Hers to Command Read online

  * * * * *

  Slipping the deadly pursuit of a Haarb patrol, Ari galloped under the golden stone archways of Sylvan Mintoth. The sound of his horse’s shoes striking cobblestone echoed forlornly in the deserted street. Between his thighs he could feel Grey shake with fatigue, his responses dogged and sluggish. But Grey had done his job. He’d brought him safely to the shelter of the High Enclave. The fleet-footed gelding had given him a precious commodity—time.

  He handed his exhausted horse into the care of the stable master, then dragged his saddlebags over his shoulder and made his way up the well-worn stone stairs to Elder Patricio's chambers. At this early hour, stillness cloaked the long, shadowed halls. Gold light gleamed in a fan from under the elder’s door. Outside the elder’s rooms, he began to dust the worst of the dirt from his clothes, then stopped. By the seven hells, why should I care? Ari was no longer an adolescent novitiate under Patricio's repressive control. Entering the High Enclave triggered unwelcome memories. He reined in his emotions and rapped firmly on the heavy wooden panels.

  “Enter,” a familiar voice bid, even as Ari strode through the door.

  “Elder Patricio,” Ari acknowledged with a curt nod. The waterless wastelands of the Oshtesh were not as arid as his voice.

  “Conte DeTano, your punctuality is appreciated.” Withered and bent, slumped behind his desk, the man looked ill.

  How it must pain the old man to thank me. “I serve Verdantia, Elder. I always have.”

  “In most things, Your Lordship, in most things.”

  After risking death to get here, Ari did not appreciate the snide criticism. “One day, you will push me too far, Patricio.”

  The elder held up a shaking hand. “I apologize. My comment was inappropriate. This is not the time or place.” Patricio seemed to shrink in his robes. “Conte DeTano, the diamantorre is failing. As a leader of our joint military forces, you can surely appreciate what losing Sylvan Mintoth to the Haarb would mean.”

  “That is the only reason I am here, Elder.”

  The strength of the magickal field protecting Sylvan Mintoth concerned Ari. The elder had not overstated the crisis. To lose Sylvan Mintoth wherein stood the royal palace, The Great Library of Magicks and the High Enclave with its council of L’anziano, Parliament and House of Lords would erase the gains he had made on the battlefield these past three years. It could be the end of Verdantia.

  Patricio shot Ari a weary look. “I wish you to perform the Great Rite with Fleur Constante.”

  “Yes.”

  Wilting even further into his chair, Elder Patricio propped his elbow on his desk and rested his forehead in his hand, his frailty and exhaustion apparent. Patricio spoke to the desktop. “She is terribly inexperienced, Conte DeTano. I need your assurance you will be kind to her. I supervised her tutoring these past three years and I have grown—fond—of her. She is a very innocent, gentle soul.”

  Elder Patricio raised his head to meet Ari’s gaze. “She has not been told who you are.”

  “She does not know who I am to her?” Ari could not contain his incredulity.

  “No,” Patricio responded.

  “My coerced signature on your breeding contract is common knowledge,” Ari spat bitterly. “I cannot fathom you left her ignorant.”

  “Your rejection of the marriage contract would hurt her needlessly,” Patricio rejoined flatly.

  Ari walked forward until the desktop pressed into his thighs. “I did not reject her. I don’t know her. She was six when that contract was drawn.” Ari slammed his palms flat on the surface of the desk, his face inches from Patricio’s.

  “I reject being forced to breed children on a woman not my choice, however you dress it up in legalese. Whatever name you give it, the L’anziano administer a heavy-handed breeding program which you direct.”

  “This is a tired argument,” the elder faltered. “Just please don't handle her callously because of your distaste for me.”

  Stepping back, Ari straightened and crossed his arms over his chest. Interesting. The desiccated old weasel has a heart after all.

  While he could not quell his satisfaction at the man’s distress, he was unwilling to victimize an innocent to further the man’s suffering. “Elder Patricio, I swear on the honor of my House she will receive no ill treatment from me.”

  “Thank you. I…” The elder closed his eyes and rested his head against the chair back. “Thank you.”

  Opening his eyes, Patricio again sought out Ari’s gaze and held it. “Conte DeTano, you are the result of the best of Verdantia's blood. Fleur Constante is likewise. The L’anziano ask, once more, that you please reconsider your stance on…”

  “Stop pushing your agenda, old man.” Quiet menace laced Ari’s voice. “You have as much of me as you are going to get. Find another stud to breed on your precious princess.”

  Patricio shrank into his robes and braced himself on the arms of his chair.

  “I need two hours,” Ari continued. “After I bathe and rest, I expect her to be in the Chambre Cristalle ready to perform the Great Rite.”

  He left the door open behind him, resisting the urge to slam it.

  * * * * *

  Pulling her waist-length blond hair out of her way, Principessa Royale Fleur Constante, settled back into the deep satin cushions she had rearranged for the thousandth time. She tried to concentrate on the pages before her but her eyes refused to focus on the elaborately lettered lines. She had been lying there for hours trying to memorize a particular incantation to revitalize a small diaman crystal for one of the Lesser Rites.

  Her previous day had been a grueling, tense ordeal with the city’s governing council. At the end of a barely civil meeting that had run late into the night, she had retreated into her apartments. Still unsettled, she had tried to lose herself in the orderly calm of the Libre de Diamantorre.

  This time, the normally comforting rituals could not compete with the hysteria building outside the palace walls. The Haarb’s sixteen-month siege was taking its toll on the populace and its governors and they were demanding to see the king. No matter how competent, his twenty-one year old daughter was an unwelcome substitute. Father, I desperately need you to be well. I can’t keep your secret much longer.

  The knock at her door provided a welcome interruption to her troublesome thoughts. Sari, her childhood nurse, now her personal attendant, peered around the door.

  “My Lady, I am sorry to disturb you at such an early hour but there is a message from Elder Patricio.”

  “It’s all right, Sari.” Fleur shoved the heavy volume off her lap and stood up, taking the envelope from Sari’s extended hand.

  Ripping open the note's seal, she read the scrawling message. Written in Elder Patricio's own hand, it verged on illegible.

  “Your Royal Highness, the day we prayed would never come is upon us. The diamantorre is failing. I desperately hoped there would be more time to prepare you for the Great Rite. It is not to be. I beg you, come now. Verdantia needs you.”

  Patricio

  As the meaning of what she laboriously deciphered reached her consciousness, her knees refused to hold her. The bed squeaked, protesting her rapid landing.

  “Sari.” Fleur’s eyes sought her beloved nurse. “We must prepare for the Great Rite. Lay out my robe and make a bath ready. I studied night and day for three years, but I never thought this day would come.” She couldn’t stop her fingers from twisting her bed linens into tighter and tighter coils. “This was my duty, to be prepared. Yet, I am not ready.”

  Her heart tried to pound out of her chest. Her vision grayed slightly and her tongue worked to moisten the inside of her mouth. Her eyes held Sari’s. Fleur gave a slight shake to her head. “I don't think I can do this.”

  “Oh my sweet pet!” Sari moved to the bed and gathered Fleur into her generous bosom. Sari’s softness pillowed her cheek and Fleur inhaled the comforting smells of childhood, the starch of Sari’s dress, a hint of the citri soap Sari used. I w
ould give anything to be that child again.

  “You amaze me with your strength. My own, you can do this.”

  She wished she had Sari’s confidence. “Sari, the Great Rite is not like…like…dealing with the lesser magicks. It concentrates the use of energy—potentially lethal energy.” There is a reason it takes seven years of study to attempt it. I have studied only three.

  Sari tightened her hold, then pushed away to look at Fleur. She raised her hands and Fleur felt their warm clasp hold her face gently, a familiarity she hadn’t felt in years. Sari held her eyes with a directness that erased the difference in their ages and rank.

  “I never lie to you, my own. I will not do so now. It will not be easy, but I do not doubt for a moment what the outcome will be. You are a strong woman.”

  Sari dropped one hand, patting her cheek with the other. “Come now, my Lady, we do not possess an abundance of time. Let's make you beautiful for your magister.”

  * * * * *

  An hour later, Fleur stood before the ritual chamber door gowned in a robe of fine violet linen. Small golden cords tied the robe together at the top of her shoulders. Her blond hair spread out freely to cover her back and draped her shoulders with its fine, silky length. Inhaling deeply and raising a shaky hand, she rapped sharply on the ritual chamber's door.

  “Enter.”

  She recognized the raspy voice of Elder Patricio. She opened the heavy, wood-paneled door and entered the large, sumptuous chamber. The air tickled her nostrils, heavy with the scent of spices and the aphrodisiac cinnagin. The early morning sunlight streaming through tall windows spaced on three sides of the chamber washed the pale stone walls, warming them to an inviting gold.

  Elder Patricio, almost lost in his voluminous robes of office, slumped in a heavily carved wooden chair. She held him in great affection and thought he might feel some for her as well. He held a small, exquisitely jeweled box in his lap. As she approached him, he held her eyes in a solemn, apologetic gaze.

  “Please forgive this old man for not standing in your presence, your Royal Highness. I have been unwell.”

  When she softly exclaimed and made to take his hand, he brusquely shrugged her off with a light swat. “Don’t. Don’t. I don’t want sympathy.”

  She pulled her hand back. “As you wish.” She smiled slightly. “No sympathy.”

  “Your Royal Highness, I am unable to express the depth of my sorrow that we should come to this. I want you to know, my Lady, I summoned the most capable seventh-level magister this planet has ever known.” A pained expression crossed the elder's face. “There will be no repeat of that last catastrophe.”

  She shrank inwardly. “You are speaking of Magistra Felicity and Magister DeGregio. I could end up like her, couldn’t I?”

  Fleur paced the floor, crossing her arms and hugging herself, shuddering. She could still hear the guttural grunts and begging sobs echoing down the palace halls near Felicity’s chambers—the insane, gibbering laughter followed by animalistic screams when some palace guard or courtier forgot himself enough to lie with her.

  “Magister deGregio survived the rite unscathed while Felicity lost her mind. It is vastly unfair.”

  Elder Patricio gazed at her anxiously. “I have failed you. I intentionally left you ignorant about the Great Rite. I had hoped…” He shook himself and straightened. “Now is a poor time to amend my shortcomings but indulge me, your Highness. Listen carefully to my words. You should know what to expect.” He smiled hesitantly. “You will want a chair, my dear.”

  She pulled a softly cushioned seat next to Patricio, sat and regarded him quietly.

  The grief on his face surprised her and she again placed a hand on the elder in comfort. This time he allowed her hand to remain.

  “I am so sorry, my dear,” he whispered.

  She petted his arm. “Neither of us thought it would come to this, Elder. I forgive you.”

  “You shouldn’t.” He inhaled a shaky breath. “You are well educated and practiced in our Lesser Rites.” His voice softened. “You have been an amazing student.”

  She smiled her thanks but he looked away.

  “My dear, there is no comparison between the Lessers and the Great Rite. In the Lessers, those every-day rites that light our candles and braziers, that heal our wounded and till our soils, the diamantorre need glow only colore rosso prior to orgasm. The celebrants recite the energy-focusing mantras themselves and the rites are not performed in the Chambre Cristalle.”

  Her unease deepened at Patricio’s increasingly strident voice.

  “In the Great Rite, cinnagin violently escalates sexual arousal. The sigil crystals feed off this energy. Always, the diamantorre feed more heavily from the female partner, while the magister must channel the force properly. Regrettably, it is the magistra who pays the heaviest toll. It is very important that your magister maintain you at the razor’s edge of climax until the sigil radiates the arcobaleno, the purest of white lights.”

  Patricio scrubbed his face with his hands. His distress and his agitation pushed her ever closer to outright panic.

  “Once the Rite is sufficiently advanced, the energy drain is continual. If your arousal is not maintained, it will affect you mentally. If you should climax before the culmination of the ritual, your magister will bring you back up any way he can. It is a sexual hell, your Highness, for male and female.” His voice choked. “If either of you break? The diamantorre will not reenergize. The shield wall will fail. Sylvan Mintoth will fall to the Haarb.” He struggled for composure. “You will lose your mind.” He gave a tired sigh. “And you are right. It is quite unfair.”

  He dropped his head, running his fingertips over the jewels covering the tiny box in his lap. “If you are successful, cinnagin has a nasty side-effect you should…” His voice trailed off at her harsh gasp.

  “By the gods! Must I know all of this now?”

  “No, no,” he said. “You need not know all of this now.”

  Sitting rigidly upright in her chair, she withdrew her thumbs from the holes she had punched in the cushion. There really is no option. I cannot run away from this when so many have died to defend our planet. I cannot refuse because I am afraid.

  She placed an unsteady hand on his arm. “Elder Patricio.” She met his eyes. “We know I am the last option. You didn’t create this war. You didn’t make the diamantorre fail. You did your best. I am the Principessa Royale of Verdantia. This is my duty.”

  Elder Patricio covered her trembling hand with his. “Your Highness, about your magister, your partner in this rite, he is extraordinary, truly extraordinary. Trust him. I know this man. His skill is without equal. He will get you through this.”

  I hadn’t even thought to question who my partner would be. Oh, Goddess, not DeGregio!

  “Are you prepared, my dear? We can give you a little more time if it will be useful. Your magister is resting from a hard journey and would himself benefit from the additional time.”

  What hard journey? Where did he come from? There are only three seventh-level magisters still alive—DeGregio, DeFlores and DeLorion. The registry notes, “incomplete” by DeLorion.

  Pulled from her thoughts, Fleur responded with a tentative smile. “Thank you, Elder. Perhaps some time alone to compose myself and clear my mind would be good.” She cleared her throat uncertainly. “Who is he?”

  “High Lord DeTano.”

  “The commander of our military? A warlord?” She could not restrain her disbelief.

  “Yes, DeTano. He is much more than he seems.”

  The old man’s voice held a note of apology. “You would know, had you ever met the man. He has a certain—presence.”

  The elder gave a small shake of his head. “The Haarb had just begun their siege of Sylvan Mintoth when DeTano returned to Verdantia. He came with the military power of the LFP at his back. He organized our resistance fighters and rose to command the joint forces, but that is not who he is.”

  Rising with diffic
ulty, the elder pressed the jeweled box into her hands. “For someone your size, my Lady, the smallest grain into the spiced wine is sufficient. Godspeed, my dear.”

  She followed him with her eyes, stunned. With a faint smile and a shaky pat on her cheek, he hobbled from the chamber. She stared at the small, jeweled box Patricio had placed in her hand. It measured four inches by four inches and perhaps three inches deep. The incongruity startled a bitter laugh and then a sob out of her. So small, and yet its contents had destroyed her entire way of life—her entire planet. Cinnagin.

  Chapter Two

  The potent aphrodisiac enveloped Fleur in a dizzying swirl as she swallowed the last of the jeweled goblet's contents. It tasted of wine, cinnagin and musk. The heavy door to the ritual chamber opened. A scarlet-robed man strode through, pulling the door closed behind him. He halted abruptly, standing motionless, fixing her with a long stare before lifting an ironic eyebrow.

  “You are my partner? You are tiny. I could break you.”

  His rich baritone vibrated in her feminine places. Her senses rioting, she inhaled the clean scent of lingnum soap borne on a waft of air. Her senses reeled under the masculine assault of the warrior standing before her. His robes indicated a seventh-level magister of advanced magicks. His scarlet robe of office loosely draped a tall, broad-shouldered, spare body. Warrior braids at his temple swept back heavy, shoulder-length, auburn curls, leaving his high cheekbones and strong jaw in clean profile. His hazel eyes regarded her with the intensity of a great hunting cat. You are a very large man.

  Fleur stood as tall as her five-foot-nothing would allow. “I am sturdier than I look.”

  Her eyes wandered over the height and breadth of him. Patricio is right. He has a physical presence. “The docenti told me that under the influence of cinnagin, I would happily service a bald-headed cave troll. You, sir, are not a cave troll.” He looked taken aback, then just snorted.