Thrones of Desire

by Mitzi Szereto

  Hearing my name spoken by my caller summons the moisture from my loins and my pelvis rises in answer. The voice is nearly enough to send me over into the oblivion of bliss. My limbs pull taut as the strings on a lyre when plucked by the miniature hands of the King’s musicians when they perform in the public square. Like the women of childbearing age, the Small Ones are also imprisoned by their designated roles in society, their only function being to entertain just as ours is to procreate.

  Gwendolen.

  A hand reaches beneath my sleeping-dress and locates the core of moisture. A subtle shift of movement and I feel something sliding gently into me as warm lips close over mine. My thighs fall open as I sigh a name that I’d never dare to speak aloud. Despite the common bonds we share, even secrets cannot be shared in this place of women. The weight of another body is full upon me now, pressing me down into the straw mattress. The sound of my wetness fills the room as I’m penetrated with greater speed. A finger lays claim to that most responsive part of me, manipulating it with less gentleness than might be required. As my breath quickens, along with the beating of my heart, I find I don’t mind the roughness. The swiftness with which events take place below my waist is dizzying, and suddenly my body bucks and writhes against that of my pleasure-giver’s, my cry of delight hushed by a tongue as its muted response joins mine.

  And so we spend our nights, taking what joys there are to be found in the arms of a servant before being dispatched to the arms of an aged brute. Such is the destiny of women.

  The man I’m to marry is rich and powerful. He is a man who, with a casual flip of his hand, can have heads lopped off—and has. One of these heads shall be Father’s should our union not take place. I would not shed a tear if this came to pass. Indeed, I would cheer the loudest, for Father is no better than the filthy troll who seeks to penetrate and impregnate me. Yet I cannot curse my betrothed and wish he’d never lived, because without his life, my heart would be as barren as this land.

  For it is his son I desire.

  It is Evrain whom I love.

  It is his name I sigh when I am given pleasure.

  He is young and beautiful, his flesh smooth and unmarred by battle or the relentless sun that bakes dry everything beneath our feet. His eyes are as brilliant and multifaceted as the jewels in the King’s crown, and each time he looks at me, I experience a melting in the place where my thighs meet and a corresponding ache in my womb that I desire only to have filled by his sweet seed. How he can be the progeny of his father I cannot imagine, and I often wonder if his mother had secretly managed to offer a home inside her to the seed of another, rejecting the foul offering dispatched by her husband, Houdain. Oh, I can only wish it were so! For I could not love anything that originated from so repellent a creature as Houdain.

  Evrain is being groomed for battle and, despite his youth, has already proved a formidable swordsman. Soon it will be time for him to be sent into the hinterland, where he will be successful and acquire more land for our miserable kingdom, or be killed by foreign soldiers. Alas, his taste for blood is not as highly developed as those of his peers; he has no appetite for battle and death; to kill or be killed are not fates he seeks. But time is running out for him.

  And for me.

  To flee is what the women of our kingdom seek, though there are few among us who would survive the journey across the dead landscape to the rich green mists beyond—mists that hold the promise of a better life for those cursed to have been born female. It’s impossible to know if any of us has been successful; a woman’s disappearance can either signify that she’s gone to her death or, if she’s extremely fortunate, escaped from the land that dooms her. Not surprisingly, the men take every opportunity to regale us with tales of horror featuring great scaly creatures that exhale fire through their mouths and nostrils, turning everything in their path to cinders, especially foolish young women who think they can escape their destiny. And if one is so fortunate as to sneak past them, packs of red-eyed beasts with fangs sharper than the King’s finest sword lie in wait to make of her a meal. Whether these creatures exist I do not know, but they reportedly guard the borders of our land (as if anyone should wish to come here!), also making certain that no one passes through to the green sanctuary that lies beyond.

  As for whether I choose to believe in their existence, well…I am not as ignorant and silly as most of my fellow females; however, I’m also not willing to risk finding out for myself. Life is not easy for a woman without the guardianship of a man. Had I the protection and love of the one to whom I’ve given my heart, I might risk having my flesh scorched by these fire-breathing creatures or torn to shreds by their comrades if it meant I could be free. In fact, I might risk anything!

  And so we plot our escape, for Evrain does not desire to remain here any more than I do.

  My caller comes to me again in the night, full of quiet whispers and soft touches. But this time it’s different. The day of my wedding draws near and with each tender kiss upon my breast and each impassioned lick of my sex, we know that our stolen moments will soon be at an end. This bedchamber that is naught more than a prison cell may seem like a lovers’ paradise when compared with what awaits should my beloved Evrain and I fail in our escape. Yet as the heat of luxurious sensation builds in my loins, I muse upon a life far away from here—a simple and pure life with Evrain and myself living off the treasures the rich earth will offer us. We will build our home from the scented boughs of trees and walk barefoot on a blanket of cool green rather than being showered with gray dust, the smell of death perpetually in our nostrils. We will eat what is fresh and new and succulent rather than gnawing on what is gristly and old and dry.

  The tongue between my thighs continues to lave and probe and circle, and my body tenses. The wave is near and as I feel it rising, I keep my breath deep in my chest, knowing that tonight this wave will crash down upon me with greater force than ever. I feel something slipping inside me, though I’m so wet it barely registers. Only when it moves around to make love to my other opening do I finally realize it’s a finger—and that is when I lose myself. My pelvis hoists itself up in a maddened thrust, my hands clawing at the hair on the head moving between my thighs. “Evrain!” I sob into the night.

  Evrain and I conspire in the darkness. We cannot let many more days go past, as Houdain awaits me in his bed and has made it clear to Father that his patience has its limits. It matters not that our wedding day has already been set; Houdain has indicated that he wishes to consummate the marriage before it has even taken place!

  And there are few in our kingdom that would deny him what he wants, least of all Father, who shits himself at the mere sound of the man’s voice.

  Though my beloved does not share the bloodlust of others of his sex, Evrain is primed for the task at hand. We have discussed it in depth, and I believe in my heart that he’ll not suffer a moment’s guilt. Not only will it eliminate one problem, but it will serve as a cloak for our escape, a way of directing attention elsewhere. This is what we require for our plan to succeed. The fact that it involves murder does negligible damage to our consciences. Evrain would not mourn the loss of his father any more than I would the loss of mine. One is evil, the other a coward. Both are equal in deserving our hatred.

  It’s arranged for me to be ready when the moon is at its smallest in the night sky. There will be no time for lovemaking, yet nevertheless we do so, for we are unable to be in each other’s presence without the need to touch. The fact that Evrain has come to me with blood on his hands matters not. As always, he slips into my room in the guise of the female servant who has been slipping in all these many nights, the darkness and servant’s garb sufficient to avoid raising suspicion. I wonder if any of the others are clever enough to have conceived of such a ploy. Surely there must be more than one inside this stone prison that has loved.

  Evrain shucks off his servant’s garments, allowing them to fall to the floor, and climbs into my bed. I can feel his desire for me pres
sing against my mound before our lips even meet. The wet tip of him nuzzles me as he rubs it against my sensitive place, each movement as maddening as it is exhilarating. I want to shout out my joy, but we are so close to realizing our plan that I dare not. Instead I bite back all sound as he continues his movements, urging me toward release. His breath grows quicker and I wonder if he’s going to spill his seed before he manages to slide inside me. I feel he is close, as am I. And then it happens, and I’m soaring up toward the stone ceiling, his name catching like a hook in my throat. The pleasure is sweeter for knowing it may be the last.

  Evrain shifts position, yet before he can enter me, I too shift position and bend low to take him into my mouth. His shocked intake of breath is loud and reverberates off the walls. I have never tasted him or thought to do so, but this night has made me daring—the danger of death has made me daring. He is tangy sweet and musky all at the same time and my tongue licks hungrily of the moisture he gives me. “Gwendolen!” My name joins the echoes of his sighs and my heart swells with love as he swells in my mouth. I feel him pulse against my tongue and he pulls out quickly, placing himself between my thighs and entering me with one hard thrust.

  Our moment is short, for Evrain cannot hold back from his finish. His limbs tense and he collapses onto me with his full weight, his cry of pleasure smothering itself against my lips. It is at this moment that I know he has planted a child inside me. Now we have still more to lose if our plan does not succeed.

  We are as two shadows as we make our way out of the town. I’m wearing the coarse dark cloak Evrain brought for me, and it covers me from head to toe. There are still a few hours remaining before daylight and the discovery of Houdain, who was driven to take his own life for reasons known only to him. Though he did not leave behind a letter explaining his motives or instructing his family of his final wishes, his death was neat and quick and dispatched by his own hand and his favorite jeweled dagger. The fact that his hand received some assistance from the hand of his youngest son is unlikely to become known. Nor is it likely that anyone in the family should seek to question his end. Houdain was despised in equal measure by all, particularly Evrain’s eldest brother, who will now take control of the family’s fortune.

  Evrain holds tight to my hand, leading me farther and farther away from the town center and everything I’ve ever known since I first arrived screaming into this world. I’ve never ventured beyond these confines, and it’s exciting, yet terrifying as well. But with Evrain I am safe; he won’t let anything happen to me. Although it’s too dark to see each other, I know we’re both covered in a coating of gray dust. It’s impossible to step outside into the open without the dead soil of our land covering our skin and garments and getting into our eyes and nostrils. I wonder how many corpses I’ve inhaled in my lifetime, for our land is littered with their dust.

  Our last stolen moments of love return to me in a flash and suddenly I fear I’m experiencing the end of my life. They say you can see images pass through your mind when you’re near to death. If it is to be so, then I’m grateful I’ll die with Evrain’s seed inside me.

  I stumble over some rubble and cry out. Evrain’s hand moves quickly to close over my lips, though it’s already too late—the sound has been heard.

  “Who goes there?” comes the gruff shout of a man from somewhere in the blackness behind us.

  Evrain and I stop, our chests heaving with fear. We’re so close to the edge of the town that we can almost touch the hinterland. To be found out now would be cruel irony, indeed. We remain still, waiting for a second shout. When it doesn’t come, we continue on our way, our bodies stiff with unease.

  We know we have left the town behind us when we feel the cold biting through our garments like sharp teeth. There are no stone walls here to protect us, nothing to hide behind. We’re out in the open now and the dusty wind hits us at full force, the grit catching in our teeth so that we don’t dare try to speak for fear of it choking us. Evrain draws my hood down farther over my face in an attempt to shield my eyes; I can barely see now and I must cling to his arm like the unsighted beggars that take up residence in the town square whenever there’s a burial beneath stones, as if a discarded wife being put to her death is a festive occasion and worthy of inspiring the locals to be charitable toward the unfortunate.

  It feels as if we’ve walked for hours, though it’s possibly only minutes. The wind lashes at us and pushes us back toward where we came from, but we forge forward to the border. We will either leave this place forever or die; there’s no other option. I’m sick with fright as I recall the tales of fire-spitting creatures and beasts with fangs that can rip the flesh from my bones, and with every step we take I await their appearance, certain not even Evrain can save us from them.

  Yet as the night begins to give way to day, they do not come. And when at last we step away from the dead gray earth and into the misty green land beyond, I know they never will.

  I wake to music, the melody sweet and cheerful in my ears. Suddenly I fear I’m back in the town and it is the Small Ones playing their instruments in the square that I’m hearing. I nearly shriek in horror until I see the brilliant blue of the wide-open sky and the jewel-dappled green of the leaves that partially shade me from the sun. My breath flies out of me in a cloud of relief when I realize that I’m lying on a soft bed of green with my beloved by my side. The music is coming from the tiny feathered and winged creatures that roost on the boughs of the trees surrounding us. It’s birdsong. We didn’t have birdsong in our town. We didn’t have birds.

  Evrain takes me into his arms. I am home.

  EYEKEEPER

  Aurelia T. Evans

  Lydia stood in the middle of the cell. The floor under her bare feet was nothing but dirt and hay and dust mixed with disintegrated rat droppings. She had long since removed the cloth belt from between her legs where it held her skirt up away from her feet like pants. It was easier to creep around when skirts could not snag on corners, but she was not creeping now. She had been caught, betrayed by a man who should know better, sentenced to burn by the king whose coffers she pilfered, and shut away in the castle dungeon to await her execution at dawn.

  The sky through the window slit revealed stars. She could not yet smell the morning fog, and she still smelled ale and sweat on the breeze, which told her evening was still upon the city.

  There was a moldy pallet in the corner, next to a bucket. Lydia used neither, simply stood. Her clothing was ordinary and her face was smudged with dust. But something was different; something was wrong. It was a feeling in the gut, like looking into a forest and knowing there was a creature staring back, something silent and unseen. She smiled, the curve of her lips almost imperceptible.

  The woman whom the king called Witchthief waited.

  After the bell tower chimed ten, the warden entered. He could not look her in the eye, but his strong, narrow jaw was set, his fists inadvertently tight. He bore marks of distress and distraction—there were deep circles under his eyes and his stubble smudged his cheek like charcoal.

  “Good evening, Hann,” she said.

  He bowed slightly. The gesture was automatic and somewhat mocking. “Lydia.”

  “You have had a good evening, have you not?” Lydia asked. “Very lucrative.”

  He shut the door behind him. His keys clinked in the lock. “Where is the rest?”

  “You ‘rescued’ the bag when Micah alerted the king I was digging through his treasure room.” Lydia stepped forward. Her left ankle dragged behind a bit, laden as it was with an iron shackle that attached her to the wall. “You failed to inform me that Micah kept a Scrying Glass in there.”

  “I have been told that an artifact was also removed,” Hann interrupted. The timbre of his voice was official now. Cloaked in his profession, he found the fortitude to meet her eyes.

  “Is that what Micah told you?” Lydia’s expression remained placid and slightly bemused.

  “The king ordered me to search you fo
r any additional items stolen.”

  “I am sure it will be such a chore.” Her smile became perceptible.

  “Damn it, Lydia, where is the Oculum?” Hann shouted, grabbing her by her arms. When he shook her, he made her chains rattle. She just laughed, the low, husky sound vibrating over his flesh.

  “Search me.” She peered up at him through her dark eyelashes.

  “Words cannot describe how glad I am you will burn on the morrow,” Hann said. He pulled at the ties of her bodice, spreading it open before him with nothing but her light chemise underneath. As her skirts moved and brushed against her legs, the clink of metal on metal was more apparent. She could no longer cover it with the sound of her shackle. When Hann heard it, he raised an eyebrow.

  “Really, Lydia. What did you think you were going to do with the treasure? Bribe the ferryman to take you the other direction?” Hann asked. Slowly, he slid the bodice down and loosened the final ties so that the material of her dress slid down her legs. There was a heavy clink as the full pocket-lined skirts fell to the stone floor.

  Lydia said nothing, nor did her smile falter. She could see sweat forming above his lip as his gaze traveled from the ridge of her collarbone down to the shapes of her breasts under the thin chemise. Her remaining clothing was silent as he moved his hands over the full arms, down the back, against the skirts, now pressing against her firm thighs.