Caralissa's Conquest

by Reese Gabriel

  Were such myths true but somehow lost in the shrouded origins of time? And did the gods and goddesses themselves lie to conceal such things and did they even now play upon the raw lusts of men and women to recapitulate such stories of surrender and betrayal?

  Was that why Varik claimed to have no use for the family of heaven? Did he see writ large the same corruption as on earth? Did he find religion as tedious then as the politics that forced him ever onward, towards greater and greater conquests?

  Would he change his mind? Would he stop the proceedings, as he did in the tent, after the Dance of Cords? Would he risk the loss of his office, unleashing the fury of his men against him? Would he surrender his life’s work, the honour of his tribe or even his very life? Could she have come to mean so much to him, in so short a time? Could there be anything between them, or was it merely the seductive charm of her temporary slavery, the indelible link of captor to captive?

  Caralissa groaned to the sky, throwing back her head. It was her own sky, her people’s sky and yet she was no longer free - would never again be free, in fact, so long as he walked the earth: Varik, the lonely chieftain owned her now. Varik with the haunting eyes and the thousand subtle smiles and his boundless imagination, with the thousand upon thousand promises and threats behind his clouded brow.

  She shifted accommodatingly as another expelled himself, relinquishing his place to the leader of the next lower unit. There was a cloying stickiness between her thighs now. Almost certainly she was dripping not only her juices, but those of her lovers as well. If such a term might be employed for the parade of stiff shafts that came for her, penetrating her under orders, draining themselves as a martial exercise. It was almost enough to make her laugh to think what certain others would think of her current predicament. How many at home, she speculated, would line themselves up to administer their own form of discipline upon her available hindquarters? Telos, to be certain, and others besides, Alinor, slim waist, sweet golden curls and Remik, the brooding swordsman with his straight line of black hair and harsh cheeks whom she’d once bested at fencing, embarrassing him publicly then spurning him.

  And what of Romila? Would she raise a finger to help or would she turn away, smugly shaking her head, hiding her cowardice, her jealousy from the world? Only her father would have saved her, the great king, that man of a bygone era when heroes defended the honour of ladies, when tyrants dared not raise their heads to men, when swords were wielded by the just and a maiden’s honour was a thing to be treasured, a trust inviolate. In her father’s day the very earth would have cried out were a virgin despoiled, let alone one who was queen. The sound of that injustice would have grated on every ear, like a knife blade dragged across an iron shield.

  ‘It is done,’ she heard Senelek say as this latest man withdrew himself, a feeble, thin fellow, apparently he of the lowest ranking horde. ‘She has shown obedience to our gods. Her punishment is complete. We shall leave her now, till her ransom arrives.’

  ‘Forgive me, Lord Senelek,’ said a man, hastily arrived upon the platform, bowing low before the high priest. ‘But Lord Varik has commanded that she is to be taken down now.’

  ‘Indeed. And does the chieftain no longer deign to speak directly to the high priest of our gods?’

  ‘Forgive me, Lord Senelek,’ he repeated, bowing all the lower for his continued effrontery. ‘But Lord Varik has ordered the prisoner to be cleansed and wrapped in a robe so that she might be sent home, as is.’

  ‘As is?’ Senelek was clearly playing to the listening crowd now. ‘But what of the great treasure of gold which we were to receive for all our trouble?’

  ‘Lord Varik will take no gold. She is to be released without price, to symbolise her complete lack of value to the Rashal. It is to be a symbol of our conquest.’

  ‘A symbol, you say? But surely my brother has ordered us to ride down upon the Orencians and achieve the actual victory for which we have worked so hard?’

  Caralissa longed to slap the man for his snide, manipulative remarks. It was obvious that Varik would not order the attack, and Senelek knew that. He was trying to make his brother look weak and selfish; that was the only purpose.

  ‘No, sir,’ the man explained, any irony in the situation apparently exceeding his comprehension. ‘We are to leave Orencia, never to return. It is never to be entered, or even spoken of again. At first break of dawn we march from the Valley of Seven Kingdoms, returning across the plains to our home.’

  ‘I see,’ Senelek seethed. ‘Well, there you have it then; our victory is complete.’

  ‘We are to blindfold her, sir,’ the man continued, ignoring the remarks. ‘No man who has possessed her may tend to her bathing. When she is cleaned she is to be wrapped in a robe of state and taken by horseback within sight of the walls of the Orencian castle by a single rider. She will then ride the last portion of the journey herself. I am to tell this rider whom Lord Varik will designate, that when he has turned your back upon her, this will be the last gaze he will have of this accursed valley. For we Rashal shall inhabit it no longer. All these things, the Lord Varik has told me to tell you are the products of a vision, bestowed upon him by the raven god.’

  ‘Of course,’ Senelek said acidly. ‘My brother is well known for his visions, and for his devotion to the worship of our gods.’

  Caralissa wanted to spit upon the man for his cowardly assault upon his brother. What hurt far worse than this thinly veiled contempt for Varik, however, was the chieftain’s own failure to deal with her face to face, as a human being. It was true then, how he intended for her to hate him, and how he would not ever see her again, even to say goodbye. Such was the discipline of a warrior, she supposed. She herself, she imagined, would be no less stubborn were she a man. And perhaps they were not so different as it was. He would return to his kingdom, she to hers; duty before pleasure, all personal good sacrificed to the good of the state. Even now she was contemplating her own return, and the sweet revenge, the great victory over her enemies she would enjoy. It was enough to take the sting out of her whipped flesh, and the soreness from her well ploughed loins and hindquarters. Only her heart remained an open wound, but it too would be resealed in time.

  The blindfold the man brought was a welcome cloak, a protector of her senses. Dimly now she recalled how as a child she would hide her eyes and imagine herself to be invisible. The pretence amused her father greatly and he would often command the servants to play along with her, to the dereliction of their regular duties. Romila, who was forced to study all day, held this game against her baby sister, along with a host of other supposed favouritisms of her father. As if she could have helped matters, as if she or anyone else could have done a thing to change the mind or opinions of Lysanis, the Lion of Orencia.

  Caralissa was conveyed to a stream. She knew it by its sounds, and by the feel of the water upon her skin. Like a baby she was led into the depths, up to her waist. A magic cleansing was taking place, a delicious embrace of wrapping wetness. Her guides were silent as stones and rigorously gentle. She was quite certain she did not know them. Without her vision she was free to imagine these new men as she wished. Strong and noble warriors, men of great honour or saintly old men, priests of some more enlightened god.

  What alone she could not conjure was any feminine image. Not only because she was quite certain there were no women in the Rashal camp, but also because it would not have seemed right after all she’d been through for any female to behold her current state. Better for a thousand hostile warriors to see her degradation than a single woman, especially not one she knew. This would be true shame, she realised, of a sort she’d never want to face.

  When the bath was done there were ointments, similar to the ones Varik first used on her, along with other kinds as well. They were stolen, no doubt from exotic lands, plunder of the Rashal juggernaut. The smells were mixed: peppermint and jasmine, the extract of the leet plant, subtle
and musky. With each application she felt the aromas blend, till there was about her a delicious enveloping sweetness.

  This was a strangely refined art for barbarians, she thought. Perhaps these men were slaves, captured from some fallen city to the south. With infinitely gentle hands, reverently attentive, they completed the work, combing her hair and readying her for the robe. It felt rich and warm upon her skin. Its magnificent size cloaked her fully, and she imagined that it belonged to him, perhaps having been worn by him only recently.

  Still barefoot and with no actual covering beneath the thick material, Caralissa was conveyed across the grass to a silent, open place. She heard only the most distant of echoes, the laughter of soldiers, the omnipresent clash of practice steel. They must be awaiting here for her escort, she realised. It would be late afternoon by now. Would she arrive home before dark? It might be preferable if she didn’t, given her state of dress. As a captive she could hardly be expected to arrive by state chariot in full regalia, and yet it was hardly in keeping with her position to be naked, in a foreigner’s robe.

  ‘I shall take her from here,’ came the voice, punctuated with the nasal whine of a horse. She cocked her head, thinking it must be her imagination. This man, the one who’d galloped up to fetch her unexpectedly - it could not be him.

  ‘Go now,’ the voice insisted. ‘Your work is done.’

  The men must have been hesitating. Something appeared to have been altered from the original plan.

  ‘Take my hand,’ said the voice, placing an arm close enough for her to touch it. She clenched onto him for dear life, her heart beating wildly. It was Varik, lifting her upon his horse! Was he taking her, then, to some secret place, to live forever? The Forest of Night, perhaps, that one place where no one would dare follow - Orencian or Rashal?

  ‘Say nothing,’ Varik told her, swinging her behind him, allowing her to tuck her arms around his waist. ‘I am your escort, nothing more.’

  His words, his presence confused her, but she held on fiercely nonetheless, tears of joy staining the inside of her blindfold. His horse was swift as the wind, the hoof beats like thunder. Her pulse was racing wildly; she was aroused again, the result being unavoidable, sitting as she was, her naked loins pressed to the hide of the horse, the cloak warmly cocooning her wet thighs, her throbbing breasts. Her pains and sorrows forgotten, she let herself fly and dream. There must be some way, some possible hope for them to be together.

  The road was bumpy and he did not relinquish his speed. He seemed hell bent on getting her home as fast as possible. Was it too much to bear for him to be so close; was it too great a temptation after all? Why then was he doing this, violating his own word, his promise never to see her again? Or had he found a compromise, a way to keep his word by sealing her own eyes? Impulsively she reached round his shoulders, to feel his face.

  It was as she suspected. The Rashal chieftain wore a mask, a cloth across his face to hide him from his own warriors.

  They were climbing a hill now, an incline that Caralissa did not recognise as part of the royal highway. The ground was softer too, dirt and grass having replaced the smooth cobblestones. Here and there, too, he was having them duck for tree branches. She was certain of it now; they were no longer on the road. What trick did he have up his sleeve this time, this man of seemingly endless surprises?

  ‘Whoa!’ she heard him cry as he pulled back the reins. They were stopping. Surely he wasn’t thinking of...

  Her thoughts were curtailed by his sudden tugging at her waist. He’d dismounted and was pulling her down. In a moment she was in his arms, her bare feet upon soft earth. Without a word he pressed his lips to hers, his face still masked by her blindfold and his cloak of cloth. She moaned a soft invitation, bidding him drink more deeply of her lips and of her mouth within. His hands were firm but softly caressing as he slid them down her shoulders to the small of her back. She was in danger of collapsing, and it was up to him to hold them both up.

  The kiss was like a dream, a sacred union of two persons at such a tiny point of contact as to seem scarcely real. A gasp of wonder escaped her enraptured mouth as the cloak slid from her shoulders. She was naked before him, naked against him, utterly vulnerable and yet protected, safe and secure in the grip of his maleness.

  Very gently he lowered her to the ground, his own body following seamlessly. Their mouths coupled once again, he pulled away the mask but not her blindfold as he began to work at the fastening of his own clothes till he too was naked. Her own unseeing hands conspired, desperately and ineffectively tearing at the complicated layers of mail and cloth and leather. He smelled of musk and sweat, the sweet draught of honest struggle, of a king labouring for his people.

  Would her father have liked him? she wondered idly, even as he parted her thighs, pouring himself into her in a single fluid motion. She hoped he would. They were much alike. Strong, proud, stubborn. Intractable, complicated, their greatest strengths being easily twisted into weakness. The ground was like a pillow beneath her. She felt the imprint of grass and of flowers. As if by magic she felt no pain from her lashings, nor did her insides yearn in any way to reject this latest suitor.

  Varik was different, that was the only possible explanation. Different in himself and different in her mind, in the way she knew him and touched him and loved him. Yes, she did love him. She’d said it to herself often enough, and her body now confirmed it. She loved Varik. In as much as any one person could love another, she supposed. As far as it could go between a man and a woman in a world such as this. A world of swords and whips and of dark, forbidden forests full of monsters.

  Varik’s lovemaking was like a healing, from the inside out. She’d never see him again, she knew that, and yet this would be enough, would have to be enough. Actually, she wasn’t seeing him even now, but was only feeling him, making a memory with every part of her, burning the lines of his flesh into hers at every point so that they would never be apart again, not truly. It would be a secret thing, that none would ever speak of. Even they themselves would likely never utter the words or think the thoughts to go with these sensations. It would have to stay that way, a secret within secrets, the deepest guarded treasure of the hearts of two lonely monarchs.

  Would he ever marry? Bitterly she prayed he would not. For herself she wished the same thing. A cry escaped her lips - her unguarded lips as he increased his pace moving up and down with a familiarity that startled her. How did their bodies come to work so well together, as if they were only one flesh, as if the whole of their prior existences were mere preliminary whose whole purpose was to lead them to their real birth together at this moment?

  Varik was breathing heavily. His possession of her seemed to be taking something out of him this time, something painful. How she longed to see his face, to read the emotions she knew were writ there now, uncovered from their stony depths. And yet she knew the very reason he was showing forth his feelings was because she could not see him. Just as the sounds he made were falling upon ears which would never hear his voice again, so too were his features safe from betrayal by her eyes.

  Such a sad notion: that she would never hear his voice again. How much more devastating in its particularity than the more general notion of separation. She loved his voice, loved its richness, the many tones and pitches, the growls and grumbles, the laughter, the sound he made when he’d won an argument, the smug cackle accompanying his getting the best of her. How could it be they’d been together only a few days? Was this some trick being played on her mind? Did she lie sleeping still in her own bed, all of this being only a dream?

  Varik released himself, and as he did so she followed suit, matching his razor-sharp dance with oblivion. Let them perish together, she thought. Let the gods discover them, slain in the moment of ecstasy, shattered upon the ground as though cast down from the very pinnacle of passion. Perhaps it would even be the gods themselves who would throw them down, for daring t
o linger in that place of immortality that no mortal should ever touch. It wasn’t mere earthly lust between them - that was for certain. No, this was much more: something ancient, inexplicable. As though they’d always been together in different guises, perhaps, clothed in different skin, and yet the same two people over and over.

  Caralissa held him wordlessly, doing nothing to denounce his action; neither his name nor his person would be revealed. His secret was safe with her; safe as the deposit of his essence he’d left deep in her womb. Besides, what could mere words do now, except destroy the moment, revealing its absurdity in the larger scheme of things? Better to lie low, to evade the world as long as possible, even if only for a few more minutes, a glorious hour, perhaps.

  Anyhow, they said their goodbyes already, such as they might be - him with his ultimatums, her with the softness of her surrender to his soldiers.

  Varik seemed content with the arrangement as well - this conspiracy of silence. Rolling himself onto his back he allowed her to lay upon his chest, her fingers twisted comfortably in the thick mat of hair. How warm his body felt, how full of promise. She could easily fall asleep like this, and dream perhaps of never having to wake again. Meanwhile, his hand trailed idly up and down her spine, touching, skimming, but never fully resting. Was his mind already otherwise engaged? Was he moving on in his mind to new conquests, yet unclaimed? Or was it something else - some part of him holding back, some strong emotion in himself he could not yet face?

  ‘The hour grows late,’ he said at last, as though this were the answer to everything, the solution to the puzzle of her life and his.