by David Hair
‘Why, can’t they dance?’ Sedina asked, all faux innocence.
‘Dancing is about all they can do,’ Medelie tittered. ‘In truth, the only virtues the Sacrecour value are sycophancy and cock—’ She paused deliberately, looking Lyra full in the face.
‘—cock-fighting,’ Sedina put in smoothly. ‘They’re addicted to it.’
Lyra wasn’t amused: that had gone beyond the bounds of risqué. As they returned to the manor, she told Hilta, ‘I don’t want Lady Aventour’s company tonight. She can eat alone.’
When she glanced at the miscreant, she thought Medelie knew exactly what she’d said and didn’t give a fig. She almost rescinded the directive – better to keep her under my eye – but another hour in her company would be one too many.
*
Ostevan Comfateri took an early carriage and arrived in Finostarre an hour later in a mischievous mood. He found the Crofton Manor chapel and changed in the vestry, admiring his lean, sculpted body and the youthfulness he’d been subtly restoring to his face. Most would think him thirty – twenty years under his real age. Vanity appeased, he entered the small family chapel from the vestry door, finding it lit only by a large stained-glass rose window facing east. The morning sun was beautifully placed, penetrating the darkness with shafts of coloured light, so that the age-blackened gargoyles and saints looked alive.
Lyra Vereinen was already there, kneeling against the altar rail in the front row of the confined space; Basia de Sirou guarded the main doors. Ostevan hurried to greet the queen. ‘Good morning, Majesty . . .?’ His voice trailed off when he realised her face was streaked by tears. ‘Milady? Are you well?’
The queen dabbed her eyes. ‘Everything hurts! My back, my neck, my breasts . . . everything hurts, Ostevan. And Ril . . .’ She glanced behind her. ‘Basia, I wish for an Unburdening.’
Basia’s eyes narrowed; she wasn’t supposed to let her charge out of her sight unless it was within designated safe areas like Lyra’s suite or garden – or with someone trusted. Officially, Ostevan was on the ‘trusted’ list, but Basia was Volsai, and she trusted no one. ‘I won’t listen,’ she said testily. ‘I just need to be able to see.’
‘Unburdening is a sacred rite,’ Ostevan reminded her, ‘absolution given for confessed sins, in the safety of confidentiality.’
With a scowl, Basia left. Ostevan locked the door behind her, then returned to kneel beside the queen in the tiny chapel. He dispensed with the ritual Unburdening prayers before asking, ‘What’s really the matter, Lyra?’
Lyra glanced at the Sacred Heart icon above the altar. ‘Isn’t it strange that our holiest symbol is a knife stabbing a heart?’ she said, before admitting, ‘I’m afraid of losing my husband.’
‘Tourneys can be dangerous,’ he said, wilfully misunderstanding, ‘but the finest knights are the least likely to take injury.’
‘No, Osti – I mean that someone’s trying to steal his heart away. I had a vision—’
‘Divination-gnosis, Milady?’
‘Something like that,’ she replied evasively. ‘He’ll dance with a woman in red . . . that was the warning.’ She suppressed another sob. ‘You know our marriage hasn’t been perfect, but I can’t lose him – we have a child to protect . . .’
‘Ril Endarion is well known for his protective nature,’ Ostevan replied. ‘And Milady, hard though it is to say, many marriages have survived infidelity.’
There, Lyra, let’s see you deal with that notion.
She blinked back more tears. ‘If I knew he’d been unfaithful, I could never lie with him again. I just couldn’t bear it. The sin would taint us, and endanger our immortal souls.’
Sex, sin and salvation, Ostevan mused behind his carefully schooled expression of deep concern. A wonderful brew. A sudden idea came to him. ‘Lyra, if you wish to keep his heart, you must fight for it.’
‘How?’ she flared. ‘Would you have me flounce about like Sedina Waycross with my bosom all but bare? Or take lessons from Jenet Brunlye?’
Oh my, she does have fangs after all, Ostevan thought, enchanted by her flash of temper. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes blazing: an intriguing glimpse of who she could become . . .
‘Of course not,’ he said, pitching his voice to soothe her, while still conveying anger at her situation. ‘Lyra, you must never stoop to conquer – don’t lower yourself to a rival’s level. You’re Ril’s wife, and you carry his child. You love him. Remind him of that.’
‘But I’m forbidden to be intimate with him—’
‘Sister Domara is only a midwife – you’re a queen.’
‘But if I lose this child—’
‘You won’t.’ He took Lyra’s hands again, leaning closer. Inside him, Abraxas growled, but he quelled the lurid desires of the daemon. ‘Frankly – and I speak despite my vocation – the Church knows little about such matters, but one thing I did learn while exiled in Ventia is that ordinary couples make love right through pregnancy and take no harm. ’
She shot a look at the altar, almost as if expecting Kore to appear and condemn them both to Hel. The passion he’d let flow into his words had gripped her, though. ‘So I should just ignore my confinement and go to him?’
‘That’s my advice. Think of it as a campaign of seduction.’
‘But I don’t know how to seduce anyone,’ Lyra protested.
‘He’s your husband: that gives you all the advantages, Lyra. Be there when he needs you, concerned and willing. And you’re beautiful, never forget that. Show him your belly, where his child is growing; tell him you need him.’ He stroked her shoulder. ‘He’ll be unable to resist.’
She gave him a small, hopeful smile, then groaned. ‘I don’t think I can do it . . . This morning I could barely get out of bed. My back is killing me, and the skin on my breasts feels so tight it could rip . . . I feel wretched, Osti! I hate being pregnant – I’m fat and ugly and useless—’
‘That’s normal for the fourth month of pregnancy. Sister Domara will be able to help.’
‘She just tells me to pray and be strong,’ Lyra glowered.
Ostevan put on his best mask of concern. ‘Well, in my lowly village in Ventia, I had to be many things: physician, apothecary, vetinarius. Are you willing to let an old friend help you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I could give you some temporary ease, until Domara can be persuaded to be more sympathetic. A little massage, combined with healing-gnosis, and you’ll be much improved.’
She wavered, doubtful. ‘Um, I suppose . . .’
‘Thank you for your trust,’ he said warmly, unclasping her cloak and removing it. Beneath was a big, tent-like dress, typically dowdy.
Her mouth went round. ‘But . . . not here! This a church—’
‘Milady, before the magi, priests of Kore were also physicians, and temples were places of healing.’ He dared a little mesmerism. ‘Be calm, Lyra. I’ll just scoot in behind you and, there . . .’
While she was still caught up in his spell, he moved deftly, unbuttoning the back of her dress and pulling it open revealing her snowy-white back, while she gasped and caught the front of the garment, holding it to her chest. He was well versed in the old seduction technique: get your prey halfway undressed and the rest takes care of itself – but despite having Abraxas shrieking lustfully in his mind, what he wanted was to push the boundaries of trust between them, to forge a bond of greater intimacy.
But Lyra’s base instincts were rebelling, despite the spell. ‘Ostevan! I don’t think—’
‘Hush,’ he told her, gentling her with a touch more mesmerism, ‘we don’t want to bring Basia in, now do we?’ She flinched guiltily and tensed up, just as his fingertips found a knotted muscle and flooded it with warm healing-gnosis.
She gasped, and sagged against the railing. ‘Ohhh . . .’
Breakthrough, he thought triumphantly. She’d been in genuine agony, and he’d given her the surcease her body craved. With strong, careful movements he
spread that ease, working her back muscles from her hips to the nape of her neck and then up into the base of her skull, and every passing second saw her relax further, groaning with increasing abandon.
When he was done she sighed regretfully. ‘That was wonderful. I feel like a new person.’
‘Excellent. Now, let’s see to your breasts.’
She coloured instantly, pulling the front of her opened dress tightly to her. ‘But—’
He gently took her shoulder and pushed at her spine, straightening her back again. ‘Lyra, I am your physician today, and breasts aren’t sexual: they’re mammary glands, and in need of attention, due to your pregnancy. Now, if you please?’
Gently but firmly, he removed the dress from her hands, while drawing her back against his chest. She sucked in a gasp as he cupped the underside of her mounds – Damned right they’re breasts, he thought – and began to massage. She murmured some unconvincing protests, but the blissful sensation robbed her of the will to resist, all the while his resonant bedroom voice soothed and gentled her. ‘We must prepare them for their role, and regular massage will help that. You should do this yourself every morning – with or without Domara’s permission.’
‘Uhhh,’ Lyra moaned, sagging against him.
‘And as for these,’ he murmured in her ear, taking her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, ‘they are the conduits for your milk and require attention lest they become blocked. Massage them also, pinching them, gently at first, working up to the edge of what you can bear, like this.’
He did as he’d described, and Lyra groaned from the back of her throat, quivering and arching her back, her eyes closed. He could almost smell her cleft swelling. He marvelled again at just how guileless she was. Her mouth was right by his ear, her breath sweet and hot, each touch sending her deeper into an erotic trance.
Oh, my Queen, I could do anything to you right now . . .
What he chose was restraint. He removed his hands and drew up her dress again, enjoying one final look at her quivering breasts and engorged nipples and the tightly rounded swelling of her growing belly beneath. Her skin was flushed with pink, and her breath just a sigh as she looked at him with confused abandon on her face, like a virgin about to yield herself.
‘I hope that helped,’ he said brightly, taking her left arm and feeding it into a sleeve. ‘Remember, every morning and evening, Milady.’
She looked up at the altar and went absolutely scarlet. ‘Osti, we’ve sinned!’ she gasped, her eyes round with disbelief at what she’d just allowed, then she faltered, ‘Haven’t we?’
‘Because it gave you ease?’ He used mesmerism again, the faintest touch: Lyra, be calm. ‘You are I are very alike; we grew up in religious houses, and see pleasure as somehow sinful. But all we did was something any healer would have done. We’ve nothing to feel guilty about.’ He sleeved her other arm, and calmly re-buttoned the back of her dress. ‘Everything we did today was for your ease and betterment.’
‘But you touched my breasts—’
‘As any physician must occasionally do for a female patient. And if you also found it pleasurable, don’t you think that’s something your husband might appreciate knowing?’
She swallowed as she realised what he meant. ‘Really? Oh . . .’ They shared a look of such intimacy that he had no need of the gnosis to see her thoughts, which were all of how much better she felt now . . . and how grateful.
She knows she let her guard down, but I’ve given her ease and support and not taken advantage of her – and all in the name of bolstering her marriage. Of course, I’m now her greatest ally . . .
He carefully removed any traces of his manipulations from her aura with mystic-gnosis so there would be nothing for Basia or Setallius to find when they examined her next, then said, ‘Now, Milady, are you ready to win back your husband?’
Her hesitant smile became emphatic. ‘Yes, yes I am.’ She bit her lip, and he watched her become herself again. ‘We shouldn’t do this again,’ she said, without recrimination. ‘It wasn’t really proper . . . but it’s not your fault, Ostevan. Domara’s neglecting me.’
‘Would you like me to speak to her, Majesty?’
‘No, that’s my duty.’ Then her tones softened. ‘Thank you, Ostevan. You risked our relationship, and your own standing, to help me. If there was any impropriety, the fault is mine.’
You’re welcome, he thought mockingly. You belong to me, Lyra. In time, I’ll take all of you.
*
Ril hunched over to reduce resistance as his pegasus swung into the wind. Lance held high, he nudged Pearl slightly to the right, trying to ignore the air buffeting the coloured metal target bolted to his left shoulder. He narrowed his eyes, seeking the starting-point for his next run. Hundreds of yards to the south, Gryfflon Joyce mirrored his movements.
The Imperial Ludus was to follow the rules of the jousting circuit: each bout was three passes, with points given for hits. Jousters had the kinesis-strength to stay mounted most of the time, but a strong, well-placed blow could unseat any knight – momentum and air-speed were a great leveller in aerial jousting – and unhorsed contestants lost the bout outright.
Ril had been training hard with his Corani knights: he was here to fight – and win. I’m the lead actor, he thought now, and the stage is set.
The first days of the Ludus were for the archery contests, running races and staff-fighting – Entertainment for the mob, by the mob, was Larik’s view – but the knights ignored all that, too caught up in their own preparations in the skies overhead.
He shouted his relief, then looking back, saw Gryff’s venator gliding towards the ground for a fresh lance.
‘There – nothing to it, pooty-girl,’ he told Pearl, who’d done this as many times as he had. ‘Well done, well done.’ He pulled his helm off, relishing the wind in his hair.
It was a clear, cold autumnal day and he could see for miles. At least three dozen mage-knights were aloft and practising; he could see gryphons and hippogryphs, giant eagles and owls, perytons, alicorns and even a bat-like creature with garish wings. Each had different advantages – size, speed, obedience, courage, manoeuvrability, stamina – and flaws. ‘I’d not trade you for any of them, Pearl,’ he said, stroking her shoulder.
Ril grabbed a pitcher of water and re-joined his friends.
‘Ril—’ Larik smacked his arm, ‘listen, you’re looking good – but only to a point. You’ve got to spur P
earl into the impact; don’t let her slow.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Ril replied absently; strangely, he was more relaxed now the tourney was practically here. Above him, Lero Falquist skimmed past, breaking his lance on the target of an Incognito, one of the low-blooded unaligned knights who frequented the tourney circuit, and sending the unnamed knight into the safety nets.
Ril broke off talking to applaud, then asked, ‘Who am I fighting tomorrow?’
‘Argh! Pay attention! Sir Wiltor Verden from Klief – he’s a half-blood.’
‘A half-blood? So why are you worried?’
‘Because the speed of impact is almost eighty miles an hour and no shield can fully stop such a blow. Blood-rank doesn’t matter here, Ril – it’s all about speed and accuracy. You’ll catch his lance in your eye if you’re not careful,’ Larik added irritably.
When Ril put aside his last-minutes nerves, he could see the tourney was turning out to be a great success. The Ludus had attracted massive crowds – although that brought its own problems, and the Imperial Guards were working hard to keep hostile contingents apart. The dour Argundians, fiery Estellans, truculent Hollenians, ill-disciplined Brevians and surly Andressans and Midreans all disliked each other and tempers were running high.
The biggest and most acrimonious groups were all Rondian, Ril noted: mutinous Aquilleans, duplicitous Canossi and arrogant Pallacians, all balling their fists at the slightest insult. But the biggest concern was the Dupeni group, led by Duke Garod Sacrecour himself, who’d come west, heavily guarded, to cheer on his knights.
Ril was itching to face those Dupeni champions . . .
*
Trumpets brayed, the vast crowd quietened and the heralds bawled out the names taking part in the next joust. The masses were still buzzing from the last clashes, reliving the spectacular fall and the victors’ aerobatic celebrations. The hunger for more excitement filled the air.
‘IN THIS RUN, THE PRINCE-CONSORT, SIR RIL ENDARION—’
