
UNICORN QUEST
By
Ellen FisherAndAngelica Hart
© copyright February 2005, Ellen Fisher and Angelica HartCover Art by Jenny Dixon, © copyright February 2005ISBN 1-58608-370-8New Concepts PublishingLake Park, GA 31636www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Ry Trall had been walking for days. First across the savannah, grass waving gently in the breeze, with the awareness of being stalked by the lions, their lithe bodies parting the grasses almost silently, the black spotted silver hides camouflaging them. He would never have known they were there but for their rank odor. Then into the foothills, where trees grew thick and lush, drinking greedily of the snowmelt that gushed from the mountains. Now, at last, he had reached the rocky, steep canyons that surrounded the valley he sought.
It had taken him a long time to ascend the rocks, always checking above him, aware that a pride of black mountain cats might take advantage of a momentary distraction and leap upon him from above. But at last, his hands bleeding and sore, his robes torn, he reached the rim of the canyon and found a vantage point. Squinting against the bright sunlight, he gazed out over the valley carpeted with lush blue grass. And then he saw them, grazing indolently. The herd he'd risked his life to find.
The lead stallion, a glorious ebony steed, lifted his finely shaped head and sniffed the air. Ry watched, puzzled, knowing the animal couldn't smell him. Not from this distance. Perhaps there was another predator in the valley.
Abruptly the black stallion whinnied an alarm, then exploded into a gallop. His mares raced behind him, their foals close by their sides.
A movement caught Ry's eye. A rope of the light but unbreakable substance known as chi'nyr whizzed through the air, settling around the lead stallion's neck and bringing him to a halt so abruptly that he cartwheeled and slammed into the ground. Ry hissed through his teeth, distressed to see the magnificent animal fall so hard.
The stallion couldn't be hurt. Not now. Not after he'd risked everything to find him.
He started down the steep path into the valley, skidding and slipping on loose stones.
Sahra approached the great black stallion. He had scrambled to his feet and now stood glaring at her, his eyes showing white around the edges, his ribs expanding and contracting like bellows, his razor-sharp hooves pawing the ground nervously. Had he been an ordinary horse, she would not have dared to approach him until he was tied more securely. But he was no ordinary horse, and she knew he would not hurt her.
She held out her hand. "It's all right," she said softly.
He threw up his head and snorted, unconvinced.
She walked toward him, slowly but with great confidence, until she was within an arm's length of him. Then she reached out and placed a hand against his satin skin, gleaming in the sunlight.
He shied briefly, but calmed almost instantly as she poured every ounce of psychic energy she possessed into reassuring him. It seemed like a long time to her, but within moments he was nibbling delicately at the zua fruit in her palm.
"And now," she said, rubbing his velvet muzzle affectionately, "I'm going to ride you."
"I don't think so."
At the unexpected voice, Sahra's head whipped around. Standing behind her was a very tall man, his dark, shoulder-length hair whipping in the wind. A golden weapon gleamed in his hand. A weapon pointed in her direction.
His crimson robes indicated his clan. He was of the Ror q'Trall.
The Clan of Blood.
Ry studied the small woman in front of him. Her hair was bound beneath a cloth, as every woman's must be, but he guessed from her eyebrows and fair skin that she was golden-haired. Her pale face was sunburned, indicating she'd been watching the unicorn herd for quite some time before approaching it. She was clad in the black, anonymous robes worn when one did not wish to disclose one's clan.
And given the stallion's unnatural calm, she was possessed of unusually strong psychic powers, which meant she was a dangerous opponent. Most people had some degree of psychic ability, but very few possessed enough to tame a unicorn, a naturally skittish beast. Most of the ones that did were women. He had known he had little enough chance of taming the brute himself, but he had decided to try anyway.
Only to find the chore already done.
"How convenient," he drawled as he sauntered toward her. "I came out here to capture a unicorn. This unicorn, in fact. And you've already done it for me."
She narrowed her eyes and spoke through clenched teeth, apparently undaunted by the ominous golden gleam of his weapon. "He's mine."
"You tamed him. That doesn't make him yours."
"Fool!" she snapped. "Do you really believe you can ride him?"
Ry studied the beast. It was enormous, most of an arm's length taller at the withers than any horse he'd ever seen. Its height reminded him of the huge horses that had once been used for farming, and just like those horses, long hair fell from the fetlocks to the hooves, but otherwise it bore little resemblance to a draft horse. Except for the long, spiraled horn that sprang from its forehead, its conformation was similar to a horse bred for speed, with incredibly long legs and well-muscled haunches.
"I can ride anything," he said, not without pride. "I am of the Ror q'Trall. I was all but born on a horse."
"This is no horse," she said scornfully. "He will spit you if you but attempt to mount."
The unicorn tossed its head, its ivory horn gleaming in the sun, as if confirming her words. In all likelihood, it had sensed her defiant mood, which made the animal restive. Now that she had established a bond with the animal, he realized, it might be impossible for him to tame it himself.
In which case he would simply have to kill her. Because he could not afford to fail.
"Step away from him," Ry ordered.
She moved away from the stallion readily enough, smiling. "Think you that the bond I created can be broken so easily?"
Ry frowned. Most people could only maintain a psychic bond through touch. If she was capable of creating a lasting psychic bond, one that could not be broken, he would have no choice but to kill her. For some reason that idea did not appeal to him.
He reached out to the stallion, applying every bit of his mental energy to the beast. The stallion reared up, its sharp hooves pawing the air, then came back to earth with a thud, its nostrils flaring as it snorted angrily.
Ry understood animals well enough to comprehend the threat. He stared at the brute in frustration, then turned to the woman. "Why did you tame this animal?"
"I have wanted him since the moment I saw him," she said softly.
"I have need of him," Ry said angrily. "It is not a child's foolish whim that brings me here, but a matter of life and death."
"A child? You dare to call me a child?"
"I am telling you what I see. A child playing with a toy that is more important than she can possibly grasp."
She glared at him. "I have been alone for years. I am in need of a companion."
His eyebrows shot up. "Alone? Are you...?" He trailed off, unable to say the word.
"Aye," she snapped. "I am A'tril."
A'tril. Outcast. He took an involuntarily step backward, and she all but rolled her eyes. "Churlish fool. I am not outcast because I have a loathsome disease, but because I disgraced my clan."
He could hardly imagine what one so young could have done to deserve such a fate. A'tril was the worst imaginable punishment in a world where clan was everything. She was a woman without family. Worse, without identity. She was nothing and no one. Unless another clan took her in--which was appallingly unlikely--she would wander alone until she died.
She looked at him, her lavender eyes soft and vulnerable. "I captured the stallion for companionship. I knew it was wrong to capture such a glorious, noble beast, to tame that which was born to be wild, but once the idea wormed its way into my brain, I could think of little else. I have been alone these past two years."
He gazed into her eyes, struck by the dreadful loneliness of her voice. Having spent his life amongst his close-knit clan, he could hardly conceive of two years alone. She moved toward him and continued, "I arrived in this valley a month ago. When I saw the herd, I thought of how much more quickly I could move with a mount. The unicorns are far faster than any ordinary horse. If I had--"
And abruptly, she struck. Her fist slammed into his stomach and her knee into his crotch. Ry doubled over, stunned by how easily she'd fooled him. She was truly gifted with psychic powers, he realized. Blindly, he reached out and grabbed her, pulling her to the ground and sitting on her. Nearby, the stallion reared, neighing angrily. Had it not still been confined by its rope, Ry suspected it would have trampled him.
He sat on her until his vision cleared and the desire to gag went away. Then he picked up his weapon and held it against her temple.
"Play any more mind games with me," he said in a deadly voice, "and I will kill you. Do you understand me?"
Her eyes went wide, and she gave a slight nod of assent.
"Let me tell you why I want the stallion," he said, in a slightly less dangerous tone. "The Ror q'Trall is First Among Clans. We have been First Among Clans for many years. Surely you have not been A'tril so long that you have forgotten what clan status means."
She shook her head, a slight movement.
"Then you know what it means to be a lower ranked clan. You know that the lower ranked clans are subject to raids, to theft of their women and their horses. I would not wish that upon my people. I have a responsibility to protect them."
She was silent for a moment. "Are you the uban?"
"I am the r'uban, the Prince. My father rules Ror q'Trall. He has bred the best horses--"
"Stolen them from other clans, you mean."
"It is the way of things," Ry said. "But this year our best stallion, Rykstra, sickened and died for no apparent reason."
"Poison?"
"Most likely. That is also the way of things. But we are now without a race horse. If we do not win the race, we will lose status. We have lost status for various other reasons, and we are barely First. If we lose the race, we will no longer be First Among Clans."
She lay on her back and stared at him, unmoved. Her lavender eyes were like stone. "Perhaps you will discover what it feels like to be raided, then."
"I have a younger sister," Ry said. "She is lovely, and of royal blood, and she will be a target for every clan. I will not permit her to be stolen from us. We must win the race."
"And you think to do it with this stallion?"
Ry raised his head and gazed at the beast. "Look at him. There is no horse alive that can hope to run with him."
"But he is a unicorn," she said, as if he were a small child who had said a very foolish thing.
"There is no such thing as a unicorn," he said, smiling. "Everyone knows that. They are but stories, told to credulous children."
"And yet you traveled here, far from Ror q'Trall lands, in search of a unicorn."
"I came here in search of him. I had heard tales from men I trusted."
"They will not let you run a unicorn in the race, you fool."
"They will not know that he is a unicorn."
She gasped, horrified. "You think to cut off his horn? Surely that will kill him."
"If the men I have spoken to are correct, that is no horn. It is an antler."
She frowned. "There is no difference."
"There is a difference, a very significant one. Antlers are shed in the fall."
She blinked. "So within a few weeks...."
Ry smiled coldly. "To all intents and purposes, he will be merely a horse."
The lavender hue of Sahra's gaze hardened. "That is deceitful and
unworthy of a prince."
He shifted his weight on her slender frame. All muscle and grit, Ry's weight made it difficult for Sahra to breathe, but she refused to complain. After all, it wouldn't do her any good. He was of the Clan of Blood. His kind wouldn't care.
"I do whatever it takes to protect my own," he said.
Sahra understood all about protecting her own. She hadn't been entirely honest about her intentions or about being alone. There were many ways to become A'tril and they had a society all their own. It was like a family, but with a social structure clansmen could never comprehend.
He lowered his weapon, slowly. "I don't wish to kill you."
"Nor I you," she said calmly, despite the tremors scurrying along her nerve endings.
He arched a brow. "And how do you think to manage even a minor assault?"
"If I told you that, I would lose my advantage."
He studied her for a long moment, and then grinned. "You bluff well, child."
With all the force at her disposal, she shoved at his brawny chest. "I am not a child."
He grabbed her wrists and easily forced them over her head. Slipping downward, he imprisoned her with the length of his body. She could feel every inch of his hard flesh pressing into her. An unfamiliar sensation crawled through her. She lacked the experience to identify it, but it wasn't entirely unpleasant and that unnerved her.
"It would be best to humor me. I'm less likely to slaughter a child than a loathsome A'tril."
Although the weapon was no longer at her head, it was still within his reach. Even if she could get free of his grip, she wouldn't dare test his speed. She knew his clan well, too well. They had earned the name Clan of Blood through years of slaughter. They had little compunction about killing a village of men and enslaving their women and children. The best they kept for their own, even adopting a few of the youngest. The others were sold at auction as if they were nothing more than a commodity. It disgusted her, yet it was the way of it, and most accepted it as life. After all, the strong would always conquer the weak.
Sahra would have none of it. She had lost all in the wake of such atrocities, and she was not the only one. If the clans knew the true strength growing in the A'tril, they would unify and destroy the awakening menace to their way of life. But they didn't know, and with the unicorn and her own psychic talent, she'd bring down the mighty Ror q'Trall and all those like them.
Perhaps this was the opening she needed. It didn't fit her original plan, but it would do. Legend had it that a storm would one day level the clans in order to unite them as one. She intended to be that storm. And may the Creator help any who stood in her way.
"It seems we are at an impasse," she said, her breath raspy.
He laughed with genuine amusement. "Quite the opposite, child, it seems you are at my mercy."
"Those of your clan don't comprehend the concept. You understand nothing but blood and greed. I'd rather be A'tril than be associated with such a clan."
She hadn't meant to betray her antagonism any more than she meant to provoke his anger. But the gauntlet had been thrown and her plans ruined for a momentary lapse of speech. The fury in his gaze and the tightening of his grip splintered her bravado. With sudden panic, she fought against his hold, bucking and tossing her head until her covering loosened and some of her hair spilled free.
"Stop!" he bit out, his voice harsh and barely audible.
She didn't obey. Instead her efforts intensified as if she could indeed free herself. She couldn't know what her actions did to a man in his prime. She didn't notice that his hoarse tone had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with passion. She didn't realize that with each toss of her hips, his sex hardened. She certainly didn't appreciate that a lesser man would have been loosening her robes and having his way. She only knew that she couldn't risk death. She was the storm. She had to complete her destiny or more would end up like her, like the A'tril who still wandered alone, without clan, without hope.
"Be still, you willful child. You don't know what...."
His words halted as her movements shifted the sarong-like top, forcing it to open and expose the full curve of one pale, well-formed breast. He groaned. "Stop it! Now!"
Sahra ignored his commands. Closing her eyes, she focused on the unicorn, melding her consciousness to his, intending to elicit his help. The connection was broken before it took hold as she felt the crush of Ry's mouth against her own. Shock waves ripped through her. Being so psychically open elicited an honest response before she could still it. For a singular moment, she relented to the insistent pressure of his lips, to the invasion of his tongue. She instinctively returned a full measure, even moaning under an onslaught of sensations never before experienced.
Then a channel opened to his mind. She saw through to his natural character. It caught her unawares, bonded her to him in an unexpected way. Before it could register, an onslaught of sexual images arose, projecting his anticipated course. Despite the intensity of his arousal, he had no intention of rushing things. He would go slow, savor, anticipate. His kiss would linger through a series of tantalizing assaults, each bolder than the last, each intended to make her long for more, to ignite her in ways that would have her whimpering with need. His fingers would roam her body with skilled persistence, first above the robes, then beneath, shedding them as he probed and tantalized her beyond resistance. He knew the way around a woman's passion. His ample experience echoed through his movements, yet she didn't sense the memory of any particular woman.
Ry focused on her with an intensity that seared her, that introduced her to a sensuality she had unknowingly suppressed. She never knew a man could want like this. She never understood she could yearn for a man just as much. Yet, it was more, a link that few ever experienced.
In this complex world of clans and A'tril, few found a natural mate, one that they could psychically bond with much as she had bonded with the unicorn. This r'uban, this enemy to her plans, was a true mate. She doubted he was gifted enough to realize it, but if she didn't break the link, she wouldn't be able to resist him. This realization, along with her mounting heat, terrified her, and she wrenched her lips free. "Please, nay ... nay...."
She hated the fear in her tone, hated the pleading overtones, but it brought him to his senses. He lifted his head, his dark hair tumbling into even darker eyes that absorbed her like a thirsty man downing ale. He took one glance at her exposed breast and swallowed, hard, twice. With a groan and a shove, he was on his feet without explanation or apology. He yanked her upright. "Fix yourself."
She stared in horror at her exposure. With trembling fingers, she secured her top and covered her hair. Every instinct told her to run, forget the unicorn, forget her allegiance to the council of A'tril, and run. She didn't. Perhaps running would have been best, but not without the stallion. Instead, she tilted her head up and took a step toward the unicorn.
Ry lifted his weapon. "Don't."
She halted.
"You were misinformed. We show more compassion than many of the lesser clans. As proof, I will spare your life."
With those words, he spun her about and bound her wrists behind her back. She struggled against him, but he was nearly twice her size and she was nothing more than a nuisance. Fear threatened to take hold again, and her mind raced for the right words to lessen his fury or at the very least to offer a compromise. After all, the unicorn was still bound to her. Only she couldn't think past the bindings, past the noose he placed over her head and tied to a low, hanging branch.
"So, this is how you intend to resolve things, by making me your captive," she finally managed.
He didn't respond, only gave her a small shove that forced her to her knees. The rope around her neck was just taut enough to hold her still in that awkward, uncomfortable position.
He looked to the west, watched the sun dipping into the horizon, staining the sky as crimson as his robes.
"We will bed here for the night and start home come morning."
"We?"
Again, he said nothing. He left her there and started for the forest to gather kindling and logs for a fire.
Brec Para, r'uban of Ror q'Para, the Clan of the Eagle--second among the clans--stood before his father's throne. "He has disappeared." Brec snapped his finger, the sound loud and startling in the enormous chamber. "Just like that. He evaded our best trackers. He evaded me!"
Both father and son had a lean, bronzed look to them. That, along with their light hair and bold green eyes, made them facsimiles of each other. On closer inspection, one could see the uban's aged countenance contrast against his son's younger appearance. Both, though, had hard hearts and sadistic minds. They thrived on the clan way and lacked the scruples to even consider a future devoid of blood and power.
Kule, the uban, stroked the ebony locks of the slave at his feet. Though immaculately groomed, she had fresh welt marks across her bare back and a vacant gaze. The king had broken her spirit, and he'd soon rid himself of her, but for the moment he chose to be tender. Moments like that were rare. "It matters not. He is in search of a fresh stallion, but he'll never find one as good as Warrior and have it trained in time for the race. First among clans is as good as ours."
"They have beaten us one too many years, and it still burns in my gullet that they refused our offer for Raya as a bride." He fingered his sword, eyes blazing. "How could they be so foolish? The marriage would have bonded our families and none would ever dared come against either."
"You would have still desired to win the race."
"Aye, but it would have been a thing of pride, not of necessity."
Kule's fingers knotted in the slave's dark hair and he pulled her up onto his lap. A whimper escaped her lips, but she didn't resist him in any way. The girl had once been a princess much like Raya, fragile, over-protected. It hadn't been much of a challenge to break her. "The Ror q'Trall has became weak, mostly due to that fool, Ry Trall, who has encouraged his father to move away from the old traditions. They actually value their women as more than commodities. They treat them as equals and give them a choice in their mates. This foolish sensitivity will be their downfall."
Feet braced apart, Brec stopped pacing. "The sensitivity, though, is only for their own blood. They buy and sell human flesh with as little thought as any other clan. They didn't earn the title Clan of Blood for their sensitivity, Father. I remain wary of them, and will do whatever it takes to disband them."
The king lifted a brow. The two men had such chiseled, graceful looks none would suspect the malice lurking in their hearts. "Do not let your lust for the princess allow our clan to be disqualified. She will be your bride yet. We will find a way even if we do not win the race."
"Nay, they had their chance at an honorable mating. When I win the race, I will snatch Raya from under their noses and make her my slave. I will break her, but slowly. I wish to savor the victory. Just as I will savor having the r'uban eat Warrior's dust. I will win that race, father."
"Don't be impatient. We will get our due, and take the girl in a raid. By winning the race, we will gain a portion of their wealth and armies. We will be strong enough to break them." The king gazed down at the shapely slave in his arms. "Leave me, boy. The race is yet a time away, and I will have this one serve my needs."
Brec pivoted about and left the chamber, muttering, "Old fool."
His father didn't recognize the importance of having everything in place, taking precautions. He didn't realize just how much was at stake. What if the Ror q'Trall could prove the r'uban of their rival clan had murdered their prize stallion? What if their prince did find a better beast?
Brec intended to leave nothing to chance.
With a set stride, he raced through the palace in search of his spies. He needed to know exactly what the r'uban of Ror q'Trall was about. Perhaps, he mused, it would be wise if the prince had an accident before the race.
Gathering up the makings for a fire gave Ry the excuse he needed to distance himself from the lass and collect his thoughts. The wise thing would be to kill her. Her psychic link to the unicorn would be broken, and he'd be free of that damn lavender gaze that held just the right mixture of vulnerability and fear, courage and determination. The sort of mixture that tempted a man to relinquish barriers better kept in place.
And her not even a fully grown woman. Of marriageable age, but not at all experienced. A woman would have known better than to buck against him like that. Despite her initial lack of resistance, her kiss had lacked skill. He would bet his sidearm that she had never been kissed before. Plus, there was an inkling of more, a fusion, a connection that he had never felt with any other woman, except perhaps one. That, however, was a ridiculous attraction since he had known her but through a lock of hair and its residual psychic essence. The woman had been but a possibility, a longing, a hope that ended in bitter disappointment.
Above him a menagerie of foliage shifted and whispered under a twilight breeze. Streamers of rosy light dusted the forest floor, and night creatures began to stir, chattering the inane language of darkness. He shook the frustration from his mind and focused on his current problem. A'tril, what the hell was he going to do with A'tril too young to be an outcast, too old to be adopted by a clan, and too bound to the unicorn he needed?
He quickly assembled what he needed, for he dared not leave the lass alone for long. She was altogether too quick-witted, and he wouldn't be shocked to find her trying to free herself.
He wasn't wrong. Rather than the lass working the knots loose, though, it was the unicorn nibbling at the rope looped around the branch.
At the sight of Ry, Sahra looked up at the unicorn and shook her head. It meandered away to nibble on grass.
"You truly do have a hold on the beast," Ry said, not bothering to reproach her for trying to escape. He would do no less in her position. "Just how well do you communicate with him?"
"His name is Dagda," she responded as if that were answer enough.
Ry paused from arranging stones in a circle. "The name you gave him?"
"The name his breed calls him."
He tried not to look shocked. "They have a language?"
Her cheeks flushed under the effort of maintaining her position. If she relaxed her stance, she would hang herself. Ry didn't intend to keep her in that state for long. He couldn't bring himself to kill her, but he didn't want her guessing that too soon.
"It's not really a language, just impressions, but I understand what he means somehow. I'm loosely translating his name."
Ry arranged dried grass, twigs and logs, used flint to spark a flame, and then added more wood. As darkness claimed the dimming day, the air snapped with a sudden chill. "I'm glad you have decided to become cooperative."
"I don't have much of a choice," she bit out.
He studied her a moment. Why didn't the compliancy ring true? He unhooked a waterskin from his belt, set it aside and secured a few scraps of dried meat from a pouch. "Thirsty? Hungry?"
She shook her head, then winced as the rope rubbed her neck raw.
He shrugged. "Very well. It matters not to me if you starve."
He shoved salted meat into his mouth, one piece after another, chewing for several minutes before taking a long swig of water. Afterward, he stood and approached the unicorn. Nostrils flared, hooves hit the earth with thunderous power. "Tell him I'm a friend. I spotted a stream just beyond the tree line, and I'd like to lead him there for a drink."
"Do you take me for an idiot? I do that and you'll leave me here trussed up like fowl ready to be butchered."
Ry frowned. She really did have a low opinion of his clan. It was to be expected since they themselves spread rumors of atrocities never committed to keep raiders at bay. Still, coming from this waif it struck something within. He didn't want her thinking him a monster. Simultaneously, it unsettled him that he cared what she thought.
Unhooking his belt, he dropped it just inches before her. "That holds my weapons, my provisions and my branding seal. I'd be a fool to leave them behind. Now will you allow Dagda to see me as a friend?"
Sahra knew he could manage without a weapon or provisions, especially mounted on a unicorn. He could easily flee any hostility and live on stream water and forest fodder for days. However, the branding seal was another matter. It was unique, a design of his making. It provided identification, acted as currency, sealed treaties, bonded slaves and wives alike. A prince would never leave his seal behind. It was the equivalent of his word of honor.
"Show me the seal," she said.
He snatched it from the belt and held it up to her. She hesitated a moment more, then nodded. This time she didn't close her eyes, just stared blankly. Dagda trotted toward the prince, mane shimmering under the dying light.
Ry smiled, fingers caressing the stallion's magnificent coat. "Nice to meet you, Dagda. I believe we will have many adventures together."
"I doubt it," Sahra snapped, then bit her bottom lip, making it obvious she hadn't intended to say that aloud.
"You have a true hatred for my clan, do you not?"
"No more than for any others who raid, rape and murder," she said. Her bottom dropped slightly, causing her to the end the sentence with a gasp. The rope tightened around her neck and she sprang upright to keep from choking.
Without a word, Ry loosened the rope enough to allow her to sit.
"Better?"
She nodded.
"Take this opportunity to know me and you will see neither I nor those of my home are as fearsome as our reputation suggests."
With that he used the chi'nyr to lead the unicorn to the stream, cooing to it along the way, using his limited psychic ability to form a bond. He knew he couldn't break the lass's hold, but she had opened a channel and Ry thought perhaps he could widen her link with the creature to include him. Probably not, but it was worth trying.
By the time he returned to the small camp, the lass had braced herself against the tree and slept. Moonbeams battled firelight, creating shadows and flashes of muted color over her slender form while the wind tugged at her head covering, loosening a few wisps of golden locks. He had noticed its shaggy length when her covering had come undone. Despite her assertion of being of age, her long, pale locks had never been sheared, a ritual performed after the first full moon of a lass's nineteenth year. It proclaimed her a woman.
How could any clan be cold-hearted enough to cast out a minor? He still didn't know what he would do with her, but releasing her wasn't an option. At the same time, if his father knew she had bonded with this particular unicorn, he'd have her killed without thought. After all, she was only A'tril.
Something tugged at his heart as he stared at her lovely face, as he remembered how unwittingly she returned his kiss with sincere passion.
He shook his head, wondering if this was just the lingering effect of her psychic attack. He stomped away, secured his belt, and then bedded down next to the campfire, dozing lightly in the way of a warrior.
Sahra waited until she heard his steady breathing before using the blade she unsheathed from her boot to saw at her bindings. The unicorn had been a diversion. By the Creator, it would have taken Dagda a week to nibble through the rope. It surprised her that the prince didn't realize that. It also surprised her that he dared to sleep. She could only guess that he didn't consider her a threat. How could he know she would be the greatest threat he ever encountered? She could almost feel sorry for him.
Actually, she did feel something. Damn his kiss, it touched her. Double damn him for being her natural mate. Natural mates were not unheard of by any means, but the occurrence was still rare enough to taunt her with its irony.
If only it were merely lust. She could handle that. But her mind had opened to him during that kiss and she had seen his heart. She didn't like what she saw, for he had honor, courage and loyalty. She didn't see the bloodlust she associated with his clan, or clans like his. It made her question her allegiance to the A'tril.
Then she remembered the flash of steel. The screams. The deaths.
She couldn't let anything or anyone stop her, not even discovering a true mate. With fresh vengeance she continue to sever the rope with her wickedly sharp knife. When at last she was free, she rubbed her numb arms before attacking the noose. Ripping the rope from her neck, she massaged the raw flesh for several seconds before tiptoeing toward Ry. She knelt inches away, blade in hand. She should kill him. The council would applaud her actions, but she had never murdered anyone before, and she could not now, especially not him.
She watched the movement of shadows and firelight upon his countenance, the way it tinted his strong chin and high cheekbones. Her gaze slipped over muscles defined beneath the robe, then lingered on his lips, lips that had claimed hers. She realized then she could not harm him even if he were the enemy. Their bond was too strong. She barely knew him, but she'd feel his loss to the end of her existence. She slipped the knife into its sheath, softly kissed his brow and started to rise.
Before she could, strong hands wrapped around her forearms and toppled her to the ground. "No!" she screamed, cursing herself for being a weak fool and getting caught yet again.
"I should have killed you," she ranted as he trapped her beneath muscular thighs for a second time.
"Why didn't you?" he asked, his dark eyes boring into hers even as he fiddled with his belt, extracted his branding seal and thrust it into the fire.
She watched the movement. Her mouth felt dry. Her heard pounded as if a herd of stallions thundered through it. She shook her head.
"Answer me!"
"No!"
He twisted the seal into the burning ashes. "You have never killed before, have you?"
She kept her eyes on the brand until he caught her chin between two fingers and forced her to look at him. "Have you?"
"I haven't."
"But that's not why you didn't do it now, is it?"
"I just couldn't, all right? I just couldn't."
"Why?"
"Because we kissed," she blurted.
"And you felt something in that kiss, didn't you?"
She shook her head.
He lifted the brand from the fire. It glowed. He yanked her top to one side, exposing her shoulder and forearm. If he branded the latter, she'd be owned, a slave, and that was worse then being A'tril. Many preferred it, for at least they were part of a clan, but Sahra relished her freedom.
"Don't," she whispered. "By the Creator, don't do this."
"What does the kiss have to do with it?" he said, holding the brand to the flames once more.
She followed the brand, then watched his eyes, so cold, hard, determined.
She collected what little moisture she had in her mouth and spat at him.
He gathered her wrists in one hand and trapped them over her head, ignoring the wetness on his cheek. With his free hand, he lifted the brand once more.
"Last chance, child."
"Because I sensed an honorable man, because you touched something inside me, because you made me feel, because I haven't felt anything for more than two years. That's it. That's all of it," she belted out, holding back the truth of their connection. "Now, let me go!"
He didn't oblige her, but his voice softened. "What's your name?"
She blinked. No one cared about A'tril's name. A'tril didn't even deserve a name.
Yet she responded with a defiant lilt. "Sahra."
The brand descended, marking her with his seal. She screamed, and it wasn't just because of the pain. He hadn't branded her forearm, deeming her a slave, but her right shoulder, turning her into something much worse. His wife.
"What have you done?" she demanded in a horrified whisper.
Ry lifted his weight off her and began to rummage in his leather bag. She was too shocked, too horrified, by what had just transpired to gather her wits enough to attempt escape.
Indeed, she could not escape. She was his now, bound to him forever, in a way that could not be questioned by the laws of their world.
She gritted her teeth, seeing all her carefully laid plans reduced to ashes by this man.
Ry began smoothing an ointment onto the brand mark on her shoulder, and the pain of the burn began to recede almost instantly. "A foolish question," he said mildly. "Even though you are A'tril, even though you have been without a clan for two years, you know well enough what I have done."
"But I did not agree to marry you!"
"Your agreement, or lack thereof, is irrelevant," he said with maddening calm. "I am the r'uban of Ror q'Trall. I may take any unattached woman for my wife that I choose."
"And you would choose me? A woman with no clan? Simply because I tamed the unicorn that you wanted?" She snorted contemptuously. "You are a fool, Prince."
He looked up, meeting her gaze, and she saw a volatile flash of anger deep within his eyes. Anger--and something else. Vulnerability, perhaps? The anxious fear that he had made the wrong decision, and that his clan would pay for it later?
Sahra knew all too well how that felt. The other A'tril were not her clan, by the laws of her world, yet they meant as much to her as her own clan ever had. And she had lowered her guard, allowing herself to be captured and taken by this stranger.
She had failed them.
He was silent for a long moment, his eyes roaming over her face and form in a way that she found, oddly, both disturbing and pleasurable. "I did not choose you merely because of your psychic connection with Dagda," he said at last, in a low voice.
She lifted her eyebrows and looked at him inquisitively, with as much hauteur as she could manage.
"I desire you," he said softly. "I have never desired a woman so greatly."
The honest, candid need in his voice took her breath away. No man had ever gazed at her with that heavy-lidded, absorbed expression before. When she had become A'tril, she had only been seventeen summers, as tall as she was now, but skinny and awkward and coltish, and no man had given her a second glance. She knew that she had grown since then, that she had developed a woman's body, but among the A'tril she was respected as a leader, and not a single one of the male A'tril noticed her feminine attributes or saw her as a woman.
Ry Trall, she knew, saw her as a woman.
She responded instinctively to the heat in his eyes, opening her mind to his as a wave of male lust, raw and hot, broke into her consciousness. Her lips parted in a startled gasp, and he leaned toward her.
For the second time that evening, his lips pressed to hers.
His mouth crushed hers, demanding and warm, and his strong, muscled arms slid around her waist. She could not stop herself from wrapping her arms around his wide shoulders in return. She knew she ought to fight, but somehow she could not bring herself to resist him. There seemed to be little enough reason to resist, anyway. He'd soon realize he instinctively mated the right woman even if their mating could turn out disastrous for them both.
He was in her mind, and she in his, already--what greater intimacy could there be?
Of course, he could not read her deeper thoughts with any great degree of accuracy, any more than she could read his. Which was for the best, or she might have inadvertently betrayed the plans of the A'tril. But she could feel his emotions, a boiling mixture of physical lust and emotional longing, could see the vibrant sexual images that rioted through his mind.
And for an untouched woman who had never known a man, who had never even had the slightest notion what relations between a man and woman might be like, those images were a startling revelation. They were far more inflaming than the ones the kiss had prompted.
Her mind swam with visions of her lying beneath him on the azure grass, her long limbs pale in the moonlight, his mouth suckling eagerly at one nipple at a time. Their bodies melding together as one in a heated liquid embrace. His hard, hot body thrusting into hers until she screamed with pleasure.
She moaned as his tongue delved into her mouth, unable to resist, swept away by the overwhelming jumble of imagery.
The grass was soft beneath her as he slid his hand up beneath her sarong top, gently caressing the soft skin of her breast, until she felt an unfamiliar tension in her nipple, an ache she'd never known before. His fingers slipped higher, stroking across the taut flesh of her nipple, and a soft cry was torn from her mouth. He teased her, doing it again and again, until she felt a rush of liquid warm her inner thighs, an almost frantic sensation of need and yearning she'd never felt before and didn't fully understand.
He pulled her robes off, so that she was naked in the moonlight. His eyes raked over her body, searing her flesh as if they touched her with fire, and a strange excitement pooled within her. She had never realized the power she could exert over a man, never realized the almost mystical control that a woman's body could wield. But she clearly felt his aching, desperate need, the sharp sword edge of desire that cut through his every thought, and realized that she did indeed have power over him. It intoxicated her like the finest wine, quickening her pulse.
And yet the power ran both ways. He made her feel sensations she'd never felt before, made her desire things she'd never imagined in her lifetime, and she knew he could control her as much as she could control him. It was as if they were both master, and both slave.
"You are beautiful," he said hoarsely.
The simple, honest words brought a lump to her throat. Never had she been called beautiful before. She sat up, aware of his hot gaze on her breasts as they shifted and bounced with her movement, and lifted her hands to her head. For the first time in the presence of anyone other than her mother, she deliberately unbound her head cloth.
Her hair cascaded free, shimmering past her waist.
She heard his sharp, quick intake of breath, felt the urgent stab of arousal in his mind. Men never saw women with their hair exposed, but for their wives--and some wives were too chaste to ever let their husbands see their hair. Only the boldest of women would permit their husband to see their hair unbound on their wedding night. She knew it was brazen of her to let down her locks, but she cared not.
Just for tonight, she was going to be brazen.
His hand reached out slowly toward the thick mass of her hair. "It's glorious," he said softly, his voice heavy with passion. "Like honey. Like sunlight."
In point of fact, her hair was yellow, but she didn't object to hearing it described more poetically. His fingers slipped through it, exploring the texture, and she sighed with pleasure.
And then he wrapped his hands in her hair gently, studied it for a long moment as if seeing something familiar in its silky depths. He shook his head slightly as if shaking off a thought, then tilted her chin up and kissed her again.
Tentatively, she let her own hands explore his shoulders. She could feel through their connection that he liked it, and she pushed at his crimson robes eagerly. They fell away, exposing the broad expanse of his chest, bronze in the moonlight, and she let her hands slide across his flesh, exploring his heat, his solidity.
His robes fell to the ground, and he pushed her back to the grass, very gently.
He loomed over her, his body tense, aroused, ready, his erotic thoughts crowding her mind so that she couldn't think, could only feel. She felt the anticipation that curled tightly within him, and it excited her almost beyond bearing. His hard flesh nudged against her softness, and she felt another gush of moisture between her legs, warm despite the coolness of the night air.
Something very hot and very hard began to ease its way into the humid heat of her body.
And then his weight lifted from hers, very abruptly. Sahra yanked upright and saw him surrounded by angry men and women, all wearing the black, anonymous robes of A'tril.
Her people had come to rescue her. The realization should have filled her with relief, but somehow it didn't.
The fact was, she wasn't certain she wanted to be rescued.
Ry glared at Sahra in the moonlight. She came to her feet, her long hair streaming around her shoulders, her lithe, slender body any man's dream.
His brand on her shoulder.
"Bitch," he snarled under his breath. "You kept me occupied so they could capture me."
She shook her head, looking wryly amused. "I can only wish that had been my intention all along, but I'm sorry to say it wasn't."
"You lay with him willingly?" demanded Ja'rah. A big, rather ugly man, he was second-in-command according to the rough power structure among the A'tril. Second only to her in the respect he commanded among the Outcast. He was her loyal friend, however, and she saw the shock and disbelief in his eyes. A woman did not lie with strange men, ever, but only with the man she wed.
She gestured toward her bare shoulder and its fresh brand, lurid in the moonlight. "He is my husband," she said.
There was a shocked silence, then a babble of voices. Sahra leaned down, retrieved her headcloth, and quickly wrapped her hair--loose hair being much more scandalous than a naked body. She then reclaimed her robes and covered her nudity, aware of the moisture on her thighs, aware of an ache that hadn't been assuaged.
She could see by the moon's light that Ry's ache hadn't been assuaged, either. His erection was still gloriously full. Magnificent. Other Outcast women were eying him surreptitiously, their eyes wide, and she was aware of a sudden stab of jealousy and possessiveness.
"Cover him," she said tartly, picking up his crimson robes and thrusting them toward Ja'rah. "And then bind him with chi'nyr."
She turned away, toward the unicorn. He stood a short distance away, his glorious head high, his nostrils flaring. She called to him softly, and he pranced toward her, his ebony coat gleaming in the moonlight. She caught hold of his mane and managed to scramble up onto his back.
She heard the sounds of a scuffle, then the sound of a fist meeting flesh, and Ry's low cursing. Glancing back, she saw that Ry was securely tied at the wrists, and a loop of the chi'nyr was around his throat to ensure his good behavior. There was a red mark on his cheek where Ja'rah's beefy fist had struck him. It would turn purple before long.
"Bring him back to the encampment," she said.
"Wouldn't it be best to kill him?" Ja'rah asked.
Her hands tightened on Dagda's mane. "We are A'tril, Ja'rah. We do not kill unnecessarily. Let us leave that sort of behavior to the clans."
"But ... he branded you."
"Aye, and it was no choice of mine that he did so. But I begin to see how this unexpected event might be turned to our advantage. Look at his robes, Ja'rah. He belongs to the Clan of Blood."
At the mention of the Ror q'Trall, several A'tril spat on the ground. Sahra nodded. "I know. I have no love for his people either. But they are nevertheless the most powerful clan. If we can win them to our side...."
"My people have no interest in Outcasts," Ry growled.
"You are married to an Outcast," she pointed out. "By your own actions, and by your own choice."
"And as a result of my actions, you are no longer A'tril. You are of the Ror q'Trall now. And my princess."
"I will not abandon my people."
"These are not your people, damn it! They are not a clan. They are merely Outcasts."
"They are as important to me as your clan is to you." She looked down at him for a long moment. "Bring him along," she said. "We will attempt to make him see things our way once we reach the encampment."
She spoke to Dagda through the psychic connection, and he started off at a high-stepping trot. Her people followed on foot, dragging Ry along with them.
With two armed warriors guarding the camp, Brec warmed his hands by the fire. The heat of the day had given way to unseasonable cold by night. He had been busy making plans while his father wasted the day away with numerous slaves. He had bribed officials into revealing the race route. He would practice it until he could do it blindfolded. He had a few more interesting ideas that would add excitement to the race, and take out the competition. One could never be too sure.
Just what was Ry Trall doing? Where was he? Brec still had trackers trying to locate him, but he suspected the prince would not appear until he was good and ready.
"You seek my services?" A man dressed in A'tril black appeared out of the shadows.
Brec had been expecting the man and didn't bother to glance up. "Aye, they say you are an archer of worth."
"The best."
"And once a prince who has a score to settle with the Clan of Blood."
"Aye, this is also true."
Reaching into one of the many pockets of his cloak, he fished out a pouch of coins and tossed them at the man's feet.
"I have a job for you."
He was an idiot.
Ry berated himself as he staggered along through the silvered darkness of the night. The big, beefy man--Ja'rah?--yanked on the chi'nyr every time he slowed down, half strangling him.
Only a fool would have allowed himself to be captured in such a way. He had allowed Sahra to use her body to blind him with lust, to lull him into a false sense of security. Letting down his guard had led to his capture. And very probably to the loss of his clan's status as First Among Clans.
The thought of his beautiful younger sister, captured, forced to marry a man she didn't love for another clan's political gain, struck at his heart. By his idiocy, he had almost certainly doomed her to such a fate ... marriage to a stranger. Or worse yet, Brec of the Clan of Eagles. The thought of that unscrupulous snake getting his hands on his sister was more than he could tolerate.
But wasn't that precisely what he had done to Sahra?
He tried to shrug off that thought. Sahra, after all, was A'tril. She ought to be grateful to be married into a clan, let alone to be a princess. And not just any princess, but the princess of the Ror q'Trall, the First Among Clans.
And yet he suspected she wasn't grateful in the least.
Oh, she had been willing enough to mate with him. The strong psychic connection they had forged made it almost inevitable that they would succumb to their physical desire, fulfill the lust that raged between them. She had wanted him, no denying it. But had there been the slightest trace of gratitude in her thoughts?
He was fairly certain the answer was no.
And it made sense to him now. She had been cast out of her clan two years ago and had found a home with this ragged group of A'tril. They were not really a clan, but in a world where family loyalty was everything, it was not surprising she had developed such an attachment to this group. Her strong sense of loyalty was an admirable characteristic, and an excellent trait in a princess. But she was his princess now, and he would have to somehow impress that fact upon her. Somehow he needed to get her away from these people and back to his clan.
Because he cared absolutely nothing for the fate of a pitiful group of loathsome Outcasts.
At that moment, Sahra glanced back at him. Their gazes collided. He knew his own brimmed with fury. He expected triumph in hers, but saw only concern and an emotion that ran akin to loving.
The next morning, Sahra woke in her own tent. Considering the late hour they had arrived, she had decided not to rouse the secondary council, but to confront them in the morning. She had placed her husband in a tent similar to her own with warm bedding, food and all the makings for a fire. In the mountains, the air remained crisp and cool even at the heat of the day. At night one could see their breath frost the air, but Sahra preferred it this way. The cold kept her alert, clear-headed. In this realm of insanity, she needed to be as lucid as possible.
She had left Ry unbound, but ordered her pet jaguars, Fuzz and Tote, to prowl the circumference of the tent. The sleek, speedy animals, golden-coated with a spattering of black spots along their backs, were utterly trustworthy, in a way that even the most loyal human could not be. She had raised them from kittens, and as a consequence they were psychically bonded to her in a way that made their eyes her eyes. She knew Ry's every attempt at flight along with every curse he uttered.
His antics would have amused her if the situation wasn't so grievous. The council weren't murderers like their clan peers, yet she knew they would never accept anyone from the Clan of Blood. Most outsiders weren't aware that many A'tril had never been ousted from any clan, but were simply the scattered remains of invaded clans. They didn't have any family left after many had been slaughtered or enslaved. Many in this very encampment had tasted the steel of Ry's clansmen. If this way of life didn't end, the clans would end up destroying themselves.
Over the years, the A'tril had built a peaceful, hidden society that lived on a bartering system. They weren't the renegades or murderers that clansmen thought. Besides those that no longer had family, many had been ousted for political reasons, others had failed to bring their clan to victory during the race, yet others possessed skills or talents or persuasions that didn't fit with their family's traditions or morals.
Those that were thrown out of a clan were usually either too meek to defend themselves, or willful enough to cause a stir. True criminals never had a chance to become A'tril since the clans dealt with even misdemeanors quickly and lethally. Amongst the A'tril, Sahra had found true honor and loyalty, diversity and freedom, acceptance and respect.
The A'tril's original plan had been to simply wait out the clans' self-destruction, but the loss of human life and the insanity of slavery weighed heavily on their collective conscience. Besides, the A'tril were becoming too numerous to hide. This was just one of many encampments. The main compound was a day's journey. It was the senior council that delivered the laws and organized the A'tril into a network of self-sufficient yet diverse groups. No encampment was better than the other and each could live easily without preying off each other. The exchanges were never about material goods or livestock. Each group managed their own essentials. If another encampment had a need, people from various encampments would volunteer to become a part of that group and help build up what they lacked. If an encampment was raided by clansmen, the survivors would be absorbed, with open arms, by other groups.
The system worked. Everyone had a say and important issues were voted upon. A few still yearned for their old way of life, but they were usually the ones that preferred not to pull their own weight. There weren't any slaves among the A'tril, and the only servants were those willing to serve in exchange for other favors. But even they were treated as equals.
The council had a simple plan in mind. The race attracted every uban of notable worth. Using the unicorn to enhance her own power, Sahra could psychically bond with the leaders of the clans, exposing within moments the inevitable course of their demise if they didn't change. At the same time, they would be exposed to a different way, a way that would ensure a future for their children without risk of enslavement or loss of family.
Showing them the truth might not ensure they would change, but according to legend it was a psychic storm that would force the clans to unify. The council saw Sahra's potential as that storm immediately. Few others could tame wild beasts. There were those who mind-melded with domestic animals and stallions, but no one had ever heard of a psychic link with jaguars, bears or baboons. Sahra hadn't found a creature capable of resisting her bond.
Yet there was no real proof that she was the storm of legend, or even that the legend held any truth. It was a desperate measure for a people who refused to tolerate any more bloodshed.
After a brisk toilette, she dressed in attire similar to what she wore the day before except for color. She wound a lavender-colored scarf about her head and another of the same color and fabric about her insignificant waist. In contrast, her robes consisted of a darker purple hue trimmed in gold braid. A thick, gold bangle decorated each wrist and was her only adornment. In their own encampments, the A'tril wore whichever color they chose irrespective of their previous clans. Quite a few mixed colors in odd and ludicrous ways in defiance of the monochromatic dress code of the clans.
She studied her reflection in a freestanding, silver-framed mirror. Something about her was different, something around the eyes. She appeared more mature. She and her new husband hadn't even completed the mating act, yet her introduction to passion showed in the confident tilt of her chin, in the brightness of her gaze. There was something more, something she couldn't identify. Or was it that she didn't wish to identify it?
During the long night, Sahra had formed a plan, a plan that couldn't be executed without the help of her new husband. Upon exiting her tent, she noted a hushed shimmer along the encampment, caught the uncertain gazes directed toward her. Some lacked the respect they once held, others contained curiosity, still others hostility.
Ja'rah had wanted to hoist Ry up in the cage positioned in the center of the encampment and reserved for suspicious visitors or known enemies, clansmen like Ry. Although Sahra knew he had to be a prisoner for the time being, she refused to make a spectacle of him and not just because he was her husband, but because he deserved better. She had seen into his mind and knew he wasn't as savage and bloodthirsty as his reputation suggested. Now, she amassed the wariness of her contemporaries.
They watched her move toward Ry's tent when she should have been heading toward the council chambers, where she should seek the council's wisdom before taking matters into her own hands. But the A'tril were all about independent thinking, the same sort of thinking that had ousted her from her own clan. The council, though, never banned anyone. She doubted they'd start with her.
At Ry's tent, she mentally urged the jaguars to her, ran her fingers through their sleek golden fur, experienced their raw energy and for an instant felt the pangs and flashes of insight only wild animals possess. "Go," she coaxed, knowing they needed to hunt.
She watched them for a moment as a residual of their instincts remained in her mind, urging her to run, seek, capture. She mentally shook it off and entered the tent.
Ry strode across the tent in much the same way as the cats moved, with bold confidence and unquestionable command. She didn't flinch at the intensity in his gaze or allow herself to show fear when his hands wrapped around her throat and applied pressure.
"I should kill you and be rid of you."
"The A'tril despise murder, but they will hunt you down if you do so."
"Do they not plan to kill me anyway?"
"There are those who'd feel more comfortable with you dead, and those whose need for revenge would be sated, but most would rather see you join us."
He blinked, stunned into releasing her.
"The rumors of the A'tril's insanity are true."
"We aren't insane," she said, and offered her hand as if his hadn't just been about her throat. "Come, I wish to show you something."
She took his hand and led him out of the tent. He gazed down at their joined hands as if he held the tail of a serpent, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he took in the camp, obviously searching out escape routes.
"There are guards hidden in the trees," she said. "And there are my pets. They're off feeding now, but a thought would bring them running."
"The jaguars?"
"Aye, Fuzz and Tote."
He tilted his head and said, "What?"
She shrugged. "I was but a child when I named them. They were so small and fuzzy."
"Never a thought to the ferocious animals they would become."
"They're gentle creatures."
"Certainly, that's why I thought they'd disembowel me when I attempted to step out of my tent last evening."
"They would have probably just gone for your throat."
"So, they would have just killed me, not eaten me alive."
"They don't care for the taste of man," she said simply.
"I never met anyone like you," he said, surprising himself for admitting that. "You train vicious animals to kill, have the respect of grown warriors and yet haven't had your first cutting."
"It is due, but part of clan tradition. When I choose to cut my hair, it will be with a looking glass and shears, not a ceremony to announce I am of age to be courted."
"Aye, it would be rather ridiculous now, considering you are already mine."
She stared at him for a moment, her guard temporarily down, and he suspected she somehow like being called his as much as he liked saying it. As they approached Ja'rah she shook off her momentary discomfiture.
"Good day, Ja'rah," she said, walking up to the brutish looking man as he fed Dagda oats. "And fine morning to you as well, Dagda."
The stallion snorted and stomped the dirt with his hoof. Sahra laughed. "He says it would be a better morning if the beast allowed him to graze."
"Beast?" Ja'rah said.
"That would be you, my friend. Unicorns consider themselves civilized beings. We are the uncivilized beasts. They prefer not to associate with us. They can't decide what offends them more, our stench or that we kill our own breed."
The unicorn whinnied and stomped again. "He excludes me. He feels if I allow him to work with me, there is hope that I can become an enlightened if still inferior being."
"I thought you said the unicorn had no true language," Ry said, intrigued.
"He does not ... precisely. And yet I am able to comprehend much of what he thinks. The link between us is difficult to describe, but the meaning of his thoughts is clear enough."
Ry lifted a hand to stroke the unicorn's brow. "And what does he say of me?"
A distinctive flush crept into Sahra's cheeks. "Um, I'd rather not say."
"I insist."
Looking directly at Ry, cheeks still flushed, she said, "For a beast, your endowment is better than most and you will please me well."
"Insolent creature," Ja'rah muttered as the couple started away.
"Observant is more like it," Ry said with a laugh, his first genuine one in far too long.
"Let him graze," Sahra said to Ja'rah over her shoulder. "He won't run off. We have an understanding."
"You do?" Ry said curiously.
"Aye, we will release him once he has accomplished what is needed and we will leave his kind be."
"And how do you intend to enforce that?"Sahra didn't respond. Instead she started to point out various things to
Ry about the encampment. "Notice there are no beggars? No one here goes hungry or wears tattered clothes. Nor are illnesses left untended. There are many healers, and they heal better than your most practiced technicians in most clans, for they are free to experiment and to use nature as a guide. The children are taught letters and numbers. Most are versed in various dialects by the time they are teens. Both genders are taught domestic chores as well as the use of weaponry. Disputes are settled by the council, and slavery is banned."
Ry saw evidence of her words everywhere he looked. Silk tents of various colors and sizes spanned the encampment. Children's laughter chimed like summer drizzle. Singing could be heard in the distance along with the sounds of vendors and the everyday workings of a village.
"How do you handle crime?"
"When people have everything they need, they don't have reason to commit crimes."
"Are you telling me there are no crimes?"
"There are and they are dealt with, but they are rare."
Ry thought of his own clan and the frequent occurrence of thievery, rape and murder. Though there were few beggars, the villagers emulated the warring clans. They settled disputes with a sword. No one seemed to ever have enough and the demand for slaves seemed endless.
She guided him back to the tent, releasing his hand as she closed the flap behind her. "That was just a sampling of what I want to show you. Give me just two moons. If you aren't convinced of the wisdom of our cause, then I will go back with you, be a loyal wife, and help you bond with Dagda so you can win your race."
"Why should I believe you?"
"Why would I lie? What could I possibly gain from it?"
"Last night, when we...."
"Aye," she said, not wanting to think about the passion that burned just beneath the surface, that refused to be extinguished. "Our minds linked. You know I'm not lying."
He grinned as if the grin cost him. "You're not averse to lying, like that little speech you gave about being alone for years and needing Dagda for companionship, which makes me wonder why you went after the unicorn in the first place."
She ignored the latter part of his statement, knowing it was too soon to reveal the council's plans. "But there are telltale signs when I lie. I know you perceived that in the link."
"Aye. Your body tenses and your eyes darken, which is exactly what will happen when you are on the brink of fulfillment."
"Fulfil...." Her voice broke and she couldn't halt a deep flush.
Again he grinned and ran his thumb over her cheek. "You truly are still a child, an innocent."
She smacked his hand away. "After last night, you should know I am no longer a child."
He grabbed the back of her hair, yanked her close and smothered her mouth with a brutal kiss, taking what she didn't offer. Still, she responded to his strength, to the passion, to the irresistible responses of her awakening body. His strong hands were under her robes, loosening them.
She should have resisted, but she didn't have the will. The more aggressive his advances, the more she surrendered to them. She leaned into him, moaning, relinquishing her limited hold on sensibility. Her hands were in his hair, her mouth opening as she returned his roguish attack with equal vigor.
Barriers fell away, inhibitions followed. It was her turn to loosen robes, slipping her hands over taut muscles, thumbs finding and flicking over tight nipples. He sucked in a startled breath and released her as abruptly as he had claimed her. "Your having the heat of a woman is not in question, but the passage has not been completed, and I have no intention of doing so until we are home. I refuse to claim you...." He paused, looked about the luxurious tent as if it were a serpent's lair. "...here."
The scalding disdain in his deep, resonant voice irritated her, but her own tone lacked the annoyance she felt, for there was still a great deal of passion oozing from her senses. It took all her will not to beg him to complete what he started. She adjusted her clothes, casually, as if his urgent kiss had meant nothing "This might not be a castle, Ry Trall, but it is my home, and you will take me here, or not at all."
He walked the length of the tent, fingered a colorful, hand-woven wall hanging, then let it drop as if it were a dirty rag. "Let it be part of the bargain. If I find your cause worth noting, I'll claim my right wherever you choose. If not, you will come to me on your knees in my chamber, in my castle."
For an instant, Sahra doubted her own psychic abilities. Perhaps he wasn't as honorable as she sensed. Perhaps she had been bonded to an unscrupulous beast. She thought of her jaguars. If she could tame them, surely....
He tilted his head to one side, studied her from under lowered ebony lashes, and shifted his weight in a stance of such male domination that her toes literally curled as she watched him. Then again, perhaps she would be the one to be tamed.
Mustering as much authority in her tone as she could, she said, "It's a deal, Ry Trall, but you will be the one to kneel on the sand of Balmairl, pledged as a loyal A'tril before being led to my tent, by my hand."
The gauntlet had been thrown and each had the look of one not used to losing. Sahra, though, knew that sometimes in winning there was nothing left but loss.
In voluminous, multi-hued robes, the council stared at her from half covered faces. Sahra could only discern gender by their eyes, the length of feminine lashes, the harsher line of male brows. Still she knew each by name, had broken bread within their personal tents, had even succumbed to tears in their presence. They knew her as she knew them. They were family, more like her parents, grandparents and siblings than her birth family had ever been.
Today, though, they weren't in the position of family. They spoke to her as the council, the governing power of this encampment and the secondary council of all A'tril. Positioned in the middle of the clearing, the tent lacked adornment, except for various weapons hung on supporting poles and torches that lit the circumference. The tent's ceiling had been elevated above every other dwelling in the site and could barely be discerned within the shadows. A snapping fire, doused with spices that permeated the air, was the only other light. Council members, positioned around the fire, resided on over-sized, oak chairs. the backs carved like tree branches and highly polished supported cushioned seats and lengthy arms that dripped with gold-tipped leaves. Sahra wasn't offered a seat. A sign of the council's displeasure.
They ruled by equality. There wasn't any leader or sole spokesperson, but dominant personalities emerged and she knew Sonders, the one who stubbornly remained in the A'tril color of black, would give her the most difficult time.
"You made this agreement without our consent?"
"Circumstance lent itself to such an agreement."
Sonders stood, his slow gait suggesting his advanced years, his steady gaze stern with conviction. "You over-step yourself, child."
Sahra had just about enough of being called a child. "Whatever I do is for the advancement of our cause. I want peace and I will do anything to obtain it, and if you do not know me well enough by now to understand that, then none of you know me at all. At all. And, I am not a child."
"Considering the compromising state our people found you in with the r'uban, I'd say you are certainly a woman."
Sahra heard the laughter behind Torella's feigned severity. Torella, one of the two women on the council of seven, felt an affinity to Sahra. They had both chosen the A'tril way rather than submit to clan demands. Sahra knew Torella would understand Sahra's decision and her reluctance to put it to a council vote. There were some things the council had no right to vote upon, and how Sahra interacted with her husband, enemy though he be, was one of them. She needed to give him this chance, and wasn't about to risk losing that chance to caution.
"Then it is done?" Sonders asked. "You've bedded the man?"
Sahra hadn't believed the council could ever say anything to make her blush. She was wrong. As heat invaded her cheeks, she adopted an insolent stance. "It is done."
She didn't know why she lied. She doubted they'd ask her to undo a brand. Not only would it be painful, it marred the reputation even of an A'tril.
She wanted them to see this as a true union. Perhaps because she saw the union of an A'tril and a clansman as a step toward the future. If they could make it work, then perhaps one day all would be equal, every clan, every mortal being. Some would call her an idealist, but she had nothing to lose. She had committed herself to a new world of peace and would not rest until that was accomplished.
"But to take him to Balmairl and allow him to see our true riches, our true strength?" asked the even-toned voice of another. "Not to mention showing him the location of our prime compound?"
"We are mated. I trust him," she said, not really believing her own words.
"You barely know him," reprimanded Sonders. "This is not a wise move."
"If we can convince the r'uban of the first of all clans that this is the only way to save our society, then the others will follow all the more swiftly. Our goal is do this without bloodshed, with mutual consent and cooperation."
"And what of the plan?" demanded Sonders. "You intend to just give it up because you suddenly find yourself enamored?"
His words felt like a slap. For the first time, Sahra realized just how enthralled she was with Ry. How much of it was the realization he was a true mate? How much was it that he turned her weak-kneed and panting like a panther bent on mating? Sonders was right. How did she dare put everything they worked for at risk on the assumption that Ry would never betray her cause simply because he was a natural mate? He hadn't even realized it yet.
"He is a true mate, is he not?" Torella said in her perceptive way.
"Aye," Sahra whispered.
Sonders sucked in a breath and released it in spurts. "Now, it makes sense."
Silence reigned over the council for several moments, then a voice rose above the others. Nathu, one of the original A'tril organizers, tapped his staff against the ground. Although none ruled the council, all respected him enough to give him the final say and heed his wisdom. "The child has listened to her heart, but unlike most her age, her heart perceives in ways we cannot understand. Let us follow the course she has set, but," he said quickly before Sonders could protest, "we will execute a secondary plan in case this r'uban betrays the faith Sahra has placed in him."
He pointed to a chair barely discernable in the shadows. "Sit, while we consider our options."
Sahra didn't argue. As much as she wanted to believe Ry would make the right choices, she really didn't know him. Many had a true mate who turned out to be lower than slugs beneath a pigsty's straw. She could only hope the alternative plan wouldn't be needed, but she also knew better than to question Nathu's wisdom.
She listened to the seven banter about ideas, and felt her heart sink when Sonders suggested the only sane alternative would be to kill Ry if he didn't see the wisdom of the A'tril way.
"What have you done?" Ja'rah roared, a prominent vein throbbing in his temple.
She had just informed Ja'rah of her plan to show Ry the A'tril's main encampment at Balmairl, to let him hear the truth from the people and present him to the hierarchy. "You heard what I said."
"And the council agreed?"
"Aye."
"You have all gone mad. I'd say slit his throat--problem solved, no husband, no threat."
"Both you and Sonders have a like mind. That was his option as well, but at least he suggested we wait until after Ry has met the council."
"Never thought I'd hear myself agree with anything Sonders had to say, but that is a good compromise."
"It is not," Sahra rebuked, "and fortunately the council did not consider it an option either. They have something better in mind. After all, he is my husband, Ja'rah."
"By force."
"Aye, but...."
Ja'rah's jaw dropped. "You care for the man? How can that be? You don't even know him."
She folded her arms, felt the wind tug at her head covering as the noonday sun warmed the chill from her bones. "I know him better than you might imagine, Ja'rah. We have gotten close enough for me to feel him. I know the way of him, the taste of him, the stubbornness along with the gentleness. He has a good heart and a strong spirit. He is the man I would have chosen had I a right to choose. He is my natural mate."
"It makes no sense," Ja'rah said, shaking his head. "Isn't he the one you were supposed to...."
She laughed, cutting him off. "Aye, he was the one. The very reason I was ousted from my clan."
"Are we ready?" Ry said, striding toward the two of them, with Dagda just behind. It had been agreed that he would ride the unicorn, a sign of her good faith, while she rode a white and black stallion named Squall. Not many could ride the beast, especially not without a saddle, but Sahra had no trouble and he was the only horse that could match Dagda's slowest stride.
"I am ready," Sahra announced, glad to finally be on their way. It had taken the morning to convince the council to let them go, but only a few minutes to accumulate provisions. She opted to take just a short-blade rather than her sword or even her jaguars. The cats needed their time to roam free, and she sensed Ry wouldn't feel as threatened. She wanted him at ease and open, not suspicious and on guard. She didn't know if that were possible, but she'd do whatever it took to get him to that state.
"I am ready as well," Ja'rah announced.
Ry arched a brow.
"Nay," Sahra said gently, not wishing to offend her friend.
"I don't trust this clansman," Ja'rah said, not caring if his words angered Ry. "He will kill you in your sleep, claim the unicorn and let the vultures pick your bones."
"Oh, Ja'rah, it is not in him. At the most, he'll simply try to get the best of me and drag me back to his clan. He needs me to help him win the race."
"And that is better?"
"We have made a deal, and my husband will not renege on that deal. I have his word, don't I?" she said, looking directly at Ry, both of them aware he never had given his word.
His jaw clenched. He had the look of a man who just lost his broadsword while facing a warrior twice his size. He hesitated a second, then blurted, "Aye, you have my word. I will see this through, and I have yours that you will be a loyal wife and help me win this race."
"You already had it the moment I offered the bargain, but I give it to you again."
"I would rest easier if you would let me watch your back," Ja'rah grumbled.
"My husband will do that."
Sahra didn't know which man was more astonished at the trust she just placed in the enemy.
They were silent for most of the trip, stopping only once to water Dagda and Squall, yet a communion of thoughts kept transmitting from one to the other-- dreams, ideals, goals, joys, sorrows, even images from childhood, hers full of discipline and chores even though there had been a multitude of slaves. His childhood, by contrast, had been colorful and charmed until he went in training to become a warrior. He had a lost love. She had never loved, but she harbored a secret. He suspected it was the reason behind her becoming A'tril.
"Why?" he finally asked, after they'd eaten cold fare and drank bota wine before the fire he expertly arranged.
She looked up, lavender eyes spiced with golden reflections from the flames. "Why what?"
Both brows rose, declaring he wouldn't put up with evasion.
She sighed. "When I turned sixteen, they wished me to marry a man not of my choosing. I refused."
"Since when did women have a choice in who they married?"
"A'tril women do."
"A'tril women do not count."
"I am A'tril!"
"You keep forgetting, you are a princess."
She looked about to argue, then shrugged. "I am just a woman who wanted to marry for love in a clan of my choosing."
"Did you have a man in mind?" Ry smothered the flare of jealousy he felt at the thought of her wanting another, hoping she didn't sense it.
"You know I didn't. We have been exchanging impressions all afternoon. You would have felt it if I loved another."
He nodded. "Then I don't understand this refusal of yours."
Her mouth worked around words she didn't wish to offer. She curled in upon herself and stared at the flames. "He was of the clan that raided my home, that slaughtered my brother and my father before my eyes. They raided our storehouses, stole our stallions and took a fair share of our maidens. It took six years to rebuild. I had been six and by the time I had turned sixteen, my mother remarried into another clan, a richer but more ruthless one. My stepfather knew that a clan leader would think twice before raiding the family of a daughter-in-law. I became a pawn. He severed a lock of my hair and sent it off to the uban of the very clan who had destroyed my home. Miraculously, the uban didn't slaughter the messenger. Instead, the uban was willing to accept the lass who possessed such hair for his son, the r'uban."
She paused, swallowed. "How could I bed a man whose clan had killed my father and brother? At the time I didn't understand about forgiveness, about seeing a person as an individual. All I saw was the clan and my brother's and father's still dead eyes. I refused the marriage and didn't wait to be publicly banned. I left, taking my jaguars with me. Actually, I had to leave because they would have forced me into marriage if I had to be trussed up like a lamb to slaughter."
She met his gaze. "Do you wish to know what prince had been chosen for me?"
He reached into one of the many tiny pouches that lined his belt and pulled out a lock of honey-blond hair. He held it out to her. "I believe this belongs to you."
"How long have you known?" she asked, studying the braid as if it were something strange and unusual.
"When I saw your hair for the first time, I thought it resembled the lock I carried, but it wasn't until just now that I knew. When I received this, I felt an instant, psychic connection. I felt the personality behind the hair, experienced depths of sorrow and a wealth of strength. The connection was so strong that I desperately wanted the girl who possessed this hair. I thought, perhaps, she could be my natural mate. My father intended to raid your clan and give you to me as a slave. I pleaded that he leave your clan be, and allow me to take you as a bride."
"I heard you were sent my stepsister in my stead. Our hair is similar in color."
"I sent her back. I knew immediately she wasn't you, but I couldn't tell my father that. He would have attacked and destroyed your clan for daring to deceive him. I told my father I had reconsidered, and I investigated and discovered what had occurred. That you prefer to be A'tril rather than marry me. That was an affront to my pride, but I still did my best to protect your clan, even though our failure to wed meant they had no connection to the Ror q'Trall. I prevented my father from raiding your clan by promising him I'd win the next race."
"And the one coming up is the next race?"
"Aye," he said.
"Sometimes, I think that we do not have much say in our fate."
They both had settled on logs opposite each other, the fire blazing between them as bright and startling as the passion they held in firm check. He tucked the lock away, with as much care as if it were a precious treasure, then joined her on her log, nudging her over with his hip and taking her hand.
"I think our will urges fate along. After the race I had every intention of finding the lass with the golden hair. Since you hadn't been officially banned, no one considered you A'tril. I am just surprised I didn't recognize you the moment we met. Or at the very least, the moment you showed me your glory." He grinned ruefully. "I must have been blinded by lust."
She quivered at his touch, at his words. "I thought of your clan as murderers. I still do, but...."
"You don't see me the same way," he finished.
"Aye. You are not like the rest."
"I am the same, Sahra. We are a product of our way of life. It is how we survive. It grieves my heart that you experienced such sorrow. It is why I fight so hard. I wish none of mine to ever know such pain."
She turned to him, her fingers knotting with his. "It doesn't have to be. None need ever know such pain. If I can...." She paused, wet her lips, then let the word slip free. "...love. If I can love the man whose family destroyed mine, surely you can open your heart to a new way."
Before Ry could respond to that startling revelation, Sahra shoved him backward off the log just as an arrow severed the air and hit the tree trunk behind them.
Brec strode into the Clan of Blood castle as if he had every right to be there. Part of him already saw it as his own, and since there was always a truce three moons before any race, he could visit with impunity. Having arrived at the end of the king's weekly open forum, he didn't have to wait his turn. Instead, he walked right into the chamber and was instantly announced.
He offered a courtly bow to the uban, noting he had aged since he had last seen him. Streaks of white claimed his once vibrant dark hair. Wrinkles webbed his eyes, while his cheeks appeared sunken. A missing prince, a dead stallion and a race just moons away must surely have the man frantic.
His beautiful wife had the same worried expression. She hadn't aged any, but weight loss was obvious. Raya, who occupied a lesser chair a step down from her mother, hadn't changed at all. If anything her beauty seemed more ethereal, more enchanting. If he didn't notice the rise and fall of her chest, he'd swear she was a statue carved and painted to perfection. Lust slammed into the prince like a flaming torch. He wanted the girl, wanted to crush her beneath his domination, wanted to own her. That obsession drove him nearly as much as his need to make his clan first among all clans.
"What brings you to our court?" the uban asked.
"In view of recent events, I thought perhaps you have reconsidered my offer for your daughter's hand. Surely with your best rider and strongest stallion gone, you could use an ally. With our clans joined and the assurance that I would win the race, you would no longer have to fear being raided."
Raya's dark eyes widened. Her obvious fear of him fueled his passion for her.
"As we have said before, our daughter has not had her first cutting. Perhaps once she is older, we will take this under consideration."
It was a diplomatic answer and not unexpected, but he had hoped to get a rise out of the old man on discovering news of the dead stallion had gotten out.
"Besides," Raya spoke in a her delicate, child-like voice. "My brother seeks a finer animal and he will return in time for the race. Your clan will remain second to ours, and always will."
Nostrils flaring with anger, Brec barely managed to keep his tone civilized. "You allow a child to speak to a prince this way?"
"She is willful," said her mother with pride. "I fear we do indulge her overmuch in this."
"Then, perhaps, my offer had been too hasty. I do not find a willful wife of value."
"I believe, Prince Brec, that few would find being wedded to you worth the effort."
The king banged the arm of his chair. "Raya, apologize at once!"
Raya looked at her father, then at the prince, and stood gracefully. She stalked toward a nearby door. "I do not apologize when truth is spoken."
Brec had enough. He had made this trip to rattle the most royal of clans, not to be insulted. Ignoring the uban's excuses, he strode past the guards and out into the courtyard, fuming.
Soon enough this arrogant family would be brought to their knees, and he would be the one to do it.
Boisterous laughter followed the arrow's thud against bark. "I taught you well, Sahra."
"Ja'rah, have you lost your mind?"
"Nay, it was just a little something to keep you from becoming lax."
Getting to her feet, Sahra dusted herself off. "I thought I told you we could manage on our own."
"Indeed you did, and I plan on returning to the compound come dawn. However, I thought the prince here should know a rivaling clan has paid to have him killed."
"Who?" Ry demanded.
"Brec Para, r'uban of Ror q'Para. You are fortunate he hired an A'tril. We have a gossip mill that rivals the best clan courts. The A'tril took on the assignment, but once he heard of your marriage he sought to protect your worthless life for Sahra's sake by telling the council of your would-be killer."
Taking Sahra by the arms, Ry gazed into her eyes. His own brightened with desperation. "Please, I must go back. My family isn't safe with this madman so desperate to take me out of the race. He must be the one who had the stallion poisoned."
"It is you he wants dead. The longer you stay away the better are your chances. We can train Dagda at the prime compound and be back in time for the race."
"My family needs me. Furthermore, Brec must be brought to justice."
"What justice?" she refuted, pulling away. "You have no proof that he poisoned the stallion."
"The man he hired could--"
"What?" she interrupted. "Tell who? Each clan is a law unto itself. The only officials are for the race."
"He could be disqualified if I bring that man in front of them."
"He is A'tril," she said calmly. "Who would believe him?"
"She is right," Ja'rah confirmed. "You can do nothing. Stick to the bargain you made and see what the A'tril have to offer the world. Your family will be safe enough until your return. You are the only one who isn't safe."
Ry remained silent for several seconds, then nodded. "The hour grows late. I'll take the spot by the tree and you may have the fire," he said to Sahra.
"There is room for both of us by the flame," she returned in a soft hushed tone.
"I need some distance this night," he said, knowing no argument would work with her. Sahra's determination rivaled his own, but he knew when to bide his time.
The next morning, he watched Ja'rah reluctantly start back to the compound as they headed in the other direction. Neither one opened their mind to the other until after the midday fare. The rest of the time went much the same as the day before. By nightfall, they each knew a bit more about each other. They also knew both had kept barriers around the more private parts of their minds.
"Last night, you mentioned something about love," Ry said after they dined on vegetable stew, pan bread and water.
"Aye," she said. "You must know by now we are natural mates."
"It is obvious. Still, aren't you using the word love too soon?"
"If it is not love, then why are we here? Why had you vowed to find the woman who possessed that hair?"
He unknotted their fingers, but rested the back of her hand against his palm. He outlined her fingers with a blunt nail, and she sucked in a breath as heat jettisoned through her. It was the gentlest touch, yet stirred her as if he stroked her most intimate nub.
He paused at her wrist, and his index finger swirled over her pulse. Could he feel it race? Did he realize just this simple gesture turned her into a heated cauldron of lust?
"Perhaps it is love," he said, his finger deserting her wrist to trail over the tender flesh of her inner forearm. "Perhaps it is insanity."
She didn't respond. She couldn't. She could barely breathe. He continued his ministrations, talking to her, telling her things she couldn't hear, couldn't absorb, couldn't comprehend. His words became a blur. There was only sensation, only the feel of his fingers, slightly calloused, yet not rough, urging her senses beyond reason.
He lifted her hand and closed his eyes. His tongue replaced the roaming fingers, and tasted her as if she were the finest brew to be savored slowly. She heard herself moan, wanted to plead for more, but she couldn't find her voice. She could only submit to his moist mouth, sucking her fingers one by one, his tongue licking her throbbing pulse, then swirling around her inner palm.
Sahra couldn't catch her breath. She began to pant, closing her eyes and seeing images in his mind, finishing what they had started the night before, seeing what the conclusion would entail and somehow succumbing to that conclusion without him doing anything, but this gentle persuasion, this tender touching.
She tensed, felt his arm slip behind her, bracing her as her pulse stilled and the world paused, and then she shattered on waves of orgasmic pleasure as his mouth moved up her arm, over her neck to settle upon her lips in a soft kiss until her tremors eased into nothing. His free hand continued a gentle pattern along her fingers until she stilled.
"Oh," was all she could muster in a tattered, breathless tone.
He smiled softly, then stood once she stopped shaking and offered her a drink from his flask of water. She accepted and swallowed as if her thirst couldn't be assuaged.
"Good night, Sahra," he said, once she handed the flask back.
She watched him curl up near the fire, using his cloak as a headrest. He didn't offer for her to join him. He didn't attempt to consummate their marriage. He had simply elicited an orgasm from her without penetration of any kind, and then walked away.
It unsettled her on so many levels that all she could do was stare. He opened one eye. "Go to sleep, child. According to you, we'll have a long day tomorrow."
She wanted to spit out that she thought she had just proven she wasn't a child at all, but a passionate and fully adult woman. Instead, she grumbled a few derogatory words, kept her distance and unwittingly surrendered to sleep.
Ry would have smiled at her behavior if he didn't feel like such a scoundrel. From the moment he had agreed to her plan, he had intended to seduce her, for if she fell for him hard enough, she just might forgive him for going back on his word. That was before he realized who she was. His family had wronged hers grievously. Yet, as he told her, it was their way of life, and he couldn't apologize for that life. There had been a time her birth clan had been first among clans. They had claimed their share of slaves and possessions through slaughter. There were no innocents on their world.
Still, Sahra said there was another way, that she could prove it. Only dare he risk getting back in time to train with Dagda? And what if the senior council of the A'tril decided to imprison him or kill him? What chance did his clan have without their best rider and no suitable stallion?
He hadn't expected the A'tril encampment to be so organized or abundant in not just life's necessities but in luxury. And nothing bore the mark of any clan. These people produced their own goods and had a simple but enviable way of life. Still, he had considered the encampment an abnormality among the A'tril until Sahra said they were among one of the smaller encampments, and that the senior council presided over a full city.
If clansmen heard of this, they would destroy the A'tril, for their way of life would be an affront to clan traditions. For the first time in his life, Ry questioned those traditions and wondered if there might be a better way to live. Still, he had a responsibility to his clan. After the race, he'd have the time to meet the senior council and perhaps consider the notion that another path could be better. If they killed him, then at least he would have kept his clan safe for a while longer.
The one thing he would not do was betray the A'tril's secret. He didn't wish to have any more blood on his conscience than necessary.
His biggest problem was that if he betrayed Sahra now, she'd never trust him again, and he longed for that trust. He wanted the love she had confessed to grow into something spectacular and lasting, but he couldn't bring himself to pay the price, for he thought of his sister, and the responsibility he had to protect her. His jaw clenched, and his fingers felt for the chi'nyr tucked under his belt.
"Forgive me, love. Forgive me."
Sahra expected to wake to the sound of birds and the feel of sunrise. Instead, she found herself in a round chamber with reddish stone walls and intricately woven tapestries. A fire blazed in a hearth large enough to fit five grown men, and the dark golden sunlight of late afternoon slanted in through a narrow window. The bed beneath her had the plush, luxurious feel of feathers, and the cerulean quilt covering her possessed the softest down. A platter of fresh bread, various cheeses and fruit squatted on the polished bedside table, along with a glass pitcher of citrus juice.
"Where...?" she began.
"You're home, love," Ry said, from several feet away. "I drugged the water in my flask and kept feeding it to you until we reached home. You have been unconscious for two days."
She bolted upright and cursed him with words she hadn't even realized she knew. He flinched as if she had slapped him. Then suddenly, as if in defeat, she flung herself backwards on the bed. "I trusted you," she gritted out between her teeth, then with heart-wrenching loss, she added in a suffocated voice, "Dammit, I loved you."
"I didn't have a choice. You must understand that."
"We always have choices. And mine is to leave here. You broke your part of the bargain. I have every intention of breaking mine. I have to warn my people."
"I told no one what I saw."
She eased back up, studying him with acute wariness. Her mind reached out to his, sensed his sorrow interlaced with uncertainty and a confused tangle of mixed loyalties. She realized just how torn he was. She recognized he truly thought this was the only sensible path for him to take.
However, she had people who had trusted her and she needed to come through for them. The council had known betrayal was a possibility, and the alternate plan they had devised would now come into play. This time, though, she wouldn't share her tactics with Ry. She didn't dare trust him again.
"I'll go back with you after the race is won and I will talk to your council, see what you wished to show me," he said, trying to win back an iota of the love he had lost.
She didn't tell him that it would be too late. What if his powerful sense of loyalty to his clan compelled him to reveal the A'tril's wealth? She no longer trusted him with the knowledge she had been so willing to share. He would never change, and neither would she. She couldn't. She knew her destiny too well.
Perhaps fate had meant for them to be together, but Sahra was the storm, and fate best tremble before the storm's wrath.
"I suppose if I don't help you bond with Dagda, you will reveal all you know to your father about the A'tril. That way if you don't win the race, he could raid the nearest encampment and thereby have the coin to buy some mercenaries to protect your precious clan."
He winced, but didn't deny her harsh, accusatory words. He hadn't intended to use that as leverage, and he had no intention of disclosing anything, regardless of the race's outcome, but the threat hung there and he used it. "I need to win that race."
"I will help you," she said, "but when the race is won, you will lose your wife."
Sahra was true to her word. The next day she had a long row of obstacles set up in the vast courtyard of the castle. Since Dagda's antler was still very much in evidence, it was necessary to keep him inside the red stone walls, out of the view of spies for other clans. At any rate, it was safer for him to remain inside, so that other clans were ignorant of his presence. She didn't want the same fate to befall him that had befallen Rykstra, the Clan of Blood's best stallion.
As she walked out to the courtyard, Dagda at her heels and Ry by her side, she was surprised to see a large crowd awaiting them. The unbroken sea of crimson showed that the crowd was comprised of members of the Ror q'Trall. She hesitated and cast a puzzled look at Ry.
"They know that this race is their only hope," he said softly, for her ears alone. "They wish to watch."
She frowned. "I am concerned that they will distract Dagda. I am also worried that Brec might have found another assassin."
He didn't allow his expression to change, but pleasure at her concern welled up in him. "We are well-guarded here. And Dagda must learn to listen to me regardless of the presence of a crowd, Sahra. At any rate, their fate is riding on Dagda's back. Do not ask me to send them away."
She looked over the crowd, seeing ancient, bent crones, strong young men, and small children, seeing robes of silk and robes of coarser material. The common people as well as the royal family were invested in the outcome of this race, she realized. And they had every right to watch.
"Very well," she said. "Let them watch. But if they let slip to another clan the fact that Dagda is a unicorn--"
"None of my people would ever betray me in such a fashion," Ry interrupted, looking offended. "Not even the youngest among them."
She heard the pride in his voice and realized once again the depth of his love for his people. "Go ahead and mount, then."
Ry called the unicorn to him. He still had to use his voice in order to get the beast to listen to him, she noticed. Dagda pranced toward Ry, but with a mincing gait that suggested he was not eager to obey. There was little enough bond between them yet. She opened her mind to both the unicorn and Ry, allowing psychic energy to flow between them.
Dagda paused next to Ry, and Ry swung up on the animal's bare back.
"Gallop him around the enclosure," Sahra said.
She purposely closed her mind to the unicorn to see what would happen. Ry sat for a moment with a look of intense concentration, then sighed and squeezed the beast's sides with his legs. Dagda's head jerked up, and he half-reared, snorting angrily.
"You cannot tell him what to do," Sahra said, a touch of impatience in her tone. "You must ask him."
"I did ask. He ignored me."
"You must convince him that what you want to do is what he really wants to do."
Ry sighed. "All he is thinking about is grazing."
Sahra bit back a smile at his annoyed tone. "That is hardly surprising. He is a unicorn, after all, and grazing is what he does most of the time. But try to convince him that a gallop would be pleasant. Remind him of the wind blowing through his mane and tail, the feel of the grass beneath his hooves. If you can make him want to gallop, he will do it."
Ry frowned in concentration. The unicorn pawed the ground restlessly, then suddenly leaped forward at a gallop. Sahra watched as the beast's long legs skimmed across the blue grass effortlessly, as the muscles rippled beneath his iridescent coat. Dagda's long, ebony mane streamed in the wind, all but concealing Ry from view. A noise of awe, almost of reverence, rose from the crowd as the stallion circled the courtyard with enormous, easy strides.
A moment later the unicorn approached her and slid to a stop. Ry looked down at her, beaming with boyish delight. Despite her vow to remain aloof, she could hardly prevent herself from returning his broad smile. "He didn't want to stop," Ry said breathlessly. "He could have run forever."
"It may seem that he can run forever, but remember that he is a mortal animal, not the unicorn of legends," Sahra cautioned. "You will have to learn to convince him to rate his speed, or he will kill himself before the end of the race."
Ry nodded, his dark eyes alight. "I managed to convince him to stop, even though he did not wish to."
That was a small achievement, yet promising, Sahra thought. She nodded briskly. "Now see if you can convince him to weave through the obstacles I have set up."
Ry turned his head and frowned at the piles of stone, hay, and sticks that had been placed at intervals across the courtyard. "You want him to zigzag through the obstacles?"
She nodded. "You will have to be able to steer him during the race. Sheer speed means nothing if he cannot be guided."
"Yes, but ... how in the name of the Creator am I supposed to convince him to do that?"
She grinned at his disgruntled expression. "That is something you and Dagda will have to work out between you."
"May I pat him?"
Sahra stood in the roomy box stall, rubbing Dagda's silken neck and breathing in the scent of straw and horses, when she heard the small voice. She looked up and saw a young woman, shorter and more slender than she herself was. Like everyone else here, she was clad in crimson robes, but hers were of costly silk, showing that she was of the royal family.
"Are you Ry's sister?" Sahra asked, stepping toward the wooden door of the stall.
The girl smiled and nodded. "My name is Raya."
Looking at the girl, Sahra could easily see why Ry was so protective of her. She was lovely, with Ry's dark eyes, but her face was far more delicate, more finely etched than his strong masculine features. She was so slight that she gave the appearance of being fragile and easily shattered, like a child's porcelain doll. There was a sweet innocence in her expression, the innocence of a young woman who has been sheltered and pampered without being spoiled in the least. Her smile was open and friendly, utterly guileless.
"I am Sahra."
"Everyone knows who you are," the girl said, her brown eyes wide. "We watched you work with the unicorn this morning. Everyone knows you were the one that tamed him."
Sahra glanced back at Dagda, whose head was held arrogantly high. "I wouldn't go so far as to say I have tamed him."
"Oh, but you have. And you've tamed my brother as well."
Sahra looked back at the girl, startled to see an impish glint in the dark eyes. "I hardly think so," she said with as much hauteur as she could manage.
"Of course you have. He watches you all the time. Surely you have noticed?"
An odd sensation of pleasure washed through her. "Not at all," she said stiffly.
The girl shrugged. "It's true." Her forthright gaze shifted to the unicorn. "May I pat him?"
Sahra frowned at the thought of this tiny, fragile young woman anywhere near the unicorn's long, savagely sharp antler and heavy hooves. "I'm not sure he will permit it," she said honestly.
"Of course he will." The girl stretched out her hand, and Dagda pricked up his ears, then stepped forward and allowed her to stroke the velvet softness of his muzzle.
Sahra watched in perplexity. She hadn't opened a psychic connection with the unicorn, and the wild creature should have reacted with fear and anger. Instead he was allowing himself to be stroked like a child's pony. "How did you do that?"
The girl smiled her guileless smile. "I like animals."
Although the slight curves of her body beneath the robe betrayed her maturity, she sounded so much like a child that Sahra felt her heart wrench. The idea of this defenseless young girl torn from her clan caused a physical pain in her stomach. She recalled the crowd that had watched this morning, recalled other sweet, innocent faces that didn't deserve to lose everything familiar to them. Other girls that didn't deserve to be ripped away from family and security and cast into an uncertain future.
Despite herself, she was coming to understand Ry's stubborn determination to protect his people. For the first time, she realized that crowd had not simply been the Ror q'Trall, a faceless horde of red-robed strangers. They were people, individuals, just as her own beloved A'tril were.
She couldn't prevent the feeling of respect that was growing in her heart for Ry, who was willing to sacrifice everything to save his people.
Sahra worked with Ry daily, allowing the bond to increase between the unicorn and her husband. Although she had met his family, all but Raya barely acknowledged her as clan. It mattered not to her. She shunned them with as much vigor if not more, except for Raya. Sahra couldn't help but be kind to the young girl, and before long came to fully understand Ry's loyalty to her. She had a pure heart, a beauty like none Sahra had ever encountered, but her mind was innocent to the point of childishness. She would break under sorrow or harsh treatment, and Sahra found herself a willing accomplice in trying to protect the young girl.
The one thing Sahra wouldn't compromise was her intention of following through with the council's plan. For every bit of bonding she allowed Dagda and Ry, she claimed double the bonding for herself.
Before long she could read the unicorn's thoughts, alien and inhuman though they were, as if they were her own. She could see through his eyes, hear through his ears, sense his every impression more clearly than she had ever sensed her pet jaguars. He responded to her commands as if they came from his own mind.
By the time his antler shed and the day of the race arrived, Sahra was more than ready to fulfill the legacy of the storm.
Although she had submitted to wearing the clan's crimson colors, this day she wore her own lavender, purple and gold A'tril outfit, the very robes she had worn the day he drugged her. Ry didn't say anything, but his heart bled.
The more he got to know Sahra, the more he wanted her to truly be his wife. It had taken every ounce of restraint not to seduce her as he originally intended. Although he knew he could have had her in his bed, it wouldn't be right. She'd end up despising him even more for using her emotional attachment to assuage his lust. Still, it wouldn't take much to arouse her. Despite her attempts to shut him out, he sensed her passion as well as her love and he knew she sensed his as well.
Somehow, he couldn't believe she'd walk out once the race was over, but seeing her dressed as she was, he knew he had lost her. He couldn't allow it. Once he fulfilled his obligations, he'd walk right out with her.
For the first time he confronted the shattering truth--that he was willing to leave his people for her. He'd fight for her. He'd die for her. The one thing he couldn't do was lose her.
Sahra had trepidations of her own. She, too, had gotten to know the very heart of Ry. She no longer blamed him for what he had done. Everything he had done was designed to protect his clan, the people who depended on him. Would she have done less if she had never experienced life as an A'tril? With an innocent sister such as Raya to protect?
Sahra no longer knew. All she knew was the senior council waited within the forest. A band of A'tril warriors led by Ja'rah had hidden themselves within the throngs of clansmen. Any uban willing to meet with the council would be escorted to the council, while Sahra dazed the crowd with a psychic blizzard.
She had only been able to do limited tests and although the results had been satisfactory, she had been weak and useless for hours afterwards. The full fury of the storm might incapacitate her for weeks, or worse. It came to her that she might not survive her own storm, that her only chance to be with Ry, to acknowledge her love, was now.
"We have time," he said in that hushed tone he had adopted when speaking to her. "Would you like something to eat, to...."
"Nay," she interrupted, her gaze taking in the sleek lines of his robes, and the sculpted muscles hard and taut beneath those robes. She took a step forward. "Ry...."
"Aye?" he said. She hadn't called him by his name since he had abducted her. She simply avoided using his name despite the hours upon hours that they were together.
"I...." she began again, took another step forward. "Please be careful during the race, remember all I taught you. Listen to Dagda, let him have the lead, give him control."
"I know, love," he said.
The gentle endearment struck at her heart. She stood there in their stone-walled chamber, trembling, eyes brimming with unshed tears and untested yearnings.
Ry didn't know that the moment the race ended Sahra would take advantage of the crowd's open, excited minds. She would link her mind to Dagda's. In his energized state, she'd be able to broadcast the truth, truth that the clans had been blinded to for centuries.
Once Ry knew she had concealed her intentions from him, his love for her would die. She knew this as surely as she knew that he tilted his head to one side when in thought, that he liked his morning citrus room temperature and that he liked to sleep on his back with one arm thrown over his head. He would not forgive her in much the same way he thought she hadn't forgiven him, but the truth was that she had. Somewhere in the last few weeks, her anger had dissipated and her love had grown beyond anything she thought possible.
For a moment longer, she questioned the wisdom of what she was about to do. Was it better to have him this once, yet never again feel his touch, his kiss, his love again? Or was it better to never know, never experience the totality of their union?
She realized that she knew the answer to that question, had known it from almost the moment she'd met him. Fate had taken a hand in their lives for a long time, pushing them together and tearing them apart. This time, Sahra intended to do some pushing of her own.
"Ry," she said yet again, this time without hesitation.
His concerned expression prompted her to continue.
Her fingers twisted in the scarf covering her hair, hair he hadn't seen since their wedding night. She slowly unwound the wealth of lavender folds and dropped to her knees as he had foretold the day she proposed the illfated bargain. "I love you, Ry. I never stopped loving you. I beg you to make me truly your wife."
Ry couldn't have been more shocked if Sahra had struck him. He looked at her, seeing the lavender eyes wide with a mixture of hope and anxiety, seeing her breath coming in short, hard pants. She was afraid, afraid of giving herself to him, and yet he sensed the simple, heart-wrenching sincerity beneath her words.
She truly meant what she was saying. This wasn't a diversion or a tactic on her part, simply the truth. She wanted him.
He stared at her, seeing her moon-pale hair tumbling around her shoulders, wild and untamed, and a wave of arousal hit him. A wave of more than mere physical lust.
A wave of overpowering love, so strong it almost knocked him to his knees.
As if drawn by a strand of chi'nyr, he stepped toward her, bent, and gathered her into his arms. Her arms went around his neck, and he lowered his lips to hers and kissed her.
She tasted of the fresh citrus juice she had sipped at breakfast, sweet and tart all at once, and her lips were soft and yielding beneath his own. Physical impressions mingled in his mind with psychic ones, the sweetness of her lips jumbling together in his brain with the basic sweetness of her character, the softness of her lips contrasting with the solid stone that was at her innermost core.
It came to him that he knew this woman more truly than he had ever known another person in his lifetime. Knew her--and admired her.
He was intensely grateful for the fate that had drawn them together at last.
Dropping onto the sky blue quilt that adorned their bed, he sank into the softness of the feather mattress, pulling her down on top of him. Her body fit easily against him, aligning with his perfectly, as if they'd been made for one another. Perhaps they had been. He was no longer inclined to question fate, merely to embrace it.
Her small, strong hands slid up beneath his robes, finding and caressing the muscles of his abdomen, and his breath caught in his throat at the intensity of the sensation. The soft silk of her hands against his bare skin was as erotic as anything he'd ever experienced, and he craved her touch the way a thirsty man craves water, with a sharp, all-encompassing longing. He could think of nothing else but her.
She peeled the robes from him, so that he lay bare-chested beneath her. Her long, unbound hair, as brilliant as sunlight and as fine as a light summer shower, cascaded over him, caressing his skin, driving him wild with wanting.
He could sense impressions from her, wildly erotic, half-formed thoughts, but since she was still basically an innocent, her fantasies were vague and unfocused. He was uncomfortably aware that the jumble of thoughts she was picking up from him were far from vague. She knew every desire, no matter how base, knew every innermost secret longing he had. It should have disturbed him, embarrassed him, and yet he found it powerfully exciting.
His hands shoved eagerly at her lavender robes, and they fell away, leaving her fully naked.
His breath caught again as he stared at her. She was lovely, all soft golden skin and gently contoured body. She reminded him of her jaguars--sleekly muscled yet incredibly graceful, fierce and beautiful all at once. The only mark on her flawless skin was the brand that marked her his wife. Her breasts were small and shapely, her waist slim, her hips gently flared.
And beneath the physical, with his mind's eye, he could "see" her innermost self, a mixture of unbending, powerful determination and gentle caring.
She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. The most beautiful woman he could have imagined.
Her hands pulled at his lower garment, loosened it, and flung it to the floor, leaving him utterly naked beneath her. She rose to a kneeling position and stared at his erection, hard as stone and aching for her touch, and he could sense her shocked impressions. She had seen him once before, but had never had the opportunity to look as long as she wanted. He lay still and let her stare, while his erection twitched beneath her wide-eyed scrutiny.
And then her hand reached out and encircled him.
He drew in his breath explosively, then groaned as her fingers began to explore the soft, delicate skin. He could feel her memory of the climax he'd brought her to, could sense her curiosity as to whether it felt the same for him. He opened his mind to her fully and let her sense the incredible pleasure she was bringing him.
He heard her shocked gasp, then felt the feminine delight she took in pleasing him. She apparently sensed the sharp longing that had flitted through his mind, the fantasy he was unable to fully suppress, because her hand pulled his erection upward, and she bent her head and took him into her mouth.
Heat and moisture surrounded him, and agonizing pleasure shot through him, making him gasp and thrash beneath her. Vaguely he felt heat and moisture where she rested on his thighs, and he knew she was as excited, as ready, as he was.
He reached for her hair, caught at it, pulled gently. She raised her head and looked at him with a feline smile.
"Do you wish me to stop?"
The pleasure was so intense that he would have given almost anything for her to continue, but they had limited time, and what he wanted most of all was to share the pleasure with her. He wanted to be a part of her, in body as well as mind. Reaching down to her narrow waist, he caught her and drew her up his body, until her moisture rested snugly against his achingly hard heat.
"I want you," he whispered harshly. "All of you."
The teasing expression fled, and her eyes turned serious and dark. "I want you as well," she admitted softly. "More than anything."
Love, hot and overpowering, filled his chest and tightened his throat, and he caught her hips, lifted her, and in one smooth motion slid into the wet, soft depths of her body.
He felt the brief pain she experienced as her fragile barrier was torn, but the pain ebbed almost instantly, to be replaced by a feverish pleasure. He felt the pleasure as well, almost unbearable in its intensity, as she began to slide up and down on his shaft, coating him with her moisture, sheathing him in her heat, until he couldn't bear it any longer. And yet somehow he found the strength to control himself until he felt the first tremors of her climax, until he felt warm spasms of ecstasy filling her mind as well as her body.
And then he surrendered to the greatest rapture he'd ever known.
"It is time."
Ry lifted his head from the soft, feather-down pillow and looked at the ornate golden timepiece that sat next to the bed. Sahra was right. It was time to ready Dagda for the race.
He should have been drained, exhausted by what they had just shared, and yet he felt strangely energized. He sat up, pulled her up with him, and kissed her.
"I will see you later," he said softly.
She clung to his neck and stared into his eyes. "Everything may have changed by the next time we speak."
"Everything has already changed," he said with a suggestive smile.
"Yes. But we are only the start. The whole world needs to be changed, and I will be the one to change it." She swallowed hard and lowered her eyes. "Trust me, Ry. Whatever happens ... please trust me."
He wrapped a hand in the glorious depths of her hair and gently forced her to look at him. "Believe me, Sahra," he said softly. "I do trust you."
Dagda was full of nervous energy as Ry rode him to the starting line. Huge and muscular as the animal was, he drew a great many startled stares from members of the other clans, and Ry was certain he heard the word "unicorn" muttered more than once. But of course no one would be foolish enough to seriously suggest a thing in public. Dagda was clearly a horse, solid black but for the small white patch of hair in the middle of his forehead--a remarkable horse, to be sure, but nevertheless merely a horse.
Only Ry and his clan knew that the circular white patch marked the place where a great spiraling antler had once grown, and would grow again in the spring.
The other riders, mounted on the best horses their clans had been able to breed, sent him looks of hatred. It was, he realized, not merely because Dagda made their best horseflesh look like ancient, swaybacked nags. They hated him because he was of the Ror q'Trall, because his clan had raided theirs for years to increase their wealth and holdings. They had hated him and his people enough to kill the Clan of Blood's best stallion, and they would not hesitate to kill him and Dagda now if they could manage it without dishonor and disgrace.
It was a sickening realization, that every person outside of his own clan would be happy to see him dead. Perhaps Sahra was right. Perhaps the ways of the clans were destructive and futile. In the end, none of them could ever hope to be secure or content. They were too occupied with hatred.
Against his will, he contrasted his way of life with the way the A'tril lived, and he thought longingly of a life of peace.
As Dagda danced up to the starting line, he saw Sahra on the outskirts of the crowd, wearing the crimson robes of the Ror q'Trall. Seeing that she had changed into the robes of his clan warmed him. He gave her a reassuring smile, and saw her wave, but the expression on her face was serious. He thought of her last words. Trust me, Ry. Whatever happens ... please trust me.
He had long been aware she had a plan, some ulterior motive in helping him tame Dagda, and now he suspected she was ready to carry it out. But he didn't have time to worry about what she planned. He had to win this race, to make his people safe. And then, his duty accomplished, he would consider what to do, whether he should remain among his clan or go live with the A'tril. It would be a wrenchingly painful choice, and yet one thing was vividly clear to him.
He would never leave Sahra.
Sahra watched as Dagda, his muscles rolling and rippling beneath his glossy ebony hide, pranced up to the starting line. On his back Ry looked regally confident. He held the reins easily, although of course the tack was mostly for show--his link with the unicorn was enough for control. But had he ridden the beast bareback and without a bit, there would have been questions.
She let her mind reach out and touch the unicorn. He was full of animal excitement, aware that something important was happening without the slightest comprehension of what the purpose of the event might be. He understood only that he was to run and to win. But he was virtually glowing with energy, and that was what she needed. The excitement of winning the race would provide an enormous burst of psychic energy that she could focus and reshape for her own ends.
If he won.
Her momentary flicker of doubt must have shown on her face, because a small hand caught her crimson-robed arm. Sahra looked down to see Raya. Her lovely, innocent face was flushed with excitement.
"Don't worry, Sahra," Raya said softly. "He will win."
Sahra swallowed and tried to smile with confidence. "Yes, of course he will. He has the best horse by far."
"And he is the best rider," Raya said with pride.
Beneath Raya's air of cheerful excitement, Sahra sensed an edge of fear. Of course, if Ry lost Raya had a great deal to lose as well. The thought of this sweet, harmless child stolen away from the only home she'd ever known, forced into slavery or marriage, and quite possibly raped or abused, turned her stomach.
But if Ry won ... hopefully, Sahra thought with determination, young and innocent girls like Raya would no longer have to fear the raids of men from other clans. If she was successful in creating the storm, in unifying the clans, other girls might never have to see their families lying dead on the ground, become slaves, or be forced to wed men they had never met.
There was much more at stake here than Raya could possibly realize.
Sahra, however, realized it all too well, and the heavy weight of her responsibility suddenly seemed to descend upon her shoulders. She lifted her chin, smiled confidently, and waved at Ry. He inclined his head to her, then turned his head and focused on the sweep of sand that lay ahead.
And then a flag dropped, and the horses leapt away from the starting line. Ry felt the powerful muscles bunch beneath him as Dagda shot away from the other horses. The race would be run on a circular course, five venta long, that passed through the desert, the grasslands, and then the desert again, and even Dagda could not last that distance over difficult terrain at a dead run. Out of habit, Ry tightened the reins slightly.
Not yet, he thought.
He felt the unicorn's annoyance--the animal had no real comprehension of distance--but Dagda obediently slowed a bit. Ry looked behind him. The nearest horse was Warrior, a brown-spotted stallion known for his speed, and on his back was Brec Para, r'uban of Ror q'Para, the Clan of the Eagle--the clan closest to the Clan of Blood in standings. If Warrior and Brec won, the Clan of the Eagle would be First Among Clans. And Brec would very likely claim Raya for himself. Knowing Brec had killed the stallion and ordered Ry's death, Ry hated to think of his sister's fate at his hands.
He forced himself to focus on the race. He had to win. He would win. Warrior, though a very fine horse, could not hope to compete with Dagda.
Dagda galloped easily over the hot crimson sand. Ry followed the course, steering the unicorn with little effort. The course wove through some large reddish rocks which blocked the view of the path ahead, but Ry did not ask his mount to slow down. They had practiced racing through similar courses many times before, and he was confident that the surefooted beast could maneuver the narrow path without slipping.
The unicorn raced through the rocks at a headlong speed. As he rounded a sharp corner, Ry saw an obstruction ahead--a pile of rocks and brush as high as his head. An obstruction which should not have been there. Before he even had a chance to formulate a thought, he felt Dagda's muscles bunch, and the unicorn sailed into the air, bounding over the obstacle as if it were inconsequential.
They came down with a jolt on the other side, and Ry looked back over his shoulder. Some of the other horses had attempted to take the unexpected hurdle and failed--one horse had tripped and fallen, and several of the others stumbled over him as they landed and fell hard to their knees. Oddly, Warrior did not seem to be among the fallen. Ry shifted his attention back to the course, while a part of his mind continued to worry at the problem.
Jumping was not part of the race, as clan horses were not bred for jumping ability, but for speed and endurance. The course had been checked yesterday, and no such obstacle had been reported. Therefore, someone had worked overnight to deliberately set up that obstacle, just on the far side of a blind corner, to remove as many of his opponents as possible. That person would probably have taken a slightly less direct route around the obstacle.
It had to be the Clan of the Eagle, who after all had the most to gain from such a trick. Ry would bet his life on it.
Sure enough, a moment later Warrior came charging up from a different direction. Ry asked Dagda to increase his speed just enough to stay a few lengths in front of the spotted stallion. He didn't want Brec too close to his back.
Most of the other horses seemed to have been taken out of the race by the Ror q'Para's dirty trick, although in the far distance behind him he could see a few, mostly visible as a cloud of dust. Dagda left the desert and swept into the lush, blue grasslands, a thin line of trees to their right, a vast sweep of azure plains to their left.
Ry could sense Dagda's joy at being in a more familiar landscape. The thought home ran through his mind, along with the vision of his mares and foals. Not now, Ry thought. Later.
And it was the truth. Later he would return the animal to his home, just as Sahra wanted. He couldn't imagine keeping a stallion like this one confined in a stable for the rest of his days. It would be a crime against nature. He supposed his clansmen would be infuriated by his decision to let the animal go, but he was determined to do the right thing for Dagda.
Ahead of him he saw an odd spot in the grass, a place where the grass had been disturbed in some fashion. He communicated his concern to the unicorn, and Dagda swerved to the left, missing the spot entirely. As they passed it, Ry glanced down at it and saw that it was what he had suspected--a hunting trap such as some of the more primitive clans used. It was a pit that had been dug, then concealed, to capture unwary animals. Odds were there were large, deadly stakes at the bottom. He shuddered to think of Dagda falling into it.
A hunting trap had no business being on this course, either, and hadn't been there yesterday. The Clan of the Eagle was clearly determined to win, regardless of the cost. He wasn't surprised to hear hoofbeats behind him. Warrior had avoided the trap, probably because his rider had had advance warning it was there. There were only two venta left in the race, and Dagda could outrace Warrior over that distance. Ry was certain of it. He asked Dagda to increase his speed, and felt the animal's muscles flex in response. They drew away from Warrior quickly. And then he heard the unmistakable sound of a weapon being fired.
A fiery pain burned into his arm, and he looked over at the line of trees, shocked. The obstacles hadn't surprised him greatly, but this did. The race was an important Clan tradition, and to actually fire on a racer was unheard of. It was the ultimate in dishonorable behavior.
The first shot had luckily only grazed his arm, although he felt blood oozing onto his robes, but the next shot might kill him or his mount. He urged Dagda to full velocity. The unicorn responded with a burst of blazing speed that was simply unbelievable. No other animal in the world could have hoped to match it. He heard a few more gunshots, but at the pace they were going, they made a difficult target, and no bullets struck him or Dagda. And then they were away from the trees, heading back into the red sands of the desert, and streaking for the finish line.
Ahead of them he could see the cheering crowds, their variously colored robes mingling into one great mass. That was, he realized, what Sahra wanted--to see people from every clan mix together as freely as the A'tril did. He could see it, almost like a vision of what the future could be.
And then he realized it was not his own vision, but Sahra's.As the unicorn thundered over the finish line, far ahead of his nearest competitor, Ry heard the cheers of the crowd die away into puzzled murmurs, and he realized all of them were seeing what he was seeing--a rainbow of hues, mingling together until it was impossible to tell where one clan ended and another began.
He saw unity, and knew that everyone in the crowd saw what he did.
And then, with a sickening lurch, he saw the way his people had lived for centuries, the ways that clung to bloodshed as the only way to solve any dispute, and he saw everyone he loved perishing, his father's enormous castle crumbling around them, their lands stripped of crops and turning back into desert. His darkest fears, his worst nightmares, his greatest doubts jumbled together in his mind.
Judging from the cries of horror in the crowd, he was not alone in the dark storm of visions he was experiencing. People were sobbing, burying their faces in their hands, and holding their children close. Ry himself could scarcely breathe for the crushing horror of the visions he saw. The only unaffected creature seemed to be Dagda, who stood motionless, head up and ears pricked, gazing at Sahra as she stared back fixedly.
Through the painful visions, Ry realized that she was using the bond she had with the unicorn to magnify her own psychic powers, so as to show the vast crowd the truth about their ways. The truth about what would happen if the clan system didn't change.
It was an incredible display of mental power, yet through the vision he wondered if she could perform such a feat without destroying herself in the process. But he realized almost instantly that she wasn't sure of that herself.
The way she'd begged him to make her his wife in truth burned in his memory. Sahra had no idea if she would be able to survive the psychic storm she had unleashed. But she was willing to sacrifice herself if necessary.
If she believed that strongly that the ways of the clans were wrong, then he, as her husband, would follow her lead.
Fighting against the visions that still rioted in his mind, he lifted his voice.
With the storm raging around and through her, Sahra was scarcely aware of the horrified cries of the crowd, although she could sense their panic and distress clearly enough. But when Ry spoke, she had no difficulty hearing him. His strong, deep voice seemed to cut through the power of the storm. She felt the panic abate a bit and knew the crowd heard him too.
"This is what our ways lead to," he shouted, raising his voice as if he were yelling over a gale. In truth, the psychic storm was silent, yet it filled the crowd's minds to the point that they were virtually deafened.
Still atop the unicorn's back, visible to everyone in the crowd, Ry lifted his arm, and his robes fell back, revealing a gunshot wound on his bicep. Blood streamed from it, as crimson as his robes, and Sahra gasped in horror, almost losing the focus she needed. She managed to control her reaction, realizing that he was not badly hurt.
"The bloodshed never stops," Ry thundered. "By pitting clan against clan, we make it impossible ever to live in peace. There must be a better way."
In the crowd, Sahra saw a swirl of multicolored robes, and a group of A'tril stepped forward, led by Ja'rah. "There is a better way," Ja'rah answered, raising his voice to be heard over the silent tempest. "You ubans and r'ubans who grow weary of bloodshed, follow us."
Ja'rah turned away, and Ry followed him, still on Dagda. "Follow us!" he shouted.
Follow us. Sahra felt tears well in her eyes, tears that had nothing to do with the painful effort of maintaining the psychic storm. Ry had thrown in his lot with the A'tril, just as clearly as if he'd knelt on the sand of Balmairl and pledged himself to their cause.
Having just won the race, and having retained his status as the r'uban of the First Among Clans, he had a great deal of prestige, and the other leaders were more likely to follow him than an anonymous group of men and women. Indeed, she saw, the crowd was parting as uban after uban followed in the wake of the unicorn.
It still remained for the A'tril council to convince the ubans that unifying the clans was necessary, and all her efforts might go for naught in the end. And yet she believed in the legend of the storm, believed with every fiber of her being. The unification must come to pass, or the clans would perish.
She watched Ry and Dagda lead the line of ubans away, toward the waiting council, and knew her work was done. She let her focus fade, and the tempest abated.
And then she collapsed to the ground.
Sahra awakened in the round stone chamber she shared with Ry. As her eyes flickered open, she saw Ry sitting in a chair next to the bed. He smiled at her.
"I was beginning to think you'd never awaken."
She blinked sleepily at the golden light streaming in through the window. "How long have I been unconscious?"
"Two days. I was worried, but the council and Ja'rah assured me that it was to be expected, given your expenditure of psychic energy."
"Aye," she admitted, remembering the power she'd focused. It was a little shocking to realize she'd imposed her vision on such a vast crowd of people. But of course, without Dagda to focus her energy, she could not have achieved it. "It was exhausting."
He smiled, leaned forward, and brushed an errant lock of hair out of her face. "You did well."
"As did you," she said, remembering the way he'd led the ubans to the council. "Did the clans--?"
"They are still discussing the matter," he interrupted. "Likely they will discuss the matter at great length for a very long time. People do not change easily, Sahra, even if you show them every disaster that will surely befall them. Child though you are, you must realize that."
"I am not a ch--" She broke off, realizing from the glint in his eye that he was teasing her. "You are right, of course," she admitted instead. "People do not change readily."
"And yet some changes have already taken place," Ry said. "The Ror q'Trall has given up its status as First Among Clans."
Her eyes went wide. "Truly?"
"Truly. No longer will one clan be lifted above the others. From this point forward, we are all equal. And that includes the A'tril."
Her mouth dropped open. "The clans accepted the A'tril? Did you convince them to do that?"
He grinned, a little wryly. "It took little convincing on my part," he admitted, "once the clans saw how numerous the A'tril were, and how wealthy. It is extremely unlikely that any clan could stand against you in warfare. Even Brec Para, r'uban of Ror q'Para, saw the wisdom in capitulation. Although he will yet answer for his crimes if I have anything to say about it."
"We do not engage in warfare," she said haughtily.
His wicked grin flashed again. "The clans don't know that."
Against her will, she chuckled. "You are a reprehensible man." Her smile faded as she looked up at him. "And what happens now?"
"The ubans and council talk. And talk. And talk some more."
"I meant...." Her voice faded into nothing.
"What happens with us?"
She nodded.
He wrapped his big, strong hand around hers. "What do you want to happen, Sahra?"
"I do not know," she said softly. "I love my people, Ry, and cannot imagine a life without them. And yet ... I cannot imagine leaving you, either."
A brilliant smile broke across his face. "Interesting," he said. "I had come to much the same conclusion. And I think I have a solution. You and I will be ambassadors between the clans and the A'tril. We will work for peace, which will enable us to live among the A'tril some of the time, and here in Castle q'Trall the rest of the time. Does that suit you?"
She smiled. "Our children will grow up knowing both worlds, then? I like that idea."
His eyes widened with a look almost of panic. "Children? Is it not a trifle early to be thinking of children?"
She placed a hand on her flat stomach and turned her thoughts inward for a moment, searching. "No," she said at last. "It's not."
"You are not telling me that...."
She smiled. "Twins. A boy and a girl."
"Twins." Ry swallowed hard. "You may have brought the rest of the world peace," he said at last, "but I doubt very much we will have any peace in our household for a very long time."
"Not peace, perhaps." She looked up into his eyes and smiled. "But we will have a great deal of happiness."
Dagda snorted, shook his head, and pushed his muzzle hard against Ry's shoulder. Fortunately it was still fall, and his antler had not grown back. Otherwise the affectionate gesture might have spitted Ry through the heart.
"It's time, old friend," Ry said, rubbing the unicorn's silken neck. He spoke more out of habit than anything else, since the animal could sense the general meaning of his thoughts through the bond they shared. "I am grateful for everything you've done for my people."
The stallion snorted again.
"You've brought us the hope of peace," Ry said softly. "The promise of unity. And you brought me a woman like no other. For that, I thank you."
The stallion didn't appear inclined to move from his side, so Ry stepped back a small distance. Dagda took a step forward, as if to follow him, but a sudden cool gust of breeze blew across the hillside, swirling brown leaves into the air. Dagda lifted his head, his nostrils flaring, and turned toward the valley. Below, against a backdrop of azure grass, Ry could see the herd of mares, and he knew from Dagda's sudden excitement that the stallion was now aware of them, too.
"Go on home," he said gently.
The stallion hesitated for a moment longer, then spun, reared, and took off down the hillside at a gallop. Ry watched him go, listened to the thundering hoofbeats for a moment, then turned.
It was time for him to return to his own home. He had been gone from his wife's side for a day, and it would take several days to return on foot. Already he was eager to see her again. He and Sahra resided both in the Castle q'Trall and in the A'tril encampment, depending on where they were needed, and he had come to realize it didn't really matter where they lived. Stones and tents and tapestries no longer mattered to him, and one residence was as good as another.
Wherever Sahra was, that was his home.
THE END

