Kushiel's Scion

Page 41

"How old are you, Sephira?" I asked.
Her blind face tracked my voice. "Eighteen last autumn, my lord."
"The age of majority." I laughed humorlessly. "Do you know what you want?"
"You, my lord," she said simply.
"Why should I believe you?" I asked.
She took another step closer and reached for my hand, placing it between her thighs. I fingered her, finding her slick and wet. Her nether-lips were plump. Naamah's Pearl throbbed as I rubbed it, and Sephira gasped.
"Believe me, my lord," she said raggedly.
I did believe, then. Grasping her head with both hands, I kissed her hard, feeling her lips part beneath mine, her body swaying against me, desperate and yearning.
It was nothing like Balm House; it was nothing like anything I had ever known. All the pent longing I had endured, all the shadowy desires I had feared to express found voice that night. I devoured her mouth, plundering it with my tongue. I ran my hands down her sides, grasping her buttocks, pulling her against me, grinding her naked loins against my rigid phallus, trapped beneath my breeches. All was permitted, all was encouraged.
"Do you like that?" I asked harshly.
"Yes, my lord!" she gasped. "Oh yes!"
Groping on the cushions, I found items I had dropped; a pair of ring-shaped pincers. They were made of silver, weighted and heavy. I cupped her breasts, thumbing her erect nipples, dropping a kiss upon each one.
"Here," I murmured. "And here."
Sephira moaned as I attached the pincers, her breasts swaying, nipples stiffening further as the weights dragged at them. The sight of her was enough to drive me mad.
"Turn around," I grated.
She obeyed my unspoken command, making her way blindly to the whipping cross and standing spread-eagled before it. I fastened the leather cuffs to her wrists and ankles, and found myself weeping without realizing it, soundlessly. Sephira turned her blindfolded head toward me.
"Yes, my lord," she said softly. "Like this, please."
I dashed away tears. "Why?"
She strained against her bonds, rubbing her pubis against the rough wood of the cross, heedless of splinters. "We want it alike, my lord. Does it matter?"
"Yes," I said. "It matters to me."
"I don't know!" Sephira's voice broke. She ground herself helplessly against the wood. "Please, my lord! I beg you, grant me ease!"
I could have withstood her desire, or mine; I could not withstand the weight of their combined urgency. The thread that bound us had grown taut. I made my way behind her, fumbling on the cushions for the deerskin flogger I had dropped. I grasped it hard, feeling its braided grip imprinting my sweating palm, and swung it.
A dozen soft thongs smacked Sephira's buttocks.
She jerked in her bonds, sighing.
Oh, Elua! It felt good, so good. Over and over, I swung the flogger, watching the sweet pink welts rise on her skin, kissing her buttocks, curving around her ribcage. There, yes; there and there. The surge of her pleasure drove us both; the sting and smack of the thongs, the profound release in submitting to it. I rode atop it like a ship on a wave's crest. My arm grew tired as I swung it, losing myself in the rhythm, yearning to drive her higher and further, to make her squirm and moan; to force her to utter her signale. The flogger was a gentle weapon as such toys go, and I had chosen it as such, knowing myself a novice. But it made its point, giving rise to other possibilities; those glimpsed in the Shahrizai dungeon, in the dank shadows of Daršanga.
I dared not think of those.
"Have you had enough?" I whispered at length, my voice husky.
Sephira writhed. "Yes, my lord!"
I undid the leather cuffs that bound her to the whipping cross, tumbling her onto the soft cushions and pinning her there. I was hard and erect, my phallus aching, my testes drawn up so tight and full I thought they might burst. Propped above her on one arm, I freed myself with fumbling fingers, grasping my shaft and parting her swollen nether-lips with its crown.
"Is this what you want?" I whispered.
She threw her blindfolded head back. "Oh yes, my lord! Hard!"
It pushed me over the edge. I thrust into her, driving hard, over and over. My turn, my pleasure. There was no rational thought in my mind, only a blind, urgent need to conquer the pliant, willing flesh beneath me. I could feel her loins rising to meet mine, thighs spreading wider to take me deeper inside. I felt her climax, hidden muscles milking my shaft. There was no voice here saying, This, too, is sacred; only her breath panting at my ear, "Yes, yes, oh yes, my lord!"
I hated myself.
With a surge of self-loathing and the most excruciating pleasure I had ever known, I groaned and spent myself in her.
It was over.
I rolled off Sephira and lay on my back, breathing hard and staring at the rafters. After a moment, she sat up, one hand reaching blindly. "My lord?" Her voice was tentative. Beneath the black swathe of the blindfold, her lips were bruised and swollen. I could see the marks of my nails on her bare, creamy shoulders. "Did I displease you, my lord?"
"No," I said wearily. "Please, take off the blindfold."
Sephira obeyed. She blinked at me, her golden hair tangled and disheveled. There was no shame in her face, only confusion mingled with the vague aftermath of pleasure. Gathering herself, she knelt beside me, straightening my clothing with an adept's deft touch. When she had finished, she sat back on her heels and folded her hands in her lap.
"You're not like the others," she said softly. "Are you, my lord?"
"No," I said. "I'm not." The room was spinning. I closed my eyes to blot out the sight of the rafters moving overhead. Drunk, spent, or soul-sick, I couldn't tell. I only knew the abyss was opening beneath me. "Tell Mavros…"
She waited a moment. "Yes, my lord?"
I smiled faintly. "Sunshine."
And with that, I let darkness claim me.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I awoke to a splitting headache.
"And a fine morning to you, sunshine!" Mavros announced cheerfully. I winced, pushing myself upright, and found myself in a strange bed, luxuriant and canopied. He lounged in a chair nearby, legs outstretched, the heel of one boot propped on the toe of the other.
I squinted at him. "Where am I?"
"Valerian House," he said. "Patrons' quarters." Getting to his feet, he clapped his hands. "Come along, cousin! Let's get you dressed and out of here. Your man Gilot's been looking daggers at me all morning."
"Where are my clothes?" I glanced around. My aching head felt stiff and heavy, and I felt at it with numb fingers. "What's wrong with my head?"
"Too much perry brandy," Mavros said, tossing me my clothing.
HIT »
Here.
"Braids," I mumbled. "I forgot."
"Oh, right." He sat on the edge of the bed, gazing at me. "That didn't exactly go as we might have hoped, did it?"
I went to shake my head, and winced again. "No. I'm sorry."
"No, I am." His voice turned sober. "It was too much. I shouldn't have pushed you." He gave me a curious look. "What did you mean, telling the girl to give me her signaled"
I shrugged and began dragging on my clothes. "I didn't have one of my own."
He raised his brows. "You're not supposed to need one."
"I know." I took a deep breath. "Mavros… it's not your fault. This, what happened here. You were right, it's a part of me, and I needed to confront it. There had to be a first time, and mayhap it won't be the last. The craving's in my blood. But I'm not like you. I can't play such games and call the fun. I can't escape the shadow of the past."
"That place," he said. "Daršanga."
"Daršanga." I pulled on one boot, then paused to rest. "Do you know, Phèdre once said that she would have given her signale there, were there ears to hear it."
"I'm sure she would have," he murmured.
I thought about the zenana, the women and boys who died there, their flesh rent and suppurating. I thought about kneeling in a puddle of the Mahrkagir's piss and my own bile, the foul taste of it in my mouth, the gouts of blood and Lilka's slit throat gaping. I put on my other boot and got to my feet, grabbing his arm for balance.
"You have no idea," I said.
"So you keep telling me." He steadied me. "We've taken care of the accounts and the patron-gifts. Are you ready to go home?"
I nodded my aching, braid-heavy head. "Please."
Outside, I felt a bit better. The bright sunlight and the City's clamor were jarring, but the fresh air cleared my head. I was glad to be astride the Bastard and riding, not cooped up in a carriage, and I thanked Gilot for waiting for me.
"Don't thank me," he said bluntly. "I did it for her ladyship. She worries."
Unease stirred in the pit of my belly. "I am of age, Gilot."
"Aye," he said. "That's what worries her."
Mavros rode with us, elegant and cheerful atop a tall black gelding. The others, I learned, had departed in the small hours of the morning, long after the Dowayne's guard had carted my unconscious self to the patrons' quarters. He had gone with his kindred and come back for me on his own.
"My thanks, Mavros," I said to him outside the gates of the town-house. "You're a good friend in your own right."
He grinned at me. "She was quite taken with you, you know."
I flushed. "Who?"
"The adept, Sephira." His grin broadened. "Even at Valerian House they do gossip, especially when they think we can't hear. An odd lad, with a streak of disarming sweetness. That's what she said." Gilot chuckled despite himself.
I thought about what I'd done to her and nearly choked. "Sweetness?" "In your own way." Mavros touched my arm. "Take care, cousin. If you've a need to speak, I've always an ear to hear."
I watched him ride away, a part of me envying him. The same blood flowed in our veins, the same dark desires plagued us. Would it be so bad to be able to carry it so lightly? After what I had seen, I was unsure. The adepts and patrons of Valerian House found unalloyed pleasure in what they were, honoring Blessed Elua's precept and basking in their own natures, free to enjoy the subtle exchanges of power. I was the one who did not fit.
"Imri." Gilot jerked his head toward the townhouse. "Let's go." The stable-keeper Benoit unlocked the gates to admit us, taking our mounts. I patted the Bastard on the neck as Benoit led him away, promising him a lively ride on the morrow when the cobwebs were gone from my head. Gilot and I entered the townhouse together. "Your highness!" Eugenie scolded me. "We were growing worried." "I'm fine, Eugenie." Her tone worsened my headache, irritating me. "Didn't Mavros send a message?"
"Yes, but…" She bit her tongue. "I'll tell her ladyship you're here." Phèdre appeared in the doorway behind her. "Thank you, Eugenie. There's no need." She moved past her Mistress of the Household, tilting her head and regarding me, a concerned crease between her brows. "Are you all right, love? You left Roxanne's fete with scarce a word."
It seemed like so long ago, I'd nearly forgotten. "I'm fine," I repeated shortly. "Tired, that's all. I'll talk to you later." "You look fevered." Her frown deepened. "Let me see." I grabbed her wrist as she reached for my brow. "I'm fine!" In that instant, one instant, everything changed forever. I felt Phèdre's pulse give a startled leap under pressing thumb and I beheld her, for the first time, through my birthright as one of Kushiel's scions. Her eyes gazed at me, wide and dark, the scarlet mote floating on the left iris; the mark of Kushiel's Dart, a blood-pricked challenge. My blood surged in answer, roaring in my ears. I felt the abyss around me and knew I had never left it. I understood, in that instant, that the game I had played in Valerian House was nothing more than that, mortal and harmless. And I knew that to play them with Phèdre no Delaunay was to play with a god's chosen, capable of yielding in ways I could scarce imagine.
And I saw Phèdre knew it.
For a moment, neither of us moved, frozen by the knowledge. Then I thrust her away, hard, in the same instant she wrenched her wrist free. I took two steps and doubled over, vomiting onto the floor. Bile and stale brandy splattered my boots.
"Imriel…" Her footsteps sounded behind me.
"Stay away!" I braced one hand on my knees, holding up the other. Small braids hung over my eyes and curtained my face, obscuring my vision. "Leave me. Just… leave me alone."
"All right, love."
There was a world of sorrow in her voice. Phèdre had known; had always known. I waited until I heard her withdraw, then straightened and wiped my mouth, heading for the stairs and the sanctuary of my room.
The washbasin was full. I plunged my head into the cool water, then raised it, dripping. I stared into the mirror above the stand at a stranger's face. Phèdre was right, I looked fevered. My skin was pale, drawn tight over my cheekbones. My eyes were over-bright, blue and incandescent. Dripping braids framed my face like hundreds of linked chains.
I snarled and began to undo them.
It went too slow. The waxed thread Roshana had used was tightly knotted, and the heat of Valerian's dungeon had softened it, letting it cool and fuse. I worked at one, then another, without success, growing impatient. Giving up, I plucked one of my daggers from the sheath at my belt, sawing through the braid itself. I severed one after another, dropping them on the floor. There was a certain grim satisfaction in it.