by A. C. Ellas
As they relaxed in the aftermath, Jisten realized that his arm hadn’t hurt once. He reached up and unlocked the torque. “You don’t need to wear this out of your bedroom. Store it someplace safe, where you can get to it quickly.”
“And the chain?”
“That stays,” Jisten said flatly.
Chapter Three: Politics
Jethain tried not to show any signs of impatience as Owain slowly read over his formal proposal for the freeing of the palace staff. He’d spent weeks on the document, countering every argument as best he could. He had even shown that the palace could save money by replacing the slaves with paid servants. It turned out that the cost of wages for a year was far less than the annual amount spent on the purchase of slaves. Not only that, they would be able to attract far more skilled help than they could ever purchase because the truly talented didn’t tend to find themselves in chains often.
Owain glanced from the proposal to the ledger showing the math a few times before he set it down. “I must admit, I’m both surprised and impressed by this, my son. I find it hard to believe that we’d actually save money by hiring servants, but your math looks correct.”
Jethain allowed himself to hope. “So, you’ll approve it?”
“Not so fast,” the king reproved. “This must be presented to the council, properly, and be discussed and debated ad nauseum before we can proceed further. But it will be presented to council, and I will back your efforts to ram it through.”
It was more than he’d ever had before. Jethain nodded acceptance. He’d learned to be patient.
“Now, there is the matter of your wedding.” Owain set the proposal aside and steepled his fingers as he regarded Jethain. “Marea is with child. You must wed her before the birth, so there can be no doubt of the legitimacy of the baby, your heir.”
Jethain grimaced. He’d been hoping to avoid this. “She’s the daughter of a traitor, and we both know that baby isn’t mine.” His own brother, Araken, while being held—wrongfully—as a slave had been bred to the woman to get her with child. Marea was cold, spiteful, and not someone he wished to be bound to in marriage.
Owain sighed. “This is ridiculous. The people will believe what they’re told. If you’re married to Marea and she bears you a baby, everyone will believe it’s yours or pretend to believe, in some cases, but it comes out to the same thing: you will have an heir.”
“Surely there must be some other way,” Jethain protested. “Araken’s son, Tavelin, is already my registered heir. Isn’t that enough?”
“No. It’s not. That wife of his—what’s her name? Ave? She has broken that agreement. You must have an heir of appropriate blood.” Owain’s expression turned calculating. “There is one other option.”
“What? Tell me,” Jethain demanded. He’d be willing to do almost anything to avoid marrying that woman.
“Get Araken with child yourself. According to the scholars I’ve spoken to, even sterile men can impregnate a kironi, due to the magics involved. By Koilathan law, Araken is considered a woman, so it’s not even immoral. Even better, the kironi magic ensures that all his babies will be male. Take him and claim him, and once he’s given you an heir and a spare, you can do as you wish.”
He was profoundly grateful that he hadn’t said he’d do anything because this was something he certainly wouldn’t do. Jethain shook his head. “No. Never. He’s my brother. Even if he’s kironi, it’s still incest.”
Owain shrugged. “Then, you’ll wed Marea in a week.”
* * * *
“Chancellor Deviol, so kind of you to join us.” Jezaia smiled sweetly as she poured a drink for her latest visitor herself. “Of course, you already know Duke Keron and Lord Maziel. We await but one other.”
Deviol took the brandy, swirling it in its bowl as he studied the fine amber color before turning his gaze to his queen. Jezaia was dressed in a sheer, low-cut gown that left little to the imagination where her large, well-shaped bosom was involved. The multiple skirts, of fabric so thin they were nearly transparent, barely met the requirements for decency. She wore no undergarments of any kind—he’d be able to see them if she were. She was wearing a wife chain around her waist, almost hidden under the hems of the skirts, but the other chain looped between her legs was more clearly visible—and intriguing. He found the view enjoyable and thought about sampling her assets. “Yes, of course, I know Keron and Maziel.” He nodded to them both.
“Who are we waiting for?” Maziel asked testily. His face was haggard and his hair wild.
Deviol thought he was overplaying the grief card to a ridiculous degree, and for what? Nothing. The king wasn’t going to act against the dark one, not after the sharp lesson they’d been served this past summer.
Deviol distinctly recalled using Rak’s body after Virien had collared the man-whore for the submissive cock lover he was. That collar should never have come off the dark one, which was why he’d agreed to attend this meeting—nobody here was a friend of the dark one. Keron had also been there that day and had taken great pleasure in using the slave. Deviol was quite fond of Kion’s heir and viewed himself as a sort of uncle to the younger noble in the wake of his father’s unfortunate death—another slaying by the dark one, with even less justice served than was apparent in Kazia’s murder investigation.
“You were waiting for me,” said a new voice, a young voice but deep, thrumming with the promise of power. A man stepped forth and offered a shallow bow. “I am Neren, Crown Prince of Zoth. I am here at the command of my father, King Narvain of Zoth.”
“You haven’t presented your credentials to the council, young man,” Deviol said to cover his surprise.
“Alas, my presence here is unofficial.” Neren shrugged. “Rumors reached my father that an escaped slave of his had been seen here. I am ordered to retrieve this wayward piece of property and return him to my father.”
“S’Rak?” Keron offered a nasty smile. “He’s marked as a Zothian slave.”
“Yes, the slave is called Rak.” Neren nodded to the other young man. “I am seeking assistance in capturing him. Once he’s collared, I’ll take him back to my father.”
“He murdered my wife,” Maziel grated. “I want him dead.”
“Oh, come now,” Jezaia purred, pressing up against the distraught man. “Surely being collared and returned to his rightful master is punishment enough. Imagine the tortures King Narvain will inflict upon his returned property in punishment for his escape and defiance.”
“Once Rak is collared, you can punish him as you see fit—short of killing or maiming him,” Neren offered. “He’s a fully potioned and trained sex slave. There is much you could do to him, so much pleasure you could wrest from him as you hurt him, shame him, and use him. Truly, Lord Maziel, can you think of any revenge more complete than to have your enemy bound and helpless at your feet, obedient to your every command, eager to be fucked by you lest he die of the unrequited need that consumes him? To hear him beg and plead to be humbled, debased, and taken as a sex slave by you? To feel his body yielding to you and returning tenfold the pleasure you give him?”
Maziel licked his lips. “You are very persuasive. I agree with your suggestion.”
“Excellent,” Neren replied, clapping his hands together once. “Then we are agreed.”
* * * *
“Sire, a special package has arrived for you.”
Owain looked up from the document he was perusing, raising his eyebrows at Gebiet, the palace slave trainer. “What sort of package?”
“From Zoth, sire. Chancellor Virien ordered it for you several months ago.” Gebiet smiled a little. “I think you will really enjoy this, sire.”
“Where is it?” Despite himself, he was interested in what Virien might have ordered from Zoth. He hoped it might be a sex slave of the same order of skill as Araken was said to be, but he was prepared to be disappointed.
“I put it in your private kennels, sire.”
Owain resisted the urge to b
ounce as he stood. “Let’s go see what my brother bought me then.”
Gebiet led the way to the king’s kennels, though of course, Owain knew the way himself. They were well-hidden, the entrance concealed in a bookcase full of very dull texts of ancient history. Owain quickly descended the staircase built between two walls until he reached the secret rooms—there was more than just the slave kennel, though that room was the largest, with stalls for a dozen slaves. There was also a bathing chamber to clean the slaves in, and a pleasure chamber to use the slaves in.
Over the summer, Owain had fantasized about installing Araken down here and breeding the kironi himself. Only the specter of incest had kept him from it, but now, his research had shown that incest didn’t apply to kironi, the magic ensured the baby born that way would be healthy and free of genetic defect. Unfortunately, it was far too late to take advantage of the situation—Araken was free again.
Gebiet stopped at the first kennel on the right and drew back the concealing curtain. The slave within was small but lovely and well-fleshed. Her hair was red, her eyes were yellow-green, her features elfin and her figure full. A pair of wings sprouted from her back, golden along the spars, with emerald green sails marked with deep green diamonds with black centers. Her body art was lovely, too, dancing flutter-byes wound in artistic streams along her body. On her hip was the brand of the Zothian Royal Dancers—the same brand Araken bore.
Owain licked his lips, wondering why his mouth had gone so dry. “What’s she called?”
“Razia.” Gebiet snapped his fingers, and the slave stood and padded to the front of the kennel. The sway of her hips was hypnotic. “She’s fully dosed, fully trained, and eager to serve you, sire.”
“Excellent.” Owain opened the kennel door, stepped forward, and ran his hands over her delightful body. “My dear Razia, you are beautiful beyond words. I hope, in time, that you come to love me.” He guided her out of the kennel and into the pleasure room.
* * * *
Rak walked out of the bedchamber and paused to consider the newest guards assigned to keep an eye on him. He knew them both—they’d been in Virien’s employ until the chancellor had met his long overdue end. He hadn’t realized that they’d joined the palace guard. He hadn’t thought Jisten would welcome their presence; even though they hadn’t personally done anything to Jisten, they had still been there when it happened. The pair, Napiet and Issarn, had become allies of sorts, and thus, Rak had spared their lives when he’d taken his revenge on their employer. Other guards, those who had raped Jisten repeatedly, hadn’t survived.
He wondered why Jisten had assigned this pair to him then gave a mental shrug. No doubt the captain wanted nothing to do with them. Where better to post them than here, the unwanted set to guard the untrusted. He decided that it didn’t matter. “Trosp,” he murmured.
His newest guard, who wasn’t a guard at all, but never mind that, inclined his head. “What are your orders, sir?”
“S’Ioli and I have work to do in the stables. See to it that we’re undisturbed.” Rak indicated the lounging guards with his fingers.
Trosp smiled. “Go, high priest. They will not see you. They will not follow you.”
“Thank you.” Rak knew there would be a price for this favor, but it was one he would enjoy paying. “Come, S’Ioli.” He headed for the exit without even glancing at the palace guards who continued to play their card and dice game as if nothing were happening.
They reached the palace stables without incident, without running into anyone important, and slid into the depths of barn two with a sense of relief. Their goal lay at the end of the long stable, in a box stall once used for pregnant mares and currently occupied by a pregnant avtappi.
“Zala,” Rak murmured in greeting. He stroked the mare’s neck, offering pleasant images of the hunt by way of greeting. She snorted, emitting a fair bit of smoke, and bowed her head. “May we see Iggie?”
Zala snorted again but moved aside, clearing a path to the gangly unicorn foal she’d adopted. The colt’s coat was burnished gold, his mane and the tuft at the end of his long lion’s tail were flame red. The horn had sprouted recently, a length of spiraled ivory no longer than the width of Rak’s hand, though it would grow considerably in the months to come. Rak slipped into the stall until he was at Iggie’s side. He touched the colt, both with his hands and with his power. His hands did the mundane work of grooming, his power did the more esoteric work of instructing the colt, preparing him for weaning and eventual training.
Ioli silently worked with Zala, and once Rak was done with Iggie, he turned to his junior. Ioli backed away from the mare, and his fingers flashed. “She is well, her colt is growing well, and she’s not in any distress at having to nurse the unicorn.”
“Excellent. Another few weeks and Iggie should be ready to wean.” Rak offered Zala a peppermint, she quickly lipped it from his hand, and blew smoke in thanks. They exited her stall and moved to the next stall.
Vyld hung his head over the half door and sent a greeting. Rak set a hand on the stallion’s head and stroked the long face. “Xai’ete, Vyld.” This was the avtappi Rak had bonded to while still in the novitiate. They’d been partnered for so long that it was no effort at all to reach each other’s minds, to know and predict each other’s actions. Vyld was in perfect health and in good spirits, but he was also bored. He wanted to hunt. Rak promised him a hunt soon, gave him a last pat, and turned to leave.
Three of the stable boys were nearby, mucking stalls, but it was their conversation that gave Rak pause.
“I hear there be a sickness in th’ horses down in th’ city,” Dahser said.
“Aye, that,” replied Norr. “In th’ markets, twenty horses sick they said and spreadin’ fast.”
“What are the symptoms?” Rak asked, recalling the coughing horse he’d seen.
“Cough, I heard,” said Hino. “Stranglin’ cough and tis a killer, they said.”
Rak frowned. There had to be more to it than just a cough. “Are any of our horses sick?” Even though he was an envoy and not a permanent resident of the palace, he’d been called on to help with the palace horses often enough that he had a proprietary interest in them. He was more welcome, and felt more at home, here in the stables than in the palace proper.
“No, sir,” Norr told him.
“We be watchin’ them close,” Dahser added. “If any of ours be sick, Master Bharis be sendin’ for you straight away he said.”
“Good. Keep me informed.” Rak nodded to them and continued toward the exit. Bharis, the stable master, was an able manager of both horses and boys. He was a true friend to Rak, an all-too-rare occurrence in this land. He was sure that Bharis was keeping a close eye on the horses and would let him know if any came down with this illness from the city.
He hadn’t gone a dozen paces further when Captain Jisten was suddenly there, his expression furious as he blocked Rak’s path. Rak was suddenly acutely conscious of the chain still locked about his waist. He stopped just out of arm’s reach and waited but not for long.
“How dare you!” Jisten snapped. “You are under guard for a reason, S’Rak. The king signed those orders himself. Yet, once again, here you are, wandering about unsupervised. Do you not care that you’re under suspicion of murder? Get back to your suite, S’Rak, right now.”
The chain around his waist tightened warningly, and he felt an urge, imposed from outside, to obey that command. Rak resisted the urge to feel the chain even as he belatedly understood exactly what it was and he felt anger stirring at Jisten’s presumption. His anger cooled abruptly as he recalled that Jisten did have the right to call him wife, even to chain him, for he had willingly submitted to this man as his lover and as his master. So Jisten had gone a step sideways and was claiming his rights as a Koilathan husband. They were less than that of a master, so what did it matter when Jisten already was his master?
Rak pressed his lips together, bowed his head, and strode out, brushing past Jisten to do
so. He obeyed, however, returning directly to his suite. Ioli walked beside him, his fingers flashing as he expressed his outrage. Rak shook his head and didn’t answer. Jisten followed hard on their heels, and as soon as they were in the suite, Jisten said, “Bedroom.”
Without protest, Rak strode through the empty reception chamber into the study then turned left and entered his bedroom. Jisten continued to follow him. The captain threw the bolt once the door was closed behind them. Rak stripped himself immediately, sensing what Jisten wanted and complying with the unspoken demand. He took the torque from the chest on the dresser and locked it about his neck. He pulled one of the sheer, nearly see-through and very brief slave tunics from a drawer and showed it to Jisten.
“Yes, you may wear that.” Jisten was watching him narrowly, his severe expression not boding well.
Rak slipped the tunic on then walked back to Jisten and knelt at his feet. “Domin.”
Jisten reached down, lifted Rak to his feet, and marched him to the bed. He laid Rak belly down against the foot, leaving Rak’s legs to dangle off the edge. He removed his leather belt, folded it over, and smacked it down across Rak’s upturned cheeks. “Your defiance has earned you ten lashes of my belt. Count them, and with each strike, promise me that you won’t slip away from your guards again, that you’ll be a good, obedient wife from now on.”
Shock caused the blood in Rak’s veins to run cold, his gut to clench. The belt had left a track of burning fire across his ass, a tangible reminder of Jisten’s displeasure with him. The chain around his waist tightened, and his fingers brushed against his collar. Jisten was well within his rights. Ingrained caution made him chose his words with care and hoping Jisten didn’t notice, he carefully made no oaths. “One, domin, thank you. I beg you to forgive me. I will obey you. I will not try to ditch my guards again.”