ELEVEN
“Come on . . . come on! Open the door, you stupid, lazy beasts,” Alonnen muttered.
Seated at the table brought into his office to serve as her temporary desk, Rexei glanced up only briefly. Her work drafting the Holy Guild Charter, outlining all the various tasks, levels of responsibility and so forth, was something he had insisted he should oversee. Yet the moment Pelai of Mendhi had sent him sheets of paper enchanted with scrying spells and instructions on how to fold them into useful, mobile shapes, he had abandoned that task for this new one.
Not that she could blame him. Spying on demon summoners was more important than figuring out how to worship a brand-new Goddess, particularly one Rexei hadn’t envisioned as impatient in any way. “They’re not going to open the service door to the temple just because you’re willing it from five-odd miles away.”
“Every day they take out the trash at this hour for the Recyclers Guild to collect,” he told her. “Rags and scraps of paper go to the Binders for adding into the paper pulp, metal scraps go to the Blacksmiths for sorting and re-smelting, and even scraps of food and paper rubbish gets handed over to the Tillers for compos—Ah! Aha!” Alonnen exclaimed as the gray-weathered door in question did indeed swing open.
Two novices lumbered out, laden with baskets. Looking around to make sure there weren’t any glaring, angry citizens nearby, the novices headed for the collection bins designated for compostables and non-compostables. Taking advantage of the open door, little paper bugs scuttled inside. The paper had been painted and enchanted with the lightest and least-detectable of illusion spells to look like the real thing. All but one got inside before the door could swing shut; the last one got a corner stuck in a crevice and was crumpled to death when the closing panel squished it flat.
That left nine instead of ten to do the spying work which Rexei was no longer able to perform for anyone. Not with the archbishop fully aware the “lad” was quite intelligent, and aware of what was happening inside the ex-temple. Thankfully, with the loss of Mekha, the shields and wardings on the temple had weakened. That meant Alonnen could now scry inside directly, albeit with a fuzzy view and no real hope of clear sound. On hearing that, Guardian-apprentice Pelai had suggested he could send in a whole series of clever, Mendhite-style scrying nodes.
Muttering under his breath at the loss of one of his paper spies, Alonnen focused on guiding the rest deeper into the temple. It required sliding the fingers of one hand over the crystalline tablet held in the other; each finger controlling a couple of bugs. They had a rudimentary sense of awareness built into their spell; all Alonnen had to do was guide them in a suggested direction. The rest they did for themselves as they climbed up walls, scurried along corners, and hid in the nearest cracks whenever someone came near, acting very much like the roaches they resembled.
“Which way is it to the dungeons, Rexei?” Alonnen called out. “I think I got turned around in here somewhere . . .”
Leaving her writing efforts behind, Rexei stood and crossed to the mirror. She had to frown and think. Without the original carvings on the walls, without the symbols of mighty Mekha conquering His enemies via piston and powder, engine and gear, it was hard to tell where the paper bugs were. Alonnen tapped through the different viewpoints available until she spotted a familiar pattern of two doors close together with a third offset just on the other side of the hall.
“Le—no, right,” she corrected herself. “Back up to the right; when you turn around, it’ll be on your left. That’s the door to the forbidden basement. Yes, that one there,” she confirmed as the bug currently showing the scrying view in the mirror scuttled toward the tall-by-comparison door.
There was just enough room underneath the thick, iron-reinforced wood for even the tallest of the paper roaches to crawl. Alonnen sent five that way. Someone was coming up the stairwell; he tucked them into the corners of the steps so that they wouldn’t be easily noticed, and tapped in an order on the controlling tablet to have them sit and wait.
Switching to the others, he quickly guided three of the remaining four to hide until the novice had passed, then sent them off to invade the higher-ranked priests’ studies, including the archbishop’s. The fourth, he guided all the way to the dining hall, where he had it climb up and tuck itself into a high corner, resulting in a pretty good view of the whole chamber.
Once those were positioned in high crevices, Alonnen went back to the first five, sending them scurrying down the remainder of the steps. Here, Rexei wasn’t quite as sure where to go, but that was alright; in the dungeons was where most of the temple’s masculine inhabitants were found. Specifically, in the chamber at the heart of the great circular corridors. All three levels had doors that led into the room, or rather, onto terraced levels that had once probably held crystals on pillars, but which now held scattered cushions and the occasional chair and writing desk.
Some of those seats were occupied, but at least half the gathered priesthood stood on the main floor, watching as the tall, brown-haired foreigner coaxed the gray-haired Bishop Koler through the steps of conjuring a demon.
“. . . don’t forget to include the name of the recipient of the energies in question—remember, students,” their erstwhile instructor stated, “if you use this energy for yourself directly and solely, you could end up tainting yourself with the madness of the Netherhells. Instead, offer it as a gift to your brethren, with the purity of that intention at heart.”
Rexei shivered at the not-quite-mocking way he said that. She didn’t know much about magic, but she did know a little bit about blood magic, thanks to the instruction she had received in the outermost circle of the Vortex a few months back. It made a terrible sort of sense that giving the collected power to someone else to use would remove most of the Netherhell taint. That was, if draining magic from a demon was anything like spilling blood to raise power.
“Are the runes correct, Master Torven?” Bishop Koler asked politely, almost respectfully, letting Rexei know that the mage had come a long way from his status as a mere prisoner. She wrinkled her nose at the implications of that.
“Torven?” Alonnen repeated, staring at the face visible in his scrying mirror. The foreigner walked around the chalked lines scribed on the floor as Alonnen and Rexei watched. One good look at that distinctive Aian face, and he reared back. “Oh bloody Netherhells . . . it is him. I’d wondered if it was.”
Rexei frowned. “You know him? But how, if he’s a foreigner? I couldn’t quite catch his name myself when he was being interrogated. I was forced to hide in the next room and had to strain my ears to hear.”
Alonnen shrugged. “Late last summer I was contacted by Guardian Kerric. He wanted to exile a group of adventurers that had tried to wrest control of the Tower from him—this man being their leader,” he added, lifting his chin at the Aian mage. “The worst of the lot. Cunning, ambitious, self-centered, greedy . . . but rather too self-controlled to destroy himself with his own mistakes. Unfortunately.
“Sir Vedell of Arbra wasn’t at his Fountain at the time the deal was being made, so I stepped in and offered to dump them on the Arbran/Mekhanan border. On the Arbran side by a good thirty miles,” he added at her swift, sharp look. “It was as far away as I could get the mirror-Gate to work in conjunction with the Fountainways used to transport them all the way from eastern Aiar. Even a would-be power thief didn’t deserve capture by Mekha’s troops, or so I thought . . . though now I’m regretting my kindness. If he’s the one behind this Netherhell effort, then he is the one we have to take out. Remove him, and everything will collapse.”
“Maybe not,” Rexei cautioned him, recalling something. “The others . . . they sent word to the other temples. We don’t know how many have agreed to follow his teachings. We don’t know how easy it is to teach someone to conjure a demon. And we don’t know whether or not removing this Torven fellow will prevent the invasion . . . or cause it to happen. What the others in your Guild told me when I first met them as a journeyman Messenger still applies.”
Alonnen gave her a curious look. “What’s that?”
“That a half-trained mage is more dangerous than we may realize.” She gestured at the mirror, where Mage Torven was scowling and lecturing two of the novices about not attempting any of this on their own. The guilty flush of their cheeks and their lowered gazes showed how close a probability that had been.
“. . . In fact, I don’t want any of you to try this on your own, all the way up through to the archbishop himself,” Torven added sternly. “We still haven’t found the right Netherhell, and we will not act precipitously. One false step, one overconfident step, and we are all dead. These aren’t cowering civilians in the streets. These are monsters from our blackest nightmares, and they will seek any excuse to rip us to shreds and feast upon our remains. Some may even prefer to devour us one bite at a time while we’re still alive and screaming.”
Rexei winced. So did Alonnen, she noticed. The Aian mage continued his lecturing as they secretly watched.
“There will be no rushing, no practicing unsupervised, and no mistakes allowed. Elcarei has arranged for your brethren who are interested in joining us to begin transporting themselves here to learn. Patience is our new holy motto,” they heard him say as he paced slowly around the larger circle. “Learn it . . . or I will ensure you die by your own hand, just to sate the demons’ bloodlusts and seal whatever Gate you crack open by accident—and I’ll remind you, unlike you, I am fully trained in three foreign methods. Not just of magic but of magical combat.”
A slash of his hand and a snap of his fingers jerked one of the two novices to his feet, even though the Aian man had his back to the velvet-clad ex-Mekhanan.
“I—I’m a little kettle, squat and broad!” the teenager stammered, eyes wide as his lips moved without his will. One hand flung itself up, the other hand thumped onto his hip in a fist. “Here is my h-handle! Here i-is my spigot!”
A second snap let the youth go. He staggered back, blinked a couple times in fear, then quickly sat himself down again.
“The poem rhymes in Aian,” Torven stated, his dry words filling the confused silence. “Suffice it to say, I am quite adept . . . but I am nothing compared to the wiles of a demon, should a brief moment of carelessness, of rushing things, allow one of them to get free.” He turned back to Koler and nodded at the chalked circle. “Your containment runes are almost perfect, bishop.”
Koler smiled smugly. Torven did not smile back in return.
“Almost is not good enough. The circle has a small wobble in it, to your right. That’s a point of weakness that is potentially exploitable. Perhaps a weak demon would not be able to break free, but we will learn to do everything correctly from the earliest stages onward. The Aians have a saying, ‘Begin as you mean to go on.’ So let us begin again, Koler,” Torven directed, clapping his hand on the older mage’s shoulder. “You may use an erasing spell to fully clean the stone, and this time you may use a compass spell to ensure the innermost circle is smooth.
“Drawing it by hand was a learning example, to show how even the smallest flaws can be a cause for concern. Your patience at this stage in the learning process, bishop, is deeply appreciated,” he finished, before stepping back.
“Dammit,” Alonnen muttered, watching the older priest comply. “This isn’t right.”
“What’s wrong now?” Rexei asked him, confused. “Because of his thoroughness, it sounds as if we’ll actually have time to figure out how to counter their intentions before they actually start summoning in earnest.”
“He’s being too cautious,” he complained. “For a man of such overwhelming arrogance as I saw over the last few months, he should have some flaws—not that I’m complaining about having the time to study the problem and come up with something solid, but I suspect the only reason why we can scry is because he hasn’t looked at the temple wardings. Now that Mekha isn’t blocking us out, what protections are left aren’t quite good enough to keep out a double-focus like this paper-bug-and-mirror system Pelai sent me.
“I suspect that’ll end once they get around to reinforcing the shielding, particularly with this fellow’s help. He’s far too clever. Cautious and clever are great traits in an ally,” Alonnen said, giving Rexei a brief smile. He then lifted his chin at the mirror, “But they’re frustrating in an enemy.”
“So he’s arrogant, but he’s not overconfident,” she murmured. “And charming enough to have won over his former jailors.”
“Exactly. Arrogance coupled with overconfidence was the flaw of many a priest . . . and I can see it is just about time for supper.” Hearing Rexei sigh, he glanced at her. “What now?”
She turned to lean against the wall next to the mirror, folding her arms. “Gabria. And everyone who thinks like her. I went down for a cup of mulled cider earlier, and three of the people I passed gave me startled looks, two more wouldn’t meet my eyes, and all five of them practically scuttled away like your little paper bugs, there. I don’t like feeling like a . . . well, like I’m a stupid, arrogant Mekhanan priest.”
“Time and patience will hopefully bring them around. In the meantime, the other mages have been moved back into town, so that means my brother’s back in his own quarters,” Alonnen told her. He focused on the crystal tablet in his hands, repositioning his paper spies. “I know you’re supposed to be assigned a room . . . which you would have to share, since the inner circle is still pretty full . . . but you’re welcome to take his spot on my sitting room couch.”
She felt ambivalent over the offer. Gratitude for the fact he offered her a place in his sanctuary. Annoyance for the fact that place was on a couch of all things. Giving in to her sense of humor, Rexei quipped, “Oh, I see how it is. Even you are afraid to let me back into your bed, now that I’ve gone and summoned a Goddess.”
He grinned and slanted her a mock-chiding look in between positioning his paper spies. “If I truly felt that way, I’d have made you sleep on the couch last night at Big Momma’s. But, if you want . . . you could sleep in my bed. You’d have to share it with me, though. And I’ll give you fair warning, Rexei Longshanks. I find you very appealing. I might ask for a kiss at some point.”
Looking up from the task of guiding one of the folded-paper bugs across a set of steps, he tried to gauge how she felt about that. From the blush on her cheeks and the shy way she bit her lower lip—darkness swept over the mirror, the image fuzzed, snapped, and shifted to another cockroach’s view. Blinking, he tapped through to the next viewpoint . . . and saw a small smear of color on the steps. Specifically, a bit of squished paper in the wake of a novice coming down off the tiers ringing the chamber.
“Dammit, I just lost another one!” he complained. A muffled noise made him glance sharply at his companion. Eyes bright, cheeks pink, and bottom lip bitten by her teeth, Rexei tried not to laugh out loud . . . but it was obvious she was laughing. Unable to help it, Alonnen grinned back at her. Only for a moment, though. Turning back to the mirror, he sighed and sent one of the other paper roaches scuttling forward to scoop its mangled, lifeless brethren off the steps. “Right . . . dispose of this one, stash the others in good viewing angles . . . then contact my fellow Guardians to let them know it looks like we have a little breathing room.”
“I’ll get back to my Charter-drafting,” Rexei agreed, her mirth subsiding. She raked a hand over her short, dark locks. “Part of me wishes I could still be a kid again, responsible only for myself and my own safety. But I’m an adult now, and that means being responsible, respectable, dependable . . .”
“Lots of words that end in ‘ibble,’ eh?” Alonnen asked, not without sympathy.
She nodded. Arms crossed on her chest, she stood there for a moment, feeling restless and unsure. An impulse crossed her mind, one that Rexei found herself blurting out, “I want a dress.”
Alonnen blinked but otherwise showed little surprise. He thought about it, then tipped his head. “That can be arranged. And it’s a good sign.”
“It is? Of what?” Rexei asked him, unsure what he meant by that.
He smiled. “That you’re feeling relaxed enough to want to wear a dress, rather than tromp around in trousers all the time. I’m glad you feel you can trust me, and everyone else here.” He made a fluttering, shooing motion with his fingers. “Scuttling away notwithstanding.”
She blushed and ducked her head a little, but otherwise, she didn’t hide the shy smile that curved her lips. On impulse, he leaned in and kissed her cheek. Rexei raised her head a little, her eyes wide with wonder, not fear. Swaying close a second time, Alonnen kissed her on the lips. Soft and sweet, it felt just a little too brief and light for his tastes, but he pulled back anyway. Not far, just enough to break the kiss and look into her brown eyes, wondering how she would react.
Rexei wondered, too. This wasn’t a stage kiss for some play, and she wasn’t playing the part of a young man at the moment. Alonnen knew she was female, knew she was leery of . . . well, things completely unlike what he had just done, she realized. He kissed me because he wants to kiss me. And he’s . . . he’s nice. A truly nice, good man. Her gaze drifted down his long nose to his lips. And I actually want more.
Being kissed by him felt natural and right, not staged or forced. She wanted to ask—no, she acted, closing the gap between them without a word. Not just pressing her lips to his, but her chest to his, her arms around his shoulders, her fingers touching the soft ginger curls of his hair. She felt him inhale deeply, and felt the shift of his hands as they cupped her arms. Not to reject, but to accept her kiss, for those hands slipped down to her waist and around the small of her back, holding her closer.
Warm, hungry, satisfying, the kiss deepened and lengthened until somehow her hands wound up on his ribs underneath his sweater while his landed on her rump, both kneading every bit of flesh they could reach. One particular squeeze on his part lifted her up onto her toes and rubbed her groin up against his. For a moment, she shied from the hardness her body found, then Rexei relaxed into it, accepting his interest in her.
The chiming of his newest mirror dragged Alonnen back to his senses. It was not easy, not when his attraction to the woman in his arms was surprisingly strong. Until now, Alonnen had considered her appealing, but more for her inner qualities, her intelligence, her strength of mind, her manifested belief in a better way of life than everything they had known. Now, though, he knew the way she felt against him, the way she tasted in each kiss. The soft sounds she had made—curious, hungry, and interested in more—left him aching and heady, as if she were some undiscovered wine.
A wise mage avoided any excess of wine. A wise Guild Master attended to his duties, such as the mirror which chimed again, trying to get his attention. A wise man did not let his passions rule his life when there was still work to be done.
Alonnen kissed her again. Not for long, but enough to let both of them know just how much he wanted to continue. Lifting a finger, he touched the corner of her mouth and smiled softly.
“This is a bookmark,” he told her. “If you want me to continue . . . kiss me here.” He tapped the same corner of his own mouth—and got a peck of a kiss from her. Caught off-guard, he laughed, then hugged her. “Kiss me there later, love,” he mock chided. The mirror chimed, and he sighed ruefully. “Unfortunately, duty calls.”
Stepping away, he moved to grab the green pair from among his collection of viewing lenses and a scarf to wrap around his hair and chin, while Rexei moved back to her temporary desk. Once he was ready, he opened the connection. It was Tipa’thia; despite her rich, natural tan, her age-seamed face still looked a bit pale and puffy from her heart troubles. Her brown eyes were still sharp though, and her voice smooth as it came through the mirror, translated by whatever magic Guardian Kerric had wrought in the mirrors he had passed to everyone.
“Good evening, Guardian Alonnen,” she told him.
“And a good morning to you, Guardian Tipa’thia. I’m surprised to see you tonight. I thought your apprentice, Pelai, said you were still too ill to participate.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I am not doing well, but I have to do something to get the Hierarchy off my back regarding the Convocation fiasco. They know better than to castigate me, but they also will not be allowed to abuse my best Disciplinarian.”
“Fiasco?” he asked, curious. “Disciplinarian?”
“Temple business. Suffice to say, with the Puhon brothers out of immediate reach, the Hierarchy is frothing at the mouth for someone to blame. It is an odd day when discussing demons is an adequate distraction. So. How are those paper spies doing, young man?” she asked him.
“They’re doing fine for the most part, and thank you for sending them. Unfortunately, I lost two on the way in,” he confessed, “but the rest are tucked into good scrying angles.”
“Two? How?” the Mendhite Guardian asked.
“The door closed a bit fast on the last one scuttling into the building, and an unexpected shoe squashed the other a short while later,” he told her. “I didn’t move it fast enough across a set of steps.”
“I sent you ten. Eight should still be more than enough . . . though I suppose it is too soon to have any word on what they are doing,” the elderly mage muttered.
“Actually, I’ve already heard some relatively encouraging news. The downside is that it’s Torven Shel Von who’s guiding the ex-Mekhanan priests in their demon-summoning quest. That’s the fellow Guardian Kerric originally kicked out of the Tower for trying to steal its Fountain,” he added in an aside. “The one connected to Kerric’s forescrying mirror and its demon sightings.”
“So what is he doing, that this Torven fellow keeps stirring up intermittent Netherhell invasions?” Tipa’thia asked, frowning softly.
“I have no idea. Actually, it looks like he’s trying to prevent a Netherhell invasion. He’s being very insistent on methodical training, discipline, and perfecting every safety precaution available.” Alonnen folded his arms, then quickly readjusted the scarf as it threatened to slip and expose his jawline. He shrugged as he did so. “On the one hand, that should buy us a lot more time than I’d feared we would have before any summonings begin in earnest. On the other hand, that means when they do begin, it’ll be hard to counter, since there’ll be fewer errors being made.”
“True. Well. Having extra time while they practice their precautions is still good news. If you will tell everyone west of you—to the Guardians of Fortuna, Natallia, and so forth, I will pass along the news to the east myself, to Althinac, Senod-Gra, and beyond. Guardians Callaia, Koro, Kelezam, and Ilaiea can wait until morning comes to their portion of the world,” Tipa’thia added. “It is not an emergency, so there is no need to awaken them.”
“Good news can wait, but bad news cannot, eh?” Alonnen quipped. He glanced briefly to the side, to where Rexei had reseated herself, her cheek on one fist, the other holding a graphite stick, back to marking down more Charter ideas for her incipient Holy Guild. Dragging his mind back to the problem at hand, he asked, “Do you have any spare recording crystals? What I have for the scrying paper bugs will last a couple days, but from the sounds of it, we may be monitoring their activities for at least a couple of weeks.”
The elderly woman lifted her brows. “You do not have enough? What about just making your own?”
“We’re on a tight budget here, and saving the world is expensive,” he retorted lightly. The last thing he wanted to get into was an admission that he didn’t know how to make the necessary crystals and probably did not have any of the right materials on hand. “Do you have any to spare or not?”
“You should contact Guardian Kerric. He has pledged the resources of the Tower to this cause, and I am certain they have many to spare.”
Not caring much for her dismissive tone, Alonnen narrowed his eyes. “And what does Mendhi’s Guardian pledge?”
“We were going to pledge the resources of the Convocation. But as that power has been wrenched from our control, then I suppose we will simply offer what we always have. Knowledge.” Her smug look was spoiled by the sound of a voice somewhere on her side of the mirror connection, some sort of reminder. Guardian Tipa’thia lifted her chin. “I am needed elsewhere. Good evening to you, Guardian Alonnen.”
“And good morning to you, Guardian Tipa’thia,” Alonnen muttered. He reached up to tap the mirror into quiescence and blew out the breath he had been holding. “Annoying, smug, arrogant . . . I’ll not ask you for any of the help we need,” he added to his own reflection, though his thoughts were on the Mendhite Guardian. “I’d rather ask that apprentice of yours . . .”
“Muttering at an unconnected mirror isn’t going to get you what you want,” Rexei told him. She hadn’t quite heard his words, but she understood his tone. “Either speak up or say nothing.”
“Pelai seems like a reasonable sort, rather than superior-than-you,” he clarified, unwinding the soft black scarf from his head and shoulders. Removing the green-tinted glasses as well, he rubbed briefly at his eyes and the bridge of his nose. “Call it my own pride acting up, because while I know we don’t know nearly enough about magic here in ex-Mekhana, I’m not about to allow anyone with that much pride learn just how little we know. There are times when she seems approachable, even amiable, and times when she seems like a vulture waiting for its prey to stagger. I do know that she’s trustworthy as a Guardian, but I don’t know if she’s trustworthy as a confidante.”
An amused thought crossed Rexei’s mind. “Do you trust her as far as you can throw her?”
“She does look skinny enough for me to throw . . . but I’m told Mendhites are taller than most people, so I’m not quite sure how far I could actually throw her,” he allowed, scratching at his chin. “The height’ll add more weight, plus the awkwardness of the length . . . and all that kicking and screaming, of course.”
Rexei snorted with laughter. She clapped her hand over her nose and mouth, but it was too late; Alonnen heard it and grinned back at her.
? ? ?
A dozen nights of sleeping on the Guild Master’s couch. That was her lot in life of late. No one wanted to share a room with a God summoner, though most of those living in the inner Vortex were polite to her. Nor were there any empty rooms to spare; a number of the freed mages had proven too scared of being recaptured and re-abused to be housed anywhere else, plus ones were coming in from far-flung regions which were now being torn apart by civil war. Heias Precinct was one of the few peaceful regions around, and the dam was its safest zone for mages needing to recover from the trauma of their capture. So Rexei camped each night on Alonnen’s couch. At least it was broad and comfortable, with enough bedding to keep her feeling warm.
Except that kiss, and the four or five they had shared in quiet moments since, made everything feel different. Too warm, and too unsettling. Empty in a way. She couldn’t stop thinking about it, and about him. Too restless to sleep, Rexei gave up and got up, slipping her feet into lamb’s-wool-lined slippers borrowed from her host. By now, she could navigate her way through his suite reasonably well in the dim light provided by the barely glowing crystals in the ceiling. Only after she knocked on the door to his bedchamber did she realize she was wearing nothing more than a thin pair of sleeping trousers and a matching loose linen shirt.
He opened the door just as she started to turn away. “Rexei? Is something wrong?”
Blushing, she turned back to him and found her gaze arrested by the sight of his naked chest. His own sleeping trousers barely rested on his hips, and he had lamb’s-wool slippers of his own on his feet, somewhat more battered and age-worn than the ones he had loaned her, but that was it for clothing. With that curtain of reddish curls just brushing his shoulders, with nothing between her and his navel but a little bit of reddish gold fuzz that led down into those sleeping pants, he looked very appealing.
He was not quite as muscular as someone who served in the militia ranks full-time, but there was little spare fat on his body, either. When he flexed an arm, lifting it to cup her shoulder, she followed the flex and play of his muscles in fascinated silence. At least until he spoke again.
“Are you okay? Is there something you need or want?” Alonnen asked her. Seeing her blush and blink, still staring at his flesh, he felt his own face heat a little. Clearing his throat, he tried to speak firmly. “Rexei, speak.”
“I . . . I want another kiss.” It took quite a lot of her inner bravery to admit that to his face, but she did, raising her gaze to his so that he could see she was sincere. Her cheeks warmed further, but she added, “I liked it. A lot.”
She is going to kill me. Pleasantly, Alonnen acknowledged silently. He debated what to do about her request. He knew he wasn’t going to refuse it, but the question of where was important: In his bedroom there was the threat of his bed luring them into going further than perhaps she intended, but it also carried the advantage that if she wanted to get away from him, she could literally leave his bedchamber at any time; conversely, the sitting room was less likely to be turned into something more than a mere kiss, but he would have to be the one to leave, since that was her sleeping chamber. Which might be best, since if she asks me to leave, I need to show her I will.
Smiling, he tipped his head in a little bow of acquiescence. “As you wish. Shall we go into the sitting room?”
“Uh, not the bedroom?” Rexei asked.
Folding his arms, he leaned on the doorframe and wrinkled his nose. “Do you really want to risk the chance of going all the way? If all you want is a kiss, the couch would be a better place for it.”
“Uh, you . . . Um . . .” Clearing her throat, she tried again. “I mean, you don’t want to, ah, go all the way? I mean—do you want to kiss me? Not just because I asked you and you’re being nice, I mean.”
Her stammered uncertainty charmed him. Smiling, Alonnen leaned in and rubbed the tip of his long, pointed nose against her shorter, rounder one. That made her laugh and pull back with a bemused look.
“What was that for?” she asked.
“Because I do want more, but I also only want what you want,” he told her. Moving forward, he flicked one hand over the controls for the suncrystals, brightening the room just a little, and wrapped his other arm around her shoulders, guiding her back to the blanket-strewn couch.
Embarrassed that her bedding was a rumpled mess, Rexei hurried forward and quickly twitched everything smooth. Then turned and dropped onto the cushions with a nervous smile. Alonnen eyed her, then sighed and held out his hand. Confused, she stared at it, then accepted his help back onto her feet. “Is something wrong?”
“Nope. Just a different position is needed, that’s all.” Dropping onto the couch in her place, he caught her hands and gently tugged her over to his knees. “Come on, straddle me like I’m a motorhorse. Knees up on the cushions.”
Rexei awkwardly climbed up and settled onto his thighs. His hands shifted to her hips, then slid up to her waist and ribs. She squirmed a little, biting her lip against the sensation. Without her bindings, with just a thin linen shirt between her flesh and his fingers, she was surprised at how ticklish she was. Or maybe it’s just the circumstances. I’ve been in tickle fights with fellow apprentices, and my fellow actors weren’t entirely shy about touching and teasing . . .
He sat up, face lifted so that his nose almost brushed her lips. Lifting his chin, he looked straight at her, letting her see his willingness and the controlled hunger in his hazel green gaze. Such boldness, his forthrightness, gave her a bit of courage. For a moment, she lifted her chin, silently acknowledging the fact this moment was in her hands, under her control. Then she dipped her head, tipping it a little to avoid the point of his nose. He tilted his head as well.
The moment their mouths met, it just felt natural for her lips to part. So did his. Within two heartbeats, what was meant to be a tentative kiss deepened into something rich and succulent, with soft nips and suckling licks. Her fingers cradled his head, buried within his soft curls. His hands pulled at her back, pressing their chests together, then slid down to her hips, snugging their groins closer.
Dizzy with the thumping of her heart, heated by each sweeping clutch and caress of his palms, Rexei lifted her head in the effort to seek some air and some clarity. It didn’t work; that just bared her throat to his hungry lips. Shifting on his lap, she found herself scooped closer by the grip of his hands on her rump. At the press of his groin against hers, at the realization he had hardened with desire, her blood rushed through her trembling limbs.
His lips nuzzled down along the neckline of her shirt, then pressed against her flesh through the age-worn fabric. The ticklishness from earlier came back in a new flush of sensation. But instead of the urge to laugh or squirm, Rexei heard herself moan softly. Her spine arched out on pure instinct as he did it again, trying to lift the modest curve of her breast up into his nuzzlings.
It wasn’t enough. Flushed with desire, frustrated by the barrier of linen, she extracted her fingers from his hair and moved them down to the buttons of her sleeping shirt. The wooden discs slipped one, two, three, out of their holes. In order to undo them, her hands had to nudge his cheeks back from her torso. Glancing up at her, he watched her face, not her fingers. She blushed at her boldness, but that did not stop her from gently easing the material back to either side.
Keeping his gaze locked with hers, Alonnen leaned in again. He had to shift his arms a little higher to support her as she leaned back, but he never stopped looking at her. Not even when his chin brushed the peak of her left breast, then his nose tip and lips.
Rexei shuddered, caught off-guard by how sensual, how sensitive, such a light touch made her small breast feel. Her breathing faltered, then quickened. Pulling back, he searched her face for a clue as to her feelings. She clutched at his shoulders to anchor herself, then gathered her courage and slid her fingers back up into his hair. Dragging in a deeper breath, she guided his head back toward her breast. Eyelids drifting shut, he gave in with a groan, parting his lips around the sensitive, pink-tipped peak.
She had no clue that her breasts could be so sensitive, so sensual. Until now, they had just been lumps of flesh, awkward and inconveniently female. But under the nibbling of his lips, the hot, wet curl of his tongue—Guildra! The mental exclamation was half curse, half prayer. I never knew that . . . oh Goddess . . . so sensitive!
An unfamiliar heat twisted and threaded its way through her body, connecting her breasts—for he licked the right one as well—to her thighs and the heat building at their crux. To her arms and her toes, which curled in the slightly too large slippers threatening to dangle and drop from her feet. To her own lips, which wanted to return every touch. Except, she couldn’t bring herself to pull away from those divine feelings.
“Alonnen . . .” His name was a whisper, an exhaled breath that ended in a groan. It spurred him into licking more, suckling stronger. She shuddered again under his hungry feasting, his passionate nuzzling. But when he lightly bit at one tip, she cried out, body quaking in response to the mild sting of pain and its strong thrill of pleasure. “Ahh!”
Her shout and jerk broke Alonnen out of his lustful trance. Releasing her breast from teeth and lips, he struggled to remember who he was, who she was, and how far they were not supposed to go. Not this soon. Not this fast. The next sound out of her, however, beyond her heavy breathing, was a needy little whimper half muffled by the way her teeth had sunk into her own bottom lip. Her next move was not to sit up and berate him, but rather to tighten the way her fingers had entwined through his hair, tugging him by his locks back to her breasts.
Willing to comply but much more mindful now of what he was doing, Alonnen heeded her silent demand for more. This time, he was aware of each quiver, each unsteady hitch in her breath. Of the straining tension in her muscles, trembling, even spasming, but not quite releasing when he lapped or suckled just right.
Bracing his left arm along her spine, he brought his right hand around to her stomach. Cupping the flat muscles for a moment, he slid his palm down, until his thumb slotted between her spread thighs. There, he pressed and rubbed lightly, inward and farther down. He had to ignore the rubbing of his hand against his own barely constrained flesh, but that was alright; Alonnen sensed immediately when the fire sparked by his goal, the little hardened nub of flesh between her cloth-covered netherfolds, jolted through her body. Fire, not just lightning, for it dragged a wave of rose-blushed heat through her flesh in its wake.
Her back arched, almost pulling his mouth off her right breast, then she straightened up a little, returning it to within reach. Thumb rubbing, tongue fluttering and circling, he listened to her whimpers and gauged his efforts by the strain and spasm of her muscles. She was so beautiful in her mounting passion; he moaned and sucked harder, rubbed faster.
Rexei could feel it coming. She didn’t know what it was, but she yearned for it, ached for it, needed it. Her head thrashed, trying to deny it, to clear her senses, yet at the same time she wanted to shove away all distractions so that she could focus, focus . . . She heard Alonnen moan, felt the tugging of his lips, the flicking of his thumb.
It all crashed together in a bolt of electrical energy that snapped through her body and rocked all her senses. It didn’t end quickly, either, unlike a real discharge from some dynamo engine. It rolled and ricocheted through her, until she finally sagged in his grip, slick with sweat and breathing hard.
Somewhere beyond her blissful lassitude, she felt him shifting her weight in his arms. Even as he gathered her up, he twisted on the couch, turning to lay her down. She wiggled a little when he tugged at the bedding, pulling blankets and sheet out from under her lethargic, sated limbs. At the last moment, Rexei caught his hand, tugging it back to her long enough for a kiss. She smelled something rather musky yet sweet near his thumb, and blushed at the realization the smell came from her.
Touched by her kiss, Alonnen crouched carefully and pressed his lips to her forehead. “Sweet dreams, Rexei,” he told her. “If you want to do this again, just let me know tomorrow night.”
“Mmm . . . thank you. I, uh, I think I might,” she mumbled, blushing. She heard him chuckle, then shuffle off toward his bedchamber. As he left the sitting room, he swept his hand over the lights, dimming them down to near darkness. She realized her shirt was still unbuttoned and worked on fastening it with tired hands, then pulled the covers a little higher. Now that he wasn’t making her hot with his touches, she could feel the nip of winter in the air. A satisfied sigh escaped her as she snuggled into the couch to sleep.
Alone in his bedroom, Alonnen leaned his shoulders against the quietly shut door and bit back a frustrated moan. Lifting his hands to his face, he started to scrub at his cheeks, trying to get over the throbbing, unsated ache in his groin. It was a mistake; his thumb still smelled like her passion, her satisfaction.
Giving up, he pushed his trousers down past his hips, baring himself. His fingers stroked and cupped his ready flesh for a few moments, then he brought his hand back up to his nose for another sniff. With the scent of her climax filling his nostrils, he stroked himself, hips flexing. Overheated by watching her achieve bliss in his arms, under his touch, Alonnen found it didn’t take long to achieve his own climax. Warmth coated his hands and his shaft.
Slowly sagging into the door, he rested with his legs bracing his weight against the stout panel, then sighed. Straightening, he tugged up his sleeping trousers and headed for the attached refreshing room. His own bliss would lead to a sleepy lethargy in a few more moments, and he wanted to clean up before crawling back between his empty sheets.
Another time, he promised himself. If she can still look me in the eye tomorrow morning, then there will probably be another time. And another and another . . . and maybe there’ll be a wedding and a wedding night between us . . . because I’m falling in love with her, and I know she won’t settle for anything less. And . . . and I’m very okay with that.
The lack of contraceptive spells—he didn’t trust the iffy potion the Alchemists Guild made—meant it was hard for couples to consummate their passions without running the risk of a pregnancy. Both of them had too much to do in the coming months to risk that. But there is still a lot we can do without intercourse, he thought, dampening a rag under the faucet of his sink. A thought made him lift his brows, then smirk to himself.
I did enjoy an occasional use of the crankman Bethana owned . . . and no one reclaimed it from me after she died. For a moment, he lost his smile, remembering her death, his grief . . . but he had mourned her and moved on a few years ago. He also knew that she would not be pleased if he refused to fall in love ever again. Bethana had helped show him that he was fully over the duplicitous Daralei and free to love again.
I think she’d like Rexei. They’re different physically—Bethana was curvy and muscular, Rexei is lean and, well, not very curvy. Long blonde hair versus short brunette . . . But they’re both strong, talented, smart women. And we’re both mages, and both Guild Masters, even if Rexei’s just starting her guild.
And I can’t help it. I admire her. I’m falling in love with her. And . . . I need to stop this line of thought so I can get some sleep, he ordered himself, knowing that if he kept thinking along such lines, his loins would re-harden with interest. So, let’s think about the vote in two days to make us the nation of Guildara . . . No, work will only stress me further, since that’ll lead right back to the demon problem, and I’ll never get any sleep this way . . .
I know—I’ll think about holy days. That’s a neutral yet interesting subject. Mekha only had one per season, but I think we should have one per month. Perhaps on the full of Brother Moon? That gives us twelve holy days in a year, and we do have a lot to celebrate . . . so . . . what aspects should be celebrated each month?
Perhaps I should figure out how to divide the guilds into twelve categories? It was an interesting line of thought, intriguing enough to keep his mind off sex yet calm enough to allow him to drop off to sleep.