The Queens of Merab 4: Temair’s Earth
Violet Summers
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Copyright ©2010 Violet Summers
ISBN: 978-1-60521-437-5
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The Queens of Merab 4: Temair’s Earth
Violet Summers
On the world of Merab, women rule, while men wield the magic. For generations it was a system that worked, but the old adage is true: power often corrupts, and many of the women of Merab have begun to use their power for the good of themselves, not the good of the country.
Temair knew that one day she’d have to step up and take her place as Queen of Emetra; she just didn’t expect for it to happen so soon! Now she finds herself on a Tour of the Queendom in search of her four Consorts -- the four men whose Elemental magic will awaken hers. In the process she’s also found a troubled society where the men are tired of being abused and exploited.
Her First Consort, Fyre Lord Miach, is all warrior. Her Second Consort, Rayne Lord Dathan, is all play. Aire Lord Zevan was badly abused by the woman who should have protected him -- his own mother. Lady Aire didn’t confine her power-play to her son, however, daring to attack Temair and her foster sister, Princess Nuriel, too.
So, for all concerned, their visit to Earth seems like an idyllic time of rest. The women are loving and nurturing, and the men are amiable and calm. But under the surface peace and joy, the rebellion is brewing as the men of Earth begin to realize that loving control is still control, and it’s oppressive no matter how well intentioned. Add to that the return of a past foe, and a plan to end the reign of the Queendom forever, and end Temair’s life in the process.
Prologue
The nobleman tossed his long, red hair out of his face with a huff. He hated traveling. Hated the grime of the road; hated the placid, bovine calm of the Children of Earth; and most of all, he hated being away from the primal source of his magic. But not only had Sitric failed to do his job -- ridding the world of that intolerable Princess -- but he’d stayed behind at the Aerie when Temair and her entourage had continued their tour.
Giving his hair another toss, he looked regretfully down at his crushed velvet doublet. He’d need a disguise, of course. And to dye his hair. The crimson length was far too distinctive. He curled his lip in disgust. He’d be stuck in the plain, natural cotton trousers and supple leather vests favored by the men of Earth, and he already missed the sensuous glide of satin, the tantalizing prickle of lace against his skin.
Damn that Sitric.
The nobleman was beginning to have serious doubts about the so-called Rebel leader; he wasn’t even Emetran, by the Mother! Sitric had allowed one too many opportunities pass when he could have ended Temair’s reign before it even started; now the man was making noises about waiting, about trying to negotiate with the woman. Didn’t he see that negotiation wouldn’t get what they wanted, what the nobleman wanted? After generations of being controlled, the nobleman was after more than equality. He wanted power. He wanted payback. And he didn’t much care how he had to go about getting it.
Chapter One
Temair curled, propped against the headboard of the giant bed in the chamber the Earth Mother had housed them in. Zevan, the newest and youngest of her Consorts, lay beside her, head snuggled in her lap, his customary look of wonder smoothed just slightly by his near sleep state. Dathan, her Rayne Consort, laid on her other side, one arm wrapped behind her, the other toying with Zevan’s spiky hair. There was nothing sexual in his touch, not like if he’d been touching Miach.
No, Dathan -- and Miach, too, for that matter -- had adopted Zevan, treating him like a much cherished younger brother. And Zevan flourished under their attention. After a lifetime of abuse, twenty-one years deprived of any affection, her Aire Lord soaked up every kind word, every soft touch they sent his way. They were all happy to oblige him. Temair savored the sleek, cool silk of his skin, and spent as much time wrapped around him as possible. Dathan gifted the younger man with careless hugs, ruffled hair, and even the occasional kiss to the top of the head that were all the more meaningful because the Rayne Lord did it so absently.
Even Miach, who was by no stretch of the imagination cuddly, found subtle ways to care for Zevan. If Temair hadn’t been hopelessly in love with her Fyre and Rayne Consorts already, their careful treatment of her wounded Aire Consort would have sealed the deal. Temair released a long sigh of contentment and Nuriel, her foster sister and fellow Princess, gave a low laugh from her nest on a chaise by the fyre.
“You are entirely too pleased with yourself, Temmie,” the golden-blonde Princess commented softly. Even Nuriel, who was normally oblivious to the nuances of relationships, was reluctant to jar Zevan from his half-doze, to end the peaceful moment.
“Your turn will come, Ellie.” The gruff tenor voice of her First Consort sent a curl of warmth through Temair’s belly. He’d been gone since early morning, first practicing the Fyeria, the deadly beautiful dance-like martial art he excelled at, and then wandering the Earth Lands with Darmon, who was Miach’s best friend and sparring partner, and the head of Temair’s Royal Guard. Temair recognized the necessity of his absence, but that didn’t make her miss him any less. She couldn’t help but notice that Dathan’s body seemed to relax further into the mattress, releasing an almost invisible tension, with Miach’s return as well.
Nuriel wrinkled her nose at Miach and smiled adorably, though the smile didn’t light up her eyes quite the way it had before they’d been attacked at the Aerie. “That’s not reassuring, Lord Fyre,” she murmured.
Miach passed a gentle hand over her hair, a gesture he’d never have even considered a month ago, and slid onto the bed. Temair suppressed a little smile when he carefully chose the side farthest from Dathan. Her poor Fyre Consort still wasn’t exactly sure how to deal with the seductive, deceptively easy going Rayne Lord.
He hip-checked Zevan out of his way, crowding the younger man against Temair’s side, and gathered as much of her into his arms as he could manage, considering how tangled up she was with her other Consorts.
“Things here are remarkably peaceful,” he reported, directing his words to
her, though they both knew Dathan and Zevan were listening just as intently. “The men seem to be cherished, even pampered.”
Temair thought she detected a trace of disapproval in his voice.
“And everyone acts disgustingly cheerful.” He shot a sardonic glance at Dathan, wisps of scarlet flame cutting the chaos-black of his eyes. “You should fit right in, Water Boy.”
Dathan laughed at the implied insult and blew the Fyre Lord a kiss. Zevan choked back a snicker of his own, and Temair lay grinning like a fool, loving everything about her Consorts.
* * *
The sun was setting, painting the fields with scarlet and gold, when Temair and her companions arrived at the banquet the Lady Earth had arranged to welcome them.
Elan stood, surrounded by his family, and watched the Royal Party enter. The Crown Princess was stunning, he thought. Not with the sweet, obvious, spun-sugar appearance of her sister-princess. No, Princess Temair had a solid, steady glow that was rooted in the very foundations of Emetra. Her connection with the land and her love of its people fairly lit up the entire room.
He thought wistfully of what it would be like to belong to her, then pushed the fantasy out of his mind. That honor would go, no doubt, to one of his brothers. He couldn’t imagine he had anything the Princess would want.
Elan wasn’t a first son, or even a fifth son. No, he was the thirteenth son in a family of twenty-seven; a large family even by Earth standards, but that was to be expected of Earth’s Lady, for she was fertility personified. While there was no law or formal rule that the Consorts must be a first son, Temair’s first three Consorts all were first sons, and so Elan figured that alone might put him out of the running.
Then there was the fact that all three Consorts were quite beautiful.
Elan recognized the artistry of the human form. All beings carried their own unique beauty. Elan also recognized that what made him beautiful wasn’t so much a manifestation of outward appearance. His mother had often commented, and his aunts had agreed, that Elan’s loveliness came more from the calm and kindness of his heart. He’d always cherished that assessment, but now he found himself wishing for a little less calm, and a little more… dazzle.
At six-foot-five, with shoulders that spanned nearly half that in width, Elan had picked up the nickname Mountain as a teen. He was well aware that his size intimidated most women; his lovers had been few and carefully selected with an eye to their breakability.
Added to that, his eyes were a forest green several shades deeper than was the norm among his people, and rather than being solid and steady, they were shot through with striations of gold and amber depending on his mood. While his skin was smooth and flawless, it was a deeper shade of teak than any of his brothers; yet another thing to set him aside.
Elan shook off his self-pitying thoughts as the Royal Party greeted his mother. Fantasies were fine, he knew, but they must be kept in their proper place. It wasn’t his job to decide his future. He could certainly express a preference but it was up to his mother, and eventually his wife, to guide his choices. After all, that was a man’s place.
* * *
“Oh my goodness!” Nuriel whispered in her ear, indicating the small crowd of young men and women surrounding the Lady Earth. A quick count showed twenty-seven, proving that the Earth Mother had certainly earned her title fairly.
After a closer look, Temair realized Nuriel wasn’t just referring to the crowd of Earth heirs. She was, more specifically, indicating a giant of a man standing near the group. Temair’s eyes widened as she took in the sight of him.
Tall -- even taller than Miach or Dathan -- and broad, he was as far the opposite of her Consorts as could be. His biceps looked as thick as her own thighs, and were beautifully sculpted with muscle. His torso, massive and solid, looked to have not an ounce of extra flesh; instead it, too, was sculpted with ridges of lovely, hard muscle, visible through the loose lacings of his leather vest, and rippling down to an interesting v-cut at the point his leather leggings hugged his hips.
Temair unconsciously licked her lips.
All the Earth Mother’s children were attractive, she realized, with bright green eyes, and rich copper skin. This one, however, seemed set apart from the group by more than just his size. His skin, a few shades darker than his brothers’ and sisters’, carried a soft sheen in the torchlight, from the top of his smoothly shaven head, to the glimpses of teak-colored skin teasing her from the lacings of his vest.
His features were sharp; his cheekbones set like blades, his nose broad and finely wrought in his striking face. His eyes, a deeper green than that of his siblings, were faintly almond shaped, though not as dramatically tilted as Dathan’s, and seemed to glint with golden lights even from a distance.
Most compelling of all, however, was the sense of calm that seemed to surround him like a deep, serene pool of silence. When that calm was attached to a man of his size, it could only give a woman the most comforting sense of peace, Temair thought. There was a steadiness to him that drew her, even as the Lady began to introduce her children, calling them forward by age.
When, halfway through the introductions she called forward her son Elan, “our Mountain,” Temair wasn’t surprised to see the beautiful giant step forward. And in the moment before he dipped his head respectfully, she felt a tingle of awareness shiver through her. She thought maybe he did, too, as his eyes seemed to flare an even deeper green for a moment, before he dropped them almost shyly to the floor, veiling them with thick, lush looking lashes.
Before she could attempt to engage him in conversation, however, Lord Elan slipped back through the group with surprising grace for a man so big, leaving her surrounded by a multitude of animated, welcoming Earth’s Children.
* * *
Dathan met Miach’s eyes over their wife’s head, and felt a smile curve his lips when the other man nodded almost imperceptibly. They’d both noticed Temair’s reaction to the largest Lord Earth, and Miach had anticipated Dathan’s intention to get closer to the man so he could form an opinion of him.
Miach scowled a little bit at Dathan’s smile, and the Rayne Lord knew the First Consort thought he was mocking him. That couldn’t be further from the truth. No, what made Dathan smile was the realization that, even with all Miach’s avoidance and denials, they’d become so in tune with each other that they were now communicating without words.
A sense of frustration accompanied the knowledge, though. Frustration because, although their touches became ever more intimate -- and explosive -- as they loved their beautiful Princess, Miach only allowed it at Temair’s direction, and outside of bed he remained as untouchable as ever. Worse, there was an edge of yearning because, while his attraction to the Fyre Lord had always been intense, it had moved far beyond the physical. What had once been a fun diversion, teasing the tightly wound First Consort, had grown into respect and affection, emotions far deeper than Dathan had believed himself capable of; especially toward the surly Fyre Lord.
He let his gaze rest on his Princess, his wife. His life. He supposed he could thank her for his sudden emotional maturity, he thought wryly. Loving Temair had opened doors to his soul he hadn’t even known existed, let alone held the keys for. He was just very much afraid Miach was holding some keys of his own. The cranky bastard.
* * *
The feast had ended, the Royal Party had seemed mesmerized by the House Storyteller as she gave a rendition of the Creation Tale that had the Aire Lord looking thoughtful and inquisitive, and the celebration was on its way to breaking up when Elan felt a cool presence behind him.
“She’s lovely, isn’t she,” the Rayne Lord murmured as he stepped up next to Elan, who blinked slowly in surprise at being singled out.
“She glows,” he agreed softly, inclining his head respectfully. “You honor me, Lord Rayne.”
Tilted blue eyes lit with humor. “Oh, Mother, call me Dathan. Please. Lord Rayne makes me feel about eighty years old.”
Elan couldn�
��t help respond to that smile; it held too much genuine good humor. “I am called Elan,” he replied, accepting the hand Lord… Dathan offered him.
“I know. We were introduced.” He gave a put-upon sounding sigh. “I suppose next to my wife, the Princess Nuriel, and the blasted First and Third Consorts I am rather forgettable.”
“Not at all.” Elan would have been alarmed at offending the other man if he hadn’t wrinkled his nose dramatically in melodramatic distress as he spoke. “Rather, I expect I’m rather overshadowed by the sheer numbers of my family.” He allowed a dry note to enter his voice, then winced a bit internally as he realized his words might be taken as a criticism.
Dathan deliberately ran his eyes over him and gave a little smirk. “Funny, I’d expect you rather overshadow them.”
The Rayne Lord’s humorous observation brought a smile to Elan’s lips. He’d always been self-conscious of his size, but somehow Dathan’s admiring teasing made him feel, for once, like it was more of an asset than an oddity.
Standing in a companionable silence, they directed their attention back to the Princess and her other Consorts. The little one, for Elan doubted the Aire Lord reached much above his shoulder, was speaking earnestly with the Storyteller, asking questions that the elderly woman answered with elegant movements, speaking with her hands as much as her voice.
The Princess stood beside the First Consort’s chair, leaning back against the table and giving him a hot, naughty look. The Fyre Lord gave her a reluctant looking half-smile in response to something she said, and leaned back, letting crimson-touched black eyes wander insolently over her body.
Elan felt a touch of unease. Did the Fyre Lord realize the disrespect implied by his look? He flicked a glance at Dathan, but the Rayne Lord looked on in apparent amusement, no hint of dismay in his demeanor.
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