Destiny of the Light: Shadow Through Time 1 (21 page)

K
ai of the Northmen, the leader of the Side Clan, stood in the centre of a mountain plateau, his ceremonial cloak of threaded jewels moving gently in the evening wind which came before dusk. Tiny glittering gems scraped his half-shaved chest, groin and leg, while on the other side they snagged in his thick body hair. His head, which sat at a slight tilt to compensate for the lack of hair on one side, was adorned with a spiked crown displaying the desiccated heads of his enemies. On his hands were the stains of his last kill, the ceremonial ‘gloves of blood’ which would allow him entry to the war council.

At Kai’s side stood the other nine Northern clan leaders in silent vigil. Before them rose the monolith their people had constructed in honour of Kraal, the Serpent God. For a year and a day after their defeat at the hands of the Southmen, the clans had come together to cut and work stone, piecing together the twisting carapace through which their God would rise from the earth to enter their world; Side Clan toiling beside Tree Clan with no bitter glance or threat — all of the Northmen allied to serve their god.

The time of the Maelstrom would soon be upon them when Kraal would finally inhabit their lands and they must make ready to welcome him, to offer the blood of the Southmen to appease his appetites. A war council would be held this night, and though their scouts had not returned, a commitment to battle would be made. Virgin sacrifices from every Clan would be brought to the serpent’s mouth and when their screams had echoed through the cavernous portal and their sacramental blood had stained the monolith, then the leader of the war council would announce their decision.

The traitor among the Southmen who had urged them to action now sought to halt their attack, but Kai had lost a brother to the Southmen in the last war. He would wait no longer for revenge. When his time came, Kai would speak for massacre, and urge the other leaders to raise their fists with his. Together they would defeat the Southmen, and the traitor who had thought to govern their will would be the first head Kai would claim — for the Side Clan, and for Kraal whose appetite for evil, long dormant, would soon re-emerge.

K
hatrene stood on the East Tower of Castle Be’uccdha. A fierce wind buffeted her body and tore her hair into thin ribbons. Before her lay the rolling mounds of the Everlasting Ocean, its tincture of brown giving it a sepia postcard look.

Behind and below her the Castle spread out, a dark, angular outcropping of stone against sheer cliffs; as different from the Volcastle as night was to day, Khatrene could easily understand how its owners had been given the title of The Dark. Everywhere were sharp corners and squared edges made of stone so dense in colour it was almost black. At midday, to walk into an unlit room was to plunge yourself into an artificial night. Torches and candles burned constantly, yet despite the Castle’s forbidding exterior, the interior rooms she’d seen so far were luxuriously appointed. Richly textured tapestries complemented the lustrous gleam of burnished bronze and throughout the Castle she’d found exquisitely carved timber furniture. Nothing was ordinary. Nothing merely functional.

She couldn’t wait to see the bedroom. Couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Though Mihale’s brown kingdom stories had given Be’uccdha Castle a sinister air, Khatrene found herself fascinated by its architecture, its ambience, and of course, its owner.

‘I’m going to like it here,’ she said. ‘What about you?’ She turned to look at Talis, her hair immediately whipping across her face, obscuring her vision.

‘The ocean has restorative powers,’ he replied. ‘I find my soul calmed by its presence.’

Khatrene smiled. ‘I guess if you’re going to live with Lae you’ll need a calm soul.’

Talis said nothing and Khatrene respected the fact that he didn’t enter into the teasing she and Pagan were so fond of. It seemed honourable that he didn’t talk about Lae behind her back.

‘Well, I need a little calm tonight,’ she said, and turned back to lean on the parapet, looking down at the brown waves breaking onto the rocks below. ‘My nerves are shot.’

The wind continued to tear at her hair and her eyes watered, but she kept her gaze on the ebb and flow of water, listening to the rhythmic pounding of the big restless animal that stretched out to the horizon and beat its foaming paws against the rocks below her.

It took time, but finally a fatalistic acceptance settled over her. The moment she had waited for was now upon her and the night would proceed as destiny decreed. She should not fret about her lack of experience or the sudden realisation that she did not know Djahr at all. He was her husband and he would not hurt her. Quite the contrary, she would most likely experience a great deal of pleasure … if only she could relax.

‘It is time,’ Talis said from behind her. ‘The ceremony awaits.’

And in that moment Khatrene’s energy seemed to switch from fear to excitement. She suddenly couldn’t wait to see Djahr in his wedding robes again — for him to see her in the gown he’d had made for her — for them to be alone together at last.

The evening was a blur. Talis taking her to the Altar Caves. Ghett fussing over the mess she’d made of her hair. The long slow walk to the Altar amid an echoing silence which was only broken by the rhythmic dripping of water. The agonising wait for Djahr. Then he was beside her and she looked into his eyes and seemed to live there after that. Words were spoken, Khatrene drank some wine that went right to her head. Then it was time to retire and the blur of action slowed to a crawl.

Vibrations from the solid clang of the bronze bedchamber door closing seemed to echo through her body, wakening it from its sexual hibernation. She could feel Djahr’s presence close behind her, but was unable to shift her attention from the only piece of furniture in the room, a huge bed that lay sprawled across the middle of the room, quilts and cushions spilling around it like foam overflowing a bubblebath.

Music started from somewhere outside the room, a racing, plucking sound, like an Indian sitar, and Djahr took up a position in front of her, his palms over her face. Not touching, but so exquisitely close that her skin sensed his presence and seemed to tingle in response.

Lae had instructed Khatrene in this segment of the bridal ceremony and so she knew to remain still, but when Djahr’s hands moved, she had to remember to breathe. The expression on his face was so intent she felt herself trembling with anticipation. The hot scent of his skin only made her dizzier.

Outside, the music quickened, a counterpoint to Djahr’s slow movements. His hands traced delicately down to her throat, still not touching, then those long fingers she had lovingly studied stole back up behind her nape, threading into her hair to rest intimately close, but not in contact with, her scalp. The subtlety of the sensation was quite overwhelming and tingles raced down her spine, spreading out across her body like electricity. She couldn’t have looked away from his eyes if he’d told her to.

She wanted to stop thinking and simply enjoy herself, but her mind kept telling her that a man with such delicate responses would be a magnificent lover. She’d known that already, of course. Everything about him; his bearing, his voice, his eyes, carried a subliminal sexual message, and like an animal trapped in the headlights of an oncoming car, she could only wonder what sensations the coming collision would bring.

Virginity, once an uncomfortable burden, now seemed the most precious gift she could own.

‘Wife,’ he said softly, looking deeply into her eyes and within seconds Khatrene felt tears on her cheeks and again the beautiful unfurling of her own heart. His hands moved down from her shoulders to her back, and on to the curve of her waist. Suddenly the thin fabric of her dress was no barrier to her senses. She could ‘feel’ his touch, even though it never contacted her. And overlaying the faint whine of music and his slow, deliberate caresses was the sound of that one word echoing with each beat of her heart.
Wife. Wife. Wife.

Love. Love. Love
, it seemed to say and Khatrene had never felt more cherished, more loved. He stepped behind her and she lost sight of his eyes. Closed her own. The music grew faster but conversely, Djahr’s movements slowed. They continued to sway as he continued his dance of the hands and Khatrene felt her breasts tingle and the nipples waken, stretching against the fabric of her dress, searching for his touch.

If breathing hadn’t been an involuntary mechanism, Khatrene would have passed out.

Yet she longed to feel the warmth of skin against skin and had Djahr not ingrained in her the art of anticipation, she would have felt frustrated. Instead, the delicious abandon of giving her pleasure into his hands all but overwhelmed her. His invisible, almost-felt caresses drove her to heights of excitement she’d never thought to experience standing up.

Finally, miraculously, she lay on the bed, although Khatrene was unsure in the dizziness of her desire how she’d arrived there. The music had stopped and all she could hear was the pounding of blood in her ears. Her limbs lay helplessly spread amid the cushions and her legs trembled from the need to be touched. To be taken.

Yet, perversely, she didn’t want it to be over quickly. She wanted Djahr to kiss her first, to make her wait. He stood beside the bed looking down at her, his eyelids heavy with anticipation and Khatrene, who was panting, had to lick her dry lips. She smiled in open invitation.

Djahr smiled back.

Simultaneously, she felt heat against her wrists and ankles.

Her startled expression made no impact on his smile, and for a moment she wondered if her discomfort was a custom that had yet to he explained. She tried to move a hand and found it trapped. Fear returned then and her gaze darted to her wrists but there was nothing to see. Nothing was holding her. Yet she was held fast.

She looked back to Djahr, genuinely alarmed.

‘Fear not, my bride,’ he said, reaching down to grasp the front of her gown. Khatrene caught her breath at the feel of his fingers between her breasts. ‘I have magic of my own, not unlike the Guardian power which saved your life. Only this power is used solely for pleasure.’ Without warning, he tore open her beautiful wedding gown and though she gasped and was pulled off the bed by the motion, when her back hit the mattress again she forced her panic down, telling herself it was like smashing plates after dinner. A simple custom and no harm done.

‘So pale and perfect,’ he said.

Her arms and legs were still splayed by the invisible force that held her and a hot blush washed over her as he inspected her body, now devoid of any covering. She panted, with shock as well as with desire. Then she felt something else. The warmth that restrained her ankles began drifting slowly up the inside of her legs and she couldn’t help gasping and stiffening in horror. Further it came, up the inside of her thighs and she felt embarrassment, arousal. ‘Is this …?’ Her mind was filling up with sensations. She couldn’t put words together.

‘Magic?’ he asked, watching her reactions with interest.

Khatrene gasped again as the warmth closed over her loins, resting there a moment while her flesh quivered in helpless anticipation. ‘I just want … you,’ she said, and felt tears on her cheeks even as her loins trembled. There was no reason to cry, only that her body’s responses were spiralling out of her control.

‘I would give you all the pleasure a woman can know,’ he purred, his words somehow contused in her mind with the undulating heat between her legs.

She shut her eyes a moment, searching for sense. ‘Are you doing this?’ she asked, thinking that would make it all right. Wouldn’t it? But what about his hands? She’d longed to feel his skin against her own, to glory in the contrast of dark against light. When would that come?

As though answering her internal questions, the warmth at her wrists slid down the inside of her arms, lingering in her armpits before sliding across to her breasts. Her eyes snapped open and she stared at Djahr.

He was breathing heavily and she wondered at that. Was the magic working on his body as well? He growled low in his chest and closed his eyes. Not looking at her. Not touching her. Khatrene felt her tears quicken but could do nothing to stop the fierce pleasure building inside her.

‘Please. Please,’ she whispered, and then watched shamelessly as he removed his clothes. Like her gown, his robe covered nakedness, and as it fell to the ground she felt her breath catch and shudder inside her. He was more beautiful than she could have imagined and she ached to touch him, to caress that dark perfect skin with her own hands. The hands that were trapped on the bed.

Then the building storm of pleasure clouded her vision, her mind, her emotions and she could think of nothing clearly. Djahr moved over her, yet all she felt was continued manipulation from the warmth that restrained her. He himself trembled with the power it had over him. One lunge? Two? While he held himself away from her, depriving her of the satisfying weight of his body on hers. Then they were both shuddering in mighty heaves, Djahr bellowing out his release while Khatrene cried out in little gasps, on and on, longer than she would have believed possible.

And then she was just crying, huddled in a ball, her body and her mind drained, empty and achingly unsatisfied. For a long time she cried, and then in complete exhaustion, she slept.

Djahr watched her tears with growing satisfaction. It was exactly as the Shadow Woman had predicted. He moved away from the bed and asked softly, ‘Will she be with child?’

The Shadow Woman, now in solid form, waited for him behind the stone lattice screen.
‘Not this time,’
she replied.

‘Good.’ Djahr did not care to hide the fact that he desired Khatrene. The confusion on his wife’s face had added satisfaction to his pleasure. He wanted that again. Many times. ‘When can I next join with her?’

‘Tomorrow night,’
the Shadow Woman replied,
‘Though you may call me sooner if you have need of quenching.’

‘I have such need now,’ Djahr said, for despite the power of his release, the sight of his sobbing bride had awoken him to fresh passion.

‘
Very well then
,’ she replied, and Djahr felt her touch on his body, a hand like a tongue, her other hand covering his mouth that he might not cry out and disturb his sleeping bride.

An hour later Djahr slept.

In the morning Khatrene woke to a cold empty bed and she simply couldn’t help herself. She cried and cried and cried.