Fic: Roundelay | LotS | C/D, R/K | NC-17
Title: Roundelay
Author: liz_estrada
Fandom & Pairing: Legend of the Seeker (post S2); Cara/Dahlia, Richard/Kahlan
Rating: NC-17, if you squint
Summary: Continuance of Camelot is a Silly Place, wherein Zedd fixes his finale boo-boo by connecting C/D at the R/K wedding. Herein, you’ll find mostly rambling + bantering + bed stuff, which equals adult mush. If the words “adult mush” make you imagine (as I did) pouring Johnnie Black in your oatmeal, I apologize, because that is just white trash grisly.
Author’s Note: My LotS knowledge is still lacking (WTF with all the apostrophes?), so this is fairly plot-free. I believe that if we let fear and ignorance dissuade us from writing wordy, dirty fan fiction, the terrorists win.
*
The Mord’Sith are renowned for many things - ruthlessness, torture, secrecy, an almost fanatical devotion to the Lord Rahl - but musical proficiency is not rated high among their skill sets.
Cara hadn’t sung since she was a child in Stowcroft, when she had a dog and a favorite goat and a last name. If she tried very hard to remember those days, she could almost see herself walking by the river with her father, singing about a clever, uncatchable fish.
Those memories had never led her anyplace good, so she packed them away in a locked trunk and pushed it to a dark corner of her mind.
Her time for singing was very long ago, before the sisters took her away and burned her down to base metal, poured her remains into a suit of leather, and forged a woman so sharp that her glance could draw blood.
They made her too well, more flexible and resilient than themselves. She saw beyond their dogma and rejected their misguided loyalty to the wrong man, the worst man. She followed her own path through exile - a path which eventually led to freedom, without and within.
This freedom to do as she wishes, to feel without restriction, is still a foreign country to Cara, but she explores new ground every day. Furthermore, she has royal support for these excursions.
The ruling Lord Rahl is not simply a name or figure to serve blindly. Richard has become her brother in every aspect save blood, and he trusts her to protect his homeland, his wife, and his back. Kahlan, still the fearsome Mother Confessor, has consistently proven herself to be true and faithful; she has helped Cara to define the word ‘friend.’
Sometimes these connections feel like gifts mistakenly presented to the wrong person; they have both humbled Cara and made her fiercely proud.
Her attitude toward Zeddicus Zu’l Zorander is less consistently positive. For the past six days, Cara has awakened each morning brimming with puerile anticipation. Consequently, each morning, she has contemplated murdering the old wizard for knowingly fomenting this chaos in her life.
Months back, Zedd used a volatile spell to undo certain events, thereby aiding the Seeker’s quest and saving the world from destruction by the Keeper. Twice, this spell effectively recast the die of Cara’s fate: first sparing her from stygian torture and enslavement to Darken Rahl, and later by simply excising Dahlia, the Mord’Sith sister and lover who enticed her into a trap.
One week ago, on the morning of Richard and Kahlan’s wedding, Zedd - intending to remedy his friend’s suffocating ennui and loneliness - revealed to Cara how her life had been changed as a result of this spell, and recklessly plopped Dahlia back into Cara’s orbit.
This Dahlia had never become Mord’Sith. As small children, Cara had helped her to escape their clutches, and her fearful parents sent her away to school. She excelled at music and became instead a professional singer, musician, and teacher celebrated for her ability to coax sweet sound from even the sourest throat.
When the two met after the wedding - effectively for the first time - they struck a nifty spark, but there was also a kind of wobbliness in their interactions, a sensation Cara likened to walking on slimy river rocks in new boots. They circled round each other all night, talking a little, sharing two drinks and one formal dance, and occasionally smiling like confused dullards when their eyes met and neither one could look away. The evening ended with a chaste embrace, and a promise to speak the next day.
Keyed-up and dizzy, Cara paced the palace halls for a long while after the newlyweds departed for their mountain cabin honeymoon. She took a horse out and rode fast circles until sunrise, alternately fuming and grinning all the while. When she fell into bed that morning, she knew two things for certain: she wanted Dahlia, and she hated Zedd.
Dahlia suggested singing lessons as a pretext for getting better acquainted, and Cara - more familiar with taking lovers by force than winning them by charm - coolly agreed. Dahlia was, after all, a decent citizen with a career and reputation, not a burly soldier or bar wench prone to random rutting with near strangers. Until she was certain how to proceed, Cara would be patient and restrain herself… even if it killed her.
Almost one week later, on the occasion of their third lesson, she was testing the boundaries of Dahlia’s own patience and restraint. Rain had pelted the city all day, so they moved their afternoon meeting from the gardens to the tranquil People’s Palace library.
She lay supine on a carpet as Dahlia kneeled by her side, pressing both palms down onto her stomach. This rather familiar touching was allegedly related to proper muscular deployment for singing. Cara didn’t believe that for a second.
“Breathe in deeply and hold your air,” Dahlia instructed. “Now exhale the note while pushing up against my hands.”
Cara smirked. Breath rushed out through her nose, carrying a scanty ‘hrrmmmm’ sound, and she collapsed her belly in outright disobedience. Irritated, Dahlia slapped Cara’s side, and the loud pop of skin on leather sounded far too harsh for the offense. Cara bore the blow with typical stoicism, which only made her teacher angrier.
“You are failing on purpose,” Dahlia accused. “Stop being such an ass.”
“I warned you that I don’t sing.”
“You could, easily,” Dahlia said while rubbing creases from her tight forehead, “if only you would cooperate and pay attention.”
“You have my full attention, and I believe I know what you’re trying to show me - although a different approach might help me grasp the finer points.” Cara rose slightly on her elbows and cocked up one knee. She appeared to be contemplating mischief. “Lie down for me.”
Dahlia laughed lightly, with a hint of challenge in her eyes. “Persuade me.”
“I learn best by example.” Cara turned onto all fours and crawled alongside her teacher. “Show me how your body feels when performing correctly. I will emulate you.”
“You will immolate me?” Dahlia teased, even as she arranged her dress and straightened her legs to comply.
“Later, if you’re lucky,” Cara rejoined, finally sensing definite forward motion.
She placed a hand at the middle of Dahlia’s back, another on her shoulder, and eased her to the floor. Glossy cornsilk hair fanned out beneath her neck, and the feminine lines and curves of her body came clear against her fine embroidered dress.
Cara did not comment on her loveliness just then; it seemed too obvious for words. Instead, she quietly admired throat and mouth, cheek and brow, saying beauty, beauty with her eyes until Dahlia blushed and looked away.
She removed her gloves, laid both palms on the singer’s midriff, and pressed firmly over the diaphragm. She felt a soft trembling as Dahlia inhaled, and a more defined tension as she hummed out a shaky middle C note.
As her hands moved outward, squeezing Dahlia’s narrow waist, smoothing along her ribs, the tremble grew into pronounced shaking. Cara dragged her thumbs an inch below her teacher’s breasts, and the woman promptly lost control of her breath.
Cara’s eyelids fluttered shut. She smiled then, assured that at least their bodies wanted the same thing. This was the easy part, the flesh routine as essential to her training as any combat run. There should be nothing new here, nothing alarming.
When her eyes opened, she found Dahlia gazing up as if mesmerized. She looked absolutely bare-throated, so vulnerable and trusting that Cara considered bolting out the door before she or magic or the inherent evil of life inevitably spoiled everything. She might have tried, if only her knees hadn’t gone weak.
“Please,” Cara breathed. “Say what you want me to do.”
Dahlia licked her dry bottom lip and swallowed hard. “You’re doing fine. Follow your instincts.”
“That’s unwise. Instinct would have me tear you apart and devour you,” Cara said, “in a library.”
“Oh. Right.” Dahlia pondered that and winced. “Do you have private rooms?”
Cara nodded. “Upstairs, along the eastern wall. It’s a long walk.”
Dahlia stood and took Cara’s hand. “Then we should run.”
*
If their first accidental embrace at the wedding reception looked like a mugging, the trip to Cara’s rooms closely resembled abduction. They raced through the palace, with Cara towing Dahlia along through curved passageways lit only by torch and lightning. Thunder and pouring rain masked their frantic footfalls, and they did not speak, not to each other, not to the servants or guards.
Cara hit her door with a shoulder, shoving it wide open. She pulled Dahlia into the room, kicked the door shut, and crushed the singer’s body between polished wood and Mord’Sith leather. Both hands went round her neck and she pulled their faces together, not in a kiss, but a slow caress of cheek and forehead so intimate their eyelashes knit together.
Hot breath singed Dahlia’s ear, and she felt teeth drag along her jaw line. Her legs folded like wet reeds. Cara chased her to the floor, kissed her mouth like a hammer.
There was blood in the kiss and they did not stop. The taste was correct. Right, somehow. They clung to each other and rolled halfway across the floor in a braid of arms and legs.
Cara worked open the dress buttons along Dahlia’s back, and was amazed to find dexterous fingers blindly unlocking the intricate leather laces along her spine. It took young Mord’Sith days to learn the patterns and knots, much longer to master them with speed.
“How?” she asked, halfway laughing over the ease and surety of Dahlia’s movements.
“I can string a harp in the dark,” Dahlia said, peeling the leathers open to touch bare shoulders.
Cara groaned, relishing that first sweet touch even as her eyes darkened with need. She brusquely snatched Dahlia’s bodice down to her waist and nipped her collarbone, kissed the span of powder-white chest bared above a lacy camisole.
Dahlia anchored her hands behind Cara’s neck, holding her there, just there, for a moment more. A hand rushed beneath her dress and up her thigh, peeling off her stockings in turn and stroking naked skin. She shuddered as a thumb arced across her damp inner thigh, and higher.
“No undergarment,” Cara blithely observed. She slicked her knuckles and nails at the wet apex of Dahlia’s legs, causing her to shake like a leaf.
“Not recently,” Dahlia said. “I’ve lived in hope of this since the wedding.”
“Strumpet,” Cara said, and kissed her softly, slowly and deeply, like a lover instead of a conquest.
That soulful kiss unraveled her with a quickness; after a few deliberate strokes against her sex, Dahlia seized and pulsed through an easy, fine little climax. Her wide eyes focused on the coffered ceiling. She seemed very surprised, almost embarrassed, by the force of her reaction to Cara’s affection.
Cara only snickered and kissed her chin. “One down,” she said.
Dahlia tugged her hair in admonition. “Don’t count. It’s tacky.”
“You’re one to talk, traipsing bare-assed around the royal residence.”
Cara wiggled her unseen fingers and Dahlia gasped. In a fit of pique, she found the strength to flip their positions and knee-pin Cara’s elbows to the floor. The quick maneuver showed an intrinsic understanding of leverage and joint manipulation, and Cara excitedly imagined ditching singing instruction in favor of grappling lessons.
“Impressive,” she said.
Dahlia smiled down proudly. “I know!”
“I let you do that,” the Mord’Sith warrior claimed.
“Tell it to the Keeper.” Dahlia laid her palms high on Cara’s chest, and slowly traveled south to cup and knead her breasts through buttery leather. “I got the drop on you, Cara Mason.”
Cara groaned and chuckled at the same time; the mixed emotion sounded especially naughty. “I like that,” she whispered.
Dahlia tweaked the stiff nipples straining to reach her fingers. “It would seem so.”
“No, I mean… when you say my name.” Their eyes met, and Cara’s cheeks pinked. “I like that.”
The look that flitted across Dahlia’s face was too complicated for Cara to interpret, but her eyes shone happily, and she finally shifted her weight to free Cara’s arms. “Why are we still on the floor?” she asked.
“I like the floor.” Cara sat up, holding Dahlia still in her lap. She lifted the hem of her camisole, revealing a ribbon of pale stomach to rub and pinch. “We can’t break the floor.”
“Let’s try the bed anyhow,” Dahlia said. She took a nervous breath and raised her arms so Cara could lift away her only undergarment. “When it breaks, we’ll have the floor as a fallback position.”
Cara appreciated this sound strategy, and murmured nonsense praise against her bare breasts. Her arms went round Dahlia’s waist. She took a pink nipple into her mouth and sucked it red. Dahlia barely found the will to push her away and stumble toward the bed.
Petulant words of protest wilted in Cara’s mouth when she caught sight of Dahlia’s exposed back. Even by dim light, stark white ridges of scar tissue were plainly visible. Just above her buttocks, a span of skin two hands large showed healed wounds shaped like circles and lines. Cara clenched her jaw; she knew how to make that happen, how to cut into the dermis just deep enough and peel away the layers like…
“What happened to you?” Cara asked, surprising herself. She didn’t intend to ask, but there it was.
Dahlia didn’t even pretend confusion. “Life,” she said, shrugging as she pushed her dress down over her hips. Quiet and naked, she waited for Cara to match her boldness.
Since Dahlia had nearly completed the unlacing, Cara quickly pulled off her boots and shucked her leathers. She kicked the mass into oblivion and moved by the windows. Dahlia approached and they stood close together, examining each other by faded stormlight.
Their hands, calloused by weapons and more civilized instruments, feathered across old wounds with great care. Each wore permanent evidence of her trials: falls and fists, burns and cuts, curses and spells and arrows - more hurt than was fair for two simple little girls from Stowcroft.
As their hands stilled, Dahlia looked down and whispered. “What do the agiels feel like?”
The query was sober and appropriate, considering their history. Dahlia had escaped that anguish, and Cara had not. Unsure how to answer without causing guilt, Cara tucked in and held her close. She kissed her throat, caressed her back, and brushed a thigh against her center, lighting every nerve with pleasure until Dahlia moaned.
“Imagine the opposite of this,” Cara finally answered.
Processing that idea took a few beats. Dahlia buried her face in Cara’s hair and clung to her, apologizing for things that were not her fault. She then led her to the bed, laid her down, and made Cara feel very, very good for the better part of an hour.
*
Wide, angry storms lashed down rain and lightning all afternoon. The sun drowned and a cloud-cloaked moon rose full and high before they spoke again.
Nude, sweaty and spent, Cara lay across the bed, resting her cheek on Dahlia’s rumbling stomach. “You’re hungry,” she said. “I should get some food.”
Dahlia smiled and moaned two low notes of disagreement. “I’m fine,” she lied, while carefully combing her fingers through Cara’s matted golden hair. “Be still.”
Cara balked and tilted her head up. “But it sounds like you swallowed thunder.”
“Okay, then.” Dahlia sighed and stilled her hands. “Would you think me weak if I confessed to a raging need for sustenance?”
“Of course not; hunger is natural. Gluttony is weakness,” Cara said, as she opened her mouth on humid skin. She licked a salty rib, and her mouth watered.
Strong wind blew rain in through the shutters; when the breeze shifted and pulled out again, the warm smell of sex curled around the room. She didn’t want to move, but Cara knew that if someone didn’t rise soon, they would die in this bed - two weak, gluttonous fools.
“I’m going to the kitchen,” she suddenly declared, and nimbly rolled onto her feet. She dampened a towel in the alcove water basin and scrubbed up a bit while scanning the room for discarded clothing. “Where are my leathers?”
Dahlia grumbled disagreeably and tugged a sheet over herself. “Under the bed, maybe,” she suggested. “Don’t bother with that. Just put on a robe.”
Cara kneeled down to peer beneath the bed - no luck. “I don’t have a robe.”
“Why not?”
“Extraneous clothing is an indulgence.” Cara checked behind her furniture, a cedar chest and a single wooden chair - again, no joy.
Dahlia frowned, puzzled by such asceticism. However, while watching Cara stalk around the room naked and completely immodest, she, too, began to question the necessity of clothing.
“If more people looked like you, the world would need fewer robes,” she asserted.
Cara stopped near the windows, cocked her head and hip, and sneered. “Provoke me or sate your hunger - choose.”
“Both! Wait, neither! Nevermind. Food is stupid,” Dahlia proclaimed. “Come back to bed.”
“What of your ‘raging need for sustenance’?” Cara gently mocked. “You no longer fear starvation?”
“We all must die somehow,” said Dahlia, rolling onto her side and raising the sheet in invitation. “Stay. Kiss me forever.”
Cara’s gaze tripped across the banquet of revealed flesh, the ripe breasts, lean belly, moist thighs... she closed her eyes and swayed, suddenly crippled with hunger.
“Woman, you confuse me,” she whispered, “but you will learn that I am quite capable of making difficult decisions.”
She stepped to the bed and ripped away the sheet. Dahlia squealed and trumpeted laughter.
*
Cara gathered the hem of a hastily twisted sheet gown in one hand and stalked through the palace halls with a singular sense of purpose. She spoke to no one, didn’t even acknowledge the double-takes from gawking guards and attendants along the fast route downstairs. Once she reached the kitchen, her expedient progress stuttered to a halt.
Kahlan sat at a low wooden table, drinking a cup of tea. She wore a gown and long robe, which looked regal enough to pass for formal wear, though her disheveled hair suggested she had recently left bed herself. Cara stopped short in the doorway and they regarded each other for an uneasy moment.
With one careful visual sweep, Kahlan took in the funny, improvised sheet sarong and the tell-tale swatches of red and pink and purple rising under Cara’s skin - clues which fairly screamed out what her friend had been up to that evening. She smiled and bobbed her head a little.
“You weren’t expected back until tomorrow,” Cara bluntly said.
“Richard thought the roads might flood, so we rode home ahead of this storm. The thunder woke me,” Kahlan explained. “Hello to you, too.”
“Oh. Hello.” Cara quirked her mouth sideways; she was unsure how to generate safe, polite chit-chat about the honeymoon trip. “So, was it everything you hoped?”
Kahlan instantly flushed bright pink. “Excuse me?”
Cara then realized how Kahlan had heard the question - Tell us, Confessor, was your wedded coitus with Richard worth all the torment and angst and waiting? - and stammered out a clarification.
“I… I only meant that… the mountains are very beautiful this time of year.”
Kahlan’s blush muted to contented glow. She smiled at her friend and offered a sincere answer. “Yes, the mountains were beautiful. It was all wonderful - everything. Thank you for asking.”
“Good.” Cara nodded and huffed softly in relief. Assuming the conversation had ended, she started gathering supplies on a meal tray. Sweet and sour fruits, bread, soft cheeses…
“How has it been here? Did anything exciting happen while we were gone?” Kahlan ventured, trying to draw Cara out and perhaps learn something about the person responsible for her current state.
“Nothing of consequence for the government,” Cara deflected, while busily collecting a sharp knife, a blunt knife, a carafe of water…
Kahlan frowned over the easy dodge, but refused to be fully put off. She would circle back around to the personal once she got Cara talking. “I hear you dealt with a citizen dispute. What’s the story there?”
“It isn’t terribly interesting - two rich old women squabbling over goat ownership petitioned for neutral arbitration. They refused to wait for Richard’s return.”
Kahlan smiled and folded her hands beneath her chin. She appeared genuinely curious about the outcome. “And how did you restore peace to their troubled lives?”
“I arranged for them to settle their differences in a controlled environment,” Cara said, while carefully arranging her food tray contents for optimal travel stability.
“Meaning what?” Kahlan prompted.
Cara grinned to herself, and then blanked her features before turning around. “They fought to the death, of course.”
In the span of two heartbeats, Kahlan’s eyes flashed wide in shock, conveyed disbelief, and softened to amusement. “Of course. A very egalitarian solution.”
“Yes. They were evenly matched,” Cara agreed.
“Well, who won?”
Cara locked a grape between her central incisors and neatly bisected it. “I did. They killed each other, so I got a free goat.”
Kahlan sputtered and smothered laughter with her palm. Cara finally cracked a smile.
“You’re in especially good humor tonight,” Kahlan observed. “You wear it well.”
“I am in good humor,” Cara dryly concurred, “though I will not discuss why.” She pointedly arched her eyebrows, letting the Confessor know that all baiting words would remain on the hook.
Kahlan’s face crinkled with disappointment. Foiled and caught, she snapped her fingers. “Suit yourself. If you should change your mind - ”
“I don’t believe I will.” Cara balanced the nicely stocked meal tray against her hip and turned for the door. She tossed a fractional grin back toward Kahlan. “But thank you for asking.”
Kahlan snickered into her tea. “Goodnight, Cara. Sleep well.”
Cara rolled her eyes and exited in silence.
*
The food vanished quickly, burned up in the furnace that used to be Cara’s bed. They ate and drank and made love until exhaustion set in, though no one intentionally fell asleep. Passed out, maybe.
Cara opened her eyes at dawn to find a crushed plum in her hand and Dahlia’s mouth between her legs.
It was the first morning in seven when she didn’t wake up cursing Zedd.
*
“There is history here,” Cara said, some time later. By somber morning light, her fingers traced the raised white circles and lines along her lover’s back. “Tell me this story.”
“History lessons are tedious,” Dahlia said with a dismissive sigh.
Cara flattened her palms and pressed along her spine. “Not with the right teacher.”
Dahlia took a while to respond. “I like how you look at me now,” she said. “If I tell, your eyes will change.”
Cara, likewise, took care before speaking. “My sins could fill a bottomless well. I will never judge you,” she vowed. “Keep secrets if you must. Just don’t lie to me.”
Though her touch was soft and her words sincere, Cara received no reply. Dahlia laid still and quiet, breathing into a pillow. Cara conceded, and pressed a lingering kiss to the small of her back, over the deepest scar.
Cara thought she heard a faint sob, but she could have been mistaken. A few moments later, Dahlia cleared her throat and began to talk.
“The conservatory charged a fortune for room and board. My father worked himself into an early grave paying to keep me there. After his death, they allowed me to defer payment until I completed my training. When I left, I… found ways to earn money,” she said.
“I tutored children at first, then a few matrons. When word spread among the cultured elite that I was in financial need - and not unattractive - more lucrative opportunities arose. One particularly powerful and wicked benefactor purchased my debt from the school. He provided so many introductions and connections that I was able to pay back the money quickly and earn a good living,” she explained. “The scars he gave me are merely receipts for services rendered.”
Dahlia waited for a reaction, but none came. She rolled over in distress, apparently expecting disgust or anger or some sort of outburst, but Cara just looked pensive and saddened. Her voice, when she finally responded, sounded almost reverent.
“Some of us were fated to struggle,” Cara said. “You survived. You’re here with me now. Little else matters.”
“You don’t… ” Dahlia began. She lost her words. She rose up, wrapped herself around Cara, and wept against her throat for what seemed like a long time. Although it lasted only a minute or two, it felt like years of comfort distilled to a few perfect words and a tight embrace.
Cara stroked her hair, rubbed her back. As Dahlia calmed, she whispered in her ear. “Would you like me to kill him for you?”
Dahlia sobbed and shook with laughter at once.
“Because I will,” Cara added. “I’m not joking.”
The singer pulled back and flashed a dazzling, hopeful smile. “Would you sing for me instead?”
Green eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Has this all been some sort of scheme to make me sing?”
“Yes, puppet!” Dahlia sneered and nodded. “Now do my bidding, or I shall seduce you, bare my soul, and cry all over you a second time.”
Faced with such a dire threat, Cara had little choice but to surrender. She pursed her lips and tried to remember even one song Dahlia performed at the wedding or during their lessons. She failed. On all occasions, Cara had busied herself with staring and fantasizing instead of memorizing melody or lyric.
Dahlia squeezed her hands. “Any song will do. I just want to hear you.”
Back further in her mind, buried in a dusty corner trunk, Cara found one near-forgotten tune. She closed her eyes, breathed in deeply, and told it like a secret.
Oh, the crickets are plump and the worms are fat, but clever Tully won’t fall for that
He’ll rob your hook and swim away, bubbling funny, it’s all in play
He’s older than the river wide, with fishy wisdom on his side
So save your flies for foolish trout, oh you’ll not catch clever Tully!
Cara lingered within the song, on a lost riverbank with her father, just long enough to feel the sun warm her face.
She opened her eyes to real sunlight; gauzy yellow streamed through the shutters and curtains. The storm had passed. Another would follow, somewhere down the line. Today, there was only sun and puddles, soreness in unspeakable places, wonderful bruises, and a woman who made her sing.
Dahlia’s blue eyes glimmered in the morning haze; she looked plainly smitten. She reached up and tenderly brushed her fingers down Cara’s face.
“You were telling the truth,” she said. “You really don’t sing very well.”
Cara gasped and slapped the covers. “Keeper’s ass! I told you! If you had just listened to me -”
“I’m kidding! Kidding,” Dahlia cried. “That was actually very promising. You have lovely pitch, a fetching vibrato...”
“Shut-up.” Cara shoved her backward and crawled onto her lap. “Try to pin me again.”
“Oh, so this is a wrestling contest now?” Dahlia huffed. She wriggled ineffectually and could not dislodge the smaller woman. “Cara, I don’t do fighting.”
“No, Dahlia, you won’t fight,” Cara said, with all manner of sardonic undertones. “That doesn’t mean the same thing.”
Dahlia twigged what script they were following, and broke out her best smirk. “Oh, I believe it does.”
“I will shore up your weaknesses.” Cara rocked against her lover’s stomach and looked entirely too pleased with herself. “Ask anyone in the Midlands - or D’Hara - and they’ll tell you Cara can teach a lark to shit Wizard’s Fire.”
Dahlia exploded with laughter, and bucked up so hard that they both rolled off the bed.
*
Richard entered his chambers, carrying a heavily laden breakfast tray. Kahlan sat in bed, propped up with a mountain of pillows. She made the appropriate amount of fuss over her husband’s considerate gesture, and they settled in for a leisurely morning feast.
“Chivalry must be catching around here,” Kahlan noted.
Richard didn’t understand the reference, but he smiled anyway. “Is Cara away somewhere?” he wondered aloud.
His wife chewed a bit of toast and shook her head to say ‘no.’
“Huh. Maybe she changed quarters again.”
Kahlan looked worried. “I don’t think so. Why, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, probably. It’s just that, when I passed her rooms on the way back here, I thought I heard laughter. No, actually more like… giggling.” He shrugged and scooped up a massive forkful of eggs.
“You’re right, it’s probably nothing. Just don’t mention it to Cara,” Kahlan said.
Richard scrunched his brows, confused. “Why not?”
Kahlan did not enjoy being questioned. “Embarrass her, and I won’t be happy. Which means you won’t be happy.”
Her eyes darkened, just a shade, and it was enough to make Richard’s eggs catch in his throat.
“Understood,” he choked out, coughing and pounding his chest. “You want some juice?”
END