by Litte, Jane
The sybekoi guarding the entrance to her quarters came to attention when they spotted his approach. They also crossed their halberds in front of him, stout oak shafts supporting expensive iron blades. Iron was rare and costly, and the process to craft it a closely guarded secret, but he had outfitted half of his army with short iron swords by now. Mainly because the sybekoi already possessed them, and had shown his men during his initial visit to her citadel that the new metal, while heavy, was far superior to the bronze blades most everyone else owned.
Stopping, he waited while one murmured through the tent wall, announcing his presence. A reply came back, and the halberds uncrossed. Ai-kan slipped between the oiled canvas folds of the entrance. Beyond the front tent of her private compound was nothing more than a receiving area. Rugs and furs covered the ground, scattered with cushions and low tables, gifts from those who had received her blessings and foresight as a Seer of the Gods.
More sybekoi served here, two women who may have been dressed in soft linen robes and jewelry, but whose muscles and bare heads warned all visitors that they were not the typical, soft, pampered girls normally picked to serve guests with refreshments. One glance at him and they went back to the game they were playing on one of the low tables. They knew that he knew his way to her inner quarters. Approaching without weapons as he did, they did not need to escort him into her presence.
The Sybil did not, she had reassured him early on, give prophecies in the same way to others as she did to him. Rather, they were tailored to a particular person’s needs. The little grass courtyard beyond the first tent was often used for such moments with other visitors, if the front chamber did not suffice.
A statue of Talwah, Goddess of Compassion and Need, stood on a wheeled base surrounded by a pair of benches and various plants in pots, including a pair of small trees. Together, they formed a portable garden, a peaceful refuge from the rougher world of his war camp. They were a pain to transport, but Ai-kan valued the Sybil’s presence more than the trouble of hauling bushes and benches from place to place. Given that the Sybil sometimes gave foresight readings for his warriors as well for himself, they didn’t complain too much about having to move her garden each time they settled in a new camp.
The garden was not his destination, however. Nor was the kitchen tent where the meals for the sybekoi and the Seer were prepared, nor the storage tents behind it, nor their barracks-tents, arrayed around the cloth-walled perimeter of her encampment. His goal was the Sybil’s own tent at the heart of the compound. Black-walled and white-roofed, it was just as large as his own, and marked with the same symbols imbued with protective magic. He himself had marked them, from his growing library of mystical markings.
Magic needed to be studied. Regulated. Too many petty despots ruled their regions through fear and confusion; sometimes their magic worked as predicted, and sometimes it didn’t. Ai-kan believed that magic, like civilization, had rules. It could be studied, crafted, replicated reliably, and used to better the world. Order was paramount, to him. Discipline. Control.
Two more of the sybekoi waited at the entrance to her tent. More were stationed around its perimeter, just as they were stationed around the walls of the compound. Perhaps it was selfish of him to keep most of her Seer abilities for himself, but she had not objected. The Sybil chose to believe that, by working with him, her influence would spread Talwah’s Compassion to those who truly needed it. The day she had agreed to accompany him, Ai-kan had known the Gods were on his side. This continent would be unified, with peace imposed across the squabbling landscape and prosperity brought to all of its corners, rather than hoarded by a rare few rulers, or worse, spoiled by the rest.
One of the sybekoi drew the curtain of the doorway aside for him. The emperor of half the known world stepped inside. As the curtain fell, the light glowing through the white oilcloth roof illuminated the naked figure of the Sybil lounging in a portable tub. Water trickled over her limbs, squeezed from a sea sponge brought all the way from the coast. The breath left his body the moment his eyes drank in this unguarded view of her.
Her hair, unbound from its usual plethora of braids, snaked over her damp breasts in wriggling dark-and-light brown lines. Unlike her warrior women, she did not shave her head, but like them, her eyes were outlined with dark kohl. The look she slanted him was one rich with desire . . . and control.
It was all he could to remember to turn and tie the curtain shut. To focus his inner strength, opening the channels of power in his mind, imbuing the runes painted on the tent to block out all sound. No one knew what the two of them did when he visited her like this. For the sake of his cause and the comfort of his army, no one dared know. It was the only spell he ever cast when coming to her like this.
Once the noises of her compound and the distant hum of the vast army surrounding them faded, he untied the shoulders of his robe and slipped his feet free of their sandals. He did not try to hide his erection when he turned around; the Sybil was not conventionally beautiful, but he did desire her. She had forbidden him to hide it whenever he came to her like this. No false pretenses, no faked reactions, just the honest truth of everything he felt in her presence.
Muscles flexing, he dropped to one knee, then the other. Lifting his arms, Ai-kan laced his hands behind his head and spread his knees, baring his upthrust shaft and the bollocks dangling below. It was a very submissive posture, self-bound and exposed like this. His erection was there simply because he wanted her, but the position he assumed so willingly was because he needed her.
She was his goddess, given flesh. The one woman with whom he was safe, no matter what she did to him. The only person who could give him a glorious release from his overwhelming desire for control in his life.
His Mistress.
AWARE of his position, of his anticipation, Charlisse continued to bathe while he waited. Patience was one of the lessons she had taught him early in their relationship. She had also known he would come to her like this today. The day before yesterday, he had won a battle, and yesterday had been devoted to cleaning up the aftermath of that violence. Today, he was free to come to her. Or as free as any man burdened with so many responsibilities could be.
No one would interrupt them, however. Both her devoted guards and Ai-kan’s own orders would stop anyone who tried. The sybekoi had been dismayed initially when she told them of her agreement to travel with the Emperor on his war campaigns. But as she had explained it to them, “I can do more for the world’s future needs by guiding this one man’s life than I could in a hundred years of receiving local petitions.”
His life was hers, here in private. In public, she would do nothing to ruin his reputation for strength. Ai-kan was in command; even the Sybil, divine mouth of the gods, had left her secluded stronghold to join and support his cause. To all outsiders, she was one more tool in his quest to bring order to their continent. But here, he was hers to command.
Charlisse finished bathing. She could have made do like everyone else, bathing with a bowl of water and a scrap of cloth or in whatever stream might be convenient as they traveled, but the luxury of this large, carved wooden tub was both a declaration of her status to the rest of the camp and a subtle reminder to her host of who was really in charge. Not that she would dare try to lead this army herself, nor rule the mighty nation he was building, but it was vital that Ai-kan, emperor of Ai-ar, knew down to his bones that all of his actions were accountable to someone else in his power-charged life.
That someone, by the will and grace of Talwah, was her. Mindful of his dark brown eyes on her body, devouring every scrap of skin she exposed, she uncurled herself from the tub. Water splashed and dripped, slowing to a trickle as it drained from her modest curves. He was a huge man, a full head taller than most men in his army, with great, scar-crossed muscles covering his frame. Compared to him, she looked like a slender reed at best, a delicate herb in danger of being crushed.
Looks were deceiving, however. Looks were about want, not need.
What lay underneath was where the source of all needs began, and beneath her delicate skin lay a will as tough as iron. Staring down at him, she commanded Ai-kan with two quiet words: “Rinse me.”
He hurried to do her bidding, muscles moving with the same quick economy he used on the battlefield. Uncurling his body, he lifted the tall silver ewer of warmed water waiting by the tub and carefully poured it over her. She enjoyed the feel of the liquid streaming over her flesh for a moment, then smoothed her hands over her hair and skin, rinsing off the lingering suds from the soap-leaf ointment she had used.
A soft sound escaped him, barely audible over the trickling water; the desire in his eyes, roaming down over her body, pleased her. Charlisse played with her breasts for a moment, then slid her hands down to her thighs, watching him watch her. Knowing the water would run out, she didn’t linger, but turned so he could drizzle the last of it over her backside.
“Drying cloth.”
He set the emptied ewer on the carpet-strewn ground and fetched a folded linen cloth from the table beyond it. Touching her gently, he mopped the droplets of water from her skin, then dried each foot as she stepped slowly out of the tub. A last careful wringing of the water from her hair, and he set the damp fabric aside in favor of dropping to his knees, hands clasped once more behind his neck. Proud in his service to her, he lifted his chin a little, his dark gaze on her face, waiting for his next set of orders.
It came in three words.
“Ten-strand flogger.”
He flinched subtly, but moved to do her bidding. Crawling to the chest by the portable bed frame—when Ai-kan was to be punished, he wasn’t allowed to walk until it was over—he extracted the longish handle and longer strands of knotted leather. As he did so, she picked up the soft, clean robe waiting for her on her bed and stepped into it. Bringing it back, he offered it to her on his palms, waiting while she tied the shoulder straps in place.
Charlisse turned to face him. He snuck a glance up at her. She permitted it, though the slightest quirk of her brow sent his gaze darting down to the flogger in his hands. “Do you know why you are to be punished?”
He licked his lips. “No, Mistress. But you are just.”
“I am,” she agreed mildly. Reaching for the handle, she lifted the implement from his hands, letting the strands slide out of his fingers. “More importantly, my servants are an extension of me, and thus my servants are just. Correct?”
“Yes, Mistress. How have I failed you, Mistress?” he asked, his gaze now on the ground.
“Ten of your soldiers broke discipline on the evening of the battle.” Her spies among his army had told her this. Laundry cleaners, camp followers, supply wagoners, and those among the locals her sybekoi contacted, all kept her apprised of whatever his men did. As did her goddess, since in this case, the culprits had been clever. “Three of them escaped justice.”
Ai-kan tensed at her words. “I am sorry, Mistress. My men told me it was seven.”
“It was ten.” Strolling behind him, she hefted the flogger, gently swinging the strands back and forth, then hauled up and backhanded the straps across his ribs. He gasped. Thin pink lines bloomed in the wake of her blow. “Count.”
“Thank you, Mistress, that was one!” he gasped, then repeated it as she struck again. “Thank you, Mistress, that was two!”
“Yes, you will thank me for this,” Charlisse murmured tightly, striking him a third time, even harder. “What do you do with soldiers who rape civilians?”
“Thank you, Mistress, that was three! They are to be hunted down, castrated, and tied to a pole by the roadside for two days, sunrise to sundown!”
“I see seven unmanned bastards tied by the road!” she accused, flogging him again.
“Thank you, Mistress, that was four! My men did not tell me of the other three!”
“I know. They used magic to conceal their identities.”
He hissed in a breath even before she swung a fifth time. The air exploded out of his lungs when she struck hard, welting him and not just blushing his skin. “Thank you, Mistress, that was five!”
The half-shout never left the tent, thankfully. What she had done to him initially in her fortress-like home could not have been replicated here without severely undermining his authority, save for his ability to muffle with a spell all sounds hitting the tent ceiling and walls. What little noise that might escape through the few, tiny gaps in the tent would not be heard by anyone but her sybekoi, and they would never tell another soul. Unlike his soldiers, they had the eyes of Talwah upon them, and of Talwah’s Sybil . . . just as Ai-kan did.
“Discipline will be maintained,” she warned him, pausing her strokes. “The Goddess has given me a glimpse of the ringleader’s identity, of the three who escaped. Of the other two, one is Sergeant Praestor.” She struck him hard, and waited while he gasped out the count. “And one is Sergeant Tak-mah.” Again, a pause for the count . . . and more. “Can you guess the identity of the mage-warrior who helped to disguise them on their rampage? I can see him now in my mind, by the blessing of Talwah . . . a vision roused by your need to be punished.”
Panting from the seventh blow, Ai-kan blinked and licked his lips. “Praestor . . . and Tak-mah . . . are assigned to . . . to Captain Mage Chu-on. Are you saying . . . Chu-on did this?”
“I am. The vision in my mind, seeing what he did, is most unpleasant.” Hauling back, she struck him again.
He cried out from the blow. “Sorry, Mistress! Thank you, Mistress, that was eight!” Breathing heavily, he clenched his fingers behind the nape of his neck. She gave him time to recover, and even enough time to ask, “Ah . . . are my Mistress and her Goddess sure of this? He, ah, wields great influence among the men.”
“Talwah has granted me a vision . . . but if you need confirmation, there is a woman, a mage from among your lower ranks,” Charlisse allowed, her attention turned inward for a moment. “This, I have also seen. She is a stone-shaper, a geomancer, and has been developing a way to purify and bless a certain kind of stone so that it can reveal a lie being told in its presence. Her name is Katmah. You will encourage her to develop these truth-telling stones, to refine her spells. This will take a turning of Brother Moon, maybe two . . . and when she has succeeded, you will confront Chu-on . . . and you will make an example of him that will never be forgotten by any mage-warrior in your ranks.”
She swung hard and fast, two smacking blows that slashed loudly across his back.
“Ah! Thank you, Mistress, that was nine! Thank you, Mistress, that was ten!” Panting, trembling, Ai-kan clutched his hands together behind his back, awaiting another blow while the burning sting faded from his welted skin.
Hidden behind his back, Charlisse permitted herself a brief, worried look. She stooped a little and studied the marks she had left. None looked like they had broken the skin. Not that he wasn’t scarred; he bore several faded white lines and a few newer pinkish ones, all garnered from his life as a warrior. But she cared for him, a lot more than she felt free to admit at this particular moment. Straightening in silence, she gently swung the flogger around his shoulder, letting the strands patter across the front of his collarbone.
“This was your punishment for failing to instill discipline in your men. Next is your trade relations with the rafters of the River Morna, who ferry your army’s supplies from the pacified lands in the east to the new conquests in the west. You have been concentrating too much of late on the forefront of the Empire. You must also be mindful of the needs of the lands you already control, and you, through your governing agents, have neglected their needs in particular.
“Put the flogger back . . . and bring me the candle.”
Wordlessly, he complied. If anyone had told her as a young girl that one day she would be keeping track of the government needs of half the known world, she would have thought the predictor mad. But she did. It took time and preparation, a network of spies and informants, and the ability to see patterns as they developed across disparate
situations; she couldn’t rely just on whatever her Goddess granted her in a vision. It took vigilance and discipline to keep abreast of all these various things. But it was all necessary. Needed.
“Light it,” she murmured when he had returned with the fat shaft of beeswax.
He frowned at the wick, settling once more on his knees. She could feel the pulse of his life-force gathering, thickening, heating. The twist of braided linen thread crackled to life, burning steadily. This use of his powers was permitted in her presence, at her direction. Pleased, she nodded and held out her hand. He placed the lit candle in her grasp and sat back, hands behind his neck, to await her discipline.
“Front or back, Mistress?” he asked after a while.
Attention on the pool of melting beeswax, Charlisse lifted her chin. “Front.”
Sighing roughly, he shifted his hands to the small of his back and leaned on his heels, baring his belly at an angle. His shaft was still full, though not completely erect at the moment. It drooped a little even as she glanced his way.
“Do you object to my choice, my servant?” she asked him, arching a brow. The thick, honey-scented cylinder and its fat wick had accumulated a good-sized pool of wax by now.
“No, Mistress.”
No doubt he was expecting to be rewarded for a successful battle. That was coming, of course. He really had done well; the battle had been cleanly fought as far as such things went, and it had been a decisive victory. Aside from the crimes committed by his captain and sergeants, no civilians had been harmed. It deserved rewarding. But first . . .
Tipping her hand, she drizzled the melted beeswax across his chest. Ai-kan grunted, breath hissing through his teeth. Slowly, carefully, Charlisse marked a symbol in hot wax. “This . . . is the rune-sign for Morna . . . Goddess of the Great River. Your men have been disrespectful of the river folk and their highest holy days.”