Page 69 of Never the Roses

She banished the Dream from the dome, letting go of her illusions, revealing the colorful sunset sky. They’d been in there for hours.

“There are all kinds of creation,” he said, kissing her forehead. “Many ways for us to atone, to change the direction of things.”

She, of course, knew what he was asking now. And that he looked to make his own atonement, to change his own direction, though he wouldn’t be able to free himself of his debt onus. Letting out a sigh, she buried her face against his skin, inhaling his scent, wishing she had the magic to prolong this moment for all eternity. But no magic in the world could accomplish such a feat. So much power between them, and yet so little ability to make their lives what they wanted and needed them to be.

But she could do this one thing. For him, for the world, a tiny bit of sacrifice. “I’ll go,” she said, her lips inscribing the decision against his skin like a vow. “I won’t kill. I won’t engage in battle magics, but I’ll go to the queen’s court and let the news be known, so your king will rethink this war.”

He took a deep and ragged breath, gathering her close, again pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Thank you,” he breathed. “I know what it will cost you.”

She shook her head slightly. “It costs me only my pride and a bit of aggravation. Retiring, going into exile… I can see nowthat I was only indulging myself, walling out the world instead of taking action to mend what I broke.”

“I think that crawling away to lick your wounds and finding a measure of peace, a steady foundation from which to build again, doesn’t count as self-indulgence.”

“Is that what I’ve done? That might be a generous interpretation.” But she smiled as she said it. She might not deserve this care, this understanding and forgiveness he offered so easily, but she was beyond grateful for it, drinking it up and filling the parched cracks in the profoundly shattered aspects of her humanity.

Perhaps, over time, repairing them.

34

They slept together in the crystal dome, waking under the slow wheel of glittering stars to make love again, and again, seemingly insatiable for one another. Time stood still, a feat impossible to accomplish by any magic, but apparently easily effected by new lovers. Oneira felt as if she’d been transplanted to a different world, one where just the two of them existed, where there was only sweetness and warmth, beauty and affection. The past fell away and only the now mattered.

More, it seemed possible for her to exist in that world, one friendlier to her way of being, where she could find a way to continue living, perhaps even flourish, given enough time nourished by Stearanos.

Inevitably, however, dawn arrived, proving that time hadn’t stopped, only slowed. They lay entwined naked together, their intimacy so seamless that his skin felt like her own. In the growing light, she traced the fine white scars on his shoulder, and he made a hum of pleasure like a cat purring.

“How did you get these scars?” she asked.

“You don’t know the story?” He raised his head, levering onto his bent elbow to gaze down at her, his braids tumbling to glide against her with the fine silkiness of tiny snakes.

She searched her memory, then shook her head. “Nothing springs to mind.”

“It was a long time ago, one of my early battles—and biggest mistakes.” He grimaced ruefully, tracing the sensitive skin alongher collarbone. “Uhtric had won the final battle, which I foolishly believed ensured our victory. He entered the city to take the palace, and I had him and his invasion force warded from attack—I was at least that smart—but I failed to account for the presence of the ruler’s personal sorcerer.”

Oneira winced in sympathy. “A desperation defense.”

He nodded. “She was a transformation mage. Not tremendously powerful, but she loved her king and gave the last of her life energy in that final attempt to save him. She transformed my umbrella ward into glass—and threw it at me.”

“Ouch,” she breathed, barely able to imagine it, not sure what an adequate response would be.

“Yes. I very nearly bled out. If a healer mage hadn’t been right with me, I likely would have.”

Oneira believed it, having seen for herself how the scars covered every fingertip of his skin, like a stained-glass window leaded in white. “I didn’t know wards could be transformed that way.”

“They can’t, if the wardmaker constructs them properly. I’ve since learned better. I could teach you.”

“Hmm.” Tempting, but she had other questions. “And why do they call you ‘Stormbreaker’?”

He snorted. “You want to hear of all my humiliations, don’t you?”

“At least the only two there are,” she returned drily.

“At least three,” he corrected, “having been bested by an oneiromancer in my own home.”

“Shall I apologize?” she inquired archly. “You shouldn’t have assembled such a tempting library if you didn’t want to lure visitors to it.”

“My favorite method,” he replied warmly. “Bait the trap with something irresistible to the prey one desires.”

“And you believe you’ve captured me?” She’d tried to soundtaunting, but a giggle escaped her as he wrapped her in an inescapable embrace, nuzzling the join of her neck and shoulder.

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