He wanted her intensely and furiously. He had always found her beautiful beyond imagining. Her gentle teaching, her faith in him, had always represented a greater sense of who she was. But now, linked to her through the mai, he could see so much more.
She looked him in the eyes, but said nothing. Then new sensations pulsed through the mai. He closed his eyes and watched as she opened herself to him. He had been able to read her physically before, then emotionally, but he never could have seen who she was in her mind. He could not have found her secrets without destroying her.
But what he would never take, she freely offered. He saw her as a child, born into the caste of the maicana. She had gone through the lessons she had shared with him. He saw her teachers in the way she had taught him and learned she had been terribly gifted. As much as I have learned, she learned faster, and before she was even nine years old.
He watched her in other studies as she learned about the end of the calendar cycle. Her teachers warned her of the horrors of centenco. From them he heard of the promise which was Tetcomchoa’s return. He caught her firm conviction that only Tetcomchoa could save them from whatever was coming, and her resolve to be the best she could to help him.
She spent hours praying to Tetcomchoa. She offered sacrifices. She created prayers and songs. She rebuffed suitors, not because she did not like them, but because courting, marriage, and family would all be distractions from what she knew would be her life. She was prepared for Tetcomchoa’s return.
The day of his arrival floated through her mind. Jorim entered the chamber at the Temple of Tetcomchoa’s apex. The sun backlit him, so all she saw was a silhouette at first. She had expected him to be taller. The braids in his hair confused her for a moment, then she stepped from the shadows and took a closer look at him. His robe was decorated with the coiled serpent, the god’s sign.
Then, for the first time, she saw his face. Handsome, in a way no Amentzutl man had ever seemed to her. But it was the expression on his face-one of wonder and humility, tinged with anxiety and fear-that told her everything. He was Tetcomchoa, come to save them, ready to undertake all that was necessary, provided the Amentzutl would return to him the powers he had shared with them.
She had trained her entire life to do just that. And now, on the eve of her task’s beginning, she learned one more thing about herself and Tetcomchoa. She learned she had loved the god since before remembering. She had never pictured him in her mind and yet, he stood before her and could have been nothing else. The others might take convincing, but for her there was only knowing.
She knew this was Tetcomchoa.
Nauana caressed his face. “If it pleases my lord.”
He turned his head and kissed her palm. “You please me, Nauana.”
She blushed, then rose on her side and pressed her body to his. She rolled him onto his back, then rose above him. She straddled him, accommodating him. “I have loved you…”
Jorim nodded. “I know, Nauana.” He slipped his hand into her hair, grasping the back of her neck, and drew her mouth down to his. They kissed again-a kiss tasting of sweet fruits and the sea. They lost themselves in that kiss, and in each other.
And thus lost, created another magic altogether.
Chapter Twenty
5th day, Month of the Dragon, Year of the Rat
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Wentokikun, Moriande
Nalenyr
Prince Cyron found the two men kneeling before him a study in contrasts, though more for their demeanor than their physical appearances. Count Donlit Turcol did have the advantage of size and muscle over both Cyron and Prince Eiran of Helosunde. Cyron and Eiran shared light brown hair and blue eyes, though Cyron’s were icier by far; whereas Turcol had dark brown hair worn in a thick braid and flat grey eyes. Turcol had always struck Cyron as being predatory, and he meant that on a level far above the legends of the count’s womanizing.
Both of his visitors also shared relative youth with the Prince-Eiran was the youngest, and most new-come to his responsibilities. Cyron had trained all his life for the throne and Turcol had schemed for the same, eclipsing an older brother to become his father’s heir. That naked ambition, which he made no effort to clothe with even the most flimsy of artifice, made for the biggest difference between him and Eiran. Eiran had not yet learned ambition; he had barely learned to aspire.
Cyron frowned. “I believe I am having a difficult time understanding you, Count Turcol. You were delivered a copy of the orders sent to your father in Jomir and your father-in-law in Ixun. You have told me you will be placed in command of the soldiers my provinces will supply, in compliance with the order. Is this not all true?”
Turcol nodded stiffly. “It is, Highness.”
“You protest your troops’ assignment to our northern border.” Cyron opened his right hand to indicate Eiran kneeling on the other side of the red carpet strip running from throne to audience chamber doors. “You will be there to help protect Prince Eiran’s people. I do not understand your difficulty with this.”
Turcol stirred, his agitation betrayed by the way his hands slowly curled into fists. He had chosen to wear robes of forest green edged with gold, displaying his family’s crest of a small dragon coiled for sleep. He clearly meant it to remind Cyron that the Turcol family had once occupied the Dragon Throne.
His hands opened again. “It is a matter of honor, Highness. You summon us for your service, then exile us to the northern hinterlands. At the same time, in Moriande, you are surrounded by Helosundian mercenaries. You ward yourself against your people as a conqueror would against those he oppresses.”
Eiran bowed his head for a moment, and Cyron nodded to him. “If you please my lord Turcol, Highness, perhaps I could explain that when I heard of the unit being raised from Jomir and Ixun, I requested they be stationed among my people.”
Turcol’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
He senses the trap, but cannot avoid it.
The Helosundian Prince continued. “My people have learned much of the Naleni way in our time as your guests. The Keru who serve as the Prince’s bodyguard do so out of personal devotion to him only. They acquit a debt to the Naleni nation by warding their beloved leader, much as the nation guards us. And Count Vroan has likewise taken a Helosundian bride, honoring us, and we are grateful to him for his part in fighting for us. He even recovered Prince Aralias’ body from Helosunde.”
Eiran kept his voice soft and his delivery slow. Turcol’s impatience etched itself on his face in deepening lines. Had not six feet of carpet separated them, Cyron was certain the westron lordling would have slapped Eiran. I would have him slain for his insolence.
Turcol’s nostrils flared. “If my lord would come to his point?”
Eiran, feigning surprise, ducked his head obsequiously. “Please, forgive me. Owing so much to Count Vroan, and having heard so much of your valor, wisdom, and courage, I knew having your people among mine would be exactly what was needed. Our younger generations only hear bitter stories of what we have lost. You, my lord, and your men, would remind us of what we can win again.”