by E G Manetti
“Beg pardon, Monsignor.” George proffers Lucius’ slate satchel. “It sounds.”
Reaching into the bag, Lucius grabs the slate as they reach the risers. Glancing at the slate, he laughs out loud.
“What amuses?” Marco asks.
“Lilian and my protégé.” Lucius tosses the slate back in the bag, his pique forgotten. “Neither seems able to enjoy liberty. They are in a reserve chamber in the archives, practicing the group trial.”
“Is it ready?” Marco has been eager to test it, although he has no need of the training. The single trial was beyond entertaining.
“According to Lilian, they are in the process of determining that.” The riser opens, and they turn down the corridor. “I will shower and then check their progress. Care to join me?”
They have reached Marco’s suite. “Of course. Alert me when you are ready.”
»◊«
Guards flanking them, Marco and Lucius make their way to the archives level, meeting Herman and Gwyneth at the risers. Word that the group trial is underway has spread. Reaching the archives, Marco follows Lucius inside the crowded chamber, Stefan and Deidre leaping to attention. At the console, Nickolas, Fletcher, Jasper, Chrys, and Clarice have all five techno groups in play, the wall reviewer alight with the simulation. Rachelle peers over Chrys’ shoulder and Kemeha over Fletcher’s while Lilian and Blythe walk along the console, murmuring and making notes on their slates. The sway of Blythe’s luscious ass under her soft skirt distracts him from his purpose as he imagines bending her over one of the consoles.
“Rimon’s rage!” Nickolas slaps the console as the Nightingale disintegrates. His command team groans and Lilian frowns in concentration. In the next moment, she pivots and comes to attention, eyes wide, lips parted. “What is milord’s will?”
Amazing how she does that. None of the others had noticed their arrival. Malcon’s stealth training, or heightened awareness from the threat of assassination? All turn toward Lucius but Blythe, who has her eyes trained on him, as is proper.
Lucius’ eyes gleam with excitement. “How fares the evaluation?”
In fewer than two months, the command crew for the Nightingale assembles in Crevasse City. The group trial must be ready.
Lilian’s eyes glow as she responds, “The flaws are within expectations. The trial will be ready in time.”
At Lilian’s words, he can feel a grin form. He is not alone. Gwyneth claps Jasper on the back with approval, Rachelle smiles wide and bright, first at Lucius and then at her apprentice, and even the dour Herman is smiling.
Turning to his protégé, Lucius says, “Nickolas, yield your place, I would be captain.”
If Lucius will engage in the trial, so will he. “I claim first officer.”
As Nickolas and Jasper yield their places, Kemeha takes Fletcher’s place, while Rachelle claim’s Chrys’ and Herman Clarice’s.
Two periods later, the Nightingale and its crew have been destroyed thrice and covered half the distance to the Thirteenth System. Reluctantly, the Serengeti release their fascination with the voyage into the unknown. They have done what they can to test the trial. It will be a sevenday before Lilian and Blythe are able to correct the flaws discovered in this evaluation. Within a period, Lilian is due in combat with the Rimon’s Discipline Master. It is a match none of the Serengeti intend to miss.
»◊«
The five devotional stations that form the devotional ring are as opulent as all else on the Fire Sword. Each station holds a small altar, a flame, and an effigy of one of the five warriors crafted in expensive materials. Socraide is rendered in gilded alabaster, Rimon in obsidian set with lapis, Jonathan in jade and gold, Mulan in pink quartz and carnelian, and Sinead in dark red marble and silver. Walking the ring, Lilian honors the five warriors. At Jonathan’s station she does double homage, kneeling before the side of the station that faces Socraide, the place where the alcove would be.
It is not uncommon for Adelaide to be omitted from devotional chambers. The sect is small, and few are aware of it beyond the Festival Duet. To her right, milord acknowledges Socraide. Although she did not intend it, this match gives her a purpose to overcome the awkwardness of the night gone. Milord barely attended her words of remorse, waving them off with harsh criticism of the Fire Sword kitchen. He was far more interested in the arrangements for this trial.
Do not. Pulling her gaze from milord’s broad shoulders, she attempts to focus on the match to come. Beyond milord, the discipline master finishes his devotions and steps into the square in the center of the ring. Following the discipline master, Lilian waits while milord and his seigneurs take the best vantage points. At milord’s signal, the doors open, and the rest of the Serengeti contingent enters, followed by Amaranth, another score of Crevasse City warriors, the captain, and her son, the lieutenant from this morning. Another dozen or so crowd the doorway and, from the sound, the corridor beyond.
I am the sum of my ancestors. Accepting the blade sheath from the chamber attendant, she slides the polymer over her thorn, watching as the discipline master does the same with his saber. His royal-blue exhibition briefs are marked with the silver bands of a prelate.
I am the foundation of my family. Once again in the abbreviated tunic she wore for the match with Flavia, Lilian pulls on her face mask. She need not be silent. She is not Wraith for this exhibition.
Honor is my blade and shield. The discipline master sets the timer and she flows from her corner, avoiding a slash from the saber and sliding behind the man to strike at his back. He pivots and slashes.
Lucius wills his face impassive as his heart pounds. The Rimon’s Discipline Master is skilled. Each movement flows to the next as easily as a stroll through a garden. Lilian leaps back; the slashing saber fails to mark her torso. Mastery of self. Lilian is in no true danger. As the minutes pass, he is able to relax and admire the beauty of the duel. Although she is not Wraith for this match, she is Adelaide’s Thorn, a flitting shadow that cannot be captured. Thin red marks appear on Lilian’s arms matched by similar marks on the discipline master’s legs. None of the marks are deep, the rivulets of bright blood due to their exertion and not injury. At thirty minutes, the match chimes sound. The combatants retreat to their corners.
Holding their blades aloft, the two combatants slowly pivot for the evaluation of the throng. The long sword has marked Lilian four times. Twice on her left bicep, once across her right shoulder, and lightly across her midriff. The Rimon prelate is marked but thrice, above a knee, across a calf, and below the crossed-sabers tattoo on his right shoulder blade.
It is technically a victory for Rimon’s Prelate, with four marks to Lillian’s three, but he is an accredited master and she is not. The chamber attendant enters the square with linen cloths for their blades and wounds. Taking the bloody cloths, the Rimon’s Discipline Master drops his in the sacred flame at Rimon’s station. Before he can drop Lilian’s in Jonathan’s flame, she forestalls him. With a quick glance at Lucius, she says, “Adelaide’s offering is to Socraide.”
Lucius’ heart swells at her display of loyalty and the chamber rumbles with comment. If they were not surrounded by two score witnesses, he would take her in his arms. As it is, as soon as the linen turns to ash, he is in the square with Marco and Nickolas, congratulating her on the match. Beyond the square, the transport officers disperse the observers while Chrys and Nickolas join Deidre, Stefan, and George in discouraging those who would approach the square.
Satisfied that she is secure, Lucius turns to find Lilian handing her thorn over the barrier to Clarice. Although it is technically a shrine, his apprentice is taking no chances. “Lilian.”
Luminous gray eyes meet his, battle excitement in their depths. He has but to touch her to turn that excitement to arousal. As soon as the chamber is secure, he hurries her to the dispensary to have her lacerations tended. He will permit no discomfort to hinder her enjoyment or his.
Applying light sealant to her marks, the medic says
, “This is naught but a precaution. They are almost closed. If you wish oil or ointment for sore muscles, see the aide.”
Rolling her shoulders and stretching, Lilian winces and nods. “Avoiding the rapier pushed me to my limits. If I do not take care, I will be stiff come morning.”
At the supply station, an aide offers a consoling smile and a small vial. “Rub it on your limbs and back, any surface with an ache.”
Lilian frowns at the amber liquid. “Does it contain healing stimulants?”
Checking the vial’s markings, the aide shakes her head. “Almond oil with mineral and herb extracts designed to ease muscle cramps.” Holding out the vial, she adds, “Use it as often as you need, at least twice a day. More frequently if you are uncomfortable.”
Releasing the stopper, Lilian sniffs the contents. “Cloves?”
“Mayhap.” The aide shrugs. “It is a common remedy for discomfort. I enjoy the smell and the effects.”
Accepting the vial, Lilian follows Lucius from the dispensary. He agrees with the aide; the scent of the oil is pleasant and will serve well for his purpose. Entering the suite, he instructs, “Enjoy your shower and rejoin me. I will aid you in application of the oil after we dine.”
Lucius has very specific plans for their last night of the voyage. Tomorrow they enter Metricelli Prime and commerce at its customary pace.
»◊«
For all the overblown luxury, Lilian cannot deny the sensuous pleasure of the satin sheets beneath her breasts and limbs strained from the match. Emerging from her shower, the royal-blue wrap loose about her, she found milord in his scarlet robe, the evening meal waiting. For their final night of the voyage, milord ordered the sparkling wine she favors and several of her favorite dishes. Warmed by his consideration, she consumed two glasses of wine, loosening her inhibitions to the point that she responded to his command to strip and lie upon his bed with a bright smile and a “yes, milord” that held more lust than obedience.
Torso down, she is glad she need not face milord, although she is tempted to turn and steal a look. Milord disrobing is a pleasing vision.
The bed shifts under milord’s weight. “Close your legs.”
What says he? Pressing her thighs together, she cannot imagine the purpose of this strange turn of will.
Milord’s knees press against her thighs, and his hands settle on her shoulders, warm, hard, and strong. “Relax. I will anoint you with the medic’s oil.”
I am the sum of my— Cool oil drips on her shoulders. Surprise turns to wonder as milord’s hands work the slick substance into her shoulders, turning her skin warm and setting her senses alight.
Milord chuckles and cool oil drips on her spine. Milord’s thumbs spread the substance outward to her ribs, sending shocks of bliss to her breasts and sex.
Lucius runs his hands over Lilian’s shoulders and back, delighted that the oil has her stretching and sighing. For his purposes, he wishes her both relaxed and limber. Two glasses of wine with dinner have begun a process he now labors to complete. Her moan of pleasure is all he needs to advance. Abandoning the aide’s instructions to work the oil into her shoulders and back, he drizzles a few drops on her buttocks.
As he works the taut mounds and the crevice between, Lilian sighs, her sinuous movements encouraging him, her little moans evidence the spicy oil is raising sensitivity and bringing pleasure. The eager movement against his fingers causes him to tighten with anticipation. Lilian is well open to passion in this area but has difficulty finding her pleasure.
Releasing his goal for the moment, he turns Lilian on her back. A drop or two on each breast and Lilian begins to quiver with need. Taking her in a kiss, he savors the taste of wine and passion, the press of her tongue to his. For long moments, he indulges in the pleasure of her flesh pressed to his, her hot welcome to the penetration of his tongue.
Collecting a few more drops of the soothing oil, he works it between her thighs, into the tender crease of her sex, and the jewel at its apex. Lilian twists and shudders under his hands, her eyes dark pools of desire, her breaths rapid. A few more strokes and she entreats, “Please, please, please.”
Holding himself in check, he turns her over and once again anoints her sweet ass. He knows she can take him, but he wishes her to share his pleasure in this form of passion. The taut mounds quiver under his slick fingers, arching toward him. With eager whimpers she offers the narrow avenue as readily as she offers her delectable sex. With oil-slick hands, he strokes his shaft, transferring the substance in preparation and hardening to the point of pain.
It is beyond pleasure. Lilian bucks in her need, drawing him deep, clamping his erection in tight heat. She shudders and cries out, delicate muscles gripping his shaft and pulling him into a bright, hot cloud of ecstasy.
Lucius rouses to the sharp, spicy scent of the woman in his embrace and the quivering of her limbs. She remains aroused? It is possible. She was beyond aroused when release took her. Turning Lilian in his arms so that she is once again on her back, he finds eyes dark with passion.
Slipping one hand between her legs, he strokes the soaked flesh and the small nubbin that gives release. Lilian thrusts hard against the invading and stroking hand. Setting his teeth to tease one tight nipple, he brings her to a secondary release.
Abandoning the limp woman on his bed, he seeks the freshening closet, making a mental note to acquire more of that oil before exiting the transport. At the sink, he soaks a cloth in warm water. Eighth bell has yet to chime. The evening is proceeding even better than planned.
Warm, damp cloth in hand, he returns to the bedchamber, planning to use the cloth to rouse her from release-induced haze and tease her a bit about the match with the Rimon master. He was far too distracted by his plans for passion to attend her discussion over the meal.
What does she? Where is the somnolent, spent woman he expected? Lilian twists in the sheets, her eyes heavy and skin flushed. At his approach she rises to her forearms, her eyes dark with passion as they roam him from ankles to eyes. The overt desire is far outside her decorous flirtations.
As he joins her on the bed, she rises to meet him, her breasts slick with residual oil, the red curls glistening with the substance. He reaches for the vial. Naught indicates a passion stimulant, but it must be so. Stimulants. Socraide’s sword. His apprentice owns an odd sensitivity to stimulants. The commonly available stimulant wafers used to extend wakefulness have the opposite effect on Lilian, causing her to faint. The ones in the oil appear to be having an extreme effect. It is well he did not apply it liberally to her arms and legs as suggested.
Grasping one of her wrists, he gives it a gentle tug. “Come, woman. You require a shower.”
Milord’s hands on her wrist send a surge of desire through Lilian. Slipping from the bed she hopes milord intends more than cleansing. The pleasing thought has her breasts aching as she follows him into the closet and a shower sufficient for two.
Fingers clumsy with urgency, she cannot get her hair secured in a topknot. “Five Warriors take it.”
“Peace, woman.” Milord grasps her hands, pulling the tie free.
Adelaide’s grace. Did she profane before milord?
Milord’s mouth is set in a half smile as he binds her hair. She must not have spoken that wayward thought. Warm spray pours into the shower and milord nudges her within.
The feel of milord’s soapy hands on her breasts is beyond exciting. Leaning into him, she yields to temptation and tastes Socraide’s mark and then the flat nipple below it. Milord’s hands are working her shoulder blades. With a moan of desire, Lilian strokes along milord’s flanks, pressing close to rub against his sex. She feels milord’s shaft move and swell. Arousal rising with each touch of milord’s skin to hers, she slides her hands over milord’s buttocks, pulling tight to his groin.
Milord grasps her wrists, pulling her hands from him. In a husky voice he commands, “Cease.”
Chagrin dampens her desire. She has been wayward. Milord releases her
wrists. “Soon. First, you must be rid of the oil.”
The oil. It is messy. And not her usual scent. Milord wishes her clean.
Milord’s hands slide to her waist, urging her to turn. “Place your hands against the wall. Do not lift them.”
Pressing her palms against the wet surface, she braces to hold her place and not slide. A soap-laden sponge glides along her spine, the light pressure setting her skin tingling with each stroke. Milord runs it along her buttocks, setting off a ripple of bliss. Milord’s soapy hand and fingers find her nether curls and work them into suds. Lilian frantically moves against that hand, wishing it lower, to touch her jewel, her heated core. “Please, milord, please.”
Her entreaty is met by the tantalizing touch of the soapy sponge passing between her legs, caressing her sex. It arouses her further without bringing release. “Please, milord, please.”
Milord’s arm snakes around her waist, his breath warm against her ear. “Release the tile.”
She leans back into his chest, her legs parting around his thighs. Milord’s free hand finds the swollen center of her need and works it quickly, bringing her to shuddering completion.
Milord stirs, pulling her from the shower and handing her a towel. “Can you manage?”
Manage? The towel. “Yes, milord.”
Cocooned in the languor of spent passion, she pats the water from her skin, admiring the play and flex of milord’s muscles as he runs a towel across his torso. Milord tosses his towel in the launderer’s bin. His eyebrows lift. What? Oh. Lilian adds her towel to the bin, the lassitude making her slow.
Milord shakes his head and wraps an arm about her waist, leading her back to bed. Bed. Milord has not finished with her. They will rest until passion returns.