Throughout the kingdom everyone could feel the effects of the king's unexpected illness. Many speculated how it was that he had become infected, being so insulated from the rest of his subjects. Others anticipated with concern just how the Pazyryk clan would get on without its tyrannical leader. There was an old Scythian saying that "bad dogs never die," and this embodied the feelings of those who feared that Sharvur would eventually  recover eventually, only to come back more austere and cruel as ever. Such was the belief of the young and beautiful Branka who was for the first time relieved that the king was so incapacitated and kept in a state of official quarantine. 

            This gave Branka and Zaria the rare opportunity to meet with the men they had come to love, and whom they wished to be with each night and day. Branka's Moshtok, her former teacher, and Tsudros, Zaria's tattoo artist were both good men and adored the Slavic girls back wholeheartedly. Both were only too happy to learn that their youthful paramours would be seeing them, at least for now, on a more extended basis while the kingdom was in its present state of disarray and confusion. 

        The palace was surely feeling the reigns of control loosening as Zaria's powers were now more accepted by staff and guards. Before she invited Tsudros to visit her in her palatial quarters, she had made preparations through Mila that Branka could leave the palace for several days and be with Moshtok in his empty house. He had been alone since his sister Tahime had moved out, taking a mate. Considering Svetlana's new fate, it was truly a magical time for all three of the girls during this dead of winter. For they had the unprecedented opportunity to feel unlike slaves for the first time in their entire year of captivity. 

            That evening, while Sharvur was in his state of delirium, alone, and soaked in a profuse sweat, Branka left the palace. Dressed warmly in Zaria's fine clothing, she headed out across the snowy roads to the encampment where Moshtok waited for her. She passed several piles of bodies stacked and covered by a blanket of white—a reminder of the plague which was only now showing some signs of abating with Sharvur's own sickness. It was also a reminder of what might befall her tormentor, should he, like many others, succumb to this epidemic which had raged in the tent cities below the mountain palace. 

            Moshtok met her at the entryway of his humble home. His dark hair, warm smile and smooth-shaved face reminded her of how much she had missed him as teacher and lover. They embraced for a long time in the doorway before moving into the warmer region of the house. 

            "My love, when Mila told me you would be able to be with me here . . .  tonight, I could not believe my ears. I was instead preparing to hear how you were terribly mistreated. Even further molested by my deranged and pathetic relative. And now . . . Sharvur  may die from his own wickedness they say." 

            "It is some sort of magic . . . perhaps divine, Moshtok. I hate to say that for your sake, but everyone now believes it was the king's own wickedness which infected him. Now he is being punished . . . as fate dictates." 

        "I will not miss him if he dies, Branka. Not after what he has done to you over these long months."

        "My love. . . I don't know.  I am just relieved to not be called to his chamber on these nights. Especially since his. . . loss . . .which only drove him further into torturing all of us."

        Moshtok was without speech. He just embraced her again.

        "Each day, dear Moshtok, I just worried for you here in the midst of this terrible curse outside the palace."

        "I have been fine, Branka. Though I have heard that many of my friends . . . and members of their families . . .  have been hit by this wave of fever. My sister's mate, Tellor, has shown signs of the sickness. Though in the last days she tells me he recovers slowly."

        "I am happy for her if this is so."

        But I do not see her now . . . by her own warnings. She is bravely caring for him and has not come to me recently. I worry for her."

        "This truly is a plague upon your people, Moshtok. But I am just glad you are alive and well."

        They embraced again warmly, and this turned into long and passionate kiss.

        Outside the weather raged on with a wind which shook the camel-hide walls of Moshtok's house. And there was a constant current of cold air which circulated about their feet in the hallway.

        "Come, Branka. Let us go back to the fire in my room and eat some soup, bread and fruit which I have prepared for us. We will lie in front of the fire tonight . . . as lovers once more. . . just as I have dreamed . . . and we will speak again of our plans to escape this prison where you are trapped."

        "Oh Moshtok, I love you! And I think of nothing else. I can not wait until the snows stop falling. When the green blades of grass once more rise up to cover the land."

         "And I too wish this Branka. For the early spring is when we shall leave. We will ride out across the Steppe to your homeland. Begin a new life there. A life free for you again. And never to be burdened more with this curse you have lived with."

        Branka reached up and touched Moshtok's handsome face. It was the countenance of the man she had once listened to, telling her Scythian words as they rode across the landscape for the three previous seasons, and in more tolerable weather. Now, it was all they could do to stay close by the fire and hold each other in their arms.

        Moshtok stoked up the flames and put upon them fresh dry logs. As the fire burned brightly and crackled into the room he kissed Branka and laid her back on the carpet in front of the flames. He undressed her slowly as she looked with admiration into his eager eyes. He then removed his own leather clothing as well. Remembering their magical reunion only months before, he kissed her whole body again, lovingly, from her neck down to her thighs. It was just as it had happened in the small tent on the day they took their momentary but glorious flight out into the countryside from the tented city.  And now, as if no time had ever separated them, Moshtok once again savored how his warm kisses on her flesh made Branka breathe loudly and moan—how she repeated his name in whispers as he teased her easily into submission.

        While they moved about on the soft rug, soon holding each other tightly, their union was made complete once more. The climax of their loud breathing only galvanized their devotion and the commitment to escape together soon—to live out their lives, never again apart. When all their impassioned movements ceased and the fire before them was but a red glow, Moshtok reached over and threw two more large logs onto it to bring them warmth for the rest of the night. He covered their nakedness with several heavy woollen blankets which the Pazyryk people always collected through bartering with the more agricultural people from the west. Branka and Moshtok cuddled soundly in each other's arms that night while the incessant wind outside the tented house lulled their satisfied bodies into a deep sleep.  

                                                                  *     *     * 

            Back in the palace, the tattooed pair, Zaria and Tsudros had already spent their night of intense lovemaking—though limited, in the warmth and comfort of her decorated chamber. Even though Zaria was committed to allowing Tsudros to have her completely that evening, the loud bellowing of the king down the hall had caused her to be fearful that he would, in the end, survive his grave malady. The image of him at some point calling her in to his chamber to inspect her body for any sexual intrusion was too great to allow her to feel completely free as she had planned. Tsudros was understanding and creatively accommodating of this, as before. Then, and this night  he delighted her with his mouth and fingers, causing her intense pleasure over and over until both of them had left the other thoroughly exhausted by early morning.

        After a long sleep, and deep into the next day, Zaria brushed Tsudros' long hair back from his face. As he opened his blue eyes and kissed her gently on the cheek, he told her he had made a series of sketches for her next tattoo. Zaria sat up anxiously on the soft feathered mattress and asked him—not to show her.

        "You don't want to see what I have planned . . .  to create on you, my love? But . . . it is my finest work, I believe."

        No, darling Tsudros. I do not want you to show me. As always, I take great delight in allowing you to treat my skin as you please with your art. I anticipate only seeing it after . . . when you have finished . . .  and when I am blessed to wear it always. And until my last days."

        Tsudros kissed her upon hearing this. Softy and slowly. And Zaria could feel a familiar wave of pleasure radiate up from down below, under the blankets. It began where she had been so thoroughly pleasured by him during the night and moved in little tingles and whisperes up her thighs and hips to her breasts.

        It was just that adoring and hungry look in her eyes, caused by those feelings which compelled Tsudros to tortuously move away from her and out from under the warm blankets.

        "If you think we will get any artistic work done that way today, Princess, you are wrong." Tsudros said, smiling.

        Zaria smiled back, allowing the sensations to continue on, just by the resonant sound of his deep voice.

        "Very well, then," he continued. "I have the sketches in my mind. And we will begin without looking at them."

        The tall and lean artist rose up naked out of the bed and went over to stoke the fire and feed it with fresh logs. He remained undressed while he prepared a padded place on the floor with blankets, just before the fire. It was there he motioned for for Zaria to lay. Next to this he placed his bag of ointments, dark ink,  and tattooing implements.

        From a basket on the table Tsudros took a bowl of dried apples and other preserved fruit, along with a container of sweetened tea. He set these on the floor as well.

        "Come my love, let us eat and drink something after our long night of love . . . for now we have much work to do."

        Zaria stared at him momentarily, while he waited for her across the room. Then, like a child, she suddenly jumped out of the bed and ran to him near the fire. Naked too, she held him in her arms tightly, kissing him numerous times on both sides of his face.

        "Never leave me, Tsudros! Our love . . . just like your marks upon my skin should be forever! I feel so complete when you are here! The tattoos you create only remind me each day how much more I want you. How much I want my body to be covered with your talent. With your attention to me."

        Zaria ran her hand down her arm over the majestic wing of the creature he had created as her first tattoo.

        "These are the signatures of the man I love!"

        Tsudros moved closer and held her tightly. His look into her eyes with his own piercing gaze showed a silent but matching commitment to their affection. He then gently laid her down on her back in front of the now roaring and bright fire. He opened his bag and spread out his assorted sharp tools next to her. Zaria closed her eyes in preparation for what had become a strange mixture of pain and pleasure. She knew she would be there on the padded floor for perhaps the whole day—and even into the night. The fire would need to be fed again and again. And candles brought out and adjusted near to her. All of this would be part of the ritual while Tsudros would attend to the delicate scratching and searing pain. A pain and delight which was soon to move across a new section of Zaria's body, leaving it incomparable in all the land.

                                                                *     *     *