by E G Manetti
Although not as enthralled by fashion as Rebecca and Clarice, Lilian knows that Chrys is eager to don a free man’s garb, his first since he entered the bond at sixteen. His quiet delight at the impending success tugs at Lilian’s heart. Sipping her wine, she regards the tall technologist over her glass while Clarice and Rebecca debate the merits of rose and amber embroidery. Their frivolous chatter lifts her spirits. They have known so little.
Turning to consider the cityscape and the Garden Center beyond, Chrys beckons Lilian. With a quick glance to confirm milord does not require her, she joins Chrys at the rail.
“There is yet time,” Chrys says. “You could purchase a new suit on the morrow and have it delivered by Second Day.”
Although she has explained her reasons, she understands his concern. “It is not that I do not long to shed Raven wear. I dare not. The day will dawn or it will not. I will not expend funds that may be required to succor Maman and Katleen.”
“I would lend you the funds for new garb,” Chrys says. It is an offer he has made before.
Shaking her head, she denies him again. “Your family needs the funds far more than I need a new suit, and borrowing funds makes no more sense than spending those I have not.”
Thoughtful, Chrys gazes at the sun disappearing behind the hills. “I do understand. My family never dares to believe the harvest will be bountiful until it has been reaped.”
Turning to her, his face somber, he promises, “While I live, Katleen and Lady Helena will not be abandoned.”
I am the sum of my ancestors. Lilian’s hand tightens on her glass. “Does your family ever require aught I have to yield, it will be theirs.”
As the last of the sun shimmers into darkness, the two glasses touch.
»◊«
When the meal chime sounds, Chrys escorts Lilian into the dinning chamber, regretting their private interlude is at an end but knowing they could not remain thus for much longer without causing undesirable comment. Douglas and Clarice are at a table within sight of Seigneur Herman, but it does not have line of sight access to Seigneur Rachelle or Monsignor Lucius. At a table between two windows, Rebecca signals. She has done well; they can be seen my milord and Seigneur Trevelyan at the central table and by Seigneur Rachelle at a table to the side. As soon as they are seated, servitors appear with wine and a tray of small bites for the first course.
As they review the menu choices for the remainder of the meal, Fletcher takes one of the two vacant chairs, followed by Nickolas. Although it benefits all three Ravens to be acknowledged by the protégés, Chrys wishes they had chosen other companions. This close to her bond proof, Lilian is on edge, refusing to join in the anticipation of a new year she will not accept until it arrives. Neither protégé has demonstrated much sensitivity to her trial in the past and he does not wish her distressed at what should be a triumphant celebration. Nor does he wish to share her company with those who have treated her ill. Lilian may have accepted Nickolas’ contrition for seasons of harsh treatment, and Fletcher’s for his pique after the battle of Serengeti, but Chrys holds a grudge.
As soon as the servitors depart, the moon racer says, “Mistress Lilian, do you wish it, I will yield all aspirations to the moon races.”
What says he? The moon racer is not flashing his charismatic grin, and Nickolas’ expression is somber. What ill is this?
As confused as Chrys, Lilian replies, “I take not your meaning. I wish you only greater success. Truly, I hold every hope that your experiences in the Thirteenth System will provide you with victory when you next compete.”
In this Chrys and Rebecca both agree, wishing the cartel’s prestige enhanced by Fletcher’s success.
The two protégés exchange a quick glance, and Fletcher continues, “The greater my fortune in the race, the worse yours becomes. I shudder in consideration of my next competition.”
At Fletcher’s sincere concern, Lilian blinks, the serene countenance shutters, and her hand closes on the conservator’s seal. Demon shit. The fool has distressed her. As Chrys struggles for words that will not result in confrontation, Lilian’s countenance dissolves.
The sound that emanates from her throat is full of life and a hint of wildness. To Chrys, who has experienced it before, it is the sound of dawn on Troy. It is the murmur of distant life defying the night and the lifeless saltmarshes. Lilian is laughing.
Relaxing in his chair, Chrys exchanges a smile with Rebecca, both at Lilian’s joy and the protégés’ stunned expressions.
“I beg pardon,” Lilian manages between peals of amusement. “I beg a moment.”
It is but a few heartbeats before she contains her laughter, her serene expression holding a shadow of her amusement.
Noting the protégés appear disgruntled by her laughter, Lilian says, “I beg pardon, Master Fletcher. I own an ill sense of humor. Although I have experienced trials on race day, by the Shades’ grace, I have survived. If I am to embrace ludicrous superstition, I prefer the version where your intrepid moon-race trials call forth the Five Warriors to protect me rather than inciting the forces of Anarchy. Truly it is a more likely proposition. The Five Warriors favor the valiant.”
»◊«
Guiding Lilian to his office windows, Lucius works the velvet free of the corset to gather at the warbelt. Stroking the tips of her breasts through the confining lace, he feels them harden and rise. The evening has been a triumph, her rare mirth pleasing, both the sound and that she is at ease with Nickolas. He does not blame her for remaining aloof from Nickolas; she owns cause enough. It is enough that the Nightingale’s first lieutenant has offered contrition that has been accepted. Lilian would not be so easy with the man did she hold him in distrust.
Shrugging out of his tunic, he sets his lips to the curve of her neck, relishing her shiver of response. A sevenday gone, he owned an erotic design for this night that was centered on his penthouse. It is not to be. Lilian will remain within the cartel until she is moved to the shrines at midday on the morrow. Lucius’ design will wait upon another opportunity.
Three years gone, before Gariten brought her to ruin, Lucius’ determination to have her as protégé was commerce driven. While the decision remains grounded in commerce judgment, much has changed since then, and the arrangement has other benefits. As his protégé, their relationship will be an intimate one and none will remark on her remaining in his bed. If she were to leave her bond for naught but an associate’s position, a liaison would be scandalous, indication of either his abuse of authority or his encouragement of unacceptable affection. As it is, he finds the passion between them unabated, and her trust in him increases with each season. Her laughter echoing in his heart, he has the urge to probe her desires. “Choose, Lilian.”
She arches into his hands, tilting her neck to offer greater access. “Milord?”
“Where shall I enjoy you?” He tugs the gold velvet loose to pool at her feet, leaving her clad in naught but the rose corset and delicate briefs guarding her sex. With a practiced movement, he slides the small scrap of fabric from Lilian’s hips. Sending one hand into the tempting curls, he seeks the swollen folds. She has yet to answer him. “Choose.”
“I beg milord’s pardon.” Lilian’s feet shift, her legs parting to encourage his explorations. Her reflection in the windows glows with moonlight, her head tipped back against his shoulder, eyes half closed, and lips parted. “What am I to choose?”
Lucius slides a finger along her soaked slit, using a fingertip to taunt the tight bud at the apex of her sex, his shaft jumping at her throaty sound of desire. “I intend to enjoy you. You may choose the location.”
“The desk.” Lilian’s legs are splayed, her weight against him as her passion rises. “I would milord’s desk.”
Before he is done, Lucius employs the desk, the conference table, and the scarlet couch. There is the morrow for the silk rugs and the comfortable chairs. Somewhere along the passage of their passion, the rose bodice is sundered past repair. Neither Lucius
nor Lilian laments its loss.
Dark of night is well past when Lilian enters Militia Central to find her cell. Rebecca looks up from her slate at Lilian’s entrance. With a grin, she exits for her own cell. She will not tease her friend this night. Lilian’s disheveled appearance and her careful grasp on the bodice of her gown are revealing, but not as revealing as her swollen lips and content expression. Monsignor is not without his uses.
Sevenday 150, Day 6
For the second day, Lilian emerged from Militia Central to work her forms and use an auto-racer in the Serengeti training chambers. The lack of combat is beginning to grate. Mayhap she can arrange for time with the alcove discipline master on the morrow and First Day. Standing at attention for eighth-bell attendance, she makes a mental note to send a request to the alcove when milord dismisses her.
Milord scans his techno array, examining her projections for the continued training of the command crew. This is Nickolas’ final commerce day as protégé, as it is Lilian’s as apprentice. On First Day he departs for Fortuna, having advanced to first lieutenant along with Fletcher. Pushing back, milord turns his chair to face her, his expression pleased. “Well done.”
Lilian has executed scores of the models and analyses. The results are sound. The command crew will be well trained for the Nightingale’s voyage into the unknown. Although she tries to, she cannot quite contain her excitement. “The new command crew advances quickly. They will be ready.”
“Do you envy them?”
He sees too much. “Yes, milord. It will be wondrous.”
Milord relaxes in his chair, the pleased expression broadening to a smile. “Wondrous indeed. Does it prove, you will visit the Thirteenth System soon enough.”
This day I live. As milord’s protégé and shieldbearer, it will be her duty to accompany him on his voyages. There is no question that the ambitious warrior will inventory his new holding as soon as it can be arranged. It is an entrancing notion, but such a voyage is two years hence. I will not fall. “As milord pleases.”
Milord’s smile fades. “Enough, woman.”
Enough? She searches his face for clues to his will. She receives naught but a shake of his head and a beckoning hand. Delighted to comply, she settles into milord’s lap and milord’s blissful kiss.
At the sounding of ninth bell, milord releases her. “Tend to this day, woman. I will expect you in two periods.”
»◊«
Sprawled across milord on the scarlet sofa, Lilian savors the solid torso beneath her, the scent of his skin, the pleasure of his shaft within her. Midday chimes have long since sounded, releasing her from commerce, but she cares not. There are but a few moments left, and she will cling to the comfort of his embrace as long as she may. Although milord has not voiced it, she suspects that he will wish to continue their passionate encounters once her bond proves. Were matters otherwise, she would welcome his interest, but she does not dare. Nor has she discovered a means to raise the topic in a manner that is not effrontery.
Milord shifts beneath her as his softened flesh retreats, his hands at her waist. The time is done.
Exiting the freshening closet, she finds milord preparing for cartel exit. That he has delayed his exit to share passion pleases her. His duty to his family is paramount and this eve is the Vistrite Cotillion, where milord and Lady Estella will demonstrate that Elysia Mercio is a beloved and honored scion of Blooded Dagger.
Honor is my blade and shield. There will not be another chance to speak before her public bond proof on First Day. She cannot remain silent, for to withhold is the same as a falsehood. This day.
Pulling Lilian into a brief embrace, milord says, “You will have your due in another sevenday. It was not my design that your transformation into a protégé include a cell.”
Honor knows not fear. Milord’s reference to his future intentions frees her from the fourteenth stricture, which governs effrontery and instructs she is not to assume milord’s will of yesterday governs tomorrow. She would have spoken, but now she need not transgress to do so.
Honor acts as duty commands. Milord has always honored the bond between them. She can do no less. If her next words alter milord’s will as to her protégé contract, she will hold no fault.
There is only this day. Stepping free of milord’s embrace, Lilian wraps her arms around her middle. “Milord need have no concern as to the future. I do not expect to share milord’s bed.”
Milord stiffens, his expression becoming flat. “You do not expect? You do not wish to lie with me?”
Apprentice or protégé, she may not speak falsehood. “I did not voice it so. I do wish it, but I cannot.”
Milord leans against the back of the sofa, his arms crossed, dark eyes narrowed. “What derangement is this? You wish it but will not?”
He is not pleased. She did not think he would be. The image of milord spinning Lady Estella through the movements of dance cannot be banished. I will not fail. “Milord is wed.”
Lucius is without words. Lilian’s face is closed and shuttered, an expression that masks deep distress and one he has come to detest. She is no more pleased by her decision than he is. Her reason is unfathomable. Relationships outside wedlock are common for the warrior elite, where unions are based on property, power, and bloodlines rather than affection. Even among commoners, exclusive arrangements are rare. “There is naught in the wedlock contract that restricts us.”
“Nonetheless, milord is wed.” Lilian is withdrawing with each word.
Demon shit. She makes no sense. He takes a step forward and her eyes darken with distress. This will not serve. For truth, she owes no explanation for her refusal. That she is unhappy with her stance is certain. Does he press, she will retreat further. There are other means at his disposal. He has no intention of fair play. He will not offer Lilian duress, but he will not hesitate at seduction. “It will be as you wish.”
Reaching for her, he adds, “But as you are yet bonded, I will have my will.”
Her eager yielding to his kiss is accompanied by a small moan. There is no question the woman enjoys his attentions, and after three years he knows what is needed to arouse her. It will be but the effort of three sevendays, no more than four, to convince her to release her odd conviction.
»◊«
I am the sum of my ancestors. Lilian swallows against the lump in her throat. Mayhap she should not have spoken. Milord’s will might have changed. Do not. Milord made his intent known. She owed him the truth while he could retract the protégé contract. Milord’s reaction was not one Lilian imagined. Half the women in the Twelve Systems and no few men would give much to share Monsignor Lucius’ bed. She imagined he would be at least piqued by her refusal, or even angered.
I am the foundation of my family. A part of her hoped he would use the bond to demand a commitment from her while he could. Although she knew the last but a fancy. Milord is far too honorable to take such action.
Honor is my blade and shield. Perhaps he has wearied of her and was secretly relieved. Her chest heaves and the lump in her throat swells. He did not kiss her as if he were wearied. That kiss was as inexplicable as so much of milord’s will since the battle of Serengeti.
Honor knows not fear. It matters not. His love for his spouse and Lady Estella’s for him is visible to all. As an apprentice, she was beneath Lady Estella’s notice. As protégé, it will not be so. She cannot be ignored, but she is also not a warrior. Lady Estella could view her commoner presence in milord’s bed as a challenge.
Honor endures. If it were but Lilian, she would risk all, but she must think of Maman and Katleen. If Lady Estella were to take offense, she could have Lilian banished from Serengeti and there would be no other place for her. Without milord’s protection, Gariten’s tainted offspring could never hope for a position that would support her mother and sister.
Honor acts as duty commands. The transport glides to a halt at the entrance to the alcove quarters. She must not display her distress to Apollo. He will
be implacable in his determination to discover its source. Focusing on Chrys’ quiet commitment to protect her family should it be needed, Lilian gathers her discipline and emerges to greet Apollo with appropriate decorum.
“Lilian, girl.” Apollo grasps her face to place a kiss of benediction on her forehead. Stepping back, he says, “In another day I may give you a proper greeting. Come. Come inside where you will be safe.”
The entry of the quarters bustles with activity. Acolytes, prelates, servitors, and devoted come and go in a flurry of Settlement Day activities as well as preparations for the year-turn festivities that mark the completion of the commerce year.
A servitor comes forward and takes Lilian’s travel satchel from Mr. Stefan. As the driver turns to leave, Lilian recalls her manners. “May the Five Warriors favor you in the new year, Mr. Stefan.”
Mr. Stefan smiles and bows. “And you, Mistress Lilian.”
Their eyes meet and they both recall that a year gone, Lilian was confined to her home, recovering from Fenrir’s kidnapping. This year she is confined to the alcove. The intervening seasons have held great danger and greater triumph. With an inclination of her head, Lilian voices what they are both thinking, “Let us pray to the Five Warriors that the coming year is less eventful than the last.”
With a laugh, Apollo claps the guard on a shoulder. “I will give prayers of thanksgiving that Lilian has had such an able guard. Adelaide’s grace be upon you.”
With a nod of thanks, Mr. Stefan departs.
»◊«
“I would give you the finest guest chamber,” Apollo says, leading the way down the corridor of the new wing. “But Lucius insists on the most secure.”
Familiar with the architecture, Lilian nods. The third storey of the new wing is too high to be scaled and well below the roofline. Unlike the garden wing, the windows are narrow, reflecting that civil unrest remained rampant when this section of the quarters was constructed.
Following the acolyte into the chamber, Apollo continues, “It is the brightest on this floor.”
