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  Flame Virgin

  Tarot: Five of Swords

  By

  C. D. Conejo

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Flame Virgin: 5 of Swords

  Copyright © 2006 C. D. Conejo

  Cover art and design by Martine Jardin

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by eXtasy Book

  www.extasybooks.com

  The Five of Swords

  The Five of Swords is the card of defeat. You may be wrong, or you may be right. Your opponent may be cruel or unjust, but you are going to lose to your enemy. Can you fight back? You could, but you would only lose more. The only hope is in dignified surrender. You must move on, and not look back. There is a lesson to be learned, and at the end, there is the ray of sunlight that is hope. Because with dignity and strength, this card will temper you, make you stronger.

  Juna can’t fight the powerful forces aligned against her, degrading and mocking her in her struggle. It takes all her strength to keep her inner dignity, but love, in its infinite capacity to heal, rewards her.

  To Clyde…

  ONE

  Juna pulled her shawl tight around her body, if only to stop her shivering. She huddled on the pounded earth floor in the corner of her dank cell, seeking warmth from the unyielding stone walls. A thin stream of sunlight struggled through the casement high above her, illuminating the cobwebs blanketing the ceiling, and little more. She was grateful for the dim light; it somehow, unreasonably, gave her hope.

  It was a most unreasonable hope, she knew, since there was no bright lining to the darkness in her heart. She had failed, she had been caught, and she would be punished. She heard the boots on the stone floor outside her cell. She curled closer to the wall, a cold sweat running down her back. Someone was coming back, and there would be no mercy for her.

  The door creaked open, and warm air rushed in with it. Juna’s curious mind wondered at the oddness of the temperature. She had no idea why it was so, but every time she entered the cell, it was colder, and every time she left it, the world was warmer. Yet her cell was her refuge, her only refuge, so why would it be so cold?

  Juna marveled that she could be thinking about temperature in the face of her doomed fate, the onslaught of the opening door. But she knew the workings of the mind, she had made a lifetime study of that, and she knew that by letting her mind ponder such things she was sheltering herself from the truth of what was to come.

  A lifetime of study was no understatement, for Juna was a keeper of Bridget’s flame. This awesome responsibility was handed down from woman to woman for almost five hundred years, since the days when Bridget had walked this earth. She was the symbol of fire, forges, and femininity. She had embodied, at first, motherhood, strength, and love.

  The legends said that Bridget mated with and married Bres, and had three sons. Bres was a brave and dark force, a force of war and power, and when he was united to Bridget’s fire, their progeny were the power of life itself.

  In the old days, it was said, Bridget’s fire never went out. Keepers, brave and sage women, were called to tend that fire, give solace and counsel to seekers, and keep the fire of remembrance going. Twenty days they kept the flame, and on the twenty-first night, for hundreds of years, Bridget herself was seen keeping the flame going.

  In those days, the keepers of the flame celebrated their womanhood, and did not fear or disdain lusty coupling. In some places, young, virile men were specially brought in to ensure the joyful regeneration. Never were women chattel either forced into or denied sexuality.

  When the Romans came, and brave Vercengetorix had been defeated, changes were wrought on Bridget’s legacy. They had taken her fecund, loving nature and chilled it. Her keepers became virgins, sacrificing their sexuality to a supposed sanctity. Women became items of property, and love and joyful lust were subverted. But the keepers of the flame kept on, because even at the cost of their freedom, Bridget’s flame, her name, and her hope had to be kept going.

  Juna’s reverie came to an abrupt end.

  “Get up,” the guard said, and prodded her with the toe of his boot. The prod became a small but sharp kick when her cold bones didn’t move her fast enough. She let out a little cry, and scrambled to her feet. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said the guard, “if this little poke bothers you, you’ll be no amusement at all in the punishment room.”

  The words sent another chill down her spine. The fortress was the center of the County, and its punishment room was renowned. The lasciviousness of the current government was a topic of salacious and titillating gossip throughout the land. It was amusing to talk about orgies, mysterious drinks and well-oiled slaves when you weren’t facing punishment yourself, Juna thought. She had lived such a pure life, and now to be even contemplating such topics was an assault on her sensibilities.

  Juna drew in her breath and stood as tall and strong as she could. Hiding would not work. She made herself look at the guard who had come to fetch her. He was the one who had brought her to her cell, but she had been so angry, so frightened, and struggling so hard against his grip that she had not looked at him directly.

  The guards had come for her in the dark, after Bres had left. She was sleeping, clad in her thin white shift, in the warm summer night, with the shawl lightly over her. She had been dreaming of Bres’ kiss, on her lips, on her body. She'd moved in her sleep, remembering his tongue as it worked its way down her belly. Then she had startled awake, horrified to see three men in her tiny room.

  She pulled the shawl closer when the men reached for her. One lifted her shift, pulling it up to her waist, and another wrapped her shawl around her face. Hands held her down, others grabbing and pulling the golden curls that shielded her femininity. “Come on, whore, move like that again!” a rough voice laughed, and hands pulled her legs wide.

  “Stop!” one said. “Leave her to judgment!” The others groaned with annoyance.

  “Let us have a little amusement first!” one complained. “The tribunal need never know.” Hard fingers found their way into her. They had not let go of her spread legs, nor lowered her shift. She lay there, frozen with fear, displayed before these strangers, unable to fight, see, or move.

  “The tribunal will decide her fate,” said her alleged champion. “I am sure we will all have our chance to enjoy her favors in the punishment room.”

  The men laughed in agreement. To Juna, the words were worse than the hands. But there was no remedy.

  She was hauled to her feet, and tossed onto the front of the leader's horse. She clutched her shawl to herself with one hand, as she was forced to grip the pommel of the saddle with the other to keep from falling. Again her shift was lifted, to taunting laughter, to mount her on the horse, her now-tender sex pressed into the leather saddle.

  The guard’s strong arm held her through the ride, his hand gripping her arm with such force that a clear outline of his fingers was imprinted as his brand on her upper arm.

  He had tossed her into the cell like so muc
h old clothing, and all she knew about him was that his hands could leave finger-marks on her pale skin.

  Now she assessed him, in what she hoped was a confident, bold look. He was not remarkably tall or big, but he was well muscled. His red hair was standard issue; his reddish gold beard was as commonplace as the earth itself. His eyes, however, were the color of summer sky, and rare in their intelligence and sparkle. But looks, Juna knew, could be misleading.

  “Where are we going?” she asked. The guard looked down at her. His eyes traveled from the shawl that covered Juna’s own red hair, past her dark brown eyes, to her body. The shawl held her breasts tightly wrapped, and kept them from his appraising eyes, but the closely woven white shift that she wore clearly outlined the curve of her bottom, the movement of her thighs as she stood before him. She recalled how much he had already seen, and she squirmed under his gaze. He shook his head.

  “To the tribunal, Juna. You know that. Now stop quivering, coward. If you had been fearful enough of the tribunal to stop your lusts before, you wouldn’t need to fear it now.”

  Juna bowed her head. He was right, of course. She should have resisted more. She knew the consequences of surrender, and yet she had done so. Now, she would pay, and he was right. She was a coward. In fact, she was terrified. She shivered again, and the guard turned away in obvious disgust. “Let’s go,” he said, his voice contemptuous. He pulled her in front of him, pushed her forward. “Just keep walking until I tell you to stop.”

  She took a step out of her cell, and stumbled in the sudden brightness. His hard hand reached out to catch her, grabbing her arm in a tight grip. Then, as she steadied, the hand slipped from her arm and slapped her sharply across her buttocks. The guard laughed softly. “Watch where you’re walking. We wouldn’t want you to show up lame for the tribunal.”

  Juna’s bare feet padded along the stone walk, forward, ever forward, with the guard close behind her. She felt the heat from his body, heard the clank of his swords against the metal belt he wore. She could smell his sharp male aroma, sweat and dirt and manliness, and she hated it. It was the odor that had seduced her, betrayed her, and brought her to this hideous captivity. She walked more quickly, to get away from him.

  “Turn down here,” he said, and she entered a dark, forbidding corridor. She hesitated, and again felt the hard hand on her arm. This time it lingered, only a moment, and she wrenched herself away from its strangely comforting grasp. “Vixen,” he said with a chuckle.

  She came to a door, heavy wood with wrought iron designs strengthening it. She stopped before the door, waiting for his order. He stood very close behind her. She felt his breath in her hair. “Don’t be proud, Juna. Don’t confuse bravery with pride. You failed in your solemn oath, and you need to be punished. But don’t make it harder on yourself with pride.” His voice, deep and clear, was soft in her ear. “Now open the door, and face the tribunal.”

  With an icy hand she turned the big iron lever, and the door swung open. She stood motionless, unable to step in. Her guard shoved her hard through the door, so she stumbled into the room. Her hands flew out for balance, dropping her shawl to the ground. When she regained her footing, furious and shaking, she stood clad only in her tight shift.

  She stopped herself from turning to glare at the treacherous guard, whose gentle voice had calmed her instants before he pushed her. Couldn’t he have let her walk into the room, to face her accusers with the shreds of her dignity, and her shawl around her? But she held herself still. Greater forces were upon her.

  The room was beautifully appointed, large enough for the judges’ table, several chairs, and some ornamental vases. Wall hangings in rich red and gold cloth warmed the room, as did a crackling fire in the hearth at the far end. The chairs were covered in creamy damask, and the stones on the floor were polished a gleaming earthen red.

  Arrayed before her, at a sumptuous table covered in gold cloth, were five judges. The chief judge, with his high red hat, sat in the center. His white mustache drooped over once-full lips, his eyes narrowed and watered, but he seemed alert to Juna’s terrified presence.

  Next to the chief judge, on his right, was a young, handsome version of the same, his deep blue hat accenting his cornflower eyes. A smile played on his lips, but it was not kindly.

  To his right, to Juna’s surprise, was a woman. Women, under current law, could not be judges. But this was not an ordinary woman, but a beautiful, otherworldly woman with a sculpted face. She was dressed all in white, modestly gowned, like the keeper of Bridget’s flame. Juna’s heart sank. She would be judged by one of her own.

  Seated to the other side of the chief was a slim man with a thick, grey mane of hair, with a quill and ink, and a large parchment before him. A law-keeper, she knew. And next to him, another woman, gowned in deep rose. Her blonde hair was swept back from her aristocratic brow, and she would have been pretty but her little eyes gave her a piggish look. She looked familiar, though Juna’s brain couldn’t unscramble the image enough to place her.

  They did not invite Juna to sit. Behind her, at the door, the guard also stood.

  Juna pulled herself to her full height. She was tall for a woman, and stately. Her hair, freed from the shawl, cascaded in a red river past her shoulders. Her dark brown eyes glittered. She faced her judges. She would be brave.

  “Juna,” the head judge said. His voice was raspy. “You know why you stand accused. Answer.”

  “I failed to keep my virginity as a keeper of the flame,” she said, looking at him in the face.

  “Do you regret your transgression?”

  “No.”

  The other judges’ collective intake of breath sounded like the hiss of steam escaping a pressure cauldron. “Read us the law,” the chief said dryly. Any earlier kindliness had disappeared from his voice in the face of Juna’s proud intransigence.

  The law-keeper unrolled his parchment. “The keepers of the flame shall remain virgins for the term of their devotion. Ten years, they shall learn. Ten they shall keep. Ten they shall teach. Then, they may marry.”

  “And the penalty for failure?” the younger judge asked, his smile curling falsely. He was stunningly handsome, Juna thought, if you could disregard the cruelty in his look. He trailed his eyes along Juna’s body, resting on her breasts, until she felt her nipples harden under his gaze.

  “The penalty? We have choices, depending on the transgressor’s humble repentance. There is, of course, death. But there is also entry into service and freedom if she gives satisfaction in service, if her repentance is deemed complete.”

  “Juna, your life is at stake. Do you repent?”

  Juna swallowed hard. “No, my judge, I do not repent. I served long and well, and kept myself pure, for twenty-five years. I was nine when the keepers came to me. I prayed for hours, days, before I knew I could be a keeper too. I learned, and I kept, and I taught.

  “When Bres came to me, he came in the form of a stallion. He galloped to the temple, and stood waiting for me. When I first saw him, my heart took flight. My limbs turned to powdered gold, light, airy and free. I knew, I knew immediately, that he had come for me. I had no choice, no desire to choose.

  “That night, at the temple, I waited. I wore my white gown, as the judge here does, but beneath my gown, I brought only myself. All day I prepared for this moment. I sang a joyous song. I had purified my body, anointed it with oils, combed the hair above my mound until it glistened gold. I had rubbed my nipples with rose powder, and scented myself with lavender.”

  As she spoke, Juna could feel her body warm with the memory. She smiled, remembering the wonderful sensations of preparation. For the first time in the three days since she had been brought to the fortress, she wasn’t cold.

  “I was a virgin. I had never been touched by a man, and yet I knew this was right. My center was liquid, waiting for him.

  “I heard the hooves of the stallion, caught sight of his golden mane as he clattered into the courtyard. I ran out to him, and wrap
ped my arms around his long neck. He was warm, and smelled of sweat, and grass, and freedom. I inhaled the wonderful aroma, and I was flying through the fields on the wind. My hair was streaming behind me. And then…” Juna paused.

  She brought her eyes back to the present. Her listeners were spellbound, lips moistened, eyes glazed. “Continue,’ said the chief judge harshly.

  “Then, he was a man. He wore a rough kilt, and carried a sword on each hip, and daggers, and a small knife tucked into his woolen boot. He wore no shirt, and his chest was forested with thick hair. He pulled me to him, and kissed me. My first kiss.

  “I poured myself into his lips. They tasted of raspberries; his tongue was like spring water. I stroked his chest, ran my fingers through the dense covering of tangled hair.

  “His hands tore my gown off. I stood before him, naked and glowing. I was afraid, I was amazed. In the shadows of the courtyard, there under the full moon, he took my body in his hands. He touched every part of me, sparing nothing. He laid me on the stones, and opened me. I longed to close my legs to his eyes, his hands, but he forbade it. At the same time, I longed to open fully to him, to inhale him, overwhelm him. And then, he lifted his kilt.

  “His manhood was everything I had imagined; large, long, hard as the stones I lay on. He lifted my legs and spread me wide. Then, using his fingers, he opened my lower lips, and plunged his fingers in. When he took them out, they were wet. He ran that wetness over my nipples, and I laughed into the sky as I felt the liquid of my own desire.

  “Without more, he pulled my thighs wider, and with one painful thrust, broke through my maidenhood, tearing at the fabric of my body, and plundering my waiting flesh without relent. He repeated his thrusts, searing me, filling me, and I cried out. ‘It begins this way for every woman,’ he said, ‘because it ends this way for every man.’“