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Rochelle spends three days locked in her tower room, plotting and stewing and grasping at every stray straw she can think of. Her father has replaced every servant loyal to her, every guardsman sympathetic to her, practically every maid who has ever smiled at her. It’s been days since she’s heard from any of her contacts, two weeks since Lord Fullworth was able to sneak her a missive. The men outside her room have answered her questions with a staccato “Yes, Princess” or “No, Princess”, or have not answered them at all.
There was a time when she could and would have climbed out of her window and scaled down the side of the tower, but the windows have long been replaced with bars, and her magic is far too minimal to do anything about it. There is also the more mundane matter of the healing wound on her palm; months later, and it sometimes still burns to the touch.
By the time they come to take her away, she has no ideas, no plans, and a knot of molten apprehension in her stomach. Her blessings can be counted on one hand, and right now, it’s the fact that she’d overheard just the right conversation before her imprisonment, and she has a good idea of what has been laid out for her. In another, very different scenario, she would have enjoyed it. As it is, she can only hope to adapt as she goes, turn this to her advantage somehow.
So many are counting on her.
They take her to the very top of the Starfall Tower. Her father, Lady Maîtrejean and a complement of castle guards are waiting near the doors to the room.
King James looks far younger than his fifty-odd years. A consequence of the strains of magic in the royal bloodline, his massive wealth and, as the smallfolk have it, the deals he’d made with each of the nine devils. There is so much in his looks that she had failed to inherit: his towering height, his silver blond hair, his aquiline bone structure. The queen, long dead, had been a descendant of the conquered mountain clans, and Rochelle takes after her in all things: creamy brown skin, curls that droop to her waist, eyes of dark teak.
After Mother’s death when she’d turned six, Father had had a bloodletting ceremony, to confirm that she really was his daughter. The warlock he'd employed had no qualms about performing it on a child. Rochelle remembers the lancing, burning pain of that night like it had happened this morning; a part of her thinks that she’ll feel the memory like a smoking ember for the rest of her life, long after even the wound on her palm has healed.
Next to Father, Lady Maîtrejean stands with her hands clasped behind her back; his perpetual shadow, quiet and ever watchful. A minor mage with particular talents, she has always reminded Rochelle vaguely of a snake, with her glittering green eyes and copper hair. She takes frequent trips away from Castle Killion, and whenever she returns, the air seems to get drier and colder.
As the guards drag her forward, Father approaches. He shakes away his sleeve elegantly, and reaches out with a warm hand to cup her cheek, trail it down to her chin. Rochelle makes herself a tree, solid and unmoving. The scar on her palm prickles with remembered pain, but she doesn’t glare, she doesn’t snarl, she doesn’t argue. These things have no effect on her father; she’d grown up learning how to couch her emotions, compartmentalise and package them, turn them into solutions, rather than an expression of her woes.
Father watches her for a spell, as if hoping for the reaction that he won’t get. Then he drops his hand, waves it towards the door.
“Lady Jade comes highly recommended; evidently one of the best sorceresses in the Valley and beyond.” He speaks in a calm, clipped voice a few octaves away from being a whisper. Hardly anyone would believe it to be the voice of a tyrant. “She has worked with girls like you before. Today’s lesson will be the first, but it will not be the last. I’m hoping that with her aid, we can put all this unpleasantness behind us, make you into the ruler that I know you can be, the ruler that our people deserve.”
Bile churns in Rochelle’s stomach, but she says nothing. Father sighs, and cups her cheek again, tilting her face so that she’s forced to look into his eyes.
“You are my daughter, Rochelle. My only heir. I’m not ready to give up on you. With skilled aid of Lady Jade’s ilk, I truly believe we can overcome this.”
Still, silence. Rochelle feels a vague sort of relief. If Father really thinks that some magical punishment can change her mind, set her to rights, then he has no idea how deep this truly runs. He has no idea how serious she is.
He steps away from her to push open the door to the room. In it is exactly what Rochelle expected: a bed, a table arrayed with various instruments, and a woman.
Whatever Rochelle had expected her father’s hired sorceress to look like however, this isn’t it. Dressed in trousers and a simple dark tunic, she’s of middling height and impressive build: a stout torso, generous bosom, thick thighs, arms ropey with muscle. There’s a certain delicateness to her soft lips, inky black eyes and porcelain skin. But the tale of her body is like a sonnet meant to spell out strength. It hits Rochelle like a fist to the chest.
The sorceress bows deeply.
“Your Majesty.” She flicks her eyes to Rochelle: cool, assessing, dismissive. “Your Highness.”
Father waves a hand, and Rochelle is ushered forward.
“Your charge, Lady Jade. I believe you said two hours, for your first session?”
Those cool dark eyes glance at Rochelle again before replying. “Yes, Your Majesty. Possibly more, possibly less. This is nothing I haven’t dealt with before. I know just the thing to bring her well in hand.”
Father’s face crumples with distaste.
“Please, spare me the details. You’ve met my head advisor.” He gestures with a flick of the wrist at Lady Maîtrejean, who blinks slowly, inclining her head. “You’ll report to her.”
Lady Jade bows. “Very good, Your Majesty.”
“Will you need any assistance, Lady Jade?” Those are the soft, raspy tones of Lady Maîtrejean; without meaning to or wanting to, Rochelle turns to face her fully. She’s uncomfortably still, even while speaking, as if she does all of her communication through sight. It’s part of the reason why she’s known as the Third Eye of the King. “I have managed to acquire a few potions that could make her more… tractable, to begin with.”
The sorceress smiles, and inclines her head in thanks.
“You’re too kind, my lady. But as I mentioned…” she says, and suddenly makes a fluid motion with one hand, reaching out and jerking back with a fist at her side, and Rochelle feels warm bands of energy loop around her wrists and pull her hands behind her back, securing them there tightly. Her throat goes dry. “…I think I’ll have the princess well in hand.”
“Excellent,” Father says. Rochelle feels his palm between her shoulder blades as he gently urges her over the threshold and into the room. “I’ll instruct two guards to stay on duty outside, in case you should have need of assistance, Lady Jade.”
As with all of his cruelties, Father is utterly without fanfare. Rochelle isn’t surprised when he simply leaves without another word, the click of his boots like clockwork on the stone floor. Lady Maîtrejean lingers for another moment or two before flicking one of her unreadable looks at Lady Jade, and following him out.
When the door closes behind Rochelle, the sound echoes all throughout the chamber. Remembering to hold her chin high, she turns to face the sorceress. Lady Jade makes another casual gesture, and Rochelle hears the bolt slam home behind her.
As soon as it does, something in Lady Jane’s demeanour changes. She seems all at once less severe, but ten times as commanding. She strides up to stand before Rochelle, and as she does, all manner of thoughts storm through her mind, apt and inappropriate both. The last time she’d been carefree enough to do something like this with one of her lovers, the last time she’d had a lover, wondering if her last ravens had made it out of the Valley, being grateful that she finds the sorceress beautiful, almost wishing that she didn’t, feeling the warm energy of her restraints. Her breath catches in her throat as Lady Jade comes to a halt inches away from her. She should say something, do something, bound hands be damned, anything to grasp a little bit of control...
Before she can, Lady Jade does something that knocks the breath from her body.
She extends her right hand, palm up. It’s a normal palm; pale and soft to contrast the hardness of the rest of her body. She flicks thick fingers across the palm, murmuring beneath her breath as blue light begins to coalesce: illusion magic being dispelled, Rochelle realises. When the spell is completed, and Lady Jade proffers her hand again, there’s a tattoo in the middle of her palm.
Rochelle’s breath lodges in her throat. It’s her tattoo.
She had designed the emblem herself: a fist holding an arrow, wreathed in flames. She had decided on its use as a symbol amongst members of the rebellion. She had gotten it tattooed on her own palm, doing the meticulous work herself by candlelight, the ungodly pain of each prick of the needle only redoubling her determination. She’d had that same tattoo up until a few months ago, when her father had realised its meaning, and had it burned away with a hot poker while she tried and failed not to scream.
Only a few people know of the existence of the emblem, and only the most steadfast receive the tattoo. She thinks about this as she looks up into Lady Jade’s deep coal eyes, but it’s not enough. She needs to be sure.
“If you see me looking at your hands,” she whispers, barely daring to hope.
“Know that I look for fire,” Lady Jade finishes seriously, and grips Rochelle’s forearm with her tattooed palm.
The watchwords of the rebellion. Taken from an old book of poems that had once belonged to her mother. Rochelle had chosen them almost two years ago, a few weeks after her twenty-second birthday, on the night she’d realised once and for all that she would have to overthrow her father.
Her knees almost buckle with the relief. Lady Jade’s hand is the only thing holding her up.
“Good gods,” she says. Thank the gods, she thinks. “Lord Fullworth didn’t send word!”
“He didn’t have time.” Lady Jade cups her by the other arm, bracketing her in her strength, and Rochelle has the chance to look at her again with new eyes. Her bulk and her raw power are still intimidating, but now there’s comfort in them as well. Her silky black hair is held by a clasp at her neck, but a few strands have broken free to frame her delicate face. “Are you all right, Princess Rochelle? Lord Fullworth hasn’t heard from you in over a month.”
Over a month… gods. It’s worse than she thought.
She shakes her head.
“I haven’t been hurt,” she decides is the simplest answer.
Lady Jade cocks a brow, but makes no direct reply. She glances over Rochelle’s head at the door, and when she speaks again, her voice is lower.
“We can discuss it later, Your Highness. There’s much that I need to tell you and I’m not sure how much time we have. But I’ve been sent to get you out of the Valley.”
A protest dies stillborn on her lips, and Rochelle swallows it back down. Part of her wants to insist that she stay at Castle Killion, that she can get more done the closer she is to her father. But she’s been stymied so much in the past few weeks, been thwarted at every turn, and spent all those days locked in her room, accomplishing nothing. Lord Fullworth is her closest ally. If he thinks she needs to get out, she’s going to trust him.
She motions for the sorceress to continue. Lady Jade glances at the door again, and guides Rochelle over to the massive bed with both hands, lets her sit on the edge. It’s only then that she realises that her hands are still tied with pulsing energy, resting at the small of her back. There’s no discomfort, but she’s certainly bound. She doesn’t mention it for now, concentrating instead on Lady Jade’s words.
“We have three other sorcerers in the castle right now. They’ve been working to disable the wards around different parts of the castle. Once they do that, I’ll be able to teleport us both directly from this room, right to the manor that Lord Fullworth has prepared for us, just beyond the mountain pass.”
Rochelle nods slowly, thinking. “It may not be so simple. Castle Killion’s wards were set years ago; I’ve never seen them inactive, barring large scale destruction to the infrastructure.”
“I know. If it hasn’t been done in about an hour, I’m going to have to get you to a part of the castle that we can teleport from. In the worst case, we’ll have to exit the keep completely before I can try.” She sinks to one knee before Rochelle, a muscled forearm balancing on her thigh. “That will be tricky, but manageable. However, it gets more complicated, Your Highness. Lady Maîtrejean.”
“What about her?” Rochelle asks, and in the next second, bites her lip, belatedly seeing where Lady Jade is going. “Ah, devils take her. She’ll scry us.”
Lady Jade nods.
“I understand that while her talents as a mage are small, she’s particularly gifted at location-based far sight. Now, the good news is that I’ve placed a few wards of my own on this room. I’ll know if she starts to scry the room, and we’ll have a few seconds to prepare. The bad news is that while I’m able to screen us from her sight, I can’t, and won’t.” Her tone is exceedingly gentle. “Do you understand, Your Highness?”
Rochelle’s stomach swoops low, so fast and hard she can’t tell if she finds it pleasant or not. The furore of lightning in her nerves seems to point to the former, misplaced as the sensation might be.
“Blocking her sight will only make her suspicious. A sorceress hired to punish me would have no reason to care about my humiliation.”
“And if she does scry us…” Lady Jade trails off, in a deliberate sort of way. She seems to want Rochelle to say it. Which she does, after taking a deep breath.
“We need to be... engaged as she expects us to be.”
All too suddenly, Rochelle reassesses the fact that Lady Jade had taken her to the bed, the fact that her hands are still bound, rendering her helpless. For the first time since she was led up to the tower room, she takes stock of how she is clothed: an intricate robe over one of her usual nightgowns. They’re both made of good, thick material, suitable for the biting night air in the Valley, but Rochelle abruptly feels transparent, naked to the bone. She swallows.
Lady Jade still isn’t touching her, but she shifts closer still.
“Your Highness, I am a formidable warrior in the arcane arts, and I know you have considerable skill with a bow. I can procure you one. If you would prefer…”
“No,” Rochelle vetoes almost immediately. Her voice sounds hoarse; she takes a moment to clear her throat before she continues. “No, Lady Jade, we can’t fight our way out of the castle. I won’t endanger the lives of the other sorcerers, or render all your work useless.” Trying not to think about what she’s agreeing to, trying not to catalogue the mad thumping of her heart, she nods firmly. “We’ll adhere to the plan for as long as possible.”
The coal black eyes of the sorceress bore into her for what seems like a long time. It isn’t, it can’t be more than a few seconds. Rochelle can’t tell what she’s thinking, can’t tell if that light in her eyes is approval or apprehension or something else entirely. She has the wild urge to simply ask, just blurt out the words, “what are you thinking about?” and see what kind of reply she would earn.
Instead, she simply stares back; mouth dry, heart doing chaotic things in her chest.
Lady Jade nods, and stands.
“Seki,” she says. “Please move to the centre of the bed, Your Highness.”
Rochelle’s body moves automatically, wiggling on her behind and taking care not to sit on her long braid, even as she furrows her brows.
“I… I’m sorry?”
One of those large hands is back on her arm, guiding her to an appropriate spot on the bed.
“Seki. It’s my name, Your Highness.” She pats Rochelle’s shoulder lightly. “You shouldn’t use it until we’re out of the Valley. But I thought you’d like to know.”
Rochelle takes her in, with all her massive strength and quiet demeanour and delicate features, and is surprised she didn’t realise at once that ‘Jade’ is a false moniker. Somehow, ‘Seki’ seems to fit.
She moves across to the table that Rochelle had spotted upon first entering the room. Now that she’s closer, she can make out a few of the implements on it: rope, clamps, shackles, a crop, a bar meant to keep the legs spread. Incongruous as it might be, inappropriate as the situation is, she feels an insistent heat begin to build between her legs.
When Seki comes back to the bed, all she has in her hands is a length of rope.
“If we’re lucky, Your Highness,” she says, dropping it at the foot of the bed, “the others will manage to take down the wards before Lady Maîtrejean has set up her scrying spell. Perhaps she won’t scry us at all. But we should still prepare with the assumption that they won’t, and she will.”
Rochelle nods, hoping that it will clear some of the fog encroaching on her mind.
“I understand, my lady. Please, do as you must.”
Seki nods, rolls the bulk of her shoulders one at a time, as if preparing for some strenuous task. But she only touches the tip of the rope with a finger.
“Would you prefer this, Your Highness? I know the magical restraints can be a bit warm.”
“No, it’s—” She stops shy of saying that she enjoys the heat. “This is fine.”
Seki plants a knee on the bed, covers her tattooed palm with her left hand. When Rochelle realises what she’s about to do, she stops her.
“May I see it, before you do?”
After a moment’s silence and a slight nod of acquiescence, Seki extends her hand. The tattoo is dead centre on the meat of her palm, the slightly raised ink standing stark against her pale flesh. The ink has already started to fade a bit, as it’s wont to do on the palm, so she must have gotten it at least several months ago. Rochelle had sent the design in one of her ravens to Lord Fullworth over a year ago, but this is the first time she’s seen it on anyone other than herself.
She nods to show she’s done with her inspection. Seki finishes the illusion spell, murmuring as her fingers fly over her palm. The movements leave arcs of slight blue light in the air that Rochelle can’t help but follow with her eyes.
“When did you join?” she asks quietly, suddenly wanting to know.
“About a year ago, Your Highness,” Seki replies, not looking up from her work. “After the conquest of the Emerald Islands. I grew up there, still had many friends there.” Her voice is replete with an icy calm. “Less so after the king’s army was through. I knew a sorcerer who had connections to Lord Fullworth, and offered my aid as soon as I was able.”
Rochelle doesn’t offer condolences; doesn’t think she could in a way that wouldn’t sound hollow, like tree bark in a long dead forest. Sometimes she thinks there isn’t a single person on the continent or beyond that her father’s tyranny hasn’t sullied.
“And how did you manage to secure this position?”
“It was Lord Fullworth’s doing, mostly. A few words in the right ears to inflate my reputation, put a particular twist on it. A few influence spells to make it stick. Making sure it got to Lady Maîtrejean’s ears.”
The tingle in Rochelle’s core, never quite gone, is back in full force.
“Your reputation?”
Seki’s lips tilt into a wry smile.
“Nothing sinister, Your Highness, I assure you. And it’s something I do in my spare time, not a calling, or anything absurd like that. I don’t punish women to correct their behaviour. I do it because they want me to.”
And there it is. A long, dark curl of desire unspools in Rochelle’s belly, and like a petty criminal, pilfers her breath, her wits, anything sensible she might have said.
“I see,” she finally gives after a too long pause, knowing that she sounds breathless, practically addled.
Seki doesn’t reply; Rochelle supposes there’s no reason for her to. She just touches Rochelle’s cloth-covered arm with the tip of a finger.
“I’m going to undo your bindings, Your Highness, and re-secure them above your head. That way, you can bring them forward to the front of your body, and it should be more comfortable for you. Will that be all right?”
A mute nod. Seki goes about fitting deed to words; the warmth at Rochelle’s wrists falls away, and she brings her arms forward, rolling her shoulders and cracking her knuckles before allowing Seki to arrange her hands above her head. Her big fingers are almost studious in their care, touching Rochelle lightly, and only for as long as she absolutely needs to. She only lingers for an instant, when she sees the puffy, raised red flesh of the scar on her palm. Rochelle had written to Lord Fullworth after it happened, almost two months ago, so Seki quite likely knows what it is. A thick finger trails a short light line on the edge of the scar before Seki pulls away, beginning the spell to bind her hands.
“I can heal that for you, Your Highness,” she offers quietly. “When we’re out of the Valley.”
“No, I thank you,” Rochelle vetoes immediately, softly. She’s had some time to think about it. “This is one scar I’d like to keep.”
She says it as Seki jerks her muscled arm at her side, completing the spell. Rochelle finds herself bound at the wrists once again, though not yet bound to the bed, her body stretched out. Her long braid of hair lies coiled next to her on a pillow. Seki gives her a searching look with those mesmerising eyes, and then nods, moving along. She tugs on the sleeve of Rochelle’s robe.
“May I, Your Highness?”
“You may.”
Seki snaps her fingers, and the heavy robe appears in a crumpled heap on the floor, leaving Rochelle clad only in her nightgown. Blood rushes to her face, while gooseflesh prickles to life on her shoulders and arms. She remembers thinking only a few minutes ago that the gown was a warm, sturdy one, but now, bare to Seki’s eyes, it seems impossibly flimsy. She isn’t wearing a chemise or smallclothes under it; there’s nothing but this nightdress protecting her from nakedness. As if thinking of it makes her body more aware, she feels her nipples hardening, rubbing against the cloth with each tiny movement. She bites her bottom lip, mortification like a stone in her belly, and doesn’t check to see whether her arousal is visible.
Seki climbs fully onto the bed, on her knees, looming over Rochelle.
“There’s at least one spell that Lady Maîtrejean will expect; she mentioned it when we met. I’ll show you what it looks like, Your Highness, so you’ll know what I’m doing if I pretend to cast it.”
Rochelle nods without speaking, thinking it best.
Seki begs her pardon, and then curls one hand behind her neck; Rochelle shivers helplessly, a full-bodied experience that leaves her even more flushed. Still not commenting, Seki uses the thumb of her other hand to draw a rune on Rochelle’s forehead, then presses her thumb to the centre of it.
“This is a spell that would allow me to select one of your memories, and force you to see it, use it against you.”
Unbidden, a shudder races down Rochelle’s spine. There are memories aplenty that her father’s advisor might have been thinking of, and would have seen fit, in her twisted way, to be used to bring Rochelle to heel.
Her reaction, however, gives Seki the wrong idea. The sorceress withdraws both hands immediately.
“Your Highness, you have my word, I would never actually cast such a spell—”
“Oh no, my lady, I wasn’t… I didn’t think that you would.” She blushes; the possibility hadn’t even occurred to her. “I was only thinking of Lady Maîtrejean,” she admits.
Seki had put a little distance between them. She doesn’t seek to reclaim the space, but her eyes soften in understanding.
“Please know that you have my utmost respect, Your Highness,” Seki murmurs, one hand on the bed next to Rochelle’s thigh. Rochelle is too surprised to say anything. “For doing this. We only had a short time to prepare, this is the best plan we were able to come up with. When we heard exactly what kind of sorceress your father was looking for, we knew it had to be one of us. I know this is far from seemly, but—”
“My lady,” Rochelle interjects, heart in her throat. “Peace, I beg you. This is no great sacrifice. Even if I didn’t…” She pauses, struggling to find the right words. Part of her wants to reach out, touch her arm, and she contemplates it for a moment before leaving her hands above her head. “Even if I found this distasteful or shocking, it would still amount to nothing in the face of what so many others have done for the rebellion. It would amount to even less compared to what others have suffered because of my father. Please. I am no innocent. I cannot bear for you to think me brave because of this.”
“Then I must apologise, Your Highness,” says Seki, eyes solemn and kind. “For I find you extraordinarily brave.”
Rochelle’s heart revolts, even as it swells. It’s hard to think of words that would be meet in this situation, but she wants to think of them, wants to be able to say them. ‘Thank you’ is poor; far too poor.
She’s opening her mouth to say it anyway when Seki’s head snaps up, and she purses her lips, eyes going cooler and darker.
“Nine alive…” she swears. “I thought we’d have more time.”
Rochelle attempts to sit up. “My lady?”
Seki pushes her back down gently; the force she applies to Rochelle’s sternum is almost trivial, but it gets the job done.
“She’ll be here in a few moments, Your Highness. I beg your pardon. This shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”
In the space of a few seconds, Seki’s body has gone rigid. Not tense; she’s simply harder in every way. She grabs Rochelle’s dark braid and begins wrapping it around her arm and fist; shockingly casual, almost insolent. It doesn’t hurt, but her head jerks with every movement, and the transformation is astounding. In their short time together, Seki has been ever polite; deferential without losing her attitude of command. Now, she’s a pillar of control.
She makes a punching motion with her free hand; Rochelle’s arms go taut, and she knows that she’s secured to the bed now. Seki looms; she has enough of Rochelle’s braid wrapped around her fist that fingers brush her scalp. Imposing doesn’t begin to describe her. She’s thunderous, and Rochelle, who’s been vaguely wet for several minutes now, feels her cunt clench.
Seki leans close to her ear, but she doesn’t whisper.
“And before you say anything else,” she warns flatly, giving Rochelle’s head a little shake, turning it in the direction of the table, “I want you to look at everything spread out over there. Look at them.” Another shake, and Rochelle sinks her teeth into her bottom lip. “Look at the shackles, to secure your arms and legs, the rope to tie you up. The bar, to keep your legs spread, teach you self-control. The whips and the crop, for discipline. The clamps and candles, to give you pain, or pleasure, or whatever you twist it into. Look at all of those things, and know this: while I agreed to have them provided when the offer was made, know that I don’t need any of them to do my work.”
Another short, threatening shake of her head. It isn’t exactly painful, but Rochelle feels it in the roots of her hair. She’s aware that her mouth hangs slightly agape; she needs to say something, but there’s a warm, soft delirious-like feeling clouding her head, and she recognises it all too well. It always happens like this, with the pleasant ache in her arms, the languorous stretch of her body, knowing that she can’t move without being moved. It’s been so long…
“Don’t you dare threaten me,” she says, when she’s swallowed a breath.
Seki laughs; a bruise of a sound. “Now, if you were a person with a bare modicum of authority, I might be inclined to heed that order. But you’re little more than a child, aren’t you? A child playing at involving herself in an insurrection that’s destined to be crushed.”
Rochelle sucks down a lungful of air. The big hand is still in her hair, tight in exactly the way that she likes it. Her nipples feel like they’re burning holes in her nightgown.
“You don’t know anything about me,” she rasps.
“Even if that were true, please be advised, Princess: I have many ways to rectify that.”
“You can’t—”
“Let me assure you that I can,” she snaps. The disdain in her voice feels so real, Rochelle wilts under it. “Your father deserves so much better than you. But since you are what he has, let us begin here, with your inflated sense of worth.”
She finally releases Rochelle’s hair, fingers catching on some of the curls, and then slides that same hand behind Rochelle’s neck. When she’s this aroused, it’s much more sensitive, and she can’t help the gasp that escapes. Seki’s thumb draws the rune on her forehead again, and this time, when she presses her thumb down, Rochelle can see a hint of blue light in her peripheral vision. Nothing happens, of course; it’s just Seki, looking down at her with furrowed intent that makes her dizzy. Somehow, Rochelle still has the presence of mind to flail a little, try to turn her arousal into some semblance of distress.
But every part of her feels primed to go up in flames. When she arches her back, her breasts brush against Seki’s arm. When she twists her legs together, their thighs touch. She doesn’t ever remember coming so close, so quickly, with so little. To compound it all, she has to contend with Seki’s eyes boring into her, black as night and just as pure.
“You,” she gasps, not knowing where she even intends to take the word.
“What? Go on, ask me for it. Do it nicely enough, and I’ll consider it.” Seki removes her thumb from her forehead as she says it, and it feels appropriate to gasp in that moment, so Rochelle does. “Tell me why you deserve to be listened to.”
“I…” Rochelle squeezes her eyes shut, hoping it’ll help with the onslaught of sensation, and pries them open again. “You can’t make me.”
“Make you what? Beg?” A laugh, crisp and mean. “That’s the thing, Princess. I don’t have to make you. You want to beg.”
Her desire is so thick she almost suffocates on it. For one, tiny, glorious moment, Rochelle exists in a space without all the trappings of their situation, without the danger or the unease, and she’s just a woman in a dark room with another woman hovering over her with the sweetest menace, and Rochelle would swear that in Seki’s eyes, there is a glint of answering desire.
Abruptly, quickly, too soon: Seki pulls away. Her body moves with a swiftness that should be foreign to her size. A second after Rochelle feels the spark between them, Seki is off of the bed, one hand close to Rochelle’s side, but no longer touching her. Rochelle realises that at some point, she’d planted both feet on the bed, and her nightgown is sliding up her thighs. She lowers her legs quickly.
“She’s gone, Your Highness,” Seki says unnecessarily. A few jerks of her arm, and Rochelle’s hands are free. “Are you all right?”
“I… yes, I’m just a little…” She cuts herself short of saying it; Seki can no doubt tell her predicament. Her nipples are still tender and hard. “I’m fine.”
Seki pats the bed next to her once, nodding shortly. A snap of her fingers, and Rochelle’s robe reappears on her body. After flexing her newly freed arms, she adjusts it, overly warm though it now makes her feel.
A staff that Rochelle previously hadn’t noticed is leaning against a far wall; simple sturdy cedar wood, with an intricately flared head that resembles a tree. Rochelle notices it now, as it flies to Seki’s hand after a motion from the sorceress. Seki walks to the centre of the room, and begins drawing a circle on the floor with the head of her staff.
“The wards are down, Your Highness,” she says, so plainly and calmly it takes Rochelle a moment to parse what she’s saying. “They went down a minute or so ago. It’s possible that Lady Maîtrejean might have noticed, depending on where she is in the castle. Be ready, Princess. The teleportation circle should only take me a few minutes.”
The words take a spell to permeate, but when they do, Rochelle slides off the bed, stumbling a little on her feet.
“They did it,” she murmurs.
“They did,” says Seki. “And if all went well, they should be gone already. It just remains for us to secure our own way out.”
The staff moves quickly, drawing lines in thick blue light. Rochelle can’t read the runes; they’re of the ancient language, the ones that the magisters of old brought with them when they came down from the icy climes of the north, so many years ago. She paces along the length of the bed, a cataclysm of thoughts raining down in her head. She’s going to leave Castle Killion; not for good, but it does feel final. There are so many things that she wants. To look her father directly in the eyes as she leaves, to have him know she’ll be back. To feel the hard assurance of a bow in her hand, feathers against her cheek. To return to that moment, just scant minutes ago, when Seki’s hands had been on her body, controlling her and flaying her to the bone with touch and words.
She thinks she might want that most of all.
In the middle of the room, Seki grunts.
“Your Highness, I’m afraid we’re being scryed again.” Again, said with her characteristic calm. It helps; Rochelle’s heart doesn’t fly into her throat like it might have.
“Right now?”
“She’s gone now.”
“And undoubtedly on her way here. She must have noticed the wards.” Rochelle spins in place, looking about the room for anything that she can use as a weapon. She hurries over to the table and grabs the riding crop. “Her quarters are in the Dusken Tower, so it won’t take her long to get here.”
Seki nods, brows drawn down deep in concentration. “It should just take me another minute.”
Outside, Rochelle can hear the suggestion of movement, of raised voices. She moves to stand closer to Seki, but not close enough to intrude upon her focus. Muscles shift beneath her tunic as her arms and shoulders move to create the runes within the circle. Stepping back and forth in her scripted dance, Seki doesn’t look up or falter, not even when voices begin to call out, “Lady Jade!” with increasing urgency, and then anger.
“Just a few more moments,” Seki mutters, as the pounding on the door begins. Rochelle primes a simple starburst spell in her uninjured hand.
“Lady Jade! Open this door at once!”
Rochelle almost doesn’t recognise the speaker; Lady Maîtrejean so seldom raises her voice. A bead of sweat trickles down Rochelle’s back; Seki’s movements become faster.
“Get it down, now, or His Majesty will have your heads!”
This order, clearly directed at the people standing outside with her, is shriller, with a tiny edge of panic. The door shakes and rumbles, sending a flurry of dust motes to writhe in the air.
Seki’s staff lands on the floor with a decisive thud.
“To me, Princess.”
Rochelle flies to her where she stands in the dead centre of the teleportation circle, which flares with energy. Seki’s outstretched arm curls around her, and Rochelle, standing against her warm bulk, finds that they are exactly the same height. Their eyes lock.
The door crashes open. Without thinking, just pure reaction, Rochelle flings her starburst spell at the group of people at the door in an arc of bright light, just as Seki does the same with a fist full of fire. Blinded and panicked, they falter, and it’s enough time for Seki to fold Rochelle completely in her arms, and turn on her heel. Rochelle catches a glimpse of Lady Maîtrejean’s face, twisted with rage, before all she can see is swirling fog and darkest night. She grips tight to Seki, and squeezes her eyes shut.
When she opens them a moment later, heart thudding wildly, they’re in a room so similar to the one they just vacated that Rochelle thinks for a moment that the spell hadn’t worked. Rochelle unwinds her arms from about Seki’s waist, drops the crop and looks around. There’s a large bed and a dresser. The curtains are drawn, but she can see strains of muted light from outside. The oaken doors opposite them are shut.
Rochelle turns back to gaze at Seki. Her heart hasn’t slowed, not by an inch.
“Are we safe?” she asks.
“Yes, Your Highness.”
Tentatively, she places a hand back on the swell of Seki’s waist.
“Are we alone?” she asks in a softer register. Seki’s hand, the one not holding her staff, is braced on Rochelle’s hip; it shifts but doesn’t move.
“Yes, Your Highness.”
Rochelle kisses her. A fierce, yearning thing it is, and the way Seki’s hand tightens instinctively on her hip makes her press deeper and closer. The adrenaline of their flight takes the need that she had felt earlier, triples it, quadruples it, until it feels like a monster of a thing, a creation of desire and raw longing. Seki’s lips are as soft and pliable as they look, and it’s a heaven of intensity to kiss her, to be kissed by her. Her body trembles.
Dragging her lips away, she stares into Seki’s dark eyes. Hardly knowing what she’s going to say, she lets the words slip out anyway.
“Please don’t actually make me beg,” she says. Her voice is paper-thin.
Seki hesitates. Rochelle can both see and sense it. She goes still for the moment; it feels important that she doesn’t say or do anything to disrupt Seki’s contemplation.
The staff flies across the room with a flick of Seki’s wrist to lean against the wall. She nods Rochelle towards the bed with a jerk of her chin. Her eyes have narrowed, not with anger or concentration, but with desire.
Rochelle starts walking backwards, butterflies in her chest.
“On your back or on your knees, Princess?”
“On… on my back,” Rochelle answers, failing to suppress a shiver.
Seki nods, and snaps her fingers. Both Rochelle’s robe and her nightgown disappear from her body. The shock of being suddenly naked makes her knees weak, and Rochelle moans out loud, even as she luxuriates in the knowledge of being seen in her bare skin. Seki’s eyes roam her body: her breasts, her belly, her cunt, her legs, each look a tiny tattoo.
Then she gives her a gentle push. Rochelle’s legs hit the mattress and she sits, automatically raising her arms above her head.
This time, Seki doesn’t wait for her to wriggle into place; she brackets her hands on Rochelle’s waist and bodily moves her up the bed, leaves her lying flat on her back. Rochelle feels weightless in her hands, controlled. Seki lets her fingers linger, setting hot trails of sensation burning along Rochelle’s stomach and hips. All too soon, she’s pulling away to begin the work of securing Rochelle. The first blue bands of energy wrap around her wrists, and tie her to the headboard. There’s a second set for her legs; a tendril wraps around each, pulls them apart, ties them to the bed posts. Her vision swims, so overcome is she with the exposure, feeling the cool air of the room on her inner lips. Finally, a mess of the blue ropes converge on her torso, winding around her belly and breasts, making a simple crossing pattern. They aren’t tight, but they hold her, anchor her.
Looking down at her body, Rochelle feels a white-hot knife of arousal course through her, and settle hot and slick between her spread legs. When she looks back up at Seki, she knows that this won’t take long at all.
Seki is agonisingly patient with her body. She paints gossamer strands along her arms and sides. She tiptoes her fingers up and down Rochelle’s thighs, right up to the place just beneath her hipbones, where she’s so sensitive that the slightest touch urges her towards the edge. She ghosts along Rochelle’s neck and throat, where the suggestion of her strength makes Rochelle groan with longing. When Seki finally cups Rochelle’s breasts, rubbing her nipples hard, she arches up into the touch wantonly, crying out. They’re sensitive, so much that the attention almost hurts, but it’s the kind of pain she relishes. Seki flicks her thumbs across them, back and forth, and Rochelle shudders.
“Oh gods… Seki, please,” she gasps, hips jerking.
“Shhh, Your Highness,” Seki soothes.
She places a knee between Rochelle’s legs, right up against the apex of her thighs. Her curls just barely brush the fabric of Seki’s trousers. Rochelle whimpers. The bindings at her arms and legs slacken just a touch, enough for her to move. One of Seki’s hands wraps around her braid again, and she gives one short tug; a signal of gentle dominance. She nods down at her thigh.
“Go on, Princess.”
A hot flush travels up Rochelle’s neck and face when she realises what Seki means for her to do, and she turns her head to hide her face against her arm.
But gods, she grinds down anyway.
At the first touch of her clitoris to Seki’s thigh, she moans, and immediately does it again. Pleasure hits her like a slap, bright and shocking, and she follows the instinct that tells her to roll her hips again, and again. It’s indescribable, feeling her legs wrap around Seki’s thigh, feeling the hot rush of need in her core. At first, Seki allows her to hide her face, but when Rochelle starts gasping and keening, she gives her another gentle tug, forcing her to look up into her eyes. And nine alive, it’s almost too much, the penetrating stare and the pleasure in her loins as she rubs herself, hips jerking, but she can’t look away.
“Please, please, please,” she murmurs, begging after all.
One of Seki’s hands is still on her breast, twisting the nipple between her fingers. Rochelle looks down at herself, at that big hand on her breast, at the blue lines of power criss-crossing her chest, at Seki’s thigh between her legs, utterly still, making Rochelle work for her pleasure, making Rochelle plead with her body.
It’s too much.
She bites back a sob as she climaxes, rutting and trembling with completion.
*
Rochelle comes to an indeterminable amount of time later. A glance at the curtains tells her that there’s still light outside. Her limbs ache with the familiar exhaustion that comes with congress, but she feels sated, and somehow full.
She’d been well tucked into bed, and she’s wearing a new, clean nightgown and robes. She remembers Seki making her drink a few gulps of water, batting her hands away casually when Rochelle tried to reach for her, and settling into the bed beside her, above the covers. Rochelle reaches out across the mattress. Seki is no longer there, and the spot is quite cool, so she must have left some time ago.
Sitting up, she realises that the door to the room is slightly ajar, and she can hear voices just beyond it. The first she instantly recognises as Seki; the other takes her a moment, but then she realises that it’s Lord Fullworth. He’s unmistakable. Rochelle had only met him a few times before they started their secret correspondence, back in her adolescence when he had still been welcome at Castle Killion. He has a cheerful, lisping voice that hides the heart of a true revolutionary.
Rubbing at her eyes, she listens idly as they discuss Lord Fullworth’s carriage ride, the rescue, and the other sorcerers (all of whom had thankfully made it out alive). She becomes more attentive when their discussion turns to her.
“So, what do you make of our Princess?” asks Lord Fullworth.
“I wasn’t able to spend much time with her, my Lord.”
A spot of silence, or something too quiet for her to hear; she thinks Lord Fullworth is chuckling.
“Her Highness can give you details as she sees fit,” Seki says dryly. Rochelle blushes.
“Still, you must have some impressions.”
They’re quiet again. This time, Rochelle strains hard, and she’s sure that neither of them is speaking.
Then Seki’s voice wafts through the open door, quiet and thoughtful.
“She’s clever, resourceful, does well under pressure. Not addicted to control, but neither does she shun it. She gave herself that tattoo, and survived it being burned away, so I know she has incredible tolerance for pain, but I also see in her a great capacity for kindness.” A pause. “She takes very little from the king.”
The mention of her father sobers her slightly. Rochelle wonders where he is now, wonders what he’s doing, imagines his silent wrath. She wonders if it’s finally permeated his brain that she’ll never be like him, that she would die before becoming him.
“Well, I would hope so, my Lady Seki,” Lord Fullworth is saying with a wry laugh. “This rebellion would go nowhere if she was.”
Seki laughs along with him briefly.
“Have no fear, my Lord. I really think that we can do this. I don’t know what it is about her but... there is a woman whom I could call my Queen.”
Just the quiet confidence in her voice is as good as a roaring crowd. Rochelle looks at her scarred hand, a twisted mirror to Seki’s own mark of allegiance, and swears that she won’t betray that trust. She slips from the bed, wraps the robe around her, and pads across the room on silent feet to meet them.