Deileala noted the nature of his glance. She, as always, was in no hurry, but loved to savor the experience, more aroused by the expectation of coital play than the actual act.
She reached out again, this time touching his upper arm, lingering against its surface. “Linnec, sweetling, get up and help me undress, will you?” Her words were a bored caress, while the young man moved immediately, trying to control the beginning molten-lead sensation in his lower parts, to relax, knowing how much she disliked the hurried act.
Exuberance rising.
She stood motionless, falsely passive, while he untied the several thin laces on her back and on both sides. His hands were beginning to tremble, barely touching the planes of her unusually slender waist and suddenly expanding hips. She was like a wasp.
He felt an uncontrollable pang down below.
“So beautiful . . .” he whispered, over and over, his words breaking up and beginning to run together into a muttering stream, his hands lingering more on her flesh than the laces.
Molten lead. Head spinning, breath becoming shallow.
“Ah, yes. . . .” She exhaled, relaxing under the touch. “There, yes, lower. . . .”
And at the same time, as always during the beginning moments of arousal, she forcibly made her mind wander with lazy objective ease, to prolong the pleasure yet to come. She glanced at the things around the room. The filigree metal statuettes on the small table before the window, there. How they caught the gray fire of the sun, their tiny wire surfaces reflecting minute sparks. . . .
As he squeezed the hemispheres of her hips, her knees weakened. How nicely strong his fingers were (she had been right to take him), so hard and strong, and hard and strong, and . . .
The familiar rhythm was beginning to pulse in her blood.
And yet she remained motionless, wanting him to be the aggressor, to be strong and wrench her; wanted to feel light and helpless, to be tossed easily like a feather, to be taken.
And involuntarily, an elusive recurring image came to her, of a haughty man, aloof and beautiful like a demon of dark hair and pale skin, and who had always politely refused her.
A demon of ice.
Yet she knew that if ever that demon would touch her like that, she would melt like a flake of snow, absolutely, dissolve under him, screaming silently with all her soul.
The tunic had fallen down to her waist, releasing her heavy breasts. Shuddering, Linnec (ah, he is but a soft youth!) embraced her tightly, yet not daring to rush.
You are a young trembling beast, yes. Show me your vulnerable inside, let me see you in this explosive state, just on the verge, she thought fondly, then said, “Touch me harder, sweet.”
His leaden hands moved upon her, while their bodies entwined closer, his thighs beginning to move against hers, his young limbs hot through the thin covering of the dress. The flimsy garment was still held hanging, caught against her hips. Her own hands went around him, lightly plucking his back like a taut string, with the deceptive softness of her fingertips.
She never used her nails. She knew that would frighten the boy. Instead, she briefly wondered where her brother was and what he might be doing. But then, Hestiam was practically always with a young nubile bitch, or in a stupor of Dirvan play, so that was no great mystery.
The pounding within her grew, the weakness in her lower torso beginning to overwhelm. In those instants she always felt a peculiar anger response, a sadistic strange desire to rip out this weakness, pound it to death—and with it, its perpetrator. And again her body told her that the only way to accomplish that was to continue moving. . . .
“Sweet love!” he gasped fiercely, and she felt him pressing hard against her. “Please, Deileala,” he whispered then, his voice quavering beyond control.
“Yes, now . . .” she replied, her own voice breaking.
And immediately maddened, he lifted her dress. He entered a deep burning place within her, while at the same time his face buried itself at the back of her throat, clumsily biting the nape of her neck, his hands tearing at her in pitiful confusion.
Deileala could no longer stand it. Her head with its mass of dandelion hair tilted back, while a single hoarse sound came from her parted lips. Impaled, she arched in reflex; she panted, squeezed the life out of him, and in the next second they had fallen to the floor, their locked bodies rhythmically convulsing.
Such is the end always, came her last distinct thoughts. I play at swine with them. Dirt . . . Dirt! Filthy swine!
And as always, she ended by straddling him, the contours of her waist and hips moving from one wave into another, faster, faster. . . .
The youth beneath her groaned as he came, and then Deileala herself heaved with one great final wave, and burst into a silent ultimate other place of singular height and detachment, falling on him, despising him, and herself (so worthless it seemed always, immediately after).
“Bitch . . .” she whispered.
Linnec noticed she always concluded their acts thus. “No, my love!”
He pressed his lips against her own, wanting to hold her an instant longer.
But her eyes, no longer glassy, were hard again, completely in control as she smiled, the Regentrix, with cold sarcasm-stained fondness, and stirred, moving out of his embrace.
“Thank you, Linnec, it was wonderful today. You may go now, sweet.”
Her voice was, as always then, automatic, while she sat down on the bed and nodded in the direction of his clothes. The act itself was already blocked from memory.
She watched his body carelessly as he dressed, thinking, What do I really want? Not this earnest boy? Not his young trembling moments of no control?
And again, as he left, the thought returned, Maybe I need to have the beautiful demon Elasand Vaeste once and for all, simply for my own peace of mind? I could always command him to service me. But ah, that is so tasteless. The act would be so tasteless.
And yet, I cannot seduce him . . . never him. I wonder. Is Elasand really what I want, ultimately? Or do I merely crave the psychological act of conquering him? And if afterward I still feel as empty, then—then I will simply die from this boredom. No. I cannot have him yet, cannot test myself to this extent.
Alone in the chamber, exquisite like the aromatic heart of a lily, she watched the play of the sparks of light upon the metal statuettes before the window.
I am so complete, full, overflowing. Yet what could make me more complete? What? And do I want such fulfillment?
Once again she had made sure that Hestiam would send for Lord Vaeste. She had conspired with Lirr.
Good, she thought, another chance to see him, here. So rarely do we see him in the City.
Elasand is so peculiar. Always going about some mysterious business here and there, yet never at Dirvan. He should be here by tomorrow night.
She got up stretching, her voluptuous body eternally young for her forty-five years, and again thought, But if I were to have him—what then? I am complete. I am empty. I am—
Deileala picked up a ripe silver fruit from a plate on a table nearby, bit into it sensuously, and then, changing her mind, spat on the floor before her. She then took another bite, again spat, and laughed.
And laughing to herself she took a good aim and threw the fruit out of the window, down to the Gardens below.
CHAPTER 2
Within the grayscale dusk, a brilliant dot of pale orange light beckoned. Its nature marvelous, otherworldly against the monochrome, it flickered in and out of existence as the roadside trees obscured it. As she drew closer, Ranhé knew in relief that this was the promised inn.
Expensive, however, if they can afford color lighting. And the color is so faintly saturated too, so fine, almost white. Damn. Luck is not mine tonight.
Places which had the sorcerous color light were never cheap. Usually, a night’s lodging and a meal ranged from two silver dirghe in a monochromatically lit establishment, to almost twenty gold dahr in an orb-lit luxury house, the like of which co
uld be found for the most part only in the City.
They say, work according to the light you expect around you.
My funds promise a near future of darkness. But like the moon, my funds are in a constant state of flux, she thought, as she neared her lodging-place-to-be.
It was always an odd sight. One never ceases to marvel at the unnatural effect that comes about from the contrast of color light against the gray monochrome environment.
For, in this place, true white and black do not exist. All is but an approximation of the two absolutes, and each thing is but a shadow of another. By these shadows, depth and distance are perceived. All things, being shadows of varying intensity, are thus judged by juxtaposition. And all are ultimately shadows of the sun. It, the sun alone, is not a shadow of any other thing, but is the brightest and only source of true light.
The three large orange windows, the first to be glimpsed from a distance, seemed to float in dark nothingness, “pasted on,” the only things real in the world. The contours of the big house blended into the gray monochrome of the land and sky. The occasional trees were oddly, sharply silhouetted against the color, every branch, every fine leaf in sudden sharp contrast, a lacy network of acute graphic black, cut with a knife against unnatural light.
She stopped at the gates and used the large metal knocker, then waited leisurely. She was a master of controlled semblance of leisure.
Insolent bitch. I can’t afford this place.
A man came to open the door, and she rode, horseshoes clinking, into the small yard.
“There be the stables,” she was told. “And the common room is in the building to your right. Dinner will be served on the hour.”
“How much is the horse feed?” she asked, with a smile.
The man gave her a hard look. “Three coppers,” he said, more roughly than before. Was she going to be cheap? Then he’d save civility for worthier patrons.
“Then give us six coppers’ worth. And no, I’ll care for him myself,” said Ranhé, who now knew all she needed to know about this establishment.
The man shrugged, somewhat mollified, but not too pleased to be deprived of a service tip.
Ranhé’s hand slid to her purse, and she took out a copper. “Thanks, friend. Go have a mug on me.”
Her cheerful and for once completely honest smile was painted with tints of orange coming from the windows nearby. It warmed him, for an instant, despite himself.
But she’d already turned away and was leading her horse to the stables.
* * *
Postulate Two: Rainbow is a Test of Will.
* * *
The young priest Preinad Olvan forced himself to read over and over a single line of esoteric text. The characters were so familiar, yet nothing registered in his thoughts.
He finally looked away from the scripture before him and considered the other volume that lay on the table, covered discreetly by several sheets of his own handwritten piety. That one had come to him in a roundabout fashion from someone at court, and bore the unobtrusive tiny flower mark embossed on the darkest of dark vellum—the symbol of the House of Erotene.
The House of whores. Of high-class debauchery and the pit of lust. Things abhorrent to the principles of his Order.
These same things that he was forcing himself to observe dispassionately, in order to temper his will, and thus to serve the Regents in a manner worthy of his rank and aspirations.
When worldly thoughts plague, it is useless to struggle, to return to sacred matters. One must always attend to the business at hand.
The priest had soft dandelion hair and veiled eyes. Eyes that held in them the essence of sacrament. He was Preinad Olvan, his Family being one of the Noble Ten, and his color, silver. Here, in Dirvan, he was constantly reminded of this fact by every minute thing, including the details of the furnishings in his bedchamber, so that his belonging to the Family Olvan began to seem revolting.
Besides, he knew very well, silver was not a color.
Silver was the weight of coin.
His hands, nervous, slim-fingered, were clasped together in his lap. And then they moved almost of their own volition to take the other book, the book of ugly filth, and to open it at random upon a page of delicately inked drawings. The images were rendered in soft lines and depicted nude human bodies contorted and entwined in what he knew was the carnal act.
For a moment the images were no different, no more comprehensible than the words from the thick old tome of Divine Contemplations that he had set aside.
He gazed at them blind-eyed, and saw pale gray parchment, faded ink.
And then, unbidden, came one recollection. There was a woman here, at Dirvan, a woman of the aristocracy, who troubled his thoughts sometimes, who troubled him despite the rigorous discipline that men of his Order imposed upon themselves. Preinad was well aware that such weakness he must uproot completely, for it was intolerable.
The Order of the Bright Vision demanded, among other things, complete and absolute celibacy, in deed and thought, from its members. Wasteful sexual desire was to be channeled into other aspects of the soul’s being.
And yet, the woman disturbed him, since the first time he had seen her at Dirvan. Her name was Cyanolis. And she, this demonic one, was of the Family Vaeste.
The priest allowed himself to focus on the image drawn before him, on the graphic depiction of limbs normally hidden by clothing. The female knelt before the standing male, facing him, her waist deeply arched so that her rump was elevated to the level of her shoulders, and she was delivering the Pleasure of the Twins. The Pleasure consisted of her large pendulous breasts lifted and used to squeeze and stroke the male’s erect organ. The next image showed the male delivering his Culmination Gift past the barrier of her breasts into the female’s open mouth that was ready to receive the spurting fountain.
Preinad had been ordained since earliest youth. The decision was his alone. He was to be the lord of his Line, but he opposed the will of his Family, where every male was looked upon as a progenitor. The beautiful stern boy swore himself to a Deity and refused to honor his kin in regard to his future. And the Family Olvan mourned such an ending to the hopes of several powerful old aristocrats.
But Preinad did not mourn. He had long ago decided that he was made for more profound things than mere nobility. The particular Order he’d embraced was the most stoic of the major Orders of Priesthood.
Preinad wanted to break himself completely, and then to forge himself anew, under absolute personal control. His pledging to a godhead had only remotely to do with devotion.
And what better way to temper his control than this volume meant to incite the most bestial instinct.
He turned the page with steady fingers, and clinically observed a new image of the female straddling the man who now lay on his back. Monstrous in her capacity to receive, she had engulfed the man’s lower torso with her corpulent thighs, and his upright member was planted deep within her womb. She was leaning forward and granting her own Culmination Gift in the form of sharp wicked nipples that brushed against the man’s face. Both faces were contorted in the throes of Pleasure.
The priest looked at the Pleasure and felt a dryness in his mouth. His breath had grown faint and slow like the fluttering of a moth—his senses had not yet atrophied completely.
After fifteen years of serving the Order, Preinad Olvan was already considered incorruptible. The aristocracy marveled at him, and the brothers in his Order expected him to be the next Archmaster.
He could attend all gatherings at Dirvan, the most promiscuous private festivities, without danger of seduction. He was a cool observer at orgiastic feasts where wine and semen flowed upon silken sheets and cold marble. From the start he had never refused the mocking invitations from cynical courtiers, using such opportunities to strengthen his control. And eventually their mockery gave way to piqued curiosity.
It came to be that the Regents themselves would request his help in delicate matters, includ
ing chaperoning virgins of either sex, standing witness to unrepeatable ceremonies (ah, the things that went on at Dirvan!), and mediating between hostile parties.
It went quite beyond the normal duties that the Order of the Bright Vision would allow its members. But then, Preinad was already seen to be quite different, and his role was that of an androgynous diplomat.
And yet, there was this woman, Cyanolis.
Preinad ran his slender fingers over the delicate fibrous surface of the page, and absentmindedly began to crease one of the corners of this precious horrible book just along its tiny delicate flower border. And yet he could not allow himself not to look. And thus he was subjected to the image of the Pleasure of Honey and Navel on the next page, in which the male was suspended over the receptive female who lay on her back, his body parallel with hers to cover her, standing up by the force of his arms, and using muscle control of his lower torso alone to trace precise arcs of flower petals with the tip of his erect member around the center of her navel filled with honey, into which he dipped.
Dirvan was such a honey navel, a Hole of Gold. Women and men there flirted with Preinad mercilessly, touched by the novelty and the sweet challenge of tainting the severe priest. Corrupting, after all, was such a satisfying manner of testing one’s mettle.
Admirers flocked regularly to the Shrine of the Order of the Bright Vision on such days when he was to lead the Ceremony. They came to hear his hypnotic baritone, to see his sensitive lips shape words of Sacrament. They drank in with their eyes the sight of the young priest raising sculptured hands in supplication before the Deity. And when he turned to them to pass on the Blessing, his expression shocked them with its purity, if only to elicit a pang of arousal.
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