The Sorceress of Belmair

by Bertrice Small

  “Tell me what it is you desire, my queen,” he whispered hotly in her ear.

  “Give me pleasures, Dillon! Give me pleasures!” she cried. And the room filled with golden light, and the air crackled around them.

  “Your wish, my queen, is mine to fulfill,” he murmured, kissing her ear, and then nipping hard on the lobe. Finding her pleasure center, he used it well, and she was quickly cresting as the feelings of delight swept over her. Withdrawing from her, he sat down upon the steps, cradling her within his arms, kissing her small face as she floated back to reality once again, and he kissed her slowly, murmuring softly against her lips, “Anytime, anywhere, Cinnia.” He reminded her of his earlier promise.

  She opened her eyes at long last. Every inch of her tingled with excitement. “Do you behave like this all the time?” she asked him softly.

  “You are mine,” he said simply. “I am going to fall in love with you, Cinnia. Not because you are beautiful or because you are my wife, but because we were meant to be together like this forever. I don’t want you resistant to pleasures. Not when the cojoining of our bodies is such a good thing.”

  “The light was gold and the air crackled again,” she said to him.

  “Because we were in tune with one another,” he told her. “You were not resisting me, my queen.” He dumped her gently from his lap into the warm scented water. He was still fully aroused, his manhood engorged with his lust.

  Cinnia stared. “You are not satisfied,” she said. “And yet I was. Why?”

  “I learned long ago how to prolong my desires,” Dillon told her. “I will make love to you again several times before we sleep. It pleases me to see you fulfilled, and there is time for me to reach that perfect state. We will relax together in the pool.”

  The watery enclosure was square, and had a depth of five feet. On one side of it was a pink marble flower from whose center water sprayed forth. The ceiling was glass, and revealed the velvety-black night skies above them ablaze with stars. He noted to her that the sky they watched now was different from that he was used to in Terah, or his father’s palace of Shunnar.

  “What is the biggest difference?” she queried him.

  “I cannot see Belmair,” he said with a smile. “What is that bright star?” He pointed to a particularly bright orb almost directly above them now.

  “That is Hetar,” she told him. “It is magnificent from afar, isn’t it?”

  He nodded, agreeing. “It is.” Then he asked her, “Why do you have no siblings?”

  “My mother died shortly after giving birth to me,” Cinnia said. “My father chose not to remarry although there were several women of suitable families who would have made him a good queen. But since king’s sons here in Belmair do not necessarily follow in their father’s footsteps he felt no great urge to sire a son,” Cinnia explained. “He wed late in his life, and might not have married at all but he saw my mother once, and fell in love with her. They were wed for over two hundred years before I was born, and I was quite a surprise to them I can assure you.” She chuckled with her memories. “When a child was not born to them in the first years of their marriage they assumed they would never have one. Belmairans live a normal life span of several hundred years, but we age incredibly slowly,” Cinnia explained to him, for she could see he was somewhat confused.

  “But you said you were seventeen,” Dillon said.

  “I am,” she told him. “But I will live several hundred years if illness does not fell me first,” Cinnia said. “How long will you live?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “My father has lived since the beginning of time itself. My mother, being mostly faerie, should live for several hundred years. I suppose I will live at least as long as she does.” He swam across the pool to stand beneath the spray of water from the pink marble blossom. Their life spans were similar. He would not be forced like his mother to watch as Cinnia grew older, and he remained the same. It was likely that they would age together. Had the dragon and his father been aware of that? Dillon wondered. He would remember to ask Kaliq when next he saw him. Cinnia was looking at him, and the young king suddenly became aware of his throbbing member. He needed to couple with her again. He swam back to where she was awaiting him.

  Cinnia leaned against the marble walls of the pool, enjoying the warm water as it lapped against her. This bathing had been a surprisingly good idea of his. She did feel more comfortable in his presence, and she was learning little bits and pieces about him. Her eyes closed and she listened to the flower fountain as it sprayed into the water. It was a most soothing sound. And then she sensed him. Her eyes flew open and he stood directly before her.

  Taking her small face between his big hands, he kissed her slowly, lingeringly. “Now once more, my queen,” he told her.

  She felt his hand cupping her bottom as he lifted her up.

  “Wrap your legs about me, Cinnia,” he directed her.

  As she did she felt his thick length pressing once again into her body. Cinnia sighed, clinging to him as he moved hungrily within her until she was dizzy with her own lust, and the pleasures being joined with him brought her. But then suddenly he withdrew from her, and she protested. “No, Dillon! No!”

  “Come,” he said without explanation, and led her from their watery playground into the third chamber of the bath. Here the air was filled with an exotic and elusive perfume. There was a wide marble bench upon which rested a large pile of fluffy towels. Taking one he began to dry her. The towel was warm. When he had almost finished he lay several towels upon the bench, and instructed her to sit down. When she had he dried her feet, kissing and sucking upon the toes as he did so.

  Cinnia couldn’t help but giggle. “You are a great fool,” she told him.

  “Lay back,” he said in reply, and when she was stretched out upon the wide bench he spread her legs wide, and seating himself he leaned forward to peel open her nether lips with his thumbs, and lick the sweet coral-pink flesh.

  Cinnia gasped, shocked. “What are you doing?” she asked, attempted to rise up.

  “Stay still!” he told her sharply. “This is but a new pleasure for you, my queen.” Then his tongue began to explore her slowly as he licked and probed and tasted her.

  Cinnia’s senses whirled with the sensations he was engendering. They were delicious, and she suspected, very naughty pleasures he was offering her. He seemed to be in no hurry to end the delightful torture. His tongue licked one side of her flesh, and then the other. He explored carefully, and when the tip of his tongue met what was an incredibly sensitive part of her, Cinnia squealed nervously. Immediately he began to taunt and tease that tiny jewel until she was almost mindless with the delight, and when she was certain he was going to kill her with it, Dillon was mounting her once more, and thrusting deeply into her body. “And again, my queen,” he said.

  He rode her hard. Their breathing became ragged and rough as he pushed into her again and again and again. He was a fierce lover now, and Cinnia reveled in the wildness they were sharing. She wrapped herself about him so he might have deeper access to her. Their fingers intertwined restlessly as they climbed and climbed and climbed until they could climb no more. Then together their passions burst. Her cry echoed about the room. His shout as he allowed his juices to finally erupt mingled with her soft cries of pleasure, totally and completely fulfilled. The room was bedazzled and drenched in a quivering golden shimmer, and the sounds of crackling light could be heard. The glow
danced about them, tiny darts of lightning shining within it, snapping noisily. And then the chamber grew quiet and dimmed as the light faded away and they collapsed in a tangle of arms and legs upon the wide marble bench. Finally Dillon pulled himself up and stood. Cinnia lay pale, her breathing now quieted, but obviously weak with satisfaction. He bent and, picking her up, carried her from the bath, and into her bedchamber, where, drawing back the coverlet on the bed, he lay her down. Walking to the hearth, he added more wood before returning to the bed and climbing in with her.

  “Your sensual nature will be the death of me,” Cinnia murmured.

  “Not for at least a thousand years,” he replied, and he pulled her into his arms. “I’m going to sleep with you tonight. I cannot be certain yet that my lusts are satisfied.”

  “Mine are,” she half groaned. “Your passions are enormous.”

  He laughed softly. “Are you learning to trust me, my queen?”

  “It would seem I have no choice,” Cinnia answered him.

  “Passion is not so terrible, is it? You seem to enjoy my attentions,” he teased her.

  “I do,” she admitted softly.

  “I want you to trust me in other things, too, Cinnia. If you do we can solve this problem besetting Belmair,” Dillon told her.

  “And you will teach me some serious magic,” she said sleepily.

  “When you are ready, aye, I will,” he promised her.

  “Good night, my lord.”

  “Good night, my queen,” he replied. But he lay awake for several minutes listening to the sounds of her breathing, enjoying the voluptuous young body within his embrace. Cinnia was not an easy woman to know, he thought to himself as he had earlier. Though the Belmairans scorned those they had sent into exile many centuries before, they were much like them in their desire for order and conformity. Their need for tradition, sameness. But the king their dragon had chosen was anything but Hetarian or Belmairan in his thoughts and methods. It was going to be an interesting time as they all came to terms with one another.

  Several days later the scholar Prentice sent a request to the king that he come to his chambers at the Academy. Gara, who had been assigned as the king’s new secretary, set the message aside, for he did not think a missive from an unimportant scholar worthy of his master’s immediate attentions. Gara knew of Prentice, for he had been educated at the Academy. The fellow was half-mad it was said. But then Dillon thought to tell Gara that he was awaiting word from Prentice.

  “A message came yesterday, Your Majesty,” Gara quickly said, “but this Prentice is not a scholar highly thought of by the Academy. I considered it of no account.”

  “Prentice is doing some very important research for me on ancient Belmair,” Dillon told his secretary. “In future all communication from him is to be brought to my attention immediately. I apologize I did not advise you of it sooner,” the young king said, soothing the ruffled feelings he saw rising up in Gara. “The administration of a world is quite new to me. I understand that you served the old king’s secretariat.”

  “Indeed, Your Majesty, I did,” Gara replied. “And I will serve you personally with every ounce of my skill and loyalty. I shall put Prentice on my list of important personages immediately.”

  “Thank you,” Dillon replied, smiling. “Now I shall go to the scholar and see what it is he had found for me.” He left his library. Gara, mollified, carefully scribbled Prentice’s name into a small book upon his desk. Out of sight of his secretary Dillon swirled his cloak and directed his magic to the scholar’s chambers. Stepping from the shadows, he greeted him. “Good morrow, Prentice. I have just now been informed of your message. Such a delay will not happen again.”

  “Your Majesty!” Prentice jumped, slightly startled by Dillon’s appearance, but he realized he would have to get used to such comings and goings. The king did have the blood of the Shadows in his veins. “No, no, I understand. You have been given Gara for your secretary. A good man, but his name does mean mastiff, and he will guard you carefully from what he considers unimportant distractions,” Prentice said wryly.

  Dillon laughed. “He has added your name to his list of important personages.”

  The scholar barked a sharp laugh. “How it must have galled him.” He chuckled. “I do not believe, Your Majesty, that I have ever been considered a personage of import.”

  “What have you found?” Dillon asked him.

  “I sought out from our archives histories from our furthest known past,” the scholar said. “And within I found two small references to the wicked ones. Both said virtually the same thing. That the wicked ones had been told to depart Belmair. There is nothing else. No explanation of who these wicked ones are, or why they were told to leave or if they did.”

  “Are you certain these two references do not refer to those sent to Hetar?” Dillon questioned the scholar.

  “Those histories themselves were written at least two centuries before that event took place, Your Majesty,” Prentice replied. “However, there is a locked room hidden somewhere within the archives that is forbidden to us all. Byrd would have the key to that room, for it is passed down from one head librarian to the next. If I could gain access to that room perhaps I might find the answers you are seeking.”

  “I shall speak with Byrd, and have him give you the key then,” Dillon said. Then stepping into the shadows of the scholar’s chamber, he directed himself to where the elderly head librarian sat behind his desk. “Good morrow, Byrd,” Dillon spoke.

  The old man looked up. He had been concentrating upon a book, and his hearing no longer good, he had not observed Dillon’s arrival. “Your Majesty!” He stood politely.

  “You hold a key to a locked room within your archives,” Dillon said. “I should like that key, and then you will take Prentice and me to that room.”

  “Your Majesty, I will gladly give you the key,” the old man said, and he carefully extricated an old-fashioned brass key from the large key ring attached to his rope belt, handing it over to Dillon, “but I cannot take you to the room because I do not know where it is.”

  “How can you not know where it is?” Dillon asked him. “You have a key. Did not your predecessor tell you where it was when he passed the key on to you?”

  “My predecessor did not know where the room was, nor did his predecessor, and so forth back many, many generations, Your Majesty. The key has been passed down to each of us holding this post at the Academy, for it is tradition that the head librarian hold the key to the forbidden room, but no one has ever known where the forbidden chamber is. That, too, is tradition.”

  “Are you even certain it exists?” Dillon asked Byrd.

  “Of course it exists. I have the key to it,” the old head librarian replied.

  Dillon didn’t know whether to laugh or to weep at Byrd’s answer. Thanking him, he returned to Prentice’s rooms by more conventional means in order to have a few moments alone to think it all through. Entering the scholar’s abode, he told him of his conversation with Byrd. Prentice did laugh out loud at the old man’s assurances that even though no one knew where the room was that it did exist because he had the key. Dillon joined him in laughter, and they sat down together over two cups of strong tea.

  “Come with me into our archives, Your Majesty,” Prentice said. “Perhaps two sets of eyes can find the door to this room.”

  Together the two men went to the archival chamber, but although they searched and searched for several long hou
rs, they could find no evidence at all of a hidden chamber. They finally returned to the scholar’s cozy chambers.

  “I wonder now myself if this room exists,” Prentice said.

  “It exists,” Dillon said certain. “A head librarian in your distant past filled that room with books he did not want scrutinized by just anyone. He locked the door to that chamber, and the key has been past down ever since. I do not believe this is a myth, Prentice. But somewhere along the line, that room was enchanted and concealed by means of magic. It can only be found by magic. I will need more help than Cinnia or the dragon can give me, for this is special magic that was worked to hide that room. I will call upon my father and ask that he send my uncle, Prince Cirillo of the Forest Faeries to me. Cirillo and I are of an age, and we were raised together in my father’s palace of Shunnar where we studied the strongest magic. Together he and I can find this chamber, and then, Prentice, we will unlock its secrets!” Dillon stood, and with a swirl of his cloak he disappeared.

  The scholar ran a bony hand through his graying red hair. The young king was quite interesting and intelligent. And his interest in Prentice had already drawn the curiosity of several of the more important scholars at the Academy. In time, he thought, I shall be vindicated, and others will see that my studies of our ancient past are not foolish. And now he would meet a faerie prince. Prentice wondered if there had ever been faeries in Belmair. Until now he had never considered it.

  Dillon returned to his library. “Permit no one to disturb me,” he told Gara. Seating himself by the fireplace, he said silently, Father, I need you. Several moments later Kaliq appeared from the shadows in the room. Rising to greet his sire, Dillon embraced him, and without any preamble said, “I need Cirillo. Can you bring him to me? Or must I return to Shunnar and meet with him there?”