one of the dark
women, or the red one. A curtain was little enough barrier, and his ears were
keen. Linden was more than pleased with his choice. And his choice was loudly
and emphatically pleased with him.
Wolfcub sighed. If he walked away now, he dishonored the
king and insulted the gift. He faced the fair woman. She had not moved since he
singled her out: hands folded, eyes downcast. The tunic that she wore was finer
than some men’s wives could claim, well-tanned pale leather that caught the
pale gold of her hair and made her skin seem even whiter than it was. She wore
a necklace of bones and stones and beads, such as a man would trade fine furs
for at the gathering of tribes.
This was a favorite, then. But surely not only for her
beauty, though that was considerable: skin like milk, face carved as if from
ivory, and eyes set wide in it under a swoop of fair brows.
Wolfcub slipped the tunic from her shoulders. It hesitated
over the rise of her breasts, then slid to her waist. She made no move to stop
it.
His manly parts had ascended from ache to pain. But he did
not indulge them. He touched her round high breasts. The nipples hardened under
his hand. He stroked them slowly. Her breath caught.
So: she was not as cold as she seemed. “Do you resent me?”
he asked her.
She raised her eyes. They were clear blue, pale as a winter
morning, and hardly warmer. “I am my lord’s to keep or to give as a gift,” she
said—and yes, her voice was like water falling, low and sweet.
“I am asking you,” he said, “do you resent me?”
“I have learned,” she answered, “to resent nothing.”
“Would you rather I went away and left you alone?”
“Then my lord would beat me,” she said, “because I had
failed to please you.”
Wolfcub bit his lip. There was no escape, then. Nor should
he have wanted one, or been as eager to find it, and yet it was so.
He sighed before he knew what he did, and shed his leggings
and his good tunic that he had put on for the feast. He was nothing to enchant
a woman’s eyes, he did not suppose, except that he was young and lithe and
honed with all his riding and hunting. She was exquisite as she rose to face
him, with her tunic pooling about her feet.
She too seemed to have resigned herself to this. She did not
put on a smile, but he hardly minded; he wanted nothing so false. Her eyes
warmed, perhaps, as she took him in. She took his hot and aching rod in her
cool hand.
It burst at the touch, in spasms so fierce he tumbled to his
knees. She followed him down, still calm, not laughing at him, nor mocking him
for a fool of a boy. But then she had no need. He did it for her, bitterly.
She laid a hand over his mouth before he had well begun.
“No,” she said. “It’s no shame. Here, lie by me for a while. Tell me of your
hunt.”
He stiffened against her when she would have drawn him down.
“You don’t want to hear me boast.”
Her pale brows rose. “No? And why should I not? Men are
charming when they vaunt themselves. They say you are more charming than most,
and can tell a fine tale when you have a mind.”
“Who says that?” he demanded. It was rude, but he could not
help it.
She tugged at him. This time he gave way, till he was lying
beside her but at a little distance. “Women talk to one another,” she said.
“They say you are very pleasant to listen to, and almost as pleasant to lie
with.”
“You see how true that is,” he said.
She shrugged. “It’s been a long while since the winter
fires. You’re young; your blood is hot. You killed a great boar today. Tell me
how you did it. Tell me everything.”
Very well, he thought. Since she insisted, he told her the
truth. He even told her of the shaman’s challenge to Linden, which might not
have been wise at all, but he did not care. “It was an accident,” he said,
“that the boar died. He fell; the spear pierced him. I did nothing.”
“You stood fast while he came, and you set the spear
women, or the red one. A curtain was little enough barrier, and his ears were
keen. Linden was more than pleased with his choice. And his choice was loudly
and emphatically pleased with him.
Wolfcub sighed. If he walked away now, he dishonored the
king and insulted the gift. He faced the fair woman. She had not moved since he
singled her out: hands folded, eyes downcast. The tunic that she wore was finer
than some men’s wives could claim, well-tanned pale leather that caught the
pale gold of her hair and made her skin seem even whiter than it was. She wore
a necklace of bones and stones and beads, such as a man would trade fine furs
for at the gathering of tribes.
This was a favorite, then. But surely not only for her
beauty, though that was considerable: skin like milk, face carved as if from
ivory, and eyes set wide in it under a swoop of fair brows.
Wolfcub slipped the tunic from her shoulders. It hesitated
over the rise of her breasts, then slid to her waist. She made no move to stop
it.
His manly parts had ascended from ache to pain. But he did
not indulge them. He touched her round high breasts. The nipples hardened under
his hand. He stroked them slowly. Her breath caught.
So: she was not as cold as she seemed. “Do you resent me?”
he asked her.
She raised her eyes. They were clear blue, pale as a winter
morning, and hardly warmer. “I am my lord’s to keep or to give as a gift,” she
said—and yes, her voice was like water falling, low and sweet.
“I am asking you,” he said, “do you resent me?”
“I have learned,” she answered, “to resent nothing.”
“Would you rather I went away and left you alone?”
“Then my lord would beat me,” she said, “because I had
failed to please you.”
Wolfcub bit his lip. There was no escape, then. Nor should
he have wanted one, or been as eager to find it, and yet it was so.
He sighed before he knew what he did, and shed his leggings
and his good tunic that he had put on for the feast. He was nothing to enchant
a woman’s eyes, he did not suppose, except that he was young and lithe and
honed with all his riding and hunting. She was exquisite as she rose to face
him, with her tunic pooling about her feet.
She too seemed to have resigned herself to this. She did not
put on a smile, but he hardly minded; he wanted nothing so false. Her eyes
warmed, perhaps, as she took him in. She took his hot and aching rod in her
cool hand.
It burst at the touch, in spasms so fierce he tumbled to his
knees. She followed him down, still calm, not laughing at him, nor mocking him
for a fool of a boy. But then she had no need. He did it for her, bitterly.
She laid a hand over his mouth before he had well begun.
“No,” she said. “It’s no shame. Here, lie by me for a while. Tell me of your
hunt.”
He stiffened against her when she would have drawn him down.
“You don’t want to hear me boast.”
Her pale brows rose. “No? And why should I not? Men are
charming when they vaunt themselves. They say you are more charming than most,
and can tell a fine tale when you have a mind.”
“Who says that?” he demanded. It was rude, but he could not
help it.
She tugged at him. This time he gave way, till he was lying
beside her but at a little distance. “Women talk to one another,” she said.
“They say you are very pleasant to listen to, and almost as pleasant to lie
with.”
“You see how true that is,” he said.
She shrugged. “It’s been a long while since the winter
fires. You’re young; your blood is hot. You killed a great boar today. Tell me
how you did it. Tell me everything.”
Very well, he thought. Since she insisted, he told her the
truth. He even told her of the shaman’s challenge to Linden, which might not
have been wise at all, but he did not care. “It was an accident,” he said,
“that the boar died. He fell; the spear pierced him. I did nothing.”
“You stood fast while he came, and you set the spear
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