Moontide 02 - The Scarlet Tides (55 page)

I am a woman and a wife
. It was odd, but the thought meant nothing to her. Nothing did, except Portia.

Their stolen moments were all the sweeter for the danger, and the difficulties in contriving them, slipping at midnight into Portia’s bedroom, trusting Gyle’s word that no one now watched them. Most nights Portia wanted only to sleep or to simply be held – they had made love on only three occasions – and those little rejections hurt when Cera wanted her so badly. Her days were full of desperate desire, a need that burned inside so intensely she thought she would immolate. She’d always scorned love-struck girls, but now she was one, and she could scarcely bear it. Knowing her passion was only partially returned was another torture – but when they were together, nothing else mattered.

She could not believe a being so lovely would consent to lie with her; she could not believe that another’s mouth and tongue could elicit such pleasure from her. And to let her do the same, to taste the spicy hollows of her skin? That was beyond price …

And afterwards they talked so freely, shared things she’d never told another soul, whispering softly in each other’s ears until all the time had slipped through their fingers and the charade must begin again.

I love her. I want to be with her forever.
Suspected Portia lay with her only out of pity and friendship was a pang she could bear, for now.
She will come to love me fully in time
, she told herself; she would even have prayed for it, if she had thought that there was any god who might grant such a wish.

Today King Francis was off with his friends, Gyle included, hunting lions. She was pleased Gyle was away, for playing with his affections felt deadly dangerous. He wanted her, she knew that, even if that meant cuckolding the king. So far she’d managed to hide her utter loathing of him, let him think she was being won round, but she knew she could not do that forever.

No doubt Octa and Olivia were indulging in yet another bout of gluttony and excess in the royal suite. They would doubtless already be on the way to intoxicated – they would drink all day until they finally collapsed insensible sometime around dusk. There was no one living here on the top levels except Portia and her. Marriage hadn’t changed the arrangement of the bedrooms, and that was absolutely fine by Cera.

Finally!
The moment she’d been waiting for arrived: Tarita gave a discreet rap on her door, then pattered away. Of course her little maid knew – but if she judged, she didn’t condemn. Cera erupted from her bed and scurried from her room to the next in the blink of an eye. The parlour door was open, affording a view of an unmade bed and a long, lithe body sprawled naked among the sheets, a tangle of russet hair vivid against white skin.

Cera lost her breath momentarily.

Portia looked up with hooded eyes. ‘You are insatiable,’ she complained, wriggling to make room in the bed.

*

Francis Dorobon’s entourage wound its way slowly back into Brochena, through the kenars, the Jhafi slums, at the edge of the city. The column was large enough to dissuade attack, something that was becoming a greater threat of late. Two patrols had been ambushed and murdered last month. Fenys Rhodium and Sir Teris Grandienne’s response had been brutal: they’d sealed off the area where the attacks had taken place and burned it to the ground with gnosis-fuelled fires, slaying hundreds of men, women and children who’d almost certainly had nothing to do with the attacks.

I could have taken you straight to the men who did it,
Gyle mused. But
he was more than happy for the Dorobon to engender more hatred for themselves.

Now the column of mounted men wound through the streets, four tawny mountain lion pelts hanging from poles as prizes. The hunting had been good and Francis well-amused. He and his friends had hunted enthusiastically for ten days, and laughed and cavorted drunkenly every evening. Gyle had never been quite included – he was not of their lineage – but Francis openly sought his guidance, and he was treated with respect.

‘Gyle,’ King Francis boomed, trotting his horse up beside him and slapping his shoulder. ‘Excellent sport, my friend! We must do it again soon!’

‘There are other beasts also worthy of the chase, your Majesty,’ Gyle replied, and regaled Francis with descriptions of the local deer, wild tuskers, and carnobirds, the giant flightless eagles that lived in the mountains. A new expedition to the southeast was mooted.

‘There is always good meat to be had in Javon, if one knows where to hunt,’ he added, temptingly.

Francis glanced about him then leant closer. ‘My friend, getting out of this damned court lifts my spirits. I know I shouldn’t say so, but I do not feel wholly in control here still. My mother’s confidantes are constantly badgering me about this or that.’ He faked a yawn. ‘They bore me. Mother thinks I am still a child, and Fenys Rhodium and Terus Grandienne take their cues from her. I am a crowned king, and twice married, and still Mother tries to suffocate me. How can I get her to step back and give me room to breathe?’

Gyle smiled inwardly. Such conversations with Francis were becoming more frequent, and he was relying more and more on him for advice.

‘A king must trust his advisors,’ he said carefully, ‘and family is important, of course, but they are not the only source of wisdom.’

‘Marrying my sister Olivia would make you one of the family,’ Francis said slyly.

Good grief!

‘The affairs of the kingdom take all my energy, sire,’ Gyle replied hurriedly.

‘Ha! Not all of them, my friend! Don’t think I’m not aware of your clandestine relations with her.’ Francis didn’t sound disapproving, just amused. ‘I would not have thought you and she well matched, in truth.’

Gyle smiled in the matey way that Francis liked.
I must be careful not to insult his sister, but the last thing I want is to be saddled with her.
‘It is just a sometime thing, sire.’ He dropped his own voice. ‘I believe she sees it as a rebellion against your mother.’

The king laughed briefly, then looked around again to ensure they were still out of earshot before asking seriously, ‘You would not accept if I offered you her hand, then?’

‘Milord, with all respect, I doubt I will ever marry. My work does not permit such arrangements.’

‘A shame,’ Francis mused. ‘I would like to formalise our alliance.’ He snickered softly. ‘And it would give Mother apoplexy.’ He glanced up at the fortress as it came into view and his face brightened. ‘And now my lady awaits.’

‘They both await,’ Gyle reminded him.

Francis looked across at him and as if sharing a confidence, admitted, ‘The Nesti girl does not move me. Her skin is too dark and she has no gaiety. No … spark.’ He sniffed. ‘I don’t like her smell – garlic and curry-leaf. But I do my duty, and she does hers.’

‘Get her with child, sire.’ Gyle made a crude gesture. ‘The Nesti are half-pacified already by your marriage to Cera. A mage-child will bind them to you.’

‘She comes on heat next week.’ He chuckled lewdly. ‘I shall plough her diligently, and name the child Gurvon.’ He clapped Gyle on the shoulder. ‘But meantime, I have a finer mount to ride. The Tolidi girl is besotted with me, you know – she’s insatiable.’ His eyes went up to the towers of the palace. ‘I tell you, Mother still talks of saddling me with some trollop from her circle, but I’ll not put Portia aside, no matter what. Whatever other wife my mother foists upon me can put up with that, or I’ll not have her. I’m king now: I make the rules!’

Portia Tolidi was harmless enough. Gyle said encouragingly, ‘Your lady mother has perhaps forgotten what it is like to be young. She will loosen her reins upon you in time,’ he added, twisting the knife subtly.

Francis scowled. ‘My mother doesn’t understand me.’

‘Mothers seldom do.’
Actually she reads you like a book, my dear Francis. As do we all
. ‘I daresay she will tire of Javon soon enough. I am sure she will return to Yuros once she feels you are secure.’ He watched the young man deal with the implication that his kingship was still insecure.

‘Sooner rather than later, I hope,’ Francis growled. He glanced back at his coterie of young friends. ‘My friends are fine fellows, but they don’t understand politics like you and I, Gyle.’ He dropped his voice. ‘My mother fears you. She thinks that you have more influence over me than she does.’

‘Her jealousies are unfounded, my lord King,’ Gyle lied. ‘You are your own man.’

‘I am,’ King Francis agreed fervently, as if by saying so, he might make it true. ‘Mother’s friends think they rule me.’ He bit his lip. ‘I wish I was free of them. But Mother …’ He sniffed angrily. ‘I cannot just send them away.’

‘Lord King, you cannot send them away
yet
, but you can work around them. The Nesti used to have a council that effectively controlled the kingdom. Create your own council – then gradually exclude your mother’s people. Take control.’

Francis’ eyes lit up. ‘I could …’ Then, ‘Could I?’ Gyle could already see the young man’s mind jumping from the notion of freedom to a shirking of responsibility. ‘All those boring
duties
…’

He restrained himself from rolling his eyes. ‘My lord, rulership need not be a burden. Appoint a few trusted people to advise you, and then direct everything through Don Perdonello to implement your decisions.’
My good friend Francesco.

‘Him? I don’t like him.’

‘He’s the most capable administrator in the realm, your Majesty. You can rely on him to carry out your will and not to burden you with
unnecessary
matters.’

‘But if I alienate my mother, we will appear divided – the people may see weakness.’ He dropped his voice. ‘I have only ten thousand loyal men.’

You have far fewer than that, boy
. ‘Then get the Nesti onside. Get Cera with child. Treat her well in public and the Nesti will come round. They are still powerful and free. Bind them to you.’

Francis considered. ‘I suppose she isn’t utterly unattractive, for a mudskin. I’ve had uglier women. And I’ll still have Portia.’ He smirked. ‘Your idea of having several wives was a good one. You really should try it yourself.’

*

Cera woke from a hazy mid-afternoon dream, a doze brought on by sheer boredom. Portia had been closeted with Francis Dorobon since the hunt had returned, leaving Cera neglected and lonely again. She hadn’t been summoned at all, and the thought of Francis and Portia together was sheer misery.

She rolled over and lay on her side staring at the wall. A pale angel sang silently upon the tapestry while a knight and lady knelt at her feet. The Amteh Scriptures held that angels had no gender, but this angel had always looked female to Cera: strong and pure and womanly, with a severe determination that reminded her of Elena. She wished gloomily that her former champion was with her, even if she probably hated her now.

I would kneel at her feet and beg forgiveness. Then together we would slaughter these Dorobon pigs.

A hand touched her shoulder and she started, opened her mouth, and—

—a knife of pain thrust through her mind and she stiffened, choked and tried to cry out. But an insidious lassitude filled her like venom and instead she found herself staring vacantly as she fell into a state of complete inertia.

A lugubrious female face with a gold Lantric nose-ring and two luminous deepset eyes rose over her. It was the woman she’d seen in her rooms – Gyle’s spy. She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t
remember how. Then an accented voice filled her skull and obliterated all possibility of thought or action.

‘Hello little safian,’ the Lantric woman said aloud. ‘Did you have a sweet dream? Time to wake now, and do your duty.’

Cera tried to call for help, but the only thing that came from her mouth was one faint word: ‘… duty …’

The woman smiled brightly. ‘Yes, duty. You must do as I say, exactly as I say. The kingdom depends on it.’

‘… kingdom …’

‘Exactly. Cera, you must go to Gurvon Gyle’s room. Tell him that Francis neglects you. That he leaves you unfulfilled. Tell him how much you need him.’

There was no choice, no option. Cera felt a liquid warmth flow from the woman’s eyes, a pulse of heat that travelled down her spine and into her loins. She shivered with the longing to be taken and used. Her skin prickled and flushed with the heat, her nipples hardened painfully and she groaned. ‘… need him …’

‘Exactly. You want him in you – you want him so badly you would risk all. He feels the same way, my dear, I assure you. He feels exactly the way you do.’

The woman deftly loosened the laces at the front of Cera’s nightgown, then pulled out a little vial and dabbed something clear onto each nipple. ‘He wants to suckle you. He wants you.’

‘… wants …’ The word filled her head, imparted meaning to all that was happening. She tried to kiss the Lantric woman, desperately needing to be held and loved. ‘… wants …’

The Lantric woman caught her hands, laughing huskily. ‘No, no, my sweet. Save your passion for Gurvon. Think how sweet it will feel.’

The woman stood her up and smoothed down her hair. ‘Go to him like this, with the smell of the bedroom on your skin and your hair tangled. Now hold still.’ She smeared something over Cera’s lips. ‘Don’t lick your lips, whatever you do. Let him kiss them first.’

‘… kiss …’

‘Look, little safian. Here is your maid. She’s going to help you find your lover.’

Cera turned her head as Tarita walked stiffly into the chamber and took her hand. Her eyes were vacant.

‘… lover …’ Cera went to kiss the girl, but the Lantric woman caught her.

‘No, no. Save your kisses for Gurvon, my dear. Then all of Paradise will be yours.’

*

A kiss.

All the long days of Francis’ hunt, Gyle had thought long and hard about that one kiss, the one he’d stolen from Cera Nesti’s lips. Or had she offered it? His memories were oddly blurred about that moment. It had felt like both.

He was still in his travelling clothes, just unbuckling his sword-belt, when there was a soft rap upon his door. He called a challenge, then his heart double-skipped at the sound of
her
voice.