Chapter Sixteen

“Goddess, help me.”

True whispered the words to the stars and waited for a sense of the beautiful lady’s presence. It did not come. Following his death, while he floated in the darkness, he’d made his request to return to Barta—all he wanted or could imagine wanting. Simple it had seemed, save for the Lady’s sanctions. He needed only to be with Barta as in the past. That had always been enough.

The truth proved far different. Life as a person proved immeasurably complicated—just as the Lady had warned. There existed layers upon layers of feelings and implications, all difficult for him to understand.

He no longer knew how to make his mistress happy. In the past he had needed only to put his face in her lap or lick her chin to elevate her mood. Now he could still sense her emotions, but his presence often seemed to add to her distress rather than alleviate it.

Had he been wrong to return?

No, not that. Never that. They belonged together; the silver cord still connected them. He need only learn to interact with her as he’d once learned to run at her side or attack a chariot.

He must pay heed to the things that gladdened her. Had it made her happy when he kissed her and licked the inside of her mouth? He thought it had, in a strange and excited way. And it had excited him.

The next time he was with her, should he do that again? The very idea started a hum in his blood.

He glanced at Pith’s hut, now dark and silent. True had helped the old man to his bed before coming out into the peaceful dark to wait for…what? The goddess did not mean to show herself, and Barta—

His ears caught a soft rustle—movement—through the trees. Someone approached, and by her step he knew her. He got to his feet and watched her slip like a shadow toward Pith’s door.

“Mistress, here.”

She checked, altered her course, and came to him. He quested for her emotions the way he used to scent for information on the wind.

“True? What are you doing out here?”

“Pith sleeps and I did not wish to disturb him. Come, sit with me.”

She stood unmoving, facing him—stiff to the point of quivering. He caught her shoulders between his hands and she eased somewhat, though her turmoil leaped at him.

“What is it? Where have you been?”

Her only answer came wordlessly as she stepped into his arms. She placed her head against his shoulder and her beloved scent filled him, making everything suddenly right.

Why did there have to be words and complicated feelings, both nearly beyond him? Why couldn’t this be all?

He wrapped her tight in his arms and closed his eyes on a wave of bliss. Her heart beat against his, and her palms pressed his back.

“True, what would I do without you? I’ve lost so much. I’ve lost everything.”

“The goddess willing, you will not lose me.” Yet the knowledge chewed at him: the Lady had not promised them forever. And if Barta failed to guess his identity, the spell would one day end.

“I spoke with Gant. Like the others, he condemns me.”

That True found hard to believe. Gant always lent Barta his support. He whispered, “Why?”

“He sees my faults. In truth, I am rife with failings. He loved our friends who were lost, full well, and just like the others, he blames me for their deaths. He loved Loyal, for all that.” Her voice cracked. “He brands me selfish and tells me to get the upper hand on my feelings.”

But her feelings were all: they had guided True for most of his life, made up the substance of his world. He shook his head. “I do not understand. For him to harden his heart against you…”

“The night of the raid, he did warn me it was a bad idea, he and the others. Did I listen? I thought I could prove something about myself. Clearly, I have… I believe Gant regrets he did not go to Wick that night and stop things before they went so far. If he had, our friends and Loyal would still be alive. What wouldn’t I give to have Loyal here with me?”

He drew her still closer.

“I also think Gant is a bit jealous—of you.”

“Eh?” Jealousy, foreign to the nature of a hound, made no sense to him.

“He more or less accused me of dropping his company for yours.”

“Does he not know I would never get between you and one of your friends?”

Barta made no reply.

“And,” True struggled on, trying to express his feelings, “does he not trust me despite my proving of myself during the trial?”

“Few of them do. I fear the trial did not accomplish what my mother hoped.”

He attempted to look into her face. “And you, Mistress? Do you trust me?”

She raised her head and looked into his eyes. By the faint light sifting through the trees he saw her confusion, wonder, and belief. “Yes. But it’s my heart that trusts you, not my head, and I do not know how to convince anyone else.”

“Does it matter what anyone else thinks so long as we are together?”

“No. Yes. It doesn’t matter when I’m with you; the rest of the time…”

If he had his way, they would never be apart. “Tell me, Mistress, what I may do to help you.”

“Hold me, just like this. I feel such comfort when I touch you.”

That he understood, for it matched what he felt. He drew her nearer and ran his hands up her back until he reached her hair. She wore it braided tight, like her emotions, and he used the unfamiliar appendages of his fingers to work at the plaits, thinking only of her ease. How must it feel to have Gant turn from her?

How might it feel if Barta turned from him, True? His very spirit quailed at that prospect.

Barta, motionless beneath his touch as he freed her hair, said softly, “The goddess is teaching me a lesson, or a series of them. I’m being shown a few truths about myself—and I do not like what I see.” She gave a half laugh. “Do you know what I had to do this evening?”

“No, what?”

“Beg Avinda for her help. You do not know her—have not met her yet—but she is the most beautiful young woman of the tribe.”

“That is not possible. You are most beautiful.” Those strange and powerful feelings had begun flooding through him again. He wanted to touch her mouth with his, wanted to lick her everywhere.

She made a sound of surprise, once more tipped her face up and engaged his eyes. “I almost think you believe that.”

“I see only you, Mistress. I need only you.”

“Call me by my name. Call me Barta,” she requested, and pressed her mouth to his.

As a hound he had lived mainly by instinct. Life existed in the moment and he acted at the impetus of the strength inside him. He’d already learned the life of a person proved much more difficult. But now instinct took over in a rising wave to which he surrendered. Men, it seemed, fell victim to impulses as strong as those of a hound yet far more pleasurable.

Allowing his struggling mind to shut down, he reveled in the feelings that now poured through and uplifted him. He delighted in the way his body and Barta’s fit together, how their spirits meshed, and the excitement that lay in her touch. He reveled in the heat of her mouth and the way she clung to him. His new body understood what should happen next; he had only to follow its urging.

People could mate—he knew that very well. His body needed to mate with hers, and he never paused to wonder if she would be compliant. He merely explored her mouth with his tongue, tasted her deeply, and lowered her to the ground.

There, to his consternation, she began to talk again. She broke the wondrous contact of their mouths and showered his face with kisses interspersed with words.

“Oh, how I need you. I need this. I don’t understand. It’s as everyone says—we scarcely know each other. But I need you here, deep in my heart. Can you explain it to me?”

In answer he dove for her mouth again, captured her lips, and let the rushing feelings fill him. It did not escape him that some parts of this strange body had again become fuller than others. A primitive part of his brain understood that would let him slide into her, become truly one with her—ah, bliss! But she had clothing in the way, as did he.

And by the goddess, she would not stop talking.

Now she evaded his lips once again to say, “Have you an answer for me, True? Can you explain this connection between us?”

He could, but he didn’t dare, and anyway, unlike her, he failed to possess the words.

He captured her face between his hands and stared into her eyes. “Hush.”

She laughed in surprise. He caught the laugh in his mouth as he kissed her once more, still more deeply, till she became very nearly a part of him.

She tasted so good. He wanted desperately to lick her skin and to slide into her.

“Umm.” She breathed the sound and stretched her body beneath his so that hard part of him settled between her thighs. She became—for once in her life—very nearly cooperative and let him own her mouth with his tongue. Only the stars—and no doubt the goddess—could see them here. Dare he do as he desired?

Barta broke the kiss again but only to say, “Here.” He felt her thrust her fingers between them and begin working on the ties at the front of her tunic.

He sought valiantly for words amid the fog that was his mind. “I want to taste you.”

“I want that too.”

Gladdened, he began to assist her, tearing at her tunic with one hand while he propped himself on the other elbow.

She laughed again, a bit unsteadily this time. “Impatient, are you?”

He did not bother to answer. The front of her tunic came open then, half torn, displaying her two white breasts.

He had seen his mistress naked a thousand times. She’d frequently changed her clothing in his presence, and her body had never interested him. They’d swum naked together; at night she’d sometimes even used the slop pot while he watched.

But now he wore a man’s skin, possessed a man’s impulses, and by the goddess, he took notice. For a breathless moment he lay there regarding her by the thin starlight while her eyes asked him a question. What did she want from him? Given the buzz in his head, he could not tell.

He closed his eyes against the overwhelming feelings, listening hard to the instinct that filled him, then bent his head and tasted her.

Salty, warm, and the best thing ever on his tongue. In the past he’d licked her often, her hands, her arms, her cheek. An echo of that flavor still existed, but wilder, sweeter. He tasted her throat in a long swipe, his hound’s spirit appreciating that she exposed that most vulnerable place to him. He ran his tongue downward. Soft, soft. He could bite but remembered she didn’t like that. And the swelling between his legs urged other actions.

“True.” Half moan, his name on her lips further enflamed him. He lapped the swell of one breast and she twined her fingers in his hair.

Ah, so good—as intimate as the times they’d slept together, her limbs resting on his fur.

She urged his attention downward, where his tongue found the hard pebble at the top of one breast. She caught her breath, and he distinctly felt her tense and flood with delight.

Her breast—not large—fit nearly all in his mouth. The white light in his head increased and expanded, filling his reality. He hadn’t imagined anything could taste better than the inside of her mouth; he’d been wrong.

But curse it all, she began talking again.

“True, True, I want to give myself to you. Completely. If I do…”

He wanted to howl at her to be silent and let him enjoy this. Why think beyond the moment?

But if giving herself to him meant he could mate with her, slide that insistent part of him inside her, he should let her speak.

Busy tasting her breast, he made no reply.

“True, tell me it would not be a mistake.”

Could she not put her mouth to better use? He wanted her to lick him in return. But she seized his head, dragged him up from her breast, and looked into his eyes once again.

“If I couple with you, what then?”

Couple? Did she mean mate? He felt afire for that but sensed she needed some reassurance.

“What do you fear, Barta?” The words came to him dimly from a great distance.

“That you will take what I offer and then disappear as suddenly as you appeared.”

“I want only to stay with you for as long as the goddess allows.”

“And, True, would you wed with me if I asked?”

“Wed with you?”

“Join with me—your hand in mine—before the Lord and Lady.”

Were they not already joined? Surely the silver cord accomplished that. If she wanted him to swear it with words, what difference? “Yes.”

Again she caught her breath as if he’d said something significant. Then she unfastened her trews—those of a man—and began to shimmy from them.

True’s heart pounded in his ears and his mind shut down still further to but one impulse: need.

So efficiently did he block everything else, it took a moment to realize she’d frozen beneath him and a great clatter came from far off—shouts and cries and what sounded like the clash of weapons.

Air rushed into Barta’s throat. “What is that?” Before he could speak she answered her own question. “A fight. We are under attack!”

She sprang to her feet and had fastened her clothing almost before True could stand.

“Have you a weapon?”

“Eh?” He gaped at her.

“A dirk?”

“For battle? I need none.”

“Stay here and guard Pith.”

He drew himself up, shedding his desire like a cloak he no longer needed. “You ask me to let you go to a fight without me? No.”

“But…”

“Never.”

“I need you here.”

“You need me with you.”

Once again she gazed into his eyes. He felt it when her spirit relented. “Then come.”