The Legend of Ara Hal

Author's Note

Apologies for the delay in getting this chapter posted. Life happens. Shit happens. Life gets shittier than usual. You know the drill. Anyway, hope you enjoy this one. A shift of focus here. No orcs in this one. Just humans beginning to find out that something's going on...

*****

"The Orders of Magic make their home in the elegant spires and white-stoned cathedrals of the Alabaster Citadel, close enough to the Imperial Palace to make communication with Imperial bureaucrats easy, far enough away from it to still the scandalized or treasonous tongues of those who would decry the Holy Empress' reliance on the more questionable practices indulged therein." - author unknown,

A Guide To the Imperial Court, seventh edition

, published in the Year of the Forgotten Dog

"Divination is not a science. It is an art and one whose roots lie in sensuality and instinct. Revelations emerge unformed from the etherium, only achieving distinctness when they break over the diviner's sight like waves upon a rocky shoreline. The diviner's body is an integral part of the process. It is an instrument of flesh and blood, of sensation and pleasure. It is no surprise, then, that the clearest visions occur at moments of climax and ecstasy." - Henrietta Vay,

Body, Sight and Magic: Erotomantic Divination In The New Era

, published in the Second Year of the Rusted Trident

ALYSANDRE

"The Lady Alysandre du Lac; her maidservant Charlotte Stein; her manservant N'Gano Dyon."

At the seneschal's querulous announcement, the shimmering magical portal which separated the Chambers of Prophecy from the rest of the Tower of Ecstasy dissipated and the plush interior of the magically sealed and warded chamber became instantly visible. Lit by richly-coloured lanterns hanging from silver chains affixed to the room's high ceiling, the room was hexagonal in shape, the austere stone of its high walls relieved by tapestries depicting a range of mythical scenes, many of which were decidedly lewd in nature. A healthy fire crackled in the broad fireplace on the far wall.

Standing on the threshold, Alysandre sighed impatiently. This chamber would be her home for the next twelve hours. As beautiful and soft as its décor and furnishings were, no matter how tastefully appointed or elegantly lit, it was still a cell of sorts. Her spirit chafed at the prospect of confinement. And her stomach fluttered with a mixture of anticipation and dread at the prospect of meeting the chamber's current occupant.

Rising languidly from the comfortable embrace of the large couch that dominated the centre of the room and the beautiful dark-skinned woman with whom she shared it, Marianne Willenstein, High Magistrix of the First Legion, Honorary Battle Witch of the Crimson Storm, and Fourth Farseer of the Holy Empire, smiled sardonically.

"You're late, my dear," she drawled.

Alysandre's lips twitched momentarily before their ends curved upwards in the sweetest of smiles. She had told herself over and over again that she would not allow herself to be baited by Marianne. It was a singular honour to be chosen to watch over the future of the Empire; she would not allow this woman - powerful and beautiful though she was - to mar the occasion.

"My apologies, my anointed lady." She bowed her head, a gesture intended to indicate sincerity but, because of custom and the relationship between the two women, communicating the exact opposite. When she raised her head after the requisite two seconds, she saw Marianne standing before her; behind the Farseer the dark-skinned woman smoothed her robes with long-fingered hands.

"You never come to call, Alysandre," Marianne said quietly, her dark eyes glittering.

Alysandre, finding that she could no longer hold the other woman's gaze, took a deep breath. "If I have offended..."

"Oh, stop that."

Marianne stepped closer and Alysandre experienced once again the sheer sensual power of the woman. Raised in the Imperial Citadel as a young girl and having risen through the ranks of the Esoteric Legions in extraordinarily quick manner, Marianne Willenstein radiated confidence and authority from every pore of her beautifully perfumed skin. Her irises, as were those of so many farseers, were black and virtually indistinguishable from her pupils, forming a vivid contrast to the pure whiteness that surrounded them. Her hair, kept from her face by a simple golden band, was a deep rich brown and fell in waves down to the small of her back. Clothed in a simply cut gown of finest Sarvolian silk, dyed a vibrant turquoise and its plunging neckline revealing flushed chest and neck, her height and full figure were majestic, imposing, intimidating. And so it had been in her first year in the Citadel when she had caught Marianne's eye and the farseer had, with skill, flattery and the sheer force of her personality, seduced her and taken her to her bed.

And oh, how easily she had done so...

The woman leaned in and caught her by the chin, searching her face. Alysandre injected as much defiance as she could into her answering glare but it was not, she thought, ever going to be enough. The Farseer's mouth broke into a grin.

"A little fire suits you, my little one..."

"Not yours..." But her voice was a hoarse whisper and Marianne was smiling, her fingers lightly stroking her cheek.

"

Always

mine." She kissed her then, the briefest of brushes of her lips against her cheek and Alysandre almost whimpered. Things were too raw; Marianne's touch was far too delicate. The desire to fall against her, to wrap her arms around her, to thrust her body against hers, was almost too great to master. Her skin sang at the older woman's touch. Her scent - sharp, spiced, and thick with the smells of sex - was intoxicating. She licked her lips involuntarily. A part of her was ashamed by the gesture, but she couldn't help it. Marianne was right. She would always be hers.

The Farseer straightened and her voice became clear, commanding, impersonal.

"Transfer of duty at the ninth hour. I, Farseer Marianne Willenstein, commend the future of the Empire to your care. In the name of Ersabet, Empress of Man and first to bear her name." Her dark eyes glittered again. "Good luck, Alysandre."

There was an answering response, a form of words that had been devised by farseers centuries ago to indicate the willingness of the incoming seer to assume the responsibility being handed to her, but Alysandre could not bring herself to say it. She bowed her head again and moved past Marianne, her servants, who had maintained a respectful silence and determinedly blank expressions throughout the exchange between the two magicians, following her quietly.

Marianne left, not bothering to wait for the dark-skinned woman who hurried after her, shooting Alysandre a glance that might have been sympathetic or perhaps merely curious. The portal shimmered back into existence at her passing and the room was sealed once more.

"Fucking

bitch

!"

Alysandre kicked a hapless cushion out of her way and flopped down onto a low, richly-upholstered chaise longue that was set against one of the nearer walls. She was not yet ready to assume her position on the couch at the centre of the room. She had been a fool to think she could do this without some kind of cost. She buried her head in her hands for a few seconds, struggling to compose herself. Three months it had been. Three months. And Marianne could still play her like a gods-damned harp!

She was a lady of the Imperial Court, dammit, not some starry-eyed country girl plucked from rural obscurity to serve at Her Excellency's behest! If only she hadn't met the Farseer at the ball; if only she hadn't been so ludicrously, pathetically susceptible to the older woman's flattery...

Ah, who was she trying to fool? Even now she could feel the touch of Marianne's lips against hers, as if the heat of their passion had somehow seared the sensation into her flesh. She would willingly drown in her embrace over and over and over again...

A discreet cough interrupted her train of thought and she glanced up. Almost hidden in the shadows in a far corner of the chamber, an imperial scribe, her mousy hair cut in a fashionable bob, sat at a desk, smiling tightly at her.

Alysandre coloured and shot a glance at Charlotte. The maidservant, embarrassed, twitched her freckled nose and gave a small half-shrug. Next to her, N'Gano stared ahead impassively, giving no sign that he was inclined to do anything at all without Alysandre's express direction.

Standing up quickly and pushing all thoughts of Marianne to the back of her mind, Alysandre cleared her throat. "Could I review the seers' log for the last few sessions, scribe?"

The scribe bowed her head. "Of course, my lady." She looked young, perhaps in her early twenties but no older. Alysandre was relieved. Some of the Seers' Watch scribes reminded her a little too much of the tutors and governesses she had endured as a child. She watched the scribe get up and cross over to a lacquered sandalwood cabinet, from which she withdrew an armful of tightly rolled scrolls. She placed them on a small table within arm's reach of Alysandre and bowed respectfully.

"I have been here since the sixth hour; I am due to be relieved at the second bell." She smiled uncertainly, hesitantly. "I serve at my Lady's pleasure till then."

Alysandre studied her for a moment. The scribe possessed green eyes and a propensity for glancing shyly out of them from underneath her fringe. She was pretty enough, she supposed.

"What is your name?"

"Emilia, my Lady. Emilia von Kleist."

Alysandre's gaze narrowed.

"I knew an Amaretta von Kleist," she said slowly. "A mage-warden at the Imperial College. Sister?"

The scribe blushed, surprised and evidently pleased by the recognition. Gods, but she

was

pretty!

"Cousin, my Lady. On my mother's side..."

The encounter with Marianne fading from her mind, Alysandre felt herself begin to relax. While this may have been her first duty watch as an Imperial seer, she had spent six months training in Ardonne, one of the eastern provinces. And her apprenticeship had not been dull either. She had Seen a number of raids in the region - both from the swamp orcs that blighted the fringes of Imperial land and from various groups of malcontents who had, for a variety of reasons, turned to banditry and used the depths of the Imperial forests as staging points for their operations. She had also foreseen the stirring of Yxtilien, the undead elf-dragon who currently slumbered under the wastelands of the Farther Marches but whose awakening at some point in the next sixty to a hundred years would present the Empire with some significant challenges. Her prognostication had been confirmed by no less august a body than the Council of War Mages itself. As unpleasant as the experience had been, those twenty-two seconds of sorcerous vision were, at present, the highlight of her career, and they had guaranteed her acceptance into the ranks of the Seers' Watch. She reminded herself that she was here because she deserved to be. There was no reason why she shouldn't enjoy herself. Enjoying herself was, after all, part of the job.

She patted an empty spot on the chaise longue. "Sit with me, Emilia."

Briefly, it appeared that Emilia was going to object, but instead she smiled her tight little smile and did as she was told. Alysandre glanced across at Charlotte and N'Gano. The barest hint of knowing amusement flickered in the manservant's eyes.

"You two make yourselves comfortable. We'll probably need to raise the orgone potential in here at some point. I'll let you know when."

The two servants nodded their understanding and seated themselves in broad armchairs near the large couch at the centre of the chamber. Charlotte sat with her legs tucked up under her, muttering one of the more basic strengthening charms under her breath. For his part, N'Gano simply closed his eyes and leant his head back, a picture of confident relaxation. Alysandre smiled to herself. In different ways, the bodies of both servants were finely tuned instruments of pleasure. They would, she had already determined, see use tonight. She returned her attention to the scribe.

"Which one would you prefer, Emilia?" she said quietly, leaning towards the young woman as if taking her into her confidence.

"I... I'm not..."

"Come now, Emilia," said Alysandre, eyes gleaming. "I know we've only just met, but you can tell me." The scribe was blushing, refusing to meet her gaze. Alysandre smiled. She remembered her own reaction on first seeing Marianne performing her duties with her maidservant. She hadn't known where to look. After a few minutes, she hadn't been able to look away. She reached out a delicate hand and gently smoothed the girl's fringe away from her eyes. "They're both magnificent in their own way." At this, Charlotte glanced over to her, her eyebrow half-raised; N'Gano remained perfectly still, a magnificent statue of muscle, flesh and dark, oiled skin. He gave no indication whatsoever that he knew he was the subject of the two young women's discussion.

Emilia ducked her head down. Or tried to. Alysandre had gripped her chin gently and now prevented her from hiding her gaze beneath that damnable fringe. For her part, the scribe blushed fiercely but submitted to the young seer's intervention; she had no choice but to do so.

"You have beautiful eyes, Emilia," Alysandre said softly. "Use them now to look upon my servants."

Over on her seat, Charlotte stared at the scribe provocatively. Her blonde hair, wavy and unruly, had been tied back leaving only a few locks to fall either side of her heart-shaped face. Alysandre smiled at her affectionately. Her full lips were every bit as soft as they looked; her slender neck and arms every bit as sensuous. Her skills in the art of pleasure-giving were highly developed and she had scored well in the most recent round of erotomantic testing. Still holding the scribe's gaze, she parted her lips slightly and took a series of deep, heavy breaths.

"I... I..."

Amused by the scribe's flustered behaviour, Alysandre let her hand fall again. "Perhaps Farseer Willenstein did not need to engage in intimacies with her staff tonight..."

"She... she did, my Lady." More blushing. Bless her, the poor woman was trembling. "I stayed at my station as required and..."

"It is not required," said Alysandre firmly. "Well, not under all but the most unusual of circumstances. I take it there were no such circumstances?"

"No, my lady. The prognostications were minor and the etherium was not unduly disturbed." The scribe was more confident when discussing her duties. She gestured to the scrolls on the nearby table. "Much of these reports concern trivial matters. It has been..."

"Dull?"

"I was going to say quiet, my lady."

Alysandre stroked Emilia's cheek with her forefinger. "We shall have to liven things up, then." The scribe swallowed uncertainly, but there was a flash of eagerness in her eyes and her hands, which had, until that moment, been folded primly in her lap, briefly clutched at one another.

"Charlotte..."

"My lady?" There was a slightly husky quality to the maidservant's voice.

"Conduct a preliminary reading, if you would."

Charlotte smiled wolfishly. Rather indelicately she lifted the hem of her dress and drew it back, revealing pale slender calves and toned thighs. She wore no undergarments and even from her position next to the scribe, Alysandre saw her pink slit and the contours of swollen flesh around it. From experience, Alysandre knew that Charlotte's fingers were thin but strong; the maidservant used these to rub herself slowly. After a few moments, she sank back into the chair and opened her legs wider. Tilting her head back, she rested it against the chair behind her and closed her eyes. Her fingers began to move more rhythmically, more forcefully.

Alysandre smiled. Next to her, the scribe was transfixed by what she was seeing. Alysandre suspected that she hadn't ventured beyond her desk when other seers had occupied the chamber. But then, other seers were not often quite as indiscreet as Charlotte was being now.

A slim finger had entered Charlotte's cunt and her breathing was heavier, a rosy flush beginning to bloom on the exposed skin of her chest. Emilia's breathing had become more pronounced too and had more or less synchronised itself with Charlotte's gasps. Alysandre covered the scribe's small hands with one of her own, squeezing them encouragingly.

"My maidservant is versed in all the arts of self-pleasure, Emilia," she said softly. "Perhaps I could ask her to show one or two of them to you..."

It took the scribe a long moment to respond to Alysandre's suggestion. She turned back to her, face flushed with embarrassment.

"Yes... I mean... if that would..." She paused, taking a deep breath to recover herself. "I would be honoured."

Alysandre laughed, stroking the back of the scribe's hand affectionately. "Oh, you will be more than 'honoured', my dear Emilia. Of that I can assure you."

A gasp from Charlotte diverted their attention once more and Alysandre's eyes narrowed, her gaze becoming more searching. N'Gano's eyes snapped open and the southerner leaned forward, suddenly alert and focused.

"Contact... I... float..."

Charlotte's words were murmured, but they all heard them distinctly. The acoustics of the room, enhanced by subtle wards and charms, were excellent.

"The etherium... is..."

The maidservant's eyes opened, then widened. Her voice became deeper, richer, harsher.

"...

alive

."

Leaving the scribe behind in confused silence, Alysandre darted across the room to her maidservant, the beginnings of a cold panic stirring in her gut. N'Gano had done much the same thing, his normally tranquil gaze clouded with concern. He reached Charlotte first, was first to touch her, a tender stroking of her shoulder.

Charlotte turned to him in response. Her eyes refused to focus on him; they were looking at something else. Something that was not in the chamber with them but, Alysandre suspected, floated in the etherium, the psycho-spiritual netherworld from which most mages drew their power. Charlotte reached for N'Gano clumsily.

"Ground me. Tether me. Quickly."

N'Gano half-turned to Alysandre and the seer nodded tersely. "Do it."

Staring pensively, Alysandre watched as her manservant slipped out of his loose robes, leaving them in a dishevelled heap on the floor. He was already semi-erect and his penis, thick and dark, hardened further as he bent over Charlotte, gently easing aside the fabric covering her breasts with a large, powerful hand. Charlotte's breasts were proud swellings, topped by delicate pink buds; N'Gano's hand covered them easily, first her right and then her left. Charlotte gasped.

"The void calls... the endless dark... the skies split... a shadow on the land... the hunger..."

Alysandre turned back to the scribe. "Get to your desk now," she snapped.

Despite her wide, staring eyes, Charlotte clearly wasn't seeing the chamber. Her right arm was outstretched, hand questing to grip... something. Her left sought N'Gano's arm, found it, held it tightly. Her voice quivered with a desperate pleading.

"Tether me."

The servant kissed Charlotte gently on the lips.

"As you command, my love," he murmured. Without any further preamble, N'Gano positioned himself at the entrance to Charlotte's body. Her slit glistened briefly, before his shadow fell across it. His cock was fully hard now, veined and dark, as if carved from mahogany. With a slow, persistent motion, he guided it into the moist, inviting folds of Charlotte's cunt.

There were no sparks. There was, however, a tension in the air that was unmistakeably centred on the two lovers, an expectation, an awareness of intimacy, an anticipation of pleasure. The etherium responded to desire and loss and sorrow and rage and a host of other intense emotions. It was stimulated by these feelings; it lapped them up like a thirsty dog when they spilled out of the human vessels that carried them. And in return it gave power: visions of the future; pillars of fire, and savage bolts of lightning; creatures of air and fury, of stoic stone and malleable water; prophecies and thunder; glamour and wonder.