Songs of Love & Death

I raised my brows. “Enduring an evening of tedium?”

He grinned. “Well, yes. You exceeded expectations. Nonetheless, I do keep my word. Come with us?”

I wanted to say no. I’d no desire to visit some Tiberian brothel where the art of pleasure was treated as mere commerce, not a sacred calling.

I opened my mouth and said, “Of course.”

WOULD I HAVE done anything differently?

No.

I couldn’t have.

THE BROTHEL COULD have been worse; but it could have been better, too. It catered to a D’Angeline clientele within the city. I endured an endless parade of dancing girls and tittering catamites with kohl-lined eyes.

Many found patrons among the prince’s companions, starved for a taste of the luxury and licentiousness of home.

Rolande nudged me with his hip, bumping against the scabbard of my gentleman’s sword. “You look disapproving, young Siovalese country lordling.”

I shook my head. “Not disapproving, no. It’s just…” I shrugged. “There is nothing sacred in their calling, nothing sacred here.”

“No?” His dark blue eyes met mine. “Nothing?”

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly thick. “Ah, well, as to that, my lord…” I didn’t know what to say. If he had been anyone else, I would have laughed and clasped the back of his neck, yanking him down for a hard kiss, honoring Naamah’s gift of desire. Country-bred or no, I’d lived a life of privilege.

But he was the Dauphin of Terre d’Ange, and he outranked me by many, many degrees. I should not do this, should not even think it.

He laughed softly, deep in his chest, then leaned over, his lips close to my ear, his breath warm. “I’ve kept my word. Let’s go.”

Knowing I should say no, knowing I should refuse, I went with him nonetheless. Outside, the night air was crisp and fresh. I breathed deeply, feeling the effects of wine and desire. Six guards in the livery of House Courcel flanked us discreetly, escorting us to the prince’s rented villa. Later, I came to know the villa well. That night I paid scant heed to it, following Rolande as he led me to its innermost chamber, where the household staff had hastily lit many tapers.

There, his callused hands cupped my face. “Anafiel de Montrève.”

I grasped his taut, sinewy wrists, holding him at bay even though the time to refuse was long past. “Rolande de la Courcel.”

His teeth gleamed in the candlelight, shadows pooling in his eyes. “Are we making love or war, my warrior-poet?”

I tightened my grip on his wrists, brushing his lips with a kiss. “Both.”

With a swift, decisive move, Rolande hooked one foot behind my right leg, tugging me off balance and tumbling me toward the bed; but I had anticipated it, and I twisted my body sideways, landing atop him and pinning his arms.

“Point to me,” I informed him, taking advantage of the situation to kiss him again, harder this time. His full, firm lips parted beneath mine. I eased my grip on his wrists, exploring his mouth with my tongue; tentatively at first, then with increasing hunger. He tasted like wine, sweet and heady.

Strong and sure, Rolande flipped me over, reversing our positions, his legs trapping mine in a scissor-lock. “Point to me. Is this how Siovalese country boys make love, then?” he asked me, his black hair hanging around his face.

I could feel the weight of his body holding me in place, the hard length of his erect phallus pressing against mine beneath his breeches. It was unbearably arousing. “Sometimes.”

He grinned and kissed me. “I like it.”

We were well matched, Rolande and I. He was taller and stronger, but not by much; I was quicker and more agile, but not by much. We played at wrestling, stealing points and kisses, until it was no longer a game, until there were no victors or losers, only the urgent drive to remove clothing, to feel skin sliding against skin slick with sweat. I kissed his bare chest, bit and sucked his small, hard nipples, reveling in his groan of pleasure, in the feel of his hands hard on the back of my head, freeing my hair from its soldier’s club.

“I want you.” His voice was harsh and ragged, his phallus throbbing in my fist. There was no trace of humor in his words, only raw demand, and his eyes had gone deadly serious. “All of you.”

A flare of gilded brightness and surety filled me, so vivid I imagined I could see it reflected in Rolande’s pupils. “I am yours,” I heard myself say.

The unknown depths claimed me.

I WOULD THAT dying brought clarity.

Did Blessed Elua have some purpose in joining our hearts together in one swift lightning bolt of a night?

I want to believe it; I have always wanted to believe it. Even after Rolande’s death, even after I embarked on a path I half despised, I believed it.

It is hard to believe now.

Still, I try.

IN THE AFTERMATH of love, I was self-conscious. My body was ringing like a well-tuned bell, shivering with pleasure, and I wanted nothing more than to sink into sleep, tangled in linens beside the prince in his warm bed; but he was the Dauphin of Terre d’Ange, and I did not know the protocol for this situation.