Rill Glow

"He includes numerous examples of my failings."

"But also his own."

"I'm more concerned with mine. Do you agree with him?"

"That you have failings? Yes, and be glad. Else I would find you quite uninteresting." Palimia smiled to see how much his youth showed at such times as this. Like any young person, Dorilian was single-minded in his pursuit of self-discovery. In recent weeks she had even flirted with him as a way of pushing at his formidable boundaries. Yet there was something more tonight, a specifically masculine intensity in the way he baited her. Suddenly she felt it best to deflect. "Marc so wanted to earn your regard. Oh, how hard he tried! Reading his journal, I understood. He rejoiced at knowing you were his friend, however in secret."

"He never kept that secret from you."

"No. I knew."

"He trusted you. I'm glad you brought his journal to me. Reading his words . . . is like a final visit, a chance to have another talk with him. We—we didn't have time for goodbye."

His grief pierced her. Would she ever learn what had happened that day? An indomitable tower destroyed and a hundred princes and diplomats slaughtered by sorcery. Only Dorilian had survived. Survived and been blamed. Whatever had happened at Permephedon had been so terrible Dorilian still was haunted. A wall of fire. The cracks and mighty groans of a building being torn apart, filled by the howl of wind. Screams, silent screams, and the terrible crushing agony of a hundred hearts stopping one by one.

Run! someone cried. She recognized Marc's voice.

With a stifled gasp, Palimia realized the images that welled into her mind were memories, not imaginings. Dorilian's memories bleeding through . . . a consequence of unshielded Highborn power. A projective empath, Marc had called him. Powerful. Damaged. Hidden from his enemies, but maybe not hidden well enough.

Help him, please. Not a memory now, not Marc's voice and yet words he would have spoken. Her heart recognized Marc's last request. It had not been for the journal, but the man.

"I think I know why he wanted you to have his thoughts, his hopes," she said. "I think he knew that if he died . . . he wanted you to know. To know he believed in you, to know he cared. He wanted me to help you find ease."

For a long minute, Dorilian said nothing, his eyes drying as he gazed into places she had never seen and could not go. Places only he and Marc had ever gone. Sunset lent new heat to his striking, youthful beauty, illuminating the high perfection of his cheekbones and controlled sensual mouth. Almost always he looked cold, remote, so uncaring it was easy to accord him the distance his gifts demanded. Tonight, however, his eyes bore something new, glimmering on the other side of tears.

"I need ease . . . in other ways," he said at last. "Stay with me tonight."

The very air seemed to coalesce with meanings. Palimia stopped breathing. She recognized a sexual invitation, albeit an awkward one. The youthful Hierarch had been taught to command, not seduce, hence his abruptness. What she needed was time to think through her response. The wine glass would serve. She lifted it, took a deep long sip before she answered.

"Were I to do as you ask, Thrice Royal, people would talk."

"People talk anyway."

"They will say I am your mistress."

"Will they be right or wrong?"

Did he watch her thoughts? Marc had said Dorilian could pluck emotion from the atoms of her breath and the heat of her skin, filter bright motes of truth from the slime of lies, even send his feelings into her with such force she would think them her own. The god-born lived in isolation for good reason. Few humans ever learned how to fully manage their effects.

Truth was the one constant, the one immutable argument. Fear collected at the edges of her courage. "I don't have power of my own," she said. "I can't afford to make mistakes."

"Neither can I." The ugly reality of his gilded life hung within those words. "My mistakes could kill me."

"So could mine."

Power hardened in his silver gaze. "Do you mean me? You can tell me no. If you do, it will be as if this conversation never took place, as if this night had never happened. The esteem in which I hold you is such I would never diminish you in any way. I would do nothing to offend his memory." The thrust of that emotion pushed against her bare defenses. She remembered what Marc's journal had said about countering Highborn empathy and focused on him, not her fears. Dorilian's words carried the only truth that mattered. "I'm not asking you to love me, Lady. I don't expect that you will, nor can I say what it is I will feel toward you. Probably not love. But respect always, and—it's not true that I—" The blush that crossed his youthful face was genuine embarrassment at the nature of his request. She doubted any other person had ever seen him look this vulnerable, or desperate. "The fact is, I like women, but I meet very few and fewer still who are not thrust at me burdened with the intentions of men. You know what I mean. Every woman introduced to me has an ambitious father or brother. Every day I am offered women by men who seek my favor—and I don't intend to be in any man's debt, especially for that. Then tonight Legon offered to find me a virgin—"

From Marc, she knew how that offer would have stung. Dorilian's father had favored only virgins, and even betrayed Dorilian by sleeping with the young man's virgin wife.

"—I don't want a virgin," Dorilian continued, sounding frustrated. "I don't want some helpless girl giving herself to me out of duty or fear. I want a woman who is beautiful and intelligent and knows how to please a man. Someone who doesn't feel false and wrong, veiled in lies. Someone who does not already despise me. Someone I can trust."

Her heart beat faster. Though he was attractive and powerfully alluring, particularly now with his desire pulsing in the air between them and igniting her blood, Dorilian was young enough to be her son.

"Thrice Royal," she said, and knew she was floundering. He had said she could refuse him . . . so why couldn't she say those words? Maybe because the clamor of her body was already saying yes?

Marc, what do I do? However brief their time together, he had been the love of her life, though she had not been the love of his. That woman, a beautiful Kheld lady, had died in his arms. But he had loved her, and would want her to prosper and live the rest of her life fully. Even now she heard his voice telling her to not be afraid, to follow her heart. Well, her heart told her she could trust this young Hierarch. He would be an honorable lover and his reasons for choosing her matched her needs. Though her heart would never belong to anyone but Marc, she could not imagine being celibate.

Dorilian had risen from the table and now stood over her, extending his hand. Palimia placed her fingers in his and felt the crackle of power as he pulled her into his arms. Her body melted. They had never touched before this and something electric flowed from his flesh into hers, tingling of passion and sexual fire. She wondered how any woman could ever have called him cold.

But she must take control of the moment, and him, if she was to govern such ardor. She stepped back from his attempted embrace, noting the flicker of anger that crossed his face as he thought she was about to refuse him. Just as quickly, he mastered it. His face closed and looked resigned. Holding his gaze, Palimia moved both hands to her left shoulder and unfastened the pin fastening the panels of her lightweight chiton. When the fabric came free and fell, she moved her hands to the right shoulder, unfastening that pin also until it too fell and bared her breasts.

"You're so beautiful." He stared for a long minute before raising his eyes again to hers. For perhaps the first time in his life, he was seeking permission.

Smiling, she took his right hand and placed it on her breast, where his palm immediately began to wander, cupping the round shape and warm weight of her flesh. His breathing quickened and the front of his chiton tented instantly. His eagerness inspired her. Her older lovers had needed more preparation.

"You, too, are . . . beautiful," she whispered.

Dorilian was beautiful, his face and body on the verge of attaining the classic perfection that so marked his race. Tall now, with hair more bronze than blond and skin kissed brown by the sun, he was so handsome her heart swelled. She no longer felt any fear of him. Palimia pressed her body against his, trapping his hand between her breast and his chest as she lifted her lips to brush upon his. He answered with an ardor she welcomed, his response to her in no way timid. Dorilian would be nothing if not bold. Keeping him from taking control would be the greater challenge. His mouth crushed upon hers, his lips firm and demanding as his arm wrapped about her ribs and pulled her against him. He was taller now than when she had first met him two years ago in Dazunor and his manhood pushed hard and thick against her belly. Excitement flared between her legs as she became certain.

"Come," she said.

She led him away from the dining table and toward the room's wide chaise, perfect for her purpose. Standing in front of it, she released the sash tied about her waist and stepped out of the chiton when it dropped in soft folds to the floor. Her body had been her currency for many years and she'd taken care to keep her figure. She had never borne children and her skin was unblemished by stretch marks, her waist and hips still slim, her full breasts still high and presenting milky orbs tipped by pink areolas.

Dorilian took her silence and stillness as permission and she quivered at his touches, the way he explored her body tentatively, with an inexperience she found both charming and sad. He had been married, briefly and tragically, yet he did not know how to touch a woman, though he attempted to rub her nipples pleasantly. No one had seen to his sexual education, probably because he so steadfastly resisted manipulation. Now that he had chosen her to provide him with those experiences, she embraced the role. Marc, she suspected, would have appreciated her choice of pupil.

"I will soon show you every way to please me," she told him, "but first—" She dared to touch the backs of her fingers to his handsome face, earning a pause and look of surprise. Expertly, she loosened the sash of his chiton, then unpinned it so it too could drop. "I wish to look upon you, as you do upon me."

When she stepped back to examine him fully, she found reason to be pleased. Dorilian's parents had given him beauty of form: a body still slender with youth but already deep and broad enough in the chest and shoulders to arouse any woman's desire. And his skin was perfect; every amazing hand span could have been creamy marble carved by a master.

"You are most fair to look upon, and this eager fellow—" she brushed his male member, already fully at attention, "—has no peer. He shall undoubtedly get his way."

"And soon, I hope." His voice was husky with desire, and impatience.

"I can barely wait," she assured him, meaning it. But she wanted their first time to be much more than a crude rutting. Any man, knowing nothing better, could find an animal's release between a woman's legs, but she was not just any woman, nor he any man. The Rill's thrum vibrating the strings of empire had originated in his ancestor's heartbeat.

She curled her fingers around his cock, measuring him with approval. His lineage had gifted him favorably: he was long and also thick, with a sleek perfection that invited her hand to simply stroke his shape. Her fingers pushed back the fine-grained foreskin to reveal the head, blood-filled and smooth, darker than the dusky shaft. Droplets of pre-cum welled in fat beads of excitement. Once inside her, he would not last long. A broad wall painted with a fresco of horses running through a field of ripened wheat stood behind the chaise and she gently pushed him against it. Though his eyes widened slightly at having her order him, he complied. When he stood pressed against the wall, she kissed him again, his mouth when he lowered it, then softly moving to his neck, his collarbone, discovering for herself the landscape of his body.

The Highborn were not wholly human. Marc had told her Dorilian's body made few distinctions between mental and physical touches. He tasted fear. Hate penetrated his skin. The distaste of a lover would feel like a slap. Intense lust could border on an assault. His barriers had to be strong to keep him from the agony of feeling every passing look or thought. All the more reason to awaken him within his own skin, isolate him from those other senses. He needed liberation from a prison designed to keep others out. Palimia kept her kisses soft, teasing, focusing on her love of male bodies. His was arousing, and if not virgin then nearly so. Every hollow tempted her, her tongue dipping into the hot recesses, her lips skimming the elevations. When she reached his nipples she found two perfect, sweetly contracted beads encircled by dusky pink areolas. Choosing the left one, she ran her teeth lightly across the pebbled surface, flicking delicately with her tongue until she was rewarded with a soft groan and felt his hand in her hair, holding her to that sweet torment.

Satisfied by her success, Palimia pursued her quarry, her right hand continuing to claim his cock, running the pad of her thumb over the sleek head, spreading pre-cum over it with smooth, firm strokes as she continued to kiss and adore his body. His hands pushed at her head, directing her down his torso toward the seat of his greatest urgency. She smiled and took her time.

His guardians had taught him everything but pleasure. His power terrified his friends and enemies alike, but not her. As she moved down to his belly, her tongue traced each strong ridge, lingering on the faint trail of body hair that defined his midline, finding it delightful, unexpected. As she did so, her tongue incidentally swept the rigid hot barrel of his cock. He groaned again with pure longing, his fingers tightening in her hair, pulling her toward that pole. The orgasm he sought was so close now she could probably make him spend without what she contemplated next. All it would take would be to clasp his cock between her breasts, or for her to murmur choice words in his ear. But she wanted more. She wanted him. Her lips brushed the dense honey-brown curls at his groin.

"Now," he urged.

"Not yet," she mouthed against his cock, its color now deepened to a commanding, regal purple.

Continuing to hold his cock, she dropped to her knees on one of the room's many carpets, this one a deep umber and gold that rivaled the sunset. Now she kissed his thighs, her tongue seeking the vulnerable sacs of his testicles. His scent drew her on, rich and deep, more honey than musk, and she banished all things from her mind but his taste, his sex. For the first time in a year, she surrendered to her hunger for a man. That desire, once it took root, unwound tendrils of longing within her, melting every last vestige of frost. Lovingly, she softly rolled one full nut, then the other, reveling in each hitch of her partner's breath, his bated exhalation. Her thumb stroked drops of pre-cum from his leaking cock, rubbing it slowly across the straining head.

"Stop," he ordered. "I'm going to spend."

"Not yet," she murmured again, her words vibrating the testicle being teased by her tongue. The Hierarch of Sordan shuddered under her control.

Slowly, she drew her tongue up his length, pressing the swollen, distended vessels of his excitement, reminding herself why she so loved men and their thick, hard cocks. Her pussy was swollen now, sweetly aching and practically dripping at the thought of being impaled upon this beauty. But she owned a control far greater than he would be able to exercise right now. Reaching the tip of his cock, she spent time teasing the seam, stimulating a heavier flow of his excitement, bathing her tongue in Dorilian's delicious taste. Sweet. His pre-cum tasted truly, seductively sweet, with only a trace of salt and barely any of the bitterness of other men. Different, she thought. His thigh muscles tensed, his fingers stiffening in her hair. He'd picked up on her reaction. Pressing forward, she pursued that incredible taste, licking at his cock head, just barely wrapping her lips around him as she swirled over the sleek crown, pushing at the foreskin, begging more. He relaxed and his fingers again wound in her hair as he began to thrust with his hips, demanding release, pushing his cock against the cum-wet lips sheathing her teeth. She tightened her grip on his cock, squeezing until he groaned and ceased his thrusts.

"You can't stop now!" he gasped. His body quivered upon the edge of release.

Looking up at him from hooded eyes, she saw the glint of his silver orbs gazing back at her, glutted with pleasure, commanding her to continue. To bring him to the finish. She smiled, knowing then she had him well in hand. Releasing him from her hand, she took him into her mouth, sucking her way slowly down the smooth hot length of his shaft. Her lips worked between his hard flesh and her teeth while she caressed her hands up his thighs to his buttocks, then cupped their smooth curves in her palms, holding him fast as she pushed forward, extending her tongue and then pulling it back, drawing him deeper into the hot, sucking cavern of her mouth. As she felt his cock's seeking head nudge the back of her throat, she opened wider and extended her neck to allow him to slide all the way in. Her nose crushed against his pubis as his balls touched her chin. Worship came easily. She swallowed with deep, languid movements, her throat muscles milking him.

"Fuck!" he cried. He lost his battle to control his thrusts. His fingers curled into fists in her hair, so hard it hurt. Accepting each thrust, controlling his cock by having it so deep, she continued to swallow as his semen erupted in her gulping throat. Jet after jet, she swallowed it easily, reveling in his cock's slow softening until she could no longer hold him and she softly sucked him clean until at last she released him from her mouth.

The young man Marc thought might someday command a god slumped against a fresco of horses and wheat fields, his breathing rough and his face that of a man both amazed and thoroughly pleasured.

"I never thought . . . my first time was a disaster, I felt no pleasure at all. But this way, you are—" He pulled her to her feet and his mouth descended on hers, all thanks and hunger. "You are the most amazing woman I have ever met."

She felt so many things pouring from him into her. Wonder and appreciation at her skill. Discovery. Gratitude. Even jealousy toward the king whose body she had pleasured before his and to whom she might compare him. But there was no comparison. Her love for Marc remained indelible—exactly as Dorilian wished it to be. What she and Marc had shared was something he wished to touch, even know, but never eradicate. Between them, her lover would remain enshrined, protected and immortal. Now it was she who felt enormous gratitude. What nudged into her heart was not love, but it would sustain her just as wonderfully.

Thank you, she said to Marc—and to him. Dorilian would feel it in the expansion of her heart, the heat of her regard for him. He took her hand and led her to the chaise and its cushions the hue of ripe apricots, barely aglow in the last light of day. There he reclined and pulled her to lie beside him, encouraging her hands to follow his in lazily tracing the aftermath of their coupling. Already her hand, in skimming the hard sleek muscles of his thigh, detected the first tumescence of his cock's renewed interest. He had the recuperative powers of youth as well as those of the god-born. When he made as if to rise, leaning over her and intent upon kissing her breasts, she pushed him back and swung herself astride him.