Date: Fri, 3 Jan 2014 23:18:59 -0500
From: redpatience@Safe-mail.net
Subject: The Magpie and the Prince Part 6

BOOK TWO

In the role of the Mother Superior, Mu? (moo-eh), Sigourney Weaver
(complete with shaved head) In the role of Scarabeo, maybe Adrian Brody. If
you're into it. Or Leo Dicaprio. Whatever you want.  In the role of the
Dowager Duchess Ijbet Arcolia, Anjelica Huston

In the role of Elumu, Lee Dong Hoon
(http://lh6.ggpht.com/-r8LU4iMzazk/UaBNo2O-vdI/AAAAAAAAAKw/iSOpy8SLpLU/s640/tumblr_m2jnqydyo11r2yhb2o2_400.png)


XIII. The Spy

	At last, the five guardsmen had her. The five elite warriors who
found her in the palace study had fought her bare-handed wrath with sword
and spears shattering only to chase her through the corridors until they
cornered her and wrestled her to the ground, crushing the nun of the White
Palm under the mass of their iron-shingled armor and muscle. The heap of
sweating, straining men still cried for help as they reached for daggers to
cut the woman's tendons.  Before they could lay a knife to her, however,
she inhaled and shouted one syllable. The sound of it split all of their
eardrums, burst two men's eyes, and sent the dog pile hurtling through
space. Men went flying, breaking bones against stone walls and careening
down the corridor as if they had been gored by a raging bull. The mother
superior's palm struck the captain of the guard in the breastplate (which
saved him from breaking all of his ribs instead of just three) and hurled
him down the stairs. With a tremendous crash, he burst through the stained
glass rosette on the landing, shattering the white-Mongoose-on-a-field-of
Black that was the Arcolia family crest.

In the particolored zig-zag of shards that remained at the bottom of the
window, the family words stood untouched: "Death to All who Cross us."
	The Mother Superior, her mask torn off and her identity revealed to
her enemies, bounded down fourteen steps in two strides and leapt out the
broken window like a diver as fresh reinforcements stormed up the
stairwell. She had escaped, but her life would be marked forever more by
those six words that stood in the glass at their feet, the oath of that
ancient and hateful family of black magic and impossible wealth.

XIV. The Prison

	Elumu waited. He waited and waited, anxious but with growing
excitement. His fingers pressed into the wall above him, he tried to hang
as little weight as possible from the shackles that bound his wrists. His
captors kept him naked, chained to an iron wolf's head mounted ten feet
above and when he was practically hanging from the wolf's mouth like this,
then he knew it was time for his daily ordeal.
	He could move about freely for most of the time, wandering the vast
stone floors that were heated from below, taking the hearty meals that came
through the grate every day at the same time. He could remember nothing of
his life before this except hazy images of faces and streets, vague
memories of names, the light of the sun and moon. All he knew was that he
had two names; some part of him deep down knew his name was Elumu. Another
voice in his mind repeatedly insisted that his name was Irau. Irau, Irau,
Irau. All that he recalled with vividness about his past was that he must
never, ever displease a woman named Ijbet. Death to All who Cross us, he
remembered, the creed and legendary promise of the House Arcolia. He was
here for a reason--and that reason was to serve the Lady of that house. He
loathed her at first, but now he just begged the God of Debt that her
purpose would soon be fulfilled.
	 Most of the day, his chains reached around twenty meters long,
allowing him to move about as he pleased; however, once every day, or
sometimes twice, the wolf's head came alive. The iron beast's eyes glowed
red and it snapped up the slack that bound the boy until his near-white
nipples brushed the black stone wall beneath it and he stood almost on
tip-toe. Saliva from that beastly wall-fixture would drain from its mouth
and slicken the chains; this substance smelled of heady spices and had the
consistency whipped butter. Neither slippery nor greasy, it blended quickly
into the skin and have a warming, euphoric buzz. This stuff drained down
his wrists, trickled into his hairless armpits, fell in rivulets down his
chest and back and buttocks until it coated the boy's whole body in a sheen
of fragrant, glistening oil.
	At last his waiting was over. The door opened: a narrow tooth of
the stone slid into the floor. He could hear somebody entering. Elumu could
never find the seam of that door during his hours tracking out the
dimensions of his cell; the walls were obsidian-smooth. Yet every day, a
new man entered and followed the same procedure. They spoke all manner of
languages, and had nothing in common except their feverish body heat and
desperate desire to tap Elumu's bottom and spill their seed inside.
	This man cooed and flirted in his strange language; his voice was
gravely and masculine, seductive and terrible. Elumu trembled, gritting his
teeth, hoping this one was gentle.
	"Death to all who cross us," he thought. "I must please the Lady
Arcolia."
	The man's weighty hand closed around one of Elumu's perking cheeks,
slid a thumb into his crack and squeezed the fleshy mass with a groan of
lust. Elumu could rarely see their faces, but this man leaned in to kiss
the boy on the ear and cheek, and to stroke the auburn hair that fell to
the boy's neck. This man had strong, handsome features, a square jaw, a
broad clean-lined nose. He was very large. Over six feet tall, with skin
the color and texture of a black grape, he was strong, and yet capable of
incredible gentility. His mouth closed on the boy's neck and his teeth
softly pressed on his white throat, his hot tongue lapping at the oil
there. Elumu spread his legs as much as he could and strong fingers
massaged the thick pad of muscle between his bollocks and his anus. Another
two fingers tweaked his nipples and he cried out in alarm and false
protest.
	"Noo," he moaned, but they both knew it was an act. His curved
penis was already bobbing back and forth to smack his narrow thighs,
glistening liquid flying from it in strings.
	The man rubbed his bludgeon-sized member all over the boy's
buttocks and in between his pert cheeks, slickening it up in the grease
that now painted both of their sweating bodies. Sharp pain gripped him as
the man pressed his massive head against his anus; the boy yelped and did
his best to relax. He was used to being penetrated, but this was a caliber
beyond the usual. As the man sunk his spear deeper, he let out a huge sigh
of relief, as if Elumu was a balm on a stinging burn, and began gyrating
his hips to explore the tight depths of the boy's ass.
	Pressed against the warm stone of the wall, his shackled hands
gripping the chains and his muscular arms flexing to try to pull away from
that monstrous pestle tearing into his bowels, Elumu moaned and whimpered
in pain that was only very slowly becoming pleasure. The man bumped his
hips against the boy's round, bubbled ass, and began to saw earnestly in
and out of that tight chute as tears of overwhelming discomfort flowed down
the sides of Elumu's cheeks. It would change, soon. Everything
changes. This was his mantra. Slowly plunging his shaft in and out and the
boy's hole, Elumu's hard cock dwindled into softness as he grit his teeth
and struggled to pull himself up the wall.
	Finally, the man paused, his rod buried almost half way (an
impressive amount for anyone to make disappear) between those ivory
cheeks. The boy relaxed and breathed and felt his muscles loosening as the
man licked and breathed hot meaningless words into his ear. A minute or two
of this and Elumu was ready. Though still feeling as if he might burst at
any second, Elumu felt his cock nail hard pressed against the warm stone
wall. His penetrator began to buck his hips again, and the boy began to
feel pleasure soaring over the pain. He blathered ecstatic groans and began
pleading as the man quickened his pace; "Please, breed me! Ride me! Please
touch me!"
	The man seemed to know enough of the common tongue to understand
what this meant, and grasped the boy's swollen cock with one slick
hand. Pumping in unison, Elumu's jaw fell open in abject ecstasy; the rod
beat again and again against that sensitive gland in his chute and he lost
all control. He let himself hang from the shackles, his full weight
supported on that timber-sized cock as the man's thick fist squeezed his
own white stick. Hot semen sprayed from his root, and he found himself
pressing himself harder and harder, deeper onto that thick mass penetrating
him until the man gulped and groaned and forced, finally, the entire length
of his shaft into the boy, spurting his own hot seed into that dark, tight
chasm. A few more thrusts and then the man removed the impossible
serpentine length of his rod from the boy's bottom along with copious gobs
of semen, finally bursting his last few ropes and then squeezing the length
of it to rub the last coin of semen onto the gaping pink asshole.
	Abruptly, clanking boots of iron clapped on the stones of Elumu's
cell. The boy could scarcely look over his shoulder to see his erstwhile
lover being dragged away four men with spears and plate armor. As they
cleared off, a woman emerged from their midst, a tower of black satin, her
neck and head covered with a white coiffure. At her brow glinted an emerald
that hung from her circlet of white gold. Ijbet Arcolia.
	"You've come to free me!" Elumu exclaimed, "and take me away from
these men!"
	The woman sighed and shook her head.
	"I'm the one who sent them, you beautiful idiot."
	Suddenly, she was right next to him, holding up a jar to his mouth.
	"Drink this," she ordered.
	Obediently, he drank the colorless rice wine within until it was
empty. He burped softly and felt his face warming and his bowels numbing.
	"What--"
	"It's alarming that you remember who I am," the woman said. "Your
resistance to my drug is formidable. You would have had great potential as
a clairvoyant. But I need you to remember nothing. Nothing but the story
you will hear again in a moment."
	Elumu felt his eyelids growing heavy, and went limp in the shackles
like a corpse.


XIV. Lessons

	Irau sat cross legged on the floor of the library. Golden sunlight
caught the whirl of steam that rose from the wizard's teacup, a white
porcelain thing with two handles. He sat on a desk cross legged, Irau on a
mat on the floor. Shelves of thousands of volumes of books surrounded them,
and all Irau wanted was to harvest a basket full of those anthologies of
songs all spined with red and orange and blue silk and leather and read
them for hours and hours. The sorcerer, however, had different plans. The
boy was only allowed to read one book a week and the sorcerer would grill
him with questions each day demanding that he extrapolate, interpret,
analyze, accept and reject and criticize everything about them. The latest
was a particularly boring one: Cerumo's Chart of the three substances. It
was a medical manual about the body's constituent elements, the basic
meridians of energy throughout it, and how it was that sorcery came into
existence through the channeling of the body's energies.
	"What are the three miraculous substances?" the sorcerer asked.
	"Essence, breath, and spirit." Irau answered for the twelfth time.
	"And where can the essence be found in greatest concentration?"
	"Blood, breast-milk, and semen."
	"A sorcerer or yogi is one who does WHAT with the essence?"
	"Transmutes it into breath energy."
	"And then?"
	"Transmutes breath into spirit."
	"And then?"
	"Uses spirit to manipulate the 10,000 phenomena."
	"Very good. What happens when the essence is depleted?"
	"The other substances decline as well," Irau whispered.
	"What happens when the essence is gone altogether?" the wizard
asked.
	This was a new question. Irau blinked drowsily, and thumbed through
the pages of the book. It had made no mention of this, as far as he
recalled.
	"What happens when the essence is gone?" the sorcerer repeated.
	""The other substances disappear?" the boy guessed.
	The wizard sipped his tea. His eyes, nearly always lit with a
kindly and mischievous sparkle, dimmed. He frowned at the crinkled green
leaves at the bottom of his cup.
	"Unfortunately, no."

XV. The Scarab

	In the city of the Brothers, there was a certain tower that stood
at the edge of the temple of the holy heart. Within, in a library forbidden
to all but one monk, a fire roared in the hearth for the first time in
weeks. Ice melted at the edges of the window, and fragile pages of
manuscripts and grimoires dried out from an accumulation of damp, freezing
air.
	To anybody who had entered that study before the fire erupted in
the hearth, it would have seemed the abandoned and filthy tomb of a long
dead scholar; indeed, the body still sat at the desk. Hunched over a
document, jaw broken and gaping, the grayed skin of the face desiccated and
stretched over gaunt cheekbones. Mouse-eaten silk hooded and sleeved this
academic corpse, and gold rings banded each blackened finger that still
held a dried up pen. The only thing in the room that appeared vibrant,
bright, or new was the thick seal on the letter before the corpse. There,
in deep blue wax was the impression of a scarab seal. The same scarab seal
that stood in carved lapis lazuli on the right index ring of the skeleton.
	The instant the fire burst up in the hearth, all of this
disappeared. Where before stood heaps of paper rotten with wet cavities
full of worms, tidy books and ledgers now heaped the shelves. Where before
the floor was thick with a layer of black mold and frozen puddles of some
dark bile, plush carpet sprung up against the feet. Where before the
cadaver at the desk gaped as an open-mouthed horror and a husk of a body,
now there sat a regal and most impressive man, garlanded with jewels,
looping cursive syllables together on clean white paper.
	He was the Wight, the phantom, the lich of the east, one time High
Priest of the Church of the Holy Heart. He was once called Palomeo, but
only his nemesis recalled the name. The legends that told of him were
limited to the knights templar; all other voices that spoke of him met with
unfortunate ends. He had once enjoyed longevity and boundless health like
many magicians. He had once been among the most powerful men in the five
kingdoms, secret authority and arbiter of the Church of the new God and a
magnificent alchemist, exorcist, and diviner of fate. However, his
ambitions had led him into foul deeds. The doctrine of his faith led him to
the brittle black-and-white view of things all too common among humanity,
and his magic became twisted, self-righteous, murderous and perverse. All
peaceful means failed to turn him from his abuse of men and women, of
animals, of the forces of the elements themselves. At last, his nemesis
confronted him in the very room in which he now sat--and was doomed to
inhabit forever. The magpie cursed him halfway into the grave, and he was
kept among mortals only by the powerful scarab seal that sat before him.
	The door knocked.
	"Enter," the man said.
	The bald and black-mantled form of a friar entered. He shivered
from the chill that radiated from the lich's skin.
	"The house Arcolia has sent a gift, Scarabeo."
	"More useless gestures of flattery?" the scarab rasped. His words
were like stones clapping together; an approximation of a voice.
	"No, your potency. A tribute of some interest, I believe. A
boy. The lady Arcolia claims he is a prince of the Aldeni."
	The lich jerked his head up, stabbed his pen into the ink pot.
	"Bring him. Now."




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