It was an awkward kiss on his part. It was always the kiss that reminded Caryl of the boy that lingered in him, the dreamer of fantasy and legend. Then as always, the kiss grew harder, more demanding. It didn’t take long for the boy to flee and the man to take over. Heat flushed her in a suffusing blanket as his hand slowly traced her curves. His eyes relished her, drank in the sight of her as if he were a choirboy. Gods. Light fingers traced patterns down her naked thighs as he slowly lowered. “Mykel...” Her head tipped back and her eyes lolled as he worked his magic on her. I always wanted to have magic, she remembered him saying once. An enshou. The words were a dull throb amidst the wet, painful heat. Gods... One hand clutched at his hair; the other clawed involuntarily, as the heat grew hotter and hotter, cinching her guts tighter and tighter. Each moment grew agonizingly longer, like infinity stretched taut over an open flame. She wanted to burn forever in it... and finally she exploded in a blaze of pleasure.
They did the usual. Caryl dragged him down to her bed where they laid for the next hour and a half. It wasn’t long before the little moans came out to play. They came in time to the swing of her heavy breasts until she just hung off him, her body shuddering with every movement. Gods... She had to bite her tongue to stop the screaming. Somehow their lips fastened upon one another and she was kissing him; something she promised herself she would not do, damn it.
Tears slid down, mingled with her face. Kissing was for love and fools. When Mykel paused, to kiss the tears away, she felt ridiculousness explode softly in her heart. He was halfway in the taking of her, his hands clamped on her buttocks, and he was kissing her tears. Ridiculous and she loved him for it.
No, not love. Never love. She rained kisses on his poker-slim chest, lower and lower till it was his hand was at her hair. The effort was a distraction. The crabbed hand was gentle, mantling her temples where others seized and forced till she was choking, and she loved him for that too. She focused on his moans and set herself on making them louder; that was another distraction, and a pleasing one. And when he finally lurched forward and moaned in that soft little gasp of his, when she pulled away from him with her lips slick-white, he set himself to making her moan.
In the end, when it all ended, they lay tangled in her bed like a pair of lovers from a story, sweat slick from head to toe. Caryl smiled. Every inch of her burned and stung, and it was wonderful.
And still he was hungry. She felt the cool balm of his fingers tracing her flanks, her waist, up to slowly curve the breast, tantalizingly slow, as if it were a masterpiece of sculpture. She twisted and found his eyes full of that delicious fire young maidens dream of at their wedding night. “You’re inhuman,” she giggled, and put the crabbed hand under the other breast. Dead fingers stirred to life at the feather-soft flesh—for her. Caryl tried telling herself it would do the same with any other breast, but she knew it was naught. Just as she knew for all the myriad teeth-marks on his shoulders of the small grooves where fingers dug into flesh, were her markings, every one of them. She knew it could not be otherwise.
“I...” Mykel breathed, voice thick with need. With a simple motion he rolled her atop him so that he could gaze at her with loving eyes as his fingers ran little circles down her spine. “I... want you,” he said finally. Reaching forward to kiss her, and when Caryl darted away, resigned himself to nuzzle her breastbone.
Caryl did not feel the tender kisses, or the shock of his entering her. I love you, he meant to say, and she hated him for it. No, not at him, never him. The pause was not for declining or any avoidance of commitment but for her sake. He knew what delicate boundaries they toyed with in their little game. He was a client, she a whore. It could go no further than that. Yet, there were these things in her that made her want to lay in this bed forever with him, to fuck him and make love to him and let him do the same. She could see herself walking down the aisle with him, of him taking her away. Even more shocking was that the desire was tangible, solid. She wanted to.
“No.” Reluctantly she pulled out of him and started dressing. Dreams could not buy food, nor put a roof over her head or a bed in which to sleep. If there was ever a lesson this damned city taught her, it was that. Dreams held no use for her.
“Caryl?” Mykel, caught halfway in a moan, was looking at her warily. “No what? Caryl, are you all right?” Cautiously he edged near her.
“We’re done here.” She turned her back to him. If she did not face him he could not see her tears. “Get your clothes.”
A moment of shocked confusion, then the sounds of rummaging as he searched the room for flung articles of clothing. “Maybe we could get together later tonight,” he said hopefully. “Dinner, maybe. A baker on the east street is a friend of Lazarus... I could talk to him...”
“No.” It was no use. She could feel his eyes on her, a boy’s tenderness and caring mingled with the lust and desire of a man. She could almost feel his hardness from across the room. “I have no time.”
“Come now, Caryl. You need this. It will be just me and you, and Wil...”
Wil. She wanted to hug him. Or slap him. Gods damn the fool. “I said no.”
“Caryl...” a hand cupped her shoulder, tender and warm. Caryl twisted back and glared at him with all the loathing she could muster.
“I have clients, Mykel.”
The pain that folded his face made her want to cry. She almost threw herself on the bed so that he would take her from behind, just to forget the pain. She made herself look at him, though, till he turned away. Her eyes towered over him like a sentinel as he recovered his clothing, piece by piece, hunching to avoid the glare. By the time he had his hat he looked like a wounded puppy dragging itself on three legs.
“I’ll... I’ll come back later,” he said, glancing downward. His hand reached for hers, paused when she drew away. Caryl couldn’t let him kiss her knuckles, she knew. If he got her thinking she was a lady she might lock the door and never let him leave. And if she looked at those damned puppy-dog eyes any longer she might die of despair.
“Go,” she spat. “And be careful about it. Last time Alayna asked me what I was going to do with the extra silver.”
“I understand.” Mykel bit off. He paused as if he wanted to say something else, and then left. The door closed with a click of finality.
Caryl flung herself on the bed and buried her face in the pillows to mute her sobs. Damn him! Damn him to hell and back! Why did he have to do this? Hold on to hope like that? Why did he have to be so tender and caring and so... so genuine? For a moment Caryl wished he were like the other men she’d known, then took it back. Caryl had been a whore a long time, and the other men she knew could not begin to lick Mykel’s boots. If only it did not hurt so much.
A knock at the door made her jump. “What?” She pictured Mykel coming back, demanding her senses return and come with him. Her voice almost cracked with the hope of it. “I am unclothed!”
“We always are,” said the familiar gravel voice. Even behind thick hickory Madame Olga’s words sounded dragged over hard iron. The door opened to reveal a weathered old woman who was the match of that voice, and a grace that defied her age. “Caryl, it is good to see you.”
“And I you.” There was a certain serpentine cast to Olga’s smile, one that Caryl had never gotten used to. Still it warmed her to be talking to a familiar face. “Did you handle things with Arenja’s?”
The old harlot spat to show what she thought of her rival’s so-called “business.” “The girl is all show, I tell you. No iron at all, though she was trying hard enough to convince herself of it. She actually told me that I was too old — too old! — for this business. It was time for someone who still knew how to please a man to run the business.” Suddenly her eyes turned on Caryl and asked, “Do I look too old?” without any hint of worry.
Caryl winced and hid it with a flat shrug as she searched for the right words. “I think you can best her in endurance easy.” Careful, now. You don’t want to put ideas in her head. She paused, waited for Olga’s reaction and then breathed a mental sigh when the vulpine lips curled into a smile.
“You sweet girl. Any but you would lie straight through their teeth. You are the only one who dares speak the truth.” Caryl nodded; it was true enough. Alayaya and Tasha, the twins who loved each other as much as the coin they got, were famous for having their first man over and over again. Idly Caryl wondered if the redheads believed it themselves. “The truth is a precious thing.” Olga continued, settling into a chair. Folding her arms, she snuck inside her cloak and produced a small velvet pouch, from which came two pinches worth of dust. Olga heaved with the effort of smelling them. “Pardon, my dear. Do you require any?”
Caryl shook her head no. Suddenly she got the distinct impression of being trapped. Something was not right, and that made the walls shrink down on her. A thousand fears splintered in her mind and spun away, only to swirl back on her anew. Olga could be as harsh as she was fair. She was a much kinder soul than the rumors made her out to be.
“So. Arenja will be no trouble?”
“Trouble?” Olga snorted. “Arenja will be begging me for a part of the house within the next winter. She is of no consequence.” Abruptly she shifted; with her hands folded at her lap she almost looked a grandmother. “Your actions, on the other hand, are of grave consequence.”
It was an effort to remain still. “What are you talking about?”
“The young man. The cripple. He has been here?”
“He has.” There was no use in lying. “Only for a short while.” She frowned as the vulpine smile grew.
“My dear, I came back at the morn. Deaf jackals could have heard your moans.”
Caryl shifted on the bed, pretending to make it seem an attempt at decency. As demure Caryl was, she failed to hide the red flooding her cheeks. Mykel... somehow it was a private violation, having others know. A destruction of something sacred—she blinked as Olga lurched forward, surprisingly quick for her age. “I am talking to you, my dear. It is rude to ignore your elders when they speak wisdom.”
“I was not ignoring...” she trailed off, feeling the fool. There was no explanation decent enough to suit her. “Wisdom?” Caryl asked slyly. “You are a scholar, now?”
“When you are my age you can be wise even if you’re stupid, dear.” The wrinkled caverns of Olga’s face flickered into a smile, but only a flicker. The vulpine cast returned sharper than ever. “Something of which you are neither, I know. I assume you have collected the money.”
“No.” Her face was downcast, her hands wringing. Coin... seemed to taint it somehow. “I... I have not.”
“I see.” From the sharpness in her cold gray eyes Olga had known the answer all along. “This... this will become a problem, my dear.”
“I... I have taken many more clients to compensate for that loss, Olga.”
“Yes, yes. I know that, Caryl. If I had ten more girls like you I could close the shop completely. That is not the problem.” The weathered mistress leaned in ever closer. The tang of locus-dust was keen on her breath, and her words were sharp as knives. “Do you love him?”
“Of course not,” Caryl replied immediately. She even managed to scoff. “Wherever did you get that idea?”
“Hm. You do love him.”
“Did I just not say—?”
“Be quiet, girl. Your elder is talking to you. You know that no good will come of this. There is a reason why we are paid to do this. Paid, mind you. Not giving it away freely like some jezebel. Word will spread, and men will come, expecting the same “treatment.” And they will not like it when you refuse them. They will show you how much they do not like it.” Smoothly Olga unfolded her arms. The motion made her sleeves fall back slightly, to expose faint scars in wrinkled bands of flesh.
Caryl swallowed. “I... that will not happen, Olga. Word will not spread.”
Olga’s laugh was bitter. “My dear, how do you think I knew of this in the first place?” There was a coldness to her rising, a grace that again reminded Caryl of a snake. “Do not see him again.” Olga said at the door. “It is bad for business. I love you, Caryl, but I cannot have girls who do not earn their keep.”
Caryl blinked. She could not mean...
“As for love...” Olga paused at the door, the creak of the hickory filling the air with tension. “We are not meant for love, girl. Now get dressed. You have a new client waiting. Like you said, you need to get to work.” The door clicked again with finality.
He sauntered in minutes later. Caryl did not know him but she knew the type: easily impressed and full of himself to the point of ridiculousness. A nobleman, for sure; and she did not even need the embroidery on his clothes to know that. When he entered her she closed her eyes and pretended it was not a business. He, of course, did not think it was anything but the effort of reining in the rapture he brought her. It was not in him to think otherwise, though he did make him go harder. “Yes. Moan! I want to hear you moan my name! Say it!”
She did as she was told, as she did a great many other things for the next hour. With her eyes closed she could almost dream that they did not shame her, and the person above her was the one she wanted him to be. Mykel, she sobbed, loving and hating him at once. Mykel!
Then came the man’s release. It was not finished yet. There were just some truths that did not die.
VIII
Mykel emerged from the brothel, as he always did, fuming on his own morals. There had been soldiers in the Fenrir Manor that wriggled to the jades like worms on fishermen’s hooks. Kurtis had more or less become one of those in recent years. Mykel, on the other hand, had not. An ardent passion for the old codes given by weathered tomes had instilled a schooling of the lusts that normally enraptured other men. Other, normal men; he had to be different because he was “special.” Always special. He snorted at the absurdity of it.
Schooling was not stopping, however. The building of heat and desire and the sheer electric thrill of hearing a woman moan, knowing that you were the source of that moan, always came to him in fists of need, almost overwhelmed him at times. No decent girl would sleep with a bastardized cripple, and the heat demanded little time to bother with the now-seemingly pussyfooting of courtship. That left whores, and Caryl was the perfect fit. At least, until now.
Caryl. Within him a storm of anger stirred, and in his mind her looks and gestures warped to meanings to suit that anger. Can’t live on like this? Can’t be in love? Can’t love a cripple? Peasants he nearly knocked over in his charge yelled after him, but he paid it no heed. Caryl. Her face lingered in his mind. The torment behind those violet eyes, the feelers of affection that probed and hooked her without warning, haunted him. She loves me. A strange notion that turned itself over and over in his mind, as if repetition would force it to make sense. Only a whore could love a cripple.
Can a cripple love a whore? A throbbing in his chest gave him an answer but he knew it was not as simple as all that. Jessica of the Dunes never married her one true love, so the stories said, because she knew the prospect of marriage to the Desert King would lend him lures to bend the rest of the ancient Houses to his will.
Reality, on the other hand, was a far different plane than it had been in the ancient eras; the games of noble Houses were far from dead. Step-brother Kurtis complained only of the little things of the string of maidens fed to him: different hair-color, different busts, different waists, different nationalities. On and on until his demands were served to him. Never on his duty to continue the Bloodline and increase the family treasury. It gave Lord Fenrir no end of ag
itation.
Of course I cannot afford such luxuries. As heir to a Royal House, with all of the House’s wealth and prestige with him, Kurtis drew maids like moths to the flame. A ward was infinitely inferior to such a status; a crippled ward even more so. Even the hardiest of maidens was not scrambling to take up so dented a prize. She’s all I can love.
He passed a broken monument of a Three-Day War battle around the corner, gold with chipped names, dead with nameless soldiers. Dead while I live. Did they have someone waiting for them? Of course they did. The militia didn’t allow cripples to enter, and well-made men always got the maidens. What would have happened if I hadn’t been born a cripple? Worthless thoughts, useless thoughts. But he thought them anyway. Would my birth-mother have kept me? Would I have joined the army? He saw a ghost of a possible self, clad in the proud colors of the Amden militia, his arm straight and stiff instead of dangling and limp. Would I have ended up there? Just a name in the middle of this hellhole, forgotten?
Of course there was Caryl. I could get her out of there then. A lie, he knew, even as the thought completed itself. She’s the only one I ever loved, and I can’t even get her out of here. Now she was denying him because of what she was. Because of my failure.
Mykel shook his head as if to cast the blame away. It had to end sometime, he knew. Whore or barmaid or servant... what choice did a woman have in a city like this? Better chance for me hoping to mend this damn arm. A whore she was, and their fate was sealed by it. A whore could not work with her heart unsheathed in stone. Every moment they spent together sent creepers to crack and compromise the armor she wore. For one whose life was measured out in gold this could not be. It was something they both knew. They just didn’t want to admit it. I didn’t want to admit it. I didn’t want to be alone. He glanced again to the window, closed tight to ward away probing, pleading eyes, but from which side was unknown. Guess I am now. He started towards the library. Guess I always will be.
Sefiros Eishi: Chased By Flame Page 7
