Author's Note:
Thank you so much for the reviews, everyone. I took a chance on continuing this one-shot and I'm glad to hear many like it :)
You may have noticed that the first two chapters of The Black Magicians, sequel to my fic The High Lord's Novice, have been deleted: it is on hold for the moment. I'm hoping to make it another long one that brings in the world of The Traitor Spy trilogy. It needs more planning, so I'll come back to it in two months' time when I can make the time commitment.
This one will be shorter and less plot-driven, sorry! Just playing around with a darker Akkarin (I think it's very likely the traumas of enslavement could have made him a crueller man), plus kinky smut, really.
If that isn't your thing, and you're looking for a wider range of characters, more politics and plot, I do recommend checking out my long fic The High Lord's Novice, which is an AU take on the build-up to the Ichani invasion.
Thanks for reading!
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Large snowflakes were drifting past the frosty panes of the windows in the Novice's Library, and multiple globelights were lit inside even though it was midday. The flakes were fluffy and the wind was swirling them up and down erratically before they could hit the ground.
"What about you, Sonea? Sonea! Hellooooo."
The small, dark-haired novice jerked her head away from the window and quickly smiled at Trassia apologetically. She was acutely aware of how long it had taken for even just one or two novices to talk to her, and she didn't want to go back to square one.
"Sorry! No, I don't think I will," Sonea replied quickly, hoping that they hadn't changed the topic of their earlier conversation: the Midwinter Meet.
Trassia tutted and shut the book in front of her. "Don't be silly! It's tradition. Besides, only third-years and above get to go, so we only have two more Midwinter Meets left in our time as novices!"
Lady Tya craned her neck in the direction of Trassia with a mildly disapproving expression, and Trassia lowered her voice. The Novice's Library was busy, as it was the week of the winter examination period.
"All you do is work, Sonea. It won't kill you to socialise a bit," she whispered, her chestnut brown eyes entreating.
Sonea suppressed a groan. "I'm not really the… socialising type," she smiled apologetically, dipping her head down towards her Healing notes. "Besides, I don't know any dances."
"Easily learned! Besides, not everyone dances at these. There's also proper food for once – not the gruel they serve in the University dining hall, but what we used to have at home!"
Sonea shrugged as if to say, I wouldn't know. Trassia's cheeks flushed a little as she realised what she had said. "I mean, they serve delicacies of the Houses. And there are card games and Alchemic illusions. My brother says there was an illusion of the deserts of Duna at last year's Midwinter Meet! And there's a quest to solve, using all three disciplines. The teams that win get prizes!"
Sonea bit her lower lip. Magic had only ever been about study or self-defence for her since she joined the Guild. She couldn't care less about winning some prize, but illusions and quests did sound interesting. And everyone crowded in one place may also prevent Regin from trying to pull anything off…
"I don't know…"
"Oh, come on," Trassia insisted. "I've probably got an old dress you can borrow. We need the numbers to book a table of eight."
She threw Karani, an aristocratic Vindoo girl who was more Trassia's than Sonea's friend, an exasperated look. Karani shrugged, clearly indifferent to whether Sonea came or not.
"Ok, ok I'll come," Sonea finally said, giving Trassia a nod. "And thanks for the offer of a dress; I'll need one."
"Good," Trassia said, untying her curly brown hair and fluffing them up with her hand. "That's settled then." She watched Narron, a third-year boy, walk into the library and head towards the Healing section. "Now, if you'll excuse me ladies," she said, flashing a brilliant smile in Narron's direction and heading after him.
Karani shot Sonea a small and somewhat false smile as Trassia left, and buried her head back in a book. Sonea gazed around the Novice's Library for a bit, too distracted to return to her Healing notes.
Ever since that night two weeks ago, she had grown even more cautious, reserved and – as Trassia called it – a bore. Sonea took the High Lord's threat seriously. She had never seen him so openly expressive as the night he had summoned her to his study, locked the door, and proceeded to remind Sonea that she was his.
Her fist clenched around the pen in her palm. Even recalling that moment sped up her heartbeat. Each time was the same: first, her blood boiled at his presumption. She was a hostage held against her will, yes, but not his servant or property, damn it. Then, a feeling she could not name. Like she had missed a step in the dark and her stomach had summersaulted.
"Who do you think would dare confront me for doing what I will with what is mine?"
The fire in his gaze; the ice-cold grip of his thumb and forefinger on her chin. The speed of her heartbeat. She remembered it all like yesterday. Those words played over and over in her mind. One sentence that contained both of the feelings that night evoked in Sonea.
"Who do you think would dare confront me…" Rage bubbled within her, at him and at the Guild that had left her in his hands with no checks or balances on his power.
"…doing what I will with what is mine?" A sensation of restlessness and anticipation churned in her next. Somehow, the way he said it seemed to imply he meant more than the fact that Sone was his novice.
His. It had an unmistakeable, covert meaning that she couldn't dare contemplate. And yet, she couldn't ignore that that is what he had said. Quite specifically. Not, "how I treat my own novice", but "what I do with what is mine."
A loud giggle from a group of fourth-years nearby jolted Sonea out of her uncomfortable thoughts.
"Shhh!" hissed Lady Tya from behind her desk. The usually mild demeanour of the librarian was clearly getting sorely tested today.
Sonea smiled to herself as the giggling group lowered their voices to fierce whispers. She caught the words "Midwinter Meet" and knew the conversation was likely about the crushes to be pursued during the ball. But a heaviness soon settled upon her as she realised any chance of light-heartedness during her time as a novice was impossible.
The children of the slums grew up fast because they had to. These novices had lived their lives in the midst of luxury, and had less reason to mature quickly than their brothers and sisters outside the Guild. Until they graduated, they were free from family responsibilities, such as presenting themselves at court, marriage, and managing whatever income their family had. Joining the Guild extended their youthful ways for an extra five years.
Apart from doing her fair share of running around with Cery, Sonea had never really had the leisure to flirt with boys, even before the Guild claimed her life. How could she, when she had spent a long time pretending to be a boy herself? Right up to and including the day she threw that stone during the Purge, in fact.
Then, after joining the Guild, she had barely made any friends, let alone ones she could go to for advice on matters of the heart. Her once dull, short black hair was fast getting past her shoulders, and held a dark mahogany shine now. She had grown into her high cheekbones and gained a small bust in the last two years, too. This was all no doubt thanks to suddenly having nutritious, consistent meals for the first time in her life. But she was still hardly what they called a "looker" in the slums, not to mention her background kept most novices well away. Although Dorrien…
Forget that, Sonea thought firmly. Even if Akkarin hadn't forbidden it, she doubted things between Dorrien and her would move forward. They had left things on a strained note two weeks ago – distracted on her part, and resentful on his. Besides, anyone you get too close to is a potential target, she reminded herself.
She sighed. For now, all she could do was focus on the day ahead, which included a practical Healing exam.
"Bowing to magicians should be second nature to novices by the end of their first year. Here you are in your third, Sonea, and ever the rogue who stabbed a magician."
Sonea shook her head to get rid of the memory, but this is how the last two weeks had been. His words would suddenly rise to the surface of her consciousness, making her feel like she was condemned to hear them over and over again.
Well, she had once been the rogue, but not anymore. The more she involved herself in the Guild, the less reason she would give her enemies to think they could get rid of her quietly and easily.
In between all her exams this week, it looked like she would now have to learn at least one court dance from Trassia before Midwinter Meet. I don't need to use it – I'll just be prepared in case Regin tries to embarrass me by making someone ask me to dance, Sonea thought. She'd rather eat a sevli than give him the satisfaction of proving she didn't belong here.
—
The snow had turned into an icy grey sleet by sundown, which was now well before the dinner gong in the depths of winter. A man on a brown stallion rode through the streets of the Inner Circle in a dark grey, expensive-looking wool cloak, his hood throwing his features into shadow.
He looked like any other man who had business in the Inner Circle, or an aristocratic man returning home for the evening. But if anyone who looked a little too closely – and nobody bothered to in this weather – they would notice that the man's woollen cloak betrayed no sign of exposure to the elements. The mane and tail of the man's horse, too, was impossibly dry. There was magic involved, had anyone cared to notice.
The High Lord arrived at the door with the red lamp, which was swinging fiercely in the wind and sleet. He couldn't tie his horse to the post outside and place a shield around him – it would all but shout to the world that a magician was inside this establishment. He led the stallion to the small stable for customers next to the building.
Madam Merla's assistant greeted him; a buxom woman just past her childbearing years who specialised in procuring beautiful youths for men looking for men. "Welcome, Lord Ralend."
"Madam Julia," Akkarin nodded politely, removing and handing over his cloak to the boy nearby.
She flashed him a professional smile through brightly painted lips, and her gaze took in the tall, handsome man in front of her unabashedly appreciatively. With that angular jaw, aquiline nose, piercing dark eyes and long black hair, he would have been play, not work, back when she used to work the streets.
Akkarin noticed – but then again, after a life in and out of court, he was hardly unaware of the effect he had on women. Ironically, the qualities that had put off many girls when he was a novice – just a little too serious, intense and aloof for his youth – piqued the attention of many women, high-born and low, a decade later.
"You'll be wanting Kiera then?" She asked. Her dwell accent was pronounced.
"If she is available, yes. I know my visits can be… unpredictable," Akkarin replied, trying to keep his face neutral and benign, but the tight set of his jaw betrayed his mood. Madam Julia winked at him and went off to procure his order.
Two weeks had passed since he had summoned Sonea to his study to try and frighten her into submission. He had not emerged feeling any more in control from that encounter: only more restless, incensed and off-balance.
"I am no one's."
Akkarin's lips thinned in ill-temper as her whispered challenge echoed in his mind. She could not go anywhere outside of the Guild, could not befriend anyone, could not so much as arrive late to class without the High Lord knowing it. He even checked the passages under the University periodically to ensure she really was heeding his warning not to enter them again. And yet.
And yet.
"I am no one's."
Akkarin stared at the heavy, burgundy drapes pulled against the sleet and thunder outside, feeling like a caged animal. A muffled giggle could be heard behind the door to the waiting area. His brows lowered in annoyance.
Even amidst all the restrictions he had placed on Sonea, all the obedience he had extracted from her upon pain of losing her loved ones, he couldn't reach her. He couldn't claim that thing that made her so her – that kernel of the Sonea within, from which emanated outwards a quiet determination and pride.
A pride forged in poverty, which was not the self-congratulatory, infantile pride of the Houses. It was not easily shaken; its source was within. It was the quiet pride of one who, to the best of her knowledge, had thus far lived a life in the light. Had kept promises, known friendship, had stood up to enemies, and never wished upon anyone the hardships she knew well.
It made Akkarin feel acutely aware of just how much he had swung in the opposite direction since the horrors he had witnessed in Sachaka. He lived in the dark. He made no promises. He had betrayed his only close friend, Lorlen. Burning with rage at the injustice of what he had suffered and the desire to avenge himself and the only woman he had loved, is motivations could not have been further from the clear, plain integrity that seemed to drive his infuriatingly steadfast novice.
It intrigued him, but it also meant that no matter what he did – no matter how much he frightened her, or sought to control her movements – he could not grasp her self, and compel it to trust and obey him.
The High Lord straightened his shoulders and tapped his long, elegant fingers on one arm of the couch. Strange how a girl nowhere near his power, who was his hostage, and who was helpless in the face of his unique gifts of mind-reading, still managed to make him feel like he was somehow exposed.
Akkarin scoffed at himself. To think that the double life he had carefully built over six years could be endangered by a half-trained novice was absurd. No one had defied him since he had become High Lord, so he was simply taken aback by this girl's daring, that's all.
The dwells had their sayings; well, the Houses had some, too. The chase may bring out the gazelle's grace, but it's still meant for the hunt, Akkarin thought. He could find Sonea's defiance interesting, and even understand her pride – but that did not change the necessity of bringing her to heel. His secret, and Kyralia's fate, depended on it. He may have her physically cornered, trapped as she was under his roof, but he needed to have her mind, her will.
Akkarin's lips twitched into an almost imperceptible smile. Blackmail was simple. Base. Anyone could do it, provided the victim had things they held dear – people, things, reputations. It was simply the easiest and first tool he had chosen in order to keep Rothen, Lorlen and Sonea in line. And indeed, when it came to Rothen and Lorlen, it sufficed. But Sonea needed more incentive to surrender to his will.
After all, when the gazelle was faster than the hunter's horse, there were ways to coax it towards the hunter. Until it was so exposed, so close and so trusting that it didn't even run when it saw the rifle.
Akkarin suddenly stood up in one impatient movement, straightening the dark, inky green velvet jacket he had on. "Madam Julia, I have other engagements. If it will be much longer, I may have to frequent another establishment," he drawled in a voice that dripped with boredom.
The truth was, his decision on how to handle Sonea's rebelliousness had sharpened his appetite. He felt decisive. Back in control. And his hands itched to make bruises blossom on a woman's body.
The matron fluttered here and there anxiously, snapping her fingers to a boy with a tray of glasses and a decanter of wine. "My Lord, our apologies for this rub. Kiera was delayed, but she is now ready for you. Please." Madam Julia gestured up the stairs.
Akkarin raised an eyebrow and gave her a look that usually had even fifth year novices cower. Then he gestured away the wine proffered and gracefully manoeuvred his way between the couches of the waiting room and up the marble staircase, his blood thrumming in his ears.
As he entered the usual bedroom reserved for his use, Akkarin found it empty, even though the brazier was lit and it was pleasantly dark and warm after the storm outside. Then his brow smoothened as he heard a sound beyond the door to an adjoining dressing room, and he sent out his senses to confirm the identity of the one inside.
"I will be with you shortly, my Lord Ralend," Kiera called out from beyond the door. Akkarin moved towards the leather couch in one corner of the room and began slowly, methodically taking off his jacket, cravat and shirt to reveal the black sleeveless vest underneath. He had left his Delvon signet ring and the ring that bore the High Lord's incal at the residence, but he considered the blood gem that still glinted on one finger.
Takan knew he was not to be disturbed unless it was urgent, but if that were to happen, it was usually difficult to completely hide one's state of mind in a blood gem conversation. His servant had recently been especially cautious and watchful around Akkarin, sensing that his master's dark moods had grown more frequent. It was Takan who had reached out to him on the blood gem two weeks ago when he was in his study with Sonea, concerned when he heard the wine glass smash in the grate. His interruption had, ironically, been the intervention that had helped the High Lord step back from the violent edge that Sonea's defiance had brought him to.
Akkarin decided to keep the blood gem on. It was vital that Takan be able to warn him should there be any sudden messages about the latest slave-assassin from Sachaka. That was far more important than hiding his nocturnal activities from Takan. While they never spoke of it, his servant undoubtedly knew his master sought the diversions of the pleasure bed.
As the High Lord prowled around the room impatiently, he noticed something seemed… off. Something was missing, something that he had grown accustomed to, and now wanted. At that moment, Kiera walked through the door of the dressing room and shut it behind her. She wore a black velvet corset that pushed her small, alabaster white breasts upwards. A flimsy piece of black tulle fell down from it, leaving none of her lower body to the imagination.
She sauntered up to Akkarin with a small pout. "It's been two weeks, my Lord – I couldn't bear to think you'd forgotten me!"
Akkarin raised one black eyebrow appreciatively at her attire and the corner of his lip curled upwards. "My favour is neither easily given nor easily lost, my dear," the High Lord murmured.
Kiera's pout vanished and the tops of her breasts rose and fell faster in anticipation as he stepped up to tower over her, firmly gripping her chin between forefinger and thumb.
The familiarity of this gesture from two weeks ago – when it was a different, but similarly dark-haired and petite woman in his grip – added an exquisitely thrilling edge to it. Kiera melted towards his hand and tilted her face upwards to accept his forceful lips, opening her own in surrender when his tongue demanded entry.
They pulled apart after a few heartbeats and Kiera's game smile returned. "Some mulled wine, my Lord?" She swayed over to the brazier, her pale buttocks clearly visible under the black tulle skirt, and busied herself with the decanter next to it. Akkarin looked around as he waited, and his eyes settled on the assortment of stoppered glass bottles on the dressing table.
He walked up to them and ran a hand across their lids. "Scents?" He asked. He finally realised what seemed to be missing from the room.
Kiera returned holding two cups of the warm, spiced wine that Kyralians preferred in the depths of winter. "Is there any you prefer, my Lord?"
Of course, she could not know that he had already gauged their contents using magic, and he knew that she had what he wanted. His long hands picked up a small, burgundy glass bottle and expertly unstoppered it. The stopper had attached to it a long, thin tube of glass to which droplets of the perfume clung.
Akkarin beckoned Kiera nearer. She looked up at him with kohl-lined black eyes as he held the lid elegantly between two fingers and dragged the dropper with the lightest of touches across her collarbone. He then brought it down between the two small mounds of her breasts, depositing a clear, glistening trail of perfume. The scent of gan-gan, floral, musky and amber-warm, was released into the air.
It took all of the High Lord's self-control not to let his eyes shut as he breathed it in through his nose, not to let his mind transport him out of this room and back to his residence. Back to the scent that had lingered long after he had coolly, contemptuously, dismissed his novice from his presence after threatening to hurt her family.
Akkarin's jaw stiffened at the memory and his eyes flew back open fully, snapping to the sight of the women in front of him. He stoppered and set aside the bottle of perfume, then reached up and touched the tip of one cold, pale finger to the scented essence glistening on Kiera's collarbone, spreading it up her neck. As her eyes half-closed, he replaced the gentle finger on her pulse with his entire hand, holding her in a loose chokehold.
He leaned down to brush his lips across one earlobe. "Tie your hair up and get on the bed on all fours," he instructed quietly.
"Yes, my Lord." Kiera smiled in anticipation and stepped away, well versed by now in the obedience Akkarin wanted. She took a ribbon out of a drawer and tied her long, wavy black hair up in a tight, high bun. Then she got onto the large bed that was covered with a silken burgundy cover. She looked at the headboard and positioned herself on all fours. Was he going to take her fast and hard from behind, clutching his hips and bouncing her off him? Was he going to use an object or his tongue? Kiera's thighs trembled in anticipation.
As she felt the touch of his long, elegant and masculine fingers follow the curve of her buttocks, she closed her eyes and exhaled, her heart pounding. The High Lord's other hand crept up to the back of her neck and his fingers wrapped themselves around it, holding Kiera immobile like a sparrow caught in a hawk's grip.
When she felt two of those cold, slim fingers expertly part her folds and push their way inside her, she let out a quiet moan and fought with the grip on her neck, trying to push her rump back onto his fingers.
The usually severe and forbidding man's sharp, low intake of breath betrayed his arousal. To hear it aroused her, in turn – far more than she would admit a client ever could. Kiera whimpered for more, and was rewarded when she felt the delicious and slightly painful sensation of a thumb being inserted into her rear entrance. She pushed her hips back with another moan to feel all three of his fingers inside her to the knuckle.
"Getting greedy, are we?" Akkarin muttered silkily, strengthening his one-handed grip on the back of her neck.
"I'm sorry, my Lord," Kiera gasped and tried to remain still, even though the maddening feeling of his fingers rhythmically moving in and out of her was leaving her squirming for more.
In the next moment, she felt a sensation that almost made her jerk backwards again. The High Lord slipped his fingers out but clasped her buttocks tightly, spreading her wide. He dipped his head down between her spread cheeks and Kiera felt the heat of his breath on her. He ran his tongue along her slit and she gasped.
She felt the delicious warmth of his breath on her and the vibration of his quiet chuckle as his sharp tongue darted in and out of where his own fingers had opened her up for him. She lowered her upper body down to the bed and kept her hips lifted up, like a cat stretching. She had no qualms about how desperate she must look, not in this line of work. Pushing her rear into that hot, strong tongue was the only way to get more.
Through a haze of pleasure, her mind registered a less welcome sensation. Akkarin's fingernails dug into soft, creamy buttocks hard enough to pierce skin. At first the pain was an unwelcome distraction, and Kiera began to pull away from his grip. Scars all over one of her best assets was the last thing she wanted.
But just as she made a decision, he sped up the force and pressure of his tongue, and all thoughts except for the unbearably delicious combination of pain and pleasure fled from Kiera's mind. Tiny droplets of blood began to well up from the crescent-moon indentations his nails had dug into her flesh.
For a very select few clients, she was willing to push herself out of her comfort zone, after all. And this formidable man was always one of her exceptions.