Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [111]
Skylan lay on the bed, laughing and singing to himself. Draya’s blood burned. She drew near him. Sliding her hand beneath his shirt, she bent over to kiss him.
“My husband . . . ,” she breathed.
The room was well lit, for the gods were meant to witness the consummation of the marriage. Skylan blinked at her blearily in the candlelight, as though only just now aware of her presence. He heard the husky note in Draya’s voice, saw the glow in her eyes, and felt her body tremble as she pressed against him. Skylan realized suddenly that Draya was in love with him.
“I need a drink,” he mumbled. Scrambling out of bed, he left the bedchamber and stumbled into the kitchen, where he found a drinking horn and filled it with ale. He drank it off at a gulp.
Skylan was shocked. A woman who had seen more than thirty winters had no business falling in love with any man! It was . . . unseemly. And she was a Priestess! She should be thinking of higher matters. He had not expected her to want to make love to him, and he was shaken. Hearing footfalls and the rustle of her gown, he poured himself more ale.
“My husband,” said Draya, “my lord. Come back to our bed.”
He turned to see her smiling at him, and then she lifted her hands and began to take off her shift, baring her breasts. Her breasts were small, the nipples covered with dark hair. She cupped her breasts with her hands, playfully offering them to him.
I wish you joy! Aylaen had said to him.
Skylan’s stomach heaved. He had made love to many women since he had come to manhood, but not since he had pledged himself to Aylaen. He tried telling himself Draya was just one more, but he couldn’t even look at her without disgust, much less touch her.
It wasn’t just her age, though that was a factor. It wasn’t that she wasn’t Aylaen, though that was a major, major factor. Draya was Kai Priestess. He could still see her, pale and majestic, kneeling over Horg’s bloody corpse.
“Go back to your bed,” he told her harshly. “I will sleep on the floor.”
“My lord, don’t be silly,” said Draya, laughter bubbling in her voice. She stole up behind him and slid her hands beneath his shirt. Her cold fingers caused his flesh to shrivel. “You need not be afraid of hurting me. I am not a maid. I know how to please a man.”
And as though to prove it, she slid her hand into his trousers, reaching down to fondle his privates.
She smelled of sweat and perfumed oil, and her smell, combined with the mead and ale he’d been drinking, made him nauseated. He broke free of her embrace and angrily rounded on her.
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” he told her. “A woman of your age behaving like a whore! I would as soon think of bedding my own grandmother!”
Draya’s face went livid. Her dark eyes against the pale skin were enormous and seemed to swallow him.
“I am your wife!” she said.
“In name only!” Skylan shrugged, dismissive. “All know our marriage is cere . . . cere . . . ceremonial.” It took a couple of tries for his mead-numbed lips to form the word, but he managed. He gestured. “Besides, I am pledged to another. Go to your bed and do not trouble me.”
“Another?” Draya flared with anger. “You are my husband. By law, you must lie with me!”
She was right. A husband was bound by law to consummate the marriage, as a wife was bound by law to submit to him. But this marriage wasn’t a real marriage. It was ceremonial. She was an old woman. He didn’t want to look at her. He certainly didn’t want to make love to her. He just wanted her to go away and leave him alone to dream of Aylaen.
“Law?” Skylan drew himself up proudly. “I am the law, lady. I am Chief of Chiefs. You will do as I command!”
“You stupid boy!” Draya slapped