A hollow numbness began to spread through her as she realized what was happening. May you be blessed with unstoppable diarrhea, she had said to Treilus. It appeared that she had inadvertently called upon her abilities as a Namer; though she had not intended the insult literally, her unbreakable vow to the truth was being kept, intentionally or otherwise. Rhapsody shuddered, remembering her last words to him.
I hope you die in pain for what you are doing. And I hope that I am able to help bring it about.
Ever since she had accidentally renamed Achmed and freed him from his demonic bondage she had been painfully aware of the power of her words. She had slipped this time, had given in to her anger. And now because of her petty insult a man was dying hideously. Even if he was a reprehensible man, the thought still made her stomach writhe.
The manservant waited until the noise of the group had been swallowed up by the vast corridors of the complex, then gestured toward the entryway into the barracks. Rhapsody nodded, turning away to avoid the look of pity in his eyes, and followed him into the fighters’ wing.
She kept her head low and her eyes down as she obediently walked down the hallway. This area of the complex was far more elegantly appointed than the caverns beneath the arena, with polished floors and doors bound in brass fittings. The wood of the doors was thick and solid, but even so she could hear the occasional moan or scream of passion as she passed; it was a sound that made her gorge rise.
The manservant stopped before the door at the very end of the hallway, pointing to it to indicate this was where she was to go. She saw the look of sympathy in his eye change to dread, and gave him an appreciative smile. Then she shooed him away with her hand, nodding to signal she understood what she was to do.
She waited until he had left the corridor and was gone from sight. Then she pulled from her waistband the small bag that held the bottle Llauron had given her. She removed the vial of emollient from her bodice and slipped it into the bag, straightened her costume, and touched the upswept knot that held her hair off her face and neck. She held her breath, cast one more look around to be sure that no one was watching, and knocked on the heavy wooden door.
“Come,” said a voice within the room. The depth and power in it gave her a chill.
Rhapsody opened the door quietly and peered inside the room. It was large and spare, with an abundance of candles burning in multiple taper holders. In the center of the room was an enormous wooden bed, and even from the doorway she could see that its sheets were of the finest satin. The walls were hung with weapons and martial trophies, and discarded clothes lay in a heap by the foot of the bed.
The gladiator rose into a sitting position. Rhapsody had expected him to be powerful and large, but she was not prepared for the reality of his size. He was almost as tall as Grunthor, with immense shoulders and a titanic chest that rippled as he moved. He was surprisingly handsome, with white-blond hair that stood in waves and eyes that even in the darkness glowed dark blue as the sky at sunset. He exuded a power that made Rhapsody’s palms sweat, but she was not afraid, at least not yet. She couldn’t tell if it was the presence of the demon blood within him, or just a factor of his strength. The vulnerability she felt in the skimpy costume caused her skin to rise into goosebumps, but it was too late to turn back.
“Constantin?”
His eyes narrowed. “Yes?”
Rhapsody swallowed, wishing she had thought of a different plan. “I am sent from Treilus,” she said, hoping her use of the language was right. “He directs me to massage your back, if you wish.”
“Come in,” he answered tersely. Rhapsody came inside the room. She could feel his eyes wander over her and even from the doorway she could sense arousal. She glanced about the room, looking for a window or another exit, but saw none.
“Close the door.”
She obeyed, leaving it unlatched by a hairsbreadth.
“Come here.”
Rhapsody took a deep breath and crossed the room, stopping a few feet from the bed. Sickening memories were beginning to churn inside her, but she pushed them down and tried to stay calm.
“Sit here,” Constantin directed, indicating the bed beside him. The depth of his voice and the keenness of his gaze was having a commanding effect on her. Rhapsody came closer, opening the small sack she had brought with her.
“I have emollients to soothe your muscles,” she said, hoping to remind him of the task she had supposedly been sent for.
“You may begin with this one,” he said, and threw back the blankets. He was naked, and fully erect; the size was proportional to the rest of him.
Rhapsody felt calm settle over her as it did whenever she became aware of imminent danger. It was now obvious that Llauron had misled her; she was willing to believe it was unintentional, but it didn’t matter. She cursed herself for being so stupid as to believe that she would be safe attired as she was. She shook her head, adopting a look of confusion.
“No, your back. I am to massage your back,” she said. “You did fight today, yes?”
“Yes,” said Constantin, his tone deepening. “Sit down.”
She moved closer, unwilling to anger him. “Did you win?”
He looked at her with disdain. “Of course.”
She nodded, coming to a stop a few feet from the bed. “Was a Tovvrik decided?” she asked nervously.
Constantin smiled coldly. “I never leave an opponent uncompromised,” he said. Then, with speed that rivaled that of Achmed’s, his hands shot out and seized her, dragging her onto the bed next to him. He tore off the twisted scarf that covered her breasts and stared at her, his glare relaxing into something more frightening.
“Tomorrow you will tell Treilus that he has chosen well,” he said with a note of admiration in his thunderous voice. “Your breasts are like the rest of your body; on the small side, but perfect and desirable. You will do.” And then he pulled her roughly into a deep kiss, one arm surrounding her shoulders while with his other hand he began to coarsely fondle her breasts. She could feel the arousal she had seen becoming even more intense.
Rhapsody began to calculate as his hands moved to her abdomen. She could kill him if worse came to worst, but she was not sure if she could escape his grasp while he lived. His hands were large enough to span her waist, as he was doing now; the tips of his fingers touched behind her back, the thumbs in front of her sternum. She was aware that he could conceivably crush her rib cage if she made him angry. Detachment was setting in; she tuned out what was happening to her in order to better concentrate. Singing was not an option, at least for the moment, because his tongue was forcefully probing her mouth and stealing her breath.
His grip relaxed a little as his hands moved up her torso, cupping both breasts and caressing them brutally with callused palms and fingertips, obviously the results of many years of training and use of the weapons of his trade. She was weaponless, and it was clear to her that he would be immune to any pain that she might ordinarily be able to inflict through an attack; to do anything of the like would be foolhardy. She could unleash her fire lore against him, but it would likely kill him, and her purpose here was to save, not destroy him. Her calculations were pointing to a conclusion that she was dreading; it was possible that she would be unable to avoid being violated unless she was willing to kill him—or perhaps die in the attempt. And she had brought it on herself.
One of his hands crept into the waistband of her skirt and forced its way between her legs. At his touch she felt a strange sensation, which, much to her horror, caused her to tremble inside where his fingers came to rest.
She felt him smile as he continued to force kisses on her; he was aware of the false physical reaction he had brought in her and was pleased by it. She was familiar enough now with elemental power to recognize it, but she was not acquainted with what he was wielding against her. It seemed to be able to summon a reaction from her very blood, and as the thought occurred to her she realized it must be right. His success as a gladiator could
be explained easily if he was tied to blood, as Achmed had been. Perhaps he had the ability to let, and control, it at will.
Rhapsody gasped as his fingers probed more deeply, stroking her until they located the unnatural moisture brought about by his initial touch. He caressed her there, seeking to force her excitement as his own grew, and he shifted his weight in the bed, preparing to move her into a more accessible position. She knew that if this happened her chance to escape would be lost, so with all her might she jerked away and threw herself blindly off the bed and onto the floor, rolling to a stand before he could grab her.
She stood looking at him wildly, naked from the waist up, her hair coming down. She thought about pulling her hair around to cover her breasts but rejected the idea immediately; it might excite him even more. His face contained a look of shock that was metamorphosing into rage.
“Please,” she said, doing her best to look frightened, and not having to work too hard at it. “This is not what Treilus sent me for. I am here to massage the muscles of your back. If you are not returned to fighting condition tonight, he says I will be beaten. Please, let me do what I was sent here to do.” Her eyes glistened beneath strands of shining hair, and with all her skill she made her voice as appealing as she could.
The gladiator stared at her, his rage disappearing and leaving his face blank. He looked her up and down, and then slowly a more pleasant expression took up residence on his face. “Very well,” he said, rolling to one side. “Get on with it.”
Rhapsody sighed with relief and picked up the bag again. She pulled out the bottle with the liquid that would make him unconscious and came over to the side of the bed again. “If you will turn onto your stomach I can sit on your back as I rub your muscles,” she said, shielding her breasts with her arm.
“That would be difficult; there’s a major obstacle in the way,” he said, but he still managed to comply. He seemed far less frightening on his stomach. Rhapsody climbed onto his back, preparing to uncork the bottle.
Like lightning he rolled onto his back again, grabbing her around the middle and pulling her so she was straddling him, her knees astride his waist. Rhapsody was now without purchase, one hand holding the bottle, and she was helpless as he ripped off the rest of her costume and pushed her down along his abdomen until she came in contact with ominous throbbing heat.
One of his arms wrapped around her waist in a stranglehold; she was small enough that it was sufficient to completely surround her, pinning her to his chest. His other hand returned to its exploration between her legs, pulsing insistently. His mouth sought her neck and she felt his tongue circle slowly up her throat, coming to a stop as it began delving feverishly into her ear. Then he spoke.
“Listen to me,” Constantin said harshly, his voice deep with power and arousal. “You will massage me now, though I have already returned to fighting condition.”
He could sense her fear, no longer feigned, and it seemed to excite him even more. “Your hands could not possibly stroke me the way the muscles that I have in mind will.” His voice became softer, almost silky, as he spoke into her ear. “I will have you. I intend to take you in every way I can think of, and I am very inventive. I don’t have another bout until the afternoon tomorrow, so we will be engaged for the rest of the night and into the morning.
“Now, you have a choice. You can relax and accept that this is going to happen, and I promise you that it will be like nothing you have ever experienced. You may even come to like it. Or you can continue to fight it; I hope you do, because I will enjoy it that much more. Your muscles struggling against mine—which do you think will win? It will be a rubdown that I will insist on having after every victory.” He took his hand from between her trembling legs and positioned her closer, until his pounding heat was just barely outside her body.
Rhapsody struggled to keep the fear she now felt washing over her from taking control. “I don’t want to fight it,” she said, her voice shaking in earnest. “But you’re too large for me to handle.” Her meaning was different than his interpretation, but her words pleased him. He pushed her hips down again, making her gasp as he probed her once more, teasingly. “Please,” she whispered. “Let me at least use this. It will make things easier. Please.” She held up the bottle. Please let me do this, she thought. She could feel her fire lore bristling beneath the surface of her consciousness, waiting to be unleashed. Please don’t make me kill you.
She looked into his face with real tears brimming in her emerald eyes, and saw the look of cruel excitement temper a little. He seemed to consider for a moment; then he pushed her up into a sitting position on his thighs. “Very well,” he said, his hands moving to her breasts once more. “Anoint me.” His mouth closed around one breast as she uncorked the bottle, her hands shaking violently. His tongue circled the nipple while his hand groped her other breast, pulling it closer to receive the attention of his lips as well. As his head bent to take her second breast into his mouth he stopped and looked up, an unpleasant look on his face.
Rhapsody knew immediately what was giving him pause; the liquid in the now-open bottle had a harsh, astringent odor. Llauron’s voice rang in her ear.
Try and see if you can make him gasp as he inhales it; doubtless it will work better that way. I’m sure you’ll think of something, Rhapsody.
Pragmatism took over. She quickly put her thumb over the opening and took him in hand, his look of concern changing to one of surprise, and then pleasure.
Choking back disgust, Rhapsody leaned forward quickly and kissed Constantin, causing his eyes to close and his hands to move to cradle her head, while her free hand stroked him with a sensuous technique she had learned a lifetime ago.
Rhythmically she worked, using her charms with great success; his mouth broke with hers and he began to breathe hard, spanning her upper body with his hands and running his thumbs over her nipples. As she felt the pressure from his hands growing, she intensified her motions and rested her hand that held the bottle on top of his head, trying to avoid the stabbing movements he was now making with his lower body.
Constantin began to gasp with delight, and he grabbed her hips, trying to delve into her. As he did, Rhapsody doused his head with most of the liquid from the bottle.
His gasping sounds became rasping, then choking as he bucked backward, landing on his back. She grabbed a pillow and held it over his face as he struggled, lunging with his abdomen into the air with her atop him.
His fingers dug into her sides with a strength that made her cry out in pain, bruising the areas that had only recently healed from the thorns of the demonic vine that had tried to bind Jo in life and death. Nauseating sounds gurgled from underneath the pillow, and then his body went limp, his climax grinding to a halt.
Rhapsody stayed astride him for a moment longer, waiting to be sure the liquid had worked, then slowly climbed down, her body trembling violently. She left the pillow in place for a moment longer, then removed it to allow him air. His eyes were closed, and he did not move.
Carefully she leaned down next to his ear. “Tovvrik,” she whispered. “But you are valuable in more than the arena, Constantin, so now I am making a life offering for you.”
She moved, still trembling, to the floor by the bed and found the remnants of her costume. She donned it quickly, her hands shaking so violently that she was almost unable to tie the bodice scarf. Casting a glance back at Constantin to make sure he was still unconscious, she went to the door and listened to see if anyone had been alerted by the sounds of their encounter. Hearing nothing, she opened the door onto the deserted corridor, looked around, and then silently closed it again.
29
The Invoker’s Palace, the Circle, Gwynwood
Llauron waited until his house servants had retired for the evening before climbing to the northern tower of the tree palace where the aviary was housed.
Traversing the palace’s twisting wooden hallways, Llauron stopped for a moment and stared out a diamond-shaped window.
He watched the darkening sky as the storm worsened, blowing translucent sheets of snow in twisting patterns across his dormant gardens.
Farther out in the darkness the low limbs of the Great White Tree undulated in the wind, its bare arms writhing in an ominous dance. Llauron sighed; as always, there was wisdom in its warning.
Quietly he opened the door to the tower stairway and climbed the ancient steps, still as smooth and shiny as they had been when he was a boy. Those had been happy times; it was hard to believe now, in the wake of history, that there had been love, or something like it, here once.
The stairs spiraled upward in three tiers to the circular aviary, the place Gwylliam had built to house his lovebirds when the family was on holiday at the tree palace. When her children were young Anwyn had been insistent on leaving the darkly beautiful mountains of Canrif at least once a year, in rotating seasons, so that her sons could spend time at the foot of the Great White Tree, caring for it and learning its history, developing respect for the lands their grandmother, Elynsynos the dragon, had so long held as her own.
Llauron had loved the Tree from the first moment he beheld it; it was a soul-deep devotion that defied all others over the years of his life save one. He alone understood its significance, and what its loss would mean. The time was coming when he would no longer be able to protect it.
As he ascended the stairs he could see its branches above him through the aviary’s open ceiling. Though the trunk of the tree stood in a wide clearing several hundred yards away, its canopy was so vast that its most distant branches reached above the palace’s roof, intermingling with the boughs of the forest trees in and around which it was built. Even in winter’s bare the white branches stood out from the others, gleaming silver in the dark.