He flinched, and I wondered at that. But his voice was steady and calm. “I would not hurt you, Vianne. Or frighten you.”
The only light was from the fire and two candles, a low glow that was kind to his sharp face. “I am not frightened.” I merely do not wish to fail at this. I can turn aside a man’s interest with a pretty word and play the game of courtsongs, but this is something different.
This is something more, for all I suspect you of serving a dead King with it.
He approached me cautiously, folded me in his arms, rested his chin atop my head. “Shhh, m’chri,” he whispered, soothing. “I would not touch you until you are ready. I do not wish your fear of me.”
“Fear you?” Sudden laughter seized me. I swallowed it. “No, of course not. I am simply new to this. Be gentle.”
“As gentle as I can, as always, for you.”
I stepped away, freeing myself from his embrace. He stood, hands fallen to his sides, watching me intently.
This may be battlechess, and you are required to sacrifice. Think of it that way.
Yet I did not wish to.
I took his hand and led him to the bed. I stood for a long moment, undecided, before I turned and looked down at his swordbelt.
It took a little tugging, but my clumsy fingers finally undid the belt. He took his sword, leaned it against the night table, and I started to unlace the throat of his shirt, my fingers gradually stopping their shaking. As long as I focused on the problem of laces, I could ignore what loomed afterward.
He, in his turn, simply stood still, frozen. I glanced up at him. “Are you…?” I could not ask if he were well. Was this disagreeable to him?
He was pale. His forehead was damp. “If you knew,” he said softly, “how many times I…wished for this, you would laugh at me.”
The knot inside my chest eased all at once. “Hm.” I concentrated on the unlacing, slowly. “I do not think I would laugh, m’cher.” The endearment felt natural. “This might go a trifle easier if you kissed me, Tristan.”
The moment I said it, I could not believe something so forward had left my mouth.
“It might.” His blue gaze fixed on my face, as if I were the north star and him a traveler setting his course. “But then you would close your eyes, Vianne, and I might miss seeing them.”
“You have developed a courtsinging tongue.” I freed the laces of his shirt, finally, and he stripped it off over his head. Muscle moved under his skin, and scars striped along his ribs — battle scars, dueling scars. There were two fresh-reddened ones, and I flattened my hand along them, carefully, marveling at the feel of his skin, so different from mine. He leaned in to my touch. I bit my lip, thinking of the wounds. “Where did you gain these, chivalier?”
“I cannot remember,” he said hoarsely. “Vianne.”
“Well.” I looked up at him, my fingers still on his skin. He seemed vulnerable without his sword and his shirt, and of a sudden I was no longer so uncertain. “Help me unlace my dress, then.”
He did, and when the dress was half unlaced, falling from my shoulders, he slid the ribbon from my braid and ran his fingers through my hair until it fell over my shoulders. “Gods—,” he said, and I let the dress fall.
I am a coward. Please, gods, please. Do not let me fail at this.
His mouth met mine, his hands working to free himself from his breeches, and I laughed. I could not help myself, we were both shaking, and he kissed me blindly, desperately. The sound I made, laughing while he kissed me, made it even more nervously amusing, until his hands closed around my bare shoulders. I gasped, taking a mouthful of air flavored with his breath. Then, just as with the kiss, it seemed the knowledge of what would happen sprang into my body. I had heard ribald songs and seen lovers before, but it seemed so different — perhaps because I was now one-half of a whole, perhaps because Tristan kept breathlessly repeating my name, perhaps because I cried out when I lost the title of maid. Or perhaps it only seemed different because I finally understood why lovers chose dark corners, and why they were blind to all else during their love.
He was not as gentle as he could have been, but I did not complain, for he shook with need. Little broken phrases came out of him, endearments, while I simply closed my eyes and gave myself up to him. When he finally shuddered to a stop in my arms, I held him and whispered soothing nonsense in his ear until he slid away to the side and took me in his arms, printing kisses over my face.
Well, so that is what they mean. A great weariness settled on me.
“Vianne,” he whispered against my cheeks, my throat, my breasts. The Aryx pulsed under his touch, its silent song taking on a new depth.
I let out a long breath. Twas irrevocable. Tristan d’Arcenne was my Consort. Gods grant it does not kill him.
He finally lay still, my leg over his, my head on his shoulder, his arm under my head, his other hand stroking my shoulder, my hair tangled over the pillow. I sighed, and his fingers paused, continued.
“Are you well?” he finally asked, and I wondered if he was as uncertain now as I had been before.
“I am well,” I assured him, tracing my finger up his ribs. He took in a sharp breath, tensing. “My thanks, chivalier.”
“Surely we are past formality.” He caught my wrist, bringing my palm to his mouth, pressing a kiss against my skin. I would be sore tomorrow, and my thighs were sticky. I wanted a bath — but not just yet. Not while he held me so closely. “I am sorry, Vianne. I was not gentle enough.”
I shrugged, moving my cheek against his shoulder. “I expected little else.” I wondered why Alisaar was so worshipped, if this was all love was.
“The second time is better, I’ve heard,” he said against my palm, causing a shiver through my entire body.
“Is it?” I asked curiously, and he laughed.
“Much. Speak to me, Vianne. Tell me what is in that marvelously sharp brain of yours.”
I sighed again. “I am thinking that I am lucky, and this is a dream. And any moment I will wake at Court, in my own bed — or in a R’mini wagon, bumping through the wilderness.”
“No dream.” He kissed my palm yet again.
“Tis merely a feeling.” I touched his lips with my fingertips, marveling afresh at the feel of his skin. In the dark, it was easier to speak to him. “I was lost without you, Tristan.”
“I will never leave your side again.” His voice shook.
Were his cheeks damp? I brushed them, wondering if this was part of the event. “Tis well. For I must confess I had not an idea of what to do once I lost your guidance. I wish I could give you the Aryx.” My eyes closed, heavy as lead.
He shuddered as if stung. “I would make a terrible King, Vianne. I know this.”
Whatever reply I would have made was lost, for I fell into slumber in his arms.
In the darkest region of the night, I woke, screaming, struggling against Tristan’s hands. “No! No! Lisele! Do not!”
“Vianne!” He caught my wrists, held me, kissed my temple, I collapsed against him. “Hush, Vianne. I am here. Gods above, how did you bear it?”