Sword and Verse by Kathy MacMillan Page A

that yesterday, I had wanted nothing more than to learn the higher order script and decipher my heart-verse. Now, I had let myself want something else, something I would never have, something I had no right to want.
    I turned to find a dry place on my pillow, and was drifting into a restless half sleep when I heard a noise at the window.
    At first I thought the shutter had banged in the breeze, but then a shadow dropped from the window ledge into the room. I sat up and took a breath to scream, but the shadow dashed toward me and, for the second time that day, a hand clamped over my mouth.

Gyotia fashioned a lamp from the sky-fire and carried it as he wandered the night philandering, though he veiled it when he visited the bedrooms of mortal women.
    So regular were his wanderings that the mortals below began to order the year by the fourteen Shinings and fourteen Veilings of Gyotia’s Lamp.
EIGHT
    â€œIT’S ALL RIGHT,” said a hoarse voice. I had rarely heard him speak that way, without humor. Maybe that was why my heart didn’t start pounding until he let go and leaned over to light the lamp.
    As Prince Mati’s profile became visible, I clutched the blanket to my chest. He perched on the edge of the bed. “It took me ages to find you. I’d have given the western vizier’s wife an awful fright if she hadn’t already passed out from too much wine.”
    I stared at him in disbelief. “Why did you come?” I asked, my voice strained. I was overly aware of my bare arms, of my thin white and green nightgown, of his leg brushing mine through the blanket. Despite the sunamara tea I’d drunk, every part of me was almost painfully awake.
    His face fell. “Don’t be angry,” he said. “I’m sorry about . . .earlier. I shouldn’t have—” He broke off and ran his fingers through his hair.
    â€œI understand,” I said woodenly. “It was a mistake. We should just . . . forget it happened.” My fingers clutched the blanket so tightly that it hurt.
    The softness in his eyes stole my breath. “But I can’t forget it happened. I’ve been thinking about it all day. If you want me to leave, I will, and I’ll never say another word about it. But . . . I had to come and see if maybe . . . you couldn’t forget about it either.” He watched my face, one hand tapping nervously against his leg.
    Entire worlds of possibility blossomed before my eyes, and my skin went hot, then cold, then hot again.
    Tell him to leave, said the sensible voice in my head, in Laiyonea’s clipped tones. I tried to think of higher order symbols, and my father, and my heart-verse. But the truth was, more than anything I wanted Mati to touch me again, to kiss me as he almost had behind the stage.
    And I was terrified, not of what might happen to me, but of the power of my own want.
    â€œI haven’t forgotten,” I said faintly.
    Mati’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Do you want me to leave?” he asked.
    â€œNo,” I whispered.
    The night air was thick. My head spun as he leaned forward. He was so close that I saw his throat work as he swallowed and said, “I’d like to kiss you, Raisa. Would that . . . would that be all right?”
    There were reasons I should say no, I knew, but I couldn’t bring a single one to mind.
    In answer I leaned closer. He let out a surprised exhalation and pushed my hair back from my face, his eyes closing as he leaned in to kiss me. His fingers touched my neck, my shoulders, my arms, leaving a trail of fire.
    We were both breathing heavily when the kiss ended. Mati stroked my face and told me that I was beautiful, and I said some quite embarrassing things back. In the pale glow of the lamp, with his warmth beside me, it was difficult to hold on to any thought for long. We kissed again. This time he pressed me down to the pillow and I lay pinned by his half weight on top of me.
    It was