Authors: Charlotte Boyett-Compo
"And other than helping a woman give birth, there's no good reason for its existence."
"That is not entirely true. Mixed with water, it is administered to the Shadowlords to control them."
Orithia frowned. "What is a Shadowlord?"
Despite his size and obvious physical strength, the dark man shivered, his meaty hands tensing on his muscled biceps. "The Lords of Death. It was a Shadowlord with whom you fought, Pale One. You are lucky he did not hurt you, for they are not known for being gentle with women. I am told he has said he will not treat the next Amazeen he meets with as much politeness. You wounded him many times over with your sharp nails and teeth."
"Are you talking about the brute in black?" Orithia questioned, her eyes narrowing in memory. "The one who dared to put his filthy hand over my mouth?"
Sulaimon nodded. "His name is Jaelan Ben-Ashaman. He is the Lord High Commander of the Shadow Force, a position awarded to him by the King."
"Next time I meet up with him,
I
won't be as gentle with
him
, either! I'll nail his worthless hide to the wall."
Sulaimon grinned, his white teeth sparkling within the confines of his ebon face. "I would pay much to see Ben-Ashaman lose a match to anyone, but especially so a mere female."
"I have outmatched many men in my time! Ben-Ashaman could not stand against
my
dagger!" Orithia blushed when she realized the dark man saw through her empty boast.
"The Shadowlord has thirty and seven winters, Pale One," Sulaimon said. "In all that time, he has yet to lose a fight. His enemies lie crumbling to dust and Ben-Ashaman lives to fight another day. You will never be given the chance to see if you can best him, but it would have been a match upon which I would have eagerly placed money."
She tugged at her bounds. "What does that mean? Are you afraid I would win?"
Sulaimon's smile slipped away. "You will not be given the chance to fight the Shadowlord or
any
man, Pale One. From this day forward, you will be at the beck and call of whomever purchases youm and no master will allow a dagger to find its way into your hand."
Orithia knew what lay ahead for her if she was unable to escape the Rysalian's fiendish plans. She knew what instructions waited upon the ceasing of her monthly flow. She had to find a way out of the seraglio before the dehumanizing and degrading tutorials began in the performance of the sexual arts.
"There is no way out of the seraglio, Pale One," Sulaimon said as though he had read her mind. "You will be interned here for the remainder of your life."
"Don't count on it," Orithia swore beneath her breath. She turned her face to the wall, dragging helplessly on her chains, kicking out against the bonds that held her legs captive.
If it were the last thing she ever did, she would find a way to gain her freedom. And when she did, she would find Jaelan Ben-Ashaman and make him rue the day he ever laid a hand on her.
Aradia halted her mount by the river and bent forward, patting the stallion's back. She and her women were hot and tired, the dry desert wind whipping under their loose-fitting robes to scour soft skin. It was midmorning of the third day of their travels, and in the distance, the skies were turning black with an approaching storm.
"We should find shelter soon," Phillipa suggested. "That looks to be dangerous."
Lightning sewed a fiery stitch across the heavens, and a low rumble followed close on its hem. Here, near the Nilus River, the danger of flash flooding was a real possibility. In the blink of an eye, a rider could be swept from her mount and carried to her death, her body tumbling down the cataracts.
"Aye, the air is turning cooler," Okyale said. "Not a good sign."
Aradia nodded and straightened in the saddle. Stretching, she looked around. "Daedal is the closest town, according to my map. There's a caravansary there."
"How far away?" Phillipa inquired.
"An hour's ride, maybe less."
"Good, because I'm starving," Euryleia complained.
"You are always hungry," Okyale said. "I wish you would eat normal helpings instead of the bird pecks you take."
"I refuse to eat like a horse at a trough. If you do, that is your problem, and the widening of your hips tells the tale, does it not?"
"My hips are classic!" Okyale said.
"Classically wide, you mean," Euryleia responded dryly. "You could carry a flagon of wine on your ass and never spill a drop!"
"How dare you insult me like that!"
"If the girdle stretches..."
Aradia exchanged a weary look with Phillipa. Though Eury and Oky were good friends, if one said "white," the other said "black." Their constant bickering was more comical than annoying.
"Stop!"
"What?" the two asked in unison, identical inquiring looks on their faces.
"We'll eat once we get to Daedal,"Aradia said between clenched teeth. "But I'll warn you again, be careful what you say. Is that understood?"
"But why, Ardy?" Eury inquired.
Aradia sighed and looked to Phillipa for help.
"We are pilgrims on the way to the convent at Natunwadi," Phillipa explained after a harsh sigh of her own. "Pilgrims who have taken an oath of allegiance to the Prophetess. We must act as holy women. Do not insult one another, and never curse."
"Oh, yes. Now I remember."
"Try not to forget it," Phillipa advised in a dry tone. "Your freedom may well depend on it."
"There can be no slip-ups," Aradia said. "The Rysalians bear a grudging respect for holy women and will leave us alone. Otherwise, as foreign women, we would be fair game for their slave marketers. I don't know about the rest of you, but I have no desire to spend my life stretched out beneath a sweaty, slobbering Hasdu with a gut the size of a hippopotamus."
"You made your point, Ardy," Euryleia said, chastened.
The women lapsed into silence as they followed the meandering Nilus through the Khepri Valley. Behind them, the storm rapidly advanced, the rumbles louder and heavy with enough force to shake the ground. The brisk wind whipped at their clothing. When the first drops of rain struck their heads, they increased their pace until the horses pounded through the lowering afternoon.
"There!" Aradia said as they entered Daedal, pointing to what looked to be a stable.
Pelting rain rapidly fell, and lightning shrieked across the firmament. The stable boy barely spared them a glance as they dismounted and tied their horses to the hitching post. He moved aside as the strangers crowded into the stable's entrance to flee the deluge.
Aradia made the boy aware of what she needed. Nodding tiredly, he led the horses one at a time into the stable to warm, dry stalls, where he would rub them down, feed and water them, then watch over them through the night. For his trouble, Aradia tossed him a small bag of silver coins, the sight and weight of which seemed to please him. He smiled wanly, then trudged away.
Phillipa plucked at Aradia's sleeve and cocked her chin toward a large building. "The caravansary?"
Aradia nodded. She led the way across the rapidly mudding street and reached the caravansary just as a particularly vicious crack of thunder shook the town.
"Come in, come in!" the innkeeper cried, opening the door. No doubt he had seen their approach and knew they would be in need of lodgings. As the last of his visitors entered, he stuck his head out the doorway and craned his neck to look at the turbulent heavens. "A very bad night, indeed, Sisters!"
Aradia inclined her head in answer. "The heavens are sad this eve, Milord inn's man," she said in perfect Diabolusian High Speech.
Frowning as he caught a whiff of the sour smell emanating from their robes as they passed, the innkeeper was about to bundle them off to a side room but stopped as their leader held up a shiny gold sovereign. His eyes widened as she jingled a heavy bag of coins, indicating more of the same.
With a hand spiraling from head to chin to belly, he welcomed them to his establishment. "I have a table near the fire pit." He held out his arm, showing the way.
With Aradia in the lead and Phillipa bringing up the rear, the women moved to the warmth of the fire. With their clothing soaked through, the clammy wool pressing intimately against their shivering flesh, they looked a miserable lot as they took seats at the rough-hewn table.
"May I suggest mulled date wine to ward off the peculiars?" the innkeeper suggested. "On such a night, I am sure the Arch-Deaconess would not mind you imbibing."
Aradia nodded. Opening the drawstring of the bag, she took out four coins and slowly placed them on the table. She thought better of her disbursement and added a fifth coin, knowing her overpayment would insure privacy and discretion.
The innkeeper beamed, his jowls wobbling as he profusely thanked her. He bowed, clapped his hands, and ordered a private room be made available.
The women watched as servants hurried to do his bidding. They lit a fire in an adjacent room and carried in bedding from the outer rooms, providing the best accouterments.
"My good wife has made fish stew and I am sure you will find it very palatable," the innkeeper advised. "She is a most worthy cook. Her repasts are legendary in the Khepri Valley. Her bread..." He cupped the fingers of his right hand and brought the fingertips to his mouth. "Ah, her bread is the best you will ever eat! And the goat cheese!" He rolled his eyes to indicate the worthiness of the dairy product.
Aradia inclined her head in acceptance. "We will welcome your lady-wife's fare, for we have traveled long this day."
"When you have warmed, please make yourselves comfortable in the private room. All will be ready for you." He bowed again and still again as he backed away, leaving his obviously wealthy guests to their privacy.
Giving the fire in the private room time to ward off any chill, the women were content to bide their time at the blazing fire pit. Steam rose from their woolen robes and the stench grew overpowering. Aradia leaned against the thick cushion upon which she sat and closed her eyes. She was hungry, tired, and a nagging headache had been hounding her for most of the afternoon. The dampness did not help, nor the clinging scratch of the wool plastered to her arms and legs. She was acutely uncomfortable and growing more so by the minute. She longed for the safety of the private room, hoping she could strip down to her short gown.
"Dare we ask him for a tub of hot water?" Okyale inquired.
"I think not," Phillipa replied. "It would be--"
The door crashed open. A sharp gust of wind rushed into the room, extinguishing the candles and sending a fine mist of rain over the guests. A strong scent of brimstone wafted over the women, making their eyes water and their noses crinkle. An unearthly howl rent the air. Before the innkeeper could rush to close the door, a figure appeared on the threshold, robe billowing, lightning flaring behind to lend the silhouette an evil bent.
"Milord!" The portly innkeeper gasped and fell to his knees, his forehead touching the floor.
The black-robed figure entered the darkened room, his face partially covered with the folds of his black ghutra head covering. He ignored the innkeeper and strode to the far end of the room, his boot heels tapping heavily on the planking. After removing his black leather gloves, he threw them on a table, unfastened the hook at his throat, and swirled the robe from his shoulders, carelessly tossing it to a chair. Beneath the robe, his leather breeches and long silk tunic were as ebon as a starless night.
"Get the hell up, Jubil," came an irritated growl. "You know I hate it when you do that!"
The innkeeper got clumsily to his feet and backed away, bobbing like a crazed woodpecker. "My apologies, Milord. Please forgive me!"
"Stop that, too! I hate it even more when you grovel."
Aradia and her women had stiffened at the first sound of the authoritative voice. Covertly staring at the stranger, they saw little, save the dark shape of him at the far end of the room. He gave an impression of authority as he swung a long leg over the back of his chair and sat down.
"Will you be eating with us tonight, Milord?" Jubil asked, hastily moving to relight the candles on the tables closer to Aradia and her group.
"Would I have ridden all this way from Abbadon in the midst of a raging storm if not for Olufemi's food?"
"It is not your favorite, Milord," the innkeeper said miserably. "It is fish stew and--"
"Stew will be fine."
As light from the candles brightened the room, the women got a better look at the newcomer, tall, wide of shoulder, and muscular. Reclining with one leg stretched out, the other hooked at the boot heel in the lower rung of his chair, the chair tipped back and balanced on two legs, he appeared at ease. Though he sat facing them, the shadows were still too dark to show his face. It was not until the innkeeper lit the candle on the newcomer's table that the women got a good look at a face that made each of them draw in a quick breath.
Aradia had once known a man whom she thought to be the most handsome ever fashioned by the gods. His swarthy good looks, coupled with ebony hair and sparkling brown eyes, had caused her many sleepless, aching nights. His memory had plagued her over the years, and she yearned to feel his strong male body atop her own once more. Until the moment her gaze fell upon the newcomer, she would not have believed it possible for there to be another man as alluring and sensual as the one from whose arms she had been so cruelly thrust.
"By the Goddess," Okyale whispered.
Aye, Aradia thought, taking in the raw sexual energy coming from the newcomer. This male had been fashioned by the Goddess, Herself. How else to explain the finely chiseled features, the striking amber eyes, gleaming raven hair, two long thick braids framing shoulder-length flowing waves, and full, deep coral lips?
Crisp black hair was nested at the open V of the tunic unbuttoned half way to his slender waist. The wet black silk clung to his body, doing nothing to hide the muscles bunching along his upper chest and straining the sleeves over his biceps. Thighs encased in shiny black leather were taut with muscles, pulling against the bulge at the juncture of his spread legs.