by S E Meliers
Spider had been thorough. The Priests that remained in Rhyndel were all devoted to the good works of the Monad, without interest in the machinations of power in this world, focussing on obtaining more lofty goals. His discrete approaches to those stationed at Truen and with the army were incomprehensible to the beatific. The Hallows that remained - whilst more comprehending of his intimations than his peers - were not the obeisant sort. He missed his tame Hallows; he had underestimated the pleasure of being able to issue unquestioned instruction.
Through liberal application of gold, he had managed to sway a number of common soldiers, and half a dozen messengers, so he now had, at least, a personal guard and a spy network. It was not enough, however, he thought grimly, at this stage of the game.
He had sent one messenger to Shoethal via Amori, to apply to the High Priests for release of the King’s Crown. This relic had been in the keeping of the Priests since before history had been recorded, and had never been worn as Shoethal had always been a collection of feudal princes without a sovereign head of state. Now Cinder was demanding official recognition as King of a United Shoethal and wished this crown to signify his status.
Gallant was reluctant to crown Cinder King for many reasons. The promise of an elusive King-ship that could only be granted by the Monadistic Priests kept Cinder loyal to the priesthood, and preserved Gallant’s influence with him. The application for the crown was also a risky one: officially Gallant was answerable to the High Priests not they to him, and Rogue’s recent coup had diminished Gallant’s power significantly. The High Priests may have refused him at the height of his power, but it was doubtful. In his reduced strength he was almost sure that they would - in which case Gallant’s already tenuous hold on Cinder would be completely destroyed. Most significantly, however, was the fact that Gallant considered Cinder unworthy of the title and that crown. Although Cinder had indeed united Shoethal and was conquering Rhyndel, it was through Gallant’s machinations that this had been achievable, not through any strength on Cinder’s behalf. A weak King, Gallant thought grimly, would be disaster.
He had, however, heard some interesting news through his burgeoning spy network, and it may be that Patience was carrying another option for sovereign. When he had originally sowed the seeds for this possibility it had been more to denigrate the Lady and discomfit the Prince than because he had truly expected his manipulation to bear fruit. He was inordinately proud of this act of accidental foresight. Even more, the Prince had very conveniently sent for the Lady, so Gallant would not even have to put effort into determining her fecundity. Gallant viewed this fortuitous news as sign that his luck was changing.
So, how best to move forward? It was obvious that the Spider had to go, he decided grimly. Cinder was listening to her too attentively, and if Cinder was to listen to anyone, it had to be Gallant. How to kill the Spider was another matter. Hallows were effective because the sheer brutality of their training meant that only the most skilled survived – thus they were not easy to kill, and their invulnerability wreathed them in mythology that he had, in the past, found most useful for the fear it inspired. He should have killed her long before, when first he noticed her hovering about, when she had been weak enough to destroy and he strong enough to arrange for it to happen. He ground his teeth in annoyance.
Poison would be most effective, he contemplated. He was a master of poison. But the key to effective use of poison was its administration. It would not do to kill the wrong person by accident, leaving your prey to survive, and it would also not do to be implicated as the poisoner. Especially as a poisoner. Murder by any other means was more acceptable then by poison; poisoners were viewed with particular contempt perhaps because of the universal vulnerability of his victims – everyone needed to eat or drink.
Did the Spider have a weakness? ‘Yes,’ he said aloud, delighted by this thought. ‘What is the Spider’s weakness, I wonder?’ He rose to his feet and left his chambers. When Cinder had enquired of his wanderer companion, Gallant had lied instinctually. The wanderer Prairie haunted his footsteps on the orders of her achromic mistress. At the moment, she was camped in the forest near Truen’s lake, eating and generally loitering at his expense, keeping merry company with the dragon-riders who, incomprehensibly, valued her company.
She somnolently regarded his approach from a hammock slung between two trees. ‘What can I do for you, Priest?’ she drawled. In the distance, between the greenery of the forest, he could see the flash of jewelled hued wings, and hear feminine laughter and splash of water. The dragons were bathing in the frigid lake waters.
‘It has come time for you to earn your keep,’ he told her. ‘I assume you have a method by which to contact your mistress? I need you to send her a message.’
She neither confirmed nor denied, her apathetic indifference an irritant to him. ‘What would you have me say?’ she shrugged torpidly.
‘I need a spy,’ he was short, needed to be; an extended stay in her company might result in her demise at his hands, and she was his link to the Prophet. ‘I need a Hallow with this designation,’ he drew it in the dirt with a stick, ‘followed. I need to know her comings and goings, her associations and weaknesses.’
She swung her feet out of the hammock so she could see the rune in the dirt. ‘Hmmm. Looks like a spider,’ she commented.
‘Yes,’ he growled. ‘Can you pass the message on?’
She regarded him with insolent eyes. ‘Mind your tone, Priest,’ she warned him. ‘The Prophet values my life above yours.’
He contained himself with deliberate effort, drew in a deep breath. ‘Can you please see that she receives the message,’ he said between clenched teeth.
She nodded insolently, and reclined back into the hammock.
‘The sooner the better,’ he prompted, dis-satisfied with her lack of response.
‘It has already been done,’ she yawned.
‘You are a sender?’ he realised with astonishment. ‘A mind-speaker?’ Several interactions with her suddenly coalesced.
‘I am with you for a reason.’ She turned and smiled. ‘A thought reader, too, Priest,’ she added with meaning.
‘A rare skill,’ he hissed, perturbed by this discovery. He would have to be more careful around her. There were ways of protecting one’s mind from being overheard by one such as Prairie, he would have to refresh himself on the methods. ‘A useful skill. What are your limitations?’
‘Why would I tell you?’ she blinked ingeniously at him. ‘That would be like handing the executioner the axe with which to lop off your head. How impolite to even ask.’
‘You are here to help me,’ he snapped. ‘I need to know in order to use you effectively.’
‘I am not here to help you,’ she replied patiently. ‘I am here to watch you, and report on you. I help, only if the Prophet asks it of me.’
‘Which, of course, she can do instantaneously,’ he noted to himself. ‘A constant feed of information between you.’
‘What,’ she laughed, ‘did you think she trusted you?’
His homicidal instincts were restrained; barely. ‘Will she see to my request?’ he asked grudgingly.
‘It is underway. I will let you know what results,’ she lay back into her hammock, ending the conversation.
As he walked away, he suppressed an inclination to poison the wanderer and be done with the Prophet. There were uses for them yet, he reminded himself, but then, perhaps… a man could fantasise all manner of revenge upon an upstart, freckle faced, blonde haired pikey.
Praise
With her hair a loose titan cloak on her back, her EAeryian worked leather bodice, and with her opal torque on her neck and newly pierced ears, the dragon-rider reflected in the water was a far cry from the modest farm-girl she had been. Praise preened at her reflection, watching the sun flash on her gold earrings and catch in the shimmering fire within the crystal of the opal.
‘You look very pretty,’ Calico appeared over her shoulder, and Praise start
led, almost falling headfirst into the water and grazing her palms on the rocks in trying to maintain her balance.
‘Stop that!’ Praise cried out in annoyance. ‘Every time you must sneak up on me! Do you enjoy scaring me out of my skin?’
‘I apologise,’ Calico did not look overly contrite. ‘I do not mean to.’
‘I should tie a bell around your neck,’ Praise grumbled, ‘so I am forewarned of your approach.’
‘What would you then?’ Calico asked, amused. ‘Run away?’
‘Perhaps,’ Praise pinched her lips together in umbrage.
‘Surely you do not wish to avoid me so much?’ Calico sat beside her, dangling bare feet into the water. She shuddered, withdrawing her feet. ‘Cold,’ she complained. ‘We are friends, are we not?’ she smiled charmingly. ‘I come, once again, to your aid, after all.’
‘And what aid do you offer?’ Praise sighed.
‘The EAerymen come to Truen,’ Calico plucked a dandelion in seed from the weeds between the rocks and, in an oddly frivolous gesture, blew the seeds into flight across the water.
‘Fvccant,’ Praise sat up straight in alarm. ‘Do they know I am here? Ember will kill them, for sure.’
‘What language!’ Calico reproved with humour. ‘And no, it is not for you they come, but for another.’
‘Are they here?’ Praise glanced around to determine they were not in sight – something that seemed to come hand in hand with Calico’s appearances.
‘No, they are still in Amori,’ the white haired woman replied calmly. ‘But they will come, and soon.’
‘What should I do?’ Praise worried to herself. ‘Do I ask Ember to go back to Amori so we avoid them? Or maybe we should go to Shoethal? Do we stay and let Ember kill them?’
‘I have another idea,’ Calico suggestion.
‘Oh dear,’ Praise frowned.
Calico laughed. ‘Wait until you hear what I have to suggest,’ she said.
‘Very well,’ the dragon-rider sighed.
‘The Dwarves.’
‘The Dwarves?’ Praise raised her eyebrows. ‘What about the Dwarves?’
‘The Dwarves and the Dragons are long allied through their love of precious metals and stones. The dragons are the Dwarves main purchasers, and the Dwarves the dragon’s main suppliers. Your dragon tangle would love nothing more than to go to Rqkmahl and refresh their hoards.’
Praise had heard talk amongst the dragon-riders to support the white-haired wizard’s claim. She hesitated, biting her lip. ‘It may not be a bad idea,’ she ceded reluctantly.
‘Especially with a dragonet on the way,’ Calico smirked.
Praise pouted. ‘That is not fair,’ she complained. ‘You should not know these things about me.’
‘I cannot help it,’ Calico apologised to ameliorate Praise’s disgruntlement. ‘I do not choose what I see.’
‘No, but you could choose to keep your mouth shut about what you know,’ Praise retorted disapprovingly. ‘Sometimes people like to think they have privacy, even if they do not.’
Calico sighed. ‘Will you go to Rqkmahl?’
‘You want me to go to Rqkmahl for a reason, do you not?’ Praise probed irascibly.
‘I do have a favour to ask of you, whilst you are there,’ the witch admitted.
‘Hmph,’ Praise snorted. ‘I knew so. I am plagued by your favours. The Prince was most put out by the last one I granted you.’
‘Cinder is not very forward thinking, unless it involves death and destruction,’ Calico shrugged. ‘He will be pleased by it, however, in due course.’
‘What is the favour?’ Praise demanded.
‘On the highest mountain, so high that snow impedes those who would reach its peak by foot, there is a cave. Inside the cave, there is an altar that was once used by ancient people who have long since died out to worship a forgotten God. On the altar, there is a small statue of that God. Can you bring me the statue?’
‘Bring you the statue of a god no one remembers?’ Praise turned it over in her head. ‘Is there a spell on the statue, a curse? Is it dangerous to get?’
‘No spell, no curse. It is dangerous to get, unless one knows a dragon willing to fly one there.’
‘If you put Ember, myself, or our baby in danger…’ Praise warned.
‘I would not,’ Calico met her gaze earnestly. ‘You have a role yet to play; I would not risk the future inconsequently.’
‘Hmmm,’ Praise was reserved. ‘I will suggest to Ember that we leave for Rqkmahl, and I will ask if he will take me to this cave of yours. If there is no danger, I will try to retrieve this statue of yours for you.’
‘Thank you,’ Calico was satisfied with these limitations. She rose to her feet. ‘I will see you again soon.’
‘Calico,’ Praise glanced up at her. ‘Do not forget what you owe me for the Necromancer.’
‘No,’ Calico replied carefully. ‘I have not forgotten.’
‘I double it for the statue,’ Praise caught her gaze and held it.
Calico’s lips twitched. ‘I thought I had been lucky enough to escape payment,’ she admitted. ‘Very well. Twice, you may ask me the future, and if I know the answer, I will give it.’ She dropped a curtsey in acknowledgement of the condition, and drifted off into the trees that butted up against the lake’s edge.
Glancing around to ensure no one was near this curve of the lake, Praise shimmied out of her trousers and untied the bodice, leaving them in a neat heap safely back from the water. She waded down the bank into the cold, cold water, squeezing the gritty earth between her toes. Once she was waist deep she drew a deep breath and plunged the rest of her under. The chill stole the breath from her, and she surfaced gasping.
Warm arms seized her by the waist, lifting her up to straddle his hips, and stole a kiss from her even as she spluttered and wiped water from her face. ‘Everyone must sneak up on me today,’ she complained. He laughed against her neck, licking lake water from her skin.
Her nipples pebbled from the cold, sensitized to almost pain where they dragged over his skin. He ducked his head to capture one in his mouth, the contrast of cold to hot sparked straight to her loins and she gasped in needy pleasure. He transferred his attention to her other breast. The only heat on her body was where his tongue laved and their skin met, and she squirmed. ‘I am freezing,’ she told him.
‘I will warm you,’ he promised wading out of the water and laying her onto the bank. Sun warmed and loose, the soil moulded her form as he pressed his weight onto her and took advantage of her open mouth. Her skin tightened all over, and she groaned, pressing up against him and tangling her fingers into his red, red hair.
He entered her slowly, gently, gliding deep until he could go no further, and they both moaned. The sun and his skin warmed the water on his back and her hands, gliding down his spine, wiped it away. He kissed the corners of her mouth and she smiled, framing his face with her hands. ‘Tell me,’ she said on a sigh as he eased to his tip and sank back into her. ‘Tell me.’
‘You are mine,’ he told her between kisses to each cheek and her nose. ‘Both of you,’ he added before kissing her mouth.
‘I like that,’ she decided rubbing her cheek against his and lifting her hips so he sank into her at a different angle to before. ‘You are ours, too, Ember Dragon.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, smiling brightly. ‘That I am.’
Tomorrow, she thought dreamily as she crested towards orgasm, tomorrow was soon enough to talk of Dwarves, EAerymen, caves and the Gods who dwelt within them.
Shade
Shade mapped Song’s rose tinted secrets with his tongue. On some occasions, he liked to think he was as familiar with this intimate part of Song as he was her face, but on others he thought that, like women themselves, this hidden flower was mercurial in temperament. He liked the sight of the wild tangle of curls on her mons; like a sacred text written in a foreign tongue, now that he had the code, he could understand her secrets: a perfectly tamed coif on her head in
dicating an organised, wickedly clever mind, and a wilderness of curls below to hint at more instinctual, lascivious inclinations.
His tongue explored the supple texture of the inner labia, the smooth satin of the vestibule, probed between the resisting muscles at the entrance of her vagina, stroked and teased her clitoris. With what he always found to be incredible self-control, Song did not utter a sound. Without an aural guide, he had once been at loss as to how to please her, but he had learnt to read other cues; the shifting of her hips, her fingers in his hair, the thud of her heart and the rhythm of her breath. And he pleased her, he thought with considerable smugness.
The taste of Song was something he could not easily put into words; not salty, not sweet, not sour, not savoury, not spicy. It was the taste of lust, he had decided, some primal concoction that never failed to stir him, but comparable to no other taste. He eased a finger into her depths, a promise of what was to come, and her hips bucked and muscles tightened. With a last, lingering stroke of his tongue, he moved his intrusive finger to her clitoris to keep her on the edge of orgasm, and nuzzled his way up through her pubic hair to her belly. He kissed his way up belly to sternum, up her throat, to nibble on her lower lip, before positioning himself for entry.
She opened her eyes and smiled at him, wantonly.
‘Minx,’ he accused, pleased, and drove himself into her fiercely. The heat and slickness of her made his eyes roll back in his head. ‘Ahh,’ he moaned, and kissed her, sharing the lingering flavour of her essence as he stroked out and back in swiftly. He shifted slightly, caught her ankle and brought it up onto his shoulder in order to deepen his strokes and change the angle of his penetration.