Under Distan Moons Page 3

  Chala breathed in sharply. She had heard the serving girls talk, of course, but she had never actually seen a man's most private places before. It stood erect in the candlelight, shadows playing along it. Chala raised her eyes, taking in his lean, muscular frame. His hands hung at his sides, and he watched her with something like challenge in his eyes.

  Chala pushed herself up and reached out to touch him. His eyes dropped closed, and she felt a thrill of power. She trailed her fingers over his stomach and along his erection, surprised at how soft and firm it felt. She knelt on the bed and leaned forward to explore him with her mouth and tongue, and now it was his low moan that filled the room. Chala had no desire to silence him, however, and she slipped her fingers around him and guided his member into her mouth.

  His breath grew raspy above her, and his fingers tangled in her hair. Chala moved her tongue slowly along his length, feeling dangerous and full of worldly knowledge. His hand moved to her cheek, and Chala looked up at him. Gently he pushed her back onto the bed and pressed his mouth to hers; she felt the warm wetness of his erection against her thigh. His hands passed over her body, and desire burned in his eyes as he broke the kiss and lowered himself onto the bed beside her.

  I should feel afraid, she thought. But she didn't—only curious, and more alive than she had ever felt. He trailed his hand over her breasts and down between her thighs. He dipped his hand to her dripping core, causing her to shudder against him, and then he inserted one finger, stroking her inside and out. Chala's breath grew shallow and she bucked her hips; the thief sealed his mouth over hers and placed another finger inside her, and a low whine started up in the back of her throat. She longed to have him fully inside her, filling her as she had never been filled. How had she ever thought herself satisfied before?

  She clutched at him, pulling him closer, longing for every possible point of contact, and at last he planted himself above her, his eyes sparkling through the holes in his mask. She saw desire there, and something else that stole her breath away entirely, and then her world was obliterated as he entered her, swift and sure.

  There was a moment of pain, and then an almost unbearable sense of fullness, followed by waves of pleasure. The thief moved above her and inside her, silent but for the rasping of his breath near her ear. Chala rocked her hips against him, her hands moving over his back and sides, opening her mouth wide to admit his kiss. She gripped his buttocks and drove him deeper into her, and his kiss smothered her cry of pleasure. She opened her legs wider and wrapped them around him, and his strokes grew faster.

  He moved his mouth deliriously over her neck, panting in her ear, and Chala pressed herself upward against him. He plunged into her again and again, and at last she felt his seed filling her, and he nipped sharply at her neck.

  And then the fullness was gone, replaced a moment later by the warmth of his mouth between her legs once more. She grabbed her pillow and stuffed the edge of it into her mouth to stifle her moan as her body filled with warmth and deeper, fuller spasms rocked her core.

  She opened her eyes as he nestled himself beside her, slipping one arm under her shoulders. His hand moved over her mouth and cheek, and he kissed her, almost chastely, on the mouth. "I promise," he said huskily, "that you shall not marry that man if you do not wish to."

  Chala pressed her face into his shoulder and clutched him to her, and he held her close, his lips feathering over her face.

  When she woke the next morning, she wore her nightgown once more. The only signs that she had not dreamed the whole night were the wetness between her legs, the spotting of blood on her sheets, and the single rose on her bedside table.

  * * *

  "The girl will arrive shortly," said Duke Harinod. He clapped Vermad Elian on the shoulder. "You've done your part?"

  Elian turned away from the duke and rolled his eyes. "Yes, as I told you earlier. The Diamond is well protected."

  Harinod smiled heartily. "Very well, very well. The carriage will arrive shortly, and then we can get on with this wedding." He fanned himself with his hand; the summer day was hot and humid, and the steps of the village church stood bare in the midday sun.

  Elian adjusted his vest with his chubby fingers and raised a hand to shield his eyes against the sun. "It's coming now," he said, a quiver of excitement in his voice.

  He stood up straighter as the driver brought the carriage to a halt in front of the steps. Elian and Harinod descended the stairs, and the driver jumped down to open the door.

  "Come now, Chala, don't be shy," said Harinod loudly.

  The driver held the door for a long moment, but no one exited the carriage. Harinod frowned, and made a sharp gesture at the driver. The driver looked into the carriage, then slowly turned back to look at the two men.

  "It's empty, Your Grace."

  "Don't be a fool, man." Duke Harinod batted the driver out of the way and looked into the carriage.

  "Where is she?" said Elian, a hint of panic in his tone.

  The duke turned back, his face white, but Elian climbed into the carriage, calling his fiancée's name. He climbed out again a moment later, clutching a piece of parchment, which he held out to the duke.

  "What does it mean?" he asked.

  The duke grabbed the parchment, his eyes bulging as he read the neat words penned there:

  I told you that I would steal your most precious possession.

  * * *

  Chala giggled as she passed the telescope back to the thief. "He looks as if he will explode."

  The thief took the glass and raised it to his eye, leaning forward for a better look at her father's furious face. Chala pressed herself close to his warmth, not caring that her lacy white dress was getting covered in dirt as she lay on her stomach on the ridge above the village.

  He lowered the telescope and turned to her, his eyes serious behind his mask. "Is this truly what you want?"

  "Oh yes," she said. She pressed her lips to his and trailed her fingers up his arm. She grinned at him. "Are you afraid that this will ruin your reputation?"

  He answered only with a smile, and a kiss that she felt all the way to her toes.

  Chala looked up at him. "Will you remove the mask now?"

  He nodded, and she reached up to untie the mask, freeing his fair curls to the breeze. She breathed in sharply as she saw the blue eyes, the face that had watched her so often from the yard outside the blacksmith's shop as she had ridden through the village with her mother. She lifted hesitant fingers to his forehead, drawing them down over the slope of his nose, and love swelled in her heart.

  "I cannot call you thief forever," she said lightly.

  He smiled, relief and love mingling in his eyes. "Rilan," he said softly.

  "Rilan," she repeated, savoring the sound of it. She pressed herself against him and opened her lips to his kiss, and let him roll her over onto the grass, happily discarding the white lace dress.

  The Physician Of The Hands

  I didn't want to go when the new king summoned me to his rooms that night. Of course, I had no choice—I was his Physician of the Hands, the Royal Masseuse, and I waited on the king's pleasure. I had never minded tending to old King Nicar, though the courtesans complained of his rolls of fat and his pudgy fingers pinching their skin. I suppose those with my training are less particular—and admittedly, I only had to touch him; he had never touched me. I had served King Nicar, and served him well, ever since my predecessor and mentor, Ellana, had retired to the country with a generous pension and severe arthritis. King Nicar had provided well for her, as he did for me; our services were highly valued.

  However, ever since King Demiant had defeated his half-brother in combat, taking over the throne of Cindam, changes had swept through the court. The courtesans had fluttered about in ecstasy when they learned of their new king's handsome looks, but in the six months he had been on the throne, he had bypassed the courtesans entirely and seduced only baron's wives and daughters and other important ladies—as if to sh
ow how wholly he had seized Cindam, as if to revenge himself upon the court for his father's decision to banish him to the mountains as a child. None of the barons dared complain—Demiant was a dangerous man. He had earned his reputation through many victories on the battlefield, and it was widely held in the city that King Nicar, with his age and girth, had been a fool to challenge Demiant to single combat. The new king had earned some respect for himself when he had killed his half-brother with one clean blow, and not hacked him to pieces as would have been expected from a mountain barbarian. Despite the king's choice in sexual partners, most of the barons were supporting him as the one hope Cindam had in defending against the invaders who had tormented the southern farms and valleys for years.

  He was a good ruler, perhaps, but I admit now that my dislike for King Demiant stemmed from my professional pride. King Nicar, as I have said, valued his Physician of the Hands highly, right alongside the Physician of the Glass and Physician of the Bowl. But this king seemed to see very little use in our entire profession, and he ignored Tabi's and Kelnar's suggestions and potions entirely. As for me, he summoned me to his chambers almost daily, to knead his tired muscles after an evening of play with whichever baron's wife or daughter he had most recently seduced. Most often, the woman in question would be curled up under the velvet covers of his enormous bed, taking advantage of the time to sleep before the king's lust woke her again. King Demiant had had my table set up at the other side of the room, closer to the hearth. He never looked at me while I worked on his muscles, never spoke to me except to issue orders to press harder here, not so hard there, and to leave when he was tired of me, whether I had finished balancing his energy or not.

  That night he summoned me well after midnight, when the earliest prayer-bells were ringing in the city. I rose from my reading—I had long since adopted a habit of sleeping through the day, in response to my king's late summons—and took my tray of oil pots to follow the servant down the wide halls of the palace.

  The servant announced me, and the door opened. The room was bathed in firelight, though the rays of the waning moon also peeked in at the wide windows that looked out over the still city. The woman asleep in the bed was not a baron's wife or daughter this time, but the High Priestess Licea of the city temple. She was supposed to be bride to the gods, but if the rumors were true, then tonight had definitely not been her deflowering.

  The husky moans of a pan flute drifted into the room through the rice paper windows that separated the king's chamber from the musicians' room beyond. The musicians too had developed a nocturnal schedule to please our king's fancy.

  The king awaited me on the platform at the other part of the room. As on my other visits, he lay back against the smooth cotton blankets, unashamed in his nakedness, his eyes closed.

  I approached the table and carefully set down my oil pots. I knelt, although his eyes were closed; he would know if I did not, and would not like it. He shifted slightly on the table, my signal to begin, and I opened a pot of oil—my own special mixture of cassia, cinnamon, and acacia—and began to warm it between my hands.

  I held my hands over his feet to ready him for my touch, and then lowered them and began to stroke his feet lightly. Only on an equal did one begin the massage on the back or shoulders.

  King Demiant truly was handsome, especially with his dark skin burnished by the firelight, the shadows emphasizing the taut muscles of his stomach. His chest gleamed with sweat from his lovemaking. His face seemed dangerous even in this relaxed pose, with his eyes closed—perhaps it was the thick mustache on his upper lip, or the scar that ran along his right cheek.

  I moved my thumbs against the bottom of his foot, searching for the place that would loosen his energy and release the negative flow, and let my gaze drift lower, to where his manhood lay soft against his lower stomach, still gleaming with the juices of the High Priestess. My stomach gave a little jolt as I thought of the pain a prick that size could cause.

  I was not wholly innocent, you see. The captain of the Palace Guard had taken me against a barrel in the guardroom when I had been but an apprentice of fourteen—a rough, exciting coupling in which I had not been incompliant. The captain had been demoted after that, and none of the other men of the palace would dare to touch one of the king's physicians or their apprentices. I had taken to venting my frustration with the palace serving boys, and occasionally serving girls. Many a pleased country maid had me to thank for training their young men in the art of pleasing a woman. These needs had become more intense since King Demiant had arrived in the palace, and I attended to him in a room reeking of sex and scented oils. I knew, as I moved my hands up to stroke the king's calves and loosen the muscles there, that I would close the door behind Meire and entice her to stay with me for a bit when she brought my coffee in the morning. She was a sweet, compliant girl, one of my favorites, with a lovely little tongue that did not tire. She would protest that the kitchen mistress would scold her if she did not return right away, but I would convince her that the scolding would be worthwhile. I always did.

  I stroked my hands up the king's calves, running my thumbs into the muscles along the sides. This king's muscles held far more vigor than the previous king's had; I am not boasting when I say that a lesser Physician of the Hands might have fainted from the sheer force of energy entering her palms.

  I paid careful attention to the muscles surrounding the king's knees, particularly the left. He had never told me so, of course, but I knew he still suffered from an old injury running the length of his left thigh and into his knee. The muscles themselves told me this; they retain the memory of every hurt far better than our feeble minds.

  I kept my strokes feather light as my fingers danced over the old hurt. My hands were softer than satin; I soaked and scrubbed them every day with sea salt to ensure this, and often anointed them with aromatic oils. Many other physicians developed calluses to protect their most precious instruments, their hands, but Ellana had taught me to clothe my strength with hands softer than those of any courtesan.

  I flattened my palms against the king's left thigh and moved upward into the ridge of muscle, keeping the pressure light to begin with. I gradually increased it and pressed into the sensitive mass of muscle at the king's inner thigh, and I glanced up at his face to check my progress. His eyes were still closed, but his face was twisted into an expression I knew well—the exquisite mixture of pleasure and pain that a perfect massage could evoke.

  I looked down to hide my satisfied smile. So King Demiant was not immune to my art, after all.

  "You're the orphan," he said suddenly, in a tone of detached interest. I looked up, startled, and then looked away at once. The king was regarding me as if he had just found another vase or snuffbox that was part of his newfound wealth. I hadn't known before that his eyes were blue.

  My hands stilled as I tried to quell the resentment his words had raised in me. I was an orphan, yes, but I was also many other things, including a fine physician—something he had not yet seemed to notice. The rest of the court had forgotten years ago that my father had died before I was born, falling out of the high window of my mother's bedroom in the lower city. The scandal had been enough to prompt my grandfather, a respected physician to the merchant class, to send my mother to the temple in Trisane. When she died there of illness shortly after my birth, some in the city had suggested her death had not been of natural causes, especially when my grandfather refused to take me into his home. I had never met my grandfather—he'd been killed in the purges of King Nicar's supporters a few months ago, according to reports—but it was he who had begged a place for me as Ellana's assistant, and she had often spoken of him kindly.

  I could say none of this to the king, of course, so I bit my tongue and nodded.

  "I did not tell you to stop," he said gruffly.

  I flushed and began to move my hands again, but the energy flow was broken. I lifted my hands from his skin and bent to apply more oil, warming it between my hands for a
long time before I dared approach his skin again. I was intensely aware of his gaze on me. It was a possessing gaze—they said that on the battlefield, many an enemy fell immobile under the sheer force of it, aware that struggle against King Demiant's dominion was useless.

  I placed my hand lightly on his thigh and resumed my gentle strokes. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the king lift his hand, and then it was stroking my ass, the heat of his fingers easily penetrating the thin fibers of my skirt. I stifled my gasp and kept my eyes on my hands, willing them to continue their businesslike strokes as the king's hand cupped and squeezed, and made a small tremor course through me.

  I worked my fingers into the muscles of his injured thigh, again and again, far longer than I should have. The scent of cassia and cinnamon, the lingering notes of the pan flute behind the windows, and the steady, possessive motions of the king's hand on my rear lulled me into a kind of stupor. I kept my eyes downcast, afraid to move. At length, the king tugged at the fabric of my skirt, sliding it up over his hand until he could run his fingers up my bare thigh and cup the soft skin of my ass. He pinched the delicate skin, and I gasped.

  He made an appreciative sound. "You are a pretty little wench," he said softly.

  "Thank you, Your Majesty," I said, both enthralled and appalled that he would treat his Physician of the Hands in such a manner.

  The thought was enough to pull me back to my training, and I lightened my strokes on his left thigh, and began on the right, trying not to notice the way his cock had begun to swell.

  The king slid his hand up to the top of my dress and pulled on the tie at the front. He loosened the top until it slid down over my shoulders, and I stood frozen, eyes downcast, while he lifted my arms out of the sleeves. He didn't tell me what to do, only looked at me—while I flushed all over under that domineering gaze.