The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [169]
It was a woman, though Aryn could not see the other's face. She was wrapped in a crimson cloak, the cowl pulled over her head. As the figure drew closer, Lirith stepped from the alcove to stand in front of her.
The hood slipped back, revealing a pretty, slightly plump young woman. Her jaw dropped open, and she stared with surprised brown eyes. Aryn was surprised as well, for she recognized the maiden. It was Belira, one of the young witches who had mocked Aryn at last year's High Coven.
Belira cried out and started to turn away, but Lirith was swifter. She reached out and touched Belira. At once the young woman's eyes fluttered up into her head, and she slumped to the floor. Had Lirith used a spell? Or a needle dipped in some potion? Lirith pulled Belira's limp form into the nearby room. Then she wrapped herself in the red cloak, shut the door, and hurried down the corridor.
The witch reached the door to Teravian's chamber. It was Duke Petryen who stood guard now. Lirith bowed her head, the cowl concealing her face. A grin split Petryen's beard, but he said nothing. The duke opened the door; Lirith passed through.
For a moment things went dark, and Aryn feared the spell had been broken. Then things grew bright again, and she found herself gazing into the prince's chamber.
It was dim—the only light came from a single candle. Teravian lay on his bed, clad in a white robe bound in front with a sash. His eyes were open, but he stared into space and hardly seemed to see Lirith enter. On the table next to the bed was a wine goblet, tipped on its side. The prince must have drunk most of the contents, for only a few drops had spilled. Lirith touched a fingertip to the spilled wine, then brought it to her tongue. She sucked in a hissing breath.
They've drugged him, Aryn thought. They don't want any chance of him resisting.
Lirith drifted close to the bed. She hesitated, then reached toward the prince.
His hand shot up and caught her wrist.
“I know you're there.” His speech was slurred, yet there was still an edge to it. “Whatever they put in my wine has blurred my vision, but I have other senses.”
Lirith said nothing.
His lip curled in a sneer. “So have you come to finish the job my mother began?”
Deftly, Lirith freed her hand from his grasp. Her fingers moved to the front of his robe and slipped inside.
He gasped and sat up straight in bed.
“Hush,” Lirith said, and pressed him back against the pillows.
“No,” he whispered. “No, don't do this to me. You don't understand what this will make me.”
However, his eyes were dilated like those of a cat in full darkness, and he did not resist as Lirith undid the front of his robe. His chest was smooth, pale, and flat; she ran her hands over it. A soft moan escaped him.
Aryn made a soft sound as well. That Teravian was a man at least in body, there could be no doubt.
You shouldn't be watching this, Aryn. You should break the spell now.
Only she didn't. Lirith let her cloak slip to the floor, followed by her gown. In the candlelight, her body was as smooth and shapely as a figurine of polished ebony. She lay in the bed beside him and drew him close, her arms dark against his milky skin.
“No,” he murmured again, but now his eyes were shut, and he was already moving against her. His hands roamed over her body, and he nuzzled her neck, her breasts, with his lips, a look of rapture on his face. Lirith's own expression was unreadable in the dimness, but her touch was gentle, experienced. She reached down, guiding him into her.
The first time was swift—clumsy and over before it had barely begun—but the second was slower, more languorous, as the prince moved with more certainty. All the while Aryn told herself to break the spell, but she could not, and each time the prince cried out, she felt a wave of heat crash through her own body.
At last he was spent, and he dozed for a time, his head cradled against her breasts. Finally, Lirith slipped from the bed. She picked up her gown.
The prince sat up. “Don't go,” he said softly. “I would know who you are.