Unbound (31 page)

Her heart thundered in her ears, outpacing the grav sled.
Soon now, soon now, soon now,
it seemed to chant. It couldn’t be soon enough.

 

 

Romir stared back
the way they had come, the clues falling into place with hindsight. “It makes sense now.”

“What does?” Though she asked, Asrial did not look up from the controls of the craft, her gaze shuttling among the glasses on the panel without rest.

“Why the lights in the archive and the gate responded to your presence. They tied the defense of Salima to the Dilaryn blood-line, so that even after weavers are no more, the people could still retreat to Salima. I suspect there are other weaves here that would respond to you as well.” The additional sacrifice, after all they had lost, must have been heart-wrenching.

Her only reply was an abstracted hum, which was all his speculation was worth. In this age of travel across the abyss between worlds, these people no longer needed such a haven. Despite the loss of weaver lore, they had attained the stars.

He left her to her flying. As much as he wanted a distraction, neither of them could afford one.

Trees flashed in the light from the ice ring arching through the Lomidar night sky above the western horizon, their soaring tops outlined against the splatter of silver. Bright glimmers skimmed the night’s light-washed gloom, starships commencing their voyage through the abyss between worlds. The beauty of the glittering heavens was lost to Romir, concerned as he was about detection. This world had so many more ways to spy upon others. The added light could only aid Asrial’s enemies.

He could not rely on the defenses left by those long-departed weavers; they could not have imagined the wonders of the present day. If they had also copied the defenses of the Academe of Daraya along with the institution’s layout, he most certainly could not afford to trust Asrial’s safety to the weaves.

After all, even the Academe had fallen.

Dappled creatures lurked beneath the rustling leaves, taking fright at the grav sled’s swift and silent passage. Consigned to patience while Asrial flew them to their destination, Romir found himself in sympathy with those creatures.

He did not understand the trepidation in his heart. It was not the fear of capture by those who hunted the woman he loved that afflicted him. Nor was it the dread that freedom would be snatched away. Freedom lay within his grasp. Had he not dreamed and yearned to escape this damned existence? Why then did fear stiffen his limbs?

The answer evaded him, slipping through his fingers like the gray fog of his prison. All he knew was that his heart quailed the farther they flew.

Beside him, Asrial said nothing, her attention given entirely to the controls of the craft. If she feared, she hid it well, guiding the grav sled along the moss-covered track without hesitation. She did not slow when the black needle of the fortress’s silhouette cut the silver arch in the sky, nor for its gate, baring her teeth in a fierce smile as they cleared that barrier. Only when she reached the extent of their earlier exploration did she speak. “Where now?”

He guided her to a gate that gave access to the interior meadow and the spring that was their destination. It was a struggle to keep his voice even and not betray his rootless trepidation. Why this sudden cowardice?

They came upon a lush glade nestled against the mountainside, serene and pristine, the grass flowing to the spring’s basin. She landed them at the water’s edge, as gentle as a feather settling down.

Moist, warm air and singing water greeted them—so ordinary and, if he was honest, something of a disappointment. The way his heart quailed, they should have been surrounded by flocks of ravenous yfreet and a gross of vyziers. But there was nothing to menace them, not even one of the black-clad men who served Asrial’s enemy.

He would have laughed at his foolishness, if the heaviness in his heart had not remained.

 

 

Asrial lifted
the flask from the buffered storage compartment with great care. Now that they were here, her heart was lodged in her throat, its rapid beat a disconcerting flutter. Her knees threatened to buckle and dump her on her backside. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about with the half-light and the wet rocks.

She cursed silently. She regularly risked burn-up on entries—in fact, she enjoyed the danger. She’d walked the darker sides of many Rim Worlds. She’d had her share of close calls. This time, failure didn’t mean possible death, so why did her hands sweat like a student pilot’s on her first board?

Romir was silent, watching the skies for danger, keeping his distance from his prison—and therefore from her. That distance felt wrong. Here they were, on the brink of freeing him, but it was like she walked alone.

Not for long. She clutched that hope close to her heart. If she succeeded, the constant threat to his freedom would be gone. No longer would she fear his disappearance into his prison. She would have him by her side without fear. The hope sustained her through the silent walk.

Large rocks dammed the spring, a maze of boulders bordering a dark pool. The lack of color lent the scene an air of mystery enhanced by the strangeness of the sounds around them. Though they stood in an Inner World, she couldn’t hear any of the clicks, thumps, or hums of technology.

Romir extended his bent arm, a silent yet graceful offer to steady her. She took it, accepting his support despite her ingrained reluctance. This was no time to cling to independence.

They couldn’t risk anything happening to the flask—his body. Though it had survived the passage of centuries, she shouldn’t forget that it appeared a prime example of Majian pottery—the only one of its kind intact. She couldn’t help but wonder if the other examples—all shards—had been the bodies of djinn. The thought of coming this far only to slip and shatter the flask sent ice through her veins.

She wanted to free Romir—but not through death!

Up close, the rush of water spilling over the rocks made hearing difficult. Cradling Romir’s prison in one arm, Asrial descended the stones to the basin. With her other hand, she gripped his forearm. The stones were wet and slippery and threw strange shadows in the light of her head lamp. The pool seemed clouded with mystery, starlight and ringlight picking out silver points on its dancing surface and making the water look blacker.

Perhaps they should have waited for the sun to rise, but she didn’t want any witnesses to the rite. The Dareh’s threat was a constant worry, inescapable while she and Romir remained on Lomida. Waiting for dawn would mean exposing Romir’s prison to possible scrutiny—and capture.

Her arm tightened around the precious flask. They had to get this done.

Asrial set the flask in a secure niche in the mossy rocks, then took off her boots to dip a toe into the burbling pool. Though the water came straight from the mountainside, it was surprisingly warm, not cold at all. It made it easier to strip off her clothes and enter the pool. If she’d been the superstitious sort, she might have thought it auspicious. As it was, she just thanked the Spirit of space that her teeth wouldn’t be chattering like loose contacts.

A weight settled on her shoulders—apprehension, nerves, anticipation, a mix of all three. Her heart thundered in her ears. Time seemed to slow, almost as if the universe itself held its breath.

Mustering her resolve, she picked up Romir’s prison, wondering how Lomidar water would break the weave that kept him a djinn. When Romir tried to explain about weaves, it had sounded like children’s tales—or advanced tech so bleeding-edge it might as well have been one of her mother’s stories. She only knew that they worked because she’d seen it for herself.

But suspended animation . . .

She hugged the flask, the etching rough against her breasts but warm. Somehow, it felt alive, not some inanimate artwork made to be admired. A part of Romir? Romir’s true body? For some reason, it helped to think of it that way—not as an object of contempt or horror but something to be cherished.

Springwater splashed around her, seductive in its warm wetness. Flowing over the slopes of her breasts. Dripping down between her thighs. Coaxing her body to readiness. As if the elements conspired to aid her.

Her breath turned choppy, the night air thick in her throat. Her breasts swelled, her skin too tight. Her nipples hardened to aching points.

Asrial waded deeper into the pool until the water reached the tops of her thighs. She could feel its warmth stirring her curls, its dancing surface lapping against her swelling clit. Pure seduction.

Water splashed on the flask in her arms, the spray wetting her cheeks and trickling down her throat. The sensation was similar to Romir’s licking her there—light, fleeting, almost an imagined warmth. With her fingers, she followed the water’s trail over her breasts and down her body, building on the sensual awareness left in its wake.

The flask turned out to be an awkward burden as she set out to pleasure herself. It was so bulky that despite its shape she couldn’t really use it like a pleasure wand. Juggling it from hand to hand didn’t work, but she didn’t want to put it aside for fear she’d forget her purpose. However, using only one hand was time-consuming—and distracting.

Proof of passion, proof of pleasure
was what was required, according to the light text, to anoint Romir’s . . . body with the cream of her orgasm. Her cheeks heated at the reminder.

She’d thought she could do it alone, had expected it would be just like countless times she’d pleasured herself. But getting aroused all alone while he watched was too embarrassing. Though the desire was there, she couldn’t take it further.

“Help me.” Asrial extended a hand to the shadowy form standing guard at the pool’s edge.

Romir’s clothes vanished as he entered the water. He stood before her naked, the light from the ice ring spangling his body with silver, like some heroic statue in a Majian ruin. Only the tat on the ball of his left shoulder marred the image, as though some monster had taken a bite out of him.

Though they had been lovers for some time already, his approach was hesitant, almost reluctant—cautious, though she wasn’t certain what gave that impression. He moved behind her, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders.

“I cannot touch you as I would.” He pushed back the wet hair clinging to her cheek and pressed his lips to the hollow behind her ear. The sly touch of his tongue toying with her lobe sent a quiver of surprise sizzling down her spine. He may not be able to touch her as he pleased, but that didn’t seem to limit him.

Asrial moaned. That one lick had done more to arouse her than her own efforts. “You’re good.”

He seemed to take her words as a challenge. With just his mouth, he dissolved her self-consciousness, nibbling on her nape and shoulders and ears. He sucked her lobes, and she felt it between her thighs and in the center of her being.

His erection pressed against the small of her back, hot and thick, ready to take her. She reached behind, taking him in her palm. The heft of him, the heaviness of his balls, just the feel of him made her melt with longing, desire a throbbing emptiness demanding to be filled. Squeezing him, she arched back and rubbed herself against him in deliberate invitation.

Romir caught her wrist, his hold gentle yet implacable. “It is dangerous. You are too exposed here.”

Even here in the safety of Salima, he sought to protect her. From what? The grav sled’s sensors hadn’t detected any wildlife nearby. From the Dareh? “But—”

“No.” Turning a deaf ear to her arguments, he parted her folds, his long fingers gliding over her sensitive flesh in possessive strokes. Over and over. Sending electric sparks shooting through her nerves—and he hadn’t even entered her yet.

When he sent his fingers deeper, she was more than ready for it. Her body craved his touch, yearned for a more thorough possession. She wanted him inside her, stretching the tender flesh that ached for him.

Under his hands, pleasure grew, swelled, rose to shuddering heights. Her heart thundered like the thrusters of a ship about to launch. Her knees threatened to fold from under her.

Her fingers twined with his as they dipped between her wet folds. The intimacy of their united touch sent sensual awareness blazing into overdrive, her body shuddering with plasma-hot desire.

It was too much to bear. Carnal hunger erupted in a blast of pure rapture. She clenched her thighs against the spasm of raw sensation as she melted over their joined hands.

Spirit of space, she nearly forgot what they were about. Only the tightness of Romir’s embrace kept her on her feet and her mind on their purpose.

Holding her breath, she touched her slick fingers to the flask, smeared her cream over the dark etching. This was it: the final step.

 

 

Pleasure swirled under
his skin, an insidious seduction singing from his djinn mark, digging tiny hooks into his essence, wrapping slender coils around his will, and weaving a net of sensation to undermine his resistance. Treacherous delight tugged at him, trying to draw him back to his prison.

No, he could not give in.

Romir fought its call, focusing all his thoughts upon Asrial. He could not leave her unprotected, not here in the heart of enemy territory. No fortress was invincible, not the Academe of Daraya, certainly not this barren imitation. And after the violence of the day, it was clear that Asrial’s enemies were the sort to insist on revenge. Her safety rested on his vigilance, on his strength.

His heart railed against further betrayal.
Please, not again.
He could not stand to fail yet another person important to him.

Power and patterns. He had to remember his part. The body was anointed, now he had to focus the life energy through the antipode. Weaving took all of his concentration.