Sneak Peak: Unnamed Fantasy Story (Patreon)

I'm really enjoying the strong start to the writing year - I don't know how long it'll last before general exhaustion, illness, melancholy or any of the other inevitable downers of life creeps up, but for now it's all going suspiciously well.  Part of this may have to do with a shift into a different genre.  I'm keen to return to |Constant but having spent the past year writing it, I think trying my hand at something different has been good.  

In any case, writing in the fantasy genre has inspired me to pick up N.K. Jemisin's The Fifth Season.  I can be pretty utilitarian in my reading, and try to align what I'm reading (or listening to) with what I'm writing.  In this case, I'm not sure it's a good match.  I'm only a few chapters in but it's clearly not a novel meant to sit confortably within common Fantasy tropes.  Still a good read, though.

In any case, I thought you might enjoy a sneak peak at the current start of "Unnamed Fantasy Short Story" - still desperately in need of a title.  As always, this is all in a very rough state and liable to change; and you should avert your eyes if you'd rather wait for the finished product.  If I maintain my current speed - and don't get sidetracked by plot digressions, which is a real risk! - I reckon I might have it finished as early as the end of next week.

***

This Will Be The Title

(“Unnamed Fantasy Short Story”)

By Fakeminsk

(fakeminsk@gmail.com)

(patreon.com/fakeminsk)

Scene One: The Old King’s Death

News of the old king’s death spread swiftly across Sangriferia.

In the gambling dens and weather-battered taverns of Fishtown, rough men cashed in bets on the monarch’s demise. In the halls of the Great Houses, powerful lords plotted and prepared for war. The so-called barbarian kings of the Northern Reaches summoned councillors to their wind-battered longhouses to decide whether the death of this weak monarch was an opportunity to exploit or whether his likely replacement a greater threat. And in the glimmering darkness of the candlelit Obsidian Halls, the veiled virgins of the Twilight Lady began the sonorous week-long dirge that would carry the dead king to the afterlife.

But it was to the capitol that the news spread fastest, where the fashionable ladies of the Crimson Court stood, as still and sculpted as ornate columns in the opulent chambers of power. Only a year ago—but no, not even a year, not so long as that—fashion had followed the example of Princess Elowen and her unbridled spirit: long hair fell freely and the most daring women even abandoned dresses and skirts in favour of clothes in the style of the princess’s riding breeches and masculine tunics. But with her tragic and scandalous death—the inevitable outcome of a father’s inability to restrain his daughter, some whispered—the liberated fashion died, as did the briefly deviant habit of women in trousers.

Her mother, the young Queen Kalia favoured dresses, in the style of her homeland across the Stardrop Seas, elegant and free-flowing styles that flattered her boyish figure, tight in the waist but fluttering and shimmering like butterfly wings as she flew and danced through the quarters of the capitol. Briefly, following her daughter’s death, the parties became ever more lavish and vibrant and wild, the desperate reaching for life that follows death. But it was in her ever-more tightly braided hair and the ever-darkening clothes she wore that her grief expressed itself, the wasting grief that eventually consumed her a short six months later.

With both Princess and Queen gone, who to dictate the female fashions of the Crimson Court? Strong-willed, striking yet distant, it was the Lady Teneira of House Malveil who took charge. During the funeral of the Queen, some doubt remained as to whose influence would reign supreme, as the ladies of the great houses vied, subtly yet fiercely, for dominance, through the cunning cut of a veil, the design of a dress, the drop and colour and texture of a skirt or daring flash of a patterned stocking.

All doubts were firmly dispelled at the Festival of the Sisters the following week. Teneira’s main rival, the Lady Timora, had yet to show her face following her debasement that evening.

Gone, then, the ruinous liberty of the Princess’s masculine attire! Yet her preference in footwear endured, in the form of delicately heeled shoes and boots, no longer designed for locking into stirrups but rather for showcasing the skilful sway of the woman’s slow walk. (Or perhaps, some said, always men, for hooking a woman’s thighs around her lovers’ torso, for the aristocratic sluts of the Court to grip as they knelt, arms behind their back, and serviced their men.)  The slight and slender heels were styled after the shoes and boots of the debauched Southern kingdoms. That the lucrative trading route to these land were under House Malveil’s exclusive control was immaterial. Lady Malveil had long ago mastered the fashions and feminine skills of those far away principalities that she brought back to the capitol—a blessing brought on by her marriage several years ago to Quinos Jahan, her Lord and husband from the south.

Gone, too, the loose and flowing dresses of the Queen, so well suited to wild dances and rapid walks along gardens and courtyards and gleeful chases through sun-dappled meadows.  Instead, it was the memory of her grief that endured. The tight weave of her hair and the dark, heavy fabrics she wore at the end: both inspired the fierce constriction of the fashion that followed. Under Lady Teneira’s knowing smirk and baleful eyes, crushingly restrictive dresses once again seized women in their silken grasp, restricting them to the most shallow breathes and mincing gaits as they hobbled in their towering shoes. Weighed down by jewellery, the heavy dangling earrings and gilt chain belts, decorated most meticulously with cosmetics, breathless in the tight grip of corsetry, the ladies of the Crimson Court became like finely sculpted figurines, poised, positioned and painted, shaped into the exquisite form that the Lady Teneira presented so naturally.

And so when the news of the old King’s death reach Lady Aubriella, it was not shock and horror alone that left her breathless.

“My lady?” Her handmaiden, the always attentive Maya, held Aubriella by the elbow. Her eyes sparkled with mirth. As a servant, she was dressed far less severely, and moved with enviable freedom.

Together, they withdrew to one of the secluded alcoves of the Whispering Gallery. The curved walls were carved with reliefs of the great figures of the past: Talgart Atrebar, the Brave, who drove off the heathen barbarians who once skulked along the shores of the Aelgis river that now ran beneath the capitol; Aelasandra Lannorin, the Pure, whose divine visions brought the Seven Sisters; Alaric McAlasdair, the Ravenshield who seized the North. Above them all, Sangrifiera, the Sister of Sacrifice whose death brought peace, the lost Goddess after whom the Kingdom took its name.

In passing the great carved and painted history of the kingdom’s founding, Lady Abriella’s hand, as always, reached out to brush the figure of the Ravenshield. Glittering nails, long and shaped, lingered over the bearded, fierce figure of Alaric. She felt the carved detail of the hero’s strong features beneath her graceful touch, the wide jaw and clenched muscles. He raised his massive axe, Kral, in defiance against the massed enemy hordes of the North.

Aubriella sighed, and then grimaced, her painted lips forming a worried pout. The Whispering Gallery was named after the way sound travelled along the curved walls, and people at opposite ends of the expansive chamber could hear each other’s voice. The sound of her complaint was undignified; ladies didn’t sigh, unless with pleasure; or complain, unless with desire. It wouldn’t do for other courtiers to hear.

Fortunately, the main vaulting chamber was largely empty, though the many alcoves were not. The Whispering Gallery was also named after courtiers’ tendency to use its many private nooks—from which sound most certainly did not travel—to whisper and plot in private. More nobles fell to whispered plans formed in the alcoves of the Gallery in a single year, it was said, than in a century of open combat.

With her handmaiden guiding her by the elbow, she retreated towards the nearest alcove. Aubriella glided rather than walked, her many months of training and punishment smoothing—reshaping—her stride into one that was slow and sinuous. The tightness of her dress, coiled in shimmering swaths of fabric down to her calves without vent or slit, allowed only the daintiest of steps. Every move appeared affected and deliberate, somehow both coquettish and demure. A lady, at least under current fashion, never rushed, even if she wanted to.

Fortunately, the nearest alcove was empty, quiet and dark, one of many quiet recesses that lined the central gallery. Along this side of the Whispering Gallery—the women’s side—each archway led to a small chapel dedicated to either one of the Sisters, or to the Twilight Lady in one of her three incarnations. The other side of the Gallery was for the men and dedicated to the Old Gods, or the New. So it was that Aubriella took refuge under the auspices of the Sister of Submission, Untera.

Even there, in quiet and seclusion, she knew better than to give in to the grief and anger and fear that threatened to overwhelm her. As a lady it was a duty—an honour, even—to beautify the halls of the Crimson Court. As a woman she must always present her best self; as a girl, to know her place and obey; and as the youngest and only unmarried child of House Malveil she carried the reputation of her adopted family on her slender shoulders.

Such unworthy shoulders, she was often reminded; a shame to the family; a clumsy, inelegant fool, a stupid girl, weak and silly, and so very stubborn and slow in learning the finer skills of feminine aristocracy.

“My lady?”

And there was Maya, of course.  Without her handmaiden, Aubriella knew she would be lost. Maya, so quick to spot any infractions; Maya, so eager to report her failings to House Mistress Castigen. Maya, who delighted in dressing her Lady, in pulling corset lacing savagely tight and then slowly and sensuously sliding stockings up her slender legs before attaching them tautly to the dangling tabs. But also, Maya who deftly deflected the most inappropriate insinuations (or outright lewdness, or aggressive advances) of privileged men and young courtiers, who guided her unfailingly through the labyrinthian back passages of the great old palace, and who helped the inexperienced Aubriella manoeuvre the intrigues of court.

“I need—” To breathe, Aubriella thought, to take in great gasps of air; but bound tightly in her corset this was impossible. To sit, to relieve the agony of burning calves and instep, but though the alcove was generously lined with padded seats, this too was impossible. A lady—especially one under Castigen’s tutelage—did not sit. Rather the opposite: it was an indicator of dignity and class, of aristocratic demeanour, to bear the challenges of feminine fashions to their most extreme. The greatest ladies were those who wore their corset the tightest, who walked with confidence in the most precarious of shoes. They did not sit—or kneel, or lie—unless at the bequest of their better, or a man or in the privacy of their own chambers.

She felt an all-too common panic seize her, one brought on by the constriction of her clothing, by the restrictions of her position. Aubriella’s hands fluttered at her side. A sudden, insane desire seized her—a need gripped her with all the unyielding instance of the corset around her waist: to rip off these clothes, tear away the restrictive garments, kick off the shoes and scream, howl and rage through the whispering halls. An impossibility, of course: the corset was locked, the shoes’ lacing too intricate and unreachable in her current dress, the bodice tightly tied off behind her back.

There was no escape, from either the fashions of Court or her role as a Lady. And the price to pay for such—insanity, for such disobedience—the punishment: Aubriella shuddered.

She shuddered and so she reached for the Litany of Submission. It was inscribed in heavy gilt letting over the small, oval mirror mounted on the wall of the alcove. Untera, Sister of Submission; this was her chapel, and she invited its occupants to gaze upon themselves and yield. Even without the written reminder, Aubriella knew the litany well. It had been drilled into her as part of her training prior to joining the court.

“With downcast eyes, demure under your dominion,” she began, and the words felt heavy and her tongue thick despite months of practice. She’d little to do with the Sisters before joining House Malveil – at most, a prudent prayer to the Sister of Slaughter in passing. But never the other sisters. “I surrender to you.”

In the mirror, Aubriella saw herself and even after all these months she marvelled at what she had become. A sparkling jewel of the Garland Crown, the embodiment of social etiquette and feminine decorum, beautiful and alluring; a flirtatious, vapid tease; a pretty, painted face; a frivolous, weak, useless girl. Her fingers curled into tight fists at her side, the long, sharp nails digging into the soft skin, and with fists clenched Aubriella squeezed her eyes shut and fought back tears.

“The litany, my lady.”

Maya’s came from far away. “In submission,” the handmaiden began. “I find strength.”

“In submission, I find strength,” Aubriella repeated.

“In obedience—”

“Freedom,” she finished.

Down the ash-slurry cobblestones of Sooton Road, where artisans and craftsmen hammered and carved and wrought their wares, Aubriella knew what men thought of aristocratic women. A woman of court was a decorated vase for every flower with a prickly thorn, said the potters. A pot for every brush, to the painters; a bin for every nail to the carpenters. Along the high-walled barracks of The Walk, soldiers joked of scabbards oiled and slick for every blade: dagger, rapier, broadsword or even bastards.

“My weakness is my strength,” Aubriella continued, and with speaking her tongue loosened and the words flowed more freely. “Through surrender, I assert my true nature; my nature is manifest in the truths of the gentle grace that guides me to my place.”

The words were taught to every girl from their earliest years. From the expansive fields of the southern reaches, where warm winds and gentle rains coaxed rich golden harvests from the land to the storm-battered port cities and fishing villages nestled in the rocky crags of the West, girls—but especially those of noble heritage or aristocratic aspirations—were taught from an early age their place. Only in the wild North, where both men and women remained too proud and fierce to submit did women spurn the Sister’s words.

Aubriella continued the litany. Maya nodded in approval and remained silent as her mistress continued the recitation on her own, finishing and repeating the words with growing confidence. Her gentle murmur filled the small space with the melody of her lilting voice. With each repetition she felt the desire grow—the terrible wanting—need, even—to submit, to surrender; to achieve the promised strength that might finally bring the peace and tranquillity for which she desperately yearned.

And for the first time since taking on the role of adopted daughter, she felt the first brush of newfound calm sweep over her, like one walking slowly through the trailing wisps of a morning fog. Surrender, yield, submit and obey – words once difficult now dripped like honey from her lips and she felt a pleasant tingle deep in her belly, a spreading warmth beneath the steel boning and metal clasps and straps and buckles and lace and ribbons that contained her. Docile, passive and meek; submission and compliance: Aubriella completed the litany a fourth and final time and closed her eyes and sighed.

Something settled within her; a presence, a comforting stillness.

A deep breath, and Aubriella gazed upon herself in the mirror.

She was beautiful.

Her eyes were a loamy, deep hazel, flecked with green as vibrant as the fertile hills of her homeland after the snows thawed and the rivers ran gorged with meltwaters. Large and expressive in the dimness of the room, there was something—haunted, in those eyes, an anger or sadness lurking behind the new-found composure. Many had commented on her eyes in recent months, mostly men, holding her hand and speaking of her beauty with great earnestness, of the jewels buried in the rich earth of her gaze, of gardens veiled behind the thickness of fluttering lashes. And they were right to do so, she now realised: her eyes were beautiful and deep and deserving of their praise. Especially considering the effort she made to highlight them, the effort of taming her heavy brows, the recently acquired skills with cosmetics, the feathering of browns and greens on the eyelids, the touch of bronze, the careful line of the pencil along the lids—Aubriella felt for the first-time genuine pride in her newfound artistry.

The same for her lips, thin but skilfully painted in the dark reds popular in court, a rich velvety burgundy that contrasted with the natural paleness of her skin. Her nose, thin with a little upturn. High cheekbones and a wide forehead. A narrow, weak chin; she smiled, wryly.

But it was her namesake, the lush and luxurious reddish-brown hair that cascaded over her shoulder and down her back, that demanded attention. Jealousy, from other women of the Court, especially those forced to rely on the nob-thatcher—the wig-maker—to fill out their threadbare scalp to meet the demands of fashion. In a court following Lady Teneira’s preference for the tight coils of elaborately woven braids, Aubriella enjoyed the freedom to wear her hair loose and full.

She watched her reflection comb long glittering nails through her thick tresses and understood why. She’d cursed her hair and the effort needed to maintain it, the hundred daily strokes to subdue it, and the constant distraction of it tickling her cheeks and neck, the way it fell across her eyes, the demand for her constant attention. But in a Court filled with fiercely tamed and rigid women, her hair burst free like wildfire. Every unconscious poke, prod and sweep back of her hair drew the admiring gaze of men—and the ire of women outside of House Malveil.

Long, heavy, dangling earrings reached nearly to her shoulders and though she once found the weight nearly unbearable, it now felt comfortable, the tug at her lobes a soothing reminder of femininity. The large, square-cut emeralds twirled slowly, surrounded by clusters of tiny, sparkling diamonds, all set in gold burnished to a bright gleam. Around her neck, a heavy pendant decorated with another gleaming stone, a conspicuous display of wealth sitting nestled between her breasts.

Her breasts. For so long now she’d blushed with shame and embarrassment at their size, at how swiftly they’d grown and then the way corsetry and other female trickery exhibited the fullness of her cleavage. But beyond the shame she suddenly found—pride, pleasure even, in her curves. Why deny the reality of what she saw? Her tits were gorgeous and—she bit her lip and flushed—they felt good, when touched. She felt her nipples tighten, the gentle warmth in her belly slowly creeping up her neck; and the reality of her femininity—the reality that men gazed upon her tits with lust and desired her and that their heavy, strong hands—to submit to that touch—could bring—what harm in yielding, after so many months of resisting…?

“I suppose,” Maya mused, her voice cutting through Aubriella’s distraction. “With the old king dead, there won’t be any further objection to your marriage.”

Aubriella bit her lip. Submission to her fate, acceptance of the sacrifice she’d made those many months ago, yes, maybe; but this—to marry—a man!—of Lord Edmund Malveil’s choosing….?

“Surely Lord Malveil has greater concerns than the marriage prospects of an insignificant girl,” Aubriella whispered. “The King is dead.” And then stopped, and swallowed, and felt an almost overwhelming grief seize her by the throat. The King was dead. King Orlando—dead. Her King; her friend, once.

Maya shrugged. “Dead, and every house lord, minor and major with pretentions for the Crown will be plotting their little plots and to what end? The throne is Edmund’s. Has been for years.”

“The support of the East rises and falls with the sun.” Aubriella repeated the well-known proverb. “And the Western houses won’t abide a king with daughters tied to southern thrones.”

“And what of the North?” Her smirk was unbefitting a girl of her class. “Where does the North’s loyalty lie?”

“With the stone and the snow,” she answered, softly and to herself. “With wind and wyrd.” Then, because a lady didn’t say such things, she answered louder, “The McAlasdairs won’t stand for it. Angus can’t accept Malveil’s claim. The minor houses would rebel.”

“EarlMcAlasdair, lady,” Maya corrected. “Remember your place.”

Aubriella bit her lip and nodded.

“My Lady?” A voice, at the entrance to the chapel; a male presence standing just outside the threshold, a servant shadowed by the lights of the Whispering Gallery. “Lord Malveil requests your presence.”

She knew the request was anything but. She dismissed the servant with a graceful nod of the head and took a moment to compose herself. The peace she felt following her recital of the litany remained incomplete. For the first time, she felt able to suppress certain instincts and accept her place as a young girl, her role as a lady, and her position within House Malveil. But her anxiety over the future remained, as well as grief over the death of the king.

Aubriella turned to leave. Her reflection flashed in a second mirror behind her in the chapel of Submission. The person she glimpsed in the mirror somehow exuded a greater strength—reminded her of a past best forgotten—and in reflection the inscribed words of the litany appeared transformed; but it was nothing more than a trick of flickering candles and darkness, and when she paused she saw nothing more than herself.

“Not yet,” Maya murmured at her side. “The Sisters are slow to reveal themselves to their supplicants.”

Aubriella looked to her handmaiden, and back to the mirror, and felt a sudden gulf between them, as though teetering at the edge of a chasm she’d hardly known existed. Swallowing against sudden fear, Aubriella nodded and with Maya at her side began the long, torturous walk to her Lord’s chambers.

Scene Two: The Axe of the North

“Leave us.”

With a wave of his hand, Edmund Malveil, Lord of House Malveil, Earl of the South, dismissed the servants and sycophants, courtiers and councillors, lords and ladies that littered his hall. The guards were last leave, hesitating at the door.

“Leave!” he shouted. “Do you think I have anything to fear from—her?”

The pudgy finger indicated Lady Aubriella, standing with eyes demurely downcast below the wide stone risers leading to her Lord’s heavy seat. She could not have mounted the stairs to stand level with him even had she wanted or dared to, the tightness of her dress and the precariousness of her shoes making each step an exquisite challenge.

House Malveil’s halls at the capitol were lavish with conspicuous wealth accumulated over three generations of royal favour. Rich tapestries covered the walls, elaborate depictions of the House’s glorious past. Gold glistened in the dancing light from a dozen heavy braziers, and the bright fire burned in the heavy jewels adorning Edmund’s crown, sceptre and rings. Crown and sceptre lay piled in a haphazard pile near Edmund’s seat, discarded and ignored on a pile of fur-lined cloaks and soft-leather gloves.

In contrast to the rich opulence, the Lord of House Malveil slouched in his heavy seat, a corpulent, slovenly man, unshaven and dishevelled, dressed in the full trapping of wealth worn with absolute disregard. Once, he’d been regarded as a handsome man, a powerful man: tall, strong and fearsome, with dark eyes and a perpetual smirk. A tapestry triptych portrayed him at the front of the King’s armies at the Battle of Trath Hill, steeped in blood and slaughter; carving a path through his enemy; and the final encounter with Lady Jahara, the heretical acolyte and fallen mother—a tale as fanciful as it was glorious, securing his house’s dominance for another generation.

But those days were far behind him. Now, Edmund drew a sharp contrast with the surrounding fashionable trappings. Above all else, he exuded boredom—a dangerous, cunning ennui that found diversion in games played for their own sake. He exerted power because power existed to be exerted; for no greater reason than that.

They were alone now. Earl Edmund Malveil slouched in his chair, chin in palm, and drummed the armrest with his fingers. Heavy rings glinted with the rhythmic movement. He stared down at the demure girl, his adopted daughter Aubriella, who remained standing with eyes fixed on the floor. Her handmaiden remained with her. It never occurred to him to dismiss the servant; she was ubiquitous at her mistress’s side, and he almost instantly forgot her presence.

For months now he’d diverted himself and taken some pleasure in watching her growth. To see her there so tightly ensconced in feminine frivolity should have brought him an exquisite joy, but instead he felt only the return of the old boredom.

“Lady Castigan reports you are doing well.” He watched the girl carefully, judging her reaction. “You make a very pretty bauble for the Crimson Court.”

Aubriella bobbed her head. “The lady is too kind, my lord,” she murmured. She had yet to meet his gaze.

“How so?”

“I am a clumsy fool,” she said. “A silly and stupid girl.”

Her response sparked his interest. Her previous—antagonism and seething resentment was absent; what had changed?

“Yet I am plagued by courtiers expressing their interest,” he added. “In your beauty and in your charm. In the divine glow of your face and your hair.” He barked with laughter. “And your tits.”

Aubriella remained silent.

“These men desire marriage, adopted daughter.” Edmund leaned forward, the chair creaking beneath his weight. “What think you of that, hmm? Of marriage?”

Finally, Aubriella raised her eyes. With an unconscious toss of the neck, she sent the mass of auburn curls tumbling back over her shoulder. Earrings twirled and between the emerald flare of gemstones, she stared up at her lord and in her eyes burned hatred and fury and shame and fear. But the flush of emotions was quickly suppressed. A flutter of the eyes and her placid calm resumed, but the brief flash was enough to excite Edmund.

She opened her mouth, closed it, and swallowed nervously. Her hand fluttered at her side before smoothing down the font of her dress. “It is an honour,” she finally said, “One I have never dreamed of.”

“Never?” Edmund sneered. “I’m sure. Well. Think on it now, girl, it’s why you’re part of this family. The men are lining up.  An opportunity to ally with Malveil. They want to fuck you, Aubriella, spread your legs and plant their seed in your belly.

“After all, the king is dead, and the vultures are circling. Like—” He paused, as though to consider. “Like flies to shit.”

Aubriella’s eyes dropped.

“Isn’t that what you said once? Hmm?”

She remained silent.

“Answer me!” he shouted.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Yes, my lord,” he mimicked, in a little girl’s voice.

What she said next took him surprise. Her tone was gentle—tired and a little sad, but entirely absent of her old anger. “Why—how can you hate me so much?” she asked.

Her question angered him. It angered Edmund because the question implied she held a power over him that he no longer held over her. “Because you insulted me,” he said. “Behind my back and to my face.  You were so full and high of yourself, weren’t you, looking down at the Court, at courtiers, at the nobility and at men—at men like me. You mocked me—openly!—and made a mockery of the games we played believing yourself better for the  Perhaps you should have paid more attention and learned to play.” He laughed, an ugly sound from the back of his throat. “Weak, you called us. Soft, you called us.”

With elbows on both knees, he leaned forward in his seat, fingers interlaced over the bulge of his belly. He gestured with a single finger. “Who’s soft now, Aubriella?”

“I am,” she whispered.

“Show me.”

Her eyes widened. He saw a terrible dread there, the fear of humiliation, and it briefly excited him. She stared back at him and he stared back at her and then, slowly, she raised her hand and brought it to her chest. Her fingers curled into the softness of the flesh she found there. Under the watchful eyes of her lord, Aubriella pawed at her own tits.

“What do you feel?” he asked.

“Softness,” she said.

“Whose?”

“Mine.”

“Close your eyes,” he ordered. “And keep at it, girl. I want to hear you.” He allowed himself a moment of pleasure, watching Aubriella grope herself. Her mouth parted and she sagged slightly, a quiet moan escaping her lips.

Then Edmund went off script. Her question annoyed him. He reached down by the side of his seat. He retrieved an axe where it lay affixed to his seat, one of a pair on either side. Unlike many of the weapons lining the walls of the hall, this one wasn’t ornamental. It was an ugly, brutal thing: a simple wooden shaft with a metal ball, dull iron and heavy at one end. The other end was edged and jagged and hooked. It was a weapon designed to kill rather than decorate.

Edmund hefted the weapon. It was heavy but weighted for throwing. Below, Aubriella continued to pleasure herself at his command. How long, he briefly wondered, would she keep at it? But he already grew bored of her debasement. With a grunt, he tossed the weapon. It fell with a loud clatter at her feet.

The young woman’s eyes flew open, startled.

“Take it,” Edmund ordered.

With some difficulty, Aubriella retrieved for the weapon. The precarious height of her shoes and the tightness of her dress made bending or kneeling difficult. Slowly, and with exquisite grace born of incessant training and practice, she reached for the axe. She wiggled and bent slightly at the knees but mostly from the waist, ass high in the air as she bent over. Her heavy breasts hung heavily as did the heavy jewellery and her hair as she reached down.

Her fingers curled around the shaft. Their delicate paleness and vividly painted nails drew a sharp contrast with the dark wood and ugly metal. With just as much care she straightened, and stood, with the axe held loosely in her hand. It was heavy and Edmund could see the strain in her slender arms and shoulders, yet she carried the weapon with ease and comfort. She visibly relaxed with the weapon in her hand; her entire posture changed, despite the constriction of the clothes she wore, and when she looked up at him, he felt a delicious thrill of danger.

“You thought us weak,” he said. His mocking smile was gone.

From behind a veil of auburn hair, decorated with a net of glittering stones, Aubriella stared at the axe in her hand.

“Who’s weak now?”

She looked back at him. Beautiful, wide eyes contemplated the distance between them and the weight of the weapon in her hands. He thought he saw her tremble with her desire. Could she still do it? he wondered.

With a dull, metallic knell of regret against the stone floor, the axe dropped at her feet.

“I am,” she murmured.

“You remember your oath,” he said, nodding, feeling both elation and disappointment. “That axe belonged to our enemy,” he said. “It belonged to Duncan McAlasdair, the Axe of the North.” And he shifted his great bulk back into his chair and sighed. “And what happened to the Axe, I wonder, hmm, girl? Can you tell me that?”

Her gaze dropped once again to the floor, and she hid behind the lustrous cascade of her hair. “He is dead,” she said.

“Dead,” he repeated.

“Yes, my lord.”

“And how did he die?”

“In service to his King,” she answered. “Doing his duty.”

“He died a failure,” Edmund spat. “And a traitor.”

Aubriella flinched but remained silent.

“Oh, she’s taught you well hasn’t she, the Lady Castigan?” Edmund said and laughed, though the girl’s newfound composure rattled him. “Tell me, daughter: where’s the pride and arrogance and stubbornness, hmm? The anger?”

Her lips moved in response, too quiet to be heard. He leaned forward. “What’s that,  girl? Speak up!”

“Through surrender, I assert my true nature," she murmured at the threshold of his understanding.  "My nature is manifest in the truths of the gentle grace that guides me to my place.” 

He growled in the back of his throat. “Enough,” he said and because he did not understand the words she spoke, decided to test the extent of her newfound surrender. 

“Disrobe,” he ordered.

Aubriella started and looked up. “My lord?”

“You heard me,” he said.

Aubriella hesitated. She glanced askance at her handmaiden. Maya, once again at her side, remained impassive and offered nothing. A slow flush blossomed across her chest and crept up Aubriella’s neck.

“My lord, it is—” She struggled to find the word to adequately express her feeling. “Improper.”

“For a merchant to inspect his wares?” Edmund sneered. “Come now. Surely you remember the price of disobedience?”

With Maya’s help, off came the long, tight dress, so that she stood before her lord in corset and stockings, heels and panties, the many gemstones that adorned her glittering in the light of the braziers. The handmaiden loosed the laces of the shoes that wound up Aubriella's calves and with great care, she stepped down from the footwear. The stockings came next, and then the corset. The relief she felt at its loosening nearly offset the shame at being left nearly naked. And finally, the final scrap of lacy fabric preserving her modesty, the delicate panties covering her shame.

“Hmm, there it is,” Edmund scoffed. “There’s the Axe of the North.”

The 'Axe of the North' was tightly wrapped in a filigree prison of woven metal filaments, restrained and tautly pulled back between her smooth thighs: a cock, impressive in girth and length, semi-engorged with denial and humiliation, but constrained by a threatening spiral of minute metal thorn promising pain instead of pleasure.

"So tell me, girl--Duncan--adopted daughter; what shall I do with you?  How do I marry off a girl with--that-- between her thighs?"