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dwelling was tiny, not so much more than a hovel, and she could not afford the
endless supply of peat and wood that others bought or bargained for to get
them through the Homanan winter. She hoarded what she had, although when he
came she piled it all on the hearth. Even if it meant going without for days
after.
He shifted, and she held her breath. One broad hand moved across her belly,
then cradled her left breast- The fingers were slack and passionless. He had
spent that passion earlier; though he was eas-
ily roused, she did not do it now.
She sighed shallowly, not daring to move his hand. He had bought her body, let
him fondle it
149
ISO Jennifer Robersoa as he chose. It made no difference to her. At least he
was a prince.
She had other lovers, of course, but none so fine as he- They were hard men,
tough men, with little refinement and less imagination. He, at least, was
clean, with a good man smell, lacking the stench of others who had no time for
baths, nor the money to buy wood to heat water- It was no trou-
ble to him to bathe whenever he wished; she was grateful for it. She was
grateful for him.
That he had chosen her was a miracle in itself.
She was young still, only seventeen, and her body had not yet coarsened with
use, so she presented a better appearance than some of the other women.
And she had high, firm breasts above a slim waist, with good hips below. She
would lose it all, of course, with the first full-term pregnancy, but so far
she had been able to rid herself of the seeds before any took root.
But what of h is seed?
She laughed noiselessly, startled by the thought.
Would she bear a prince's bastard? And if she did, would he provide for her?
Perhaps she could leave
this life behind and find a good, solid man who would forget about her past.
Or would he take the child, claiming it his?
It was possible- It had happened in the past, she had heard; the bastards had
been sent to Clan-
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keep, to the shapechangers, to grow up with bar-
ren women. He would not risk leaving a halfling with a Homanan woman, lest
someone attempt to use it for personal gain.
He called her meijha and meijhana, words she did not know. She had asked him
if he had a wife, and he had laughed, correcting her: "Cheysula,"
he had said, and then 'Wo, / have no cheysula.
They expect me to wed my SoUndish cousin, but f will not do it."
A TAPESTRY OF LIONS 151
She turned her head slightly to look at his face.
In sleep he was so different, so young, so free of the tight-wound tension. It
was a good face in sleep, more handsome than any she had welcomed in her bed,
and she longed to touch it. But to do so would waken him, and he would change,
and she would see the customary hardness of his mouth and eyes, and the anger
in his soul.
She sighed. She did not love him. She was not permitted to love him; he had
told her that plainly their first bedding three months before. But she did
care. For all his black moods he was kind enough to her, even if it was an
unschooled, rough kindness, as if he had forgotten how.
He had spoken harshly to her more often than she would choose, but he had only
struck her once;
and then he had turned away abruptly with a strange, sickened look in his
eyes, and he had given her gold in place of silver. It had been worth the
bruise, for she bought herself a new gown she wore the next time he came, and
he had smiled at her for it.
Her smile came unbidden; a woman's, slow and smug. In my bed lies the Prince
of Homana.
He moved. He stretched, flexing effortlessly, and then he sat up. She saw the
play of muscles be-
neath the flesh of his smooth back, the hint of sup-
ple spine, the tangle of black hair across the nape of his neck. She lay very
still, wondering if she had spoken her thoughts aloud.
For a moment his profile was very clear in the
dim light, outlined by the coals in the tiny hearth across the room. She saw
the elegant brow and straight nose. He was yet groggy with sleep and soft from
it; when the sleep fled, his bones would look older and harder, with black
brows that drew down all too often and spoiled the youth of his face.
1S2
He slanted her a glance. "Did you dream of i"
me?
She smiled. "How could I not?"
It was his customary question and her custom-
ary answer, but this time neither appeared to please him. He scowled and got
out of the narrow bed, then reached to pull on black breeches and boots. She
admired as always the suppleness of his muscles, the lithe movements of his
body. It was the Cheysuli in him, she knew, though he did not seem other than
Homanan. She had seen a warrior up close once and still shivered when she
recalled the strangeness of his eyes. Beast-eyes, some folk called them, and
she agreed with them.
His were not bestial. They could be discon-
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