Wicked Harvest

by Anitra Lynn McLeod

  Clathia’s hand trembled as she stroked the arm of the empty throne. She did not have to say how much she missed her consort.

  Chur lowered his face respectfully, acknowledging her pain without words. Empathy filled him, for he would be devastated if he lost Enovese.

  “For two seasons I have kept a lonesome vigil at my throne and in my bed.” A weary loneliness muddied her golden eyes.

  A buzz of anxiety coiled around his gut, for he doubted the empress discussed such things without good reason. Another thousand bricks joined those already weighing down his belly. Chur had no idea what she wished him to say, so he held his tongue.

  With a flick of her wrist, Clathia removed the swath of black fabric. His ceremonial sword lay on the seat of the consort throne. Gems glittered and polished metal gleamed. Enovese kept all his gear clean, but someone had spent hours meticulously cleaning the sword.

  When his gaze met hers, accusation sharpened the muddy brown to sparkling gold. He held perfectly still, for looking away or fidgeting would convey his anxiety. Had her daughter placed the blade there to implicate him in the death of her mother’s consort?

  Clathia’s eyes narrowed and her brows lowered as she considered him. “How bold you are, Chur Zenge, to lay claim to the empress herself.”

  He did his best not to react, but his confusion must have shown in his face. His blade placed there was not an implication of guilt but a proclamation of intent. He could not have been more shocked if the empress transformed into a thousand butterflies.

  Clathia frowned, mirroring his puzzlement.

  They stood at impasse for a long moment.

  Understanding washed over her face and she released her rigid posture with a sigh. “You did not place the sword here.”

  “No, my lady.”

  A delicate pink blushed her cheeks as she gritted her teeth.

  Chur wasn’t certain, but he thought the empress had been rather delighted at the idea of him audaciously laying claim to her. To discover he had no such intentions crushed her tender notions. An apology filled his mouth, but he chose not to speak for his words would offer no comfort.

  He knew her daughter, Kasmiri, was responsible for this very cruel prank. He understood why Kasmiri wished to hurt him, but why would she lash out at him at the expense of her own mother? Kasmiri struck him as a spoiled woman-child, but to display such hostility toward her mother was appalling.

  “Who placed your sword upon my consort’s throne?”

  Chur swallowed hard for her intelligent eyes had already surmised that he knew precisely who had done the deed. Lying would not serve him well but tact might. “My lady, I cannot say who placed it there, but the last person to possess my blade was your daughter.”

  Crimson lips parted with shock. “You intend to lay claim to Kasmiri?” Clathia was not pleased with the notion. Fury stiffened her body, causing her hands to grip white on the arms of her throne.

  “No, my lady.”

  “Then why did you give her the sword?”

  “I did not give Kasmiri my blade.”

  “Explain.” She tapped her nails impatiently against the carved Onic wood of her throne.

  “After our dance, she leaned close to speak to me and removed the sword.” He discreetly left out the part where Kasmiri said he could have it back once he’d demonstrated his prowess privately.

  “What did she ask of you?”

  Trapped, Chur struggled to answer. He did not want to malign Kasmiri or hurt her mother with the truth that her daughter maliciously schemed to possess him. “Kasmiri expressed an interest in having me claim her at the Harvest.”

  Clathia laughed as if she’d been holding back for years. “You are more than a warrior, noble Chur Zenge. You are a smooth diplomat.” Her shrewd gaze assessed him. “Kasmiri does not express an interest, she demands, but you are kind to place the truth in the most flattering terms.”

  For the first time in the presence of the empress, Chur relaxed. She was a wise woman who knew well the impulses of those around her, especially her daughter. However, Clathia’s speculative gaze sparked a new twist of apprehension. She examined him in a leisurely but entirely possessive manner.

  Crimson fabric clung to her lush form when she rose. The bodysuit left little to the imagination. She moved with the sensuality of an exorbitantly priced yondie. Chur had to tilt his head back to meet her gaze as she stood several steps above him. She turned and the fabric caressed her rounded bottom when she bent over to retrieve the blade. He wondered if she and her consort had played erotic games like he and Enovese. Would any man dare to spank the bottom of the empress even if she asked? Surprised at the turn of his thoughts, he looked away but not before she noticed the direction of his gaze. He wanted to offer an apology, but Clathia did not seem angry but pleased. He was not the first man she had caught examining her. She wore her beauty like a weapon, for she knew exactly what power it granted her.

  Holding the sword in her hands, she descended the steps of the dais until she stood one step above him, her face level with his. He couldn’t help but examine her anew. Her lips were full, and a slight nip in her upper lip gave a decidedly bow shape to her mouth. Tiny lines that echoed her laugh lines radiated around her eyes. Her hands were small with palms lighter than the rest of her skin, but her slender hands conveyed strength and delicate power. Up close, she was even more stunning, causing him to take a deep breath. Her perfume entranced him, bringing to mind a lush garden in full bloom. Embarrassed, he wanted to step back to protect her from his stench.

  Her teeth flashed white against her crimson lips when she smiled. “You are an impressive man, Chur Zenge. Rare is the warrior with the eloquence of a diplomat.”

  When she offered out the blade, he took it and placed it on his belt. It jarred with his filthy appearance, but it pleased him to have it returned. Relief filled him that despite Kasmiri’s machinations, she had not succeeded in harming him or her mother.

  A jolt galvanized him when Clathia placed her hand on his shoulder.

  “Your strength is most beguiling.” Her low and intimate voice caressed his ears as her hand trailed down his arm to cup his bicep. “I am not surprised my daughter would seek to possess you by any means necessary.”

  He had undergone detailed protocol instructions, but he did not recall how one was to deal with a blatant come-on by the empress. He plunged back to the awkward stance he had as a young man in Ampir. When the women of his village flirted with him, he simply stood silently uncomfortable, clinging to his dreams to escape the longing in his loins. In all honesty, he found the empress most appealing, but his heart and soul belonged to Enovese. While he appreciated Clathia’s magnificence, he had no desire to sample her charms, but how did one rebuff the empress without incurring her wrath?

  Tactfully, he said, “You flatter me, my lady.”

  She laughed with delightful joy. “I seek not to compliment you but to convey to you my interest.” With a graceful step, she joined him on the red carpet, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. “I find you fascinating, Chur Zenge. There has never been a Harvester with such an intriguing combination of physical power and sharp intellect.” Caressing the length of his arm, she added, “All of that wrapped up in a delightfully handsome package.”

  Sweat trickled along his back. “You flatter me, my lady.”

  “Strip.”

  Her one-word command brooked no argument. Chur carefully removed all his gear, piling it before her feet. Nude and dirty, he cast his clothing aside without pretense, but he kept his face lowered. Sweat gathered in his armpits and trickled down his sides.

  Clathia stroked his chest. “I would like to see you when your hair has grown back.” She explored the smoothly shaven area, then the parts still thick with hair. Her touch implied ownership, as if he were nothing more than a meat animal she considered purchasing. “You defy the perception of grunting brutality that embodies most Harvesters.”

  Terrified at the turn this audience ha
d taken, Chur simply repeated, “You flatter me, my lady.”

  With slow and deliberate intent, Clathia lowered her hand and cupped his sex, gauging his reaction by keeping her attention on his face. Her hand was cool against his heated flesh. He held his breath, trying not to panic. Shame caused him to slump and turn his head to the side, away from her probing gaze, which only caused her to chuckle and stroke more firmly. Deep inside his chest burbled a scream of fury that no one should touch him this way without his consent. He held the torment locked behind gritted teeth for he could not reprimand the empress. He allowed anger to replace his shame, for this was not his fault. Even the strongest man in the realm could not raise a hand to this woman. With a deep breath, he stood tall again, turning his attention to the connection with Enovese, but it flickered weakly as a sputtering crystal.

  “Relax, mighty Harvester,” Clathia crooned to his ear, standing on tiptoe to reach. Her breath smelled of sweet wine and her breast pressed against his arm. “I only wish to examine my consort.”

  His heart raced for he did not wish to be her consort. He wanted to wrap his hands around Kasmiri’s neck and throttle the life out of her for setting him up. A new thought pressed in his mind, that Clathia and her daughter competed against each other. Each trying to take what the other wanted. Where Kasmiri used her youth, beauty, and a viciously clever mind, Clathia used her experience, beauty, and the absolute power of her position.

  Skillfully, Clathia continued to rub and stroke, but no matter how adept her technique, she could not summon the same burning lust as Enovese. When he remained flaccid her touch turned groping, tugging his hairs hard enough to pull some free. He tried not to wince.

  When Clathia realized that no amount of stimulation would harden him, she yanked her hand back and then slapped him so hard his head whipped to the side.

  Stunned, he took the blow without any outward reaction. Her eyes blazed. Her face turned red with frustration. Her breath puffed against the sweat of his face and chest, cooling him despite her heated fury.

  “I am not some virginal sacrifice flattering you to seek your approval. I am the empress. With a flick of my finger I could have you castrated for your impertinence.”

  Chur bowed his head. He did not know what to say or do. He stood statue-still. If he could summon an erection to please the empress, he would, but his body flatly refused to respond. Panic was not an arousing emotion.

  “I care not that you are sterile. Such information compelled me to consider choosing you as my consort, for I do not want any more children, but I will not accept a man who is impotent without drugs or oils.”

  Her words rolled over him, nipping and biting, destroying a part of him with shocking finality. He dismissed the claim of impotency forthwith. Chur did not need drugs or oils to achieve or maintain an erection. Enovese could command such a reaction with just a glance, the tilt of her nose, or the flash of her ankles. Just because the empress could not stimulate him to hardness didn’t mean he was impotent. However, her audacious claim that he was sterile confounded him. How would the empress know such a thing?

  “I am sterile?” he asked, thinking she must know with certainty to bandy the information about so blithely.

  “Of course.” With a disgusted sigh, she wiped her hand along her bodysuit as if touching him rendered her filthy. “Why do you think the magistrate and your handler conspire to unseat you as the Harvester?”

  His head spun. Ambo Votny and Helton Ook had united to set up multiple challengers. In one fell swoop, the information explained all of the questions plaguing him. Helton had turned on him because he wasn’t living up to his full duties as the Harvester. Which meant that Ambo, Helton, and even the empress herself knew what happened with the Harvester issue. They knew all about the despicable paratanist selection ritual.

  A new and more terrible thought invaded his mind; he and Enovese should have surmised this, for if the empress had no qualms about breeding servants, she would not hesitate to breed paratanists. The secret they had uncovered was only a secret to the masses, not to the elite.

  Chur clung to the one good thing that came of this startling information; if he was sterile, he had not produced any children. As much as he’d wanted children, he hadn’t wanted to subject any to the harsh brutality of life in the tanist house.

  Clathia must have noticed his relief. “Why does this information please you?” Her glare sharpened as she assessed him. Her voice dripped with snide rebuff when she speculated that “No dalliances with the elite will return to haunt you.”

  It took a moment for him to process that she thought he was pleased he could not have impregnated any of his conquests. He did not doubt that some of the elite would have told tales of seducing him that were utterly false.

  Calmly, he said, “I am the Harvester, my lady. I do not dally with any, for physical intimacy is against my sworn duty.”

  She scoffed. “I have heard tales of the recruits turning to one another for pleasure. Perhaps that is why my touch does not arouse; my hand is too soft.” Clathia spun on her heel and ascended the dais. At a table tucked beside the throne, she lifted a crystal decanter and poured a cup of wine. She sipped, glaring at him over the rim. Her inability to arouse him infuriated her for he doubted she’d ever encountered such resistance. Most men would stiffen at the sight of her in the body-hugging outfit.

  He wanted to say his lack of interest was not because of her soft hand but her cold heart. Clinging to tact, he met her flashing gaze and said, “I am trained to resist temptation. My lack of response is a tribute to my teachings, not an indication of your appeal.”

  Somewhat mollified, Clathia took another sip. A resigned smirk turned her harsh face beautiful again. “You are indeed a fine diplomat.” She inclined her head in the direction of his gear. “Dress.” She sat upon her throne, cradling her glass as she watched him don his gear. “A Harvester may choose among the most beautiful young women in all the realm, but you have rejected them all. Your handler refused to speculate, but I believe you have shrewdly waited for a sacrifice who possesses power. Perhaps my daughter Kasmiri is of interest.”

  Chur could not think of a sacrifice he wanted less than Kasmiri. He’d rather castrate himself with a rusty blade than be saddled with such a vacuous narcissist. Moreover, he did not believe the empress wanted him to select her daughter. He firmly believed Clathia wanted him to favor her over her daughter. Rather than submitting himself as consort to the empress, he’d rather die on the battlefield. He wanted but one woman. He wanted Enovese. He would not settle for a lesser bondmate than the one who had fully captured his heart and soul.

  Once he had dressed, he faced the empress. “By my duty I am burdened with many restraints. I spend my life learning the art of battle and I put my life on the line to defend my position. I embody sex, yet I must abstain from any physical pleasure. The only right I have is the absolute right to choose my mate, and that is not a decision I take lightly.”

  “Warrior, diplomat, and a romantic. How charming.” Clathia saluted him with her glass. “By the prophecy you will find your bondmate during the Harvest.” A mocking laugh erupted as she shook her head. “Perhaps you are not as intelligent as I thought.”

  Tension crept into his muscles. He’d had enough of her crude seduction and her insults. The high respect he once held for the empress had reduced to a low tolerance. He wished she would just finish and dismiss him.

  “Let me enlighten you, mighty Harvester. There is no eternal bondmate. Such is a myth crafted by the poets. You should have chosen at last Harvest, for you will not make it to the next Harvest.” She drew her fingertip along the rim of her glass and flashed him an arch smile. “Well, not without my help.”

  Chur almost laughed. She was as clever and manipulative as her daughter. Everything before this moment meant little. All of it—from the consort claim, to the stripping, to the groping—was to unbalance him. Throwing him into turmoil made him more pliable for when she asked for what she tru
ly wanted.

  Narrowing her eyes and tilting her head, Clathia said, “At the Festival of Temptation you spoke to a woman, Arianda Rostvaika, who was once a Harvester.”

  Chur nodded, keeping his face carefully neutral. Clathia was intelligent, but it was unlikely she knew the woman was Enovese’s mother. To Clathia, Enovese did not have a name or a mother; she was only a paratanist.

  Clathia lowered her voice and said, “I want you to kill Arianda Rostvaika.”

  25

  Chur was late. Enovese tried to keep her attention on the Harvester tome, but the squiggly handwriting and anxiety over Chur conspired against her. Repeatedly, she tried to connect to his mind, but an odd whooshing sound, like waves upon the shore of the Valry Sea, blocked her access. She nibbled her lower lip, consumed with the idea he laid injured and unconscious.

  When he finally entered, she shot from her chair, bashing her leg into the table. A demand for an explanation died in her throat when she saw his face. Smudges of darkness hollowed his eyes. His normally proud posture slumped with defeat. Bronze skin streaked with dirt and sweat looked sunken and pale.

  Silently, she moved to his side and removed his gear. She detached his ceremonial sword without comment. His normally ripe after-training scent was more pungent, mixing exhaustion with anxiety and a nasty tinge of fear. She noted no external bruises, but his spirit had taken a terrible blow. Respecting his privacy and knowing that he would speak when ready, Enovese made no further attempts to probe his mind.

  At the bathing unit, he touched the collar of her robe, and she removed it. Together, they washed, lingering and exploring. Chur drew her into his arms and simply held her as water streamed over their entwined bodies. Where she had always found such strength in him, he now took that from her. He clung to her as if she could buoy him from everything without their tiny world within. She felt no fear. She could be strong when he was weak, for he would be strong when she was weak. Wrapping her arms around him, she held him, cradling him against her, conveying power and compassion with her embrace.