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  The belt came down again, and again Rak begged forgiveness and made his statements. His erection pressed against the sheets beneath him, and he noticed his legs spreading further apart in response to the stimulation. By the fourth lash, he was humping the bed, desperate for relief from the pleasurable tension. Jisten reached down and fondled his balls then the belt smacked down again.

  He yielded more, giving Jisten half the promise the man had demanded of him, the half that Jisten already had a right to ask for. “Five, domin, thank you. I beg your forgiveness, domin. I will not leave your guards again. I swear I will be your obedient wife from now on. Please use me, domin. I beg you to teach me your will.”

  Jisten’s large, calloused finger probed him, the entry of even that slender digit causing a wave of pleasure to crash through him. Rak cried out and pressed himself back against the finger, seeking to pull it more deeply into himself. Jisten withdrew his finger, and the belt lashed down across Rak’s now widely spread cheeks. “Six, domin, thank you. I beg your forgiveness. I will not ditch my guards, I will not leave them behind. I swear to be a good, obedient wife to you. Please, domin, permit your wife to serve as the vessel for your pleasure.” He ground himself against the bed, the tension and need to release almost overwhelming.

  “You still owe me four lashes. Hold still, neka.” The Okyran word for wife slipped easily into Jisten’s speech, so easily that Rak wondered how long Jisten had viewed him this way. Since the man had learned of his kironi gender? Or was it more recent? The belt smacked against his already sore buttocks, driving the errant thoughts from his mind. He told Jisten what the man wanted to hear as he tried not to rub his aching cock against the bedsheets.

  The next lash hurt even more, and the one after that caused Rak to cry out in pain before he said, “Nine, domin, thank you.” He finished telling Jisten what the man wanted to hear, making the required statements and begging yet again for use.

  “Roll over, neka.” Rak could hear the amusement in Jisten’s voice. He complied, turning himself in place. He gasped in renewed pain as his tender buttocks pressed against the bed. Jisten watched him with a small smirk on his lips, and once Rak was in position, he said, “Last one.” He drew his arm back then let fly. The leather strap cracked down directly across Rak’s package.

  Rak’s body writhed, twisting against the bed as he cried out in pain and pleasure, his cock throbbing as he reached a pain orgasm, useless as a way to relieve his fires though it did a nice job of easing his tension. It took a real effort to gasp out, “Ten, domin, thank you very much for teaching your property your will. Your slave begs your forgiveness for his errors. Your wife swears to obey you and honor you. Your wife begs for the honor of serving your pleasure. Please use me, domin. I beg you to teach your wife her proper place.” He fell silent but for his panting breath as he tried to master his surging fires.

  Jisten grabbed his balls and squeezed. “You’re forgetting something, neka.”

  Oh, right. Rak pumped his hips, enjoying how this caused Jisten’s hand to tug him. He closed his eyes. “I will not ditch my guards again, domin. I will not try to lose them, domin. I will permit them to watch me, to follow me, even to use me if that is my domin’s will.”

  “Good neka.” Jisten squeezed Rak’s balls again then rolled them in his hand before tugging sharply in silent demand. When Rak opened his eyes to meet Jisten’s gaze, the captain pressed his belt to Rak’s lips. Rak kissed it then the hand that had wielded it. Satisfied, Jisten withdrew the belt and released Rak’s balls. He looked down at Rak, his expression unreadable.

  Rak wondered if he liked what he saw. Rak was positioned at the edge of the bed, his raw ass pressed against the mattress, his widely spread legs dangled down to barely touch the floor. Rak’s arms were raised over his head, the wrists close together should Jisten want to bind them. His wings were spread at his sides, resting on the bed. He wore Jisten’s collar around his neck, a brief slave tunic that was hiked up around his torso, high enough that the wife chain snugged about his waist was clearly visible. His crotch was fully exposed to Jisten’s gaze, his cock erect and upright, his dangling scrotum completely accessible as if begging for Jisten to resume playing with it.

  Without a word, Jisten adjusted his pants to release his long, thick cock. He stepped forward so that the point of his spear pressed against Rak. He lifted Rak’s legs up to rest against his shoulders and pressed forward. Rak made a conscious effort to relax himself as Jisten slowly, firmly entered him, sheathing his massive, ungreased cock in Rak’s gut. It was a peculiar sensation but one that Rak had come to enjoy, to feel his innards being rearranged to accommodate the spear impaling him. As always, when it was Jisten taking him, he felt the long, thick heat of Jisten’s cock not only rearranging him to suit itself but stretching him to the utmost.

  Keeping to a maddeningly slow pace, Jisten sank into him until he reached full penetration. He stopped once he was fully sheathed in Rak and stroked Rak’s own, smaller erection. Jisten’s large, calloused hand toying with him felt like an expression of dominance, one Rak simply enjoyed as he flexed his hips to work the cock impaling him. Inside, his muscles tightened and loosened in a rhythmic pattern to increase his master’s pleasure. Jisten’s hand wrapped around Rak’s shaft, his thumb rubbed against the slit. He thrust himself into Rak hard and fast, yanking on Rak’s meat at the same time.

  He set a bruising rhythm, grunting with the effort of maintaining it, all without letting go of Rak’s cock, which he continued to pump. His other hand came down on Rak’s belly, a single long finger slid into the opening there, which impossibly gaped open under his hand without any preparation or conscious effort on Rak’s part. Jisten stopped and looked down at him. “Your body thinks it’s ready.”

  “Please, no,” Rak whispered, but he wasn’t able to meet Jisten’s gaze. “I need more time.” He knew what was coming; he did not want to face it pregnant. Perhaps after. Long after.

  Jisten scowled, anger glowing in his eyes. He withdrew the finger then himself. As Rak gasped in shock and growing need, Jisten strode to the bedroom door, opened it, and called, “Napiet, Issarn. The priest needs relief. See to it.”

  Chapter Four: The Forms

  Rak strode out of the palace into the late afternoon sunlight. He yanked his hood up and kept going. His hands kept clenching and unclenching in synch with the agitated motion of his wings. He utterly ignored the guards trailing him as he stalked across the gardens, ignoring the courtiers who first scattered at his approach then clumped together to whisper in his wake.

  Most of the courtiers were near to the palace building at this time of day, so Rak quickly cleared their gauntlet. The gardens were extensive, extending all the way to the river, but Rak didn’t have a goal in mind. As he walked, he tried to think through the situation. Jisten’s actions had been surprising, and Rak struggled to understand what was driving the Valer’s behavior. He found a tree-lined glade too artistic to be real, almost perfectly round, with level ground covered by soft green grass. Pleasant.

  He drew his short swords and saluted the sun. The swords flashed as Rak traced the measures of the forms of the paths with the rays of the setting sun for his opponent. His pent-up emotions spun out as he forced himself to concentrate on the ever more complex series of cuts, blocks, spins, and lunges that the forms required. There wasn’t room for emotion on the paths of the elements.

  Skóma. The path of earth, his least favorite and weakest area. There was almost nothing of earth in his own nature. So, he had spent much time treading the measures of this path, learning to overcome his weakness. Today, he skipped on after a single form. From the smooth patterns of cut, parry, riposte, he left the path of earth in favor of a rapid, chaotic series of attacks characterized by abrupt changes in direction.

  Kaío. The path of fire. His soul-bonded had a nature composed of fire and air. Through Scorth, he had reached a better understanding of fire. Fire was the attack, ever moving, ever changing. The speed of these f
orms required a great deal of energy and concentration. Rak was sweating now, his mind cleared of emotion, but he didn’t stop here, not with his strongest paths yet to come. From rapid, unceasing attacks, he shifted into a more lyrical mode, blades seeming to float on air in a series of feints within feints.

  Ávra. The path of air. Air was one of his strongest paths. Both his nature and Scorth’s nature were half of air. His wings unfurled to cup at the air as his swords twisted through the patterns. The study of the paths led to self-knowledge. The pupil’s skill with a given path depended on the pupil’s nature. The dance changed again, from teasing darts of sword to smooth flow of motion.

  Ýdro. The path of water. Rak’s nature was more of water than air, in spite of his wings. Water was his element. His motions had an easy precision to them now. The subtlety of the path made it as energy-intensive as the path of fire, but not as obviously so. It was hard to move that smoothly, to float an attack just so. But Rak found it far easier than he had found the deep foundation moves of the path of earth.

  Now the dance changed, becoming more than it had been. The elements of the previous paths came together in a seamless melding. The paths were more than a way of mastering the sword. They applied to the mental arts as well. As Rak performed the physical motions of the patterns, his mind followed along, calling upon the element in question. But now, he called upon all the elements.

  Psýxi. The path of spirit. The mastery of the four elemental paths led inevitably here: to the melding of the elements into a whole. Mages almost never worked with the path of spirit, preferring instead to master a single element or two, at most. As a student of the sword, Rak had learned the forms of the elemental paths, but no mention had ever been made of combining them.

  It was possible that the path of spirit was unique to the dark servants. Priestly magic did not have to obey the elemental laws to the extent of true magic. Rak himself was an example of that. He partook of both fire and water, which were opposing elements. Such opposition would be fatal to a mage. But Rak was far past the elemental paths, being a practitioner of the path of spirit.

  As the sun slid below the horizon, Rak fell still, facing the sunset. Then, he spun to face the eastern sky, and the first faint stars appear there. He raised his hands and sang the evening hymn, welcoming the ascension of the House of Night. Star-strewn darkness flowed across the sky as the priest sang. When he fell silent, true night had fallen. Rak turned back toward the palace in a state of calm lucidity. Although the problem of Jisten had not been solved, he was no longer emotional about it.

  “That was impressive.” Princess Jezrey leaned against one of the trees. Rak had no idea how long she’d been there, watching.

  “Which part?” he asked, pausing to offer her an arm in escort.

  Jezrey unpeeled from the tree and took his arm. As they walked, she said, “The sword dance, mainly. Although your evening hymn is quite beautiful and your singing voice is lovely.”

  “Thank you.” He shot her a glance. “Should you not be in the great hall, eating dinner with the court?”

  “I was delayed,” she said gravely, “by watching you in the hopes of gaining a greater understanding of the universe.”

  “Did you succeed in gaining understanding?”

  “Perhaps. But now, we are late. Our father will only excuse us for so long, you know.”

  “I was not planning on eating with the court, your highness.”

  Jezrey stopped, and when he turned to look at her inquiringly, she said, “S’Rak, you should eat with us. In your absence, people have been saying things, and with you not there to refute them... I fear that the court could turn on you.”

  “I assumed that they already had,” he replied.

  “No, not everyone. There are enough of us who can think and reason, you know. Not all of us are blinded by prejudice. Please, eat dinner with us. You’ll see what I’m talking about.”

  After a moment, he nodded.

  Dεktεra Ligo, Alethian Fεngari

  Tenth day, first week, Alethian’s moon

  Rak hadn’t eaten dinner with the court since the first murder. When he walked in with Jezrey, those nearest the doors fell silent, staring. The silence spread like a contagion behind a racing ring of whispers. The whispered comments reached the high table.

  “High Priest S’Rak,” said Owain, standing. “It has been a long time since you have chosen to grace us with your presence.”

  “My sister asked that I join her for dinner. If this is a problem, I would be more than happy to depart.” His cool demeanor and frosty tone weren’t lost on anyone. Jezrey’s fingers dug into his elbow, and she hissed a warning to be careful under her breath.

  But Owain was smiling. “The only problem has been all those nights when you haven’t joined us. We have missed your company and your wit.”

  Rak and Jezrey walked the length of the hall. He observed the expressions of the courtiers as he passed them. And while some looked at him with anger, even hatred, more did not. Most looked curious or thoughtful. They reached the high table, and Rak held out Jezrey’s chair for her before slipping into his own. He ignored the cold gaze of the queen as he sat down between his father and brother.

  Jethain looked honestly pleased to see him. “Araken, how are you?”

  “I am well enough, considering.” Rak shrugged. “And you?”

  “I’m worried about the rumors I’ve been hearing about you. The courtiers’ gossip is bad enough, they pin all manner of dark crimes on you as you already know, but now, there are stories about you spreading through the city. Dark stories, about kidnappings, murders, and evil rituals.”

  Rak looked at the artistic presentation that was meant to be dinner but found no answers in the carefully swirled noodles topped with gryphon-shaped meatballs. He shrugged. “The only rumors that worry me are those that speak of an equine contagion in the city. A strangling cough that kills, according to our stable boys. And earlier, in the stock market, I saw horses coughing.”

  “That is not good news,” Jethain replied soberly. He was as much a horseman as his father was, though he specialized in breeding the racehorses and jumpers rather than the warhorses the king specialized in.

  “Thank you for alerting us, S’Rak. We will have our people find out the truth of this.” Owain inclined his head graciously; Rak returned the gesture.

  * * * *

  Jethain slid a knowing hand down the mare’s long, arched neck. “Easy, easy,” he murmured soothingly, keeping the high-strung racer as calm as he could. Abruptly, she ducked her head down and coughed several times, mouth gaping as she struggled for air. He shook his head and stepped back to the stall door. “How many have it?”

  “Jus’ three, yer highness,” Rizan replied. Jethain had hired him as an exercise rider half a year ago. The boy was utterly devoted to him and, most importantly, to his horses. He knew every horse in Jethain’s string as well as the prince himself did. Only S’Rak, with his Thezi talents, could be said to know them better.

  “Move all the coughing horses to the isolation barn,” Jethain commanded. “From all barns, ask the other boys. Any horse with a cough must be moved now before it spreads further if it’s not already too late.”

  Rizan nodded. “At once, yer highness.” He dashed off with commendable speed. The isolation barn would have to be prepared to receive the incoming horses, so Jethain wasn’t surprised that the boy hadn’t taken any of the sick ones with him. He strode out of the barn and headed for Bharis’ office.

  “There be horses sick in every barn,” Bharis said by way of greeting. “Not many, just two or three in each, but still, this be ominous, your highness.”

  “I’ve ordered the isolation barn prepared. We move the sick ones now, dose them as we can, and pray for the best. If they’re not improving in a day or two, we’ll call in S’Rak.”

  Bharis smiled warmly. “Aye, sir. We can do that.” He stood from his desk. “With your leave, I’ll get the boys organized.”
r />   Jethain nodded. “Thank you, Bharis.” He strode out of the stables, confident that the threat was being dealt with.

  Chapter Five: Chasing Rumors

  Winday, the 3rd of Thamon

  He walked out of the palace grounds alone, except for the two guards trailing him. Those, he ignored. His own guard he had left to help Despina and S’Liast move into their new manor. He had chosen to walk because mounted, he would not hear what he’d come to hear. A walking man was perceived as much less of a threat than one mounted on even a horse, much less an avtappi. He dressed simply, in black pants and a tunic belted by a green sash, with a hooded cloak thrown over that. He had the hood up to shade his eyes from the brilliant light of early afternoon.

  Unlike the last time he’d been in the city, he had no agenda to pursue, and so he set a meandering course through the city, not stopping, not speaking, but listening, assessing, and he didn’t at all like what he saw. Whatever tolerance the Koilathans had developed over the past half year had utterly vanished. Almost everyone who saw him drew a sun circle on their chest. The looks directed his way were no longer curious but openly hostile. They murmured in his wake, the anger in their voices plain even if the words weren’t.

  What Rak needed was someone who would speak to him honestly and tell him what rumors abounded in the city to cause such hatred. He doubted that the death of a single noblewoman, no matter how gruesome, could cause such a remarkable change in the populace toward him. However, with the hearts and minds of the city so firmly turned against him, he wasn’t sure who to ask for the information he sought. He doubted these people would voluntarily tell him why they angered.

  A destination occurred to him, and he turned his steps toward the shop he sought. In the middle districts of the city, shops were at ground level, living quarters above, but there was no organization among the placement of shops. He had heard that in some towns, all the silversmiths would be on one street, all the weavers on another, and so forth. Here they were jumbled together organically as if the businesses had simply sprung up over time as the families who owned the buildings chose their trades. He crossed three streets and walked five blocks before he reached the luthier’s shop.