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Full status as a royal concubine.
I don’t want that. I can’t do this. I need to escape, need to run…
“When you were invited to come here, you passed a brief test of your talents, yes?” asks Venedict.
I wouldn’t describe this obligatory roundup of eligible brides as an “invitation.” But the women around me are nodding, so I nod as well—even though I wasn’t tested, I was simply hustled into the wagon and carted off.
“Excellent, excellent.” Venedict claps his hands. “We’ll show you to the bath, and then to your chambers. You’ll have breakfast in your rooms this morning, and beauty treatments this afternoon. Over the next several weeks you’ll complete various tests of your magic, so we can begin to gauge which among you is the most powerful. And starting tonight, the King will be summoning one of you each evening for a night of pleasure you won’t soon forget!” His smile broadens, tightening his cheeks and deepening the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “Come along, everyone! Several ladies from Coppton, Morburg, and Donelow are already inside, and more will be arriving today and tomorrow, from other towns. What a merry crowd we will be!”
We follow him toward the great pillared entrance of the House of Bounty. Some of the women seem encouraged by the idea of private rooms, baths, and beauty treatments. I’m primarily interested in breakfast, and I’m also craving time on my own, a little silence and solitude so I can come to terms with my situation.
If I confess my lack of magic, I’ll be taken to the King for judgment, which means I’ll be sentenced to death or sent back to the House to await my turn in the King’s bed. And I’ll lose all chance at gaining favor with His Majesty or anyone else.
If I don’t speak up, my status as a concubine won’t change… but at least I won’t draw the King’s anger upon myself right away. I doubt I’ll be the first person whose magic they test, which means I’ll have time, maybe even a few days, during which I can try to find a way out of this mess.
For now, I need to keep my mouth shut and my head down, and avoid drawing attention to myself.
4
There’s an old Elvish practice, frowned upon in these enlightened times… but it serves me well when I want to go somewhere I’m not supposed to be.
First, find a person who can get into the place you need to go, ideally a servant or a guard, someone with nondescript clothing or a uniform. In my case, that person is Rupert Diggs, a servant for the House of Bounty. He’s about my height, and we have a similar build—tall, broad, thick with muscle. The livery should fit well enough.
Second, waylay that person in some isolated place. In this case, my friend Rupert is out making some purchases from a grocer’s shop near the palace—a fancy, overpriced sort of place where the goods come wrapped in thick, shiny paper and stamped with the grocer’s seal. I reach out from the alley and yank him into the shadows, clamping one hand quickly over his mouth so he can’t scream.
Third… the unfortunate part. I have to take a bit of his flesh for the spell. I choose the tip of the smallest toe on his left foot. He shouldn’t mind, really. It’s not as if he needs it. I place him under a brief immobilization curse while I remove his boot and slice off the bit of toe, which I seal into a tiny jar and set aside for the moment. A little healing salve halts the bleeding, and I bandage him up nicely. Really, he should be grateful.
Next comes another unfortunate part, in which I must strip the poor bastard naked and tuck him into a wooden box, overlaid with a stasis charm. The charm will last until I remove it, keeping him dormant yet alive, and concealing both the box and his body from view at the end of the alley.
“I’ll be back for you tomorrow,” I assure him as I close the box. He can’t hear me, of course—he’s already deep in the most restful sleep of his life, poor bastard. I’m doing him a favor, taking over his job and giving him this time off. The stasis charm could potentially last for weeks, but I shouldn’t need more than a night and a day at most.
I remove the lid of the jar and complete the spell, adding a blob of my spit and a few grains of embersalt. While resealing the jar, I speak an Elvish limerick about mistaken identity, and there we have it. Charm complete.
Anyone who knew Rupert Diggs will be convinced I’m him when they encounter me, as the spell adjusts their perception of my face and voice to match their memory of him. Anyone who hasn’t met Rupert will perceive me exactly as I am—brown hair, a winning smile, ruggedly handsome features—but they won’t notice the unnatural glow of my blue eyes or the sharp tips of my ears, unless I allow it.
Elves lack the body hair humans possess, and they cannot tattoo their flesh—but as a man of both human and Elvish descent, I have facial hair and body hair, as well as several tattoos. Those human traits have served me well in the past when someone began to question my ancestry. Unfortunately, my blended heritage also means I heal more slowly than most of the Kin, though still quicker than humans—and my reserves of magical energy aren’t quite as deep.
As I suspected, Rupert Diggs’ livery is a good fit, comprised of a bright yellow tunic, a leather vest, and dark pants. Male servants and guards of the concubines’ House all wear yellow, marking them as eunuchs—castrated so they don’t dip their dicks into the royal whores. It’s a good disguise—one that conceals my true lascivious purpose.
I tuck the tiny flesh-charm jar into an inner pocket of the vest. I’ll need to keep it on me or near me at all times, lest the charm break. Into the same pocket I slide the small, palm-sized notebook I found in Juliette’s basket. I haven’t had a chance to read it yet. My first priority is getting inside the House of Bounty, then finding out where Juliette is, and then fucking her soundly. Once she’s drenched in my scent, full of my cum, I’ll be able to let this go. I’ll be able to walk out of this city and never think of her again.
Or… maybe I’ll get her to bake me another batch of muffins before I leave. To do that, she’ll need access to a kitchen, which might be difficult to achieve if her movements are restricted. I’m not even sure where the kitchens are located in that immense House; but the flesh charm I’ve forged has another advantage—one I’ve promised myself I won’t use except when absolutely necessary. If I need to, I can tap into Rupert’s mind and access pieces of information, like the layout of the House or essential protocol for the guards and servants. But the more often I access Rupert’s mind, the thinner the veil of his sleep will grow, which means he could regain consciousness and escape from the box. I’ll have to be cautious.
Even if all my spellwork fails, I still have Elvish magic at my disposal to get me out of trouble. But like any other kind of work, magic requires energy, so I prefer to save my most powerful magic for moments when I desperately need it.
My stomach growls loudly as I finish fastening my borrowed vest. I’ve spent a lot of magical energy in the past hour, and since I’m half-human, that energy loss shows itself in a savage, gnawing hunger. The more magic I do, the greater the effect on my body, with hunger transforming weakness, fever, sweating, and an exhaustion that resembles a drunken stupor.
Lucky for me, my friend Rupert’s groceries lie scattered over the cobblestones, including his coin-purse. I pick up the packages and the purse, tuck them back into the tote he was carrying, and saunter out of the alley, whistling.
I’ve been in the royal city of Giltos all day, ever since I trailed the brides’ wagon to a side gate of the palace compound. By lurking and loitering, and by questioning a few folk who live nearby, I’ve learned that the concubines never leave the House and its grounds, save for an occasional trip to the palace to serve the King. The House guards and servants come and go regularly, though. The guards have their own barracks, while servants like Rupert reside in a separate wing of the House and are allowed to cook their own meals in the House kitchen. I’ll have to figure out where that kitchen is and whether there’s a schedule for its use.
As I walk, I rummage through the packages, choosing one at random. It contains a tin of nuts, which I begin munching as I stride toward the southwest gate of the palace. It’s heavily guarded, but as Rupert Diggs, I’m known to the guards. They should let me through without question.
The nuts are decent, but I find myself longing for something more satisfying.
I must remember my priorities. Fuck Juliette first. Then get her to bake for me.
My stomach rumbles in protest. Fine… perhaps not in that order, after all.
