Laurell Hamilton - Nightseer

“It does not matter; you would not know this dance.” She took his left hand and led him to the dance floor. She told him, “Think of it as a fight. Follow my moves, echo me.” He followed her stiffly, all the grace and speed of a fight somehow mooted with his discomfort. It was a dance of fingertips and half-promised kisses. He smiled with relief when the dance ended. Keleios laughed, a full-throated sound. He looked puzzled until a lady stepped up to him and dragged him into another dance. A man grabbed Keleios’ hand, and she, too, joined the dance. This was a night for peasants to dance with princes. Many, as a sacrifice to the All-Mother, had forgiven old debts, old grudges. The Mother would take a harvest of the soul as happily as a harvest of the earth.

Lothor swirled through giggling throngs of peasant-bright skirts. Keleios was grabbed by hands reddened from hauling rope and casting nets. The blacksmith, without an ounce of magic, wrapped her in a grip like the iron he worked with, still smelling faintly of the forge’s burning stench. Keleios saw it all through a glory of golden spots. The veil whirled about her face, strangely hot and close. Finally, they sat down for the feasting. The tables groaned under the torchlight. There just might be enough people to eat all the food, but Keleios doubted it.

Lothor was seated at her side. A thin sheen of sweat made his skin glisten. Like some very pale human folk, he had become red with exertion. His pale skin flushed pink, and his eyes glittered from underneath near-invisible white brows. He caught her looking at him and stared at her. Keleios did not look away. He smiled, half-leering, and said, “Let us retire for the night, my princess.”

She stared at him a moment longer, then nodded. A knot of tension started in her belly and climbed upward, threatening to choke her. He offered her his arm, but she refused it. They walked close together without touching, and when the crowd realized their destination, a great cheer went up.

When Keleios stumbled on the long skirt, he stead led her and she did not pull away. Good-natured cheering and rowdy jokes followed them to the horses.

She allowed him to help her mount the side saddle. She punched at the mound of skirt angrily. He raised an eyebrow and grinned at her. “Jitters, my beloved?”

Keleios chose not to answer but pushed her horse forward without waiting for him to mount.

He galloped up to her, laughing.

“You’re drunk,” she said.

He laughed some more. “Why, my beloved, I believe you are nervous.”

“It is traditional before going to the bridal bed.”

His face sobered, and he grabbed the reins of her horse. “Keleios, have you ever been with a man before?”

She jerked free of him and galloped for the castle. She heard him mutter, “Loth’s blood, a virgin.”

He did not chase her. She raced through the raised gates and threw the reins to a waiting squire. Somewhere in the race the golden veil had been lost. Keleios picked up the voluminous skirts, ran for her room, then stopped. He would be there eventually. She had sworn to bed him. There was really no turning back. Yet a part of her was still struggling with the idea. Until the joining ceremony, there was always hope of escape, but now, now there was nothing to do but submit.

“I won’t, I won’t. I’ll see him dead first, no matter what the cost.”

Someone stepped from the shadows. It was Magda. She spread wide her arms and said, “My Keleios, my little warrior girl.” Keleios went to her and allowed the arms to hold her to Magda’s plump bosom. She soothed the girl’s hair. “All these years of playing with boys and housing with the warriors and you have never been with a man?”

Keleios pulled away from her and straightened. “No.”

“All the talk about you being wild when you were young, all the talk, but I knew it for envy, envy of power, position, and beauty.”

She whispered, “Magda, what am I to do?”

“You will do what women through the ages have done. You will go through with it.”

“But how? I am so angry. He trapped me, and I can’t get free this time. No sword or spell will help me now.”

“Poor Keleios, you have never had to learn the womanly art of patience.”

“I have learned some patience.”

“But you are like a man accustomed to action and controlling your own fate. Joining with any man would have been hard, but now... You must do your best.”

“But what is my best?”

The woman put an arm around her shoulders. “I will give you some advice, my dear, advice from a woman who has borne five children and raised a few more.”

Keleios smiled at that. They walked down the halls with Magda’s quiet voice whispering against the stone walls.

Magda had gone and taken the servants with her. Keleios waited alone in the room. The imp was gone as she ordered him to be. She hoped he did indeed stay out of trouble this night. A white dressing gown stirred along the floor as she paced. It left her arms bare but hid everything else. Keleios had decided to take Calthuian custom to heart. It was Magda’s advice, for she was Calthuian. It would be a searching for body under the voluptuous cloth. She need not stand naked before him unless she wished.

Keleios felt stretched thin. Her nervousness and anger had translated into sorcery. Small things levitated near her. She was like an apprentice again, trying to control strong emotion and power.

Lothor entered with a soft tap at the door. He paused just inside the door. The air was charged, something waited like a coming storm. “Do you intend to do me a mischief?”

She laughed, and the laughter had a wild ring to it. A hand mirror floated off the night stand. She said, almost gasping, “I am on edge tonight, Lothor. Do not toy with me.”

He smiled a perfectly angelical smile. “I, toy with you? Never.”

“Lothor.”

“My beloved, I am a little drunk, but not so much that I would try your patience too greatly. This is, after all, the night we will bed.”

She clinched a fist, and the mirror fell, shattering. “Urle’s forge.”

“Allow me.” He waved a hand, and the broken glass vanished.

He, too, had been bathed and clothed. He wore a nightdress of white, showing no more of him than did hers. Even his arms were hidden. He bent and pulled the gown over his head in one easy motion. He was naked underneath it.

“Lothor!” She turned her back on him.

“Yes,” he said mildly.

“You are not clothed.”

“No, I am Loltun. We do not go to our beds trapped in cloth.”

“Well I am half-Calthuian, and we do.”

“A difference of opinion so soon—how sad.”

She turned to glare at him and quickly turned back.

“Keleios, be reasonable. You have seen me unclothed before.”

“But not in my bedchamber.”

“That wasn’t for lack of trying on my part.”

She let out an exasperated sound, and a small vase hurled near him to shatter on the wall. He said, “If you want to play rough, we can.”

“My control is not what it should be tonight.”

“These last few days have tired us all.”

“Yes, I am tired.”

“Then let us to bed.” She heard him flop down on the bed. She turned tentatively, but he lay on top of the covers. Seeing her peek, he grinned and slipped under the mound of blankets.

She stood indecisive, hands hugging her elbows. The covers rustled, and a hand touched her arm, tentatively. “Only a sorcerer could bed you tonight. Your skin crawls with magic.” The grip tightened. “Feel my magic, Keleios, feel my sorcery.”

She did. It mingled, and the power crackled quietly between them. He pulled her gently to the bed, and where he touched her, magic merged and grew.