by Eve Bradley
Margaret glanced at the sister who spoke. It would be the eldest, Angeliva. She seemed quite pleased with herself. The other four snickered, chins lowering and pretty eyes darting down. Ryndal was the only one who wore her hair up in a tress. She seemed less amused. Elvensa, as young as she was, looked back up at Lucarian with sparkling eyes.
“We’re happy that you’re happy,” she smiled at her brother.
“Thank you, Elfie. At least one of you sees it.”
Margaret recalled that Elvensa was the only one that Lucarian genuinely liked. He spoke highly of her compared to the others.
“It will be nice, won’t it, when I arrange your marriages. They’ll be profitable, of course. And if tonight goes well, perhaps we’ll invest more in the clans. A few of you being the investments.”
Lucarian’s voice was cold yet unraised. They knew that the threat was imminent.
“Tonight is an important one,” Queen Dedreia said, stopping her daughters from making any quick remarks in return. “And we are honored to have Zothar here.”
Margaret shifted her toes in her slippers when she saw the queen. In the back of her mind, she wondered if the queen remembered her from before. Now the woman would never forget her face, and she doubted a mother would ever like her son's sexual partner.
“And I’m honored to be here,” he commented dryly.
Servants came forward to serve the food and pour a mixture of blackberry wine into their crystal glasses. Margaret reached slowly for hers.
“Well, I was intrigued by your letter,” Dedreia smiled wolfishly.
“What letter?” Lucarian’s was impatient.
“You know, we the clans have a motto. Seek your highest glory. Whatever it is to you. I have found mine, and I am sure you’ve found yours. A King,” the dark man puffed out his chest. “A young one at that. Also, the rest of the kingdom’s seem to loathe you. What an impediment to your glory.”
“Impediment? That Sir is a shining achievement.”
“An achievement that will bring Raspandian deaths if you’re not smart about it,” Zothar grunted. “You don’t want bloody streets. You don’t want your pretty sisters raped. No, no. I doubt it, Prince.”
“You dare to threaten me?” Lucarian’s fingers stretch on the table, his posture hostile, teeth grit. “Fancy losing your head before you even take a bite?”
“Son,” Dedreia chastised him smoothly, hiding her embarrassment. “Zothar brings news. News that will change...everything.”
The bulky wild man smirked. Margaret swallowed hard, shocked at what she was witnessing.
“The Peacequeen. Did you like her?” he asked, nearly humorously.
“She’s a fuckable treat. Lacks leadership. Her powers are...near nothing. I should have killed her when I had my chance. What of her?” Luc’s eyes narrowed.
“She’s been assigned by the divines. Fair isn’t it? Some woman no one knows anything about...Her word is law. She’s here to keep peace and protect innocence. Whatever bullshit they’ve taught us. The bullshit everyone has been taught throughout history. And this random woman is given power over the gods' elements? Why?”
“Who cares why?” Lucarian sighed. “The bitch won’t be honored here.”
“Her influence will spread. The kingdoms will slowly give in to her and her falsified reign. They’ll grovel like dogs. I got a letter that she’s in Yamar with her convoy. And my source also told me that the Sultanate gifted her thousands of warriors and resources. Where do you think her eye will turn next? She’ll overpower them all. She’ll shut down anything the gods dislike. You know the gods like their balance.”
“So? And?” Lucarian nearly growled.
“Well, what if we don’t like the balance?”
Lucarian sipped his wine with a raised brow.
“I’m listening.”
“You know how the world works. There’s a metaphysical law set in place by the gods. We live in this world, but their hand is the Peacequeen. Their only way of touching us. Why bow to someone we have not chosen ourselves? There is a power in the East. The Sultan has unknowingly brought the Peacequeen to face it. But the distraction is just what we need to make our move.”
“What move?” Angeliva interjected.
“If you meet me at the edge of the world. Fight alongside my clansmen and me, I can make sure that we end the gods' voice in our world.”
“How?” Lucarian’s eyes widened, drunk or lustful, Margaret didn’t know.
“By tearing down the Vault. And the Council...they’ll have an unfortunate run-in with a blade. A crown cannot arrive if their holy place is destroyed.”
“And the Peacequeen?” Lucarian smiled ruefully. “I would offer her to you...but I have a special penchant.”
“If the east doesn’t swallow her up first, she is yours to do whatever you want with, your Grace. I’m a humble man. And I don’t want anything other than my clan's freedom to pillage as we wish.”
“That’s all you want, Zothar?” Queen Dedreia tilted her head in disbelief.
“I want a free world,” he uttered. “To fight. Fuck. And be free. And our freedom to do as we wish will hold more weight if Raspandar stands behind the clans.”
“How do you know that the gods will not find another way? They’ll have their revenge,” Angeliva smarted. “Do you have no fear?”
“M’lady, I fear nothing. Death makes me laugh. Pain makes me feel alive. The gods can’t touch me. Or any of us, once the Vault is destroyed.”
“Hm,” Lucarian chuckled against his goblet. “I like this man.”
“As do I...” Queen Dedreia said.
The man looked directly at Margaret.
“And you?” he said it in Catharsan once again.
Margaret tried to shrink in her seat. She responded meagerly in the same language.
“Do you plan to kill the Catharsan monarchs too? If so, then no. I do not.”
The man’s lip tilted up into nearly a grimace. A black amusement. It was strange. She was afraid of him. He was giant, and she’d heard stories of the clansmen and their foul natures, but why try to ruin the way everything had always been? All for indulgence? She glared at him, hating them all. Each of the daughters looked like they’d heard a ghost tale. But this was more than war with common fools. This was waging war on the gods. The air was cold, shrill with how forbidden the conversation was.
“We don’t need secret conversations, Margaret,” Lucarian glared at her as if she were a pesky nuisance.
“Forgive me, my Prince,” she lowered her head, ash brown hair falling around her face.
“Then it’s settled,” Dedreia smiled. “We shall speak more of these plans. I’m sure Peltyre will be most interested.”
“Ah, yes. The man will be,” Lucarian chuckled and slammed down his crystal glass.
Lucarian stood over her, his erection long and unrestrained.
“You loved it, didn’t you?” he raked his hands through her hair and gripped her scalp. “You liked the attention.”
“No,” she murmured, wincing at his grip. She felt hairs straining against his hold. “Never.”
He peered down into her eyes and then brought his member to her lips. She opened her mouth for him, unlatching her jaw, and tried to show him her love. She had to be convincing, so she moaned as she did this, shutting her eyes and playing as if it were giving her pleasure. But her thighs were dry, and she gagged when he shoved deeper.
“Tell me,” he pushed himself in her mouth angrily a few more times, the length catching her gag reflex again and again.
When he drew himself out, she battled for breath.
“You’re my King. I serve only you,” she sputtered.
“That’s right,” he growled and gripped her hair again. He forced her to stand. “And you’re mine. I love you...Margaret. You’re the only woman who will ever understand me.”
She nodded and reached for him. Luc caught her hands before she embraced him. He held her there, looking through her wit
h dark emotions flooding his features. Such a twisted, disturbed youth. Margaret often questioned how he’d become this. She also wondered how she’d come to be here. At least Ludrogan had been kind. He didn’t play mind games. He was never jealous.
Jealousy was a poison Lucarian was ever cursed to drink, and in turn, was her bane.
Margaret pushed against him, trying to wrap her arms around his chest and neck.
“Let me soothe you,” she whispered.
He sighed, relaxing his muscles and finally releasing her so that she could hold him. They shuffled back towards the bed, and he laid back, waiting for his show. Margaret was accustomed to what he liked. Now it was easier than it once had been. She organized the whip and the other tools necessary at the edge of the bed. The whip was easiest, and she began with that.
Holding one arm out straight, she slapped the strands down over her breast. She winced, the burning tearing across her chest. Lucarian’s eyes showed gloomy approval.
She continued.
“I want you to have bruises for me,” he reached down to stroke himself. “Gods...keep going.”
She switched sides, evening out the welts so that they spanned from her ribs to her chest. Her nipples were bright pink, every part of her raw.
“No one will know our pleasure and the pain that brings it.”
He enjoyed the secrets and liked the idea of her sporting the scars or blemishes from the pain that fulfilled his sexual fantasies. Then in public, he could brush against her and incite the memories that left her aching. It wasn’t that he skimped on pleasing her either. He could bring her to orgasm, but she didn’t know now if she truly enjoyed the pain, or if she’d learned to bear it well.
As she dissociated through the methodically painful experience, she hated it all.
“Pleasing you...” she whipped herself again. “Is all I care about.”
Catryn
Jurdu Palace, Yamar
Catryn’s skin stung with sweat. Majmal peered at her as he sent a shot of fizzling magic towards her skull. The spell itself had been brought about through invocation. It was the gods' ancient language and consisted of sounds she’d never heard before. But through his purple-painted lips, she found a strange comfort, as if the words matched up with something recognizable in her soul.
She touched the silver crown on her head. It was difficult to do her hair, though possible with the small amount of liftoff it had. The servants the Sultan had gifted her had been more than willing to do their share in trying to make her look good. They brushed her hair and styled it in the Yamarian way.
She arched her back and flexed her toes as the mage’s spell pulsated and palpated her mind.
“Your defenses are quite high,” he commented under his breath.
She could see sweat beading on his brow. At least they both were struggling.
They were in a lower room, and down here, the air was a bit cooler than theirs had been the night before in the tower. She’d struggled to regulate her temperature, splashing water on herself throughout the night. What was worse, she felt isolated from each man. She wanted their touch. She wanted their fingers roaming her skin. She wanted to feel surrounded. But the more she thought about it, the more her heart drew up its walls. Walls that she could have guessed would come because she did this to everyone. It was easier to detach.
Every time Majmal hit a spot of high frequency, memories flooded through her. Abuse. Unwanted touches. Disgust filling her belly. Her father’s face. She hated him.
“Let me in,” Majmal’s sinuous voice guided. “I can’t help otherwise.”
“I don’t want to lose control,” she countered, teeth grit. “I don’t know what will happen.”
“Precisely,” sighed. “You won’t know the extent of your powers until you allow them release.”
From the dark, humid corridor she heard footsteps, and then Valryn, Darrian, and Glend came sauntering in. Their swaying bodies held so much promise. Their builds were different and yet complimentary. She shut her eyes, distracted by the emotions coursing through her. She thought of the oppression Glend had endured, the way he’d been forced into so many situations. Sultan Hajj, Sasha, and Setora were guilty of this, having kept him as a sexual plaything for far too long. His discomfort had been agonizing.
“What are you doing to her?” Valryn’s tone was terse.
“Ahem, trying to free her mind from this block. I fear that it has profound roots. The magic is embedded deep in her bones.”
“No, I meant, how are you doing it?”
“The archaic language. A spell is placed upon her that works to draw out the block. Think of it as fishing. I send in my lure, and the fish must bite. So far it’s avoided me, skirting past the most tempting bait.”
“Nothing in my mind is tempting right now,” Catryn said, trying to hedge her irritation.
“Of course. That is the block working against me.”
He said it so casually that she crossed her arms and fumed silently.
“My dear,” Majmal’s shining waxed face moved closer to hers. “I am not trying to hurt you. I am trying to help you.”
She glanced up at the men and could hear the sum of their thoughts in her mind. They awaited her reaction. They wanted to know if they should step in. She smiled grimly at them all and nodded once to the mage. His violet silk robes brushed her legs, and she closed her eyes to focus.
Suddenly she felt calm. She could feel the heartbeats of her men, and it was comforting. Even as she slipped into a shuttering vision of her past, of fears, hands, pain, and hunger, she tolerated it better. She felt the crackling first. It was a fizzle along her scalp, a wave of magic working itself out. It felt like a wave on the ocean, climbing higher and higher before it fell. She held her breath when she realized that the magic was culminating into a violent, pressurized release.
The air crackled with electric pulses, and then there was a gravitational pulse that threw them all. The wind was knocked from her, and she fell from the chair. She could feel that the men had been jolted, their pain rippling on her own skin. The air grew dark, and there were coughs. Suddenly the atmosphere began to swirl around them. Majmal stumbled. It was loud. Everything around them pulsed as if they were in the center of a hurricane.
Then there were voices. Wicked, scaly voices that caused her stomach to turn to ice. She looked up. Behind Majmal, there was a being of smoke. A Djinn. She shot out a pulse of Faerus. But she soon realized, as she slowly pieced together the scene before her, that there were more.
They were bubbling up from the surface of the gray magic ash that littered the floor. They entered from the stormy, ethereal winds coursing around them. The Djinn molted like lava, black and red, with eyes of fire. Their hair consisted of plumes of smoke, and their fingers were long with jagged dark nails. Each bore a menacing, transcendent smile.
“V-Vulzos...” Majmal stammered, frantically throwing himself behind Catryn.
The men drew their weapons. Darrian raised his sword and swung it towards the closest creature; determination hardening his face. Catryn could feel what would happen next, and a violent scream of rage and hatred coiled up in her belly.
The Djinn’s hand stopped the blade with ease. It snapped the sword away from Darrian’s mortal hands and then threw it into the storming magic.
Glend cursed.
Catryn’s body was light now. She felt the release of the energy, the depths of the mind and body as if they were new. She’d never known these parts of herself. Had they always been there? She could reach for Faerus with ease. She found the other elemental magics as if they were bent to her every whim. The Faerus could be telekinesis, the Astra could be beams of light, the Vermora a prison of earth, and Chronos, a vestige of time itself. She could see every option, every way in which the gods designed her to use each specific element. A plethora of magical properties routing themselves through every fiber of her body. She found imposing abilities, a newfound connection to the earth, to the animals that walke
d among them, as well as a strange propensity towards love. She also felt it in her to heal, and even...she shivered, necromancy. Her human self and the divine influx warred against each other, but melded in places, leaving her breathless.
She reached out a hand and forced the Djinn to come to her. She was stunned and drunk on the power flowing so freely through her. What was more, the god's voices seemed less muted. Everything was loud. But she could quiet them. She was more in control than she’d ever been.
“What are you?” she demanded the Djinn to answer.
But she was struck from behind by yet another Djinn. She sent a scalding blade of Astra through the Djinn. Black smoke bubbled and frothed from the wound, and the Djinn went down. Everything turned to chaos. The Djinn jumped like hungry dogs towards the men. There were too many. Everywhere she looked, there was a darting black figure — a flurry of smoke and fire blurring the air. The creatures piled atop the men, forcing them to the ground. She blazed through the piles with Astra, sent gusts of force through others, and used telekinesis through twitching fingers to drag the men back towards her. They tried to right themselves the best they could.
Majmal screamed.
A Djinn’s dagger-sharp fingertips dug into the flesh of his thigh, and smoke whispered and lapped against his skin. She sliced the creature away. What was happening? She barely had time to react before more Djinn were attacking the men. They were helpless. Completely defenseless. She tried with all her might to pour some of her strength into them, but the Djinn clambered over them as if they were dead meat.
Again she thrust them away, time after time, drawing the men towards her. She grabbed Darrian’s hand and pulled him. He cried out. His arm was hanging limp. Had she done it? Valryn and Glend’s eyes shone with horror. They glistened with the reflection of the darkness that swirled all around them.
“Take it back!” Majmal shrieked through the din. “Take it back!”
“No!” Valryn was cut short as a Djinn collided with him, knocking him back onto the ground.
