Songs of Love and Death

de la Courcel.”

His teeth gleamed in the candlelight, shadows pooling in his eyes. “Are we making love or war, my warrior- poet?”

I tightened my grip on his wrists, brushing his lips with a kiss. “Both.”

With a swift, decisive move, Rolande hooked one foot behind my right leg, tugging me off balance and tumbling me toward the bed; but I had anticipated it, and I twisted my body sideways, landing atop him and pinning his arms.

“Point to me,” I informed him, taking advantage of the situation to kiss him again, harder this time. His full, firm lips parted beneath mine. I eased my grip on his wrists, exploring his mouth with my tongue; tentatively at first, then with increasing hunger. He tasted like wine, sweet and heady.

Strong and sure, Rolande flipped me over, reversing our positions, his legs trapping mine in a scissor-lock. “Point to me. Is this how Siovalese country boys make love, then?” he asked me, his black hair hanging around his face.

I could feel the weight of his body holding me in place, the hard length of his erect phallus pressing against mine beneath his breeches. It was unbearably arousing. “Sometimes.”

He grinned and kissed me. “I like it.”

We were well matched, Rolande and I. He was taller and stronger, but not by much; I was quicker and more agile, but not by much. We played at wrestling, stealing points and kisses, until it was no longer a game, until there were no victors or losers, only the urgent drive to remove clothing, to feel skin sliding against skin slick with sweat. I kissed his bare chest, bit and sucked his small, hard nipples, reveling in his groan of pleasure, in the feel of his hands hard on the back of my head, freeing my hair from its soldier’s club.

“I want you.” His voice was harsh and ragged, his phallus throbbing in my fist. There was no trace of humor in his words, only raw demand, and his eyes had gone deadly serious. “All of you.”

A flare of gilded brightness and surety filled me, so vivid I imagined I could see it reflected in Rolande’s pupils. “I am yours,” I heard myself say.

The unknown depths claimed me.

I WOULD THAT dying brought clarity.

Did Blessed Elua have some purpose in joining our hearts together in one swift lightning bolt of a night?

I want to believe it; I have always wanted to believe it. Even after Rolande’s death, even after I embarked on a path I half despised, I believed it.

It is hard to believe now.

Still, I try.

IN THE AFTERMATH of love, I was self-conscious. My body was ringing like a well-tuned bell, shivering with pleasure, and I wanted nothing more than to sink into sleep, tangled in linens beside the prince in his warm bed; but he was the Dauphin of Terre d’Ange, and I did not know the protocol for this situation.

I’d been sent to woo him on Edmee’s behalf, not bed him on my own. A canker of guilt gnawed at me.

“Stay.” Gazing at me with half-lidded eyes, Rolande saw my uncertainty. He ran a few strands of my hair through his fingers. “Russet.” He yawned. “Like a fox’s pelt. You put me in mind of autumn. Stay.”

I drew a line down his sculpted torso, his fair skin the color of marble warmed by candlelight. Truly, I’d cast him well as Achilles. “Rolande… you felt it, too?”

He didn’t ask what I meant. “I felt it the moment you stormed into the salon and charmed me into enjoying poetry. Elua’s hand is in this.”

“You know why I’m here.” It wasn’t a question; I’d heard him say as much in the bathhouse.

“Sleep.” He rolled over and kissed me. “We’ll talk on the morrow.”

I slept.

In the morning, everything was different. The world was different, I was different. A spark of the brightness I’d felt the night before lingered within me, tinting everything with a golden glow.

Gods help me, I was in love.

Everything about Rolande delighted me: the way he smiled sleepily at me upon waking, his face creased with pillow marks. The breadth of his shoulders, the shape of his hands, his long legs and the muscles of his flanks. The obvious affection he had for his household staff, and the equally obvious way in which it was reciprocated. He had an open, easygoing manner about him which nonetheless managed to retain an element of royal dignity.

“So,” he said at the table where we broke our fast with crusty bread drizzled with honey. “Tell me, Anafiel de Montreve. Why should I wed Edmee de Rocaille?”

Coached by my ambitious foster-father, I had a considerable array of compelling arguments at my disposal. I abandoned them all. “Frankly, I’m not sure I can answer.”

It surprised him. “Why?”

I shrugged. “You know the advantages as well as anyone, your highness.”

His mouth quirked. “Rolande.”

I flushed. “Rolande. Marriage to Edmee brings an alliance with the House of Aragon, and the promise of a strong ally on our southern border. But… I am here on her behalf, too. I promised her I would not press House Rocaille’s suit unless I thought you were a man she could love.”

He was silent a long moment. “You find me unworthy?”

“Too worthy,” I said softly. “How can I advocate for Edmee, feeling what I feel today? I have compromised myself.” I paused. “Or do I attach too much significance to the matter?”

“No.” Rolande’s reply was swift and firm. “No. But…” He leaned back in his chair, gazing at the ceiling. “I don’t have the luxury of choosing, Anafiel. I am my father’s only child, his sole heir. No matter what I will, I must wed, and carry on my bloodline.”

“Blessed Elua says otherwise,” I murmured.

“Blessed Elua was a god, not a king’s son,” he said dryly. “He had no concern for mortal politics.”

“I would not have you break Edmee’s heart.” I swallowed. “I would not break her heart.”

Rolande studied me. “Are you in love with her?”

I shook my head. “I love her like a sister. I, too, am an only child; Edmee is the nearest thing to a sibling I have, she and her young brother David.”

“Is she worthy of me?”

Stung, I shot him a fierce glance. “Of you or any man, your highness! I would not be here if she were not.”

“Peace, my warrior-poet!” Rolande said in a mild tone, raising his hands. “I suggest you counsel her honestly.” His broad shoulders rose and fell in a helpless shrug. “It may not be the course diplomacy recommends, but I think it is the best one nonetheless.”

YOU WERE RIGHT, Rolande; but you were wrong, too.

If the world had been a different place, a kinder, gentler place in which all of us obeyed Elua’s precept, everything might have been different.

It wasn’t.

You were too good for this world, you and Edmee alike.

I WROTE HONESTLY to Edmee.

She wrote honestly in reply, her letters tinged with affectionate dismay. My father sent you to court a royal bridegroom for me, and you seduce him instead? Either you found him so lacking you seek to protect me, or so perfect you must keep him for yourself. Which is it, Anafiel?

Meet him and decide for yourself, I wrote to her.

So I shall, in time, she wrote in reply. How can I not be intrigued by a man bold enough to capture your heart? If there is room for both of us in his, I can imagine far worse fates, near-brother.

Those words freed me from the shackles of guilt that weighed at me, freed me to enjoy my time in Tiberium