Selected for Sport Ch. 10

The sunrise was glorious, bright colours dazzling her aching eyes. From the topmost branches of the elm towering from the Tahl-maia's terrace, Alanna gazed out beyond the multitude of terracotta or sand-coloured rooves of the city, over the wide silver stretch of lake Rehnza to the snow-capped peaks of the Uresch Mountains glowing pink under the rising sun.

A light breeze gently rocked her refuge, adding to the chill in her limbs and drying the last tears on her stiff cheeks. She kept her chin high, ignoring the gruff voice wearily repeating her title some feet below her. Her bodyguard was too heavy to climb any higher.

Not yet.

Memory of last night circled again, Xanir's touch reaching her even here -- that light, invasive touch, insistent, drawing her to him against her will, moulding her into that pleading, lost creature. Yet the joy had been overwhelming, wrenching her into tears.

There were no tears left now. Her gritty eyes ached under the bright new sun, the touch of warmth on her cheek a different reminder of that deep glow of satiation, the melting, boneless contentment of the aftermath as she had snuggled back against his warmth, hoarse breathing settling while together they had sunk toward sleep.

And then the intrusive touch of other hands. Drowsy, uncomprehending eyes had opened to the guard gently drawing her hands above the covers. In the low light of the single remaining candle he had gravely indicated that she was to keep her hands within sight. The Tahl was asleep. They were watching.

Displacement had hit her like a blow. Of course they were watching; they were always watching, appraising eyes crawling on her naked skin. Even here. Dropped into a swirling sense of disconnection, tears had first sneaked down her cheeks, and then began to run, coursing faster past her clenched eyelids and braced body. With her first heave of breath Xanir's warmth had abruptly left, feet soundless on the steps, the door clicking quietly closed behind him.

She had tumbled from the bed on the echo of his departure, batting away in rage the hand which had tried to steady her sprawled landing, snatching on the indecent wisp of gossamer that was all she was allowed at night while she ran to the terrace, holding back the heaving sobs.

Her guards had kept pace, of course. She had spun in the doorway, snarling like an animal at bay, eyes wet in her drawn face as she had hurled at them to leave her alone.

They had stood quietly, not looking at her, not deigning to answer. She knew the answer, the first phrase learned: the will of the Tahl.

The battle against the tears had lost and she had spun to hurtle past the foremost guard out into the welcome darkness. They had maintained the watchful ring around her, giving her some space as she had darted to the gracious tree, realising too late her purpose as she had sprung into the branches.

"My princess, will you not come down?" cajoled the man perched some five feet below her, pulling her back to the present. He had stopped trying to climb higher when she had refused to allow him to close the distance, climbing among spindly twigs that bent under her weight until white-faced he had backed away, giving her space. Some meagre semblance of solitude.

Damn them. Damn him.

Running footsteps sounded on the stone surface and a worried, breathless voice called up from far below. "Al? What on earth are you playing at?"

Helene. Alanna's stiff neck creaked, a kernel of warmth curling around her heart when she peered down through tier upon tier of branches to the anxious, upturned face of her friend. Her chief bodyguard Limaq had appeared also, standing watchfully beside the other girl.

"Morning," Al croaked.

"Morning!" repeated Helene angrily, stamping her foot like she used to in the nursery. "It's the crack of dawn! When they dragged me out of bed to bring me here I thought you'd -." Her voice cracked on the last word, breaking the rising crescendo.

"I'm fine."

"Yeah? Then what the hell are you doing up there? You promised your father that -."

"Don't Mention Home!" snarled Alanna in Saimaa, the language of the people of the northern steppe. The last word rasped in her tight throat and she blinked fiercely, squinting into the sun while she took several deep breaths.

The sunlight brightened slowly.

Helene sighed. "Come down," she urged softly in the same tongue. "Tell me what it is."

"Not while I'm climbing." Alanna switched back to Kjell. "I might throw a wobbly."

"Well, come down anyway. Stop being so selfish. I'm going to get a crick in my neck talking to you like this," complained her friend. Alanna grinned, a huge, warm bubble of affection surging through her shaky barriers. Her heart leapt: she needed a hug; a real, genuine embrace from someone who truly cared about her.

"I'd have come down hours ago if Mr Overanxious wasn't in the way," she lied, now staring at the tiny leaves waving from the topmost twigs. An instant rustling of movement below her confirmed her long-held suspicion that her bodyguards understood her language.

"Come on then, little squirrel," coaxed Helene softly.

Alanna swung herself in the wake of her nervous bodyguard, her throat tightening at the sound of her grandmother's pet name. "Some squirrel," she forced out. "Can't even be trusted to climb a tree without a guard."

"It is the will of the Tahl," was murmured mere feet below her, and a flash of rage seared her skin.

Damn his will!

A handful of bark snapped from the trunk under her clenched fingers, startling Alanna back to the present. However, the hold had only been to steady herself and she swung easily from her other hand, barely aware of the harsh intakes of breath from the terrace far below, distracted by the gleam of sunlight on a piece of metal buried deep within the trunk. Her feet settled gently on the branch below while she stared.

An arrowhead. It had been concealed behind the flap of bark she had dislodged. No, larger than an arrow -- the wide shaft of an iron quarrel, pierced deep into the trunk then shorn and shaved flat to the surface before being covered. Meticulous work. And recent -- the metal was too shiny to have been there for any substantial passage of time. A frisson ran up her spine when she glanced back along the flight path to the almost imperceptible slit of the window at the top of the Graune Tower even while the harsh admonition of "Princess!" had her swinging back into movement. So that had been how the assassin had got in.

Descending further, a glint of sunshine on glass caught her gaze from the vast square in front of the palace. Squinting against the reflected glare, a chill ran down her spine, awakening her from all preoccupation as she noted the huddle of people craning towards her, pointing and throwing dramatic gestures in a fierce discussion.

Her cheeks flushed, then paled while she tried to swing out of view of the one with the spyglass, but who knew how long they had been looking? Visible. She was visible to the public. And had probably been recognised.

Her mind was accelerating, teeming urgently to hunt for a method to avert possible repercussions. The treaty, this exile, this whole sham marriage would be pointless, destructive even, if she brought shame to the Great Tahl. She would bring shame to her family, her people, maybe worse: all of this endurance useless.

She was wed to the ruler of a land of fierce male control, her behaviour scrutinised and vetted constantly. The Tahl-Maia was not even permitted to ride a horse: 'Only pillion," Maia had translated, shocked at even the question. A woman to ride -- the shame of it! And definitely not the Tahl-maia.

Who had just climbed a tree. In public!

Why had she not kept better control of her temper? Alanna cursed herself. Her father had warned her, worry in his eyes.

A second glance as she slid further down, and she paled, noting other whispering groups of men around the square, facing the palace, all too evidently commenting on the Tahl-maia's strange behaviour. The women at the well were shaking their heads, hands lifting and falling as faces turned her way then back again. She could almost hear the whispers:

• Could not the Tahl control his bride?

Helene was hugging her fiercely before her feet even touched the cool stone, whispering, "Idiot!" Alanna winced at the tenderness of her breasts inside the loose chiffon and pulled back, glancing sharply at her bodyguards as her mind whirred seeking a way out, a way to mitigate this flagrant disregard of what was expected of a princess. She paled when a woodsman stepped forwards, hefting his axe into his left hand while he ran the other over the smooth bark of the tree from which she had just descended.

"What?" gasped Alanna, moving between the tree and the axe, but was pulled back, her eyes shooting to her Limaq. He dropped her wrist.

"The Tahl has commanded," he said emotionlessly.

"No," whispered Alanna, shifting her weight uneasily, but she didn't try to intercept the axman, reading her chief bodyguard's eyes. This was not his call.

A clatter of hooves crossing the courtyard below the terrace evoked a snippet of gossip from her women, and she spun and sprinted for the balustrade, ignoring the startled shouts and rapidly overhauling footfalls thundering in her wake.

On sighting the royal blue head-covering of the rider at the head of the cavalcade, she somersaulted without pause over the massive marble barrier, the thick flowered vine snapping under her grasping hands but slowing her descent until she slithered the last feet and dropped onto the cobbles. Panting, she folded herself into the full penitent obeisance that her tutors had despaired of her ever accomplishing correctly, forehead toward the Tahl while she waited trembling.

Hooves stamped in startled cuvettes, a chorus of oaths from his companions peppering the air, but Xanir never made a sound, his bay stopping effortlessly, as though this interruption to his habitual dawn ride was entirely anticipated. An uneasy silence fell, everyone watching the Tahl, trying to hush their mount and their own breathing.

Alanna knew better than to look up without permission. This was not a time to test the rules. And for once, for once, she allowed herself to tremble. He wasn't even touching her.

Eventually his voice sounded, but not addressing her. "Has she damaged herself?" The tone was cold, distant; she knew how much further she had injured her cause by this precipitous approach, but she had had to. Damn her impulses, but she was already in enough trouble, a little more would not hurt.

Urged to her feet, the guards who had descended after and with her brushed her down, checking her over.

"No, my Tahl," responded Limaq in a subdued voice.

The silence stretched, eventually broken by pattering footsteps, and a breathless translation of his cold, "Well, Princess?"

Her translator Maia's sandals were hovering uneasily beside the polished hooves of the bay.

Alanna pleaded, eyes lifting only to the soft leather of his boot in the nearest silver stirrup, "My lord, I am so sorry, but do you know of the Rites of Silvana?"

The murmur among his lords rumbled louder upon Maia's translation, and then ceased. All looked to the Tahl.

There was a second long pause, and the voice was shatteringly cold, but at least he replied: "I know the maidens of your country climb trees in celebration of Midsummer."

Alanna breathed slightly easier that he had given her even this tiny opening; please let him listen, please, she prayed. "Yes, my lord," she faltered. "Midsummer is key, yet young women celebrate all joy with Silvana." The colour was flaring in her cheeks, staining across her breast while her gaze remained riveted on his toes, but she forced herself to continue. To salvage what she could. "You had just -- visited. You know what you do to me." Her voice was just above a whisper. "I had to climb to the topmost branch to share my -- that -." Her colour flared richer as she broke off. The lords broke into renewed whispers, low voices relaxing into pleased comment and chuckles. One murmured audibly: "No wonder she picked the biggest tree to climb." Laughter rose among his fellows.

Xanir stared down at the golden head, eyes narrowed. Even the gardeners had smiles behind their smooth expressions, and the woodsman looking over the wall was openly grinning. She was damned clever. Having just turned the Maian elm into a symbol of his virility and sexual prowess, there was no way he could have it chopped down. The tale was plausible, and it would be all over the city by sunset; a tale that enhanced his reputation among his people, turning shame and doubtful whispers into pride. He felt a bittersweet mixture of admiration and anger: wary admiration of her cleverness, and anger that she was using it to manipulate him. For she was lying through her teeth -- she hadn't been crying for joy when he'd left.

Scouring anger, but no surprise, he thought, feeling the chill settle inside him. He had been waiting for her to find her feet and start plucking at the reins he held.

"Very well," he announced coldly. "This transgression I shall overlook, but if you climb any tree again, I shall have them all destroyed." He nodded dismissal up at the man watching from the terrace who bowed, shouldered his axe, and almost scurried away, bursting to spread this titbit among his friends and colleagues.

His bride's bow was exquisitely graceful, setting a different rustle among his men and a strain to his own comfort. The face she finally lifted to his was alight with relief, the golden hair gleaming in the sun as she bent again to full genuflexion and pressed her forehead to the cobbles, whispering repeated thanks. The light gossamer belted-chemise revealed tantalising glimpses of creamy skin and soft curves, and Xanir rolled abruptly to scoop her up to lie across draped over his thighs, enjoying the quickening of her breath and the startled hands clasped around his forearm while her eyes flew to his. One hand cupped around her breast, holding her down when she tried to rise to sit before him. Her breath stopped at the fierce light behind his cold gaze while he squeezed that breast.

Nudging his mount around towards the nearby granary, he ordered, "Wait a moment," over his shoulder to his companions while he slid to the ground, flipping her so her head flopped onto his shoulders while his hands began to knead her buttocks. "My bride wishes to thank me."

Alanna curled to press her burning face into his neck, fingers clutching at his sash while she feathered soft kisses of appeasement. "I'm sorry. So sorry. I just didn't think. Didn't think anyone could see," she whispered while he stepped into the cool of the grain-house.

The blue eyes were soft, bright with a mixture of joy and remorse as they lifted. "I need to tell you -." She broke off when their eyes met.

Xanir's face was stony, clinical. He watched her colour flare while he undid the belt and pushed the sheer wisp of clothing from her shoulders to pool at her feet. His anger was flaring now, the bitterness biting through him at the way she had manipulated him with words, used her kisses to soften him, and was now demanding further. "Be silent."

The flush re-awoke in her cheeks when his hands went to his robes, freeing his erect, throbbing member.

"Kneel," he ordered. Something dark in his tone was making it hard to breathe. The look in his eyes had her stumbling to assume the position she had been taught without argument, and she gulped when he wrapped her hair around one hand and dragged her to the right angle, the ring of her parted lips quivering an inch from that daunting, throbbing shaft.

"Look at me!"

Her breath hitched, tears sparking when she tried automatically to lift her chin to his order, halted by the painful jerk at her hair when he stopped her. The big blue eyes were tearful when they instead angled up to his.

The next second she choked as he plunged without gentleness into her mouth and began to thrust against her spasming throat. The fire in the eyes remained cold, clinical while he watched her choking at the rough invasion, hammering home repeatedly through her coughing, contemplating stonily the tears running from her eyes.

Her throat was becoming slick with saliva, smoothing the surging thrusts and she tried calm her thundering heart, tried to breathe as her women had tried to teach her, to match his rhythm, but it was so fast, drawing out softly and plunging in forcefully. Each time she choked and lost the timing he would plunge on, uncaring, until she was spluttering what she thought would be her last breath and he would withdraw for a moment only to mash her saliva-splattered face against his balls and have her nuzzle them for a few short, scanty breaths before he forced himself again into her throat.

His lust was all, the plunging, searing thrusts seeming endless, building a rising tremor through her limbs. Yet inexorable as the rising tide the fingers were steadily tightening in her hair, the grip growing cruel. All at once Xanir growled and began to hammer faster, tilting her throat to allow him to bottom out fully, plunging through the tight, slick entrance while she swallowed desperately, heaving for air. Her hands were tight on his quads, straining to push free when he groaned in release and hauled fiercely, thrusting deep until her nose mashed again against his groin while her screaming throat stretched wider to the surging, rhythmic pulses of seed bursting from his straining shaft.

Alanna fell onto her hands, gasping and choking when he dropped her. Yet despite the hard edge to his touch, the soreness of her throat and the ache in her scalp, warm want had pooled between her thighs and in her belly. Excitement trembled through her, the fierce shaping of her flesh purely to give him pleasure having awoken a deep tingling under her skin, her blood yearning to now feel her own searing release.

The fingers were gentler when he tilted her head back up, and she blushed when faced again with his semi-soft member, remembering the dry words of the Mistress of the Chamber: he may want you to clean him, after. Gently, with your tongue.

The shaft was erect again when she had finished, her breathing short and fast while her stomach tumbled in excited anticipation. Her breath stopped when he stepped away, readjusted his clothing, and strode toward the open doorway, where the shadow of his guards were silhouetted against the sun. Disappointment wrenched through her, followed by the swift acknowledgement of what she had been hoping she'd gotten wrong: this treatment was a punishment.

And it hurt. Not the raw rasp of her throat, not even the surging dissatisfaction in her blood (really), but the withdrawal of those gentle moments afterwards in his arms. No, she couldn't truly miss that? She'd been cuddled on his knee all of three times, indulged with sips of water like a favoured pet while he had stroked possessive hands over her trembling skin. It was ridiculous. She was temporary. He was temporary.

"My lord," she whispered; not a whimper, no.

He ignored her, drinking deeply from the waterskin his guard had handed over, stepping out of the shaded archway.

It shouldn't hurt!

"There is an arrow," she rasped from her raw throat, against the surge of anger and pang of misery. Her father had made her promise. For a year, this man would be the one with the power to ensure her safety. Anything which might affect that safety must he reported to him. Privately.