Lifting a Woolen Veil

I think of Lifting the Veil as part of a wedding ritual in cultures where marriages are arranged and in theory the groom would not ever have seen the bride’s face until the veil-lifting. The superstition of bad luck if the groom sees the bride on their wedding day before the ceremony may come from this.

That said, I don’t currently have anything further to say about the wedding aspect. I could see some future story line developing, but the paranormal or ghostly interpretation of lifting the veil as some of you have done seems much more intriguing. I was tempted to turn to the only ghost story I’ve ever written, but the atmosphere of that one just doesn’t fit. A ghost that maliciously manifests when a dog digs bits of its long-buried body out of the wall of a collapsed dugout house from pioneer days seems too, well, gritty to have anything to do with veils. A different interpretation could deal with the solving of mysteries, but I haven’t done much of that sort of thing, either, although the body in the wall does involve a mystery to be solved. The heroine, who has herself escaped from a contemporary illegal multi-wife commune in Utah, eventually figures out that the ghost is that of the long-past pursuer of two runaway sister-wives passing as teenage boys who came this way many years ago, passed a winter in the dugout, then escaped for good when the earth caved in on their former captor. As I said, more grit than veil.

But another, more mundane interpretation could involve trying to deceive someone, “pulling the wool over their eyes,” and being discovered. Never mind that veils tend to be more diaphanous than most wool. So I’ll resort to that sort of thing, with an excerpt from the same story I quoted last time, when a Mongol General appointed by the invading Khan to be governor of an Armenian province encounters the Lady who already governs it by birthright.
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From “A Falcon in Flight” in Hot Highlanders and Wild Warriors, edited by Delilah Devlin.

This Mongol was less ugly than expected, Ardzvik thought. Perhaps even handsome if one became accustomed to his shaven head, bold, high cheekbones, and tilted eyes beneath eyebrows with the graceful swoop of a hawk’s wing. Muscular, as well, which would please Leyli, and a fine rider, though Leyli’s interest in riding did not always involve horses.
Ardzvik sensed the shift in Leyli’s mood. One form of tension had yielded to quite another. “So, sweet sister,” she murmured, “are you still of a mind to slay this Governor should you get the chance?” She would not permit Leyli to do any such thing, of course, bringing the fury of Batu Khan’s forces down upon them, as Leyli knew quite well.
“Yes, I will kill him if I can! For the sake of poor Mihran! But…not, I think, right away.” Leyli allowed her milk-white mare to fidget under her, enough to draw the Mongol’s attention away from Father Kristopor’s diplomatic speech of welcome. The man had already surveyed the mare with all the admiration due her, and Leyli too, though less overtly. Now, as the girl peered flirtatiously through lowered eyelashes and fiddled in feigned nervousness with her long golden hair, it seemed that he could scarcely wrench his gaze away.
Ardzvik’s own high-bred bay mount had been assessed favorably as well, though she herself elicited a puzzled frown. Just as she had intended. Despite Father Kristopor’s disapproval, she was dressed soberly in garb so simple that she might have been mistaken for someone of much lower rank, in contrast to Leyli’s azure robes gleaming with gold brocade. All the easier to assess his reaction to her half-sister’s charms before Ardzvik had cause to care. Not that such a thing was remotely possible.
She had not much cared that “poor Mihran,” a minor prince of Georgia sent officially to court her, had lost his heart and whatever virginity he might have had to Leyli instead. Ardzvik was sorry for his death during the fall of Georgia, but not on a personal level. Better she should never care over-much for any man.
Father Kristopor closed his speech with an offer of the hospitality of the castle as lodging for the Darugha and his men. The interpreter did his part, and the Mongol said a few words in response. The priest signaled for Ardzvik and Leyli and their retinue to advance. They rode forward out of the shadow of the ancient stone church at a stately pace.
This encounter had been staged in the town’s center as a diplomatic compromise. The ruling family need not go as supplicants to the Darugha’s great golden tent, nor he with his men as conquerors to the gates of their castle. The Lady of Aragatsotn was a vassal, not a slave.
The interpreter, a handsome young man with Persian features, spoke toward the space between Ardzvik’s dark head and Leyli’s fair one. Good. Father Kristopor had obeyed her order to be deliberately vague as to which was the ruler and which was not. “His Eminence Yul Darugha thanks the Lady of Aragatsotn for her offer of the hospitality of her castle. However, it is his custom to sleep only within his personal tent.”
Ardzvik felt the gaze of Yul Darugha sweep over her, linger on her horse, then return to her face. She met his keen eyes, saw that he had not been deceived after all, lifted her chin proudly, and spoke not in Armenian but in the basic Turkic tongue most often used between tradesmen in the various countries of the lower Caucasus. “If Yul Darugha pleases, we would offer a feast in his honor tonight, to be held in the gardens of the castle.” It was well known by now that the nomadic Mongols were ill at ease confined within rigid walls.
With no pause for instructions the interpreter began to decline this invitation, too, as expected—the Governor had not been known to dine with any of such noble families as remained--but a rich, deep voice startled them all.
“Yul Darugha will be pleased to accept.”
That voice penetrated all the way into Ardzvik’s bones. For a moment she did not comprehend the words, though they were spoken in the same tongue she had used. So the interpreter had been merely a formality! With an effort she inclined her head briefly. “We shall be honored by his presence, and that of his men.” She looked up to see a hint of amusement on the Governor’s sun-browned face. Without another word, to her disappointment—why did she wish so to hear that voice again? To feel it?—he turned his dun horse and moved away toward the camp outside the town with his two dozen soldiers following.
“Father Kristopor said the man would never accept the invitation!” Leyli trotted at her side as they turned toward the road to Aragatsotn Castle.
“Yes, he did.” The priest had looked more pleased than surprised. Ardzvik would have words with him later. “So now there is much to be done.”
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(And a bit later)
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 “Take me to see your horses,” he said abruptly. Ardzvik heard movement at the table they had left, along with Leyli’s ever-resilient voice raised in laughter, and understood his request. She led him quickly to a gate that gave onto a path leading downhill to a cluster of stables and a fenced field. A dozen horses grazed there, while others, including those of the visiting Mongols, could be seen on a plateau slightly lower on the mountainside.
Leyli’s white mare came up to the gate at once, snuffling hopefully for treats. Yul Darugha ran a hand along her neck until she moved petulantly away since nothing edible was forthcoming. “A pretty creature,” he said, “like her mistress.” He looked to where Ardzvik’s blood bay advanced and retreated, wishing to come to his mistress, displeased by the stranger’s presence. “But yours, Lady Ardzvik, is the nobler beast by far. A touch of the Arab for grace and beauty.” She nodded assent. “I knew at once,” he went on, “that the rider of such a mount must be the true ruler here.”
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Yes, I admit it, this story is from one of those books with a naked male torso on the cover, so if I’ve ever given an impression of being entirely concerned with quite a different genre, I guess I’ve lifted that veil. But just briefly. Probably. That’s the only time I’ve ventured into quite that territory. So far.
 

Pride and Passion

Sacchi Green

For a day and a half or so, I thought I’d be all set to hold forth here on the subject of pride, or at least to report something I could feel proud of, whether warranted or not. As it turns out, though, when I read the fine print—i.e. the contract—I realized that some changes needed to be made, and they won’t be made—or refused—until today (Monday) or later. Nothing really major, I think, but we’ll see. A contract suitable for a single-author book doesn’t always work for a multi-author anthology.

So, in spite of having been offered an editing gig that would once have represented the pinnacle of achievement to me (at least in my little corner of the erotica genre,) and still looks well worth doing, I need to seek out a different approach to the theme of pride. And, of course, the harder I seek, the more complexities I bump up against.

Is feeling proud fundamentally wrong, as we sometimes learn, or can you get away with it if you call it self-respect? Then there’s “Blessed are the meek,” and I really can’t argue with that. If “pride goes before a fall,” it’s better to be the observer of that particular dramatic scene rather than the lead character. Most of us can enjoy a bit of Schadenfreude, as long we’re not the butt of it. Still, if we can’t be proud of our achievements, where’s the incentive for achieving them?

Maybe the answer is that feeling proud of one’s achievements is okay, but the kind of pride that makes one person feel superior to most others is questionable.  I’m not proud of myself—there are too many things I haven’t done as well as I should have—but I’m proud, or at least not ashamed, of some difficult things I did step up and do about as well as anyone could.

But I’d rather talk about stories than keep on with pointless navel-gazing. From the earliest legends and traditions we’ve been fascinated by stories of pride, and by no means chiefly ones culminating in a fall. Gods, heroes, royalty, people with inherent pride, bred in the bone. Pride in their ancestors, their traditions, a noble sort of pride that includes responsibility for those under their rule. We may get a bit twitchy about the classism in books like The Lord of the Rings, but we still cheer for Aragorn to take up the proud role that is his by birth.

When it comes to erotica—you knew where I was going, right?—we can get hot for confident, strong, proud characters, mostly male, it’s true, but some of us can appreciate strong, proud women as well. Wait, don’t stop reading yet! The excerpt I’m about to include has both. I do write straight sex from time to time, and I know whereof I write. This particular story was published under my alter-ego’s name, Connie Wilkins, in Hot Highlanders and Wild Warriors, edited by Delilah Devlin for Cleis Press.

This excerpt comes from near the end, so a bit of context might be in order. (I think I posted a bit from the beginning a while back when we discussed some other theme, and maybe this part as well, so apologies if I’m repeating myself.) Ardzvik is the hereditary Lady of Aragatsotn in Armenia, and Yul Dharuga is the Mongol General appointed Governor of Georgia and Armenia by Batu Khan of the Golden Horde. Proud Ardzvik would prefer to fight to the death, but to save her people she offers the fealty of her Province, previously sworn to the deposed Georgian kings, to the Mongols, so that taxation can substitute for bloodshed. At this point in the story she has been hosting Yul, and felt drawn to him, but pride is still so much a part of her that a dramatic chance encounter shatters her self-control, and rage bursts through.
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A Falcon in Flight

The next morning Ardzvik rose early after tortured dreams. Never had she needed the solace of the mountain and her falcon more. Bakhshi carried her with Zepyur tethered to her leather hawking glove along trails and then trackless reaches until his mistress was sure they could not be followed, and then she dismounted, slipped the hood from Zephyur’s head, and loosed the bird to the breeze.

Today she had brought her bow in hope of flushing larger game than the falcon could hunt. Wild goats were often seen at this height, and even boar might come to root among the tubers of mountain flowers. She pulled off her leather glove and kept an arrow at the ready, but her mind was not focused as much on the outer world as on her inner one.

Why did she yearn so for a man who might well not want her, or, if he did, might value her title more than her body? And if he wanted golden-haired Leyli, how could Ardzik bear it? Their father had not wed Leyli’s mother, but he had acknowledged the child, and if Ardzvik bore no heir one of Leyli’s would be accepted as ruler of Aragatsotn. Illegitimacy was not such a barrier in the ancient traditions of this land.

It was the begetting of children that obsessed Ardzvik now, not the bearing of them. She wanted this one man and no other, foreigner, destroyer, conqueror though he might be. She had known a mare who would let no stallion mount her save the one of her own choice. The horse had broken out, gone to her chosen mate in spite of her owner’s different plan, and their offspring had turned out to be the finest the herd had ever known. Perhaps bodies knew things that minds did not. 
  
Ardzvik’s mind might be preoccupied by her treacherous body’s needs, but her eyes caught the hitch in her falcon’s flight and her ears caught the changed sound of the bells on the bird’s ankle. Suddenly Zepyur was not hunting, but fleeing. A great white hawk more than half again her size rose over the mountain’s shoulder. 

A falcon of the north! A female Gyrfalcon! Not native here, but the royal family of Georgia had possessed one when Ardzvik was a child, and she had seen it hunt. It was clearly hunting now.
Zepyur twisted and dived, eluding her pursuer again and again, but the other gained ground each time. Ardzvik shouted and raised her bow. Something moved below on the mountainside, but she had no time to look. Zepyur dived again, opening space between herself and her pursuer, and Ardzvik’s arrow sped sure and true—until another’s arrow met it in flight, and both spun together toward the earth.

Arsdvik whistled for her bird and quickly donned the hawking glove. Another whistle, yet more piercing, came from somewhere below. Zepyur soared to her mistress and perched, quivering, on the thick leather gauntlet. The white intruder glided down past the man whose dun horse raced up the steep slope, to land on the arm of a second rider following more slowly.

Yul Darugha gave a roar in a language Ardzvik did not understand, though the words were clearly curses. She swiftly hooded Zepyur, stroked her feathers to calm her, and set her to perch on a rock in a sheltered hollow, tethered to a wiry shrub. Bakhshi grazed nearby, the sounds of his browsing familiar enough to reassure the hawk.

Ardzvik advanced toward the approaching man, another arrow at the ready. Her heart still pounded from her sudden terror for her hawk, but fear had transmuted into a glorious, intoxicating fury.

He leapt from his horse, bow in hand, and ran toward her, coming to a sudden stop as she raised her own weapon in warning.

“You…if you…when I saw that it was you…” His deep voice cracked. “If you had killed my gyrfalcon, with my falconer as witness…” He stopped for breath. “I would have had no choice! You know that!”

“I aimed between them to distract your bird,” she retorted in a cold rage. “If she did not veer off the next arrow would have found her heart. And if your arrow had killed my falcon…”

“I aimed between them as well,” he said, his voice steadier now.

Ardzvik clung to her anger, reveled in it, allowed it to spark from ice into fire. “For the sake of my people I surrendered my province, but this is my own land! Here I will stand and fight!”

Yul Darugha’s eyes lit with a flame that was not anger. He set down his bow and shouted a command to his falconer waiting below. The old man shook his head doubtfully but moved away with the gyrfalcon on his arm and was soon out of sight.

“So there is a she-wolf in you after all! When I first saw you I thought--I hoped--but I could not be sure.”

“A she-wolf?” Ardzvik’s laugh was scornful. “Look higher. My name means “eagle” in the old tongue. I am Lady of Aragatsotn, and more. My mother’s line is said to be of those warriors from the lands beyond the Black Sea called Amazons by the Greeks.” True, only the oldest grandmothers said this, but Ardzvik still felt it to be true. “I will defend my own!”

“I see in you that warrior girl who haunts my memory.” Yul spoke now not as the Mongol Darugha but as a man who needs no title between himself and the woman he desires. “It is she I dreamed of, before last night, and then it was you. The only prize worth winning.”

The heat of Ardzvik’s anger flowed effortlessly into arousal, but she did not forsake her proud stance. “How can you be so sure of me? Was she not naked, that warrior girl?”

He stepped forward; she stepped back. Her own hand drew the rough tunic over her head and loosed the drawstring of the men’s trousers she wore for hunting. Her strong, slim body stood bared to the summer sun, and to his burning gaze.

Just as he reached for her she stepped forward into his embrace, rejoicing in the rumble deep in his chest and the arms far stronger than her own that raised her up off her feet to crush her against him. His mouth pressed hard on hers, then moved into the hollows of her neck and over her shoulders in a frenzy of hunger for her flesh. When he lifted her yet higher to taste her firm breasts, she gasped and cried out and forced his head and mouth ever harder against them.

At last, needing more, and yet more, Ardzvik scrabbled at the jerkin of overlapping leather disks that left his muscular arms bare but kept her from rubbing against his chest. 
“Are you more shy of the sun than I?” she panted. In seconds his clothing was heaped along with hers. They rolled together atop this pile or onto nearby tufts of harsh grass, scarcely noting the difference.

At first Ardzvik rode Yul, her long dark hair flailing across his body as she savored the exquisite joy of easing inch by inch onto his great length and breadth. Men were more like stallions than she had ever dreamed! Then he growled low, lurched atop her, and thrust deep and hard. Her hips arched upward to take him in still deeper. Her passage gripped him, yet let him slide in its wetness just enough to drive her to a peak of intensity close to madness. Sounds burst from her that were not words, and from him as well, until all she could hear was her own voice rising in a cry of triumph, her body wrenched by joy.

But Yul, she saw, when she could focus on anything outside herself, was braced above her on stiffened arms, face twisted, jaw grimly set, the cords of his neck standing out like tree roots. “I must…” he forced out the words. “I would not get a bastard on you!” He struggled to lift his great weight from her, to withdraw.

“Then you had better wed me!” Ardzvik cried. “I will have now what is mine!” Need surged in her again. She dug her hands into his clenched buttocks, gripped him close, and tightened her inner walls about his hardness until he had no words at all, only rough groans accelerating into a mighty roar. That sound, and the hot fierce flow of his seed, sent her into a second spasm of joy.
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So there you go. Pride and Passion. Excuse me while I go change the title of my post, which wasn't quite as alliterative as this one.