Silent and tense, Merus lit another cigarette, the yellow flare of his lighter illuminating his unhappy features.
“Do you understand me?” Toran demanded.
“I understand,” Merus answered.
“Good. But first, I need you to return home,” Toran said. “You’re to guard my faine until I return home tonight. Ales watches her now, but I need you to send him to Baltia. Tell him to gather up whatever he can get his hands on, as fast as he can.” He rocked on his feet. “The Sorcieri are demanding more.”
Merus cursed.
Toran raised his palm to stop him.
“I will deal with Feliks,” Toran promised. “Just tell Ales that I will meet him outside the Rimalda gates in a couple of hours.”
“Of course,” Merus answered. His voice was hard with bitterness. “I’ll take care of everything.”
He fell silent.
Knowing his cousin well, Toran braced himself for more.
“Tor, this thing with my brother,” Merus whispered. “I just wish…”
Toran turned on a heel and walked away.
“Wishing has never worked out too well for either of us.” Toran’s words were as bitter as the acrid smoke in the air. “Has it my friend?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Even as young as five years old, Toran knew his parents’ marriage was not only loveless, but doomed.
The lack of love was of little concern; from birth, Toran was taught the fact that marital love equaled weakness. And, in the Vimora’s collective estimation, there was no place for weakness amongst the creatures of the Strong.
The doomed part of the equation? Well, that was another matter entirely. As it turned out, the end of his parents’ union had signaled the downfall of them all, leading ultimately to where Toran stood now: outside the Rimalda gates where, once admitted inside, he’d grovel––and pay––on bended knee for the privilege of the Sorcieri’s magic.
As it had his entire life as king-in-waiting, the humiliation burned.
Not for the first time, Toran wished he had done more to try to intervene in his parents’ affairs, to somehow stop the train wreck that had loomed just around the bend. But so immersed was he in the endless joys of childhood, Toran hadn’t paid much attention to the signs of their splintering marriage, one that had, he’d come to learn, hurtled towards disaster from nearly day one.
Looking back now, the cracks had been clear enough: the tense and uncomfortable mealtimes where nary a word was spoken; barely concealed contempt when they did deign to engage in conversation; the slamming of doors, behind which throbbed the embittered pulse of anger.
All this, and more.
It was when Toran turned sixteen that the more public of their fights had started in earnest––though the altercations were decidedly one-sided affairs. While his mother had wailed and screamed and threatened and cried, his father had offered only stony silence.
Through all this discord, ran the matter of his father’s faine.
Since time immemorial venna-rich Venn Dom had been home to the gentle faine. Though native to the land, they were considered Other by the physically stronger––and supremely aggressive––Vimor daemons. As Other, the faine were required from time to time to offer up a token of their fealty: their fairest female to serve the House of the Tenn.
Alongside promoting wellbeing and harmony within a household teeming with venna, this faine had one very specific duty: to cloister herself inside her chamber whenever the Tenn sought out coitus with his queen. As the strongest of the Strong, the Tenn’s venna could be viciously fearsome and difficult to control––especially during the act of sex. The faine’s presence just a short passageway away served as a sort of lodestone, absorbing and appeasing the Tenn’s venna during his time of greatest weakness.
When Toran’s grandfather finally gave up his venna to die, Toran’s father, Torath the Tenn, had stepped up to assume the throne.
His new place as Tenn dictated he be bequeathed his own faine.
Torath was presented the faine’s proffered token mere hours before his union to Toran’s mother. Just like Toran’s engagement to Sarai, his parents had been long promised to each other, a future union guaranteed to unite the strongest of the Strong with a Baltian daemoness of purest-blood––all in hopes of promoting a more united and secure Venn Dom.
After the death of Toran’s grandfather, his parents’ wedding night had been meticulously timed so that, at consummation, the womb of the Tenn’s bride was ripe to take his seed. Toran had been conceived that very hour; by law, the promise of his birth helped secure his father’s rule.
Just as would happen soon in Toran’s own marriage bed.
Why did that fact now ring so hollow?
Glancing as his watch, Toran shifted in his boots, the seconds slowly ticking by as he waited for the Sorcieri to lift the spell that unlocked their gates.
Everything he had ever thought he wanted was just on the horizon––a family of his own, not to mention his crown.
Yet his parents’ misery nagged at him.
He was quick to reason that his marriage would be nothing like theirs.
Unlike his father, Toran would never stray.
Though steadfast in his certainty of this fact, Toran had to admit it was a contributing factor to the persistent malaise that now shadowed his every move.
See, despite his uncle’s platitudes about the “freedoms” inherent in a royal marriage, Toran’s gut burned knowing that, as soon as he uttered his vows, he would be joined to Sarai forever.
Infidelity would not be an option. Toran would demand faithfulness and trust as part of a two-way street. But it was more than faithfulness, and even trust, he wanted. As ashamed as he was to admit it––and, as weak as it may be––Toran craved closeness.
He craved intimacy.
Lost in the past, his mind sifted back through other, just-as-unwelcome memories from long, long ago. Soft lips upon his face. The soothing caress of his female’s touch. The indescribable succor of relief he had felt just before…
His eyes flashed open.
“Get a fucking grip, Tor,” he whispered to himself.
Ignoring the slight tremor in his hand, Toran once again glanced down to check the time. As he did, the Mythos parted a few feet away as Ales, one of his most trusted soldiers, pulsed into the passageway.
“What the hell took you so long?” Toran called out in lieu of a greeting. Though he was grateful for the lifeline back to the present, he growled at the daemon’s tardiness.
Not surprisingly, the older, tight-lipped daemon gave no answer. Though Toran was unsure of Ales’s actual age, with his gray flecks of hair at his temples and lines around his eyes, Ales looked a good century, maybe two, older than Toran. So, while Toran could pass for around thirty or so on the human ‘els, Ales looked well into his forties.
“Were you at least able to get what I need?”
“Aye,” the daemon said, nodding.
He tossed Toran a red velvet bag.
Snagging it out of the air, Toran slipped it into the front pocket of his leathers. After leaving Merus on the Evential ‘el, he had returned home and dressed for battle. As much as it pissed him off to admit it, Toran had dragged his feet, hoping to see his faine.
Much to his resentful rage, she hadn’t shown up.
“It should be enough,” Ales said with a shrug.
“It’ll have to be enough,” Toran muttered as the Rimalda gates began to glimmer. Pushing away all thoughts of the faine, Toran ripped a dark pair of sunglasses out from where they hung at his collar. He jammed them in place.
“Let’s get this over with.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
As the gates opened to reveal the outer edge of the Rimalda ‘el, the two daemons braced themselves to face the staggering heat, temporarily blinded by the indomitable rays of the Rimaldi sun. Though beautiful with cloudless blue skies and near-perpetual sunny weather, the native realm of the Sorcieri Caste of the
Sun more resembled the inside of an overworked kiln than any kind of paradise.
It was oppressively hot.
And beneath all that heat throbbed the wickedly sly undercurrent of magic.
Toran hated magic.
Regardless, he strode into Rimalda like he owned the place, Ales following a few paces behind. Toran didn’t stop until he reached the massive reflecting pool that heralded the entrance to the royal palace of the Sorcieri.
The water glittered unnaturally in the sunlight. Peering down through its depths, Toran fought off a wave of bitterness as he witnessed the sea of Baltia diamonds––gods only knew how deep––that lined the fountain’s bed. Shrugging it off as best he could, Toran turned to face a marbled archway and, as he had countless times before, waited in silence.
For once, he didn’t have long to wait.
Blinking rapidly behind his shades, Toran forced himself not to look away as the Grand Sorcieri of the Caste of the Sun made his entrance, his form cloaked in a dazzling light.
“Welcome, Tenn,” the spellcaster called out in amiable greeting. The Grand Sorcieri was tall, copper-haired, and deeply tanned, the near-perfect features of his handsome face and imposing frame no doubt richly enhanced by magic. Coming to a stop a few feet away, he bowed deeply. “It’s so nice of you to visit my humble abode.”
Toran tilted his head in greeting.
“Feliks.”
Feliks gave a good-natured laugh, easily brushing aside Toran’s curtness.
“Can I offer you refreshment?” he asked. With a flick of his wrist, a table appeared between them. Made entirely of gold, it overflowed with exotic fruits and sweets and a variety of perfectly carved meats, topped off with a plentiful array of spirits. Three strawberry-blonde witches bustled out of nowhere. They were eager to be of service, their dusky nipples and shadowed clefts clearly visible through white gauzy robes.
“No, thank you. I’m good.” Toran lifted his gaze up and away from the females, the heat that already poured from his body ratcheting up a notch.
“So, no food?” Feliks lifted a ginger-colored brow. As usual, Feliks ignored Ales’s presence and offered the daemon nothing. “Can I interest you in anything else then?” he asked, a smile playing at his lips. Grabbing one of the witches, he cupped her breast and pulled her to him, pressing himself hard against her backside. The shimmering mirage of a harem tent surrounded them, temptingly complete with a blast of refrigerated air.
For a moment, Toran allowed himself to breathe in the coolness before sidestepping the eager advances of the other two females.
“Spare me your bullshit, Sorcieri,” Toran growled. “We have business to discuss.”
“Do we indeed?” Feliks answered as he nuzzled the female’s neck.
“We do.”
“Fine,” Feliks pouted. He pushed the witch away and, barking out, he ordered the females to leave.
Within seconds, they were gone––along with the teasing relief of the frigid air, a suffocating heat once again engulfing them all.
“Okay, then.” Feliks blew out a bored breath. “What can I help you with?”
“I hear Narcyz has fallen behind on what he rightly owes you,” Toran said, bowing his head in soul-crushing deference. “I am here to make things right.”
Feliks studied the sparkling water.
“Honestly, Tenn,” he said at last. “I’ve grown tired of this.”
“We have a deal, Sorcieri,” Toran answered. “Our diamonds for your magic.”
“We had a deal, Tenn,” Feliks was quick to respond, “but half of your ruling council has failed to live up to his end of the bargain.” He paused with a dramatic flair. “Again.”
“Yes,” Toran countered. “But I am here to make things right,” he repeated.
Again.
“That may well be the case,” Feliks said with a shrug, “but, as it is, the Sorcieri are rethinking our continued alliance with the Vimora. They’re not to be trusted.”
“Narcyz is not to be trusted, you mean,” Toran said, the coolness of his tone slicing through the stifling heat.
“As you say…” Feliks popped a grape into his mouth.
The fucking prick.
“What are you talking about?”
The spellcaster shrugged.
Toran’s temper flared.
“Feliks…”
“You waste my time, Tenn,” Feliks interrupted with a roll of the eyes. “What is it you wish to speak with me about? Get to the point, for the sake of the gods.”
“Come the new year,” Toran said immediately, “you’ll no longer be dealing with Narcyz. Thus, there’s no need to dissolve our alliance.”
That certainly got Feliks’s attention.
“What do you mean?”
“I will be married soon.”
“You don’t say.” Feliks sized him up with a look of wry amusement. “Felicitations,” he said just before his voice turned hard. “But what does that have to do with me?”
“It means this bullshit with Narcyz will end,” Toran said. “It means from the moment I marry,” he stretched the truth a bit, “I will be king.”
“Will you now?”
Toran looked the spellcaster over, trying to figure out what it was Feliks thought he knew––and what he surely couldn’t. The Vimora’s royal mating laws were, after all, not commonly known to Other.
“Yes,” Toran finally answered, “I will be king.”
Feliks laughed.
“You may technically be king, but how do you expect to rule the whole of Venn Dom,” Feliks countered, still laughing, “when, for centuries, you haven’t even lifted a finger to crush the rebellion?”
Ah, so that was the bastard’s angle.
Fed up with the spellcaster’s impertinent laughter, Toran unleashed a blast of venna so strong the water in the pool sank back and away. Moments later, it crashed forward in a giant rocking wave, soaking the both of them from head to boots.
Toran welcomed the cool relief.
“I guess I deserved that,” Feliks said after a beat.
Toran folded his arms across his chest.
“But, I do have a serious question for you,” Feliks ventured a bit more cautiously.
“What’s your question?” Toran barked.
“When you do become king, how do you expect to unite both territories?” he asked. “Considering what has gone on for centuries, it seems an impossibility. Your grandfather couldn’t do it. Your father couldn’t do it. And the two bumbling fools you have now certainly haven’t done anything to accomplish any sense of unity.
“Thus, I really don’t see the point.”
Holding his tongue, Toran stood and took the spellcaster’s harangue. In a way, the bastard was right. Venn Dom had never truly been a unified kingdom.
That was because Baltia occupied a separate ‘el entirely. And, for all intents and purposes, it was a conquered land. Originally populated by a separate royal house of the Vimor daemons, Baltia had been forcibly annexed by Toran’s great-grandfather––solely for its riches.
Even generations of marriages between the Tenns and Baltia’s royal bloodline––via Narcyz’s family tree––had failed to bring true stability.
It was as if Toran needed more than one of himself to establish a lasting peace between the two lands.
Thus, the significance of the prophecy.
There was a reason the prophecy was as specific as it was, dictating that Toran must father “sons.”
Toran had no doubt it meant exactly two.
One to rule Vimora.
One to rule Baltia.
With two sons, Toran could fulfill the promise of a united Venn Dom, the two fractious ‘els brought together by the power of blood.
All made possible now through the presence of his faine.
“Why don’t you let me worry about my kingdom, Feliks?” he said, his thoughts filling him with a tremendous sense of purpose, the apprehension he had felt earlier regarding his marriage
fading away.
He pulled the velvet bag from his pocket and tossed it at the spellcaster’s feet.
“What is this?” Feliks asked.
Like the bastard didn’t know.
“What do you fucking think it is?” Toran ground out. “It’s six months’ worth of payment.”
Bending down, his long sinuous body as graceful as a cob, Feliks swiped up Toran’s offering. Bouncing the pouch in his hand, Feliks appraised its heft.
“Six months’ worth?” he asked. “Why so much?”
“I need some time to put my affairs in order,” said Toran. If Arman was right, Sarai would be ready to receive him just after the first of the year. Thus, his marriage would fall well within this timeframe––just four short months away.
Surely six months’ time would be enough.
“Why six months?”
Toran paused, biting back a niggling sense of unease.
Perhaps he should have consulted with his doctor first about the faine…
“There are traditions that must be followed,” he said, stalling, “before I can officially take my crown.”
“Six months, you say,” Feliks mused as he stepped to the lip of the pool. Standing at its edge, the sunlight on the rippling surface wreaked havoc with his glamor spell, the water’s reflection revealing his true features. Thin as a rail, with sallow, pockmarked skin, the Sorcieri’s leader was a hideous specter of his handsome, hulking public self. Raising his scrawny arm, Feliks tilted the pouch and shook the diamonds into the water.
Toran watched as the sparkling gems popped against the surface only to sink softly to the bottom to join the untold millions of Venn Dom’s lost wealth.
“I’ll give you your six months,” the spellcaster said as his face contorted into a sinister grin. “But let’s make it a bit more interesting…”
Toran shifted in his boots.
“What the hell are you talking about, Feliks?”
“Let’s just say that each and every day you wait, the protection spell will weaken by a certain, unknown degree…”
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