The Consort (Tellaran Series) (24 page)

An hour later Alari stretched languidly. Kyndan was warm against her back, the sheets of the bed where he had carried her for their next lovemaking in disarray around them. He brushed the hair away and he kissed the nape of her neck.

“You never answered me,” he murmured.

“About what?”

His cheek came to rest against her shoulder. “A tutor, someone to teach me manners and make me all Az-kye.”

“I do not want you ‘all Az-kye,’” she said softly. “I want you as you are.”

“I blunder all the time. I don’t know palace etiquette. I smile at people. You must hate it.”

She turned in his embrace. “How can you say such?”

“Because it’s true. But I don’t want to embarrass you.” His blue eyes flashed. “And I won’t endanger you anymore.”

Her brow furrowed. “Think you a few smiles will do such?”

“You won’t even sketch because you’re worried people think you’re being irresponsible.”

“That is different,” she said, shifting. “It is something I do, not something I am.”

He gently brushed a tendril away from her forehead. “I would say being an artist is exactly what you are.”

“When we were mated you wore a Tellaran’s uniform. You did not care if people disapproved of your smiles, of your jokes.” She searched his face. “You were happier then.” 

“Well, I’m Imperial Warlord now,” he said, his tone firm. “And that’s who I have to be so I’m going to need some help.”

She looked into his blue eyes, so beloved now, and traced the curve of his cheek, the mark that Jazan had given him.

“I will help you.” She brushed the warm skin of his chest with her fingertips. “I will teach you.”

He smiled then. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“It will be fun.” She smiled too. “Like dancing.”

“Except this time you get to see where we’re going and I just have to trust you aren’t dancing me off a cliff.”

“I would never do such,” she protested.

“So,” he asked, intertwining his fingers with hers. “Where do we start? I know some—no jokes, no smiling, no—”

“I would have you smile. I would have you joke.”

“Warriors don’t do that.”

She lay in his embrace, troubled. He was right. To be a warrior meant he must have a warrior’s impassivity. To be warlord he must command respect.

“I would have you smile for me,” she said softly. “I would have you joke for me.”

He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Yes, for you. But everyone else gets my Commander face.”

Her brow furrowed. “What is that?”

His expression lost all humor and became as grim, serious, and implacable a face as she’d ever seen. At the sudden transformation, she gave a startled giggle.

He nudged her, his eyes crinkling with humor. “You weren’t supposed to laugh.”

“I have never seen you so! I did not even know you could.”

“Oh, thanks. I’ll have you know I have intimidated my share of ensigns with that look.”

“It was the countenance of a fiercesome warrior,” she agreed.

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s my disapproval face. If that one works, then I’ve got half this warrior thing down.”

“I am pleased you are of the clan now.” She traced the scar on his cheek again. “I will be proud to look on the beading on your shoulder.”

“Yeah, well.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I think I can officially say your mother hates me though.”

Alari sighed. “As your sire does me.”

“He wants to come back when Kinna’s baby’s born and stay for a few weeks,” Kyndan said, his voice a little strained. “Maybe he could also be invited to the palace  . . . in a less official way?”

“Would he not be too offended to return?” she asked slowly. “Now that I have requested another representative?”

“He would be
relieved
to be invited and it would—it would mean a lot to me, Alari. To have you get to know my father, to have him get to know you.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “I will invite him.”

He gave a quick smile then he shifted a bit. “Uh, there’s something else. The Tellaran Council has requested that my—well, it
was
my ship—the
Dauntless
, remain in Imperial territory and the crews’ visits be extended. At least until the new ambassador’s ship can arrive. I think they’re secretly hoping that the Az-kye will get used to seeing Tellarans walking around the empress’ city. I was planning on giving my approval. I want to know what you think.”

Alari shifted on the bed, frowning a little. Why would the Tellarans wish to keep their ship in orbit? Why would they wish their people to be so visible?

“That is a decision the warlord would make with the best interests of our people in mind,” she said a little stiffly.

“Look, it’s not like they would be any kind of threat to the Imperial world. Not with the three warships Mezera has playing escort. A Tellaran couldn’t
sneeze
up there without an Az-kye close enough to wipe her nose.”

“What does the War Council leader say of this?”

“I haven’t asked Mezera,” he admitted. “But if I’m going to have to start asserting some authority as warlord”—he leaned up on his elbow to look at her—“I’m going to need your support.”

She wet her lips, wondering if it would appear as if she favored the Tellarans too much if she allowed it. Wondering if others knew that this man, bare next to her with his sleepy blue eyes, was so dear in her heart that she would give him anything he wished.

“Of course,” she murmured. “The ship may remain.”

She could feel the tension run out of his body. “Mezera’s an enemy in the making already,” he said. “I need to watch her.”

Then he pulled her close again and shook off his serious mood.

“So, Tutor,” he said with his slow smile. “Where should we start?”

The next morning Kyndan walked listlessly around the practice arena, examining equipment he had no idea how to use. Reserved for the exclusive use of men of the Imperial family, these rooms had recently been newly equipped and made ready again.

Ready for Jazan, that is.

Awkwardly Kyndan pulled the blade from the scabbard at his back and looked at the sword in his hand. According to Nuhar he didn’t even know how to hold it properly.

“I need a new swordmaster for sure.” He jerked his chin at Utar. “Who taught you?”

“My father,” Utar said. “Myself and my brothers all.”

“Well, I can’t ask mine. I wonder what it’ll take to get Nuhar to come back.  He doesn’t look the blackmail type, maybe I should try a bribe.”

He wandered over to one of the targets. Made from tree trunk with white circles painted on it and thick pegs sticking straight out like branches it was very primitive looking. With clumsy movements Kyndan crossed his sword with one of the wooden pegs. It made a dull
thunk
and did nothing more than send the target turning slowly.

Kyndan watched it slow and stop.

After a moment Utar went to the target and clasping one of the pegs, sent the target spinning. “You are to strike the circle.”

Kyndan shot a look at the former warrior. He looked at the white circle appearing and disappearing as the target spun, the pegs acting as a block. He hefted his sword again. He swung and in the next instant one of the spinning pegs knocked the sword right out of his hand.

The blade went skidding across the floor.

Kyndan sighed and passed his hand over his eyes.

Silently Utar offered another to Kyndan.

“Not you too,” Kyndan said with a disgusted look at the wooden child’s sword. “Are you also going to tell me I can’t have the grown-up version?”

“That is not what the swordmaster said.”

“He said I couldn’t have a warrior’s sword till I was a warrior. Which, if you think about it,” Kyndan grumbled, “doesn’t make any godsdamned sense at all.”

“He did not say such.”

“Utar, I was here,” Kyndan reminded. “I remember exactly what he said. Warrior’s sword when I
was
a warrior. And what kind of swordmaster wouldn’t show me how to hold the godsdamned thing?”

“Perhaps that is not the lesson he wished to teach you.”

“What kind of sword lesson doesn’t involve picking up the fucking sword?”

Utar regarded him silently.

Kyndan blew his breath out in annoyance and went to retrieve the metal blade.

“Gods, you’re just like Aidar, like all the warriors I’ve seen just staring at me acting like a—like—” Kyndan stopped, the metal blade in his hand. “Not when I
was
warrior,” he murmured. “He said when I
acted
like a warrior. That’s why he walked out. Because I wasn’t acting like a warrior.”

Utar inclined his head.

“But he wouldn’t even show me how to hold it—no, wait, he was criticizing
how
I held it.” Kyndan’s brow creased. “He was testing me. Seeing how far he could push me before I lost it.” He gave a short laugh. “Not too far, I guess.”

Just like I kept at Jazan till he lost it.

“To learn to control the sword is easy,” Utar said consolingly. “To control oneself, that demands much.”

“Will you teach me?” Kyndan asked suddenly.

Utar’s face went pale. “I am dishonored. My name is not spoken. I am of the dead.”

Kyndan nodded. “I’m not seeing a problem here.”

Utar swallowed. “Master—”

Wincing, Kyndan quickly held up his hand. “I hate that more than I hate ‘Your Highness.’ Don’t call me that again. Let’s try ‘Kyndan.’”

Utar stared.

“Consort?” Kyndan suggested, sighing.

“Consort,” Utar began, his voice strangled, “I am of the clanless. You cannot be taught by such as I.  It would be . . .”

“Unseemly?” Kyndan held his blade out. “Utar, I’m a Tellaran warlord. I don’t know how to use this thing and I don’t know a damned thing about being a warrior. Right now, upstairs, asleep, is the most precious thing I have ever known in my whole life. I’d die to keep her safe but as stupidly ignorant as I am right now I can’t even
begin
to protect her. I need to learn and I need to learn
fast
. Look, I won’t order you but I’m asking—Will you teach me?”

“To touch a blade is forbidden to me, Consort. To do so is death.”

“I won’t tell if you don’t tell.”

Utar dropped his gaze.

Kyndan sighed again. “I understand. Look, I’ll find another swordmaster. Maybe Nuhar—”

“No,” Utar said suddenly. “They will teach you the traditional way, it will take too long. And Nuhar’s mind is not flexible enough to construct such a training as you need.”

Kyndan raised his eyebrows. “You said he was one of the best. That he won the contests three times.”

Utar’s dark eyes flashed. “But not four.”

“Fucking hell,” Kyndan said. “
You
beat him?”

“Yes.”

Then the former warrior deftly flipped the wooden sword and offered it to Kyndan. In the same moment his demeanor, his posture, and the very look in his eye changed. Gone was the slave and, despite his white tunic, he was now every inch a warrior.

Kyndan looked at the wooden sword.  “Uh, so I still don’t get a real one?”

“You must learn quickly. There is no time for errors, no time for you to heal from even the glancing cuts common to training, do you begin with a real sword,” Utar said, taking the metal blade from his hand. “This practice sword is too short, too stout for you but until I procure a more suitable one, you will use this. Change.” He gave a nod. “And we will begin.”

Kyndan grinned and offered a Tellaran’s salute. “Yes, Sir.”