The fifth sorceress, p.15
The Fifth Sorceress, page 15
I pray to the Afterlife, please let us survive the events of today, he thought sadly.
Tristan and Nicholas did not have to wait very long. In what seemed to the prince to be a very short amount of time there came a knock on the heavy door, and Wigg appeared with Morganna, Frederick, and Shailiha. The Lead Wizard silently ushered the visitors into the room. Then, after giving the prince a rather pinched, concerned look, he left, quietly closing the door behind him.
The looks upon the faces of the rest of his family quickly told the prince that not only had the three of them never visited this part of the palace, but that Wigg had told Morganna and Frederick all that had transpired today. At the behest of Nicholas each of them took a seat at the table, Tristan included. The silence in the room was palpable, and Tristan felt even more alone now than when he had first come into this chamber and confronted the wizards of the Directorate. The wizards are powerful, he heard his heart whisper to him, but it is my family that I hold most dear. Only Shailiha and the recently bathed Frederick managed slightly encouraging smiles in his direction, while everyone waited for the king to speak.
They didn’t have to wait long.
‘Tristan,’ the king began as if reading his son’s mind, ‘do you love us?’
The question hit the prince like a thunderbolt. How could his father ask him such a thing? Before he started to speak he knew his voice was about to crack, and it did. ‘Yes, Father,’ he began softly. ‘My family is the most important thing to me in the world.’
Nicholas then unexpectedly leaned forward in his chair, gripped the chain of the Paragon just above the stone itself, and held the bloodred jewel out toward the prince. It twinkled in the light of the fireplace.
‘And this stone?’ the king asked, no small measure of regal command in his voice. ‘How is it that you feel about this?’
‘It is the stone that I will soon wear around my neck, just as you have done ever since you turned thirty,’ the prince answered, entirely unsure of the meaning behind his father’s question. ‘Other than that, there is really very little that I know about it.’
Suddenly more frustrated with his son than ever, Nicholas looked down at the jewel that he had worn for so long – the same stone he longed to see around the neck of his only son, where for so many years the wizards had said it rightfully belonged. How do I tell him these things? the king asked himself. How do I this day tell him how concerned his parents are for him, when all that he hungers to know cannot, will not, be told to him until the day of his coronation?
Nicholas let go of the Paragon and leaned back in his chair, sighing slightly. ‘It is no secret to the people here in this room, or to the Directorate of Wizards, that you do not wish to be king. But you shall be the king, and in a very short time. And what I must tell you now is that if you do not change and show your willingness to take on the responsibility that is about to be thrust upon you, you will rule poorly, and neither the nation nor your family can survive that. Trust me when I say that, for reasons I cannot this day explain, your reign will be unique to all of Eutracian history.’ Nicholas’s face seemed to soften a bit as he considered his next words. ‘Too many good people have died trying to protect the Paragon to let it be worn by one who will not fulfill his duties.
‘I ordered Shailiha and Frederick here with us today so that they may also hear these things,’ he continued. ‘So that they may know that your mother and I hold their interests in our hearts, as well. It is their futures and the future of their unborn child that you must also bear in mind, that you will one day be responsible for. I know it is not the way you wish things to be. I also know that you believe the world has been unfair to you, and in many ways, perhaps it has. But in time you will understand why.’
Tristan looked over to his sister and her husband, and could see the two sympathetic but concerned faces that stared back at him. Their worry is not only for me, he realized, but now for their child, as well. It was becoming abundantly clear to him that the king meant to have his way in this. The prince looked hesitantly back to the face of his father.
Nicholas once again took the Paragon in his hand, and Tristan could see the deep, red color of the stone between the king’s strong fingers. Nicholas looked to Morganna, his queen, and into her blue eyes that lay just below the tumbling, shoulder-length blond hair. My queen. Tristan and Shailiha’s mother, he thought to himself. The love of my life. You are half of all that he is, and all that he can become. Help me make him understand, in that way in which only you can.
Morganna gazed knowingly into the eyes of her husband. Then her face purposely hardened, and she looked at the prince.
‘The simple truth is, my son, that the stone is not meant to be worn by one who is unwilling to shoulder his responsibilities.’ She knew that she must go on, no matter how much her words pricked them both. ‘The stone is meant to be worn by a man. One who is, indeed, man enough to honor it with his courage, and his resolve.’
The strained look on her son’s face told her that she was finally getting through, and she chose her next words with care, knowing that the speaking of them would cause her an equal, if not greater, amount of pain. ‘I will repeat your father’s question. “Do you love us?” Do you love the people in this room enough to give of yourself and become the king of Eutracia, the king that this nation deserves?’ She paused, deciding to risk the gamble. ‘Or need we ask the wizards to find another man of endowed blood to wear the stone?’
Or need we ask the wizards to find another man of endowed blood to wear the stone …His mother’s seemingly impossible words echoed in his mind for what felt like an eternity, their sheer, startling simplicity rattling him to his core. Finally overcome by the strength of his emotions, the prince suddenly realized how he must have always appeared not only to his family but to his subjects, as well.
Tristan slowly stood and walked over to Morganna. Going down on bended knee, a tear reappearing in the corner of one eye, he lowered his head and kissed the hem of his mother’s gown.
‘I still do not know what measure of a monarch I can become, Mother,’ he said softly. ‘But never, never doubt my love for my family or my kingdom, or the willingness to do what I must to protect them. I shall wear the stone.’ His head still bowed, the next words came out in a whisper. ‘But please, Mother, also understand that I know I have much to learn.’
Morganna smiled into the face of her husband and saw that his eyes were once again shiny with tears. She placed an affectionate hand upon her son’s lowered head.
For now, she thought to herself, that is all we can ask.
PART II
The Nation of Parthalon
Chapter Five
The delicacy of revenge is a feast that must be served at the proper moment; neither too soon, nor too late, for its preparation must be perfect. In this matter, timing is everything.
—THE FIRST MISTRESS OF THE COVEN, FROM HER PRIVATE DIARIES
She smiled as the bullwhip snapped through the morning air. As second mistress of the Coven, she could have used her powers to punish him, but doing the physical work herself was always so much more pleasurable. She was an expert at this by now, and could easily lay the tight leather of the black woven whip anywhere she wished upon his naked back. Indeed, the design she was creating in his flesh was already beginning to take shape. As the whip whistled through the air, several drops of his blood splattered randomly across the room, some of it landing upon the hand that held the whip.
She touched the point of her outstretched tongue to the blood on her wrist and, smiling, closed her mouth.
The slave had not satisfied her needs, and for this they always paid. This particular young man had done her the indignity of not even becoming erect, and to her mind had therefore humiliated her. But then he had made the ultimate mistake: he had laughed at her.
Succiu, second mistress of the Coven, stood naked in the luxurious quarters of her bedroom in the Recluse, her breasts rising and falling with the exertion of her labors. When the slave had mocked her, her anger had immediately crossed over into the realm of hysteria. But despite the strength of her emotions, her aim with the whip had so far been perfect. So anxious was she to punish the slave that she had neither dressed nor taken the man to the Recluse dungeon as was usually her custom. Now, in examining the lines of blood across his back, she could see that her labors were only partially complete. Five more lashes would do it.
Suddenly the naked slave groaned and his body went slack in the iron manacles that circled his wrists and led to the elaborate ceiling via the chains. He hung there, his head lying to one side as if he were dead.
She threw an errant handful of jet-black waist-long hair over one shoulder and cast her exotic, almond-shaped eyes down at the dwarfed hunchback that was squatting on the floor at her feet. He looked up at her like an obedient dog on a leash.
‘Check him, Geldon,’ she said simply as she slowly drew the length of the whip back to her and began coiling it into a circle. ‘This one is too strong to be dead yet.’ Her voice, controlled and smooth as silk, had a sensual, smoky quality to it.
For the thousandth time the dwarf extended his pudgy fingers to touch the shiny iron collar that ran around his neck, and to feel the jeweled chain that ran from it to the iron ring embedded in the marble floor. No one had to remind him of how many of these rings his mistress had ordered installed in the various floors of the Recluse so that she could take her personal slave wherever she pleased and imprison him in plain view of the others. She tilted her head and silently commanded the iron ring embedded in the marble floor to open itself, allowing the dwarf to free the chain. Geldon dutifully picked up the ornate chain and walked across the room to face the slave.
‘He lives, Mistress,’ he said respectfully. ‘His chest rises and falls.’ He was careful not to say too much and further anger his mistress.
‘Good,’ she said casually, her eyes on both the slave and the dwarf at the same time. ‘Awaken him. I am not finished with my artwork, and we wouldn’t want him to miss the experience.’
The dwarfed hunchback shuffled to his mistress’s bath and retrieved a bucket of cold water. Standing on a stool, he poured the water over the head of the slave, saving a small portion of it. Then, as the slave began to regain consciousness, he held the man’s head back by the hair and without warning poured the rest of the water into the slave’s throat and lungs, choking him. His mistress liked it better that way. Coughing and gagging, the blond man in the chains twisted and convulsed in his shackles as he tried to expel the water and fill his lungs with air, a pink mixture of blood and water spraying violently across the room from his mouth. Finally, the focus began to reappear in his eyes and he once again hung more upright, his bloody toes only inches off the marble floor.
The second mistress of the Coven walked around to face him. She had chosen him from the Stables this morning not just because he was a particularly handsome Parthalonian, but because of the insolent look in his eyes. She had thought that the kind of fire she had seen there might finally provide her with a specimen who could ultimately satisfy her rather exotic tastes. But in the end, this one had proven an even greater disappointment than the others. She ordered Geldon back to his place near the ring in the floor and narrowed her eyes, causing the iron circle to close through the last loop in the dwarf’s chain, once again securing him there.
Grasping the handle of her whip, she placed the end of it beneath the slave’s chin and raised his face up to hers. She was pleased to see the hatred and fire burning there as hot as ever.
‘Sorceress bitch!’ he shrieked as loud as he could. But his voice came out only as a whimper of ragged breath. ‘I shall never service you.’ He spat blood from his mouth onto her face and chest.
Completely unperturbed, she looked down at his groin. ‘With performance such as this, I daresay you are right.’ She laughed. Suddenly her expression hardened as she put less than an inch between their faces, this time speaking between clenched teeth. ‘You have no doubt seen the scars upon the backs of the others in the Stables who have displeased me in this way?’ She touched a finger to one of his blood spots that had splattered upon her left breast, and again touched the finger to the tip of her waiting tongue. ‘Soon you will look just the same as they do, Stefan,’ she said coyly, crisscrossing the handle of the whip on his right cheek in a miniature version of the design that she had begun to imprint forever on his back. ‘I do my best work upon your back instead of your face so that I will not have to look at your ugly scars the next time you lay atop of me.’ The handle of the whip continued its maddening course across his cheek. ‘Consider yourself lucky.’
From somewhere deep within him, the slave managed a smile. ‘I already do, you repulsive whore. Better to be scarred for life for not having serviced you than to have lain with one of the bitches who have enslaved us.’ Somehow he actually found the strength and courage to laugh at her again. ‘Someday we shall kill you all,’ he sneered. His breath had become even more ragged as he turned and twisted helplessly in the manacles.
‘If you are talking about your comrades beyond the confines of these walls, you would do better to turn your mind to other things,’ she said, apparently quite sure of herself. ‘Like pleasing me.’ The handle of the whip began to undulate back and forth suggestively around his genitals.
Stefan collected as much blood and saliva in his mouth as he possibly could and sprayed it into the sorceress’s face.
‘Very well, then,’ Succiu said happily.
The second mistress of the Coven once again walked around to the back of the slave, and for a moment admired her handiwork. Then she viciously executed the last five strokes of the whip as hard as she could, finally on the last stroke using her powers to treble the strength in her arm. As she placed the whip so unerringly upon his back she could feel the distant, overpowering ecstasy of the Vagaries begin to rise in her veins, just as the First Mistress had told her it would over three centuries ago when her training in the darker arts had begun. And now she was a true sorceress, almost as powerful as her mistress, and the rapture she felt in her blood and her loins as she punished the slave drove her on even harder. Once again the slave groaned and slipped into unconsciousness.
The man’s blood was now running freely down to his buttocks from the five perfect triangles that she had cut into his back with the whip. The triangles that together made up the beloved five-pointed star, the Pentangle.
The symbol of the Coven.
‘I am done with this one,’ she said casually to the seated dwarf. Without looking, she pointed a lazy finger to the ring in the floor, and once again it opened. ‘Take him back to the Stables with the others. But first, draw my bath. This one has made rather a mess of me.’ She walked over to the great canopied four-poster bed and slipped a silk robe over her tall form, apparently not caring that the various spots of blood on her naked body were blotting through here and there.
‘Yes, Mistress,’ the dwarf gurgled, as he trudged into the huge bathroom. She returned to stand before the hanging body of the unconscious slave and carefully scrutinized him the way a butterfly collector might examine a new specimen. This one was strong, she thought. As strong as one of common blood could be. Because of being trapped here in this miserable land it has been more than 300 years since I have lain with a man of endowed blood. But that is about to change.
‘Your bath is ready, Mistress,’ Geldon pronounced as he reentered the room.
‘Good,’ Succiu said quietly, as she continued to examine the slave. ‘Time to wake him up.’
Geldon winced, knowing what was expected of him. Walking back into his mistress’s bath, he collected a handful of sea salt, then returned to stand once again upon the stool, this time directly behind the slave. This was the part he hated the most. Looking up to Succiu, he waited for her curt nod. Then he dutifully opened his hands and quickly rubbed the white grains into the many gaping slashes that had been carved into the man’s back by Succiu’s whip.
The effect was almost instantaneous.
The slave named Stefan was immediately brought back to consciousness, and he twisted and turned in his manacles, his eyes bulging from his head as he screamed insanely at the top of his lungs. When the screaming finally stopped, the whimpering began. And then the whimpering finally stopped, and the crying began. Succiu shook her head disparagingly and once again stepped before the slave, placing a sickeningly affectionate hand to one of his cheeks as she looked into his eyes. The slave named Stefan recoiled spasmodically at her touch.
‘There now, isn’t that better?’ she cooed, smiling crookedly into his eyes. ‘We want those scars to heal just right so that you will remember your little lesson here today, don’t we?’ She turned her attention to the dwarf. ‘We wouldn’t want him to develop a nasty infection, now would we, Geldon? If that were to happen, he might never be able to come back.’
‘No, we wouldn’t want an infection, Mistress,’ the dwarf repeated obediently.
She looked hard into the slave’s eyes. ‘I think you should thank Geldon for the kindness he has just shown you, don’t you agree?’
With a final effort, he raised his face to hers. ‘No, bitch,’ he breathed. The final, almost quiet statement of defiance had taken everything the man had. He fainted again, going limp in the manacles.
Succiu’s eyes once again hardened as she began to walk toward her bath. ‘Take him away from here. Back to the Stables with the other weaklings of his kind who also have no endowed blood. And then come back here quickly and clean all of this up. My bedroom is a disgrace.’ Stopping at her bed, she narrowed her eyes and caused a pink silk sheet to float into the air and land on the floor beneath the dangling, bloody toes of the inert slave.
