Demon Prince of Mangala Ch. 04

Katerina drifted about the long, twisting corridors of the Azarov Kremlin; slowly learning her way about, understanding her place in Andrey's schemes, in Andrey's life. So far he had been as good as his word. Perhaps a little too good, she thought.

She was dressed in the tight fitting short black jacket and pants of his bodyguards, her long blond hair scraped back in a pony tail beneath her black field cap, her knee boots polished to a high gleam. At her hip she wore the standard sabre of the Azarov soldiery, long slender and only slightly curved, her possession of which she regarded as some kind of declaration of trust on the part of Andrey - although he well knew that she was no threat to him.

What rank she held was unclear to her, but the way that soldiers in the keep sprang to attention as she strolled past seemed to indicate that he had bestowed a significant authority upon her - she just hoped that nobody expected her to actually do anything.

The kremlin was far larger than she had realised, split into myriad sections. At its heart towered the massive keep: containing the quarters for the Azarov family, their attendants, slaves, bodyguards - as well as the things required to maintain life on the scale of the ruling family. It was a self-contained city, she'd realised, split over about thirty floors, its layout still largely a mystery to her - although the higher up in the building you lived, the more senior you were and each level was guarded against intrusion from less senior members by armed soldiers.

Beyond the keep the grounds of the walled citadel contained a further small town - twisting and turning about the palaces of the lesser nobility, the parade grounds and barracks of the wider citadel - the whole entwined mass crushed against the immense black shore walls that defined the limit of the original kremlin.

Beyond these defensive walls was the public city - itself enclosed in towering walls of red stone set along the shore in the shape of a sweeping bow. And beyond that - more buildings, more people spilling haphazardly along the banks of the Kolva - their homes, their businesses built up against the kremlin's walls as if seeking protection by proximity.

She paused on the staircase, looking out of a narrow slit in the stone. It was an unpromising location for a city, she thought. While the Dragon Sea could be filtered for water, the arcane machinery hidden deep beneath the habitable levels, the plain upon which it was built received practically no rain - being in the rain shadow of the massive plateau to the west. It was also unbearably hot in the day, almost intolerable beyond the cooling walls of the keep, and then freezing cold at night.

Thinking of the night brought her back to Andrey again, perhaps inevitably. Unconsciously, she sighed.

Since he had bound her to him he had placed almost no demands upon her, had forced her into no action against her will. Indeed, he seemed almost solicitous of her well-being - something she found hard to reconcile with what she knew about him. On the night of her arrival he had installed her in an opulent suite of rooms adjoining his own - deep in the part of the keep set aside for the lower ranked members of the ruling family - taking time to introduce her to his own slaves, the servants that cared for him and offering her their services.

For a while she had wandered the rooms, overcome by the sheer luxury on offer. It seemed that even lesser members of the ruling family lived in style undreamt by lesser mortals. Here there was a chamber set aside for bathing, another for dressing, a further reserved for books - comfortable chairs dotted by desks. Luxury on a scale she had heard about only in books.

Then her eyes had fallen on the fine wooden door adjoining the two suites.

"Will you order me to your bed again, Highness?" she had said, looking pointedly at it.

His reaction had not been what she had expected. The easy smile on his face had turned to water and run away, replaced first by anger, then by something more complex. "Whatever you may think of me, Sorceress, I make no habit of rape and draw little pleasure from what I am forced to do," he'd said.

And he'd looked hurt, as if she'd genuinely upset him.

She slept alone that night, lying awake listening to the sound of giggling, the sound of passion - of fucking - drifting through from the adjoining suite. Slaves she had assumed. The sounds had made her feel envious, thwarted - angry, at him, at herself. Then, at their next meeting she'd covered her discomfort with formality. It was a mistake, she now knew, but a cold tension had grown between them as a consequence. A tension that was worse with each passing night.

The thing was, she wanted to share his bed, was quite willing to share it. But she had been too proud to say that then - now she didn't know how to tell him without making things worse between them.

She turned at the end of the corridor, slowly descending the twisting staircase, leaving the family quarters far behind. She had passed few people on her exploration - an occasional soldier patrolling, a scattering of house slaves, some servants busy about maintaining the huge fortress - but then she deliberately chose paths that seemed less frequently used, having no desire for company as she tried to puzzle out the strange turn her life had taken.

She knew that he wasn't human; not entirely anyway. What he was, though - that eluded her. In her short time at the Azarov Kremlin she had learnt that most of the family were bastards. The Princess Ilsa had only birthed three children - the heir apparent Prince Vasily Mikhailovich, Princess Sofie Mikhailovna and Andrey. The rest of the siblings, and she had trouble keeping track of how many there were, were born of the harem of concubines and slave women kept by Lord Prince Mikhail Ilyitch. Yet Andrey was the only one that carried the patronymic Zmeyevich; the only one openly declared a bastard.

It wasn't hard to guess as to why. He was the only Azarov not fathered by Lord Prince Mikhail Ilyitch. The only reason he carried the name was his mother, the Princess Ilsa. Although it was pure speculation, she supposed that she must have persuaded the Lord Prince not to disown him entirely. The question was who - no, what - had fathered him?

She paused momentarily, staring without seeing at a faded tapestry on the wall while her mind toyed with the problem. She had thought at first that he was a cambion, a half-demon, his father some incubus that had forced itself on the Princess Ilsa. But she had known incubi - his power was of a different texture to their crude lust-spells, a different scale altogether. Yet it was undoubtedly infernal, a thing of darkness and hunger. Finally, with a mental shrug, she continued on her way - no closer to a solution.

This part of the fortress seemed busier, though she had no real idea where she was. The wide corridor was filled with a bustle absent from the higher levels. She stepped into the flow, moving faster than she wanted to, looking for an opportunity to slip into a quieter passage. Numerous corridors opened off from the main artery she followed, some well travelled thoroughfares; others narrower, quieter. Finally, when it became clear that the corridor she followed ended at the massive kitchens, she chose a quieter passage at random and ducked out of the crowd.

She found herself walking past a small shrine to the Nine, little more than a niche in the wall, along a tiled passage that became a shadowed cloister. To her right it opened onto a leafy and secluded quadrangle, surrounded by the hulking walls of the fortress. Within she heard the sound of water falling and smelt foliage and blossom - a refreshing change from the searing heat and the arid plain that surrounded them.

In a few steps she passed between a pair of whitewashed columns and entered the paved area beyond. Shaded by the high walls, the quadrangle was a haven of palms and cypress trees, of low growing shrubs in walled borders, all encouraged to grow in a semblance of wildness. Around the cloister itself the brightly coloured blossom of straggling bougainvilleas hung down from the walls and draped like fragrant curtains between the greenery. In the centre a fountain danced in the diffuse light, a simple jet emerging from a square pool to fall dancing into the water.

Katerina found a secluded stone bench hidden amongst the overgrowing greenery and lowered herself into it, breathing deeply of the cool, damp air. For once she felt fully at peace.

"So, you are the sorceress I sent him to kill," the voice said.

Her eyes snapped open - she hadn't realised she'd closed them. Lord Prince Mikhail Ilyitch stood in the quadrangle, armoured soldiers, insectile in black chitin, standing discreetly in the background, a bearded man with swarthy skin behind him, to his right. His dark eyes were fixed on her and she saw little warmth in his lupine gaze.

"You look quite alive to me. Are you? Alive I mean."

She shuffled awkwardly on the bench. "Yes, Highness. Uh..."

"As I thought. That hardly seems like success to me; more like failure. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Uh... Highness?" She could feel power oozing from the bearded man - he was dangerous, truly dangerous. Mikhail was like a shadow, little substance, nothing to read.

"Well, you're alive. I asked for you to be dead. I dislike being disappointed."

Katerina started to feel nervous.

"Prince Andrey, he thought I could help..."

"Yes, yes. He has always been a sentimental fool at heart. 'Demon of the Azarovs'. Nonsense. When it comes to pretty women his judgement has always been suspect," he said, his voice cold. "One day I'll have to disabuse him of that romanticism. Perhaps today, what do you think?"

A chill was creeping up her back.

"Highness, I don't know what to say..."

"No, well maybe I shouldn't ask you; you're prejudiced. Alexander," he said, pointing at the bearded man, though his eyes never left her. "What do you think? Is a lesson needed?"

"Highness, to teach others is an obligation - an opportunity to enlighten should never be ignored," Alexander said, his voice deep and twisted with a peculiar malice.

Katerina felt herself shiver.

"See, It is not so hard," speaking to her now. "Failure must lead to instruction lest it breed further failure in future. The question is, what kind of lesson is suitable?"

"Uh, Highness... I, uh..." she said, genuinely scared now, her mind refusing to find words for her.

She shifted on the seat, torn between reaching for the power coursing through her and doing nothing. Instinctively she knew that if she called her power the bearded man would know, would assume that she intended harm to the Lord Prince - what would happen then? She watched the cruel smile play over his face, his dark eyes laughing though no warmth lit his face. He knew.

Her eyes drifted to the bodyguard - casually alert, firelances trained on her without seeming to be.

She had no chance; were they goading her? Frightened, tense, she forced herself to relax.

"Yes, very eloquent, I'm sure." Mikhail's eyes were cold. "So, Alexander, shall I have this pet of Andrey's flayed alive and her skin delivered to him as a gift - an inducement to success, you might say, a tonic against romanticism?"

Katerina swallowed. He actually fucking meant it! Wide eyed she looked from one to the other, seeing no trace of comfort or humanity in either face.

The bearded man leaned in closer, his eyes drifting over her body hungrily - but more in the manner of a butcher than a rapist. Behind him she saw the bodyguards tense, gather closer - heard more soldiers moving in the foliage behind her seat. Cold sweat ran down her back.

"Ah, Highness. I'm sure Andrey would take much from that lesson." Alexander's voice was hoarse with desire, as if he wanted to do it himself, right now.

"What do you say, 'pet'? Will your death in this manner be enough for him to learn this lesson? Will he appreciate your stripped skin for the message it carries?"

She couldn't seem to think, it was all happening too fast. Claws of panic took hold of her.

"Highness, please... Prince Andrey, he wants..."

"Yes. I know what Andrey wants. It's what I want that should concern you now. He cannot protect you here. Be under no illusions, you stand on the brink of death...a truly horrible death, if I might say...does that not focus your mind?"

She fidgeted, petrified, didn't know what to say not to make things worse. She wanted to speak but no words would come. It was like a nightmare.

"Obviously not. Well, I am not given to rushing in to these things," he said, finally, standing straight. "I shall think on this lesson I owe Andrey further."

His voice turned businesslike. "In the meantime, I expect you to fetch your master. Tell him I want to see him in my staff room at twelve noon."

She felt sick, shaky. Struggled to find her voice.

"Yes, Highness."

She lurched to her feet, every ounce of self-control exerted to stop her running in a mad panic. Her legs were like rubber.

"Oh, don't think I shall forget about you. I am no romantic like Andrey," he said as she staggered away.

They were mad. Hateful, cruel and mad.

******

She forced herself to walk, locking her fear under a skin of anger. As soon as she was clear of them she called her power - stoking it, building it - drawing comfort from its strength, feeling it pulsing through her until she practically crackled with energy - if they came for her now they would find her far from helpless.

Somehow it didn't make her feel any safer.

Suddenly the kremlin seemed colder, a frightening place of twisting corridors filled with shadow and movement - every face concealing malice. For a long while she walked not knowing where she was going, her mind replaying and rehearsing the scene she had just left - each time her heart grew colder, her fear greater.

Finally it occurred to her - to return to her quarters all she had to do was go up.

She took the next staircase, ascending in a clockwise spiral next to the outer walls of the kremlin. She found that her guess was a little off, reaching an area of barracks above the main thoroughfare, but a quick correction by the duty officer set her toward the heart of the fortress and her quarters.

By the time she shut her door behind her her composure was starting to slip - she wavered hysterically between anger and despair. The door bolted, her eyes fell on the one adjoining Andrey's room. Without giving herself time to think she marched over to it and threw it open, fully prepared to blast it off its hinges if it thwarted her.

She needn't have worried, it swung open with a suitable bang.

Andrey was sat at a writing table adjacent to the room's tall windows, a book open before him. He looked up as she slammed the door open, his face tense as he perceived the power coursing through her.

"The Lord Prince just threatened to have me skinned alive to teach YOU a lesson!" she said, voice breaking, nearly shrieking - threatening to break into sobbing at any moment.

"What?" He rose from the desk, pushing the chair back, part turned toward her.

"Am I not making myself clear?" Hysteria bubbling, she felt like giggling, like crying. "Prince Mikhail and some bearded monster just discussed flaying me and presenting you with my skin...for some, some..."

"Hey, it's okay."

In two quick steps he was there, his arms around her, pulling her to him - holding her. She breathed in his scent, felt the play of his muscles beneath his shirt and then she didn't need to be strong anymore, didn't need to pretend. Suddenly she was shaking like a leaf, sobbing uncontrollably into his chest while he mumbled soothing words, kissed her hair, stroked her, comforted her as she released her fear, her tension, her horror - her power held so tense inside dribbling away.

Finally, eventually she felt herself calming, her tears subsiding - his warmth, his stillness seeping into her.

"Right. Now tell me what happened," he said, sensing the change.

Slowly she relayed all she could remember of the events in the quadrangle - shivered again at the malice in their eyes, the horrible desire of the bearded man.

"That is Count Alexander the Butcher. You're right, he is a dangerous man - the Lord Prince's warlock. If I am a romantic fool, he is a cold-hearted murdering bastard."

He was quiet for a while then, thinking; all the while holding her.

Finally: "Well, it can't be helped. I had hoped to keep your presence here concealed for at least a little longer, but it seems that you are a piece in the Great Game now."

"Andryusha!" she said, voice strained. "They threatened to flay me alive! Just to teach you a lesson."

"Yes, I know." A pause. "But the fact that you're here now shows that they think you have more value alive than dead."

She looked up at him.

"You heartless bastard - they threatened to kill me, over nothing. They fucking meant it, Andrey. This is no game, this is my life!"

She pulled back from him, not quite leaving his embrace, but close.

"Sorry, sorry." His face was concerned, his eyes soft. "It's just that I've lived like this all my life, each day a manoeuvre in the game, each piece balanced against every other - I forget just how cruel it can be." Again a pause, his eyes searching hers, his look tender. "I won't let them hurt you, trust me."

She allowed herself to be pulled back into his arms, folding against his chest - feeling safe, protected. She breathed him in, pressing her cheek to his chest - feeling his heartbeat. She wanted things right between them, wanted him.

"The Lord Prince can't afford to move against me - much as he would like to, I'm sure - he relies on me too much to keep the minor families in line. What he did to you he did to send a message to me - he was making clear that he knew he could reach me through you." His hand was stroking her hair, his nose brushing the top of her head, breathing her scent. "And I'll take extra care of you, I promise. From now on I don't want you out of my sight, understand?"

She nodded into his chest, knew what she had to do to fix things.

"I know you won't order me to your bed, Prince."

She felt him stiffen slightly, his head shaking gently.

"I won't..."

"But will you turn me away if I come willingly?" she said, cutting him off.

"Katya, I didn't bring you here..."

She placed her fingers on his lips, stopping him. She didn't want to hear him say it.

"Andrey, listen to me." She looked down, unable to meet his eyes. "I know you have another, but I am bound to you now, my soul is yours. If you won't have me, I have nothing. Please don't turn me away."

For a second, nothing - her heart pounding itself to pieces in her chest - then delicate fingers lifted her chin. She looked up into those deep, sapphire eyes - holding her gaze - and his lips were on hers, soft against her skin, his tongue slipping into her mouth.

"No," he breathed. "I won't turn you away."

Her arms circled him, pullling him to her, leaning into his kiss, her tongue twining with his - feeling the texture of him, his warmth, his taste. All the while their lips moving hungrily - his hand on her neck, holding, stroking.

She tugged his shirt free of his waist, her hands on his bare skin; felt the muscles of his back clenching as he lifted her, carrying her as if she weighed nothing. Without thought her legs wrapped about his waist, her mouth never leaving him, her hands clinging to him - the Lord Prince and his murderous friends forgotten as her passion surged.

He lowered her to the bed, kneeling between her open legs.

Desperately she pulled his shirt up, pulling it over his head. Her hands gripped his back, fingers digging in to his flesh - her tongue dancing madly in his mouth.