by A. S. Etaski
The cait remembered to whisper. “You did it, Auslan!”
“Yes.” Rohenvi swallowed. “Thank you.”
He grunted to acknowledge them, an unusually crude response for him, stepping backward to sit in his chair. He missed, collapsing on the floor beside it and against the wall.
“Oh! Careful! You okay?”
The Consort may have been embarrassed when Natia giggled nervously with her hand on his shoulder, like how he’d comforted her. He didn’t speak but only pressed his drenched forehead to the cool stone, curling up and folding his arms in his lap to hide the tent at his crotch. The blood on his hands was drying and flaking off, and he trembled as if he might be in genuine fever, though Rohenvi wondered if he could be exaggerating.
After Rohenvi checked over the young Davrin for herself, ready to admit she was impressed at the strength of his magic, Auslan had neither spoken nor stopped shivering. He kept hiding what looked to be a painful erection.
The Matron frowned. Hmm.
“Will you stay with Drani for me, Natia?” she asked. “I will lead him back before he is seen.”
“What?” Natia was disappointed. “But I can do it, Matron.”
“No. I will.”
“Aww.” Her pout didn’t last long before she remembered to acknowledge her elder. “Um, I will stay here with Drani, Matron.”
“Good. Run to me if there’s any problem. I won’t be long.”
Rohenvi was disturbed by the temperature of Auslan’s skin as she helped him up, and how it smelled when wafts escaped his robe as he walked hunched over. The scent of pure, mature male at least a cycle old filled her nose. No strong soaps or perfumes, no wipe downs, or dabs of drying powders to please his matron.
He was just… a little dirty.
Argh, foul Priestess issue!
How could he know exactly what she enjoyed most and bring it out like this, without any effort?
Rohenvi took the secret passage into his room, though being in a close space with him was the last place she wanted to be. Pushing the switch, she shouldered the swivel panel open to drag them both into the room where he’d been staying for half a turn without complaint.
Auslan groaned again and took to his neatly made bed, burrowing his face in the pillow. She spotted his hips move against the mattress in need.
“What is wrong with you?” she demanded, her blood coursing in her veins. “You are not well but I don’t recognize this ailment.”
He stopped, didn’t answer at first. Then he turned his head, his eyes closed. “I-I… I am not certain, my Matron…”
“Certain or not, guess. Tell me something.”
He tried to wet his mouth, failed, looked for the pitcher and cup next to the bed; he hadn’t knocked it over in his dreams this time. Rohenvi watched him struggle to one elbow to pour a cup and drink deeply, confirming that his erection hadn’t gone away beneath his robe.
“Well?” she prompted again.
“I…” He laid down on his side, arm tucked under his head. “I think I…”
The Matron imagined weaving her fraying patience into a switch she was tempted to use. His hook and mannerisms were too familiar to her, and she hadn’t wanted to ever be alone with a Consort again.
But I do not know what he might do if I ignore him. I cannot ignore him while he’s in my care. The damned Priestesses have always known this!
When Auslan answered, it was with caution and a hint of shame. “I need to be touched, Matron.”
I knew it.
Rohenvi shook her head. “No. No one here will couple with you. That was the code of conduct you agreed to.” She swiped her hand at the look on his face. “You seemed eager for the peace! Do you not remember the span beneath the Red Sisters?”
He flinched. “I remember… but it…I have never gone so long without being touched before.”
She grimaced then rolled her eyes. “Try being a Matron with much to lose. I must be picky about lovers. I have gone decades without being touched, Consort. One half a turn is not lethal to any Davrin.”
“But I have been healing as well, each time without release afterward,” he responded, as close as he’d yet come to protesting his situation. “Four times for Lead Jaunda, and for your Guardsvrin whose wounds were much worse than anything the Red Sister brought me. She nearly died.”
“And I am grateful, healer. Truly.” Rohenvi fiddled with a ring on her finger. “What is the one to do with the other? Healing and release.”
Limpid, scarlet eyes watched her; they were tearing up. He whispered, “I think… that is how I heal myself… I have not healed since Elder D’Shea dragged me out of solitary. I feel pain.”
She glanced down. “From a hard cock?”
Auslan shook his head, tucking a fist into his gut. “Here.” Raising the fist to his chest. “Here…” He palmed his head. “I feel… a sickness.”
He’s lying. Acting. This isn’t balanced. How dare he?
“Elder D’Shea warned me what may happen to your lovers when you lose control of your magic,” the Matron hissed. “I will not allow it to knowingly happen to anyone of my House.”
The healer stopped talking and looked away in acceptance. Rohenvi left then, or escaped was the better word, leaving him secure as she hurried to Natia and her Guard. Now she was terrified of leaving her granddaughter to Reverie alone in that room with him!
My little cait wouldn’t understand the danger from someone so docile, she’s never seen it before. It’s wrong, what the Priestesses made him. What will I do? What will happen to him if he stays in there alone untended?
Would he feed himself? Die of thirst? Stay just ill enough from this dramatic longing to always be a disruption? Rohenvi did not have the time or focus to oversee him by herself for an unknown period, and Natia should not do it, either. Yet the Matron had no one she would trust to tend him, much less “touch” him as he claimed to need.
I know better. He is strange. He may not be pure Davrin.
She must try to reach the Elder Sorceress now, not wait until she understood the answers to these questions. For the sake of House Thalluen, contact must be indirect. As with those times she awaited her deep traveler, Rohenvi knew D’Shea may not answer for cycles or spans.
If whatever had happened outside didn’t draw unpleasant attention here first.
Ruk had been hiding on Thalluen land for over three marks, within a pockmark in the side of the rocky hill, before he broke the message pellet between callused fingers.
*Eyin. Something’s changed with Thalluen. I spotted a Drider. It spooked the livestock at the Fringeward boundary but did not attack before withdrawing.*
It had not attacked but was only a matter of time now. There were a great many Davrin at this House whom Ruk would like to save, but if given only a sliver of an opportunity, he knew the two he would carry out on his back if necessary.
Eventually, Eyin responded.
*Check, Rausery knows. Word is Jaunda was interrogated by the Queen before heading off in the deep again. We must assume She knows about the healer.*
Fuck. Roh had bought them only half a turn. And for what?
*Elder D’Shea is involved, too, providing distraction at the top end.*
Indeed, the stubborn Sorceress never seemed to stop doing that whenever things got interesting for Braqth’s servants. It was like D’Shea knew she was bait they couldn’t resist, and she wasn’t afraid of dying.
Or she didn’t let herself think about it.
Eyin wasn’t finished. She must have used a second pellet. *I’ve sent two of ours after Jaunda, per Rausery’s recommendation. We’ve got to pull something useful out of the sludge this time, and assume the Consort won’t be around to heal her next time.*
Ruk frowned, wanting to ask who she’d sent down into that direction to help the Red Sister if it wasn’t him. He decided it wasn’t worth the extra pellet; he’d find out soon enough.
Eyi
n slipped in another thought before the spell cut off.
*Time to follow up on that rumor about the Rin’oveaus—*
Ruk smirked, observing the smaller, nonthreatening creatures which moved in the dark over the next short while. Not for the first time, he wondered if anyone he’d once known in Vuthra’tern was still alive, or if they’d all bred babies and killed each other by now. The Rin’oveaus name might have survived, but Ruk did not see how they could have bucked that same fate if they stayed.
Especially after raising that half-blood monster and teaching him how to kill Matrons.
Slowly, so slowly and with an exhalation of relief which made Her less of a statue, the Valsharess sat down upon Her throne inside the colorful, circular chamber where Wilsira had died not long ago. The Davrin Queen’s distant eyes drifted among the blue and fire-red swirls of sky and sand blending together.
Shyntre could have sworn he heard the wind blow.
Trembling, he waited on the floor beside her having fasted long enough he had no waste to expel, though he couldn’t say how many cycles that was. He had been hallucinating a lot since being forced to drink Auranka’s milk, but he didn’t remember any of his dreams. The Keeper was “eating” them, he presumed, as she’d boasted.
If that’s what it takes to keep more buas from being thrown into the Pit with her, then she’s welcome to them.
His head and joints ached fiercely. His eyes burned; they were so dry. He was uncomfortable but unafraid; they wouldn’t leave him to die of something as unrewarding as negligence, as many times as he might have wished they would.
“A catastrophe diverted,” murmured his Queen. “Its wound cauterized. One path reopened to possibility, one of many obstacles shifted to one side. Here We stand at the next.”
Shyntre suppressed his sneer as he stared at the carpet. Insane.
“Your champion begins to learn herself, Mazdel.”
Stop it. He closed his eyes. I am not your son.
She continued to mutter to Herself, fine robes shushing the one time She shifted. “Death closes with the Manalari pool, as it must to revive life, while the pull of serenity has drained life from the too-warm sea in what is not transition. We need a shield of the Flame, and someone to hold that shield between the Sun and the pillar in the sand…”
The Valsharess fell into contemplative silence again but for the occasional tap of Her fingernails on the arm of Her throne. Shyntre tried to ignore Her, counting the threads in a tapestry.
She turned Her head to him. “It is time for him to Awaken, We believe. He would not miss this.”
Tap, tap.
The young mage waited tensely without looking up. He hoped She would return to talking to Herself.
No such mercy.
“Sirana ensnared his son and still carries yours.”
Tap, tap.
Despite his better judgement, Shyntre finally looked.
His Queen smiled down at him, appearing lucid and aware, eyes like glittering topaz. “Your wild one will return in time, Mazdel. She cannot fail.”
The Valsharess relaxed in Her seat.
Wild one? Return when? In time for what?
Did he want to know, or wish for her to return given what slavery awaited her? Maybe Sirana could stay up top, far away, and be better off. Her bua, too. What life could he have down here? What kind of life had any bua in Sivaraus?
“We only do not know yet who will stay with her when she has no choice left, Mazdel. We have always wondered…”
The Valsharess’s voice drifted away again, the thought left dangling as Her gaze grew less sharp, but Shyntre felt ill regardless.
No choice left. Argh, damn it all…
How could he pretend there was no line hooked deep, ready to reel the Red Sister back when Braqth had had enough of the games? Of course, the Valsharess had usurped “his” champion to serve Her own Visions first.
Sirana wasn’t free on the Surface. The only reason she was turned out of the Deepearth was because she’d caught, and the Valsharess had decided, for whatever reason, that She wanted this one. The only way Sirana wouldn’t return was if she didn’t survive. To see her again, pregnant or not, was both what Shyntre ached for and what he dreaded.
Royal purple and gold robes shushed again, and She reached down to cradle his face in one bejeweled hand. He tried hard not to flinch; his skin crawled all the same. His vision was blurred as he kept his lids lowered.
“Auranka has not seen either To’vah in your dreams. Not yet. The one of Ja’Prohn is toothless and has not tried to lure you out in a millennium. But the other of D’Shauranti? He is a trickster and only too pleased to encourage insurrection. We are ready for him now.”
As She continued to speak like he should know what She was talking about, Shyntre gathered the writhing ball of panic and confusion inside his chest and waited.
He tried nodding. “Yes, my Queen.”
She squeezed his chin. “You will tell Us if you meet a stranger, Mazdel, regardless of his shape. While awake or in Reverie. Tell Us.”
“Yes, my Queen.”
She released him, and the throne room fell silent.
She’s paranoid. No one could reach him here while Auranka kept blanking out his Reverie and he could do nothing about it. Shyntre pushed that aside to clamp onto the names She had spoken.
He knew Ja’Prohn. That was his House, the male line of Headmasters and barely spoken of outside the Palace. Most commoners had never heard of it. Then, at first, he swore he didn’t know who D’Shauranti had been, but heard Auranka’s taunt to his real Mother in his memory.
“Ahhh, D’Shauranti, such fun your House has been, but your magic is almost gone. Do be careful, Varessa. Ja’Prohn tends to fail mustering the will to meet your passion the moment you turn your back…”
D’Shea was a House extinct, where a lone Red Sister had simply taken it as her name. Shyntre wasn’t a cait, and the House had been broken down and dispersed before he was born anyway, so he wouldn’t inherit it in any official capacity. He would stay House Ja’Prohn with Phaelous.
But had House D’Shea once been D’Shauranti? That seemed to be what the Drider Mistress had implied. If so, when did it change, and why? Had his Mother heard this name at all before Auranka had spewed it out? That could be why the Sorceress Elder held to D’Shea, as a lingering barb despite most forgetting what had happened as they always did?
Be careful. I doubt the Keeper was being careless after trading for her milk. Seems like blatant bait, glinting to distract us from web strands we can’t see…
Yet it had stuck. Like always.
Shyntre avoided speaking first with the Valsharess. This was expected of any bua: Don’t speak unless spoken to. Yet being passive with Her had seemed neither to help him nor satisfy Her any more than being aggressive had at the Wizard’s Tower or in the Cloister. The Queen frequently said things as if pretending he was someone else.
Or maybe not pretending. Should I embrace it more? Would it satisfy Her?
Why did this thought terrify him, like he knew the answer and was going against some prevailing wisdom in trying?
Again.
“Mm,” he began, sensing Her head move. “My Queen-Matron?”
He waited.
“Speak,” She said, staring straight ahead and at the far wall, hands relaxed on the arms of Her throne.
“I… don’t remember D’Shauranti. Or To’vah. It has been too long.”
She tensed.
“What would you have me know about them to better serve Your Majesty?”
Her regal poise started to crumble before his eyes. Shyntre watched as a petrifying, naked horror and hatred overtook her face. She showed her white, perfect teeth, snapped them like an animal, the click resounding as the sole noise in the throne room. She swooped upon him, seized him like a hawk in Her claws as She revealed a strength that took his breath away.
Shyntre felt the wall agains
t his back, pressed tight with his feet barely touching the floor. She crowded him, looming and suffocating. Both hands closed around his neck. He stupidly looked at Her eyes, Her rich fragrances clashing with the primal scent of fighting prey, desperate, angry—
Dangerous.
“Betrayers, all!” She hissed. “Once our best defenders! The singers and dancers, the loyal backbone of the Queen’s Army! You! You are one of them!”
Shyntre hooked fingers against Hers, trying to pry them open to gain enough air. “M-mercy, V-Vahl…!”
“Your sire started it all when he made a bargain with that infernal for petty vengeance!”
“M-Mother, stop!”
Abruptly, She did, releasing him but also letting him fall to the carpet, shaking. Shyntre coughed, covered his throat as he pulled in deep breaths while he could. Her slippers shifted, and he braced for a kick.
It didn’t come.
The young mage shook as heedless anger drained into the helpless, empty space inside him. He teetered on a snarl. “Oh? What about the To’vah? What did they do?”
He heard something, wagering his Queen ground Her teeth in a non-majestic way.
“He made it possible to keep you, Mazdel,” She said. “For that, I would offer him gratitude. But he still deserved what came to him for how he did it.”
I? Did She…? Fingernails digging into the plush padding, Shyntre took the risk. “Do you mean the trickster of House D’Shauranti, my Matron?”
“No. We mean the toothless of House Ja’Prohn.”
Shyntre kept breathing, eyes down. Toothless certainly described his Headmaster, while his real Mother’s blood seemed to have all the courage and grit.
Such fun your House has been, but your magic is almost gone…
He swallowed a lump in his throat. “What do you want from me, Your Majesty?”
“What you have always given Us, Royal Son.”
The throne room fell quiet moments before a chime sounded, and the Valsharess looked toward the empty jump circle at the far end. Someone awaited an audience.
