by Brenna Lyons
A murmur of talk started among Ro’s men, and he stilled it with a sharp look.
The jaglin lay back, pulling Deliya over it. Deliya smiled, scrubbing her hands in the thick, black fur and crooning as if to a babe.
Ro tensed, as the jaglin rolled away from Novin, crouching over Deliya. He tightened his jaw in fury, as Deliya laughed harder, encouraging the beast’s play. Visions of Deliya beneath himself — smiling and laughing, her color high and her hands stroking Ro’s body as she stroked the jaglin’s fur — made him ache in wanting her.
The jaglin looked Ro’s direction, and its demeanor changed. The beast’s muscles tensed and it roared, pushing Deliya hard to the grass.
Deliya looked up, paling as her eyes roamed the line of soldiers. She turned to Novin, shaking lightly and speaking low. Novin grimaced and motioned the men back.
Donic snorted. “She cannot be serious,” he groused.
“Pull back, Donic. You and the rest. Stay low. We do not want to startle the beast while it has her.”
“You have gone insane,” he accused.
“Now,” Ro growled.
Donic nodded and retreated deep into the trees with the other soldiers. The jaglin watched them warily then met Ro’s eyes in challenge. Ro knelt still and stiff, his eyes locked on the beast’s.
Deliya stroked the fur under the jaglin’s chin slowly, speaking words Ro couldn’t hear. The beast moved cautiously, placing itself between Ro and Deliya, its teeth bared and muscles taut.
Ro held his breath, as Deliya eased to her knees. She wrapped her hands in the beast’s shoulder fur and tugged. The jaglin turned with her, and Deliya patted its haunch, sending it off into the trees.
Novin let out an explosive breath and collapsed to the grass, rubbing a shaking hand over his sweat-soaked face. “Dear Mag,” he groaned. “I thought you were as good as dead.”
Ro vaulted to his feet and stormed to Deliya, dragging her to her feet and running his fingers over the claw marks in her leather scale. “And whose fault would that have been, Novin?” he asked pointedly.
Deliya tried to pull from his grasp. “Were it not for the interference of you and your men,” she shouted.
Ro dropped his face to hers, stilling as she gasped in surprise. No. He couldn’t do that to her. Ro nuzzled her cheek, smelling the jaglin’s scent on her. “You want to stop my heart in fear,” he whispered too low for even Novin to hear.
“No,” she denied.
Ro nuzzled her face again, hardening as her musk mixed with the smell of the jaglin. “Do not frighten me like that again,” he requested.
Deliya shook her head. Ro smiled at her heavy-lidded, passionate look. Deliya had never been one for hiding her emotion well.
“If you do, there will be a penalty.”
Her eyes snapped wide open. “No. No penalties,” she breathed.
Ro nodded, releasing her. “Then you will not tame jaglin again — or anything else dangerous.”
“I—” Deliya darkened and turned, striding for the woods with her back straight and chin up.
Ro glared at Novin, as the young man chuckled. Novin kicked back on the grass with his arms crossed under his head. As always, Novin bounced back from every threat as if he had never been endangered.
“You are not free of my wrath yet,” Ro warned him. “It is one thing to be foolhardy with yourself, as you seem to love to do. It is another to be foolhardy with one you are charged with protecting.”
Novin sobered. “She is amazing, Ro, but I fear you hope for what is not to be.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Priestess walks closely with her goddess.”
“She is a woman with a woman’s hungers.” And, it was a well-known fact that the Keen woman’s hungers far outweighed those of the men. In a highly sexual people, that was saying a lot. “I see it and smell it on her every time she is in my arms,” Ro dismissed him.
Novin sighed harshly. “She has taken vows to her goddess. If the Priestess must choose between her goddess and you, I would not wager highly on your success, Ro. Fion’s priestesses are trained to obey and to serve. Is there room for more in her life?”
Ro nodded, a cold spike in his stomach at that thought. If Deliya had truly taken vows, there was no hope. Her goddess was all that was left of her culture. Deliya would not release that without a fight to the death, and Ro could not steal her last ties from her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Caj 20th, Ti 10-459
Deliya looked at the great gates of Ro’s home fearfully, pulling her buck to a stop.
Ro grasped her bridle and tugged her forward gently. “The gates and walls are there for your safety,” he reminded her.
She nodded sheepishly and urged her mount forward, a subtle hint for Ro to release her. Thankfully, he did.
They dismounted at the doors, and Ro ordered men to care for their bucks and her mares, tethered behind Novin’s mount. She mounted the wide stone stairs with Ro a step behind her. Deliya felt her cheeks heat as people stopped and stared.
Ro touched the base of her spine, as she straightened. “What is it?” he asked.
“I am an oddity,” she noted in what she hoped was a bland voice.
“You are a pleasant surprise,” he assured her.
“I am nothing of the sort.”
Ro motioned to a dark-haired woman who bowed deeply to Deliya. “Deliya, this is Laril. She will serve you.”
“I require no servants,” Deliya answered stiffly, stifling the urge to remind him that she was not one of his pampered Magden women. “A place to bathe will be sufficient.”
He nodded. “Laril, show Mother Deliya to the open room on the third level and arrange those things that a woman needs.”
Deliya opened her mouth to protest the title he assigned her then shut it. She could not argue her title, though it held little meaning now. What use was a mother with no children to look after?
She nodded. “Thank you, Ro.”
Ro touched her cheek fondly. “We will discuss this at evening meal,” he promised.
“As you wish.”
She followed Laril the two levels up a stone staircase and down a lush corridor. Deliya ground her teeth at the state of unease the opulence put her in. Fion’s priestesses were unaccustomed to such useless frills. Homes were functional. Even temples were not as ornate as Ro’s home. The green stone of the sanctuary and the circle were beautiful, but they served a function. Their beauty was a testament to the Mother, as the tower’s strength was a testament to her.
Laril preceded her into a huge room and disappeared through a second doorway. Deliya stopped, looking at the bed in dismay. The entire room was decorated in rich fabrics of red and gold, thick carpets and furniture as would befit a Magden king. She prayed fervently that her room was not adjoining Ro’s — or that she was not required to share Ro’s bed any longer. The previous two nights in his arms had nearly stolen her sanity.
She ambled across the room, touching the footboard of the wide bed and pushing away the thought of Ro laying in it, waiting for her to join him. “Whose room is this?” Deliya called after Laril. “It is not Ro’s, of course?” she joked weakly.
The woman’s face reappeared, her brows furrowed and a frown of confusion on her pretty face. “This is your room, Mother Deliya. His Majesty’s room is down the hall.”
“My—” Deliya faltered, grasping the footboard as she weaved. This room alone was as large as the home she left, and there were three doors leading off of it discounting the one that led to the corridor. “A mistake,” she assured herself.
Laril ran to her, steadying Deliya and guiding her to the bed. “Do you require a woman healer?” she asked urgently, but with a puzzling note of happiness that Deliya couldn’t seem to unravel.
She paused in her inspection of the furnishings and decoration. “A woman healer? Why would I—” Deliya gasped as Laril’s knowing smile sank in. “No,” she assured the servant. “I need nothing of the sort.” D
eliya’s cheeks heated at the thought. The servants believed she was warming Ro’s— She groaned. She was warming it, but she wasn’t warming Ro.
Laril sighed. “A pity. I had hoped his Majesty had chosen a woman.”
“Is that what this room is? A place for Ro’s women?” Deliya asked, aghast.
Laril smiled and shook her head. “This room was — is intended for his heir, if his Majesty ever graces the house with one.”
“I imagine—” Deliya cursed herself for her weakness in caring about Ro’s personal life and set to work on her armor as if that were true, acting unaffected as she began to speak again. “I imagine Ro has many women in his bed.”
Laril laughed heartily. “Schente,” she informed Deliya, as if that word explained everything. “His Majesty has never looked kindly on a whole woman before. Until you,” she commented in a singsong voice as she went into the other room and started water running.
Deliya paused with one leg unarmored and headed to the bath, unfastening her breastplate as she walked. “Schente?” she asked curiously.
Laril ran her fingers in the water to check the temperature and reached to the shelf over the tub. “Implin or Lizor?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
“Your cleansing oil?”
“Oh. Lizor, if you please.”
Laril nodded and added the oil to the water, as Deliya dropped her breastplate to the floor and knelt to uncover her other leg.
“What is a schente?” she asked, reminding Laril of the unanswered question.
She paused, seeming confused again. “A schente. A sterile female who serves sexually for a short period of time.”
Deliya furrowed her brow, working on the fastener at her wrist. “Born sterile?” Surely, there weren’t many women like that.
“Of course not. Their ovum sacs are taken in contract.”
Deliya sat down abruptly, earning her a look of concern from Laril. “Why?” she asked hopelessly. Why would anyone mar a perfect body that way?
“It is not a bad life,” Laril assured her, sitting on the edge of the tub and stirring the water to mix in the cleansing oil. “Women who do not want children and who would rather have a guaranteed life in service than life in a marriage they do not wish — or no husband at all—” She shrugged. “We can still experience sexual bliss.”
“Simple climax, yes, but few women feel the second pleasure once their sacs are taken.” The rest of Laril’s statement sank in slowly. “You are a schente?” she asked in disbelief.
“Former schente,” she qualified. “My sexual service is ended, though I would gladly go back into service for the thrill of—” Laril blushed deeply and turned her face to the tub, reaching to turn off the flow of water. “I serve as a hostess to his Majesty’s guests now. I enjoy my work.”
Deliya waved her armored arm hopelessly as she fought to find the words to express her outrage. “Why?” she demanded.
Laril looked up in confusion. “Ro is a kind master, and I enjoy the people I meet. Having you here—”
“No. Why?” she asked again.
“Why what?”
“Why take the ovum sacs when you could use Walla tea? If the woman changed her mind later, there is no undoing the surgery.”
“There is a failure rate with Walla. Is there not?”
“A small percentage,” Deliya confirmed. “Perhaps one in several thousand.”
“That is why. What king would risk heirs by a servant?”
Deliya pushed to her feet and stormed to the door with Laril close at her heels.
“Mother Deliya?” she called out. “Have I angered you?”
“Never you, Laril,” she promised. But, Ro! If a priestess could survive nothing but loveplay for three years, surely a Magden king can do likewise.
Ro’s guard looked up in surprise as Deliya marched toward him, moving to intercept her. Deliya struck him soundly across the face and pushed through into Ro’s rooms, as Laril gasped in awe.
*
Ro snapped his head up at the grunt and thump from the hall. Deliya barged in, red faced, with Laril and his guard at her heels. Everyone spoke at once.
“Deliya? What is it?” he asked calmly.
“How dare you,” she shouted.
“Majesty,” the guard interjected, “should I remove—”
“Majesty, I do not know what I said wrong,” Laril apologized.
“Schente,” Deliya continued, raging at him with her fists planted on her hips.
“The priestess,” the guard’s voice rose to be heard over her.
“It seemed innocent enough—”
“Damn you to Len’s dungeon’s you—”
“Quiet!” Ro roared.
The room fell silent save Deliya’s panting breaths.
“Better,” he decided. “Laril, go about your duties. Prill — get that bruise cared for.”
Deliya winced at that.
Ro nodded, as the door shut behind them. “Now, what is the cause of this?”
“How dare you mutilate and use those women,” she stated in controlled fury. Her fisted knuckles were white and her muscles strung tight.
“What women?” he asked, confused by her outburst.
“The schente, you great red oaf.”
Ro shook his head. “It has been well over a week since you have called me that,” he noted. “I do not mutilate schente,” he reasoned.
“No. Of course not. You have your butchers do it for you.”
“It is a simple medical procedure that the women choose to have. It has always been this way.”
She glared at him.
“The women seek out service. I do not go looking for them.”
“But, you benefit from their choice, and despite what they profess, it must be a hard choice for them.”
“No more than you benefited from your men,” he snapped. “You have used them as surely as I have used my schente.”
“The men always had a choice. No man was required to accept a priestess’ offer of sex. If he did not wish it, it did not happen.”
“If the schente did not wish this life, they would not have contracted to it, either. I admit that I benefit from it. Why can you not?”
“Because it is not the same.” Deliya started pacing. “Our men were not sterilized for our use.”
“It would have been kinder had they been.”
“In what way?”
“The children they fathered were never theirs to claim. You benefited from that. If the men wanted sex, they forfeited rights to the fruits of the joining.”
“A child is not the necessary outcome. There are other ways, Ro — ways you know of and do not use.”
“The ways you used with Loric?” He shouldn’t make this personal, and he knew it, but her constant refusal was beating at him. She refused to admit the faults in her system, and she refused him as a man. That didn’t stop his body from reacting fiercely to her proximity, and that made the sting of her refusal even worse.
She stilled. “You would do well to learn other ways to sate yourself,” she exploded. “Yes. There are many ways to prevent pregnancy, which do no lasting injury. You use none of them.”
“And when these methods fail?”
“Not all of them fail.”
“For instance?”
Deliya met his eyes steadily then trailed them to his half-erect cock. Ro stirred, and she watched him rise.
“For instance?” he asked again, annoyed that she affected him this way.
She shook her head and looked back to his face, shifting nervously. Deliya backed off a step. “I can instruct your women.”
Ro sighed. “What is it that you want of me?”
“Stop this barbaric custom. There are other ways.”
“Yes. There are,” he conceded, a plan taking form.
Her eyes narrowed. Deliya was perceptive as always. “What ways?”
Ro closed the distance between them, not touching her but standing intimately close. “If a man
has a woman he loves, what use has he of schente?” he whispered.
Deliya darkened, stammering out an incoherent response. Surely, his interest wasn’t such a surprise to her. She shook her head.
“You see injustice, but you dare not end it,” Ro noted wryly.
“My traditions,” she explained.
“You have your traditions and the Magden have theirs. It is not an easy thing to change a tradition, even if there is a better way.”
“No. It is not,” she agreed sadly.
Ro ran his fingertips up her arm slowly. “Can you ask me to change Magden tradition when yours are completely inflexible?”
“No. I cannot.” Her voice was a ragged whisper.
He hardened further, as her scent intensified. “Can traditions change?” he asked.
“Perhaps they can bend.”
Ro nodded, wondering how far she was willing to bend. As if answering his unasked question, Deliya rose to touch her mouth to his. Her tongue sought entrance that he granted, meeting her with all the hunger he’d buried while they traveled.
Her fingers went to work on his trousers, and Ro kissed her more urgently, saying prayers of thanks for her willingness. He stilled, meeting her eyes, as Deliya’s hands massaged him expertly. Ro tensed, feeling his climax building.
“Deliya,” he warned.
She kissed him, a hard, fierce kiss that stole his sanity. Her hand became more insistent.
Ro pulled back. “Deliya.” It was a plea, a prayer.
He reached for her tunic, but she brushed his hand away. Ro tried to draw her to the bed, but she resisted.
“Shhh. Be still,” she whispered, nipping at his lower lip.
“I cannot—”
“Relax. Let it wash over you.”
“Let — what — wash—” he gasped, his mind mired in the task of staving off his release.
Deliya cupped his sac in her free hand, stroking his hardening body while he tightened his grip on her shoulders. She met his mouth passionately and pinched a spot beneath his sac. Ro stilled, his eyes wide in shock, as Deliya’s hand left his sac and braced his head to hers.
Then the rush of his release was on him, and his seed pumped out in a draining rush. Ro roared out into her mouth, and she shuddered at the sound she muted. Her fist closed hard on the head of his cock as Ro engorged. He attacked her mouth, fevered in the sensation of that stimulation. Deliya held him like that until he subsided.