by E G Manetti
“It is true enough. Newton lacks the credentials for a position as keeper or discipline master.”
“And you are Adelaide’s Thorn.” Amaranth’s smile holds glee. “That pretender maligned his spiritual superior in rank. Is it true that Jonathan’s and Adelaide’s Keepers will levy an indictment against him?”
An indictment? Clever. If the local keepers levy a charge, Lord Gilead and Apollo will uphold it. Rimon’s Lord Prelate will have no choice but to expel Newton from the sect. Clever? It is devious. Aristides may have staged this play, but milord had a hand in its design. Knowing she must play her part, Lilian says, “I had not heard, but Jonathan’s and Adelaide’s Keepers are devout in their faith. I am certain they will do the will of the Shades.”
Seigneur Amaranth snorts, her lips twisting in wry acknowledgement. “Prettily spoken, as it should be. We all know that Apollo anointed you. He and Gilead are as tight as Vistrite and its controller since the battle of Serengeti. Newton will not enjoy his canonical review.”
Pipes and drums sound. The finale is about to begin. Taking her leave of the seigneur, Lilian hurries through the chamber, seeking milord. She has been remiss; she should have sought him sooner. The door to his dinning chamber is open, but the tables are yet laid, the servitors only beginning to clear. Milord has not been without long. She may not have erred.
She finds him at the entrance to the reserved area on the terrace. At her appearance, he gestures her within. Mr. George and Mr. Stefan pace along the edge of the section until milord halts. They are joined on the perimeter by guards uniformed in the colors of Matahorn, Leonardo, and the governor. Glancing around, she notes that all sides of the raised terrace are guarded. The governor is taking no chances with his important guests.
Those not in the guarded section spread out across the paved and grassy area, making use of the temporary seating while a few stand for a better view. On the far side of the terrace, a large silk rug is unrolled and surrounded by bright lights, a silk tent to one side.
Pipes and drums sound again and four musicians appear from behind the tent. With a flourish of cymbals, the illusionist flings back the tent curtains and emerges, a voluptuous figure in skintight blue and green motley. Another crash of cymbals and her assistants emerge clad in naught but performance thongs.
One is as dark as Fletcher, the other as fair as Blythe. They are a distraction but only to those who favor men. There is no stage for a trap door. No ceiling to contain clever devices. No walls to camouflage confederates. Bright lights from the upper levels of the palace force back shadow to ten yards in all directions. Her illusions will employ none of the common tricks.
The play is as graceful as a Festival Duet. Fresh flowers appear from the ether and metamorphose into a dazzling water art display that disappears into the silk rug without a mark. A cage fluttering with brightly colored scraps of paper is brought forth by the fair assistant. Opened, the fluttering paper turns to birds as they fly free.
Fire ignites wood but does not burn the assistants. Live blades draw blood but do not wound the assistants. In the final act, the assistants race to the edge of the cliff, carrying lighted brands, and leap into space to the astounded gasps of the crowd. The illusionist brings forth a pipe and plays a lament. The assistants enter from the shadows at the edge of the light. The music turns to a jig and all three execute a wild dance to the laughter and applause of the assembled.
Turning his head, Lucius catches a quick glimpse of Lilian’s unguarded face. Her eyes are alight, lips parted and slightly curved in her delight in the entertainment. Pleasure surges through him at her enjoyment. Regretting he cannot wrap her in his arms, he returns his attention to the dancers.
Horatio finds the illusionist entertaining, the jig less so. Lucius’ apprentice continues to prove interesting. The fire-rifle score is as visible as the exceptional ornaments in her hair. Horatio had laughed when Basil suggested the scar was Lucius’ penalty for the neglected assignment that placed the woman in the center of battle. Not that Lucius might not exact such retribution; Horatio would. But the notion that the woman neglected an assignment was ludicrous. Nor did a militia guard race after her, as though Rimon’s hounds were on his heels, for a neglected assignment. Horatio is more inclined to believe the initial, improbable, and discounted reports that Lilian was sent by the shrines to battle the forces of darkness. One day, he will know the truth.
Whatever goes forth with the scar, it is not a correction. The woman is bedecked in jewels that total twice her bond price. The combs alone equal it. Lucius’ message is subtle, but not obscure. Lilian serves a valuable purpose to the Serengeti preeminence.
Turning to his son and heir, Horatio says, “We are overdue for festival observance at Jonathan’s seat.”
When they visited Metricelli Prime two years gone for the Bright Star formation and then the past year for the moon races, the Margovians executed the appropriate rituals at Jonathan’s Shrine. Neither visit coincided with the festival. As Lord Patron of the sect, it is Horatio’s duty to make a festival observance at Jonathan’s seat every three or four years. This is the fifth year since the last observance.
“I will have the townhouse readied,” William replies. With a glance toward Lilian and Lucius, he adds, “Think you Lord Apollo will renew the anointing?”
“Mayhap,” Horatio says. “It will be an interesting festival.”
As the illusionist removes her props, the governor’s servitors mingle with the throng, offering thimble-sized glasses of crimson liqueur. Taking a sip, Lucius reminds himself to acquire some for Trevelyan. It is much in the style of the spymaster’s favored single malt. To his left, Lilian declines the beverage, ever careful to avoid any public loss of control.
Bright green stars explode across the bay followed by a sharp report. Lilian’s eyes widen and her lips part on a gasp as gold plumes splash across the night and reflect in the dark waters of the bay. Purple, blue, and silver splash against each other, the height of the cliff allowing the pyrotechnics to explode across from the palace. A dozen flares rise and explode into a sparkling image of the Fourth System followed by the blazing image of Rimon’s cartouche. Colors, forms, and styles join in one wild exhibition after another. Sounds of awe and delight whisper through the throng until the final set of pyrotechnics stretches the length of the terrace, the Bright Star emblem surrounded by the cartel emblems of Matahorn, Serengeti, and Leonardo with Serengeti at the top, as it should be.
»◊«
The wanton woman arching against Lucius moans into his mouth as he peels the silk from her shoulders to her waist. Pressing one hand between Lilian’s shoulder blades, Lucius uses the other to explore the exposed breasts, further hardening already-taut peaks. Lilian moans again as she pushes against the hand caressing her breasts. Her hands are in his hair and then gripping his back. Releasing her mouth and his grip on her back, Lucius pushes Lilian down onto the soft leather of the transport seat. He gathers a fistful of silk skirt and pulls it toward her waist. The clingy fabric is heavier than it appears and bunches in thick folds. The exposed leg is warm to his touch as he follows its length to the juncture of her thighs.
Milord’s hand unerringly bypasses the gossamer gold silk covering her sex to tease delicate flesh and circle her swollen jewel. Pleasure and need has her shivering. Wishing more, she attempts to widen her thighs to provide better access only to find them trapped in the weight of her skirt. Desperate, she twists her hips, attempting to shift the silken bonds. She is frantic with need. The nascent desire that has beguiled her since she beheld milord in formal wear began to surge during the illusionist’s show. During the fireworks, it thrummed through her, tautening her breasts and swelling her sex. As soon as milord enabled the privacy shield, his kiss turned the smoldering desire into a wildfire.
Milord’s mouth finds her breast, his lashing tongue and scraping teeth setting off shocks of pleasure and arousal. Her thigh encounters the hard ridge at the front of his trousers. Her breath c
atches, and she reaches out to run her fingers along the promising length. With a desperate sigh, she finds the trouser fastener and releases it. The swollen rod leaps into her eager hands.
Milord releases her breast. The dark gaze captures hers as his grasp shifts. Gathering her shoulders, milord pulls her to him as he reclines against the leather seat. “Mount me.”
With a whimper of acquiescence, Lilian releases her hold on milord to gather the folds of her skirt and shift them up and back. Rising to her knees, she reclaims milord’s sex and guides it to her, past the slender scrap of gold that would bar the way.
Milord’s gaze locks with hers, dark eyes reflecting her driving desire. She drops on the rigid shaft, encasing him fully, the thrust of his hard flesh within her dimming her vision with exquisite pleasure. Clenching on the delight-giving rod, she rocks, rises, and falls, seeking the motion and rhythm that will bring them both to release.
Milord’s hips buck beneath her, driving deeper, increasing the wondrous friction. His hands grip her hips, urging a faster, harder pace. Fingers loosen on one hip and a thumb slides forward to work her jewel, pressing and stroking. She is lost in a rush of pleasure, clinging to the edge of release. Her eyes lock with his. His lips part. “Now, woman, now.”
Milord’s thumb presses, his hips buck as she drops hard, and the rush of pleasure breaks free into pyrotechnics of ecstasy as milord shouts his release.
13. Villains and Penitence
In the three decades after the settlement of the Eighth System, the great houses funded forty probes but only five expeditions, each resulting in failure as systems proved uninhabitable. The lack of success reduced investment and in the next two decades only a dozen probes and one failed expedition were launched. In the first decade of the fourth century, a mere seven probes were launched. One gave rise to the only expedition mounted by Jonathan’s line and the discovery of the Ninth System and Genji in 312. ~ excerpt from The Foundations of Order, a scholarly treatise.
Sevenday 131, Day 4
It is snowing. The brown grass of Mulan crumbles under her bare feet. The heavy, dark gray sky drops white, chill dust over the landscape. It clings to the tips of slumbering grass as it does to Lilian’s eyelashes. It tickles the skin exposed by her sundress. Her bare feet are chill from the damp on which they twirl. She embraces the chill, the damp. She is safe and free, and Mulan is a wonder. If it continues, she will be able to make a snowball. It is a fantastical notion . . .
She is nude. It is impossibly cold. She must move, or she will die. There is no light. There is no sound but her labored breathing. I am the sum . . . I am the sum . . . It is important, but she cannot make it form. She is so cold. The biting wind sears her flesh. She bites back a whimper. I am the found . . . I am . . .
Warmth. Lilian dives into it, gathering it to her. She wishes to roll in it. The warmth resists. She wraps around it. The warmth will not escape.
“Lilian, rouse. Rouse, woman, rouse.” Milord’s voice tugs at her, pulling her from sleep. Where? Fortuna. Milord!
The warmth is milord. It requires all Lilian’s discipline to release her clinging grasp on the desperately desired warmth. Milord does not speak as he pulls her from the bed. In moments he has her in the deepest section of the spa tub.
Lucius sinks as far as possible while keeping their heads free. She is not going to care for mineral-soaked hair, he muses, as the heavy locks swirl in the mineral-rich spa. It was past eighth bell when the sound of Lilian’s laughter drew him to her chamber. Beguiled, he settled onto the bed, debating how to best her wake her for their mutual enjoyment. While he debated, her laughter turned to whimpers. Before he knew it, she had curled into herself, shivering and moaning. When she would not warm or rouse in his embrace, he carried her to the spa. Her shivering eases and he loosens his grasp.
Heat. Lilian is aware of milord’s light grasp as she huddles in the heated waters. She cannot control her compulsion. Filling her lungs with air, she submerges completely. The pleasure of the enveloping heat stuns her senses. As the deep chill eases, embarrassment sets in. Once again, she has disturbed milord. Breaking the surface of the water, she breathes deeply, tipping her head back to pull her hair from her face. Scrubbing the water from her closed eyes, she takes another deep breath.
I am the sum of my ancestors. Opening her eyes, she meets milord’s dark ones. “I beg pardon, milord—”
“Cease.” Milord grasps her wrist and tugs her to his side. Turning her so she is angled to face him, legs floating across his lap, milord begins his interrogation. “Tell me. I would know.”
At remembered cold, she drops her shoulders into the heated water. “I was lost. It was beyond cold and very dark. I could not find my way and there was no light.”
Milord’s eyes are filled with concern. An arm snakes around her waist, pulling her close. “You laughed. In the beginning, you laughed.”
Laughed? In that dire cold? Casting about in her mind, Lilian attempts to chase a fragment of dream memory. “I dreamt of Mulan. The first dry season, although it was winter there. I could not adapt. I knew I should be cold, but I kept to my Crevasse City garb. I could not adjust to feeling cold when I should sweat. The first time I beheld snow, I ran out into it in bared feet and summer frock. It was a wonder.”
At Lilian’s words, Lucius has an image of a tall, skinny girl of fifteen with disheveled hair, twirling in the snow. She bears a strong resemblance to the overly composed Katleen with her sunny smile. Had Lilian once owned such a smile? As if in answer, Lilian’s countenance lightens although she does not smile. “What think you?” he asks.
“The master medic will be pleased.”
“Chin? That you dreamt of Mulan?”
Lilian shakes her head. “I fell into bed without the thorn. The master medic has wished for some time that I attempt slumber without it and discover if evil dreams would return.”
As Lucius had hoped, the Fortuna voyage has done her good. The lines of stress have gone from her face, and shadows no longer linger beneath her eyes. He does not wish them to return. “Chin has his answer. Return to sleeping with the thorn.”
»◊«
It feels good to race. Lilian pounds up the path to the Third Hill Warrior Ring, Mr. Stefan’s steps thudding behind her. At tenth bell, the winter sun is well up in the pale sky, the chill of the air offset by the heat of exertion. She embraced milord’s gift of liberty until midday with delight. Her route will take her into the ring, where she will offer brief duty to Adelaide for aid with the lunatic Newton.
In marked contrast to a year gone, Adelaide’s Keeper offers all courtesy. Lilian’s devotions are brief, her demonstration of discipline limited to two cycles of the standard forms. They are enough to draw a small crowd of alcove attendants and Adelaide’s devoted. Following her guard from the alcove and the shrine, she is suffused with a sense of well-being. Lifting her face to the weak sun, she stretches her arms to the sky. A shadow darts in the corner of her eye and the thorn is in her hand. She leaps aside as the shadow lands at her feet and solidifies into a prostrate woman. Flavia.
Stefan’s pistol materializes, pointed at the outcast prelate’s head.
Flavia’s fingers reach for Lilian’s boots. Her face to the stone path, she pleads, “Redemption, I beg you, Adelaide’s Thorn. I will offer whatever contrition is demanded.”
Flavia is the embodiment of remorse and it matters not. Lilian has no hope to offer. “I am Adelaide’s Thorn, the Warleader’s weapon. Seek no hope here.”
Raising eyes filled with torment, she cries, “Where then, Wraith?”
I am the sum of my ancestors. The other woman’s despair is all too familiar. “Seek Adelaide’s Lord Prelate on Metricelli Prime. He is off planet but will return before the Five Warriors’ Festival.”
Tears well in the prone woman’s eyes as she drops her head.
I am the foundation of my family. Three years gone, Lilian might not have thought to ask, “Have you means for transit and support?”
“Transit.”
This day. It is as Lilian feared. Flavia would not be in such despair had she family to aid her. “In the Garden Center District, near the alcove, seek out Mr. Hidaka of Hidaka’s Café. Mention you are known to me and he will aid you in employment. It will not be much, but you will eat until the Lord Prelate is able to receive you.”
»◊«
“What have you done, woman?” Lucius is appalled. “Have you taken leave of your senses?’
Lilian’s fingers clench on her conservator’s seal, her expression pleading. “I beg milord, it was not ill-considered. Truly it was not.”
“Was it not?” Lucius grasps her shoulders, torn between the desire to crush her close and shake some sense into her. For all her fierceness, Lilian is prone to compassion. In this instance, dangerously so. “You sent a woman, with reason to see you dead, to reside within blocks of your home.”
Lilian’s shoulders square under his fingers. “I will know where she is, milord.”
Master anger. Compassionate but not as foolish as he first thought. Relaxing his grip, Lucius cups her chin in one hand, searching the gray eyes for truth. “Desperate people are dangerous. Should she prefer death to a miserable existence, it would take little to convince her to take the instrument of her disgrace with her as she greets the Shades.”
No security is so tight that it can prevent assassination if the assassin is willing to die to achieve the death of the target. Lilian’s destruction of the woman is public knowledge. In the wrong hands, Flavia is a dangerous tool. Although moved by pity, she has not been blind or foolish.
Her cheek turning into his hand, she says, “Mr. Hidaka will find her employment among the many successful, but minor, merchants who cannot afford militia but need occasional protection. He will also provide Flavia’s direction to Seigneur Trevelyan.”
Brushing her lips with his thumb, he agrees. “While she lives, it is better that we know where she is.”
Knowing further contact is unwise, he releases her, turning to the sofa and the reviewer where he was when she returned. “Ready for commerce. The bell is short.”