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"Layla, speak unto me." She wanted to reach out but you were not permitted to do so and she did not want to add to the upset. Instead of touch, she used gentle words and tone. "My sister, I would ease you. Please talk to me. Please."
The Chosen's blond head went back and forth, her ruined chignon falling further apart. "I failed."
"How?"
"I... failed. This night I failed to please. I was turned away."
"From what?"
"The male whose transition I saw through. He was ready to mate, and I touched him and he lost his impulse." Layla's breath went in on a sob. "And I... I shall have to report unto the king what transpired, as is tradition. I should have done so before I left, but I was so horrified. How will I tell His Majesty? And the Directrix?" Her head dropped down again, as if she hadn't the will to hold it up, "I was trained by the great ones to please. And I failed us all."
Cormia took a chance and laid her hand on Layla's shoulder, thinking it was always thus. The burden of the whole Chosen fell upon each sole female when she acted in an official capacity. There was, therefore, no private and personal disgrace, only the great weight of monumental failure.
"My sister - "
"I shall go into reflection after I speak to the king and the Directrix."
Oh, no... Reflection was seven cycles of no food, no light, no contact with others, meant for atonement of infractions of the highest order. The worst of it, or so Cormia had heard, was the lack of illumination, as Chosen craved light.
"Sister, are you sure he did not desire you?"
"Males' bodies lie not in that regard. Merciful Virgin... perhaps it is for the best. I may well have not pleased him." Pale green eyes shifted over. "It is well and good I was not your instructor. I am trained in theory, not practice, so I could have imparted no visceral knowledge unto you."
"I would rather have had you."
"Then you are unwise." The Chosen's face abruptly grew old. Ancient. "And I have learned my lesson. I shall take myself out of the pool of ehros, as I am clearly incapable of upholding their sensual tradition."
Cormia didn't like the dead shadows in Layla's eyes. "Perhaps it was he who was at fault?"
"There is no issue of fault on his side. He was not pleased by me. My burden, not his." She wiped a tear away. "I shall say unto you, there is no failure such as the sexual one. Nothing cuts so deep as the denial of your nakedness and your instinct for communion by one you would wish to mate... To be shunned in your skin is the worst sort of refusal. So I should leave the ehros, not just for their fine tradition, but for me. I would not go through this again. Ever. Now please go, and say nothing. I must collect myself."
Cormia wanted to stay, but arguing didn't seem right. She stood and removed her outer robe, draping it around her sister.
Layla looked up in surprise. "Verily, I am not cold."
This was said as she drew the cloth tight to her neck.
"Fare thee well, my sister." Cormia turned and walked up past the reflecting pool.
As she looked up at the milky blue sky she wanted to scream.
Vishous rolled off Jane's body and positioned her so she was tucked into his chest. He liked her up close on his left side, with his fighting hand free to kill for her. Lying here now, he'd never felt more focused, never had his life's purpose so clear: His one and only priority was keeping her alive and healthy and safe, and the strength with which he held that directive made him feel whole.
He was who he was because of her.
In the short time they'd known each other, Jane had barged into that secret chamber in his chest, shoved Butch out of the way, and slammed herself in good and tight. And it felt right. The fit felt right.
She made a little murmuring noise and wheedled her way in even closer to him. As he stroked her back, he found himself thinking, for no good reason, about the first fight he'd had, a face-off that was closely followed by the first time he'd had sex.
In the war camp, males just through their transitions were given a limited amount of time to find their strength. And yet as Vishous's father stood before him and pronounced that he was to fight, V was surprised. Surely he should have had a day to recover.
The Bloodletter smiled, showing fangs that were always distended. "And you shall pair off with Grodht."
The soldier V had stolen the deer leg from. The fat one whose prowess was of the hammer.
With exhaustion weighing upon him, and his pride all that kept him on his feet, V proceeded over to the fighting ring that was set back from where the soldiers slept. The ring was an uneven circular sinkhole in the cave's floor, like a giant had pounded its fist into the earth out of frustration. Waist deep, with its sides and bottom dark brown from blood having been spilled, you were expected to fight until you couldn't stand. No conduct was barred, and the only rule pertained to the loser and what he had to present himself for to address his deficiency in combat.
Vishous knew he wasn't ready to fight. Virgin in the Fade, he could barely get down into the ring without falling over. But then, that was the purpose in this, was it not? His father had engineered the perfect power maneuver. There was only one way V could hope to win, and if he used his hand, the whole camp would see for themselves what they had only heard in rumor and shun him completely. And if he lost? Then he would not be perceived as any threat to his father's dominion. So either way the Bloodletter's supremacy would remain intact and unchallenged by his son's new maturity.
As the fat soldier jumped in with a lusty shout and the swing of a hammer, the Bloodletter loomed at the lip of the ring. "What weapon shall I give my son?" he asked the assembled crowd. "I think perhaps..." He looked over at one of the kitchen females, who was leaning on a broom. "Give me."
The female fumbled to comply and dropped the thing at the Bloodletter's feet. As she bent over to pick it up, he kicked her aside as one would a tree branch that was in one's path. "Take this, my son. And pray to the Virgin it is not what is used in you when you lose."
As the throng of witnesses laughed, V caught the wooden handle.
"Engage!" the Bloodletter barked.
The crowd cheered, and someone threw the dregs of their ale at Vishous, the warm splash hitting his bare back and dripping down his naked arse. The fat soldier opposite him smiled, revealing fangs that had extended out of his upper jaw. As the male began to circle V, the hammer swung on the end of its chain, a low whistle rising up.
V was clumsy while he tracked his opponent, finding it difficult to control his legs. He focused primarily on the male's right shoulder, the one that would tense before the hammer was thrown out, while with his peripheral vision he kept track of the crowd. Mead would be the least of what they might pitch at him.
It turned out not to be as much a fight as a dodging contest, with V on the shoddy defensive and his opponent all showy aggression. Whilst the soldier displayed his proficiency with his weapon of note, V learned the predictability of the male's actions as well as the hammer's rhythm. Even as strong as the soldier was, he had to brace his feet square before the hammer's head-sized spiked ball was sent forward, V waited for one of the pauses in action and then struck, flipping the broom around and jamming the handle directly into the bulbous soldier's groin.
The male roared, lost hold of the hammer, and clapped his knees together, cupping himself. V didn't waste a moment. He lifted the broom over his shoulder and swung with his full reach, catching his opponent in the temple and knocking him senseless.
The cheering dried up until all there was was the fire's crackling chatter and the sound of V's ragged breathing. He dropped the broom and stepped over his opponent, ready to get out.
His father's boots planted on the lip of the circle, blocking his way.
The Bloodletter's eyes were narrow as blades. "You haven't finished."
"He shall not rise."
"Not the point." The Bloodletter nodded to the soldier on the floor. "Finish him."
As his opponent moaned, Vishous assessed his father. If V said no, the game his father was playing would be fulfilled, the alienation the Bloodletter was after complete, though not in the way the male had probably expected: V would become a target for the simple staple that he would be perceived as weak for not punishing his opponent. If he finished, however, his position in the camp would be as stable as it could be - until the next test.
