There are few unforgivable sins. To tear at the fabric between Realms, with full awareness of one's actions and all willingness to commit them, is the deadliest. We travel the Cycle by the will of the All-God, or not at all.
-The Book of All Realms
Testimony of Aster, 6:12-13
The chamber is high but narrow. The walls are painted black, the ceilings a fresco of dragons dancing around the moon in a night sky. But to the far end from the entrance, above the place where his throne is set, a bloody sun is rising, framed by beams of radiance that resemble numerous outstretched wings.
We walk the narrow bridge that leads down the center of the chamber to its raised far end, taking our time. To either side of us, trenches glimmer with dark water, flashing fins and slime-coated scales. Ulubat, the kind of fish that'll have your skeleton picked clean before your heart can beat thrice. The bone-lace chandeliers hanging overhead cast twisting patterns over all.
We draw to a stop as we approach the stairs at the bridge's end. My master drops to his knees, and so do I—abasing myself completely against the floor while he curls over his bent knee.
"Rise," calls an echoing voice. We do. I glance up through my lashes at the three figures standing above, not daring to look too directly at the one seated upon the upthrust throne. It's difficult not to look long at such a wonder, though. Like most else in the king's receiving chamber, it's black, intricately carved and glossy so that the images seem to transform and reveal themselves with the flickering of the light.
The man seated on it, on the other hand, seems to be dressed entirely in light. Not so bright it hurts to look at, but a gentle, pulsing glow that almost hurts not to behold directly. Silver and gold, moon and sunlight, intermingled.
"Approach."
We climb the stairs, and I flick my gaze upward in turns to catch glimpses which I piece together into a larger image, an incomplete puzzle. The figures who stand at the base of the second set of stairs leading up to the King's seat are young men, dark haired and bearded, with skin of a golden tan. The color of desert dunes.
Both wear white robes shot through with sunlight—the finest and most fashionable—with broad sashes drawn tight about their waists to accentuate the breadth of their shoulders. The inner linings of their cloaks are black, further differentiating their figures from the layers of cloth that frame them.
The king has wavy, dark hair that falls past his shoulders, like the two standing before us, but streaked with silver. I can't bring myself to look directly at his face.
Then he stands and begins to descend. The hairs at the back of my neck raise on end, the shadows quiver, and try though I do to suppress it—the faintest illumination raises to the surface of my skin.
"She is beautiful," says King Azhias when he stands just a few hands breaths away from me, spitting the words like they're an insult. "Even with that face, she is beautiful."
My master says nothing, betrays no change in his manner. But I can feel the slightest cooling of the air around him.
"It's a waste you don't feed the usual way, with one such as this," he says, smirking over at the general. "And waste is a crime. You will allow my sons to feed on her, and to punish her as they see fit, within the bounds of reason."
A cold shiver of shock and excitement races across my skin at that word—punish. I feel more than see Khavad flash a glare at the two men, both of whom radiate defiance.
"They were among her victims, you see," explains the king. "They've their right to revenge, so long as they don't kill her or damage her beyond use."
"My King, it's with deepest regret that I must point out that no one, not the sons of the king nor their sons nor theirs, have the right to violate the king's own laws. And by your law, My King, for any but myself to feed on her would be a violation of our sacred Binding."
I flinch as our sovereign barks a string of expletives that echo through the cavernous space like a chorus of angry dogs.
"Punishment, then. My sons will be allowed that, at the absolute least."
A thrill snakes down my spine, a thirst unrelated to blood or any other liquid rising in my gorge. I catch myself yearning towards them and stop. Punishment. Pain. It feels like an eternity since he forbade me pain. My master looks down to me, catching my eye—a question there in his gaze. But he reads the willingness, the desperation in me immediately, and sighs.
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"Very well," he said. "And how long am I to relinquish her to your custody?"
"Until you depart for the border."
Three days. Three days of torture. I nearly fall to my knees to weep with gratitude.
"I will agree to this only if you allow me to see to her feeding each of these days, as long as she's given food and water and allowed to relieve herself, and as long as no enduring damage is done to her."
"Of course, of course," replies the king, waving a hand dismissively. The princes shift with agitated energy. The one to the left curls his lip in something resembling a silent snarl.
My master inclines his head in acknowledgement, then swoops around to face me. His eyes bore into mine for half a heartbeat, then my entire body freezes in shock as he kneels to embrace me.
"Don't let them see your shadows," he whispers, his breath a hot breeze across my ear. I inhale as much of his scent into my lungs as I can before he jerks all-too-quickly upright and away. Bowing once more to the king and princes, he turns and leaves me to their mercy without another word.
The princes descend the stair together, the slightly older looking of the two at the head. But he stands an arm's breadth from me, eyes boring into mine as he waits for his brother. He doesn't have to wait long. The other prince grabs my wrists, wrenching them behind my back and forcing me into a kneeling position.
The elder prince reaches out with one broad hand to squeeze my throat. My back arcs inward, but I manage to stifle the gasp of pleasure that rises to my lips.
"I am Erran H'Ran, Prince of Skies in this life," he says. "But in the last, I was Val, farmer's son. Nine years old when your troops raized my village. Murdered my whole family one at a time so those still alive could watch."
He releases me then, pulling his hand back and forming a fist that crashes across my skull in the next instant. I topple sideways, unable to hold back the moonglow as it flares to life beneath my skin. His younger brother lets go of me too, recoiling in shock.
"How?" He rasps. But the king above only laughs.
"Her corruption follows her even now. Well, go, then. Take her from my sight and have your way—but keep to the agreement."
I can feel their struggle as the brothers take hold of my arms and haul me away, feel the temptation in them. See it in their eyes, the frustrated tensing of their muscles. They take me down to the palace's depths, to a dungeon cell well away from all others, and well-equipped. When they cast me through the door to splay across the cold stone, I see it again. How badly they'd like to take me then and there, to absorb that glow into themselves and thrill in the power of it.
With the dragon-high still coursing through my body, it's all I can do not to try to goad them into oathbreaking. I writhe on the stone, fighting the impulses that threaten to overwhelm me. My knees begin to part in spite of myself, and Erran—the older prince—spits a curse. Within moments they have me up again, shackled to a wooden structure on a wall that spreads my legs for me. They argue at first as to whether they should strip my clothes away.
In the end, they cut the dress off, taking care to cut me right along with it. I do my best to look and sound pained, to cry out in just the right way. But the moonglow betrays me.
"She's enjoying it," says Thedir, anger and disgust twisting his cultured tone.
"We've only just begun," growls Erran. He stalks across the dark cell, lit only by a single oily latern in one corner, and flings open an enormous trunk. Moments later he's returning with two long, thick, phallus-like rods in his hands, their blunt ends glinting in the low light.
He shoves each one in my mouth first before jamming them into my lower openings—generous of him, I suppose, to wet them for me.
And then, together, the two brothers begin their experiments. The goal: to discover a pain too terrible for even one such as myself to enjoy...without violating the limits of their agreement.
Excepting, of course, the pleasures I experienced in my bonding, I've never felt such profound ecstasy in all of my life.
Some unknowable amount of time passes—endless and yet all too short—and I find myself hanging from my bonds, body quivering about the rods that fill me, skin painted with sweat and blood. The room is so bright from the glow of my flesh that the princes whom I've almost come to think of as lovers have to shield their eyes against its radiance.
They're tired now, breathing hard, sweat glistening on their brows as it does on mine. In my exhaustion and relief, my mask falters, and I smile at them.
Erran balks, his confidence broken, and takes a sudden step back from me. "Fox bitch."
His hand curls into a fist, and he pulls it back and punches me again, harder even than he had that first time. And then he does it again. And again and again. My senses reel with agony, a bouquet of cracking bones, broken skin, and blood.
"Erran, you'll violate the—"
But Thedir must see something in his brother to make him realize the futility of words alone and cuts off, rushing forward to grapple with him.
"Stop, damn you," he growls, trying and failing to restrain Erran, to halt the next blow. "You'll kill her!"
At that, a core piece of myself breaks away from the ecstatic haze of torture.
No. That I can't allow.
But I can't allow myself to harm the princes, either.
My power flares and than retreats within, glowing with cool brilliance that suffuses my flesh, my veins. I think of him, my master. The man whom I know to be so much more to me than that, though I can't remember why. I feel the connection between us like a thousand silvery-gold threads in the darkness, unbreakable. Eternal. I send the power into those threads, and in less than a heartbeat, I feel his response.
Thedir's fist meets my face three more times. Black spots dance across my vision, mingling with the blood to swallow it up. There's a crash from across the cell, wood and metal against stone—the door flying open.
I'd been ready for the next blow, but it never comes. I blink hard, struggling to see the conflict taking place at my side. But by the time I regain enough vision to make sense of it, it's over. Erran lies unconscious on the ground, shadows writhing around him like feeding lampreys. Thedir stands back against the wall, wide-eyed, skin paled with shock.
And, standing before me with arms outstretched, is Khavad. Glowing with golden light, shadows twisting about his arms and circling his head—a halo of midnight.