by JANRAE FRANK
* * * *
Mohanja snatched up his crutch and limped with startling swiftness out of the chamber, and down the hall, swinging the leg along in a manner that reflected his growing practice and his emotions. He headed across the Great Central Hall and out across the quad, forcing Sha and Edouina to jog to keep up. His expression was tight and unreadable except to Sha, who could see the grief in his eyes. She finally overtook him on the temple steps.
"Damn it, Sha!" Mohanja cursed, finally venting a little. "You should have sent for me when they found him. I should never have had to find out in the damned council chambers, in front of all those people that he had died. Of how he died." His lips drew back from his clenched teeth.
"Mohanja, Eshraf thought–"
"I don't give a bloody fucking damn what Eshraf thought! Yukiah was my friend! The older I get the fewer of those I have. More and more of them are dead." Mohanja shifted the crutch around to lean it against the wall while he jerked the door open and saw the way the nave looked full of weeping students, and that made his throat tighten so that he could not speak for a moment. It also served to remind him to stop cursing. He seemed to be doing more and more of that lately. His nerves were fraying in an appalling manner and degree. Mohanja reined himself in and noticed that it was getting hard for him to do so. If he could not find some serious ways to start spending these coins of anger on direct actions of his own against the enemy ... he feared what other things the coins might find to spend themselves upon without his conscious permission or awareness. His mother had called his father's drunkenness "spending the coins of anger." But his father had not been a violent man, not even while drunk.
"Where have they placed his body, Sha? I want to see him." Mohanja headed for the nave. She caught his arm with a sigh and started drawing him toward the west end away from the greater chapel. He shook her off, frowning.
"You won't be able to look at him right away. They haven't brought the casket down yet. He was too badly torn up."
"Oh, gods."
Sha closed her eyes with a deep breath. "There were bones protruding. An eye half gone... They set a partial stasis." Sha told it in halting words and half strangled tones that twisted Mohanja's insides. Then the gathered crowds made way and the casket came in. Cloth of black and gold covered it. Priests laid it on a slab before the altar. They removed and folded the cloth, then carefully opened it so the body could be viewed. Half of Yukiah's face had been masked in black leather, the part that could not be repaired, and buckled in place with straps. It made the big mon ache. Yukiah wore his dress uniform with the bands of his rank on his shoulders and his sword in his hands.
"His rings, Sha," Mohanja whispered. "Where are his rings?"
Sha frowned. "He was not wearing them last night. I am certain of it. You mean the square cut ruby with the ten of cats and the agate and emerald that was his brother's?"
"Yes, that's exactly what I mean."
"Osterbridge said it looked as if his body had been stripped, but they recovered the locket, the swords, the dagger and his harness."
"But not the rings ... some vamp bastard has his rings."
* * * *
Hubris. Hubris. Hubris. Hubris. Dynarien thought the words, yet they hummed in the back of his throat. He sat wrapped in a blanket in a comfortable chair with no shirt on. The greatest nightmare imaginable to him had happened. After centuries of warning his sister to avoid the Nine Elder Gods and the nethergod, he had drawn them down upon himself. He had been captured and bound by both Kalirion and Hadjys. How in the name of all that was holy could he have done this? He was the one who always counseled caution in the affairs of deities. It was Dynanna who always blundered in. Of course, it was Dynanna who always got into trouble and then he took the beatings for it... Of course... Until now.
They had marked him. His father would be angry with him for making this bargain. Especially for a yuwenghau like himself who only had a fragile fragment of a soul to begin with. The Hadjys brand of the book and the blade and the tendriled rune that was now burned over his heart could rip that slender soul shard out of him in a blink. His father would not be able to save him again. Not even a stasis spell would keep Hadjys from snatching him. Dynarien opened his hand and stared at his palm, seeing the flame brand of Kalirion burned into it. What would they do? Trade him around as a party favor? Or did they intend to use him as leverage to gain his sister in marriage? Oh, creation, what had he done?
The pain worsened and he doubled over in the chair. Had he not been so totally spent and exhausted, it would not have been so bad, he could have gotten past it. Now, it just seemed to overwhelm him.
Jimi rose from his chair and went to Dynarien with a glass of brownish liquid.
"What's that?" Dynarien asked, suspiciously.
"Something your sister sent."
"It's going to taste awful. I know it." Dynarien heaved a huge sigh and grabbed the chair arm to return himself into an upright position. He took it from Jimi and chugged it. Dynarien grimaced. All of Dynanna's healing concoctions tasted nasty and he suspected she did that deliberately. But it was not long before he felt better. He stretched out again, folding his arms behind his head. "You should be with Jysy."
"I don't mind being here," Jimi said, a wry earnestness in his eyes. "I would not have Jysy if it were not for you. I'm in love with her, you know."
Dynarien grinned at him. "There's a lot of that going around."
"It's the state of human affairs," the fifteen-year-old rogue philosophized. "A man has got to have a woman. It's lonely otherwise." A shadow passed across his face.
"Still no word from your family?"
Jimi shook his head.
"When this is over, assuming we live through it, I'll go look for them. Or find someone else to. Like Lokynen Willidar or Dynarien Fire-heart the Battle-Master or a Taladri like Timjimikin Mymkier."
"You know them?" Jimi exclaimed before he could stop himself and then felt foolish because he was talking to a yuwenghau.
Dynarien laughed, although it made his sides hurt. "Well, Lokynen once beat the holy hell out of me for borrowing his face for a friend."
"You borrowed his face?"
Dynarien blushed. "Sort of. I am not a shifter. I'm a chameleon. Don't tell anyone. We use our talents and gifts very conservatively, secretively and rarely. You never know how something is going to turn out. Or what you will be revealing to your enemies. Say, you can turn into a fox. So your enemy kills all the fox in the forest. Then rats over populate and that spreads disease and then the people all die. Cause and effect. It's rather how this world destroyed itself once. So I copied Lokynen's ugly face onto a friend's and Lokynen found out and beat me for it. But being a basically kind fellow, he didn't kill me."
"And the others?"
"Fire-heart is my cousin and Timi is my son. I will tell you more stories another time. I need to rest."
Jimi looked a little disappointed as Dynarien closed his eyes.
Dynarien had finally found the point where he could sleep and rest and stop worrying. He dreamed and in his dreams his spirit traveled in response to a summons he could not resist.
He found himself standing in an elaborate palace. Huge vaulted chambers in cool, soothing colors, dark but not threatening. There were soft couches and divans along the walls. Now and again a shadow would slide across the burgundy marble of the floors, visible only because they showed against the white veins. Again he sensed no threat in them. He felt a soft beckoning to his left and walked in that direction. A whisper of need, like a touch of memory, and the mark on his chest warmed gently. Then he knew where he was.
All the chambers were alike. He passed through seven tremendous archways and entered at last into a room that contained a bed. It was canopied like a clamshell and tasseled at each fluting edge in gold in contrast to the burgundy velvet cloth. In the middle of it lay a man with eyes of muted flame as if the fires were dimming. Dynarien recognized him and gasped, going to his side and kneeling.<
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"Hadjys!"
The nethergod did not look at him and Dynarien grasped his hand. Hadjys' fingers tightened weakly. "I am blind. I made you my eyes in Creeya. The Glistening One. Her avatar is in Creeya. I learned too late. My sons – your nephews – are in Murshay'di preventing the opening... of the Gate of the Hellgod. If you do not stop her I will perish."
Dynarien bowed his head, sucking in a heavy breath, feeling both shamed and worried. "Forgive me for doubting your reasons for marking me. I had no idea. I swear to do everything in my power to uncover her and stop her."
"If I could see. If I could only see." Hadjys' voice was soft with weariness and deeply edged with frustration. "The dark ones already assemble to try and retake my hells to release the souls I punish for their crimes so that they might reek havoc upon the innocent and helpless again."
"I am certain I know who it is. But if I do this wrong, it will throw your realm into civil war and your worshipers will destroy themselves."
"Ahhhhh. Do what you must. Only do it quickly. You are growing wise, young one."
Then Dynarien woke from his spirit journey.
* * * *
Osterbridge occupied the largest chair in the main meeting chamber of their star room. Isen sat nearby, watching him with concerned eyes well laden with disappointment. Last night he had put his bride to bed, and then slept in a separate room. "I can't do this."
"It is for Isen's protection," Mikkal argued. "The marriage must be consummated immediately, and its evidence given to the temple to record. So long as she remains virgin, the dark one can simply steal Isen as they have stolen Talons. Believe me, the council will have her Read and checked. They can invalidate the marriage and give her to someone else. Do you want that to happen?"
Only a male could sit the throne in his own right should the main lineage be wiped out, which Galee was near to doing. Only two women, in all the centuries, had had enough power and primacy to defy that rule successfully. Isen was too young and inexperienced to achieve that. So by custom her husband would become Grand Master, assuming he were Guild, as Osterbridge was.
"No, of course not. But..." Osterbridge squirmed, glancing at Isen.
Mikkal shot him a glance as sharp as the point of a crossbow bolt. "Don't tell me you're impotent."
Osterbridge flushed. "I'm not. It works just fine." He ducked his head and glanced sidewise at Isen.
"Please," she said. "I am of age. I know you'll be gentle with me."
"We cannot wait two years for her to be old enough by your standards. When you have done what is needful you will toss the bloody sheets out the door. I will have a mid-wife confirm that she is no longer maiden and we will declare the marriage consummated. We will make an old-fashioned country lord's fuss over it, making out that some of the students and instructors come from Isen's holdings. Should the dark ones even begin to suspect that this is the branch clan they will be too late to claim it."
"You're assuming we might not get the ones at the top?"
"We cannot guarantee anything. We must plan for all possibilities. Furthermore, you must get her with child as quickly as possible."
Osterbridge sighed. He wished Mikkal would stop saying things like that. These things were for people like his lost friends. "I – I can't."
"Ceejorn, can you love me?" Isen asked.
He gave her a long look. "I've never loved a woman like I love you."
"Then take me upstairs and make me safe."
Isen gazed at him with such longing and love that it spitted him to the core. He shivered. His world narrowed until all that existed was her eyes.
Mikkal saw what was passing between them, and slipped from the room without another word.
Osterbridge could not argue with what he saw in her eyes. So he rose and took her hand, leading her to the bedroom.
Isen faced him before the bed, but he simply settled himself in a chair. "Please."
Ceejorn shook his head, caught again between conscience and duty. He simply couldn't stop seeing her as a little more than a child and that bothered him. But if he did not accept his bride quickly then the entire realm remained in danger. If only she had been born a male!
She got the fire going hot in the hearth to warm the room and disrobed. He watched her drop each piece of clothing and licked his lips as his cock rose to attention. Isen turned toward him, nude. He sucked in a breath at her youthful perfection, longing to touch her and be touched by her.
"This isn't just about us, Ceejorn. It is about the realm. We must make an heir quickly. It is paramount among the nobility. Secure the succession."
"Oh god, don't say that." His hands clenched up on the table. "I'll never be able to do it." He felt his body's response and refused to look at her nudity. Osterbridge had wanted to sheathe himself inside her for months, to feel her warm, moist, tightness close around his cock, to mouth her nipples, to feel her small body beneath him.
Isen brought a bottle of wine from a cabinet, a pair of glasses, and a small vial. She poured wine, and then added the contents of the vial to the glass she extended to Osterbridge.
"What did you put into that?" Osterbridge asked, suspiciously.
"An aphrodisiac. Something to help you." She ran her hands suggestively up and down her body.
"And you expect me to drink it?" He stared at the glass and then at her.
"I am strong enough to handle it." She put his hand around the glass. "Drink and it will steady you to the task at hand."
"I am not nobility," he protested. "You're too good for me, Isen."
Isen leaned in and kissed him, her tongue parting his lips. His hands closed on her breasts, kneading them, and she moaned, arching her back.
Osterbridge set her aside, drained his glass, and regarded her.
"You became a noble when you married me. My father trusted me to you. My mother told me to pick a man by his deeds, not by his riches or high status."
"You are so beautiful." His gaze dropped to her loins with a heavy exhalation, and he parted the lips of her womanhood with his finger.
"You desire me?"
Osterbridge looked full upon her, feeling his cock grow harder. "I have every desire for you, Isen. Yet I keep feeling as if I would be violating you."
Isen unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it back over his shoulders. "Your reluctance is the violation. I was bred up in the knowledge that I might have to marry as soon as I came of age and bear children should anything happen to my father. Now he is dead. For the sake of the realm, bed me."
He shrugged out of his shirt. Isen stroked his smooth chest while he ran his hands up and down her body. Osterbridge cherished the softness of her skin. Isen untied his pants, and pushed them down until his erection came free. She caressed his cock in soft touches.
"It's big," Isen murmured.
"I've been told I'm too large... I'll try not to hurt you," he whispered into her hair.
Isen swallowed in a surge of unexpected nervousness. "You'll be gentle."
Osterbridge slipped the rest of the way out of his pants, and left them on the floor. He swept her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. "I love you, Isen."
"I know." She stretched out atop the bed, and parted her legs to him.
He climbed onto the bed, knelt between her legs, and covered her breasts with his hands. Osterbridge squeezed and kneaded each ripe mound.
"My hymen is thick and strong, because of my gifts. You'll have to strike hard to get through it, but don't panic if you hurt me."
Osterbridge rolled his eyes at her. "Now you tell me." He'd never made love to a magically gifted woman before. It figured there would be some differences. He mouthed her nipple, and put an end to the conversation by sucking on it until she was moaning insanely beneath him. Then he set to work on the other nipple. She had tears of ecstasy in her eyes when he finished.
He ran his hands up her thighs, kissing and licking her belly. His fingers explored her vagina and, finding it wet, shifted his body to cover her.
She reached for him, guiding him inside.
"Do your duty," she whispered. "Give the kingdom an heir."
Isen was right: the hymen was thick and resisted him, forcing him to thrust hard to tear it. She cried out in pain, and whimpered before the savagery required to open her completely.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"Keep going. Keep going," Isen whispered hoarsely.
"I'm in all the way. Are you all right?"
"Shut up and fuck me," she said with a trace of exasperation.
Osterbridge began to move in gentle rhythm, wanting desperately to hurt her as little as possible. Her tight vagina sucked him, gripping and releasing, gripping and releasing, sending an intense sensation through him. She wrapped her legs across his buttocks, forcing him deeper yet, while her pelvis moved in rhythm with his. Osterbridge bent his mouth to hers, kissing her deeply as the pressure in his loins built to its climax and he erupted within her. Then he dropped away, rolling onto his side, and dragged her to him. "I love you, Isen."
She snuggled in his arms and they fell asleep together.
* * * *
Galee, Wrathscar, and Ambrose watched the funeral from a balcony of the palace. Eshraf had warded the temple grounds so tightly that none of them could step foot onto the grounds to attend. The casket would be laid to rest on the innermost gardens, a great honor. Galee seethed.
"You are certain, Ambrose, that this cannot be traced to you."
"It's been three days. Had he lived long enough to tell anyone I stuck him, I would already be arrested." Ambrose leaned against the railing with an indolent air, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth.
"I want you to pack and leave. I will send for you after the wedding."
"So be it." Ambrose bowed himself out.
As he strode through the suite, and started down the corridor to his own chambers, Ambrose's hand slipped into his pocket and he played with his new set of rings. When word came to him that Yukiah's rings were missing, he had slipped out and searched beneath the bushes where his wife had died fighting the armsmaster. He found them and now had his souvenirs. Milady had been a thoughtful wife, all things considered, even if she had liked to shove it in his face at times that she was the one who turned him. He would take several myn-at-arms with him, including several that he, himself, had turned, along for greater protection. Ambrose had no desire to end as she had with a stake or a blade through his heart by misjudging his enemies' dangerousness.
