Captive Dreams

by Angela Knight

  She tried again. “Next time I climax, I damn well insist that you climax, too. Full climax, full ejaculation, full . . . Oh hell, just fill me with your cock and your seed!”

  Mykh threw back his head and laughed in triumph.

  She chuckled but turned her attention to his nipples, now achingly sensitive from their bedsport. “You’re not getting away that easily, big guy,” she muttered and started suckling.

  He gasped in surprise but yielded to the demanding rhythm Corinne set. His finger sought her woman’s jewel as his cock swelled further than he’d thought possible. Her head fell back in rapture and he groaned as he followed her into ecstasy. Wave after wave shook him, while his balls pumped seed as if he was a youngling again.

  Mykh’s limbs straggled across the bed afterwards like rice fields after a thunderstorm. He rubbed his belly slowly, instinctively storing the ch’i they’d generated as his breathing and pulse slowly returned to normal. He’d matched rhythms with other women before, including a handful of priestesses. None had affected him like his little sorceress.

  A sorceress. Damn.

  Corinne sat patiently as the maids fussed one more time over her hair. They were going to a lot of trouble, considering that she was wearing it down. And a good haircut could bounce back from almost anything, including travel between worlds and two days and nights with a sex maniac.

  Celeste had always called Jarred a sex maniac. Could she be enjoying her time with him? Perhaps . . . but what if she wasn’t?

  Corinne reviewed again what she knew of high magic. Most of it came from writing the long prologue to The Raven and the Rose, about the last white sorcerers. But their magic didn’t tell her how to travel between worlds, as Celeste’s rescue would demand.

  “Your Excellency,” one of the girls pleaded. “Please don’t frown. It is very bad luck if you’re unhappy today.”

  “Sorry. I was just thinking, not offended.” Corinne plastered on the patient but still interested expression that her ex-mother-in-law wore during long church services and went back to considering how to rescue Celeste. But her thoughts kept straying to Mykh and how he growled her name when he was excited.

  The maids finally finished arranging her hair and clothing to their satisfaction and brought a long mirror for her to inspect the results. She wore a long high-waisted dress, composed of layers and layers of fragile white silk bordered with silver ribbons. The layers increased in length until they touched the floor, beginning with one reaching just below her hips. The sleeves were long but slashed many times from shoulder to wrist, every edge trimmed with silver ribbon. The neckline, as could be expected during a fertility festival, was so low that it was a miracle her breasts didn’t fall out. Chiffon bordered with silver covered her hair and a short train, also edged in silver, spilled behind her feet. The combination of white silk with silver ribbons reminded her of a white tiger’s stripes.

  All of it was embroidered with tiny diamonds, while more jewels dangled from her ears and danced around her throat. Silver slippers, also embroidered with diamonds, gloved her feet.

  She wore a wreath of red and white roses to indicate that she wished a child by the man she would dine with. Mykh’s mother had also worn roses when he was conceived, yellow in her case.

  Corinne Carson was wearing a white dress to a formal banquet. If she was very lucky—unlike any other time she’d worn white—they’d never heard of spaghetti sauce and she wouldn’t stain the dress before the night was out.

  “Beautiful. Thank you for dressing me so well,” she complimented them, praying silently that Celeste was at least warm and dry. The maids twittered and preened as they accepted her praise. They also continued to fuss worse than any fancy stylist she’d ever met.

  A loud knock sounded before she lost her temper at them. Two maids rushed to answer it and Yevgheniy entered. His all-encompassing sergeant’s eye measured her. Corinne was surprisingly relieved when he nodded and relaxed.

  “It is time to leave for dinner, Your Excellency,” he announced.

  “Very well.” She swallowed hard and followed him out the door. Ten minutes later, she stood outside the magnificent set of doors that marked the banquet hall, waiting yet again.

  But Mykh arrived very quickly, looking splendid in gold brocade that shimmered with every movement and a rose crown. His great sword hung at his back, the one thing he always kept close to hand. He smiled at Corinne and kissed her hand, making her blush.

  Mazur paced at Mykh’s side, ears pricked and tail swishing. He wore a ruby and gold collar with a matching leash that Mykh held. As soon as Mykh looked away from him, Mazur immediately sat down, hooked his front foot in the collar, and tried to lift it over his head.

  The ram’s horn rang out, trumpets blared, the doors swung open, and Mykh yanked Mazur to his feet with the ease of long experience. They entered the banquet hall to a roar of applause, Mazur as demure now as a child in a church choir.

  The hall faced south, opening on to a wide terrace and beyond that to the great courtyard. Long tables ringed the banquet hall with men and women closely packed along them. A wide red carpet led from the doors to the dais across the great central space. The maids had chattered endlessly about the entertainers that would perform here during the banquet.

  The terrace and courtyard were covered with white-clad tables, all filled with couples wearing rose crowns. The streets beyond were packed with watchers, like a Times Square crowd waiting for the ball to drop on New Year’s Eve.

  Mykh and Corinne proceeded down the red carpet between the tables, nodding graciously as they went while his hand gently rubbed the small of her back. It felt good enough that she began to consider ways to sneak off with him.

  She recognized many of the concubines and grinned when she saw Vholodhya seated next to Wen-Chuan. Her jaw dropped when she saw the priest next to Mhari. She’d never considered a religious man for the rollicking girl, although few orders in Torhtremer were celibate. And this fellow had been one of Mykh’s mercenaries . . .

  The guests clapped wildly, the rhythm quickly settling into the steady pulsing beat of winning fans at a World Cup match. The women clapped, too, Juli’s arm frequently brushing Alekhsiy’s.

  Mykh yanked her attention back when his hand slid low enough to fondle her ass. She jumped and glared at him. He tilted his head infinitesimally and she realized that they were now standing at their seats, waiting for the High Priestess to speak. Corinne shrugged slightly, apologetically, then painted a suitably devout expression on her face.

  When the High Priestess finished invoking the Horned Goddess’s blessings, Mykh lifted Corinne’s hand to his lips and kissed it. Her breath stopped and she gazed at him foolishly. She was still a little dazed when she settled into her seat.

  Perhaps he could stop thinking of her as a sorceress.

  Five minutes later, Corinne was looking at combination of milk, eggs, and rabbit on her plate, with a side dish of rice and chopped dried apricots—the same foods that she’d eaten in the Tiger’s Den. A page offered her a bowl of gorgeous fresh apricots; she accepted one and bit into it, careful not to get the juice on her dress. Another page hovered with a beaker, ready to instantly refill her goblet of herbal tea. She strongly suspected this tea was brewed from more fertility enhancers.

  Beside her, Mykh was happily eating red meat again with a juniper berry sauce and his beloved oatcakes. His tea was probably also some sort of male fertility enhancer. An entire cookbook could be written about the fertility boosters being consumed at this banquet. You had to admit that when Torhtremer’s chefs decided something was important, they went all out to get every last detail right.

  Musicians filled the central space, performing various folk tunes. Three tenors sang of marriage’s delights, alternating with three sopranos who celebrated the joys of a man’s loving. They were loud enough that the diners could focus on eating, rather than making polite conversation.

  Corinne had just taken her first bite of rice pudding,
which used a different combination of spices than she’d encountered before, when a loud boom broke through the music. A large black smoke cloud appeared in the center of the hall, blocking her sight of the musicians and the terrace. A tenor and the balalaika player crawled away from the smoke but froze in mid-step.

  Mykh came quickly to his feet, drawing his great sword, Dragon’s Breath, in the same instant. Corinne stood up more slowly. No one else in the hall moved and the only sounds came from outside. Even Mazur’s tail lay still.

  “The Dark Warrior,” Mykh hissed then vaulted the table, Dragon’s Breath at the ready. “Show yourself, coward.” He crouched at the dais’s edge, ready to respond to an attack from any direction.

  A low chuckle from within the smoke answered him, cold as a northern blizzard. “Remember me, Dragonheart? We met once before in a banquet hall. It was hosted by your mistress, the Gray Sorceress.”

  Oh shit. How would Mykh respond to those memories?

  His face was white and tense but his concentration never wavered. “You left rather abruptly on that occasion, as I recall, after a reminder of other concerns. I’m certain you’ll leave here, too, after you’re prompted.” Mykh even managed a fairly credible sneer. Its effect was somewhat lessened by the tic in his cheek.

  “Oh, I’ll leave here—with the sorceress. She needs some education, you see, before she can serve me as the Gray Sorceress did so well.” The smoke shimmered then started to move sluggishly toward the dais.

  “She is not yours to claim,” Mykh asserted boldly. Suddenly he lifted Dragon’s Breath over his shoulder like a javelin and hurled it at the smoke. The noisome pillar jerked to one side, avoiding the sword, then returned to its previous path.

  “Tsk, tsk,” the Dark Warrior chided. “So childish of you to use a physical weapon on something that does not exist as flesh and blood.”

  Mykh held up his hand, eyes never leaving the smoke. Dragon’s Breath circled the hall swiftly then settled neatly into his grasp. What could he try next?

  Corinne looked around for help. Ghryghoriy stood motionless at the corner of the performance area, sweat running down his face as he tried to move. The other guards were similarly immobile, as were the wizards. She wished that enormous halberd was here, instead of the throne room, so that she could summon the Imperial Tigress.

  She had to do something. Magic might help, if she could pull it off. Shaking, she tried one of the white sorcerers’ spells.

  “By the five elements, show me all guests in this hall,” Corinne called. Ch’i crept into her meridians at the words. The smoke stirred, its shape mutating from a slender column into a lumpy block, before coalescing back into the column. But it continued to jerk and shudder, as if fighting off a wind.

  She’d worked a spell that had an effect. She gulped. What would happen if she used a stronger spell? Would acting as a sorceress make her vulnerable to the Dark Warrior, so that he could subvert her?

  Mykh half-turned to face her. “Don’t do this, Corinne,” he warned. “This danger is for me to face.”

  “That would risk your life.” She moved to one side of the table so she’d have a clear path at the smoke. Serious spellcasting was aided by hand gestures.

  “By all the gods, Corinne, don’t prove yourself a sorceress.”

  She shivered at the deadly warning in his voice then set her chin stubbornly. “I have to try, Mykh.”

  Corinne took a deep breath and used the strongest invocation she could think of, one that had worked for white sorcerers but not the wizards who served them.

  “By red fire, green wood, white metal, black water, and yellow earth, I command all guests in this hall to show themselves.” The smoke spun, its edges fraying.

  Corinne repeated the invocation twice more, her hands pushing out as if removing a veil. The smoke hissed and snarled, becoming more and more transparent, as she chanted. Her last syllable still hung in the air as the smoke snapped angrily, then funneled into one of the tenors.

  The tenor sat up stiffly, his eyes changed from merry brown to cold black as the Dark Warrior possessed his body. They fixed on Corinne with the cold concentration of a murderer.

  “Ah, the voice of power!” the Dark Warrior called, his voice rough with the effort he was making to appear in the palace’s banquet hall. “I greet you, sorceress, as you come into your own. Join me and we can rule the world.”

  Corinne trembled. She’d successfully worked a spell. Now the Dark Warrior had become flesh and blood and could be dealt with as such. But Mykh’s eyes avoided her as if she really was spawned in hell.

  Ice sliced Mykh’s veins at the Dark Warrior’s greeting. Two voices, both carrying magic. The last time he’d heard a man and a woman chant had been in the Gray Sorceress’s chambers, where she had competed with the Dark Warrior to see who could make more men tear themselves apart.

  Mykh had rolled in the blood and worse that covered the floors, his cock stiff from the Gray Sorceress’s commands, while she rode him and laughed, then laughed again with the Dark Warrior before ensorcelling another slave to destroy himself. Mykh had thought he’d never be clean again.

  Now everything came flashing back as if he stood in that thrice-damned chamber again. He staggered as the smells of blood and death leaped into him and his skin crawled as if the foul waste covered it again. He barely retained enough control to remember that he needed to fight the Dark Warrior here and now.

  Mykh shook his head to clear it. He must contest his enemy. But the sorceress present spoke first, every syllable pounding spikes of old anguish into his skull. He began to chant Khyber’s summons silently, forming the phrases clumsily.

  “Begone! By red fire, green wood, white metal, black water, and yellow earth, I command you to leave!” Corinne demanded.

  The tenor’s ponderous frame swayed like a tree in a hurricane then steadied. The voice that emerged from his throat had all the warmth of a glacier grinding rock into dust. “No,” it said hoarsely, then more strongly, “No. You may only force what is physically present in this hall, not my spirit, which controls this man. I will do what I came for.”

  The tenor began to stand, propping itself on the balalaika player for balance. Mykh smiled tightly, recognizing a threat that he could remove. He lifted Dragon’s Breath over his shoulder once again then threw it. The long golden sword sliced through the tenor, who instantly became a handful of ash. Then it fell to the floor and landed against one of the sopranos.

  Mykh extended his hand toward the sword, his palm open in invitation, while his golden eyes never left the small ash heap. Dragon’s Breath lifted into the air and flew back to him as Ghryghoriy stumbled toward the musicians.

  “No!” Mykh shouted. “Stay back, Ghryghoriy. It’s a trap.” He caught Dragon’s Breath just as the balalaika player lurched upward, his slender body quickly mastered by the Dark Warrior. Ghryghoriy froze although Corinne could see his fingers twitching.

  The musician laughed in the same voice that had possessed the tenor. “You cannot stop me so easily, Dragonheart. You dare not take the time to summon Khyber lest I destroy someone else in the meantime.” He started walking toward the dais in a zigzag path, always touching one of the diners. Mykh could see their horrified eyes as his hand fell on each one in turn.

  “How many of your guests will you destroy before you learn that you cannot kill me?” The Dark Warrior laughed again, making Mykh remember how the Gray Sorceress’s cackles had blended with his, and reached for Ghryghoriy. “Now I will take your Companion and you will die childless. Never again will a Dragonheart stop me.”

  Mykh swung Dragon’s Breath and beheaded the Dark Warrior’s puppet, just as he brushed Ghryghoriy. Ashes floated to the floor as Ghryghoriy’s expression changed from desperate rigidity to evil gloating.

  “Nooo,” he screamed, starting in his own voice but finishing in the Dark Warrior’s. Mykh could see Amber just beyond him, tears trickling down her face.

  “Oh yes,” the Dark Warrior mocked. �
��Now, Dragonheart, what will you do? Will you kill your dearest friend? Or shall I take the sorceress and leave him unharmed?”

  Mykh’s mouth was set so hard that his lips were nearly bloodless. He settled into a fighting stance, ready to strike a blow at Ghryghoriy. He returned to summoning Khyber, the syllables running through his mind like a chain of signal fires.

  “By Mars’s . . .” Corinne began then stopped to clear her throat.

  “I can win this battle, Corinne,” Mykh hissed. He only needed to gain some time, no matter how high the cost.

  “I can’t let you kill Ghryghoriy,” she answered, a slight tremor running through her voice. She filled her lungs with the agonizing precision of someone ready to leap off a precipice.

  “By Mars’s fire, Jupiter’s wood, Saturn’s earth, Venus’s metal, and Mercury’s water,” Corinne chanted, her voice effortlessly filling the room with a sorceress’s mastery. “I command you to leave that man’s body. Now!”

  An unearthly shriek came from Ghryghoriy’s throat. Mykh froze, recognizing a puissance that he couldn’t hope to defeat.

  Corinne repeated the spell twice more until black smoke poured from every inch of Ghryghoriy. It hung in a cloud above him, then formed into the shape of a short, barrel-chested man facing Corinne.

  “Damn you!” the Dark Warrior screamed. He moved toward her, but Mykh took a quick step to block him. At least he was fast enough to counter the enemy.

  The man shook with rage but steadied before speaking again.

  “You have grown into your powers faster than I expected, foreigner,” the Dark Warrior sneered. Old memories welled up in Mykh, of hearing that evil voice discuss the death of everything Mykh loved. “I will not underestimate you the next time.”

  He vanished in a clap of thunder, leaving only the stench of dank rot behind.

  Ghryghoriy staggered before collapsing to the floor. Amber screamed and rushed to him. Pandemonium swept the banquet hall as some screamed, some fainted, some bolted out, and others began to talk far too loudly and quickly.