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“Nay, I won’t gainsay you, Cleve. But listen to me. Varrick doesn’t really want me, he just believes with all his soul that a child we would produce would be the greatest magician ever to live. He is old enough to be my father. When he wanted to speak to me, I looked at him and then at Argana and agreed that I’d go walking with my father-in-law. I thought he would choke me, but he didn’t. He had this on his mind, you see. No, when he told me that the child he and I would produce would be the sorcerer of the millennium, that was when I told him I couldn’t do it since it was your babe I carried in my womb. I don’t know if you should kill him just yet.”
Cleve lifted himself off her. His desire was like the cool ashes in the fire pit, banked for the night. He sat on the edge of the bed, naked, his hands clasped between his knees. “My father wants my wife. Aye, I knew that, but after you stopped him from killing Argana, I believed it over. He knew that all of us realized his motive, thus I believed you safe from him. But this. By all the gods, what am I to do? I should kill him. That would end it once and for all. Ah, but that would leave Argana and her sons alone as well as all his people.”
She came up on her knees and hugged her arms around his chest. She kissed the back of his neck, breathed in the scent of his flesh, the scent of his golden hair. She kissed the scar that ran down the side of his face. This time, to her joy, he didn’t flinch away from her. She kissed his shoulder. “I’m sorry I told you when I did. You now have no more interest in matters of the flesh, do you?” She was looking over his shoulder.
He grunted but didn’t turn to her.
“I told you, Cleve, because you must make me pregnant. We can no longer just think of lust, as we did last night and the night before and the night before that. We must now think very hard of a babe.”
He did turn back to her then, shoving her onto her back and coming over her. He balanced himself above her on his elbows. “My life has taken many strange turns. You’re the strangest, Chessa. Nay, don’t argue with me, you know it’s true, you know that you’ve twisted me about and made me question everything that I was, everything that I ever wanted to be. You’ve been pregnant more times without producing a child than any woman alive. Now you’ve done it again. I have to think lustful thoughts. Every time I look at you I think of loving you, caressing you with my mouth, coming into you. A child follows when these thoughts become actions. There is naught more either of us can do. I don’t suppose you told him how many months you were pregnant with my child?”
“He didn’t ask,” she said, kissing Cleve’s chin. “I think he was so surprised, that what I’d said was so unexpected, that it didn’t occur to him. He’s probably been thinking about it all through the afternoon and evening,” she continued, trying to pull him back down to her, but he wouldn’t move, just stared down at her, now balancing himself on his hands. She stroked her hands down his back to his buttocks. He frowned at her, but she just squeezed and smiled up at him. “You feel so very nice,” she said, and arched up, but it didn’t encourage him. Her fingers were between his thighs now, lightly touching him, searching, enjoying him.
“Don’t,” he said, shaking his head at her. “I love you, aye, that’s true enough, though I never wanted to, but now that I do, I will just have to accept it, but even with this love I have for you I still have no interest in this, at least right now. Pay attention, Chessa. You must know that my father is at this very moment deciding what he will do. It worries me, Chessa, for he is ruthless. He wants you. By all the gods, must every man on this wretched earth want you? Must I constantly look at every man to see if there is lust in his eyes and that his eyes are fastened on you?”
“Ragnor didn’t really want to marry me. He wanted to marry Utta or you.”
“I wish you’d say that another way. Now, be quiet and stop doing that with your hands. I mean it, Chessa, I must think, I must decide what is best to do. You’re right, I can’t kill him yet. Tomorrow you may be certain he’ll want to know when the babe will be born. Oh, damnation, part your legs and let me take you. Perhaps my seed will come deep into your womb and you will accept it.”
He didn’t touch her further, just pushed her legs apart and came into her, sliding deep and hard. He closed his eyes against the feeling of her soft flesh around him. She’d taken him, she’d been ready for him, yet he knew if he didn’t slow, she would gain no pleasure. It would be her own fault for being pregnant yet again with his babe, but he shook his head even as he thought it. He wasn’t thinking of a babe when he brought his mouth to her, nor did he think of a babe when he watched her arch upward, yelling in her pleasure. He smiled when he came again into her, harder this time, and she brought him deep and stroked her hands over his back as he moved within her. “I love you,” he said when he reached his pleasure.
When he was lying in a near stupor, his head beside hers, his body heavy on hers, she said in his ear, “What is this plan you have that you spoke of to
Merrik and Laren?”
Cleve said to his father, “I would like to build a farmstead to the south of the loch where there are the hills and the glens and meadows, filled with flowers. I remember the waterfall and the lushness of the trees and bushes. I remember the boulders and the thick moss that covered the earth. The land to the east flattens enough to grow the crops we would need. Perhaps some of your men would like to join me. They would learn loyalty to me, which is something I know you want.”
Varrick said, “Naturally my men will also owe you their loyalty. Igmal already would die for Kiri. She is your image, save for that scar on your face. You have yet to tell me of her mother, Cleve. Did she die birthing the child?”
Cleve only shook his head.
“This place you describe, you spent much of your time there when you were a small boy.”
“I was small when I was left for dead,” Cleve said. He paused and looked toward the fire pit. The sweet smell of mead rose strong in the air. Cayman made it. It was as excellent as Utta’s. He smelled the breakfast porridge, the honey Argana gathered. “After I remembered everything, I believed it was you, my stepfather, who’d tried to kill me. Now I know that can’t be true.”
Varrick stretched out his black-clad legs and looked at the rich leather of his boots, dyed as black as his trousers. He wore the burra at his wide belt. His tunic was the softest wool, the sleeves full-cut. Black, he wore all black. He said finally, “I know who tried to kill you. There were no doubts because there was no other who would have done it. I’d hoped you wouldn’t ask me. I have no wish to cause you further pain.”
“Who was it?”
Varrick looked directly at his son. “I’m sorry. It was your brother, Ethar. He was fourteen at the time. He looked at your eyes and knew that you weren’t his father’s son. He knew you sprang from my seed. He knew you were mine. The girls never realized it. But Ethar did. He hated you from that moment as much as he hated me.”
Cleve rocked back with the pain of it. “Nay,” he said, shaking his head, his voice hoarse and low. “Not Ethar. I worshipped him. He never showed dislike toward me, never.”
“That’s true. He tried to kill you very soon after he realized the truth. I believe he wanted to kill me even more than he wanted to kill you, but he couldn’t do it. He failed with you as well, thank the gods. I’m sorry that you were a slave for fifteen years. I cannot imagine what you did during those long years, what you suffered. I know you must have many scars, Cleve, not just the one that shows on your face, but scars no one else can see. But it’s over now. You’re home again. You’re safe.”
Cleve thought of those long fifteen years, of the different masters and mistresses who’d made his life a living hell, of that one kind old man who’d told him stories and fed him regular meals. The old man had died and he’d been sold then to a man who was a pig. So much had happened. So many years. His father was right. It was behind him. He was home again. His father had said he was safe. He thought of Athol’s attack. He imagined Varrick would deal with Athol. He looked at his father now. He knew the answer even before he asked him, “I’ve been told that Ethar drowned in the loch.”
Varrick stared off into the pale smoky air in the hall. “Aye,” he said finally. “That is what happened.”
Of course Varrick had killed him for what he’d done to his small son. All during those fifteen years Cleve hadn’t questioned who’d tried to kill him. He’d been sure it was Varrick, his stepfather, thus his hatred had had a focus. But now, Ethar was long dead, killed by Varrick. He supposed he should thank his father for avenging him, but he couldn’t find it within him. Ethar, his brother, nay, his half brother. It had been so very long ago. Ethar had been so young. Ah, but he’d been only five years old. Too young for Ethar’s revenge. He cleared his mind. It had been a lifetime ago. He couldn’t even remember his brother’s face.
He looked at his father, so still he sat, his long white hands utterly motionless, fingers splayed on the carved chair posts. Surely then he could trust his father, in everything except where Chessa was concerned. He couldn’t trust any man where Chessa was concerned.
“You’re to have another child,” Varrick said at last.
“Aye,” Cleve said without hesitation.
“She isn’t ill.”
