Eyes half-lidded, Xanir lounged watching her as she backed away. Alanna began to shimmy her shoulders, the hot sunlight melting through the dishevelled golden silk that had more or less survived the morning's adventures. One lean hand lifted from the bench and beckoned imperiously. "Not here," growled Xanir. "There isn't enough space."
Alanna smiled and flung her hands above her head, pirouetting, head turning to keep her eyes on his while she leaned back into the twist, shaking her shoulders and breasts at her husband. "It's fine."
"Come here," he ordered in a soft voice. "You will burn."
She blew him a teasing kiss, beginning the full-body shimmy once she again faced him fully. "I like it here."
Xanir pounced after her, eyes bright, the warrior stalking prey. Her heart slammed with excitement and a little fear and Alanna lurched backwards in a very ungainly scurry. Her calves hit something and she was falling over the edge, a small shriek escaping.
A hand around her wrist hauled her teetering form into Xanir's arms before he lifted and spun her back onto the terrace. "Careful!" A sparkling eye slanted down at her. "You seem to be bad with balustrades -- the last one you fell over too."
Fell?! Alanna slapped her palms against his chest, leaning back as far as she could in that unmoving embrace to glare up into his eyes. Her heart jumped in excited hope. Was he teasing her?
"Of course, I wasn't there to stop you that time."
She rolled her eyes and sighed.
"Fell at my feet, no less," mused Xanir. The corners of his lips were definitely pulling against a grin while he ushered her back to the pillowed bench. She reached up on tiptoe to kiss that lilting corner. Then she bit his jawline, hard.
Xanir shoved her backwards. She fell among the cushions, laughing.
Her laughter died swiftly when she took in his stance. The sparkle had entirely left his eyes and his arms were folded, face stern as he glowered her into silence, fingers massaging the nip gently. His voice was low, but cutting. "Princess. If you mark me I will have to punish you again. Publicly, as the mark would be. I do not think you want that."
Tears sparkled in her eyes, but she held them back. "I thought -," she began defiantly. His eyes flashed. She thought wrong. Her head drooped. "I'm sorry," She whispered, running the tassel on the corner of one cushion through her fingers. "I thought you wanted -- I thought you would let me -." The words love you a little stuck in her throat. Why was she so drawn to this implacable dictator?
She could feel herself stiffening when he sank beside her on the seat. "In private, yes, but this must remain private." A firm finger tilted her head up. "Princess." His tone admonished, and she lifted her downcast eyes to his. They were cool. "You may wish to rethink your decision."
Head held high, she just held his gaze, refusing to speak when he would be able to hear her weakness. For a moment, for one brief, glorious moment, she had thought they were on the same side. Her heart ached. Swallowing, she dropped from the bench to kneel gracefully at his feet, lifting herself to the height which Bethesda had trained her thighs to hold over long, dull hours.
"May I apologise, my lord?" she asked dully. This was how women apologised in this land. This was what women were for.
He sighed, and gathered her stiff form back up onto his knee, tucking her inside his arms in the embrace she was used to after sex. When he was pleased with her. "Not now. I want to talk to you."
For the life of her Alanna couldn't hold back the incredulous look shot upwards. Dropping her gaze instantly, she was nevertheless aware of the smile that coloured his voice: "Yes, talk."
She waited. Damned if she was going to give him more rope to hang her with.
Silence. It went on forever, and Alanna had to smother a bubble of unruly laughter that was gathering inside her. He really was rubbish at talking.
"I will send you home," he repeated, voice a quiet growl. "It will be better for you without -."
Alanna's sulks evaporated and she turned sharply within his arm, pressing her fingers to his lips. "You said I could choose." Her shrill voice wavered. She turned her face into his shoulder and caught her breath, lowering her voice to repeat plaintively, "You said."
"This will be too difficult for you."
She leaned all her weight on him, pushing, and after a moment he let himself fall back among the cushions. A hand stroked gently over her spine while she snuggled across him, face still burrowed in his shoulder. His voice was gruff: "It will be better that -."
"My mother died when I was three," Alanna interrupted fiercely. Xanir's hand stilled for a moment, then renewed the gently caress. He knew this. What was she saying?
"She knew she was dying all my life. Advisors told her to let someone else take the main hand in raising me -- it would be too hard on her, and hard on me when she died, otherwise."
He stroked the tremors of feeling running through the beautiful little creature cradled against his chest. "She refused. I have-- my grandmother gave me a letter from her when I was twelve, and acting up. Mum said -." The voice cracked, and she took a breath and pressed her forehead against him. "Mum apologised for loving me so much, she knew I would be devastated by her death. But she thought it better that her daughter know that her mother had given her all the love she could hold in the time they had, rather than protecting her with distance."
The blue eyes that lifted to his were sad, soft, but resolved. "She was right."
Eyes opaque, Xanir stroked a finger over the little nose, resting it on the bow of her lips. He withdrew it when she kissed the tip.
"Please let me honour what my mother taught me."
It was so impossible to read him. Silent, expression blank, her husband drew her head to rest again on his chest, fingers combing gently through her hair. After a long, long wait, he rumbled, "Very well."
Alanna turned her lips up to his neck and delighted in the freedom to nibble little kisses. The silence was peaceful.
The deep voice was musing when eventually it rumbled again. He sounded a little ruffled. "I am unaccustomed to speaking with women."
Her eyes lifted at that. A long, cool look.
Her evasive husband was staring out over her head across the gardens, thoughts looking much further. He sighed. "Any tongue can fork. Yet you have brought me information time and again which has proved invaluable." It was as though he was talking to himself, carrying on a long-held argument, weighing the benefits she could bring against the risks. Risks to him, risks to the empire.
Sadness infused her. Xanir didn't trust women. With reason. She shivered lightly, remembering his family history, which her father had given her before she had left. Xanir's father had been murdered by one of his wives -- the mother of his third and fourth sons. Her eyes dropped to the scarred chest. Xanir had been injured at his father's side, before he had killed the murderess. The ensuing war of succession had been bloody, brutal, and swift, the teenage second son, supported by the fierce loyalty of his elder brother, emerging victorious after two years of everyone predicting his death. Merely fifteen, he had taken the marble throne.
Xanir Tahl. She couldn't separate them, Alanna realised sadly. The Great Tahl was scarred so deeply through him-- she would never be allowed to forget the rules which bound them, bound his realm, and those within it. He would never forget them. The emperor could never truly be hers, even for a few months, even in private. The public rules would rule them. She had been foolish to dream it. But he was still worth trying to reach.
She had never spoken about the garden, Xanir was reminding himself, trying to smother the alarm that was raising the hairs on his skin. Reason fighting instinct, he quietly breathed: "There is a plot."
Alanna's eyes shot back up to his serious expression, focus snapping from her aching heart to the intelligence, the wariness in the black gaze that met hers. He was trusting her. Cautiously.
His next words were a stinging slap to her bewildered, bipolar emotions. "Halt Siane are making overtures again, proposing that as their princess is now of marriageable age, should I find myself brideless at Michaelmas, they would be honoured if I chose an alliance with the Inchotan Mai-lei."
Michaelmas. The statutory three months after her departure. Stomach swinging, Alanna again had to take a moment to determinedly yank her mind from personal heartache to public politics. Regardless of the subject matter, he was talking to her.
Drawing a shaky breath, she sifted through what she had learned since Rihanne had flung that title at her as a taunt. The Inchotan of Siane had been offered to the Great Tahl before, but the Empire had courteously declined, stating that their laws would not permit him to wed a bride so young. It had been a dubious evasion, considering that his first bride had been even younger; they had been wedded for years before Hajima had been brought to his bed.
She knew so little of Siane. A distant country of fable, stories told to children. She had learned as she grew that it truly existed, that the Empire had contact with them: there had been reports of battles in her grandfather's youth. Under the restless peace now, the Akkarians of the eastern Empire crossed the inner sea on perilous voyages to trade, yet in her native land she had never met even one of the swarthy-skinned natives of Akkar. A Sianelta? Rihanne was the first she had met.
She wasn't dying to meet another.
Nor was the Great Tahl, apparently. His face was dark with brooding anger. "Alliance," he scorned. "The ambassador can barely restrain himself from purring: their eyes glitter when they think themselves unobserved. The Siane traders have spent years building the intricate, enmeshing web of rumours and speculation woven throughout the East so that refusal would splinter loyalty: seeming at best extreme boorishness, at worst, fear."
"You must accept?" Alanna concluded quietly, ignoring the tiny barbs in her heart.
"We have been circling through renewed diplomacy for over six months," responded her husband curtly. "The undertones are growing dangerous: wedding, or war."
Another stab: this had been proposed well before she had even got here. And not refused. Alanna swallowed, but held fiercely onto her composure. He couldn't refuse. She had known her impermanence well before she had arrived also; it was her own damn fault if she couldn't subdue this inconvenient attraction for her temporary husband. Nothing had changed.
A hand was rubbing gently over her tense neck, and her unruly pulse purred.
"I would prefer war," her husband's teeth were bared while he glared at the falling water.
"But -?" she prompted softly. There had been an unspoken but at the end of that statement.
"My people would prefer me to wed her. Especially those of the Eastern Provinces."
Alanna tangled his fingers in hers, her thumb rubbing soothingly over the clenched knuckles.
"If I were to wed her, I have no doubt that my in-laws would discourage me from surviving the year."
Alanna breathed quietly to subdue the chill at his casual words, continuing to soothe that tense hand. "'No peace between dragons'," she quoted, the words half-whispered from her dry throat as she traced the raised veins. Why was he telling her this? Then the irony caught her breath, and she half-choked. Her husband was discussing with her the difficulties arising from his next proposed marriage. She was comforting him.
"You do not have to be involved," he finished gruffly.
He would leave her alone, if she wished
She sighed again. How often would she have to say this?
The pain in her heart made no difference, nor the irritation. She still wanted to know him, even if only a little, for a little while. She wanted to help him. He had spoken to her. Her skin was tingling, blood singing - alive. So, so alive. She relaxed into the strong fingers kneading her neck muscles, curling inside that strong arm to muffle her voice against his chest: "How can I help?"
Xanir was gazing down at the golden head. Pride held him silent for a moment. Usually her pride, the honour which bound her every thoughtful action made him want to shatter her control. A tiny smile shaded his eyes: he could do it, too. But now, watching the dignity with which she had faced the stark pronouncements of his future choices, words grinding her pride; that dignity made him proud. Proud of her.
Very well. "This plot from Siane has been growing for a long time: years. We find strands, but they cut them and tie them off, they never lead anywhere substantial. However, there are strong indications that a nest of conspirators is based here in the palace."
Her head lifted from his shoulder, the blue eyes alert while he continued: "Two we know, and choose to watch : Rihanne for one. The others -- the leaders, have evaded us."
Her muscles had tensed at the name of his former favourite. He soothed a palm over the stiff shoulders, making no apology. He was Xanir Tahl, and his appetite was legendary.
Some of it was true.
Their eyes met. "Yet in the short months you have been here, you have uncovered two more suspects," Xanir continued. "One we will watch. The other: have you seen the woman again since?"
Silently his bride shook her head. Her jaw was tense. Softly Xanir teased it with his lips, nibbling kisses over the soft skin until, against her will, she melted against him, snuffling a despairing sound into his shirt. May as well bring this out in the open now. Xanir sighed.
"You hate public sex." The rigidity descended again instantly. "I love it, the excitement is intense, knowing other men are watching and envying me." Xanir stated. Now it was as though he was cuddling a wooden doll. He sighed again. "Yet you have had nightmares since the punishment in the Star Chamber."
His bride was trying to sit up, out of his embrace, but he wouldn't let her. Her squirming was becoming violent, until he snapped, "Be still!"
A motionless wooden doll.
"What are your nightmares?" his voice was softer. It irritated him that Em Feliz had not been able to discover this. In her private letters all she had said, starkly, was 'The dreams are back." There was not the slightest hint of a rumour of events connected to March Kjeldahl's daughter which might cause nightmares. Yet her Zalmat reported that they seemed to be flashbacks. Of something that terrified her. And, EmF said, she had suffered from insomnia as a child also. Enough to be drugged into sleep.
The doll shook her head, forehead against his shirt.
His voice was carefully blank. "I ask because what I must request you to do will be difficult for you." Her head shot up at that, nearly catching his chin. He caught the edge of panic in the sky blue, and laid a finger to her lips. "Shh. I will not insist on public sex; never again, I give you my word."
Sand scour him, why had he just promised that? he demanded of himself irritably. She blinked, the panic in her eyes receding slightly. The wariness came to the fore, and he answered the unspoken question in her eyes.
"You are very observant. And my people disregard you as a threat. You have seen how Rihanne views you: a toy, temporarily holding my attention when I want to play. The view is practically universal."
The blue gaze became sardonic. Xanir leaned forward abruptly and whispered, nose to nose, "But your stupidity has lapsed a little recently, princess. You must not let sexual frustration drive you into cleverness."
The jolt that shook her almost bounced her from his lap, wide startled eyes locked to his. He chuckled and tossed her back among the cushions, following her down growling, "Did you really think I didn't know?" His fingers tangled in her silken hair and he moulded his lips over hers.
He had to work hard to relax her this time. The lingering tension would soothe away under tongue, touch and lips but return when her thoughts surfaced to jolt her. It became a playful challenge. Frequently she tried to speak, but he silenced her with his lips before she could finish any question. Eventually, on a garbled cry of despair and frustration, she slithered a hand down to mould his straining cock and he gasped on an incredible surge of lust, releasing her lips.
But instead of seizing the opportunity to speak, his bride slid down his side, her small hand coaxing his length to grow and flex to her strokes. Xanir groaned when his laces were undone and wet warmth engulfed the sensitive head. Her tongue began to play. Soon she was breathing deeply through her nose, trying to sink onto him, but her throat was too tight, he was bruising her even with half thrusts.
He withdrew. "I am hurting you."
The hungry grin slanted up at him rocked his composure. "I love it," she whispered. His breath caught when she slid her mouth back over his erection, choking herself as deeply as she could.
Abruptly Xanir rose and swung her up into his arms. In two strides he laid her on her back on the rock fountain, on the flat mosaic across which the shallow water ran smooth after cascading down the first tier. He tilted her head to open her throat and plunged home at just the right height. Her hands rose to clasp his forearms while he held her for his thrusts, the excitement burgeoning through him. Her saliva glistened on his plunging cock, white flecks foaming on those stretched lips, her throat rippling with each rhythmic lunge.
Xanir looked up and groaned. The light spray of water from the upper cascade was dancing down over her luscious curves, the mounds and hollows moulded deliciously by wet silk while tiny droplets bounced rainbows on her pale, smooth skin. She looked like a dream, shimmering in a cloud of light mist. A temptress beyond imagining.
His bride echoed a moan that held with a note half of panic, fingers gripping his forearms desperately when his cock swelled and pulsed deep in her throat, a single shot escaping his control.
She was pushing frantically at him, and Xanir looked down. A twist of remorse and he withdrew, stroking her tumbled locks and wiping away tears while she gasped and choked for air. Then she gave him a wide smile and opened her mouth. He groaned, bending to nuzzle the wet mounds of her breasts, squeezing them together to bury his face between them.
Nibbling the edge of the silk between his teeth and looking down between her heaving breasts he stroked his cock across her face, teasing her as she tried to turn her mouth to the correct angle to catch him. Taking pity on her moans, he sighed in satisfaction and surged back into her throat, forcing the tight muscles to yield sufficiently to seat himself deep within that exquisite compression. The ripples around him as she struggled for enough air through her nose were making him light headed. A feral light came into his eyes and while he continued the assault on her throat he nipped apart the edge of the fabric wrapped around her, took a firm hold and slowly, slowly tore a long, widening split down between her breasts and across her belly to reveal the tempting mound beneath.
He withdrew to allow her deeper breaths, watching her body shudder while she gasped, then swiftly sheathed himself again. The ripple of pleasure down his spine was difficult to subdue, he was so close, but he determined to savour this for as long as possible. His control wavered again as he returned to moulding the soft mounds bouncing on her heaving chest, the naked skin shimmering under the dancing mist of water. Nuzzling them as he slowly, slowly fucked the exquisite tightness of her throat, straining to hold back, Xanir reached a finger down and gently stroked the slick clit poking urgently from the protective hood.
A muffled shriek, and she surged under him, body rocking into uncontrolled spasms. Xanir roared when her throat convulsed around his buried cock. Then his hands were clamped in her hair, yanking her mouth to meet his driving thrusts while the fire in him rocketed out of control. A second, hoarse sound of triumph and he clamped her nose against his balls, heaving breaths through almost shut eyes while he watched the ripples of her throat taking his seed.
She was gasping and crying when he pulled out. He cradled her close, stripping off the wet cloth before rolling her back onto the love seat, wrapping all his limbs tight around her, cuddling her. His breath returned before hers, and his voice was low while he fed her sips of juice to slow her breathing. "Little meyla, that was amazing." He stroked the colour which rose in her cheeks and whispered further words of praise. "I know that was difficult for you," he finished. "Your throat will be sore and neck is bruised --."
"I loved it," the soft voice whispered. She twisted abruptly on top of him, scarlet cheeks pressed into his chest, and gasped at her own admission before letting out a shuddering sigh. Xanir was smiling a twisted smile up at the canopy of wisteria. The small, muffled voice added, "You let me come this time."
He stroked her back soothingly. "I was not punishing you this time."
The head cocked, and a bright blue eye peered up at him. "I thought an apology would be the same?"
"No," Xanir shook his head, smiling up at the bright blue heavens. "I was delighted to receive your capitulation: it allowed me to put my plan into action."
She pouted. "Couldn't you have just told me?"
His face went expressionless, and he looked back at her. "I will tell you some things."
The Great Tahl. Alanna rested on his chest, questions rushing back. "Like what I won't like about aiding my husband?"
Xanir sighed, fingers tracing the bruises rising on her throat. "It is good that I lost control somewhat," he murmured, seemingly inconsequentially. "These will be visible to all."
Alanna's pulse hammered and she bent her head to hide her smile against his skin. She made him lose control.
A finger tucked a strand of her hair behind one ear. "Somewhat, I said," he repeated dryly. She kissed the skin under her. A finger tilted her head back up, and she rested her chin on her fists, looking up at him.
"This must be all they see," Xanir stated carefully. "The signs of my lust, and your submission to it. Nothing else."
She opened her mouth. His eyes scorched her, and she remained silent.
"There must never be a hint that I like you, that I even talk to you. Outside of my private chambers, you are merely a toy."
Alanna closed her mouth, and her eyes, feeling ridiculous tears rising. He liked her. A finger stroked her cheek. She was still a toy. His voice gentled.
"I told you, they see you as inconsequential. And so they hide less, and you learn things: who speaks with whom, who turns up in unlikely places. I will summon you to be bedded by me in every room in the palace; you will go everywhere, see everyone. You will find out for me who that woman is."
Bedded in every room. Alanna eyes opened on the strong throat, praying that he hadn't felt the excitement that had rippled through her at that phrase. Their eyes met. A smile was playing at his mouth. Alanna dropped her head and hid her blush against him again, feeling the chuckle rumble underneath her when he stroked her hair.
"Doesn't sound too bad," she mumbled.
His fingers were massaging circles on her scalp. "Every room, I said." The voice had taken on the implacable tone again, the voice of the ruler. "That includes the mosaic gallery."
Her head shot up. The orgy room? Her voice trembled, rising: "You said you wouldn't -." Fingers pressed against her lips, stopping her protest, and he stared her into silence with that autocratic glare.
"You may trust my word. I will have you brought there, but will take you privately. They may hear, but they will not see."
"It's the sounds in my nightmares!" she hissed, jerking away to sit bolt upright, wrapping her arms around her folded knees. Xanir followed her, lifting her chin to look deep into her eyes. His brow wrinkled, face darkening slightly when finally he allowed her to jerk herself out of his grasp.
"Very well," the gravelly voice promised. "I will not summon you there. Unless the woman proves elusive: I must know who she is. But most likely you will meet her in some other part of the palace."
Alanna glared at him through tear-bright eyes.
His finger stroked down her cheek. "The first offer also still holds: always."
Her brows lifted. She didn't trust her voice.
"Would you prefer me to leave you alone entirely?"
They stared at each other. Alanna shivered. She thought of the lonely, sleepless weeks before this morning. Suddenly she wondered how long she had slept today: how long he had let her sleep, at his side. She stared into those black eyes. Implacable was the word. Her taut frame drooped and she shook her head, wordlessly. Xanir gathered her back in his arms and kissed her softly.
"Good girl. You will not speak of this to anyone."
She shook her head again, clinging close, whispering, "No-one," hoarsely.
That strong palm suddenly closed threateningly around her bruised throat and lifted her. Dangling half on her knees, her eyes flew up to his stony face just as footfalls sounded on the ground below them.
"My Tahl, the stonemasons are here, with Lord Truk," one of his guards announced.
A snick of his dagger, and the two blue beads Xanir had plaited into her hair only weeks ago fell among the cushions. Tears started in her eyes while he tossed her away to land with them. A startled, unhappy thought flew across her mind: didn't he even trust his guards?
"Limaq!" shouted the Tahl, washing himself clean in the fountain. More footfalls, although Alanna didn't turn to see, she had suddenly remembered her nudity and was trying to burrow under the scattered furnishings, pulse trembling.
Was he really only acting? If he was, he was damn good at it. And it hurt.
The Great Tahl's voice was receding while he strode away, but she could hear the embarrassing instruction he was firing at her bodyguard. "Return this girl to her rooms and see that Bethesda increases her dancing and stretching. But no more deep throat practice: I am not yet satisfied that she has fully learned her lesson. Keep it tight."
Alanna buried her face in a cushion to hide the flush: excitement or anger?