Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
“ A re you still there, my husband?”
Corrik’s abandoned his usual taciturn ways and has been trying to get me to talk for the past hour, but he needs to get the hint; I want to wallow in my own self-pity. Thus far, he’s blathered on about his home—sorry our home—in Mortouge but I don’t care if they have talking trees, I want to figure out what Papa’s last words to me mean.
I push away from him. “I can go back to my horse now.”
“Nonsense. You’re a mess.” It reminds me of what Father says often to Papa.
“I insist.”
Two cold, violet eyes glare down at me and suggest I tread carefully. I’m in no mood to heed them so I glare back with the same challenge. He wanted to marry a dragon? He’s got one.
“My apologies, I forgot. The world revolves around your desires,” I say. His fists tighten as do the lines of his face. I’m provoking him again. Good. “And for the record, my name is Tristan. Tris -tan! You cannot take someone’s name from them.” I’m not sure why I say that. He hasn’t called me by the other name much since last night, but it’s just another thing on the list I resent him for.
He growls at that, and I’ve lost all the leniency I’m going to get from him. “Sassem Ylor, kiya!”
He whips the reins, furious, and moves us beside his mother who is riding alone with guards while the Elven king rides ahead with Fera and his General.
“Take him. Take him now .”
He thrusts me onto the back of her horse and rides ahead to join his father and uncle. I wait for the queen to scold me, but instead, her soft laughter rises from in front of me. Her omniscience is apparent with the way she conducts herself—she’s a wise maternal being. My mother has a playful way of softening the edge of her tongue when she speaks, but for the queen, it's in her blue eyes; I recall them from the wedding. I wish I could see them now.
“That is my son,” she says, the echo of her laugh still hangs in the air.
I assume she’s referring to his character and remain quiet as we cantor on behind the men of the royal family. I’m just grateful I’m not being told off.
“I shan’t tell you he’s a kind man, but he is a good man. Nevertheless, he is harsh and he’ll never feel sorry for it.”
Yet he was soft with me earlier. D’orhai. Sounded like an endearment. I’m surprised I remember the Elvish word he used when he picked me up off the ground in shambles. It was sweet and I’d say it was kind.
“Despite his undesirable qualities, we all love him—adore him even. You will see. There’s something no one can name that makes everyone love him.”
Is she trying to insinuate that I’ll fall in love with him? No chance of that happening—I don’t even like him. “Yes, your highness.”
She laughs when I use her title. “Kathir, please call me Mother or at least Purinettira. We are much closer than ‘your highness’ now. I want you to know I can relate with how you must be feeling. We were an arranged marriage, the king and me.I hated Vilsarion for a long time. One day you’ll love my Corrik as much as I grew to love my husband.”
The tone of her voice suggests she’s smiling—if only Corrik would smile half as much as his mother does—but how can she smile and know I loathe her son? How can she ask me to call her, Mother?
“You know nothing of our ways, my dear, but you will soon see you were born to be an Elf. As you know, we allow few outsiders to frequent our lands. You’re special. Only someone special would have my blessing to marry my Corrik.”
I’m special, am I?
Why do they keep telling me I’m born to be an Elf? Shouldn’t I have been born an Elf in the first place if that’s truly my destiny? No matter what they say, I’m a dragon, not an Elf.
“Thank you, Mother,” I say.
She’s given me many high compliments, I want to return them in kind, so I start with honoring her the title, Mother, as she’s asked. It feels strange to call another that. I’ve two fathers, and only one mother, but I think I can make room for a second Mother.
When she figures out I’m not in the mood to talk, we ride in silence, and I watch the terrain change. I know this area—we are still within the borders of Markaytia—but we’ve traveled far from the palace, which is in the heart of Dragon’s Rock. We are well beyond the village and farther than Lucca and I would dare travel on our own, though we often did with my father and his guard. Father never went anywhere without at least ten men, and he expected the same of me.
We keep to the road South. Mortouge is to the North, but this road is much easier to travel than it is through the thick forests behind the North wall— a journey much easier made with just two.
The Elven entourage is several hundred men and women—supple, strong-looking warriors—maybe during the time I’m not needed as his sex toy, I could convince Corrik to forgo his silly notion that I shouldn’t have a sword and be permitted to fight alongside them. It wouldn’t be as Warlord, but it would be a satisfactory second prize. Fighting alongside the Elves would be honorable. It’s said that no human has the strength to fight with the elite band of Elven warriors, but according to the queen I’m special—once I become an Elf it might become a possibility.
By the time the sun sets low in the sky, we’ve made it to the borders of a town called Umbria, a Southern town where it’s decided we’ll stay for the night.
Corrik rides back to me and the queen. “How is my delinquent doing?”
“Corrik,” she chides. “Leave the boy alone.”
Corrik says nothing in response, nor do his features give away what he’s thinking as he rakes his eyes up and down, analyzing me. Once he’s decided whatever it is he’s decided, he dismounts and gestures for me to do the same. I follow behind him, but I notice that most of the other members of our party head off in different directions as they enter Umbria. Only about fifty men and women remain with us as we all travel on foot to wherever Corrik is leading us.
“Where are they going?” I ask.
“This town doesn’t have an inn large enough to provide for all of us; we shall have to stay in different Inns.”
Corrik’s parents head off with a different set of guards, and Fera heads off with a couple of the male guards wrapped around him.
“Only fifty guard with us Corrik?”
He raises an eyebrow and smirks. “What’s the matter? Scared my little Markaytian? Never fear, I shall protect you.”
“I’m not scared, I just wondered. My father used to travel with far more men, even to Umbria.” I came here once with Father. We always kept a full army with us, the men who couldn’t fit in the inn slept outside of it so they would be close by. He would never split them up.
“Your father is a human, we are Elves,” he replies, implying that humans are the inferior species. If he thinks humans are inferior, why marry one ?
His horse is given to the stableman—I’ve no idea where Waii has got to—and we head inside. I blush when he grabs my hand. I’ve not stayed at this Inn before. It’s quiet, yet full of patrons who drink beer and eat pub stew.
The barkeep is younger than I expect. I thought I would see a round, old man, balding with a white beard, but instead it’s a tall man with short, dark hair and tanned skin. He’s clean-cut and greets Corrik full of sunshine—I immediately don’t like him.
“Hey! Corrik, you’re back!” He sets down the glass he’s cleaning to shake hands with my husband.
“That’s Prince Corrik, actually,” I snap. Why is he familiar with my husband? Oh, I get it. They must have stayed here the night before the wedding and this “man” must have been his last-night-before-he-was-married-sex. I can see it in his eyes; he looks Corrik over now, feasting on him, sexing him up in his thoughts.
“Sorry. This is my husband, Tris -tan,” Corrik annunciates like I did earlier instead of telling him my Elvish name.
“Pleased to meet you,” he says. “I’m Alvin.”
Right. Sure, he’s pleased to meet me. Our handshake is curt and uncomfortable.
“Everything’s set for you. We reserved the inn for tonight, as you requested. We are honored to have the Elven royalty among us again so soon,” he says with his perfect smile.
“Thank you, Alvin,” Corrik says, his lips tug minutely, which I know is his form of smiling. How dare he smile at this miscreant! I’m an inch away from slicing his lips off with the paring knife I spy beside the limes, when Corrik pulls on my hand and leads me up the stairs. Guards are stationed outside our room, and we go inside. I’m thrust toward the bed.
“Nothing happened between Alvin and I—not like you think it did.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“You know what I’m referring to, you were glaring hard enough to light him on fire. ”
“Well, the man was practically slobbering all over you.”
“So, what if he was? You hate me, remember?” This time his lip ends are tugging harder. It’s almost a half-smile and I can’t help but gloat that his smile for me is bigger than his smile for the barkeep— so there stupid Alvin.
“Or perhaps that’s changed?” His eyes look hopeful.
Have my feelings changed? No. I don’t know why I feel this surge of jealousy except that if I’m stuck with Corrik, he should be stuck with me. “If anything, I hate you more than before—you flirted with him back. I’ll thank you kindly to remember you’re a married man now. Have you Elves no respect for such a contract in addition to having no decency?”
His face brightens like it did the night before and he lets loose the laugh I love. It makes it hard to stay mad at him, but I soldier on with a glare worse than the one I gave Alvin.
“Mark my words, Corrik Cyredanthem. You are my husband now and I say no more flirting with Alvin.”
Corrik moves closer to tower over me, still laughing and nestles his hand into my long, dark hair to grab the nape of my neck. I have no idea how any of the things I’ve just said could make him this happy, but they have. He presses a soft kiss to my lips and pulls away looking at me as if I’m dear to him—for a moment I pretend I am. It’s much better than the truth.
He rubs circles on my cheek with his thumb and then he pulls away. “As you wish, my fierce little dragon. Get ready for bed.” That’s it? Get ready for bed? He hasn’t apologized for what happened downstairs, and we haven’t even begun to talk about earlier today when he dumped me on his mother’s horse and ignored me. Well, if that’s how he wants to be, fine, but this little concubine is closed for the night.
He hands me a bag. Inside are more versions of what I’m already wearing. It’s got some items for washing up, like soap and shampoos, and there is even a kit for shaving. It’s a well-stocked bag only missing one item.
“Corrik, there aren’t any night clothes in here. ”
“Don’t worry D’orhai—you won’t need any night clothes,” he tells me with fire in his eyes.
“Arrrgghhh!” I yell and throw the bag at him, which he dodges. This time he only smiles, without the laughter, and it’s just as beautiful. It freezes me for a minute, until I remember how frustrating he is, and continue to the small bathing room. There is no room for a full bath, but it is a nice ensuite, which has partial plumbing—at least there is a toilet—but no sink. Instead, there is a basin with fresh water and towels, a mirror hangs above them. It will do.
Corrik stays away from me while I wash up. I remove my shirt, tuck it into the hem of my travel trousers, and use the towels and soap provided by the Inn to give myself a light wash. The ride wasn’t hard today, and I was a mere passenger, but I got sweaty and dirty, nonetheless.
Out in the bedroom, Corrik removes his shirt and pants. I take a sharp inhale and watch as the curve of his bicep meets the bulge of the head of his shoulder, the muscles of his oblique wall stand out like they’ve been embossed over his ribcage. His round ass juts out from his large thigh with the gold locks of his hair falling to outline the whole picture, making him look like an angel—except I know better.
Corrik is a fallen angel.
My cock appreciates Corrik’s naked form, and I’m forced to remind him , my penis, that we’re not on tonight, we’re too angry. Except my pants continue to get uncomfortable, and I have to take them off. I focus on my task and jump a mile when I look up to see Corrik in all his naked glory, leaning against the door frame with his arms folded over one another. He smirks arrogantly, his large cock hard, his eyes zone in on my also hardened member. How long has he been watching me?
“Come,” he orders then moves away from the door.
“I’ll bloody well take my time. I don’t care how sexy you are,” I mutter, hoping he can’t hear me. I’ve finished anyway so I hang the towel and return to the bedroom. He’s lying on the bed, his hands pillowed behind his head .
“Don’t you need to wash up?” I’m suddenly nervous. I know what he wants, and I’ve already decided not to give it to him, but the task might prove more than I’m up for at the moment. He did say he’d never force me, but I’m starting to believe he might never have to. He shakes his head.
“Elves don’t sweat?”
“You know we do. You saw evidence of that last night,” he says. “But, not to worry, I won’t smell—not yet—I’ll wash in the morning for you.”
“Do you have built-in air fresheners or something?”
“Or something,” he says. “Now come.”
I join him on the bed but remain as far away from him as I can. “Well, night then,” I say and roll over, away from him. The candle on his nightstand is still lit. It’s obvious he wants to have a conversation; I’m making it obvious I don’t. He doesn’t say goodnight in return, so I know our silent argument isn’t over.
“Why do you dislike your Elvish name?”
I stop pretending I’m going to sleep. That question fires me up and I turn on him, so I face him when I respond. “How would you like it if I told you that from now on you will have a Markaytian name?”
He frowns. “What would my Markaytian name be?”
I try to think of something horrible. “Octavious.”
“Why Octavious?”
“Because it’s stuck up and priggish, just like you.”
His face splits into that beautiful smile of his I love, and he laughs at me again.
“I don’t see why that’s funny. I’ve just insulted you.”
“I don’t feel insulted, not when you’re so damned adorable, trying to get mad like that.” The laughter lights up his eyes now, turning them from cold, purple depths to bright violet beams.
Adorable? I’ll kill him with my bare hands.
I pounce and prepare to punch him in the face, drawing my fist back. I release it with all my might, but he captures each wrist as I punch. My hair flies everywhere as I struggle to get him to release them. When I give up, realizing I can’t escape his iron grip, I settle on glaring down at him. He smiles at me like I’m a wonderment sent by the Gods and his eyes focus on the large black tattoo of the Markaytian dragon embossed on my skin.
“It seems we’ve aptly named each other. I can be stuck up and priggish at times, even my mother says so, I don’t mind admitting that. And you —you are a dragon warrior—you have a fiery spirit.”
“Dragon warrior? Is that what Ka—is that what my Elvish name means?”
“Yes. The first time I saw you, I decided you looked as though you could fight a dragon. I know your name, Tristan, means great warrior , and that Kanes is the family of the Dragon—I know you have dragon thrumming through your blood,” he says.
I’m not sure what to say. He’s put a lot of thought and research into my new Elvish name.
“It’s embarrassing. I can barely say Ka—it.”
“It’s, Kaw-th-ear. Ka is like the sound of the crow, but with a gentler caress, and ‘thir’ is like ‘ear’ with the ‘th’ of a thistle, Kaw-th-ear, Kathir”
“ Kathir ,” I try, saying my first Elvish word aloud. I still don’t say it quite right. His ears flutter as if to say he’s pleased, and I’m encouraged to try more. “And what about the other?”
“Tahsen. The first sound is ‘T’ like the first sound in ‘Tom’ in your language, but it is put together with ahh, to make T-ahhhh.”
“T-ahhh. Tah,” I repeat after him.
“Good. The second syllable, sen, is like sun in your language.”
“Tahsen,” I try. “And what does that one mean?”
For a moment it feels like he doesn’t want to answer, and for the first time I think the Elven prince might blush. He takes a breath. “It means, my heart.”