FOURTEEN
THE TURNS BECAME weeks, which lengthened into moons. The season of mists settled its heavy hand over Brigantia as the cycle approached its ending. The rains came often. Fog was a more common sight than the sky, miring hearts and minds in gloom. Then an ancient Chinook descended. It blew away the mists and dried out the sodden land, bringing back memories of summer’s sun and rekindling the awaited promise of spring.
The Great Moot was less than three weeks away. Archduke Mondragon saw the warm wind as a sign and ordered a gala celebration. It would take place along the sandy shores beneath the summit of Eagle’s Head, and he appointed Kronus master of ceremonies.
The Lord Chronicler immediately appropriated Procurer Morpath to assist him in this monumental task. It was a wise choice. Though he had never been comfortable in the presence of the somber procurer, the man’s abilities were beyond question. And this left Kronus ample time in which to address the more artful exigencies.
He decided upon a Masked Ball addressing the theme of ancient history—in particular those personages of considerable notoriety in the Greek, Roman, and Egyptian eras. Gods and goddesses were entirely acceptable. With the coming dawn, all would reveal their identities.
Since this was to be a celebration of dual-purpose, being not only an anticipatory event to the Korda but also of a royal wedding, they deemed it necessary to consult the auspices—or at least curry their favor. They invited five thousand guests: one thousand for each of the five realms.
In consideration of the Rudd, they included the sea gardens at the foot of the cliff. Taking into account the reclusive nature of the Rudd, they would send only a token delegation, yet even this small dispensation would incense the fragile ego of the Grimman-Seth. They would probably boycott the entire affair.
There were only a handful of D’ia Mor, and Kronus could not remember ever having seen one with either a smile softening his expressionless features or an alcoholic drink of any kind poised above his lips. Dancing was not a word in their vocabulary. Not much doubt regarding their lack of attendance.
This left the bacchanal a human affair relegated to those of Earth and Faerwyn-Joss—which had been Kronus’ cunning plan all along. It left the most auspicious sum: two thousand, which matched the number of the Swordkind.
Preparations proceeded at a feverish pace. Incessant prodding by both Kronus and Morpath had the household staff in an uproar. How long could one count upon the fickle winds to remain with their warm cloak?
The Guild Jain offered his services, and they eagerly accepted. With his vast resources and influence to draw upon, the deadline set by the archduke became a possibility. Forty-eight hours following the announcement, all things were in place, even to Kronus’ satisfaction.
Early in the preparations it had become obvious to everyone that the area fronting the shore would be the gathering place, and therefore the showcase. The sea had calmed, and the natural light of the full moon would bathe it in a blue and silver glow, adding a touch of enchantment to the affair. They took extra care to dress the space accordingly. All knew it as the Spit, a finger-like projection of land jutting a hundred paces into the bay. Its framework was solid enough—a natural outcropping of native rocks covered by a thick layer of sand.
Still, it was not wide enough to suit Kronus’ keen eye. He enlarged the forefront, added a decorative tiled surface to create a dance floor, and covered the area with a transparent canopy impregnated with subdued lighting. This would enhance rather than detract from the moon’s glow.
The Spit curved, forming a natural pool for the more aquatic-minded. The area contained flora and fauna as artfully placed as the palace garden above, affording tiny enclosures of solitude for any so wishing. By the night of the festivities, it was a perfect setting.
The palace culinars, not to be outdone, had plied their craft to the utmost, aided by the artful Arkadies Venn. They prepared a cornucopia of foodstuffs guaranteed to satisfy not only the most discerning palate but also his great appetite.
By midnight, all was in readiness as the guests arrived.
***
Georgina Raven, Baroness of Brigantia, stood alone in shadow on the outskirts of the party. The thick bole of a Eucalyptus tree afforded her ample concealment. She had picked it out earlier, and only after careful observation of the remaining grounds. It was an integral part of her plan.
Her eyes moved in a constant search for Procurer Morpath. Only he had the information she required. How he would get it was unimportant, yet she knew he would. There was an aura about him that went far beyond his competence, a subtle yet substantial glow of restrained power one was not conscious of at first…almost as though he hid it. Yet she had seen it slip out more than once, unmasked through the hunger in his eyes: a hot, sensual hunger at odds with his somber personality.
It aroused her; there was no question of it. Yet she was careful not to give vent to her feelings, however sorely tempted. It had been two moons since she had released the Kumite into the contracted care of another. She knew it had been too soon. Since then, there had been no adequate release. Now her needs were at a fever pitch. Tonight, if the gods smiled, she would wait no longer.
Though she believed she had remained observant, the procurer’s silent approach startled her. As she turned her head, she found him standing there, tall and dark-clad, only an arm’s length away. His costume was the god Hades, Lord of the Underworld. His mask portrayed a face both cruel and horrific.
Her lip curled. It was so in keeping with the man’s style. His eyes burned from within as they boldly surveyed her almost naked form, and the lust was more pronounced than she had ever seen it. Her mind shouted a warning, but she drew herself up, confident of her command over him.
“You have what I need?”
She saw how he hesitated, his body coiled tightly with the intensity of his gaze. His nod was more a jerk of the head, and the full mask muffled his voice.
“She is Cleopatra, the ancient Queen of Egypt. It is easy to pick her out from those similarly dressed by the circlet she wears in her hair. It appears to be a tiara of Radian Crystals—though it is not.”
Georgina smiled, and her teeth glinted in the dull reflection of moonlight. Morpath continued to watch her, his eyes once more unreadable.
“What you plan is dangerous…”
“I am aware of it!” Georgina snapped. “And it is none of your concern. Leave me now. I will reward you on the morrow.”
Morpath bowed stiffly, and she sensed his reluctance to leave as he retreated through the trees. His form weaved and thinned as though it were a shadow, quickly disappearing from view.
Inside the package he had left was a change of costume—one more suited to her plan. She donned it quickly and turned back toward the dance floor. Searching the crowd, she spotted the one she sought and smiled. She moved forward with a purposeful step.
***
Though she was the guest of honor, Ashara was not the first to attend. She had decided an early arrival would be too noticeable, even though she had gone to considerable pains to disguise herself. By the time she put in her appearance, she knew she was unrecognizable—even though she drew envious glances from every man and woman she passed.
She had chosen ancient Egypt as her theme, and she was the famous queen, Cleopatra—though Cleopatra herself might have been jealous of Ashara’s stunning beauty that night. She had been daring and innovative, revealing more of her body than good taste might allow; though if the scrolls were correct, her attire was in keeping with the queen’s wanton appetites. There was delicious freedom in remaining anonymous. So far, it pleased her no end.
She wore a gown of lamia, made entirely of spinworm silk. It clung to her body like a second skin. She had left her breasts loose, and the feel of the fabric moving constantly over her nipples had stiffened them. The pleasure was excruciating. The gown reached to mid-thigh in front but left her back bare. It was so low cut it exposed the hint of her buttock cleft, which attributed to the many eyes following her.
She wore matching silk-clad shoes with slender heels that accentuated her height. The straps were the same material and wound serpent-like to her knees. She had coiled her thick mass of hair and added a tinted weave set in the period’s style. Adorning it was a tiara, and woven within were the genetically enhanced fire-mites of Perth. Together, they formed a multi-colored and continuously winking crown.
She had lightened her complexion by a Spartan dusting of powder and applied makeup to alter its natural planes. She knew she looked nothing like Ashara Sid, and that pleased her. She wanted to be anyone but the rianna tonight—certainly not the betrothed of the Mondragon heir. Only a beautiful woman pretending to be a queen. This was a night for forgetting.
Her eyes searched the crowded floor and she realized she would have as much trouble identifying others as they would her. Still, she knew he would be easy to spot. There was no way to disguise his distinctive form.
She paused in her search, certain she recognized Mendiko seated on a low divan. He was gazing out upon the dance floor with a serene smile on his face. There were few of the Swordkind at the affair, for such diversion was foreign to their nature. Most of them, but not all.
Though he no longer bore his sword and was attired as the Roman god, Apollo, she saw the sliver of Ryl glinting on his forehead. This and the long brown curls gave him away.
As she followed the direction of his gaze, she recognized her brother, for they had traded secrets. He was Alexander, and with him was the Reamurian girl—it could only be her, wearing a gown of red. It was her color and every bit as revealing as Ashara’s. True to her calling, she had chosen the goddess Diana, the Huntress.
Ashara had listened to Mendiko’s story of their meeting and was not surprised he had fallen under the girl’s spell. She was an enticing mixture of energy and beauty few men could resist. Her brother was not immune from the grin on his face. It was carefree—a thing she had not seen often of late due to his attentiveness to the training.
She moved along the floor’s edge, not pausing long enough in one place to allow anyone a scrutiny of her face. There were increasingly wilder gyrations as the party heated and the alcohol flowed. She sensed her body responding to the animal rhythms. Her step unconsciously slipped into the pattern, swaying in time as she moved forward. A series of flashing lights played over the crowd, bathing them in beams of varying thickness and intensity, pulsing strobes that danced along with the rhythm.
She saw Kronus. Apart from her brother, he was the only one she had taken into her confidence. She caught his eye, and he gave her a subtle nod as they drifted toward one another.
Ancient Rome was a popular theme among the guests that evening. There were many Cleopatras and Caesars among the throng. Kronus had chosen a lesser-known entity called Cicero. He had been a writer and historian, noteworthy in his time. Kronus looked distinguished—even though portly—dressed in the purple-striped toga of a Roman Senator.
“You look ravishing, Highness,” Kronus breathed into her ear. From the perfumed tint of his breath and a slight wobble, she could see he had partaken of a beverage or two. “If only I were four hundred cycles younger.”
Ashara laughed as she stooped to place a light kiss upon his furry cheek. “You are loquacious tonight, kind sir.”
Kronus bent forward in what started as a courtly bow but nearly ended in disaster as he lost his balance. He almost fell flat on his face, saved only by the quick reflexes of Ashara, who caught the fold of his robe and pulled him upright once more.”
“Oh, my!” Kronus was red-faced in his apology. “It would seem I have given my appetite too free a rein. I shall retire to the Hall of Scrolls and recuperate.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I have it on good authority the Pat’Riark and his party will arrive soon.” His eyes twinkled. “Now I must go before I destroy all your careful preparations.”
Ashara smiled as the portly chronicler meandered away. She resumed her journey, eyes searching. She felt the touch of a hand upon her bare shoulder and turned to find Julius Caesar—a feminine Julius Caesar: the baroness.
She felt her annoyance rise and struggled to contain it. She knew Kronus would not have let slip her secret, even in his present condition. Nor her brother. Yet it was obvious the baroness knew. Her military-style kilt and bodice were a perfect match for Ashara’s gown.
Georgina had made little effort at disguise. There was no way to mask the feminine proportions of her statuesque frame. Yet she had taken great care with her costume. She wore high-heeled boots with metal embossed inlay, which made her tower over Ashara. Her kilt split in the pattern of the Roman Army, cut so high she was virtually naked.
Despite herself, Ashara’s eyes lowered to the thin wisp of cloth barely covering the woman’s mount. A strip of boiled leather began at the flatness of her abdomen and rose to cup the large breasts, the nipples as taught and distended as Ashara’s. Only the thick mass of hair, flowing down around her shoulders like a cape, afforded any covering.
The baroness leaned close, her leather-clad breasts caressing the flesh of Ashara’s arm. “It seems we are meant to be together tonight. Caesar the conqueror…and Cleopatra the conquered.”
The overt touch caused Ashara to pull back reflexively, but not before she smelled a sweet, cloying scent lingering in the air. From her first breath, Ashara felt a tingling in her loins. The heat descended upon her with astonishing swiftness. The baroness suddenly danced in her vision and the scene took on an aspect of unreality.
“I must speak to you for a moment alone.” Georgina’s voice held a note of certainty and command. “Do not resist me or I shall betray your secret to everyone. It will ruin your whole evening.”
Ashara felt her arm taken in an iron grip, and the baroness steered her to the outskirts of the crowd. She was too numb and disoriented to offer any resistance. Within moments, the party receded and the liquid rippling of the waves upon the shore intruded. The moon shone full, yet the tall sentinel trees cast eerie shadows that hid them from the revelers.
“What do you want?” Ashara asked. Her words sounded distorted. Even such a simple question required a concentrated effort.
“You know what I want,” Georgina mocked her. “And why should it surprise you? Are we not sisters in our sex? Both of the blood royal?”
As her mind struggled to clear in the fresh air, Ashara realized they were alone. The hands of the baroness moved to enfold her waist. They slid downward, kneading her buttocks, pulling her irresistibly closer.
Ashara struggled, but the larger woman was stronger. In rising desperation, she fought off the lips that tried to capture hers, yet it was futile. Her mouth was forced open, and the slick wetness of the woman’s tongue was suddenly inside her.
She choked and sucked in a deep breath. Once again, the cloying sweetness enveloped her. With it came an even deeper lassitude and a greater sensual height.
The baroness released her mouth, but her arm remained encircling her waist.
“Are we not both beautiful?”
As Ashara gazed into the dark eyes swimming in front of her, she remembered the look in the garden. She knew with a sudden awareness that this woman wanted to possess her the way a man might. She should have been warier. It is too late now.
She struggled against this thought, yet the attempt was ineffectual. Her entire body was on fire. There was an aching wetness between her legs she had never encountered. The touch of her gown on her nipples was an agonizing and teasing caress, beckoning her deeper into the grip of pleasure. She heard the other woman whispering, the warm sweetness of her breath flooding her senses…the lips moist and incessant, setting her skin aflame.
“You have had a taste only…now feel the full effect,” Georgina crooned. She stepped back until she was once again in focus. Her smile was all-knowing, completely in control.
From the corner of her eye, Ashara saw the blurred hand rise, serpent swift. Uncomprehending, she saw the glint of a tiny vial.
Her chin jerked up as Georgina yanked her hair, her strength brutal and irresistible. She struggled weakly, spending the last vestige of her strength. The vial thrust into her nostril and her exclamation caused her to take a deep breath.
There was an explosion in her mind. In that single breath she became speechless, sightless, and bodiless; unknowing and uncaring. She floated as if she were a feather, and her whole being surrendered as wave after wave of intense pleasure inundated her.
The baroness appeared to hover in front of her like an evil angel whose eyes drew her into their depths. Her lips were large and red, and they whispered in a tongue she could not understand. Then they curved in a smile, wet and glistening…and she was falling…
Not falling…going into them…not even recognizing the wild wailing of her voice as she flew upward…into them…
***
Georgina lowered the girl to the ground and glanced around, thinking she had seen a flash of light slip past her face. She was deep in the grip of arousal herself, yet she was far more experienced and in control.
She satisfied herself they were unnoticed and alone.
There was a mewling sound from the girl’s throat, low and steady. Her eyes were wide open, bright violet yet unseeing. She was now deep in the grip of the Tincture.
It was here…the moment of first pleasure. She was alone with the rianna.
Georgina drew back, drinking in the girl’s incredible beauty. Soft strains of music drifted on the wind. The murmuring voices of the guests were a jumble of indistinguishable sound, reminding her of a milling flock of birds.
With trembling fingers, she untied the strand of cloth encircling the graceful neck and peeled the thin silk downward.
At once she felt a tingling, almost lost beneath the shadow of the Tincture. A small sachet peeked from between the deep cleft of the rianna’s breasts. She touched it but recoiled, suddenly afraid of the strange feeling it produced.
Her anger wiped away the fear. She was aware only that it marred the incredible beauty beneath her.
Gripping the slender thread, she tore it and flung the offending thing behind her as far as she could.
A soft cry drew her eyes back, as though from a person in the grip of a bad dream. She gasped at the perfection of the rianna’s breasts, rising proud and firm. As the smooth musculature of her rib cage defined itself with each rapid breath, they trembled ever so slightly…so tantalizingly. The nipples stood taut, surrounded by roughened ridges of equal color.
She touched them, rubbing them between her fingers, enjoying the whining note that crept into the girl’s voice. Then she stroked the smooth firmness of the surrounding flesh.
Moving lower, she caressed and kneaded with her fingers and lips. Then she lifted the short skirt, baring the unresisting thighs. A narrow band of white cloth outlined the almond flesh, and she felt her excitement rise even further as she gave a swift jerk.
The wispy material parted easily in her fingers. The pink softness of Ashara’s womanhood was stark in the moonlight. Georgina reached down and touched the spot precisely.
The girl’s hips jerked upward, accompanied by a startled gasp. Georgina lifted her head in surprise. For an instant, she was certain there was a touch of lucidity in those incredible violet eyes.
“Ah…you like it, don’t you?”
There was no answer, yet Georgina had seen enough. Her lips parted in a satisfied smile. “As I suspected,” she crooned. “You are overripe and your body is aware of it, though until now you have refused to listen.”
With infinite care, she used her finger again, exploring the slim and delicate fold of skin that blocked her passage. She ignored the wild thrashing, clasping the girl tightly, recognizing her readiness to climax yet delaying it a delicious moment more.
“The maiden’s web,” she whispered, continuing to rub the folds around the barrier faster and harder. She wanted desperately to thrust inward. But she could not…would not. She knew with absolute certainty that Zel would kill her if she stole his right.
The low-pitched moan rose in crescendo and the girl spasmed. Georgina softened her stroking, murmuring soothing words as the shudders subsided.
She smiled happily. This was one right no one else would take from her. Lowering her head, she once again began the dance she knew so well.