Winds of Change (45 page)

He turned, his hands full of beaded firebird feathers, and smiled with pleasure at the sight of her.

She made a sour face, and twisted awkwardly. “I look that silly, do I?”

“On the contrary, you look wonderful.” She pursed her lips, then smiled reluctantly. He admired her for a moment; as he had thought, the variegated, rich rubies and wines of the half-robe heightened her otherwise dull coloring. With her face tanned by the wind and sun, and her dark brown hair, without the help of color reflected up from her clothing, it was no surprise that she thought herself plain. But now, she glowed, and her hair picked up auburn highlights from the ruby-red silks. And with her hair braided and ornamented instead of being simply pulled back from her face -

She is going to look magnificent when her hair turns white,
he thought admiringly.
But now
-
no, this severe style is not going to work. Color’s a bit too strong. It looks wrong now.

Before she could move, or even protest, he had his hands buried in her hair, braiding the beaded cords of feathers into one side. Then he created a browband with another cord, pulling some of the rest of her hair with it across her forehead to join the braid on the other side. It didn’t take long; her hair was ridiculously short by mage-standards, and even many of the scouts wore theirs far longer than hers. But when released from that severe tail, it had a soft, gentle wave that went well with the braids and beaded feathers.

“There,” he said, turning her to face the mirror that had been left covered, as was customary, with an embroidered cloth. He whisked the cloth away, revealing her new image to her eyes. “I defy you to call yourself plain now.”

Her mouth formed into a silent “Oh,” of surprise as she stared at the exotic stranger in the mirror. She flushed, then paled, then flushed again, and her whole posture relaxed and softened.

“I would give a great deal to see you appear in your Court dressed this way,” he said, a little smugly. He was rather proud of the way she looked in his handiwork. Better than he had imagined, in fact. “I think that you would set entirely new fashions.”

She moved carefully, holding out her arms to see the fall of the sleeves, twirling to watch the material slip about her legs and hips, her eyes sparkling with unexpected pleasure. “I had no idea. The last time I wore anything like this, it was for Talia’s wedding. I was a cute little girl, but, well, cuteness wears off. I never thought I could look like this.” She shook her head, her eyes still riveted to the mirror. “I thought that the clothing the
hertasi
had been leaving for me was nice, but compared to this - ”

“Scout’s clothing, it was, really,” he said, with a shrug. “Quite as practical as your Herald uniforms. Mages tend to prefer more fanciful garb, and certainly more comfortable.
These
are for delight. Showing off. Dancing. Display, as our birds do, for the sheer joy of doing so, or for - ” Before she could respond to that, he had picked out a full robe in monochrome intensities of vivid blue. “Come,” he said, coaxingly. “Let us try another. I wish to see you in all of these.”

“Me? What about you?”

“What about me?” he repeated, puzzled. “What have I to do with this?”

“You’re a mage, aren’t you? And aren’t these
your
costumes?” She folded her arms stubbornly across her chest. “I’d like to see what
you
look like in these things!”

Try as he would, he could not dissuade her. Before she would consent, she insisted that if
she
was going to prance about in bright feathers, he would have to do the same. So nothing would have it but that he must don a set of dancing gear before she would change her costume for another. The evening hours passed, the two of them playing among the costumes like a pair of children at dress-up, laughing and admiring together.

Some time later, he had draped her in a swath of amber-gold that brought sunlike highlights to her hair and a Tayledras-sheen to her skin. Any of the vivid colors suited her, but she glowed in the warm colors, he had decided. This particular robe, though he did not tell her so, was a lounging robe - a dalliance robe, in fact. A lover’s robe. Meant for display to one person, not to many. He had made it for himself, but had not liked the color once he had tried it on - one of the few times he had misjudged color for himself.

But on her -

“You must keep that,” he whispered, as she turned and twisted, plainly taking sensuous pleasure in the soft slip of the silk against her skin. “No, indeed, you must,” he insisted, as she turned to protest. “It was never suited to me, but I think I must have somehow designed it with you in mind.”

The words had been meant to come out teasingly, but somehow, they turned in his mouth and hung in the air between them with more meaning in them than he had intended. He reached delicately to a glass box and opened it, and before he knew what he was doing, he reached toward her, his hand holding a single brightly beaded feather.

Not one of Vree’s - though at this moment, he would have offered her that, if he had thought she might take it. But he dared not. He hardly believed that he dared this.

She knew what that meant now - and as she stared at it and at him with her expression gone quiet and unreadable, he feared that he had just undone all that had been built between them.

But her hand reached for his - and gently took the feather.

And carefully, as if it, or she, might break, she braided it into her hair, then took a deep breath, her eyes wide and dark, waiting.

They both stepped forward at the same moment; he reached up with both hands and cupped her face between them, as carefully as he would grasp a downy day-old falcon. Her skin was as soft as the washed silk she wore, and very warm beneath his hands, as if she was flushed or feverish. It occurred to him then that she might - no, must - be shy, of him, and of what was to come; with a last, weary exercise of his magic, he dimmed the mage-lights.

The comparison and the contrast was inevitable; this was no Dawnfire. Elspeth, for all her courage elsewhere, all her eagerness, was trembling and half-frightened with him. It came to him in a rush how far away from her home she was - all the trials she had faced, and now this - it was up to him to take the lead. She was unsure of herself and not certain what he wanted of her, but there was desire there.

So, he would go as gently with her as he would with caring for a frightened wild bird. She was not likely a virgin, but it did not necessarily follow that she was experienced in lovemaking; he could by accident frighten her with a technique she had never experienced. With all sincerity, he hoped there would be ample times in the future to explore.

He kissed her, once, then dropped his hands, catching hers, and led her back to the bower of cushions on the floor. He slowly drew her down beside him, and there they stayed while he caressed her, letting the silk slide over her body beneath his hands. He touched her gently; shoulders, back, breasts, neck - let the silk carry the movement of his hands. She shivered again, but now it was not from half-formed fear, but from anticipation.

Her lips parted in a gentle moan of pleasure, and she lay her head back with a visible expression of delight.

After a moment, she returned his caresses, hesitantly at first, then with more boldness. Her hands wandered as freely as his, and he kept careful control over himself, lest he move too quickly with her.

But it had been a very long time since his last lover . . . a very long time. Controlling himself was as difficult as any magic he had ever attempted.

Now they drew closer, and her lips met his.

If he had any thoughts until that moment that she might regret having accepted his feather, they were dismissed by the eagerness with which she returned his kiss. He allowed his mind to brush hers for a moment, as his mouth opened for her. He garnered two important things from that brief contact; she was by no means as experienced a lover as he, but she was as perfectly willing to be his pupil in this as in the other subjects he had taught her. She had confidence in his skill abed.

So; take things slowly. The greater her desire, the calmer at first, the more fully she felt their bodies, the better the experience.

He slid his hands under the silk of the robe, and continued his slow, sensual caresses; continued until any thought of fear was a long-forgotten triviality. Then he joined his mind to hers, very lightly, and showed her wordlessly what would pleasure him, as he noted what pleasured her. She was soft silk in his hands, and warm honey in his mouth; feather-caress and nectar. Her scent was of sandalwood, cinnamon, and herbs. His was of musk and rich
chava.
Her skin tasted salty-sweet, and where their bodies touched, liquid fire poured between them.

When their minds were so entwined that there was no telling where one ended and the other began, only then did he join his body into hers.

A pair of hawks spiraling slowly up a thermal, talons entwined, they rose together, and soared into the sun. . . .

Elspeth lay in silk and warmth, and thought of absolutely nothing, content to savor the warm glow that bathed every pore. Content to listen to Darkwind breathing beside her. Content, for the moment, to forget everything she was, and simply be.

Darkwind lay quietly beside her, his breathing slow and even. She listened to him, thinking that sleep could not be far off for her, either, but hoping to hold it away a little longer, and savor the moment.

“I trust I achieved your expectations.”

She started; he laid a calming hand on her shoulder, and she laughed, breathlessly, willing her heart to calm. “I thought you were asleep,” she said. “I mean, you sounded like you were.”

“That would be unforgivably crude,” Darkwind replied, with just a hint of laughter in his voice. “At least, it would be by our customs.”

She thought of the few - to be honest, three - lovers she had taken to her bed, not counting the almost-lover whose tryst Talia had interrupted so long ago. Skif had never been one of them - which might have accounted for the way he had overreacted when they were alone on the road together. They were all friends, she and her lovers, but never more than that, and they had trysted with the understanding that it would remain that way. Heralds, all of them, of course; Talia had been right about that. Only a Herald could be trusted to be completely discreet about making love with the Heir. Two of them had always fallen asleep immediately afterward, and she had slipped out of
their
rooms to return to her own.

Oh, they were always tired,
she thought, in their defense.
And no sooner were they rested than they were haring off again, out on circuit. They couldn‘t help it. And it would have been an awful scandal for me to act openly as their lover.

Neave never fell asleep, but then he never
ever
fell asleep with anyone else in his bed. He couldn’t. Not after what he’d been through. He was healing, but sometimes she wondered if he would ever really be
healed.
Perhaps not. And her times with him had been as much comfort for him as lovemaking. Oh, he was skilled; he’d had no choice but to learn skill . . . poor child. How anyone could make a child into an
object
like that; to use a child, an unconsenting, terrified
child
-

She deliberately turned her thoughts away from the past. “I think I could learn to like your customs,” she said, keeping her tone light. “It seems a bit more civilized than to simply roll over and forget one’s partner when the moment is gone.”

“Well, but it is no jest, not really,” he replied, with a finger-brush along her cheek. “Wait a moment - ”

He gently disentangled himself from her, and with a whisper of cloth, faded into the darkness. Her ears strained to hear what he was doing, but she could not make anything out except some vague sounds of moving about.

He returned in a moment, and took his place beside her again; felt for her hand, and pressed a cool cup into it. She sipped, and found that it was delightfully cold and sweet water. Before she knew it, she had drained the cup; and feeling for a secure place to put it, set it down on a table beside her with a sigh.

“Sometimes I suspect the
hertasi
of prescience,” he said, after a moment. “A meal for two waiting,
chava
for two to inflame the senses, with cool water waiting with two cups to quench the thirst - ”

She chuckled. “Maybe. Is that one of your customs? Pampering your partner?”

“Oh, the custom is simpler than that,” he replied, setting his cup down somewhere with a faint
tick.
“It is that one does not simply fall asleep without expressing one’s delight in one’s partner.” His voice was warm with approval, and she found herself blushing.

“That is a most civilized custom,” she replied, after a moment. “And,” she groped for something to say that! would not make her blush even harder, “consider it expressed.”

“Would you care to accept my feather in the future, Wingsib?” he persisted.

She couldn’t help it; she flushed so hotly that she feared she must be glowing in the dark. “I - would very much like j it,” she stammered.

“Ah, now I embarrass you, forgive me,” he said quickly. “We are a forward people, we Tayledras. The Shin’a’in claim that like kestrels, we have no shame. But I hope you I will not take it amiss that I am very glad to hear your reply.”