The Temptation of Elminster - Ed Greenwood [35]
Nasmaerae gave a little startled scream and struggled wildly for a moment, but Lord Esbre's hairy hand was as immovable as iron, yet as gentle as velvet as it encircled her wrist.
His other hand plucked the dagger out of her grasp and threw it away. It flashed across the room to be caught deftly by one of the dozen or so guards who were melting out from behind every tapestry and screen in the room now, unhooding lanterns, lighting torches in wall sconces, and moving grimly to bar any move she might make toward the door or to the wardrobe behind her.
Nasmaerae stared into the eyes of her lord, still too shocked and dazed to speak, wondering when the storm of fury would come. The Mantimera's eyes blazed through a mist of tears, burning into her, but his lips moved slowly and precisely as he asked in tones of quiet puzzlement, "Self-slaying is the answer to misguided sorcery? You had a good reason for placing me in a spell-thrall?"
Nasmaerae opened her mouth to plead, to spill forth desperate lies, to protest that her deeds had been misunderstood, but all that came out was a torrent of tears. She threw herself against him and tried to go to her knees, but a strong hand on her hip held her upright When she could form words through the sobs, it was to beg his forgiveness and offer herself for any punishment he deemed fitting, and to…
He stilled her words with a firm finger laid across her lips and said grimly, "We'll speak no more of what you have done. You shall never enthrall me or anyone else again."
"I…believe me, my Lord, I would never…"
"You can't, whatever you may come to desire. This I know. So that others may also know it, you shall try to place me in thrall again…now."
Nasmaerae stared at him. "I…no! No, Esbre, I dare not! I…"
"Lady," the Mantimera told her grimly, "I am uttering a command, not affording you a choice." He made a gesture involving three of his fingers, all around her, swords grated out of scabbards.
The Lady Felmorel darted glances about. She was ringed with drawn steel, the sharp, dark points of well-used war swords menacing her on all sides. She saw a white-faced Glavyn above one of them, trusty old En-art staring grimly at her over another. Then she whirled away, hiding her face in her hands.
"I…I… Esbre!" she sobbed. "My magic will be shorn from me if I…"
"Your life shall be shorn from you if you do not. Death or obedience, Lady. The same choice warriors who serve me have, every day. It comes not so hard to them."
The Lady Nasmaerae groaned. Slowly her hands fell from her face and she straightened, breathing heavily, her eyes elsewhere. She threw back her head to look at the ceiling and said in a small voice, "I'll need more room. Someone pluck away this rug, lest it be scorched." She walked deliberately onto the point of someone's sword until they gave way before her and she could get off the soft, luxurious rug, then turned to face back into the ring and said softly, "I'll need a knife."
"No," Esbre snapped.
"The spell requires it, Lord," she told the ceiling. "Wield it yourself, if it gives you comfort…but obey me utterly when I begin the casting, lest we both be doomed."
"Proceed," he said, his voice cold stone again.
Nasmaerae strode away from him until she stood in the center of the ring of blades once more, then turned and faced him. "Glavyn," she said, "bring my lord's chamber pot hence. If it be empty, report so back to us."
The guard stared at her, unmoving…but spun from his place and hastened to the door at a curt nod from Lord Felmorel.
While they waited, Nasmaerae calmly tore the soaked nightgown from her body and flung it away, standing nude before them all. She stood flatfooted, neither covering herself modestly nor adopting her usual sensual poses, and licked her lips more than once, looking only at her lord.
"Punish me," she said suddenly, "in any other way but this. The Art means all to me, Esbre, every…"
"Be still," he almost whispered, but she shrank back