by Aaron Crash
Until she stopped him. “This is for you. I’m not ready for anything else. Is that all right?”
“Very fine,” he said. “Can I touch your tits?”
“You can if you are gentle.”
“I can be gentle.”
“This morning you weren’t. You grabbed me. You threw me down on the sand, and I liked it. I liked it so much. Perhaps not as much as you enjoy this.” Her tight lips stretched back over his shaft, sucking even as she gripped him, sliding up and down. Her mouth, warm and wet and soft, was so tight he nearly spilled his juice onto her teasing tongue.
Her left hand rested on his chest. She had her cuff on. The metal was warm on his skin.
Lillee knelt on the floor, not complaining. He touched her side. She shivered. He found where her breast bulged from her body, pressed against her knees.
She knew what he wanted. She adjusted to let her tit swing free. He stroked the sides of the pliant flesh before finding the pebbled skin of her areola and then the long, thick nipples. He didn’t pull, only touched them, and they tightened further.
Feeling her bare breast brought a growl to his throat. He wanted to grip her hair and get rough. He stopped himself.
She was growing more insistent, her sucking mouth demanding his juice. Didn’t they talk about juice earlier? Life’s juices? She’d been such a little devil on the beach, a wanton, yearning animal.
In his cell, she was more controlled, focused on him rather than on her own pleasure. Her grip tightened, her lips and tongue worked him, and then he was teetering on the precipice. One more lick. One more suck. One more of anything would take him away.
“If you want to drink me, I have a draught for you,” he warned.
No words, but a mumble of desire from her, and then he was spilling his seed, riding the winds of bliss.
His eyes were closed. Through his lids, he noticed the glow. He knew it was from him, from his dusza, or the curse, or both. He opened his eyes to take in her figure, long and lithe, her thick-nippled breasts, her strong, slim arms, and her messy platinum hair.
Her ears. Damn the Ax, he’d forgotten to touch her pointed ears. Next time.
She leaned back, a happy, satisfied look on her face. She traced a finger across his scintillating skin. His sweat gleamed like jewels. Any clanswoman would’ve been repulsed by the show of magic, but not her. Not his elf girl.
“Just so you know, that doesn’t happen every time I come,” he said.
Lillee smiled impishly. “How would you know? You haven’t been with anyone since the innkeeper’s daughter in Winterhome.”
He took the implication in stride. “When one has an appetite, one longs for elk steaks. If all you have are grubs, you learn to swallow them, in hopes of better meals.”
“How I know that,” she said sadly. “I’ve spent many nights playing with my own little grub.” Then she brightened and kissed the tip of his sex. “You are wonderful, Ymir. Thank you for letting me give you pleasure.”
He laughed, loudly, brazenly. He always liked to laugh after he came. It was a celebration, after all. “Girl, if pleasuring me pleasures you, we shall remain great friends until the ice shadows all things everywhere.”
The light faded from him. They were in darkness again. He felt a bit embarrassed for glowing like that.
She crawled in next to him, her naked skin on his, her musky sweet stink on him. She trembled, and he had to smile. Therans wouldn’t survive even a summer up north. It simply wasn’t cold for him. For her, it was, though she burned so hot.
Seconds later, they were both under the bear pelt. He lay on his back, while she slept on his chest. She’d fallen asleep so quickly, and he would soon join her in slumber.
Ha, I didn’t have to fuck myself, orc, he thought. You can go fuck yourself. Perhaps she was. Most everyone did.
He felt Lillee leave during the night. He didn’t ask any questions. Waking early, he stretched and grinned. Now, to get on with this school business.
A pounding rattled the door.
He sat up. “Yes?”
Gurla, flanked by Kacky and Gluck, filled the doorway. The Janistra Dux tossed robes at him and slammed a leather satchel down on the floor. “September 15th, clansman, the first day of school. I hope you enjoy your morning without work, though you shouldn’t get used to it. Now, get your ass up and get to class.”
Ymir held the gray robes out in front of him. A black palm had been embroidered on the chest of the robe. The five-fingered open hand was the symbol of the Flow. He’d tolerate the satchel, but he wasn’t going to be wearing the damn robe.
Chapter Twelve
ON THE WAY UP THE SEA Stair, Ymir noticed all the changes the first day of school had brought.
Shopkeepers had arrived early to set up the staircase market. Newly arrived scholars bought fried dough and held big mugs with all the symbols of the colleges on them. Their robes matched the cups: red and yellow for Sunfire, blue and white for Moons, brown and green for the Form, and gray and black for the Flow.
He mostly saw Homme, Ohlyrra, and Gruul scholars, though there were a few Morbuskor men with braided beards walking about. Their faces were young; how young, Ymir didn’t know. He’d heard the Fallen Fruit people all aged differently. They had to be of age, though. There were no children at Old Ironbound.
Ymir hurried up to the feasting hall. The place was packed, and the line at the counter was chaotic. Voices shook the buttresses. The windows were steamed from all the bodies. Old friends greeted each other, men hugged, women chatted. There were obvious veteran scholars, mixed in with the more timid imprudens, who stood unsure of what to do.
There were four different levels at the Majestrial: imprudens, sophists, judicians, and dominists. That didn’t include the post-domini scholars. They had levels of their own.
He didn’t think he could get through the line in time to make the opening ceremonies in the Throne Auditorium in the east part of the citadel. This was his life now: crowds of strangers, all chained to the minutes of the day. The clans lived by the sun and the seasons, not enslaved to seconds.
Toriah caught his eye and waved him over. He pushed through two elves, forearm cuffs in place and no tattoos on their temples. The dwarf lady stood on her stool, balanced on her sturdy legs—that was some delicious skin right there.
“My friend, do you remember our deal?” the Morbuskor maiden asked.
He raised a clenched fist.
She smiled warmly, a red blush on her cheeks. “Yes, the promise. You look like you could use some help. And I love to help.”
“And I love that you do.” He returned the smile.
She handed him a plate with eggs, a long strip of some kind of fried meat, and fried potatoes. A yellow fruit had been quartered and laid on top. “Enjoy, clansman.”
“I shall, my friend.” He took the plate and tried to find an open table, but every square inch of bench was occupied. He stood against the wall and wolfed down the meal, greasy and filling. Whatever those strips of meat were, he was going to eat nothing else if he could help it.
Jenny held court at her table, which included a few new faces. She wore a Flow robe, as did some of the other women, but there was a mixture. Which were Jenny’s friends? Which were her lovers? It seemed all were both or neither—it was hard to tell. Again, she didn’t throw a glance his way. Their bad conversation had made them strangers.
He sniffed the fruit, then ate it, rind and all. He grimaced at the sourness. Perhaps he wasn’t meant to eat the rind. This fruit tasted like his bucket soap smelled, and he didn’t like it. Too many memories of cleaning had probably ruined it for him.
He rummaged through his satchel and found a large leather book with empty pages. Next to it were sheaves of paper, a pen, and an inkwell stoppered with a cork. A little vial of sand lay inside a thin metal tray. He also saw a mirror with a black-and-gray background. He wasn’t sure what to think about that. He closed up the satchel and threw it over his shoulder.
&nbs
p; He stopped at his favorite rainwater cistern in the Librarium and sipped from a ladle to wash his breakfast down. Then he walked over the short stone bridge spanning the moat and into the auditorium. He had no reason to be late.
The Throne Auditorium had rows of seating, like the pews in the Chapel of the Tree. There were far more seats here—room for five hundred. All the red-cushioned benches faced east, where the sun struck a stained glass window of Old Ironbound’s seal: a diamond divided into four sections marked with the starburst, the moons, the clenched fist, and the open palm.
A raised dais supported five ornate chairs, with the grand throne in the middle. The four smaller seats had the college symbols on them, while the biggest, the middle fifth chair, showed the diamond-shaped coat of arms. Ymir thought the hall had been the throne room of some Theran king, though he didn’t know which one.
He took a seat in the back to wait. He noticed a couple golden-skinned fairies, wings blurring behind their backs, floating near the front. Twelve inches tall; he wondered at the sight of them. Would he have any fairies in his classes? He wasn’t sure he liked the idea. Out of all the Fallen Fruit people he’d seen, they were the strangest.
Scholars threaded in, including Lillee, who sat next to Kacky and Gluck along with the other cleaning staff. He thought about going to them. Lillee wore the Flow’s gray and black. The Gruul women were both adorned in the blue and white of Moons.
Ymir caught the hand before it touched his shoulder. A group of men, in an array of colors, clustered around him. At the front was the kid from the Open Exam, Viscount Roger Knellknapp, the one who’d managed to pass. He looked different without his face covered in blood. A scar, from Open Exam, cut down his forehead from his wavy dark hair. He had light brown eyes and a slightly pudgy face.
Ymir flung his hand away. “You’re lucky I don’t have my ax, or you would’ve lost that hand.”
One of the men smirked. “He isn’t wearing his robes. Does this animal even go here?” He had wispy red hair, a crooked nose, and thin lips. He’d probably gotten his nose broken for being such a little weasel.
Ymir leaned back, stretched out his legs, turned his head casually to the side, and gave the smirking kid a relaxed smile. His eyes, though, would do all the talking for him.
A quick look of fear swept through the child. It was replaced by a false boredom.
Another whispered, “His eyes changed from brown to blue. So it’s true—a clansman with magic.”
The viscount motioned to Ymir. “You need to move over to the center. Every seat will be filled.”
Ymir stood up, towering over the children. He pointed. “I want the end.”
“You should be wearing your robes,” the viscount said evenly.
“I should do a lot of things.”
The others shuffled in. Some were wise enough to keep their eyes lowered. The unwise tried their game at matching his gaze, and Ymir had to stop himself from spilling their blood. He knew he’d get abuse for being the outsider, the barbarian. He also knew the minute any of these man-boys touched him, he would crush their noses, if not their skulls.
The viscount went last. “I’m impressed you made it through the Open Exam, my friend. You should make things interesting at least. What college did they put you in?”
The clansman considered his response. He was looking for friends, and this Roger fellow hadn’t paid his way in. He’d earned his seat, and that gave Ymir some respect for him. “I’m in Flow.”
Roger pointed to his chest. “I am also, along with some of the lesser dukes. You’re going to get guff for your dress.”
“Guff? Is that a Farmington term?”
“Seems like it, since you don’t know the word in Pidgin. I would imagine you’ll learn a lot of new words.”
Was that an insult? A friendly joke?
It didn’t matter. Roger would prove himself one way or another.
One boy kept throwing disgusted glances Ymir’s way, some asshole in Flow robes with brown hair hanging in his face, half covering nearly black eyes. He didn’t say a word, didn’t mess with Ymir, yet the clansman had an instant dislike for that dark-eyed devil.
The viscount sat. Ymir sat next to him. Roger the Viscount wore flowery perfume. Did the man have no pride? Stinking was one thing, and Ymir washed himself to stop that. To douse yourself in some kind of field fragrance? Troubling. But the viscount had probably grown up with too many women in his life.
Or was it that he was a viscount? Maybe all the royalty in Thera wore perfume.
Five faculty climbed to the stage as the stragglers found places to sit. Gharam Ssornap joined Siteev Ckins and the Princept. Two others were there, professors that Ymir recognized from the entrance table at the Open Exam. He knew their faces but not their names. The tall elf woman with the silver hair was dressed in the gray and black of the Flow. The other was the dwarf man, topped with wild auburn hair and a braided auburn beard that tumbled onto his chest. He wore the Form’s colors. His black boots were as big as he was.
“Who’s the dwarf and the elf?” Ymir asked.
Roger turned to his asshole friend and asked him the same question.
The smirking boy replied, “The Flow professor is Issa Leel, and that’s Brodor Bootblack, from Form. They’re the Studia Dux of their respective colleges.”
Ymir didn’t need to ask anything more. Again, he felt the hand hovering over his shoulder. This new person smelled like the kitchen and a certain sweetness he’d come to enjoy.
“Toriah Welldeep, my very good friend.” He spoke to her without looking.
“Is there room for me?” she asked in her musical voice.
Ymir knocked Roger with his elbow. “Tell your friends to move down.”
“But there’s no room,” the smirking boy complained.
The viscount shoved him. “Shut up, Odd. There’s room.”
They shifted down, and Toriah sat next to him. He’d only ever seen her in her tunic and her apron, but now she wore a frilly gray dress under her Moons robes. Black boots covered her legs to a bulging mid-calf. He was a tad disappointed she wouldn’t be in his college. He wasn’t sure if the different schools mixed at all.
The professors all took their seats on the dais while the Princept Della Pennez approached the podium. She cast her eyes about. The auditorium quieted from the power of her gaze. That was something, but she had a magic to her. She might’ve even been able to hush a gathering at Lost Herot.
She spoke in a loud voice that echoed through the auditorium. “Welcome to the nine hundredth and ninety-seventh year of the Majestrial Collegium Universitas.”
Applause, whistles, and some hooting from Roger and his rabble spread across the hall.
Ymir stayed quiet, thinking that this fortress-turned-college had been around for nearly a thousand years. An icy feeling spread through him, and every hair on his arm stood straight up. He expected a vision. He wasn’t so fortunate. He drifted off the cushion of his seat. This would not do! He’d never before floated when awake.
“By the seven devils of hell!” Roger cursed.
Odd the Smirk did what he was best at. He laughed in a series of weaselly snarls.
“We expect a very good year for you all, from our incoming imprudens to our dominists who will soon enough leave to—” The Princept stopped talking abruptly. Her eyes went to Ymir, who was three feet off the back bench. The other professors on the raised dais were also surprised.
Gharam snapped and pointed, directing his guards standing in the back to intervene. They’d better hurry.
Ymir stretched himself out, which was a mistake. His feet went over his head. He flung out his arms. If he didn’t stop, he’d be walking on the ceiling.
Every head turned to see what had silenced the Princept.
Toriah leapt up and grabbed his hand. With a grunt, she pulled him down. Both she and the clansman fell over the backrest of the bench and onto the hard stone floor.
The Princept cleared her throat and co
ntinued. A few of Gharam’s orcs came forward from the back. These were the guards he’d seen on his first day, though they were in far less armor. Instead of spears, they had short curved swords at their sides.
One bent. “Is everything in order?” she asked in a gruff voice. Her humorless red eyes matched her red hair, swirled into tight braids over her green ears.
“Yes,” Toriah answered. “All is fine here. Just helping my friend. I seem to have cast a spell without realizing it.” The dwarf girl had a quick wit. The orcs retreated to the back of the hall.
The Princept talked about the various accomplishments of alumni and what she expected from the incoming class.
Ymir sat with the dwarf on the floor. He rubbed his face. “Well, Toriah, this is embarrassing.” He kept his voice low.
She patted his leg. “It’s Tori. I gave you food, you gave me a seat, and then I probably just saved your life. So you owe me.” She leaned over and gave him a quick peck on the check, more like an understanding mother trying to lift his spirits than a lover trying to lift something else.
“Shut the hell up,” Odd the Smirk hissed in front of them.
Tori returned to her seat. Ymir stood, gripping the lip on the back of the bench in case he found himself floating again.
The Princept finished her speech by directing all the scholars to report to the fields of their respective colleges.
Tori shouldered her satchel and came around. She punched him in the arm. “That was interesting. Were you messing around with a spell or what?”
He shook his head. “It’s why I’m here. I can’t control this fucking magic.”
“You’ll learn?” She laughed at what should’ve been a statement and not a question. She threw him a cute little wave and scooted out the door, heading for the Moons Field.
The punch and the salute had him a bit baffled. She was treating him like a battle brother. Regardless, having a friend in the kitchen wasn’t a bad thing.
The viscount and Odd the Smirk shuffled out of the pew. All walked by him without saying a word.
Ymir had wanted them to say something, but they were silent. Perhaps they thought that ignoring him might sting. It didn’t. They were ridiculous in their robes, and in their perfume.
