Aviara

“Lorgin! Lorgin, wake up!” Deana shook her husband’s shoulder. Normally the lightest of sleepers, tonight of all nights, he seemed to be in a dead sleep. Probably because I’ve been keeping him up all night, every night, she reluctantly admitted.

Well, these last months were no picnic, and why should she have to suffer alone? It was his fault to begin with! Not telling her how the Transference really worked…

She punched his arm.

“Mmm…I am not hungry.” Lorgin tried to burrow under his pillow.

“Who cares if you’re hungry? Lorgin ta’al Krue, wake up this minute!” She pounced on his broad back.

“I am up.” The resigned voice came from under the pillow.

“Good, because I want you to go into the village and get the healer.”

His golden blond head rustled out of the bedcovers. He turned on one side to face her. “The healer? Are you ill?”

She whacked him with her pillow. How could such a brilliant, magnificent warrior be so dumb? “No, I am not ill! It’s time.”

His brow furrowed. “Time for what?”

Time for what! “Time to have the baby!” A dull pain gripped her lower back. “Please hurry, Lorgin!”

Lorgin came instantly awake, all peripheries working. He leapt out of bed. “You are sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure—now go!”

“Let me see.” He ran his large palm gently over the swell of her stomach. He looked at her. “You are right, Adeeann. The babe is ready to come.”

She knew that…but how did he know that? Chocking it up to another Aviaran oddity—and they were legion—she motioned for him to leave.

He grinned. “You do not need a healer, Adeeann.”

“Are you nuts? And who’s going to deliver the baby? You?”

“Yes.”

Deana’s mouth gaped. “Stop trying to make me laugh—this is serious, Lorgin.”

“Very serious,” he agreed.

A sweat broke out across her brow. When Lorgin had that look, he usually meant what he said. Oh no. “Don’t do this to me now, Lorgin. Go get the healer.”

Lorgin sat on the edge of the bed, taking her hand in his. “There is no need to be concerned, zira. It is a timehonored tradition. Aviaran fathers teach their sons how to birth their children into the world. I will bring forth the babe.”

Deana stared at him, stunned.

“Does this not make you happy?” he asked sweetly.

She started screaming her head off like a woman possessed.

“I want a doctor, do you hear me! I want a hospital! I want people wearing scrub suits around me with masks!” A particularly sharp pain gripped her lower belly. “I want morphine!”

Lorgin’s eyes widened; he backed off from the bed—carefully.

“But, zira—”

Deana would later swear that her head turned one hundred and eighty degrees just like the kid in The Exorcist. Surely that deep, inhuman voice which came from her mouth was not her own. “GET THAT HEALER!” said the voice from hell.

Lorgin stood transfixed in the middle of the bedroom, gaping at the changeling that was once his lovable wife. He swallowed, trying to figure out how to deal with this zealous creature. It would not do to provoke it.

“Are you having some difficulty, Lorgin ta’al Krue?” The amused question came from the bedroom doorway.

Lorgin gratefully greeted the visitor. “Yaniff! Why does she act this way? Our custom is one in which wives find much joy. Surely she misunderstood me?”

Yaniff chuckled. “I think not, Lorgin. Things are much different in her world.” His sights went to the corner of the room where their tree had already grown a small connecting room for the babe. Over time, Yaniff knew, many rooms would be added to this house and they would all be filled with happiness.

A loud wail came from the bed, followed by a scary roar of outrage.

Lorgin paled.

“I will speak to her. Perhaps I can ease your path.”

“Thank you, Yaniff.” Lorgin ran his damp palms down his thighs. He was so concerned, he had not even realized he was standing in the middle of the room stark naked.

Yaniff found this extremely humorous. Lorgin was their finest warrior; in the past he had faced down countless enemies, not to mention dangerous beasts of all kinds. Yet, here he stood like a youth in his first battle. Truly, he loved his wife.

“You may wish to put on some tracas while I speak to her. She may feel more comfortable giving birth into the hands of a man who at least has on some tracas.” Yaniff’s eyes twinkled.

Lorgin looked down, surprised to see he was completely unclothed. He stormed over to a cabinet and, pulling out a pair of black leather pants, slipped them on.

Yaniff approached the bed. “Adeeann.”

“Yaniff!” She grabbed the old wizard’s hand. “Help me! You said you would send me back when ever I wished—well, I want to go now! You may deliver me to a place called Mass General. The front door will be fine.”

Lorgin came up to the bed. He had overheard her words and he was blazing with anger. “Yaniff, what does she mean when she says you will send her back whenever she wishes? Think you I would allow such a thing? I forbid—” Yaniff motioned him behind his back to be silent.

Due to his zira’s condition, he stood down; but he fully intended to straighten Yaniff out about that ridiculous idea of his wife’s.

“Adeeann,” Yaniff began calmly, “what is all this commotion about?” He sat on the edge of the bed.

Deana started to cry. “I’m so scared, Yaniff. I really do think I need a hospital—with lots of professional people and tons of medicine.”

“There, there.” The old man patted her hand. “I can assure you Lorgin will do fine; Krue has trained him. He knows what to do to help you. Think of the beautiful experience it will be for the two of you to share such a momentous event together. The life you have both created will take its first breath surrounded only by the love of its parents. It is the Aviaran way.”

“But I’m not Aviaran.” Her lower lip quivered.

“Nonsense. You became Aviaran the instant you accepted Lorgin’s troth.” He leaned over, speaking quietly near her ear. “Would I leave you in less than the best of hands?”

Knowing Yaniff as she did, she had to acknowledge his words. “No, I know you wouldn’t.”

He squeezed her hand. “You see? Everything will be fine. You have my word on it.”

Deana instantly relaxed. If Yaniff said it, then it would be so.

“Do you trust Lorgin?” he wisely asked her.

“More than anyone in my life,” she whispered.

“Than you have spoken for yourself. I will leave the two of you now.” He kissed her forehead, then nodded to Lorgin, who was standing by the door. “Walk with me, Lorgin. I believe your zira is inclined to the Aviaran way now.”

Before Lorgin walked the old mystic down the stairs to the living level, he paused, turning back to Deana. He met her wide-eyed, frightened look with a level one of his own. “I will be right back, zira.”

Deana nodded nervously.

Downstairs, Lorgin said what was on his mind. “What is this nonsense of you returning Adeeann to her world should she desire it?”

Yaniff smiled. “Do you see her desire it?”

“That is not the point and well you know it. You can not interfere with an oath couple! What were you thinking to promise her such a thing?”

“The illusion serves her well. So long as she believes she has the power to return to her world, the more comfortable she feels in remaining.”

“I do not like it.”

“Come now, Lorgin, surely a warrior such as yourself can keep his woman happy enough so she would not want to return to her old home.” Yaniff was being his usual sly self.

Lorgin was not to be misled. “I would have your oath, as well, Yaniff,” he shrewdly demanded.

The ancient wizard watched him. “And what oath could I give you that would still honor my oath to her?”

“You can honor your oath to her, but only with my permission.”

Yaniff snickered. “You have always been an excellent student, Lorgin.”

He smiled. “So, you agree?”

“How can I not?”

“Good. I best return to Adeeann.”

“She will be fine.”

“I am relieved to hear you speak thus, Yaniff. It eases my mind.”

Yaniff nodded. “This one will not give you any trouble.”

Lorgin blinked. “This one? What mean you by that?”

Yaniff’s eyes gleamed with amusement; he cuffed Lorgin soundly on the head. “And what mean you by asking your Charl master questions you know he will not answer?”

He laughed at the expression of sheepish chagrin on the younger man’s face.

“Go back to your zira; I will visit with you on the morrow’s eve after you have all rested. By then, there will be a new life for me to welcome—a most favorable addition to the line of Lodarres. A proud moment, indeed.” Yaniff placed his hand on Lorgin’s shoulder.

Before the wizard had reached the platform, Lorgin was already by his wife’s side.

Throughout the long hours that followed, Lorgin showed her the true measure of a great Aviaran warrior. In constant control, despite his own inner trepidation, he was a tower of strength by her side.

His calm, coaxing presence was a balm to her fraying nerves. Through each phase of her labor, he patiently and lovingly guided her. And when the pain became severe, he took her hands in his own, sending her wave after wave of his power. The transferring of his strength to her somehow acted like a prophylactic, taking away her discomfort and renewing her vigor.

It was a long labor, draining them both. After several hours, when Lorgin took a moment to carefully clean the blade of his Cearix, Deana endeavored to joke, “I don’t want to know why you’re doing that.”

He smiled faintly. “Good, then I will not tell you.”

The birth of the child was imminent. A tremendous pressure seemed to grip her belly. “Lorgin!” She called out his name. He quickly returned to her side, giving her even more of his powerful strength.

He was starting to look quite wan himself, Deana realized. Dark circles ringed his amethyst eyes. His normally vibrant golden tan skin tone had a pallid, gaunt cast. He would give me his last shred of vital force if he felt he had to…

At that moment, Deana felt so much love for him that she thought she would burst of it.

“No more, Lorgin, it’s enough,” she managed to gasp, worried now for him.

“You are sure?” He watched her, a drawn look on his face.

“Yes, yes I’m sure.” she tried to stifle a groan as a tremendous urgency seized her.

The crystal chimes outside all started to chime at once from a sudden breeze. What a beautiful melody, she thought amidst her exertions.

“The babe comes, Adeeann!”

Their child slipped into his waiting hands.

Lorgin was silent for several moments. When he looked up, there were tears in his eyes. “A daughter, Adeeann. We have a beautiful daughter.”

“A little girl?” Deana’s face lit up with joy.

Speaking in a strong voice, Lorgin intoned the traditional Aviaran words of birthing with the overwhelming emotions he was experiencing.

“I give to you my power, my wife,

And you return it to me—

The most precious gift of generations.”

He then cut the cord with the Cearix that had seen the birth of sixteen generations of his family.

“The line is cut

And so begins anew;

The line of Lodarres continues.”

He reverently handed their child to her.

Deana looked down at the baby in her arms, her own eyes filling. “Look what we did, Lorgin—it’s a miracle.” Moved, he kissed her softly on the lips.

Deana tasted one of his tears on her tongue. Yaniff was right; it was an incredible moment, one she was glad to share only with Lorgin. The Aviaran custom was a good one. Fathers must teach their sons well here.

“What is it?” Lorgin noticed the speculative look on her face.

“I was thinking about your custom and I suddenly realized that Theardar must have loved Traed; how couldn’t he after experiencing the same thing you did?”

Lorgin looked away. “Theardar could not do it, Adeeann. You see, he knew that Marilan would die with the birth of his child. It was a terrible thing, unheard of, for an Aviaran father not to bring forth his own child. It was Krue who brought Traed into this world.”

“And watched his own sister die?”

“Yes.”

Deana gazed down at her own precious baby. Little bits of red hair fuzzed her head. Amethyst eyes stared adoringly up at her. Who could not love a baby? Remembering the beautiful tinkling of the chimes at the moment of her daughter’s birth, she lovingly stroked the downy-soft cheek. “Melody,” she said.

Although it was traditional for Aviaran father’s to name their firstborn, Lorgin whispered to his wife that it was the perfect name for a child conceived in harmony with so much love.

London

Lilac opened her eyes.

It was still night, the room dark, although a pale glow of moonlight filtered through the windows. Nickolai always left the drapes undrawn, favoring the room “open to the night” as he slept.

He seemed to like the first light of dawn awakening him as well—even if he often drifted back to sleep. Several times, she had been awakened to his passionate lovemaking in the early hours of daybreak.

It suddenly occurred to her that Nickolai seemed particularly active at dawn and dusk. Just like a cat…

Lilac buried the awful thought immediately.

It was a part of Nickolai she simply could not deal with. Already, she had half-convinced herself that she had imagined the bizarre transformation the morning after her wedding. The sorcerer’s tricks.

She had never believed such things possible—even as a child. It was silly, the stuff of fairy tales. Maybe it wasn’t possible; maybe her husband was very skilled at mesmerizing.

It was the only reasonable explanation for what she had seen.

There was no logical way, however, to explain exactly how he was able to speak in her mind.

When she had questioned him about it last evening, Nickolai had told her that it was a naturally occurring trait among his people and she must not fear it.

Maybe it was true; maybe some of his people did have this ability. Strange abilities like this were not unknown; she, herself, had heard stories of Gypsies who seemed to possess the ability to foretell the future. So perhaps certain tribes of people in Russia could speak without speaking.

Then why didn’t his brother seem to have this ability?

Well…Traed did say they had different fathers. That could explain it. Yet, there was something altogether different about Nickolai. Different even from his curious brother, Traed, who did not appear to her to quite fit in either.

Something beyond foreign differences…

Maybe there wasn’t a logical way to explain this.

Fear rose up in her. Who was Nickolai?

What was he?

Lilac swallowed the butterflies in her stomach. She promised herself she would not think about this! And she would not. It had no place in their lives. No place at all.

They seemed to be getting by; everything appeared to be going smoothly. Why look for trouble?

As long as she never acknowledged this…strangeness of his, it would not have to exist openly between them. Over all, Nickolai seemed to be doing very well.

In fact, he had surprised her on many counts.

After her initial apprehension for the marriage bed—and he had proven himself most patient with her in that regard—he had shown himself to be gentle and kind with her. Even that one time in the dressing room, when his anger had almost overridden his passion, she had sensed that he had held back for her sake.

He was constantly teasing her and caressing her and…

He always seemed concerned about her welfare.

She was loath to admit it, but Nickolai, against all expectations, was proving himself to be a very good husband.

In a labyrinthine twist, the thought almost irritated her.

Aggravated at this bizarre victory of his, she looked down at the source disgustedly, and immediately lost her displeasure with him. It was difficult to sustain anger against a man who looked so beautiful when he slept.

Nickolai was lying over her, arms wrapped around her waist, his legs tangled with hers, and his face burrowed into her throat. Fast asleep, he looked as innocent as an angel, his thick, black lashes crescents against his golden skin.

Bemused, Lilac shook her head. The man slept in the strangest positions draped over her! She sighed. In a small movement, she turned her head toward the window, idly wondering if she should get up; she wasn’t very sleepy.

A little lap caressed the underside of her ear.

She smiled. Well, yes, she supposed he was very comfortable. Without thinking, Lilac pressed her lips to his smooth forehead.

A low roll of contentment resonated in his throat. Nickolai gathered her closer in his sleep, insinuating his thigh snugly between hers. He continued to doze, softly purring against her.

Awake, Lilac continued to hold him in her arms.

Something was bothering him.

Just what it was, he could not say.

A touch of that odd, restless feeling had returned. It niggled at him below the threshold of irritation. Most of the restlessness had abated when he mated with Lilac and he had thought it gone for good after that first night with her. Only here it was again.

It was different now. Changed. It seemed to be…beckoning.

Beckoning to what?

He knew not.

It was odd; while he was occupied sexually with his mate, the feeling dissipated—or else his senses were too involved to notice it.

Sex, however, did not seem a viable solution to him.

As much as he would like to keep Lilac immersed in that activity, he did not think she was physically up to the challenge. And it would not be right of him to wear her out simply because of his unrest.

If he was going to wear his mate out, he wanted it to be for the right reasons!

Besides, he could never think straight when he was sensually engaged.

Something was building in him.

What he needed was a good hunt. Predatory challenge would clear his head.

He sought out his brother Traed, asking him if he would like to accompany him. The Aviaran readily agreed.

Together, they combed four gaming hells before finding the selected quarry at Pickering Place. Their Lord Rotewick was holding court at a far table, apparently fleecing the other players soundly at cards.

“There.” Traed indicated the Familiar’s challenge.

“I will finish him tonight.”

Rejar sat down at the table to play the game known as whist.

“Good evening, Prince Azov.” Rotewick gloated in a cavalier manner. “Since you were so lucky for me the other night, I will return the favor by warning you. You might wish to sit somewhere else this eve.”

Rejar speared the supercilious lord with a cool look. “And why would I do that?”

“My dear man,” he gestured to the high pile of counters before him. “I cannot lose.”

A small smile tilted Rejar’s mouth. “We shall see. Rot Wick.”

Rotewick’s glacial eyes narrowed.

A voice whispered rather loudly behind Rejar, “Cor, what is ’e sittin’ there fer?” Neither Traed nor Rejar were overly surprised to see Jackie.

“I take it you have secured our coach, Jackie?” Rejar asked dryly.

“Tha’ I’ave, yer Princeship.” He leaned in to speak in Rejar’s ear. “This ain’t an idea, sir. Pick another spot fer ol’ Jackie. ’E’s a mean one, ’e is.” He nodded in Rotewick’s direction.

Rejar smiled slowly. “I am counting on it.”

The cards were dealt.

“Sir?” Jackie tugged on Traed’s sleeve.

“Yes, Jackie?”

“I warned ye about ’im, I ’as. ’E’s the devil’s own at cards. ’E’ll fleece yer brother clean ’e will. And if ’e don’t…” Jackie shuddered.

Traed was attentive. “What happens if the man loses, Jackie?”

“’E never pays up is all I known. After a few days, ’e’ll call yer brother a cheat and then challenge ’im to a duel. ’E’s done it before. A master with the blade, the rotter is. Dead men don’t be collectin’ no gambolin’ debts, iffen you get my drift.”

“I hear you.” Alert, Traed watched the play very carefully from behind Rejar’s shoulder.

The Familiar possessed a clear head and a remarkable memory. He was able to make dispassionate judgments quickly and soundly. Consequently, several rounds went his way.

However, Rotewick was also an excellent player. He, too, possessed a certain lethal skill for the game.

As the night progressed, wins and losses going back and forth between the two of them, the stakes began to escalate rapidly. It wasn’t long before the men were wagering upwards of twenty thousand pounds a hand.

Word spread quickly and patrons crowded around the table to watch the exciting match. As the stakes grew, so did the animosity between the two men. Rejar remained cool and contained. Rotewick, however, began to jeer at the younger man in an attempt to throw him off stride.

“Your wife is quite a pretty little thing; although I must admit she never interested me much. I have a more sophisticated palate, so to speak. The suit is diamonds.”

Rejar lifted his sights from the cards to capture the man in his steely regard. “Your throw,” was all he said.

Rotewick discarded in a seemingly careless move. “Of course, now that she’s been broken in, one can’t help but wonder what kind of ride she delivers.” Several of the spectators sniggered at the crude innuendo.

Traed’s hand went to the light saber in his waistband. Jackie’s hand on his arm forestalled him.

A muscle ticked in Rejar’s jaw. He said nothing, throwing his card onto the table.

“Smooth or in the rough style?…Thirty thousand.” A gasp went up from the onlookers at the enormous bet. Rotewick discarded with a flourish of lace.

Rejar calmly matched his bet, also discarding.

A speculative demeanor graced Lord Rotewick’s face. He hadn’t expected the Prince to match his bet. The man had more mettle than was healthy for him. How far would the young blade go? he wondered.

“Now let me see…” he tapped his pointed chin as if entertaining a mildly interesting thought. “For this next wager, perhaps a diversion for her Highness?”

The area went silent.

What would the Prince do? It was not unknown for men in the heat of gambling fever to make outrageous bets. Would he accept? Would he offer up his lady’s services?

Rejar’s dual-colored eyes pinned the man to his chair with a predatory intensity. Just seeing the look on the Prince’s face made several of the onlookers squirm nervously. He was likened to a wild animal preparing to spring. In contrast, when he spoke, the measured voice was chillingly low.

“I will rip the heart out of any man who seeks such a diversion with my wife.”

By the man’s savage intensity, no one doubted it. To say the Prince did not take well to the idea was an understatement. The man looked ready to kill.

The corners of Traed’s lips twitched. Rip out his heart? Familiars could be so excessive.

The last thing Traed needed was an enraged Familiar defending the honor of his mate. It would take days to clean up the mess.

He bent over, speaking quietly in his brother’s ear. “Come, Rejar; a slice across the throat with the saber is that much easier.”

Traed’s ploy to lighten the tension worked.

Smiling faintly, Rejar glanced at his brother behind his shoulder. {But not as much fun.}

Traed nodded sagely. “True.”

Turning to face his adversary across the table, Rejar spoke in a bored mien. “What is your wager? You are wasting my time.”

Lord Rotewick’s face flushed with anger. No one spoke to him that way. No one. The man was as good as dead. “So I won’t be wasting your time—fifty thousand pounds.”

A murmur of disbelief raced through the crowd. Fifty thousand pounds! Would the Prince match it? Could he match it? He did not have enough counters before him to cover it.

Rejar lifted an imperious hand, signalling the proprietor for paper, pen and ink. Traed’s eyes widened. Rejar could not write in this language—what was he doing?

Rejar took the quill, dipped it into the inkwell, and scribbled something across the page. He threw the scrap of paper onto the table. Rotewick picked it up.

“What the devil does this say?” He held the paper up, facing it towards Rejar’s side of the table. No one could make heads or tails out of the elaborate swirls and symbols.

Except one man.

Surprising everyone, the Prince’s taciturn brother burst out laughing.

Blinking innocently, Rejar stated, “It says that in the event I lose, I owe you fifty thousand pounds.”

That was not what it said. The Aviaran words were quite explicit in instructing the man what he should do with a prautau beast.

Rotewick turned to the proprietor. “Is this acceptable?”

The proprietor was not about to offend a prince. Especially such a well-placed prince as this. He quickly gave his approval. “It’s more than acceptable.” He nodded, smiling affably at Prince Azov. “It is in the Prince’s native language of Russian, which I have had an occasion to study in my youth.”

Traed looked sideways at the man.

“You see?” Rejar gestured with the hand not holding his cards. It was a subtle Zarrainian gesture of insult, which complimented his written words nicely. Behind him, Traed gave a low chuckle.

Rotewick stroked his jaw. It would nearly bankrupt him if he lost. But he was not going to lose. One way or the other. He would nick it. And bury the upstart Prince.

Rotewick threw down his last card. The eight of diamonds.

There was only one card in the suit of diamonds not accounted for above the eight. Did the Prince have the ten? The crowd held its collective breath.

Rejar paused, staring at the eight of diamonds. No expression showed on his handsome face. Then he gazed up at his adversary. Slowly, he flipped his card onto the table.

“Trump,” he said blandly.

A great cheer rang through the crowd. Even Traed slapped him on the back. Jackie, however, was not overly happy.

He muttered sadly under his breath, “I not be knowin’ whether ta cheer fer ya or not, yer Princeship.”

Traed overheard him. “Have no worry, Jackie; you and I will keep a close watch on his ‘Princeship.’”

Which was just as well because Rotewick was already making plans to kill him.

Despite his victory over Rotewick, Rejar returned to the townhouse late that evening in a disquieting mood.

He stood in front of the window in his bedroom and gazed out at the moonless night. Lilac was already sleeping. He did not know whether to feel anger at her for blithely going to sleep without knowing his whereabouts, or pleased because she trusted him so. A Familiar wife would have hit him over the head with a zooplah for daring to come in this late.

He rubbed the back of his neck.

A Familiar wife would have been more open to accepting him for who he was. The insidious words wrapped around his brain.

When was Lilac going to accept him? The troublesome issue was followed by another. How could she begin to accept him if she would not even listen to who and what he was? He had a life outside of Ree Gen Cee Ing Land. He had a home and a family…

Yaniff would say he was being too indulgent. The Aviaran way would be to simply conquer.

He supposed the Familiar way was much the same except more subtly done. His Familiar kin, Gian, would tell him, “Snare first, then pounce.”

Rejar did not think either of those approaches completely appropriate in this case.

Since the day he was hurled out of the Tunnels, this mating danced to its own tune. It was unique. There were no guidelines for him to follow. No fatherly instructions. No Charl platitudes. No Familiar ken.

The simple truth was, he was mated to a woman who came from a primitive culture. A culture who had never heard of life on other planets, Tunnel travel, or Familiars. At least, not his kind of Familiars.

He padded over to the bed.

Standing there, he watched Lilac as she slept. She was lying on her back, hand thrown innocently over her head, fingers curled into her palm. Sheltered and not much more than a babe.

He smiled gently. She was so unprepared for him.

Shedding his clothes, he climbed into bed with her. She immediately rolled into the warmth of his arms.

He hugged her to him, running his mouth along her hairline to the tip of her ear. She mumbled something incoherent in her sleep and snuggled into his chest.

The dilemma which most preyed upon his mind came to the fore.

When would she open her heart to him?