Blinded by the Sun (Erythleh Chronicles Book 4) (18 page)

"You should order a national holiday, and arrange spectacles and games in celebration." Lyssia's voice was quiet, and there was a catch to it that let Kavrazel know she was not completely unaffected by the moment, despite the fact she was valiantly trying to steer their conversation back to its course.

"Games?"

"Yes. Jousting tournaments. Sword fights. Mock battles, in which you demonstrate your ability to call the dead from the earth."

"I will not be a freak show."

"Neither will I. I do not suggest such a thing, merely a demonstration of your powers to silence your detractors."

"You would have me play the part of a demon and silence my critics with fear?"

"I do not think you a demon. Why should they not be afraid of you?"

Kavrazel asked a question that had been troubling him, in small niggling way in the corner of his mind. "You don't seem to be at all... unnerved... by my abilities. Do they have similar magics in the South?"

"Not at all. And why should I be feared of a power that saved my life?"

"It is not a pretty power."

"It is rare that anything useful or strong is also beautiful, or fanciful to the eye."

"I disagree."

"Really? Name an example."

"You."

Since she had moved closer to impart her teasing confidence, Lyssia had barely moved away, but now she almost reared back, shocked. Kavrazel did not regret his words, but the reaction they had caused was unfortunate. He had been enjoying their close proximity, particularly the evident trust that she had for him, and the way that the heat of the fire intensified the fragrance of her skin.

Kavrazel took her hand from its resting place on one of the cushions and wrapped his fingers around her long, slim digits, which were trembling ever so slightly. He simply held her hand as he continued. "You are strong, in spirit and mind as well as in body, and you are beautiful."

Lyssia didn't bluster with false modesty; he would have been surprised if she had. Kavrazel knew she was not blind, she could see her own reflection in the glass every morning, she knew well what she looked like. She did flush at the compliment. Her skin, already burnished by the firelight, darkened a few shades more. She wasn't pulling away, and that was a tenuous gift that he clung to. She had accepted his kiss in the stables, had participated in it eagerly, so he did not think he had caused actual offence. Her next words answered his unasked question about her reticence.

"What can this be? What is thing between us?" Kavrazel made to answer, but Lyssia laid a fingertip to his lips. "Are we simply master and slave? Will you take a queen, someone of royal blood from another land? Will I be required to serve you as you share your life with another? Will I be an amusement to toy with when you're bored? I don't think I could bear to be treated in so casual a manner."

Lyssia's finger dropped away, and Kavrazel took that as a sign that she would allow him to speak.

"If I was required to take a bride as some sort of asset to my position, I would have done so by now. I am strong enough to hold this throne on my own merit; I need no advantageous associations, and I seek to make none. I am free to wed whomever I choose, and have never done so because I never encountered anyone that I wanted to share my life with."

"Do not toy with me. I don't expect anything from you, but I will not be used and discarded."

Only now, when he thought about pushing Lyssia aside, about coldly denying her company, and using her solely for brief, ceremonial tradition, did Kavrazel realise his true intentions. The scenario that she had described was an intolerable one.

"That will not happen."

Her finger returned to his lips. "Then do not say more tonight. I'm not sure I would believe you if you did."

"Very well." He spoke against her finger, and then captured her wrist so that he could tug her forward. "I won't say anything at all."

He had intended the kiss to be no less chaste than the one that they had shared in the stable, even though, for all its innocence, it was branded on his memory. Perhaps it was their cosy situation before the hearth. Perhaps it was the illicit privacy that had been granted to them. Whatever it was, something was very different in the tone of this encounter. Almost before he'd realised that his body was acting under its own volition, Kavrazel had pulled Lyssia against him and rolled her down onto the cushions.

The part of himself that was an instinctive animal, a base male, wanted to crawl over her, to search under layers of gauzy cloth so that he could fill his greedy palms with soft, sweet flesh. He didn't just want to taste her; he wanted to feast on her, to know every curve by touch and sight, to know the sound of her gasps of pleasure, to know the way that her body would move in response to his caress. That part, he kept at bay. It would have its time... soon.

Before he could immerse himself in her, he needed to gain her trust. He needed to show her how much he valued her. He needed to make her see that their bond was irrevocable... and so much more than its derogatory beginnings. He needed her to see that the choice of her future was hers, that the choice was always hers. He wanted her to want him with equal ferocity, to know that she wasn't subject to a master's whims and caprice. He was willing to wait until she knew the truth of that.

It was that portion of his being that kept him from covering her. He held himself over her, but on straightened arms, careful not crush her, careful not to press the insistent muscles of his body against her pliable frame. He caged her, but he did not trap her.

It took every ounce of strength that he had ever possessed to break the kiss and to roll away. He did not move far; he was drawn by her, and could not absent himself entirely, but he needed at least a hand span of distance. If he were to get any closer, she might discover just how affected he was, and he doubted the consequences of such a thing would be favourable.

"You should leave."

He was staring at the ceiling, but he knew that Lyssia, lying by his side, was looking at his profile.

"You are dismissing me?"

She was hurt. He had known that she would be. His tone had been curt, and they had discussed this very topic, but he could not explain... He could not put into words all the thoughts and emotions that whirled in his mind.

"No. But for your own sanctity I advise you to leave."

"And if I wish to stay?"

She had asked, and there was no way he could explain with words, he could only demonstrate. He rolled, over her, onto her, bringing the full weight of his body, the full rigidity of every muscle to bear. His aching cock was not at all soothed by the inadequate friction, but he wanted her to feel the consequences of their situation.

"If you stay..." Kavrazel nudged his hips in an imitation of a gentle thrust, "If you stay, then know that this night can only end one way."

He could see the indecision in her expression; it was perfectly clear. She was warring against the needs of her flesh and the behest of her mind. He understood that battle all too well. It took more than a moment, and several deep breaths, for him to regain his composure, but eventually Kavrazel was able to roll off and away from Lyssia's body.

"Go to bed, little butterfly, lest I dust your wings with my clumsy hands."

"I doubt..." she began...

"I think you misunderstand the strength of my feelings," Kavrazel growled. "Go to bed."

And with that instruction, Lyssia scrambled up and fled from the room. Kavrazel remained, a weak and fractured human, a flawed shell of a thing, and considered all the ways in which he was doing a disservice to his slave. If he truly loved her, he would let her go home, but he could not do that, he needed to keep her close. He needed to see her grow and learn and expand her mind. He needed to see her become the queen he knew she could be.

Chapter Seventeen

By the time Lyssia took her seat at the dining table, having concluded the blood toast for the evening meal, she felt like wilting. She had barely slept the night before, tormented into restlessness by events that had taken place in the parlour. Her skin had felt too tight, too hot. The sheets on her bed were too rough, the moon too bright... And then the day had dawned and it had been time to prepare herself to be in the king's presence again. During the blood toast before breakfast, Lyssia had been sure that she would pass out from the combination of confusion and arousal. Until Kavrazel had made mention of the fact, she hadn't even noticed that he had given instructions for a second place to be set at the table. He had decreed that she would eat her all her meals with him, instead of returning to the kitchens.

Their day had been long, and full of activity. The king had called his staff together and had laid before them the idea of festivities, to continue for the span of one moon, in celebration of the giants being so roundly defeated. Lyssia had been acting as scribe at the meeting and had been amazed when he had attributed the idea to her. She had honestly expected the king to claim it for his own, not because he was so arrogant, but because there should be no reason that a slave - even one who had the ear of the king - might have any input into the running of a country. From the raised eyebrows and askance looks on several faces, Lyssia knew her opinion to be accurate, but no one had voiced disagreement purely on the basis of the origins of the suggestion.

Based on the agreement of the proposal, there had been more work to do. Now the preparations had to be made for all the various events to actually proceed, and the king had granted only ten days' time for that work to be completed. Being the man that he was, he did not expect to sit on his throne and watch his underlings make all the effort. Kavrazel had thrown himself into the tasks alongside everyone else, as had Lyssia. There had been no time for any private conversation, and now, subject to more confusion and a degree of exhaustion, she felt that her most pressing need was more likely sleep rather than food.

"You're pale."

She saw Kavrazel's fingers stroke hers, but she felt disconnected from the sensation of the touch. "I'm a little tired."

"I thought it was too soon..."

Oh no, if he thought he was going to banish her back to the role of invalid when there was so much to be done, he was mistaken. Lyssia took a deep breath, then a sip of wine, then a larger drink of wine, and felt herself rallying.

"It is not."

"You are stubborn."

Kavrazel was smiling now, and preparing to eat his own meal. Lyssia was hopeful that all notions of insisting she rest had gone.

"You have no idea." She wasn't ignorant of the way that he watched her closely until she began to eat.

"So I'm beginning to realise."

"There's so much to be done..."

Lyssia would have listed the all the tasks that she had been nominated to undertake or keep track of, but Kavrazel silenced her with a firm touch to her wrist.

"Which is why you're going straight to your rooms after you've eaten. And that isn't a request, that's a royal decree."

"As you wish, my Lord." She couldn't deny that she was in dire need of rest, but she didn't think that she would be any more relaxed than she had been the previous night. Especially not with the sharp sting of disappointment that was lancing through her. Surely it should be wrong to want him. Surely it was naive to think they had any hope of a future. Surely it was foolish to think that she had any substantial or permanent place in his life. And yet... the things he'd said... the way he'd touched her.. his concern... the way he'd kissed her...

Lyssia was back to being confused, and was in danger of cultivating quite a headache.

~o0o~

Lyssia had seen large communities before. She had been to the city of Nari. The caves of Sken were a sight to behold. But the city of Vulc, caught up in a whirlwind of festivities and revelry, was something else entirely. There was a carnival atmosphere that seemed to leave no one unaffected. Those that would loiter in the marketplace to gripe about their lot in life and to declaim their king had stubbornly tried to continue, but they had lost their audience. Merchants and traders had set out their fanciest garments, sweetest foods, and most potent wines and ales. Those that would have lingered and listened to the rhetoric of dissention had allowed themselves to be tempted away by more alluring prospects. With the absence of any sort of crowd, many of those spewing seditious rhetoric had lost their bravado. It was one thing to rant about your monarch when a mass of people seemed to hang on your every word; it was quite another to be one of only a handful shouting into air.

The city was alive and rapturous. It seemed that even the curls of fog that perpetually hung over the ground had dissipated, banished by the peels of joy and laughter that rang through the air. Lyssia had once thought Vulc an indifferent city, one with a black heart to match its black stones. She no longer felt that way. Much as she had when she had first stepped onto the shores of Vuthron, she saw that these people were not so very different to her own. They knew toil and hardship, and love and laughter, as part of the tapestries of their everyday lives.

She wanted to wander through the city alone. She wanted to be an anonymous civilian, to drink the rich wine and to eat the tangy meats in the marketplace as she browsed the silks and furs on offer, just as everyone else did. She wanted to surround herself with the feeling of living, to wrap herself in this light-heartedness that the common folk seemed to be taking for granted.

Lyssia planned to petition Kavrazel for leave of the castle, but she knew that she needed to wait for an unguarded moment. He had almost lost her once, somehow she knew that he would not risk losing her again. She had not been denied the opportunity to ride Sensha into the countryside, but a stable lad always followed behind, just enough of a distance that she could ignore the encumbrance of a bodyguard. There was no way she would be allowed to roam the streets of the city without a guard. If she wanted to remain anonymous on her adventure, she would have to word her request, and pick her timing, with a stealthy cunning that others might have called devious. Lyssia called it common sense.

To herald the start of the festival, and to coincide with the halfway point of the year, Kavrazel had arranged to visit the great temple of Taan to make sacrifices to the petulant god. Not until he had appeased Taan would the carousing truly begin. Apparently it would be folly and arrogance as to exhibit too much enjoyment before the god had received his due. Lyssia could not argue the king's decree; she was a lone voice in a country of devout worshippers. Still, she thought the act to be ceremonial and nothing more. She could see life happening around them as they made their way to the temple, and it made her impatient to implement her plan to become a part of it, if only for a short while.

They were currently rolling along the straight thoroughfare that led to the great temple of Taan. Rather than ride, Kavrazel had elected to utilise an open top carriage. He had said that it was more fitting to the regal air of the occasion. Lyssia would have preferred the informality of riding, but sitting astride a horse would have been completely impractical in the dress she was wearing, so the carriage seemed at least a logical necessity.

Shinu had brought her outfit to her that morning. The black slippers were simple and acceptable, but she still wasn't sure how she felt about the dress. In Sken, and in her life before that, she had dressed in rough homespun, tanned leathers, and cured pelts. All her garments been serviceable, all had been comfortable with the aim of offering the optimum range of movement. Her outfits in her life thus far as a blood slave had not been so very offensive, if only a little flimsy for her taste. They covered more than they revealed, and only hinted at everything they concealed. They were not her preference, but they did not offend her sensibilities.

This dress... well, she still hadn't made her mind up. The material was silken to the touch, with a sheen that caught the light in a subtle way, and it was opaque. The design still hung from her shoulders, still fell to the floor, and was still tailored at her waist, and in that it was no different to her everyday garb, but in important ways it was completely the opposite. The design draped artistically around her frame in carefully arranged folds; it was overly fussy, in Lyssia's opinion, but that was not the issue. The problem was that the innards of the dress were structured with sticks, something stiff and unyielding. The spines did not poke into her, they followed the contours of her body, almost lovingly - from below her hips to just under her bust - but they forced her to hold her body erect. She could not slump or sit comfortably in any way, it was awkward to take a full breath.

She was not as unused to the jet black stick of kohl that Shinu had presented her with. Such a vanity had been commonplace in her old life, and her hands had remembered the steady art of application of the makeup. The reflection in the mirror had confirmed that the addition of thick black lines around her eyelids caused the green of her eyes to glow like gems in candlelight. Her hair was simply brushed and left to its own devices. Girogis had nodded approvingly when she had joined the party waiting to set off from the castle.

When the carriage halted at the foot of the endless steps that led up to the temple, Lyssia did her best to take a full inhale before dismounting. The effort was aborted by the stricture of the dress before it was successful, but it was enough to steady her. She was... surprised, when the king held his hand out to assist her down the carriage steps. The short ladder was not beyond her abilities, but the help was still welcome, although she wasn't sure why he would take such care in front of a crowd of his cheering subjects.

"You look beautiful... ethereal," the king murmured, as he tucked her arm in the crook of his own.

"Thank you." Lyssia cursed the flush that rose at the compliment. She would have liked to have been more sophisticated in receipt of such praise, but Kavrazel was dressed as The King of Vuthron, and to be flattered by such a regal entity would have tested the resolve of even the most prim old maid. In addition, they had both been so stretched by the preparations for this day and the days that were to follow that they had not been able to snatch any moments beyond watchful eyes or prying ears. Even now, there were far too many eyes turned in their direction for Lyssia to do more than blush and curtsey. Meals had been brief, a means to an end, a necessary relief of hunger and provision of energy. There had been no chance to pause and linger, no leisure to be taken in each other's company. Lyssia was beginning to wonder if all that had happened before was nought but a dream.

The king was clad in his full armour, which might have appeared ceremonial to inexperienced eyes, but Lyssia could see that it would be useful on any battlefield. The black scales of dull metal that overlaid each other like the skin of a snake would deflect any arrow, but were flexible enough to enable the use of a sword or axe. The coat of lizard-like protection covered his arms to his knuckles, and fell to his knees, fastening across his chest with clasps of silver. A large fan of stiff blades, elongated versions of the scales, shot from his shoulders to protect his neck. Leather trews and heavy boots covered his legs and feet. Lyssia had to take care when she touched the king's hands. His metal gauntlets, which were deceptively intricately wrought and designed to allow full movement of the wrists and hands, tapered to wicked, extended points over the fingernails that were needle sharp.

Together, they began to ascend the steep stairway. That Kavrazel did not insist she remain a step or two behind him muddled her thoughts all the more. He was not treating her as a slave, and she didn't know if that was part of the illusion they were supposed to be projecting to encourage all Vuthroans to treat their acquisitions more equitably, or whether he had alternative motivation. Girogis protected their rear, as a good guard should. He had ridden behind them, and was also clad in full armour in honour of the occasion. Not for one moment in all her time of knowing him, even though she considered him an ally, had Lyssia forgotten that Girogis could be brutal; strength and violence hung around his broad shoulders as a cloak. Now, when he was clad in the wrought matte metal and oiled leather of his Vuthroan armour, he was a phantasm from her nightmares, a thing truly to be feared, the very epitome of all her worst assumptions of Vuthron.

It was good that the king set a stately pace up the steps. His staid tempo allowed her to keep up without becoming winded. Thanks to all her training with Girogis, the steps should have been no effort, but the corsetry of her dress was taking its toll. Kavrazel's cabinet, Multha, Otal, and the rest, had followed them in their own carriages or on their own mounts as they deemed appropriate. They waited until Kavrazel's foot hit the topmost step before they began their own trek to the temple. Behind them, the crowd surged forward.