Shades of the Wind (10 page)

“Have you informed Lord Bahru the evening meal is being served?” Catherine

asked.

“He is with the master. If the master allows the taricheutes to eat, it will be a small

portion to be taken as they work,” Nyria said, her eyes gleaming with malice. “Lord

Bahru will learn to make the master angry is to suffer the consequences. He will be less

inclined to do so after this night.”

Although Catherine couldn’t seem to dredge up even a modicum of sympathy for

Bahru, she was uneasy that he had made an enemy of the prince so early on in their

acquaintance. Bahru had told her the support of his patron would be needed if he was

to make a success of his career with the Guild and obtain the assignment in Abaddon—

wherever that was—that he so coveted.

“Two years in the wretched hell of Diabolusia and I will have earned the right to go

to Abaddon,” Bahru had told her on their first night aboard the ship. “I will put up with

anything for that plum assignment.” He had raked his small black eyes over her.

“Anything.”

That her fiancé despised her had been a shock to Catherine and she had asked why

he had asked for her hand if that was not what he wanted.

Bahru had sneered at her. “It is not you I want but what you represent,” he had

snapped. “I can not have one without being forced to take the other.”

Climbing the stairs to her room after a delicious meal of roast chicken, new potatoes

swimming in a fragrant butter sauce, green beans sautéed with slivers of almonds and a

heady wine that relaxed her though she drank only the one glass, Catherine thought

again of the disdain Bahru aimed at her each time they were in the same room together.

Such an attitude did not bode well for their future together.

A future she was finding less and less palatable as the days passed.

* * * * *

Bahru’s stomach was growling. All he’d had to consume was stale bread and water

that had tasted brackish. He had complained to Nyria that he was sure he would come

down with some vile tropical fever—or a strange ailment of the intestines—for having

drank the sulfur-tasting stuff. With a mulish expression on his thin face, he was

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Shades of the Wind

following the housekeeper’s instructions and was now approaching the stairway that

led down to Prince Khenty’s workshops. His black eyes were narrowed in anger and his

hands clenched and unclenched at his sides as he flung open the stairwell door and

started down the curving stone steps to the bowels of Anubeion for he had taken in the

delicious odors coming from the dining room.

Flickering rushes placed along the old stone wall lit the way down the serpentine

stairs. The smell of resin wafted through the air and the atmosphere grew cooler the

lower the taricheutes descended. The cuffs of his white trousers dragged over the wet

stone and in places the steps were so slick he had to reach out to grasp the iron railing

stapled to the wall.

In the distance came the sound of water lapping against an unseen shore and the

tang of salt filled the air. Now and again low moans would echo against the stone and

piercing shrieks—far off and sounding hopeless, terrified—would reach the taricheutes’

ears. With each new sound, the taricheutes would shiver and dig his fingernails into the

creases of his hands. Such woeful sounds were part and parcel of his profession.

Darkness loomed up at the bottom of the stone steps and Bahru was careful to

stretch his foot forward to feel for the level ground ahead of him. He stepped cautiously

around a massive stone jutting up before him for the faint glimmer of light flickered

beyond.

The closer the taricheutes came to the light, the colder the air became. He was

shivering by the time he reached a small room with a low ceiling in which several

people sat on gilded chairs.

“You took your time in joining us.”

Prince Khenty’s voice was pitched low and threaded through with annoyance.

“I would have been here sooner, Your Grace, but—”

“Sehkmem, rise and come to me,” Khenty cut him off.

A young man got up from one of the chairs and came forward. His eyes were dull,

his face expressionless and the loincloth he wore barely covered his thin hips. Barefoot,

he made no sound as he walked to the prince.

Khenty took the young man in his arms and lifted him, carrying him easily into The

Pure Place to a long stone table that stood in the center of the next room. Placing his

burden on the cold slab, the prince put his hand over the young man’s face. “Thy brow

is under the protection of Anubis, and thy head and face, O beautiful one, are before the

holy Hawk. The Great God looketh upon thee and he leadeth thee along the path of

happiness. Sepulchral meals are bestowed upon thee, and he overthroweth for thee

thine enemies, setting them under thy feet in the presence of the Great Company of the

Gods who dwell in the House of the Great Aged One which is in Anu.”

A slow exhalation of breath issued from the young man’s mouth and his eyes

closed slowly. He lay perfectly still, death gathering him to Her bosom in the blink of an

eye.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Black as the night, a large man came from the shadows, startling Bahru. In the

giant’s hand was an obsidian knife, the gilded hilt all but hidden in the massive palm.

“Prepare his body with care and gentleness, paraschistes,” Khenty said quietly, and

stood back, his arms crossed over his bare chest. “Taricheutes, begin your

preparations.”

Bahru bowed low and set about taking off his white trousers and kameez until he

was bare of all save the white linen kilt that covered his hips. The paunch of his belly

extended over the waistband of the kilt and jiggled as he turned to take the instruments

of his trade down from shelves ranged along the stone walls.

Khenty looked with distaste upon the embalmer who had been sent to him from

Asaraba. Not only did the man’s protruding gut and spindly legs offend the prince,

Bahru’s adherence to the old ways of shaving away all his body hair emphasized the

taricheutes’ effeminate nature.

“Things have changed a great deal over the centuries, haven’t they, Your Grace?”

Bahru asked as he laid his instruments on a tray. “I must say I prefer the old rituals to

the new. My—”

“Perform your job in silence, taricheutes,” Khenty commanded. “Show respect for

the dead.”

Bahru clamped his lips shut but his eyes blazed with anger. He gave the impression

he was not accustomed to being spoken to in such a disrespectful manner and he keenly

resented it.

A slow, taunting smile stretched over Khenty’s finely chiseled lips. He had found

the taricheutes’ weakness and had every intention of pushing that weakness to its

limits.

Long into the evening Bahru worked at his ancestral trade, his brow dripping with

heat as he did the dual jobs of excising the internal organs from the dead then plunging

the bodies into heated baths of natron after having coated them first with bitumen. He

would often cast his eyes to the table upon which the man Hasani worked his elegant

magic—wrapping previously embalmed bodies in pristine strips of linen.

Prince Khenty kept watch over them both, never moving, never speaking, his gaze

missing nothing. The sight of the Lord of the Silent Land of the West standing with his

brawny arms crossed over his sweaty chest, his schenti—the white linen loincloth he

wore over his lean hips—fitting him without a wrinkle and accentuating the dark of his

muscular legs would have turned the head of any maiden and many a male—such as

Bahru.

Bahru jumped when the prince spoke at last, his soft words directed to Hasani.

“Will there be one whose mouth is to be opened and who is to walk the path this

night?” Khenty asked.

“No, milord,” Hasani replied. “Tomorrow there will be three. They have attained

their seventy days. I will stagger their departures for you.”

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Shades of the Wind

Khenty sighed deeply. “Is that your last traveler, taricheutes?” he asked Bahru.

“She is, Your Grace,” Bahru replied in a weary tone. He ran the back of his forearm

over his sweaty forehead, knocking his wig askew.

“When you are finished with her, help Hasani with his tasks. Learn from him. He is

a master of his craft.”

Bahru seemed too weary to do anything but nod his agreement. He was filling the

fourth canopic jar with the organ of his patient so did not look up as his master

departed the room.

Khenty knew it was well after midnight. He had missed his evening meal but was

consoled by the fact that the taricheutes had missed his as well. He pitied Hasani but

knew the coachytes—the binder—would find sustenance when his job was finished for

the day.

Tired, hungry and fighting a headache that throbbed at his temples, the prince

climbed the stairs slowly, the soles of his bare feet cool on the damp stone. All he

wanted was a thick slab of meat between two slices of buttered bread and a glass of iced

beer before taking his bath and climbing naked beneath the soft linen sheets of his bed.

Making his way to up through the twisting stairway beneath the main house, he was

looking forward to walking out into the night air on his way to the detached kitchen of

his home.

The air was cool against his bare chest as he left the safety of the back veranda and

ventured out into a light misting rain. It pebbled on his flesh and made him draw in a

long, satisfied breath. There was a soft light glowing in the kitchen and he knew Holly

would have provided for him in her quiet, understated way.

Five minutes later, the weary Lord of Anubeion left the kitchen with an icy glass of

beer from the storage bin in one hand and a thick sandwich in the other. He had to set

the glass of beer down on the kitchen’s veranda to close the door and when he turned

around, he looked up and saw Catherine standing at her window.

His heart thudded in his chest as he watched her. She was wearing a green silken

gown through which the lamplight behind her silhouetted her shapely body. Her

burgundy-colored hair was flowing freely about her shoulders and down her back,

hanging in ringlets over her lush breasts. Though he could not see her face, everything

else about her made his body harden with urgent need.

The beer forgotten, he tossed the sandwich aside and started into the house, his

palms itching to feel her flesh beneath them. The fangs that were slowly sprouting in his

mouth ached to taste her sweetness.

For just a split second Catherine gasped as the door to her bedchamber opened and

she saw the prince standing there. For just the blink of an eye she panicked at the sight

of the intruder’s bare chest and legs, but his enthrallment was cast over her and she

stilled, her eyes glazing as he strode toward her.

“My beauty,” he said, and took her into his arms, bringing her up against his hard

chest.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Deep in the trance in which he had placed her, Catherine made no move as he

molded his hands to her body—touching her in places that set her blood to boiling. She

did not protest as he divested her of the gown that hid her nakedness from him. She put

her arms obediently around his neck when he lifted her and took her to the bed.

It took him but a moment to step out of his kilt and join her on the mattress. He lay

atop her, aching to drive his shaft deep into her body, to pierce that little obstruction no

man save he had ever touched. His body was on fire with wanting her. His sac

throbbed, burned, ached, to possess her.

“My sweet Catherine,” he said as he writhed atop her, wanting so desperately to

feel every inch of her tender flesh.

He nudged her legs apart with his knees and settled his lower body between them.

His hands were on her lush breasts, his mouth at her navel as he rained kisses on the

soft mound of her belly. He slid farther down on the bed until he could enclose her clit

and suckle it, stabbing his tongue against that erect little nubbin.

Her hands came up and she buried them in his thick black hair, her fingernails

grazing his scalp. It spurred him on and he hooked his hands beneath her thighs and

lifted her so he could taste all of her. He lapped at her moist flesh, licked her from clit to

the rippled flesh of her anus, growling as she moaned at his invasion. He thrust his

tongue into her sheath then latched onto her love pearl once more.

He brought her to wave after wave of release until she was straining to get away

from his lips, his tongue, the finger he had insinuated into her ass to prolong and

intensify her climax. When she was drained, depleted, as surely sated as he could make

her, he flicked his tongue over her to taste the last ooze of her juices then slid up in the

bed once more, his fangs extended.

Before he left her, he gently put her gown back on her then bent over to place a soft

kiss upon her brow.

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Shades of the Wind

Chapter Six

Catherine opened her eyes as she became aware of the deep softness beneath her

head. She smiled dreamily and stretched, turning over to press her cheek to the cool