"Just a River" Part 2
It Ain't Just a River in Egypt (Part 2)
by XFfan_2000 and NancyBrown
NC-17
Chapter One
VVVVV
Chapter Two
VVVVV
Bashari found the Queen in the throne room.
He hadn't gone looking for her, yet after he had seen to the morning exercises and the drone of what duties he could not put off on his subordinates, his feet wandered of their own accord to where she was.
He watched her from the entrance, leaning against the wall and not trying to attract her attention as she performed her morning duties to her people.
Supplicants came every day to the palace: landed nobles and poor farmers alike, bringing offerings, seeking judgements or favors or blessings from the winged gods. Of the thousand things Bashari loved about his king, Katar was always just, and meted out his gifts regardless of the station of the supplicant or the size of the offering. Of the million things he loved about his queen, Chayara was merciful, and distributed her own favors more kindly among the supplicants who needed them most. Lucky was the man who came before both, and rare was he who left their presence with a valid complaint.
It was nearing midday, and the last few petitioners made their cases before the Queen. Bashari listened and observed.
A young couple about to wed asked her blessing on their union, which she granted smiling. Two men arguing over the ownership of a goat were told to breed the goat, and when the kid was weaned, it would be given to the second man. Two others debated a property line: one had built his house encroaching on the land of another. Queen Chayara ordered him to pay his neighbor the price that fraction of the land was worth plus half again, for he had not just taken his neighbor's land, but also part of his neighbor's children's legacy. Bashari suspected the King would have left the price at the value of the land alone, but Katar was not here.
The petitioners thanked the Queen and were shown out. Bashari remained where he was, watching as Chayara wrote something on a fresh scroll. He guessed she was recording what she'd granted, in case Katar asked.
"You don't need to lurk in the shadows," she said, rolling the papyrus and handing it to a servant.
"I was not lurking." He knew the servants in the room were not blind, deaf, or stupid. "Your Majesty."
"You certainly were," she replied, and she descended from her throne. "Don't contradict your queen."
"My mistake, m'lady."
"Walk with me." Her tone was clipped, formal, and a touch testy. She'd had the night to consider what had occured at the oasis yesterday. Katar had left without ordering the removal of Bashari's head or any other part of his body, which meant she hadn't confessed. That did not mean she wasn't upset or angry with Bashari.
They didn't speak as they walked through the hot, still palace hallways together. She led him out to the gardens, where the shade from the trees and vines brought a cool relief from the sun's heat. The palace always baked at this hour, and most chose this time to rest.
They were alone.
He watched as the tension drained from her back and shoulders. "Sometimes it's too hard to breathe in there," she said, and for the first time today, she smiled at him.
"You fly on the wind. Can't you simply spread your wings and leave whenever you want?"
She let out a disgusted breath. "You know the answer to that." Chayara tilted her head. "I meant ... Yesterday. I meant all of it." There was a question in her statement.
He touched her chin. "As did I."
She closed her eyes. "Bashari, this can't go any further."
There it was, then. They would deny what had happened between them, and it would not happen again, and they would move on. He couldn't hide the pain on his face, and he didn't try.
"But I want it to," she whispered.
He bent and kissed her, not trusting his voice. She kissed him back desperately, tugging his head to her, licking her way into his mouth. He tasted her sighs, pressed his hand against the fabric covering one perfect breast and felt her heart race.
They broke, panting, and he knew he was done, knew he would never willingly have a life without her near him again.
Bashari lifted Chayara into his arms, and they laughed around more kisses as he carried her deeper into the garden and the shadows. Here, it was almost chilly in comparison to the rest of the grounds. He set her on her toes, tongue seeking her mouth as his fingers coaxed her nipples to easy peaks under their covering.
He reached for her mask. She batted him away, and again when he tried once more.
"My ... Chayara," he protested around her kisses.
"Not my mask," she said around his. He sighed into her mouth, then moaned as her hands slipped down his body and under his loincloth. "Has it been long enough?" she teased, nipping his lip as she squeezed him, maddening him.
"Far too long," he growled.
He backed Chayara against the nearest tree, spreading her glorious wings out to either side. Her hands grasped him urgently, stroking and tugging. Bashari twitched the cloth at her hips aside, and together, they guided him deep inside of her.
Chayara let out little cries of pleasure in her throat as Bashari thrust into her quickly and hard. The tree shook behind her, rattling the leaves above him like some obscene breeze. He placed his arms around her, lifting her, and Chayara wrapped her legs around his waist, letting her weight and --- oh gods, such strong muscles she has! --- her own thrusts join them even deeper. He groaned and bit her neck, wanting to meet her in her climax, wanting to postpone his own as long as possible.
So many nights, he'd awakened from wonderful, shameful dreams of his Queen, heard her voice murmuring sweet imprecations as he filled her. Last night, he'd lain awake replaying their encounter over and over in his mind until he'd finally taken the matter in hand just so he could sleep.
He'd thought all he would have of her was that memory, those dreams. Never had he been so grateful to be wrong.
She shifted her body and she was slick in her passion for him, perfect and tight, and he could feel that strange, soft ridge inside her rub against his cock and it was too much for both of them.
Chayara spasmed against him, screams held muffled in her mouth as her lips clamped shut. Bashari surged and pulsed and there was nothing in the universe but the goddess in his arms. Later, his throat would be sore and he would realize he'd roared.
They fell to the ground together, still joined, still kissing each other weakly. He bruised his nose bumping into her mask, but not kissing her would be far more painful.
"I would spend the rest of my life doing that with you," she said, resting her covered forehead against his. He had no intention of disagreeing.
Chayara pulled away first, and he jumped a little as her body tugged at him before he slid free. Two sets of clothing could be pressed smoothly back into place without fuss, and by the time they emerged from under the trees, he could believe they both looked nearly innocent. The Queen's face was flushed and her lips swollen; as they passed the few servants still about at this time of day, he was convinced they read his guilt all over his own tired, joyful visage.
It was hard not to take her hand. It would be suicide to consider doing so anyway.
"Thank you for the report, General," she said suddenly, as the priest Hath-Set emerged from a doorway unexpectedly.
"I'll get you the rest of the information this evening, my Queen," Bashari replied after a moment's hesitation.
"I will dine at sunset," she said. "Bring it then." Without another word, she turned and walked away from him in the direction of her room.
He bowed his head as she left. The priest did not bow, and he watched them both with a closed expression that Bashari could not read.
VVVVV
Hath-Set returned to the temple, anger filling his soul and drowning out all other thoughts.
Did they honestly believe him to be so great a fool? The Queen's hair was mussed and her face practically glowed from her latest tryst with the General, who himself wore a satisfied smirk. And then she had the gall to pretend he had been giving her a report?
The King had departed early, before Hath-Set could inform him of what he knew. And while Katar valiantly protected their kingdom from threats in the South, his most trusted friend fomented another rebellion in the King's own marriage bed.
Bitter names dripped from his lips, whispered too quietly for any other to hear.
He would not tell, not yet. The King deserved to hear the truth from his loyal Hath-Set, not giggled by some vapid chambermaid. For now, Hath-Set comforted himself with thoughts of how Katar would punish his betrayers. The Queen would be disgraced, and cast out from the palace and the city. The General would be allowed to die, eventually, and pieces of him fed to vultures. Hath-Set prayed that Katar would give him the honor of fulfilling that order.
His heart calmed. The wicked would be punished. That was the will of the gods. He could bide his time and watch it unfold.
VVVVV
The afternoon business dragged. Chayara had taken a restless nap, rising hot and itchy. Rather than wake her body servant, she'd gone for a quick swim in the shallow pool on the grounds. When they'd first built the palace, she'd gone swimming in the river every morning, until the day she'd had to fight a crocodile.
After she'd emerged from today's swim, she was cooler, but soon sweaty again in the heat. Sitting in the stuffy throne room, listening to the plans Katar had commissioned to build a third palace farther south, she tried not to lose her temper.
They didn't need a third palace. They hadn't needed the North Palace, or for that matter, this one.
She frowned, not wanting to think about the North Palace, about Katar's promise to take her there after his return.
The architect must have misread her expression for displeasure at his design, as he hastened to say, "Of course, this is a preliminary concept only, Your Highness."
"Leave the plans," she said. "I'll consider them before my husband returns, and then he will give you further instructions."
"Yes, my Queen," said the architect, kneeling and scraping before handing the scrolls to Chayara's servant, who took one look at her face and then set them aside.
After he left, Chayara descended from her throne. Another frown crossed her face. "Metit," she told the servant, indicating the scrolls.
There was a table along the side of the wall. Chayara spread out the scrolls, examining the designs closely.
"Metit, remind me. How long have you been working for me?"
"Six years, my Lady." Chayara could remember the scrawny twelve-year-old, who'd stammered and dropped trays and trembled in fear of her gods.
"Before that, you lived in the city?"
"Yes, my Lady. My mother lives three streets from here."
Chayara bit her lip, remembering her own mother. "Do you see her often?"
"When I can, my Lady. My grandmother lives there, and my brother and his children."
The light in here wasn't the best, and Chayara could just make out the scratched notes in the margins of the paper: dimensions, how many thousands of bricks the new palace would take.
"How big is your mother's house, Metit?"
The girl stared at her curiously.
VVVVV
Earth tables were always too low. Tables on Thanagar were waist-high, and the chairs designed to perfectly accommodate a pair of wings. Human tables were barely off the ground. Chayara lounged on a scattering of pillows while she dined and wished again that she could convince someone to craft longer table legs.
Bashari sat at the corner to her left --- not in Katar's place --- curled up like a large cat as he deftly pulled bites from his bowl and popped them into his mouth.
Chayara found that she had little appetite. She made do with sweet bread and wine, wrinkling her nose at the fruit and dried fish in her own bowl. Instead, she watched him eat as they chatted.
" ... and my brother and I slept on the roof most nights," said Bashari, lost in a memory. "We used to tell each other stories about the patterns we saw, warriors and ladies circling above us and keeping watch."
"You don't talk about your brother often. Does he still live at Abedju?"
"He caught a fever two seasons before he would have been a man."
"Oh." On Thanagar, she would have asked if he'd died well, but Bashari had already told her that answer as well. She dug through her memories to recall the proper human phrase. "I'm sorry."
"It was long ago." Bashari took a deep drink of his wine. "Why did you ask about my childhood home?"
She pushed her bowl away. "Katar has commissoned a new palace at Waset. It will be almost twice as big as this one."
"You don't want to move to Waset?"
"I don't see the point in having three palaces. When I lived on my homeworld, I shared an apartment the size of this room with another woman!"
Bashari raised an eyebrow. "My Lady ... "
She glared at him. "We were just friends." Bashari cracked a grin. She threw a piece of bread at his head, which he caught and casually ate.
"If it bothers you, ask him to forget the palace. He loves you, he'll stop construction." Bashari paused as Chayara flinched. "You are his queen," he said carefully, placing the rest of the bread untouched into his own bowl.
Silence stretched between them. Katar was in the room with them, even when he was many leagues away.
She turned suddenly to the two servants waiting on them. "Leave us. And see that we are not disturbed." They bowed and left.
Bashari watched her. "My ... Chayara?"
She held up her hand. "I want to talk, and I don't want them eavesdropping."
"What do you wish of me?"
She glared at him. "We're alone. You don't have to be so formal."
"We're in your palace."
"Yes." She leaned back on her arms, not in invitation. "I miss my home."
"Is that why all the talk of old times?"
"Yes. And no. I wasn't a queen on Thanagar. I was a law officer." He nodded; she had told him of her life before. "I never starved, but in my childhood, there were plenty of hard times and short rations. Now I'm looking at plans for another palace, the size of a small city, with gold and gems inlaid into the walls, and ... " She let out a disgusted breath.
"Our people do not starve," he said. "You and the King have brought great prosperity to the land, and yet you are generous enough to seek new lands to govern and educate."
"You sound like him." Something like amusement twitched in his eyes. "But you don't agree, either, do you?" she asked.
He sat back. "We are talking, as just the two of us?" She nodded. "You have helped our people, and you have brought order and structure and wealth, uniting petty tribes into a great kingdom."
"But?"
"Not everyone likes being governed, even by a just god."
"No," she said. "And an opulant palace reminds people that they are governed, but it can also make them resentful."
"As long as they see you as gods, you'll inspire awe, not resentment."
"What if the goddess leaves her husband to live with a mere mortal?"
He sat back in thought. "That could prove troublesome."
"It could. And in a world controlled by a god, where might two people go where he couldn't reach them? Is there even such a place?"
"I don't know," he admitted. Her stomach twisted.
"Think about it," she said quietly. "That's all I ask."
He nodded, and then he stood.
"Where are you going?"
"I need to check on my men."
"Will you return?" She wondered if she sounded like she was begging.
"I can. Do you have a place in mind where we could ... meet?"
Her breath quickened, and she saw that his did as well.
"There is a guest room in the corridor adjacent to my bedroom. No one is using it tonight."
"I know the room," he said. "I'll be back at moonrise."
After he was gone, Chayara lay back on the pillows, performing the necessary arithmetic in her head to determine how many houses could be built from the bricks of one overlarge palace. Moonrise would not come soon enough.
VVVVV
Bashari hurried from the palace, only relaxing when he reached the barracks. He could not honestly say that the smells of unwashed soldiers and the thick, yeasty beer they drank were among his favorite odors, but at least he knew where he stood with his men: usually at the front, barking orders and brandishing a weapon.
"General!" cried Ishpi. "We were just coming to find you."
"What is it? Has the King sent word?" The King and Queen had introduced to them the concept of messenger birds, although they both flew faster. Katar could easily overtake his own missive should he send one.
"No word from the King," said Nesamun. "We're getting some of the men together to go to the temple."
Ah. He shouldn't have been surprised. They had returned from battle yesterday, and many of them had been feasting last night. The men with wives were home with them now, and the men without would find female companionship for the price of a small donation into the temple coffers.
"We were coming to get you," said Nesamun. "I'm sure Kemisi misses you."
"She says you tip well," said Ishpi, a grin on his face.
Bashari rolled his eyes. He'd not been to the temple to see Kemisi or her coworkers in long months. At first, there had been no time, and in recent days, his thoughts had been elsewhere.
"Not tonight," he said. "You go. Leave half the men here, and if the night is quiet and the day brings no news of the king, they'll be allowed to go tomorrow evening while the others stay."
"Fair enough," Nesamun said. "Perhaps you will join us then?"
"He won't," said Ishpi darkly. "He'll be busy."
Bashari rounded on him "What's that supposed to mean?"
Ishpi backed away. "Nothing, sir. Just ... You haven't gone with us in an age, even in the other cities, so we know you're not just ignoring Kemisi. The men are starting to think you've got a wife stashed somewhere you haven't told anyone about."
"Don't be stupid," he said, but the words hit too close. He covered with a joke. "Had I a wife to go to, secret or otherwise, do you think I'd be wasting my time talking to you now?"
Nesamun grabbed Ishpi's shoulder. "This isn't worth the fight. Come on, we need to go before all the pretty ones are taken. General." He dragged Ishpi away.
Bashari sighed, and looked around. Teti-en shrugged his shoulders from where he sat. Basahri joined him. Teti-en never went to the temple for the women, but only to pray. "Is there any news this evening?" Bashari asked him.
"Nothing, sir. The evening exercises went well. The physician came by at sunset for a last check of the wounded. Mshai's arm is healing well, but he doesn't think Sebi will regain the use of his leg."
Bashari glanced over to the sick beds at the end of the barracks. Sebi lay there unmoving, looking at the ceiling.
"General," said Teti-en. "Perhaps if one of the gods ... "
"Healing is not among their gifts," he replied, a touch sharply.
"Yes, sir."
"I'll go talk to him." The moon would not rise for a while, and he needed to offer his soldier some thoughts on what a man without a working leg might do with the rest of his life.
VVVVV
Chayara sat in the darkened room. The guest beds were not as sumptuous as her own, and it was uncomfortable to recline for long.
Again and again, she wondered what she was doing here, what she was thinking, carrying on this relationship. Katar would kill them both if he discovered their betrayal. If she fled with Bashari, she would lose any chance she had at controlling Katar, shaping this empire. If she stayed and Katar remained ignorant, he would expect her in his bed and occasionally in his arms, and she thought she might scream if he tried.
A shadow covered the door.
"It's me," Bashari whispered.
She flowed to her feet and into his arms. "I feared you wouldn't come."
He took her chin. "There was no chance I would not." He kissed her, and her knees melted as his arms roamed around her back.
Crazy, this was crazy, and she never wanted it to end.
The bed was out of the question, so he lay her down on the rug instead, helping her to remove her mask. She knew it was too dark for him to see her clearly, but still she read the delight in his eyes as he looked on her true face once more.
Then there was no time to look, only to drown in kisses, to sigh as he licked and bit up her neck and to her ear and his hands held her waist. She couldn't remember when she'd last desired Katar like this.
"I brought something," she whispered to him, pushing him away enough to reach her prize: a small, clay pot.
She dipped her index finger in the contents, then placed it between his lips, watching his eyes open as he recognized the taste. He carefully licked off the last drops of honey from her sharp nail.
Chayara smiled, and took more on her fingertips. With her clean hand, she unfastened his loincloth, and with the other, she spread the sticky stuff onto his stiffening penis. She drew lines and whorls over his skin, and she heard him moan loudly when she drew him into her mouth.
She had to remember to keep her teeth covered, to keep her head moving, to suck and to lick. Bashari lay back as she kneeled over him for better leverage. He grasped her hair as though it would save him from drowning, guided her head up and down, though gently.
Chayara withdrew long enough to wet her hand with her own tongue, then pumped with her fist as she continued to clean him with her tongue.
Sweet, the honey was too sweet, and she choked as he went deep, and she didn't want to stop, not as he growled in his throat, not as his hips thrust wildly, not as he bit back his groan and the sweet became salty.
She sat up, turned carefully away from him, and spat out the strange tastes mingling in her mouth.
Bashari pulled her atop him tiredly. "That was ... "
"You're welcome," she grinned against his shoulder. He kissed her hair. "You are not to fall asleep."
"No, my Queen," he agreed.
She pulled a thin linen sheet from the bed, and they lay on the rug, talking of nothing for what could have been an hour: idle court gossip, more of Bashari's childhood memories, some of her own. Chayara was often homesick, but when she was with him, she was home.
When he began to nuzzle her head, she knew he had recovered enough of his strength to continue. She tilted her head up to his, slipped her tongue against his lips, prodding until he parted them. When her hand slid down his chest, he stopped her.
"My turn," he said, and with a light kiss to her knuckles, he lifted her to the bed, where she could sit with her legs over the edge and her wings behind her.
He found the clay pot. As her heart raced, he dipped his fingertips in the pot, then spread warm honey over her nipples. She had been on fire for him for hours, and the firm motions of his thumb and forefinger only teased her further. He applied more honey and then his teeth and tongue were on her hungrily.
Chayara whispered, "Idh-yaa ... " Beloved.
Bashari's hand drifted down to her thighs, just barely touching her where she most wanted him. "My Queen, there seems to be some trouble here," he said, nibbling her breast. "Perhaps you went for a swim and didn't dry yourself?" One finger brushed her opening and she bit back a moan. "You're terribly wet," he said, and he slipped his finger in deep. Pleasure shot through her.
He turned his attention from her breasts to kiss her lips with sweet breath. She felt his other arm move, and then felt a second hand rub her more strongly. She tilted her head to see Bashari's fingers, covered in warm honey, spread her opening wide and plunge inside.
"I should clean that off for you," he said, and he fell to his knees before her.
Fingers and tongue, tasting and prodding and rubbing inside of her. Her thoughts spun, centered around the pleasure between her legs. So perfect, as his tongue slithered against her most sensitive ridge, sparking all the nerves in her body.
And of course she compared, and she remembered, and she failed to recall the last time Katar made her feel this way. How many months had it been since he'd pressed his mouth against her soft down, and how many years since he'd done so with such finesse and passion?
She had to fight her moans, had to temper her pleasure with the knowledge that too many people might hear. Each stroke ached, as Bashari licked and drank every trace of sweetness within her. Two gentle fingers rhythmically slid in and out, the knuckles crooked perfectly against her ridge. She burned with love for him.
Chayara swore in a harsh whisper, first in her own language and then in his, cursing and blessing him as her orgasm ripped through her. He didn't stop the onslaught of his tongue, even as she quaked and stilled, and it was too much, pleasure so deep it was practically pain.
Stop, she needed him to stop, and he did. Then he grabbed her wrists and brought her to her shaking knees on the rug.
He reared behind her. "I need you," was all the warning she had before he thrust deep inside her.
Different now, the pleasure and the sensations, and Chayara made insensate cries, matched with Bashari's gasps as he took her. She collapsed her weight onto her elbows, allowing him an even better position to stroke her throbbing ridge. Her hands clawed the rug beneath them as Bashari pounded into her again and again and again.
"Is this what you want?" he growled.
"Yessss."
He withdrew, and she ached for him, for completion. "Tell me."
"I want you." She crawled backwards to rub against him, but he pulled back. "Bashari!" she hissed.
He teased her outer ridge with his slickened head. "You mean you want this?"
"I want you inside of me. I want you to fill me. I want ... " Her words fell off into a primal moan as he shoved into her again and retook his rhythm. So hard, so deep, so ...
Another peak loomed, and then before she could so much as breathe, she came hard, shuddering her whole body. Could anyone see them in the darkness, she was certain that she glowed from every pore.
"Love you," she gasped, as he continued to take his own pleasure from her willing body.
"Love you so much," he replied, his voice quavering, his hips grinding hard against her. One hand stayed at her hip, the other grabbed almost painfully onto her wing. Then he hitched and his rhythm quickened and he groaned his release.
Bashari fell back, drawing her into his lap. Tired, aching, and sated, Chayara reached up to press wet kisses against his mouth, which he returned gently, brushing her wings out of the way.
Their breathing stilled, and she could not drag her eyes away from his, dilated huge and beautiful in the darkened room. She wanted all of him, wanted to know every thought he'd ever had, wanted to hear every word he'd ever spoken, wanted to promise her soul to him and understood she would be satisfied with nothing less than the same in return.
She knew she should return to her own room, and he should return to his quarters. She shouldn't coax him to lie beside her on the floor, shouldn't grab the sheet from where it had puddled and wrap it around them both, shouldn't rest her head on his arm as they lay facing each other in the darkness, shouldn't long to do so every night for the rest of her life.
But that was what she did anyway.
VVVVV
To be continued.
by XFfan_2000 and NancyBrown
NC-17
Chapter One
VVVVV
Chapter Two
VVVVV
Bashari found the Queen in the throne room.
He hadn't gone looking for her, yet after he had seen to the morning exercises and the drone of what duties he could not put off on his subordinates, his feet wandered of their own accord to where she was.
He watched her from the entrance, leaning against the wall and not trying to attract her attention as she performed her morning duties to her people.
Supplicants came every day to the palace: landed nobles and poor farmers alike, bringing offerings, seeking judgements or favors or blessings from the winged gods. Of the thousand things Bashari loved about his king, Katar was always just, and meted out his gifts regardless of the station of the supplicant or the size of the offering. Of the million things he loved about his queen, Chayara was merciful, and distributed her own favors more kindly among the supplicants who needed them most. Lucky was the man who came before both, and rare was he who left their presence with a valid complaint.
It was nearing midday, and the last few petitioners made their cases before the Queen. Bashari listened and observed.
A young couple about to wed asked her blessing on their union, which she granted smiling. Two men arguing over the ownership of a goat were told to breed the goat, and when the kid was weaned, it would be given to the second man. Two others debated a property line: one had built his house encroaching on the land of another. Queen Chayara ordered him to pay his neighbor the price that fraction of the land was worth plus half again, for he had not just taken his neighbor's land, but also part of his neighbor's children's legacy. Bashari suspected the King would have left the price at the value of the land alone, but Katar was not here.
The petitioners thanked the Queen and were shown out. Bashari remained where he was, watching as Chayara wrote something on a fresh scroll. He guessed she was recording what she'd granted, in case Katar asked.
"You don't need to lurk in the shadows," she said, rolling the papyrus and handing it to a servant.
"I was not lurking." He knew the servants in the room were not blind, deaf, or stupid. "Your Majesty."
"You certainly were," she replied, and she descended from her throne. "Don't contradict your queen."
"My mistake, m'lady."
"Walk with me." Her tone was clipped, formal, and a touch testy. She'd had the night to consider what had occured at the oasis yesterday. Katar had left without ordering the removal of Bashari's head or any other part of his body, which meant she hadn't confessed. That did not mean she wasn't upset or angry with Bashari.
They didn't speak as they walked through the hot, still palace hallways together. She led him out to the gardens, where the shade from the trees and vines brought a cool relief from the sun's heat. The palace always baked at this hour, and most chose this time to rest.
They were alone.
He watched as the tension drained from her back and shoulders. "Sometimes it's too hard to breathe in there," she said, and for the first time today, she smiled at him.
"You fly on the wind. Can't you simply spread your wings and leave whenever you want?"
She let out a disgusted breath. "You know the answer to that." Chayara tilted her head. "I meant ... Yesterday. I meant all of it." There was a question in her statement.
He touched her chin. "As did I."
She closed her eyes. "Bashari, this can't go any further."
There it was, then. They would deny what had happened between them, and it would not happen again, and they would move on. He couldn't hide the pain on his face, and he didn't try.
"But I want it to," she whispered.
He bent and kissed her, not trusting his voice. She kissed him back desperately, tugging his head to her, licking her way into his mouth. He tasted her sighs, pressed his hand against the fabric covering one perfect breast and felt her heart race.
They broke, panting, and he knew he was done, knew he would never willingly have a life without her near him again.
Bashari lifted Chayara into his arms, and they laughed around more kisses as he carried her deeper into the garden and the shadows. Here, it was almost chilly in comparison to the rest of the grounds. He set her on her toes, tongue seeking her mouth as his fingers coaxed her nipples to easy peaks under their covering.
He reached for her mask. She batted him away, and again when he tried once more.
"My ... Chayara," he protested around her kisses.
"Not my mask," she said around his. He sighed into her mouth, then moaned as her hands slipped down his body and under his loincloth. "Has it been long enough?" she teased, nipping his lip as she squeezed him, maddening him.
"Far too long," he growled.
He backed Chayara against the nearest tree, spreading her glorious wings out to either side. Her hands grasped him urgently, stroking and tugging. Bashari twitched the cloth at her hips aside, and together, they guided him deep inside of her.
Chayara let out little cries of pleasure in her throat as Bashari thrust into her quickly and hard. The tree shook behind her, rattling the leaves above him like some obscene breeze. He placed his arms around her, lifting her, and Chayara wrapped her legs around his waist, letting her weight and --- oh gods, such strong muscles she has! --- her own thrusts join them even deeper. He groaned and bit her neck, wanting to meet her in her climax, wanting to postpone his own as long as possible.
So many nights, he'd awakened from wonderful, shameful dreams of his Queen, heard her voice murmuring sweet imprecations as he filled her. Last night, he'd lain awake replaying their encounter over and over in his mind until he'd finally taken the matter in hand just so he could sleep.
He'd thought all he would have of her was that memory, those dreams. Never had he been so grateful to be wrong.
She shifted her body and she was slick in her passion for him, perfect and tight, and he could feel that strange, soft ridge inside her rub against his cock and it was too much for both of them.
Chayara spasmed against him, screams held muffled in her mouth as her lips clamped shut. Bashari surged and pulsed and there was nothing in the universe but the goddess in his arms. Later, his throat would be sore and he would realize he'd roared.
They fell to the ground together, still joined, still kissing each other weakly. He bruised his nose bumping into her mask, but not kissing her would be far more painful.
"I would spend the rest of my life doing that with you," she said, resting her covered forehead against his. He had no intention of disagreeing.
Chayara pulled away first, and he jumped a little as her body tugged at him before he slid free. Two sets of clothing could be pressed smoothly back into place without fuss, and by the time they emerged from under the trees, he could believe they both looked nearly innocent. The Queen's face was flushed and her lips swollen; as they passed the few servants still about at this time of day, he was convinced they read his guilt all over his own tired, joyful visage.
It was hard not to take her hand. It would be suicide to consider doing so anyway.
"Thank you for the report, General," she said suddenly, as the priest Hath-Set emerged from a doorway unexpectedly.
"I'll get you the rest of the information this evening, my Queen," Bashari replied after a moment's hesitation.
"I will dine at sunset," she said. "Bring it then." Without another word, she turned and walked away from him in the direction of her room.
He bowed his head as she left. The priest did not bow, and he watched them both with a closed expression that Bashari could not read.
VVVVV
Hath-Set returned to the temple, anger filling his soul and drowning out all other thoughts.
Did they honestly believe him to be so great a fool? The Queen's hair was mussed and her face practically glowed from her latest tryst with the General, who himself wore a satisfied smirk. And then she had the gall to pretend he had been giving her a report?
The King had departed early, before Hath-Set could inform him of what he knew. And while Katar valiantly protected their kingdom from threats in the South, his most trusted friend fomented another rebellion in the King's own marriage bed.
Bitter names dripped from his lips, whispered too quietly for any other to hear.
He would not tell, not yet. The King deserved to hear the truth from his loyal Hath-Set, not giggled by some vapid chambermaid. For now, Hath-Set comforted himself with thoughts of how Katar would punish his betrayers. The Queen would be disgraced, and cast out from the palace and the city. The General would be allowed to die, eventually, and pieces of him fed to vultures. Hath-Set prayed that Katar would give him the honor of fulfilling that order.
His heart calmed. The wicked would be punished. That was the will of the gods. He could bide his time and watch it unfold.
VVVVV
The afternoon business dragged. Chayara had taken a restless nap, rising hot and itchy. Rather than wake her body servant, she'd gone for a quick swim in the shallow pool on the grounds. When they'd first built the palace, she'd gone swimming in the river every morning, until the day she'd had to fight a crocodile.
After she'd emerged from today's swim, she was cooler, but soon sweaty again in the heat. Sitting in the stuffy throne room, listening to the plans Katar had commissioned to build a third palace farther south, she tried not to lose her temper.
They didn't need a third palace. They hadn't needed the North Palace, or for that matter, this one.
She frowned, not wanting to think about the North Palace, about Katar's promise to take her there after his return.
The architect must have misread her expression for displeasure at his design, as he hastened to say, "Of course, this is a preliminary concept only, Your Highness."
"Leave the plans," she said. "I'll consider them before my husband returns, and then he will give you further instructions."
"Yes, my Queen," said the architect, kneeling and scraping before handing the scrolls to Chayara's servant, who took one look at her face and then set them aside.
After he left, Chayara descended from her throne. Another frown crossed her face. "Metit," she told the servant, indicating the scrolls.
There was a table along the side of the wall. Chayara spread out the scrolls, examining the designs closely.
"Metit, remind me. How long have you been working for me?"
"Six years, my Lady." Chayara could remember the scrawny twelve-year-old, who'd stammered and dropped trays and trembled in fear of her gods.
"Before that, you lived in the city?"
"Yes, my Lady. My mother lives three streets from here."
Chayara bit her lip, remembering her own mother. "Do you see her often?"
"When I can, my Lady. My grandmother lives there, and my brother and his children."
The light in here wasn't the best, and Chayara could just make out the scratched notes in the margins of the paper: dimensions, how many thousands of bricks the new palace would take.
"How big is your mother's house, Metit?"
The girl stared at her curiously.
VVVVV
Earth tables were always too low. Tables on Thanagar were waist-high, and the chairs designed to perfectly accommodate a pair of wings. Human tables were barely off the ground. Chayara lounged on a scattering of pillows while she dined and wished again that she could convince someone to craft longer table legs.
Bashari sat at the corner to her left --- not in Katar's place --- curled up like a large cat as he deftly pulled bites from his bowl and popped them into his mouth.
Chayara found that she had little appetite. She made do with sweet bread and wine, wrinkling her nose at the fruit and dried fish in her own bowl. Instead, she watched him eat as they chatted.
" ... and my brother and I slept on the roof most nights," said Bashari, lost in a memory. "We used to tell each other stories about the patterns we saw, warriors and ladies circling above us and keeping watch."
"You don't talk about your brother often. Does he still live at Abedju?"
"He caught a fever two seasons before he would have been a man."
"Oh." On Thanagar, she would have asked if he'd died well, but Bashari had already told her that answer as well. She dug through her memories to recall the proper human phrase. "I'm sorry."
"It was long ago." Bashari took a deep drink of his wine. "Why did you ask about my childhood home?"
She pushed her bowl away. "Katar has commissoned a new palace at Waset. It will be almost twice as big as this one."
"You don't want to move to Waset?"
"I don't see the point in having three palaces. When I lived on my homeworld, I shared an apartment the size of this room with another woman!"
Bashari raised an eyebrow. "My Lady ... "
She glared at him. "We were just friends." Bashari cracked a grin. She threw a piece of bread at his head, which he caught and casually ate.
"If it bothers you, ask him to forget the palace. He loves you, he'll stop construction." Bashari paused as Chayara flinched. "You are his queen," he said carefully, placing the rest of the bread untouched into his own bowl.
Silence stretched between them. Katar was in the room with them, even when he was many leagues away.
She turned suddenly to the two servants waiting on them. "Leave us. And see that we are not disturbed." They bowed and left.
Bashari watched her. "My ... Chayara?"
She held up her hand. "I want to talk, and I don't want them eavesdropping."
"What do you wish of me?"
She glared at him. "We're alone. You don't have to be so formal."
"We're in your palace."
"Yes." She leaned back on her arms, not in invitation. "I miss my home."
"Is that why all the talk of old times?"
"Yes. And no. I wasn't a queen on Thanagar. I was a law officer." He nodded; she had told him of her life before. "I never starved, but in my childhood, there were plenty of hard times and short rations. Now I'm looking at plans for another palace, the size of a small city, with gold and gems inlaid into the walls, and ... " She let out a disgusted breath.
"Our people do not starve," he said. "You and the King have brought great prosperity to the land, and yet you are generous enough to seek new lands to govern and educate."
"You sound like him." Something like amusement twitched in his eyes. "But you don't agree, either, do you?" she asked.
He sat back. "We are talking, as just the two of us?" She nodded. "You have helped our people, and you have brought order and structure and wealth, uniting petty tribes into a great kingdom."
"But?"
"Not everyone likes being governed, even by a just god."
"No," she said. "And an opulant palace reminds people that they are governed, but it can also make them resentful."
"As long as they see you as gods, you'll inspire awe, not resentment."
"What if the goddess leaves her husband to live with a mere mortal?"
He sat back in thought. "That could prove troublesome."
"It could. And in a world controlled by a god, where might two people go where he couldn't reach them? Is there even such a place?"
"I don't know," he admitted. Her stomach twisted.
"Think about it," she said quietly. "That's all I ask."
He nodded, and then he stood.
"Where are you going?"
"I need to check on my men."
"Will you return?" She wondered if she sounded like she was begging.
"I can. Do you have a place in mind where we could ... meet?"
Her breath quickened, and she saw that his did as well.
"There is a guest room in the corridor adjacent to my bedroom. No one is using it tonight."
"I know the room," he said. "I'll be back at moonrise."
After he was gone, Chayara lay back on the pillows, performing the necessary arithmetic in her head to determine how many houses could be built from the bricks of one overlarge palace. Moonrise would not come soon enough.
VVVVV
Bashari hurried from the palace, only relaxing when he reached the barracks. He could not honestly say that the smells of unwashed soldiers and the thick, yeasty beer they drank were among his favorite odors, but at least he knew where he stood with his men: usually at the front, barking orders and brandishing a weapon.
"General!" cried Ishpi. "We were just coming to find you."
"What is it? Has the King sent word?" The King and Queen had introduced to them the concept of messenger birds, although they both flew faster. Katar could easily overtake his own missive should he send one.
"No word from the King," said Nesamun. "We're getting some of the men together to go to the temple."
Ah. He shouldn't have been surprised. They had returned from battle yesterday, and many of them had been feasting last night. The men with wives were home with them now, and the men without would find female companionship for the price of a small donation into the temple coffers.
"We were coming to get you," said Nesamun. "I'm sure Kemisi misses you."
"She says you tip well," said Ishpi, a grin on his face.
Bashari rolled his eyes. He'd not been to the temple to see Kemisi or her coworkers in long months. At first, there had been no time, and in recent days, his thoughts had been elsewhere.
"Not tonight," he said. "You go. Leave half the men here, and if the night is quiet and the day brings no news of the king, they'll be allowed to go tomorrow evening while the others stay."
"Fair enough," Nesamun said. "Perhaps you will join us then?"
"He won't," said Ishpi darkly. "He'll be busy."
Bashari rounded on him "What's that supposed to mean?"
Ishpi backed away. "Nothing, sir. Just ... You haven't gone with us in an age, even in the other cities, so we know you're not just ignoring Kemisi. The men are starting to think you've got a wife stashed somewhere you haven't told anyone about."
"Don't be stupid," he said, but the words hit too close. He covered with a joke. "Had I a wife to go to, secret or otherwise, do you think I'd be wasting my time talking to you now?"
Nesamun grabbed Ishpi's shoulder. "This isn't worth the fight. Come on, we need to go before all the pretty ones are taken. General." He dragged Ishpi away.
Bashari sighed, and looked around. Teti-en shrugged his shoulders from where he sat. Basahri joined him. Teti-en never went to the temple for the women, but only to pray. "Is there any news this evening?" Bashari asked him.
"Nothing, sir. The evening exercises went well. The physician came by at sunset for a last check of the wounded. Mshai's arm is healing well, but he doesn't think Sebi will regain the use of his leg."
Bashari glanced over to the sick beds at the end of the barracks. Sebi lay there unmoving, looking at the ceiling.
"General," said Teti-en. "Perhaps if one of the gods ... "
"Healing is not among their gifts," he replied, a touch sharply.
"Yes, sir."
"I'll go talk to him." The moon would not rise for a while, and he needed to offer his soldier some thoughts on what a man without a working leg might do with the rest of his life.
VVVVV
Chayara sat in the darkened room. The guest beds were not as sumptuous as her own, and it was uncomfortable to recline for long.
Again and again, she wondered what she was doing here, what she was thinking, carrying on this relationship. Katar would kill them both if he discovered their betrayal. If she fled with Bashari, she would lose any chance she had at controlling Katar, shaping this empire. If she stayed and Katar remained ignorant, he would expect her in his bed and occasionally in his arms, and she thought she might scream if he tried.
A shadow covered the door.
"It's me," Bashari whispered.
She flowed to her feet and into his arms. "I feared you wouldn't come."
He took her chin. "There was no chance I would not." He kissed her, and her knees melted as his arms roamed around her back.
Crazy, this was crazy, and she never wanted it to end.
The bed was out of the question, so he lay her down on the rug instead, helping her to remove her mask. She knew it was too dark for him to see her clearly, but still she read the delight in his eyes as he looked on her true face once more.
Then there was no time to look, only to drown in kisses, to sigh as he licked and bit up her neck and to her ear and his hands held her waist. She couldn't remember when she'd last desired Katar like this.
"I brought something," she whispered to him, pushing him away enough to reach her prize: a small, clay pot.
She dipped her index finger in the contents, then placed it between his lips, watching his eyes open as he recognized the taste. He carefully licked off the last drops of honey from her sharp nail.
Chayara smiled, and took more on her fingertips. With her clean hand, she unfastened his loincloth, and with the other, she spread the sticky stuff onto his stiffening penis. She drew lines and whorls over his skin, and she heard him moan loudly when she drew him into her mouth.
She had to remember to keep her teeth covered, to keep her head moving, to suck and to lick. Bashari lay back as she kneeled over him for better leverage. He grasped her hair as though it would save him from drowning, guided her head up and down, though gently.
Chayara withdrew long enough to wet her hand with her own tongue, then pumped with her fist as she continued to clean him with her tongue.
Sweet, the honey was too sweet, and she choked as he went deep, and she didn't want to stop, not as he growled in his throat, not as his hips thrust wildly, not as he bit back his groan and the sweet became salty.
She sat up, turned carefully away from him, and spat out the strange tastes mingling in her mouth.
Bashari pulled her atop him tiredly. "That was ... "
"You're welcome," she grinned against his shoulder. He kissed her hair. "You are not to fall asleep."
"No, my Queen," he agreed.
She pulled a thin linen sheet from the bed, and they lay on the rug, talking of nothing for what could have been an hour: idle court gossip, more of Bashari's childhood memories, some of her own. Chayara was often homesick, but when she was with him, she was home.
When he began to nuzzle her head, she knew he had recovered enough of his strength to continue. She tilted her head up to his, slipped her tongue against his lips, prodding until he parted them. When her hand slid down his chest, he stopped her.
"My turn," he said, and with a light kiss to her knuckles, he lifted her to the bed, where she could sit with her legs over the edge and her wings behind her.
He found the clay pot. As her heart raced, he dipped his fingertips in the pot, then spread warm honey over her nipples. She had been on fire for him for hours, and the firm motions of his thumb and forefinger only teased her further. He applied more honey and then his teeth and tongue were on her hungrily.
Chayara whispered, "Idh-yaa ... " Beloved.
Bashari's hand drifted down to her thighs, just barely touching her where she most wanted him. "My Queen, there seems to be some trouble here," he said, nibbling her breast. "Perhaps you went for a swim and didn't dry yourself?" One finger brushed her opening and she bit back a moan. "You're terribly wet," he said, and he slipped his finger in deep. Pleasure shot through her.
He turned his attention from her breasts to kiss her lips with sweet breath. She felt his other arm move, and then felt a second hand rub her more strongly. She tilted her head to see Bashari's fingers, covered in warm honey, spread her opening wide and plunge inside.
"I should clean that off for you," he said, and he fell to his knees before her.
Fingers and tongue, tasting and prodding and rubbing inside of her. Her thoughts spun, centered around the pleasure between her legs. So perfect, as his tongue slithered against her most sensitive ridge, sparking all the nerves in her body.
And of course she compared, and she remembered, and she failed to recall the last time Katar made her feel this way. How many months had it been since he'd pressed his mouth against her soft down, and how many years since he'd done so with such finesse and passion?
She had to fight her moans, had to temper her pleasure with the knowledge that too many people might hear. Each stroke ached, as Bashari licked and drank every trace of sweetness within her. Two gentle fingers rhythmically slid in and out, the knuckles crooked perfectly against her ridge. She burned with love for him.
Chayara swore in a harsh whisper, first in her own language and then in his, cursing and blessing him as her orgasm ripped through her. He didn't stop the onslaught of his tongue, even as she quaked and stilled, and it was too much, pleasure so deep it was practically pain.
Stop, she needed him to stop, and he did. Then he grabbed her wrists and brought her to her shaking knees on the rug.
He reared behind her. "I need you," was all the warning she had before he thrust deep inside her.
Different now, the pleasure and the sensations, and Chayara made insensate cries, matched with Bashari's gasps as he took her. She collapsed her weight onto her elbows, allowing him an even better position to stroke her throbbing ridge. Her hands clawed the rug beneath them as Bashari pounded into her again and again and again.
"Is this what you want?" he growled.
"Yessss."
He withdrew, and she ached for him, for completion. "Tell me."
"I want you." She crawled backwards to rub against him, but he pulled back. "Bashari!" she hissed.
He teased her outer ridge with his slickened head. "You mean you want this?"
"I want you inside of me. I want you to fill me. I want ... " Her words fell off into a primal moan as he shoved into her again and retook his rhythm. So hard, so deep, so ...
Another peak loomed, and then before she could so much as breathe, she came hard, shuddering her whole body. Could anyone see them in the darkness, she was certain that she glowed from every pore.
"Love you," she gasped, as he continued to take his own pleasure from her willing body.
"Love you so much," he replied, his voice quavering, his hips grinding hard against her. One hand stayed at her hip, the other grabbed almost painfully onto her wing. Then he hitched and his rhythm quickened and he groaned his release.
Bashari fell back, drawing her into his lap. Tired, aching, and sated, Chayara reached up to press wet kisses against his mouth, which he returned gently, brushing her wings out of the way.
Their breathing stilled, and she could not drag her eyes away from his, dilated huge and beautiful in the darkened room. She wanted all of him, wanted to know every thought he'd ever had, wanted to hear every word he'd ever spoken, wanted to promise her soul to him and understood she would be satisfied with nothing less than the same in return.
She knew she should return to her own room, and he should return to his quarters. She shouldn't coax him to lie beside her on the floor, shouldn't grab the sheet from where it had puddled and wrap it around them both, shouldn't rest her head on his arm as they lay facing each other in the darkness, shouldn't long to do so every night for the rest of her life.
But that was what she did anyway.
VVVVV
To be continued.