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Authors: Jacqueline Carey
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we talked of exploring love’s sharper pleasures, I turned to Mavros for counsel. If there is one thing the Shahrizai understand, it is discretion. I trusted Mavros enough to arrange a private Showing for us featuring adepts of Valerian House and Mandrake House engaging in love’s sharper pleasures. It was customary to attend the Night Court for such things, but there were other arrangements that could be made, private townhouses with pleasure-chambers.
“Do you really think this is necessary?” Sidonie asked me.
“I do,” I said. “For both of us.”
“It frightens you,” she said softly. “Still.”
“A bit.” I was honest. “I saw too much darkness in Daršanga. Death sown in the place of life.” The mere mention of the place made me swallow, tasting bile and worse. “For a long time, it made me fear my own desires. It’s different with you. But I need to be sure this is somewhat you truly wish to explore, because if it’s not, if we do and you discover the reality’s nothing like the fantasy, and you want naught to do with it . . .” I shook my head. “I promise you, I’ll wake screaming in the middle of the night, dreaming of the Mahrkagir. Only it’s
my
face he’ll be wearing.”
“I know.” Sidonie took my hand. She was one of only three people I’d ever told the whole truth about what befell me there. “I’ll go.”
I gazed at her. “It doesn’t frighten you at all, does it?”
“No.” She smiled a little. “I told you, I trust you.”
I squeezed her hand. “That’s what frightens me.”
Sidonie raised her brows. “Trust
me
, then.”
She was right, of course. In the Night Court, there were elaborate contracts spelling out what was or was not permitted during the course of an assignation. That was part of what I wanted her to see and understand. Still, in the end, the essence of the exchange was trust, the surrender and acceptance of it. The more complete the surrender, the more wholehearted the acceptance, the more powerful the exchange.
And that, no mere Showing could teach.
We went, though.
It took place in the townhouse Mavros had rented. It was much like the Showing I had attended with him at Valerian House, only more discreet. The staging area was behind a veil of sheer, transparent silk. It was dimly lit, but the viewing area was completely dark. None of the adepts performing would be able to see who watched them. There were no attendants, only Mavros, serving as the host.
Sidonie and I fumbled our way to one of the reclining couches, trying to hush our laughter. We took our places. I slid my arms around her, resting my chin on her shoulder. I wanted to be able to feel her every reaction.
“You may begin,” Mavros called.
We watched.
It was the same, but different, so different! The only other time I’d attended such a Showing, I’d been abominably drunk, wallowing in misery. And even then, it had been good. Now . . . Elua have mercy, it was so much more.
We watched the pair of Valerian adepts enter the staging area and kneel,
abeyante
, heads bowed and hands clasped before them. We watched the Mandrake adepts stride onto the stage. “Strip,” one ordered ruthlessly.
The Valerian adepts obeyed.
I felt Sidonie’s breathing quicken, her ribcage rising and falling beneath my encircling arms. I could tell by her subtle responses whether or not what she was viewing pleased and aroused her.
Most of the time, it did.
A few times, it didn’t.
I took note of everything. It was beautiful; it was all beautiful. These were Naamah’s Servants, reveling in their art—and it
was
an art. There was a calculated beauty to the arc of a Mandrake adept’s arm as she swung the flogger. There was a pattern to the emerging welts, a rhythm to the gasps and pleas. Every pose struck had its own beauty, its own internal tension. Every order, every plea was part of a ritual. Still, I took note. The blindfold, yes; the gag, mayhap not. The crack of the whip, the slap of
“Do you really think this is necessary?” Sidonie asked me.
“I do,” I said. “For both of us.”
“It frightens you,” she said softly. “Still.”
“A bit.” I was honest. “I saw too much darkness in Daršanga. Death sown in the place of life.” The mere mention of the place made me swallow, tasting bile and worse. “For a long time, it made me fear my own desires. It’s different with you. But I need to be sure this is somewhat you truly wish to explore, because if it’s not, if we do and you discover the reality’s nothing like the fantasy, and you want naught to do with it . . .” I shook my head. “I promise you, I’ll wake screaming in the middle of the night, dreaming of the Mahrkagir. Only it’s
my
face he’ll be wearing.”
“I know.” Sidonie took my hand. She was one of only three people I’d ever told the whole truth about what befell me there. “I’ll go.”
I gazed at her. “It doesn’t frighten you at all, does it?”
“No.” She smiled a little. “I told you, I trust you.”
I squeezed her hand. “That’s what frightens me.”
Sidonie raised her brows. “Trust
me
, then.”
She was right, of course. In the Night Court, there were elaborate contracts spelling out what was or was not permitted during the course of an assignation. That was part of what I wanted her to see and understand. Still, in the end, the essence of the exchange was trust, the surrender and acceptance of it. The more complete the surrender, the more wholehearted the acceptance, the more powerful the exchange.
And that, no mere Showing could teach.
We went, though.
It took place in the townhouse Mavros had rented. It was much like the Showing I had attended with him at Valerian House, only more discreet. The staging area was behind a veil of sheer, transparent silk. It was dimly lit, but the viewing area was completely dark. None of the adepts performing would be able to see who watched them. There were no attendants, only Mavros, serving as the host.
Sidonie and I fumbled our way to one of the reclining couches, trying to hush our laughter. We took our places. I slid my arms around her, resting my chin on her shoulder. I wanted to be able to feel her every reaction.
“You may begin,” Mavros called.
We watched.
It was the same, but different, so different! The only other time I’d attended such a Showing, I’d been abominably drunk, wallowing in misery. And even then, it had been good. Now . . . Elua have mercy, it was so much more.
We watched the pair of Valerian adepts enter the staging area and kneel,
abeyante
, heads bowed and hands clasped before them. We watched the Mandrake adepts stride onto the stage. “Strip,” one ordered ruthlessly.
The Valerian adepts obeyed.
I felt Sidonie’s breathing quicken, her ribcage rising and falling beneath my encircling arms. I could tell by her subtle responses whether or not what she was viewing pleased and aroused her.
Most of the time, it did.
A few times, it didn’t.
I took note of everything. It was beautiful; it was all beautiful. These were Naamah’s Servants, reveling in their art—and it
was
an art. There was a calculated beauty to the arc of a Mandrake adept’s arm as she swung the flogger. There was a pattern to the emerging welts, a rhythm to the gasps and pleas. Every pose struck had its own beauty, its own internal tension. Every order, every plea was part of a ritual. Still, I took note. The blindfold, yes; the gag, mayhap not. The crack of the whip, the slap of
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