The Sorceress of Belmair by Bertrice Small Page A

if you could not be of help to me. You must stop being angry at me, Cinnia, because I am king. You could not rule by those traditions that you seem to hold so dear. And you will never lose your fear of taking pleasures with me until you stop being afraid of losing yourself to our passion, for there is great passion between us. You are my wife. I want no other woman.”
    “How can you say that and mean it?” Cinnia said. “Until several days ago I knew nothing of you. But within moments of our meeting we were wed. And after that we were joined, to legitimize your selection by the dragon as this world’s king. You know nothing of me.” Was he, she wondered, the one she had sometimes felt watching her? A feeling had come upon her at times in the last few years that she was being spied upon. Nay, it could not be Dillon spying. The feeling was not the same and he had not been aware of her existence in years past.
    “But I do know you,” Dillon continued. “You are beautiful, which is obvious to all who look upon you. You are intelligent, and perhaps a bit too proud. You are kind, for I saw how gently you spoke with your father in the hour before his death. You have manners. And you have magic about you, for ’twas not only I who created that spectacular effect that was the result of our joining, Cinnia.”
    “It didn’t happen before we ate,” Cinnia answered him. “And of course I am proud. I was born royal.”
    “It didn’t happen earlier because we were angry with one another. We were not making love. We were making war,” Dillon told her. “When I make love to you, my queen, you will experience passion again as you did at the joining. As for pride I recognize it easily. My grandmother has the same prideful bearing that you do. She was born a queen, and she never lets you forget it. Now, the table is cleared. I believe that we have some unfinished business.” He stood, drawing her up with him. “Come!”
    “I don’t know you,” Cinnia said as he led her out of the hall and upstairs to their apartments where their servants were awaiting them.
    “What would you like to know?” he asked her. “You can see that I am handsome,” he teased her.
    “And vain!” she shot back. “You told me you are twenty-two to my seventeen. You have siblings. How many? Are they brothers or sisters? I’ll tell you what I do know. You seem kind. And your brow gets wrinkly when you concentrate on something. And I know that your magic is far greater than mine. But you could teach me.”
    “I have three sisters and a brother,” he told her. “Anoush is the oldest. She is your age. Zagiri is thirteen. The twins—Taj is the boy, and his sister Marzina—are nine. My little brother is my stepfather’s heir. On Hetar it is believed I am the son of the martyred Fiacre clan chief Vartan. Anoush is his daughter. As for teaching you my magic, Cinnia, eventually I will share some of my knowledge with you, but right now you are not mature enough, and your temper is much to quick to be entrusted with too much power.” His hand touched the door to their apartments, and it sprang open for him. “We will bathe first,” he said to her. “Together.” Ferrex and Cinnia’s serving woman, Anke, hurried forward. “Prepare the bath,” Dillon said. “Anke, take your mistress, and when she has disrobed bring her to the bath chamber.”
    “Yes, Your Majesty,” Anke said. Like Ferrex she was neither old nor young. She was of medium height with a sweet face, slightly plump with pretty brown eyes and brown hair she wore in two thick braids woven about her head.
    “Do not dally, Anke,” the young king said.
    “No, Your Majesty, I won’t,” Anke answered, and she led her mistress away.
    “He wants us to bathe together,” Cinnia said to her servant. “Is that not shocking, Anke? I shall not do it. Lock the bedchamber door.”
    “Nay, mistress, I will not argue with my master in a matter so insignificant,” Anke told Cinnia.