CHAPTER FIVE - VARI'S PARTY

"Why do Kellion men always dress in uniform?" Sorcha asked when DeSilva, Khyle and Charn appeared for dinner. DeSilva wore fresh black tunic and trousers; Charn had polished her boots and borrowed black breeches and a large white shirt from Khyle Tarn. The Hrin stood between them with his arms draped across their shoulders and a huge, feathered hat in one clawed hand. All three wore sword belts, DeSilva weighed down by his pistols while Khyle sported a pair of long blades and a brace of knives. Charn leant upon her scabbarded sword, her belt empty.

"Are you not hot in that getup, or did you shave from collar to cuffs?" Charn enquired, and Khyle Tarn grinned, his whiskers greased into a coiled moustache.

Further banter was curtailed by the announcement of the main guest's arrival; Vari's suitors came in together, the Darian outlaw Major Kern and the Kellion noble Lord Karvallion, politely guarded by Palace retainers. All the men at the party were armed, including Vari's suitors, but Sorcha still moved a step closer to DeSilva when the Darian Major Kern entered, her heartbeat accelerating.

Kern was a huge man, well over six feet tall and powerfully muscled. He wore a plain linen tunic and tan breeches, apparently his best clothes, and a harness of leather straps bearing sword and daggers. Only Kam Daishen came near the Darian outlaw in height. The Red Knight was a looming presence beside DeKellia and Vari, wreathed in his all-enclosing armour.

Karvallion was typically Kellion; lean and tall, dark eyed, his black hair and beard emphasising his pale skin. He bore a striking resemblance to DeKellia and DeSilva, close enough to be their cousin.

Karvallion bowed low and kissed Vari's hand. As he did so, he caught Sorcha's eye, winked, and smiled.

“Our Kellion fashions suit Silvan women well," he said, but fell silent when his eyes found Charn. Her sword hung, as ever, sheathed in her left hand like a general's swagger-stick; Karvallion did not dare another jibe. Instead, he turned his attention to DeKellia. “Montesinos.”

“Karvallion.” DeKellia smiled wolfishly. Neither of them offered to shake hands. “I thought your clan failed in the war.”

"Oh, it did." Karvallion's lips twisted with a bitter sneer. "I am the last heir of my father's house, as are you..."

"I hate to disappoint," DeKellia said, "but the House of Dansac is doing very well these days. Can I introduce my son?”

DeSilva bowed minutely, then moved to Sorcha's side, offering her his arm. It was a distinctly Silvan gesture; on the opposite side of the group, DeKellia stood with Hnasi at his side while Vashta and Fethne waited behind him true to Kellion hierarchy.

Karvallion's eyes narrowed, but his smile remained fixed. “Your fortunes improve, Montesinos. And where is your brother Noth Kalidor?”

“Meditating,” DeKellia said. “My sister has some entertainments planned for later; Noth is building up his powers.”

Karvallion sneered silently, but Major Kern glowered.

“I've met Noth Kalidor,” the Darian rumbled, “or at least seen his work. During the war.”

“Which war?” DeKellia enquired. “This or the previous one?”

Kern's brows beetled, but he did not rise to the remark; Darians were rarely noted as great conversationalists.

Vari signalled for the band, those servants of hers who were musically inclined, to begin.

The dancers paired off in two lines, Karvallion claiming the first turn with Vari while Kern had to be satisfied with Vashta. Hnasi hissed when Khyle Tarn approached but accepted his offered hand as haughtily as a princess. DeKellia smiled indulgently and accepted charge of Fethne, while DeSilva took Sorcha's hand for the start of the pavane. Charn stood back from the scene, watching with practised disdain until a tall woman dressed all in white stepped onto the dancefloor and offered Charn her hand.

When the music struck up, Sorcha found herself having to do nothing at all; DeSilva took the lead completely and automatically, controlling her dance-steps as effortlessly as he controlled an enemy's sword.

"Where's Kalidor?" Sorcha asked in DeSilva's ear.

"Ask Kam," he smirked, turning Sorcha in a tight pirouette while his eyes followed Charn and her nameless partner. As they whirled in time to the music, Sorcha searched the room for Kam Daishen and spotted the red knight sitting in a corner, still wreathed head to toe in armour despite the party.

"I suppose everyone in your family can dance so well?"

"Naturally.”

The music ended and the dancers stopped, facing one another a pace closer than they had begun. Charn's hand lingered, restraining her partner's fingers while she studied the woman's face. The Woman in White was pale as her ball gown, her eyes in the firelight as black as her hair.

"I don't know who you are," Charn said, softly, "but you are coming with me right now."

They left the dance floor together, hand in hand, their departure causing no stir at all.

“Charn and her new friend have got the right idea,” DeSilva said in Sorcha's ear while they danced, but she resisted his efforts to gently steer her from the room.

“Can't we just dance?” She spoke so softly that he barely heard; her forehead rested on his shoulder and her lips brushed his shirt. DeSilva looked over her shoulder to survey the rest of the room. Charn and her partner had departed, Kam and Kalidor were nowhere to be seen, DeKellia and Hnasi were still dancing, absorbed in one another. Khyle Tarn was dancing with Fethne, the girl performing so admirably it was a wonder Khyle did not lose all self-control and carry her from the room. But it was not Fethne that held Khyle's interest; time and again as the passed in the dance, he stole glances at Hnasi, occasionally purring an enquiry to which she responded with a growl.

By the fireplace, Vari now held court with the remainder of her guests. Drake had cried off from dancing, and Vari had already put off numerous requests from Kern and Karvallion. The Kellion lord was dancing with Vashta, while the Darian sat hunched in an armchair across from Vari, studying her with half feral fascination.

“I'm not sneaking off under everyone's noses!” Sorcha hissed in DeSilva's ear.

“Charn just did. With a woman, no less.”

“That's different.”

“Is it? How so?”

Sorcha found herself at a loss to respond. Charn was Charn, a grim fighting Diva who feared nothing and did as she pleased. Sorcha was a confused girl terrified of what people would think if they knew half the things she had done. And here was DeSilva, egging her on to do more.

Vari's retainers were all occupied maintaining the buffet and the music; no one was paying Sorcha and DeSilva the slightest attention.

“Come on, you.” Taking a firm grip on Sorcha's wrist, DeSilva dragged her off the dance floor. The hall outside the ballroom was empty, but DeSilva hurried Sorcha on until he found a side passage where the music of the party was only a faint murmur.

“Monte, no!” Sorcha protested but offered no resistance; DeSilva pushed her back into an alcove and kissed her. The corset already left her short of air; the kiss put her in a swoon, enjoying her submission and the obligatory protests. “Oh, Monte, stop...”

“Ah, that's not even convincing.” DeSilva hitched up her skirts lifted her against the wall with her legs around his waist. His hands fumbled with her clothes, only to discover the corset. He chuckled, then growled in irritation when the ties refused to yield. “Who the hell tied this?”

“Charn,” Sorcha gasped, still floating semi-conscious on lust and oxygen shortage.

“The woman's a sadist, what sort of person uses a double fisherman's knot on a corset?!”

Sorcha tried to ignore his difficulties until he produced a knife. She had been adrift on harem-fantasies, but the gleam of the blade snapped her back to reality.

“Monte, we can't do it right here!”

He grinned and kissed her again, one arm around her waist to hold her close while he slipped the stiletto behind the corset strings. “Sorry, weren't you paying attention?”

Sorcha made her first real attempt to push him away. DeSilva yielded to the shove, the knife pulling free as he stepped back. The blade was sharp and the corset-strings taut; they twanged as they flew apart. The corset loosened so suddenly that Sorcha's first unrestricted breath left her hyperventilating. The dress was ruined, a long rip in its side, while the corset hung loose. DeSilva already had Sorcha's breasts in his hands.

“Monte, I want to, I do...” she tried to speak around his insistent kiss. “Just not in the damn corridor!”

Something Silvan still left deep inside her sparked and she kneed DeSilva in balls. He coughed and half folded up but did not fall. Sorcha took one look at his face, his Kraag fangs transfiguring pain into a bestial snarl, and bolted, running as fast she could in her high heels. Choking and cussing, DeSilva limped in pursuit.

Sorcha slowed down at the end of the hall, finding herself at the foot of the grand stair to the upper floors. Looking back, she saw DeSilva still attempting to chase her. She was impressed that he was still on his feet, but the feral snarl had receded to mere angry lust. Sorcha bit her lip but could not keep from laughing, and ran up the stairs, one hand clasped to her chest to keep her corset and dress together.

DeSilva paused to swear and catch his breath at the foot of the stairs. “Girl, the things I'm going to do to you...”

“You'll have to catch me first!” Sorcha gained the upper landing, picked a corridor at random, and waited just long enough to be sure DeSilva had seen which one before she ran again.

The ballroom dominated the ground floor of the guest wing; all the upstairs chambers in this part of the Palace were bedrooms. Sorcha picked a room at random, ducked inside and rested her back against the door. She stood still, getting her breath back and listening.

DeSilva had, among his other familial gifts, the natural trick of moving with catlike stealth. His whole family displayed it; even Kam Daishen could walk uncannily softly in his armoured boots, while Noth Kalidor seemed to effect invisibility at will. DeSilva was not being stealthy now; Sorcha could hear him calling her name, and the opening and slamming of doors as he went room to room.

On a spur of mischief, Sorcha turned the key in the lock and moved back from the door.

The room was similar to the one where she had spent her first night with DeSilva; a king-size bed dominated the chamber, with a modesty screen and a dresser on one wall and a desk on the other. Sorcha had a sudden urge to surprise DeSilva with another harem outfit, but there was no time; she could hear him getting closer every second. Anticipation knotted her stomach again; her hands shook as she shrugged out of the ruined ballgown and dumped it on the bed. As she did so, she caught sight of herself in the long mirror near the dresser.

She had been too nervous, in Charn's presence, to admire the dress, much less the underwear. Now she paused, turning to a slight angle and drawing herself up to display her figure. The corset hung loose around her waist, leaving her breasts bare unless she held it up with one hand. The suspender belt around her hips was an unfamiliar Kellion thing; she had never seen one in the harem and was only slowly beginning to realise that Odacon's sailing seraglio had been very sparsely equipped compared to the accoutrements routinely available in a Kellion home.

The stockings were finer than anything she had seen in Silveneir, sheathing her legs in a sheer second skin. The knee-length boots, shiny black leather with silver buckles, were very fetching. One thing Sorcha definitely did not miss about Silveneir was the fashion: utilitarian, drab, asexual. Kellion fashions emphasised the female form, employing great artistry to be revealing even in the icy northern climate.

Sorcha was still admiring herself in the mirror, enjoying the guilty thrill of her own beauty, when DeSilva tried the handle of the door. Sorcha smiled, but still jumped in mild alarm when DeSilva kicked the door in. He did it expertly, plying his boot to the lock hard enough to pop it open in one hit. The door rebounded off the wall almost as hard as it had flown open; DeSilva caught it and slammed it shut behind him.

Sorcha bundled up the ripped dress and threw it at him, then darted to the far side of the bed.

“Will we have to play this game every time?” DeSilva asked.

Sorcha grabbed a fistful of undergarments from the modesty screen and threw those. DeSilva ducked, and Sorcha lunged for the dresser and threw a hairbrush at him. He fielded it on his arm, darted around the bed and grabbed her before she could throw anything else.

“What is it with you? You're all 'come on' and then 'get off'!”

“Deal with it, I have to.”

She tried to break free of his hold, but DeSilva was too strong. Moving with the same grace he had shown on the dancefloor, he swept her off her feet and threw them both on the bed. Sorcha landed breathless, angry, and excited.

She met DeSilva's kiss and pulled him to her, kissing him without restraint while he tugged the corset looser and ran his hands over her body. Haste gripped Sorcha and she began feverishly working at the buttons of his shirt, her fingers clumsy with urgency. DeSilva laughed and grabbed her wrists, pinned her hands to the mattress above her head.

“You know what I'm going to do?”

“Try it.”

Holding her one-handed, he curled his fingers in the strings of the corset and teased a handful of cords free. Sorcha lay still but for the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed. DeSilva had to release his grip to try and bind her; as soon as he did, Sorcha started struggling. DeSilva laughed, tussling with her on the bed until he had her pinned face down. Looping a cord around Sorcha's wrist, he tied her hand above her to the iron bedstead.

“Not like that,” she said. “Not so tight.”

“Oh, I don't want you wriggling free, you little minx.”

“You don't want my hands going purple, either. Put your finger inside the cord, two loops around my wrist, one around the thumb.”

DeSilva loosened the cord enough to work his finger underneath, then looped some slack around her thumb, tied it off, and bound Sorcha's hand back in place with the remaining cord. She tugged experimentally, finding the bonds completely secure. DeSilva was already trying her other hand to the bedstead, both wrists tied separately but close, directly above her head. Finished, he slapped Sorcha hard on the buttocks, making her yelp.

“Oh, you bastard!”

“Well, you certainly deserve it.”

“Do it again,” she breathed.

DeSilva's eyebrows rose, but he shrugged and dealt her backside another resounding slap, then sat back and cracked his knuckles, studying her while she lay at his mercy.

“Again,” she whispered, but he shook his head.

“Oh no, I'm calling the shots; you're the one tied to the bed, kitten. You stay right there.”

He got off the bed and began to undress, peeling off his shirt first, then sitting on the bed again to tug off his boots and trousers. Sorcha rolled on her back, crossing her bound wrists so she could watch him undress. Naked, he went to the door to check the lock.

“Broken,” he reported across his shoulder, then took the chair from the dresser and wedged it beneath the door handle. “That'll do.”

Returning, DeSilva knelt on the bed and eased the loose corset off her hips.

“Nice boots.”

He was already erect; Sorcha found herself salivating with desires utterly alien to her upbringing.

DeSilva scooped her legs together in the crook of one arm, lifting her slightly to stroke his free hand across her buttocks as if he meant to spank her again. “You're blushing.”

“There's something I could do that most Silvans won't.” She smiled, shy of her own wantonness. “Something you could make me do.”

She wet her lips, but the gesture was too subtle; DeSilva leant forward to kiss her. Sorcha could not quite bring herself to tell him directly what she wanted.

“Come closer,” she said, when he drew back from the kiss.

He embraced her closely and kissed her again, her breasts pressing against his chest and their legs twining together. Sorcha still had not communicated her desires; when DeSilva came up for air, she went on kissing him, nuzzling at his jaw. With her hands bound above her, she could only kiss as low as his throat.

DeSilva shifted, propping himself on the pillows to let Sorcha kiss his chest. Sorcha thought he had finally understood when he settled his hand lightly on the back of her head, but he applied no pressure and soon shifted his touch to draw her lips up to meet his again.

He had originally bound her face down; rolling on her back, she had crossed her wrists. Now she lay supine on DeSilva's chest, his arm behind her head and his free hand stroking her breasts. She rested on him, yielding to the soft caress of his hand and melting into the warmth of his embrace. His hand moved down her flank to her inner thigh, gently lifting her legs apart. Sorcha twisted her hips into a better position, laying back against his chest as he entered her from behind. She lolled her head back across his shoulder, surrendering to his kisses and the ministrations of his hand between her legs.

The tempo of her hips against his increased and small gasps began to escape around their shared kiss. DeSilva held her strongly to him, striving into her while she gripped the bars of the bedstead and dug her high heels into the mattress to brace herself.

DeSilva broke the kiss at last, drew back to study her face and eyes while their bodies writhed together. Without his kiss to silence her, she bit her lip to restrain herself. DeSilva stroked her neck and said, “No one will hear you above the music. Scream.”

Sorcha surrendered all control to the urgent cry that forced its way up through her body. She ground her hips deeply back against DeSilva and felt an orgasmic tremor pass from her into him. He pushed hard into her in answer, then snarled and slumped back on the pillows, exhausted.

Dreamily Sorcha rolled over, uncrossing her wrists, and snuggled against his chest while they recovered.

DeSilva shifted enough to retrieve his pipe and herbs. Sorcha watched him light up, cupping his hands over the bowl of the pipe until light glowed from within.

“Monte,” Sorcha began.

“You can't want it again already.”

“Well, not immediately...” she undulated her body against him, her hands still bound above her head. “But I noticed that you didn't use a match just then. I've never seen you use a match. How did you light your pipe?”

“With this.” DeSilva showed her a ruby ring on his left hand. “It's got two fire spirits bound inside. It's a magic ring.”

“Two fire spirits?”

DeSilva nodded. “Yup, a knight and a dancing girl. She comes out whenever the ring's exposed to a flame. The knight seems to pop up whenever he wants.”

He held the ring nearer for her inspection. In the red facets of the gem, she saw the tiny figure of a harem girl dancing in silks of flame.

“Where did you get it?”

“A Darian wizard sold it to me for cash. He called it the Dancing Ring.” DeSilva re-lit his pipe and settled back on the bed before he added, “We haven't got all night, you know.”

“Oh, why not this time? Can't your family murder Vari's suitors without your help?”

“I'm sure they can, but there'll be a big fight afterwards, and in the meantime, I think my aunt had some entertainments planned. Shame to miss them.”

“I should think you had enough entertainment right here.” Sorcha wriggled her shoulders to make her breasts jiggle. DeSilva laughed and leant back across the bed to kiss her.

“We'll be riding on from here tomorrow or the next day, and we've got nights upon nights ahead of us.”

“Until we get to Loth Kavnor.” She shifted as best she could in her bonds. “I don't want to talk about it right now. Not like this.”

DeSilva shrugged and started getting dressed. Sorcha lay still, watching until he started for the door, whistling to himself.

“Hey!” Sorcha yelled, and DeSilva looked back with transparently feigned surprise.

“Yes?”

“You weren't seriously going to leave me tied up here.”

“I though you wanted to stay?”

“Yes, with you! If you're going to leave me in bed alone and horny, the least you can do is untie my hands so I can do something about it!”

“Wow.” DeSilva broke down laughing, covering his face with his hand and glancing up between his fingers. “So, the old bossy Sorcha is still in there, huh?”

“Yes, and she hates you just as much as ever.”

“Oh, I see...” DeSilva started back towards the bed. “Tough Silvan Sorcha hates my guts because sexy harem Sorcha needs to be tied up to keep her hands off me.” He leant close, an inch shy of kissing her. “Is that it?”

Sorcha scowled and tried to bite his nose. DeSilva jerked his head back with a laugh, then began to unbutton his shirt and undress. “I know what you want.”

“Oh, you finally get the hint!” Sorcha parted her legs and waited until he settled between her thighs, his hands braced beside her shoulders.

“You're even more beautiful when you're angry.” He forestalled any response by putting his hand between them and guiding himself into her. Sorcha gasped and rocked her hips against him, drawing her legs up to grip his waist with her thighs, losing herself again in the abnegating waves of sensation.

The earth seemed to shake and she thought it was a tremor within her, but DeSilva stopped, his whole body suddenly rigid, looking up at the window.

“Holy shit, did you hear that?”

The Palace shook again, this time definitely the repercussions of a blast outside. DeSilva bounded off the bed and went to the window. He swore again and spun back to Sorcha.

“It's on already; something just went boom in Karvallion's camp, I can see the smoke from here. We'd get a better look from the roof, that's where everyone else will go.”

He struggled back into his trousers, untied one of Sorcha's hands in a hurry, and left her to release her other wrist while he finished getting dressed.

Sorcha went to look behind the modesty screen for a new outfit.

“Are you coming, or what?” DeSilva demanded.

“Give me a chance to get dressed!”

DeSilva had drawn his sword and kicked the chair away from the door. “Look, you should probably just stay here. It's not like you want to get involved in the fighting, right?”

“Oh, go on, I'm sure I'll be fine.”

DeSilva hesitated on the threshold until a third explosion echoed outside before he ran for the nearest stairway to the roof.