Mistress of the Gods (The Making of Suzanne Book 2)

by Rex Sumner

  She reached the tables, finding a stool, really an upended log, and sat, her legs aching and accepted a wooden goblet from a large Elf, who called her Queen Aine with a smile to show he joked. Another passed her a small wooden platter with nuts, forest fruits, what proved to be a smoked trout, a small elven biscuit and a pile of leaves, some of which she recognised. She thanked him prettily, before overhearing a whispered conversation behind her, as a man massacred the liquid Elven tongue.

  “Excuse me, but why does this maid have short hair, when all the others have long hair?”

  “She is not of Elven blood, she is special,” came the reply, from a male voice she did not recognise.

  “Oh? She does not look human, her hair is too short and she glows, ethereal and beautiful.”

  “You call yourself a wizard but cannot recognise magic stalks abroad this night? Have you heard the legend of the Fairy Queen?”

  Susan could feel Fionuir shaking with laughter, as she turned to inspect the man. She knew him, a powerful young wizard much admired, whom she had seen with the Archbishop not two months before. The recognition was not mutual, as the young man’s face flared red and he dropped his eyes before her unblinking stare. Susan remained unaware of her looks, ethereal and other-worldly with her diadem and forest crown. Devilment rose inside her.

  “Why do you speak the Elven tongue so badly, Bishop Roseton, when you say you possess magic?” She spoke in perfect Harrheinian, keeping her voice high, breathless and with a bell-like tone. She hoped a fly would not enter his mouth as she waited for him to speak, which took a full minute.

  “Your Highness, I beg your pardon, I am newly arrived. I am honoured to see you and awed you know my name.”

  “It is a small magic,” she said as she selected a berry from her plate. His eyes followed her every move as she slipped the blackberry between her lips and chewed with dainty precision. “Do you know the Venerable Reinand?”

  The priest resumed his standard expression, jaw hanging free. “I have had the honour of speaking with him personally.”

  “Tell him I have seen his Ronnie. She is well and sends her love.” Susan stepped backwards, sliding behind a broad Elven back, regretting the words as soon as she spoke them. Surely they would not be enough to lead the king to her door? Surely the king had forgotten her already, buried in another woman’s breasts.

  To the priest’s astonished eyes, she just disappeared, and after a moment he wandered back to his colleagues, where they spent the next hour drinking Dwarven ale in celebration of seeing a Fairy Queen.

  Susan kept well away from them, finding herself in demand as a succession of Elves came to speak with her, all referring to her as Aine, most calling her Queen Aine, some with a little bow. She played along with the game, and noticed that Muirgheal and her friends from Riverside did not introduce themselves. A couple of times she noticed herself under inspection from elven girls, a discovery that prompted the girls to switch their attention to the intricacies of leaf growth.

  Three times Laoire appeared, each time her breath caught in her throat, each time a different distraction, the third time Orlaith dragged him off to the dance floor. Susan convinced herself this was his intention all along, that he had no interest in her and wondered at her desolation, the tears blinked away in a moment. Fionuir prevailed on her to dance again, and she caught herself up in the movement and music as the Elves moved on from trees and birds to animals. Susan pleased herself as a hind, bounding through the wood with great leaps, stopping to graze with her head on permanent alert, eyes large and liquid.

  The music changed, and Fainche hissed, “Rabbits!”

  Susan snapped off two chestnut leaves, fastening them into her crown and became a rabbit, nibbling, twitching her nose and dancing in circles, kicking her back legs in the air as she turned cartwheels to the music.

  The music hissed and lowered, becoming malevolent, and a youth bounded into the centre, stripped to the waist. All the rabbits dived into the trees, turning to stick out their heads. The youth turned somersaults amidst prodigious feats of gymnastics. Susan’s fascination grew and she crept out of the forest, along with the other rabbits, eyes fixed on the youth. Her heart skipped a beat as she recognised Laoire, his movements hypnotic and his presence radiating desire.

  He leapt and gyrated, as a weasel does when calling rabbits. Susan did not even know what a weasel was, yet she still found the performance more than fascinating, her eyes never leaving Laoire, drinking in his figure, his sculpted features, dark black eyes and rippling muscles. She gasped as his backward somersault put a curve in his back, emphasizing the lean waist and the solid muscle bands of his stomach with the little dimple in the centre. His broad shoulders bulged as he caught his weight on his hands and flipped himself over again, landing on both feet with a smile wide, white and inviting. One with the other rabbits, she lurched forward with his moves, unable to release her eyes, closer and closer till Laoire made a great leap, landing beside her, hands on her back, pressing her to the ground and his mouth by her ear, while the other rabbits shot back into the trees.

  “Got you, little one,” he said into her ear, biting it for emphasis.

  She shuddered as she stood, while all the dancers surrounded them, talking at once and to her surprise Susan found herself being congratulated.

  “You were just the perfect rabbit,” enthused Orlaith.

  “I wonder if the Spirit of the Rabbit did not take you,” mused Fionuir, casting an evaluating eye over her.

  “The scream of the dying rabbit was the crowning glory,” said Fainche in glee, to Susan’s consternation, unaware of emitting any noise at all. Laoire’s hand remained on her shoulder, the possessive grasp of the hunter with his prey, and every finger screamed its presence where they dug into her skin to send her blood foaming and cascading to coalesce in her belly.

  “Time for a break, I think, and I need a drink,” said Susan, weak at the knees and her hand pushing away Laoire proved ineffectual as his arm slid down in a gentle caress to rest on her rump. Orlaith took Laoire’s other arm, skipping as he led the way to the tables. Susan’s eyes narrowed at this impropriety with her possession and she slipped her left arm round his waist, for support, of course, as she looked anywhere but at his face or Orlaith.

  Arriving at the tables, she relinquished Laoire and seated herself on an empty stool, accepting a goblet of nectar from Fainche. Fionuir placed a hand on her arm, face troubled.

  “The Goibhniu is too strong for her, she should stick to mead.”

  “The humans left already, it is time for the Gods to arrive, we must all drink deep to see them in their splendour,” said Fainche, her pupils contracted.

  “Dragons,” said Riofach, her eyes part closed as she swayed in a dream-like state. “I want to see their steeds as they fly in, all brilliant iridescent colours.”

  Susan reached for the goblet. If there were going to be any dragons, she wanted to see them. Laoire intercepted her hand this time, enfolding it within his own perfect hand, causing a sharp intake of breath.

  “I agree, she is too soon amongst us to meet the Gods,” he said, drawing her to her feet. “I shall escort her back to her room, for safety.”

  “Safe! Not with you, she won’t be,” said Fionuir, eyes flashing. “We know what you have in mind and why you want to get her alone.”

  “You are no better,” said Laoire with some heat. “I saw your eyes on her and know your own desire.”

  Taking advantage of the two squaring up to each other, Susan slipped from between them and retrieved the goblet from Fainche.

  “There’s extra mushroom juice in it,” said Fainche, swaying with a happy smile, and Susan hesitated. A sudden vision of the inevitable consequence of drinking more nectar flooded her mind, herself writhing in Laoire’s arms, her body yearning for him. She closed her eyes, mind racing, forcing the vision away and tried to think. She
was a good girl, she mustn’t sleep with Laoire this night, she barely knew him. This first dance was wonderful, maybe at the next dance, or the Elves would laugh at her and call her easy. All the male Elves would seek to bed her, follow her around, Aine the Fairy Queen would become Aine the Slut. No, this must not happen.

  She passed the goblet back to Fainche with determination.

  “I think I have had enough. I am so dizzy, and exhausted from the dancing. Better I go to bed, I think. People are going, see?”

  “What? Oh, no, the musicians have gone. No Gods tonight, next week perhaps. I wonder why? Come on, I’ll walk you back.”

  Fainche led off down the path, swaying and giggling to herself, Susan taking her arm and both girls supporting each other. After a few hundred paces, footsteps thundered behind them and Laoire appeared, panting, grabbing Susan’s free hand and putting his arm around her.

  “Ha, my little rabbit, did you think to escape me so easily? You are my prey tonight, remember?” He pulled her from Fainche, turning her around to embrace her and catching her lips with his, bending his neck to reach down. One hand reached down to her bottom and thigh, lifting and pulling her into him, while the other cradled her head, his lips devouring hers and his tongue probing, seeking entrance. The world spun, Susan melted into him, her mouth opening and she entwined his tongue with hers, allowing him in to explore, responding to his need with promise and softness.

  Fainche laughed, moving on and leaving them, while Susan ran her hands over his broad back, marvelling at the taut elasticity of his muscles and revelling in the strength with which he pulled her tight. A little moan escaped her occupied mouth, and she felt his response rise up, huge, heavy and hot against her stomach. For a moment she pressed against this intrusion, wondering what it could be. Realisation swept over her and she pulled back, thrusting her arms between them and holding his chest away from hers, while her breasts yearned for the return of his warmth and to feel his hot hands caressing her aching nipples.

  “No,” she said, as firmly as she could, desperate need running through her. “Please, Laoire, I like you so much, but we have only just met. Don’t push me, please, let me get used to you, get to know you. I want you to respect me.”

  “What?” He stared down at her, eyes clouded with passion and incomprehension. “What are you talking about? Respect? Of course I respect you, you are beautiful, Aine, and tonight we will get to know each other.” He dropped his mouth again, that beautiful, sensuous mouth and somehow she managed to avoid it, burying her face in his chest and just avoiding biting his nipple, tempting her from beside her mouth. A deep, shuddering breath coursed through her as she controlled her need and pushed away from him.

  “Thank you, Laoire, for a wonderful dance and a lovely evening. I so enjoyed myself with you and would love to dance with you again next time. Good night.” She pushed away from him and ran, blind to everything and pushing back the tears. She hoped she did not put him off, but she must not be too forward, the foreigner who was easy would be a tag she would never shake.

  Laoire stood in the path, a confused expression on his face, a plaintive query unsaid on his lips as she disappeared. His eyes narrowed, his mouth set and he began to stride after her, when Orlaith appeared, squealed at the sight of him.

  “Laoire, darling, I couldn’t find you. Oh, you look so scrumptious.” She fell on him, catching him off-balance and both collapsed to the ground where she rolled him onto his back, grinding herself against his readiness and delighted at the speed with which her presence excited him.

  *

  Susan pushed into her room, turning to hold the door almost shut so she could peer round it. She expected to see Laoire following her home, pushing through the door to her room and carrying her to her bed, her loins turning to jelly at the thought. She yelped as strong arms pulled her backwards, turning her and kissing her. She wondered how Laoire managed to get to her room so fast and her questing fingers found him stripped and ready.

  His lips and tongue more demanding, he carried her to the bed, pausing to strip her before laying her down in the darkness and she could resist him no more, spreading her legs and urging him on with soft cries, gasping as he filled her and rocked the bed.

  The soft glow of her climax faded, the pleasant weight and warmth of him flattening her breasts and his breath still hard and heavy on her shoulder while she felt the delicious softening inside her and her heart hummed with glee and love, the nectar still coursing through her veins. She stroked his hair, preparing to apologise, when he whispered in her ear.

  “Oh, Aine, my Queen, I have missed you so. These two weeks have been hard without you, but I received a furlough tonight and rushed to spend it with you. I must leave early, before the sunrise, but am happy to worship you again.”

  “Oengus?” Susan lay back, appalled, her thoughts in turmoil.

  Oengus murmured his love into her ear, his hands tracing and worshipping her body while he prepared for a second event. Susan’s first impulse was to throw him from her bed and her room, crying inside because this was not her now beloved Laoire, while her heart shrank inside her, curdling at the thought of Laoire discovering she rebuffed him only to sleep with Oengus. He would never speak to her again, and she longed for his touch, a longing which caused her to respond to Oengus’ caresses. Suppose he came to her room now and found her with Oengus? Had he already been? She should throw Oengus out. He would be angry and make a scene, drawing others to see what happened and Laoire would find out. But she must tell Laoire, he would understand. Wouldn’t he?

  Oengus became excited and frantic, while Susan’s lips compressed. Laoire must not find out about Oengus. Oengus must leave happy and content, in the morning before sunrise. As a ranger he would be of use to her in the future and it would not be a good thing to upset him. While she calculated her options, her body responded in ways Naomi taught her, controlling and slowing Oengus’ movement, drawing him into the steady heightening of the senses which would give him the most pleasure. When he thrashed and bit the pillow, she felt nothing but satisfaction; satisfaction at a job well done, squeezing and caressing to enhance the moment, draining the energy from Oengus so he fell into a deep sleep.

  She rose and washed herself, listening to his gentle snores, before thinking ahead to the morning. She must hustle him out as fast as possible, make sure he was gone before anyone could know he was here. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep as his snores drove her imagination down tortuous avenues, stalked by Laoire casting disgusted glances at her, never speaking.

  Fleeing Foe

  Asmara raced down the wide path through the forest, overtaking three Lancers finishing off a group of Spakka. She didn’t know where Sir Lionel or Sergeant Russell were, she was alone, desperate for a proper kill. Yes, she had taken seven so far, but all running away. She knew Lionel and the Lancers manoeuvred her to avoid danger and yearned for a duel.

  Yes, at last, here was a Spakka, ready and waiting for her, confident and grinning at the sight of a girl. His axe dripped gore, proclaiming his skill, but she did not hesitate, slapping her heels into the horse who charged the Spakka. Speed, that was the key according to Jeremy. She leant forward, her cheek against the horse’s neck and aimed her lance at his chest. The point wobbled, she found her arm straining and forced herself to relax. The lance point dipped before rising to centre itself and she relaxed back in the saddle. Closing, the Spakka whipped his axe up and she threw herself forward, adding distance to the length of her lance as she leant forward. The Spakka tried to speed up his stroke, too late, she was through and not prepared for the shock of the impact which threw her back in the saddle, dropping the lance and grabbing for the cantle.

  The axe, heading straight for her face, dropped in mid-air as the Spakka groaned, his hands on his belly around the lance shaft and his face white as he spat his fury at dying at the hands of a girl, a little girl.

&nbs
p; Asmara gave up the unequal struggle, slipped out of the saddle off the back of the horse. She thumped onto the ground, landing painfully on her bottom, while the spear and her momentum flipped her round to land on her stomach, sliding her along the grass past the Spakka till her face stopped just a couple of paces from him. He glared at her, unable to move his hands from his stomach. She watched the life pass out of his eyes which still stared at her in accusation.

  A horse stopped beside her and the rider landed beside her with feather-light impact. A hand grasped her arm and Sir Lionel helped her to stand.

  “Good strike, nice and fast, right in the belly. We don’t normally do that if we can avoid it, because you lose your lance with big fellows like him. You can’t hang on. Now, retrieve your lance, clean it and let’s go. We have some ships to catch.”

  “He, he looked at me...”

  “Of course he did, he was trying to kill you but you were too good for him. Come on, foot on his belly and pull it out, that’s the way, nice and steady.”

  He talked gently without stopping, not giving her the opportunity to think or speak, through the retrieval and cleansing of her lance to mounting her horse, busy grazing with not a concern for her health. She kicked him into motion with savage heels as Sergeant Russell arrived, raised an eyebrow at Sir Lionel and smoothly took over the talking. Between the two of them, they brought a small smile back to her face.

  The bearded face of Matt arrived, smiling as always, with news.

  “Jez is with the king. He only got nine today so he’s way behind, even if one was the king. Did you see it? We raced up the hill so fast they didn’t even realise we were there and Jez smacked his lance right through his eye as turned. Eeurgh, it was horrible, his head just exploded like a pine twist put on the fire.” Matt chuckled. “You should have seen the Spakka when they saw that, and later the crown as we ran along the back. Sick they were, and they broke.”