Caralissa's Conquest

by Reese Gabriel

  Caralissa scowled, crossing her arms over her chest. Blast these men, and Romila too, she thought. They’d put her in a no-win situation. If she pressed the point she’d sound like a hysterical female, one given to flights of fancy, or maybe even bouts of treason in the bed of her people’s enemy. On the other hand, if she let Telos win now, what would stop him from demanding of her more and more till she became little more than the man’s slave?

  Then again she was still queen, at least in name. Taking a deep breath she reminded herself that the overriding concern was to survive the inquiry, trial or whatever else might be thrown at her. She must keep her wits about her; hold her cards as close as possible to her chest.

  ‘Let us drop the matter,’ she decided. ‘Perhaps Lord Telos’ contact with me was inadvertent,’ she suggested, offering the man an easy out.

  Telos bowed his head, smiling that sickening smile of his. ‘My apologies,’ he offered, ‘for any offence, majesty.’

  She managed a forced smile. ‘Your true intentions are well known to me, Telos,’ she said to him pointedly. ‘Of that you may rest assured.’

  ‘The matter is settled then,’ declared Norod, obviously relieved to be free of any responsibility in the matter. ‘Come, let us go down and enjoy a feast. To welcome home the queen.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Caralissa. ‘I shall join you presently.’

  ‘I will wait with you,’ declared a new man, stepping in from the doorway.

  Caralissa regarded him. Her eyes widened at once; her heart increased its speed. He was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in silver breastplate and dark leather breeches, tight and rough. His boots were thick and high, his hair wild and blond. He looked for all the world like a Rashal warrior with his calm, deadly eyes and his confident swagger. There was no way such a man was born of the valley.

  ‘Who is this?’ she demanded of her sister, lacking the patience to enter into yet another discussion with the befuddled Norod.

  ‘He is your new bodyguard,’ Telos said, answering for Romila, taking obviously glee in bearing irritating news. ‘We have entrusted your royal safety to his person.’ He paused for effect. ‘Not to mention your virtue.’

  The words hung in the air until Caralissa could bear it no more. Foreign troops, Telos on her bed, and now a barbarian for a jailor - it was more than she could stand. ‘I want the lot of you out of my room at once!’ she cried. ‘Out of my room and out of my castle, too!’

  ‘But our banquet,’ Norod protested.

  She poked a finger at his shrunken chest. ‘You may take your banquet, King Norod, and you may stick it where the sun will not shine.’

  Norod looked at Telos, then at Romila.

  ‘We only have your best interest at heart,’ Telos said, demonstrating his utter lack of shame. ‘If you present yourself well tonight it will surely look better come tomorrow.’

  ‘For the inquiry, yes,’ Norod agreed.

  ‘For the trial, don’t you mean, majesty?’ prompted Telos.

  Sweat appeared on Norod’s brow. He cleared his throat, clearly at a loss for words.

  ‘It does not matter what you call it, Norod. I will present myself tomorrow, and not before,’ Caralissa declared, putting her hands to her hips. ‘And that is final.’

  ‘Leave her now,’ said Romila. ‘Let her be alone with her wounded pride.’

  ‘My wounded pride?’ she laughed. ‘How about my character - which you and your little fool of a boyfriend have assassinated? Really, Romila, wasn’t it enough you betrayed me to the Rashal; must you now do so to our own neighbours as well?’

  Romila’s eyes flashed. ‘You speak high and mighty words, Caralissa, as always. How quick you are to judge. Consider this though, my sister. Your actions have consequences for others, which you never consider. You run off on a whim to steal all the glory, but it is I who must maintain our livelihood. You win easy favour among the peasants but who is it that must scrape together the gold to run our country? It hurts to be called a tyrant, doesn’t it? Well now you know how I feel - now you know what it is like to bear nothing but wrath for your best efforts. Who do you think it was, Caralissa, who kept our affairs in order the last years of father’s life, hmm? Who do you think covered for him when the treasury was bare; who collected the taxes, and levied the troops?’

  Caralissa stared in open-mouthed shock.

  ‘Cat got your tongue, sister? Let me help you then. It was I, all alone. Just me. And now Telos helps me because I need him. Not everyone can play the hero like you do - some of us have to walk and not fly, some of us have to do the dirty work. So don’t come back now on your high horse and accuse me. Not till you’ve walked the path I have, not till you’ve faced what I have. You want your precious kingdom back? Fine by me. I don’t want it any more!’

  Caralissa watched dumbfounded as her sister stormed from the room. Quiet, ever dependable Romila. Could it be there was something to her words? Did Romila really suffer so much all these years?

  ‘Perhaps we should go,’ Telos declared, showing his penchant for perceiving the obvious. ‘Her majesty seems fatigued.’

  She did not like the way he said that word, fatigued; then again, every word from the mouth of the man was anathema to her. Could it be that Romila really needed help so badly as to turn to such a man, a cruel and treacherous lout? It was a sobering thought, a troubling one for all its many implications, not least of which was admitting negligence on her own part and that of their father, the one and only man she ever dared to love.

  Before she met Varik, that is.

  ‘Yes,’ Norod concurred, smiling stupidly. ‘We should leave our royal colleague, the gracious Queen of Orencia. Till tomorrow then, good Caralissa?’

  She inclined her head, doing her best to imitate his prattle. ‘Good night, my royal colleague, and sleep you well in my castle as a guest this night.’

  ‘I shall remain outside the door,’ declared the blond giant, to no one in particular.

  ‘We shall send food,’ Norod offered as the door was opened for their departure.

  ‘I shall not eat it,’ she replied, wanting nothing more than to be left alone for the night.

  ‘Shall I stay?’ Deelia asked softly, having emerged from the background.

  She turned and touched her hand to the woman’s shoulder. ‘No, thank you. You may go and get some sleep for yourself.’

  Deelia bowed and walked to the door. The blond warrior let her out then shut it behind him, giving Caralissa one last glance as he did.

  Caralissa stood firm under his gaze, determined to show no emotion. It was only when the door was closed and locked again from the outside that she fell upon her bed, balling her fists and throwing her face into her pillows. Her voice sufficiently muffled to avoid outside detection, she yielded herself to the flood of tears that had been building just behind her eyes, kept at bay by dint of tremendous effort these past long minutes.

  It was like a hot rain, cleansing her cheeks; the release of so much emotion, so many feelings, all of it pent-up in her heart for days, months even, ever since her father’s death and maybe long before that as well. She never meant to hurt Romila, never thought it possible she could hurt her stoic older sister. And yet what if Romila was right? What if she and her father both pushed her too far, eventually making her into a humourless shrew, a scheming penny pincher?

  It did no good to speculate, she knew that. But how could she help but feel these things? If nothing else it was a response to the stress, to her capture, to the brutality she’d endured in Rashal custody.

  Brutality. Was that the proper word? She hardly knew what to think any more. For the first little while after coming home she fooled herself into thinking she could lock away her painful memories of the last few days. And then she’d seen the blond barbarian, a man who could easily have been one of Varik’s lieutenants.

  Was it her im
agination, or did the fellow look straight through her, past her queenly garb, her stately demeanour, straight into her heart, reading her memories, her emotions? What if the fellow pressed that advantage? What if he appealed to the part of her that still dwelt in the Rashal camp; what if he sought to stake a claim on that part of her, bending her to his will? They’d obviously given him power over her, and perhaps it was even a trap, concocted by Telos or Romila or both. At any rate, she regarded Telos as her real enemy. For while her sister despised her, she was not certain the woman would ever commit treason on her own. As for the little man with all the new uniforms, he was like a vicious dog at her heels. She’d have to be careful with him. He would use her emotions against her; perhaps try to convince Norod and his court of fools that she was unfit, that she was a slut in royal guise. She’d have to be crafty with that one. No more emotion in his presence, no more tears, no more weakness.

  Caralissa said a prayer to the nameless red-haired goddess, silent and precious, designed to give her courage and resolve in the face of male aggression. At once she felt a flood of peace, as if the dear lady were caressing her temples with her fingertips, soothing her wounds, commiserating with her female heart. She was on the verge of believing the prayer was actually working when she heard the voice at her window ledge, hushed and packed with emotion.

  ‘Caralissa, help me up!’

  She cocked her head. It sounded so familiar, and yet there was no way it could be him. Could it?

  ‘Caralissa, help me! It is I, Alinor, from days of yore.’

  She gasped. It really was Alinor; there was no mistaking the voice, the intonations. But how could he climb so high, a thin and sparsely muscled poet such as he?

  Caralissa ran to the ledge, planted her hands on the cold marble. ‘Alinor, how on earth did you get up here?’

  ‘A ladder,’ he huffed. ‘I spirited myself to the ledge below, then grappled myself ever higher with this metal hook.’

  She noted the curved piece of metal, hooked to the edge of the balcony. It looked to have been swung from below. It was improbable Alinor should have the athletic prowess for such a feat, not to mention the gumption to sneak into the courtyard in the presence of foreign guards, but she was not in the state of mind to ask such questions. She was lonely and curious, which seemed at the moment enough reason to let him in.

  ‘Grab my hand,’ she told him, extending her reach.

  ‘My thanks, dear lady,’ Alinor grunted as she pulled him to safety. ‘That was a close call indeed.’

  She put her hands to her hips, observing him as he swung his legs over the ledge to stand before her. The immediate crisis passed, she felt her natural suspicions rising, preparing to equal or surpass her desperate need for male companionship. ‘Why have you come here?’ she demanded. ‘Have you not heard I am under house arrest? Don’t you care if you are caught with an accused traitor?’

  ‘I have feelings for you,’ he said, shaking out his long pale locks, far lighter than the barbarian’s, more white than yellow. ‘Is that not enough?’

  She studied his soft lips, the very ones from which rolled the most seductive of poems. ‘No,’ she declared. ‘It is not enough. Either you have developed some scheme to capitalise on my condition, or else someone has put you up to this.’

  His sea-green eyes twinkled merrily. ‘And why would anyone do that?’ he offered, his voice betraying not a trace of guile. ‘What could possibly be gained?’

  She ran her eyes up and down his lean body, revealingly covered in a leotard of black. ‘You could seduce me,’ she speculated. ‘Then testify against me, denounce my lack of morals. Affirming thereby my unfitness to govern.’

  Alinor moved towards her, gliding like a cat. She clenched her fists, mad at herself for the appeal he still held in her eyes. An appeal, that seemed to be all the more intense, for her recent emotional opening at the hands of the Rashal.

  ‘That is the first time I have ever heard you admit that I might one day be able to seduce you,’ Alinor said, his delicate fingers reaching for her cheek.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ she said unconvincingly, her breath quickening.

  ‘I have written you a new poem,’ he said, his voice a sweet whisper directed at her left earlobe, which had magically found its way between his gently nibbling lips.

  She smiled, in spite of herself. ‘Is it something I shall have to spank you for?’

  He brushed a finger across her lips, stilling any future argument, both literally and symbolically. ‘I was hoping this new poem might induce you to allow yourself to be spanked by me for a change.’

  Caralissa felt a warm tingle up and down her arms. As it travelled to her belly it attained a deeper power, transcribing itself into a kind of weakness, so that as she beheld him she felt as if she were looking through someone else’s eyes, as if she herself were some supernatural servant, awaiting his commands, ready to do to her own body whatever he might command. ‘I am not the same woman,’ she said, the words ringing hollow in her own ears. ‘I think it would be best if you left now, quickly, before you get yourself into trouble. I have a guard, you know, at the door.’

  Alinor moved swiftly, placing the kiss upon her lips before she could even begin to think of resisting. He always was a splendid lover, at least to the point he allowed her to progress. With a small moan she allowed him access to her mouth, her jaw yielding before his tongue.

  ‘I wish to read you my poem, Caralissa,’ he breathed into her ear, his hand laying claim to her left breast through the fabric of her dress. ‘Won’t you sit at my feet and hear it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she heard herself say, her voice a soft surrender as she let herself be led to the bed so that he might sit upon the edge and pull her to him, down to the floor. ‘Read it to me, Alinor, please.’

  He gave her a moment to settle, her legs tucked underneath her. When she was comfortable, her chin resting on his knee, her eyes looking expectantly into his, he pulled from the pouch at his waist a single piece of parchment on which were scrawled in letters tight and narrow a large number of lines, straight and closely spaced, like the furrows of a farmer’s spring field.

  Heart pounding, wicked thoughts cramming her skull, she waited, hot and fevered, her every reserve cast aside. ‘What is it called, Alinor?’ she asked him impatiently. ‘Tell me now.’

  ‘I call it The She-Beast,’ he said.

  ‘That is a good title, Alinor.’

  ‘It begins like so: “Come, croons the overseer, the keeper of beasts; come unto me, she-beast, crawling low upon your belly, come and beg for the lash. Wicked little thing, tits tempting, crotch teasing, licking, begging, jaws snapping at the weak, the unsuspecting; come unto me, and feel the discipline of fire. Born to my lash, your sex shaped for my hardness, my endless demands that echo through the long cold night of your captivity. Come”.’

  Alinor looked over the top of the parchment. ‘I am not done,’ he told her. ‘It is but halfway. Strip off your clothes for me, Caralissa, and I will tell you the rest.’

  She shook her head, though she was breathing heavily. ‘I cannot do that. I am your queen.’

  He rose to his feet. ‘Then I shall go.’

  She clutched at his ankles, prostrating herself. ‘Please,’ she said, scarcely believing the words were coming from her throat, ‘do not leave me. I am so alone. You do not know what it is like - what it has been like for me since I got home. I need you, I need your words of comfort.’

  Alinor looked down at his feet, making no immediate effort to dislodge her. ‘As I have needed you, many times before, and yet always you refused me. My queen.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ she trembled. ‘I did not know what I was doing.’

  ‘Oh, I think you knew very well. But I am not an entirely cruel man. If you wish so badly to hear the rest of my poem, you may do so. But you will listen to me naked, or not at all.’

 
Caralissa sighed. ‘Oh, Alinor, must you ask this of me? Have you no pity?’

  ‘Poets can’t afford pity,’ he declared, stepping over her.

  ‘Wait!’ she cried, forgetting for a moment the guard at the door who might overhear them. ‘I will do as you say.’

  He watched her scramble to her feet, her fingers commencing to fly over the buttons and hooks, nearly two dozen of them held her green velvet dress together, both at her bosom and at her waist. ‘Do not open those,’ he commanded. ‘I would have it that you are never again able to wear this dress. Approach me and I will tear it from your skin, and your undergarments as well, till you are naked before me, naked and shamed.’

  ‘This is one of my favourites,’ she protested, though she was already on her way to him. ‘I could not bear to be without it.’

  ‘Put out your arms,’ said the slender Alinor, ‘and still your tongue.’

  Caralissa obeyed. To her horror she discovered he was not bluffing. The dress was difficult to remove, but he was persistent. To begin he pulled from the collar straight down the middle. The laces that covered the white silk bodice yielded first then the green velvet below. He continued to tear and pull till she was bared to the waist. Yanking the now useless sleeves from her hands, he completed the first part of his work.

  Next he put his hands at her waist, tugging the narrow waistline down over her hips, so that the material was free to slide down her legs. When he’d finished this task, her dress and silk slip lying round her ankles like a pool of material, he told her to step from it, so that she was totally naked.

  ‘Put your hands behind you,’ he said, his eyes glowing as he began to feel himself growing drunk with his own power. ‘Caress your arse. Flex your knees, thrust out your sex to me.’

  She did her best to comply; the acrobatics involved being rather new to her. It was a difficult pose and humiliating, but its effect on Alinor seemed profound.

  ‘That’s it,’ he said, his hand reaching for his swollen leotard-covered crotch. ‘Now put your hands to your nipples. Pinch them hard. Harder.’