Prince of time, p.27
Prince of Time, page 27
He would show the White Ladies death as they had never imagined it could be.
Chapter 20
The bone walls of Claerwen rose out of the sand, soaring hundreds of feet into the air, like the prow on a ship of death, a great, buttressed mass of mortar and the skeletal remains of the millions upon millions who had died in the wars of the Trelawney Rebellion. As they approached, Morgan could see the infamous skull towers, round edifices encrusted with sun-bleached skulls, empty eye sockets facing outward to the Waste, looking across the gaping canyon at Claerwen's base, silent witnesses to what had been.
The Sept Seill riders had taken Morgan, Avallyn, and Aja to their sept on masutes, where Tamisk's rover had been waiting. From there, they'd headed north, a two-day journey made hazardous by the battles raging the length of Deseillign.
"There were so many dead after the Wars," Avallyn murmured by Morgan's side.
Aye, he could see how many had died. 'Twas unbelievable. The walls looked to be made up of a whole world's population—and in truth, they very nearly were. The Old Dominion was all that remained of the once great cities of Earth, with only pockets of civilization scattered elsewhere on the planet.
"At the time of the rebellion," Avallyn said, "eleven hundred years ago, Claerwen was no more than a small abbey, well out of the main fighting. Afterward, when the Trelawneys had won, the priestesses took it upon themselves to sanctify the dead. The task proved overwhelming. There was no burial ground big enough even for just the thousands of their own district, so they started above-ground burials, packing the bones in mortar to keep the Rift dogs from dragging them away. Word got out about the holy women and the bones, and soon whole towns were bringing their dead to Claerwen. The survivors of a family or tribe would gather the bones of their loved ones and bring them. City-states sent their bones in by land barge. Whole districts brought bones in by caravan. For a hundred years, it was the holiest of pilgrimages, to take the bones of the dead to Claerwen and have them blessed and laid to rest by the priestesses, the Priestesses of the Bones, the White Ladies of Death."
Another misconception of his laid to rest, Morgan thought. To him, and to many in the Old Dominion and Pan-shei, the priestesses were scavengers, scouring the dunes looking for bones, especially the bones of men, even if they had to speed death along to get what they wanted.
But no one who had ever seen the walls could have been so misled. The bones of Claerwen had been made by weapons of mass destruction on a grand scale, not by women riding the Waste on masutes, looking for carrion.
The rover banked to the left, following the western rim of the canyon, heading toward the temple complex, an expanse of buildings numbering in the hundreds. On the eastern rim, the Warmonger's army was spread out like a black plague, the battle well engaged. The priestesses had been forewarned of Avallyn's arrival, and directions had been given for the rover to dock in one of the ports carved out of the canyon's walls.
As the port came into view, Morgan saw a huge stone platform just beyond it, a white disk jutting out of the canyon's face. A series of small buildings were clustered along its cliff side. The half hanging out over the abyss was clear of everything save two stone towers crowned with dragon heads. A trickle of cold dread rolled down his spine, and Morgan knew that, like Sonnpur-Dzon, Claerwen was indeed a place of time worms.
From a window in the west wing of the cloisters, Avallyn saw Morgan, Aja, and the Sept Seill riders enter the courtyard below. The men had been quarantined upon their arrival, but she had insisted that Morgan be brought to her quarters after the briefest possible detention, reminding the attending priestesses that he was the Prince of Time and should be treated accordingly, as should his escort.
He was so beautiful—her hand clenched into a fist at her side—and he was hers. She had waited as the Red Book had decreed. She'd not given herself to any other, but she'd given herself to him, and she would not be denied.
"A cripple," the woman beside her said with disapproval, watching Morgan's limping stride as he crossed the walkways leading to Severn Hall. "Just as Dray reported."
Fighting back a retort, Avallyn glanced at her mother and was caught like a snared rabbit by the older woman's sharply discerning gaze.
"A wine junkie as well?" Palinor demanded.
"Nay," Avallyn told her. "Tamisk's potion freed him from the Carillion addiction."
"And the price?"
There was always a price.
"Steep enough. He saw his fate."
Palinor said naught, dismissing Morgan's grim future with the ease of years of practice. She glanced back out the window, an expression of resigned disgust drawing her features tight.
"Even with Dray's warning, I had somehow expected more in a prince. Yet I fear the thief proved to be man enough for you."
Avallyn's fist tightened even more. Her fingernails dug into her palm.
She hadn't tried to hide anything from her mother, knowing the uselessness of such an attempt, but neither had she said or done anything to reveal what had happened in the Hart. Still, her mother knew. Morgan had marked her as his, and no priestess of Palinor's skill would have missed the signs.
"Tamisk set you up," her mother continued, "and you fell into his trap. Though what he hopes to gain by your debauchery, I don't know, unless it's humiliation for me."
"I have not been debauched," Avallyn said.
Her mother looked to her and named her a fool with a dismissive glance. Behind them, a melodic tone chimed at the far end of the hall, announcing the sept riders' arrival.
"Call it what you will, you have ruined yourself and ruined my plans for you."
"Plans?" A frisson of unease skittered down Avallyn's spine. "What plans?"
"You didn't have to stay in the past. You could have returned." Palinor swept away from the window and signaled for one of her acolytes to answer the call. "Fata Ranc he or nay, the priestesses have chosen not to make covenant with the mad thief. If he is meant to be sacrificed to Dharkkum, so be it. We have not accepted him as your consort. You could have returned through the weir and taken your rightful place as a High Priestess in Claerwen."
Return to the future without Morgan? A chill ran through her. To be separated from him by ten thousand years of cold and empty space?
"Tamisk says the weir will be destabilized if we are successful. There is no coming back."
"Tamisk is no weir master," Palinor said, rejecting the idea out of hand. "In this, you would be wiser to trust the High Priestess."
Avallyn blanched, worried that she could be brought back against her will. Her mother was not without power. She didn't have Tamisk's magic, but she had the High Priestesses behind her, and they ruled through casting the fates of people's lives. They didn't change what was so much as they changed what would be, going so far—she'd once heard—as to use their most arcane powers to write desired fates in the Red Book. People's lives were the priestesses' work, and ten thousand years wasn't far enough away to keep them from meddling.
"And what would the High Priestess have of me now?" she asked.
"Now?" Palinor let out a grieved sigh. "Now you have ruined yourself with a tech-trash prince from Pan-shei. You could still return, but it would not be as a ruling priestess. Worse, though—"
The scraping open of the doors at the end of the hall captured Avallyn's attention, and she heard no more of what her mother said, her gaze riveted by the entrance of the men.
The riders still wore their desert robes, and Aja his Pan-shei garb. The Prince of Time had been dressed in white. He stopped in front of her and went down on bended knee.
"Milady," he said, his head bowed, the fall of his dark hair with its white blaze hiding his face from her. As one, the sept riders knelt behind him, a courtesy they'd not bothered to perform during their dash across the Waste.
Behind her, she heard her mother tsk. A quick glance proved Palinor drawing herself up taller and tightening her cloak around herself, and suddenly Avallyn understood the source of much of her mother's disapproval. 'Twas far more basic than Morgan being a crippled tech-trash thief from Pan-shei. He was a man, and her daughter, the most prized priestess in the purely female stronghold of Claerwen, had allied herself with him, with the opposition. After one hundred and twenty-five years of obedience, her child had broken free of her bonds—though only to be bound to another: Morgan.
"Dread lord." She called him by his most rightful title, extending her hand. Beneath his clothes, he'd been marked with the runes of the dragon-maker's firespell. Beneath his skin beat a heart of valor. He was cunning, and fast, and skilled at keeping himself alive, a fact proven with every breath he took. Ten years of thievery in the far-flung quarters of the Old Dominion were nine and a half longer than all but the very best survived.
Taking her hand in his, he kissed her fingers. His mouth was soft and partly open, suffusing her skin with warmth—and she knew he'd fared no better than she with their half-day separation.
Outside, the battle still raged. The Bridge of Knells had fallen, and the north wall was under attack, but the priestesses had only begun to prepare for the coming of the time worms, and Avallyn would spend what time there was with him. The battle outside was not hers to fight, not on this day.
Without releasing her hand, he rose to his feet, his gaze meeting hers with a fierce ardor ameliorated only by the gentleness of his touch.
"Are you well?" he asked, and Avallyn knew 'twas no simple question.
"Aye," she answered. "With you by my side, I am well."
Relief softened his gaze, and he shifted his attention to her mother.
"Lady Palinor." He addressed her with a short bow. "I believe this is yours." He loosed the leather bag at his belt and offered it with an open hand.
Palinor gestured for the nearest acolyte to come forward and take the bag. The girl did, and at the priestess's next command, she loosened the ties. When she'd finished with the knot, the softly cuffed leather fell back and revealed the dragon statue in all its golden glory.
"Ddrei Goch," Palinor breathed, reaching out to take hold of the statue, obviously surprised.
She turned the dragon in her hand, letting the sunlight that streamed through the window glance off its gleaming reddish gold curves.
" 'Tis indeed Claerwen's," Palinor said after a thorough examination of the statue. "Taken from us months past and, after many months more, resurfacing in Sonnpur-Dzon Monastery." She lifted a mocking gaze to Morgan's face. "We thank you for its return… prince." The word fell like lead from her mouth.
'Twas no more gracious an acknowledgment than Avallyn would have expected from Palinor.
An easy smile curved Morgan's mouth. " 'Tis a small price to pay for all I've taken that I cannot, and will not, return," he said, meeting her mother's eyes with his unflinching gaze, and holding it until a rose-shaded hint of color washed into the older woman's face.
"Prince," Palinor said in a less haughty tone, lowering her eyes with the slightest bow of her head. Her hands tightened on the statue as she shifted her attention to Avallyn. For a moment, it looked as if she would say more, but then she signaled for her acolytes and, with another brief bow, swept from the hall.
Morgan dismissed the sept riders and Aja with a glance. The riders obeyed without question, Aja after a moment's hesitation, leaving only the two of them and a dozen servants in the hall.
Avallyn felt her heart beating in her chest. He took her hand again and lifted it to his lips for a fervent kiss and a taste of her skin.
"I must be alone with you," he murmured. "Where are your quarters?"
"These are my quarters," she told him. "All of Severn Hall."
Drawing her closer, he glanced at the high timbered ceilings and the white stone walls, carved columns, and vaulted arches.
"It's very nice, milady," he assured her with a smile, "but does it have a bedroom? Preferably one not crawling with servants?"
"Aye." A blush blossomed on her cheeks, and his smile broadened.
" 'Tis my fondest wish, cariad, to make you blush like that all over. Take me to your private chamber."
With his hand in hers, she led the way to a timbered staircase that curved upward to an intricately carved wooden balcony, the whole of it overlooking the hall. The door at the top was open, until they crossed the threshold, whereupon Morgan closed it behind them, threw the lock, and took her into his arms.
His mouth came down on her hers, sweetly insistent, teasing her lips with soft breaths and gentle bites, while his body pressed fully against her, urging her back against the door and letting her feel the hard ridge of his arousal. The heat and weight of him sent a wave of longing crashing through her. She opened her mouth wider beneath his, and he deepened the kiss, the sweetness dissipating into a devouring need.
She arched against him, wanting to be closer, loving the taste of him, letting it suffuse her senses and swirl through her on the twining tendrils of his past. He'd been kissed before, thousands of times. Ancient impressions of his pleasure seeped into her, heightening her own arousal, which she gave back to heighten his.
"Gods," he said on a sharply indrawn breath, breaking their kiss. "You're doing something again. I can feel it."
"Women have loved kissing you." The words were whispered across his skin.
"A few," he admitted, running his hands down and around her hips and pulling her tighter against him.
"They have loved touching you… everywhere."
Aye, he'd have to agree with that, but truly she was light-years ahead of him. He didn't want to think beyond the one woman in his arms and how good she felt.
"Are you deep-scenting me again?" he asked, concerned enough to ask, but truly too distracted to care overly much.
"Nay, just skimming the surface of your kiss, tracing your pleasures back to their source and stealing them for myself."
"Ahh," he murmured. She was welcome to the pleasures of his past, all of them, for they paled in comparison to the pleasures of his present. He bunched her white priestess gown up around her waist and slid his hands beneath it. A low groan escaped him. "You're naked again."
"Aye," she said, and laid a damp path of kisses from his chin to his ear, her teeth grazing his jaw. In a matching move, she slid her hand down the front of his pants and slowly, inexorably set him on fire.
His breathing grew rougher. One-handed, he released the buckle on his belt, letting it clatter to the floor as he tore open the zipseam of his fly. She found him with her hand and made her palm a hot, silken-skinned sheath for him to pump into, but even that delight could not assuage his greater need to bury himself so deep inside her he was lost.
"Wrap your legs around me," he ground out, lifting her higher on the door and fitting himself to the slick, magical place between her legs. He held himself there, only pushed partway inside, and let her set the pace. She went so agonizingly slowly, he had to grit his teeth to keep from pushing into her harder, faster.
"Morgan," she sighed, when he was hardly more than halfway inside. Her head fell back, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat, every part of her body telling him what she wanted, what she needed. Her hands gripped his shoulders. Her mouth was open, her breath coming in short gasps.
Women were the loveliest, most exquisitely sensitive creatures God ever put on the earth, and Morgan was most exquisitely in tune with the one on the verge of coming in his arms. Though he was surprised with how little of him she'd taken, he wanted nothing more than to give her exactly what she needed. He slowly ground his hips against hers, giving her the gentle, sweet loving she was primed to take, and he watched her face, taking note when her lashes fluttered, when her teeth bit down on her lower lip.
A moan was dragged up from deep in her chest, and he began the same moves again… and again… and again, until she was whimpering and he was sizzling with gut-wrenching need.
Despite the release he craved, he let her take her time and only as much of him as she wanted. His reward was worth the strain. When she came, she came so sweetly, her soft cry echoing in his ears, a rosy blush flashing across her skin, and all those wondrously rippling contractions cascading down his shaft, making him harder than granite.
When she would have gone bonelessly limp in his arms, he thrust into her deeper, keeping her back against the door and her weight on him, letting her know there was more, that there was someplace else he wanted to take her. Her gasp this time was more of surprise than pleasure, and mayhap a bordering edge of discomfort, but he knew enough not to hurt her, and he knew how to take her where he wanted to go.
He began with long, even strokes, feeling her lush softness envelop him on every thrust. He kept his mouth and hands on her, moving over her, breathing her in and kissing her every place his lips touched. 'Twas a madness of the most wondrous kind, the sweet fire she ignited in his loins. He pumped into her again and again, until he was mindless, his body running on pure instinct and need, her soft cries urging him on. When he felt the first tense pressure of his orgasm, he locked his mouth over hers and probed her deeply with his tongue, mimicking the carnal rhythm he set with his hips, pushing her higher with each thrust, and pushing himself closer to the edge. She tightened around him and went wild in his arms, bucking against him, her low groan giving him the fiercest satisfaction.
Holding her in the vise of his arms, he plunged into her, forcing her one step higher, then another, claiming her with every pulsing second of her release, until he could take no more and came in his own fierce hot rush, pouring himself inside her, giving her everything he had. By the time he finished, he was shaking. His mind was cloudy with the erotic haze of the aftermath, making it impossible to think. All he could do was kiss her face and whisper her name, over and over.
It took a tremendous amount of effort to make it to her green bower of a bed, but when they'd collapsed together onto it and cocooned themselves amidst her blankets and pillows, Morgan felt the results were worth the price. They were warm and safe. He was wearily sated down to the depths of his soul, and she was in his arms.
