With that grip she pulled him on to his side, and her leg, lifting to settle over him, felt astonishingly heavy. Her other hand reached down, forced itself under his hip, and pulled him over her lower leg until he was clenched between her thighs.
She made a sound when she guided him inside her.
He did not know what was happening. He did not know where she’d put him in, down there between her legs. Was it the hole where she pushed out her wastes? It could not be — it was too far forward, unless women were different in ways he had not imagined.
He’d seen dogs in the yard. He’d seen Calaras savagely mount a mare, stabbing with his red sword, but there was no way to tell where that sword went.
She was moving against him now, and the sensation, of burgeoning heat, was ecstatic. Then she grasped his wrists and set his hands round her hips — they were fuller than he’d imagined they would be, and his fingers sank into deep flesh.
‘Pull,’ she whispered. ‘Back and forth. Faster and faster.’
Confusion vanished, bewilderment burned away.
He shuddered as he emptied himself into her, felt exhaustion take him — a deep, warm exhaustion. When she let him slide back out, he rolled to lie on his back.
But she said, ‘Not so fast. Give me your hand… no, that one. Back down, wet the fingers, yes, like that. Now, rub here, slow to start, but faster when you hear my breathing quicken. Arathan, there are two sides to lovemaking. You’ve had yours and yes, I enjoyed it. Now give me mine. In the years ahead, you and every woman you lie with will thank me for this.’
He wanted to thank her now, and so he did.
The boy had done his best to be quiet, but Rint was a light sleeper. Though he could not make out what his sister was saying to Arathan, the sounds that followed told him all he needed to know.
So she was ensuring that she’d get some pleasure from this. He could not begrudge her that.
She’d told him that Draconus had not commanded her. He had but requested, and no repercussions would attend her refusal. She had replied that she would give the matter some thought, and had said the same to Rint, pointedly ignoring his disapproval.
Leave the teaching in the hands of some court whore. Play it out like the cliche it’s come to be. There are ways of learning and they repeat generation after generation. Of all the games of learning, surely this is the most sordid one. Feren was a Bordersword. Did Draconus understand nothing but his own needs, and would he trample everyone on his way to answering them? So it seemed. His son was about to become a man. Show him what that means, Feren.
No, it wouldn’t be a whore for Arathan. Nor a maid, nor some farm girl from one of the outlying hamlets. After all, any one of these could come back to haunt House Dracons, seeking coin for a bastard child.
Feren would do no such thing, and Draconus well knew it. The father need not worry about his son spilling seed into her womb. If she took with child she would simply disappear and make no claim upon Arathan, and she would raise that child well. Until, perhaps, the day when Arathan came for it.
And so the pattern would be repeated, from father to son and ever onward. And of women with broken hearts and empty homes, well, they were nothing worthy of concern — but this is Feren. This is my sister. If you get with child, Feren, I will escape with you, and not even the kin and will of House Dracons will ever find us. And should Arathan somehow do so, I swear I will kill him with my own hands.
High overhead, the stars blurred and spun, as if swimming a river of rage.
Sagander regained consciousness just before dawn and after a moment he gasped. Before the tutor could make another sound, a gloved hand pressed down upon his mouth, and he looked up to see Lord Draconus crouched over him.
‘Be silent,’ Draconus commanded in a low tone.
Sagander managed a nod and the hand left his mouth. ‘My lord!’ he whispered. ‘I cannot feel my leg!’
‘It is gone, tutor. It was that or your death.’
Sagander stared up in disbelief. He pulled one hand free from the blankets and reached down, only to find his hand flailing where his thigh should have been. A mass of sodden bandages met his groping fingers halfway down from his hip.
‘You struck the face of my son, tutor.’
Sagander blinked. ‘My lord, he spoke ill of you. I was — I was defending your honour.’
‘What did he say?’
Sagander licked dry lips. His throat felt swollen, hot. He had never before felt as weak as he did at this moment. ‘He suggested that he was your weakness, Lord.’
‘And how did this statement come about, tutor?’