where
it would be most deadly,” she said—very like Linden, indeed. “That was a brave
thing you did. And braver yet, what you did to the shaman.”
Wolfcub flushed. “I’ll pay a price for that. He won’t
forget.”
“Most likely not,” she said calmly. “Still, it was well
done. Even a shaman can get above himself, and that one . . .” She
trailed off; then shook her head. “Well. That’s as may be. Come now, kiss me.”
She said it so suddenly and so imperiously that he obeyed
her before he thought. It was a long kiss, sweet as if with honey. Her hands
did wonderful things in the midst of it, stroking his back and sides,
and—greatest wonder of all—rousing his rod anew, far sooner than he would have
thought possible.
She drew back from the kiss, but her hand stroked his rod
still. She was smiling. “Youth,” she said, “is a marvelous thing.”
He could hardly disagree. She opened to him, taking him
inside herself, but holding him—reining him in, drawing it out, as long and
fully as sweet as her kiss. When he could not bear it for one more instant,
when he was ready to scream for release, then at last, and only then, she let
him go.
A cry escaped him, a shout of surprise. She smiled and
brought him to the end of it, till he lay gasping, spent, with all his body
thrumming like the bowstring after the arrow has flown.
Gods, he thought. Dear gods. But not for the height of her
skill or the strength of the release. No; those were to be expected. The
greatest wonder, the one that would remain with him long after his body’s
trembling had quieted, was the warmth of her smile. There was something a
little sad in it, and something a little wry. It was a wonder, a marvel of a
smile.
And that, he knew, was why she was the king’s favorite. For
that smile.
7
When Wolfcub came out of the king’s tent in the morning,
he had a sheen on him that no one could mistake. Certainly the men could not,
either the young ones or the old: they mocked him for it, but lightly, as men
will for one of their own. The whole camp knew by then that he had chosen the
woman called Fawn, who was the king’s favorite.
The king himself applauded the choice and bade him share the
royal breakfast, seated at the king’s right hand, with Linden the prince on
Wolfcub’s other side.
Already people were circling, watching, weighing this new
favorite. Some of his more callow brothers were strutting about in the glory of
their kinship, and letting fools even more callow appoint them messengers for
this favor or that. His father might have had something to say of such
foolishness, but Aurochs was away on a hunt.
Sparrow hoped that he would come back soon. Aurochs was a
level-headed man, as she had thought his son was inclined to be—but Wolfcub was
young, and Fawn had a great name among the women for her skill in bending men
to her will. She could snatch a man’s wits and turn him into a blind and
seeking thing, a rod with eyes, as old Mallard had been heard to mutter.
Mallard had no use for Fawn. “She’s not a witch,” the old woman said; “she’s
not got the wits for that. But she has the gods’ own gift for bewitching a man.”
Sparrow thought that perhaps Mallard was jealous. Mallard
had been beautiful when she was young, but age had not been kind to her. Fawn
had a beauty that would grow old slowly and only become finer, till it was
stripped to the fine white bone. She knew it, as she could hardly fail to do,
but she was not arrogant about it, nor did she sneer at Sparrow as some of the
captives did. She had a calm way about her, a cool acceptance of her place in
the world, that Sparrow found rather more pleasing than not.
But Sparrow was not at all pleased that she had worked her
wiles on the Wolfcub. Sparrow had thought better of them both.
oOo
It was not as long as she had feared before she could get
at Wolfcub. After he broke his fast with the king, he managed to slip away—but
not before Sparrow saw where
it would be most deadly,” she said—very like Linden, indeed. “That was a brave
thing you did. And braver yet, what you did to the shaman.”
Wolfcub flushed. “I’ll pay a price for that. He won’t
forget.”
“Most likely not,” she said calmly. “Still, it was well
done. Even a shaman can get above himself, and that one . . .” She
trailed off; then shook her head. “Well. That’s as may be. Come now, kiss me.”
She said it so suddenly and so imperiously that he obeyed
her before he thought. It was a long kiss, sweet as if with honey. Her hands
did wonderful things in the midst of it, stroking his back and sides,
and—greatest wonder of all—rousing his rod anew, far sooner than he would have
thought possible.
She drew back from the kiss, but her hand stroked his rod
still. She was smiling. “Youth,” she said, “is a marvelous thing.”
He could hardly disagree. She opened to him, taking him
inside herself, but holding him—reining him in, drawing it out, as long and
fully as sweet as her kiss. When he could not bear it for one more instant,
when he was ready to scream for release, then at last, and only then, she let
him go.
A cry escaped him, a shout of surprise. She smiled and
brought him to the end of it, till he lay gasping, spent, with all his body
thrumming like the bowstring after the arrow has flown.
Gods, he thought. Dear gods. But not for the height of her
skill or the strength of the release. No; those were to be expected. The
greatest wonder, the one that would remain with him long after his body’s
trembling had quieted, was the warmth of her smile. There was something a
little sad in it, and something a little wry. It was a wonder, a marvel of a
smile.
And that, he knew, was why she was the king’s favorite. For
that smile.
7
When Wolfcub came out of the king’s tent in the morning,
he had a sheen on him that no one could mistake. Certainly the men could not,
either the young ones or the old: they mocked him for it, but lightly, as men
will for one of their own. The whole camp knew by then that he had chosen the
woman called Fawn, who was the king’s favorite.
The king himself applauded the choice and bade him share the
royal breakfast, seated at the king’s right hand, with Linden the prince on
Wolfcub’s other side.
Already people were circling, watching, weighing this new
favorite. Some of his more callow brothers were strutting about in the glory of
their kinship, and letting fools even more callow appoint them messengers for
this favor or that. His father might have had something to say of such
foolishness, but Aurochs was away on a hunt.
Sparrow hoped that he would come back soon. Aurochs was a
level-headed man, as she had thought his son was inclined to be—but Wolfcub was
young, and Fawn had a great name among the women for her skill in bending men
to her will. She could snatch a man’s wits and turn him into a blind and
seeking thing, a rod with eyes, as old Mallard had been heard to mutter.
Mallard had no use for Fawn. “She’s not a witch,” the old woman said; “she’s
not got the wits for that. But she has the gods’ own gift for bewitching a man.”
Sparrow thought that perhaps Mallard was jealous. Mallard
had been beautiful when she was young, but age had not been kind to her. Fawn
had a beauty that would grow old slowly and only become finer, till it was
stripped to the fine white bone. She knew it, as she could hardly fail to do,
but she was not arrogant about it, nor did she sneer at Sparrow as some of the
captives did. She had a calm way about her, a cool acceptance of her place in
the world, that Sparrow found rather more pleasing than not.
But Sparrow was not at all pleased that she had worked her
wiles on the Wolfcub. Sparrow had thought better of them both.
oOo
It was not as long as she had feared before she could get
at Wolfcub. After he broke his fast with the king, he managed to slip away—but
not before Sparrow saw where
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