Tuirl remained silent. The king glared at the guard.
“And so? Now what do we do?”
“Your Majesty, tradition requires the bride's father to be present,” the advisor reminded him.
Damn weather! Beanor thought of the girl's curves. He was so close! He had ordered an especially brief ceremony. As soon as the solemn vows were pronounced, when the nobles and their wives would begin to guzzle down all the food and drink he had paid for, he would take her to one of the tunnels behind the main hall. He couldn't think of anything he liked more than taking a young woman, slamming her against the hard ground or a wall and filling her with all of his virility, as her virginal blood ran down her thighs, a muffled scream trying to make its way through the fingers that covered her mouth, her head squirming underneath the hand that pulled her hair back.
Beanor couldn't think of anything else: he was already so close, he couldn't give up now. The image of the young woman's rump continued to torment him. “We must have the wedding without the father, then. Advisor, have the girl's family brought forward, wearing whatever they're wearing. We'll begin the ceremony.”
“Your Majesty, tradition does not allow for you to take a young woman as your wife in the absence of her father, unless...”
Why does this blockhead dare to contradict me?
“...the girl is an orphan. But we know that Milia's father is alive.”
For the love of the gods! Why does everything always work against me? I'm the king! Can't people just do what I tell them to do?
“Advisor,” Beanor retorted, with a threatening gaze. “This stupid wedding was all your idea. So you need to find a solution, unless you want me to kick your ass in front of the entire court!”
Tuirl looked around, embarrassed. He had no idea how to resolve the problem and Beanor's mood was visibly growing worse. Luckily, the hall packed with illustrious guests would probably prevent him from going too far.
If I have to do everything myself anyway, what do I need this idiot for?
Suddenly Beanor beamed, overjoyed after discovering what he considered to be a brilliant solution: “We'll declare the father dead! Then we can proceed with the ceremony!” he exclaimed, satisfied, sure that his stroke of genius had resolved the issue.
Tuirl softly objected: “But your Majesty, the girl's father is not dead.”
“Tuirl, you yokel, where's your imagination? I know he's alive, but we'll just say we went out looking for him before the wedding and someone at the inn told us he died in an accident on his way here!”
“If that is what you wish, your Highness, that's what we'll do. But allow me to point out that her father may come back tomorrow, or the day after. And that would certainly create a scandal.”
These nobles, they're always watching, always ready to judge me! They fear me, but as soon as I'm out of earshot, they all talk behind my back. He hadn't thought that the father might actually come back.
He dismissed the guard, who had remained standing, frozen, a few steps away, and motioned for Tuirl to come closer. “Then do what needs to be done to make sure he doesn't come back.”
Tuirl's eyes grew wide: “Your Majesty, what are you saying? We can't have the father of your future wife killed!”
Beanor's hands itched. He wanted to lash out against someone or something, but the hall was crawling with guests and it didn't seem like the right moment. He tried to concentrate. Hmm, let's get back to the main issue: I have to fuck that girl. Now or very soon.
The image of those buttocks continued to torment him. So compact, so well-proportioned, pure, never before touched. He tried to distract himself, thinking instead about her legs, her delicate ankles, her tiny little feet, her sensual face, her lips created expressly to wrap around his member.
And that girl, whose name he didn't quite remember, seemed to emanate a slightly impudent attitude. She really was the type of damsel he adored domesticating. He'd bring ones like her into bed, force them to endure incredible obscenities and, once they dared to rebel, he knew exactly what to do to break them. He felt he needed to get started on this right away, he couldn't wait any longer.
He looked at the group of his well-fed wives. Could he console himself with one of them instead? Or even three or four? No. He knew his obsession was stronger than he was. And he knew that, until he had reached his goal, he would not find any peace.
“What if instead of killing him, we just send him into exile?”
Tuirl seemed even more perplexed than before. “Sire, if we declare Milia's father dead now, the news would transform the wedding into a funeral. The laments, cries, and sobs of the family members would ruin the ceremony. And the young woman really wouldn't be in the best of moods. You'd risk losing sight of your goal completely. A girl distraught by the death of her father is not exactly the type of conquest one aspires towards.”
Beanor tried to imagine the scene: the wife dressed in black, sprawled out on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, as he moved closer to her with his penis erect. He would kneel down in front of her, yank her head up by her hair and force her tear-strewn face to look at him. She would gaze at him, begging. He would whisper that she would feel better soon and then push the tip of his member between her lips. She would still be sobbing desperately but would start to do her duty, until he exploded in ecstasy between her lips and all over her face: the semen would mix with her tears.
Actually the scenario didn't displease him.
28
Prince Beanor returned to his bedroom, holding his birthday gift.
“Oh, sorry, prince. I didn't realize you'd be coming back so soon. I'll clear out of here immediately,” said Braila, one of his servants.
“No, no, carry on. I...I couldn't wait to get back and read the book Father gave me. My birthday celebration will resume within a few hours.”
“Indeed. It must be a lovely book,” the woman observed, gazing at the inlaid leather cover.
“It is, see? It's got all of the kings from the last two thousand years.”
“Oh...how wonderful! And one day the master scribe will also add you. And then I'm sure you'll be far too busy to suffer conversations with your servants.”
“But no,” Beanor responded, flattered. “What are you saying? I'll be a good king, close to all of my subjects, just like my grandpa Bolis IV.”
Braila smiled, gave him a wink and continued dusting the bookshelves, turning her back to him.
The prince jumped on his bed, the precious book in his hand.
He read the first pages and started to daydream. One day I'll be king and the scribes will faithfully write down everything I do. Everyone will be able to read about the accomplishments of the great and invincible Beanor! I'll take down the barrier and conquer the islands and the Southern lands!
Braila worked on the other side of the room, her back still to him. Her emerald green skirt hung down to her ankles. Her black hair was swept back in a braid. The prince gazed at her, watching her movements.
She turned around: “Do you need something?”
How did she know I was watching her? Beanor wondered. “N-no. I was just thinking.”
“Ah.” She resumed her work and the prince immersed himself once again in the book.
“And is there a young lady who has already conquered the prince's heart?” Braila asked nonchalantly, a moment later.
“No. I mean...I don't think about those kinds of things,” the young man replied, thoroughly embarrassed. Maybe I should ask her to leave me alone. But her presence in the room comforted him.
He went back to his book. From time to time, he watched Braila out of the corner of his eye. After a while, she came towards his bed to dust the nightstand.
The young Beanor pretended to be absorbed in his book. He found her proximity unsettling.
“And what is his Majesty reading now?”
“Well, this part is about King Atril XIII, who led an expedition North to try and find a path out of isolation.”
“Ah! That would be the gentleman with the long mustache but no beard whose picture hangs in the Hall of Kings?”
“Yes. And see, there's another portrait of him in my book.”
Braila bent over to look. Involuntarily, the boy's eye was drawn to her generous bust. He immediately looked away.
“Oh, he must have been a terrific king, just like all the others in your family.”
“Yes, he's one of my favorites, even though that courageous expedition cost him his life.”
“Really? What happened?”
“Unfortunately he never came back, just like the three expeditions sent by his son to search for him.”
“Oh, those poor men! I'm sure that once you're king, you'll continue your father's work and finally be the one to bring down that barrier.”
Beanor gleamed, enjoying the woman's faith in him. She had known him forever and always cheered him on with her encouraging words.
“At any rate, you're already a very promising young man,” Braila added, standing at the side of the bed.
“You think so?”
“Of course. Who wouldn't?” The women knew about the young boy's insecurities.
“Well, I'm never the best in my lessons. And my father the king looks at me without saying a word. Sometimes his eyes are so mean they scare me.” He didn't open up to very many people: this servant was one of those few.
“Oh, Prince Beanor. The king is proud of his son, he just doesn't want to say it aloud. That's how he is. There are a lot of things on his mind. He has a gruff personality, but there's no doubt he loves you.”
Beanor badly wanted his father to say something kind to him, but he couldn't remember ever hearing a nice word from him.
A tear fell down his cheek and onto the book, staining the portrait of King Atril.
“What's this, now? Don't get upset. There, there, now. I remember when I used to hold you when you were little. And now look at what a handsome young man you've become,” Braila consoled, coming closer to give him a hug.
Beanor's face pressed against that generous bosom and he stopped crying, cheered by the reassuring contact.
When the woman let go, the prince continued staring at her chest.
She let him do as he pleased, commenting, after a few moments: “Hmm. I get the feeling women are starting to capture your interest.”
Beanor immediately realized he was staring. “Oh, well, I...I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that.”
“You didn't do anything wrong. Have you ever seen one of these?” she asked him, nodding towards her breasts.
“N-no, I mean...no. I mean...not that I remember.”
“Oh, well, it's really no big deal. But if you want, given that it's your birthday...”
The boy's eyes grew wide. That would be great, yes of course! But he didn't dare respond.
“Well? I suppose you're still not interested. One day you will be, though,” Braila concluded, taking a step back.
Beanor lifted his hand towards her: “Wait! Please! Yes, I want to see...what they're like.”
Braila smiled, pleased, and left, to the prince's great disappointment, but only to go and latch the door shut. “Perhaps it's better that nobody disturbs you during your exam.”
The prince swallowed, wondering what she expected him to do at that point. He remained frozen.
Braila came closer and sat on the edge of the bed. Very slowly, she started to untie the laces of the white shirt she wore underneath her emerald dress. When they were all opened, looking the boy right in the eyes, she asked him: “So. Are you curious?”
“Y-yes, please, open it.”
The woman pulled her shirt down and to the side. One of her splendid breasts popped out.
Beanor felt a vortex of emotions wash over him. Short on breath, he managed only to say: “They're very nice. I mean...they're...nice.”
Braila smiled. “You think so? I'm delighted.”
The young man lifted his right hand but immediately withdrew it. Then, feeling brave, he dared to ask her: “Can I touch?”
“Well you really shouldn't. But given that it's your birthday...”
“Thanks,” Beanor said, lifting his trembling hand and gently placing it on Braila's breast.
“Seems like you already know how to touch a woman. It also appears as if you're not displeased,” she commented, referring to the immense erection that pressed against the flap of his pants.
“Oh...sure,” Beanor immediately withdrew his hand. “It's just...sorry...I mean, I didn't want -”
“No, what's the matter? There's nothing wrong with that. Do you ever touch it?” Braila asked.
“Yes. I mean no.” The young man was completely confused.
“For more than a few seconds?” she asked, trying to understand.
“No, of course not.”
Perhaps he hasn't before, she thought. “Perhaps there's something I can teach you. Carry on with your caresses.”
He took a hand and placed it on her soft breast. Then she opened his pants and slowly started to stroke the young man's member while looking into his eyes.
He was immediately transported into ecstasy. He had entered a new world, a valley full of smells and marvels that he had never experienced before. The woman's black pupils, now as big as the sky, hovered above him.
He felt all of his energy move from his limbs, his stomach, and every other part of his body towards his pelvis, like a gigantic river which, suddenly, flooded that magical place. He was unable to resist the woman's pressing movement. He saw a white liquid shoot out of his member, spurting so high as to hit her in the face.
He felt drained, as if something had sucked all the energy out of his body and mind. Then he started laughing. He laughed as he had never laughed in his life before. This new world was a dimension he never, ever wanted to leave. There was no comparison to it. There was nothing better than this. He wanted to embrace her, but he held himself back, not knowing how a prince should act under these circumstances. She cleaned her face off with her fingers. Then she took a handkerchief from a pocket in her skirt and dried off her hands.
“Did you like that?”
“Oh, Braila, that was stupendous. It's the best thing that ever happened to me. I love you. I feel...I feel that you're the woman of my life.”
Braila internally smiled at the young man's sweet innocence. “Want to do it again some other time?” she asked, moving closer to his face.
“I'd like that very much. You're the most marvelous creature I've ever seen in my life.”
“So,” she said, suddenly strict, frightening him, “you must never, for any reason, under any circumstances, tell anybody what just happened. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes, of course. As you wish,” he said, intimidated.
“Now, if you keep this secret, if you don't tell anyone about what just happened, then I'll let you enjoy many, many more pleasures even nicer than this,” she continued, once again sweet and gentle.
“As you wish,” he replied, unable to think of anything that would make him happier.
29
“He came back, and we...communicated.”
Ilis didn't know if he should feel happy over the incredible connection he had just experienced, or terrified of the corporal punishment his master would certainly inflict upon him for disobeying orders.
“I know, I know. Sorry,” he hastened to say, “I made a mistake. But it was going so well and I thought it would be a shame not to take advantage of the moment.”
Intent upon preparing his potions, Obolil was bent over the table and surrounded by all sorts of ingredients and minerals. He finally looked at the apprentice without saying a word. Ilis expected him to explode with rage but instead, the wizard seemed calm, even curious.
“You spoke with the man on the island? And what did you talk about?” he muttered.
“Well, see. I was waiting patiently, in the usual spot,” Ilis started to explain, running a hand through his brown hair. “I started to sense h
is presence when he was still rather far away from the coast, so I sent him a wave of emotion, as you taught me to. I think this attracted him towards me, since he came almost immediately afterwards.”
Obolil let out a gasp of dismay. Though he wanted to continue, Ilis stopped, afraid of the scolding he was about to receive.
“I told you to send him comforting emotions after entering into contact with him, not before.” Obolil would have gladly gotten up to slap the young man around a little but, feeling tired, decided to yield to curiosity instead. “Alright. Well, go on.”
“So,” Ilis continued, his enthusiasm winning over his fear of the master's cruelty, “as I said, the man came towards me. But he was still too high up, so I kept sending waves of emotion. I lured him down to a lower spot on the rocks.” Ilis took a breath, excited by the next part. “It was fantastic. Once I was near him, I could read him like a book.”
“Could you distinctly perceive his thoughts?” Obolil asked, unconvinced.
“His thoughts? Not just those, master: I could go all the way back through his memory!”
How is that possible? I haven't taught him that yet, and there's no way he could have picked that up on his own.
“Interesting. But are you sure this isn't just one of your delusions?”
“Do you think it could be? Let me tell you what I found out, then.”
Ilis realized he had succeeded in persuading his master: his self-esteem shot through the roof. More excited than ever, he told Obolil about Bashinoir's memories, dwelling upon the shower of stone shards and the time he had spent convalescing in the Temple.
Those aren't the kinds of ideas a boy invents, Obolil realized as he wrung his wrinkled hands.
Once Ilis finished telling his story, he remained silent, anticipating what the wizard would have to say.
“Three. So there are three of them left.”
“Exactly, master. And one of them is a priestess. So that's why the island is still being protected!”
“Yes. But you told me Aldin thought they were all at the wedding.”
“Right. When Master Aldin prepared the spell for the stone assault, he thought all of the islanders were at the wedding, as he had seen during a projection. He said they created a magical circle that guaranteed strength and vitality to the future couple. He said even the sick, the newly born, and the elderly came to those kinds of celebrations.”