The Emperor And The Temple Ch 17

Silfe, innkeeper of The Badger, decided to close early that night. With so many Sons of The North gone south to face the Emperor, there was little custom for an Inn above The Tajorg Valley, no matter how comfortable its beds, how good its ale, and how welcoming its proprietress. Tonight had been quiet, just like the night before. Only two local farmers and the village blacksmith had come to enjoy dinner, share ale and chat with Silfe, and the last of them had left an hour earlier. And as for the rooms upstairs, they were empty of guests, as few men now travelled the trails through Tajorg, either in the direction of Vosgir or towards the City of The Goddess.

As the skies darkened outside, Silfe drew the curtains across the inn's small leaded windows and went to the stout oak door to lock up. But as she reached for it, there came a knocking on its outside, and a voice requesting entry. She slid open a small hatch in the door to peer out - a lone female cannot be too careful, even in Alfard's North - and saw that a warrior stood patiently outside, the emblem of the King on his tunic. He was a man of about thirty five to forty summers; handsome, tall and muscular, with kind eyes and a respectful manner.

"I seek a room for the night," said the man. "I have been travelling for two days from Vosgir without rest."

Silfe opened the door and bade him enter, assuring him that she had space aplenty.

"My name is Brade," he said, removing his pack, shield and sword.

"And I am Silfe," she replied. "Ale?"

He nodded and she noticed that he gave her a long stare as she walked to the barrel.

"Is something the matter?" she asked.

"No Madam Silfe," he replied. "I apologise. I once knew a Silfe, but it is a common name. A beautiful name nonetheless. Would you have some dinner for me Madam? I have not eaten in more than a day."

"Please, just Silfe will do. You make me feel old with your formality, Brade. And yes, I have pie for you here. There is plenty of good food in Tajorg, although I hear that in the south the poor villagers are starving."

"I fear that is so, Silfe. But the Emperor's armies must be denied any comfort."

"Oh Brade, sometimes I wonder if it is all a big mistake, if there is no Emperor, or if he will never come to our lands. Perhaps then our men will return to the villages and life can continue as it was."

"I fear not. Perhaps he has already landed." replied Brade.

As Silfe talked, she prepared ale and food for the warrior and brought it to him. She sat with him at the small table, watching him eat. There was something that seemed familiar about this handsome man, but Silfe could not be sure.

"Yes, I see that you are hungry," she said, laughing. "I will get you more. I hope you don't mind me sitting with you, Brade. Things have been very quiet recently, lonely even. If you don't mind my saying, you are late to travel to the City."

"Indeed, there were events in Vosgir that required my presence."

"Tell me, what is the news from there?"

Brade sighed, "Alfard grows old and weakens, although he will not admit it. Taneric is a worthy successor but must stay south to marshal our forces there. And now, in Vosgir, the elder Ostin and The High Priest of Wodh are at each other's throats, disagreeing on all matters, almost coming to blows."

"The High Priest," she repeated, almost sneering. But then she remembered herself and looked at the warrior beside her with a flash of panic. To criticise the Church, or even a priest, could be considered heresy in the north.

Brade considered his words for a moment and then said, "I am Ostin's man."

Reassured, she stood and walked to the barrel. "More ale?" she called out.

"Yes, Mistress." he replied.

She paused for a moment and then completed pouring the ale, taking the jug and placing it on the table before him. And then, without herself sitting, she put a hand under his chin and raised his face. She stared at him long and hard.

"Yes. Yes, I see it now. But your name was not Brade in those days."

"No Mistress."

"How long have you known?"

"Since I first entered and saw you properly in the light, Mistress."

"And were you ever my night boy?" she asked.

Brade blushed, lowered his eyes and nodded.

"Oh Brade, I feel so ashamed. I am sorry I forgot you. What must you think of me!"

"But Mistress, it is natural that you should not remember me well. There were two hundred Temple Boys back then, in the time of the Old Queen."

"And who was your Day Mistress, Brade? No, let me guess! Ashala of the Infirmary. No? Javka, the Shrine Priestess? No? Perhaps it was____"

"It was Priestess Shallie. I was a boy of the library, Mistress Silfe."

"Please don't call me Mistress! I am no longer a priestess and you are no longer a boy of the Temple. Not since that day after Tajorg when the Sons of The North came and took their own."

Brade shrugged, "And how are you not still a priestess in the eyes of the Goddess? Was there a ceremony to relinquish you of your vows, Mistress? And how am I no longer a Temple boy? We were simply put into carts that day and taken from the City. I never even had a chance to say farewell to Priestess Shallie."

"You could seek her out when you reach the City, Brade. I imagine she is still there at the Temple. She was a kind soul, wasn't she? And passionate. I know all the boys loved to serve her."

Silfe paused for a few moments before reaching out and placing her hand on Brade's arm.

"Brade, how was I seen? As a priestess. By the boys. Tell me!"

"Firm, Mistress," he replied, and took another spoon of pie.

"Firm? Is that it?"

"But fair," he said, munching.

"Brade, you are teasing me! You know what I am asking you! Was I loved?"

He laughed and swallowed the pie before replying, "Yes Mistress, you were loved. Very much so, by all the boys."

And so they talked into the night, relaxed in each other's company, enjoying stories of the Temple in the days before the Republic. Finally, when the hour was late, Silfe said she would show Brade to his room. But they were both reluctant to end the evening.

"Mistress," said Brade eventually. "I am still of the Goddess. I believe you are too."

She sighed, "Brade, it is not good to talk of such things. This is the north and in these lands only worship of Wodh is tolerated."

"But we are alone tonight, Mistress, you and I. And I have not worshipped at the feet of a priestess these fourteen years past. Nor have I been brought closer to the Goddess in pain and delight by the touch of a woman, and nor have I even attended a giving or made a confession in all this time."

She pushed back from the table, increasing the distance between them.

"I know what you are about to ask me, Brade. But I cannot do this for you."

"Please Mistress. Soon I will go into battle, and if fate sends me to the Goddess I would not wish to arrive at her feet unconfessed."

She tried to avoid his gaze, knowing that if she looked upon his face she would surely relent. And finally, as he once more entreated her to hear his confession, she looked up and put a finger to her lips to silence him. She rose, blew out the candles in the room and then returned to him, taking his forearm in her hand and leading him firmly to the staircase. He followed obediently and she led him up to her room, closing the door softly behind them.

"You have an altar," he said in surprise.

She nodded, "Few have been in this room these last twelve years. Present yourself before the Goddess! Contemplate Her while I prepare!"

He removed his clothes and knelt before the shrine - little more than a small table with candles and an exquisitely carved idol. He began to recite the mantra of repentance. And then Silfe appeared before him, now clad in the black robe of a priestess from the era of the Old Queen, before the Republic. She kissed his cheek tenderly and turned to light candles on the makeshift altar before once again moving behind him. He felt a thick leather collar being placed around his neck, tightened and fastened.

Priestess Silfe stayed behind her boy, as is customary for a priestess hearing confession, but her hands wandered freely over his body, caressing and stimulating him.

"The Goddess will be pleased," she whispered in his ear, tapping his upright sex.

"Mistress, it has been that way since I first knew I was in the presence of a priestess," he said.

"Shush! Speak now only of your sins! Tell me everything!"

And so he did. And as he spoke she continued to caress him, encouraging him to bare his soul to her, expressing her pleasure with each new revelation. For so it is with confession; the more the boy opens himself to his Mistress, the more he is rewarded by approval in her voice and by arousal through her touch. Even as the sins he confesses become greater, he feels he pleases his Mistress more, and the more he is encouraged and pleasured. Only later does penance come.

Silfe would occasionally interrupt him, whispering questions into his ear and drawing more from him. Eventually, when she knew she had taken everything from her boy, she withdrew her hands from him and moved to stand before him. Her voice now became colder and she had him perform the Act of Greeting. Only now did he see a cane in her hand. She talked to him of his most serious sins, referring to the Book of The Prophet, expressing the disappointment of the Goddess, but reassuring him that he would always be loved by Her.

In the days of the Old Queen, a boy would be moved to a frame for the administration of penance, delivered though his Mistress's whip, cane, or via other devices according to her whim. And the halls of the Temple would be filled with the sounds of male suffering each moon on the night of confession. However, Silfe told Brade that she would observe the custom of the modern Temple; two sharp strokes of the cane on a boy's upturned buttocks, no more no less. Although agonising, the act was brief; perhaps more symbolic than corrective. She had him take the punishment position at her feet and then administered the strokes, the second following the first almost immediately so that he barely had time to flinch, and as he cried out and collapsed before her, she threw the cane away and dropped to her haunches to hold him and kiss him, now offering nothing but words of reassurement and love. But she did not let him rest with his head upon her bosom for long.

"I require a giving from you Brade."

Emotionally drained from the confession and still smarting from Silfe's application of the cane, Brade rose to his knees before the altar, placed a hand upon his sex and raised his eyes to his Mistress, awaiting her instruction to begin. But she shook her head.

"No Brade. A priestess who has been without a boy for so many years needs more intimacy. Move to my bed! Lie on your back!"

He obeyed and she followed him, loosening the ties of her robe as she went.

"Spread your arms Brade and keep them there. Do not let your hands wander to the body of your Mistress!"

She let the robe drop from her shoulders to the floor and perched herself above him in the candlelight, lowering her sex to his face so that he could taste her arousal before she slid down his body to straddle his hips, reaching back to tease him a little before taking him inside her. And then she began to work her hips rhythmically and vigorously, peasant-strong, nostrils flared as her passion built.

Twice the boy begged to complete his giving, and twice she refused him, the second time with a sharp slap on the cheek. And, like the good Temple boy that he once was, he checked himself, transferring his focus always towards the pleasure of his Mistress. And in due course she was herself ready to receive his giving and she cried out, demanding it from him. The two of them tensed together, he with a whispered half-groan of 'Oh, Mistress!' and she with a louder but incoherent cry that would surely have woken guests in the inn's other rooms had they been occupied. And finally she collapsed onto him and they both whispered urgently in each other's ears, he thanking her, she reassuring him, "Good boy! Good boy! The Goddess loves you! And you have pleased your Mistress!"

In the minutes that followed the giving, Silfe lay in Brade's arms, and she made no objection as his hands rested on her body in the warmth of the bed. For a while, neither spoke, but then she said softly, "Brade, perhaps when the wars are over you will come back to me. For a longer time, I mean...."

She stopped, realising that her boy was already asleep.

****

Silfe woke up with a start. The room was still dark, indicating that dawn had not yet arrived. And beside her the sleeping man snored softly. But she was aware of sounds from the main rooms of the inn below; footsteps and low voices. Shocked, she realised that, with the arrival of Brade, she had neglected to lock the oak door.

"Brade! Brade! Wake up!" she shouted, nudging him. But it was too late. There were already loud footsteps on the staircase, and just moments later the door to her room was flung open and four warriors burst in, their weapons drawn. Brade, now wide awake, tried to rise but was prevented by the tip of a sword held to his chest.

"These are the High Priest's men," he said to Silfe, as if in explanation. "I believe they have been following me, Mistress. I regret that I have brought them to your door."

One of the intruders had seen the small altar, where the collar Silfe had placed around Brades neck during his confession rested, and upon which a candle still burned. He picked up the statue of the Goddess and examined it for a moment before throwing it back down, recoiling from it in shock.

"Witchcraft!" the man screamed, running the blade of his sword across the altar, sweeping its contents to the floor. "Take them! Take them both to the village square!"