The Topaz Embrace

by The Topaz Embrace (lit)

  “Preposterous.”

  “Is it, guard?” He smiled in gentle insincerity. “Did you ever enter the Oracle’s quarters, once you secured her within?”

  “Of course not. That would have been a severe breach of protocol, outside a true emergency.”

  The smaller man grinned and hummed in agreement. “Yes. We counted upon this to avoid scandal. Unfortunately, Oracles and Acolytes are forbidden to engage in physical relationships. I can assure you, had it not been for that restriction, I could have more than passed the test and would be her Consort right now.”

  Danar’s mind reeled as his brain struggled with the image of the slight, balding Acolyte and the glorious Ankhet engaged in… He shook his head to clear it. Incredulity dueled with jealousy and hurt at this impossible idea. His lovely Ankhet could not have been fornicating with Timon as he paced outside her Conference quarters, year after year. He’d pined for her and burned with his own unrequited desire, yet he'd respected her virgin state and devotion to duty.

  As though he read Danar’s thoughts, Timon taunted, “Yes, she could and she did. Over and over, guard.” The cackle resounded discordantly through Danar’s very bones, leaving little doubt as to what he referred. His rational brain told him the man lied, for whatever reason, but his male, reactionary side viewed the situation through an insidious red haze of doubt. I must not doubt my Oracle. I must not doubt Ankhet. Still, the years of insecurities ate at him.

  While not a physically impressive specimen, Timon bore an aristocratic lineage and keen intellect. Could Ankhet have been stimulated by his status and wit? Had she lain with Timon? Fierce jealousy and revulsion seized his gut and grabbed his heart in an icy vice. Had she found pleasure in his arms? “Why wouldn’t she simply take you as her Consort if you passed the test long ago?” An alliance between Oracle and Chief Acolyte would be scandalous but preferable to that of Oracle and Personal Guard. Timon could not hold both the Chief Acolyte and Consort appointments, however…

  “Ah… I can see by your expression you begin to understand, guard. Yes, she wished to protect me and allow me to maintain my status as Chief Acolyte, but now I intend to be Consort.” Timon grabbed a handful of the choicest Topaz stones, pocketing them. “I expect that soon I will hold the entire Topaz Oracle Office under my control. Until then, these should do nicely to pay off some debts I owe in Sydney. Maintaining a proper aristocratic lifestyle grows more costly each day, and I’ve waited to achieve my rightful station far too long.”

  Timon moved forward, even as Danar still reeled from the unexpected encounter. “I’m almost sorry, guard. You’re hardly a worthy adversary, but you simply pose too much of an impediment to my plans.”

  Danar recognized that Timon intended to kill him. On some level, he acknowledged the need to respond to the threat, yet the repulsive thought of Ankhet with Timon fractured his concentration. Sharing her with Tallon provoked an entirely different reaction. “And she did. Over and over, guard.” Timon’s salacious details echoed through his heart.

  Danar lost himself in painful images of his beloved locked in an intimate embrace with the creature before him. Timon’s lunge would have killed him instantly, had not years of training forced his body to move in reaction to the subtle cues projected by the unexpectedly skilled swordsman. Still, the sword tore a gaping wound in his side, even as he deftly sidestepped. Blood flowed freely down his tunic and he dimly noted the searing agony, distant and compartmentalized in his consciousness. A surge of battle energy rushed through him blocking out pain and weakness. His heart beat loudly in his ears drumming with the elemental need to survive. The primitive part of his mind drove him on, even as it seemed he moved in slow motion, parrying a second, aggressive lunge. Timon’s sword arm, slight as it appeared, wielded the strength of an ox and the skill of a master. Danar wondered idly who had trained his opponent and imbued such expertise.

  Danar tired after the first few engagements, a faint buzzing swirled through his head, and he retreated with slow reluctance, holding his opponent off as long as he could until he reached the portal to the Sanctuary. Dear Gods! Ankhet lay asleep and unknowing in the chambers just beyond.

  Parry. Feint. Retreat. His sandals slipping in his own blood, he flailed as he moved backward, narrowly missing a gutting swipe from Timon’s flashing bronze blade.

  Is she an innocent victim to die at Timon’s sword hand as soon as her protector falls? Or is she in league with the traitor?

  Parry. Retreat. He forced the commands upon his failing body. He knew what needed doing with perfect clarity, yet every second the familiar moves became more difficult to execute.

  No matter. I love her regardless.

  Danar fought purely on the defensive now. Timon drove him back with ease, toying with him, and enjoying his slow kill—for that’s what it would be. The coppery scent of his own blood filled his nostrils, nauseating him. A slow darkness crept at the edges of his vision like a widow’s veil, and though he still wielded his weapon with skill, his arm moved as though through some heavy, increasingly viscous fluid. His limbs grew lethargic, and the blood ran down his left leg in a steady stream. Before his opponent broke a sweat, Danar’s legs gave out beneath him and he sank to the cold marble floor—awaiting the final blow.

  Ankhet’s face appeared in his mind’s eye, flushed with passion and her golden eyes glowing as she gazed at him with love.

  Chapter 9

  Ankhet awoke with a start, certain Danar had called her name. She jerked upright in the bed, a cold sweat breaking out across her body dampening the fine linen sheets. Cocking her head at an angle, she listened for Tallon, Danar, or the subtle echo of the quietly efficient household staff. She heard nothing. The unnatural silence in the quarters sent a chill skittering down her spine. It must be approaching time for the preparation of the sunset devotions and evening meal. There should have been the discreet patter of busy feet, the distant clink of platters and goblets, and the muted good-natured laughter of amicable coworkers, not to mention the enticing aroma of a sumptuous repast in the making. Yet, no comforting household sounds or scents of cooking food filled the temple, only an unnerving stillness.

  She almost called out to Tallon and Danar. One had stayed near her at all times since their union, trading off safeguarding her. She’d teased them about their over-protective hovering.

  Something stilled her. The hair at the back of her neck rose, and she climbed from the bed, slipping into the robe she’d left on the reclining couch. As one whose calling required frequent nudity, she’d become comfortable with that state, yet she drew the ties on her robe closed tight, an inadequate barrier between herself and whatever ominous doings occurred outside. For once, her Oracle instinct spoke loud and clear that jeopardy surrounded her—and those she loved.

  She waited, resolute, yet heart pounding with trepidation. She struggled to quiet her riotous breathing. She thought wildly of slipping out through her private garden door, yet sheer animal instinct told her she’d missed her chance for escape. Then it came. The rough scrape of a sandal sounded on the polished stone floor and the overpowering scent of patchouli assailed her nostrils. The intruder must be well off to be so free with such a costly oil. Not that that affected his ill intent. The omnipresent evil surrounded and terrified her. Security, in these days of unrest, always presented a concern. But she’d never had cause to fear for her very life in such an immediate sense. Not for the first time, she lamented the tradition that Oracles not carry weapons. If only she’d a knife. In vain, she scanned the room for anything that would aid in her defense.

  “Ah, there you are my Oracle.”

  Ankhet whirled toward the grating, nasal tones coming from the door to her bedchamber, the familiar voice of her own Chief Acolyte. Sheer surprise rendered her momentarily speechless as she struggled to assimilate his presence and its meaning. Her heart lurched as she spied the knife strapped to his side and the blood-smeared sword he held half-concealed behind his back. Fighting panic, she pretended
not to notice his weapons and attempted to bluff her way through what she intuited as a grave situation. “Timon, welcome back.” She forced a weak smile of greeting upon her face. “What are you doing in my private apartments? You know your presence here is forbidden. If something urgent requires my attention, I’d be happy to meet you in the Great Hall, outside the sanctuary.”

  The sneering little man tucked his sword beneath his arm and applauded with raucous enthusiasm, the rude noise accompanied by cackling laughter. The sound reverberated off the cool stone walls, unaccustomed to such auditory excess, and filled the entire main sector of the complex. “Very well done, my Oracle.” His thin lips turned down in bogus sympathy. “What a pity your performance, no matter how well executed, will not save you.”

  “Whaaat?” He means to kill me? My own Chief Acolyte? An Oracle’s Chief Acolyte served as her second in command. Sworn to protect the Oracle and her Office with his own life, if necessary. A Chief Acolyte also swore to defend the beliefs and practices of the Standard in the interests of the people that Standard served. Surely, this must be a twisted dream.

  How could she ever have thought that vile creature endearing? Nausea churned in her belly and dread settled upon her soul. How could she seriously have considered him for the role of Consort all those years ago? She shuddered at the thought and at the humiliating memory of her attempts to assist him to pass the Consort test. She forced herself to speak with calm, hoping for salvation. “I don’t understand, Timon.”

  “It’s a pity. If you’d only made me your Consort as you should have done, everything would have been wonderful. We could have enjoyed the prestige of your station, and your power, together.” He shook his head in a mockery of mournful regret, the gleam of malice evident in his gaze.

  She must stall for time. Surely Tallon or Danar could not be far away. Her countenance must have revealed her hopes.

  He shot them down in an instant. “Oh, don’t wait for your lovers to arrive and save you my dear.” He gave a small bow and a self-satisfied little half-smile. “Tallon, believing you to be an evil murderess, has retreated to the far end of the island nursing a hatred of the Standard in general, and you, in particular. I do hate to crush your romantic dreams, my dear, but I planned his arrival on the island. He harbored a grudge against the genocidal Oracle responsible for the deaths at Sydney, which alas, included his own family. We, the Federation, discovered this and arranged for him to find you in hopes that he would seek his ‘justice’ and eliminate you. After all, the people must see the Federation as a benevolent potential ruling body. We could not risk removing a popular Oracle ourselves.”

  Stunned, she struggled to comprehend so many painful truths at once. Her Chief Acolyte not only meant to betray her, he’d been in league with the Federation to destroy her. His weapon of choice, a man she’d come to love and trust with all her heart, Tallon, had hated her all along. He also meant to kill her, even perhaps as he shared her bed.

  Her heart sank as she absorbed the fact that she would die with Tallon believing whatever ridiculous, poisonous lies this skilled villain had used to infect Tallon and alienate his affections. And what of her other love? “Danar—”

  “Oh, your guard is just outside your sanctuary.” He giggled.

  The erratic high-pitched sound echoed through the room, and filled her heart with dread. She struggled to remain calm, fighting to keep her emotions and the urge to invoke the power of her rank from her voice. She must not let him think she believed herself superior to him. “What have you done with him?”

  His self-satisfied smirk told the tale before he spoke. Dread weighed upon her like the very chains Tallon had worn upon their first encounter.

  “He’s taking a long nap, my Oracle. Don’t look to him for salvation. To his credit, he did object strenuously to my plans for you, in spite of ferocious jealousy upon learning of our ‘long-term liaison’.” He smiled in fatuous satisfaction at the lie. “In the end, he couldn’t even save himself.”

  “Danar would not have believed I would ever lie with you.”

  “Ah, my poor innocent Oracle. A jealous man will believe almost anything.” He gave a faint chuckle. “Especially when he’s found something he’s always dreamt of, yet fears he does not truly deserve. So easy for one such as myself to plant the seeds of doubt.”

  That weight of emotion pulled her abruptly downward into the abyss of despair. She’d no doubt Timon spoke the truth, as his brilliant manipulation of human emotion knew no limits.

  Timon approached, and the overwhelming cloud of patchouli corrupted by sweat and the underlying coppery scent of blood sickened her. She broke out in clammy perspiration, certain she would vomit.

  He indicated a small tray on her bedside table she’d not noticed before. It held a wine decanter and one small silver goblet. “You did not drink the special pomegranate posset Sarri brought you last night.”

  A shiver ran down her spine. She’d been especially fatigued the previous evening after a strenuous session before the gemstone trays, attempting to make sense of a number of alarming divinations. She’d been far too exhausted for food or drink, even her favored pomegranate, and had only wished to sleep surrounded by her Consorts.

  The very idea of the thick posset had sickened her, in any case. Her devoted Sarri must have conspired in this monstrous plot as well. Her maid had been unusually aggressive in her attempts to get her to drink the sickly-sweet ruby concoction. She’d finally left Ankhet in peace after she’d sworn to drink all of it. As soon as the other woman exited the room, she’d poured it out into the drain in her private bathing chamber.

  Sarri? No. Please. No. It couldn’t be so. They’d known one another since they’d been girls, scrambling over the beaches, searching for shells, trading dreams of the future. The white-hot emotional dagger in her heart sliced with brutal efficiency. Lest she falter, she pulled the mantle of Oracle courage about her like a cloak of unseen armor, facing her would-be assassin, chin proudly aloft. “No. I did not care for it.”

  “Nevertheless, you will drink my special pomegranate wine now, Oracle.”

  Sword still clamped under his arm, Timon carefully lifted the decanter and filled the silver cup with the dark red liquid, and then handed it to her.

  She kept her arms at her side, a glare of defiance aimed at her tormenter. Why should she assist him in administering the elixir of her doom?

  “Accept the blasted wine, Oracle.” Timon’s voice rose to an angry rant, edged with hysteria. “Drink it.”

  “I think not, Timon.” Her death must appear accidental. Timon, a wily adversary, would surely realize that while the populace might not wholeheartedly support the Standard, even the suspicion of the Federation countenancing the murder of a hereditary member of the Standard’s time-honored hierarchy could lead to revolt.

  A shudder of fear and revulsion shook her, as she realized that must be the only reason he’d not used his knife, or the battle-stained sword, to finish his self-appointed mission. “Timon, you cannot hope to poison an Oracle without suffering the consequences.”

  Fury contorted his features, drawing his brows together and the corners of his mouth downward, even as his eyes widened to the point the whites showed. He tilted his head back to look down his nose at her. His voice, threaded with a quaver of rage, and barely contained beneath a bellow, blasted her with all the loathing and resentment he’d clearly hidden all these years. “You stupid cow. Do you think I don’t know that?”

  He lunged in closer to her, startling her. How could I have thought him a small man? Now he seemed huge, and enormously dangerous.

  “You won’t be poisoned.” He drew out the syllables of the last word, giving it ominous overtones and spared her a quick, false smile. “At least, not in the eyes of the world. The wine, like the posset last evening, contains a special herb supplied by your own, dear Sarri, which will mimic an ailment of the heart.” He straightened, at last giving her a bit of breathing room, and arranging his features in
a semblance of a mournful expression. “I’m sure the entire globe will be grief-stricken by the untimely death of an Oracle due to such sudden, tragic illness.”

  She shrank back. Horror and helplessness accelerated her breathing until it sounded loud to her own ears.

  He dropped his sword with a clatter and shoved the goblet at her. Some of the thick, blood red liquid sloshed over the vessel’s edge, slowly running down the outside, over his hand and dripping in macabre parody onto the pristine marble floor.

  He clasped her arm in a vise-like grip and forced the cup to her lips. “Drink!”

  She reached up in a reflex motion to clasp his wrist with her free hand, pushing the thing away with all her might and kept her lips shut tight, but some of the sweet tang of the tainted wine seeped across her palate. Oh, dear God. She couldn’t hope to run from him, and with his superior strength, he’d simply force the stuff down her throat.

  His twisted, high-pitched giggle filled the chamber. “Almost, my little Oracle. Be good and drink your wine.” He leaned in farther as he began to tip the goblet to her lips.

  * * * *

  “Stop!”

  Timon and Ankhet turned as one as Tallon stormed into the room, his enraged bellow filling the large space. He knocked the silver goblet from Timon’s hand, heedless of the dark wine spreading out in blood-like rivulets on the white stone. With a roar of rage and guilt, he grabbed Timon by the front of his tunic, lifted him up and away from Ankhet, and tossed him to the floor. Tallon’s heart had nearly frozen in his chest at the sight of the horrific tableau in the Oracle’s bedchamber.