On Fire's Wings - Christie Golden [82]
He finished his ablutions and went to her, sitting beside her on the bed. “Shali,” he said earnestly, “I must tell you that I did not wish this marriage.”
Her not-pretty, not-ugly face smiled. “The resting warrior between your thighs tells me that, my husband.”
Husband. Jashemi forced himself not to cringe from the word. “I will do what I can to make this…bearable for you. Know that I will never raise my hand to you, nor take you against your will. I will treat you with honor and respect.”
Her muddy brown eyes shone. “Husband,” she whispered, “what you have said moves me greatly. In return, I will never deny you your right to my body, I will never speak against you, and I will tell my handmaidens that you are the most virile man in the world.”
Coyly, she glanced down at his groin. “Perhaps you did have a bit too much wine,” she said. “And perhaps some loving attention will rouse this warrior.”
Shyly, gently, with hands that were clearly inexperienced, she reached to touch his flaccid kurjah. He wanted to pull away; every fiber of his being screamed that this was wrong, was a betrayal—
A betrayal? Of whom?
And of course, he knew. Kevla’s face flashed into his mind. Desire welled inside him like liquid fire, and for an instant, before he could redirect his thoughts, he imagined that it was her work-callused hand caressing him, her full breasts he now reached to fondle, her lips he tasted. And even as he knew this flood of passion was wrong, he surrendered to it, permitted himself to be carried along like a reed in a swollen river. He moved to lie atop the willing Shali, parted her legs and thrust into her moist warmth, moving as gently as he could as she cried out first with pain and then pleasure. It was the first joining for both of them.
The tide crested, engulfed him. Fire, he was on fire, his skin prickled from the scalding heat. His eyes were squeezed shut, his mind filled with images of Kevla, and he climaxed with an intensity he had never before experienced.
Sweating, gasping for breath, he rolled over and wiped his face. Shali muttered something about not having to lie to her women after all, and he almost wept.
Jashemi had known the truth for years now, but he had denied it. Denied it to protect and honor Kevla, to keep the sacred order of things, to not violate the worst taboo the Dragon had laid upon his people.
He not only desired Kevla Bai-sha, his half sister.
He was helplessly, thoroughly, eternally in love with her.
That night he dreamed. He saw again the yellow-haired, milky-skinned warrior with a clean-shaven face. His strange simmar walked beside him, and the world around him was white. But this time, Kevla, too, walked beside the man. She seemed to know him, and was pleasant to him and smiled. But Jashemi knew her better than anyone in the world, and he saw that a shadow lay across her beautiful features. She looked older, as if she bore a burden she did not bear now.
The man wore heavy furs, but Kevla wore only a red rhia. She did not seem cold in the slightest. The warrior, the beast and Kevla walked across the strange white stuff—like sand, but cold and wet—their feet sinking deep and leaving footprints. They were just cresting the rise of a hill.
Then Jashemi’s heart spasmed. Rising behind the three, unseen by any of them, was an enormous red dragon.
He screamed and bolted awake, wondering for a moment where he was, surprised to see a shape in the bed beside him. He recoiled from Shali’s touch at first, thoroughly disoriented, and then memory crashed upon him like an avalanche.
“Husband, what is it?” Her hands were calm, soothing. She rose and wet a cloth to wipe his sweaty face.
“It is nothing,” he said, “merely a dream.”
She dabbed his face gently with the cloth. “I am troubled that your dreams are so disturbing, my lord.”
He lay back down, opening his arms so she could lie on his chest. With an intensity so powerful it made him weak, he wished that it were Kevla in his arms.
“I am troubled, too,” he said.
He walked