The High Lord was a man who rarely allowed himself the indulgence of self-appraisal, but he did pride himself on two things: his self-restraint, and his powers of detachment.
His self-restraint had been bitterly perfected during his time as a slave in Sachaka. She was utterly forbidden to him, and no test could have been harsher. Seeing her being freely passed around among Ichani who were in Dakova's favour, the only thing he could allow himself was momentary, agonised glances in her direction. He had no fear for himself; he kept his disobedience to a minimum out of fear for her. Every time Akkarin did not prostate himself before Dakova, every time he refused to fetch water or tried to use magic to heal, a purple bruise would blossom on her jaw, or a foot would be broken.
What need has a bedslave to talk or walk? Shutting up and lying back is all they should do! Dakova would jeer aloud the next morning as she limped out of his tent.
Years later, by the time Akkarin's restraint was demanded for his duties as High Lord, it had become second nature. He could remain alert to what was being said and yet sit still and silent for hours on end, through every manner of tedious Guild meeting or court proceeding imaginable. It was nothing in comparison to those years in the Wastelands.
His detachment, on the other hand, was both a relic of his life prior to Sachaka, and a result of those dark years. It was honed in two very contrasting environments. The gaudy excesses of the Houses had inclined him towards privacy and solitude from a young age. But the total depravity of his Sachakan enslavement, which had ground away at the last vestiges of his youthful idealism, had also severed his interest in tender emotions. Love, joy, affection, hope… these were things that other people's dreams were made of. The High Lord felt completely devoid of them.
His desires were also devoid of such. After so many years hunting down spies in the shadows, his intimate tastes had grown dark.
That night, the High Lord had changed out of his black robes and into inconspicuous but fine clothes before walking the tunnels from his Residence to the city. His black longcoat of fine wool was complemented by a deep red silk cravat. He wore a well-made grey cloak over it, its hood hiding his face on the off-chance someone may recognise him. He was heading to the Inner Circle tonight, after all, and needed to look like he belonged there.
Chance encounters with old acquaintances were a little too likely for comfort, but he had been risking it anyway. The expensive establishment he preferred was in the Inner Circle. The one he had been frequenting catered to his particular tastes.
Firstly, it stayed clear of the unsavoury practice of trafficking from Elyne and Lan, which brought over women and men considered exotic in Kyralia for their light eyes and golden hair. The madam of this establishment prided herself on her selection of willing and healthy women and men who were either from Kyralia, or knew enough Kyralian to hold a conversation. Her prices reflected this. And Akkarin was willing to pay. For him, neither the coarse cynicism of older whores, nor the brattiness of the teenage ones, nor the listless despair of the trafficked foreigners would do.
Secondly, not every establishment permitted the inclusion of pain to the pleasure bed. Understandably, they couldn't trust clients not to take things to an extreme. It could, and sometimes did, cost them their human merchandise. The ones that allowed it, like the one Akkarin was heading to now, vetted clients carefully. Even a full purse did not necessarily mean entry.
Given the frequency of his visits varied – sometimes only once in two months, sometimes weekly – Akkarin posed as a reclusive Kyralian nobleman who lived on his country estate for most of the year, and came to Imardin occasionally for court matters. The madam who ran this establishment did not pry (every client spun a tale, after all) but instead observed his attire, his accent, his horse, and his posture, which usually told her a man's real background. When all of these seemed to confirm Akkarin was born to wealth and power, a night's trial had been agreed. The girls she arranged for him reported no lasting injury, and so Akkarin, and his purse, continued to be most welcome.
If there was no one in particular he sought, Akkarin usually took his time appraising the selection the madam would parade in front of him. He would sometimes leave the establishment if she didn't have anyone he deemed suitable – even if it meant returning to his empty bed. He liked them unpainted, dark-eyed, slim. In their twenties, or his own age, was acceptable. He would immediately, and often angrily, wave away the pubescent girls that madam charged the highest rates for. He had no interest in their blank gazes, their still-developing bodies, and the faces still holding onto the roundness of childhood.
No, the High Lord sought a woman who would be fully aware of what he did to her, and receive its pleasures as well as return them.
He rarely found options that fit this exacting criteria, but much could be procured for the right client and the right price. His most recent enjoyment had, surprisingly, been a daughter of the Houses, who snuck out occasionally to work at this establishment in the Inner Circle. Akkarin's lips curled into a half-smile as he sped up his stride. Yes, the dwells weren't the only ones who had interesting things going on in their underworld.
Deemed a spinster by her parents as an unwed 33-year-old, Kiera – or at least, that was the name she went by – was, Akkarin soon found out, simply looking for the thrill of rebellion against her family. Ironically, this had not surprised him in the slightest when he met her. Any day at court that ended with wine usually surfaced the most incredible gossip. Double lives were the least of it.
The High Lord reached the smart townhouse with its red lamp above the door just as the first drops of icy rain began to fall. He rang the bell and a latch on the door opened. A heavily painted eye gazed at him through the peephole. "Last name and number token," said a mature woman's voice.
Akkarin kept his hood up but leaned forward to respond quietly. "Ralend. Four-eight-one." He had pulled the false name out of some inconsequential memory back when he had first visited.
The latch shut and the door opened wide enough for him to step through. As always, the perfumed air and the heat of blazing fireplaces took some getting used to after the cold night outside. Akkarin unclasped his heavy grey cloak and a youth he hadn't even noticed took it off his hands obediently.
The madam walked in at that moment with a professional smile. She was a tall, grey-haired and slim woman in her fifties who had the accent of a dwell but the discreet poise of one practiced at serving the Houses. "Ah, welcome, my Lord Ralend. How wonderful to see you again so soon. Court matters keeping you in the city, I see." Her sharp eyes twinkled at the thought of extracting another hefty sum from Akkarin in the space of two weeks.
"Madam Merla. A pleasure as always," Akkarin said with a slight incline of his head. "Is Kiera working tonight?"
Akkarin had enjoyed Kiera several times since his secret had been revealed, when he had been forced to take on Sonea's guardianship against his will. His darker interests seemed to demand he satisfy them whenever he was particularly agitated. The stress of having to keep tabs on two magicians and one novice who now knew of his black magic was taking its toll. The pounding headaches and sleepless nights would begin to induce a brooding, dark mood. The contained rage – at his past, at himself, and at being found out by a mere novice – would crave an outlet. He would begin to seek the clarity of mind that he found in the combination of pain and pleasure. And Kiera met those needs at times like these.
Merla nodded. "She's just arrived. Why don't we move into the sitting room to dispense with the formalities? She will be ready to receive you in a few minutes."
The formalities, it turned out, was an increase in the establishment's fees, which emptied almost all of the pouch of coin Akkarin had brought with him. Of course, Akkarin could read Madam Merla's surface thoughts, which shouted her satisfaction at having secured such a high price with no bargaining. The High Lord said nothing, but his polite smile grew cold. His mood darkened further, but no matter – he was, after all, paying for the privilege of not having to leash that tonight.
A gentle bell rang in the sitting room to indicate he could go up. Akkarin walked up the elegant staircase. The lights were dimmer on the first floor, and there were heavily soundproofed doors up and down the red-carpeted corridor. He walked to the door at the end that led to the suite he had booked.
As he entered and quickly shut the door behind him, an enticing fragrance hit his senses. The floral intensity of gan-gan. The room was warm, all darkwood and burgundy fabrics. Kiera was sitting at a dresser table with a large mirror, removing the last pin from her long mane of black hair.
She turned in her seat to throw him a smile. "My Lord Ralend. Almost ready," she said, applying some red lip paint.
"Wipe that off," Akkarin said coolly, untying his silk cravat.
Kiera raised a shapely eyebrow, but smiled and shrugged. She dabbed away the paint with a cloth, then stood up languidly. She was wearing a silky, sapphire undergarment with a thigh-high split.
Akkarin raised an eyebrow. "New purchase?"
Kiera waved a small hand as if to say, oh, it's nothing. "A gift from an admirer. Shall I take it off?"
Akkarin removed his longcoat to reveal a black silk shirt underneath, a half-smile playing about his lips. "No, keep it on. You know I'm not a jealous client."
Kiera sauntered up to him, her smile widening. "An under-appreciated quality." He enjoyed how she looked up at him through her dark eyelashes because she only came up to his shoulders. She got to work unbuttoning his black shirt at the neck, but did not remove it. "Make yourself comfortable, my Lord. Some wine?"
With the typical dark hair and eyes of a Kyralian, Kiera was petite and fit from horse riding – one of the few physical pursuits acceptable for women of the Houses – and her body had all the tautness of a woman who had not borne children. Madam Merla could often get away with telling clients Kiera was twenty-three instead of thirty-three, as the rate for older girls was lower. But Kiera's confidence in bed meant any client who thought they had paid for some naïve young thing soon found themselves being told where to put what by a woman who sounded suspiciously older than she looked.
And that's just fine by me, Akkarin thought, an amused smile dancing on his lips. After all, he enjoyed giving instruction, in turn. His eye wandered around the room. He was pleased to see the leather restraints and floggers he had purchased for his private use had already been presented neatly on the bed, cleaned and oiled.
For most of his adult life – no, ever since you returned from Sachaka, a voice in his head corrected – his interest had only been piqued by women with a rebellious streak. Not disrespectful per se, but defiant. That was no doubt why he found nothing to his taste among the women at court, bred to be acquiescent wives and devoted mothers. Ever since Sachaka, he couldn't stand women with docile temperaments. It reminded him too much of enslavement. Too much of her, who had not fought. Who had accepted her lot with a bowed head, when Akkarin had desperately wanted her to fight for her life.
Bringing his attention back to the woman in front of him, Akkarin took another sip of the rich wine and let its warming effects wash over his mind and relax his body. His gaze lingered on the soft waterfall of dark hair framing her shoulders; her pale, long neck; the bold eyebrows; and the two large, dark eyes that suddenly reminded him of… of…
Akkarin abruptly set his wine glass down and scowled. Tonight, of all nights, he did not want to think about anything, or anyone, back at the Guild. He felt inexplicably annoyed, indeed downright agitated, about the direction his thoughts had taken him.
She's on your mind because your last month has been almost entirely taken up with her, he thought. When you haven't been arranging her tutoring or dining with her, you've been asked about "how Sonea is settling in" almost every day by one magician or another. It had him on edge, though no one would have guessed it from his calm, cold mask.
Akkarin picked up and drained his glass. Kiera gauged the shift in his mood – a necessary skill in this side profession of hers. She silently watched him with a game expression and small smile, waiting for Akkarin to bring himself back from wherever his mind had wandered to.
When the High Lord's eyes finally focused on her again, his lip curled up at one corner. He beckoned with a long, pale finger. Kiera smiled and correctly interpreted this an invitation to initiate the rest of the evening.
Standing up, she came over to Akkarin and bent down to slowly remove his shirt, running her small hands over his warm torso as she pulled the fabric down his shoulders. Akkarin looked up at her as he slipped his hand up her creamy white thigh, following the high slit of her dress up to the hip. When Kiera went down on her knees at his feet to untie the string of his trousers, Akkarin's eyes narrowed as arousal began to thrum through his limbs.
The light of the fireplace cast long shadows everywhere, and he couldn't make out the details of her face in the dimly lit room. Looking at her downward gaze, another recent memory flashed into his mind.
"Good evening, Sonea." It had become a bit of a nightly ritual to wait for her in the entrance hall of his residence.
"Good evening, High Lord." Her head would always be bent down, just like the scene in front of him now. A curtain of black hair usually half-covered his novice's face when she stood before him like that, avoiding his gaze.
But a trembling note of defiance always broke through Sonea's tightly controlled reply. A hurricane slowly forming in a deceptively calm sea. And what power he had sensed when he had read her mind! Such righteous rage contained by a body so small. A fighter through and through, that one. She'd attack him if she could.
Akkarin closed his eyes and breathed the gan-gan scent in the room deeply through his nose. He leaned back in the armchair and ran a hand through the silky waterfall of black hair in front of him. When she finally freed his hard manhood from his trousers, he gripped a fistful of that hair and pulled her face down towards his groin.
Kiera's skilful ministrations soon had him fully and a little painfully erect. He yanked her up by the hair when he'd had enough, and she let out a hiss of pleasure at his roughness. Her black eyes narrowed and she slapped his hand off her hair playfully.
Akkarin let out a low chuckle at the little challenge, then nodded at her to stand up.
Kiera smiled and stood, pulling the silk sapphire undergarment off herself. It fell like a pool of dark blue water to the floor. Akkarin shrugged out of his shirt but kept his loosely tied trousers on. Standing up gracefully from the armchair, he followed, eyes predatory, as Kiera hopped onto the large bed. She lay back and stretched her arms above her like a cat, knowing it showed off her petite, taut body to her advantage.
"No. Stand against the wall. Face away," Akkarin instructed, his voice low and gravelly. He reached for one of the soft leather floggers with many tails.
Kiera's smile didn't falter, but she raised an eyebrow before rolling off the bed and walking up to the nearest wall. She pressed the front of her body up against it, then threw her long black hair over her bare shoulder and looked back at him with amusement. "Imagining someone else, my Lord? What's she like? Quiet or loud? Bold or meek? I'd be happy to oblige…"
"Silence," Akkarin interrupted coldly, running his hand over the hilt of the flogger, positioning his grip. Kiera quietened, sensing the mood he was in, and turned to face the wall.
Akkarin watched the curve of her naked back rise and fall as her breathing sped up in anticipation of what was to come. He stepped up close behind her, and inhaled deeply through his nose, the muscles in his neck taut. His mind wandered.
She stumbled through the secret panel in front of him, flooding the passage he was hiding in with blinding light for a split second before she pushed the door closed. She didn't see him. Enveloped in darkness, she peered through the peephole to watch her bullies pass by. And he stood still, watching the back of her pale neck.
Akkarin took a small step back to have room to flick the flogger across the creamy white neck in front of him. Kiera inhaled sharply and relaxed her body up against the wall.
The High Lord felt his manhood straining against the silk of his trousers. He flicked his wrist again, more sharply this time, bringing the flogger's leather tails across pale, small buttocks. A gasp.
Hearing his soft breathing, she spun around and willed a globelight into existence – and gasped quietly. They were standing so close that Akkarin felt the warmth of her breath across his face. A feeling he could not place spread through his chest at the sight of her black eyes widening with terror. So that is what he was – her subjugator. A monster.
Akkarin's nostrils flared at the thought of those eyes wide with horror. That feeling he couldn't quite place surfaced again. Hurt? Anguish?
Almost as soon as the feeling came, his practiced self-restraint and detachment kicked in. It matters not what she thinks. She's no more than a thorn in my side.
The High Lord's dark eyes narrowed at the recent memory, and his lips thinned in suppressed anger. This time, he put the force of his whole arm behind the flogger. Its tails landed sharply across trembling pale thighs, provoking an aroused cry.
He stepped up close to Kiera, brushing his lips against one shoulder. Pressing his body against hers, he crushed her breasts up against the wall. But Akkarin's thoughts were no longer in this room, with its heavy drapes, large bed, and crackling fireplace.
He was back in the cold, musty passages under the University. And he was not alone. The terror in those wide, black eyes slowly turned into an invitation, softening the way he had seen them soften for others.
The urgency of his arousal now coursed through Akkarin's body and he quickly threw the flogger aside. One hand freed his manhood from his trousers and the other held her thin wrists against the wall above her head. His face buried in fragrant dark hair and his eyes still shut, the High Lord sheathed himself inside the woman in front of him, and lost himself in the sensation of pinning that small body against the wall again and again.
