by C. L. Wilson
“Of course.” Vale didn’t hesitate to raise his cup. “To your beauty and grace, Majesty.” He took a small sip, then gave a short laugh when she did not respond in kind. “Your suspicion cuts me to the quick, My Queen.” With a shrug and a wry smile, he tilted his head back and emptied the remaining keflee in one quick gulp.
She sipped hers, then made a pleased sound and sipped again. He was right about the blend. She did like it. The brew was strong, like nothing she’d ever experienced before. Pure enchantment in liquid form. She sipped again, taking more of the keflee into her mouth and letting the flavors caress her senses.
“Well? Is it everything I promised?”
She swallowed and stifled a moan as the languid warmth slid down into her belly. “Hmm?” She struggled to pull her thoughts together. “Oh, yes, it’s quite good.”
“I’m so glad. Here, let me warm your cup.” He poured another small stream of steaming liquid into her half-full cup, and the gentle splash of liquid became a soft melody ringing in her ears. The room grew warmer, the scent of the keflee stronger and more intoxicating. Her eyes closed against the riot of colors and sensations bombarding her. Her hands—or were they someone else’s?—guided the cup to her lips. A voice crooned, urging her to drink more, and, helpless to resist, she did.
A fresh wave of warmth suffused her body. The cacophony of sound faded, grew muffled, and then there was only a voice, low and hypnotic, murmuring to her, saying something about Dorian, something troubling.
Feeling dizzy, Annoura lifted a hand to her head. Just that faint tightening of her bodice as her arm moved sent bursts of heat exploding all over her body. Fire raced through her veins, licking at her skin with hot little tongues. Her knees went weak. Gods have mercy. The sensations flooding her body were more potent than the sexual energy that had rushed through the courtroom the day the Tairen Soul had claimed his mate. Her eyes fluttered, trying to open, but her lids were so heavy.
“Shh. Hush, my sweet.” A hard hand slid round her waist, a man’s hand, firm and strong, fingers splayed on her spine, pressing her forward. She leaned into a hard, muscular chest, and moaned as lips tracked burning kisses up her throat and swirled around her ear. Tremors shot through her like lightning bolts. Ah, gods, Dorian had always delighted in tormenting her ear, knowing what it did to her. He would laugh deep in his throat and do it again and again until she melted against him, pleading for mercy.
“Dorian,” she protested.
“You don’t want him, darling. He doesn’t appreciate you the way he should. I’ve seen how he puts the Fey before you, how he allows the rabble to hold you up to ridicule.”
She frowned. No, no, that was wrong. Dorian was the only man for her. She’d never known what love was until she’d met him. Her parents led cold, political lives, using each other, their children, any and everyone to their personal advantage. Dorian had shown her a different way. He’d been the first man to make her believe there could be—should be—something more to marriage than power, politics, and procreation. He’d come to Capellas as an envoy from his father. And when he’d been brought before the royal family for presentation, he’d taken one look at her and forgotten every word he’d been supposed to say. His steward had had to read the message for him from the parchment that had slipped out of Dorian’s hands.
For the next two months, he’d pursued her with such single-minded dedication and romance, she’d been utterly overwhelmed. He’d made it clear he wanted her for his queen, and made it equally clear that his desire had nothing to do with politics or power. When he left the shores of Capellas, she went with him, his ring on her finger. She’d never once looked back, never once missed the cold beauty of her homeland.
“You should be more than a queen.” The voice pulled her back from her memories. “You should be an Empress. The Fey should bow to your rule, not you to theirs.”
Yes, that was what she’d always wanted. Glory for herself and Dorian, the power to rule with wisdom and benevolence. He’d always been content with Celieria alone, but she was Capellan enough to want more.
“You can have all the power you desire. All you have to do is give yourself to me.”
A hand slid up her waist. A rich, male scent, cool and darkly sweet, filled her nostrils. She frowned in confusion. That wasn’t Dorian’s scent; it was another’s. Fingers cupped her breast and squeezed through the stiffened layers of her bodice. Not Dorian’s hand.
“Give yourself to me, sweetness,” the voice crooned again. Her flesh swelled at the sound, aching, eager to obey. But the speaker wasn’t Dorian.
Her eyes flashed open and she looked up into Vale’s face, beautiful, sexual, ruddy with passion. He was holding her in his arms, his hips tilted in and up, pressing his sex against hers through the thick layers of her skirt, touching her with an intimacy no man but Dorian ever had. Shock shattered her strange hypnosis. She wrenched herself out of his hands and shoved him away.
“Oh, gods.” She cupped her hands over her mouth. Her blood was still pounding, her breasts and womb aching, all but weeping. Her whole body was on fire, screaming for release, but she couldn’t—wouldn’t—do this. “Oh, gods, what am I doing? What was I thinking?”
“Annoura?” Vale reached for her.
She lurched back, evading his hands. “Don’t call me that!” Only Dorian called her that. Only he had the right. “You must go! Now! Now!” she shrieked when he reached for her again. No matter how hurt and angry Dorian had made her this morning, she still loved him. Even if that weren’t the case, she was his queen, and this was treason.
Vale drew back instantly. “I’m sorry. Forgive me.” His face had lost its color. “The brew went to my head. I’ll go, of course.” He bowed low, and for the first time his movements were stiff and graceless rather than the dance of sensual masculine beauty that had always so enticed her. “Forgive me, My Queen. I never meant to cause you such distress.”
“Just go,” she cried. “Get out of my sight!”
Straightening, he pivoted on one heel and strode out.
Oh, gods, oh, gods. The keflee pot was still steaming its treacherous seductive fragrance. She snatched it up in a burst of fury and threw it against the wall. Dark liquid splattered, spreading out in a huge, ruinous stain, a blot as dark as the one on her honor. The smell became an overwhelming stench. She ran for the garderobe, leaned over the privy shaft, and vomited in violent, racking heaves until nothing remained in her stomach but emptiness and bile. Frantic to rid herself of every last vestige of the hideous potion, she rinsed and scrubbed her mouth and teeth again and again until she could no longer taste the slightest hint of keflee.
When she was done, she dragged in a long, shuddering breath and tried to calm herself. The task was an impossibility. Vale’s brew was still inside her, still working its vile magic upon her. Every move was a torment, every swish of silk an acute torture.
She needed Dorian. Now.
Pausing only to straighten her hair and appearance—there was nothing she could do about the wild glitter in her eyes—she exited the chamber through the main door. She sailed past the crowd of courtiers lingering in the sunlit atrium nearby and walked as swiftly as she dared to Dorian’s office. He was still there, his steward with him.
“Leave us,” she commanded.
The steward cast her a startled look, then glanced uncertainly at her husband. Dorian eyed the flush of color on her cheeks and signaled the steward to obey.
“We aren’t to be disturbed,” she ordered, then closed the door in the steward’s face.
“What is it, my d—” Dorian’s voice broke off. His hazel eyes widened as she strode towards him, ripping at the laces of her bodice as she went. “Annoura?”
The bodice string snapped in her hands. The stiffened fabric parted. “Dorian…” She ripped at the sleeves of her gown, almost sobbing as she struggled to pull the loose fabric free and shove it down in a puddle at her feet. She stepped out of the pile of silk, clad only in a sheer chemis
e, corset, silk hose, and heels. He started to rise from his chair, but she pushed him back down and straddled him. “Dorian, tell me you love me. Tell me now.”
Bewildered, he said, “Of course, I love you. You know I do.” He frowned. “What’s wrong, my dearest?”
“Nothing. Everything.” She clutched his face in desperate hands and kissed him, rocking her hips against his until she felt his body begin to harden in response. When his arms came up around her, she closed her eyes to hold back the tears of relief. “Love me, Dorian. Right here, right now. Love me and make everything all right.”
Yanking off Ser Vale’s silk doublet to cool his overheated body, Kolis stalked down the palace hallway. Fury vibrated in his bones and his blood thundered in his veins. Dark Lord steal his soul! He’d almost ruined everything. The keflee had been potent indeed, laced with a Feraz additive intended to drive her into his arms. He’d had to drink it too, thanks to her suspicious nature, and the effects were far stronger than even the most concentrated keflee could have been. He’d thought that drink would be enough to cloud her senses and get her to accept the first Mark. Instead he’d come close to destroying months of work in one rash, unthinking act. If he lost the queen—if she banished him from her court—the High Mage would be enraged.
He opened the door to the small suite Annoura had given him when Ser Vale had become one of her Favorites. A flash of bright color caught the edge of his vision and he turned to see the trailing edge of a woman’s skirts disappear around his bedchamber door. Temper bit hard. Lust bit harder. “Come here,” he commanded.
Fabric rustled. Jiarine Montevero stepped out of his bedchamber into the small parlor of his suite. “It didn’t go well, I presume.” Her lips twisted. “I told you it wouldn’t. It’s too soon. She still loves him. You must break that before you can break her.”
“I said come.” The temperature in the room dropped sharply.
Jiarine turned pale. The sardonic triumph fell from her like an untied veil. She hurried towards him. When she drew close enough, he grabbed her arm and pinned her against the wall, grinding his hips against hers. His hands plunged into her bodice and tugged her generous breasts free of their confinement, finding the nipples and squeezing them until she cried out.
“You find my failure amusing, umagi?”
“No!” she gasped, groaning as he twisted her flesh. “Never.”
“Whom do you serve, Jiarine?”
She gasped again and offered up her mouth, her throat, those lush, lovely breasts. “You, master. Only you.”
His head ducked. He took a nipple in his mouth and bit down. She moaned, her hand clenching tight in his hair, a shudder rippling through her. The hot, sweet smell of surrender burst from her in a heady rush, sweeping across his heightened senses. He traced his fingers over the creamy skin of her left breast. Trails of carefully masked magic followed behind. Six shadowy Marks grew visible on her flesh, six small points of darkness forming a circle over her heart. Six Mage Marks that ensured his absolute power over her.
“I own you, my sweet umagi. Let me hear you say it.”
“You own me, my lord, body and soul. I live only to serve you.”
Savage triumph roared through him at the completeness of her willing, even eager, surrender. He spun her around roughly and flipped up her skirts. Beneath them, she wore the pleasure girl’s undergarments he’d given her months ago, slippery red satin, slit from crotch to anus for his convenience. Plump, shaved flesh pouted through the edges of the fabric, and the scent of musk wafted up in rich waves. His cock jumped in response.
“Then find a way to break her for me, pet. You’ve had a year, and still she resists. You must do better.” He grabbed her hair and pulled her head back, forcing her back to arch. The motion shoved her bare breasts against the chamber’s fabric-covered walls. Her nipples, already tight, became diamond-hard points as the textured fabric rubbed against them.
She was sobbing, hips squirming. “I will, master. I promise.”
“Good. You won’t like the consequences if you fail me.”
He kneed her thighs apart, and drove into her in one brutal thrust. There was no time for niceties—not that he’d ever been a tender lover, and not that Jiarine had ever minded. Her body slammed against the wall from the force of his penetration. She gave a soft, choked cry, then a raspy, muttered plea for more as her hot, wet flesh clasped tightly around him. Sweet, succulent Jiarine. Such a pleasure in so many ways. So willing to take whatever he had to offer, no matter how brutally he offered it. Obligingly, his hips drew back, then rammed forward again.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Great Sun had just risen when Sian vel Sendaris and Torel vel Carlian, the two Fey warriors dispatched by Belliard vel Jelani to seek information about the Feyreisa’s origins, arrived in the small northern city of Norban. They’d made good time, traveling light and moving fast, resting one bell for every three they ran and shaving seventy miles off the journey by running cross-country from Vrest to Hartslea before picking up the North Road for the remaining distance. They had actually arrived the night before and waited just outside the village, watching until the shadows of night retreated and the residents began to stir.
Sian and Torel entered by the main road, meeting scores of surprised and suspicious stares with stone-faced calm, and began to systematically work their way through the city. From home to home, shop to shop, they searched for answers to the mystery of the Feyreisa’s past. They did not ask about a red-haired infant abandoned in the forests two dozen years before. Instead, they inquired after Pars Grolin, a journeyman smith with bright red hair to whom the Fey owed a debt of gratitude. He might, Sian told the people he questioned, have been traveling with his small daughter.
It was the truth, though it had been stretched a bit. Fey honor prevented warriors from telling outright lies, but tairen craftiness allowed them to dance on the blade’s edge of truth when necessary. There really had been a red-haired journeyman smith named Pars Grolin, and he really had traveled through Norban. About seven hundred years earlier. Sian and Torel simply avoided mentioning specific time-frames. And—who knew?—maybe Pars really had brought his daughter with him on one of his travels.
Though it pained them to do so, Sian and Torel attempted to shake hands with each individual they met, using skin-to-skin contact to probe the minds of Norban’s citizens and follow any memories aroused by the mention of bright red hair and small girls. Many of the Celierians refused to touch the Fey, either from fear or distrust, and Sian and Torel resorted to probing the minds of those doubters with careful weaves of Spirit.
The warriors’ progress through the town was slow, and they did not go unnoticed.
Ellie spent a much quieter morning than the one she’d suffered through the previous day. She woke to find the top of her nightstand draped with a diamond necklace fit for a queen, the stones large and of obvious quality, the chains so delicate she could break them without effort. The message of the gift, she surmised, ran something along the lines of “wear the trappings of a queen if you must, but know you can shed them any time you choose.”
To the consternation of Lauriana and all the tradesfolk, Rain arrived very early and made himself both visible and threatening as he stood at her side, arms crossed over his chest, fingers touching the scarlet hilt of his deadly Fey’cha. When any of the tradesfolk became the least bit pushy or rude, he would fix glowing eyes upon the offender and growl deep in his throat. Three seamstresses had to be carried out after they fainted in fright. And even though Ellysetta chided them for their wickedness, the Fey warriors laughed silently among themselves and cast bets on how long it would be before the next young lady keeled over and how many would swoon before lunchtime.
The morning passed quickly, and soon Lillis and Lorelle returned from their studies and clamored for their promised afternoon in the park. At least five dozen children were waiting when the four of them arrived. Ellie recognized barely half of the waiting youngsters; the rest
were children she had never met, a mix ranging from the well-dressed offspring of merchants and simple-gentry to ragged street urchins and every social stratum in between. Each child clutched a Stones pouch and sported a wide-eyed, hopeful look as the Fey king entered the park.
Ellie bit her lip to stop from laughing. Word of the earlier Stones match with the Feyreisen had obviously spread through the West End and beyond. “I hope you’re feeling up to another match, Rain,” she murmured. “Because I don’t think they’re here to play with me.”
Rain looked utterly taken aback. “Do you think they just decided to gather here on the off chance I would show up?”
“Oh, no. I think they had forewarning.” She tilted her head towards Lillis and Lorelle.
“Ah.” He seemed to gird himself. “Well, I suppose we shouldn’t disappoint them.” Holding out his wrist for Ellie’s fingers, he escorted her to the Stones grid.
There were too many children to include all of them in a single round of Stones, so Rain divided them into groups by producing a handful of small coins that, once divided among the children, changed color to separate them into teams. Rain shed his weapons, and the games began—though only after Ellie made certain the rules prohibited all use of magic.
On their third game, Ellie and a boy she didn’t know—a street child, by the unkempt look of him—raced to claim a contested square. Laughing, she reached the square first. A split second later, he plowed into her at full speed, knocking them both off their feet.
“Ow!” She landed hard. Her elbows cracked on the unforgiving surface of the Stones grid. The boy’s knee caught her in the belly and drove the air from her lungs. As she lay there, gasping for breath, she caught a brief glimpse of the boy’s eyes beneath his grimy mop of hair.
For one strange, surreal moment, she could have sworn the child’s eyes were black, glowing with tiny red sparks.