Conquests and Crowns

by S E Meliers

  ‘I suppose, but not really in the way you are thinking,’ she responded, her hands stroked up around his navel, up his chest to his shoulders. ‘You have never been touched gently, have you, Gallant?’ she said softly. ‘Your flesh cringes and your hair stands on edge anticipating pain. You have never been hugged, never been kissed, never been held, or stroked or loved. You are so… vicious and despicable and vile to the world, but I can see what is inside you. I can see your vulnerabilities, your wounds. We are here, in this moment, with you tied to your bed, because of all the minds I have heard, yours is the most… broken,’ she said the last word with such rawness that he felt it in his bones.

  ‘Argh!’ he screamed in his mind and bucked again, trying to throw her from him. ‘How dare you dig through my mind like it was refuse on the street and you a rag picker. My mind is private. My thoughts, my memories - sacrosanct.’ He thrashed like a wild creature, and she stood rather than be unseated by violence, standing over him with compassion on her face until he exhausted himself and rubbed his skin raw against his bindings.

  When he was still, she knelt, straddling him again, and drew a rag from somewhere on the bed between his legs. ‘It will be easier for you, if you cannot see,’ she said and tied it over his head so he was totally blind. For a moment, panic reared its ugly head, and she placed a hand on his chest. ‘Shhh, you are not blind, Gallant,’ she said with empathy. ‘Your eye is fine. Shhh.’

  In the darkness he felt the bed shift as she stood again and shifted from foot to foot, and then moved to the side of him. She settled into the pose she had been in when he awoke, lying against his side, except this time bare skin slid against his – she had removed her clothing. She rested her head on his shoulder, lying a leg across his belly, not touching his genitals but nearly so, and half lay upon him so her breast and stomach were pressed against him. She laid an arm on his chest, palm flat just below his nipple. When she breathed, her breath stirred his chest hair.

  He lay tense and resenting, roiling with anger; trying to project thoughts of violence into her mind.

  She lay so still and relaxed that he thought she must have fallen asleep.

  He pulled at the ropes that bound him, trying not to shake her and cause her to stir. The bindings were strong – too tight to twist free of, though not so tight as to cut off circulation, with just enough slack that he could move his limbs enough to stop them from going numb, but not enough that he could actually do anything. He had no choice but to lay there and stew on his helplessness.

  The darkness was alternatingly soothing and terrifying. There were memories of dark places that he did not wish to revisit, memories that were filled with pain, fear and betrayal. His skin crawled as his vulnerability and helplessness in the dark let the demons in.

  He remembered the black cloth of his mother’s skirts. She always wore black, from her chin to her toes, and her pale face was always pinched, her eyes always skittish. He knew, with a child’s sensitivity, that he revolted her, but with a child’s limited comprehension, he did not know why.

  He remembered well his father’s heavy hand knocking him from his feet, his mother cowering her arms thrown up over hear face to protect it. He remembered being locked in dark, small places, until his muscles cramped and he soiled himself. He remembered being beaten for his messes. He remembered hunger, and thirst, and pain. He could not remember his father’s face. Had he never dared look so high as to see it? He did not know.

  He remembered his father passing him to the red robed Priests. He did not know how old he was, but he was small. Scrawny and small. He remembered being taken into the temple for training. The regimented routine, the drudgery of menial labour, the hours bent over parchment and pen learning of the Monad. The Priests’ quick with a blow. He remembered being tied to a pole in the courtyard and drenched with water, left to shiver throughout the cold night as penance for some petty crime.

  He remembered losing his eye, and shied away from the memory, shaking and skin crawling.

  He remembered things he had thought lost to time, and cursed Prairie for her torture. But, without the ability to see, he gradually became more aware of sensation. The silk of her skin against his as she shifted a little against him, the softness of her curves, the warmth of her, the slight tickle of the end of her braid drifting across the sensitive skin beneath his arm. She carried with her the scent of sunshine on a garden, of lush flowers opening to the sky, of soil warm and fertile.

  The steady rise and fall of her chest as she breathed was soothing. He found himself breathing in time. The heat from her flesh seemed to seep into him, and her sunlight scent banished the dark memories from his mind. It was, he realised, nice to lie skin to skin with another person. He liked the weight of her leg across his belly, and the way the palm of her hand felt against his chest.

  Because she was right, he thought disconcerted, he had no memories of being touched, or touching another, with kindness, gentleness, or compassion. And he wondered if, maybe, that was something he lacked that he had not known until this moment as it was nice, in a way that felt the same as having a drink when you had been thirsty for a long time, or eating after a fast – as if touching sated some hunger and need.

  She moved a little, lifting her head and kissing him, just below his jawline. His body stirred with her movement, the shift of her leg grazed over his manhood, and his cock rose to attention. She kissed the side of his neck, just alongside the column of his throat, and he moaned against his gag as the touch of her lips there sent sparks of sensation down his chest, across his belly, to his throbbing cock.

  She lifted herself up and straddled him again, so that he slid through her folds, a sensation so ridiculously pleasurable he thought he would explode, his body lifting and seeking that touch again. Her hands braced on his chest, their touch gentle, and she shifted her hips so that his cock was trapped between them and her wetness slicked from the mushroomed head to his balls and back with a pressure that had him grunting like an animal, mad with need. She repeated the motion until he thought he would die from the pressure that coiled within him, before shifting forward and grazing her lips against his jaw and chin and reaching between them to lift the head of his cock into position.

  He thrashed against his bonds, instinctually wanting to clasp his hands over her hips and guide her down his length, abrading his skin with his struggles. ‘Gently, Gallant,’ she said softly. ‘Just relax.’ Her fingertips drifted over his face with tenderness. ‘Shhhh.’

  He was suspended, confused and taut, between the tenderness of her touch on his face and the pleasure between his legs. She lowered herself a little and his tip pushed up, between tight muscle that squeezed him in a way that made him lightheaded, into a moist warm haven that he had never even fantasised of before. Suddenly much of what went on around him at court made sense. He had never understood lust, baffled by the drive that would make men and women do such foolish things. But this, this, was indescribable.

  The deeper he went, the more his thoughts scattered into primal patterns, until he was seated fully within her and she began to withdraw. He grunted out in protest, thrusting his hips, seeking back into that warmth. She laughed, delighted in his madness, and began a rhythm that had him gasping and bucking against her as sensation drew his balls up tight against his body and a tension wound almost painfully within. ‘Argh, argh,’ he cried out against his gag as something changed within her and a new warmth flooded over him, her internal muscles pulsating.

  Something within him exploded, and he came, roaring against the material in his mouth.

  For a long time, his mind was empty of everything except the pounding, pounding of his heart.

  She lay across him, a warm blanket of surprisingly heavy flesh. He wondered what it would be like to run the palms of his hands across her skin as he drifted off to sleep. When he awoke, he was no longer blindfolded, gagged or bound, and she had covered his nakedness with a blanket. Looking around the room, he found that he was alone. />
  And, for the first time, he was lonely.

  Cinder

  The receiving chamber was grandly proportioned and had three large windows, the centre opening onto a balcony. All shutters were open, letting in fresh air carrying with it the sharp piney scent of the Truen woods and setting the embroidered curtains, drawn back and tied, to billowing as they caught the breeze in their folds. Truen castle was stone-built, but the grandest chambers had been wood panelled, and in this particular room, the wood panelling had been plastered and the plaster pasted over with a delicately patterned silk in gold and green. This layering also served to provide the room with insulation against draughts. The wooden floor was almost completely covered with a very large darker green and gold rug. The furniture was all cushioned and upholstered in material that matched the curtains. A daybed was covered in a velvet throw and piled high with cushions all green and gold.

  There were four doors set into opposite walls of the chamber. One was the entrance to the chamber, its partner a small chamber for the maid or manservant attending the owner of the chambers. Opposite a door led into a large bedchamber, and the fourth door opened into a generously proportioned washroom with a large sunken tub.

  Inside the chamber, a large round table was set centrally and currently hosted a range of maps and paperweights - little carven soldiers representing armies, rearing horses representing calvary, and toy sized archers representing themselves. The table was crowded with chairs of a jumble of styles and colours, obviously gathered from different chambers, and all except two of these chairs now stood empty. Cinder sat at the head of the table whilst at the other end, Song hemmed a tiny baby garment with an intricate lace of crown-like three petal flowers linked by vines and curling leaves.

  At the main door to the chamber, Granite stood guard, and at the door to the bedchamber where Lady Patience rested, Obsidian matched his pose of alertness. Shade reclined on the rug before the empty fireplace, to all appearances asleep, though Cinder personally thought it an act. There was something off about the man; but he could not quite place it.

  The door to the bed chamber opened and the healer, Earnest, stepped through, pulling the heavy door closed quietly behind her. ‘How goes my Lady?’ Cinder asked standing as the healer approached.

  ‘Well, my Prince, well,’ Earnest put the bag she carried onto the table carefully. ‘She is recovering well from the shock. Her injuries were minor and are all but healed. I would recommend she rest as much as possible for the remainder of this pregnancy however just as a precaution.’

  ‘There is a risk to the child?’ Cinder was upset.

  ‘I do not think so,’ Earnest drew out some bandage and a carved wooden container. ‘But as this is your heir, my Prince, I wish to err on the side of caution. The Lady Patience is advised to take a short sedate walk in the gardens twice a day, but to spend the remainder of her time resting. She is to avoid stressful situations and people.’

  ‘Understood,’ Cinder exchanged a glance with Obsidian who had been re-assigned to guard the Lady and Obsidian nodded. ‘It will be taken care of.’ There was one person he knew to frighten Patience, and that was Gallant. ‘What about… relations?’ he asked quietly.

  Earnest bit her bottom lip. ‘That would be up to how the Lady is feeling,’ she said cautiously. ‘If she is feeling delicate, I would not advise it.’

  Cinder nodded his head in acceptance.

  ‘I would see to your wound whilst I am here, my Prince,’ Earnest offered hesitantly.

  Cinder grimaced. ‘Must you?’ he grumbled but capitulated, pulling his shirt over his head. ‘I believe it is improving under your latest ministrations,’ he added as the healer unwound the covering of bandages. ‘It is not as painful as it was.’

  She pulled aside the padding over the wound and examined his flesh without comment. Cinder looked at it and sighed. ‘It looks no better however,’ he admitted. The wound itself was black in a way that no flesh should ever be, and in a patch as large as his hand a lacework of purple veins could be seen strongly nearest the wound, fading away as they grew further from the site.

  ‘The wound is cold to touch,’ Earnest murmured as she stroked some ointment over it. ‘I have never seen the like.’

  ‘Necromantic magic,’ Cinder acknowledged.

  ‘What did you say?’ Shade sat up and rose to his feet in a fluid motion.

  Something clicked into place, and Cinder lurched to his feet, accidentally knocking Earnest back as he roared: ‘You!’ at the necromancer.

  Without knowing the reason, Obsidian and Granite drew sword against the necromancer.

  ‘Now, now,’ Shade said.

  ‘Do not harm him!’ Patience said from the doorway to the bed chamber.

  ‘This is the necromancer from Lyendar,’ Cinder ground out stepping to place himself between Shade and Patience. ‘The same necromancer who I ordered killed by the dragons, and who is responsible for the spell on this cursed wound that will not heal.’

  Patience saw the wound and gasped. ‘Is that true?’ she asked Shade beseechingly. ‘Did you do this to Cinder?’

  ‘Indirectly,’ Shade said. ‘Be calm,’ he warned the guards as their blades shifted towards him. ‘When I spelled some arrows for Honesty, the Prince, here, was my employer’s enemy. And I did not know that he was the target… suspected, perhaps. As I explained to you, my Lady, I do not take sides, I take employment. You are now my employer, and I am your humble and loyal employee.’

  ‘Until you are employed elsewhere,’ Patience acknowledged. ‘He speaks the truth, Cinder. He came to me and was upfront. He is not allied with Rhyndelian or Shoethal; he is merely a mercenary for hire. His contract with Honesty expired when the Lord was lost with Lyendar. His skills could be invaluable to you, so I accepted his employ.’

  ‘Can you fix this?’ Cinder demanded gesturing to his shoulder.

  Shade swallowed. ‘Ahhh,’ he shot a glance at Song. ‘Not immediately,’ he admitted. ‘It was not a spell that was ever meant to be reversed. I can stop the spread, even repair some of the damage, but I cannot heal it immediately and completely.’

  ‘Do what you can,’ Cinder growled sitting back down at the table. ‘I tire of slowly rotting.’

  ‘Do you have a bowl and some bandage?’ Shade murmured to the healer. Earnest dug into her bag producing a small wooden bowl and a neat roll of cloth. ‘Perfect,’ he accepted it and placed it on the table. He folded back the sleeve of his shirt. ‘I am going to reach for the dagger at my hip,’ he warned Granite. ‘I need it for this; do not kill me by mistake, please.’

  ‘Let him get his dagger, but take his head if he tries to strike with it,’ Cinder frowned.

  ‘Thank you,’ Shade inclined his head. He took the dagger from his hip and slashed it across his forearm – the limb already riddled with similar scars. ‘Necromantic magic,’ he explained, ‘is often based on blood. Some are so bold as to use bone, but I am too attached to my appendages for that. After a while, even we cease to heal and I would prefer to wear a scar than be short a finger or a toe.’ The blood dripped into the small little bowl.

  ‘As a little of my blood went into the magic that caused the wound, a little of my blood will ease it,’ he went on to explain as Song bandaged his wound. ‘May I?’ he asked Earnest who started to protest then sighed, waving a hand in resigned assent as he was already fishing through her bag. ‘You are remarkably well provisioned,’ he complimented her.

  ‘I do my best,’ she kept a keen eye on him.

  ‘But I will need some of my own supplies. Song, would you?’ he asked his paramour who nodded and slipped between the guards.

  Cinder caught her by her wrist. ‘If you poison me, my men will kill him slowly and in horrible ways, do you understand?’ he asked her. She sighed, rolled her eyes and nodded. He released her. ‘Let her go,’ he nodded to Granite whose hand had tightened about the hilt of his sword. ‘She understands.’

  ‘Indeed she does,’ Shade’s jaw was tight. ‘Thou
gh I do not appreciate you laying your hands upon her and threatening her, my Prince,’ he ground out. ‘Song is of a delicate nature and should not be subject to manhandling.’

  ‘My men will do far worse to her if you do me harm,’ Cinder met his glower squarely. ‘Get on with it.’

  Shade nodded. ‘How long ago was the rue dried?’ he asked pinching it between his fingers.

  ‘Last spring,’ Earnest was nervous, the threatening exchanges intimidating her. ‘It should still be potent.’

  ‘Very good,’ he sprinkled some on the blood. ‘And do you have some thyme?’ he went rustling back into the bag. ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘That is freshly off the drying lines,’ she said.

  ‘Excellent. Should buy us a month or two,’ he added a generous portion to the potion. ‘A touch of sage…’ he looked up as the door opened and Song re-entered carrying a small pouch. ‘Wonderful,’ he said. ‘Oh, must you be so…’ he added irritated as Granite took it from her suspiciously.

  ‘It is empty,’ Granite said to Cinder after peeking into the bag.

  ‘Of course it would be empty to you,’ Shade growled. ‘Necromancer, remember. Esoteric. Arcane. Dangerous. Will you never learn,’ he shook his head incredulously. ‘Ignoramus.’ He spat a couple of words out in the language of magic that made his audience recoil clutching at their ears.

  Cinder re-evaluated him immediately. There was power behind the man, and danger. He exchanged a look with Obsidian who moved into a better position to strike if needed.

  ‘Yes,’ Shade told them sternly catching the silent exchange. ‘Now you start to comprehend; I might look furry and cute, but I have sharp teeth. Ah, dead man’s bone,’ he reached into the empty pouch and reduced a small vial which he sprinkled into the bowl, before returning it. ‘Witches berry, the skins only you understand,’ he said to Earnest who blinked at him without comprehension. ‘And something courtesy of your dragons, my Prince,’ he added smugly. ‘It is called Ardur.’ He sprinkled this into the bowl too.