She made a sound when she guided him inside her.

He did not know what was happening. He did not know where she’d put him in, down there between her legs. Was it the hole where she pushed out her wastes? It could not be – it was too far forward, unless women were different in ways he had not imagined.

He’d seen dogs in the yard. He’d seen Calaras savagely mount a mare, stabbing with his red sword, but there was no way to tell where that sword went.

She was moving against him now, and the sensation, of burgeoning heat, was ecstatic. Then she grasped his wrists and set his hands round her hips – they were fuller than he’d imagined they would be, and his fingers sank into deep flesh.

‘Pull,’ she whispered. ‘Back and forth. Faster and faster.’

Confusion vanished, bewilderment burned away.

He shuddered as he emptied himself into her, felt exhaustion take him – a deep, warm exhaustion. When she let him slide back out, he rolled to lie on his back.

But she said, ‘Not so fast. Give me your hand … no, that one. Back down, wet the fingers, yes, like that. Now, rub here, slow to start, but faster when you hear my breathing quicken. Arathan, there are two sides to lovemaking. You’ve had yours and yes, I enjoyed it. Now give me mine. In the years ahead, you and every woman you lie with will thank me for this.’

He wanted to thank her now, and so he did.

* * *

The boy had done his best to be quiet, but Rint was a light sleeper. Though he could not make out what his sister was saying to Arathan, the sounds that followed told him all he needed to know.

So she was ensuring that she’d get some pleasure from this. He could not begrudge her that.

She’d told him that Draconus had not commanded her. He had but requested, and no repercussions would attend her refusal. She had replied that she would give the matter some thought, and had said the same to Rint, pointedly ignoring his disapproval.

Leave the teaching in the hands of some court whore. Play it out like the cliché it’s come to be. There are ways of learning and they repeat generation after generation. Of all the games of learning, surely this is the most sordid one. Feren was a Bordersword. Did Draconus understand nothing but his own needs, and would he trample everyone on his way to answering them? So it seemed. His son was about to become a man. Show him what that means, Feren.

No, it wouldn’t be a whore for Arathan. Nor a maid, nor some farm girl from one of the outlying hamlets. After all, any one of these could come back to haunt House Dracons, seeking coin for a bastard child.