“What does he say?”
Sillara turned wide, perplexed eyes on her husband. “He calls me 'Queen'.”
“Yes, you are our Queen, the one promised us by the goddess Abrexa, the one whose King shall come down from the sky.” Vaelus kissed the floor before Sillara's feet and then rose to face the gathered crowd. “Our Queen!”
****
Konas paced in front of the window. “So you say they speak some mixture of ancient Sunjaa and ancient Fihdal?”
Sillara nodded. It was not lost on her that she and Konas, though they were assigned a single bedchamber, had been given separate beds. She suspected they thought him her father. “It is not precisely the same, of course, but it is very much a combination of the two, almost equally intermixed.”
“And their founder, or at least the man for whom they named their city, was a half-Ausir named Tambril.” Konas shook his head. “And they named you Queen as soon as they saw you.”
“As soon as they saw that I was half Ausir,” said Sillara gently. She did not think it hurt, either, that she was half-Sunjaa. “They say that I am the fulfillment of a prophecy as old as divination, and that within the week the house they built for me—or for their Queen whenever she should come—will be opened and furnished.” She sat down on the bed, and its softness was like a lullaby. She wanted so much to sleep, but she could not sleep without fucking first.
“I am glad that we are safe,” said Konas. “But these people worry me. You say they call themselves the 'Desertmasters'?”
“They do, but why should that worry you?” Sillara was grateful for the fresh clothes the Desertmasters had brought her. “The Fihdal and Vadal call themselves 'empires', and the Sunjaa have never cared.”
Konas stopped his pacing and came to sit beside her. “My love, you think too much like a Sunjaa.”
Sillara sighed inwardly. Though Konas did not view her as most people did, that is, as a curiosity rather than a person, he never saw her as anything but an Ausir. She was not an Ausir any more—or less—than she was a Sunjaa. “And you mean by this that I do not take sufficient consideration of what other nations calling themselves means for me and mine.”
Konas laughed, embarrassed. “Something like that. If these people call themselves the Desertmasters, then they might—”
“Might set upon the Sunjaa of Arinport? I doubt it.”
“No, Sillara, my wife. I mean they might think that they have the right to do as they please—with anyone.”
Sillara narrowed her eyes. Surely Konas was not implying that these people, who treated her with every deference, might try to assault or rape her?
“Not that, Sillara. But they seem to want to worship you.”
Sillara shuddered. It reminded her too forcibly of her supplicants in Arinport. She did not think Konas knew of them, but Soren did. He understood her discomfort, though, unlike her parents, he was not afraid of the people's feelings.
“You don't seem shocked,” said Konas.
“I am not.” Sillara smiled wearily. “But it is of no matter. If they call me 'Queen', then surely they will see to it that we are properly cared for until we are well enough to go back to Arinport.”
Konas sat beside her and put his arms around her. “I hope you are right, my love.” He kissed her brow. “And I intend to spend our time here, however long or short, enjoying you.”
But Sillara knew that, however much he might desire her, he was in no condition to give her the fucking she needed. “Perhaps tomorrow night, Konas.”
She caught the slight relaxing of his shoulders and knew she had been right.
“When you have recovered then.” Konas kissed her brow and pulled her down to lie beside him. His hands cupped her breasts as he drifted off to sleep, and Sillara could have cried from frustration. She had denied him only to protect his own pride, for she herself was aching to be fucked. His skillful hands on her breasts were a tantalization worse than nothing at all.
As soon as the evenness of Konas's breathing told her he slept, Sillara licked her fingers and began to rub her pussy. She closed her eyes, thinking of a long, thick cock beneath a short, Sunjaa skirt. She imagined that cock slipping inside her, filling her, stretching her.
She slid two fingers inside herself and resolved to ask Konas to make her one of those eggs. As she continued to massage her clit and to finger herself, Sillara wondered how much longer it would be before Soren found her. Now she was in no danger any longer, and she could wait.
Chapter Fourteen
Nathen did not even cross Soren’s mind. Soren just hopped on his horse, still bareback, grabbed his sword, and galloped away. The blood thundered in his ears like the frantic sprinting of his mount, and Sillara’s anguish coursed through the natural channels of his body like poison. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. Soren gave no thought for water, no thought for food, no thought for the care of his horse—the only horse they had left, the only way they could hope to return to civilization. When it came to Sillara, Soren, who was at other times a level-headed young man, abandoned reason. Soren did not think; he just rode, and his tears blinded him.
For nearly an hour Soren worked his horse past endurance, and if Sillara’s terror had continued, he would have ridden the beast to death. But suddenly Sillara was fine. Whatever had happened, the danger was past, and relief flooded Soren’s mind. He pulled his mount to a stop, and for the first time, he saw his animal with white-frothed mouth, panting, its coat a sheen of sweat. Pity stabbed him, for he had used his horse ill.
“I’m sorry.” Soren stroked its mane. “You can’t blame me for being worried. I just miss her so much.”
The horse whinnied, and Soren laughed. He dismounted, grabbed his water flask, and put it to the beast’s lips. He tipped it up and poured the contents into the horse’s mouth. It was not much, but it would keep the horse on its feet until Soren could get it back to the oasis and water it properly. The sun beat down on Soren’s brow and neck, so he pulled his cloak up closer. If he closed his mouth and breathed only through his nose, he would have no trouble making it back to the oasis.
And what about Nathen? What had he tried to do? Why would he abandon Soren and go off on his own? Did he love Sillara that much that he would betray his best friend? Sillara’s song must have driven him from his wits. And what of this secret civilization, as Nathen called it, out in the desert? Could Sillara have found it and be safe there? Had Konas survived whatever danger they had just passed through?
That danger made itself evident to Soren just at that moment. The western horizon grew obscured, and with his far Ausir vision, Soren could make out a wall of blowing sand. A sandstorm, larger than any he had ever seen, blew west and south as it turned back east. Soren watched with amazement as the storm shifted direction and was actually racing toward him, completing the wide arc that many sandstorms took. Sillara’s balloon must have gotten caught in the storm and been blown gods-know-where. Soren hopped on his horse’s back and turned back east. He would have to ride on his return as fast as he had come out. If that storm hit him without shelter, it would rip the skin from his flesh.
When Soren was in sight of the oasis again, the wall of whirling, biting sands bore down on him. The horse ran faster, its fright giving it a burst of speed. Soren saw Nathen waiting and waving his arms. He was scared, too, but he had the blankets and spikes ready. Nathen might have been a fool when it came to Sillara, but he was a capable hunter who knew how to survive the dangers of the desert.
Soren glanced over his shoulder. The storm rushed up on him. The outer tendrils of the maelstrom brushed the rear of his horse. They would have to move quickly; every second counted. Soren rode into their small encampment, pulled his horse from a full gallop to a complete stop, and leaped from its back. In the same movement, he grabbed the horse by its mane with both hands and let his body weight pull it down to the ground. Once the horse was flat on its side, Soren scrambled for one edge of the blanket. Nathen took the other side, and they bo
th drove long stakes through the fabric and into hard oasis soil. Then they covered the horse, pinned down the other side, and crawled under. The storm blew over them and threatened to rip the blanket from its moorings. The horse whinnied and tried to stand. Soren lay on top of it and soothed it with clicks of his tongue, cooing, and whispers. Nathen did his part by grabbing the underside of the blanket and holding it fast.
For an hour the storm buffeted them in darkness and biting sand, but in time it passed, and they laughed in their joy. Nathen’s forearms bled from where they had been partially exposed to the storm. The horse and Soren were uninjured. Soren rose and looked to the east as he watched with wonder the retreating storm. It looked like a wall of smoke and ash that rose to the sky. It was a force of nature no man could avoid or tame. The encounter with the sandwurm was dangerous, but there was a chance of survival. Against the storm there was no victory. Soren breathed a prayer to Chiel that Sillara, too, had safely passed through the storm.
“What now?” Nathen gathered up the blanket in his arms.
Soren led his horse to the water. “We turn back.”
“But what about Sillara?”
“The horses were only enough to get us this far, to the outer oases we knew. Any farther and we’d need camels or balloons.” Soren was able to speak calmly and rationally now, for Sillara was safe. “My sister is beyond the reach of horses.”
Nathen nodded. “Besides, two riders on one horse wouldn’t get us far.”
Soren’s anger rose at the thought of Nathen getting his horse killed. What a fool he was, trying to ride off by himself. “Yes. You of all people should’ve known the danger of riding off by yourself. You’ve hunted the wurms before.”
Nathen shrugged. “I was just worried about that strange town out there.”
Another lie. Nathen wanted to find Sillara himself. He could not hide his obsession from Soren. Soren, however, said nothing. He would not wring the truth from Nathen this way.
“Let’s pack up,” Soren said. “It’s a long ride back to Orien and Merieke.”
****
Soren found the camp just as he had left it, quite and subdued. The normalcy of the surroundings made his memory of the storm and the wurm attack all the more bizarre to think that Orien and Merieke had sat here in safety with the pleasure slaves while Nathen and Soren fought for their lives. It was evening when they entered the camp, and Merieke ran out of her tent to greet Soren. She wore a translucent gown under her open cloak, and she stood in such a way as not to hide her charms.
“What news?” Merieke’s perfumed scent carried on the crisp air.
Nathen looked around from atop the horse. “Did the storm hit you?”
“No, but we saw it far off. Luckily we escaped its path.” Merieke put one hand on her hip and pulled her head back. “What happened to the other horse?”
Nathen glanced back at Soren, but Soren said nothing. He just nodded toward Merieke, indicating that if anyone was going to explain, it was going to be the fool who got the horse killed.
“We lost it,” Nathen said.
“Yes, that’s obvious.” Merieke came forward and took the reins of the horse, leading it toward her tent. “What happened, brother?” Merieke was quick-witted and clearly wanted to hear the story from Nathen, who, she gathered, was to blame to the loss.
“It got eaten by a sandwurm.”
Merieke gasped, and she came around the side of the horse, touching Soren’s thighs. “Are you two all right?”
Soren placed his hand on top of hers. “We’re fine.”
Merieke pointed toward Nathen. “What happened there? Were you bitten?”
Nathen laughed. “No, sister. I just got a bit ripped up by the sandstorm.”
Merieke’s eyes widened. “You were actually in it?”
“Yes,” Soren answered.
Merieke kissed Soren’s hand. “Thank you for taking care of my brother. How can I ever repay you?”
Soren winked at her. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
Merieke smiled up at him. “I’ve got a few ideas.”
Nathen shook his head and hopped down. “You know, there’s a tent right over there.”
Tempting as the jest was, Soren had no time to fuck Merieke. He could think of nothing save Sillara.
Orien emerged from his tent, and his ready smile evaporated. “No Sillara.” It was not a question. “What now?”
Soren appreciated his captain’s direct way of speaking. “Well, sir, I think someone’s got to go back to Arinport and tell my parents what’s happened. They’ll get balloons and camels and such and come meet us here. Then we can mount a proper rescue.”
Orien nodded and crossed his arms over his broad, bare chest. “Good idea. Who goes?” Obviously he knew Soren would want to stay in case there was any word.
Merieke popped between them. “I’ll go.”
“By yourself?” her big brother asked.
Merieke squared her shoulders. “I can take care of myself, Orien, as well as any man. Woe betide anyone who waylays me.” She brandished a dagger, and Soren wondered where she had been hiding it. Sneaky like her mother. “I’ll cut a bandit’s balls off and feed them to him.”
Orien stepped back in mock surprise. “All right, sister. If Soren agrees, you may go. This is his mission.”
Merieke turned her burning gaze on Soren. If he denied her, she would never forgive him.
“Take two slaves with you,” Soren said, “and I’m content.”
Merieke smiled, stood up on her tiptoes, and kissed Soren’s lips. “I’ll be back with the wind, my love.” She skipped off to see to her preparations, and all the men watched her go.
Soren wolfed down a plate of bread, fruit, and olives, guzzled some water, and then started packing his saddle bags. Orien walked over to him.
“And where are you going?”
Soren did not look up. He would not be swayed from his course, which is just what he sensed Orien was going to do. “I’ll load up a camel and head back out. I can’t rest until I find her.”
“Not a good idea, and you know it.”
“I don’t know it! How should I know it? You’d do no less if Merieke were missing.” Though Soren guessed Orien did not feel for Merieke the way he felt for Sillara. Could any brother feel the way he felt? Could any man? “I can get farther on a camel.”
“It’s too dangerous.” Orien’s voice was still calm and steady. “And pointless. We should conserve our water until your father arrives with help.”
Soren ignored Orien and kept packing. It would take Merieke several days just to get back to Arinport, and then they would have to arrange balloons and whatnot. There was no time to lose. Soren felt his captain’s large hand come to rest on his shoulder, and he spun around, ready for a fight. “I’m going.”
Orien’s soft brown eyes hardened, a look Soren had seen many times at sea—the look of an indomitable captain with an iron will. “You'll stay right where you are, sailor. How can your camel chase an Ausir balloon? You say Sillara is not dead? Well, how would she feel if you died trying to save her from her non-death?”
Soren thought of the sandwurms. If he were alone on a camel, he would hardly be able to defend himself. Orien spoke sense, but Soren just did not want to hear it. How could he sit idly by while Sillara was missing? Every day that passed was a day alone in the desert with Konas, a fair-skinned Ausir who not only knew nothing of Sunjaa desert ways but would burn to a crisp under the unrelenting sun. And what about the cold nights, when Konas would snuggle up behind her for warmth and then take advantage of her and make defeat of her virginity?
Soren growled.
“I know you’re impatient.” Orien’s face appeared before Soren’s eyes as the daydream dissolved. “But once Kamen gets here, we’ll have a proper search party to go out and find her.”
In the meantime, Konas’s hands would have free rein of Sillara’s body. Soren punched his saddle bag and stormed off.
The
next two days passed in agony. Merieke departed early in the morning, and by midday, Soren was sick with fear. Something was wrong again, though Soren could get no more than a general sense of Sillara’s condition. She was weak, and the fear of death hung over her. But it was more than that. It was as if Soren could sense Sillara’s sensing Soren’s sensing of her own fear. The confusion nauseated Soren, and he vomited several times throughout the course of the first day. On the second day, he did not rise from his pallet. A pleasure slave came and sat by his side as ordered, but she did not know what to do, not being trained in the nursing of a sick patient. A fever tore at Soren’s brain, and the only thing besides Sillara’s imminent death he knew was the lifting of his head and the cool water that passed between his dry lips into his mouth and dribbled down his scorching skin. Misery and fear mounted as the fever spiked, and Soren called out for Sillara many times.
And then, just when Sillara knew her death was come, all became calm. She was out of danger, and Soren, his head clearing, was able to rise from his bed. The pretty little painted pleasure slave sat on her knees and smiled up at him.
“It is good to see you well, sir.” No doubt she attributed his recovery to her healing skills. “If it please you, my lord, I will bathe you.”
Soren, still in a haze, nodded. She pushed him down gently onto the bed and removed his skirt. His skin soaked up the coolness of the sponge, and he lay back and moaned in satisfaction. Sillara was safe, and Soren could think and feel again. The slave worked her soap and sponge across Soren’s chest, down his abdomen, and over his thighs. She wrung out the sponge and rinsed him, and then she went to work on his cock.
His penis lay against his thigh, but at the slave’s touch, it sprang to life. The girl glanced up at Soren’s through her thick, black eyelashes and smiled. She stroked the cock from its base to its tip, soaping it up with white bubbles. She cupped his balls and lathered them, as well. Soren sucked his breath. After two days of misery and worry, this felt like heaven. The slave took her time, and when his soapy cock was fully erect, she stood and removed her gown. She knelt back down and placed his cock between her tits. She slid up and down, and Soren gently fucked her cleavage. She took the head of his cock and twirled it around her nipples, and Soren groaned.
The Lotus Ascension Page 15