The End.

Dream Shadows.

by Angelica Hart.

Chapter One.

The dream closed around Violet with familiar warmth. It started a year ago and had increased as the nuptial auction drew near. She knew that it was only a dream, and that no one would save her from being coupled with a conjurer, a being whose power came from darkness and intensified in shadows. She was a creature of the sun, yet they kidnapped her to train her as a proper spouse.

Violet twisted beneath the coverlets as the truth emerged. She hadn't been taken, simply sold, for despite the purity of her intent and soul, she had a rebellious streak that her family couldn't abide once her father had pa.s.sed. He wouldn't allow her to be sold. She remembered his words before he died. "My daughter, you have a light within that none will quench. In that light, your soul will speak. In that light, your spirit will thrive. In that light, you will learn control and the true nature of being of the sun caste."

When he died, her relatives thought only discipline and training mentors were strong enough to turn her into a docile and proper mate. Violet showed an unusual talent for magic and that instantly propelled her into training for the arts. She fit well and outmatched her peers, but she never fully became the compliant lady that everyone expected. Oh, she faked it well enough. Even with her stubborn nature, she could only take so much torture before submitting. They never broke her spirit, and she hoped that spirit would one day set her free of the Seraglio.

But not tonight, tonight she wanted only to slip into the ecstasy of the dream. Everything around her turned to wispy threads of fog except for the bra.s.s bed, strung with gauzy drapery. It wasn't the sensible iron bed of her cubicle. It belonged to the fantasy, where a sun mage claimed her in a world where the Seraglio didn't exist. Since childhood, the mage invaded her dreams. She welcomed the specter first as a friend and mentor, and then as a lover. As always, he appeared within seconds. She couldn't make out his features, but she sensed power and confidence; experienced warmth.

She held out her arms, and he drifted into them. She still didn't know who he was, nor could she see anything that would define him. He existed in mist, and her loins burned for him. When his arms closed around her, she felt his hard flesh rippling over his long muscular frame. Felt his breath as it stirred the tendrils of her hair. Felt his hands as they moved over the feminine length of her curves.

Closing her eyes, Violet melted against him, lips parting, accepting the bold invasion of his tongue and offering her own exploration as she had done so many times before. He ravished her mouth with sensual expertise, and she surrendered her will, for here she could, here no one would know, here she was free to experience and capitulate without consequence. They tasted each other for long minutes, her body molding itself to his. She couldn't get enough of this mage and found her lips at his throat, marking him with succulent kisses.

His hoa.r.s.e moan spurred her confidence. She wrenched open the billowy shirt, popping b.u.t.tons as her tongue trailed downward, tasting hard nubs, then lower to swirl about his belly b.u.t.ton, then even lower. Would she dare this in reality? Would she be so bold? She who barely knew the look of a man and had never held a masculine hand? Violet didn't know. Perhaps she'd fight or run. It wasn't what they were taught. The talented beauties of both sun and shadow castes had been pooled together as treasures for the gifted of the realm. The girls were taught sensuous, compliant positions and submissive stances, taught to be at their husband's disposal in every way whether s.e.xual, an a.s.sistant, a hostess, or a breeder. They were to be perfect in speech and manner and outlook, a reflection of their future husband. Violet could only be herself, and in her dreams she gave as she willed and the mage took all she offered. His breeches slipped down about his ankles as she found the male swell of him. She licked and teased and filled herself with his hardness, moving her head slowly back and forth, sucking as if she could devour the throbbing manhood of him.

He gasped, and then pulled her away, taking back control before she could utter any protest. Catching her up in his strong arms, he laid her across the bed, ripping away her nightdress as if it were no more substantial than the fog about them. He cupped her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, fondling them as his mouth once again found her lips. He wasn't in any hurry. It was as if she was a banquet and he intended to savor every morsel. And, oh how Violet yearned to be savored and taken with slow procrastination even as her body demanded instant release.

He took even more than she relinquished. He captured her wrists, holding them above her head as he spread her thighs with his knees. His mouth toyed with swollen nipples and his free hand played with the enflamed nub throbbing between folds of nether flesh. She arched to better feel his taunting. She begged for more with tiny whimpers and soft moans.

He obliged. His ravishment became rougher, more demanding. He squeezed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s with wild abandon. "More," she begged. "Please, more."

He didn't disappoint her. He forced her knees to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s until she was totally exposed to him, totally vulnerable to his cravings and her needs. He positioned himself at her opening, the hard, vivacious tip of him ripping into her in one deep long thrust. She caught her breath for she had forgotten the size of him and how pain mingled with pleasure at that first invasion.

Suddenly, though, the sweet eroticism of the dream evaporated. Rough hands pulled her to wakefulness and tossed her across the tidy, spa.r.s.e chamber as if she were lighter than parchment. She smacked into the wall and knew bruises would soon mar her pale flesh. She was going to remind Sir Venore, the lead eunuch, that it wasn't wise to mark a la.s.s so close to the nuptials, but seeing the extent of his fury, she thought better of it. Besides, they had balms that healed damages quickly.

"What is this?" Venore screamed as he held up a colorful rope that had taken her months to weave. Fibers borrowed, as she preferred to call it, from discarded rags and worn clothes to misplaced scarves and lost mittens. Well, at least her chamber sisters thought they lost a mitten or two.

Violet didn't even blink. Instead, she gathered herself up stiffly and kept her gaze on Venore's rather large feet strapped in leather sandals. She said, "It's a rope, sir."

She stole an upward glance and noticed the vein throbbing under his monk-like cap of graying hair. A green ca.s.sock with a scarlet-lined hood covered his bullish form while a medallion with the house crest identified his rank. The eunuchs weren't a religious order, but they were honored for their devotion to the training arts. Many saw it as a spiritual vocation. Violet doubted that any of the trainers chose to have his manhood eliminated. Their families had sold them, too. It always spurred a measure of compa.s.sion for them no matter how tough they had been on her.

"I know it's a rope," he spat, spraying her with frustrated spittle. "I want to know what you intend to do with it."

"That isn't what you asked," she responded with aplomb. Her sisters would have been in a pool of trembling tears by now. Violet refused to give him the satisfaction. She should have, though. Her continuous impertinence only enraged him more. "Considering the amount of times I've attempted escape, one would think you'd already know the answer."

Large, blunt fingers knotted a fistful of long, unruly blond hair and yanked her up off her feet. She expected something quite like this, yet couldn't hold back a small yelp. It wasn't enough to satisfy his rage, and he carried her by the roots of her hair through stone halls lit by torches whose walls dripped with condensation. There was a time when she would have kicked and screamed, hands ripping at his fingers to free herself, but it never did any good. At six-feet, five inches, and three hundred pounds of muscle and fury, she wasn't even close to a match for his strength. All she could do was to press stiff palms against her scalp to lessen the pain.

Violet, so named for her unusual dark, purple eyes looked as delicate and fragile as her name suggested. At five foot, three inches, her full b.r.e.a.s.t.s contrasted nicely against a waist tiny enough to accommodate a man's hand span. Slender hips tapered into tight thighs and calves. Her nose was a tender thrust of perfection while pink-tinged lips appeared just lush enough to demand a thorough kissing. Hair, twisted in an unrelenting ma.s.s of spiral curls, fell past her tiny, curved b.u.t.tocks. It was those extraordinary eyes, though, dominating the heart-shaped countenance that could mesmerize any normal man. Those of the arts, though, weren't of the norm.

"I do not know why we put up with you!" Venore exploded as he carried her without effort.

"Because I'll fetch a fortune," she spat back through tears and whimpers, instantly regretting her remark as he shook her by the roots of her hair. Maybe her hair wouldn't hold. Maybe he'd pull every strand of it out and toss her into the forest, bald and empty-handed. Somehow the thought wasn't all that disconcerting. After all, at least she'd be free.

He froze, twisted her until she faced him, and with renewed rage, bypa.s.sed the instruction chamber where she had expected to be taken. Instead, he carried her up a flight of stairs until they reached the balcony outside the turret.

Night hovered over the valley like a stalking creature. Not even the moon creeping in and out of clouds dispelled the ominous shadows, nor did it illuminate the nocturnal crawlers that kept the villagers snug around hearths and under well-lit lanterns. Being born in a sun clan, shadows and darkness unnerved her. She preferred the sky littered with bright stars. Now, though, it wasn't just the unrelenting night that provoked a sensation of sand ants crawling under her skin ready to devour their prey from the inside. It was the chilled wind throttling her body. It was the emptiness beneath her feet. It was the moat far below riddled with carnivores.

Even more, it was Venore's fury-induced words. "Perhaps you are not worth the profit after all, Violet Haze."

The blindfolded naked la.s.s trembled, drool spilling from one corner of her mouth, but she did not cry out as the flogger marred her once smooth, pale b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She no longer had the strength for anything but whimpers. Her entire body, stretched like an X and anch.o.r.ed by chains to the floor and ceiling, resembled a patchwork of purple-black bruises and raw, crimson lines.

Lord Darth surveyed his work critically and watched the eyes of his caste, a.n.a.lyzing their desires. What would thrill them more, her instant death, additional punishment, or a show of raw l.u.s.t? Those of the shadow caste craved perversion in all its fathomable depth, and this show of brutality and the promised l.u.s.t-fest afterward fed his caste like ambrosia. Darth was once again bored.

He had gutted the spirit of many stolen from their homes and terrorized into submission. Their fear nurtured his dark soul, but it wasn't enough. He longed to devour a fighting spirit, a spirit who refused his dark advances, who would spit in his face with her dying breath knowing in the end she would be totally his no matter her protests. It was the battle that honed the evil within.

There was only one that honored him with that sort of courage, one that nearly brought him to his knees with her unrelenting fort.i.tude and he had inadvertently killed her. He had bartered his soul to the Dark Master to secure the woman's heart, and despite all her fight, he had her love. She couldn't help it. The spell came from the fiend itself. The Dark Master, though, betrayed the bargain. Darth won the woman, but her mind shattered under his h.e.l.lish torment. In turn, her death haunted him and enraged him simultaneously. Part of him wanted revenge. The rest of him wished another chance to draw the pain out slowly. He doubted he'd have that chance with any other. There was only one like her, and he had searched well.

He used to attend the nuptials every year and had purchased many girls. Few survived more than a couple of weeks, some only days. The peasants his minions confiscated barely made it a full night. This last girl was nearly gone and he hadn't even spent his seed. He doubted she'd outlive the dalliance now. At this point the thought of plunging into her near-lifeless body repulsed him. Dropping the whip, he cued the servants to allow his guests to feast on her spirit.

There was a time even her small soul would have tasted sweet. Now the submission was barely worth the effort. Little was worth the effort anymore, not even acquiring souls for the fiend. No one noticed the lord's melancholy. At six feet, nine inches tall and two hundred and fifty pounds of lean, raw muscle, Darth was the definition of evil. His onyx gaze, rimmed by kohl and devoid of light, could be changed to any shade with a willful blink. White-blond hair and death-pale flesh could equally be altered. Only his features remained the same, sharp and angular ones that boasted dark fascination. Many a la.s.s surrendered to his haunting countenance. And all but one submitted more than her life.

Long blunt strides took Darth through the twists and turns of Shadow Manor, a fortress set high upon Spider-Wolf Mountain, so named for the amount of dens riddling the dense timberland that unraveled up the steep slopes. Spider-wolves didn't look much different than any other canine breed, except their teeth were larger and like a spider they had the ability to create webs. Enormous webs that trapped victims for days, allowing the beasts to slowly absorb their blood.

From outside the manor, there appeared to be no entrance or drawbridge to span the surrounding abyss. From within, a huge archway opened to the outside world. Many a guest walked right into the invisible barrier. It used to amuse Darth, but that no longer prompted even a smidgen of elation.

The lord paused at the waist-high circular Well of Misery. It was the origin of shadows and a place of vaporous death. Set opposite the entrance of the great hall, it squatted beneath a wall etching of Darth baring sharp teeth as he tormented an innocent soul. Leaning over the well, he braced large palms upon the stone ledge surrounding the well as he stared into its fathomless depths. The layers of darkness mesmerized him and the unthinkable entered his mind. If he tumbled in would he find h.e.l.l? Or would there be nothing but endless darkness, endless emptiness? The latter wouldn't be much worse than his current existence. Nothing amused him any longer. Nothing provided challenge. Not even the struggle to unleash shadows and claim the light. Everything remained status quo--an endless battle where each side lost and gained an equal measure of territory.

Few others could resist the luring whispers of the well, but Darth was immune to it and walked away with ease. He wasn't ready to have his questions answered. Surely, this ba.n.a.l existence possessed some thrills. Surely, there was more.

"If only...." he whispered and deliberately entered the salon on his right to view the single adornment in the room, a painting of daunting beauty, a nearly life-like image of the woman he loved. "Aye," he said to the vision. "I did love you, despite the torment I inflicted, despite the rage I vented. I loved you as I could never love again." That distant love was the only light Darth had ever encountered and it tasted like cool, honey-water.

With a thought, he willed the drapery of webs that covered the painting like a curtain to part. The vividillusion drew a person much like the Well of Misery did. Darth had woven a spell into the painting, andmen from commoners to n.o.bility had lost their sanity to the woman in it. She would become real to thevictims and they'd instantly become lovesick. Men could not pull themselves away, and those who did,wouldn't eat, wouldn't drink, and wouldn't move. He'd live out the remaining few days in a dream, adream that ended in a nightmarish death. The same type of death that Darth felt every moment since thela.s.s had lain shattered within his embrace.

"Milord, by your will, a moment?"

Darth turned, glaring at the youth who dared to interrupt his contemplation. A new member of the caste, he barely emitted a shadow, let alone comprehended his own talent. A more mature conjurer would have known to fetch a servant rather then risk his own hide for such a direct approach. Not that long ago, Darth would have smote the fool just for his audacity.

The idiot wasn't worth the exertion. With a flick of his hand, the web-curtain closed, and Darth moved out of the salon with Slith on his heels. "What is it you will of me?"

"A tremendous favor," Slith said, his hiss-like tone reflective of the snake symbols he wore. "I depart for the nuptials in the morn and was wondering if you could help with my purchase. It is said you can see any girl's soul and I wish to feed slowly and long on the one to be my mate, one that might even bear my line." Bowing his chin nearly to his chest, his voice became low, sketchy. "And it is known I lack experience in the art and as a lord. I would forever be in your debt if you could guide my choice."

"That you are in the caste and that I allow you to draw your next breath makes you obliged to me. However, I might cast a crumb your way if I still attended the nuptials. As of late, I find them exceedingly droll and devoid of worthy merchandise."

"Oh but my Lord, it is said the Seraglio has outdone itself. They have trained only the brightest and most lovely of the clans. Some are said to actually possess talent, and others have pure, untainted spirits. This will be a selection beyond all its predecessors. Even if you don't guide me, it would be a shame to miss such a showing."

Darth had enough of this talk and would have left the lord in mid-sentence if the man hadn't reached into his robe and snapped open the invitation. Within the parchment folds, an access arch evolved. Seraglio never spared the coin in its advertis.e.m.e.nts, but this time they outdid themselves with such a costly charm. Although it lacked voice, a quick showing of all the merchandise unfolded. Young women from every part of the kingdom appeared and disappeared in a continuous array of sparkling eyes, tempting forms and enticing smiles. None of them excited Darth. He was beyond the physical hook that prompted both men and lords to act like s...o...b..ring fools.

Darth was about to walk away for the second time when an angelic vision caught his gaze. Grabbing the invitation from Slith, he ordered a halt. It paused on the wrong la.s.s. "Back one," he barked.

The charm obeyed. He stared for an endless moment, his pulse racing in a way it hadn't in years. "Be gone!" he said to Slith.

Slith reached for the charm, but Darth clutched it within a white-knuckled grip and vanished in a spiral of smoke.

"Venore!"

Kanith, regulator of the instruction chamber, spat the eunuch's name as if it were a threat. "The hierarchy will have you gutted if you destroy a prime la.s.s just before nuptials!"

With a slew of curses that would make a ruffian blush, Venore yanked Violet roughly back onto solid footing, and then still holding her by the hair, he dragged her until they reached the instruction chamber.

The regulator eyed her with an elaborate sigh. "You will never learn, will you?"

Violet whimpered and hated herself for showing such weakness.

This wasn't her first time in the chamber, and it probably wouldn't be the last even this close to the nuptials. Although she doubted she'd have any company. In fact, it had been a month since any la.s.s other than Violet had graced its dour walls.

Venore dropped the rope at Kanith's feet at the same instant that he released Violet. "This was found outside the la.s.s's window. She actually cut away a stone, hid it in the open nook and replaced the stone. If we hadn't had a tremor this last day, she might have actually kept it hidden. Instead, it fell free along with the stone which nearly bopped Sir Dankask on the noggin!"

Violet winced, but only because she liked Sir Dankask. It would have been awful if he had gotten hurt because of her actions.

"What do you have to say for yourself, la.s.s?" Venore demanded.

Violet ma.s.saged her scalp and mewed softly. The one good thing about pain was that it always felt so wonderful when it stopped. "I'm sorry?"

Venore sighed. "It is useless. It might just be worth the gutting to have the pleasure of silencing her."

"Aye, but look at her. What she lacks in sense and obedience she makes up for in beauty and light. You know how the dark caste are drawn to those of the light."

"Aye," Venore returned. "But once they look at her record, they will throw her to the wolves."

Violet suppressed a smile. She had been in the forest enough times to know she could survive the wolves, even the spider-wolves. In fact, she had learned their ways and could safely nestle herself in a den without harm. She actually used to play with the beasts until the Seraglio realized how easily she escaped and adapted to the wilds. Since then, they had kept her imprisoned.

It was the dark conjurers that terrified her, and that is what the Seraglio had planned for her. They had honed her to be the wife of a dark lord. Not that it meant a lord of light might not claim her, but she didn' t want to be married to just anyone who had the coin. She wanted to be free, free to choose, free to love, free to find the one that invaded her dreams. He probably didn't exist. He was nothing more than mist and wish, and she was a fool to think it could be anything more. Still, she'd rather have the dream than her reality. Somehow she had to escape-- she couldn't allow herself to be purchased like chattel.

"The nuptials are only days away. Do not mark her," Venore said, ripping away her flimsy garment with a single motion.

Kanith shook his head at the fresh slew of bruises decorating her back. "Looks like you already took

care of that."

Venore winced, then stared directly into Violet's eyes. "There is not one, not a solitary one, who has everenraged me so thoroughly this close to the nuptials."A toothy grin spread across Kanith's face. "Then you have a short memory, Venore. There was one, don 't you remember?"Rolling his eyes, Venore's fists clenched and unclenched. "I try not to remember.""Must be the color of the eyes. She had the same eyes.""Of course she did. It's a family trait.""My family has blue and gray eyes," Violet interjected, feeling as if something dark had invaded the chamber. "My coloring is just a fluke that can't be explained.""You don't know, do you?" Venore said with a satisfied edge to his tone."Know what?""You have your mother's eyes.""Nay, she had blue eyes like my father.""That is what your clan told you.""It is the truth.""Have you ever seen a painting of her, or a window charm?""I was conceived upon the nuptial night and she died at my birth. There hadn't been time to contract a painter or mage to construct a window."

"They had window charms. After all, your father was a renowned mage in his time. He created our charm

windows. That is when he first saw her, and ama.s.sed a small fortune so he could purchase her. They

didn't tell you her eye color, for if you mentioned it once, all would know of her and relate the tale. Since

your family intended to send you here, they didn't want you to seek out the truth while in training. Your

family didn't wish you to be even more disruptive than you are. After all, they had had been shamedenough by your mother's betrayal.""What betrayal?""She deserted your father for a shadow lord."

Chapter Two.

Daniore paced before the throne, his haunted gaze defying the King's glare. "You may be King of the Illumi, but you no longer have authority over your son."

"He joined the caste to make certain of it, but mage or not, he still owes the kingdom and I will have an heir."

Daniore paused and turned, feet braced apart, one hand on the hilt of a sword, the other upon a stiletto. "Myith has produced numerous heirs."

King Pathros sprang upright and mirrored Daniore's stance. "Myith is a twit who has married a twit. I will not pa.s.s the kingdom on to a brood of twits."

If the situation weren't so grave Daniore would have smiled. He couldn't fault the King's logic. Myith was indeed a twit, a sweet, muddled, brainless twit that you couldn't help adore, but equally couldn't depend upon. It wouldn't have been so horrid if she had married a somber wise man. Instead, she chose the court jester, literally!