The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [76]
“They cannot hold forever.”
“And neither can we. You have been gone a long time, Rehada, and I’ve hidden much of the truth from you, so you have no idea how thin our ranks have become, but believe me when I tell you that the situation is dire. We have so little food that some are taking to the winds simply to feed themselves, and who can blame them? More of our qiram have been scarred by the Aramahn, leaving our ability to attack the Landed tenuous at best. We are in much more danger of driving ourselves off the edge of our islands than the Landed will ever be.”
“We will recover, as we always have.”
He waved his hand as if she were a girl offering him dates.“There comes a time when one must act and trust to the will of the world.”
“The will of the world may be against the Maharraht.” Rehada surprised herself by voicing those words, but Soroush’s response was even more surprising.
He shrugged and avoided her gaze, not with any sense of discomfort, but with contemplation. “If it is so, then it is so. I am willing to give myself to the will of indaraqiram, but I will have its answer now, before there are none of us left to hear its words.”
Rehada considered this thought, finishing her drink while doing so. They were strong words. Had they come from any other man, she might have found herself repulsed, for such had been her upbringing, but Soroush’s ways had always been an intoxicant for her. She had found herself attracted to him from the first day they’d met.
“What can I do?” she asked.
Soroush stood and held his hand out to her. “We’ll have those words soon. For now I would simply hold you, as we once did.”
She paused and found herself thinking of Nikandr, and what he would think of this. It wasn’t fear of discovery, she realized—her life would be forfeit were Nikandr or any of the Landed to discover the truth—it was fear of how it might hurt him. She had never wanted to fall in love with Nikandr. Their first meeting had been a random one, and she had taken it for a blessing of the fates. In their four years together, she had always felt in control until these last few months—the point at which, she realized with growing horror, Atiana had come into the picture.
“There is fear in your eyes,” Soroush said, still holding out his hand.
She took a deep breath. “Not fear, my love.” She stepped forward and fell into his embrace. “Uncertainty.”
She warmed herself and in so doing warmed him.
“Treat me not like a man from the Hill bearing coin.” He pulled the circlet roughly from her brow. A chill fell over her as if she had plunged into the waters of the sea.
She hid her eyes from him. It was an insult, what he’d just done, but the look on his face made her feel like she was the one at fault. “I am sorry. I did not mean—”
He pulled her chin up until she was gazing into his deep brown eyes. He leaned down and kissed her. His beard tickled her neck, but his lips were warm, and she could feel him rising as she held him longer and their breath fell into time.
Without another word, they pulled their clothes from their bodies. She saw upon his shoulder a fresh wound—stitched—a puncture from a gunshot, perhaps. When she moved to examine it, he grabbed her hand and stared down into her eyes fiercely, as if acknowledging the wound were an insult. He had always been this way—proud, too proud at times—and she knew better than to challenge him.
She pulled him down among the pillows, kissing him to make him forget. As the night deepened, as their bodies became one, for the first time in a long while she no longer thought of the Prince of Khalakovo holding her.
She woke with Soroush watching her. They were in her bedroom, and he was propped up on one elbow, watching her as the faint light of dawn shone through the small window on the far side of the room.
He was holding in one hand a stone of red jasper. When she had propped herself like he was, he slid it toward her. “Take this to the woman you were speaking with today.”
Rehada picked it up and examined it. It seemed unremarkable. “Why?”