“Viltori’s shirt was white, thus indicating his station as an acolyte.” Enovese returned the enormous book to the table behind her, but it was clear the other liaison would not win by knowledge alone.
Realizing that argument was lost, Stain-face turned to another disagreement. “There is no precedence for punishment of one who inadvertently kills an acolyte.”
“Then you concede Viltori was an acolyte?” Enovese lifted her nose as she peered down at the man.
“His station hardly matters.” Upper lip twisting in annoyance, the liaison nodded snidely. “However, for the sake of argument, Blue-green House concedes his rank as acolyte.”
Nodding, Enovese turned again to the table, this time picking up a loose sheaf of pages. Flipping through them, she asked, “Are you acquainted with the works of Esslean of Plete?”
Frowning, Stain-face paused before answering, “I know he established the rules governing recruits, but I don’t see what he has to do with this. We are not conducting an Esslean tribunal.” No one could miss the mocking in the man’s voice. He chided Enovese as if she were clearly out of her depth. Several people in the audience snickered behind cupped hands.
“Of course not.” Enovese smiled warmly. “The man you represent could hardly lift an avenyet let alone compete against other men in a fair challenge.”
Several people let out long, low oos of surprise that Enovese had tossed the insult at the man so effortlessly.
For the first time in a long time, Drahka felt a grin longing to spread across his face. Enovese wasn’t just beautiful, but she was smart and witty.
The mark on Stain-face darkened visibly while the man beside him sputtered, “I am better than any recruit!”
“Are you?” Enovese asked, tilting her head. Her hair glittered in the light.
Despite his liaison’s attempts to calm and still him, the man shot to his feet and bellowed, “That worthless cratifan dared to refuse me!”
Stain-face darted his gaze to Enovese, witnessed her slowly spreading smile, and then dropped his gaze to the floor in defeat. Shaking his head, he began to gently gather the papers spread out before him.
“You demanded sexual satisfaction from an acolyte.” Enovese lifted her brows. “Kipfer’s original, Kipfer’s translation by Picer, and the writings of Esslean of Plete all agree on one salient point: Acolytes belong to the gods. No servant or citizen, not even the empress herself, can demand sexual favors from an acolyte.”
Eyes wide and face suddenly pale, the man returned to his seat. By his own bold proclamation, he had destroyed his defense.
Desperate to restore some type of justification, Stain-face, said, “But he was confused by his brown trousers.”
“You already conceded that Viltori was an acolyte.”
The liaison’s mouth hung open, for he realized Enovese had subtly directed him along this path from the moment they started their debate. Ever so slowly, he closed his mouth, but Drahka saw how his mind turned the proceedings over, looking for some way to save the man at his side. Drahka had a feeling that if he failed, the liaison would lose face with his family.
Lifting her gaze to all those in the audience, Enovese said, “The prophecy regarding placing such a demand on an acolyte is open to interpretation, but the penalty for killing an acolyte for not performing a sexual act is clear.”
“He didn’t kill him because of that!” Stain-face blurted.
Face open and expectant, Enovese waited for him to continue.
Thinking quickly, he said, “He refused to give way.” Nodding quickly as if encouraging himself, Stain-face added, “He deliberately blocked the hall refusing to grant a citizen passage.”
“One man blocked an entire hallway?” Enovese considered for a moment. “Just how tall are you claiming Viltori was?”
Was.
Drahka lost whatever grin he’d gained. This wasn’t a joking matter. Viltori was gone and this man didn’t want to suffer the consequences of his actions. Worse, the liaison refused to even call Viltori by his name. Drahka sat and considered that the man Stain-face defended would probably be left alone at some point. Alone and vulnerable. It wouldn’t take much to kill him. But at least Drahka would give him a chance. He would fight one-on-one, not track the man down with a group of other men. No, Drahka would like to kill him with his bare hands.
Drahka returned to the current situation when a short, thin man dressed in a faded version of blue-green rushed to the table where the accused sat. Whispering into the liaison’s ear, he pulled back, then nodded profusely.
“The point ceases to matter because, technically, Viltori is not dead.”
A simultaneous gasp from the crowd echoed in the room.
Drahka’s eyes darted to Bithia, then away. He’d begged her, but she would not listen, and now her refusal to let Viltori go would allow his killer to escape unpunished.
Enovese quietly said, “For all intents and purposes, Viltori is dead.”
“He’s being held in stasis. Until that support is withdrawn, he’s considered alive. I can cite chapter and verse from several sources, as I’m sure can you.” Stain-face glared at Enovese as if it was her idea to try to trick him, but Drahka knew it was Bithia’s idea. “We will return to debating this matter when the man is actually dead.”
Smugly, the accused stood. His self-satisfied smile dropped suddenly when he met Drahka’s intense gaze. Making sure he was well-surrounded by his brothers, he left with a group of guards trailing him. He was afforded limited freedoms until the matter was resolved. To ensure he didn’t leave the palace, guards followed him everywhere. It kept him on planet but prevented Drahka from taking his own vengeance.
“I am sorry, my lady.” Enovese bowed. “I did my best.”
With a lifted hand in dismissal, Bithia turned her gaze to the people who slowly departed. Disappointment filled their faces, for they had hoped to see the matter resolved today. Possibly, they hoped for another bloody demonstration of the block. Wherever Drahka went lately, people couldn’t stop talking about what happened to Ambo. They acted shocked and disgusted, but he saw a curious bloodlust in their eyes, like the way his tribe had willingly watched his companion’s execution.
“Perhaps now you will let him go,” Drahka said softly, so only Bithia could hear.
Bithia barely moved her lips as she said, “Do not start that again, not here.” She rose with dignity, keeping her head held high despite the failure to get revenge.
Drahka followed her up. When she looped her arm through his, he gripped her elbow firmly with his other hand. “I will not permit you to go and see him again.” He found the situation morbid. Bithia would spend hours touching the glass coffin that held Viltori, but Drahka knew the man was long gone. What she held her vigil over was nothing but a shell. “He is no more. Clinging to the form he occupied is disturbed.”
She would have yanked her arm from his, but with his grip on her elbow, she couldn’t. “Let go of me,” she hissed through clenched teeth.
“No.” Determined to confront her, he forcefully guided her along the hallways. Bithia held her tongue only so as not to attract attention. Once inside her suite, he closed and locked the door.
Flinging herself away from him, she gave him her back as she eyed the servant’s door. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she ran, but even injured, Drahka was faster. He caught her about the waist.
“You can’t stop me!” She struggled so hard she tore her dress along the waist.
Refusing to argue, Drahka carried her to the bed, tossed her down and then leapt upon her before she could slip away. Beating at his chest, she kicked and squirmed, ripping at his shirt, but there was no way she would ever move him. Breathless, frustrated, she finally stopped struggling. Silent tears fell, and he kissed them away.
“I am still here.”
At that, she winced, realizing how her cleaving to a dead man had hurt him more deeply than the initial loss had.
“I miss him so much.” Eye
s closed, Bithia grasped his shoulders, clinging to him rather than pushing him away.
“So do I.” Drahka kissed her lips, tasting her sorrow. “But what you are doing will not bring him back.”
At first, the physician had been hopeful that Viltori would recover, but the damage was so great they’d placed him in semi-suspended animation. Drahka had not understood the concept until the doctor explained. The problem was, Viltori was healing at the same slow rate at which he was living. A lifetime would pass before he even partially recovered. Drahka thought the doctor did this to avoid Bithia’s wrath for not saving Viltori; however, all he’d done was prolong her agony.
“We must let him go.” Before she could argue, he kissed her, not hard, but firmly, showing her he needed her. “I cannot live without you and him both.” It was difficult enough to let one go; he could not abide losing both of them. “Please, don’t turn me away.”
Bithia opened her eyes. As he and Viltori had asked her to do, she left them bare. Beautiful mismatched eyes that reflected the depth of her sorrow.
“There will come a time when his passing won’t hurt so deeply. I promise.” When his tribe killed his companion, he thought the pain would never end, but slowly, each day, the ache receded just a tiny bit, until there came a time when thinking of him felt better than it hurt.
“I don’t want to forget him.” Tightly she pressed her lips together, determined to stop crying.
“We will never forget him.” Lying above her, balanced on one arm, he cupped her face. “One day we will be able to remember him without tears.” Tenderly he ran his hand along the fasteners of her dress, sliding the fabric away from her body, kissing the skin he revealed. “He will always be with us.” Lips against her neck, he worked his way across her shoulder, down her arm and all the way to the tips of her fingers. They were cold so he breathed against them, holding them within his hand as he pressed them against his lips.
Moaning, Bithia surrendered against the bed, her eyes closed and her mouth partially open as she uttered low sounds of encouragement from the back of her throat.
Drahka continued to peel away her dress, warming her with his breath and body heat as he went. Once she was bare, he pulled off his shirt, his pants, and tossed them over the side of the bed. Carefully he pushed the covers down and then drew them up and over their nude bodies. Pressing against Bithia, he turned her head up, angling for another kiss.
Nude, they lay twined together, simply kissing and touching. When Drahka grew hard, he sighed with relief, for he’d begun to believe he would never become aroused again. Bithia felt strong and sleek beside him, her body writhing against his, as if she wished to rub her entire form against his. Her fingertips glossed lightly over him, touching him everywhere, as if to reassure herself he was whole. There were bruises, but the deep gashes in his chest were gone, magically erased by the physician’s skilled blade.
Lowering his hand to cup her breast, he dragged his thumb across her nipple, teasing the bud to firmness before enveloping it with his lips. Drawing the tight little nub into his mouth caused Bithia to clutch her hands to his head. Her answering moan shivered pleasure down his spine.
Maneuvering gently, Bithia nudged him onto his back. He resisted at first, because he wanted to give to her, but he relented at the pleading look on her face. Lying still below her, he let Bithia straddle across his hips, her nipples rubbing against his chest as she brought her mouth to his.
“I need,” she whispered. “I need you so much.”
Her voice touched him so deeply inside he grasped her hips to hold back his answering tears. He had cried enough. Instead, stroking her, he whispered back, “I need you too.”
Cupping his face, she looked into his eyes, then kissed him, softly, sweetly, her lips gentle against his as if he were fragile. Drahka knew she worried not about hurting him, but she needed tenderness and not the hot, fiery passion they’d shared before. This wasn’t frantic mating but something far deeper, what he’d come to call love. Despite the empty space left by Viltori’s absence, there was still love between them. So delicate now, it would only grow stronger if they allowed their devotion to show.
As difficult as it was for him to lie passive, he did, willing to let Bithia set the pace. So many nights had passed where they couldn’t summon the energy, the will or, he suspected, overcome their guilt, to engage one another. Pleased they’d finally found their way back, he reveled in the feel of his chosen’s body against his.
Bithia nuzzled her face to his, softly placing her lips along his cheeks, his nose and his brow as if she could memorize his features with her lips. Toying gently with the dark hair along his chest, she rubbed her fingertips across his nipples, sending liquid fire along his flesh. His cock twitched against her belly and she moaned.
Lifting up, arching her back, she reached down between their bodies and angled his cock to the entrance of her glory. Her hand was now hot and moist, feeling wonderful against his still-hardening flesh. Her welcoming wetness and heat caused him to buck up, pressing the tip against her.
Contact caused both of them to shiver.
Powerful needs shook him. His chest rose and fell so fast he grew dizzy. Forcibly he calmed himself. Gazing up at Bithia’s face, he lifted his hand and cupped her cheek. “Never have I seen a woman as beautiful as you, my chosen. Those who have gone before blessed me greatly the day they sent me here.”
Gently she smiled. Keeping their bodies poised for union, she hesitated. “You don’t regret anything?”
Every moment, from his first day on Diola to what had transpired today flashed through his mind. “No.” He shook his head. “I closed myself down to learning your ways.” If he had been more open, he would have had more time with Viltori and handled his initial encounter with Bithia with far more grace. He almost winced at how he’d treated her. However, despite all his mistakes, he would not be the same man now if he’d done things differently. “I wouldn’t change anything.”
At that, she nodded. “I wouldn’t, either.”
In that moment, they made peace with Viltori’s passing.
Moving together, he lifting up, she sliding down, they joined their bodies. Slick heat smoothed down his shaft, making him groan and dig his fingertips into her hips, holding her still, giving him a chance to feel the completeness of their joining. Relief swept him that they’d found their way back to one another. Never would Viltori be far from their thoughts, but he would be grateful he had not ruined their relationship. Drahka believed Viltori wanted them to move on together, not stay mired in the past that would never be. Tossing up a prayer to those who had gone before, Drahka asked them to guide Viltori into their ranks.
Gripping him, moving her insides in that grasping rhythm, Bithia ground her clit against his body, rolling him inside her in a tight circle. Swiveling her hips was like adding kindling to an already raging fire. Bursting into an explosion of sparks, his body cried out for release. Building their movements slowly, bodies sliding, sweating as they worked, a slow-motion orgasm lifted up from his toes and fingers and jetted out from him in a rush.
Replete, Drahka wrapped his arms around Bithia and crushed her to his chest as she climaxed. Her glory contracted so hard around him she almost pushed him out, but he held her and thrust himself deeply within. Cradling her close, he had a moment of sheer panic when he wondered if he’d filled her with his child.
Chapter Twenty-One
Viltori had never considered himself a slave, but now he was a thrall to pain. Agony beyond comprehension tormented every cell in his body. Suffering was his world. Misery was his shadow. He wanted to die, but something held him back. A great wall rose up around him, keeping him from releasing his spirit unto Jarasine.
As an acolyte, Viltori had intently studied all the gods, goddesses, their powers and the rituals that governed their sacrifices. They taught him that if he had faith, they would reward him with an afterlife of ease among the clouds. If he failed to live up to his potential, he woul
d drift forever after in the nothingness, watching the mortal realm and hoping he happened upon one foolish enough to grant him entrance. If they dared, he would wreak vengeance upon the mortal realm for being denied access to Jarasine.
Fear surged when he thought he might be a fauben, a fallen one. Had he died and the gods found him so unworthy they cast him out? What had he done that had been so horrible they would punish him ever after?
Viltori scrolled through his life. Those he’d hated, those he’d ignored and those he’d loved flashed through his consciousness. With the last, his mind found solace. Thinking of Bithia and Drahka gave him surcease from the pain. If he had only one regret he could rectify, it would be that he’d never fully expressed his love to Bithia. The morning below the ruby covers with Drahka caused joy to burst into his body like tiny flashes of intense fire that incinerated his pain. Had he put aside his pride and joined with Bithia, he might be able to eliminate his agony, or at least let go, and move on, but he’d been too worried about rights and position.
What a fool he’d been.
Viltori should have grabbed every moment he could while he could. In a flash of profound awareness, he realized that was the sadness of life; he did not regret anything he’d done, he regretted only things he hadn’t done. Foolish to worry on those missed opportunities now, because he knew the gods wouldn’t grant him a second chance. Miraculous things had happened to a handful of people in the Onic Empire in the last two seasons, but Viltori had done nothing of greatness, nor had he sacrificed anything of himself. He didn’t think withholding a climax from Bithia counted as much of an offering. Surely, the gods laughed at his puny, worthless oblation.
A new thought crept into this mind, taking his attention away from his pain for a while. He wondered what had happened to Drahka. After he screamed at Rown to run away, he’d suffered a series of blows that knocked him to the floor. He’d lost all coherent thought as they turned to kicking rather than punching. The last thing he saw was Drahka smacking two heads together in a sickening crunch as they slammed into each other face first. As mighty as he was, he could not beat down twenty angry men.
Wicked Empress:The Onic Empire, Book 4 Page 18