[The Onic Empire 03] - Sinful Harvest (6 page)

Once Fana finished with him, she rinsed him, dried him, slathered him in oil, and then handed him a black loincloth that he slung around his hips. The slinky
astle
fabric felt wonderfully soft against the pain of his abused genitals.

Next, she addressed his rumbling belly. While he sat at the head of a long wooden table, she brought platter after platter of seared meats, puffy breads, and vegetables smothered in rich sauces.

Now here was a meal fit for a Harvester! Even on Tapring, after he’d won the orph challenge, they hadn’t managed a feast as grand as this. So much food crowded the area around his plate he didn’t know where to start. Rather than put the food on his plate, he ate directly from the platters. Kerrick stuffed himself until he thought he would burst.

When he yawned hugely, Fana drew him to his bed. The last thing he remembered was flopping into the black bedclothes face-first.

Kerrick woke in an unfamiliar bed to even more unfamiliar surroundings. It took a moment for him to remember he was in the Harvester suite. He sighed and stretched his hands over his head, then immediately drew them down to his genitals. Pain unlike any he’d ever known throbbed in his balls and along his shaft. Gingerly, he removed his loincloth to find his skin raw, red, and slightly inflamed. If he didn’t know better, he’d be in panic that some virulent disease had infested his crotch. But he
knew this was from all the rubbing, oiling, and thrusting of the Harvest, not to mention what he’d done with Ariss.

Annoyed that she was almost the first thought in his mind, Kerrick swore that would be the last thought he’d give her today or any other. His encounter with her would be his last, and now he could turn his attention to the multitude of women within the palace walls. Of course, he’d have to wait for his crotch to recover before he made any amorous liaisons. Still, that would be the best way to ingratiate himself within the power structure of the elite. As he’d confirmed last night, they were a lusty bunch. Providing them with pleasure could assure him many votes when he pushed to become the magistrate.

As Kerrick limped gingerly to the basin and took an even more gingerly pee, he considered his painfully abused genitals with a sigh. How had the other Harvesters dealt with this sad aftereffect? He didn’t think he would suffer any permanent damage; however, the next few days were going to be unpleasant, to say the least.

“Fana?” he called out for his
paratanist,
thinking that she would know of some balm to soothe him, but she didn’t answer. He hobbled over to the bathing unit and perused the bottles of oil. Not a single one had a label. Considering where he intended to put the stuff, he was reluctant to experiment.

Frustrated, he glanced around his massive main room. There had to be a way to summon his servant. He found an odd button, near the door, almost at the point farthest from him. With a growl, he shuffled over to the door and pressed the discreet black button several times in rapid succession. After a long moment, where he stood hunched over, considering the swirling pattern in the wood, the door flung open so fast he didn’t have a chance to get out of the way. The hunk of wood hit him squarely, sending him careening sideways. He landed with an ungainly plop on the floor because he’d curled around to protect his genitals.

Howling in pain from the jostling, he looked up into the expectant faces of four palace guards.

“Where is your attacker?” one guard asked, sweeping his gaze around the room while holding his
cirvant
at the ready in his mighty fist. The other three took up positions around Ker-rick, protecting him from all sides.

“Attacker?” Kerrick stood with as much dignity as he could manage. Then he understood that he’d pushed some kind of panic button, not once, but several times. Chagrined, he mumbled, “I was trying to call my servant.”

One of the guards laughed, but the one who’d asked the question frowned darkly, abruptly stopping the laughter of his compatriot.

“That cord, over there.” He pointed. “Pull it once and your
paratanist
will come. This button”—he thrust his sword at the black button beside the door—“will summon palace guards.”

Embarrassed beyond words, Kerrick nodded his understanding.

As they left, he heard one guard ask another, “Did you see his puffy red—”

Kerrick slammed the door closed before he finished speaking, then hobbled over to the cord. He gave the rough rope a sharp tug, then released it. Within a few moments, Fana entered, or at least someone in the very same type of robe entered. If ever someone wanted to kill him, all that person had to do was send an assassin wearing a
paratanist
robe. But he knew it was her when, true to her station, she walked right up to him and bowed, waiting for instructions even though his distress was clearly, painfully obvious.

Annoyed, he held his arms wide, his palms open, and asked, “Do you see anything wrong?”

“Your penis appears to be irritated,” she said in her calm, slightly bored manner.

“Irritated? It’s practically on fire!” He paused for a beat,
thinking she would respond. When she didn’t, he groused, “I’ll bet you wouldn’t be this calm if this were happening to you.”

Calmly, she replied, “I don’t have a penis.”

“Oh, for the love of—just get me something for it, would you?”

Dutifully, she retrieved two bottles of oil from the bathing unit, mixed them together in her palms, and then slathered them over his genitals. Pain melted away under her touch. A dull numbness set in. At any other time, the feeling would have been dreadful, but now, it was bliss. Finally, he could feel something other than his tender crotch. Sadly, that’s when he noticed how sore the rest of his body was. Muscles he didn’t even know he had ached from overuse. Even after the most demanding sports, he didn’t feel this wrung out.

“Had I known being the Harvester was this difficult, I wouldn’t have bothered.” Kerrick had honestly thought slipping his cock into hundreds of beautiful women would be a dream come true. He had no idea that the sheer physical demands would be such a nightmare. Thankfully, he only had to perform once each season, so he had plenty of time to recover from his debilitating exertion.

“I was told many men would think the position easy, also that they might try to shirk their duties. Part of my duty is to remind them of theirs.”

“What duties?” Kerrick hesitated to ask. Was he wrong in thinking he had the rest of the season off?

“There is training, which is, of course, your primary duty. You will also be required to attend official palace functions. Then there are the Harvest festivals, rites, and rituals.”

All his plans of bed-hopping in the palace and then planet-hopping during his downtime seemed to be slipping from his grasp. With a feeling of dread eating up his belly, he asked, “I can’t leave the palace?”

“No.”

She said it as she said everything else: simply, matter-of-factly, just so blithely he wanted to scream. She said one word that completely changed everything. His grandmother had once told him that he should look before he leapt, cautioning him against his propensity to find trouble in the most innocuous places. As Kerrick stood there, contemplating his sentence, he really wished he’d slowed down long enough to listen to his grandmother. If he had, he wouldn’t be in this mess now.

As Fana moved off to the kitchen, Kerrick watched silently, his genitals numb, his body aching, and his mind awhirl with panic. He hadn’t stayed in one place for longer than a cycle. They expected him to stay here for the next nine.

Of course, it was too late to turn back now.

A
riss hardly saw the crowds of people lining the hallway. She followed her
paratanist
back to her room in a state of shock. With his help, she bathed, ate, and then curled gratefully into bed. She didn’t even bother to take in her new surroundings. Bigger issues consumed her.

Something sparked in her mind when Kerrick had fallen against her, his skin cool and slick with sweat. A brief memory, more a picture than anything, filled her mind. A man with dark hair and darker eyes, his head tossed back. That was all she had glimpsed, but the vision was enough to cause her entire body to rush with adrenaline. She had no idea who the man was, or what he meant to her, all she knew was his face, his agonized face. Sleep offered her no relief because she dreamt of the man, but only that incremental moment captured in time.

She awoke wondering who he was, what he had meant to her, and what the agony on his face could mean. When she focused on remembering, fear gripped her so tightly she almost lost her breath. Had he hurt her? Was that it? Somehow she knew that she had known this man during her life before the
palace, but other than that, she drew almost a total blank. Was this mysterious man what her parents had paid a fortune to strip from her mind?

Ariss rose and immediately regretted it. Even though her black sheets were the softest
astle,
they chafed like rough-textured rocks against her tender sex. Her
paratanist
had left a bottle by her bedside. When she’d asked, he’d informed her that she would want it come morning. She couldn’t see his face, but she’d sensed he smiled ruefully as he spoke.

Tentatively, she opened the bottle, sniffed, and then poured a drop onto her fingertip. Smoothing the oil over her thigh deadened sensations. The feeling of numbness was one she was unfortunately familiar with, but this wasn’t as deep or as utterly deadening as what her parents forced her to consume and spread upon her person. Carefully, she poured more of the oil into her palm, then rubbed it onto her sex. Numbness replaced the pain. She was able to rise from the bed, but her body felt drained of energy. From her hips to her ankles hurt, probably from squatting down so many times. Between her legs, at the most tender part of her inner thigh, she found more pain, so she slathered that area with oil. The more she moved, the more she discovered little aches and pains. In the end, she covered her entire body with the oil, then slipped on the robe her
paratanist
had thoughtfully left at the bottom of her bed.

With a sigh, she considered her new living quarters. Everything was black, burnt umber, or dark brown. The black was befitting her as the Harvester, for only a Harvester could wear black. Her family color was yellow, but from now on, even when she returned to them, she would wear black. Such would be a welcome change, as the particular shade of yellow her family line wore made her look sallow, as if she were perpetually ill. Black matched her hair and brought out the gray of her eyes. She frowned. What did it matter what she looked like? Her family had already mapped out the rest of her life. Refusing to
dwell on them, she moved to the far wall and pulled open the drapes.

Tandalsul,
the twin suns, poured bright, golden light into her rooms. She stood, soaking up the heat. After a quick glance around to ensure that she was alone, she opened her robe. The oil captured more heat, penetrating into her flesh, then into her muscles. When she heard her door open, she yanked her robe closed and spun.

Her
paratanist
entered and bowed.

“How are you?” she asked for a lack of anything else to ask. It had taken her a long time yesterday to realize he only spoke when she spoke first. When he’d been given to her during her indoctrination, he’d not come with a set of instructions and she’d been too overwhelmed by everything to ask. Never in her wildest dreams did she think she’d actually win the Harvester competition.

“I am fine, Harvester.” With that, he moved to the kitchen to prepare her morning meal.

She had tried to get him to call her Ariss, but he’d refused, saying that such violated his sacred duty. He shook his hood-covered head when she asked after his name. He begged her to call him
paratanist
and nothing else. Ariss had been raised with servants, mostly the deliberately bred
serbreds,
but she’d never liked treating another human being as lesser than herself. Her sister, Darabelle, delighted in tormenting them, especially the younger handsome boys who cared for father’s prized Cuear-cian mounts. So fascinated was Darabelle with handsome boys, that Ariss wondered if Darabelle had made it intact to her Harvest last night. Not that it mattered so much these days, but Ariss took pride in knowing that she had come to Chur a virgin.

Another frown darkened her face, for she wasn’t as sure of that fact as she had been before she’d remembered the man with the agonized face. Had she had sex with him? Was that why her parents stripped him from her memory and forced her into
chemical numbness? The more she dwelled on trying to uncover the truth, the more her head ached. In the end, she pushed the thoughts away.

Now that Harvester Chur Zenge had ascended to a demigod, having been sacrificed to him was a mark of prestige. All she really remembered of her Harvest was lying there, freezing, buried under a pile of autumn leaves because Darabelle had hidden the sacrificial robe. Other virgins had used the same technique, though they usually did so to hide their family line. For good or bad reasons, they did not want to be associated with their family color. The use of nature’s bounty was entirely fitting for an autumn Harvest. Ariss hadn’t cared about concealing her family line; however, Darabelle was convinced that Chur would choose Ariss just to get his hands on the wealth of Yellow House. Ariss suspected the truth was something else entirely; Darabelle didn’t want Ariss to be attractive for her Harvest. Darabelle didn’t want any of her sisters to be more beautiful than she was. When the sacrificial robe magically reappeared a week ago, just in time for Darabelle’s Harvest, Ariss had confirmation of her theory. She was also certain the robe would once again disappear before Imosa or Lissak could use it.

Not that any of it really mattered. So many things that were of vital importance to her family were beyond Ariss’ understanding. What did it really matter who wore the family robe? If their father weren’t so insufferably frugal, they might each have their own; however, Radox Tunima decreed the robes a “wasteful indulgence,” and that was the last of that.

If a Harvester were to choose one of the four sisters, Ariss doubted what they were wearing would make any difference. A Harvester selected a virgin because of lust, or longing, or some kind of magical spark that told him this woman was the woman for him. Ariss couldn’t imagine any man making the selection based solely on the color the woman wore. Considering how
many variations there could be in the same color, it would be ludicrous to choose that way unless he had memorized the exact shade.

Yellow House alone had over two hundred unique shades designating rank within the House. Her family, as the highest rank, wore the brightest, most vibrant yellow; however, the next family wore a shade only slightly different. Oftentimes, the only way to see the difference was to compare the colors side by side, a fact that her mother despaired endlessly. Byss Tunima despised being mistaken as a member of Fenning, the slightly lesser family in Yellow House.

Ariss knew that as a Harvester, she could have selected a bondmate from her sacrifices, but few female Harvesters did, mainly because the offerings were boys and not men. In theory, her actions brought them into manhood, but as she knelt over them, she didn’t sense a sudden transformation within them. Perhaps, too, women were naturally attracted to older men, just as men seemed to prefer younger women. Unlike the male Harvesters, who must select their chosen from the sacrifices, a female Harvester could choose any free man within the palace.

A furrow deepened over her brows. Something about that sparked another memory. Why would her only being able to pick a man from within the walls of the palace matter? And not to her, but to her parents. She could hear her mother whisper, “This will put an end to any hope Ariss might cling to …” But the harder she tried to focus on the memory, the faster it slipped away, until she wasn’t sure whether it had happened.

Ever since her parents’ friend had visited, Ariss’ memory was so confused she didn’t trust any of it. She knew the woman had done something to her mind, but Ariss couldn’t remember what. All she knew was that the woman had taken some of her memories. For a long while, she hadn’t even realized that much, but the littlest things, like rain dripping off a leaf, or the swirling pattern of dust in the wind, caused snippets to surface and
plague her until she slowly unraveled the barest bit of the terrible truth. Her parents had paid a stripper to remove her memories. That much she now knew, but as to what memory the woman stripped, Ariss still didn’t know. However, the man with the agonized face was certainly a part of what was stolen from her.

Her
paratanist
placed several platters on the table and Ariss settled herself in her chair even though she wasn’t that hungry. To be polite, she sampled a little of each dish, but mainly she examined her beautiful new living quarters.

The main room was massive, filled with simple but high-quality furniture. Plants cascaded from the ceiling, pedestals, furniture—just about every available space held a plant of some kind. Some were the palest of green, while others were so dark they were almost black. The effect was as if she lived in the forest, which she found infinitely comforting. What made the room stunning was an elaborate sunken bathing tub along the north wall. She’d barely paid attention to it last night, but now she considered how much time someone had spent fashioning the unit so that it appeared crafted by nature.

Smooth, polished stones, most likely from along one of the rivers that led to the Valry Sea, were fitted into the wall, so that when water ran for her bath, it rolled over the rocks like a waterfall. The sunken tub was carved from one large piece of black stone, probably from the Onic Mountains. Faucets and knobs, crafted of polished gemstones, lined the topside of the tub rim so that she could recline fully yet still reach them if she desired. How had she soaked there last night without really seeing any of it? Her vision of the man must have disturbed her deeply for her not to give the bathing tub much consideration.

Her
paratanist
had already had the tub ready for her last night. Warming tiles below the bath kept the water hot because she had felt their heat penetrating into her back as she sat within the perfumed water. She knew she would have suffered a
lot more aches and pains today if she hadn’t had the long soak last night.

Distracted, she didn’t notice that her
paratanist
hovered next to her chair. Ariss tilted her head and lifted her eyebrows inquiringly. Statue still, he stood beside her. Baffled, Ariss finally remembered the harsh rules he operated under, and asked, “What?” in a more abrupt way than she normally would have.

“If you are finished with your meal, we will make our way to the
lantis.
”

Unfamiliar with that word but afraid to reveal her ignorance, Ariss nodded and rose from the table. Dressed only in her robe, she followed him out of her rooms and down the hallway. At least today, the hallway was relatively clear of people. Only a few palace guards stood here and there along their path. For the most part, they ignored her and her servant, as they seemed to expect their presence in the hallway. At least someone knew what was going on. For once in her life, Ariss would like to have the security of knowing what would happen next. For the next season, she would be at the mercy of the prophecy and all the rites and rituals crafted by her ancestors over five thousand seasons ago.

They walked for a long time, but then, finally, her
paratanist
stopped at a doorway hung with black fabric. Lifting up one edge of the cloth, he extended his hand, ushering her within.

Sweet perfume filled her lungs as she ducked inside a spacious but cozy room that was oddly similar to her Harvester suite—all black, umber, and brown, with smooth tiles and a multitude of green plants. A young male acolyte, clad in a flowing white robe, took her hand and led her to a padded table. When she tried to lie on her back, he softly informed her that she should lie down on her belly. At the head of the table was a small hole for her face to settle into. Once she was in position, the acolyte removed her robe with deft but precise movements.

Uncomfortable with her nudity, Ariss barely had a moment
to press her body into the padded bench before eight sets of hands began to stroke her. From the back of her head, to her shoulders, to the small of her back, to her buttocks, to her thighs, and her calves—all were touched and pressed by multiple sets of hands. Soft music of woodwinds, chimes, and low bass notes vibrated through her, as if she were part of the composition.

Unsure of what they expected of her, she tensed, waiting for instructions. Soon she realized all she had to do was relax and let them ease the thousand pains in her body. Never in her life had she felt so aware of herself and yet so relaxed. To her astonishment, she fell into a wakeful slumber where her thoughts and dreams mingled.

Again, she could see the dark-haired, dark-eyed man in profile, but this time there was movement. His head hung low, his long, rough-cut brown locks obscured his features, but then, in slow motion, he flipped his head up, flinging his hair back, exposing his face to the light and his tormented features to her gaze. His lips peeled back into a grimace, exposing straight white teeth. He clenched his angular jaw as tightly as his eyes, causing the tendons on his neck to stand out.

Her sex gushed with sudden arousal, shocking her. How could she find pleasure in another’s torment? Who was he? No name came to mind, only startling feelings of stimulation.

Awakening.