Tristan looked over to his sister and her husband, and could see the two sympathetic but concerned faces that stared back at him. Their worry is not only for me, he realized, but now for their child, as well. It was becoming abundantly clear to him that the king meant to have his way in this. The prince looked hesitantly back to the face of his father.
Nicholas once again took the Paragon in his hand, and Tristan could see the deep, red color of the stone between the king’s strong fingers. Nicholas looked to Morganna, his queen, and into her blue eyes that lay just below the tumbling, shoulder-length blond hair. My queen. Tristan and Shailiha’s mother, he thought to himself. The love of my life. You are half of all that he is, and all that he can become. Help me make him understand, in that way in which only you can.
Morganna gazed knowingly into the eyes of her husband. Then her face purposely hardened, and she looked at the prince.
“The simple truth is, my son, that the stone is not meant to be worn by one who is unwilling to shoulder his responsibilities.” She knew that she must go on, no matter how much her words pricked them both. “The stone is meant to be worn by a man. One who is, indeed, man enough to honor it with his courage, and his resolve.”
The strained look on her son’s face told her that she was finally getting through, and she chose her next words with care, knowing that the speaking of them would cause her an equal, if not greater, amount of pain. “I will repeat your father’s question. ‘Do you love us?’ Do you love the people in this room enough to give of yourself and become the king of Eutracia, the king that this nation deserves?” She paused, deciding to risk the gamble. “Or need we ask the wizards to find another man of endowed blood to wear the stone?”
Or need we ask the wizards to find another man of endowed blood to wear the stone… His mother’s seemingly impossible words echoed in his mind for what felt like an eternity, their sheer, startling simplicity rattling him to his core. Finally overcome by the strength of his emotions, the prince suddenly realized how he must have always appeared not only to his family but to his subjects, as well.
Tristan slowly stood and walked over to Morganna. Going down on bended knee, a tear reappearing in the corner of one eye, he lowered his head and kissed the hem of his mother’s gown.
“I still do not know what measure of a monarch I can become, Mother,” he said softly. “But never, never doubt my love for my family or my kingdom, or the willingness to do what I must to protect them. I shall wear the stone.” His head still bowed, the next words came out in a whisper. “But please, Mother, also understand that I know I have much to learn.”
Morganna smiled into the face of her husband and saw that his eyes were once again shiny with tears. She placed an affectionate hand upon her son’s lowered head.
For now, she thought to herself, that is all we can ask.
Part II
Nation of Parthalon
5
The delicacy of revenge is a feast that must be served at the proper moment; neither too soon, nor too late, for its preparation must be perfect. In this matter, timing is everything.
She smiled as the bullwhip snapped through the morning air. As second mistress of the Coven, she could have used her powers to punish him, but doing the physical work herself was always so much more pleasurable. She was an expert at this by now, and could easily lay the tight leather of the black woven whip anywhere she wished upon his naked back. Indeed, the design she was creating in his flesh was already beginning to take shape. As the whip whistled through the air, several drops of his blood splattered randomly across the room, some of it landing upon the hand that held the whip.
She touched the point of her outstretched tongue to the blood on her wrist and, smiling, closed her mouth.
The slave had not satisfied her needs, and for this they always paid. This particular young man had done her the indignity of not even becoming erect, and to her mind had therefore humiliated her. But then he had made the ultimate mistake: He had laughed at her.
Succiu, second mistress of the Coven, stood naked in the luxurious quarters of her bedroom in the Recluse, her breasts rising and falling with the exertion of her labors. When the slave had mocked her, her anger had immediately crossed over into the realm of hysteria. But despite the strength of her emotions, her aim with the whip had so far been perfect. So anxious was she to punish the slave that she had neither dressed nor taken the man to the Recluse dungeon as was usually her custom. Now, in examining the lines of blood across his back, she could see that her labors were only partially complete. Five more lashes would do it.
Suddenly the naked slave groaned and his body went slack in the iron manacles that circled his wrists and led to the elaborate ceiling via the chains. He hung there, his head lying to one side as if he were dead. She threw an errant handful of jet-black waist-long hair over one shoulder and cast her exotic, almond-shaped eyes down at the dwarfed hunchback that was squatting on the floor at her feet. He looked up at her like an obedient dog on a leash.
“Check him, Geldon,” she said simply as she slowly drew the length of the whip back to her and began coiling it into a circle. “This one is too strong to be dead yet.” Her voice, controlled and smooth as silk, had a sensual, smoky quality to it.
For the thousandth time the dwarf extended his pudgy fingers to touch the shiny iron collar that ran around his neck, and to feel the jeweled chain that ran from it to the iron ring embedded in the marble floor. No one had to remind him of how many of these rings his mistress had ordered installed in the various floors of the Recluse so that she could take her personal slave wherever she pleased and imprison him in plain view of the others. She tilted her head and silently commanded the iron ring embedded in the marble floor to open itself, allowing the dwarf to free the chain. Geldon dutifully picked up the ornate chain and walked across the room to face the slave.
“He lives, Mistress,” he said respectfully. “His chest rises and falls.” He was careful not to say too much and further anger his Mistress.
“Good,” she said casually, her eyes on both the slave and the dwarf at the same time. “Awaken him. I am not finished with my artwork, and we wouldn’t want him to miss the experience.”
The dwarfed hunchback shuffled to his mistress’s bath and retrieved a bucket of cold water. Standing on a stool, he poured the water over the head of the slave, saving a small portion of it. Then, as the slave began to regain consciousness, he held the man’s head back by the hair and without warning poured the rest of the water into the slave’s throat and lungs, choking him. His mistress liked it better that way. Coughing and gagging, the blond man in the chains twisted and convulsed in his shackles as he tried to expel the water and fill his lungs with air, a pink mixture of blood and water spraying violently across the room from his mouth. Finally, the focus began to reappear in his eyes and he once again hung more upright, his bloody toes only inches off the marble floor.
The second mistress of the Coven walked around to face him. She had chosen him from the Stables this morning not just because he was a particularly handsome Parthalonian, but because of the insolent look in his eyes. She had thought that the kind of fire she had seen there might finally provide her with a specimen who could ultimately satisfy her rather exotic tastes. But in the end, this one had proven an even greater disappointment than the others. She ordered Geldon back to his place near the ring in the floor and narrowed her eyes, causing the iron circle to close through the last loop in the dwarf’s chain, once again securing him there.