The terrain from Enoch to Janda was a continuous, slow climb that leveled out only to drop again, terrace after terrace, until reaching sea level in the center of the province. Kjell had planned to curve through Janda, assess any Volgar presence with a visit to the lord, skirt the hills on the border of Degn and the lower regions, and cut through the corner of Gaul before heading northwest back to the City of Jeru.
Along Janda’s southern rim, the terraces fell off suddenly, creating sheer drops to the sea five hundred feet below. The sea was named Takei, and the salt levels were so great a man could practically walk on its surface. The province of Janda had profited from the extraction of salt from the Takei Sea for a thousand years. The Bale River emptied into the Takei, which stretched east and west on the extreme edge of Enoch all the way to the middle of Janda. Kjell had considered that the Volgar might be nesting on the cliffs and on the beaches, but few creatures could survive on the salty water. The briny Takei was more suited to sea creatures than birdmen.
They could smell the salt on the breeze as they crossed the wide, Jandarian grassland, sitting high above the body of water, and Sasha was inspired with another round of questions.
“Land or sea?” she mused.
“Land. The sea is too elusive,” he replied easily.
“I love the sea,” she sighed.
“You remember the sea?” It surprised him. Quondoon was nowhere near the sea.
“Yes.” She nodded. “I do. I suppose I remember the sea the way I remember how to read or how to walk or how to breathe.”
“The seashore was beautiful in Kilmorda.”
“But not anymore?” she asked sadly.
“It will take some time for Kilmorda to be beautiful again.”
“Someday,” she murmured, and Kjell didn’t know if it was something she saw or merely wished for.
“Darkness or light?” she asked after a moment.
“Light.”
When he didn’t elucidate, she chided him. “It is not enough to choose, Captain. You must explain your choice.”
He sighed, but he didn’t mind terribly. “In the light everything is obvious. There are no secrets. You simply have to look in order to see.”
“What was your mother’s name?” she parried, keeping him off balance. It was an effective technique. He hadn’t lied once.
“Her name was Koorah. She was a servant in my father’s castle. She died at my birth.” In three simple sentences he’d told her everything he knew about his mother. Name, occupation, death. Nothing more.
She tipped her head at that, regarding him thoughtfully. He did his best not to squirm in the saddle.
“Bird or beast?” she asked, pivoting again.
“My brother is a Changer. He would tell you there is nothing like being a bird. But I have no desire to fly. I don’t have any desire to change at all. I struggle enough with who I am without shifting from one form to the next.”
“Song or tale?”
“I sing to heal, but I take great pleasure in hearing you speak, in hearing your stories,” he admitted gruffly.
She beamed, her smile lighting her face with such pleasure that he wondered why he hadn’t been trying harder to make her happy. She was so beautiful when she smiled.
“What gives you joy?” he asked abruptly, wanting to uncover ways to make her smile again. He immediately felt ridiculous, as if he were trying to woo her, and his hands tightened on the reins, making his horse whinny in protest and Sasha search his eyes.
She looked away rapidly, her cheeks growing ruddy, as if his question embarrassed her. Or maybe it was the answer that embarrassed her.
A gentleman would have apologized for making her uncomfortable, but Kjell was not—nor had he ever been—a gentle man. He was not educated in the art of flowery words, false sympathies, or fake sentiments.
She spoke quickly, quietly, as if she wanted him to listen but wasn’t brave enough to make sure he heard. “When you kissed me, I felt . . . joyful. In fact, I’ve never felt joy like that in my whole life. I’ve never felt anything like that. If I had . . . my lips would remember. My heart would remember. I want very much to feel that way again.”
Kjell’s heart swelled, filling his chest with a sensation that resembled floating. He drew Lucian to a stop. Sasha halted beside him, confused. Jerick tossed a puzzled look toward them.
“Take the men. Go on ahead. Sasha needs to rest for a moment. We’ll catch up shortly,” he instructed. Jerick immediately signaled the men to keep moving, assuming, as Kjell wanted him to, that Sasha required privacy for personal reasons.
Sasha didn’t dispute his claim, but her brows were drawn, her lower lip tucked between her teeth, biting back her words. He waited until the last man had rounded the crop of umbrella thorn trees ahead and slid from Lucian’s back, no hesitation, no second thoughts. His pulse roared in his ears and tickled the back of his throat, and he reached for Sasha, pulling her from the saddle of the docile, brown mare.
She squeaked, and he felt her surprise against his lips as he lowered his head and pressed his mouth to hers.
He didn’t close his eyes as he tasted her, not in the beginning. He didn’t want to look away. He wanted to see her pleasure, to witness her joy. The horses at their backs made a V behind them, the lemongrass brushed at their legs, and the cooing mutter of sandgrouse nearby registered only distantly, part of the flavor of the experience, a dash of sound and texture.
But Kjell heard only her sigh, felt only the silk of her mouth, and saw only the spikey tips of her lashes as they fluttered in surrender. Or maybe it wasn’t her surrender but his, for his legs trembled and his eyes closed, his lips moved in adoring supplication, his heart broke and bowed down before her, and his chest burned in elation.
Her fingers brushed his face, and her mouth sought his, even when he withdrew slightly so he wouldn’t fall down. Their breath mingled in frenzied dancing, tumbling over and teasing their sensitive lips. He pressed his forehead to hers, resisting the desire to make her sigh again. He’d let himself forget for a moment that he didn’t want her. He circled her waist with his hands and put her back on her horse so he wouldn’t pull her down into the grass.
“That is . . . joy,” Sasha whispered, looking down at him. “It has to be.”
“No. That is pleasure,” he replied curtly, stepping away from her horse. She stared down at him, her gaze knowing, absorbing his terse dismissal.
“Maybe pleasure feels like joy. But pleasure can be satisfied, and joy never needs to be. It is a glory all its own,” she said.
He turned away, almost ashamed of himself, and prepared to mount Lucian.