by A. S. Etaski
“Until he died. How, exactly?”
I shook my head and shrugged. “Until he gave up his will, and I had a sliver of my own mind back to seek the nearest stone and strike his temple. I broke the link, retrieved my dagger, slit his throat. After that, I could make it to Sivaraus. Braqth’s Threshold only took control of me again when I saw the Consort.”
“This was the second time you tried to sate it,” my Elder said, “not the first.”
“Yes, Elder. That’s everything.”
Again, D’Shea pondered like she read a scroll with great concentration. I swallowed, feeling my wine-sticky tongue and desperately wanting some water.
“Intriguing,” she whispered now. “And you still returned to the Sisterhood after that.”
I nodded warily. “I never intended to admit it, Elder.”
She smiled. “But you did. And why? Because your first time donning the Feldeu brought up this…impression a psionic Dwarf left upon your mind.” She rubbed her chin with two fingers. “Yes, that makes sense of what I saw. And heard.”
At her next look, I scooted a little back from her to sit cross-legged, folding my arms to hold myself. I couldn’t grasp what she wanted now.
“It is luck when one meets a powerful psionic Tragar, Sirana,” she said. “Most of them are either not gifted or are weakly so. But this one could push deep into your mind, and I believe he trapped himself in our divine magic when he did. He was trapped!”
She sounded almost excited, and I was sorry to learn why as she glanced at her Feldeu.
“There’s no telling what intelligence he left inside your mind.”
Oh, shit. Fucking shit. No.
I vehemently shook my head. “Elder D’Shea, no—”
She reached out to grip my forearm, peeling it away from my middle. “Listen to me carefully, Sirana. It shall be hard enough for Reishel to survive long enough to be trusted again after awakening from a psionic strike, and now I learn that you kept such an important secret after entering the Sisterhood. These are firsts, novice, which are always the hardest to pass muster. If a whisper of this comes known before I discover a way to placate the Prime and those more ignorant Sisters, our eldest just might do away with the both of you than deal with the unknown and I cannot stop her.”
My entire middle froze, and my skin raised to a thousand tiny pebbles across my shoulders and arms as my eyes widened.
“There must be tangible value in keeping you both,” she told me, her eyes fierce and confident, and she started to smile. “And I shall find it. Leave this to me, tell no one else, and for the praise of our Queen, do not allow another Sister to make you wear her Feldeu.”
I grimaced to think of Gaelan wanting to share but nodded. The Sorceress picked up the thick phallus and got off the bed as if the cycle was just beginning. She cleaned it herself, visiting the closet again to secure it and tend to the bitemark on her shoulder from a potion kit she had in there. I sat awkwardly without orders.
“Elder? What about…?”
“Hm?” She turned around to look at me.
“Using the Feldeu on you?”
The disrespect, I didn’t add. The violation.
“Oh.” My Elder nodded. “We shall try it again soon.”
I jerked in surprise on her bed. “What?”
“For certain. I take back my words about the strength of your will, Sirana. What you’ve told me proves I was right from the beginning. To survive a ritual controlled by a Priestess is impressive for most Davrin, but what you’ve just described goes far beyond that. We have only to discover your boundaries and learn what you already know.”
D’Shea paused, smiled slowly to see my face. “Next time will be good for me, too, you insubordinate, secret-keeping, Dwarf-fucker.”
CHAPTER 3
D’Shea had begun alternating my time between House Itlaun and House Aurenthin.
“Get closer,” she’d instructed. “Listen for voices.”
At last.
It was far easier to spy on those at Court, I knew; the tunnel system saw to it, and all novices began there. Less easy was it to spy on a House proper, to get close enough to hear or see anything useful while avoiding detection. The situation quickly could become sticky; any slips or witnesses must be dealt with, yet it could not always mean the death of the detector.
So, better to not be detected in the first place.
Regularly I crept close enough to begin recognizing faces, to listen to whispers or potentially read their hand sign. I didn’t catch everything, and most of my observation was still regular living not different from watching the carts going to and from a place from afar.
Nonetheless, I enjoyed watching individuals, learning more about them.
I enjoyed watching Jael Aurenthietti, in particular. I saw evidence of an iron will and a gleeful level of furious energy maintained beyond the battlefield where we’d met. I did not know anything of her past—D’Shea didn’t want me to know as it would color my reports—but it was arousing to watch her practice a soldier’s skills and push the patience of those larger than her. Jael never showed if she was afraid, wouldn’t be intimidated as she readily snarled back, and she wanted more.
She just doesn’t know what might count as more, or what she can reach, as I didn’t.
The Fourth Daughter wasn’t right for the part of a Matron. She was reactive by habit and impulsive by nature. That role was already taken by her oldest sister anyway; three females would have to die before she would get a chance. Unlike me, she didn’t seem to want it. She was solitary in her family, like I had been, but left the grounds with surprising frequency. She volunteered for patrols, and her Matron and sisters seemed content to let her go.
Mine had blocked me off. They controlled me. I couldn’t leave. Couldn’t become better at fighting back.
Jael fought back all the time, but not against sisters. Her violent sparring on the grounds of the worn plantation was against others with whom she had no close connection beyond similar training. Not often did I observe her coupling, but what I saw was just enough. Jael was fierce even then. I witnessed her take a few of both sexes, but slightly more female. I didn’t know if that was significant or not, but I was pleased.
Interested.
She usually overbore the other; she was the dominant by using threats and physical means, but it almost seemed she was disappointed when they submitted, even after a healthy struggle. Myself, I liked when they submitted by choice; the buas especially.
It made me wonder whether some part of her wished someone was strong enough to defeat her; other females, perhaps, who might wipe that sneer of contempt from her face.
I know plenty of Red Sisters who could do that for you, Fourth.
I thought she was right for us, and not just for the fact that then she could be the youngest Red Sister to take my place. She was right for Rausery, more so than D’Shea, and we needed candidates to replace those we’d lost. I wanted us to Collect her.
Don’t push too hard. Include the flaws in your reports.
Impulsive. Strong temper. Bitter toward Priestesses and Houses above hers—which included everyone—and unwise in some of the things she said even to her allies. Her Matron must be tolerant of that tongue because Jael did nothing with it. She remained on the outside, because she may not survive long if she was required to live inside. She was aimless.
But give her some direction on that outside?
Something to do beyond the norms of a low life, retrain her perception to minimize the lop-sided importance of her House’s number. She would go for it, I felt.
Rausery would want her.
By contrast, I quickly grew bored watching Curgia and Tulia with their Mother and Aunt. Middling-to-low status, I only witnessed in the House modest implications of medium-term plotting. Much business and merchant speak, utter fear and compliance with any suggestions, directives, or hints which came from the Priestesses. They over-analyzed every detail, tying the
ir own web tighter and smaller around themselves in their anxiety. The only interesting part was that, after half a turn, I could spot the same subtle signs of pregnancy in both sisters. One was gloriously proud of it and the other tried desperately to hide it.
D’Shea had smirked to hear this. “Hm. I wonder which sire matches which belly?”
Most of my spying was slow-paced; Jael was the pleasant exception. Even watching the Consort mate with one of the House Nobles was boring. They never tapped his potential, never saw him as more than a prize, a status symbol, and they treated him like fine crystal which could be chipped or cracked during a bit of play. They were as mechanical as Tulia had been on the altar.
As for the Royal Consort himself, he was compliant and placid; he orgasmed oh-so-prettily for them, performing as expected.
Deceiver. You can handle much more than that.
I wondered how his interest in sex did not flag after these many decades of greedy caits and their Mothers shuffling over him as he lay on his back.
Eventually, I would take the opportunity to speak with the Consort alone.
“Where is the Other?” the Consort asked after setting the sound-dampener Ward on his quarters.
“Only myself this eve.”
A pause. I smiled. He swallowed. I tried not to laugh.
The next moment, resolve came to his stance.
“What do you want, Red Sister?” he asked, flexing his left hand.
“An update since my last visit, aus.”
He tilted his head at the compliment, as I implied his potential value in a pet name used for jewelry boxes. He nodded, offering what he knew, or claimed to know, in his steady and pretty voice. What he said amounted to two Daughters of Itlaun were pregnant, and he was “too late” to be the sire of one of them.
“Curgia still carries, but is hiding it,” he said. “I do not know who has leverage over her.”
Only the same Priestess who owns you, darling.
I wasn’t sure I believed him. What if Curgia had confided in him, or what if Wilsira herself made a taunting remark in his hearing before he landed on the Worship Ball’s altar? Unlike the reports to his Priestess, he could be lying to the Sisterhood; foolish as I saw that, we must take what he said with a grain of salt. I did have an open objective related to that. D’Shea would want the leverage if I could get it.
“I see. Is that all?”
He nodded.
“Do you lie, either in fact or by omission?”
“No, Red Sister.”
He didn’t look away at first while I stared at fine, scarlet eyes, but he soon blinked, gazing to the side and shifting his weight on his decorated, sandaled feet. He wore a similar outfit to the last time I’d seen him, but this time the pale blue cloth around his waist and draped artfully over one shoulder was finer quality. He likely wore nothing else beneath.
A gift for the given, wrapped up and ready.
I smiled salaciously, trailing a hot gaze up his legs, lingering on his crotch, waist, chest and shoulders. I admired that his hair was down, free-flowing, contrasted with mine when on a mission: tight-plaited and bound against the back of my neck. He also wore a different circlet around his throat; still of the round belly symbol but integrating House Itlaun’s crest. It looked brand-new.
I ended my appraisal with an appreciative hum as I nodded as if having decided. “I have some spare time, then.”
His eyes widened a fraction, and he took a step back. “Red Sister, no, please, I have told you before, if my Mistress—”
I closed the distance between us even as he backed up. My voice was coarse. “Where do you think telling me anything from your lying mouth is going to have the result you want?”
“I am not lying!” he exclaimed, bumping into the wardrobe with his back and giving it a startled glance before looking back at me. “Forgive my slip, Sister. I beg of you.”
I ignored that and stepped chest-to-chest. “It conflicts with another report about Curgia’s condition, Beautiful. One of you is lying.”
I took hold of the bottom of his wrap, my soft, leather glove brushing along his thigh as I tried to raise it up. He possessed the spirit to grab another part of the cloth—not my wrist, the Consort did use intelligence—and hold it down. His resistance made my crotch warm. The fabric was taut enough between us that one sharp tug on my part would tear it. I wanted to. The sound would be satisfying and stroke my hunger.
But then he’d have to explain it to his Mistresses.
“I am not the liar, the other is,” he said. “I cannot be the sire of the child Curgia carries. She would not hide it if I were.”
I huffed. “So prideful of your seed, Consort?”
“I am sold and traded all over Sivaraus for the purpose of spreading it, Sister.”
I hesitated at the resentful edge of his mouth as he looked down and away from me. I tossed that direction aside although I did not let go of his wrap.
“Under which circumstances would you guess she would hide it?”
He shrugged helplessly. “Anything unplanned and unapproved, Sister.”
“Vague theory, nothing more. Any thoughts on Curgia specifically?”
The Consort’s jaw tightened. “I do not know what happened to her.”
I did.
“Guess, aus.” I took his chin to steer his eyes into mine. “I ask for your opinion.”
He breathed out and swallowed, caged against his wardrobe. “My guess, Sister… is she was forced to conceive.”
I quirked one brow. “Sounds unlikely. Could be a dalliance with a low-born servant.”
He shook his head. “Obtaining a purging potion is possible for a Noble. I also know how she and her Mother wanted a Consort. Curgia is not impulsive. And… I am familiar with the signs of force, Red Sister. I have observed it my whole existence.”
“Experienced it once, too,” I quipped. “Seems no one escapes it in Sivaraus, hm?”
His face flushed warmly, reminding me how he’d looked with the root jammed in his mouth and his wrists tied. The responding thrill in my belly was difficult for me to hide. I kept talking.
“Why would those ‘signs’ be the same in a cait as a bua? I assume you’ve been watching limp staffs brought low. It’s not common for grown females.”
The Consort looked delightfully angry at my bald lie, his life energy churning and spinning beneath his skin from his chest up to his face before he got himself under control. “Females are forced as males are. The signs are the same.”
“Oh?” I wanted to hear this.
He stared at me in disbelief. “Consorts all know why even the highest female Nobles fear you, Red Sister. You are the worst and most cruel in your power, and none below the Priesthood are excused. I am not even certain children are spared.”
He hadn’t gone the direction I wanted at all, and a hot flash of anger and insult swept through me instead. I was sure he saw it beneath my skin. However, I smirked and chose not to enlighten him. Yes, the Red Sisters killed children sometimes when necessary, but no children were to know the Feldeu. Elders’ orders. As for my own view, there wasn’t another rule guiding the Sisterhood that I wouldn’t report on faster, should I witness it.
I let go of the cloth of his wrap and slid my hand toward his inner thigh, reaching beneath to cup his testicles. He jumped, and I smiled.
As I thought. Naked underneath.
Our breath quickened, mixed, and he pushed at my wrist in a silent plea. I let my hand return to his smooth thigh and leaned to sniff his neck. I remembered.
“Goddess, you smell so good, bua.”
He gasped. “Please, do not—”
“Who would know?” I growled. “No one, unless you told them. I know you wouldn’t.”
“Sister, please, I beg—”
“Aw, poor, pampered slut. Don’t you want me?”
It was a ridiculous question. I teased him, shoved his reluctance against his words t
o make them dance for me. I caressed his privates again, this time over the surface of the cloth. I paused to discover him partially erect and swiftly becoming thicker.
Then his secret tremored near my ear. “Yes.”
I blinked, my lips hovering above his collarbone.
Yes?
My intentions muddled severely by that one word, I inhaled the sweet scent again, touched my lips to his shoulder, tasting him. I massaged his cock firmly; only a few pumps, and it became fully erect in my hand. Harder than when I’d forced stiffness from him during our first encounter. I heard him suppress most of a moan—a genuine one—which he tried and failed to cover.
I clenched my jaw with how much I wanted him right then. I hadn’t had a real bua since throwing him upon a table, and I’d been too insane at the time to enjoy it. We hadn’t even finished.
Then, before the Consort, was Kain.
Elder D’Shea knows.
I sucked in air and straightened up to look at the Consort’s eyes, shoving some of my ardor to the side with difficulty as my higher thoughts focused on his words as he spoke.
“Do not force me again,” he pleaded, quivering. “Red Sister, I would lie beneath you if I held the choice, but I do not. That choice is held by my Priestess. Use me as an informant, know I shall never mislead you by fact or omission, you or any Red Sister. But if I join with you, she will know, and my life could be forfeit if she so chooses. It will not matter that I had no choice but to submit to you.”
D’Shea’s objective just dropped into my lap, and I nearly missed it in my distraction, as those words aroused me to an aching fit.
“You speak of Priestess Wilsira,” I forced out, removing my hand, my fingers digging into the furniture behind him. Kerse’s Mother. “You belong to her, but you’ll share private words with the Sisterhood?”
He exhaled; his heart pounded in his chest. I heard the regret while seeing it on his face. “Y-yes, Red Sister, I will. Words exchanged are easier to hide than the aftermath of coupling.”
He could see my regret as well, I bet, as I recollected my renewed fertility. It struck me how I would never be able to support a favored male or invite a stuffed belly with him, yet the potential remained for the explicit benefit of the Sanctuary. What was the likelihood that, if I was stupid and indulgent enough to become pregnant by Wilsira’s Consort, that I would also be controlled by her while gestating the baby in the Sanctuary?
