Again, she could see the dark-haired, dark-eyed man in profile, but this time there was movement. His head hung low, his long, rough-cut brown locks obscured his features, but then, in slow motion, he flipped his head up, flinging his hair back, exposing his face to the light and his tormented features to her gaze. His lips peeled back into a grimace, exposing straight white teeth. He clenched his angular jaw as tightly as his eyes, causing the tendons on his neck to stand out.
Her sex gushed with sudden arousal, shocking her. How could she find pleasure in another’s torment? Who was he? No name came to mind, only startling feelings of stimulation.
Awakening.
That was the one word that summed up everything she felt about this man, but she had no idea what kind of awakening he represented. When her thoughts drifted away from him, she didn’t fight. Thinking of the mysterious man gave her a terrible headache and conflicting feelings of arousal and shame. Much like what she felt last night with Kerrick. When her thoughts focused on him, she forcefully pushed them another direction.
Tumbling like rough water, her thoughts turned back to the Harvester competition. Half a cycle ago, her father had informed her of his decision that she would compete. Ariss had almost laughed, but the seriousness of his face and her father’s complete lack of humor cautioned her to silence. No daughter of an elite House had ever lowered herself to compete in the contest. There were no rules against them competing, but Ariss knew whether she won or lost, she would become a social outcast. They would see her entry into the pageant as a desperate bid for attention. Mocking jests would follow her wherever she went for the rest of her life. Her relationship with her peers was strained enough without adding this to her list of blunders. Already her contemporaries found her odd, cold, and as Janda of Violet House said, “Perfectly strange.” Not that Ariss blamed them. What else could they say about someone with part of her past a mysterious blank?
The other high-ranking daughters of the Houses gossiped and chatted endlessly about all the myriad parties associated with palace life. Ariss had nothing to say. She’d spent her whole life in Felton, a small but prosperous region along the Onic Mountains. They had dances and such there, but nothing like the opulent celebrations hosted by the empress.
One day, without warning, her father decided the time had come for them to take their rightful place within the palace walls. Ariss left behind everything she’d ever known, including some of her memories. When she asked her mother, she turned away, always in a rush to go somewhere. Her father just peered at her down the length of his sharp nose until she retreated. Three of her sisters cast her baffled looks, unsure if she were joking or not. Darabelle laughed, calling her a silly child who wanted attention. Whatever memory her parents removed, her sisters had no knowledge of it, or someone had removed the memory from them as well. Shortly after they’d arrived at the palace, her father had come up with the scheme of having Ariss enter the Harvester competition. The timing was so odd that she honestly believed entering her into the contest was the sole reason he’d moved them to the palace in the first place.
Typically, only women from the outer regions, those with enough beauty to either win a local contest or catch the eye of a recruiter, were allowed to participate in the Harvester competition. Somehow, her father cleared her entry with the palace magistrate. Revulsion had swept chills across her flesh when she’d met him. The palace magistrate, Ambo Votny, had small, furtive eyes set in his rounded face. His multiple chins quivered when he spoke, and he had the most disgusting habit of picking his nose and wiping it on his silver trousers. And the way he looked at her, with a dirty kind of hunger, made her want to bathe in the hottest water with the harshest soap, as if she could wash the slime of his gaze off her person. Just what had her father promised Ambo to get him to allow her into the competition?
A desire to argue with her father rose up in her, but she clamped her mouth shut and hid behind her frosty exterior. Quarrelling with her father served no purpose. He would have his way. He always did. Radox Tunima ruled his Home with absolute authority and a brutal intolerance to defiance. Casting her out would not be his solution, for then others would know he could not control his own. Ariss knew this because she had actually sought to push him into that most harsh decision, but he refused to let her go. As soon as she had arrived at the palace, she wanted to return to Felton. She thought that if she embarrassed her father enough, he would send her back. Instead, she only solidified his determination to use her to make an alliance that would likely line his own pockets. As the Harvester, Ariss could choose any free man within the palace walls. She was certain her father had someone in particular in mind. Her only question was when would he reveal his choice?
Ariss had spent the last quarter cycle in the training rooms, surrounded by other hopeful candidates. All day and most of the night, they preened before the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, trying new hairstyles, makeup designs, and clothing. When they weren’t perfecting their physical appearance, they practiced singing, playing an instrument, composing poetry, or dancing, because if two of the hopefuls were close in scores, they would have to compete in all areas; only the one with the greatest number of skills would triumph. In the final contest, a panel of judges, composed of the magistrate and others in high authority, would select a winner to harvest the males who came of age.
Ariss had a distinct advantage in that she was already accomplished in all five areas. Rather than practice or preen, Ariss had spent her time gazing out the lone window and into the gardens ripening below. She would rather be there than anywhere. Only surrounded by living things had she ever felt serene. Being boxed in by the unforgiving chilliness of the stone palace made her feel cold and constricted.
She returned to the present with a jolt. Eight sets of hands turned her upon her back and set to rubbing and stroking the front of her body. Her protest was lost amid her moan of pleasure. They knew just where she hurt the most. Strong hands stroked lightly along her breasts and the inside of her thighs, but not to stir her desire. Lust was not within them or at least they didn’t show passion. Then again, it was difficult to assess what lay under their flowing white robes with her eyes barely open.
Ariss wasn’t sure, but she didn’t think they castrated the male acolytes in the palace. Not like what they did to the ac-tratos at home. Those poor young men were snipped during childhood to preserve the sweetness of their voices so that they could sing the praises of the gods. Personally, Ariss found high, soft voices emerging from full-grown men disconcerting.
With practiced precision, these acolytes massaged her tension away. The only part they didn’t touch as deeply as she wished was her neck. When she lifted her arms to remove the necklace that the magistrate had placed upon her during her inauguration, they gently but firmly returned her arms to her sides.
“You cannot remove the parastone.”
Curious, Ariss fingered the polished black stone. It seemed heavier than it should for its size, and rather than reflecting light, the stone seemed to drink in brightness, not in a sinister way, but as if it craved the light and could never receive enough. Ariss felt no fear in wearing the strange item, but, again, she’d been too overwhelmed at the time to ask about its purpose during her induction ceremony. Honestly, she’d thought it was purely decorative.
“What does it do?” she asked.
The acolyte, a young man with thick black hair and the softest blue eyes, tilted his head curiously to the side. His hand trembled as he reached out to stroke a finger across the surface of the stone. In the most reverent tone she’d ever heard, he said, “It announces the creation of the paratanist.”
Devotion shone from his masculine features in such rich detail, she felt he’d literally touched something divine. Moreover, she was baffled as to his meaning and, again, too embarrassed to ask.
5
“You can’t hide in here for the entire season.”
Kerrick regretted letting his handler, Sterlave, inside the Harvester su
ite, but it was too late to slam the door in his face now. Damn that the thick door did not have a peephole. He never knew who was on the other side until he opened it and then it was too late. Kerrick silently vowed to himself that from now on, he simply wouldn’t answer.
“I haven’t been hiding,” Kerrick snarled, “nor have I been staying here for the entire last cycle.” After a breath, he complained, “Remember? Your bondmate, the former empress, removed me from my rooms to accommodate a visiting dignitary. Something that has, apparently, never happened in the history of Diola.”
Before Sterlave could answer, Kerrick moved away from the main door and stood gazing out at the snow-covered land below. His breath condensed on the glass, blocking his view, but one swipe of his fist wiped the mist away. If only he could remove all of his problems with such ease.
“Kasmiri did what she had to do.” Sterlave defended his bondmate with his calm and controlled voice, lifting his head so his short brown hair caught the glow of the ceiling crystals.
Kerrick considered his own reflection in the glass; his head looked about the same, but his close-cropped hair was star-tlingly golden. He looked the way he did as a boy when his mother, frustrated by trying to keep his hair free of tangles, would simply order the maid to shave it off altogether.
Sterlave was the Harvester before Kerrick for a grand total of thirteen sacrifices. Kasmiri, the daughter of Empress Clathia, was Sterlave’s thirteenth harvest. Sterlave claimed her virginity and claimed her as his bondmate all in one thrust. No wonder Ambo had been so vexed; in the same Harvest, Chur Zenge had selected a bondmate, and once Sterlave became the Harvester, he too selected his chosen. Ambo must have breathed a sigh a relief when Kerrick didn’t select one of the sacrifices as his bondmate.
“Kasmiri’s intent was to accommodate another, not inconvenience you.” As always, Sterlave used his pacifying voice. It was the exact same tone he used to cajole Kerrick into engaging the recruits in training exercises. Once Kerrick recovered from his bout of tender crotch, he’d done as his duty demanded and marched off to training. If he was going to be the Harvester, he was determined to be the best Harvester ever. Such worked better in theory rather than practice. Kerrick had thrown down his avenyet in disgust after three sessions. For good measure, he’d kicked the wooden double club before he’d stomped off.
To be honest, Kerrick wasn’t upset about Kasmiri moving him from his rooms, or his boring schedule of eat, sleep, train, repeat. What infuriated him was that something historical had transpired and no one would tell him the details. All he knew was that Empress Clathia had died, which made Kasmiri the empress. A bunch of villagers had surrounded the palace to worship Chur Zenge, and somehow, for some reason, within a mere quarter cycle, Kasmiri had relinquished her throne and now lived as Sterlave’s bondmate. Had Sterlave not selected Kasmiri during his very brief stint as the Harvester, the magistrate would have crushed Kasmiri under the stone or exiled her to Rhemna. How and why all of this had transpired was what Kerrick wanted to know. Damn Diola and the planet’s lack of any kind of massive media. Word of mouth did him no good when Kerrick could only speak to his paratanist, his handler, or the other men in the training rooms; all who knew less than he did. Well, his handler Sterlave knew everything, but he was the most closed-mouth tandgref Kerrick had ever met.
After his three visits to the training rooms, and one brief discussion with Sterlave, Kerrick returned to his rooms a bitter, frustrated man. Why oh why hadn’t he listened to his grandmother and learned more about the Harvester position before jumping blindly into it? She swore that one day his impetuous-ness would be his downfall, and she’d been right.
“You’ve been returned to your rooms.” Sterlave closed the heavy Onic door behind him. Rather than settle himself at the couch, Sterlave kept to his feet. Probably in deference to not messing up the furniture as sweat and grime covered him from head to toe. Heavy muscles bulged along his arms and legs, causing a streak of envy within Kerrick; if he didn’t do something, he would lose the body he’d worked so hard to obtain. “And surely, you’ve recovered from the Harvest by now.”
Sterlave’s words were slyly challenging, causing Kerrick to glare out at the winter blanket that smothered the land. Kerrick wouldn’t mind the snow so much if he could be out in it, but he was forbidden to leave the palace. The longer he stayed cooped up inside, the more he felt himself shriveling, not just physically, but mentally and spiritually. Kerrick needed to be outside. Once, he’d tried to sneak out, but four burly guards, the same four he’d inadvertently summoned by pressing the panic button, had hauled him right back in. Kerrick had gulped two deep breaths of fresh air before they’d surrounded him. Now, his only recourse to get fresh air was to stand out on his tiny balcony. He considered rappelling his way down, but he didn’t have any rope, and tying the bedclothes together only worked in the tridees. Astle was a slippery fabric that wouldn’t hold together no matter how he tied the knots. Worse, it wouldn’t give his hands decent purchase. Once he went over the railing, he’d scream his way straight to the ground. If he survived, he wouldn’t be enjoying fresh air, or walking, anytime soon.
To add insult to injury, it wasn’t just that he couldn’t go outside, he also couldn’t go anywhere within the palace that wasn’t on his strict schedule. With four guards constantly on his ass, Kerrick hadn’t been able to sneak off for a tryst, either. Not that he had anyone in particular in mind, but never had he been confined to such a limited existence. Like the men who made religion their life, Kerrick had been cut off from all the pleasures in the world. The difference was his exile wasn’t voluntary. Well, it was in a way, but he never would have become the Harvester had he known. He wondered if they kept lovely Ariss caged, too. Had he known she would be his last for the next nine cycles, he never would have let her run off so soon. The thought of not knowing the touch of a woman for nine long, lonely cycles was something he tried desperately not to think of. By the end of it, he and his right hand would become very, very intimate.
“I’ve recovered just fine.” Somewhere behind the clouds, Tandalsul blazed, but the gloomy black-blue puffs effectively blocked the light. Dark skies echoed Kerrick’s dark mood. If he’d known the truth about being the Harvester, he never would have bothered to return to Diola. Becoming the magistrate and having power over his father simply wasn’t worth this. He almost uttered a bitter laugh, for he’d thought this way would be the easiest and fastest way to power.
“If you’re in good health, then why do you refuse to train?”
“Because it’s boring!” Kerrick whirled around to face Sterlave.“My training ground was the mountains I climbed, the waves I rode, the ice I skated. What you do is pointless.” Already Ker-rick felt his body turning to flab. He needed to be active, outside, not slamming away with a bunch of sweaty grunts in a smelly, old training room with a handful of weapons he had no idea how to wield.
“Pointless?” A smirk lifted up one edge of Sterlave’s mouth. “I would think the upcoming challenge would give the training a clear purpose.”
“Freeaal,” Kerrick whispered to himself as he closed his eyes. Hesitantly, he asked, “What challenge?” Would the surprises never cease? If nothing else, he should have paid more attention to the tales his grandfather told. Every night at Grandier’s Crown, the local tavern, his grandfather would sit in a place of honor and tell stories about the ancients. Kerrick had always been a little too interested in chasing the skirts of the Grandier daughters to listen with full ears.
“Right before the next Harvest, any recruit can challenge you in a fight to the death to become the next Harvester.” Sterlave paused, a frown drawing his brows down between his golden brown eyes. “Surely, you understood that when you stepped forward to take my place, that the fight would have been to the death.”
Kerrick slumped and banged his head softly against the glass in time with his words. “Stupid, stupid, stupid. I am a stupid, stupid man.” Bracing his hands against the glass, he pushed hims
elf back and shook off his overwhelming dread. “I thought that was only when I stepped forward to take your place. I thought that when they issued challenge to me later, it would be a fight to the first, like in the orph challenge.” On Tapring, the orph challenge consisted of ten separate events, one of which was the crossing of blades.
“A fight to see who draws first blood?” Sterlave didn’t openly laugh, but Kerrick sensed it took him quite an effort not to. A man who fought to the death would see a fight to the first as almost womanly.
“It’s the only kind of weapon fighting I’ve ever done, and only with a guarded blade.” The slender blade used in the fight was not only dull, but had a small rubber guard placed just below the pointed tip, so that any blow would only draw blood, not truly wound or kill. The tiny point would give his opponent little more than a deep paper cut. Sadly, even with that, it wasn’t Kerrick’s best event. More often than not, he received a nick in his arm or chest.
With a few steps, Sterlave was at Kerrick’s back, peering at him through the reflection in the glass. “In eight cycles, you will face at least three challengers that I know of. They will pick the weapon. You will pick your stance.” At Kerrick’s baffled expression, Sterlave explained, “You can choose either a defensive or offensive posture.”
“But they get to pick the weapon.”
Sterlave nodded.
“And they all saw what I can do with those weapons.”
Again, Sterlave nodded, but with more reserve.
Glumly, Kerrick whispered, “I’m a walking dead man, aren’t I?” Kerrick’s skill with the unfamiliar weapons had been less than impressive. In fact, to be honest, his pathetic attempts had been so comical that several recruits openly laughed at his ineptitude. He’d thrown down the avenyet in shame, not fury.
[The Onic Empire 03] - Sinful Harvest Page 7