mouth with a finger. That little caress began their next joining, as different from the first as it could be.

Gentle and quiet.

Slow-paced.

Marked with sighs and caresses and releases that both fulfilled their need and created it anew.

Only later when she realized the sun had reached its midday point in the sky above them did she know they had to leave. She released the sea from keeping the island separate and he released the warm winds with the same reluctance. They took time dressing, helping each other with laces and ties and boots.

Ran watched the waters swirling around the circular island's edge and something bothered her. Everything important in Orkney's ancient history involved circles. The standing stones were in circles. This island would be a perfect circle except that part of it had been cut away by the water's currents over time. Even the old church near her home in Orphir was circular, the only one she'd ever seen in that shape.

And the first circle that Einar had mentioned was the broch.

“Soren,” she began, finishing tying off her braid. “What have the others been doing while I have been . . . away?”

“They have been searching for the hidden circle. And keeping watch for Hugh,” he said. “They discovered that de Gifford can sense those with power easier than he can humans. So their soldiers keep watch and follow his moves.”

“Did they find anything? Any sign yet?”

Soren walked over to her. “Nay. Why? What are you thinking?”

“I think we need to search the broch again. Do you have Einar's map?”

“Nay,” he said. “I left it with the other drawing and the passage with the others. Their priests wanted to study it,” he explained.

“Can you get it and meet me at the broch?”

“We could both return so they can see you are unharmed,” he suggested.

She still felt fragile, not ready to face their new allies and the multitude of questions they would have. Or the knowing glances of Brienne and Aislinn. Not yet. Ran shook her head.

“Wait for me,” he said as he disappeared into the sky.

She nodded and walked to the highest point on the island, not very far at all, to look across the water to the Mainland. Where was the circle they needed? She'd not asked what they were supposed to do once they found it. Knowing priests, it most likely involved some kind of ritual.

She closed her eyes and tried to remember the map Einar had drawn. The broch was a large place on it, yet they'd seen nothing there. Some empty chambers, on several stories leading to the roof.

Soren reappeared in front of her and held out his hand.

“Come. I will carry you there,” he offered.

“Can you do that?” she asked. He shrugged.

“The first time I traveled with the winds, I kept my human form. If I can do that, I can hold you.” He took her hand and tugged her closer. “And if it does not work, you will drop in the sea and all will be well.”

How strange a thing to consider, Ran thought, as she moved closer and Soren lifted her in his arms. In the next moment, she was high in the air over the island, looking down at the water.

“This is extraordinary,” she said. “I have never seen the like.”

“Everything looks so different from up above,” he agreed. “This must be what birds see as they fly.”

It took little time at all for them to reach the outcropping of land on which the broch sat. Much like other brochs all across Orkney, it was round and had thick walls. Many believed brochs were defensive towers, where people in centuries past could gather if under attack. Their wooden steps could be pushed away and the door sealed.

When Soren put her down, she looked at the entrance and realized what had bothered her. The steps led up to the first story.

“What is beneath the floor?” she asked, walking up the steps.

“I think it is only the earth,” Soren answered. “My grandfather never mentioned any cellar or storage room.”

They opened the door and went within. The steps that led up sat within the inner and outer walls. Soren pointed at the floor adjacent to the stairs. It was a different color wood and did not fit well into the space. Ran stepped aside and he reached down and pried one of the slats free.

Then another one. And the last, which exposed a set of steps that led down. She smiled at Soren, knowing that this hidden chamber must be significant. Einar must have left something behind for them.

A torch sat in a sconce at the top of this newly found stairway, so Soren found a piece of flint and lit it. Holding it out before them, Soren led the way down the stairs.

The air was damp and dank as though water regularly filled in from the nearby strait. But when they reached the bottom, the dirt floor was hard packed and dry. Lifting the torch to light the room, Soren's expression spoke of some great discovery. She climbed down from the last steep step and turned around to look.

Not an inch of the wall around this chamber was empty.

Most images were sketched in black, charcoal most likely, but some others had colors around them, too. Some symbols matched ones they knew—like the marks that she, Soren, Brienne and William carried on their arms. The one marking Ander and the priests and the other man Roger appeared all across the drawings. The most amazing part of it was the perspective, for this seemed to be an elaborate map left for them.

“Soren, this is a map,” she said, pointing to the way the mainland and islands appeared.

“Different though,” Soren said. “Almost as if he's looking out in each direction with this as his focal point. Look. See here,” he said, pointing to one wall where a large city was drawn. “If we were to break the walls down and lay each out flat, it works clearly.”

“But this is different from the one on parchment,” she said. He took it out, opened it up and they both studied it. “See here? There's much more detail on the wall than on this.”

Soren nodded, comparing the sketch to the wall. “Not so much to the north or even south, but out to the southwest, there are markings for places I do not remember. Mayhap this was his practice piece? Or his notes for the wall?”

“I think we need to show this to Aislinn and Marcus,” she said. “They have scribes who can copy this so it can be examined and deciphered.”

“I will bring them here or it will take days for them to travel here.”

He left, climbing carefully up the narrow steps as she remained there studying the marks. She would not know what they meant until the priests looked at them, but she noticed several things quickly.

There were eight different marks around the perimeter and ones like those of the priests scattered about. The eight marks were placed around the chamber and they were somehow imbued with magic or power. She could feel it when she touched the one matching hers. And Soren's was exactly opposite of hers. The war hammer lay opposite the flames. The sun and the tree lay opposite of each other. The last two—the horse and the moon—as well.

Aislinn carried the crescent moon on her arm.

If all was as it seemed, Aislinn would be called to close one of the circles. Did she know that?

Ran heard someone above and climbed the stairs, leaving the torch in a sconce in the stairway. And she found the female priest waiting there.

“It is both frightening and exciting being carried that way,” the young woman said in a breathless voice. “It was almost how I see things when I am dreamwalking.”

“Dreamwalking?”

“It is something I can do. A gift from the gods. I travel in my dreams, walking to find places or people,” Aislinn explained.

“Down this way,” Ran directed, going first down the steps. “We have only one torch so it is not very bright.” She heard the fast intake of breath behind her when Aislinn first glimpsed the chamber.

“Do you feel it?” Aislinn asked, holding her hands out as she turned round and round the chamber. “Do you?”

“Only if I touch that one,” she said, pointing to her mark on the wall.

Aislinn walked around the perimeter of the chamber, not touching the drawings and marks, but simply gliding her hand in the air near them.

“There is power here. Power and . . . magic,” she said, awe filling her voice. “Someone very powerful did this.”

“Einar Brandrson, Soren's grandfather,” Ran said.

“It would have to be a priest of immense ability, Ran. These are not simply drawn or sketched. They are imbued in each stroke with blessings and spells. Very few of us could create such a thing. I doubt Marcus even,” Aislinn said.

“You doubt I could what?” Marcus asked, coming down the steps with Soren behind him.

Neither of the women said a word; they waited only for Marcus to see the chamber. His first expression was of surprise, but then the older man's eyes rolled up into his head and he pitched forward. Soren managed to grab his cloak and keep him from hitting the dirt floor. Unlike when Father Ander fainted, Marcus did not fall to the ground.

He began chanting and walking around the chamber, stopping, Ran noticed, at each of the eight marks. His words blended together and became like a song, the tune of which Soren began humming under his breath. When she glanced at him, he shrugged.

“My grandfather taught me words and songs,” he said. “I know not what they mean. I never have.”

The three watched Marcus for several minutes until he slowed and then stopped completely. Aislinn walked to his side.

“Marcus, are you well?” she asked.

Marcus blinked over and over and then wiped his forehead and shook his head. “What happened?” Then he looked at Aislinn. “Do you feel it, Aislinn? It is wondrous, truly wondrous.”

“What is it, Marcus? A map certainly, but what made you do that?” Soren asked, motioning with his hand in a circular pattern.

“These are the signs of each of the Warriors of Destiny, you know those,” Marcus explained. “But these words are the blessing the gods needed to seal the gateway. And these, these”—he pointed at words scattered all around the chamber—“these are the words the ancients used to capture the evil one.”

“Chaela?” Ran asked.

Marcus spit on the floor and whispered something like a curse before saying anything to her. “I will not speak her name. To use the names of the gods gives them power but to say hers is to call her attention. We never want her aware of us.” He pointed at the marks around the chamber.

“See there. Every time a name is written it gives power to the symbol. But see those? The priest destroyed her name to avoid saying it.”

“And you can read these words? Understand them?” Ran asked.

“Only when the gods allow me to,” Marcus said. “But now? Nay. Not a one. But the priest who created this would have.”

“Why do you keep saying that Einar was a priest? If I am a stormblood, would he not have been one, too?” Soren asked.

“In days long ago, when the bloodlines were created, each was kept separate from the others. To keep them pure and keep their power undiluted. But when the gods sent the bloodlines out into the human world, they did not remain separate.”

Marcus looked at her and Soren. “Your families intermarried, here and in other communities until their powers mixed. Only in some generations are there purebloods strong enough to call on their powers.”

“Like this generation?” Soren asked.

“The gods are good to those who believe, Soren. We priests have long believed that when needed, the Warriors of Destiny are created to battle this evil who can be contained but not destroyed.”

“And old Einar?” she asked.

“He was a generation ahead of the rising,” Marcus explained. “He collected much wisdom and heard the call of the gods, but did not teach you as he should have, Soren.” Turning to face her, he added, “Or you, Ran. Great priests such as Einar are sent to teach.”

“What do we do now, Marcus?” Aislinn asked. “So much of our history is told through stories and not written down.”

“I think we should copy all of this so we can study it. The time is coming and we need to find the gateway. These drawings”—he motioned around the walls—“are clues and signposts for us. They are an immense source of knowledge not to be ignored.”

They left the chamber and snuffed out the torch. With care, Soren replaced the wooden slats covering the secret steps. If someone happened along and entered the broch, they would not find the chamber easily.

Outside, Soren and Marcus decided which priests would be needed and Soren brought them using his stormblood powers. It took several trips, and on each one he brought a nervous priest, writing supplies and torches. Soon, everyone who needed to be brought or taken was seen to and only Soren and Ran remained.

“They know,” Ran whispered to Soren.

“And are you embarrassed?” He took her chin and studied her face. “You never worried over it before,” he said. “Should I disavow the declaration you made to me in passion just hours ago?”