Fiona's Night

One bald wizardly head popped through the shimmering portal, followed by a long-haired one, the passage barely causing the former to pause in his speech.

"Once you know the shortcuts, full flight is easier and simpler—we could have it as part of the journeyman rating, honestly, it's that much more straightforward, especially for a younger student who hasn't had coursework in natural philosophy and astronomy." The bald-headed man wore master's robes, though he looked senior enough to be an archmage. "I get that we need it in the standards to get trained masters capable of working in the space program, but levitation is just too difficult of a transmutation. The navy would have ten times as many qualified scouts if they didn't have to pass examination in levitation. Half of them forget how to do it properly in six months, anyway."

His companion, a woman with white hair but unlined skin, shook her head firmly as a hooded figure exited the portal behind them. "George, that's a terrible idea. The number one cause of premature attrition out of service is mortality. The Order of the Luminous Rose, for example, has an accidental death rate of twenty percent before the rank of journeyman. Some of that is covering up for intentional deaths that would be a little troublesome to admit to, but the point is, levitation is far safer, and levitation-based flight has the gentlest failure modes of any type of flight. Start teaching apprentices non-levitating flight, and we'll lose half of them in the first three months after they get off the ground."

"If they were promising enough, a little death wouldn't be the end of their careers," the bald man retorted.

The hooded figure chuckled, head rising to reveal an empty-socketed skull. "But, as Wyndham has told you a hundred times, until we have proper manufacturing for humans, a wizard who is undead early is one that won't pass on his—or her—talent to the breeding pool for the next generation. There are only half a dozen duchies and counties in all of England that have had an increase in birthrate in the last twenty-five years. If not for York and the communes, the whole of England would have registered a decline in human breeding for that period."

"Wyndham can't manufacture a real sheep," the woman said sharply.

"We've been away two whole fortnights—maybe he's made progress," the man said. Then he laughed. "Not that he's made any progress that I can tell in the last two fortnights of years, much less two fortnights of days! Do you remember the last one he brought to an imperial audience?"

"Oh, yes," the skeletal figure said, its hollow voice echoing ominously. "That was hilarious. Disgusting, but hilarious." The figure's head swiveled, looking for a moment down at a disorderly pile of papers on a small but tall table, each sheet theoretically an announcement of something that had been deemed of utmost urgency by one of the several persons with access to this room to bring to his attention imminently. A skeletal hand flipped through several sheets.

The Duke of York had announced his engagement. Not urgent. Also, the Duke of York was married, that missive dating but a fortnight later and rendering the other one obsolete as news. Also not urgent—important, given the size and population of the domain, but mistakenly deemed "urgent" by virtue of the importance of the persons involved, rather than being possessed of actual urgency. Barely worth reading past the first sentence in the moment at hand, at least not if there was any genuinely urgent news in the alarmingly large pile. The swift conjunction of the dates of the two news items did suggest that further reading could be entertaining, but their inclusion in the emergency pile was evidence of a failure on the part of an underling to comprehend the true meaning of urgency. The third and fourth sheets proved to merit attention.

"The Prince of Cornwall is dead, and the Irish have landed in force there," the skeletal figure said, holding up the pair of papers, one in each skeletal hand. From the dates, there should be more urgent news on the same topic, perhaps even the lion's share of the pile, and he needed to start reading. The papers stayed stuck in the air as if glued to an invisible wall as the skeletal figure quickly grabbed the next two sheets, scanning the first line of each quickly.

However, the skeletal figure did not summarize them aloud in its unearthly voice. Instead, it stood up straight and ejaculated a simple question in a tone that resembled a surprised squawk: "What?"

The two fleshly wizards glanced at one another with concerned expressions as the skeletal figure looked around at the active silver mirrors that paneled the walls of the room, its skull snapping back and forth with enough speed to make the hood fall away from its face as it examined the scenes displayed within the mirrors. With the hood back, it could be seen that the skeletal figure wore a golden circlet set with obsidian.

The crowned skeletal figure paused for a long moment, then strode to the wall, touching a mirror showing an indistinct heap of half-melted stone. "Show me the Ministry of Fauna," the skeletal figure said, voice booming harshly. The image did not change. The figure shook its head, adjusted its fallen hood, and scratched its fleshless chin, concerned. "Show me… oh, London Bridge."

The image in the mirror flickered, showing a sparsely populated but heavily built-up bridge, scorched in a few places but mostly intact in spite of the evidence of several uncontrolled or poorly controlled fires.

"Now, show me the Ministry of—no, show me Archmage Radus's tower."

The view blurred twice as it shifted again, focusing on a now-familiar half-melted heap of stone. The blocks of rubble behind it looked much the same, only now closer. The distinctive curled shape of a mammoth tusk could now be resolved, sticking out from underneath a large block of stone with a gargoyle carved into one side.

The bald wizard—George—broke the silence, his gaze fixed on the fallen Ministry of Fauna. "Oh, dear. That does not look good."

"Where's Merilda?" Avery asked, looking around Johanna's room and seeing only his two green-eyed wives.

Johanna and Anna looked at one another across the chessboard; then Anna quietly spoke, gesturing at Johanna's bed with a captured white ship idly. The curtains were drawn. "Merilda went to bed early."

Johanna nodded in affirmation, explaining further. "She had some trouble with falling asleep last night. I did as well, even with a door between myself and the noise, but I had a nice nap early in the afternoon to make up for it." The lighter-haired woman's cheeks colored as she glanced over at Anna, then slid her uncaptured ship up the board in support of an advancing wedge of pawns.

A crinkle around the corners of Anna's eyes suggested a hidden smile as the darker-haired woman turned her gaze back to the chessboard. "My apologies if my love for my lord husband is full of passion," she said drily. Her finger rested on her king. "Do you suppose I ought to resign the field while it is my turn?"

"You may if you wish," Johanna said, gesturing at the board. "You allowed me the advantage of the first move, and I have been learning." Her voice was soft and her gaze was fixed on the board, but her back had stiffened.

Avery felt the two of them were not speaking of chess and grew concerned. "Promise me you won't start fighting," he blurted out.

Two pairs of green eyes opened wide in surprise at once.

"I would never—"

"That would not be—"

Avery peered into the darkness and slipped through, closing the door behind himself to help his eyes adjust. If Fiona wanted the privacy of a darkened room—

"Fiat lux," said a quiet voice, and there was a soft glow from above, of warm light like a candle. It was Fiona, her skin glowing with pale light, floating near the ceiling. Her hair was loose, floating in every direction as if she were underwater.

Not just her skin, Avery thought to himself, his startled gaze fixing on the previously unseen (by him) proof that in spite of her pointed ears, she was mostly human by blood. If her hair was not glowing, it would be shadowed from behind.

"You are flying," Avery said aloud, then—remembering the audiences that were but a single wooden door away in each of two drections—reached out to connect with his wizard bride's mind.

"Not flying, levitating," Fiona said. She tucked her arms in, turning in a motion resembling a somersault.

Avery unconsciously licked his lips as he stared up. You are very lovely, he sent.

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You flatter me, Your Grace, Fiona sent back. Elven blood was not generous to my figure.

Avery raised himself up on the tips of his toes and reached up, tracing his fingers along the slender, pale length of Fiona's body. Your curves suit you, he sent, grasping her by one ankle and tugging gently to bring her down into better reach. Though weightless, her body continued in motion as he pulled. It is a whole package that goes well together.

Fiona, now upside-down, bent up to grasp at the hem of his doublet. And your whole package is not on display. That is not quite fair, is it?

Hesitantly, Avery released his grip on Fiona's ankle, pulling the doublet over his head. While his face was obscured, he felt Fiona's nimble fingers climbing up his legs...

8. Merilda's Night

When Avery opened the door to Johanna's room, he saw a now-familiar sight: Anna and Johanna, sitting across the chessboard from each other.

"Good evening, ladies," he said, stepping near. As if of their own volition, his hands rose, each clasping the shoulder of a green-eyed woman, one with straight light brown hair, the other with curly dark brown hair.

"Good evening, husband," Anna replied, leaning against his hand.

Johanna didn't look up from the board, but her own hand reached out to caress Avery's thigh. "It is always good to see you here—I look forward to your return overmorrow," she said quietly.

Avery rubbed his wives' backs gently, gesturing with a tip of his head to Johanna's curtained bed. "Is it Fiona's turn to go to sleep early, then? I had not thought her overtired."

"As late as the two of you stayed in yestermorn, surely not. No, she is keeping Merilda company," Anna said. "The girl worked herself into quite a state of nervousness."

Johanna dragged her gaze up from the chessboard. "If I had her circumstances, I would be nervous, as well." She traded looks with Anna, who reluctantly nodded.

"You both think so?" Avery looked down at the chessboard, not quite meeting the gaze of either woman. "Were you nervous?"

"I think," Johanna said delicately, "that most women go to their wedding bed nervous. But Merilda has more reasons than most. She is taller than most men, and her father is…" Johanna trailed off, searching for words that could be both correct and polite.

Anna continued instead. "To put it less circumspectly—her father is a brute of no real pedigree who did not even care to stay in town for the wedding. On top of that, Maude made every effort to pry her away from this marriage. You agreed to wed her sight unseen, and since you met her, you have barely spoken with her. You have a bride for each night of the week even if you decide to put her off and leave your wedding vows unsealed. She does not even have her own bed. Her status as a true wife rests at this point on whether or not you find her unusual figure appealing enough to inspire potency."

"Welcome," Fiona said. Rather than the journeyman's robes she had preferred to wear before the wedding, the quarter-elven woman was dressed in her sea-green silk dress, its neckline showing a smooth and nearly flat semicircle of pale chest from collarbones to sternum, the color contrasting with her auburn hair. In her delicate hands, she held a crystal bottle filled with oil.

Avery glanced around the room. Merilda sat in the corner, wearing a plain homespun dress, her rough hands folded in her lap as she sat next to the bed on the far side of what had once been the old duke's meditation room.

Fiona continued. "Merilda thought that after all that practice you put in on the pells this afternoon, you might appreciate a massage. I brought some special oil."

The quarter-elf's voice grated uncomfortably in Avery's ear, the dissonant echo of dishonesty making Merilda's name sound as if it had four or five syllables before fading through the rest of the statement. Avery grabbed the upper part of Fiona's left arm, looking at her sharply.

Do not lie to me, he sent.

Very well—it was my idea, but I wanted to let Merilda pretend it was hers. Fiona's voice sounded unapologetic. She has been beside herself and besieged with anxieties. It is not as if she had a mother whose ear she could bend, and Anna made things altogether worse with her screaming the night before last.

Coolly, Fiona continued aloud. "Your Grace, if you would disrobe and lie down upon the bed, Merilda will see to your muscles."

Avery let go of the slender arm he held, nodding. "Thank you," he said, being careful to look at Merilda while he spoke. "I have been uncommonly exercised this week."

Fiona's face remained a mask of serenity as Avery peeled off his doublet and hose; Merilda watched avidly, her tongue briefly escaping to swipe unconsciously along her lips as she stood.

Merilda was nearly of a height with Avery, and he did not have to bend over to kiss her when he walked by. The kiss had not been invited, but it seemed unsuitable not to deposit a kiss upon his bride when it was her bridal night. Then, responsive to Fiona's ushering gestures, Avery lay face-down on the bed, pillowing his forehead on top of his arms. The faint scent of the mattress reminded him that this was the bed that he had lain on with Anna, and a question popped into his mind that he immediately sent to Fiona along their open connection.

There are two beds—which belongs to whom?

You are lying on our bed, Your Grace. Last night, you picked Anna's bed to collapse upon—not that I would gainsay your right to lay wherever you chose, it is not as if she was here. Fiona's mental voice was accompanied by a light layer of mirth. We do not have to tell her—it is not as if we used it for anything except sleeping in any case.

Avery inhaled deeply, remembering Anna's green eyes as the scent permeated his nose.

"Your Grace," Merilda said, her voice soft and husky. "Let me know if you would like it any harder or softer."

Something warm and smooth pressed down on top of Avery's thighs with a heavy weight—Merilda sitting down—before a pair of warm oily hands reached out to start kneading his shoulders.

"Harder," Avery said. Through his mental connection to Fiona, he felt aware of the quarter-elf's feelings, a wash of smug approval nearly completely washing out a thin thread of jealousy; self-consciously, he closed off the channel, retreating inside his own mind as Merilda's strong hands worked their way down his back, then up, then down further, hesitating at his lower back.

"Should I do your legs?" Merilda's voice sounded halfway between shyness and eagerness.

"My lower back is the worst—but yes, all of me would appreciate a massage," Avery said into his arms, the two-day old scent of his time with Anna still tickling his nose.

Merilda's strong hands pressed down hard on Avery's back as she shifted her weight off of him, then lingered as they worked over his buttocks before traveling down his legs and back up, then lingered again on that spot between back and legs as she straddled his legs again. Her hands worked their way up his back, and then as she resumed rubbing his shoulders, he felt soft warmth slide against the middle of his back.

"Is that all better?" Merilda asked, lying herself down on top of her bridegroom to whisper in his ear.

Avery felt like the massage had barely begun, but at the same time, he could feel his bride's warm naked body on top of him and knew that both of them had duties that went beyond his wallowing in the pleasure of having his muscles rubbed. "That was nice," he said, not quite answering the question.

Merilda rolled over to one side, letting him get up; then she rolled back onto her front. "Would you massage me?" she asked.

Avery looked down at the bed, his eyes trailing from the gray-eyed face looking up at him to the exposed side of her breast peering out from behind a powerful arm, down the tapered muscular lines of her back and the round thick swell of her thighs and legs. An unstoppered crystal bottle hovered in front of his hands expectantly, ready to pour oil into his palms.

"Yes," Avery said. He awkwardly rubbed oil over his hands, finger-caps clicking against each other.

Fiona silently stepped forward, plucking off the finger-caps, prodding at the connection between them until Avery opened it wide enough to listen. She will be fine, Fiona sent. Your talons have been filed blunt; you will not hurt her unless you try. Now prove to her that she is beautiful.

9. Helen's night

The room was lit only by a single candle, clutched in Helen's hand. Avery closed the door behind him, his eyes adjusting quickly to the dimness. Althea was sitting in the bed, much as she had when it had been her turn on the fourth night after the wedding; Helen was wearing a velvet nightgown in a faded blue color that looked more of a dark gray by dim candlelight. The nightgown was loose, falling straight down from the line of her bust, creating an unflattering illusion of a squat figure.

"So—do you feel ready?" Avery spoke quietly as he looked down into Helen's eyes.

"I had better be ready," Helen said, her free hand reaching up to fiddle with a lock of strawberry-blonde hair that gleamed like fire in the flickering candlelight. "I'm nervous, but it's time. And Althea is here to hold my hand. One moment—wait here."

Helen set the candle down on a table in the corner, the room dark and dim as she walked to the bed, whispering a question to her friend. "A kiss for good luck?" She didn't wait for an answer before locking lips with her friend.

Helen gathered the hem of her nightgown in both hands and took two deep breaths, turning away from Avery, then pulled the gown over her head in one quick motion, dropping it on the floor. Strawberry-blonde waves were raised over her head and then dropped back down over freckled shoulders, rapidly covering the tensely rippling muscles of her shoulders and back, reaching her narrowly-tapered waist.

Without looking back at Avery, Helen bent over, grabbing the blanket with both hands, lifting, and then bending over. She crawled head-first underneath the blanket, kneeling on the edge of the bed. When she was done, her feet hung off the edge of the bed and her head was out of sight, pushed under the blanket. Althea adjusted her own position, holding up the blanket to look down at her friend's hidden head. Helen spoke quietly—Avery wasn't quite sure what she was saying—and then Althea looked up, interpreting the muffled statement from beneath the blanket.

"She said you can take off your clothes now—and, um, prepare yourself." Althea blushed. There was movement under the blanket, and Althea twitched, shifting in place. "She's feeling very shy. Not at all like her usual self. You can—ah—take her as soon as you are ready."

"She wants me to take her from behind?" Avery asked.

Helen's backside wiggled, the blankets continuing to move. "Yes," Althea said, biting her lip. "It's what she wants. She's usually the bold one between the two of us—I'm surprised that she—ah—is, um, being shy with you. I told her—ah—it's not so bad." Althea leaned back, resting her head on a pillow, hazel eyes watching Avery intently, breathing heavily.

Self-consciously, Avery shucked off his clothing. He was only halfway ready himself; Helen's strange behavior had left him feeling unsure...

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