The Pleasure Slave (11 page)

Imperia
The Sixth Season

“W
HAT DO YOU HERE
, Zirra?”

Rivulets of light trickled like liquid gold from the four suns, past the arched, beveled windows, encircling the tribunal chamber and giving it the appearance of a holy sanctuary. Two towering thrones perched on the verdant dais before her, both inlaid with precious stones from other worlds—ebony, ivory, assyri and merdeaux. Winged figures carved from the purest alabaster decorated the legs and seemed ready to burst into the heavens.

The gleaming cream-and-rose marble flooring cooled her bare feet and reminded her of the cold emptiness within herself…and the reason she was here. Her ears filled with the crashing waves just beyond the palace’s gates outside, a potent reminder, as well.

The High Priest sat beside his queen, regarding Zirra intently, his eyes a deep, fathomless blue. Mystical power charged the air around him, surrounded her, moved through her, a power so much greater than her own.

Her fists clenched. Four cycles ago Percen had stolen Tristan’s box from her and cursed the pleasure slave to another world with a spell of his own. How infuriated she’d been. How infuriated she
still
was. She’d wanted to retrieve her slave immediately, but Percen had stopped her. He had snatched away her powers, wrapping her in a cloak of mortality so complete she could not summon any of her mystical abilities. Not a single one.

’Twas her punishment, he’d said, for nearly ruining his precious Alliance with the mortals.

Bastard.

“I will ask but one more time,” Percen said, a steely edge underlying his tone. “What do you here, Zirra?”

Chin high, she stood in the center of the room, a gossamer froth of cerulean draping her body, her hands at her sides. She kept her expression impassive, though she could barely stand to look upon the High Priest. With the wild fall of his inky hair, the strength of his magic, and the blue pools that were his eyes, he should have been a beautiful man. Instead he was hideous. His body was twisted, and his left eye drooped low on his cheekbone. His nose was sharp and beaked.

A pity he was not tolerable. She might have tried seducing him to her will, even though she’d vowed long ago never to take another Druinn as her lover.

“I have come to demand the return of my powers,” she said defiantly.

A chorus of “ooh” circulated across the swell of talon-carrying guards positioned strategically around each corner before an arduous silence sharpened its
claws. The sound and the lack of sound ground together in disharmony like shards of broken glass.

“You? Demand me?” he said, uttering the very words she’d once uttered to Tristan. “I doubt I will ever return your powers. You would attempt to retrieve Tristan, and that I cannot allow.”

“He belongs to me.”

Percen’s brows furrowed together high on his forehead. “If I were capable of breaking another’s curse, I would have done so. As that is something no Druinn can do, I simply sent him away—where he will remain. Be glad I did not kill you.”

Be glad I did not kill you,
she silently mocked. “I demand you return him to me at once.”

“More demands?” His tone sharpened with deadly precision. “There is a war brewing, Zirra. Many of my favored sorcerers have already joined the rebels in hopes of destroying our tentative bond with the mortals—something you nearly did all on your own. I punished you for your actions, and yet you continue to think only of yourself and demand I reward you. My answer,” he added casually, almost pleasantly, “is nay. And any who seek to aid you will suffer my wrath.”

Dread fluttered sharp wings inside her stomach, cutting, slashing at her sense of hope. Her gaze flickered to the queen, poised lovingly beside the High Priest. Heather was the only one who held any sway with Percen.

Zirra prayed the queen would aid her cause.

“I agree with my life-mate,” Heather said, the sweetness of her voice as lyrical as a song. Almost absently,
she reached out and squeezed Percen’s hand. “You would do well to leave this matter alone. To leave Tristan alone.”

Curse them, Zirra fumed. So self-righteous they were, thinking they knew what was best. Well,
she
knew what was best for herself. Tristan. Only in his arms did she feel beautiful and strong. Only when he obeyed her did she feel alive and wholly fulfilled.

Through slitted eyes, she returned her attention to the High Priest, and their gazes collided, an icy clash of blue against blue, a stormy sea against a tranquil breeze. “You once cursed your own brother to a life of stone. My actions are no worse than yours.”

“I made reparations for my sins. My brother now lives quite happily with his life-mate and their children.”

“Then allow me to make reparations with Tristan. I will become his life-mate and give him as many children as he desires.”

“Nay,” Percen said.

She nearly screeched as her rage leapt to another plateau. How easy it would be to reclaim Tristan if she possessed her powers and knew where he now resided. All she would have to do was open a vortex. Since she could not, her only hope lay with the High Priest. She
must
convince him to help her.

“I have suffered my punishment for many cycles. Surely that is enough.”

“Nay, ’tis not.” He paused, his expression pensive. “Mayhap I should give you to the mortal Great-Lord and allow
him
to punish you.”

“You would not dare. For you do not want him to know what became of his finest warrior.”

“I would dare, Zirra. Doubt me not.”

As her hope faded, longing stirred inside her. Tristan’s beautiful face flashed before her mind. She needed him again. Must have him again. For Tristan was like an aphrodisiac and, once ingested, nothing else mattered but another taste. She hated him for this
need
he made her feel, but she was helpless against her craving.

She had tried to humble him, to prove her mastery over his every action, yet each and every day that she’d owned his box, he had defied her. Aye, he’d ravished her body whenever she commanded, but he’d never given anything more of himself. He had spoken of her death while his hands glided over her body. He had glared at her with hatred while his tongue licked her skin.

And yet, memories of his magnificence had the power to make her shiver with delight.

“Tristan is but a mortal,” she ground out. “He is nothing to you.”

Heather, a mortal herself, narrowed her eyes. “He is a mortal, yes, but that does not make him a lesser being.”

“He fought for his Great-Lord,” Percen said, “and he has fought for me, as well. He killed his enemies without hesitation or regret. He is loyal and trustworthy, a king at heart and a true legend among any race. What are you but a pitiful excuse for flesh, blood and magic? Well, magic no longer,” he added smugly.

Though shaking with the force of her hurt and fury, she ignored his taunts. Percen wanted to humiliate her,
she could only guess, because she had once spurned him, had once spit in his ugly face and refused his touch. She would not allow him to injure her spirit.

“Tristan is all that you claim,” she said. “I admit that. But he is also mine. He belongs to me.”

Heather uttered a tinkling laugh. “He was never, and will never be yours.”

Zirra’s teeth bared in a scowl.

“Do not fear,” Percen told her. “One day he will return to our land. Yet he will return when Elliea has decreed it, and not a moment sooner.”

Joy and despair, impatience and delight all pounded through her. “If you bring him back now, I can make him love me. I know I can. He will even thank you for returning him.”

A laugh boomed from Percen, a cruel reverberation that struck and destroyed her pride. “Why do you persist in this? He will never love you. You are not worthy of him.”

I
am
worthy,
she longed to shout, though her features never wavered from their tight, emotionless facade, never revealed a hint of her inner turmoil.

“Get you gone from my sight, woman.” Regally he waved one hand through the air. “Your greed sickens me.”

Fists clenched, teeth still bared in a scowl, she paused but a moment. “I
will
find a way to retrieve him, doubt me not. Tristan is mine. My lover. My property. And he will belong to me once again.”

Percen’s nostrils flared at such blatant insolence. “You dare contest my will?”

“I dare,” she said evenly, glaring up at him. “Oh, aye. I dare.”

W
HEN THE TRIBUNAL
chamber cleared, Percen glanced at his life-mate, the queen of his heart and soul, the woman who had saved him from destruction. “Mayhap I should have Zirra killed,” he said on a sigh. “Her treachery will only grow.”

“Our son would never forgive you if you hurt her.” Concern flashed over Heather’s aging features, her brown eyes wide. “Did we do the right thing, sending Tristan away?”

“Aye, we did.” A long sigh slipped from his lips. “Worry not, my love. I will think of something to do with Zirra, something that will not upset our son.”

Z
IRRA PACED
the confines of her chamber. Her hands fisted in the silkiness of her robe, and her hair whipped against her back each time she turned. Dark emotions pounded through her, as hot and stifling as the fire burning within the hearth. Heavy clouds, thunderous and gray, covered the four suns, only adding to her riotous mood. With a screech, she kicked a chair from her path and knocked her three-tiered vanity to the floor. Her prized crystal vase shattered, leaving a broken trail of jagged, opalescent shards.

How dare Percen de Locke treat her so shabbily. Oh, how she longed to punish him. To destroy his magic with her own, as he had done to her. Yet, as High Priest of the Druinn, his magic far surpassed hers, and she could do nothing to hurt him or counter his spell. Nothing!

She’d lost her powers. She’d lost the people’s respect, becoming nothing more than an amusing tale to chuckle about over meals. And she’d lost Tristan, just as he’d intended.

I must have Tristan back. He’s mine.
She lifted a jeweled goblet and hurtled it at the wall, where it thumped and fell unharmed. She’d owned her slave only a few seasons. Such a small amount of time, really, yet her need for him had grown to incomprehensible dimensions.

“Where is he?” she cried. What woman owned him now? Touched him? Tasted him? Welcomed his body?

What woman felt the power he incited?

Those thoughts caused tenebrous jealousy to completely awaken from slumber and invite a deep-seated wrath. She felt sick in the pit of her stomach and with another screech of fury, flung herself atop her bed—the very bed on which she’d last enjoyed Tristan. The silky white cloth enveloped her like a lover’s caress, mocking her. She pounded her fists into the fur-lined mattress.

“He belongs to me. Me!”

A servant entered the chamber, her gaze wide and uncertain, as if she wasn’t sure what fate awaited her. “You called, Sorceress?”

“Nay I didn’t, you stupid—” Zirra stopped abruptly. All of a sudden, her breathing slowed, her rage eased. The solution was so simply, really, and she wondered why she had not considered it before. There
was
a Druinn male who would risk Percen’s wrath to help her. Oh, aye. The man hungered for her, after all, and with the proper incentive he would do anything that she asked.

She almost laughed.

“Where is the prince?” she asked.

The servant’s fingers twisted the plain brown fabric of her gown. “Practicing his magic in the white sands.”

“Go to him. Tell him I request his presence in my bedchamber.”

The young girl gave a relieved nod and hurried to obey.

“I will have you yet, Tristan.” This time, Zirra did allow herself to laugh. She was giddy for the first time since Percen cast his traitorous spells.

Romulis strode into her chamber a short while later, his lips stretched in a tight scowl. His bare chest gleamed with sweat and tiny white crystals. His muscles were laced with sinew and scars.

He looked every inch the savage, dangerous warrior that he was, yet all the more potent because his magic hummed all around him, as sharp and deadly as any talon. His booted feet crunched the broken vase on the floor, when he suddenly halted at the edge of her bed, a dark tower against the whiteness of her walls and furnishings, and stared down at her. His features were bold and striking. Silky black hair hung to his shoulders, framing his golden eyes and bladelike cheekbones.

On numerous occasions, he’d attempted to lure her to his bed. She always spurned him, quite forcefully, and sent him away untouched and frustrated, for she never dabbled with the Druinn males. They were too volatile and uncontrollable, and could curse or bless with the wave of a hand. While she relished that power within herself, she did not welcome it in another. The way Per
cen had so easily stripped her of her mystical abilities only proved her reluctance to take a Druinn lover was well placed.

Though he knew how she felt, Romulis desired her still. Would always desire her. The knowledge burned in his eyes. Oh, he might despise himself for his weakness, but he was helpless against it. Why else would he be here?