Joel Shepherd - Tracato

She headed for the door, expecting him to walk with her. Reynold stepped backward instead, facing her, partly blocking the way. “I mean, if I were bedding some stunningly beautiful girl,” he continued, “then I might prolong that situation for as long as possible, even if I did not intend to marry her.”

“Um, sure,” said Sasha, slowing down.

“But such a relationship could not continue forever,” he continued. “At some point, don’t you think, the flesh might tire of such simple pleasures?”

He reached for her cheek. Sasha was astonished, but mostly at herself, for being so dense. She was so unaccustomed to being courted. In Lenayin, most men desired a picture of feminine domesticity, and she was certainly not that.

She took a step back. “Reynold, I’m truly flattered. But Errollyn is more than my bed partner, he’s my best friend. Please understand.” She tried a smile, and hoped that worked. Spirits knew what went on in the minds of men, in such situations.

“Oh, come, you’re Lenay,” Reynold said easily. “The women of Lenayin are adventurous, surely?”

“Passionate,” Sasha corrected. “And loyal.”

“Next you’ll be trying to tell me that Errollyn is the only man you’ve bedded.”

Sasha opened her mouth to reply in the affirmative, and stopped. None of his damn business anyway. Now she was getting frustrated.

“Reynold, look. You seem a nice man, but the answer is no. I’d like to go outside now.” She gestured him out of the way. He advanced another step instead.

“Sashandra, you are an amazingly beautiful woman. I am not an inexperienced man, I am certain you’d not be disappointed.”

Sasha realised that she was retreating. She stopped, and he drew very close. “Look,” she began angrily, “let me make this very plain for you-”

Reynold tried to kiss her. Sasha sidestepped quickly. Reynold grinned, and pursued. In desperation Sasha threw a punch at him, and missed. He grabbed her arm and wrestled her close, and suddenly her arms were pinned, and his hands were on her, and there was no leverage at all. She couldn’t reach her knife, let alone her sword, and he was pushing her against a wall-not an enormously large or strong man, but a swordsman all the same, and infuriatingly she’d missed her opening chance. How many times had Kessligh warned her never to let a man get this close? She was a strong girl but against fighting men it was not enough; with her it was blades or nothing.

He had her off balance against the wall. In a flash of inspiration, she kissed him hard. She could feel his surprise against her body, his momentary flutter of excitement and astonishment…he grabbed her and kissed her back harder. That freed her arm, and she grabbed his balls, and squeezed tighter than she’d ever squeezed anything.

His face contorted, his grip slackened. In sheer fury for the taste of his mouth in hers, she smashed him with her forehead. He fell to his knees, clutching his nose, and Sasha drew her sword in a flash and put it to his neck. She felt unsteady, seeing stars, and her head hurt. That had been stupid. What the hells was she going to do, kill him? This shining intellect of the Tol’rhen, who until now had been nothing but pleasant and civilised? This unarmed man, who had never drawn a blade against her?

She sheathed the blade, and resisted the temptation to kick Reynold senseless while she had the chance. She strode out into the hallway, putting a hand to her head to check for blood. She found none. Still she couldn’t think straight, and doubted that was the blow to her head.

Who should she tell? Errollyn would kill him. Or not…but he’d finish what she’d started, and produce a lot more bleeding. Kessligh would…hells, she had no idea what Kessligh would do. Much of the Tol’rhen would undoubtedly side with Reynold. He was their man, their esteemed leader. She felt unclean. Damn him for doing this to her. What the hells had possessed him? The desperate need of a fuck? Surely not-Reynold was charming, not unattractive, and many women swooned after him. Why her?

The more she thought about it, the more furious she became. A few more strides down the hallway and she nearly reversed and drew her blade, to do what she should have done in the name of Lenay honour and cut his head off. But it was too late now-Lenay custom dictated that hot blood was fair and just, but now the moment was passed. Damn him.

She entered the great hall, one of Tracato’s many architectural marvels. There was a commotion at the far end, amidst the usual student bustle. People had gathered in numbers and voices were raised. Sasha strode that way, in a perfect mood for trouble. Hopefully someone would need killing. Someone evil.

A group of students were booing. Sasha pushed through the crowd and saw a small cluster of well-dressed men in argument with several black-robed Ulenshaals. Very well-dressed men, Sasha corrected herself, eyeing the jewelled sword pommels, the intricate embroidery on their jackets and pants, the feather tufts in wide brimmed hats. Nobility.

High nobility, she corrected herself further, seeing the woman in the blue gown who accompanied them, with a pair of servants in close attendance. The gown was more understated than some Sasha had seen, yet tasselled and embroidered to an extravagant extent for a journey into territory beyond comfortable noble grounds…

The beautiful young woman noted Sasha, and her eyes widened. “Sasha!” Sasha’s jaw dropped.

“’Lyth?”

Alythia crossed to her with unladylike haste, and embraced her. Sasha hugged her back. Her sister smelled of perfumes beyond Sasha’s experience to describe. Alythia pulled away and grinned at her.

“I told you I’d come!” she exclaimed, daring Sasha to contradict her.

She had told her. They’d exchanged letters, a ludicrous contrivance for two sisters living barely a morning’s run away, but it had been the only way for more than two weeks now. Once within the fold of Family Renine, Alythia had vanished. Sasha had worried, and accosted several noble messengers to insist they delivered her concerns into important hands. Finally there had been a letter, in Alythia’s script, insisting she was well, and happy, and of increasingly good fortune. Sasha had not been surprised, but suspicious. Further correspondence had convinced her that Alythia’s words were genuine. They could not meet. Alythia was always “engaged,” and nobility did not visit the Tol’rhen in these times.

“Dear Lord Elot,” said Alythia, turning back to her group, “you do recall my sister Sashandra?”

“Indeed,” said Lord Elot, and Sasha recalled the lord from the night of their arrival in Tracato. That had been the last time she’d seen Alythia, until now. “We meet again, Lady Sashandra.”

Sasha returned his bow. “Lord Elot.”

“And Master Alfriedo,” said Alythia, taking Sasha’s hand and walking her over. Sasha realised that she was addressing a boy of no more than fourteen-she had overlooked him entirely, his head came barely to Lord Elot’s wide midriff. His young face was very fine and pale, he wore a small sword at his hip, and carried himself with lordly dignity.

Alfriedo, Alythia had said. This must be Alfriedo Renine. The rightful heir to the long dormant throne of Rhodaan. If one still believed in that nonsense.

Alythia curtseyed low. “Master Alfriedo, may I introduce my sister, Sashandra.” She presented Sasha’s hand to the boy. Alfriedo, with impeccable etiquette, took Sasha’s hand and kissed it.

“Dear Lady,” he said, his voice high and clear. His eyes were very blue. Sasha had heard a scandalous rumour that the boy king had serrin blood. Seeing him now, she wondered. “Is it true, as your sister tells me, that you prefer not to be addressed by the royal title of your birth?”