Divine Torment

by Janine Ashbless

  This third movement of the piece was different to the others, wrought less of uncontrolled lust than of a desire to create a sexual monument. He could see Hilde, spread-eagled, her face flushed and contorted with sensation as Meilin lapped and suckled at her muff. Of Meilin, all that he could make out was the wild tumble of her hair and the golden slope of her back rising up to the arse under his hands. Her buttocks slapped off his crotch with every stroke. He felt like a god with the entire world spread beneath him. He felt as if each thrust of his was passing right through Meilin into the woman beyond her so that he was fucking them both simultaneously. His cock was tight in its scabbard and he could take his time, utterly absorbed, a divine artist at work. He wanted to remember this moment for ever.

  As before, Hilde climaxed first, then Meilin, followed at an unhurried pace by Veraine. This time he was content to rest after his labours, drained and entirely satisfied. When they had both recovered their strength the two slave girls led him to a perfumed bath, where the sweet stains of their exertions could be washed from them.

  Lying in the tepid water, watching his companions lazily playing with each other’s slippery bodies, it seemed to Veraine that if these were the rewards of a general’s life, then he could very quickly come to accept his new status.

  2 The Malia Shai

  ‘The Irolian army is on its way,’ said Rasa Belit. ‘Pilgrims report that it has already crossed the Amal Bhad.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. She was looking out of the window, down over the jumbled roofs of the city. The panorama shuddered with heat haze and behind it the stone was a featureless blur of ochre, its shadows all fled into hiding from the midday sun. She had been dancing the daily adulation of that merciless blaze and her dress was stuck to her back and thighs. She hardly noticed the discomfort.

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘I dreamed it last night.’ She laid her hands on the carved window sill in front of her, looking down at the slender fingers. The heat that lashed up at her palms from the sun-baked stone was enough to make any other person flinch away in pain, but she ignored it.

  ‘Hmm. What did you see?’ the priest asked, moving up and standing close behind her. He did not touch her; Rasa Belit never touched her casually. But he liked to stand close, to breathe in the scent of her.

  ‘I saw men in bronze running through the streets. I saw blood on the desert sands. I saw a horse-head split in two.’ She raised her gaze, fixing it on the mirror-shine of the cloudless sky. ‘I saw smoke and gold. I heard the earth scream. There will be many deaths. There will be a miracle.’ She heard the hissing intake of the priest’s breath, but she did not add as she could have, I saw an eagle fly from the sun, and it came down over me and covered me with its wings, and then it lifted me up and carried me into the sky, with claws in my flesh that were fire and rapture. That was not something that Rasa Belit needed to know.

  ‘Will Mulhanabin prevail?’ he asked.

  ‘I didn’t see.’ Her voice was as calm and detached as ever, but inwardly she nursed her secret, turning it over under her mind’s eye. It intrigued her. She had woken from the dream heavy and wet with pleasure, her heart racing. She assumed it must have been Lappa Han, the sun god, visiting her as he had done so often in the past, to pour his golden seed into her aching body. Strange, then, that he had not spoken to her in familiar greeting, and that the eagle had been grey, not golden.

  ‘It hurts me that those Irolian bastards must come into the city,’ the priest muttered.

  ‘You requested protection,’ she reminded him, thinking, perhaps it had been some other god in disguise. But she had thought she was well acquainted with all the deities of earth and heaven.

  ‘I know. But they’re filth, those people. The one thing worse than an Irolian governor is an Irolian soldier. Murderers and sodomites, every man.’

  ‘The divine light shines in them too,’ she said mildly. Just thinking about the dream was drawing up an aching sweetness in her belly. She pressed her palms down hard on the rough sandstone.

  ‘Yes – but I think of them strutting up and down the streets of the city, barging into homes and shrines, taking food from Yamani mouths. It makes me sick.’

  ‘You should empty your heart of dark thoughts,’ she reminded him.

  He seemed suddenly to remember to whom he was speaking. ‘Of course, Malia Shai. I shall go and wash in the tank. Then I must see to the sounding of the great horns.’

  She nodded. ‘And I wish to meditate, alone.’

  She went, as soon as the priest had left her, to the shrine of Jekka the goddess of divination and visions. Jekka, a cthonic deity of caves and dark earth, was by derivation an obscure facet of Malia herself, so she was granted a large and windowless room very near the main shrine of the greater goddess, in the heart of the Outer Temple. The chamber would have been in total darkness if it had not had been for the banks of lamps burning near the pillars and the altar, but the light from the little wicks was swallowed by the stone and, despite their flickering flames, the room was filled with thick black shadow. The statue of Jekka herself was only partially illuminated, her shrivelled ascetic’s features leering from the gloom, the coiled serpent upon which she sat glittering as the light danced off its carved jet scales.

  There was no one else in the shrine. At this time of the day, most people hid from the sun and slept.

  The Malia Shai decided to sit facing the statue but some little way to the side, in the darkness of an aisle. She sank into position on the bare stone floor, cross-legged with her palms open upon her thighs, her back straight. She breathed in slowly through her nostrils, held the air for a heartbeat and then let it whisper out between her parted lips. Her vision blurred as she relaxed, the bright flames becoming a shimmering orange pool, while she concentrated on her breathing, in and out; on the fragile moment between exhalation and inhalation when time was suspended, in and out, until she should achieve the correct mental state of perfect emptiness. Then, detached from the world and her body, she should be able to merge her soul with Jekka’s and thus unravel the meaning of her dream.

  She was almost there when someone entered the room. Without moving an inch she brought her consciousness gently back and focused on the figure pacing in front of the altar. It was a man, well dressed and at that peak of physical attributes attained once youth is passed. From his trimmed moustache and his oiled hair she judged him to be of the scholarly class; the sort of man who once had administered the affairs of Yamani kings and debated with the loftiest intellects, but who under the Irolian yoke was reduced to petty clerical scribblings. He ducked a bow briefly to the statue but seemed intent on something more urgent. He kept looking around the shrine although his frequent glances at the flames must have been ruining his ability to see into the dark corners and he didn’t seem to notice her there. Clearly he was waiting for someone.

  That someone did not keep him impatient for long. A second figure slipped through the door into the glow of lamplight, and this one was dressed in the yellow robes of a priestess. The Malia Shai even recognised her and could, after a moment, put a name to the round face with the dark and flashing eyes. Ayhan. She was only of moderate status; something to do with washing the statues. Her hair was of course cropped to a dark fuzz, but that did not detract from the lively gleam in her eyes nor the wicked smile that curved her lips.

  The Malia Shai supposed she should be surprised at this assignation. But she did not move.

  The man certainly seemed pleased to see the priestess. He rubbed his hands on his thighs. Ayhan cocked one hip and looked up at him appraisingly. The yellow cotton of her dress was strained across the curve of her ample behind. The man put his hands, a little hesitantly, on her shoulders. They spoke, but their voices were too low for the Malia Shai to catch the words. Some kind of negotiation seemed to be going on.

  Soon Ayhan bared her teeth in a carnivorous grin and stepped back, raising her arms over her head to display her whole body as she wriggled her hips. The man
grabbed after her, seizing on her plump breasts and squeezing them through the layers of her dress. She put her back to a pillar and let him grope her up and down, her face a picture of anticipation. Quickly the man raised her skirt, bunching it up to her rounded belly. He put his hand down there, and his gasp of discovery was loud in the silent room. At once he sank to his knees in order to explore this new terrain at eye level. Although his dark head obscured her view, the Malia Shai knew what it was he had found; the shaven mound, the tightly pursed lips more chaste than the youngest virgin’s.

  Ayhan stared down at him intently and eased her thighs apart. He slid one hand in between them, and what he felt seemed to excite him even further.

  ‘What do I do?’ he whispered hoarsely.

  Without replying, she pushed his hand away and brought her own palm up in a sharp slap against the prow of her pubic mound. She repeated the movement, and slowly he seemed to grasp what it was she wanted. He rose to his feet again, braced one hand on her shoulder and with the other smacked her firmly between the legs. Ayhan jumped and quivered at the blow, then looked at him with melting eyes. He began to beat upon her as if she were a drum, alternating slow heavy slaps with quick pattering strokes. She writhed her hips and opened herself wider to his palm, thrusting forward to meet each new impact, only his other arm holding her upright by the end. The room filled with the sound of skin on skin and the quickening of her breath until she finally jerked forward and cried out, her mouth slack.

  The Malia Shai watched without blinking.

  The man gave the priestess no time to recover, pushing her instead to her knees and fumbling frantically at his own trousers until he managed to release the stiff prong of his tool. Its moist tip glistened. He pumped it impatiently, though it seemed that it was physically impossible for the thick member to grow more erect, then pulled her head forward and fed the shaft between her unresisting lips. For a moment it looked as though she couldn’t remember what she was supposed to do, then she fastened upon the turgid length eagerly, her lips flexing around the column as she sucked it further and further back into her mouth and throat. He put his hands on the soft velvet of her scalp and guided her in rising and falling on his swollen shaft. Her slurping was audible even from where the Malia Shai sat, and her pink tongue was perfectly visible lapping the darker flesh of his prick. It jerked and danced for her, begging her wet kisses.

  The man leaned forward as he approached his crisis, jamming one hand against the pillar, holding his partner to his crotch with the other. His trousers slid down around his ankles, revealing sturdy legs that bulged with their straining muscles as he pumped and quivered in her hot suckling mouth. Then suddenly his thrusting tripled in speed and he spasmed, almost falling over her, ramming his cock so deep down her throat that she made muffled choking noises as he spurted his release.

  When he pulled away she licked him clean, reluctant to finish.

  Then the two stood up and readjusted their clothing, not looking at each other. Ayhan left first. The man smoothed back his hair, lit an extra lamp before the altar, then walked out only a little unsteadily.

  The Malia Shai was left as before, unmoving and unmoved.

  * * *

  ‘General?’

  The voice roused Veraine from his reverie and he looked round sharply. Rumayn, his new adviser, stood at his shoulder trying hard to look as if would never dream of interrupting the officer’s thoughts.

  ‘Yes?’ said Veraine, pushing the memory of two warm and compliant bodies far down beneath the surface of his mind. The chances of him getting laid at all in the next few months, he told himself sourly, were as remote as water in this desert. So much for the privileges of rank.

  Rumayn cleared his throat. He was the only civilian present with the Eighth Host and his manner showed how ill at ease he felt among all the soldiers. He wore his hair close-cropped to a stubble and even that was receding from his temples, so that when he faced any officer it was the back of his head he had to rub nervously. ‘We’re within sight of the city, General. We’ll reach it tonight, if you keep your men marching.’

  ‘Yes. Not before dark, though.’ Veraine looked at him thoughtfully. Despite his awkwardness – the man was only the third or fourth son of some merchant, and could hardly be used to moving in military circles – Rumayn had an open, pleasant face and a keen mind. Even on their brief acquaintance Veraine rather appreciated his presence. ‘I’m going to send a messenger ahead to announce our arrival. Who is it that I should address? Who’ll be in charge in Mulhanabin – this Malia Shai woman?’

  Rumayn looked pleased to be of use. ‘No, General. The Malia Shai is secluded from worldly affairs, I understand. You’ll be dealing with the High Priest.’

  ‘What’s his name, then? Do you know?’

  Rumayn shook his head. ‘Not his personal name. You should address him as “Rasa”. It means “pure one”. He’ll be a eunuch.’

  Veraine stood, stretching his calves, and frowned out into the desert below. ‘Is that normal for Yamani priests?’ he asked with a grimace of distaste.

  ‘No, General, just for this temple. The Malia Shai is a goddess of the desert and the barren earth. So her priests must be barren too, both men and women.’

  ‘Sun’s blood. How do you castrate a woman?’ Veraine asked.

  ‘I believe, General, that they are . . . sewn up.’

  ‘That’s disgusting.’ Veraine shook his head.

  ‘May I have your permission to speak freely, General?’ the adviser asked.

  Veraine met his gaze squarely, though the other man looked at once to his sandals. ‘That’s why you’re here, Rumayn,’ he said. ‘You’ve got the right to speak to me freely at any time. In fact I expect it of you. Yamani sacred cities are not exactly familiar territory, and I rely on you to smooth the path for me.’

  ‘I’ll try, General,’ said Rumayn, bowing his head. ‘Though it won’t be easy for you to avoid pitfalls. These places – isolated, filled with ancient tradition – are like wasps’ nests, with every poisonous inhabitant ready to sting every other. One wrong move and you can set the whole swarm on your head. And they will resent you, General. We Irolians have hardly touched the big temples and the priesthood still clings to what power it can. They underestimate the authority of the Eternal Empire beyond their sacred precincts. You may find, General, that you will have as many enemies within the walls of Mulhanabin as without.’

  ‘I had guessed that much. Thank you for stating it clearly.’

  ‘I understand that you’re fluent in Yamani?’ Rumayn almost flinched as he said this.

  ‘Yes. I don’t read it.’

  ‘Well, speaking it is more useful than reading. You never know what you might overhear, General. And I’m able to translate the script if that’s ever necessary.’

  It sounded to Veraine as if what he really needed was a squad of assassin-bodyguards, but he didn’t voice his pessimism. ‘Very well. I want you to instruct the herald to the Rasa, straight away,’ he said. ‘He’ll ride ahead now.’

  ‘That’s another thing, General. I haven’t been to Mulhanabin myself, you understand, but if it conforms to the old western Yamani city-fortress architecture then I’d advise you not to ride your chariot into the city. They often made the city roads very narrow – so narrow you can hardly get two men abreast – and labyrinthine, for defensive purposes. You might find you won’t be able to get your chariot as far as the temple. You’d end up wedged between the walls. If you want my advice, I’d suggest that you enter Mulhanabin on horseback, General. The Yamani won’t know any better.’

  For the first time, Veraine smiled at his adviser – a small dry smile. ‘At last some good news,’ he said. ‘I shall be delighted to enter the city on horseback. And by the way, Rumayn, your freedom to speak your mind applies to me only. With others, I want you to keep your eyes open and your mouth closed.’ Trailing the other man behind him, he set off back towards his officers.

  I stand in darkness. It is not
night, for without day there cannot be night. There is no day. No sun, nor moon. No earth beneath my feet There is only me, and I stand naked and alone.

  I lay my hands on myself. My belly is warm and a little rounded, spreading to cooler hips. I feel the bones firm beneath my skin. I feel the sun, unborn, burning in my belly. It must be the source of that heat.

  My skin is soft. It yields to gentle pressure, but there is strength and resistance beneath that softness. I imagine there must be tiny hairs on that skin, but they are so fine that I cannot discern them with my stroking fingertips. Above my hips my body narrows to the waist. My hands can span half its circumference. Ribs lie close under the skin above that, their ridges curving in to meet at the mouth of a steep valley, my breasts rising to shadow that cleft. Cautiously I raise my hands to those breasts, cupping them. I cannot cover their whole surface in my grip. Are my hands small or my breasts large? My hands feel cool. If I heft them, I can feel the weight of my own flesh.

  My cold forefinger and thumb frame each nipple. I pinch the teats and stir them in magical circles. They are soft to begin with, softer than the mass of the breast and I can push them right beneath the surface. Just touching them opens little paths of pleasure over the surface of those globes, down to my belly again. But playing with them makes those soft nipples harden and pucker. The areolae tighten to little ridges, and the nipples themselves stand out like fingertips reaching up to the fingers that stroke them. Pinching them is . . . nice. The discomfort turns into joy at once; a restless excited joy that makes my stomach squirm. I pull the nipples high, hanging the whole weight of each breast from those nubbins of flesh, and the cold tracks of pleasure race right round to my shoulder blades.