Disclaimer - Valdemar, Heralds and Companions are the works of Mercedes Lackey, and remain her sole and personal property. Firechild Legacy is a derivative fanfiction work not intended for publication or profit. Kahlen belongs to me.
Apologies for being so slow to update. Got spread too thin again.
Chapter 17 – Kahlen's Choice
Kahlen barely noticed when Orwen led the way to his suite of rooms, or when he sent a young, wide-eyed page off with an order that simple foods to be brought to his quarters. He studied the girl's wide, staring eyes for a moment, then led her into a bathing room, gently disrobed her and pushed her down into a large, sunken tub. The water was warm, and soothing enough to make her weep. The oils he poured in added a warm, light scent to the air that cleared her head and eased the tension in her muscles. Her back ached with the remembered pull on long unused flight membranes, transmuted now into human flesh and blood. He'd disrobed and slipped into the water, unbraided her hair, and lathered it with a thick, creamy soap before she realized just what he was doing.
It didn't matter. She didn't feel real. The water flowed, she discovered, watching the lather stream away and disappear into the far channel of the enclosure. The tiles lining the pool were warm. She tensed, feeling Orwen's hands on her body, but his touch was impersonal, working the muscles gently at first, then with greater firmness. She sighed and leaned back into his hands. He lowered her into the water, sluicing water through the thick, pale blond strands until the water ran clean. When she finally looked at him, his own hair was gleamed with water and traces of soap, and his eyes were dark with humor and regret.
"Better?" She nodded wordlessly. Orwen rose and reached for towels and bathrobes, and shared them out with her. She found a large comb on the titled counter, and worked it soundlessly through her hair before stepping shyly back into his quarters. A sitting room, meant for lounging or reading. A platter of sliced fruit, cheeses and bread waited on the table, and a pitcher of mulled wine. A wrapped pot of stew sat on warming on the hearth. Kahlen reached listlessly for the bread, but didn't think she could eat much. She was still thinking that when Orwen ladled a second helping of the stew into her bowl. She ate mechanically, her body demanding nourishment, her mind indifferent to the taste or texture. It was food. It eased the hunger brought on by shapechanging.
Orwen set his own bowl aside, sighed and closed his eyes. "What are you doing to me, Kahlen?" A sound made him look at her. The stricken misery in her eyes undid him, and a moment later she was in his arms, weeping softly. "Not the outwalking – or what ever it is." He murmured soothingly. "That comes as the Lady wills, I think. I don't mind it, really – it let me save Josseran today." He ran a gentle finger over her lips.
"I dream about you, you know. I dream about fire, and flying, and lightning searing through a black night." He pulled her closer, and sighed when her arms slipped around him, seeking comfort. "I dream of having you with me like this, and hoping for more." He raised her head and stared into the dark, amethyst eyes. "I dream of children who can fly, and heal, and bless my hearth like their mother."
"I can't." She whispered hoarsely. "I can't risk you. You don't know -"
"That you're different? Do you think that matters to me? Firechild. Your first companions – Zethren and Drisae – called you that, with much affection. But it's true, isn't it?" The Circle once asked if you were a firestarter – if you had control of it. And you answered, 'It is what I am.'"
His eyes darkened with determination and passion. "So you'd better teach me, so we don't burn down the palace." And the flames came, not from her, but from the man who held her, who would not let go – and whether by merest chance or instinct, had wrapped them both in silk.
A wild hunger swept through her – and he was with her, shifting into firelight and shadow, weaving a light that did not – quite – set the furnishings on fire. His control wavered, the fire burst out – and she was guiding him, limning wings of scarlet with shape and form and the trailing edge of living flame, shifting soundlessly into her own fireform – then drawing them back ruthlessly into human shape. The room shimmered as shadows warred with the flame, then settled as the fire drew back into flesh and blood and sheer wonder.
"How did you – how could -" Kahlen raised shaking hands to his hair, gazed, astonished at the banked flames behind the gold eyes. The wide sofa where they'd fallen was unmarred.
Orwen raised a trembling hand and called the fire, watched it dance silently on the palm of his hand. He closed his fingers, quenching the tiny flames, then stroked cautious fingers through her hair. "Will you have me, Kahlen?" The voice was tender, yet rasped with exhaustion. His energies were low, dangerously so, but his eyes burned as he looked at her, waiting.
Kahlen's hands came up, swept through his hair, then rested on his shoulders. The amethyst eyes gleamed with longing and uncertainty. "We're neither of us fit to decide such things." She whispered softly. "And I'm fool, and you a greater one. But I will have you, Lord Orwen."
"And you'll be Lady of Ravencroft." He pressed her into the cushions, implacable, though his hands were gentle. A world of questions lay in his eyes.
"I will be... myself." But she sighed and yielded eagerly his questing touch. Their robes shimmered, melted to her will, and reformed as a rich, shimmering covering, streaked in green and gold, the colors of his house, and heraldic blue. What fires came at their calling were quenched beneath the silk.
Okay. It's short, but there's no cliffhanger. Next chap I'll revert to my usual evil ways.