Dark Enchantment

by Janine Ashbless

  ‘Yes.’ Think? She couldn’t think. His big strong hands were on his belt now, uncinching the kilt of straps that protected his thighs. There was blood all across his scraped knuckles. There was a green stain on the front of his tunic from the breastplate. She touched the fabric, feeling for his heartbeat beneath the padded linen. He grabbed her hand and pushed it down to his crotch. Beneath his tunic and calfskin breeches something surged hungrily to greet her.

  ‘Divine Tesub,’ he groaned, prompting her.

  ‘Divine Tesub …’ Her mind was capable only of focusing on one thing: that this was him, this was his cock. This was what she had dreamed of and blushed over in secret and shaped in the hot still air of her bedchamber. He was making her touch it. He was moulding her fingers round its thickness. He was breathing hard as she measured its length with her clumsy hands. ‘Divine Lady, I am a virgin,’ she breathed. ‘Give me courage this night.’

  ‘Good.’ Whether he was referring to her prayer or her actions, she couldn’t tell. His voice was low and urgent.

  ‘Let me give my husband pleasure – Oh!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re not my husband …’

  ‘It will do,’ he promised.

  ‘Oh. Let me give him pleasure that he may teach pleasure to me.’ Her words were coming out in a stumbled blur, her focus torn between them and the live thing in her hands, muscular as a snake. ‘Accept the blood I shed, Divine Lady …’

  He was peeling away the belt that held her quiver of arrows.

  ‘Accept my … my sacrifice, Divine Lady …’

  He was loosening the drawstring on his breeches.

  ‘Divine Tesub …’

  ‘Is that it done?’

  Surya gaped and nodded. There was more: something about bearing the wound given to her, something about fertility, but she couldn’t remember the words because the soldier’s weapon had sprung out unsheathed into her grasp and she could not get over the heat of him, the girth of him, the solidity.

  Mershen touched her lips. ‘Done well, Surya.’ Then he pulled up the skirt of her robe and slipped his hand between her thighs. Flesh parted before his fingers just as her lips parted under his. She was wet; it came as much of a surprise to her as to him. She shook, grinding her spine against the pillar. No one had ever touched her there; no fingers but her own had done that. His fingers were rough-textured but careful in their movements, slipping up her shallow furrow.

  ‘Yes?’

  She nodded, wide-eyed.

  ‘Good.’ He was smiling, but it was not the warm conspiratorial smile she remembered; it was something wilder and harder edged and loaded with foreknowledge and regret. His fingers slipped in and out of her, painting her the bright hot colours of desire. She felt like she was changing shape under his touch, being moulded into new contours. Her own hands slackened, bereft of direction. She couldn’t even see him properly; her eyes kept fluttering closed of their own accord. ‘Good,’ he murmured again, then slid from her and grasped her under the curve of her rump, lifting and holding her close to him as he carried her over to the couch nearby. The couch, Surya thought dimly, where her mother used to lie and watch the clouds caress the mountaintops.

  She could feel his erection pinned between them and pressing into her as he took those few steps. He laid her down upon the padded brocade, readjusted her skirts and the hem of his tunic, then bent over her, guiding his cock with his hand. Surya got her first proper look at that swarthy, turgid length, angled towards her from his open breeches, the skin so tight it was glossy.

  ‘You know what to do.’ It was barely a question.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered, parting her thighs. Blood from her: blood from him. It was the way of their people.

  He butted up against her sex, slipping a little in her juices till he found the angle. Then Mershen moved his hand from his cock to her mouth, covering her firmly as he pushed home. She arched her back involuntarily, trying to withdraw, but he pinned her tight and surged in, and she couldn’t cry out or even breathe so she bit him, hard. Then he was still again, and there was air and his blood in her mouth, and they were both panting and sweat was running down his temples.

  ‘That’s it,’ he grunted through bared teeth. ‘I’m in. I’m in. It’s done. You took it.’ She saw the bloody crescents left by her teeth on his palm as he withdrew his hand. He licked his thumb then delved down between them to touch her at the point of their juncture. And then all the pain went away – though he was still hard as teak within her, though he was rocking in deeper now, push by push, stretching her wider – because he was sliding his slick thumb over her clit, teasing the pain from her flesh and transmuting it to pleasure.

  She forgot the pain and the fear. She forgot everything but what it was to feel him moving on her, to feel his mouth on her skin as he bent to her breasts or nuzzled her throat, to feel the unyielding hardness of his thighs pressing hers apart. She tasted the salt of his sweat and slid her hands up under his tunic to grasp him about the ribs and back. Her fingernails dug into the declivity of his spine. His muscles worked under her hands like those of a galloping horse. His gaze brushed hers, boring into her yet unseeing. His hair swept her face and clung to her lips and tongue, sharp with the taste of smoke. Only dimly at first did she recognise his desperation: that he had fought in battle, butchering men of his own blood, then ridden two days from the field to do something his soul recoiled from. He was exhausted and frantic and needy, heartsick and burning with lust. His thrusts grew fiercer. He groaned curses under his breath. He was taking her and taking from her. Ravishing her. Burying himself in her. Drowning in her.

  She opened within, layer after layer, to receive him. She’d never felt so huge, as in the end she encompassed the man, the mountain they lay upon, the world and the burning sun itself.

  He called upon the gods as he came, despairing.

  Afterwards he lay quietly upon her, their hearts racing together. Then he eased himself up on his elbow and stroked the hair back from her wet brow. ‘I didn’t hurt you …’

  ‘No,’ she lied.

  His lips tightened. ‘Surya …’

  He didn’t look like a man who’d just taken his pleasure; he looked stricken. She wondered to see it. At this moment – just for this moment, while the sunlight still streamed through her veins – she was free of fear. She touched his face with her fingertips, memorising those dark eyes and that warm mouth for her journey. She could not bring herself to smile, but there was no tension in her as she closed her own eyes and turned her head away, baring her throat. ‘Be quick.’

  He heaved himself from her, his hands reluctant to let her go. She felt the wetness between her thighs, the pulse in her belly. She heard his feet on the floor, the clink of his swordbelt, the long intake of his breath. He would be skilful, she knew, with the blade. It would be swift. She touched her breast with her fingertips, where his hand had last lingered. He was not unkind. He was simply a man of honour, doing his duty as best he could when it left him no choice.

  But there are limits to every man’s honour.

  For far too long he held his action, while Surya clung to the fading sunlight glow in her breast, willing it not to die. Then she heard him step forwards. He took her wrist. He pulled her upright and she sat, head swimming, trying to focus, feeling the burning in her rent sex.

  ‘Get dressed,’ he told her.

  As she obeyed ineffectually, tugging her skirt down and fumbling the torn edges of her robe across her breasts, he followed his own command and donned his armour and cloak. He didn’t look at her. Automatically, she smoothed her hair.

  ‘What … ?’ she whispered.

  He put his finger over his lips, casting her a sharp impersonal glance. Then he went to the door. As he opened it his body blocked the gap, and she was not in the line of sight of anyone in the corridor.

  ‘Captain Felic,’ he said, the hoarseness of his voice more marked than ever, ‘I want you to see to the body.’ He ushered another
man into the room, then shut the door behind him. Surya saw a soldier whose long hair was greying and she shrank a little into her seat, conscious of her torn clothes. He looked her in the face and raised his brows.

  ‘Sir?’

  Mershen put his hand on the captain’s shoulder and spoke to him in a voice so low that Surya could make out none of the words. The instructions took some time. Felic chewed the inside of his cheek and blinked hard, but showed no other sign of emotion. Then Mershen turned to look at her one last time. ‘Wait till nightfall,’ he said thoughtfully.

  ‘Sir.’

  The Glorious General left without another word to her, without a smile, without explanation. The soldiers’ boots drummed on the corridor boards, and when they were gone Felic went and sat himself in a chair, stretching his legs out. His expression was mostly one of resignation.

  ‘What was his command?’ Surya asked.

  ‘We wait. Until nightfall.’

  My name is Raihn and I am third concubine to Lord Mershen. I was born Surya, daughter of General Imerho, may his star look down upon us, and when I was eighteen I was slain and reborn. I was brought secretly to Lord Mershen’s private house on his ancestral estate, where I now live. It was four months until I saw him again. He is risking everything by keeping me alive and we have to be careful.

  I live with Mershen’s other concubines. There are only three of us. They’ve treated me kindly, to my surprise; they know nothing of my true history and nothing he or I do must arouse suspicion. He does his best to keep up with us all. It’s a good thing he has a most spacious bed.

  I am happy, though I miss using my bow. It is a noble-woman’s hobby not normal among other classes.

  I tell you all this now, my child, while you are still within me. It must never be spoken aloud. Mershen says that when you are born he will adopt you. But the Radiant Emperor must never know that the bloodline of Imerho lives on.

  Pique Dame

  AT LAST MY governess and the other girls go. Pauline lingers for a while, anxiously, but I don’t encourage her. It’s a relief to be on my own.

  My words are sweetly plaintive, falling like raindrops through the air.

  I remove my house gown, preparing for bed. I’ve told the maid to leave the French windows open, because the night is fresh now that the rainstorm has passed. I light my candle, turn back my sheet and brush my hair out. But I’m restless. I climb upon the bed then spring off again. My agitation grows. I should be looking forward to my marriage to Prince Yeletsky, but I cannot. Ever since that chance meeting in the Summer Gardens, my heart has been thrown into turmoil. That lowly soldier who looked at me with such burning eyes – what spell has he cast on me? Why am I trembling at the mere thought of him? Why can’t I think about anyone else – even my betrothed? There is a flush on my girlish cheeks now that has never been there before; it’s like fire has taken the place of blood in my veins; it’s like my mind is no longer my own. His handsome face haunts me. I touch my breasts, feeling the stirrings of strange new yearnings in them. I run my hand across the flat of my belly, aware that it is another’s touch I really need, but not truly certain what it is I would want him to do.

  There is a noise at the shutters.

  Hand on my heart, I retreat in fear. Someone has climbed to my balcony from the garden below. I see his figure framed against the night sky as the doors are thrown open and I cry out in recognition. It is the soldier – Herman.

  Into the room he strides, pain and desire in his wounded eyes. He loves me, he declares. But he cannot have me; I am too far above him on the social scale. He is only a lowly officer in the Tsar’s army, and I am the granddaughter of a countess. If only I would take pity on him! But no – he must never think that he might be able to attain my love, so he has come to bid me farewell. This night he will kill himself, so that the agony of lifelong separation might be avoided.

  I beg him to reconsider.

  There’s a noise at the door – a knock, my grandmother’s voice. She’s heard noises from my room and wonders why I am still up. Herman dives back behind the louvered shutter as she enters, and I try to look nonchalant. The Countess chides me and orders me back to bed, and as I pretend to acquiesce she departs.

  In half-a-dozen strides Herman is across the room, kneeling at my bedside, seizing my hands in supplication. I tell him he must go. If he goes it will be to his death, he declares. If only he could know that I love him as he loves me, that the same fire burns in both of us. If I would kiss him – if I would only yield my lips to his – if I would only answer his passion with mine, then he would live in everlasting joy.

  He’s on the bed now, his arms around me. I protest, but feebly. He is strong and insistent, his eyes and his voice holding me captive as much as his hands. I arch beneath his taut body, my breasts heaving against his chest. He has one hand in my hair now, and I can’t tell if he’s holding me up or bearing me down. Though I try to wriggle free, every movement I make somehow opens me further to his caresses and works me further into his embrace. He wants me. He cannot bear to let me go. He must have my love now. And as he bears me to the mattress and moves upon me I yield helplessly before his passion and my own, sliding my arm about his neck and sinking back as he takes full possession of me. His lips hover over mine.

  The curtain falls on Act 1.

  That moment almost hurt. The transition was wrenching: all at once I was no longer virginal Russian noblewoman Lisa, but back in my own somewhat older body. My hair wasn’t golden but a light brown – it just looked blond under the stage lights – and it wasn’t the dashing obsessive Herman whose weight was upon me but Elliot Wells, the lead tenor.

  We held our places, trying to control our breathing, because it’s not totally unknown for a stage curtain to go bouncing up again so it’s best practice to freeze in place for a while. He was heavy on my thighs and the heat of his body was making me tingle. Not that I was objecting. The stormy passion of the scene, the soaring vocals of our duet, the fearsome intensity of his eyes – I’d hardly been acting as I portrayed Lisa’s arousal. I wondered again at the perversity of the director’s decision not to let us kiss before the curtain fell. Over and over during months of rehearsal, this same music, played on a tinny piano, had brought us to this climactic point without ever permitting any resolution.

  It’s easy to get lost in a passionate role. There’s a reason why actors and singers aren’t so good at monogamy.

  Stagehands hurried on all around us, grabbing the props. Beyond the heavy curtain applause was still raining.

  ‘OK?’ said Elliot, still not moving, still not taking his eyes from mine. Between the tight rows of his braids his scalp gleamed with sweat: this was hard work.

  I nodded, panting. The aftermath of our duet burned inside me.

  ‘You were amazing,’ he murmured. From a professional like him to an amateur like me, on our opening night, that’s a high compliment. I felt myself blush beneath my stage make-up.

  ‘Elliot! Tanya!’ Our stage manager Leo had scurried on. He had to keep his voice down but his enthusiasm was unmistakable. ‘Did you hear that? They love it!’

  Reluctantly, it seemed, Elliot heaved himself to his feet and held out his hand to help me up, while I straightened my dress, trying to cover the fact I was feeling flustered. ‘Tanya’s got real ability,’ he murmured. ‘You should try out for a professional company, you know.’

  I was damp between my legs I realised, trying not to squirm.

  Leo squeezed my shoulder. ‘Don’t say that! I need her here!’ His head whipped round. ‘Careful with that!’ he hissed at two hands who were wheeling in a draped pillar for the ballroom scene and almost tipping it.

  Distracted for a moment, I lost track of Elliot. When I looked around he was heading into the wings. Pique Dame is a particularly hard opera for the principal tenor because Herman is on stage and singing in every scene. My own part was somewhat briefer, as Lisa would commit suicide when she realised that Herman’s true devotion
was to gambling and that he was using her to acquire her grandmother’s card-playing secret. That role was quite enough of a challenge for me. But at least we were singing the French version rather than the Russian; memorising our words had been that much easier.

  Leaving Leo to chivvy the backstage crew, I slipped through the wings and down the stairs to the female dressing room to glug bottled water and get changed into my ball dress. The second act would be upon us before we had time to cool down. Dizzy with excitement and adrenaline, I was still thinking about Elliot Wells, wondering if his lingering touch was entirely method acting. We’d only met six months ago and had only been rehearsing hard together for three. I’d found him, well, reserved – perfectly polite and very professional, but slow to thaw, as if an operatic arrogance went with that artsy little beard. Maybe that was my own fault for holding him so much in awe. He was in the chorus of the English National Opera and I, like the rest of the cast here, was only a keen amateur. Don’t get me wrong; he wasn’t slumming it down here with the Danley Opera Company, he was advancing his own career. Professional singers vie for lead amateur parts because they want the roles on their CV. But I was lucky to get the chance to sing with someone so good and we both knew it.

  And I was lucky in another way entirely: that he was so handsome. Most tenors in my experience were short, fat and balding. I don’t know why that should be, but I’ve always found baritones to be much better looking, even though they don’t often play the romantic leads. A tall charismatic tenor is a happy surprise. A tall black tenor is as rare as hens’ teeth. Opera, that most middle class of art forms, is not exactly full of singers from ethnic minority groups.

  Working with Elliot was not doing anything for my peace of mind.

  I hurried through the changing room, nearly tripping over the ballgowns that were being flung on in a last-minute panic. One end of the room was screened off for the Countess and myself, the contralto and soprano principals: that small privacy and our own chairs were all the privilege we were afforded.