Chapter One
Aside from the worry of conceiving a child, Bryn considered sucking cock the worst part of her role as a prostitute. Leaning against the rails of the carved-earth tower above the brothel, she took a deep drag from the cinnamon-clove arre’te she held between her thumb and forefinger. By some twist of luck, she’d discovered she possessed an allergy to cinnamon when a trader had brought her chamber mate, Ayla, a tin of treats five years previously. At first Bryn had panicked when her mouth had gone numb after sucking the spicy delicacy, but Bryn wasn’t the type of woman who panicked for long. She’d quickly realized a numb mouth made sucking a Jahns willy a lot less foul.
Another deep drag. The arre’te burned dangerously close to her fingertips, and a spark flew into the night air, disappearing into the sounds of a city bustling beneath her. As she watched the glow vanish, she felt an envy for that ember. Her heart lurched with a pain of longing as she listened to the noise reverberating against the exterior of the hills around her. Mostly she heard the clatter of men—fishermen announcing what they’d caught that day, traders hawking cigarettes and fresh water. All free men, roaming the dirty streets on their way to their next destination.
Men. Because they had a cock, they were free.
Bryn hated cocks as much as she wished to own one.
“Bryn. Your Jahn is preparing for you. He should be ringing the bell shortly.”
Her stomach lurched as she listened to the servant’s voice. “I’ll be inside momentarily,” she called over her shoulder. She’d already been prepared for the evening. Three servants had shaved her skin. One had cleaned her legs, one her underarms and one servant had gently run the edge of a deadly sharp knife over every crevice of her sex, leaving her pussy as smooth as silk. Another servant had massaged her body in agave milk, and her skin was as soft and pale as the plant’s liquid.
Her arre’te was dark, dead. She flicked it into the night and watched it fall into the crowd. And there was a crowd. Tonight the city was bustling. The storm that had recently passed had left people relieved, and an air of excitement seemed to permeate the air. Storms were rare and fierce, and each time a tempest passed, the denizens of the sea came ashore. The fish were plenty, the air was clear and the men were horny. For that last part, if it happened to be a female a man wanted, there was only one place within a hundred miles to find such a commodity.
And, being such a commodity herself, Bryn was standing on the balcony of said establishment. The Dusty Rose. She rolled her eyes. It was a stupid name. After all, no living being had actually seen anything other than the desert rose, a mutation of the plant that survived. Now, they only saw illustrations that had been protected by the underground Librarians. Illustrations dated hundreds of years ago were the closest thing any being on the planet had come to seeing an actual rose. A sealed parchment with a photo of a rose hung in the entry of the brothel, given to the house by the High Priestess. The plant had been entirely destroyed during The Burning Time. So Bryn thought the name was hokey, some kind of cheesy suggestion of what was located inside the thick walls. Petal Pussies, Leaves of Flesh, Flowers for Hire—if they were going to pick a hokey name, any of those would be better and more accurate titles of what resided in the Dusty Rose.
She touched her right ear, where a red rose was tattooed on her lobe. Her fellow prostitutes were each marked similarly. A small symbol, but it said so much. The mark claimed her. Owned her. Kept her in her place. She was a Rose. A pretty word for whore. And that place was a fortress, an environment protected as tightly as any temple. A brothel.
Located in the center of Kroy Wren, the Dusty Rose was carved into the rocky walls of earth, the thick soil etched by the knives of highly skilled artisans. The
Aside from the worry of conceiving a child, Bryn considered sucking cock the worst part of her role as a prostitute. Leaning against the rails of the carved-earth tower above the brothel, she took a deep drag from the cinnamon-clove arre’te she held between her thumb and forefinger. By some twist of luck, she’d discovered she possessed an allergy to cinnamon when a trader had brought her chamber mate, Ayla, a tin of treats five years previously. At first Bryn had panicked when her mouth had gone numb after sucking the spicy delicacy, but Bryn wasn’t the type of woman who panicked for long. She’d quickly realized a numb mouth made sucking a Jahns willy a lot less foul.
Another deep drag. The arre’te burned dangerously close to her fingertips, and a spark flew into the night air, disappearing into the sounds of a city bustling beneath her. As she watched the glow vanish, she felt an envy for that ember. Her heart lurched with a pain of longing as she listened to the noise reverberating against the exterior of the hills around her. Mostly she heard the clatter of men—fishermen announcing what they’d caught that day, traders hawking cigarettes and fresh water. All free men, roaming the dirty streets on their way to their next destination.
Men. Because they had a cock, they were free.
Bryn hated cocks as much as she wished to own one.
“Bryn. Your Jahn is preparing for you. He should be ringing the bell shortly.”
Her stomach lurched as she listened to the servant’s voice. “I’ll be inside momentarily,” she called over her shoulder. She’d already been prepared for the evening. Three servants had shaved her skin. One had cleaned her legs, one her underarms and one servant had gently run the edge of a deadly sharp knife over every crevice of her sex, leaving her pussy as smooth as silk. Another servant had massaged her body in agave milk, and her skin was as soft and pale as the plant’s liquid.
Her arre’te was dark, dead. She flicked it into the night and watched it fall into the crowd. And there was a crowd. Tonight the city was bustling. The storm that had recently passed had left people relieved, and an air of excitement seemed to permeate the air. Storms were rare and fierce, and each time a tempest passed, the denizens of the sea came ashore. The fish were plenty, the air was clear and the men were horny. For that last part, if it happened to be a female a man wanted, there was only one place within a hundred miles to find such a commodity.
And, being such a commodity herself, Bryn was standing on the balcony of said establishment. The Dusty Rose. She rolled her eyes. It was a stupid name. After all, no living being had actually seen anything other than the desert rose, a mutation of the plant that survived. Now, they only saw illustrations that had been protected by the underground Librarians. Illustrations dated hundreds of years ago were the closest thing any being on the planet had come to seeing an actual rose. A sealed parchment with a photo of a rose hung in the entry of the brothel, given to the house by the High Priestess. The plant had been entirely destroyed during The Burning Time. So Bryn thought the name was hokey, some kind of cheesy suggestion of what was located inside the thick walls. Petal Pussies, Leaves of Flesh, Flowers for Hire—if they were going to pick a hokey name, any of those would be better and more accurate titles of what resided in the Dusty Rose.
She touched her right ear, where a red rose was tattooed on her lobe. Her fellow prostitutes were each marked similarly. A small symbol, but it said so much. The mark claimed her. Owned her. Kept her in her place. She was a Rose. A pretty word for whore. And that place was a fortress, an environment protected as tightly as any temple. A brothel.
Located in the center of Kroy Wren, the Dusty Rose was carved into the rocky walls of earth, the thick soil etched by the knives of highly skilled artisans. The
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