The Beginning of Everything (The Rising Book 1)

by Kristen Ashley

  The huge man moved around the posted mattress to a stand at the side of its head where he used his large hand to shove things aside. Jars, bottles, coins, wisps of parchment and other items Drey couldn’t make out fell to the floor before he seized on one small bottle.

  With his back to Drey, he heard as the warrior uncorked it and he saw the movements of his powerful arms as he poured something into his hand.

  He replaced the bottle to the stand and turned, perfunctorily shoving the front of his trunks under his cock and balls, his hard, enormous phallus springing forth, and Drey instantly forgave the warrior for not admiring his (if he did claim so himself) trim and slight, but rather handsome physique.

  And as the warrior moved, he was stroking that phallus, coating it liberally with oil.

  Thus, when he made it back to the end of the long, wide, fluffy pallet on its high stand, Drey decided to take things in hand, figuratively and literally.

  He moved forward, reaching out, getting close, touching the warrior at his waist and rolling up on his toes to seek his mouth.

  “No bocca,” the warrior grunted.

  “Ma—” he started. But—

  Suddenly, he found the back of his neck seized and his cry of surprise was truncated when he was thrown through the air, landing facedown on the bed.

  He did not protest his new position when his hips were jerked up and back, so that his knees hit the edge of the shockingly downy mattress.

  He was not ready for the penetration when it came. Certainly with no preamble. And definitely not with the sheer size of the shaft he was taking.

  But Drey was as he was and this mattered not.

  Indeed, he came up off his hands with a “Yes,” in order to ride that brute.

  Only to be shoved down to the bed, face first, a strong hand again at the back of his neck, and he was the one being ridden.

  Hard.

  G’Drey could barely breathe with his face stuffed in the silk, but that only heightened his arousal. And when he again met his chosen one, he would introduce this to their play.

  Unquestionably.

  And it might be he’d find climax simply with the drives through his arse and the fire coursing through his system due to his need to breathe.

  Eventually.

  But right then, he needed a hand.

  When the warrior didn’t offer one, Drey slid one toward himself.

  He was close to his aching target when he took all of that big cock on a grunt from them both—the warrior’s, of effort, Drey’s, of pain—and then Drey’s hand was slapped away.

  “No,” came another grunt from the warrior.

  With difficulty, Drey forced his head to the side, he drew in a large breath and gasped, “But—”

  And again with the pounding.

  By the true gods, this beast was splendid.

  He felt himself beading.

  Maybe he would climax just from the thrusts.

  “Labbra, mia gazzella,” he heard murmured lovingly.

  G’Drey blinked against the silk blankets.

  His gazelle?

  Yes, he did have a trim, lithe physique so he could countenance that.

  But how could he give the warrior his mouth, now, when he was face down…

  “Forte, mio toro,” a woman’s voice came.

  His gaze jerked down the bed, and up as far as he could force it, as his arse took more, faster and harder, and he saw the be-ringed hands of a woman gliding around the warrior’s wall of brown-skinned chest.

  “Labbra.” He demanded her lips, his word guttural as thumbs rubbed his nipples, and they were not the warrior’s own.

  “Non dentro, mio amore. Solo per me.” Not inside, my love. Only for me.

  “Sì,” another grunt before he pulled out brutally.

  He rolled G’Drey to his back, climbed over him on all fours, and held him by the throat in a powerful grip, his knees in Drey’s biceps, pinning his arms to the mattress, as Drey watched, from very close, two hands stroke that mighty shaft, hers on bottom, his large one all but covering it.

  And as he gasped, “No,” jerking his head side to side, trying to pull his arms out from under those sturdy legs, his body from that hold, when, with a manly, triumphant groan which did not quite drown out the female’s delicate whimper, the warrior’s seed flooded his face.

  That was the injury.

  The insult was the warrior shifting, moving his legs from Drey’s arms so he could force his cock into Drey’s mouth and stroke it through his milking while he kissed his woman deeply…

  And Drey loving the taste of him.

  And the feel of him.

  And the sight of him (not including his tongue in the woman’s mouth)

  And the long, tight fingers still wrapped around his neck.

  In the end he was sucking the softening member, his hand inching to his own cock.

  Abruptly, the warrior no longer straddled his face, and his throat was used to tear him off the bed and send him reeling across the tent, landing hard on his hip.

  “Esci,” the warrior demanded he leave.

  Scrambling, the heat in his body rising from shame, but more with fury, Drey rushed to his robes.

  He’d shrugged them on and was darting toward the flaps of the tent, pulling his gown closed at the same time trying to wind his belt around himself when he heard, “Attento, falso prete.”

  He stopped dead and looked back at the warrior lounging negligently on the posted mattress, the bold-colored, sheer swaths of silk draping over it and all around, his woman draped on him. She was stroking his boxed stomach with one hand, her other arm around his back, her mouth in his neck, but her almond eyes were tipped G’Drey’s way.

  That was when he saw she was wearing the chain.

  Delicate gold links starting at a small hoop in her upper ear, leading to another one in her lobe, it had some diminutive but shining rubies and what looked like amethysts dangling from the part that led from lobe to nostril, and then another length fed down to a small hoop at the side of her upper lip.

  Right ear. Right nostril. Right lip.

  Drey’s focus honed on the warrior’s lip and nostril.

  He had the hoops.

  He was just not wearing his chain.

  They were married.

  She was his wife.

  Drey tasted bile in his mouth.

  The warrior had said, Careful, false priest.

  And then he spoke Drey’s native language, the language from the Vale, that being Hawkvale from across the Green Sea. The language spoken throughout the Northlands, save Fleuridia. The language Drey had read all about in the history books. A language that had been brought over when a good number of Lunwynians escaped the ice centuries before when the last Frey before the one they had now betrayed the elves.

  “Firenze is not safe.”

  “I think you’ve demonstrated that,” Drey spat.

  Those eyes under that heavy brow dipped before they lifted. “You are still hard, false priest, do not tell me you don’t now go to your tent and stroke your own shaft, feeling me in your arse.”

  His woman licked his neck from collarbone to jaw then turned, snuggling in and smiling cattily at Drey as her husband rounded her lovingly with his beefy arm.

  Enough.

  He turned to leave, lifting his deep-edged sleeve to his face to wipe away the warrior’s seed.

  “That is not the safe I meant,” the warrior called.

  G’Drey whirled and snapped, “What?”

  He then took a step back as he realized you did not snap at a Firenz warrior.

  The large man’s face was carved from stone and his enormous, muscled body was still in its lounge, but Drey sensed it alert for action.

  “Attento,” he growled at Drey. Careful.

  “Calma, mio amore,” she soothed her warrior.

  “May I have your leave?” Drey forced out.

  “Your hole was tight. I enjoyed it,” the warrior stated. “For that purpose
alone, I share, you are not welcome in Firenze. You will not be welcome in the Fire City. Firenz do not worship false gods. Be smart, false priest. Your teachings, your healings, we will accept. That is why you’ve been allowed through the fire. But do not press your gods on the Firenz people. They will not welcome it and our king will not abide it.”

  “I am a teacher,” Drey somewhat lied, lifting his chin.

  The dark eyes of the warrior assessed him.

  “I hope so for you, mio buco,” the warrior replied quietly.

  G’Drey decided, with some trepidation—and feeling it, his fury rose—he didn’t need the warrior’s permission to leave.

  He tore through the red silk flaps and stomped across the hard sand that butted the river tributary where the bazaar was located, thinking he would remember that face. He would remember that cock. He’d remember the woman. And he would not give warning when he was in the position he would soon be in and he used them both as he wished.

  With her watching something that would not make her smile.

  He made his white silk tent and tore back the flap.

  He had six acolytes who traveled along to attend him, and the first, in her sheer white shift, who whispered, “My lord, we welcome your return,” caught the back of his hand.

  She cried out as she went to her hands and knees.

  It was then she caught his sandaled foot at her mouth.

  She flew to her back, blood spouting from her lips.

  “Draw me a bath!” he roared to the others. “Immediately.”

  They scurried to do his bidding, including the one, though she was much slower, who was bleeding.

  Mio buco.

  My hole.

  “No warning,” he groused, tossing himself to the white and gold cushions the acolytes had arranged for him when they’d made camp, as many of the Firenz nomads had done the same outside the bazaar.

  He shoved his robes aside, caught his cock in his fist, and stroked.

  Savagely.

  “No warning,” he groaned, engaging his other hand and squeezing his swollen sac as he spent himself magnificently on his robes, still feeling that Firenz warrior’s cock moving through his arse.

  8

  The Unicorn

  Princess Elena

  Balcony of Her Treehome

  THE ENCHANTMENTS

  I slowly opened my eyes and saw the rising sun as I sat cross-legged on the overhang outside my treehome.

  After my meditation, I did not feel refreshed.

  This was because I could not clear my mind.

  And this was not surprising.

  My mother had been much changed the last five days.

  Further, she’d ordered a number of unusual things.

  And as the queen asked, it was done.

  This meant that five hundred of our warriors, the most elite, were daily doing formation drills on their horses and they were doing this for hours.

  And all were conserving magic.

  Neither I found comforting.

  The only time sisters did formation drills was when we had a celebration or a rare state visit, sometimes a contingent from Wodell, more often priests from Go’Doan, or magic ambassadors from all the nations.

  And as far as I knew, no state visit or Nadirii celebration was forthcoming, and even if there were, it might be fifty, one hundred warriors.

  Not five hundred.

  And the only time the sisters were asked to conserve magic was prior to battle or going on patrol.

  Not that magic was used in battle. In an accord arranged by the Go’Doan, signed by our queen and the kings of Airen, Firenze and Wodell of three generations ago, no magic could be used in battle on any side—our warriors, their sorcerers and witches.

  This was a good thing, considering battle magic was extremely fatiguing, and although could be useful, also left you vulnerable.

  However, it made you stronger if you’d conserved it prior to going into battle, which obviously helped enormously.

  So I did not understand the conservation of magic.

  Making matters worse, I, personally, at my mother’s decree, had been forbidden to use magic at all.

  Not only conserve but meditate often and complete daily rituals that would build my craft inside me.

  This wasn’t concerning.

  It was alarming.

  Even so, at that moment, at the sun’s rise, as I did every day after my meditation, I reached to my side and took up my cards.

  My mind restless, not the best conditions to shuffle and move the cards in my hands, it took some time before I eventually felt it.

  When it let itself be known, I pulled it from the deck facedown.

  I set the deck aside.

  And before me on my rug over the decking of my balcony, I turned it face up.

  That was when I stared.

  The Unicorn.

  A high card.

  One of the highest.

  In all my days, since I could remember, I started my day meditating and then pulled my card, in the beginning, doing this with my mother at my side.

  I had never turned the Unicorn.

  If I was fully doing the cards, sometimes my own, normally reading for others, the Unicorn could make its presence known in the spread.

  But not to start my day and share what I would face that day, or a forewarning of what I would face in future and must be prepared for, or ease away from.

  In other words, a representation of where my life was…or where it was heading.

  I stared at the white steed with its white mane, tail and coat, gold horn, proud head bowed, intelligent eyes serene, resting amongst the vines of wisteria, a night forest in the background, pixie dust glittering in the air as if those creatures had just flown through.

  Magic.

  Joy.

  Serenity.

  Fulfillment.

  Change.

  It was one of the only cards in the deck of any of the levels—high, middling, hushed—that was purely positive. No negative connotations, no warnings, no cautions, no calls to action, no suggestions of course alterations.

  Just joy.

  Peace.

  Bliss.

  “This…cannot be,” I whispered to the card.

  And it couldn’t.

  Those tremors.

  Drills.

  Magic conservation.

  My sister constantly picking fights.

  And my mother was dying.

  “Elena!”

  Quickly returning the card to the deck, I rose from my position and moved to the railing, looking down.

  My lieutenant Jasmine was there.

  I started to smile at my friend.

  “The queen is calling you,” she said.

  “Well, hello to you too,” I replied, now fully smiling.

  “I’ve got to get to drills,” she retorted. “I don’t have time for drills and playing messenger girl.”

  No, what she didn’t have time for was rising before dawn to be ready for drills when we were outside our patrol rotation.

  Also, being ordered to stay inside our forest enchantments, rather than go to one of the villages outside and enjoy herself fully with one of her variety of admirers, drinking much wine, eating much food and enjoying much sex.

  “I’m on my way,” I told her.

  “My day is complete,” she returned, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

  She trudged with bow and quiver at her back, staff in hand, toward the arena.

  I moved through the low hanging branches into my house.

  Going to the staircase at the trunk of the tree that grew up the middle, I wound my way from the first level to the second and moved to the lump under the light quilt on the fluffy pallet there.

  I pulled the thick golden hair aside.

  “Dora,” I called. “It’s time to get up. Bathe. Dress. Get to your studies.”

  “Bluh,” Dora muttered.

  I grinned and leaned closer. “Theodora, up. My mother wishes
my presence. You’re going to have to do this on your own today without me winding up the stairs every five minutes to remind you to get out of bed.”

  She rolled to her back, giving me warm, sleepy brown eyes.

  Those were her mother’s.

  My heart squeezed as it always squeezed when I wasn’t braced to look into those beloved eyes.

  “Queen Ophelia wants you?” she asked.

  “Indeed she does. So up. Bath. Boots, casings and body stocking. Let’s go.”

  I then leaned deep, touched my lips to her smooth forehead, and moved away, going to the stairs that wound up and up and up, to the eyrie, my chamber.

  I’d already donned my lavender body suit. Therefore, I quickly wound the soft suede casings around my foot arch, my ankle, criss-crossing them up my calf to my upper thighs. I pulled on a short tunic, my belt and my low moccasins, and drew my daily band around my head, not the ceremonial one, not the patrol one, not the battle one.

  A simple, but shining gold disk on which was printed a white oak leaf that sat in the middle of my forehead and lead to smaller gold disks that fed all around. I tied it at the back.

  Not all sisters wore the headband on a regular basis.

  Only three wore them.

  My mother.

  And the two Princesses of the Nadirii.

  To finish, I yanked the suede armshields up my forearms and headed back down the steps.

  Dora was at the pitcher and basin.

  Excellent.

  “I just adore you,” I told her, still winding down.

  “And you’re just a big ninny,” she returned.

  I pursed my lips and blew her a kiss. She rolled her eyes. And I carried on winding down the steps until I hit the wide first level that held our tidy kitchen, our big living area, and our ritual space.

  I didn’t carry on down the steps.

  I moved to the hole in the floor, grabbed the rope above it that dangled from a branch that grew through the room, and I slid down, landing soft on my feet on the forest floor.

  I did this thinking, magic, joy, serenity, fulfillment, change.

  The change I could understand.

  Change was everlasting.

  But with the sickness eating away at my mother that she refused to discuss, the unexplained tremors that shook the earth every fortnight, the disturbing vibrations I felt in the veil of magic, and the very presence of my sweet (and ornery) Dora in my treehome, I could not imagine I would ever feel joy and definitely not serenity.