Lover Unbound(154)

Wrath walked up to the edge of the stage and knelt down. "Your grace."

"You have something to ask me. Do it now, provided you phrase it correctly."

"If it would not offend, I would ask to have Phury subject to the same arrangement Vishous was provided with in regard to fighting. We are in need of warriors."

"I am inclined to grant this leave for the time being. He shall live over there—"

Phury cut in with a solid, "No." As everyone jerked around toward him, he said, "I will stay here. I will fight, but I will stay here." He tossed in a little bow to make up for his rudeness. "If it would not offend."

Zsadist's mouth opened, a whole lot of what-the-fuck-are-you-thinking on his scared face—but the Scribe Virgin's short laugh shut him up. "So be it. The Chosen would prefer that, as would I. Now rise, Wrath, son of Wrath, and let us commence."

As the king stood to his full height, the Scribe Virgin lifted her hooded robe. "Phury, son of Ahgony, I would ask you to accept the role of Primale. Do you consent?"

"I do."

"Come forth upon the dais and kneel before me."

He didn't feel his feet as he walked over and ascended a short set of stairs, didn't feel the marble on his knees as he went down in front of the Scribe Virgin. When her hand landed on his head, he didn't tremble, didn't think, didn't blink. He felt as though he were in the passenger seat of a car, subject to the driver's whims as to speed and destination. Giving in was just expedient.

Odd, because he had chosen this, hadn't he. He had volunteered.

Yeah, but God only knew where the decision would take him.

The words the Scribe Virgin spoke over his bent form had echoes of the Old Language, but he couldn't follow all that she was saying.

"Rise and lift thine eyes," the Scribe Virgin pronounced at the end. "Be presented with your mates, over whom you have mastery, their bodies yours to both command and serve."

As he stood, he saw that the curtain had opened and that all of the Chosen were lined up, their robes blood-red, glowing like rubies amidst all the white. As one, they bowed to him.

Holy shit… He'd gone and done it.#p#分页标题#e#

All of a sudden Z leaped up on stage and grabbed his arm. What the—Oh, right. He was listing to the side. Probably would have keeled over. And wouldn't that have looked bad.

The Scribe Virgin's voice echoed, rebounding with her power. "And so it is done." Her ghostly hand lifted, and she pointed to a temple up on the hill. "Proceed now to the chamber and take the first among the whole, as a male does."

Zsadist's hand bit into his arm. "Christ… my brother—"

"Stop it," Phury hissed. "It's going to be fine."

He disengaged from his twin, bowed to the Scribe Virgin and Wrath, then wobbled down the stairs and began the walk up the hill. The grass was soft beneath his feet, and the odd, ambient light of the Other Side surrounding him. He wasn't soothed by either. He could feel the eyes of the Chosen on his back, and their hunger made him go cold even through his red-smoke haze.

The temple on top of the hill had Roman lines, with white columns and a loft to its height. On its grand double doors there were two gold knots for knobs. He turned the right one, pushed, and went inside.

His body instantly hardened from the scent in the air, the heady mix of jasmine and sweet, smoky incense enticing him, sexing him up. As it was supposed to. Up ahead there was a white curtain hanging, and fulminating illumination bled through the fold, the flickering glow coming from what must be hundreds of candles.

He pulled the curtain aside. And recoiled, losing some of his erection.

The Chosen he was to mate with was stretched out on a marble platform with a bedding cushion on it, a curtain falling from the ceiling and pooling at her throat, obstructing her face from view. Her legs were spread and tied down with white satin ribbons, her arms the same. A gossamer-thin sheath covered her naked body.

The basis of the ritual was self-evident. She was the sacrificial vessel, an anonymous representative of the others. He was the holder of the wine, the one who would fill her body. And though it was absolutely unforgivable of him, for a split second all he could think of was taking her.

Mine, he thought. By law and custom and all that was manifest, she was his, as much as his daggers were, as much as the hair growing out of his head was. And he wanted to get inside of her. Wanted to come inside of her.

Except that wasn't going to happen. The decent part of him overrode his instincts, just plowed them down: She was utterly terrified, crying quietly, as if she were trying to hide the sound by biting her lip, shaking such that her limbs were horrid metronomes of fear.