8 comments/ 8172 views/ 5 favorites Rill Glow By: talismania Author's Note: The sex in this story involves older people or an older woman with a younger man, but I think it's best in science-fiction/fantasy based on the fantasy setting and theme. * * * * * * * * * "Nothing. After months of promises." "It's just the bequest letter that was revoked—the house and the stipend attached to it. You may keep any other gifts my father gave you, of course." Though she had the regal grace expected of the mother of the new king, Princess Emyli looked uncomfortable speaking to her late father's mistress. "But not my home." Palimia carefully folded the document and tucked it back into its vellum envelope. She fingered the broken seal before lifting her gaze to take in the quiet comfort of the canal-front villa with its faded appointments and broad doors open to a summer garden. Marc Frederick Stauberg-Randolph had left her the property in a letter she had dutifully presented to his heir. King Stefan had rescinded the small bequest in exchange for the Gracious Queen's vote to create a lordship for one of his friends. "Thank you, Lady, for telling me my fate in person," Palimia said. She slid Stefan's letter into the pocket of her skirt. Her heart struggled, hollowed by grief piled upon grief. "I shall need to find another place to live. Might you persuade your son to give me a few days to pack my belongings?" Emyli looked relieved to be able to extend a kindness. "Of course," she promised. "I hope you know I tried." Yes, she believed Emyli had tried. Unlike her son, or Marc's widowed queen, Emyli had never opposed their relationship. Palimia made a show of rearranging the flowers in an alabaster vase on one of the tables. Yellow kite-tail lilies and blue asters. Late summer flowers. "It's just as well," she said. She attempted to sound light and cheerful about this new adventure. "I have family in Ilmar. My mother is getting on in years." "Well, then, I suppose you must—" Palimia turned to her and smiled brightly. "Yes." Emyli studied her for a moment, then sighed as she rose to leave. "I'll tell Stefan you won't contest the decision." "I won't." "Thank you." They walked toward the open doorway overlooking a garden leading down to one of Dazunor-Rannuli's less-traveled canals. Steps led to a small landing where Emyli's gond awaited, its canopy as brightly colored as the flowers lining the banks. As she crossed the villa's simple foyer, Emyli turned to say one thing more. "You have to travel to Sordan, surely. I know how impossible that's become." Ever since Marc Frederick's death and Stefan's ascension to the throne, the broken Triempery teetered on the edge of open war. Sordan and the North exchanged threats daily. Only mutual dependence on the Rill, the god-machine that linked their lands, bound them to a fragile truce. "Thank you," Palimia said, "but I was born in Sordan. My family was respected there while my father lived. I think I'll be able to persuade Sordan's port authorities that my reasons for returning to the city have nothing to do with trade or politics." One of Stefan's reasons for acceding to the Gracious Queen's demands had been because of Palimia's land of birth, even though for all her adult life she had lived in the North. "I appreciate, I really do, that you came to me in person." "My father would have wanted that." Neither woman mentioned that Marc Frederick would have wanted much more. * * * * "Here's a secret. I'm going to remove our soldiers from Sordan." Marc's warm breath and murmured words brushed her belly, awakening ripples of anticipation. Desire swelled between her legs, hot and slick, awaiting him. The bed on which they lay occupied a circle of white light spilled down from a window. Rill glow. Her body shone smooth and bright upon a coverlet of moss green velvet, accepting his exploration. Every encounter with Marc Frederick was like a voyage, a journey into new and wonderful experiences. This time she listened as his mouth explored her body with the practice of a lover of many years. "Why?" she asked. "Dorilian and I, we're going to do something amazing." Beyond the walls of the house and Dazunor-Rannuli's canals, a white behemoth overarched the city, its milky blaze turning the deep night pale. Its slow, majestic limbs wove mysterious patterns above the palaces of merchant princes. The Rill. Power pulled from the earth propelled armies, travelers and the vast wealth of many nations through the god-machine's vast body. Every time people spoke Dorilian Sordaneon's name, the Rill resonated behind it like a promise. From what she knew of Marc, both the Rill and the young man who called it his birthright figured in his plans. Marc had occupied Sordan to render that family powerless. "When?" she whispered. Marc's tongue found her pussy and its tender probe sent bolts of longing through her flesh. His tongue, that sweet invader, battered her defenses. She offered no resistance, though she preferred the thick punishment of his cock, the masculine assault to be followed by tender plundering. "Next week. You heard it first." He pushed her legs apart and wide, her calves upon his shoulders as his body loomed over hers, the regal spear of his manhood poised at the gate he had prepared. When he entered her, she closed her eyes, sinking into the elegance of that violation, his hard progress, her body's grateful surrender. Her entire core felt liquid, existing only to ripple around him, suck at him, and celebrate his virility. They should have been past such torrid coupling. Gray streaked his hair and she had recently noticed fine lines about her eyes and less firmness in her breasts. Why then, when she was with Marc, did she feel like a girl? Because his touch awakened long-dormant springs of desire and released passion into channels she had thought too dried up to ever flow again? He began to move within her, driving, taking, his strong hands clasping her hips. His masculine thickness stretched and filled her to the edges of endurance. She bucked against him, seeking more, always more. When she came apart, he smiled and drove harder still into her disintegration. The heavy shudder of his climax broke over them both like a huge wave she had once seen crashing against the cliffs at Aral, spewing white foam high onto the rocks. Afterward, he held her curled against his chest, exchanging sighs and contentment. He spoke again of the secret he held just as close to his heart. "We're going to surprise them all," he said. He had surprised them all . . . by dying. * * * * Palimia walked onto the Rill platform, a leather travel bag on her arm and a transit voucher in her pocket. Signs of the tension between the North and Sordan were everywhere. Soldiers crowded the platform lest Sordan should use the Rill to deliver an army, undesirables, or spies. More soldiers checked the papers of travelers, intent on stopping Stefan's targeted enemies from fleeing. She had little worry he would stop her. All she'd ever been in the North was now the stuff of memories. She had known two husbands: a forced marriage as a teen and a later marriage for companionship. Her first husband's family had robbed her of her family's assets. Her second husband, though kindly, had left her with nothing but his good name. And now Marc Frederick, her most wonderful of companions, her robust lover of a thousand interests and surprises, was gone and with him what little was left of her security. His assurances that she would get the villa and not want for anything had been reduced to words others chose not to honor. With a sigh, she looked out over the city where she had lived for so many years. Dazunor-Rannuli glittered, a lacework of small lakes and canals connected to the mighty river that tied it to an empire. The highest ground in the city was the Rill mount, connected to the rest of the city by five bridges. Barge docks crowded the mount's fringes, dense with warehouses and holding yards. Higher still was the walled, secluded temple and school of the Order of Epoptes. Above all these things soared the Rill itself. White as bone, its monumental structures and branching pylons, twelve to the north and twelve to the south, dwarfed all else in the city. Given her new circumstances, returning to Sordan was Palimia's most viable option. Her mother was indeed getting on in years, reason enough to return to her childhood home. She supported the old woman, and now the means for that support were gone. She had only a modest amount of money—a pittance, really—though selling her horses, gond and carriage had yielded enough to meet her expenses for relocation. She would soon need to add to her funds by selling more of the gifts Marc Frederick had bestowed during her time with him. Clutching her voucher, Palimia walked with her fellow passengers into the just-summoned charys, found an unoccupied seat, and waited until the door simply vanished and the charys became a seamless shell. The interior glowed, a gossamer cocoon of light. Portions of the shell cleared, no longer opaque. Though people outside could not see into a charys, those within now had an unimpeded view: the next wave of passengers waiting for the Rill heading north to Permephedon, a flock of yellow-robed acolytes striding along the colonnade, the shining lace of the city's canals stretching to the broad, dawn-silvered ribbon of the Dazun River. A fine vibration, not quite a hum, alerted Palimia and she drew a breath. Having traveled by Rill before, she relaxed as the charys shell contracted, eliminating walking space around the seating area. No one panicked, a welcome sign this trip would not be disturbed by the cries of the inexperienced. She heard the first whine of Rill-shift as the platform outside faded. The initial low thrum registered in her ears and vibrated beneath her breastbone—then the terminal and everything in it appeared to burst apart. Many passengers preferred to experience the journey with eyes closed, but she held hers open, exhilarated to see the North vanish in a heartbeat, replaced by flowing streams of green, white and turquoise. Within a span of heartbeats, those streams broke around streaks of dark gray and rich emerald, emerging into strands of bright golds and blues that gently coalesced as the charys thrummed and slowed, her body feeling only the slightest of tugs, and the light broke apart again into a lake, an island, trees and flowers—and a city soaring white and tall upon silver cliffs. The passengers exited onto the platform and the charys dissolved, leaving the concave transport slip empty. Palimia crossed the platform, then paused to breathe deeply of the orange-scented air and marvel at the majestic planes and stepped terraces of the Sordaneon Serat, the Hierarch's palace, built on a level with the terminal, just above the upper city. The lower city below the terminal descended toward a harbor dotted with all manner of ships. That vision fortified her. Holding tightly to her Letter of Repatriation, obtained only two days before from the Hierarchate, she proceeded with the other passengers to be approved before being allowed to enter the city. Before evening, she had secured a modest apartment in a declining but still respectable quarter of the lower city, on a tree-lined street overlooking the lake. The Rill sprawled overhead with great sweeping wings, its glow painting the city silver. When morning came, she would undertake the last of her promises to Marc Frederick. * * * * "Promise me," he said. She had filled the room with flowers from the garden. Marc would not make love outdoors because the chance of being seen went against his resolve to not subject his queen to humiliation. It was enough he kept a mistress. She had the pleasure of his body, and hers, and long nights spent in his arms, but she had no claim on his life. "Nothing will happen to you," she said. She spoke from fear. "I'm a man. Men are mortal. You will know what to do with whatever remains of me after I am gone. I wish only to hear you say you will act on that knowledge." He had eyes blue as the sky, clear kingly orbs that looked into her fears. She drew the ghostly narcissus in her fingers along the line of his muscular thigh. Age had not slowed him and Marc Frederick was an active man, frequently engaging in sword practice and riding as often as many men much younger than he. The flower's stamens left a dusting of golden pollen on the dark hair of his leg. "I will act on what I know . . . if I know anything at all. But Marc—" His fingers pressed her lips and she parted for them, kissing each perfect tip. He angled her face near and the kiss he gave her vanquished all darkness, all fear. "Glorious," he whispered upon her mouth. "The future will be glorious." * * * * It took two days and hours of waiting in antechambers, answering crisp questions from one or another of the Hierarch's several secretaries, before her petition was approved for inclusion on Dorilian Sordaneon's calendar. From having seen Marc Frederick's schedules, she knew how her entry would appear: G. Palimia Kastryonis. Consideration of S-R royal document. Personal. She was to go to the Serat the next day with other petitioners, and wait in hope the Hierarch would decide to receive her. If he did not, she was not to return. Why am I doing this? I despise royal courts. After this, she would have no more reason to seek out the halls of aristocracy. Walking downhill from the upper city, she stopped at a baker for bread and purchased white cheese and a pot of spicy orange preserves from one of the artisans who catered to Sordan's nobility. Although decimated a generation ago by the North's hard-handed occupancy, the newly liberated city appeared robust and decidedly prosperous. She'd seen several grand residences being renovated on the way. Had things been different, her father might have lived in such a house. Now his daughter aspired to find a position, perhaps as a governess or secretary, in the household of some person who should have been her peer. The next day following a plain breakfast, Palimia donned a long chiton of palest lavender silk, then tied a widow's cloak of thin, pewter-hued wool so it covered one shoulder. On her bared right arm she wore one of Marc Frederick's gifts, a gold armband patterned with silver wire around a central medallion of amethyst glass. She did not go early to secure a more favorable seat in the waiting area, but appeared at the time directed and found a bench near the back. She'd barely taken that seat when a tall, gold-haired man wearing Sordaneon colors of emerald and silver entered the room. Heads snapped up to follow his progress as he crossed the floor. Toward her. Any doubt her name had caught the Hierarch's eye vanished. She recognized Legon Rebiran. "Lady," Legon said, stopping before her and speaking softly. "Come with me." He led her past dozens of curious eyes, between the soldiers at the doors, then along a high-ceilinged corridor lined with portraits of Sordan's former rulers, a single line of descent, twenty-two in all. She walked past more soldiers into another room. This new room presented a grand, open space, with a silver dais and winged throne standing in front of a mural such as she had never seen: the life-sized new Hierarch on the day of his coronation in this very hall, surrounded by his just as life-sized nobles, including the man at her side. Dorilian, seated on the throne and facing her, didn't quite match his portrait. At only twenty-one years and fashioned by the mingled bloodlines of mortals and gods, he was even more handsome in person. His silver eyes looked warmer and his hair, the color of rich maple wood, was longer now that his mourning month had passed. Even so, the artist had captured his essence of arrogance and privilege. Palimia had never seen a more perfect likeness. "Your Thrice Royal Grace," she acknowledged, kneeling and bowing deeply until her forehead touched the floor. Had she wanted anything from Dorilian, his frown upon seeing her would have killed such thoughts. She had only met him twice before, enough to know he could be caustic. Marc Frederick had never affirmed their relationship in front of Dorilian, though the young man almost certainly had known, or guessed. Had she made a mistake, thinking he might receive her kindly? "A most unusual petition," he said. His voice possessed a complexity rare in one so young. He must have dismissed his chief secretary, who ordinarily would sit at the stone desk to one side of the dais, recording the conversation. Only two men, Legon and Dorilian's giant cousin, Tiflan Morevyen, remained in the room. She was among his familiars. "I would like to help you, but my secretaries didn't specify what manner of Stauberg-Randolph document you're offering." He hadn't used her name, and he'd given his words an acerbic bite, but at least he didn't deny his interest. She reached into the large bag she had carried from Dazunor-Rannuli. Touching leather, she pulled out a hefty envelope. "I'm not interested in love letters," he warned. "You'll be interested in this." From inside the envelope, she retrieved a book thick with pages. "The last two years of Marc Frederick's life." She raised her head in time to see surprise, before suspicion hardened the young features. The expression was a familiar one. Dorilian trusted no one. "His journal?" He surely knew Marc Frederick had kept such a record. The year he had spent in the late king's company would have revealed that habit. The earlier volumes had been kept in other places and passed to Emyli or Stefan, but this one— Palimia nodded. "He left it with me at our house in Dazunor-Rannuli, the morning he departed for Permephedon to meet with you." She ducked her head again, knowing better than to proceed further into what had happened that day. "I had to leave my house recently, and—" "I know, Lady. I know, too, that you've been selling things off." So that was what he thought of her. Caught by surprise, blinking tears, she bit back a laugh. "Marc always told me never to turn away a gift, that I would find a use for every one of them someday. I never guessed he would be so right." "He was always right." The words could have been bitter, but they were not. Dorilian understood Marc as well as she had, and might even have loved him more. Dorilian rose and walked down the silver steps from the dais. The two other men in the room stood taller, their expressions sharpening as they watched him walk toward her. What was it like for him, to have men assess his every move? When he reached her, he extended his hand. He wanted the book. She held it out, lowering her gaze as the beloved leather left her fingers. Goodbye, she thought to the man she had loved, goodbye, goodbye . . . He walked away, distraction in his slow uneven footsteps. She looked up to see him paging through the book. Was he gauging its authenticity? He would know the writing, see for himself the man within the words penned on each creamy page. A table ringed by wide chairs upholstered in emerald brocade stood before a wall of windows, and a view of city and harbor that made a perfect backdrop for diplomats. He seated himself in the carved chair at the table's head and kicked his feet up onto the polished surface. "I could seize this collection of writings as vital to my state's interest, you know," he said, turning another page. He glanced over for a moment to measure her response. She had none to show. Perhaps that intrigued him. He resumed reading. "How much do you want for it?" Opportunity dangled. Dorilian might pay a great deal, a king's ransom, for what this book contained. She would be justified. Marc might not disapprove, given that his heir had denied his bequest to her. And Dorilian, knowing her circumstances, would probably not hold it against her. He had resources to spare. The Sordaneons received a portion of every Rill fee, making his fortune greater than he could ever spend. But she had not come here to obtain gold. Rill Glow "One thing only, Your Thrice Royal Grace," she said. "Allow me to rise? And be seated?" It was an incredibly bold request, one that caused his companions to lift eyebrows. But she knew Dorilian Sordaneon did not, really, mind boldness. He flicked his silver gaze at her, deciding if he should be affronted, then signaled for her to rise and join him at the table. Palimia restrained her sigh of relief, not just at being allowed to get up from his cold marble floor. "Surely you want more for this heirloom than my indulgence, Lady," he continued once Tiflan had shown her to a seat at the table. One at the far end of the table. He continued to keep his feet up, showing tanned, long-muscled legs. She noted with a shock they were not completely hairless, as was the case with Staubaun men. She had forgotten Dorilian's mixed blood. She flashed the tall cousin a smile, then kept it in place for the Hierarch. "Nothing. My only goal was to see it in your hands—as Marc would have wanted." "Is that what he told you?" "No, Thrice Royal." She remembered that last morning very well. "He said only that if something happened to him, I would know what to do. After I read for a bit . . . I did know. I knew it was meant for you." Eyes the color of rain clouds locked onto hers, asking what her motives might be. Marc had told her Dorilian was a true Highborn heir and gifted, able to pluck emotions from behind eyes and within heartbeats he felt from afar. She, at least, had no cause to fear what he might uncover. She felt only peace at having fulfilled the wishes of a man she'd loved. He released her from his gaze and turned to Tiflan. "I won't be seeing anyone else this morning. Handle any petitions you can and move the others to another day." He sank back in his chair, seeking comfort, and turned to the first page of the journal. To Palimia, he said, without looking up. "You may go. Legon will see you safely home." * * * * Palimia's small apartment occupied the far corner of a rundown building that had formerly housed students attending a nearby academy. The dwelling had been converted to serving travelers who paid by the week and didn't mind having to carry water up three floors from the cistern. A vestige of gentility still clung to the walls and the pavement outside was swept, the house painted a hopeful shade of coral. Palimia liked the color and that the apartment's main room opened onto a tiny balcony from which, if she leaned over a railing and peered around a corner, she could see a sliver of lake. At the moment, however, she noted only the cracks in the walls, the flaking paint on the ceiling, and how the formerly fine carpet was now too faded and worn to afford either padding or beauty. The few pieces of tired furniture offered scant comfort to guests, which at the moment she regretted. Hearing the rap that announced someone at her door had been a shock, but opening it to find Dorilian Sordaneon standing at her doorstep had stolen her power of speech for a full minute. That he had come incognito she knew because her landlord's broom briskly and loudly swept the stairs, and the building's courtyard echoed with the happy cries of children at play. A formal visit would have silenced both. "Thrice Royal, I did not expect—" "I thought this would be more private," he said. Her mind raced around what those words might mean. At least her extensive experience as a hostess gave her the presence of mind to bid him enter. He had caught her half-dressed and her chiton was barely presentable, light and modest, though clean. Her hair fell about her shoulders in a tangle, held back from her face by a pair of hastily pinned jeweled combs. She stood beside her barren sideboard, wondering what to do next as Sordan's ruler sat in the room's only chair, foregoing the couch she'd placed near the window for the breeze. His penetrating gaze and schoolboy looks confused her. The tunic of fine creamy linen and fawn cotton breeches he wore had been chosen to downplay his station yet still managed to seem too elegant for his surroundings. He'd come with only two men. Legon Rebiran had entered with him and now leaned against a wall across the room, and a hulking retainer named Tutto stood outside the door, his attention fixed on the street. Rill thrum sounded overhead, lightly vibrating the building. "I've delved into your situation," Dorilian said. "The journal clearly states your lover's wish that you receive property upon his death." She bowed her head, looking at her folded hands. "It says a lot of things." "You could have used it to support your case." "It wouldn't have mattered. The letter was even clearer, and a legal document besides. It was authenticated by Marc's secretary and five Archhalial clerks." She glanced up at him again, aware of how bureaucratic it all sounded. Dorilian looked sympathetic and willing to listen. "I submitted the letter three times," she explained, "the last time to King Stefan personally. He kept the letter, that time, and sent me a response, handwritten, saying the bequest could not be granted because the property was entailed as a crown estate. He expressed his regrets." Though she tried to sound dispassionate, her emotions burdened the words with bitterness. She had wished to keep that house and the trove of memories it held: Marc Frederick's laughter waiting around corners, his sensibility in furnishings and his smell still haunting the upholstery. The house and the small annual stipend attached to it would have been enough, with her frugal habits, to preserve her comfort. "Stefan's an ass. I have not seen the letter, of course. In all likelihood, it has been destroyed. However, the dead King's journal clearly states his wish that you should receive the villa in Dazunor-Rannuli. Had he known his heir would not honor his wishes, he would have done it differently, or given you a different house." It was strange, she thought, how Dorilian avoided saying Marc Frederick's name. The two had been close, antagonists at first but at the last fiercely united in defending some hard-won ground between them that few understood—and now he would not speak Marc's name, as if it were too hated to pass his lips, or too intimate. What Dorilian, the last man to see Marc Frederick alive, recalled of those final moments, no one knew because he refused to speak of that day. "We were not lovers very long, Thrice Royal. A year only. Though Marc said he wished me to have the house, and gave me the letter, we never thought it would be needed so soon. After his death, to stay in the house we had shared—I wanted that. But aristocratic affairs are complicated, and his queen felt the need to make a statement." "Which she did." "Oh, royally," she agreed. He laughed, his amusement knife-edged. No one knew the workings of royalty better than he, who had been born into those acid coils. "She cannot harass you here." Pride sharpened his words. "I'll make sure they leave you alone. She's afraid of me, they all are. Stefan most of all." He looked around the apartment, taking in the details: bare walls and broken slats shading the window. Palimia cringed at what he must think. She doubted this man had ever set foot in so shabby a dwelling. The Sordaneons slept on beds of gold, in rooms of pearl. "Are you bringing your mother to Sordan?" he asked. "You'll need a bigger place, with running water." Where had he learned about her mother? No doubt he had set men to look into her family and marriages, her history, all the tiny details of her common little life. She drew herself straighter, to head him off. "I am looking—" "Stop looking. I intend to make good on your lover's promise to you." She stared at him, not in hope, but with a sudden, new fear. There was real danger in getting caught up in the Highborn Hierarch's battle with Stefan. Even more than others of his notably vindictive family, this Sordaneon could be terrifyingly single-minded. Watching her with an unnerving, cat-like intensity, he continued. "Your lover had a house in the Upper City, did you know that?" "No. But Thrice Royal, I cannot—" "No one's living there now, of course." Of course not. The idea that Stefan or any of the Stauberg-Randolphs would actually venture into Sordan, much less take up residence, was a political impossibility. But his proposal veered along a road that ended at a cliff. "Please, Thrice Royal, I did not come here to seek anything for myself. I gave you the journal . . . I fulfilled a trust!" "As will I, by appointing you administrator of your late lover's assets here in Sordan. There are other buildings—warehouses, for the most part, but also farms and mines, not to mention stocks of grain and ores that are currently stagnating—and he kept considerable deposits of precious metals in his own name here and in Hestya. I have, for weeks now, not allowed those monies or properties to be liquidated or transferred." His gaze terrified her. In it lurked something vengeful, but also incisive and calculating in a way she had never seen before. Even Marc Frederick, a man so crafty the Highborn in the North had deferred to his vision for their nation, had not shown her such a deliberative quality, fixed on far-flung consequences. What Dorilian proposed had very little to do with her, save that it allowed him to honor a ghost. He continued to watch her intently. "The North believes I will confiscate the Stauberg-Randolphs' misplaced wealth. I am not going to do that. It pleases me better to hold the assets in trust. You can live in the residences, if you wish—or not, that will be up to you. I think doing so will allow you better to maintain them. In return for overseeing the estate, you will receive a fee of a tenth portion of any monies earned, beginning with what's been earned thus far. My treasurer will reconcile the books twice each year." "I am not qualified!" "I disagree." How did one argue with a Sordaneon? The blood of that family flowed through the holy veins of the Rill and men alike, and Dorilian was all but worshipped by many as a god. If only Marc were still alive, he could advise her how to proceed. He alone had known how to make this young godling see reason. All she knew for certain was that everything Dorilian proposed had purposeful shape, like a javelin—sharp, deadly, and perfectly thrown at Stefan. He accepted her stunned silence with a rare smile. Perhaps he saw that she recognized his maneuver. "There will be protests, naturally, but nothing that will require your attention. You are completely outside any authority but mine and any action threatened against you will be unenforceable unless Stefan should launch—and win—a war. I don't fear that possibility, and neither should you." She had few arguments left, but she deployed one of them. "Stefan hates you already, why provoke him further?" "Because doing so amuses me." He rose, and nodded to Legon that he should leave to make ready their horses. "Thrice Royal, out of respect to the memory of my late liege, I cannot accept any position that would embarrass or harm his family." "They harmed—and humiliated—you." "Humiliation, yes. But I was not harmed. I was sent from Marc with no less than as I came to him, and I kept my dignity throughout. I would not now impoverish his heirs." "Nor would I, Lady," he said. "Your own words provide the reason why I can entrust you to preserve his property. You have no loyalty to Stefan now, after what he did—you also are only moderately loyal to me. Your true loyalty belongs to a man who lies in a grave and to whom I owe a debt of promises I am foresworn to keep. I respect your allegiance to him, so long as you honor my place as your Hierarch. This, I believe you will do." "Thank you, Thrice Royal," she said. The enormity of his trust rendered opposition silent. He'd just reached the door when he turned back to her and flashed another of his smiles. "A year from now, you're going to thank me for setting you free. It'll be fun. You'll see." He left without waiting to hear if she had any opinion on the matter. She leaned against the door, astonished, a smile on her lips. * * * * "His wife despises him. She's pregnant but the child's not his. He's so young she thinks he's inconsequential, powerless. People forget boys grow to be men." The night was unraveling with dawn. Silver Rill light threaded through the window into their bedchamber. Marc's mind had been too full for sleep, and all night his thoughts had spilled over into words and a strange, spontaneous lovemaking during which she had cried out his name. Afterward, he'd made her drunk with kisses and revelations. "Some men grow to be boys again," she teased. She pulled the light cover from his body, exposing his fair skin and relaxed limbs, his cock lying quiescent upon his thigh. It possessed a regal presence even when resting, a thrilling potential. "Yes, if they're lucky. And the luckiest of all will know love. They will find it, and keep it. And teach it to others." She rose upon an elbow, studying him. He had taught her so much about love—had she taught anything to him? With her right hand, she caressed the broad shield of his chest thick with hair darker than that on his head. His differences from other men served as his greatest attractions. The Staubaun aristocrats she had known before him had been smooth as marble. "I love you, Marc," she said. "I love you so much it scares me." "Embrace it, then. Don't let powerful things scare you," he said, pulling her down, his lips seeking hers. "Fear unmakes everything, even hope. Give your heart free rein and you will be powerful, stronger than fear." His mouth seized hers, hungry and hard, consuming. "I love you, too," he said as the sun nudged above the window sill, obliterating the glow of the Rill. * * * * "It's so . . . dazzling!" Palimia stood at the edge of the Rill platform in Hestya and gazed at the gold-hued Lissam palace. At her side, Dorilian looked pleased. He also looked relaxed, his body tall and easy, his gray eyes free of the cold reserve for which he was so famous. That he accompanied her on this tour of Marc Frederick's Sordan properties was nothing short of monumental . . . doing so had required travel by Rill, and he had not traveled by Rill since Stefan's coronation nearly a year earlier. "I designed the outer wall," he said, pointing it out. She followed the strong line of his arm, marking how martial the movement was, how suited to a leader. He had an actor's instinct for movement. "And I shall stay there?" "You shall have your own apartment. I can't imagine you staying anywhere else. After all, your properties here consist of warehouses and feed yards." True, but Marc Frederick had owned lots of those. Over the past six months, Palimia had gained a firm grasp of the late king's holdings and found to her astonishment that she controlled a fortune of over six million decares. Her portion as administrator provided over five hundred thousand decares annually, more than the proceeds of a Rill slot. She was now, without a doubt, a rich woman. Her first act had been to move her mother and widowed sister into the jewel box of a palace Marc had owned in Sordan's Upper City. Her second was this trip to the thriving grain port of Hestya, where the bulk of Marc's Sordan assets were located. Upon arriving at the palace, she found that her apartment consisted of several chambers for herself and her servants—she had hired a lady's maid to attend her and an old scribe to help her catalog the assets—as well as a spacious bath, kitchen and garden. The Hierarch provided her with a cook and gardener. Leaving her maid to unpack, she visited two of the properties in town, then returned to the palace to rest for the remainder of the hot afternoon. When she awakened, she found a summons to dinner. Dorilian did not issue invitations. Legon escorted her to the Hierarch's dwelling, which occupied the highest floors of the main, heavily guarded building. Everything about the palace bore Dorilian's stamp and was magnificent. Rooms filled with light greeted her, floors of soft white stone yielding to carpets of rich earth hues beneath a high ceiling supported by gold-veined pillars. To one side a terrace rimmed with sandstone perched high above the palace and city, looking out at the Rill mount and, beyond it, the copper ribbon of Hestya's sunset-gilded river. Dorilian waited, looking as casual as she had ever seen him, clad in a plain white chiton with only sandals strapped upon his feet. He guided her to a table set with a simple yet exquisite repast. Dishes of quail hearts in wine and delicate rolls of nearly translucent shellfish nestled among plates of dense, fresh bread and steaming pearls of Sordan's elegant native rice. If there were servants in this place, they stayed out of sight. Even Legon had melted away. She and the Hierarch were alone. Palimia drew a deep breath, and spooned tiny hearts bathed in rich sauce onto her plate. "You completely defeated my intention in returning to my birthplace. I came only to give you the journal, then fade into the populace, a mere footnote. Now look at me, acting as a landlady! I enter a building, men turn over their account books . . . I ask where the real ones are—" He laughed and so did she. She related her adventures, not even attempting to conceal her excitement. There was still so much, really, for her to learn—barges and loads, contracts and leases. The old scribe, who had served as a Triemperal accountant during the occupation, was earning his salary by catching all manner of tricks. "He's clever," she said in the old man's praise. "I've already given him an added bonus! I make him explain everything until it makes sense. That's the only way I'll learn. I enjoy learning new things, visiting new places. So did Marc. That's why—" She stopped herself, the name crashing between them. She could prattle terribly when excited. "I'm sorry, I—" "You can say his name." The young man looked away, toward the Rill mount and its crown of surreal power. "I need to hear it. It keeps him from fading." After another awkward silence, he asked, "Did you read the whole journal?" "Yes. I read it constantly those first weeks . . . I simply needed to have something of him still, to read his words. When I do, I hear his voice, even now. His letters, his books. Reading them helps me deal with the loss." That, at least, they shared. What gazed at her through the young Hierarch's eyes was part pain, part yearning. "I thought—I hoped—maybe you would find healing, too." "I was suspicious of you at first. I had my agents in the North look into whether Stefan had, by some chance stroke of brilliance, recruited you as a spy. But all they could find was that Stefan had denied your bequest in order to placate the Gracious Queen. You could have attempted to change Stefan's mind by offering him the journal. But you didn't. And so you left, and nobody cared enough to try to stop you. They foolishly believed you could have nothing I would find useful." He set his silver fork upon his plate, indicating he had finished eating. Politely, she followed suit. "Weren't you afraid I'd try to silence you, because of what that journal says?" "No," she said, though her confidence in that answer was false. The journal revealed in detail the promises to have been exchanged at Permephedon—world-changing promises, including Dorilian's agreement to unleash the god-machine that ruled their lives. Changing the Rill changed . . . everything. The North's powerful merchant princes, and Stefan also, would have paid a great deal to obtain that information. That she had delivered the journal to Dorilian instead had opened a different door. Rill Glow "He includes numerous examples of my failings." "But also his own." "I'm more concerned with mine. Do you agree with him?" "That you have failings? Yes, and be glad. Else I would find you quite uninteresting." Palimia smiled to see how much his youth showed at such times as this. Like any young person, Dorilian was single-minded in his pursuit of self-discovery. In recent weeks she had even flirted with him as a way of pushing at his formidable boundaries. Yet there was something more tonight, a specifically masculine intensity in the way he baited her. Suddenly she felt it best to deflect. "Marc so wanted to earn your regard. Oh, how hard he tried! Reading his journal, I understood. He rejoiced at knowing you were his friend, however in secret." "He never kept that secret from you." "No. I knew." "He trusted you. I'm glad you brought his journal to me. Reading his words . . . is like a final visit, a chance to have another talk with him. We—we didn't have time for goodbye." His grief pierced her. Would she ever learn what had happened that day? An indomitable tower destroyed and a hundred princes and diplomats slaughtered by sorcery. Only Dorilian had survived. Survived and been blamed. Whatever had happened at Permephedon had been so terrible Dorilian still was haunted. A wall of fire. The cracks and mighty groans of a building being torn apart, filled by the howl of wind. Screams, silent screams, and the terrible crushing agony of a hundred hearts stopping one by one. Run! someone cried. She recognized Marc's voice. With a stifled gasp, Palimia realized the images that welled into her mind were memories, not imaginings. Dorilian's memories bleeding through . . . a consequence of unshielded Highborn power. A projective empath, Marc had called him. Powerful. Damaged. Hidden from his enemies, but maybe not hidden well enough. Help him, please. Not a memory now, not Marc's voice and yet words he would have spoken. Her heart recognized Marc's last request. It had not been for the journal, but the man. "I think I know why he wanted you to have his thoughts, his hopes," she said. "I think he knew that if he died . . . he wanted you to know. To know he believed in you, to know he cared. He wanted me to help you find ease." For a long minute, Dorilian said nothing, his eyes drying as he gazed into places she had never seen and could not go. Places only he and Marc had ever gone. Sunset lent new heat to his striking, youthful beauty, illuminating the high perfection of his cheekbones and controlled sensual mouth. Almost always he looked cold, remote, so uncaring it was easy to accord him the distance his gifts demanded. Tonight, however, his eyes bore something new, glimmering on the other side of tears. "I need ease . . . in other ways," he said at last. "Stay with me tonight." The very air seemed to coalesce with meanings. Palimia stopped breathing. She recognized a sexual invitation, albeit an awkward one. The youthful Hierarch had been taught to command, not seduce, hence his abruptness. What she needed was time to think through her response. The wine glass would serve. She lifted it, took a deep long sip before she answered. "Were I to do as you ask, Thrice Royal, people would talk." "People talk anyway." "They will say I am your mistress." "Will they be right or wrong?" Did he watch her thoughts? Marc had said Dorilian could pluck emotion from the atoms of her breath and the heat of her skin, filter bright motes of truth from the slime of lies, even send his feelings into her with such force she would think them her own. The god-born lived in isolation for good reason. Few humans ever learned how to fully manage their effects. Truth was the one constant, the one immutable argument. Fear collected at the edges of her courage. "I don't have power of my own," she said. "I can't afford to make mistakes." "Neither can I." The ugly reality of his gilded life hung within those words. "My mistakes could kill me." "So could mine." Power hardened in his silver gaze. "Do you mean me? You can tell me no. If you do, it will be as if this conversation never took place, as if this night had never happened. The esteem in which I hold you is such I would never diminish you in any way. I would do nothing to offend his memory." The thrust of that emotion pushed against her bare defenses. She remembered what Marc's journal had said about countering Highborn empathy and focused on him, not her fears. Dorilian's words carried the only truth that mattered. "I'm not asking you to love me, Lady. I don't expect that you will, nor can I say what it is I will feel toward you. Probably not love. But respect always, and—it's not true that I—" The blush that crossed his youthful face was genuine embarrassment at the nature of his request. She doubted any other person had ever seen him look this vulnerable, or desperate. "The fact is, I like women, but I meet very few and fewer still who are not thrust at me burdened with the intentions of men. You know what I mean. Every woman introduced to me has an ambitious father or brother. Every day I am offered women by men who seek my favor—and I don't intend to be in any man's debt, especially for that. Then tonight Legon offered to find me a virgin—" From Marc, she knew how that offer would have stung. Dorilian's father had favored only virgins, and even betrayed Dorilian by sleeping with the young man's virgin wife. "—I don't want a virgin," Dorilian continued, sounding frustrated. "I don't want some helpless girl giving herself to me out of duty or fear. I want a woman who is beautiful and intelligent and knows how to please a man. Someone who doesn't feel false and wrong, veiled in lies. Someone who does not already despise me. Someone I can trust." Her heart beat faster. Though he was attractive and powerfully alluring, particularly now with his desire pulsing in the air between them and igniting her blood, Dorilian was young enough to be her son. "Thrice Royal," she said, and knew she was floundering. He had said she could refuse him . . . so why couldn't she say those words? Maybe because the clamor of her body was already saying yes? Marc, what do I do? However brief their time together, he had been the love of her life, though she had not been the love of his. That woman, a beautiful Kheld lady, had died in his arms. But he had loved her, and would want her to prosper and live the rest of her life fully. Even now she heard his voice telling her to not be afraid, to follow her heart. Well, her heart told her she could trust this young Hierarch. He would be an honorable lover and his reasons for choosing her matched her needs. Though her heart would never belong to anyone but Marc, she could not imagine being celibate. Dorilian had risen from the table and now stood over her, extending his hand. Palimia placed her fingers in his and felt the crackle of power as he pulled her into his arms. Her body melted. They had never touched before this and something electric flowed from his flesh into hers, tingling of passion and sexual fire. She wondered how any woman could ever have called him cold. But she must take control of the moment, and him, if she was to govern such ardor. She stepped back from his attempted embrace, noting the flicker of anger that crossed his face as he thought she was about to refuse him. Just as quickly, he mastered it. His face closed and looked resigned. Holding his gaze, Palimia moved both hands to her left shoulder and unfastened the pin fastening the panels of her lightweight chiton. When the fabric came free and fell, she moved her hands to the right shoulder, unfastening that pin also until it too fell and bared her breasts. "You're so beautiful." He stared for a long minute before raising his eyes again to hers. For perhaps the first time in his life, he was seeking permission. Smiling, she took his right hand and placed it on her breast, where his palm immediately began to wander, cupping the round shape and warm weight of her flesh. His breathing quickened and the front of his chiton tented instantly. His eagerness inspired her. Her older lovers had needed more preparation. "You, too, are . . . beautiful," she whispered. Dorilian was beautiful, his face and body on the verge of attaining the classic perfection that so marked his race. Tall now, with hair more bronze than blond and skin kissed brown by the sun, he was so handsome her heart swelled. She no longer felt any fear of him. Palimia pressed her body against his, trapping his hand between her breast and his chest as she lifted her lips to brush upon his. He answered with an ardor she welcomed, his response to her in no way timid. Dorilian would be nothing if not bold. Keeping him from taking control would be the greater challenge. His mouth crushed upon hers, his lips firm and demanding as his arm wrapped about her ribs and pulled her against him. He was taller now than when she had first met him two years ago in Dazunor and his manhood pushed hard and thick against her belly. Excitement flared between her legs as she became certain. "Come," she said. She led him away from the dining table and toward the room's wide chaise, perfect for her purpose. Standing in front of it, she released the sash tied about her waist and stepped out of the chiton when it dropped in soft folds to the floor. Her body had been her currency for many years and she'd taken care to keep her figure. She had never borne children and her skin was unblemished by stretch marks, her waist and hips still slim, her full breasts still high and presenting milky orbs tipped by pink areolas. Dorilian took her silence and stillness as permission and she quivered at his touches, the way he explored her body tentatively, with an inexperience she found both charming and sad. He had been married, briefly and tragically, yet he did not know how to touch a woman, though he attempted to rub her nipples pleasantly. No one had seen to his sexual education, probably because he so steadfastly resisted manipulation. Now that he had chosen her to provide him with those experiences, she embraced the role. Marc, she suspected, would have appreciated her choice of pupil. "I will soon show you every way to please me," she told him, "but first—" She dared to touch the backs of her fingers to his handsome face, earning a pause and look of surprise. Expertly, she loosened the sash of his chiton, then unpinned it so it too could drop. "I wish to look upon you, as you do upon me." When she stepped back to examine him fully, she found reason to be pleased. Dorilian's parents had given him beauty of form: a body still slender with youth but already deep and broad enough in the chest and shoulders to arouse any woman's desire. And his skin was perfect; every amazing hand span could have been creamy marble carved by a master. "You are most fair to look upon, and this eager fellow—" she brushed his male member, already fully at attention, "—has no peer. He shall undoubtedly get his way." "And soon, I hope." His voice was husky with desire, and impatience. "I can barely wait," she assured him, meaning it. But she wanted their first time to be much more than a crude rutting. Any man, knowing nothing better, could find an animal's release between a woman's legs, but she was not just any woman, nor he any man. The Rill's thrum vibrating the strings of empire had originated in his ancestor's heartbeat. She curled her fingers around his cock, measuring him with approval. His lineage had gifted him favorably: he was long and also thick, with a sleek perfection that invited her hand to simply stroke his shape. Her fingers pushed back the fine-grained foreskin to reveal the head, blood-filled and smooth, darker than the dusky shaft. Droplets of pre-cum welled in fat beads of excitement. Once inside her, he would not last long. A broad wall painted with a fresco of horses running through a field of ripened wheat stood behind the chaise and she gently pushed him against it. Though his eyes widened slightly at having her order him, he complied. When he stood pressed against the wall, she kissed him again, his mouth when he lowered it, then softly moving to his neck, his collarbone, discovering for herself the landscape of his body. The Highborn were not wholly human. Marc had told her Dorilian's body made few distinctions between mental and physical touches. He tasted fear. Hate penetrated his skin. The distaste of a lover would feel like a slap. Intense lust could border on an assault. His barriers had to be strong to keep him from the agony of feeling every passing look or thought. All the more reason to awaken him within his own skin, isolate him from those other senses. He needed liberation from a prison designed to keep others out. Palimia kept her kisses soft, teasing, focusing on her love of male bodies. His was arousing, and if not virgin then nearly so. Every hollow tempted her, her tongue dipping into the hot recesses, her lips skimming the elevations. When she reached his nipples she found two perfect, sweetly contracted beads encircled by dusky pink areolas. Choosing the left one, she ran her teeth lightly across the pebbled surface, flicking delicately with her tongue until she was rewarded with a soft groan and felt his hand in her hair, holding her to that sweet torment. Satisfied by her success, Palimia pursued her quarry, her right hand continuing to claim his cock, running the pad of her thumb over the sleek head, spreading pre-cum over it with smooth, firm strokes as she continued to kiss and adore his body. His hands pushed at her head, directing her down his torso toward the seat of his greatest urgency. She smiled and took her time. His guardians had taught him everything but pleasure. His power terrified his friends and enemies alike, but not her. As she moved down to his belly, her tongue traced each strong ridge, lingering on the faint trail of body hair that defined his midline, finding it delightful, unexpected. As she did so, her tongue incidentally swept the rigid hot barrel of his cock. He groaned again with pure longing, his fingers tightening in her hair, pulling her toward that pole. The orgasm he sought was so close now she could probably make him spend without what she contemplated next. All it would take would be to clasp his cock between her breasts, or for her to murmur choice words in his ear. But she wanted more. She wanted him. Her lips brushed the dense honey-brown curls at his groin. "Now," he urged. "Not yet," she mouthed against his cock, its color now deepened to a commanding, regal purple. Continuing to hold his cock, she dropped to her knees on one of the room's many carpets, this one a deep umber and gold that rivaled the sunset. Now she kissed his thighs, her tongue seeking the vulnerable sacs of his testicles. His scent drew her on, rich and deep, more honey than musk, and she banished all things from her mind but his taste, his sex. For the first time in a year, she surrendered to her hunger for a man. That desire, once it took root, unwound tendrils of longing within her, melting every last vestige of frost. Lovingly, she softly rolled one full nut, then the other, reveling in each hitch of her partner's breath, his bated exhalation. Her thumb stroked drops of pre-cum from his leaking cock, rubbing it slowly across the straining head. "Stop," he ordered. "I'm going to spend." "Not yet," she murmured again, her words vibrating the testicle being teased by her tongue. The Hierarch of Sordan shuddered under her control. Slowly, she drew her tongue up his length, pressing the swollen, distended vessels of his excitement, reminding herself why she so loved men and their thick, hard cocks. Her pussy was swollen now, sweetly aching and practically dripping at the thought of being impaled upon this beauty. But she owned a control far greater than he would be able to exercise right now. Reaching the tip of his cock, she spent time teasing the seam, stimulating a heavier flow of his excitement, bathing her tongue in Dorilian's delicious taste. Sweet. His pre-cum tasted truly, seductively sweet, with only a trace of salt and barely any of the bitterness of other men. Different, she thought. His thigh muscles tensed, his fingers stiffening in her hair. He'd picked up on her reaction. Pressing forward, she pursued that incredible taste, licking at his cock head, just barely wrapping her lips around him as she swirled over the sleek crown, pushing at the foreskin, begging more. He relaxed and his fingers again wound in her hair as he began to thrust with his hips, demanding release, pushing his cock against the cum-wet lips sheathing her teeth. She tightened her grip on his cock, squeezing until he groaned and ceased his thrusts. "You can't stop now!" he gasped. His body quivered upon the edge of release. Looking up at him from hooded eyes, she saw the glint of his silver orbs gazing back at her, glutted with pleasure, commanding her to continue. To bring him to the finish. She smiled, knowing then she had him well in hand. Releasing him from her hand, she took him into her mouth, sucking her way slowly down the smooth hot length of his shaft. Her lips worked between his hard flesh and her teeth while she caressed her hands up his thighs to his buttocks, then cupped their smooth curves in her palms, holding him fast as she pushed forward, extending her tongue and then pulling it back, drawing him deeper into the hot, sucking cavern of her mouth. As she felt his cock's seeking head nudge the back of her throat, she opened wider and extended her neck to allow him to slide all the way in. Her nose crushed against his pubis as his balls touched her chin. Worship came easily. She swallowed with deep, languid movements, her throat muscles milking him. "Fuck!" he cried. He lost his battle to control his thrusts. His fingers curled into fists in her hair, so hard it hurt. Accepting each thrust, controlling his cock by having it so deep, she continued to swallow as his semen erupted in her gulping throat. Jet after jet, she swallowed it easily, reveling in his cock's slow softening until she could no longer hold him and she softly sucked him clean until at last she released him from her mouth. The young man Marc thought might someday command a god slumped against a fresco of horses and wheat fields, his breathing rough and his face that of a man both amazed and thoroughly pleasured. "I never thought . . . my first time was a disaster, I felt no pleasure at all. But this way, you are—" He pulled her to her feet and his mouth descended on hers, all thanks and hunger. "You are the most amazing woman I have ever met." She felt so many things pouring from him into her. Wonder and appreciation at her skill. Discovery. Gratitude. Even jealousy toward the king whose body she had pleasured before his and to whom she might compare him. But there was no comparison. Her love for Marc remained indelible—exactly as Dorilian wished it to be. What she and Marc had shared was something he wished to touch, even know, but never eradicate. Between them, her lover would remain enshrined, protected and immortal. Now it was she who felt enormous gratitude. What nudged into her heart was not love, but it would sustain her just as wonderfully. Thank you, she said to Marc—and to him. Dorilian would feel it in the expansion of her heart, the heat of her regard for him. He took her hand and led her to the chaise and its cushions the hue of ripe apricots, barely aglow in the last light of day. There he reclined and pulled her to lie beside him, encouraging her hands to follow his in lazily tracing the aftermath of their coupling. Already her hand, in skimming the hard sleek muscles of his thigh, detected the first tumescence of his cock's renewed interest. He had the recuperative powers of youth as well as those of the god-born. When he made as if to rise, leaning over her and intent upon kissing her breasts, she pushed him back and swung herself astride him.