Bright Star

by E G Manetti

  “It would make an interesting accessory, but I do not believe Adelaide would deign to have such a slacker hanging from her belt.” As Lilian finishes the thought, her words resonate with a familiar timbre. “Slacker. Slacker. Damien has always been lazy. What is it? What are you not seeing?”

  Lilian’s gray eyes shift, paling until they are almost water-clear. It is Lucius’ turn to recall the night of the traitor and Lilian’s odd internal discussion as she sought for patterns to the wrong thing. Lilian has fallen into some inner landscape and is completely unaware of her surroundings or even that she is speaking.

  “Too quick. Too quick. Damien has never been quick.” With an almost audible snap, Lilian returns to the couch in Lucius’ office. Her eyes returned to their normal gray.

  “Milord, I believe there is more to this than a parasite’s pique at a doxy,” Lilian offers dispassionately.

  Lucius cares not for Lilian’s disparaging self-reference. Before he can decide how to correct her, she continues, “Events transpired too quickly. Barely a half day passed between the confrontation at the reception and the recording.”

  Unaware of milord’s fascination, Lilian’s mind is working quickly, sifting the pattern that emerged with her spike of insight. This may not be about her sordid history with Damien. “Damien is clever enough, but he is lazy. He is not capable of designing and executing such a ruse in a half day. Had he not been so quick, I would have reported before milord viewed this and milord would have recognized it for what it is.”

  “A conspiracy, Lilian? Someone rendered assistance? To what purpose?” Milord challenges.

  “To what purpose?” Lilian repeats softly, attempting to delve deeper into the mystery, to discover the anomaly that will set her on the path to clarity. As is so often the case, when Lilian intentionally reaches for it, insight will not come. Shaking her head in capitulation, Lilian admits, “I know not, milord. I cannot see it. My mind is all muddled. I cannot see it.”

  Frustrated, Lilian gazes at the inexpensive weave of her skirt, her racing mind seeking patterns that refuse to form.

  “Lilian.”

  At milord’s voice, Lilian blinks and turns her gaze to milord as he rises from the couch. Without hesitation, Lilian rises in milord’s wake while milord collects his slate satchel and moves toward the scarlet threshold.

  Following behind, Lilian requests, “May I know where we are bound, milord?”

  “To the penthouse. It is not yet tenth bell and we are both overfull of intrigue.” Milord responds. “I wish to clear my mind.”

  “Such activity clears milord’s mind?” Lilian startles and then cringes inwardly at her presumption.

  Turning back, milord huffs a small sound of amusement. “Yes. Does it not yours?”

  “Turns it off, more like,” Lilian admits.

  That will suffice is Lucius’ thought as they exit his office.

  »◊«

  Beyond the windowed walls of the penthouse bedchamber, a clear blue sky gives the impression that milord and Lilian are drifting in the ether. It is Lilian’s first experience with milord’s penthouse in the daylight. The fantasy of sky dancing is a welcome alternative to the nighttime illusion that she is teetering on the edge of the abyss. A slight tug on her warrior’s queue, and Lilian sees only milord as he releases her nape ties.

  Dropping the spiderweb of linen and steel to the floor, Lucius uses his fingers to gently spread the dark red waves. As Lilian’s locks flow free, Lucius runs his hands through the silky mass and cups her head for a kiss. The pliant eagerness that typifies her response is lacking.

  “Lilian?” The word is a breath and a question against the softly parted lips so close to his.

  Fine tremors lace through the lithe form as with closed eyes, Lilian entreats, “Should milord please, I would shower. I feel unclean.”

  Lilian’s rage has ebbed, opening space for other emotions.

  “As you please,” Lucius agrees.

  As the graceful figure retreats into the freshening closet, Lucius weighs his role in her distress. He had not realized the depth of his distrust of Gariten’s influence until St. Gervais’ clumsy ploy surfaced it. Lilian has earned better at his hands than she has received this day. It is not an error Lucius will repeat. For the moment, he will do all he can to reassure his apprentice and conservator.

  Shedding his garb, Lucius dons his favored scarlet robe and spends a few minutes with his slate. Judging that Lilian has had sufficient privacy, he enters the freshening closet and discovers Lilian within the shower, eyes closed, arms raised to her hair as she rinses away the last of the shampoo. The multiple jets soak her from all directions, sending shimmering waves of warm water along her length. Turning under the fountain, Lilian reveals Adelaide’s Mark, the blue-black consecration tattoo at the base of her spine.

  Legend holds that in their first fateful meeting, Socraide and Adelaide engaged in two bells of combat. When she escaped unscathed, Socraide was so enthralled he chased across the Three Systems to acquire her. When he did, he discovered two intersecting scars at the base of her spine, the marks of their trial. Also known as Socraide’s Kiss, the marks are designed to resemble a warbird wing. It very much resembles a raven’s wing. The sight sends a thrill of desire and possessiveness through Lucius. Stepping into the shower, he pulls the soap bottle from Lilian’s hand. As his lips caress along her neck, tasting warm water and Lilian, Lucius murmurs, “I will do it.”

  Lilian feels the air move as milord steps into the shower with her, blocking some of the jets so that the warmth on her back is from milord. Without hesitation, she releases the soap into milord’s hand, leaning back toward the caressing lips and tongue.

  Hard, strong hands caress her shoulders, her back, ribs, and breasts, leaving soft, slick suds in their wake. For a breath, the soapy hand retreats and Lilian moans at the loss of contact. The hands return, newly filled with soap, and meander across her abdomen and then lower, briefly teasing above the red curls, eliciting another moan. Milord rumbles softly as he finds and soaps her nether curls, tugging lightly before gently invading her feminine crease. Involuntarily Lilian relaxes, resting her weight against milord’s chest, overcome by the erotic contact.

  Milord rumbles again as one arm wraps around her waist and pulls her back against his hard torso and stiffened rod. Slick, warm, and increasingly exciting, the hand stroking between Lilian’s legs moves around one hip to slip more soap across buttocks and between the twin mounds. At milord’s delicate probing of her sensitive ring, everything south of Lilian’s navel convulses and Lilian releases an inarticulate sound of pleasure.

  Finishing with Lilian’s nether parts, milord strokes and soaps Lilian’s breasts, tugging and rolling the hardening tips. The elegant globes swell and stiffen, the nipples tighten, and desire courses through Lilian, setting her jewel pulsing. Arching her hips, Lilian silently begs milord for contact where she wishes it most.

  “Soon, Lilian, soon,” milord whispers against her temple as he tugs her shoulders, turning her and propelling her to the shower bench.

  Parting Lilian’s thighs with his hands, milord kneels before her, pausing briefly to admire her exposed sex before sending one finger to stroke her opening from base to tip and then press against the swollen nub of her desire.

  At Lucius’ action, Lilian convulses once again, eyes closing, head arching as she presses into his touch with a whimper. She is so lovely, so very wanton. Grasping Lilian’s thighs, Lucius applies lips, tongue, and teeth to the delicate folds and the sensitive jewel. It is but moments until Lilian’s body clenches and shudders to its release.

  Pulling the now completely pliant woman into his arms, Lucius turns off the jets and takes a towel to her.

  Slowly returning to her senses as the towel dries her skin, Lilian becomes aware of milord’s strong, virile body, glistening with water and fully erect. Sliding from milord’s grasp, Lilian drops to her knees and lightly kisses milord’s hardened sex.

  At mi
lord’s sound of encouragement, Lilian gently takes milord in her hands. With lips and tongue, Lilian daintily explores the tight sack at the base of milord’s rod. She is rewarded with an involuntary spasm and a shudder as milord’s clever hands tighten in her hair, urging her to continue, to do more.

  Licking, sucking Lilian delicately rolls milord’s sack in her mouth, savoring flavor and texture before she releases it. She licks and nibbles her way up the length of milord’s hardened shaft until, upon reaching the tip, Lilian opens her mouth to swallow and suck as much as she can manage. Increasing her pace and intensifying the hot pull of her mouth, Lilian wrings a moan from the man standing rigidly before her. Milord’s hands cup her head, encouraging, demanding, until sudden spasms tremor through milord and Lilian feels warmth jet down her throat.

  As Lilian carefully releases milord, he leans into the shower wall, supporting himself on his hands, his breath slowing.

  »◊«

  Sunlight presses against Lilian’s eyelids. The taste of milord is in her mouth and the feel of milord echoes inside her. Lying on her back, she becomes aware of a warm, well-muscled thigh between hers, an arm across her torso. Slowly surfacing, thoughts developing, Lilian gives a sudden start.

  “What is it, Lilian?” Milord murmurs the interrogatory into his pillow.

  “It occurs to me, milord, that this once I should have heeded my mother.” Lilian’s dry tone reflects amusement at her own expense.

  At the rare display of undisguised emotion and even rarer amusement, Lucius levers himself onto his side so he can regard his apprentice.

  “Your mother, Lilian?” Lucius inquires neutrally, leaving his hand cupping her waist and one leg imprisoning hers. The woman is volunteering on a topic she commonly avoids. Lucius will not lose this opportunity.

  “Yes, milord.” Lilian gives a little huff of amusement. “My deranged, Shade-ridden mother. She would not cease about the red eargems. I believed it was the gown.”

  Stretching a little and offering a beguiling countenance, Lilian continues, “When I arrived home after the reception, Maman and Katleen were not yet abed. Katleen was delighted with the gown. All Maman would voice was ‘it requires the red eargems, employ the red eargems.’ ”

  Lilian’s form is relaxed under Lucius’ hand and leg. Recall is not distressing her.

  “I did ponder whether or not to send the red eargems,” Lilian admits, her bright air fading. “In the end I could not fathom how my sordid history with Damien St. Gervais could have any import to Cartouche or Cartel. It is odd; this once Maman’s ramblings had somewhat to do with events that had yet to unfold.”

  “Is that unusual?” Lucius asks, rolling onto his back and stretching, careful to keep one hand skimming Lilian’s hip. While he shares Lilian’s skepticism, Lilian’s mother is revered among segments of the devoted.

  “On the rare occasions I am able to fathom Maman’s prophecies, I have found them a dramatic overstatement of what is already known,” Lilian replies, amusement fading. The relaxed form beginning to stiffen. “When Remus Gariten brought us to ruin, Maman went on for sevendays declaring that the Lord of the Dark was to drag me into the pit.”

  Lilian’s countenance shutters as she gazes at the ceiling, considering her mother’s madness. With a slight shake of her head, Lilian visibly forces back gloomy thoughts, and the shutters ease. “I agree that Remus Gariten figures well as the Lord of Darkness. As I was already in the pit, it all seemed somewhat redundant.”

  For a moment, Lilian wonders at her ability to dwell on that time without her stomach rioting. Somehow voicing the pain of Damien’s betrayal has eased her. As has milord’s passion. It was different this day. Reassuring. Reassuring? Before Lilian can pursue that thought, milord flicks one nipple in demand.

  At milord’s light touch, Lilian stretches again and finishes. “Nonetheless, the visions served some purpose. That I figured in one of my mother’s prophecies did much to cement the support of Sinead’s Sect.”

  Sinead’s Lord Prelate was instrumental in saving Lilian from the Final Draught and setting her on her present course.

  “You are not a true believer?” Milord asks, lightly stroking the raven-wing tattoo that attests to Lilian’s devotion.

  A true believer? Lilian is not an absolutist; whether or not milord is, Lilian does not know. Socraide’s Sunburst graces milord’s right pectoral, but that could be naught but the ritual observation demanded by milord’s rank. It matters not. Milord has asked, Lilian must answer. “I lack not faith, milord. I do revere Adelaide and the Five Warriors and their great achievements. I find the notion that the Shades directly intervene in daily life is more wish fulfillment than faith.”

  “Tenth stricture, Lilian.” Milord smiles as he taps her lips.

  Lilian must answer fully. Searching milord’s face for signs of disapproval, Lilian dutifully continues, “In my mind, the Universalists are closer to truth in this matter. The concept of rebirth aside, they maintain the entire universe is interconnected and that when we die, our interconnections change—they do not disappear. I have found that prayer does bring courage and serenity. It is as though I have successfully called to me a little of what enabled the Five Warriors to turn back the Anarchy.”

  “An uncommon view.” Lucius is neither displeased nor surprised that his apprentice’s unconventional mind finds uncommon patterns even in spiritual matters. That gifted mind is the very reason she holds so much value to him. While her sealed vault of reserve is open, he will delve as deep as he can. “How come you by knowledge of the Universal Way?”

  “I had some contact with the sect at the university. One of whom I should mention, Andreas Chiang.” With this last, Lilian’s relaxed tones turn serious.

  “What is it you wish me to know about this particular Universalist?” Lucius cannot imagine how a member of the obscure sect could be of import to him.

  “His name, milord,” Lilian replies, intent. “Andreas was the other man while I was at the university.”

  »◊«

  Eighth bell after midday chimes as Chrys once again asks Lilian to repeat her direction. In the windowless synthetics lab, they are chaperoned by the monitors and Master Magnus, the counterfeiter-turned-Blooded Dagger retainer. The mad chemist is behind the laboratory seal, visibly crooning to his experiments.

  “Chrys, what troubles you?” Lilian regards the technologist with concern. Chrys is rarely in a dark mood and it is her first experience with Chrys unable to focus on commerce.

  “Naught, Lilian.” The young man is dismissive. It does not mask his distress.

  “Chrys, does it distress you, you need not voice it. I wish only your comfort.” Lilian has naught else to offer. She yields little enough to her friends. She has no grounds to demand other from them.

  “It is unseemly.” Chrys’ clipped tones are reminiscent of milord’s.

  “It is impossible,” Lilian returns adamantly. “Offer me no such gaze, Chrys. I speak truly. You are incapable of the unseemly. Without your wise counsel and excellent example, I would have fared ill these past two seasons. I know not the cause of your distress. It is impossible that you violate stricture or custom.”

  The only waywardness in Chrys’ bond adherence is that he is eager for his seigneur’s carnal attentions. Lilian suffers the same wayward tendency. She has come to understand that it is only effrontery when one’s bondholder determines it is so. Neither milord nor Seigneur Rachelle has so indicated.

  At her words, Chrys’ tight expression goes flat. Somehow she has further distressed him. Then, miraculously, Chrys’ expression loosens. Distress remains evident. It is joined by something new that Lilian cannot name. Releasing a deep breath, Chrys confesses, “I mourn the Genji master scholar’s granddaughter.”

  Searching her recall, Lilian attempts to interpret the pained admission. Born in an agrarian colony on Genji in the Ninth System, Chrys went to apprentice at sixteen, as soon as he passed the age of consent. His first bondholder was headmistre
ss of an elite academy on Chrys’ home world. For two years, the headmistress educated Chrys in the requirements of his bond and tutored him in preparation for advanced studies. His academic trials advanced his bond to a master scholar of technologistics at the premiere university on Genji.

  Two years before completing his advanced studies, Chrys’ bond was traded to the technologistics master scholar at Metricelli Prime’s Western Continent Institute. It was an excellent arrangement for all concerned. The Genji university holds a secondary reputation. It would never have placed an apprentice at Serengeti. By sharing the bond fee with the Institute scholar, the Genji scholar did as well as she would have and gained the prestige of Serengeti placement. The Institute scholar received a full share for only two years of training. The only other information Lilian owns is that the Genji scholar was nearing a century in age. Lilian doubts there was a carnal aspect to the bond.

  During their studies, apprentices reside with their bondholders and are known to spouses and direct offspring. Indirect offspring are unusual. “How knew you the scholar’s granddaughter?”

  “She was damaged by environmental-control toxins at a young age. She was . . . limited. Her parents died in the disaster, so she resided with the scholar,” Chrys explains, his voice carefully neutral. More is hidden than revealed.

  Environmental-control disasters are rare, survivors even more so. The complex technology that recycles the waste of the almost fifty billion denizens of the Twelve Systems is carefully managed and ruthlessly protected by protocol and stricture. To the best of Lilian’s recall, the last such disaster is over two decades gone.

  “How, Chrys? Can you voice it?” Lilian does not offer prurient interest. It is so rare to survive such a disaster that the notion is almost mythical.

  “Not easily and not well.” Discovering only concern and compassion in his friend, the tormented man expands, “There are many who condemned the scholar for medical treatment of her granddaughter. It might have been kinder to allow her to perish. She could not see or walk. She owned the sweetest smile, a sharp wit, and an irreverent humor.”