The Seventh Sentinel: 3 (Defenders of Magic) by Mary Kirchoff

Author:Mary Kirchoff [Kirchoff, Mary]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780786963515
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast Publishing
Published: 2012-07-17T00:00:00+00:00

Lyim sank back with a gratified sigh among the herbal bubbles. Despite a certain loss of freedom, being potentate had much to recommend it. In addition to ordering the torture of anyone he liked—or rather, didn’t—without retribution, the palace’s private bath was one of the position’s greatest perks. Servants had revealed that Lyim’s predecessor had seldom taken advantage of this room, more proof of Aniirin III’s idiocy.

The bath chamber, totally enclosed to hold the steam, was not large. In the middle of the room was the pool, a perfect square, which stretched the length of two men. The deck was perhaps as wide, though a bit crowded with lush tropical plants in bronze urns. The first potentate had chosen a big, bold, serpentine black-and-cream tile pattern.

Sweat beaded up on Lyim’s brow as he relaxed in the water, heated by the boiler stoked by servants in a room beneath the pool. Sitting in a corner of the basin, Lyim held his arms above the water by propping them on the cold mosaic deck. He dared not risk getting the gauntlet wet, and he dared not take it off. Not that he wanted to.

Opposite the potentate, an auburn-haired woman lay casually on her side on the deck, her head supported by an angled arm. Ruby gauze, the color so rich it looked as if real gems had been crushed to make the dye, draped her lithe form.

Never particularly modest, Lyim had still found it disconcerting at first to dress and undress before a woman who stared at him so blatantly. He had grown accustomed to it, though, especially in light of the fact that Ventyr was not real. At least not a real woman. It was a difficult thing to remember, since she appeared to every man who wore the Gauntlet of Ventyr as his ideal of the perfect female. Lyim’s eye always sharpened keenly after wenches with red-gold hair. Beyond her physical attributes, Ventyr touched his mind—even his soul—with the slightest caress of her misty limbs. She satisfied his needs in a way no human woman ever had, and he had spent a great deal of his youth in that pursuit.

If you ask me, you’ve become too dependent on me for companionship since you had the amirs tortured to death, Ventyr remarked, her voice whispering like wind inside his head.

“I don’t recall asking you,” Lyim snarled good-naturedly, paddling hot water with his left hand so that it lapped over his half-submerged chest.

How are you going to produce any heirs? she pressed. You had all of Aniirin’s concubines slain, too.

“I remember fondly.” Still, Lyim made a mental note to engage some tolerable-looking female from the city at his first opportunity, if only to keep Ventyr from becoming too sure of his dependence on her.

The potentate stretched out a leg and used his big toe to turn the tap, releasing more hot water. He heard the whistle and rattle of pipes just before steaming water spurted through the copper spigot. Lyim watched it

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