Chapter 19

After changing, Siska was shown up to her rooms by a gray-clad slave perhaps two years her elder. The young woman would not meet her eyes for the duration of the walk, until they were within the small apartment that she announced had been given to the golden-haired wizard.

That fact annoyed the young apprentice to no end and she finally let fly with her temper when the younger girl demurred away from a glare from Siska. "Stop that!" she yelled, causing the girl to cringe back from her and cower near the wall.

"Yes mistress," said the girl hurriedly, keeping her eyes upon the carpets that covered the polished gray stones of the floor. "I apologize most humbly."

Siska lowered the staff, which she realized she was holding aloft. Incandescent white sparks flickered down the entire length of the polished hardwood barrel of the thing and the crystalline head was glowing with a fitful red light.

"No," said Siska in a softer tone. "It's me who should apologize. Please, meet my eyes, I was once a slave, too."

The girl glanced hesitantly up. She was pretty, if rather haggard-looking, with a slender face and large, liquid green eyes. "I've heard that, mistress. Like your mother, Lady Tatyana." Saying her mother's name brought another flash of annoyance to the apprentice, but she kept the irritation from marring her features. Siska thought of pointing out the difference between how she and her mother had come to their emancipations.

Did you do so more honorably? she asked herself. Tatyana had lain with the vile Lord Tornadin for her freedom. And you were simply handed yours as a gift, such laborious methods. A tiny fleck of grudging acceptance crept into Siska's heart over her mother's choices. Siska knew full well she would have done the same.

"I am yours to command, by order of the master of the house," said the girl, curtseying.

"Then speak plainly with me, my name is Siska, what is yours?" asked Siska, her voice sounding rather curt, even to her own ears.

"Geana," said the girl, stopping a curtsey half performed. The Coghlandish sound of the name went well with the girl's hair and eyes, if not her slight build. Reddish blond hair and green eyes were common among the peoples of northern Coghland, especially the coastal folk, though Siska had been told the highlanders, from further within the isle, were darker.

"Are you indentured or for life?" asked Siska, looking about the well-appointed room. It was massive, as to be expected, with a four posted bed that shamed the one she had thought so fine in Phillip's home. This one was larger, and gilt over much of its intricately carved surface. The uprights were deeply etched and looked for all the world as if they were entwined in rose vines that had turned to wood. The rest of the room kept up the rose motif, being decorated with painted trellises of roses and plaster roses marching in rows around the upper cornices.

It was all a bit feminine for her tastes, all in all, used to the sparer feel of Phillip's home. Mistress Tomana's home had not been so ostentatious. Even the palace was not quite so opulent.

The girl shrugged. "Indentured, but for so long a period, it might as well be my life. My father accrued debts aplenty when his ship sank off of the Mindian Isles. When he never returned, they held the debts over my mother and my little brother and sister. I chose to indenture, rather than see them imprisoned and sent to a plantation."

"How long?" Siska stopped looking at the room and gave the pretty girl her full attention.

"Twenty-two years," said the small woman. "I've served four already."

Perhaps not her entire life, but enough of it to shatter any dreams the girl may have had. She would be into her forties before she could walk free again.

"Do you have a hope chest?" asked Siska, laying the staff upon the bed and reaching for her belt pouch.

The girl shook her head. "I've no hope, thus no chest for it," she said, tears welling in her eyes. "I could never save enough to shorten my indenture any real amount."

Siska, nonetheless, pressed three silver marks into the woman's palm. "Still, it may ease your days a bit," she said. "At least buy yourself something nice."

What Siska wished to do was emancipate her, this girl, and every other slave. That Tressen and the Theocracy should share a trait as odious as slavery offended her deeply. Perhaps moreso since she had been a slave, herself, but Siska thought that she would be offended in any case.

There was a knock upon the bedchamber's door immediately followed by Keeley's brown haired head poking in. "I thought that was your voice," she said in a hushed tone before slipping on into the room and pushing the door shut behind her. "There are two slaves in my room, I couldn't stand it."

Suddenly, she seemed to note Geana's presence and let out a startled squeak. "I'm sorry," she said hastily.

"You need not apologize to a slave, milady," said Geana, bowing low. The servants of the house had been well briefed regarding their guests, evidently.

"Well, still," stammered Keeley, putting her hand over her heart, as if to still heavy beating. "I should not talk about the staff as if they were not present, should I?"

"Staff?" barked Siska, trying to stifle an indignant laugh. "Call slavery by its name or refer to it not at all. If you find it odious even to speak of, then how badly might it need ending?"

Keeley's spine stiffened. "I don't know if I can even do anything about it as queen," she said. "According to Tarmal and Phillip, my seat will be tenuous at best to begin with."

Mention of queens set Geana on edge and the girl looked decidedly uncomfortable, cringing a bit at the word. "Geana, please bring some wine up for all three of us. I would like a few minutes to speak to Lady Keeley alone."

Though Siska had offered the use of her name, Geana said, "Yes mistress," and scurried out of the room, closing the door silently behind her.

"What in the One's name has got you in such a steam?" said Keeley as soon as the door had closed fully. A bit of anger flashed in her brown eyes, but mostly upset and confusion. "You act as if everything is a personal assault upon you."

"It feels like everything is," said Siska sullenly, throwing herself into one of the two overstuffed armchairs. She waved a hand at whatever Keeley seemed ready to say. "I know it's not. I'm not that self-centered. Yet, I feel like events conspire to make my life more difficult."

"At least you didn't just discover that you will be propped up as queen, whether you will or no, and now have enemies that you've never even had the opportunity to create for your own self." Keeley took the other armchair, casting one leg over the arm in a most unladylike fashion.

Siska looked at the staff, still lying upon the bed. "No, but I did get named Magus by picking up a bit of wood," she said dourly before crossing her arms before her chest. "Perhaps bad news shall come in threes, as they say."

"Leetha may become Mistress of the trader's guild," said Keeley, breaking into a wide grin. "Or Mist shall find herself deeded Spindrift Isle."

Siska snorted and smiled despite her aggravation. "I'm sorry I've been so short of late."

Keeley waved a negligent hand. She seemed already trying to act the part of queen. The motion was at once efficient and officious. "We're all under strain," she said. "I saw Mannis and Varan arguing earlier."

"Probably over which of them will get to be hero next," said Siska, grinning.

The door opened again and Geana entered, bearing a pewter platter with a corked bottle of wine and four goblets. "I'm not permitted to imbibe," she said in a hushed tone, as if people might be listening. "I will have to tread carefully if I drink too much."

The young woman poured the three of the goblets full and handed them out before taking her own up. She took a long sip and sighed. "It has been too long," she said with a longing tone in her voice.

Siska and Keeley grinned at the obvious relish with which Geana drank that cup, then a second. When Geana rose to pour a third, she did so on unsteady feet. "I think you've taken enough wine, if you intend to imitate sobriety," said Keeley with a giggle.

"They'll spot me in the barracks, for sure," said the slave. "I'll have to hide until I sober up." Geana's voice was slurred heavily and her eyes unfocussed several times before she managed to set her goblet on the tray.

"No bother, you can stay with me this night," said Siska. "I shall vouch that I commanded company of you."

Geana blushed. "I've never been so commanded by a woman," she said in a half giggling voice. "But if you so command it..." She sat heavily upon the ottoman that she had been using as a seat as the three drank and talked.

Siska herself blushed when it sunk in what Geana had implied and Keeley set to giggling for a long fit that left her gasping for air. Soon, though, and begging exhaustion, Keeley rose and kissed Siska's cheek before leaving.

A long moment passed and Siska kept eyeing the door as if expecting Keeley to come back through it. After about ten minutes she rose and began pulling her blue robe over her head.

It came off with surprising ease when Geana aided the latter half of the movement. Siska turned to thank her and gaped. The girl was nude before her and looked up with half-drunken, but eager eyes of anticipation.

"I wouldn't command anything like that," stammered Siska as the girl moved forward and embraced Siska firmly.

Siska's arms were left hanging impotently in the air and she gasped as Geana kissed her neck. "Really, I just meant for you to be free to drink without getting yourself into trouble."

The kisses on her neck heated up and she felt herself leaning into a small bite that the girl planted on the tendon beneath her ear. Did that moan come from her?

The tensions of the last days began to unknot themselves under Geana's eager kisses and Siska finally allowed her long arms to fold around the woman's shoulders. Siska topped her by most of a head but Geana seemed little troubled in reaching her lips when she finally kissed the apprentice fully on the lips.

That she returned the kiss surprised Siska. That within moments, she was also kissing and biting Geana's neck shocked her to her toes, enough so that her eyes popped open.

With a vast effort of willpower, Siska stepped back, freeing herself from the woman's embrace. "Oh, my," she gasped, thinking that her heart might just leap from her chest. A decidedly unsettled feeling was fluttering through her belly and she found herself eyeing the smaller woman's body with lust-filled eyes.

Geana, for her part, looked a bit abashed. "I've offended," she said, lowering her gaze. Her voice was still slurred and when she moved as if to pick up her shift, Siska stepped forward and grabbed her arm.

"No, you do not offend," she said in quick words. "Only I don't know what came over me. I've never even considered sharing passion with a woman.

Geana nodded. "I've never been ordered by a woman, but I have lain with a handful," she said. "I'm sorry if I assumed too much."

She did not, however, try to reclaim her arm and seemed well pleased to stand beside the bed until Siska released her.

When Siska realized she still held it, she let go. "What was it like?" she asked, suddenly very curious about such matters.

"Very like an accommodating man, though lacking in muscle," said the slight woman. "Men have a certain - power - in their lovemaking that a woman cannot match. I suppose a particularly strong woman might, but most could not. However, women have an intimate knowledge of the finer points that most men have to be taught."

"You've taught men that, as well?" asked Siska.

Geana blushed. "I've learned far too much since becoming indentured," she said. "Not all of it pleasant."

"I understand," said Siska. "I'm sure Tornadin..."

"Oh, no," said Geana hastily. "Of the lovers I've lain with since becoming a slave, Lord Tornadin is among the better, if not the best."

"Really?" asked Siska, lifting a brow in surprise. "He seemed arrogant and self-centered to me."

"Oh, he is," agreed Geana with a conspiratorial and curiously malicious smile. "But he is a very capable lover. He only had to order compliance of me one time, after that it was quite willingly given." She nodded at this latter as if it were the most normal thing to say ever. "Even if you dislike him as much as he says you do, you must admit he is handsome."

"Yes, he is that," said Siska grudgingly. "I suppose on a purely sensual level, he might be a satisfying lover." Her mind whirled at such thoughts and she eyed her wine goblet dubiously. How many cups had she drunk, herself? She sat the silver-trimmed goblet down on the small end table where the empty bottle sat on a platter.

"More than that, mistress," said Geana, again forgetting Siska's admonition to address her plainly. "He is affectionate after lovemaking."

"That's surprising to hear," said Siska, nodding and sitting upon the bed to pull her shoes off. Geana hastily knelt before her and removed the slippers for her, smiling up at the tall wizard.

"I'm sorry if I cannot agree with your dislike of him," said Geana. "Though, from the rumors I've heard, your dislike is honestly bought."

Siska sighed deeply and stood to pull down the heavy blankets of the bed. Silk sheets, naturally, she thought as she stroked the smooth surface of the pale blue linen.

She split her focus among all the little flames of lamps about the room and snuffed them at once with a small spell. Geana gasped, then giggled. "I had forgotten you were a wizard, that is most exciting," she said, her voice smiling in the darkened room.

Faintly by the dim light of the fireplace, the two crawled into the bed. Geana sighed as she snuggled into the silken nest of the blankets. "It feels so wondrous," she murmured.

Siska had to agree that the silken sheets did feel nice; warming, yet cool at the same time.

She felt Geana shift again and a small hand laid itself on her hip, stroking gently.

"You don't have to," said Siska softly at the dim shape of Geana's head.

Geana shifted again and moved closer. "But you don't say no?" she asked.

Siska's mind seemed to freeze. Geana moved closer during the moment of silence and brushed her soft, moist lips over Siska's.

The tensions of the day seemed to flee before that kiss and Siska found her mind clarified at that moment. Petty things of war and power and nobles and magic seemed unimportant next to a simple kiss. "If you say no, I will leave you be," repeated Geana, turning her head and giving Siska's neck an open mouthed kiss.

The woman's slender hand was now on the inside of Siska's long thigh, starting just above the knee and it moved upward. When it came to where her legs were pressed together, the roving hand stopped. Siska found that the lightest pressure of that hand, though, parted her legs slightly, then more, until she had them far apart and the hand moved upward unimpeded.

The hand's motions had distracted her from the woman's lips, whish were even then moving down her torso, leaving a trail of faintly damp kisses. When the kisses descended below her navel, Siska sighed and found thought hard to come by.

The full tale of the day's events took only moments of the squad leader's time. However, both Salira and Garel seemed determined to pelt him with questions.

"What do you mean they glowed?" asked Salira in a tone of impatience.

Garel spoke at the same time. "They tried to attack her?" he asked, glaring around at the milling little knots of soldiery in the oval square.

The sergeant waved his hands, making downward gestures designed to quiet folk. He was unsure why he bothered, it had never worked on crowds, why should it on a mage and an annoyed little brother?

A deeper voice boomed from behind the sergeant. "It is him, get him inside. Now."

Garel was halfway down the stairs and preparing for a massive leap that would take the rest of them in a single jump when something seized him and lifted him off his feet.

"Not so quickly, milord," said a chiding feminine voice. The aged face of an old wizard moved around him, wearing a broad smile. "We've need to keep you safe, Lord Garel."

"Safe?" quacked Garel, looking down where his feet dangled inches from the ground. "You've ensorcelled me!"

"Call it protective custody," said the deeper voice. "Good catch Councilor Stormy," he added, touching the woman's shoulder lightly.

The man, himself, was the Commandant of the Defenders, as evidenced by the golden cords over the shoulder of his black jacket. Garel gaped. "Councilor, Commandant?" he asked. "What's this about?"

"I suppose you heard Keeley is to be crowned?" asked Stormy, looking up at him and seeming to urge him toward the door. He bobbed slightly in the air and drifted towards the door slowly.

Garel looked over his shoulder toward his two friends. Both of them bobbed impotently in midair, as well, Skeen being pulled into the palace by one of the guardsmen like a kite on a string.

Both of his companions seemed unable to speak. Salira simply had an aggrieved look on her face and was crossing her arms beneath her bosom and glaring daggers at Stormy.

Mist looked terribly excited, but not very frightened, as she peeked out from behind Salira. Not cowering, exactly, but definitely keeping Salira between her and the other wizard.

"I see you've taken an apprentice," observed Stormy. "Might you be ready to grace the Blue Order with your valued presence again?"

"Hardly," said Salira icily. Her blue eyes seemed to be the definition of ice as they glared at the much older woman.

"Still upset are you?" asked Stormy, cackling like the old crone she somewhat resembled, though no crone of legend had the fully fleshed face that was Stormy's.

Stormy eyed the young Mist and smiled. "Watch yourself fledgling, Salira is known for pushing her students too quickly," she said with malicious glee. "Ask her about young Ebrolio."

Salira bowed up at that, her arms coming uncrossed and the cool iciness in her voice replaced by a fiery torrent as she straightened her spine. "How dare you!" she hissed.

"I dare much in my doddering age," said Stormy, returning the heated gaze with ice of her own. "I told you to slow down with the lad, and now he's barely competent to muck stables." She moved past the heavier woman, still beckoning toward the helpless Garel bobbing and floating behind moving slowly as if on a lead.

"Damn you, my technique works!" growled Salira, taking a threatening step toward Stormy.

Threat or no, Stormy stood her ground, turning to face the woman who was both taller and more stoutly built. "It worked for two and failed catastrophically for one," she said. "Not odds I would take with my mind. Would you?"

"He pressed beyond. It was not my doing," said Salira, a pleading sound entering her voice. "He tried things not even my program called for."

"Your program made him feel as if he could do anything, that was my whole reason for standing against it," replied Stormy in an imminently calm, if cool, voice. "And even if the council exonerated you of responsibility during the inquest, I do not concur with the majority. Your program destroyed that boy's mind as surely as if you had told him to overextend himself."

Salira seethed and Mist put a delicate hand on her shoulder. "Please," said Mist in a tiny voice. "You two are frightening me."

The matronly wizard patted the girl's hand upon her shoulder. "Sorry, my apprentice," she said. 'My' was said in such a way that it was almost a yell.

"You've reason to be scared, young woman. Watch yourself and do not let Salira rush your learning too much." Stormy vanished inside the palace with that parting shot, leaving Mist, Salira and two more guards standing on the porch. Another guard held open the door and eyed the two women expectantly.

"I trust you," said Mist in a soft voice, her eyes pleading. "Don't let her upset you."

Salira mastered her infuriated face with some difficulty before taking Mist's hand and guiding her into the palace. "Don't worry, apprentice. I'll calm down soon."

Marvolo Gerossimo sat upon his porch, surveying the fields he had harvested. They were a sodden mess of slowly chilling mud and would soon be frozen solid. It had been a good harvest, though, and he was pleased with how this year had gone. His family would eat well and have a bit of coin to spare after selling the excess corn and barley.

A man of middling age and middling achievement, he valued his plot of land and his small family, asleep now inside the cottage. Tomorrow, the five of them would go into Tressen for some sights and shopping.

He chuckled slightly at that thought. His eldest daughter, Oliva, was being courted by a young man in the city. The two of them thought he knew nothing of their budding romance, though he had already spoken to the young man's father and they had agreed that the two would make a fine couple. She, more than anyone else in the house, was quite eager for a trip into the city.

The lights of Tressen flickered down and north of his little farmstead. It was a lovely view and he took it in most clear nights. Despite the rains of the day, it was clear enough a view as he gently pulled another lung full of aromatic smoke from his pipe. They twinkled against the black backdrop of night and looked much like the sky on a clear night being reflected in water.

He sighed in contentment just as the first arrow struck his shoulder. He began to scream before the second and third arrows took him in the throat and chest, both killing shots.

The first orc, wearing black leather armor and carrying a long, gleaming scimitar, ran past him into the little farm cottage before his body fully slumped to the ground. A half a dozen more streamed past the limp form, one stopping to snatch up the still-smoking pipe. There were more screams in the little house that night.

Nearly the height of a man and more broadly built, dozens rushed out of the woods and around the house, moving toward the flickering lights of other farmsteads that dotted the countryside. Their faces were broad-featured, almost a mockery of mannish features crafted crudely as a joke in ill humor. Jutting jaws and wide, flat noses below sunken red eyes sat beneath heavily-boned brows. Most of those faces smiled and leered grotesquely as they searched for places where they could kill and indulge in vices even more vile.

Some screams lasted hours.

"You're certain they aren't making for Tressen?" asked Moghran, glowering at the little navigator of his ship. Perkhar, he remembered the name, belatedly.

"No, milord," the little man squeaked, running fingers through his graying hair. "The trimaran made south, not north."

It had happened suddenly and the fast-moving elven vessel scuttled two of their command barges and six smaller ships in minutes. Moghran glowered and looked south. Should he divert a few of his ships to see to that annoyance? No. Soon enough he would be in Tressen and the elven ship would have no advantages there.

He had crossed swords with elven trimarans before, three times. Twice of those, he had managed a retreat in order and with the third; the elven ship had burned to the waterline while still fleeing his barge. That had passed despite frantic rowing at the eager whips of the oarmasters. The very idea of a shipload of elven slaves had Moghran slathering at the mouth in those days of his imprudent youth.

He knew now that elves would never surrender in numbers to the Theocracy. This was a large part of why the very idea of owning one appealed so thoroughly. Few held reins on an elven slave and therefore everyone wanted one. Elves captured had a way of dying that involved no need for outside influence. They simply died.

Oh, any elf could be captured for a short while, if kept unconscious. Many sorceresses gleaned and refreshed their powers with a ceremony that involved the process of 'stripping' the elf of their inner fire. He did not pretend to understand how it worked, but an unconscious slave was of little value. When the sorceresses were done with the elf they used to feed their needs, there was little left to even bury, much less enslave.

That the elves had spotted them as they made their final approach to Tressen had alarmed him a bit, though. If enough trimarans were to attack, they could hinder the flotilla sufficiently that the conquest of Tressen might become a true contest, albeit still a one-sided one. The Templar was reasonably certain that not enough elven ships were even afloat to sink more than half the armada now sailing toward Tressen.

The surprise attack had even damaged the Deacon's vessel. Odd that. The trimaran had aimed directly for the oversized barge as if attempting a strike against a known target.

Converging barges had forced it to retreat, however, and the trimaran had taken severe damage before flitting away at some phenomenal speed, though not as quickly as it had approached.

Grudging respect for the elves' ship, if not for the elves themselves, crept into Moghran's thoughts. Perhaps they did know which ship held the Deacon. Not that killing him or his vessel would stop the fleet, he knew.

Tarasha sat in the armchair of his cabin when he entered, a thick tome in her lap. It was one of those esoteric books of sorcerous lore.

One could not truly 'learn' to be a sorceress, it was a gift. Some sorceresses were born as such, with an inborn talent. Others, like Tarasha, had to glean their power by taking it from someone who had one already. It was this that those confusing and somewhat disturbing books addressed.

Moghran had perused one and found it rather hard reading. Not only was it written in a truly archaic version of Syrisian, but also what it described turned the stomach.

When he had first taken on Tarasha, her tolerance for things at which others quailed amazed him. She could stomach most anything put before her and do so as if it pleased her greatly.

However, those ceremonies, as he had read, let him know that he had not seen the tithe of what she could do at need. He had asked about them and she had said he could be initiated, even at his age.

That very idea was one of the few times in his long years that Moghran had truly been frightened.

Tarasha closed the tome and sat it upon the little table beside the armchair and unfolded herself.

An appealing sight, her unfolding herself, it almost made the Templar forget what she was capable of. No. Nothing could make him forget what that beautiful, slight woman was willing and able to do.

She cupped his groin with her hand. When she read those books, she always got frisky afterwards. He thought that might be alarming as well.

His body, however, did not concern itself with such niceties. His organ swelled at the knowing touch and she soon dragged him to his bedchamber.

Tarasha was curled in the chair again when he emerged after nightfall. The ships had stopped moving once it was too dark to navigate shallows. Too many of the ships had a draft too great to make over some of the jagged coral reefs that dotted the waters around these accursed islands. She looked up from her book, holding her place with a slender finger and long, sharp nail.

"Did you sleep well, master?" she asked solicitously.

He nodded. "Thank you," he said. "I've not slept well in a while."

She had taken a bit of energy from him, which was what had put him under so thoroughly. She did that from time to time. It was part of the nature of their relationship. In exchange for his influence and the power that came from being beside him, she acceded to any whim he might ask and performed special duties as needed. She was, in truth, a slave, but a slave whom he did not take utterly for granted.

Tarasha grinned at the very idea of thanking her for taking power from him. "You're most welcome master," she said. "The captain asked me to let you know that the Deacon will have you aboard the morn of the morrow for a final briefing."

Moghran nodded and took a sip of the wine she had in a goblet upon the little table. That there was blood in the wine did not surprise nor alarm him. He simply sat it down a bit less slaked than he thought his thirst might be with the metallic taste clinging to his tongue. Perhaps he was closer to taking the sorceress up on her offers than he was willing to admit.

"Shall I send for some wine for you, master?" she asked.

The Templar chuckled. He was ever in good humor after an afternoon nap. Old age again, rearing its ugly head. "You could warn a soul, though."

She smiled endearingly and took a long sip from the glass that seemed to stain her generous lips darker red. "You know I want you to become a sorcerer, master," she said in a becoming voice. "These woes you complain of in old age can be a thing of the past." Her big blue eyes seemed to grow larger. "Imagine the loving we could do in your fullness of energy together."