I wanted to understand, to tell her I understood, but I was too sleepy. 'I'd rather you were driven by lust for me.'
She relaxed then, utterly. The tension drained out of her on a resigned sigh. I knew better than to believe she'd never come back to the topic, but at least for tonight I was to be allowed respite.
Maybe I was getting old. (Well, older.) But at that moment I was content merely to hold her, to share the warmth of this woman in my bed, and slide gently over the edge of sleep undisturbed by self-doubts or complex questions.
SEVENTEEN
I STOOD THERE on the summit, poised to fall. Except I wouldn't, couldn't fall, because I could fly. Was expected to fly.
Needed to fly.
The wind beat at me. It whipped moisture from my eyes and sucked them dry. Stripped hair back from my face. Threatened the breath in my nostrils and thus the breath in my lungs. Plucked at my clothes like a woman desiring intimacy, until the fabric tore, shredded; was ripped from my body. And I stood naked upon the precipice, bound to fly. Or die.
Toes curled into stone. Calluses opened and bled. I lifted my arms, stretched out my arms, extended them as wings, fingers spread and rigid. Wind buffeted palms, curled into armpits. I swayed against it, fragile upon the mountain. Poised atop the pillar of the gods.
'I can,' I said. 'I will. '
Wind wailed around me. Caressed me. Caught me.
'I can. I must. I will. '
Wind filled me, broke through my lips and came into my mouth, into my throat, into my body. It was no gentle lover, no kind and thoughtful woman, but a force that threatened, that promised release and relief like none other known to man.
Arms spread, I leaned. And then the wind abated. Died away, departed the mountain, left me free to choose.
I leaned, seeking the wind. Waiting for it to lift me.
Soared.
Plummeted –
–and crashed into the ground.
'Tiger?' Del sat up, leaned over the side of the bed. 'Are you all right?'
I lay in a heap on the stone floor. Groggily I asked, 'What happened?'
'You fell out of bed.'
Groaning, I sat up. Felt elbows, knees. Peered through the darkness. 'Did you push me?'
'No, I did not push you! You woke me up trying to shout something, then lunged over the edge.'
'Lunged.'
'Lunged,' she repeated firmly.
I felt at my forehead, aware of a sore spot. Likely a lump would sprout by morning. 'Why would I lunge over the side of my bed?'
'I don't know,' Del said. 'I have no idea what makes you do anything. Including drinking too much.'
Back to that, were we? I stood up, tugged tunic straight, twisted one way, then the other to pop my spine. The noise was loud in the darkness.
'A dream?' she asked.
I thought about it. 'I don't remember one. I don't remember dreaming at all.' I rubbed briefly at stubbled jaw. 'Probably because I feel so helpless without a sword. Kind of-itchy.'
'Itchy?'
'Like something bad is going to happen.'
Del made a sound of dismissal. 'Too much wine.' And lay back down again.
'Here,' I said, 'at least let me get between you and the wall. That way if I lunge out of bed again, I'll have you to land on.'
Del moved over. To the wall. Leaving me the open edge, and below it the stone floor.
'Thanks, bascha.'
'You're welcome.'
I climbed back into bed, examined the side with a careful hand, found nothing to suggest a structural weakness. Likely I'd rolled too far, overbalanced, and just tipped over the edge. No matter what Del said about lunging-
Since she wouldn't cooperate and give me the wall side, I compensated by wrapping both arms around her. If I went, she went.
Smiling my revenge, I fell into sleep again.
In the morning I had indeed sprouted a lump, though not a bad one. Del caught me fingering it, pulled hair aside to look, then made a waving gesture. 'You smell like a winery.'
I grinned. 'Not inappropriate, since we're living in one at the moment.'
'Look at you.' In tones of accusation.
I didn't have to. I knew what she referred to. A tunic stained red with spilled wine the color of old blood. I grasped the hem cross-armed and yanked the tunic off over my head. 'There,' I said. 'All gone.'
She eyed me askance, sorting out the spill of fair hair. She was rumpled, creased, and sleepy-eyed in a sleeveless, short-cut tunic that displayed nearly all of her exceptionally long and lovely limbs, incontestably magnificent despite her morning mood. I leered and made as if to swoop down upon her.
Del ducked away. 'Not until after you've had a bath!'
'That'll have to wait,' I said. 'And so will you, if you think you can stand it.'
She frowned, finger-combing her hair. 'What are you talking about?'
'Today I begin transforming Herakleio into a man. It's dirty, sweaty business, that. The bath will come later.'
Warily she asked, 'How are you intending to transform him into a man? By outdrinking him?'
'Oh, I have no doubt I can outdrink him. I expect I can outdo him in most things, frankly.' I recalled Prima Rhannet's comment about Herakleio's appetite for women. 'Though I have learned some self-restraint over the years.'
'Have you?'
'At knife– and sword-point, maybe, but self-restraint all the same.' I stretched long and hard, waiting for the bones to settle themselves back into place. Some mornings they were slower to do so than others.
'You,' she said dubiously. 'You, transforming, him into a man.'
I twisted my torso in one direction, then back again. 'You think I can't?'
Del considered her answer. 'I think there are indeed things you can teach anyone,' she said finally. 'But- you know nothing about Skandi.'
'I know a little something about being a man.'
She contemplated my expression, made the decision not to allow me any more rope lest I take it and hang her with it. 'Can I watch?'
I bent over to touch my toes, gripped them. 'Later,' I said tightly. 'There's something I need you to do, first.'
'Me?'
'Go see Simonides, the metri's servant. He's got a few things for you.'
'For me.'
'Well, for me and Herakleio, actually, but we'll be busy first thing. When you see what Simonides has
