Beneath the Thirteen Moons (10 page)

“Out of what?” Mahri made herself breathe. She was losing herself in his eyes again and hastily focused on his mouth. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Liar,” growled Korl. “Trian called you his girl.”

Korl moved her in his arms, guided her across the smooth bark beneath their feet with practiced skill. Mahri had never danced the courtly steps but knew the pattern as if she’d partnered with him her entire life. His body language spoke to her far easier than his words ever could.

“Trian’s always called me his girl, especially after Brez… became sick. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Like those women didn’t mean anything to me?”

Mahri shook her head, the black beads on her headband twinkling with the movement. So, he’d been jealous of Trian and had sought revenge for some imagined tryst. What had living in the palace been like, that he’d learned such ways? “You played a game.”

Korl’s hand caught a stray lock of her hair and smoothed it back into the mass behind her head. As if it had been snared in some web he kept it there, filling his palm with the dark red strands, letting it flow through his fingers. “Life is a game.”

His fingers through her hair created shivers of pleasure along Mahri’s scalp. She moved her hand over his shoulder, curled it around the soft skin of his neck, and caressed the fine ends of his hair with the sensitive pads of her own fingers.

“Ach, my fine prince. Is that what we’re doing?” Mahri melted against him, the top of her breasts overflowing the green silk to brand his chest with a gentle heat. “Just remember, two can play at any game.”

They stood so close that Jaja managed to put one foot on Korl’s shoulder while keeping the other on Mahri’s. With a triumphant chirrup he beat his chest with two webbed fists before he hopped to the ground, gave a nod of almost human self-satisfaction and scampered away.

Korl ignored the monk-fish and Mahri felt his hand tense as he cupped the back of her head and forced her mouth close to his. She made the mistake of looking into his eyes and her steps faltered, slowed, until they no longer danced within the circle of people, just swayed to the rhythm of the drums, the haunting melody of the bone flutes.

Mahri felt the beat of his heart against her own. His nose flared and his breath pounded across her mouth and she opened, inhaling the life of him as he lowered his head and set his lips on her own. For a brief moment his mouth lay unmoving atop her, that full bottom lip warm and quivering over her own. Then he groaned and sought to devour her, his tongue grasping at her, demanding her own in his, sliding back and forth as if he couldn’t get near enough, couldn’t taste her fully enough.

Korl tore his mouth away. “I’ve wanted—I’ve needed to do that all day.” Then dipped his head down to hers again.

Mahri felt like a jellyfish, trembling and pliant in his arms. If he laid her down and took her in front of the entire village, she wouldn’t have the will to resist him. Her mind kept screaming of danger but her body won with its insistence of pleasure. When she heard the clatter of hundreds of seashells she wasn’t sure whether to curse at Caria or hug her in gratitude.

“May I cut in?” Caria insinuated herself between the two of them. Korl looked at her in dazed confusion. “For a prince,” she whispered, “you have absolutely no sense of propriety.”

Mahri choked back a giggle. Caria sounded so stuffy! But then she looked around and realized that none of the villagers were dancing, eating… or talking, for that matter. They stood and stared at her as if she’d broken some taboo. Well, she’d been to enough celebrations to know that the villagers weren’t ordinarily a shy group. Why, she’d seen Caria and Wald near attack each other in the heat of a dance.

“What’s the matter with everyone?” she asked.

“It’s Trian, you fish-brain,” hissed Caria.

“Trian?”

“Everyone’s been watching him, waiting for the explosion. Now, dance with me Healer.” Caria waved at the musicians and they struck a lively tune, and she spun Korl away.

Mahri snapped her mouth shut. Truly, she and Trian were fond of each other, but she’d never thought—

“May I have this dance?”

Mahri looked up into the face of her cousin. Without waiting for an answer he swept her up in his arms and danced her as far away from Caria and Korl as the circle
allowed. He stumbled and Mahri knew he’d had too much quas-juice this night.

Trian concentrated on his steps, that broad forehead wrinkled in a frown, his amber eyes almost hidden beneath thick curls of dark brown hair. “I’ve been waiting,” he said, his voice slightly slurred, “until I thought you were ready. After what I seen tonight, I’m thinking it’s time.”

Mahri didn’t want to have this conversation. All the villagers had decided to dance, crowding into the circle and huddling around the two of them, their ears tuned toward their words.

“Trian—”

“Now, do not interrupt, girl. You know I care for you, always have. But you weren’t done grieving, wanting to be alone, and I left you. But seems like I need to be asking now, before you get yourself into any trouble. What I’m saying is… that I want you for life, to belong to me.”

Mahri stepped on his foot. Hard. He blinked, that smile still pasted on his dear face. She sighed. “Trian, I don’t want to belong to anyone. Not ever.”

His arms tightened on her shoulders. “What about that Healer?”

“That’s different. It’s just—a game, Trian. That’s all. I only want to belong to me. After Brez, well, it hurts too much, tangling your life with someone else’s, then having it ripped away. Do you understand?”

Suddenly he hugged her to him, picking her up off her feet and dancing her across the floor as if she were one of Sh’ra’s rag dolls. Mahri saw a flash of blazing pale-green eyes as she spun.

“I want you to know that I love you,” whispered Trian.

“And I love you too, but like a cousin, that’s all. Now let me down.”

He stopped dancing and set her on her feet, raked strong fingers through his mahogany curls in frustration. “All right then, I’ll let it be. But you best be careful with that Healer, something’s not right with him.”

Mahri nodded, grateful that Trian hadn’t pushed his suit any further. She’d had no idea that he’d wanted her in that way. “I’m sorry, Trian.”

Trian’s generous mouth split into a grin. “You’re still my girl, that’s sure. And being family means I’ll have to protect you from anyone whose intentions aren’t honorable. You hear?”

Mahri threw her arms around the big man’s shoulders, grateful after all, that they’d talked. She hadn’t known how much he cared. “I’m a Wilding, Trian. I don’t need anyone to watch over me.”

“I know,” Trian whispered into her ear, “but that man’s peculiar, girl. You’re playing with fire.”

Mahri nodded. “Aya, I’ll be careful,” she promised. Then she kissed him, a small part of her wondering why it felt so different when she placed her lips on Korl’s. With Trian, it felt the same as if she’d just touched his hand.

Then she felt herself torn from his arms, glimpsed a blur of pale hair and raised fists that slammed into her cousin like a wave of white water from a storm. Trian grunted, rolled, and came up smiling. Then the prince went down in a flurry of fists.

The villagers surrounded the combatants, almost stepping on Mahri in their haste to see the action. She
heard them calling out changes in wagers and realized that they’d been waiting for this all night.

Caria dragged her to her feet. Wald glanced to make sure she was all right, then pushed his way through the crowd, already yelling encouragement at Trian.

“Wald thought you’d ruin it,” muttered Caria.

“What?” Mahri craned her neck to see over the crowd. Taller than most women, she could almost see over the men’s heads.

“Said the whole village knew there’d be a fight tonight. Either a cat- or fist-fight, they didn’t care, although they wagered on that, too. Wald thought you’d spoil their fun.”

Mahri bit her lip. In the swamps they worked rough and played the same. So she wasn’t surprised. She just didn’t appreciate that she’d been a part of the wagering.

Jaja!
she mind-sent. Her pet scampered up her dress, almost tearing it in the process. “See how Korl is faring, will you?”

He nodded briskly and hop-skipped across several shoulders to the innermost circle. Mahri saw him clap his hands with delight, shake a fist and swing it in mock fighting, then bound back to her own shoulder. He nodded, bared pointed teeth in semblance of a human smile, then went back to the action.

“Has Korl had any zabba?” asked Caria.

Mahri shook her head. She would’ve Sensed any Power within him.

“Then it’s a fair fight and they won’t kill each other, so let’s go get some food.”

Mahri trailed behind the clatter of Caria’s shells, glanced back once at a particularly loud thump, and
cringed. They fought over something that neither one could have.

At the mention of food, Jaja had left the pleasure of the fight for that of the table. The little scamp stuffed sweets in his mouth at an alarming rate, and Mahri watched in fascination while she nibbled on farnuts and redshoots.

Shells clattered and Caria nudged her arm. “The fight’s over. And I think Korl won.”

“How do you know?”

“He’s coming to claim his prize.”

Mahri looked up in alarm. Korl strode determinedly toward her, his golden hair in wild disarray, that gorgeous smink vest torn to shreds, the beginnings of a swelling in his right eye and a line of scarlet running down his full mouth. Every inch the conquering hero.

He grabbed her arm. “Come with me. Now.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you, you arrogant…” sputtered Mahri.

The muscles of his face tightened hard as bone and Caria drew in a breath. With a negligent sweep of his arms he tossed Mahri over his shoulder and stomped out of the clearing, villagers stumbling over themselves in their haste to get out of his way. The frizzy-haired woman and her friend glared envious daggers at Mahri and even though she cursed Korl viciously, she paused a moment to give the women a grin of smug satisfaction.

Then resumed cursing, crying out for some root. If somebody would give her some, she’d show Korl that he couldn’t just toss her around like a bag of seed. But the villagers didn’t interfere and she had a feeling Trian couldn’t.

“Put me down!”

Korl plunged into the forest, the sounds of the village party dwindling behind them. “Not a chance.” He paused for a moment, as if getting his bearings, and Mahri heard the unmistakable sound of root being crunched. When he resumed his purposeful stride she tried to take the Power shuddering through his body but this Bond thing was so new to her. She hadn’t yet forced the Power from him and wasn’t quite sure how to go about it without him Pushing it to her.

By the time she thought she’d figured it out he’d reached wherever he’d been taking her and dumped her into a carpet of fallen leaves. While the blood drained back out of her head she looked around and gasped at the sight before her.

In the middle of a road branch grew one of the largest, most beautiful flowers she’d ever seen. Taller than two men’s heights, wider than four, it grew from a vine that twirled around the trunk of the tree and along the branch. At the bottom of the red blossom small petals puffed out like feathers, but the larger, silken ones gathered up to a peak at the top. She’d never seen the like before.

“What is it?”

Korl grasped her hand and lifted her to her feet, his grip firm and final, pulling her toward the scarlet flower. “Wald showed me. He said this vine blooms once every thousand moons. It’s called a xynth flower.”

His voice had dropped to that deep timbre. Mahri shivered, thinking of the man who’d saved her life, the jealous feelings that those two women had aroused in her, the Bond and the fusing of their souls. And the
smell of him that mingled with the spicy scent of that red flower. “What are you doing?”

Korl had dragged her next to the bloom, reached out and forced an opening through the huge petals, revealing a crack just large enough for a person to squeeze through.

“Get in,” he commanded.

“I think not.”

He sighed, picked her up, and tossed her through that curtain. She landed with a bounce and a curse. The spicy scent was stronger inside the flower; it filled her senses as she noted the small opening above her where the petals reached in a peak, allowing the light of the moons into this nest, the soft, powdery surface she lay on, which had a golden glow of its own, and the feathery fronds of stamens that encircled the inner wall of the petals.

Mahri filled her lungs with that wonderful perfume and it seemed to flow into every muscle of her body, through the channels of her root-paths, relaxing yet stimulating all of her senses. She sighed. A feathery touch brushed her cheek, then the sides of her arms, the top of her breasts. Yet it didn’t startle her, even though it took a few seconds to realize that those gentle caresses came from the flower itself, that the stamens surrounding her swayed with almost sensuous undulations, stroking and releasing even more of that marvelous scent.

“Korl,” she whispered.

His voice came back at her muffled through the petals. “What?”

“Come in.”

“I think not.”

Mahri shifted on the cushiony surface, trembling
from the feel of the glittering powder that covered this chamber, the constant strokes of the feather-like stamens against her skin, the languid heat that increased every time she breathed in that spicy scent. She stretched out full length, the silk of her dress sliding across the tiny hairs of her body, the glowing powder filling her pores and making her skin ache with the want of a touch. What was happening to her?

“Korl,” she groaned, and she heard him respond with a grunt, a rip of petals as he plunged into the giant flower, overwhelming her with the sudden heat of his body, the touch of his hands against her sensitized skin. “By-the-moons, what’s happening to me?”

Korl’s voice felt hard. “I take what I want.”

“Aya, aya,” she agreed. “But why don’t I care?”

His hands slid up her ankles, the powder a smooth catalyst for his motions, catching the hem of her silk dress and scrunching it up to her thighs. His voice when it answered had changed, a distracted sort of throatiness. “The perfume of the flower, and the pollen it exhumes, releases your inhibitions.”