Crystal Warrior: Through All Eternity (Atlantean Crystal Saga Book 1)

by YatesNZ, Jen

  ‘The Lady has a deep love for the crystals,’ he'd said ingratiatingly. ‘We knew you'd not let us down.’

  It was then she'd thought to wipe the smile from his face by talking of large amounts of money. She'd never dreamed he'd accept her outrageous demand.

  ‘I may be induced to help—should you offer a stadrac worthy of a Princess who just happens to have the rare vibration you require.’

  Kah considered her thoughtfully, and she hoped, a little more respectfully, from beneath his bushy white brows, then asked, ‘How—worthy?’

  Her heart had faltered a little in her breast but she'd maintained a steady gaze. She'd expected him to walk away from her in disgust.

  ‘Since my father is the paramount King, you really aren't able to threaten me,’ she pointed out gently.

  ‘Usod,’ he swore, and named a high qim.

  Yet again she had occasion to be grateful for the mind control training she'd received as punishment for usurping Phryne's Goddess energy with Taur. Not one vestige of the shock which rattled the very foundations of her being had showed in expression or demeanor. She did not want to be involved in the heinous scheme.

  ‘Double it.’

  He'd paced away from her in silence, his jaw working as if he were talking to himself. When he came back to her, his face stern and unsmiling, he'd said, ‘Very well. We start tomorrow. Meet me here after dawn latreia.’

  Offering a formal bow he strode away.

  Even in review she still couldn't believe he'd acceded to her outrageous price. Indeed, she'd been so shocked she wouldn't have thought of arguing further, even if he hadn't left her with the rapid energetic gait of a man half his age. Her only consolation was the realization she could now afford to bribe Archinus Darlen to employ someone other than herself to perform as Adonai in the Spring Fertility Rite.

  The rolling movement of the reica stilled and it was smoothly lowered to the ground. Schooling her face to calmness, Gynevra alighted, murmured her thanks to the bearers and walked slowly through the Palace to her quarters. As she went she prayed silently that Gotham would be gone.

  His sullen and brutal love-making, his violent mood-swings battered her senses and deeply troubled her mind. As always when she was back in the Palace she was counting the days until she could return to the sanctuary of Ceabryn.

  By this fourth year of their partnership she saw little of her sacred partner and was often moved to thank the Goddess for that fact. But spring was fast approaching and the Temples were taking bids from the wealthy Paggi warrior priests. Having been refused the right to even enter the lists to challenge the chosen Rafid because of his zero fertility record for the last four years, Gotham had been skulking in Fyr Trephyr. His temper deteriorating with each day that passed, she could only hope he'd found something to occupy him far from the Palace.

  When she at last reached their quarters, Galen, the Prince's Master of Household, greeted her with relief.

  ‘Thank goodness you have come, Princess,’ he said, his face stern and almost censorious. ‘The King requests you attend him as soon as you return. Prince Gotham is already with him.’

  Suppressing all expression, Gynevra acknowledged Galen's message with a remote nod of her head and turned towards the King's Receiving Hall. What could Orestes want? The last time she'd been ordered into his presence she'd been commanded to the daily performance of Dawn Latreia at Meranil because the hierarchy of the Temple of Education were resentful of the amount of time their future Queen spent at Ceabryn, the Temple of Healing. It had been another brick in the wall of estrangement between her and Gotham.

  She'd made few friends at the Palace of Trephysia. Everyone she passed greeted her with apparent deference but none detained her for a friendly chat or even offered a smile. Sometimes her longing for the carefree days of childhood in Qrazil and the absolute sense of belonging she'd known then almost overwhelmed her. She felt as if trapped in a foreign country yet the Trephesians were Atlanteans just as she was. Even Qrazil no longer felt like home to her. It was as if she belonged nowhere.

  When she arrived at the King's private apartments Gotham was already lounging on the richly padded couch, his face surly, posture indolent. He looked no happier than she felt. Sketching the star of respect to the King, she sat carefully on the edge of a small, carved chair. Orestes greeted her warmly as always, while her sacred partner's greeting could best be described as a snarl. She sighed inwardly searching her mind for the probable purpose of the summons.

  ‘Ahron requires a grand-child,’ Orestes stated plainly as soon as Gynevra was seated, ‘and says since it's obvious his sacred son is infertile he wants to know what the pair of you plan to do about it.’

  There was no concern or compassion in Orestes voice and not for the first time, Gynevra wondered at the relationship between these two. She'd originally sensed King Orestes felt threatened by the virility of his son. Now it occurred to her his carefully noncommittal tone hinted at relief.

  Before she'd gathered herself to respond, Gotham snarled, ‘The priestess-telon is barren—or too busy talking to the padopan Gods.’

  His face purpling with rage, he leapt up as if to storm from the room.

  ‘Sit,’ Orestes snapped, and to Gynevra's surprise, Gotham prowled angrily back to his chair. ‘The Princess's fertility one way or the other will be proven if you contract a sire.’

  Gynevra felt the waves of fury pour from Gotham but dared not look at him. He was thirty-six and had sired numerous children under contract to other women but had been unable to sire one on his own sacred partner. Notwithstanding all those other children, he was greatly shamed. The man who'd been known and seen the length and breadth of the country as the Golden Prince, had become the Prince of Darkness and the butt of cruel jokes, especially among men who could claim no Dragon Blood, and had been forced to watch him sire their children. No other topic of discussion was more likely to overset his volatile temper. For the moment he was beyond speech.

  As, for the moment, was she. A bright flame was lit within her, threatening to erupt into a major conflagration.

  ‘It's time to advertise for a sire,’ Orestes said.

  Gotham found his tongue. Clearly he'd realized the futility of arguing against an order from the Paramount King.

  ‘I'll not have every riff-raff Dragon's spawn lining up to scrog my woman! It'll be done by private invitation so the damned tattle-dames aren't ticking off the days on their fingers and sniggering in corners whenever I'm around.’

  ‘As to sniggering in corners, they already do,’ Orestes began, needling his son as he was sometimes wont to do.

  Gynevra recovered her voice and hastily interrupted. Gotham's temper needed no fueling.

  ‘I endorse Gotham's way of handling it. That way no one but us and whoever we contract will know about it.’

  ‘D'you believe they'll overlook such an opportunity to advertise?’ scoffed the King.

  ‘Cadal Isidor of Nyalda would,’ Gynevra said with conviction, heart thumping with a wild excitement. Before Gotham could explode into speech and forcing herself to remain calm, she continued, ‘We're talking about siring a future King of Trephysia and I'm sure you'd both agree he should have a royal sire who is a great warrior. And after yourself, Go', Cadal Isidor is the best.’

  This last was a blatant attempt to stroke his ego, but it was her only hope of keeping him calm, futile though it was likely to be.

  ‘That horned bastard is the cause of all this! I'll not stand and watch him sire my son!’ Gotham roared, coming up out of his seat once again.

  The King waited in silence as the Prince prowled the room like a penned stallion then returned and gripped the back of his chair. His face was blotched and ugly, eyes slits of blue fire. When he moved to speak, his father forestalled him.

  ‘You have no rights in this Go'. The Law clearly states the woman shall choose the sire. Princess Gynevra has chosen. So, have Judge Fahad draw up the papers and send them to Cadal Isidor immediat
ely. It's fortunate he's in the country at present, but he may not be for long since they're readying the army for another spring offensive. He may refuse on the grounds he can't get away at this time so you should consider a second choice,’ Orestes advised.

  Gynevra nodded. Taur wouldn't refuse but that knowledge was for her heart only. What was more important now was how to keep out of Gotham's way. His lips were bloodless with fury, hands shaking. He'd probably kill her without even knowing what he was doing. She need not have worried. Orestes understood his son well.

  ‘I suggest you attend Judge Fahad straight away, Go'. Princess, you will return to Ceabryn and remain there until the arrangements have been made. If you have no questions perhaps you should go now. I have further business to discuss with my son.’

  ‘Thank you, sacred father,’ she said, flashing him a strained smile of gratitude. Gathering her skirts she walked sedately from the room. Once in the hallway however, she almost took to her heels and ran. Within the hour she was back under the protection of Ceabryn where she let it be known Prince Gotham wasn't to be admitted under any circumstances.

  It was all she could do over the next few days to keep from laughing out loud for joy. Nor could she have said which delighted her most, the prospect of becoming a movuon at last—or knowing she would soon be in Taur's arms once again.

  Chapter 16

  Gotham arrived an hour earlier than the time set in the contract. Fear, cold and hard, settled around her heart. Gynevra knew she must never let him see her fear and gave thanks she'd requested the presence of Judge Fahad and the Guard of the Justiciary, who were already in her ante-room.

  Discarding his gold embroidered, white woolen cloak, the Prince swaggered through her rooms wearing only a fine linen dress kirt and soft leather boots. He was still a magnificent figure of a man and Gynevra found her reaction to him complex and disturbing—a frisson of desire for what he could make her feel if he cared to, overshadowed by fear at the pain he could inflict in anger and frustration. But her strongest emotion was pity. Infertility for such a one was the unkindest fate. He'd not appreciate either her fear or her pity and this was definitely an inappropriate time to display desire.

  Gotham had no such sense of delicacy. Stalking her into the bedroom, he pulled her to him with one iron hand splayed across her back and the other tangled in the long loose coils of her hair. Dragging her head back, he scorched her with the demonic fire of his lightning blue eyes.

  ‘All prissed and perfumed for the breara Bull. Panting and hot for him too, no doubt. Well, I'm here first, priestess-telon, and you don't have to pay me for the privilege.’

  No words could pass the constriction of her throat. She hated how he could terrify her with merely a look, or a few words. If only she had the strength of a man, she'd fight him.

  ‘Cloaba,’ Gotham snarled as his head dropped and he covered her mouth with his. ‘Cloaba, barren priestess-telon.’

  Teeth grinding against her lips, tongue thrusting into her mouth, he twisted his fist in her hair until she moaned.

  ‘That's right, telon, beg for me. Beg me to show you how a real man kurns his woman so you've something to compare with the bellowing Bull. He's all blow and no hard.’

  She'd tried so hard not to compare, knowing the road to happiness lead only through concentrating her all on Gotham. But his words instantly highlighted everything he wasn't in comparison with Taur and that part of her which he'd almost trampled with his cruelty, flared white hot. Not only would she not beg, she'd not submit. Raising her fists between them she thrust down hard on his forearm. The move took the Prince by surprise and she leapt away from him, dragging her hair painfully from his grasp. When he reached for her again she grabbed a chair, holding it between them like a shield.

  ‘You forget, Go'. If I ask it, the guard will remove you. Then you won't even get to witness the seeding of your son.’

  Gotham's only response was a snarl. His eyes were almost colorless and staring from their sockets. Gynevra crossed the common room and wrenched open the outer door.

  ‘Judge Fahad, I'd be obliged if you'd join us,’ she said clearly, ‘and it might also be advisable for the guard to be stationed in my common room rather than out there.’

  ‘Whatever you wish, Princess,’ the Judge agreed and ushered the four burly guards ahead of him into the room.

  ‘How about what I wish?’ Gotham growled from the bedroom.

  ‘I must remind you, my Lord Prince,’ said the Judge, a hint of iron beneath the deferential tone of his voice, ‘it's the lady who has the ordering of a siring contract. The only other person whose opinion matters, is the contract sire.’

  Eyes blazing with fury, the Prince flung back into the bedroom. The guards arrayed themselves either side of the door and Gynevra and the Judge settled to wait in the common room.

  A sharp rap on the outer door sent flares of fire and wisps of fear dancing through her blood and Gynevra took a moment to invoke the calming energy of the Goddess.

  ‘The King of Nyalda is here, Princess,’ Fahad said, opening the door to a man wrapped in a black cloak and wearing a golden helmet set with obsidian-tipped horns.

  ‘Thank you, Judge Fahad,’ she responded formally, and rose to her feet. But move forward she could not.

  Their eyes met across the room and the fingers that had begun to work at his cloak buckle stilled. His skin glowed with the healthy tan of one who lived far away from the Glass City. He wore a warrior's leather kirt and slung over his shoulders, a fine black woolen cloak, the buckle a bull wrought from gold and set with black obsidian. The fingers began working again and with a heated impatience Taur threw the cloak with its embroidered Bull Rampant over a chair.

  ‘I have come, Golden One.’

  Gynevra opened her mouth to respond but no sound would issue. Swallowing, she tried again.

  ‘Thank you,’ she managed to whisper.

  Dark fire glowed in the obsidian jewel on his belt and in the smaller obsidian studs adorning the bronze vambraces protecting his muscular forearms, but in neither did the flame dance and shimmer as it did in the depths of his virescent green eyes. That fire, all for her, forged a blazing trail through her body. Without taking his eyes from her, he removed his iron-studded, leather boots, pulled off the helmet and dropping it onto a side table, held out his hand.

  ‘It's time, Princess Gynevra. Shall we go through?’

  It had been so long since she'd seen him, she just wanted to look—and touch. Sacred Ist, she simply wanted. He'd always had that effect on her. She took a step towards him, her hand out-stretched. Taking it, he drew her close. The clean, healthy scent of him filled her nostrils; his heat warmed her, his energy hummed through her being. He pressed his lips into the palm of her hand.

  Her breath stilled. His touch sent a joyous delirium dancing through her rampant Dragon blood. She was igniting holding his hand. How was she to ‘make like an inanimate rock’ as Anya had recommended, while joining with Taur in Gotham's presence? She must, or risk her Princely sacred partner killing the man she loved as he sired their child.

  Her whole body began to quiver.

  ‘What d'you think you've scrogging well been contracted to do? Take tea with the telon? Get on with it. Time's running.’

  Gotham's menacing growl came from the room beyond, and Gynevra began to tremble in earnest.

  Cloaba! She'd not allow him to spoil this time with Taur. It was enough that it must be witnessed, without his irrationality terrifying her into immobility. She dragged a shuddering breath into her lungs to still her leaping nerves.

  Taur delved into a pouch behind his wide belt and brought forth a small dark stone. Dropping it into her hand he closed her fingers over it. The power of his mind touched hers.

  ‘Moldavite holds the energy of the stars—our place. In this energy you are safe. Be calm, Golden One.’

  Looking down Gynevra recognized the secret green glow of the rare moldavite, which appeared black until held to the light
, and felt the protective shield of its energy settle around her. With a small smile of wonder she slipped it into the pocket of her gown.

  Holding her a little behind him, Taur faced Gotham.

  ‘Greetings, Go'. I'm honored that in your need, you chose me. I grieve for you that it's necessary.’

  ‘I didn't choose you, she did,’ the Prince snarled. ‘So stop prattling like a lollygown. You've come to scrog the telon. Do it! We've paid enough for the padopan privilege.’

  Taur stood unmoving for almost a moment then turning abruptly to Judge Fahad, he said, ‘As it's agreed, signed and paid the contract must be honored. However, I don't trust the Prince in his present mood. I require him secured.’

  Gotham leapt across the room with the force of a missile from a catapult. The guards moved as quickly, dodging round Gynevra and intercepting him as he grabbed for Taur's throat.

  ‘I'll not be tethered like a breara taglag to the altar,’ he declared stridently.

  ‘Submit or leave,’ the Judge said sternly. ‘Those are the rules if the contract sire has reason to fear for his safety while carrying out the contract. There is good reason to fear such, my Lord. Submit or leave. Those are your only choices.’

  Sullenly Gotham struggled a little longer, then with an audible grinding of his teeth, allowed the guards to lead him back to the chair and secure him to it at ankles and wrists. His face was an ugly mottled puce, his eyes black with venom.

  ‘We require the chair secured to the pillar also,’ Taur demanded, and the guards did as he bid them.

  Looking directly at Taur, Gotham cursed him succinctly and articulately in the foulest possible language then gritting his teeth, sat in rigid, white-hot silence.

  Ignoring him, Taur nodded his satisfaction and turned to Gynevra. Hands on her shoulders, he murmured, ‘All's well now, Golden One. We can concentrate on seeding the wee Dragon in your belly. Cronos! I've longed for this moment.’

  Gynevra bit her lip to stop it trembling, then whispered, ‘I have too—may the Goddess forgive me.’