The Kingdoms of Evil

by Daniel Bensen

  "No?"

  "Do not back away from that spot, my lord. Keep the lizard in your shadow. Now, thus," said Bloodbyrn, "the incision." With a tiny, deft movement, she slipped the little black blade over the ball of her thumb.

  Freetrick sucked in breath, but Bloodbyrn's expression did not change as a line of red drops appeared on her pale skin.

  "The god of Sangboire is the Master of Blood," she explained as the drops grew, merged, and became a tiny rivulet that flowed between the delicate fold of skin between the base of the thumb and the palm. "And He grants His worshippers control over the life fluid that springs from their bodies. An incision with an athame releases the fluid into the air where the effects of Blood-magic can be keenly observed. See now, my lord."

  Bloodbyrn tipped her hand until the blood ran out of its little pool in her palm. A shower of drops fell towards the ground.

  Then stopped.

  The spray of blood hung in the air for a moment the coalesced into a single drop. Large and round as a marble, it hung in the air under Bloodbyrn's outspread left hand. "My lord can see the extent of my control." She lifted that hand, and with a pulse of light and heat, the wound in her palm closed. "I can maintain it over distances…" the blood drop whizzed suddenly through the air with a sound like an angry bee, shooting past Freetrick. "…and in a diversity of forms." There was another buzz and the blood drop sprang back toward its mistress. As Freetrick watched, the sphere burst into perhaps a dozen smaller drops, each of which began a separate orbit around Bloodbyrn's body.

  "In combat," Bloodbyrn said, unmoving within the rings of blood, "but a single drop of my life fluid may mingle with that of my opponent, and victory is mine."

  Freetrick blinked. There was suddenly a speck of blood, no larger than a raindrop, hovering in front of his face.

  "I could penetrate your skin," Bloodbyrn's voice was a whisper behind the menacing buzz of the blood drop, "seize control of your blood. Create a clot that could stop your heart, burst your brain, or simply cause paralyzing agony. With a single drop. Like this."

  Freetrick had no time to react as the lethal droplet blurred sideways. He could only follow the blood with his eyes as it shot away from him, then struck the pebbly skin of the lizard Bloodbyrn had placed on the ground in his shadow. The little animal jerked at the impact.

  "Wha—" Freetrick began, and then the lizard died.

  Freetrick's universe whirled and shrank to a point, held in the shadow under his body. For an endless moment, he floated in sensation. There was a last, sad, hiss, slow, queasy squirming of stubby legs, red blood welling over black stone.

  And power.

  Freetrick gasped as…something shot from the lizard's body into his. It was not quite hot, not quite bright. It felt…important. Somehow vital.

  Freetrick's hands twitched at his sides. The muscles along his back rolled and jerked. Lightning crackled between his eyelids. The power rushed into him, welled up between his lungs, flared out through his fingers. The air around him darkened and swirled with it, a miniature Maelstrom oozing out of his skin.

  The body of the lizard relaxed against the stone surface of the balcony.

  Freetrick flung himself backward and leaned, shaking and horror-stricken, against the side of the castle.

  Bloodbyrn was smiling at him. "Could you feel it, my lord?" Her voice was soft, but he could see her eyes were wide, her mouth open, hungry. "Yesss," she murmured, "you felt it. The death. Did you not."

  Freetrick shivered, hard and uncontrollably. "No."

  "You did, my lord. The death is in you. The power of the First God." Bloodbyrn's voice rose. Her bosom heaved. Her hands came up to clutch to hold. "You will be king." She came towards him grinning as madly as her father. "And I, I shall be---"

  "No!" Without thinking, Freetrick brought his own hands. He pushed…

  "Lord!" Blackness coalesced out of the air between them, coiling around Bloodbyrn and yanking her away from him. With a shout, she fell to her knees and clutched the stone as the misty tentacles tugged her toward the edge of the balcony.

  Freetrick drew in breath to shout for help, and the tentacles evaporated. Bloodbyrn's knees thumped back onto the stone, and she looked up at him.

  For a moment they stared at each other.

  "What the hell did you just do?" Freetrick demanded. Black smoke still whisped from his skin.

  "I have done nothing, my lord." Bloodbyrn shook her head as she got to her feet. "That was not blood-magic, but…"

  "Necromancy," came the whisper from the wall, where Mr. Skree perched.

  "The magic of the death." Bloodbyrn stepped farther away from the balcony's edge, toward the door. She looked completely composed, but Bloodbyrn could hardly have failed to realize that Freetrick had just very nearly shoved her off the balcony. "Aha, my lord. Once again we are taught to trust in the Twisted Ways."

  Freetrick stared at his hands. There was no sign now of the blackness that had oozed from his fingers. "What was that?"

  Bloodbyrn's self-congratulation stopped. "The magic of the death," she repeated, "From which the Despots of Skrea derive their power."

  "Indeed, mighty is his Malevolence," Mr. Skree's rasping voice rattled the screens in their casings.

  Freetrick stared at his hands.

  "Just so, Mr. Skree." Bloodbyrn sighed, as if relieved of a great weight.

  When Freetrick brought his eyes up, they snagged on the rounded form of the dead lizard. Bloodbyrn made an offering gesture at him, and when Freetrick gasped in disgust, she shrugged and plucked it from the ground. "If you do not require the body, my lord," she said, "I suppose we can dispose of it. Mr. Skree?"

  Bloodbyrn tossed the little animal off the balcony. Freetrick glimpsed something black swoop to catch the morsel.

  "So, did my lord not enjoy his, mmmh," she smirked, "first experience?"

  "No." Freetrick forced through numb lips. But he had. He remembered the feeling, the power that had filled him, had whirled up through him on its way to somewhere. He knew that he had felt the death of that animal.

  And he knew he wanted to feel it again.

  Chapter the Fifth

  In which the Ultimate Fiend accepts his Fate

  Zathara Nashta seSuyamuan did not let the orgasm come until the boy was finished. It took a great deal of self-control. After all, Zathara hadn't had sex in weeks. But the old habits came back.

  Zathara grinned in the darkness within her rickshaw. She stretched her arms over her head. Sweat rolled down her ribs. The boy's fingers dug into her ass.

  He had figured out quickly that Zathara liked slow, deep movements. A tactical mistake on her part. But it felt good when he arched his back and his hips lifted them both off the futon. Kind of the rickshaw operators to provide it.

  Zathara leaned over him. Her breasts settled against his chest. She parted her swollen lips and moaned softly for him. And he gave himself to her.

  Oh, but to see that submission. That release of his control, his body, his esteem for her. She was a goddess in his eyes. Under his hands. Around his cock. And she let her own climax come.

  It was good. But not as good as the power that flowed into her. Love-Magic.

  This, boys and girls, is why there is no nation better than the Nation of Love. Zathara stretched on top of the boy. His esteem filled her like burning honey. And Zathara came again.

  "Oh, thank you." Zathara rolled off her conquest and straightened inside the rickshaw. It was a medium-sized model. A room of wood large enough for two people to lie down, dragged by a team of two. Who had hopefully enjoyed the performance.

  "I thought you'd be easier." His expression was somewhere between grin and scowl. He knew he should be angry. But he can't seem to feel that emotion, can he? Boys never play the game of esteem very well, boys and girls.

  "Here's some free advice." Zathara leaned down over his waist. She bent far enough so that her nipples indented against his thighs. His penis twitched. "Not every new arrival to Pra
nyapura is a naive country girl. Next time make sure…" she translated the Rationalist idiom "that you haven't bitten off more than you can chew." Then she kissed him there. And expended a small amount of esteem.

  The penis jumped back up. It was as if he had not just spent himself in her.

  "Bitch," he groaned. And more esteem flowed from him.

  She laughed. She invested a small expenditure of her newly acquired esteem. Her red body wrap unreeled itself from the floor and twined over her body. "Well, I'm sure I'm keeping you from your work. Feel free to brag about me, though. My name is---"

  "Zathara Nashta seSuyamuan."

  Zathara lifted herself off the boy and called out to the person standing outside the rickshaw. "Oh. Hello, Daddy."

  She knew exactly how her father would cast himself. And yes, by the time they had dressed and opened the door, there he stood. He was a tall man. As all Love-wielder nobles are tall, boys and girls. Natural selection. His clothes were ostentatious in shades of yellow and red. His face was strong-featured, bearded, composed into lines that suggested wisdom and wit, cynicism. And just enough cruelty to be taken seriously in Pranyapura. "Who are you?"

  "Mithro," said the boy, "son of Ashvito."

  Nashtang Harsho seSuyamuan stroked the mustache of his well-trimmed beard. "Hello, Mithro, son of Ashvito."

  Behind Nashtang, the family palanquin rose against the pale buildings of Pranyapura like a gold-and-ochre fortress. The sigil of House Suyamuan shone on its forward face. The sigil was as big across as a man, blinding gold. The muscles of the eight bearers bulged and glistened. Flower chains and aromatic censors swung. Four family guardsmen shook out plumed helmets and threw their capes to reveal their glittering swords. And Zathara's father made a minute bow.

  "Goodbye, Mithro, son of Ashvito," said Nashtang.

  "M… my lord." Mithro bowed as deep as he could. Then he nearly ran to get away. Some of his clothing he carried in his arms. The rest he left behind in the rickshaw.

  Zathara watched him go. "Daddy," she said, "that was hardly fair." And she jumped into his embrace.

  "Us old men have to take esteem where we can find it, love. Welcome home, Zathara," said Nashtang Harsho seSuyamuan. "Oh, my daughter, I have missed you."

  "I missed you too, daddy." Zathara felt the esteem flow from her to her father, then back again.

  "How have the Rationalists been treating you?" Nashtang held his daughter's at arms' length and examined her. "Well enough, it seems. You look fabulous."

  Zathara smiled back at her father. "Reflected glow, Daddy. I'm just happy to be back home."

  A new voice, soft and precise, called out from the peak of the palanquin. "Then returns suit you. You must remember to make them more often." Zathara looked up at the palanquin resting on the paving stones of the plaza. Her mother was barely visible at the top of the tower.

  Neeshthura Angaplava seSuyamuan patted the cushion across from herself. "Come sit with me, Zathara. Tell us about your journey."

  Zathara stepped onto palanquin's little ladder. Her eyes ran over the intricately pattered cloth of the exterior, the polished and gilded beams extending out from the frame, hung with lanterns, censors, flowers. Cloth sunflowers nodded from the corners of canopy that covered the four-person seating compartment. And emblazoned on each side of the palanquin was the crest of House Suyamuga: a gold sunflower on an orange field with the motto: Turn toward Me.

  There was a moment of culture shock. An odd doubling of vision. To a Rationalist, the palanquin would look ridiculous. A carnival float. Ostentation, pointless and crass.

  But remember, boys and girls. Among the Love Wielders, image matters more than anything. The people down there are our people, and they must know it. Yes, a Rationalist transport sphere could move us faster, but would the common people gaze at us in such awe if we looked like everyone else?

  Zathara arrived at the peak of the conveyance and parted the gauzy, ridiculously expensive silk curtains. The scents of home billowed out: chocolate, chilies, tobacco, sage, Mother's perfume. A Love-wielder palanquin might progress slowly, boys and girls but it progresses with infinitely more majesty. Below them, the four guardsmen called out the order: "and…heave!"

  The eight bearers heaved. They rocked, steadied, began to move.

  Chains of bells jingled, sunflowers nodded toward each of the four directions. Smoking censors swept the air with hallucinogenic fumes. And under it all, a team of muscular men carried them down the boulevard.

  Now there is one reason to enjoy The Nation of Love, boys and girls. Or just girls, Madene. Zathara admired the muscles straining under shaved and oiled skins the color of mahogany. Those arms as thick around as my thighs, she thought, and yet, here I sit on top of them. And they thank me for the honor. That thought would not have occurred before her education in The Rationalist Union. So we see how physical strength matches against guile and intelligence. But that thought was pure Love-wielder.

  Below them, on the streets of Pranyapura, bright white parasols and canopies shaded nobles and merchant princes in their wraps of orange, green, blue. All flickered under the impossible purple of jacaranda blossoms. Above, the white and blue plaster geometries of the city spread out or reached up in graceful domes and arches. Beautiful men and women lounged on sedan chairs or in parked rickshaws, laughed at street-side cafes, proclaimed their joy or advertised for goods and services from out-jutting balconies and public address towers.

  "Zathara?"

  Zathara turned toward her mother. Her head swam a little. I guess I have lost some of my tolerance to sage and tobacco. "Yes, Mother?"

  Neeshthura's tall, slender form rocked in the dimness under the canopy. Hands and face long and regally pale, Love-wielder-curved breasts bound under a loose matronly fold of gold body-wrap.

  "So, Zathara." She asked "What do you have to tell us about college?"

  Zathara did not wince. But she really wanted to. Don't be deceived boys and girls. They aren't asking about school. We've had this conversation before. "It's all in the reports I sent to you," she said evenly.

  "Is that the case?" Nashtang raised an eyebrow. "Then I think your mother and I have reason to be concerned."

  Esteem flowed out of her.

  "Control your expression, Zathara," Neeshthura said. "We are only worried about you. After your performance at here in the Nation of Love after your Coming Out, I expected you would have suborned the Rationalist Dean by this time."

  Zathara exercised control as her mother continued "and your letters tell us you have not yet seduced a professor, let alone a member of the administration. Why have you not found any useful lovers at school? "

  "Zathara," said Nashtang, "This is not only about politics. It's not healthy to be so devoid of human contact."

  "Sex is not the only kind of human contact, Daddy," Zathara spoke calmly but inside she wanted the shriek. Haven't I explained this to you in my letters? Why do we have to have this conversation every time we talk to each other? The problem with Love-Magic was that esteem-worthiness depended entirely on the opinions of the audience. I'm losing esteem in The Nation of Love for doing the things that collect esteem in the RU.

  "Daddy," said Zathara, "I have in the past two years sent you five designs for Universal Science devices that will revolutionize communication, transportation, cryptography, agriculture, war. You know I'm doing my job."

  Zathara had spoken to her father. But it was her mother who answered, "Your job as first female child of our union is to strengthen House Suyamuga. Merchant schemes are all well and good," Neeshthura sliced off a sliver of her husband's esteem, "But your father and I are concerned you might be neglecting other areas. Areas that are of utmost importance to your future."

  Those would be the areas between my knees and my collar? Zathara thought bitterly. No, this is not the place for sarcasm.

  Zathara looked out the palanquin's curtains. They were making their way down Glory Boulevard. So below her were crowds of jostling pedes
trians. Couriers, ships-boys, apprentices, salesmen, streetwalking priestesses, Austerist senators. All living their lives away from their meddling ignorant parents. "I haven't been neglecting my social skills, Mother."

  "Truly?" said Neeshthura, "then why no seductions, Zathara? A seSuyamuan who cannot turn sex to her advantage—"

  Nashtang raised a hand, "Let the girl speak, Neeshthura." Don't mistake that for tenderness, boys and girls. That was a point against his wife, not a point for his daughter. He looked at Zathara, "I'm sure she has a good explanation."

  As a matter of fact, father, I do, Zathara thought with venom. And I have given it in every correspondence and conversation we have had in the past two years. "Mother, Daddy" she said, "believe me when I say that things are different in The Rationalist Union. Too much sex with too many people will lose one respect." I lost too many friends to that misunderstanding. She gritted her teeth again. And I will not let my parents remonstrate me for it.

  Zathara let her eyes focus out the opposite window. She could see one of the big posters for the new charismatarchal campaign. The doughy, pious face of Sapo the Austerist was as large the palanquin moving past it. And even that sight was preferable to the memory that wanted to tie her bowels into knots. It's one thing to accumulate disdain. But it's another thing entirely to make a fool of yourself for months without even being aware of it. Thank Love that Love-Magic doesn't work in The RU. But her parents still didn't understand.

  Outside, the buildings rolled past. Modern buildings were giving way to gew-gawed Renaissance and monolithic Temple Authority styles. The boulevard widened and branched into wide plazas. There, government spokesmen leaned out of public address towers, preaching the virtues of one charismatarchial candidate or another. "Come! Come! Kneel at the feet of Daro! He is mighty, Daro! He is wise! He will solve all your problems!"

  "Mistress Mirava knows your troubles. Come to her for the balm to relieve your heart."