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Lady Monica Holt
The gathering storm
Part IV
-Priestesses of the sinful Goddess-
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The sweet chorus of the young devotees humming echoed on the decorated walls of the Goddess temple. Not as grand as the ‘Academy of Senses’ in Valeria, or as prominent –in its phallic symbolism- as Tyeus Tower in the ‘jewel of the Canlita Sea’ city of Asturia.
The spot where Naossis first visited when she escaped the confines of her isle. There by the mighty river’s mouth, on the clean pebble beaches and under the Hammer Mount’s shade she rested her weary body the story went. The villagers that had first laid their eyes upon her sleeping peacefully rejoiced in the Goddess’ naked form and sang happy hymns, danced lewdly with abandon, then slept alongside her. She didn’t turn them away, or fretted at their indiscretions for Naossis was childish and kind in her divinity.
Also very much wicked in her sinfulness herself.
This temple was smaller and circular, more fat than tall and it had space left in the middle for the three-storied Seraglio, just like the much larger Temple in Valeria. The structure also called the ‘Fair Lady’s palace’ on Jelin, or the ‘Divine Harem’ on Eplas. A colorful glass domed edifice of archaic imperial design, it protruded at the top of the spherical building suggestively, inner thick glass walls and supporting pink marble columns covered in murals depicting Naossis adventures.
And many faces, Monica thought pushing her numb neck back against the lip of the carved out of a massive piece of onyx-marble bathtub, slotted in the floor of the hall. One could smell the garden surrounding the structure through the narrow but very tall open windows. The Goddess’ favorite trees and saplings planted with care and in a maze-like concentric pattern to hide the approach to the Seraglio. The visitors could interact with the priestesses at the outer halls of the temple, but this space was reserved for them.
A whiff of aloe-wood, or agarwood the thin moldy sticks placed in vases on every window. The fruity, exotic aroma of the ‘sacred horn-wood’, what the priests of the Five call Frankincense and the fragile, not native on Jelin ‘glowing trees’ soaked in scented oils, what the locals called sandalwood.
She exhaled gently, drowsy crystal-blue eyes -a gift from her father- tearing up, the water making her long coal-black hair –only thing she had of her late mother- heavy and soaked in the scented waters that caressed the tips of her excited breasts. Monica gazed at the ‘Orea Augusta’ Flavia -the striking High Priestess of Naossis- reclined on a velvet black sofa with her eyes closed. A content smile on her plump lips, luscious long blond hair spilling down her creamy shoulders and the red priestess’s seer robes flowing down and touching the polished marble tiles.
Her eyes stopped next at the five girls humming whilst playing their harps, afore swinging to the other side where ‘First Idole’ the bountiful Drusilla was pleasuring the only Issir priestess in the High Priestess’ visiting entourage, the young white-haired Birgite. A hoarse gasp escaped her lips, when sweet Vita retracted the phallus, Monica’s eyes closing momentarily when her lover raised a drenched head out of the water and then emerged slowly between her spread legs.
The many faces of Naossis all in a room, she thought feeling the fit priestess’ fingers on her excited nipples and the tip of the love instrument returning into her welcoming moist fold. The mother and the male/female lover. The receiver and the conqueror. The joyful singer and the seducer.
Yes.
The Empress of small pleasurable deaths.
Aw.
“Open up love,” Vita purred over her face and she obliged hungrily their mouths melting, music, drugs and ecstasy dissolving her brain. Monica thought she heard Naossis giggle coming through the open window.
The sensation divine.
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But the moment fleeting and not everlasting.
“Sweet Sister Monica,” Flavia murmured in her distinct voice, while the spent noble scion’s head rested on the soaked tiles, nape touching the lip of the cooling bathtub and the body of an exhausted Vita covering hers, the latter using her small teeth to work on Lady Holt’s left earlobe.
Mmm.
“Oh, Flavia…” Monica gushed opening her eyes and raised a hand to find the High Priestess gold rings. Flavia cupped her hand and pulled it from her right breast with the hint of a smile. “I can go another hour,” Monica protested although she couldn’t and Vita chuckled in her arms, the water splashing out of the bathtub. “For you,” she added using a bit of voice magic and Flavia tapped her nose lightly with a finger to put a stop to her philandering.
That wasn’t like Flavia at all.
“What is it?” she asked with a grimace, Vita’s teeth pulling at the tender flesh as Monica flinched to look at the stooped over them High Priestess. Flavia’s robes had opened up spilling the goods out, as she was notorious for ‘wardrobe malfunctions’. A running joke in the Order.
“A group of sturdy men sent by Commander Virilis have penetrated our temple grounds,” Flavia said with a childish pout. Not a wrinkle on her comely face despite pushing forty. “Not in a good way, praise be the Goddess,” the high priestess added. “Disturbing the ‘faithful’ and apparently looking for you.”
“Why would they be looking for me?” Monica had just arrived with the other priestesses from Valeria to work on the summer festivities before Bacchanalia. Her favorite time of the season. “How do they know I’m here?”
“Nasica is with them,” Flavia said and Vita hissed like an angry cat. Her brother’s right hand man. Monica had three older brothers and an older sister. Two from different mothers Marcus and Rupert, along Anne her sister. The oldest of them already dead a month before she was born. “Apparently they expected you at the docks, but missed us. They got worried and are searching the city since yesterday… the other day. Right Sister Drusilla?” Flavia asked a bit confused, or too drugged to remember.
“I can’t think right now Augusta,” a groggy Drusilla replied from somewhere. The music had stopped at some point, when the festivities subsided and the Seraglio now stood tranquil.
“Anyway,” Flavia continued with an eye-roll. “The man is insistent. I could offer to relieve some of his frustration, but he just doesn’t seem the type who can tell a woman apart from a mare and my hip is still hurting to chance it.”
Flavia had slipped ‘playing’ with the Goddess’ lifelike statue in a fervent praying session back in Valeria and had taken quite the tumble.
They had feared the worst.
“You want me to work on him?” Drusilla asked, ever eager to perform for the Goddess.
Sweet soul.
“I want Sister Monica to get them out of our temple,” Flavia said evenly and got up, taking care to avoid the slippery parts around the round bathtub. “The sooner the better,” she added turning serious and then walked away.
“Fuck,” Monica cursed unladylike, Vita mistaking her wrath for admiration of the walking away High Priestess’ marvelously working hips.
“Yep,” her lover agreed and Monica pushed her away, making a mess.
“That’s my brother and his stupid anxiety,” she hissed climbing out. Monica used both her hands and her knees to semi-crawl away in order to avoid an accident on the oily spillage, feeling soaked to the bone, but in a darn good way. The young scion stumbled about looking for her own red robes, her normal outfit left somewhere in the building and finding a set that looked like them tossed the flimsy garbs on, not bothering drying up her skin.
“Are you sure?” Vita probed raising a finely trimmed brow, the color of mature heartwood. It sent a warm shiver down her loins.
“They don’t care about me,” Monica replied with a deep sigh and walked to the entrance to meet her brother’s men.
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“GOOD GRIEF!” A sour faced Flavius Nasica grunted as if he’d seen a pregnant Hydra sunbathing. “Carus Libo what in all hells are you gawking at?” He cursed irate whipping his head around abruptly and catching the burly Lorian thug eyeing a bare-footed still drenched Monica.
Granted, Carus Libo was kind of keeping his gaze between her face and naked feet, but still…
Eh.
“Ahm, well…” Libo murmured intending to expound on Nasica’s query, but the sinewy well-armed man cut him off frustrated.
“Don’t explain it you imbecile! Give her your darn cloak now!” He bellowed glaring at the city guards escorting them, the latter pretending to admire the artistry of the temple in deep reverence.
“I don’t want his stupid cloak. What are you doing here?” Monica snapped at the frustrated official and Nasica’s face turned right mean in an instant.
“Get the cloak Lady Monica,” he warned her. “I have instructions to bring you to the palace, any way I deem necessary. Preferably unseen. I brought a mule and a rope.”
What?
“How about you go suck my brother’s cock?” Monica retorted, her blood boiling at the insult. “This is a temple you fucking philistine!”
Nasica grimaced and shook his head disappointed.
“Naught but a fancy brothel,” he snarled impiously. “Don’t mistake our love of revenue for acceptance!”
“May the Goddess turn your dick all flaccid, your seed as thin as water,” Monica hissed a curse and accepted the ‘smelly’ cloak from the lecherously smirking Libo.
“I’ve two bastards already,” Nasica retorted looking unfazed. “Reckon I’ll take the chance Lady Monica. Now put the bloody cloak on!”
Get cockrot and piss blood in your sleep, a frowned Monica thought deciding limpness was too small a punishment for the creep and got into Libo’s cloak, the heavy garment touching the floor.
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“Are you decent?” Bernard asked two hours later after knocking at her bedroom door.
“Fuck off!” Monica blasted him irate.
Bernard walked inside despite her outburst and stopped seeing her gazing out of the window in the nude.
“Allgods mercy,” he growled and shoved her away towards the bed. “Get a shirt on, you are not ten.”
Monica scoffed at his words and put her hands on her hips holding the pose. “My tits are swollen,” she told him and watched his face twisting in anger. “Guess from what Bernard. You have one chance. I’ll help. I’m not pregnant.”
“You are making things difficult,” her flushed brother hissed, pushing his blond hair back. Bernard’s only similarity with their old father. “Get dressed, people look to us in these trying times.”
“Oh, come on Bernie,” Monica retorted mockingly and found a long tunic to put on. “Nobody looks at you! Haha! You only got the position because Marcus got himself killed when you were four—”
The slap had caught her low on the cheek and tossed her on the bed.
Fucker.
“Damn you,” Bernard grunted nearing her. “Let me see that,” he lifted her face and pushed the curls back to examine the skin. “You need to learn to—” Monica’s hand on his cock had stopped him from continuing. Bernard made to pull away, but there was no mistaking he is getting hard fast.
Will you look at that?
“You could just ask,” Monica purred a taunt in his sweaty face and Bernard grunted trying to pull away. “Fucking hypocrite.”
“You’re sick,” her brother croaked, but stayed where he was.
“You can visit the temple,” she told him, her other hand touching the mark on her cheek. “Nobody will care. The festival is near. You could wear a mask, or you can just watch us.”
“Gods Monica! That’s not how it goes. Where did you learn all this,” Bernard hissed and pulled away, when his sister loosened her grip. She pushed herself back on the bed, the tunic bunched up under her arse and leaving long creamy legs bare. “A single mistake can bury you in politics.”
“Everyone spills their secrets to the Goddess,” Monica reminded him. “You can tell me. I won’t talk. You are not pious Bernie, nobody is and it won’t help elevate you more. You’re not much of a knight also, or a lord of anything despite your ‘tittle’. Hey you could still marry into a small barony somewhere. A Lesia girl, her cunt as dry as the desert.”
“Stop playing games and mind your tongue,” Bernard murmured and stood back, his hair a mess and eyes staying on her thighs. Monica spread them some more. “We must be on our best behavior,” her brother added with difficulty.
Weak, she thought.
All flesh is weak.
“You will pay for hitting me,” Monica told him warningly.
“I’m sorry.”
“What’s the occasion?” she asked, not believing him.
“Lord Lucius has taken Anorum.”
Monica stood up on her elbows. “Lord Pryor? Anne?”
“Our step-sister is fine,” Bernard grunted. “Lucius has two legions with him.”
“Where did he find them?”
“That’s not the point. He wants our father to declare for him Monica!” Bernard snapped furious. Was it sexual frustration? She wondered. The loss of Anorum didn’t impact him, or did it?
She thought of late King Alistair’s firstborn. Always serious. Monica was eleven when she last had seen him. He’d killed his wife was the word. Mayhap a sex game gone wrong.
“Lucius lost the throne, despite what father thinks,” Monica told her gloomy brother and got up from the bed.
“He wants it back and the old man will support him,” Bernard hissed. “Jeremy is no match for Lucius.”
“Jeremy was pretty cute,” she countered and seeing Bernard’s incredulous look, she added. “But I’ll jump into bed with Lucius. Naossis rolled in the hay with Abrakas. I’ve seen the mural… eh. With him it’ll be like sleeping with a better looking Tyeus. Flavia has him top of her list and she’s gone through most of it.”
It was a long list.
“Monica!” Bernard growled furious.
“What does Rupert say?” She asked unperturbed.
“Rupert is back at the palace,” Bernard grunted, a tick appearing in his right eye when she approached him. Monica didn’t like the fact he was a bit taller than her.
“Your only chance was him getting killed fighting the tourneys,” she whispered softly to calm him down. “But he’s strong as a bull and can take a tumble, so yeah. He’ll be the next Duke of Asturia.”
“Not if King Jeremy wins,” Bernard retorted.
“You don’t believe that,” Monica countered.
“I don’t but the realm is a mess. If the old man finds out what you’re doing he’ll disown you and I’ll be blamed for it.”
“Can’t I be a priestess?”
“You know darn well that’s not why you’re doing it. Father won’t have it. Remember Delia?”
Monica closed her eyes at the memory.
“Delia left me. I’m with someone else now,” she croaked and stood back defensively.
“She’s at the bottom of a dry well in Whitetiger. Draco put her there,” Bernard blurted out.
“You’re lying.”
“Sis, I’m not,” Bernard puffed out and rubbed his face with a hand. A gold ring with a ruby on it, quite large. “Valeria isn’t Regia, or even Asturia. That’s a whole another world. You can’t bring it here and expect no pushback and you can’t have a woman as a lover. This isn’t Eplas, or Wetull.”
“Draco killed Delia?” Monica hissed narrowing her eyes and feeling the heart thundering in her chest.
“On the old man’s orders,” Bernard replied staring at her worried. “He allowed you a couple of years of respite, his mind on the kingdom and King Alistair. Now you’re eighteen and that’s over.”
“He won’t harm the priestesses,” Monica snapped, her voice cracking the news ruining her mood.
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“The temple won’t fight the Duke don’t be naive,” her brother whispered. “You think all this influence and coin comes from sex? Flavia will toss you out, or worse. She moves in very dark circles.”
“You think I sleep with Flavia? I don’t care for her that much!”
“I hoped you were,” Bernard admitted. “Because she would know to keep you away. So you wouldn’t get hurt.”
“You didn’t sent that creep Nasica to pick me up,” Monica murmured realizing what was going on.
Bernard smacked his lips and sighed deeply.
“Rupert did,” he said sounding tired. “He asked for your whereabouts. Soon the rumors might reach him. He’s daft, but not completely stupid and does whatever our father tells him. You must understand people talk and have seen you in the temple. The Duke’s own daughter cajoling like a harlot! The war might have slowed the tourists down, but locals still make the journey. I had to move fast and usher you away from the god darn docks afore his people returned.”
“His people?” Monica croaked bitterly.
“The Duke’s people. Father’s,” Bernard replied and looked at her desperately. “I warned you that your time of fooling around is up. The old man is coming back.”
> Lord Decius Hortulanus the Second had started building ‘Asturia proper’ utilizing a stone wall constructed parallel to the east banks of the Framtond River as base. The wall had failed to stop Lucius’ father, Lord Remus Aldenus from raiding the settlement fifty years before Reinut’s conquest and burning all its wooden structures to the ground. The almost forgotten from history Lord Remus had used the easy to land beaches of the nearby Canlita Sea forty kilometers from the river’s mouth to avoid the headache –and danger- of testing the then wooden bridge.
>
> Lord Decius the First had rebuilt the wall in the years that followed and Decius the Second carried on building another wall that blocked access to the interior, if one managed to land on Asturia’s beaches coming from the Canlita Sea again. The days before Reinut the Lakelords were mostly Lorians and Northmen that had settled near the lake to avoid the harsh winters. They as their Issir successors were thirsty for the richer lands across the water. The meat and the grain from the fields. White beans and the white-wine vines further back near the slopes.
>
> Lord Decius the Second kept building walls kilometers away from the settlement. He didn’t go for height, or fancy designs just sturdy ramparts to stop an enemy. He constructed another wall twenty kilometers south from the beaches, draining the quagmires created because of the old granite quarry there and formed the slanted deep valley facing what is now called the Lake Wall Plateau, but it’s just the Northwest side of the great Hammer Mounts range. Occasionally this now thick woodland will flood turning that part of the Asturia Forest into a bog. The latter extends from the lake to the Shaft Peak bordering the Framtond on one side, the Hammer mounts on the other, turning into wilderness despite heavy foresting.
>
> Lord Decius had left a very big area for people to start building again and they did. The ancient Lord’s design resembling a trapezoid with its smaller side facing Canlita’s shores, a tower protecting both the water and river mouth on the northwest corner, another on the east corner between the big main gates facing the bridge over Framtond and the smaller south gates on the sloped road towards the woodlands and the river city of Croton.
>
> While he failed to stop the next Aldenus that attacked the city years later and just after Reinut’s wars had ended, Decius managed to negotiate a decent deal. History shames him as the first one to bend the knee, dooming the Sulas that had won in the south and were marching to Illirium, but Decius much as his father afore him were builders and not fighters.
>
> Lord Decius the Second reigned from 10 BNC to 26 NC, a long thirty-six years. He was succeeded by Duke Hunter Holt the First the distant 27 NC and he in turn was succeeded by Duke Rupert in 48 NC. In 79 NC another Decius, the third of his name (reigned 71-100NC) would construct in the now fully rebuilt Asturia’s central square, hemmed in by the old library, the Adventurer’s Guild building, Tyeus Tower and Naossis Temple a massive granite statue dedicated to Asturia's most famous citizen Ebenezer Framtond. Decius the third, a fervently loathing risks man himself, preached Ebenezer was his father’s bastard son with the ‘girl from the lake’.
>
> While the truth is Framtond’s origins are ambiguous and the stone used to build his statue was leftovers from constructing the bridge, as its architect then young Tal Hibrida (49- 138NC), famed Pompeo Di Cresta’s instructor, had overestimated how much they will need for the bridge across the river. The whole side of the mountain had been brought down and huge piles of unused stone were left clogging the streets, the banks of the river and the gates of the city.
>
> At over thirty meters tall not counting the three-meter high massive podium, the coarse statue remains the tallest statue on Jelin and the realm, until word of the forty-meter statues of Goras reached them much later. It could be seen on clear days by approaching ships from Valeria even without refraction, or from travelers approaching the river’s bridge from Islandport. The disconcerting crooked grin of Ebenezer appearing behind the clouds has terrified many a unsuspecting visitors.
>
> It is worth noting here Framtond River was simply known as the river afore the stone bridge was built and named after him for being the first brave enough to cross it ‘while under construction’. The latter more a matter of necessity for the legendary adventurer, than academic curiosity, much less bravery.
Old Lord Holt burst inside his roomy hall clad in his engraved and much older than him plate armour. The polished bronze in the details making the steel plates taking a golden hue in the light coming from the many windows facing the lake. Not that you could see the lake from the palace.
Built behind the walls and the North Gates, near the port but away from the river, the big estate resembled a big rectangular castle more than a villa, complete with a drawbridge dry moat and two small towers guarding its smaller sides. It had barracks and an armory within the inner walls, the Duke’s Hall main building, kitchen, guard quarters, a stable and a large garden.
Once the sturdy gates closed, you have to lay siege to enter it, or grow wings to slip away.
Monica hated it. Once inside its bowels, you couldn’t get out unless given permission. This palace was a prison even without the dungeons deep underneath it.
The Duke was followed by Lord Hostus Mercator of Islandport and his teenage son Dima, Monica’s third cousin from her mother’s side. Sir Rupert, her bigger brother came next along with the Duke’s Shield Lord Vibius Draco, the old man’s eyes staying at the daring open bust of her dress, a tight corset keeping everything in place, if you breathed slowly.
“Fuck’s sake,” Bernard cursed coming to stop beside her to greet their approaching father. “Couldn’t you wear something else?”
“Like a big hemp sack over the head? Or a blanket?” Monica hissed, managing a smile in response of young lanky Dima’s lecherous grin.
Wow that creep grew up, she thought, her cousin being three years younger than her, but already taller.
“Bernard,” Lord Holt grunted, deep lines marring his unshaven cheeks, the skin rough and full of blemishes. His cold blue eyes piercing through Monica’s skull. She quickly bowed her head to avoid another blow to the face, as while Bernard could land a good one from time to time, the old man’s rough hand was like a heavy plank full of splinters. You get it on the arse and it breaks the skin. You get one in the face, hah, you’re dead girl.
“Father, it is uplifting to see you well—”
“Cut the crap son, where’s your sword?” Lord Holt stopped him and Monica almost burst out laughing at her brother’s shocked expression.
“I keep Nasica close,” Bernard started, getting cut off again abruptly.
“I don’t care! Nasica ain’t my son, or a knight!” Her father growled already angry, which wasn’t a good sign and she started breathing with small intakes feeling the heat and stress getting to her. The summer, like trouble came early, she thought listening to Bernard getting chewed and berated for his shameful display.
“I’ll go get it,” Bernard gasped seemingly ready to collapse from the humiliation he had to endure, although those present kept a neutral expression on, but for Rupert who thought it hilarious.
“Give your coat to yer sister,” Lord Holt ordered brusquely, turning to look at her again.
Go, she urged herself.
Monica took half-a-step forward, picking her dress in a deep curtsy and went to kiss her father’s hand at the end of it. Lord Holt grabbed her chin and pushed her head back revealing her neck.
Ouch.
“Onas shadow what’s this?” He rustled narrowing his eyes.
“Bernard—” Monica attempted to throw her brother under the wagon’s wheels, but Lord Holt wasn't talking about her cheek.
“What?” Her father growled, Baron Draco furrowing his brow looking at her neck with interest.
A hickey?
“I stumbled on a door,” Monica explained quickly, to avoid further scrutiny. “In the stables.”
Eh.
“With your neck? Eh, women shouldn’t be anywhere near horses.”
“Quite right, milord,” Lord Draco agreed.
Oh, fuck off, you old murderous prick!
Her father let go of her chin after turning it this way and that much as one does to inspect a mare, afore adding. “Cover yourself up.”
Which one rarely says to a horse…
“Yes father.”
“You know Dima,” Lord Holt added a hard expression on his face. “He’ll be a knight afore the year is out.”
“Hello cousin,” Monica murmured lamely forcing a smile on her face and another curtsy. Dima’s grin turned a bit weird. What the actual fuck?
Did he just looked down my bust?
“You’ll show him the gardens later,” her father added half-pleased with their exchange.
What?
“Now, while my other son looks for his sword, allgods helps us,” Lord Holt continued a bit dismayed, getting a laughter out of those present, but for the shocked and having difficulty to breathe Monica. “We’ll take a break and then we’ll discuss the new developments.”
“Of course milord,” Baron Mercator said. “Sir Rupert I’d like to visit the armory with my son, if it’s possible. Haven’t had the chance to see it in years.”
“No worries, I’ll take you there,” Rupert said and gave her a nod. “You look nice sis.”
“Thank you Rupert,” Monica croaked, Bernard’s cloak suffocating and heavy on her shoulders.
“Stop standing there and bring us a bottle of wine,” Lord Holt grunted still in a foul mood. “Anne would have had everything ready by now. Now your sister is such a good lass. Right Vibius?”
“Excellent stock, Hunter,” Lord Draco replied enthusiastically, always fond of Anne despite losing her to Lord Pryor for ‘political reasons and the good of the Dukedom’ as he frequently liked to boast.
Anne had taken the mild-mannered Lord of Anorum’s hand and ran away as fast as she could. Better to live among legionnaires in the cold, her big stepsister always said, than sleep in Draco’s bed and having to deal with Van Calcar’s raiders.
“I didn’t know whether you’ll remain in the throne—”
“Look at this, good grief,” her father cut her off again abruptly. “Quick on the lip too. More man in her than Bernard!”
“Duplicitous my Lord. Unnatural,” Baron Draco said, not that he’d ever disagree with the Duke and Monica glared at him.
“Uhm,” her father agreed with a nod, then pressed his mouth tight. “No servants around Monica. I dismissed them. Get us those goblets now. You keep asking for punishment and you’ll receive it.”
Great, she thought and marched to the concealed servant’s door. Uri standing behind it with a bottle.
“The goblets are on the south wall table,” the servant told her quickly.
“Ah, thank you Uri,” Monica replied and the aged servant grimaced afore adding worried.
“He knows.”
Monica froze, the bottle almost dropping from her hands.
“How much?” she whispered and the servant shrugged his shoulders. He wasn’t sure, but the rumors reached the servants very fast in the palace. “How?”
“A missive, early this morning. The moment they crossed the river bridge.”
“A bird?”
“No, from someone in the city,” Uri replied.
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Monica spent the next hour standing near the table, as the two old men talked about the realm. Some stuff pretty gossipy like the part about King Jeremy, the ‘Lacking’ and his pregnant Issir wife delivering twins. Dark skinned Aldens.
“It makes our case difficult,” her father admitted. “I could risk an excursion down west, but by the time we reach Aldenfort they’ll know we’re coming. Even if we take it quickly, the Legion could march our way, fight us in the open fields.”
“Scaldingport has men-at-arms stationed at Sabretooth Castle,” Draco reminded him looking at an open map. “The irony of that, not to mention it forces us to bring a lot of cavalry along to counter them. It will fill Lord Ton’s brother's head with ideas.”
“True. Also I can’t help Lord Sula,” her father continued. “We spent a year digging out the Tunnel Pass, but even if we finish there, what good is going for Cartagen would do us? Jeremy isn’t in the capital.”
“Sula must take out Lord Ursus, the royal guard are Alistair’s loyalists, despite Miranda’s efforts to shove Aegium boys in. The Valens run the city and the High Baron’s second son is with Lucius,” Draco continued.
“Your son as well,” Lord Holt pointed out.
“Aye. The Fourth Cohort marched with Sula’s Legion towards Van Calcar’s lands. But he kept my son with him. A Prefect today, is the Tribune of the morrow,” Lord Draco replied proudly.
Sir Julius Draco was a boring but decent man, whilst his brother Sir Declan ruling over Draco’s men at the town of Ruinal was just a brute, thought Monica.
“Lucius is telling us we are all in this together,” Lord Holt added. “Will he fight the Lakelords? It isn’t in his interests.”
“It isn’t.”
“Can he afford to leave a Legion watching Van Calcar?” Lord Holt asked thoughtfully.
“Probably not, but it helps us.”
“He’ll want to keep Anorum. He needs a Lorian city,” her father continued. “Else the people will say the Lord of Kas has invaded our lands with his Nords.”
“With a Northern wife no less,” Lord Draco added disapprovingly.
“Eh, I told Alistair to keep him in Regia,” Lord Holt griped turning his eyes on her. Monica had opened the coat to allow herself to breathe and stopped to cocoon herself again under his glare. She could feel sweat rivulets running down her legs. “Better to have given Zofia to Antoon, the lad was scarred and couldn’t think straight.”
“Quite a boon for the O’ Dargans to have Zofia ruling in Krakenhall.”
“Women are trouble, twice that if they rule. You just don’t know what they’ll do. Will she stand with him? And why not wed her for crying out loud? Look at what Miranda did, eh,” Lord Holt grunted. “I loved both my wives, but they had no political bone in their bodies. No scandals, or disagreements.”
Monica gulped down nervously.
“He got a son out of her at least,” Lord Draco commented. “That’s twice in a row. The lad is fertile. Both of them are, Alistair would have been pleased.”
Go Lucius and Jeremy, Monica thought. Praise be the tiger’s seed!
She couldn’t believe what they were talking about.
“Technically Roderick came first so that’s a plus,” her father expounded on the finer details. “But I don’t see them reaching an agreement. Lord Doris is a vindictive bastard. Killed his own kin.”
“That’s a rumor my lord.”
Lord Holt grimaced his face darkening. “I know the man better Vibius. He’s ruthless.”
As if they weren’t cut from the same cloth! Monica thought.
“What did Lord Pryor say?” Draco asked changing the subject. It was no secret her father loved his first wife the most. Lord Doris cutting her off had stayed with him through the years. It wasn’t the god darn dowry. Land I have aplenty, her father murmured when he was in his cups. It was that briny bastard thinking he was above them in station. It’s one thing to respect a proper Alden, another to pander to the watered down scum of Aegium.
“Lucius has almost three thousand legionnaires there, as many in Lord Ton’s lands. Scouts, Rangers and war machines. He isn’t exactly begging for our help, but he isn’t stupid, or too arrogant to believe he’ll manage it by himself.”
“He might be able to break through to Alden, the First Legion is slow to rebuild,” Lord Draco noted.
“Ligur will do it. Had him as Prefect. Stubborn, Vinterfort lad. Dry and hard as the desert rocks. Kept himself upright during the battle of the Turncoats even after having his arm chopped off,” Lord Holt replied emptying his goblet. Monica went to refill it, but he stopped her putting his hand over it. “The First will fight.”
“What should I say to the scribes my lord?” Draco asked the troubled Duke.
“If Lucius wants control of Anorum he’ll need to give us something else,” her father replied. “No words, or messages are needed, I’ll talk with him personally. Know the lad since he was a boy.”
“What does Sir Rupert think?”
“Rupert will do as he’s plaguing told,” her father grunted. “I don’t trust him running the city, but he won’t veer off script and that’s a plus.”
“We’ll lose control of the northern routes,” Lord Draco insisted and Monica frowned not expecting him to keep arguing on this matter. Her father sighed and pushed back on his chair, glancing her way again.
“Mercator will support my decision,” the old Duke replied. Right, Monica thought melting on her feet and feeling lightheaded.
“I will as well,” Draco said. “But are we to follow along without knowing his plans?”
“We won’t… I’ll talk to him,” her father grunted a little frustrated. “We’ll march to Aldenfort together.”
“He left the Legion in Anorum my lord.”
Wow, Draco is really pushing father in this, Monica thought. That’s strange.
“We’ll see what he says,” Lord Holt replied his patience running thin.
“Very well,” Lord Draco yielded and stood up. “I will… leave you to it then my lord.”
Never a more ominous phrase was uttered, Monica thought with a shiver despite the heat, seeing the old Lord leaving them alone.
“Loose the coat girl,” her father ordered casually. “You look just about ready to fade.”
Monica had to restrain herself not to toss the expensive garment into the fireplace. Bernard was fearing of cold as much as he feared swords.
“Come here,” Lord Holt told her after she left it on a chair in the conference table. It slid and dropped down, but Monica pretended she didn’t see it and left it on the floor.
“Yes father.”
“How did you grow up so much in two years?” He asked her when she approached him, her face covered in sweat and her hair plastered on her exposed back.
“Less than two years,” she corrected him.
“Ah, here it is, the lip again. What am I going to do with you?”
“Not marry me to Dima?” Monica asked hopefully.
“He’s a good boy.”
“He’s family,” she retorted, losing control of her tongue.
Her father's stare turned serious.
“I don’t think that’s what bothers you, is it?
Monica stood back and crossed her arms over her bust.
“You can’t wed me to Dima. It won’t give you what you hope,” she blurted out. Lord Mercator of Islandport was too close to the border with Jeremy. The King’s men were circling the city port for a year. Everyone knew if the King’s army came Islandport would burn, if Lord Mercator chose not to bend the knee.
“I opposed Jeremy because it wasn’t his throne to take,” her father hissed, a warning tone in his voice. “But Lucius took his sweet time to return. Lines were drawn and people had time to cool off and get used to the idea. I also understand what Lucius wants, same I understand your cousin’s father concern. It’s what lords do. We try to solve problems with what we have at our disposal. You’ll wed Dima, bed him alike your mother did and give Lord Mercator a good heir. Your brother Bernard is too clever for his own good, but it is better to have a spare than see a foolish girl on the throne.”
“I understand,” Monica whispered bowing her head.
“No you don’t,” her father growled, his anger spilling out. “What did you mean?”
“Nothing.”
“It wasn’t about your tastes in…” he scrunched his mouth furious. “Don’t try to wiggle your way out of it. What’s the problem? He’ll do all the work, it’s not fucking difficult and I’m sure you’ve learned how it’s done cajoling wit the blasted priestesses of the Sinful Goddess!”
Monica licked her dry lips slowly.
“What is it daughter?” Lord Holt growled and got up. “You can’t do even this for your god darn father?” He blasted her irate, dark veins stretching his neck’s skin. “The old Lords would have tossed you in a well for this malarkey, but I can’t because you’re my blood and I care for you. Your mother was a good woman, just too frail.”
“If I bed him he’ll know,” Monica murmured, her face flushed.
“No he won’t,” Lord Holt assured her. “You think normal people believe the vile things they do over there are real? Don’t worry about it.”
Yeah, not that and lots of people know what’s what.
“Dima will know I’m not a virgin,” Monica elucidated with a deep sigh letting the cat out of the bag. Lord Holt blinked, a new vein throbbing in the middle of his forehead. Then Monica flew backwards senseless, her right eardrum torn, the Duke’s heavy backhand almost breaking her neck.
It took them a whole day to wake her up.
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read it at Royalroad : https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/46739/touch-o-luck-the-old-realms
& https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/47919/lure-o-war-the-old-realms
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