The Master

Book 3: Sons of Destiny

by Jean Johnson

Genres: Fantasy Romance; Paranormal Romance

Synopsis

The third novel in the acclaimed Sons of Destiny series.

Eight brothers, born in four sets of twins, two years apart to the day—they fulfill the curse of eight prophecy. To avoid tempting destiny, the brothers are exiled to Nightfall Island, where women are forbidden. But when the third-born brother is taken by a powerful and beautiful mage, he wonders if she is the Prophesied Disaster, his foretold wife-to-be.
 
Kidnapped and taken captive by slavers, Dominor is sold to a lovely mage, who promises freedom. But Lady Serina has plans for him—to re-enact a mating ritual, to help reverse a Tantric spell cast centuries ago. Agreeing to help, Dominor doesn’t suspect the secret she holds—because there is more to this magical mating than she has revealed.
 
Once the ritual is complete, he will be returned to Nightfall. But when that secret finally shatters, baring the truth behind the misunderstandings now separating them, Dominor is determined to retake possession of the woman who is his Destiny.

Release date: May 6, 2008

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 320

Sample

Romance lovers are falling for the Sons of Destiny

“Enchantments, amusement, eight hunks, and one bewitching woman make for a fun romantic fantasy . . . humorous and magical. A delightful charmer.”

—Midwest Book Review

“A must-read for those who enjoy fantasy and romance. I so thoroughly enjoyed this wonderful . . . novel and eagerly look forward to each of the other brothers’ stories. Jean Johnson can’t write them fast enough for me!”

—The Best Reviews

“I love this world and the heroes and heroines who reside there . . . a lively, wonderful, and oh-so-satisfying book. It is long, beautifully written, and entertaining. Light and dark magic are everywhere . . . fantasy romance at its best.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“A complex fantasy-romance series.”

—Booklist

“A fun story. I look forward to seeing how these alpha males find their soul mates in the remaining books.”

—The Eternal Night

“An intriguing world . . . an enjoyable hero . . . an enjoyable showcase for an inventive new author. Jean Johnson brings a welcome voice to the romance genre, and she’s assured of a warm welcome.”

—The Romance Reader

“An intriguing and entertaining tale of another dimension . . . quite entertaining. It will be fun to see how the prophecy turns out for the rest of the brothers.”

—Fresh Fiction

Sons of Destiny novels by Jean Johnson

THE SWORD

THE WOLF

THE MASTER

THE SONG

JEAN JOHNSON

Table of Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank NotSoSaintly, Alexandra, and Stormi for their invaluable assistance in continuing to help me edit my writing; Alienor for allowing me to bounce ideas off her forehead like crumpled little wads of paper that my muse can then chase after like a cat; PiperKirby for being my cold-reader for this novel and waiting so patiently to actually get to read it; and of course the Mob of Irate Torch-Wielding Fans (this time around, it’s for putting up with my insistence that fruitcake not be used as any sort of a weapon, though stale baguettes are still fair game).

A special mention also goes to: Dale, Janet, Betty, Ann, Adelaida, and Dr. Tuan, for allowing me to take over their break room at the dentist’s office on a quarterly basis; Yvonne at the Infusion Center, for letting me have a chair and something to prop my laptop on so that I may continue to write during each four-hour session; my father, for putting up with my lugging around said laptop to so many of his various appointments; and my mother, for taking him to some of his appointments, too, so I don’t have to deal with rush-hour traffic. Bleahhh.

If anyone is interested in joining the Mob of Irate Torch-Wielding Fans (and is eighteen years or older; sorry, but you have to be an adult to join), you can visit us at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/MoITWF. Or you can come visit my website at www.jeanjohnson.net, where all are welcome!

Hugs,

~JEAN

P.S. The teaser at the end is imperfect. Apologies!

ONE

The Third of Sons shall meet his match:

Strong of will and strong of mind

You seek she who is your kind

Set your trap and be your fate

When Lady is the Master’s mate

Time passed strangely for Dominor of Nightfall. It came and went in muzzy bursts. He had vague, fleeting recollections of the things happening around him: wooden walls that creaked, the tang of the sea ever in his nostrils, voices muttering around him, hands forcing him to get up and walk around when he was too dizzy. He recalled how the floor was too uncertain underfoot for him to readily stand when he was made to do so, and of being fed minty-flavored food and drink that instinct said he shouldn’t eat, yet his captors forced upon him while he was too muddled to resist. And he had memories of eating that herbed food until the world swirled away once more.

He remembered a familiar voice, its source strangely distant yet right there in his ear, desperate to reach him. The voice comforted him with its familiarity, though he couldn’t have said who even he himself was most of the time, let alone the name or the face that went with that voice. He was aware of the omnipresent chafe of chains at ankles, wrists, and throat, of a faint memory that he had once worn fine, tailored clothes, not the rough fabric rubbing against his flesh. He hadn’t always smelled of sweat and worse things, of unclean things, but that was due to the fact that he wasn’t allowed to bathe, nor allowed enough clarity in his wits to tend to himself.

And then it happened. They didn’t come with the bitter-minty flavored food. The world rocked even more dizzily underneath Dom as he lay chained to his bed; his surroundings swayed and creaked dismally, slanting first this way, then that way at unnerving angles, while his mind slowly woke. The cloud obscuring his senses eased enough that he could hear the shouts and the snapping riggings, smell the rain and the sea, and the captive mage knew he was on board a ship on the ocean.

Dominor remembered the Mandarites and their falomel-laced food. He remembered the oddly dressed, arrogantly opinioned Lord and his two duplicitous sons. And he remembered that he was captive on a ship that, from the sound and feel and smell of it, was caught in a bad summer storm, one that seemed to go on and on. Long enough that the last of the mage-confusing drug wore off. As the minutes turned into hours, Dominor became increasingly, uncomfortably aware of how filthy he was, how hungry and thirsty, and most of all how angry he was. When Dominor realized that, when his head was clear enough to think, he tested the chains keeping him bound more or less in place on his thin-palleted bunk while the ship surged with each hill-like wave.

The chains were padlocked to thick iron staples set too firmly in the bulkhead walls for him to dislodge physically in his drug-weakened state. He tried a simple unlocking spell next, but the energy just glowed briefly for a moment, then sank into the manacles clamped at neck, hands, and feet. He tried a more complex spell, one that lit up the small cabin he was in, showing the walls, sea-damp from water seeping through the decks because of the storm. Symbols on the stout, silvered metal simply absorbed it. As they did so, the metal clamped around his wrists, ankles, and throat warmed briefly. Warningly.

He didn’t know those symbols—magical languages were among the very few things that just didn’t translate well without intense study, not even with the aid of the Ultra Tongue spell—but he recognized their effect. They were absorbing his energies. If he threw all of his power at them, they might overload and break . . . and most probably burn off the flesh attached to them. Or, if they were forged with the right sort of enchantments, they could latch onto his powers and drain him to a lifeless husk.

An unpleasant thought.

Then again, so was the possibility of starving to death. Or rather, dying of thirst. That would happen first. His mouth felt like it had been scrubbed with sand, then powdered with dust. The heaving of the ship around him didn’t help; it reminded him of the liquid that lay beyond the hull. It was too salty to drink, of course, but it was a form of water, and he wanted water. Preferably without any mind-and-power stealing falomel in it.

Odds are, they’ll try to keep me drugged until we reach landfall . . . unless I can talk them out of it, Dominor offered to himself. It was a slim hope, but not an impossible one. They’re so full of themselves and their males-are-superior attitude that if I pretended to listen and pretended to convert to their ways, they’d probably decide to trust me.

Not too quickly, of course, he reminded himself. His mind was finally clear enough to have the room for cunning, for plotting and laying out his strategies. They’d not believe a sudden conversion. Not when they’ve kept me chained like an animal. They’ll expect some initial rage—and I have plenty of that! But if I ask the right questions, I can steer the conversation toward the idea of converting-the-prisoner. Like the question of what could they possibly offer me as an enticement to stay, when I’m Her Majesty’s Lord Chancellor.

His mouth twisted wryly. Kelly of Doyle, the woman his eldest brother had married, had made that outrageous claim. The redheaded outworlder had proclaimed herself Queen of Nightfall, the island where he and his seven brothers had lived for three years after being exiled from their homeland, Katan. Her arrival and subsequent romance with his eldest brother, Saber, had fulfilled a prophecy spoken in verse by a woman born a thousand years before. The Seer Draganna had predicted the birth of four sets of twins, all of them mages, all of them with unique Destinies. One of those Prophetic Destinies had been the warning that some unspecified disaster would occur if the eldest ever bedded a virgin.

The Council of Mages of Katan, in their so-called wisdom, had exiled Dom and his brothers to Nightfall to prevent them from meeting any women; if they were the Sons of Destiny, then all of them had to be removed, supposedly “for the greater good of Katan.”

The Council hadn’t accounted for the meddling of the youngest of them, Morganen, whose predicted Destiny was to match-make all of his siblings. He had hauled in a woman from another universe entirely to argue with, be courted by, and eventually marry the eldest of them. Even if it meant summoning the Disaster foreseen for them so very long ago.

And the Prophesied Disaster turns out to be the very same misogynistic idiots who have managed to capture me. At least, I hope my presence on this ship was the only Disaster that befell us when Saber married Kelly . . . It was an ignoble way to fulfill a prophecy, being captured and chained. Still, it only affected himself and his siblings. It wasn’t a Disaster that affected all of Katan.

Dominor was glad no one could see him like this. They had taken away his finespun clothes and given him rough homespun that stunk of sweat and sea and the desperate need for a bath. His chains had enough give in them to allow him to check under the pants. No under-trousers. They’d even taken away his shoes and his socks. They had clothed him in ugly, stained, beige leggings and a matching, long-sleeved shirt. At least, he thought it was beige; the storm gray light coming through the one porthole in the room didn’t really lend itself toward discerning colors.

A tentative exploration of his hair, once silky-clean, proved it was now rather greasy and tangled, especially at the back. From the growth of hair on his jaw, he judged he’d been drugged for at least a week and a half, if not longer. Dominor grimaced in distaste as he fingered his mustache and beard. He hated facial hair. The mustache, if allowed to grow long, tickled his nostrils and interfered with his food, and the beard just plain itched. Not to mention the males in his family line had never been all that hirsute, which meant that his beard would look scraggly and scrawny even when fully grown. If a man couldn’t grow a decent beard, he didn’t look respectable, in Dominor’s opinion.

Maybe I can jump-start the “conversion” process by demanding some civilized amenities, like a shave. I could imply to them that I’d be a lot more willing to listen if they were a lot more willing to treat me well . . .

The door to his cabin opened, startling him. It banged shut again as the ship pitched the wrong way, making someone yelp, then curse and wrestle it open again. The younger of the count’s sons fell inside as the ship shifted and tilted the other way, barely hanging on to the oil lamp now lighting the chamber. A waterskin dangled off his elbow, adding to his burdens. Dominor recalled the names of his captors.

Lord Kemblin Aragol, Count . . . no, Earl of the Western Marches, that was it; representative of King Gustavo the Third. His elder son is named Kennal, and this one is called Eduor. The one who tricked me into drinking that drug-laced alcohol. He still doesn’t look old enough to shave.

“Oh! You’re awake.”

Yes, state the obvious, you little whelp. Dominor leveled him with a firm look and spoke with the lilt of the Mandarite accent, which was how the Ultra Tongue potion he had drunk translated their language. “Yes. And I am not happy with my accommodations. Is this how you convince male mages from other kingdoms to work for you?”

A deliberate shift of his wrists made his chains rattle. Eduor flushed. He blinked a few times, cleared his throat, and braced himself as the ship rocked again. Looking around, he hung the oil lantern on a hook next to the door, then faced Dominor again, clutching his waterskin. “Er, well . . . here, you must be thirsty!”

“If it has falomel in it, I will shove that bag through your digestive system. In reverse,” Dominor added not-quite-blandly, shifting to sit up on the bed. He couldn’t go much farther than that, maybe enough to use the chamber pot . . . if there was one in the small cabin. He hadn’t seen one, yet. But it was enough slack to lend weight to his threat.

Eduor stared at him, eyes wide. His fingers tapped on the bag clutched to his chest. “Right. I’ll, ah, be back shortly!”

The door banged shut behind him. At least the idiot had left the lantern. Not that the yellowish glow of the flame lent much to the dismal décor, but it did shed enough light for him to focus on the planks lining his cramped, closet-sized prison. Unfortunately, counting knotholes was only marginally more entertaining than drifting through a minty, mindless haze.

*   *   *

The heaving swells tossing the ship had eased to an exaggerated rocking motion by the time he was visited again. At least he’d found a lidded chamber pot wedged under his bunk in a small cupboard. Dominor disliked traveling by ship; the facilities were primitive, the opportunity for hygiene less than adequate, and in his case, the accommodations literally stank. Disgruntled, he fixed the man who entered with a hard, unhappy glare and struck first.

“Lord Aragol, I am deeply displeased with the way you have treated me. Not one iota of this situation is disposing me to look favorably upon helping you. When we spoke at the palace, you suggested there were enticements for a mage of my abilities. Wealth. Status. Power. Prestige. Where in any of that does it include chaining me like a common thief, drugging me senseless, and giving me clothes only the poorest of commoners would be delighted to wear?”

Kemblin Aragol lifted his goatee-covered chin slightly. He had dispensed with the hat and the waist-length jacket, but still wore the rest of his finery, including that ridiculous codpiece-thing at his crotch. “In order to get you far enough away from your homeland that you would be forced to stay long enough to listen to us, it was necessary to keep you drugged and thus cooperative and unable to harm yourself. It really isn’t our intent to let harm come to you. But with the drug we use to subdue mages, it tends to relax everything in the body, including . . . digestive muscles,” Lord Aragol finished delicately. “Thus it was necessary to remove your clothing and give you something that would not matter if it were . . . stained. Though we have done our best to keep you reasonably clean.

“But, now that you are awake and aware again, we can start treating you like the honored guest you will be, once we reach the shores of our homeland.”

Dominor folded his arms across his chest. “Prove it, and I’ll believe it. But you have a long way to go to regain my trust,” he added in warning. “Starting with undrugged food and drink. I am thirsty and hungry . . . and if I detect falomel or any other drug in any of it, you will not find my response civilized.”

The earl unhooked a flask from his belt and tossed it at Dominor. “Water, nothing more. I’m afraid the sea is still too rough for a proper, cooked meal, but I can have some bread and cheese brought to you, and some fruit.”

“That would be civilized.”

Nodding, Lord Aragol stepped into the corridor, giving a command to someone beyond the door.

Taking his time, Dominor sniffed at the contents of the flask. He shook it a little, sniffed again, then ventured a small sip. Nothing more than water. Despite the pressure of his thirst, Dominor continued to take only small sips. If the water was drugged, he was not going to let it completely shut down his reactions.

The earl’s eldest son, Sir Kennal, entered the cabin. In his hands was a basket with a linen bundle. His father followed him. At a nod from the elder male, the younger one stepped forward and offered the basket to Dominor. “Our apologies, Lord Mage, for any inconvenience caused by the assertive manner we used in our insistence that you visit Mandare. We wish very strongly for you to see the wonders and advantages of our land that await a powerfully gifted male mage like yourself.”

“Assertive manner”? Is that the polite Mandarite version for “kidnapping”? Dominor asked silently. One of his dark brown eyebrows rose in un-quelled skepticism, but he accepted the basket without a word. It had slightly overripe grapes, a quarter-loaf of somewhat fresh bread, and a wedge of soft cheese inside the linen napkin. He wasted a small portion of the water in the flask to dampen his hands, scrubbing his fingers on the linen to clean them, since he couldn’t use any spells and there wasn’t a washbasin in his cabin. Breaking off a small piece of the bread, he sniffed it carefully, then took a cautious taste.

“It isn’t drugged, anymore,” Kennal offered with earnest sobriety. “The storm has driven us far to the south and east; we need merely turn north and we shall soon reach the shores of Mandare. Once we have sighted land and discerned our location, we will be able to put to shore long enough to take on fresh provisions.

“If we have not been driven too far east, then we should be very close to the Port of Mandellia, which is but a day’s journey from our estates,” he continued with rising enthusiasm, as Dominor tested one of the grapes next. “Once we have arrived there, we have a full dozen of the most beautiful slave girls who will bathe you and shave you and please you in any way you desire.”

Kemblin touched his son’s shoulder, taking over. “In fact, as our most honored guest, you will be pleasured as soon as you cross the threshold of our entry hall. Our slaves are well trained; they will be delighted to kneel before you and give you a most fitting welcome.”

Unsure what they were talking about, Dominor eyed them warily. “What exactly is this ‘most fitting welcome’?”

“Their mouths,” Kennal told him and gestured at the exaggerated lump of fabric centered over his groin. “They are trained to kiss and suckle your masculinity.”

For a moment, Dominor felt his groin tighten at the thought of a woman pleasuring him in that way. It had been far too long since his last encounter with a willing female . . . and that was where the heat in his loins chilled. These men are chauvinists of the highest order. They turn their women into slaves, with no choice and no free will. Even a working wench has more dignity and decision in her chosen career than a slave “trained” to please a man.

He carefully hid his distaste from the other two, adopting a thoughtful look. “Trained, you say? I could take any pleasure of them I’d like? And they would not say no?”

“Their purpose is to please a man in any way he desires,” Kemblin Aragol reassured him, smiling through his goatee. “My slaves are well behaved, you have my word. None of that tedious courting is necessary, nor will any of them say ‘no’ when a man is in the mood for his rightful pleasure.”

“And do they wear contraceptive amulets?” Dominor asked him sardonically. He couldn’t allow the illusion of caving in too quickly, or they would not believe him. So he added dryly, “Or do you think to have them plowed with my seed, to hopefully reap the harvest of my magical abilities behind my back? No doubt you would have me plow a female mage, to strengthen the possible outcome.”

“I will not deny that it would be a good idea for you to spread that seed as far and wide as possible,” the earl admitted with a shrug. “Any Mage Lord may sow his seed upon any slave girl of a ripe enough age, whether or not he owns her. It is preferred, however, to have a male mage cast his seed into the womb of a woman without magic; otherwise, that only seems to strengthen their lineage, not ours. Mage-bitches wear amulets against bearing fruit for that reason, as well as enchantments and chains to bind their powers. You may rut with any woman at my estate and need not worry; only those who are worthy can be successfully bred.”

“I am not inclined to beget bastards,” Dominor denied instinctively. Inwardly, he winced; his vehemence against rampant procreation didn’t exactly fit in with the Mandarite culture. But Lord Aragol merely nodded in reassurance.

“I can understand why, milord! No doubt you would want to have a hand in the training of any mage-born son you seeded. It is more likely for outlanders to be successful in such endeavors, which is why we seek their numbers so insistently.”

“And yet we compensate them most handsomely for moving away from their former lives to live among us,” Kennal added quickly. “Your rank would be at least equal to my father’s, and you would have the ear of our King, as a Mage Lord!”

“You would not be missing the status you had as Lord Chancellor of Nightfall, I assure you,” Kemblin told Dominor, neatening his moustache with the edge of his finger. “Indeed, your status might even be higher, depending on the strength of your magics. You yourself admitted Nightfall is but an island; Mandare spans nearly the whole western edge of a continent. You could be deeded a stretch of land larger than your former isle, with farms and craft shops, villages and villeins working to ensure your prosperity.”

“And all the women you could want,” Kennal stated, grinning with the enthusiasm of a young man who knew he wasn’t going to be turned down. A thought which disgusted Dominor; the youth was good looking enough that he shouldn’t have to coax a woman under normal circumstances, yet here he was, gloating that he didn’t have to coax at all—to Dom, the prize wasn’t worth it, if there wasn’t any effort involved. Kennal continued, his hazel eyes bright, “You’ll find a lot of your fellow noblemen will want to offer you nubile, luscious slave girls, in the hopes of currying favor with you, slaves trained in a hundred exotic arts, all of them humbled and subservient. You’ll be showered with gifts of all kinds, even for the smallest of your spells.”

“Or, if you like a bit of spice in your pleasures, you can visit the slave markets, buy an untamed woman and teach her where her place lies,” his father finished, his hazel eyes darkening with a hint of cruelty intertwined with his sexuality. “Kneeling at your feet, worshipping you for your Gods-made superiority.”

Holding his tongue, Dominor carefully did not point out that, if only the women were being born with magical powers, the Gods of both Mandare and its enemy, Natallia, clearly wanted the women to be considered superior. Of course, he knew that his attitude about magic making one superior came from having been raised in a magocracy, where the most powerful mage was made the King or Queen at each five-year turning of the throne’s succession. He also knew that other lands ruled themselves in different ways. True, Aiar-that-was, to the far north, had once been a magocracy much like Katan before its sundering. But the land of the distant Threefold God of Fate was rumored to be a hereditary monarchy.

A knock on the door came as a welcome relief from the awkwardness of the conversation. Kemblin stepped outside. After a moment, his son Kennal followed, leaving Dominor alone in the cabin. With the door shut between them, the chained mage was free to relax his wary vigilance just a little.

Dominor was arrogantly proud of his powers and skills, his civility and his superiority, but he was proud of them because they were facts, not because they were opinions. There were women mages on the Council of Katan who were roughly his equal in skill and knowledge; there were noble-born sons and daughters who were of his family’s rank or higher. Those few who were more powerful than him, he acknowledged their superiority and sought to better himself in strength and stamina for comparison. Those with greater knowledge, he sought to study and learn from them. Those with greater rank and civility, he bowed to when necessary.

It was just that, living on an island with only his brothers for companions and the occasional trading vessel for contact with the rest of the world, he was used to not having his superiority challenged. Morganen was more powerful than all of his older brothers, true, but Morg didn’t want to lead anyone. Rydan was more powerful than Dominor, but the sixthborn of the eight of them was strange, reclusive, and disinclined to compete against his siblings. Saber was lesser-powered when it came to magic, and acknowledged that to Dominor, but he had been trained to be the next Count of Corvis before their exile; he was also the eldest and took it upon himself to keep his siblings in line as the head of their exiled family.

The rest of the brothers, Wolfer, Trevan, Koranen, and even Dominor’s own twin, Evanor, didn’t bother much with ranking themselves against one another. Dominor needed to compete; he was thirdborn and third-powered, and it rankled at times. It was a little irksome that Wolfer, secondborn, hadn’t a very strong competitive spirit within him. For the elder male, hunting was its own purpose, not about seeing who brought back the tastier game. And while the shapechanger would still compete for sport with his next-youngest sibling, once he had learned to curb his temper and not grow angry at Dominor’s taunting whenever he won a footrace or a knife-toss, Wolfer had treated Dominor with a sort of indulgent good humor that was irritating.

Not to mention Wolfer’s magic was average in strength at best.

Trevan’s idea of sport and contest lay in pleasuring women; Dominor had competed with the fifthborn brother to see who could better seduce a certain village girl in their past, but the redhead hadn’t cared if a woman was also the prettiest in the village. Dominor liked to surround himself with luxuries, with beautiful things. He added ornamentation to the artifacts he created for the traders. Trevan did make nice things and had a knack for spell-carving wood, but he didn’t go out of his way to seek recognition for his talents. The thirdborn of them craved that sort of recognition.

Koranen and his twin, Morganen, had only been twenty when they had left the mainland; moving to the Isle had been more of an adventure for the second-youngest brother than an exile. Kor’s affinity with fire meant that it was dangerous for him to indulge in his passions with a woman, too, so they could not compete on that score. As the seventhborn of the four sets of twins, he wasn’t even remotely interested in trying to outrank himself socially, since there were six elder brothers in the way, and his powers were indeed attuned more specifically to the element of Fire than the general usefulness of Dominor’s own broader-based magic. No competition, there.

As for Dominor’s own twin . . . Evanor just didn’t bother to compete with his older brother.

Dom had once held ambitions to join the Council and govern Katan; Ev was content to govern a mere household. Dominor loved the feel of silk and velvet on his body; Evanor was content to wear wool and cotton. Dom wanted to have his advice acknowledged as helpful, even wise; Ev