By torchlight, Night Shadow Star and Thirteen Sacred Jaguar were borne down the Avenue of the Sun to her palace. Around them, in the darkness, crowds of well-wishers shouted their salutations. But the calls were tempered, carrying a note of worry, as the people warily studied the Itza and wondered what new marvelous and dangerous Power was rising in their midst.
The Itza had prevailed at each turn until she herself wondered if Thirteen Sacred Jaguar, Horn Lance, and their Natchez weren’t invincible.
Now I must take him into my bed.
Distasteful as that was, her thoughts kept flashing longingly to Fire Cat. He’d been a pillar of strength. Every time her spirit was at the breaking point, all she needed to do was glance back. Just the sight of him—tall, strong, standing at attention with the deadly ax in his hand—had stiffened her resolve.
After the Morning Star had placed the ceremonial blanket over her shoulders, binding her to the Itza, she’d caught a glimpse of Seven Skull Shield wiping what had to be tears from Fire Cat’s eyes.
Stricken, she’d been on the verge of weeping herself. Just as she’d felt the sting behind her eyes, she’d glanced back again, only to see Fire Cat once more in position, jaw clenched, a fire burning in his pain-bright eyes.
If he could bear it, so could she.
He’d been right at the beginning of the combat. She should have stopped it before it started. That Horn Lance had realized what she was about, and initiated the slaughter, only made her hate him that much more.
Then when Thirteen Sacred Jaguar had run his bloody fingers over the hated kukul’s mouth, she’d never craved a human being’s death with such longing. Stopping Fire Cat at the last moment before he attacked the Itza had been one of the hardest things she’d ever done.
But for the alert warriors with their bloody macuahuitl—and the certainty of Fire Cat’s death—she might have let him try. Had she her own weapons, throwing Old-Woman-Who-Never-Dies’ warning to the winds, she’d have joined him.
Patience, fool!
Piasa’s voice startled her, as if the Spirit beast loomed behind her.
“Yes, I know,” she whispered miserably as she was carried up her long steps. Bathed in the flickering light of torches, Horned Serpent and Piasa’s guardian posts seemed alive, their eyes gleaming, snarling faces enraged.
She ground her teeth, jaws clamped as her litter led the way to the veranda. Behind her, jubilant and jovial, trooped the hated Itza warriors and their Natchez allies.
Her stomach twisted as the kukul was carried between the guardian posts. At that instant, the air felt electric, as if lightning could strike from the partly cloudy night.
She fought off a shiver and stood, barely glancing at Clay String and the rest of her household where they waited in traditional respect beside her door. Fire Cat behind her, she refused to look back, walking head held high through her door and into the great room.
A fire snapped and crackled, illuminating the benches, wall hangings, and opulent surroundings. She walked woodenly across the newly laid cane matting, past the fire, and turned at the door to her personal quarters. Her heart like a stone, she watched the Itza and his warriors pour through the door, their eyes taking in the grandeur of her palace.
Thirteen Sacred Jaguar stared around with his Spirit-drugged eyes. Burning Ant stopped beside him, smiling as he held the kukul. Horn Lance grinned, tucking fingers in his belt as he took in the wealth of copper, fine ceramics, and sculpted wood. The rest of the Itza were nodding in satisfaction, while the Natchez gaped like fools.
“Clay String,” she said through a tight throat, “make my husband’s retainers comfortable. They can see to their own cooking and cleaning. They are also capable of supplying their own needs. If anything isn’t clear about that, they can come to me for an explanation.”
“Yes, Lady.”
To Fire Cat she said, “Should my husband decide to join me, we are not to be disturbed.”
Fire Cat swallowed hard, lips quivering. Hoarsely he said, “As you order, Lady.”
She hesitated, willing her souls into her gaze. “If you are not here in the morning, I will understand.”
“My Lady?”
“Take whatever steps you must, Fire Cat. I trust you.”
As he took his position before her door, she stepped into her quarters. Two hickory-oil lamps burned, the flame on their floating wicks casting a soft yellow light through the room. To the side her altar stood. She ignored it as she walked to her bed and seated herself, arms crossed.
Feeling numb, her heart pounding, she waited. A tickle of anxiety unsettled her gut; nervous energy played along her bones.
Beyond the door, she could hear the Itza discussing something in their clacking and rattling tongue. Then someone laughed. The Natchez were joking among themselves in a way that sounded ribald.
“Come on. Just get it over with.”
Her throat had gone dry, every instinct urging her to escape. If only she and Fire Cat were on the river, headed anywhere but—
She glanced up as Thirteen Sacred Jaguar entered, having removed his ponderous mask and cloak. He glanced around the room, gaze stopping at her altar with its well pot.
Then he fixed on her. Only an idiot would misread the distaste in her eyes as she met his. Smiling, he said something in Itza and stopped before her. Reaching out, he fingered her hair, talking to her in soft tones. With the tips of his fingers, he traced out the three-forked design around her left eye. At the same time his voice rose, questioning.
She tried not to flinch at his touch.
A ghost of a smile crossed his lips as he lifted the raven-feather cloak from her shoulders and let it fall. His hands cupped her breasts, fingers—just short of painful—digging into her as he massaged them.
Staring into her eyes, he asked something she couldn’t understand. As if amused at himself, he smiled and shook his head.
“Let’s just get it over with, shall we?” She finally broke her silence and unhooked her skirt, letting it fall. As it did, she slid onto the bed, positioning herself on her back. Pulling her knees up and spreading wide, she choked a swallow down her dry throat.
He took his time undressing, never meeting her eyes, his attention focused solely on her body. To her surprise, his penis hung limply.
Whispering something under his breath he climbed onto the bed and knelt between her legs. She forced herself to breathe normally as he stared at her through those oddly protruding eyes. He fixed his gaze between her legs, reached down and grasped himself. Fingers working, he kneaded himself until his shaft hardened.
“Wait.” She raised a hand as he started forward.
Shifting, she dipped her fingers into the edge of the hickory-oil lamp before reaching down to grasp his erection and slather it with oil.
As he lowered himself onto her, she turned her head to the side, closing her eyes. From beyond her door came the sounds of rude male laughter and foreign song.
This isn’t anything women haven’t endured since the beginning of time, and far from the worst you’ve ever known.
