Anticipation caused Loban’s own flesh to grow taut. Before the man knew what hit him, Loban had him flat on his back on the rickety table that held inferior towels for the servant’s use.
This harvest was easier than the last because the man was already naked. In addition, he seemed more shocked than terrified, and only babbled questions about what Loban was doing. When he waved a dagger before his eyes and told him not to scream, the servant nodded agreement. In fact, he went utterly limp as if he’d been expecting this treatment.
Loban took a moment to consider his sacrifice. Clear, perfect skin covered his entire body, and few chest or pubic hairs marred the smooth surface. Even his face had only the barest trace of a beard. His hair was dark, but his eyes were deep green, like the gardens in high summer. Two thick lips covered straight and startlingly white teeth.
“Are you ungati?”
He nodded with a most becoming mix of pride and shyness.
Loban now understood his passivity. Ungati were bred to bestow pleasure on their owners but were forbidden to take any pleasure themselves. Some went so far as to castrate their property to ensure this, and that apparently had happened to this man, given his shriveled genitals and feminine features. Not that it mattered.
Loban told the man what he wanted. After a brief flash of confusion, where he said he could only perform as his master dictated, and Loban swore his master stood behind the drapes watching, the servant agreed. Such willingness made Loban wonder what other erotic scenarios this man’s master had forced him to act out.
Since he did not struggle, Loban was able to perform the ritual more leisurely. He parted the man’s thighs, marveling again at how silky his skin felt below his calloused hands. Sliding him forward until his buttocks hit the table edge was almost effortless due to his slight weight. Smoothly, Loban placed his left foot on the hilt of his dagger and lifted the right to his shoulder.
Loban said his words and the ungati said his.
When he pushed the codpiece aside and pressed his cock to the man’s puckered entrance, his eyes practically glowed with longing. Loban frowned. He didn’t want such a willing sacrifice. Shock, fear, and terror had always been his greatest aphrodisiacs. However, he knew he had to do his duty. Shoving forward, Loban found the way much easier thanks to the thick coating of oil. He plunged deep until his balls rested against the table edge, then withdrew.
He swore the man to secrecy and then helped him from the table. Again, he cleaned and anointed himself. Throughout the night, Loban harvested over twenty servants, some male and some female. Again, their sex didn’t matter. Most reacted with fear that fed his lust, but some were as passive as the ungati, which wasn’t as satisfying, but still, he performed his duty. He didn’t need umer to keep him hard or to prevent him from climaxing. Loban controlled himself by sheer force of will, proving that he was far more worthy than any Harvester.
When night slid toward daylight, he again considered the need for a paratanist. By ritual, at the end of the Harvest, a paratanist would stroke him to climax. Without one, he would again have to improvise. When an acolyte entered in swirling white robes, Loban was convinced the gods heard his dilemma and sent him this man as a solution. The fact that he had black hair and blue eyes like Chur Zenge was further proof that he should use this man for his ritual.
Chur was the one who kicked him out of the training program so that he could never become the Harvester. Chur was the one who, through what he thought was kindness, didn’t place the brand of shame on his forehead and send him back to his village. Chur decided to give him the menial job of cleaning and repairing the recruit’s training gear. At first, Loban didn’t understand why Chur didn’t force him to go home in disgrace, but now he understood that Chur wanted to keep him under his thumb. Every day, Chur watched to ensure Loban did his chores and didn’t harass the recruits. Every day, Loban struggled with the overwhelming desire to rape Chur. Only Chur’s godlike transformation held him back. Loban knew he could not best him now. That’s when he decided to find his own way into the gods’ favor.
Acolytes usually came in pairs, but this one often came alone and spent hours in the deep bathing tub. Floating on his back, he would stare up at the ceiling as if studying the figures painted there. Loban had barely given the artwork a glance before turning his gaze away. Art in any form did not interest him. People, power, and perversion interested him.
When the acolyte removed the white robe, revealing a lean body of compact strength with a smattering of thick black body hair, Loban pushed the codpiece aside. While he thought of all the most depraved things he could, using the servant to help him stimulate his imagination, he stroked his cock until he could no longer hold back his climax. His orgasm erupted with such force he lost his breath and his vision for several moments.
Once he regained his equilibrium, Loban cleaned himself carefully, then hid his Harvester gear. He returned to his training room cell to sleep a few hours before his chores began. Once they were over, he would return to the tishiary and take more sacrifices. As he lay on his back awaiting sleep, he was dismayed to realize he didn’t feel any differently. His lust had been sated, but he didn’t feel any special powers. However, he had only harvested for one night. Perhaps he needed several nights or several hundred sacrifices to feel the change begin.
It didn’t matter.
Loban would do whatever it took to become the dark champion of the gods.
12
Kasmiri clung to Sterlave’s arm, using him to support her as they returned to their rooms. Her exhaustion bled into him. Before she could protest, Sterlave scooped her into his arms and carried her.
“I am capable of walking.” She tried to flash him a sharp look, but the dark circles under her eyes ruined the effect.
“Indulge me.”
Wearily, she shook her head, then rested her cheek against his shoulder. He wished he could do more to take some of the burden off her. How could one woman carry the weight of her mother’s death, and a new and terrifying responsibility as the empress, just as the empire itself stood on the brink of tremendous social change?
Without thinking, he’d gone straight to her rooms. When he discovered the locked door, that’s when he remembered they were supposed to sleep in the Empress suite.
“I can’t bear to sleep in my mother’s rooms,” Kasmiri’s voice was barely a whisper, and so thick with pain it sliced right into his heart.
“Your wish is my command.” Since no guard stood in his way, Sterlave kicked the door, busting the lock and flinging the doors open.
Kasmiri glanced up, her eyes wide with surprise. “Impressive.”
He winked and strode inside. Thank the gods the door only appeared to be made of solid Onic timber or he would have broken his foot. That would not have been so impressive. His kick displaced several gems, some of which fell and shattered. He puzzled over the piles of broken glass for a moment because true gems wouldn’t break. Were they always counterfeit, or had someone replaced the real gems with shards of colored glass?
Once inside, he set Kasmiri on her feet.
“The lights should have come on automatically when I entered.” Annoyed, she fumbled along the wall for the manual switch. When the lighting crystals flared to life, she gasped, pressing her hand to her mouth.
Someone had stripped the room of everything but the most basic furniture. The bed, the table, the couch, and her lighted mirror, with the glass recently replaced from her tantrum, were still there, but the rugs, the tapestries, the linens, her makeup and toiletries—all of that was gone.
“They must have moved your things.”
Kasmiri slumped down into the chair before her mirror. She glanced at her reflection, winced, and then looked away. Sterlave wasn’t sure if it was the fact someone had stripped her room or the prospect of removing all her finery that was too much for her to bear. He approached behind her and slipped the first jeweled pin from her hair.
“I’ll call for Rown.”
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br /> “I don’t mind.” Sterlave slipped another pin out, placing it on the table. “I’ve become rather adept at playing maid.” Besides, he was pretty sure they’d moved her servants too.
“My faithful servant.” Her gaze caught his through the glass. Her smile was sweet, the sweetest he’d ever seen. In that moment, Kasmiri looked so impossibly young and so tragically vulnerable she brought out every masculine, protective instinct he had.
“As you please.” Bowing, he smiled back at her, then teased his fingers through her hair since he didn’t have a brush. She relaxed into his massage with a sigh and closed her eyes.
Bit by bit, he removed her jewelry, her clothing, until she sat before him nude. When he started to remove his clothing, she cracked her eyes open to watch. He stripped slowly, aware of how his body might look to her and hoping to show his form to best advantage. What stopped his performance was the dreaded echalle. Unraveling the complicated series of straps that held the swath of fabric to his genitals was a job for at least two people. If he did it alone, he was afraid he would castrate himself.
“Here.” Kasmiri leaned forward. “Let me be your faithful servant.” She helped him slide the fabric down and off without injury. He thanked her, then followed her gaze to the bed. “Perhaps we should have stayed dressed since we have a bed without blankets.”
No way was he redressing her and making her sleep in her mother’s room. In fact, when he found out who tried to force her to do so, he would bend them to their knees and make them apologize.
Sterlave glanced around, then discovered the furs he’d used to sleep on the couch were still there. He retrieved them, tossed them on the bed, and then crooked his finger, calling to Kasmiri.
She rose out of the chair in slow motion, drifting toward him as if in a trance. That’s when he realized just how drained she really was. Her face was serene and her body becoming, but her eyes, her eyes begged for the singular release of sleep.
Sterlave tucked her under the furs, then joined her, pressing his body against hers. Her buttocks were surprisingly cold when nestled against his hips. So chilly were her cheeks he gave a little gasp of surprise when she curled against him.
She giggled.
When she turned to him, tracing her hand along his chest to cup his semihard penis, he lifted her hand away. “Sleep, Kasmiri. Today has been endless for you.”
“I want you,” she begged, teasing her other hand along his back to pull him close.
“I want you, too, but you need sleep.”
“No, I need to feel you, I want to feel alive.”
He didn’t have the heart to say no, and he thought he understood. With so much pain and death, she needed the reassurance of life. Tenderly, he cupped her face and placed delicate kisses along her forehead, her cheekbones, her nose, and her lips. Kasmiri melted back into the bed and stretched her limbs out, allowing him to command her utterly. There was something absolutely charming about her ability to relax and receive pleasure.
Rather than seek to arouse her, he tried to soothe her with long, strong strokes up and down the length of her body. Her perfumed skin was sleek, pampered, and after an entire day since her bath, her own scent mixed with the floral fragrance into the most intriguing bouquet. To stop himself from teasing his tongue along her flesh, he carefully rolled her face down and played his hands over her back, buttocks, and down to her feet.
When her toes curled up, she moaned low and deep. He pressed harder along her instep and worked his fingers between her toes. He had to forcefully remind himself he was trying to relax her, not arouse her, or himself, so he left off her feet and worked his fingertips into the muscles of her calves, her thighs, her buttocks, and back.
Her even breathing convinced him she had fallen asleep so he lay down beside her, trying not to disturb her. She took a sudden shuddering breath, and that’s when he realized she was crying. When he placed his hand on her back, she curled onto her side, moving away from him.
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” She spoke through gritted teeth with a determination to make what she said true.
“I know.” Sterlave curled against her back, wrapping his arms around her. He honestly didn’t know what to do since he’d never consoled anyone, but he remembered his childhood and how he so desperately wanted someone, anyone, to just hold him. So that’s what he did.
At first, Kasmiri struggled from his embrace, hissing, “I’m fine,” through her gasping sobs, but he was persistent, following her across the bed until she ran out of room. If she wriggled away again, she’d fall off. Defeated, she rolled over and pushed at his chest.
“I don’t need you! I don’t need anyone!”
“I know.” Still, he sought to put his arms around her, and with a frustrated grumble, she ultimately relented. He tightened his embrace until she rested her head against his chest.
“Why don’t you just give up on me? Everyone else does.” Her voice was barely a whisper when she added, “My mother killed herself to get away from me.”
Sterlave swallowed back his shock. He didn’t know her mother committed suicide. He’d assumed she’d died in an accident. Nevertheless, he doubted Clathia killed herself to get away from Kasmiri, and he had a feeling Kasmiri knew that intellectually. However, that was the heart of her pain. Kasmiri felt abandoned by everyone she loved. When they died or walked away from her, she thought it was her fault, that she had done something to drive them away. Sterlave commiserated. For a long time, he thought everything his father did to him, from the silent treatments to the severe beatings, he deserved.
“I will never give up on you, Kasmiri.” He pressed his lips to her forehead, but she yanked back.
“You already did,” she accused, wiping her tears away with her fist. “You slept on the couch to get away from me.”
“That was probably the first of many spats we are likely to have,” he reminded softly. “Bonded couples argue, they disagree, they fume, they play petty power games, but in the end, when they truly care about each other, they always make up.” He nuzzled her ear. “Remember what I said before I sat on the consort throne? I swore myself to you. I will do everything in my power to protect you, to honor you, to defend you. I will die in service to you.”
Her tears erupted in a great gush. “Why?”
Her suspicion broke his heart. “Because you’re my mate.” When he tried to wipe away her tears, she curled in, tucking her head to her chest. “I chose you, Kasmiri, because I want to be with you.”
“I thought you wanted me for my position.”
Using his most salacious tone, he said, “If anything, I wanted you in a multitude of positions. The Harvest pose was just the first of many.”
Her laugh was weak but audible.
“Honestly, your position had nothing to do with my decision. I saw you at the Festival of Temptation, so arresting in that crimson dress, and knew I had to have you. I didn’t know you were the daughter of the empress until later, long after I’d already decided to make you mine.”
“Really?” Plaintive as a wounded child, her voice touched the hurt part of his own heart.
“Really.” He hugged her tighter in reassurance. “While I trained to be the Harvester, I always wondered how I would know that a woman was right for me. I would lay awake at night, wondering if it would be a flash in her eyes, a shock along my skin—what, exactly, would tell me she was the one? When I saw you, I knew.”
Kasmiri was quiet for a long moment, and he thought he understood why. She had thought Chur was right for her. Doubts still plagued him because he wasn’t sure whether she honestly wanted him or only accepted him as second best to her one true choice. Conflicting him further was the fact that Chur was his friend. Sterlave understood why any woman would want Chur—who wouldn’t want the tall, dark haired, blue-eyed demigod—but he didn’t want to live his life trapped in his friend’s shadow.
“I wish I would have told my mother how much I admired her.” Kasmiri sniffled indelicately. “I never t
old her how I tried to live up to her, how I always felt I would never be as beautiful as she, how her athleticism intimidated me. My mother climbed galbol trees for sport!” Kasmiri shook her head. “Some were so massive that it took her and her team over twenty days and nights to reach the summit. Once there, they would celebrate with food and drink, then climb right back down. I never understood the point.”
“Because it’s there.” Sterlave had only heard about galbol trees, how they could be thicker than a village at the base and taller than a mountain at the tip. He’d never seen one, and doubted he would want to climb one, but he understood the attraction. “Seems to me your mother wanted to do the impossible. Conquering galbol trees fulfilled that need in her heart.”
Kasmiri nodded, then asked, “Why would she kill herself? Even if the doctors told her she had some terminal disease, she would have fought, just as she did with the galbol trees. Why take on one challenge and not another?”
Sterlave teased his fingers along her back in small circles as he considered. “How long had she been fighting the disease?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t even tell me she was sick.”
“She didn’t want to worry you.” Mothers were like that, or so he thought. His father killed his mother long before Sterlave got a chance to receive much mothering, but he imagined mothers were like that. With one blow, his father scrambled his mother’s brains. If only his village had more medical technology, she might have survived.
“She was probably afraid I wouldn’t care.” Kasmiri’s voice had dropped to a whisper. “I did horrible things to my mother.”
“I’m sure she forgave—”
Dark Harvest Page 13
