by E G Manetti
Sliding his arms around her, he pulls her close, enjoying the way her eyes widen and dilate, her lips part and breath catches. The woman wishes to be kissed and he has better ways to spend the next period than worrying about the guild.
Milord’s passion is slow and sensuous, his kiss deep and lingering, the deliberate stroking of his fingers tantalizing. Each caress warms and arouses until she is enveloped in a golden bliss that crests and then breaks in rolling waves of ecstasy.
Milord’s chest is hard and warm beneath her cheek. After the tumult of the past few days, there is no place she would rather be than nestled against his side, the steady beat of his heat assurance of his protection. The gold warbelt slides against her waist, the gems tickling the hollow of her hips as milord toys with the links. Putting his hands to her waist, he urges her aside. Repressing a sigh that the interlude has ended, she rises from the sofa. Reaching for her lingerie, she is halted by milord’s hand on her hip.
His dark eyes sparkling with promise, milord rights his trousers and goes to his desk, beckoning her to follow.
What new game is this? Milord’s passion is spent, but he leans back against the desk with his legs spread, an unspoken command that she step between them. A familiar black enamel box appears in his palm. “Benmyn Empire has been severed from his cartouche and sent to labor polishing gems in the Eighth System topaz mines.”
The ruby is as fine as all the others. Milord’s fingers feather against her as he attaches the gem to the belt. Damien. Martin. Fenrir. Benmyn. By Adelaide’s grace and milord’s indulgence she has not fallen. Unable to contain her smile, she raises her eyes to milord’s. “My thanks. There are no words. My thanks.”
Milord’s eyes darken with emotion. “Woman, you please me.”
18. Sinead’s Scourge
As the original Three Systems expanded into Twelve, governance became increasingly complex. As the Five Warriors’ judgment councils developed into the modern Governing Council, it was decided that the governing protocols should be focused on maintaining order. Violations of honor would be left to shrine discipline. Correction would be determined and administered by the shrine discipline masters, who could use any combination of service, fines, and corporal punishment warranted by the offense. Offenses committed after a warrior achieved competency with a blade and the right to wear a dagger would be treated more severely than those made before succeeding at the competency trial. ~ excerpt from The Foundations of Order, a scholarly treatise.
Sevenday 132, Day 6
The cane rises and falls, the evil whistling before it strikes, roiling Lilian’s innards.
I am the sum of my ancestors. It strikes the associate’s naked back with a sharp, wet sound. The young man bound to the podium jerks but makes no sound.
I am the foundation of my family. Master Straus is using but moderate force. The seven strikes will hurt but not break the skin. Another strike and Lilian’s fingernails bite into her palms.
Honor is my blade and shield. The first-year associate maligned a master associate, accusing her of neglecting her commerce duties in retribution for not receiving a desirable assignment. The punishment is warranted for all it disgusts her.
Honor knows not fear. Four strikes. His back is reddened and will bruise. She has viewed worse. Suffered worse. Her roiling innards turn to ice at remembered pain and humiliation.
Honor endures. Bound to the podium, pulled to her toes, the multitailed lash shredding the skin of her back. Do not. Do not. It is over. Damocles is dead.
Honor acts and duty commands. This day. I will not fail. I will not fall.
Knuckles rap the arm of the seat next to her. The sound pulls her attention to her companion. Brown eyes filled with concern, Chrys asks, “Lilian, it is over. Are you well?”
Over? Turning her eyes to the podium, she finds it vacant, the associate already removed by Master Medic Chin and his aides. The front rows are empty and the middle section departing. It will be but a few moments before the way is clear. All associates are required by cartel stricture to witness corporal punishment. At least as an apprentice, she is in the furthest seats in the highest risers.
Chrys’ mouth twists. “I am a lackwit. Of course you cannot be well in these circumstances. Could Monsignor not find some excuse to yield a waiver?”
Although her distress has its source in more than dark memories, it a matter known only to milord and Master Medic Chin. And truly, evil recall is more than sufficient cause. As to milord, “It is not worth the risk of an accusation of excessive consideration. Not this close to my bond proof and trial proof.”
The rows have emptied. Chrys rises, his height reminding her again that the man who appears nondescript in the boxy black suits of a Blooded Dagger apprentice is a compelling man when garbed for combat or in fashion. The gold formalwear he donned at the Fortuna receptions complemented his complexion and brought out the gold highlights in his hair while revealing the strength of his broad shoulders.
Recall of the voyage and the success of the Nightingale launch into low orbit allows her to push back evil memories. Rising to follow Chrys, she thanks Adelaide once again for Chrys’ friendship. Her first friend in the cartel, he has stood with her in battle and comforted her during her trial. In another few months, his bond will prove as well, and he will be a free associate with an exceptional future in commerce. The Five Warriors favor the courageous and honorable.
Waiting at the midway point, Douglas and Tabitha have been joined by Blythe, Rebecca, and Clarice. All five sets of eyes regard her with concern. Residual distress fades at the sight of her consortium, although an ache remains as her mind’s eye pencils in Vicenza, fallen at the battle of Serengeti.
I am the sum of my ancestors. The valor of Serengeti will not be forgotten, but the present requires her attention.
»◊«
I am the foundation of my family. Hastening her step, Lilian moves down the corridor as fast as decorum permits. Milord’s alert demanding her attendance offered no cause. Not that she is due one, but it is unusual for milord not to indicate the topic for which he wishes her attention. Unless it is passion, but they shared that a mere three bells gone, so it is unlikely to be the source of this summons.
The double ebony doors of milord’s commerce suite loom ahead. Late-day sun streams from the windows beyond the sea of cherrywood worksites assigned to the highest-ranking associates. Twice the size of Lilian’s utilitarian gray synthetic worksite, each worksite is arranged so that even those deepest within the interior have access to natural light. The day may come when one of those is hers.
This day. There is only this day. Suppressing her flare of envy and ambition, she enters the commerce suite where Mistress Marieth offers a regal inclination of her head and the shadow of a smile. A remarkable demonstration from milord’s intimidating executive servitor. Another who fears she is overset by evil recall brought on by the caning? Reaching the scarlet door to milord’s office, she puts aside speculation.
Milord is not behind the ebony desk or at the conference table. Pivoting toward the far windows, she is startled by the man who springs from one of the plush chairs in the casual seating area. “Lilian girl!”
Apollo? Apollo Acacia is with milord? Stepping back before Apollo can grasp her hands, she glances over at milord. Milord has proven tolerant of Apollo’s lapses, but he will not overlook an embrace in his presence. To her surprise, milord’s expression holds not censure, but resigned amusement. “Apollo, as you are so committed to her survival, contain yourself. She is not to be touched.”
Frowning, Apollo glances between milord and her. “She is Adelaide’s Thorn. It is both my right and duty to offer a blessing.”
Milord’s lips tighten but he says naught, flicking his fingers in permission.
With a broad smile, Apollo cups her face. As they are of equal height, she bows her forehead to receive his kiss of Shade blessing.
As the prelate steps back, she scans the low table by milord’s knees. A
tray of sweets, a carafe of the sparkling fruit juice Apollo favors, and two half-filled glasses. Adjusting the shoulder strap of her slate satchel, she moves to the table and replenishes milord’s glass. Turning to Apollo, she waits for his will.
With a sigh, Apollo nods. “You remind me of your status without a word. You always were clever that way.”
Although it shames her now, there was a time Lilian used the platinum heir’s signet on her belt to get her way when Apollo willed it otherwise.
Milord’s dark eyes narrow. “What say you?”
Color rising, Apollo snatches the now-full glass from Lilian. “Naught of import. Only that Lilian was ever more given to action than speech.”
Adelaide’s grace. Not that she should have been concerned. Apollo would reveal naught of her youthful arrogance to milord, or any other if he could avoid it.
Milord’s eyes flash between them. “She has not changed. Lilian, be seated.”
Pulling her slate from her bag, Lilian takes the seat to milord’s left. Whatever has given rise to this conference, she will be prepared.
Apollo takes a large swallow. “Flavia is in the alcove’s care. She accepts Adelaide’s scourge Sixth Day to come.”
The slate falls into her lap from nerveless fingers.
“Demon shit!” Milord grasps her frozen hands. “Have you the sense of a hummingbird? Know you not how the prospect will overset her?”
“Overset?” Apollo says. “Lilian is not squeamish. She has slain when needed. Interrogated Despoilers. Whatever could be— Adelaide’s thorn, I am a lackwit.”
Apollo crouches before her. “Peace. I did not realize. The error is mine. Lucius knew naught but that Flavia had agreed to alcove discipline. I knew of— I had heard— I thought since you sent her you would be well with contrition. Adelaide pardon me, I did not think at all.”
This day. This day. I will not fall. Closing her eyes, Lilian swallows against rising bile. Praying milord will forgive the effrontery, she leans her head back against the cushions as she entwines her fingers with his, taking comfort and strength from the familiar hard, strong hands so warm and large wrapped around hers. Gariten is dead. Damocles is dead. Sebastian is banished. Martin is banished. The goad is banished. I will not fail.
Ice rattles under her nose. Apollo offers a glass of sparkling juice.
Honor endures. Releasing one of milord’s hands, she takes the glass. The tart juice settles mind and stomach. As much as she wishes to retain milord’s hand, it is unseemly. “Milord, I beg pardon.”
Milord’s fingers stroke across her knuckles before moving away. “Peace. You have not erred. I called you so you would know of this without shock.”
“And I was a lackwit,” Apollo says. “Have I your pardon?”
For all his puckish ways, Apollo is an honorable warrior and devout prelate. He has ever been quick to admit fault. “None is required, Lord Apollo. It was but the surprise. If I may know, how came Flavia to you so soon? I thought you were several more sevendays off planet.”
Rising from his crouch, Apollo resumes his chair. “After what should have been a routine correction at the Fortuna Shrine turned into a challenge to my preeminence, I was determined to return to the Third System. Those who challenge me must see me in the full power of my office with Adelaide’s hand upon me.”
And that Gilead, the Lady Governor, and milord support him. With the most powerful prelate in the Twelve Systems, an important governor, and Serengeti’s preeminence as public allies, only the bold or deranged will dare challenge Apollo. Clever. Very clever. “I regret I was overset. If you please, have you a purpose for me in this?”
Whatever Apollo wishes, milord supports it, or he would not have summoned her.
“You are Wraith, and it was you she attempted to murder and you who served Adelaide’s sentence,” Apollo replies. “It is necessary you bear witness to her contrition so that she may be redeemed.”
It as she feared. Adelaide’s scourge will be severe. It must be, to redeem the rending of Flavia’s mark. It will be difficult to witness but if Lilian refuses, there can be no contrition and no redemption. “As you voice.”
Milord’s hand reaches for hers. His fingers press on her clenched fist, pushing it open and releasing the conservator’s seal. Sharp pain lances her palm. Milord’s thumb finds the source and soothes it. “Apollo has not voiced all. A dark commerce raider had her captive and interrogated her, thinking Flavia an assassin and hoping for a reward.”
Interrogation. Red and black cover her vision at recall of the physical duress employed on the Despoilers.
“We claimed her Fourth Day,” milord continues. “Master Medic Chin tends her.”
Lilian can breathe. The master medic has healed her of severe wounds. Flavia will be well.
Apollo leans in. “I would give her another two sevendays, but she refuses. I cannot sway her.”
Apollo would not voice this without purpose. For all his claims of being a lackwit, he is not foolish. Or cruel. “Why do you voice this?”
“I am sworn to Adelaide. I am Wraith as well as Lord Prelate. I can yield no mercy when I wield the scourge. She may not survive if she does not wait.”
Five warriors take it. Lilian sent Flavia to Apollo so they could keep her close and avoid one who wished Lilian dead turning Flavia to their purpose. Given a voice, Lilian would never view the destroyed discipline master again. “You wish me to persuade her to wait.”
“No,” Apollo says. “You are Wraith. You have given Adelaide’s judgment. I but wished to prepare you. You must participate as Wraith.”
Adelaide aid me. She must be witness to Flavia’s fall or redemption; there is naught Lilian wishes less.
Milord’s thumb strokes her palm. “George and I witnessed Flavia’s offense. We will witness her contrition and attempt at redemption.”
Milord will be there? Milord’s eyes hold commitment and—compassion? Something else? Do not. Foolish fancy. It is enough that he will be there. “My thanks.”
»◊«
Sweat soaking his training trousers, limbs burning from exertion, Cesare slashes at the padded training dummy. His competency trial is but two months hence. In addition to sessions with a Socraide’s Discipline Master, he uses the mansion’s training chamber twice a day. As the recognized heir to Blooded Dagger and Serengeti, the stakes at the trial are doubled. It is not only his honor and commitment that will be tried, but also that of Blooded Dagger.
He had hoped the declaration could wait until after his trial, but Father needs him available to act as heir as soon as possible. With a final swing, Cesare puts up the training sword. Grabbing a towel, he scrubs the sweat from his chest, examining his reflection in the mirror. He has surpassed his brother Raphael’s inches, but at seventeen, he has yet to match his father’s height or breadth of shoulder. Otherwise, except for the bright blue eyes inherited from his mother, he is the image of Lucius Mercio.
Tossing aside the towel, he grabs a water vial and heads for the kitchens. It will be two periods before the evening meal, but there should be plenty to sustain him until then. Passing the conservatory, he can hear his sister’s voice. During the rains, Elysia all but dwells in the garden chamber.
“It is true,” he hears his cousin Jenica say. “Gariten’s whelp goes under Sinead’s scourge.”
Halting midstride, Cesare turns for the conservatory. Something is awry; his father’s apprentice is of Adelaide, and Jenica sounds far too pleased. A year his junior and a year Elysia’s senior, Marco’s daughter is prone to clever and often malicious mischief.
“Her mother is Sinead’s seer,” Elysia says as Cesare enters. “It does not seem likely such an event would be known.”
The two teenagers are sprawled on lounges, shoes and outerwear scattered around them.
Smirking, Jenica, reaches into a bowl of berries. “It is not supposed to be, but then she should not be allowed to train with the acolytes.”
Acolytes. They are discussing Lili
an’s sister. The little redhead.
Elysia’s hand hovers over a pastry and settles on a berry. “What has that to do with it?”
“Train with Gariten’s tainted get?” Jenica huffs. “Two of my friends were pulled from the acolytes so as not to be tainted. Of course, not everyone who wanted to leave could. Sinead’s Prelate protects the seer. But that is how I know it is true. Marisa has taken up with one of the acolytes and he overhead the discipline master scheduling the scourge for seventh bell on the morrow.”
Marisa? Aristides’ daughter. Of all Elysia’s silly friends, he thought her sensible.
“Is Marisa going to join us?” Elysia asks.
“No.” Jenica waves a hand in dismissal. Pitching her voice in a falsetto, she adds, “Shrine rituals are not entertainment.”
Having heard enough, Cesare joins the conversation. “Marisa is right. You have no business intruding on another’s ritual.”
“It is a public rite,” Jenica says. “The justice of the Shades is intended to be viewed by the devoted.”
“If your intent were devout, that might be true,” Cesare replies. “When was the last time you walked the ring before midday? I know rousing Elysia is all but impossible.”
Flushing, Elysia says, “I am able rise with the dawn if I wish to, and I do not care if you are heir, you cannot order me around.”
“It is not about my will,” Cesare returns. “Maman will be horrified by your lack of reverence for a sacred ritual. Not to mention Father will be beyond displeased that you go to gawk at his apprentice and her family.”
Jenica raises her chin. “I do not lower myself to gawk at an apprentice. I will observe the Shade’s retribution exacted from a tainted commoner who lacked knowledge of her place. That she is the daughter of a prelate has made her proud.”
“You sound like Aunt Lynette.” Marco’s estranged spouse is an unpleasant woman whom Cesare avoids whenever possible.
“My mother is a model of warrior virtue,” Jenica replies.
Tired of the conversation, his cousin, and his sister, Cesare calls their bluff. “Very well, let us present the matter to Maman and Father this eve. Are they amenable, I will escort you.”