Priest-Kings of Gor

Chapter Nine: THE PRIEST-KING

I would allow Vika to share the great stone couch, its sleeping pelts, and silken sheets.

This was unusual, however, for normally the Gorean slave girl sleeps at the foot of her master's couch, often on a straw mat with only a thin, cottonlike blanket, woven from the soft fibres of the Rep Plant, to protect her from the cold.

If she has not pleased her master of late, she may be, of course, as a disciplinary measure, simply chained nude to the slave ring at in the bottom of the couch, sans both blanket and mat.The stones of the floor are hard and the Gorean nights are cold and it is a rare girl who, when unchained in the morning, does not seek more dutifully to serve her master.

This harsh treatment, incidentally, when she is thought to deserve it, may even be inflicted on a Free Companion, in spite of the fact that she is free and usually much loved. According to the Gorean way of looking at things a taste of the slave ring is thought to be occasionally beneficial to all women, even the exalted Free Companions.

Thus when she has been irritable or otherwise troublesome even a Free Companion may find herself at the foot of the couch looking forward to a pleasant night on the stones, stripped, with neither mat nor blanket, chained to a slave ring precisely as though she were a lowly slave girl.

It is the Gorean way of reminding her, should she need to be reminded, that she, too, is a woman, and thus to be dominated, to be subject to men.Should she be tempted to forget this basic fact of Gorean life the slave ring set in the bottom of each Gorean couch is there to refresh her memory.Gor is a man's world.

And yet on this world I have seen great numbers of women who were both beautiful and splendid.

The Gorean woman, for reasons that are not altogether clear to me, considering the culture, rejoices in being a woman. She is often an exciting, magnificent, glorious creature, outspoken, talkative, vital, active, spirited.On the whole I find her more joyful than many of her earth-inhabiting sisters who, theoretically at least, enjoy a more lofty status, although it is surely true that on my old world I have met several women with something of the Gorean zest for acknowledging the radiant truth of their sex, the gifts of joy, grace and beauty, tenderness, and fathoms of love that we poor men, I suspect, may sometimes and tragically fail to understand, to comprehend.

Yet with all due respect and regard for the most astounding and marvellous sex, I suspect that, perhaps partly because of my Gorean training, it is true that a touch of the slave ring is occasionally beneficial.

Of custom, a slave girl may not even ascend the couch to serve her master's pleasure.The point of this restriction, I suppose, is to draw a clearer distinction between her status and that of a Free Companion.At any rate the dignities of the couch are, by custom, reserved for the Free Companion.

When a master wishes to make use of a slave girl he tells her to light the lamp of love which she obediently does, placing it in the window of his chamber that they may not be disturbed.Then with his own hand he throws upon the stone floor of his chamber luxurious love furs, perhaps from the larl itself, and commands her to them.

I had placed Vika gently on the great stone couch.

I kissed her gently on the forehead.

Her eyes opened.

'Did I leave the chamber?' she asked.

'Yes,' I said.

She regarded me for a long time.'How can I conquer you?' she asked.'I love you, Tarl Cabot.'

'You are only grateful,' I said.

'No,' she said, 'I love you.'

'You must not,' I said.

'I do,' she said.

I wondered how I should speak to her, for I must disabuse her of the illusion that there could be love between us.In the house of Priest-Kings there could be no love, nor could she know her own mind in these matters, and there was always Talena, whose image would never be eradicated from my heart.

'But you are a woman of Treve,' I said, smiling.

'You thought I was a Passion Slave,' she chided.

I shrugged.

She looked away from me, toward the wall.'You were right in a way, Tarl Cabot.'

'How is that?' I asked.

She looked at me directly.'My mother,' she said bitterly, '- was a Passion Slave - bred in the pens of Ar.'

'She must have been very beautiful,' I said.

Vika looked at me strangely.'Yes,' she said, 'I suppose she was.'

'Do you not remember her?' I asked.

'No,' she said, 'for she died when I was very young.'

'I'm sorry,' I said.

'It doesn't matter,' said Vika, 'for she was only an animal bred in the pens of Ar.'

'Do you despise her so?' I asked.

'She was a bred slave,' said Vika.

I said nothing.

'But my father,' said Vika, 'whose slave she was, and who was of the Caste of Physicians of Treve, loved her very much and asked her to be his Free Companion.'Vika laughed softly. 'For three years she refused him,' she said.

'Why?' I asked.

'Because she loved him,' said Vika, 'and did not wish him to take for his Free Companion only a lowly Passion Slave.'

'She was a very deep and noble woman,' I said.

Vika made a gesture of disgust.'She was a fool,' she said. 'How often would a bred slave have a chance of freedom?'

'Seldom indeed,' I admitted.

'But in the end,' said Vika, 'fearing he would slay himself she consented to become his Free Companion.'Vikar regarded me closely.Her eyes met mine very directly.'I was born free,' she said.'You must understand that.I am not a bred slave.'

'I understand,' I said.'Perhaps,' I suggested, 'your mother was not only beautiful, but proud and brave and fine.'

'How could that be?' laughed Vika scornfully.'I have told you she was only a bred slave, an animal from the pens of Ar.'

'But you never knew her,' I said.

'I know what she was,' said Vika.

'What of your father?' I asked.

'In a way,' she said, 'he is dead too.'

'What do you mean, in a way?' I asked.

'Nothing,' she said.

I looked about the room, at the chests against the wall dim in the reduced light of the energy bulbs, at the walls, at the shattered device in the ceiling, at the broken sensors, at the great, empty portal that led into the passageway beyond.

'He must have loved you very much, after your mother died,' I said.

'Yes,' said Vika, 'I suppose so - but he was a fool.'

'Why do you say that?' I asked.

'He followed me into the Sardar, to try and save me,' she said.

'He must have been a very brave man,' I said.

She rolled away from me and stared at the wall.After a time she spoke, her words cruel with contempt.

'He was a pompous little fool,' she said, 'and afraid even of the cry of a larl.'

She sniffed.

Suddenly she rolled back to face me.'How,' she asked, 'could my mother have loved him?He was only a fat, pompous little fool.'

'Perhaps he was kind to her,' I suggested, '- when others were not.'

'Why would anyone be kind to a Passion Slave?' asked Vika.

I shrugged.

'For the Passion Slave,' she said, 'it is the belled ankle, perfume, the whip and the furs of love.'

'Perhaps he was kind to her,' I suggested again, '- when others were not.'

'I don't understand,' said Vika.

'Perhaps,' I said, 'he cared for her and spoke to her and was gentle - and loved her.'

'Perhaps,' said Vika.'But would that be enough?'

'Perhaps,' I said.

'I wonder,' said Vika.'I have often wondered about that.'

'What became of him,' I asked, 'when he entered the Sardar?'

Vika would not speak.

'Do you know?' I asked.

'Yes,' she said.

'Then what?' I asked.

She shook her head bitterly.'Do not ask me,' she said.

I would not press her further on the matter.

'How is it,' I asked, 'that he allowed you to come to the Sardar?'

'He did not,' said Vika.'He tried to prevent me but I sought out the Initiates of Treve, proposing myself as an offering to the Priest-Kings.I did not, of course, tell them my true reason for desiring to come to the Sardar.'She paused.'I wonder if they knew,' she mused.

'It is not improbable,' I said.

'My father would not hear of it, of course,' she said.She laughed.'He locked me in my chambers, but the High Initiate of the City came with warriors and they broke into our compartments and beat my father until he could not move and I went gladly with them.'She laughed again.'Oh how pleased I was when they beat him and he cried out - for he was not a true man and even though of the Caste of Physicians could not stand pain.He could not even bear to hear the cry of a larl.'

I knew that Gorean caste lines, though largely following birth, were not inflexible, and that a man who did not care for his caste might be allowed to change caste, if approved by the High Council of his city, an approval usually contingent on his qualifications for the work of another caste and the willingness of the members of the new caste to accept him as a Caste Brother.

'Perhaps,' I suggested, 'it was because he could not stand pain that he remained a member of the Caste of Physicians.'

'Perhaps,' said Vika.'He always wanted to stop suffering, even that of an animal or slave.'

I smiled.

'You see,' she said, 'he was weak.'

'I see,' I said.

Vika lay back in the silks and furs.'You are the first of the men in this chamber,' she said, 'who have spoken to me of these things.'

I did not reply.

'I love you, Tarl Cabot,' she said.

'I think not,' I said gently.

'I do!' she insisted.

'Someday,' I said, 'you will love - but I do not think it will be a warrior of Ko-ro-ba.'

'Do you think I cannot love?' she challenged.

'I think someday you will love,' I said, 'and I think you will love greatly.'

'Can you love?' she challenged. 'I don't know,' I said.I smiled.'Once - long ago - I thought I loved.'

'Who was she?' asked Vika, not too pleasantly.

'A slender, dark-haired girl,' I said, 'whose name was Talena.'

'Was she beautiful?' asked Vika.

'Yes,' I said.

'As beautiful as I?' asked Vika.

'You are both very beautiful,' I said.

'Was she a slave?' asked Vika.

'No,' I said, '- she was the daughter of a Ubar.'

Rage transfigured Vika's features and she leaped from the couch and strode to the side of the room, her fingers angrily inside her collar, as though they might pull it from her throat.'I see!' she said.'And I - Vika - am only a slave girl!'

'Do not be angry,' I said.

'Where is she?' demanded Vika.

'I don't know,' I admitted.

'How long has it been since you have seen her?' demanded Vika.

'It has been more than seven years,' I said.

Vika laughed cruelly.'Then,' she gloated, 'she is in the Cities of Dust.'

'Perhaps,' I admitted.

'I - Vika -' she said, 'am here.'

'I know,' I said.

I turned away.

I heard her voice over my shoulder.'I will make you forget her,' she said.

Her voice had borne the cruel, icy, confident, passionate menace of a woman from Treve, accustomed to have what she wanted, who would not be denied.

I turned to face Vika once more, and I no longer saw the girl to whom I had been speaking but a woman of High Caste, from the bandit kingdom of Treve, insolent and imperious, though collared.

Casually Vika reached to the clasp on the left shoulder of her garment and loosened it, and the garment fell to her ankles.

She was branded.

'You though I was a Passion Slave,' she said.

I regarded the woman who stood before me, the sullen eyes, the pouting lips, the collar, the brand.

'Am I not beautiful enough,' she asked, 'to be the daughter of a Ubar?'

'Yes,' I said, 'you are that beautiful.'

She looked at me mockingly.'Do you know what a Passion Slave is?' she asked.

'Yes,' I said.

'It is a female of the human kind,' she said, 'but bred like a beast for its beauty and its passion.'

'I know,' I said.

'It is an animal,' she said, 'bred for the pleasure of men, bred for the pleasure of a master.'

I said nothing.

'In my veins,' she said, 'flows the blood of such an animal. In my veins flows the blood of a Passion Slave.'She laughed.'And you, Tarl Cabot, she said, 'are its master. You, Tarl Cabot, are my master.'

'No,' I said.

Amused, tauntingly, she approached me.'I will serve you as a Passion Slave,' she said.

'No,' I said.

'Yes,' she said, 'for you I will be an obedient Passion Slave.'She lifted her lips to mine.

My hands on her arms held her from me.

'Taste me,' she said.

'No,' I said.

She laughed.'You cannot reject me,' she said.

'Why not?' I asked.

'I shall not allow you to do so,' she said.'You see, Tarl Cabot, I have decided that you shall be my slave.'

I thrust her from me.

'Very well,' she cried, her eyes flashing.'Very well, Cabot,' she said, 'then I shall conquer you!'

And she seized my head in her hands and pressed her lips to mine.

In that moment I sensed once more that slightly acrid scent which I had experienced in the corridors beyond the chamber, and I pressed my mouth hard into Vika's until her lips were cut by my teeth and I had pressed her back until only my arm kept her from falling to the stones of the floor, and I heard her cry of surprise and pain, and then I hurled her angrily from me to the straw slave mat which lay at the foot of the stone couch.

Now it seemed to me that I understood but they had come too soon!She had not had a chance to do her work.It might go hard with her but I was not concerned.

Still I did not turn to that giant portal.

The scent was now strong.

Vika crouched terrified on the slave mat at the foot of the couch, in the very shadow of the slave ring.

'What is the matter?' she asked.'What is wrong?'

'So you were to conquer me for them, were you?' I demanded.

'I don't understand,' she stammered.

'You are a poor tool for Priest-Kings,' I said.

'No,' she said, 'no!'

'How many men have you conquered for Priest-Kings?' I asked. I seized her by the hair and twisted her head to face me. 'How many?' I cried.

'Please!' she wept.

I found myself tempted to break her head against the foot of the stone couch, for she was worthless, treacherous, seductive, cruel, vicious, worthy only of the collar, irons and the whip!

She shook her head numbly as though denying charges I had not yet voiced.

'You don't understand,' she said.'I love you!'

With loathing I cast her from me.

Yet still did I not turn to face that portal.

Vika lay at my feet, a streak of blood at the corner of those lips that bore still the marks of my fierce kiss.She looked up at me, tears welling in her eyes.

'Please,' she said.

The scent was strong.I knew that it was near.How was it that the girl was not aware of it?How was it that she did not know?Was it not part of her plan?

'Please,' she said, looking up at me, lifting her hand to me. Her face was tear-stained; her voice was a broken sob.'I love you,' she said.

'Silence, Slave Girl,' I said.

She lowered her head to the stones and wept.

I knew now that it was here.

The scent was now overpowering, unmistakable.

I watched Vika and suddenly she seemed too to know and her head lifted and her eyes widened with horror and she crept to her knees, her hands before her face as though to shield herself and she shuddered and suddenly uttered a wild, long, terrible scream of abject fear.

I drew my sword and turned.

It stood framed in the doorway.

In its way it was very beautiful, golden and tall, looming over me, framed in that massive portal.It was not more than a yard wide but its head nearly touched the top of the portal and so I would judged that, standing as it did, it must have been nearly eighteen feet high.

It had six legs and a great head like a globe of gold with eyes like vast luminous disks.Its two forelegs, poised and alert, were lifted delicately in front of its body.Its jaws opened and closed once.They moved laterally.

From its head there extended two fragile, jointed appendages, long and covered with short quivering strands of golden hair. These two appendages, like eyes, swept the room once and then seemed to focus on me.

They curved toward me like delicate golden pincers and each of the countless golden strands on those appendages straightened and pointed toward me like a quivering golden needle.

I could not conjecture the nature of the creature's experience but I knew that I stood within the centre of its sensory field.

About its neck there hung a small circular device, a translator of some sort, similar to but more compact than those I had hitherto seen.

I sensed a new set of odours, secreted by what stood before me.

Almost simultaneously a mechanically reproduced voice began to emanate from the translator.

It spoke in Gorean.

I knew what it would say.

'Lo Sardar,' it said.'I am a Priest-King.'

'I am Tarl Cabot of Ko-ro-ba,' I said.

A moment after I spoke I sensed another set of odours, which emanated perhaps from the device which hung about the neck of what stood before me.

The two sensory appendages of the creature seemed to register this information.

A new scent came to my nostrils.

'Follow me,' said the mechanically reproduced voice, and the creature turned from the portal.

I went to the portal.

It was stalking in long, delicate steps down the passageway.

I looked once more at Vika, who lifted her hand to me. 'Don't go,' she said.

I turned scornfully from her and followed the creature.

Behind me I heard her weep.

Let her weep, I said to myself, for she has failed her masters the Priest-Kings, and undoubtedly her punishment will not be light.

Had I the time, had I not more urgent business, I might have punished her myself, teaching her without mercy what could be the meaning of her collar, using her as objectively and ruthlessly as she deserved, brutally administering the discipline of a Gorean master to a treacherous slave girl.

We would see then who would conquer.

I shook these thoughts from my head and continued down the passageway.

I must forget the treacherous, vicious wench.There were more important matters to attend to.The slave girl was nothing.

I hated Vika.

I followed a Priest-King.