Blood & Bond

by Laura VanArendonk Baugh

  He draped the tunic over his arm. “Thank you.”

  She smiled, a shy, honest smile, and he thought it might be all right.

  SARA CLAPPED HER HANDS as she entered the dining room, needing to do something with the restless anticipation within her. The sight of the table, set already for supper, thrilled her.

  There were five places. Once there had always been five places at their table, their father at the head, Thir and Jarrick on one side, Sara and Luca on the other. The night Luca left, however, Sara had descended to find only four places set—her father and Thir across from places for Jarrick and herself. That was how she first learned that Luca was gone, that she would never see him again.

  But tonight, he would be in his old place beside her. She laughed aloud and spun, nearly colliding with Marcus. “I beg pardon, mistress,” he offered, stepping back. “Is there something else you wanted for tonight’s guest?”

  “I don’t think so. You gave the menu to the cooks?”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  “And I want whoever is serving tonight to be discreet. I don’t think he’ll like ostentatious or obsequious service.”

  “As my lady is so anxious, I plan to serve the family myself,” Marcus said with a smile.

  “Oh, thank you! Marcus, you’re a dear.” She clasped her hands and squeezed her fingers tightly. “And now I suppose there’s nothing to do but wait. Oh, I hate waiting.”

  “Will the master return in time for supper? We have set for five, but—‍”

  “I hope he does,” Sara replied urgently. “He and Thir both. They don’t know anyone’s coming; they had already gone last night before the messenger. But they should be back by this evening...”

  Marcus gave her a sad smile. “I’m sure he would return for your guest if he knew its importance to my lady,” he said gently. Sara heard the underlying meaning beneath his words as well. There were days when many things might be different if his mind were clear.

  She nodded, suddenly unhappy. “Thank you, Marcus.”

  He nodded respectfully. “Mistress.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  IT WAS A LONG WALK to Ivat, but it seemed this day to stretch as if Luca were walking to Alham once more. Luca had more than enough time to review again and again his failed reunion with Sara, his awkward conversations with Jarrick, his tangled hopes of home. He thought of Thir, always older and distant and apparently indifferent to his youngest sibling. He thought of Jarrick, who had wordlessly watched him dragged away but who had guiltily sought him afterward. He remembered his father interrupting his reading one evening, explaining worriedly that they had defaulted on their final creditor, that Sandis had extended their loan upon one cruel condition.

  “You would not have me sell your sister, would you? She is a beautiful girl, and very young. She would not fare well on the auction block, and if she stays—if I come through this somehow, she might marry, and our house needs an alliance, Luca.”

  “Sell her...?” breathed Luca, not yet comprehending.

  “Thir is my heir, my firstborn, and he must inherit whatever I can salvage for him. I cannot sell him to save a house for his younger brothers. Jarrick has served me for years. You are the youngest brother, Luca.”

  And then the men had come from where they’d lurked in the doorway, seizing Luca and forcing his wrists between two crimped iron bars. He’d struggled and nearly broken free, but he had stilled in shock as his father took hold of him.

  “Luca, you must do this,” he said, as Luca stared dumbly. “There is no choice. Do not make things worse for yourself by resisting.”

  Tears broke over Luca’s cheeks as he stared at his father. “Please, don’t do this. Please.”

  His father tightened the bolt which locked the iron sheets across his wrists. “He’s secure.”

  The slave trader moved forward to fasten a rope through an accommodating hole in the shackle. A wild burst of terror shook Luca. “Father!”

  His father seized his forearms, holding Luca still. “You are no base field slave. You will find a good position. Do your best, Luca. It will be all right. While you yet breathe, Luca, there is hope. Don’t forget that.” He stepped back, his face immobile.

  While you yet breathe, Luca, there is hope. The words had haunted him for years, taunting him, mocking him. Lying in the dark, aching from Ande’s malicious cruelty, he had wanted to claw the lying words from his memory. But in the end, dawn had come to the horrific night, and there had been Shianan, and then Jarrick, and even Marla and Cole. In the end, there had been hope.

  But his father hadn’t known anything about Shianan, or Jarrick’s search, or Luca’s fellow slaves. His father had lied as he sold his youngest son for debt.

  Buildings appeared on either side of them, and traffic increased as they neared Ivat. Then the streets narrowed and the crush of hasty mercantile traffic squeezed them. The mingled shouts of overseers trying to make up time, of stewards, of stock men, of dock workers, of sailors on leave, of ships’ mates collecting sailors late to return from leave, of whores and vendors and beggars and street performers all merged together into a single cacophony which rang both loud and familiar to Luca.

  Cole was looking at him, perhaps wary of his master’s dark mood over the last hours, perhaps waiting to offer the directions he’d asked the night before. But Luca knew the way, and he led them unhesitatingly through the main and side streets, slipping through a thin alley swept spotlessly clean and into a small paved plaza.

  There were several houses opening onto the plaza, each built in the typical Wakari style of wealthy bourgeois homes with steps climbing to a main gate. Beyond the gate lay a small courtyard, often larger in the homes of the nobility, and around this patio sat the house and the slave stables. Luca turned to the house on their right. He knew every step of that one, had known it from the days when he ran through the corridors and patio, when he complained of Jarrick’s teasing and when he quietly watched Thir from a distance, when his mother was still alive and would laugh and scold him for playing in the fountain...

  He realized he wasn’t walking, only standing beside a wall in the shaded plaza. Cole stood just behind his shoulder, close but silent. Luca swallowed against the lump lodged firmly in his throat. “Cole,” he said, his voice sounding disused, “do what you will while we dine. There will be something for you in the kitchen, I’m sure, and if you’d like to go out, you may. Only—only don’t be long, because I may want to leave early. I don’t know. Or I may stay the night, if all goes well.” He rubbed his hands down his legs. “Just take my cloak when we go inside, to lend me an air of respectability.”

  “Would you rather I stay close at hand, master?”

  “No,” Luca answered wistfully. “No, take some rest in the kitchen.”

  A moment passed, and Cole shifted his weight. “Did you mean for me to go ahead, master?”

  Luca blinked, startled at his voice. “No—no, let’s go.” He touched his collar, which did nothing for the tightness in his throat, and started for the gate. Cole stepped around him to ring the bell.

  There was a moment when nothing happened, when Luca thought for one horrible moment that it had been a horrifically cruel jest, that they would not open to him. Or perhaps in their financial crisis they had left this house and moved to another—but Cole had delivered his letter, and so if the door did not open it could only be because they would not—

  The bolt slid with a grating sound and the gate opened. “Please enter, my lord,” said a bowing slave. It was Marcus, their steward. Ordinarily a steward wouldn’t come to the gate himself. Why was he here?

  Marcus straightened, his expression concerned as Luca remained in the gate. “My lord, is something—‍” He froze. “Ma—master? The young master?”

  Something rippled through Luca. “Yes...”

  Marcus struggled visibly, surprised and even pleased. “I—my lady said we would have an important guest, and—but I did not know it would be you, my lord
.” He bowed again, but it did not obscure his wondering and glad expression. “Welcome home, young master.”

  Luca stared, his knees weakening. He had not imagined their steward would welcome him home. “Thank you, Marcus. Thank you.” He felt faintly unsteady. “Sara called me an important guest?”

  “She did, my lord. Please, come in. She is very excited about this evening, and now I understand why.” Marcus was definitely pleased. “Come in, young master, come in.”

  Luca did, feeling as if he moved through an invisible barrier. Slowly he turned as he entered, looking about the familiar courtyard. It was not exactly as he had left it; some of the plantings had changed, and repairs had been made to some of the stonework since his departure. They were doing well enough, it seemed, since—since then.

  Someone cleared his throat softly, and Luca realized the two slaves were waiting beside him. He glanced at Marcus, who smiled and gestured across the courtyard. “I believe you know the way, my lord.”

  Luca nodded, not trusting his voice, and started for the door. Marcus opened it for him, and he paused within the entrance. Cole stepped close, anxious to perform his single task, and Luca shed his cloak reluctantly and handed it to him. Some part of him wanted to keep the concealing, protective cloak.

  “Is he here?” Sara’s voice called. “I heard the bell!” She hurried around the corner, eyes wide, and slid to a halt on the polished floor. “Luca...”

  They stared at one another, balanced precariously on the edge of guilt and longing and hurt, and no one seemed to breathe. Then Luca gulped and moved forward, his heart pounding in his throat so that he could nearly taste it, driven only by the greater fear that he might fail again. They stared at one another apprehensively, and he reached for her hand as he dropped to his knees. He bowed his head, a slave’s natural posture, but this time offered not in fear but in humble apology. “I cannot express how much I regret my words yesterday,” he began, careless of the slaves behind him. “Please believe that it was shame and—‍”

  “Luca, don’t.” Her voice shook. “I don’t want that clouding over our evening.”

  “Nonetheless, I beg your forgiveness.” He kissed her knuckle. “I’m sorry.”

  She tore her hand from him and flung both arms about him as she dropped before him. “Luca, Luca,” she breathed, “we’re both sorry. Please—don’t say any more. Let’s not catalog our faults. Don’t make me apologize for three years of—‍” Her voice broke. “I’m glad you’re home.”

  He dropped his forehead onto her shoulder, wanting to sob with relief. There was a soft sound of footsteps beside them and a hand fell on his shoulder. “Luca,” Jarrick’s voice came, gruff but gentle. “Thank you for coming.”

  Luca lifted his head, blinking back tears. “Jarrick, I owe you—‍”

  “You owe me nothing,” Jarrick said firmly. “I should have been more careful of your privacy—which was, after all, the reason for your stay there.” He seized Luca’s arm and pulled him in, embracing him. “Welcome home.”

  When he released Luca, the two slaves were turned away, silently keeping their eyes from their masters’ emotion. Jarrick cleared his throat. “Marcus, we’ll want something to drink. Something celebratory. And—flames, Luca, you brought that one?”

  Luca looked back at Cole, who stood immobile and expressionless. “He’s done well these few days,” he said defensively. “I told him there would be supper in the kitchen.”

  Jarrick nodded. “Marcus?”

  “Right away, my lord.” Marcus gestured to Cole, who followed obediently.

  Jarrick turned back to Luca and Sara, a hand on each of their shoulders. “Father and Thir haven’t returned yet, but they shouldn’t be long.”

  They did not take him to the formal sitting room where they received guests but to the rear room where the family spent idle moments. Sara dropped carelessly to her favorite couch. Luca hesitated, looking around. This was where they had come for him, where his father had surrendered him. He ran his fingers over a comfortably upholstered chair, grander than anything he’d been permitted for years, and sat uneasily. He wondered briefly if he’d chosen poorly, if he’d cursed his uneasy homecoming. This was the chair in which he had been reading when his father came.

  Marcus came through the door, making Luca jump, and displayed his serving tray to Jarrick, who raised his eyebrows appreciatively. “I did say celebratory,” he conceded. “Please pour.”

  The wine was dark and rich, deeply flavored and mellow with age. Luca wanted to gulp it after his walk down the mountain, but he knew better. He hesitated, looking at the wine in his hand.

  Marcus paused, his eyes on Luca. “Would my lord prefer water alongside his wine?”

  If ever he found himself a slave again, Luca told himself, he would be like Marcus, making himself invaluable. Masters did not sell or abuse slaves to whom they were perpetually grateful. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

  Sara sat forward eagerly on her couch. “You’re home to stay, Luca, yes? You don’t need to hide at Isen’s retreat. We can manage for tonight, and then—‍”

  Luca ducked his head. “I haven’t thought that far,” he admitted. “I’m not sure.”

  “But where else would you go?” she asked reasonably. “This is your home, Luca. Everyone will be thrilled to see you’ve returned, you’ll be the talk of Ivat, and—‍”

  “He won’t be a social novelty, Sara,” Jarrick said firmly. “Let him find his feet.”

  There was a cup of water beside him now. Luca held the wine tightly for a moment longer. “How can I suddenly come back? What did you tell everyone? Won’t they just stare at the—won’t I just shame the house?”

  There was an exchange of voices from the corridor, and they glanced at the door. Thir walked through the open frame, still wearing his cloak and pulling at his gloves. “Evening. It’s brisk on the—‍”

  His voice choked off as he stared across the room. Sara started up from her couch, beaming, and Luca froze like a startled rabbit.

  “Sweet Holy One,” intoned Thir breathlessly. “Dear, sweet Holy One.”

  Luca got to his feet, tried to speak, failed, and tried again. “Hello, Thir.”

  Thir seemed to have similar trouble with his words. “Luca, I—you—he will—‍”

  He was interrupted by the entrance of another man, shouldering past Thir as he called for a servant. “Blasted thirsty wind,” he grumbled, looking at the hands he rubbed together as he started across the room. “Sucks the life right—‍”

  “Father,” Thir interrupted dully.

  Their father paused and looked up, glancing at Thir and then across the room. His eyes met Luca’s, and for a long moment the earth did not move, Luca’s heart did not beat.

  Sara broke the spell. “Isn’t it splendid, Father?”

  “What?” The question was distant, detached.

  “Father,” Jarrick prompted, “Luca’s come home. Luca’s come home to us.”

  Luca licked his dry lips and forced words through his closed throat. “Hello, Father. I—I’ve returned.”

  “Luca,” he repeated. “That—that is not Luca.”

  Thir started visibly. “Not—Father!”

  “That is not Luca.” He lifted his chin. “Luca is dead. That is an impostor.”

  Something tore within Luca. “Father, you know me. You must know me.”

  “It is an impostor, here to try for a part of our fortune,” his father snapped. He turned sharply, nearly jostling the tray from Marcus’ hands. “Marcus, you—my aged Nariya wine! You fool, I had that as a gift from Lord Silmar himself!” He glared indignantly at the steward. “Put it away, you faithless—no, it’s opened, the damage is done. We’ll have it with supper tonight.”

  “There won’t be supper tonight,” Jarrick cut in fiercely. All eyes fell on him. “I will be dining with Luca, Father, so I’m afraid I won’t be at your table.”

  Sara turned wide eyes from Jarrick to their father. “What’s wrong with
you? Father, you—you can’t be like this...”

  Luca cringed, a slave pleading for mercy. “Father,” he begged, “you know me.”

  But he turned away stiffly. “Luca is dead,” he pronounced. “Luca died years ago.” He pushed past a silent Thir and left the room.

  For a moment there was utter silence. No one wanted to acknowledge the awful words which hung in the air. Finally, Thir swallowed audibly. “I’ll go,” he said thickly, and he fled through the door.

  Luca blinked again and again at the floor, not daring to lift his eyes where he might see Jarrick’s or Sara’s shocked, pitying gazes. The woven pattern of the carpet blurred dangerously as tears scalded his eyes. No, curse all, he would not weep for this—he had wept a thousand tears for his father’s first betrayal; it would do no good to shed more for a second.

  Sara clenched her fists. “Marcus!” she snapped, her voice brittle and sharp. “We’ll be taking supper in my sitting room, if you’ll see to that.”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  Sara whirled and seized Jarrick’s arm. “You and Luca will come, won’t you? To my rooms?”

  Jarrick hesitated. “I won’t speak for Luca. He’ll say where we go, here or a public house or...”

  Luca swallowed. “Sara will be a fine hostess, I think.”

  Sara nodded. “Then let’s go. I’ve had enough of this room.”

  Luca followed her numbly. It was eerie, moving through the house. There were lights flickering brightly against the painted halls, a sign they’d overcome the poverty which had kept them in darkness in the last months before his—departure, and the rooms they passed were clean and well-kept, evidence they had no shortage of servants now. But a silence hung over the house, and a maid’s distant laugh was quickly hushed. The servants knew, as they always did.

  Sara’s room was comfortably furnished with several chairs and a couple of couches, space for friends to talk together while their fathers transacted business. She flung herself down on a pillowed chair. “How could he?” she burst. “How is it even possible?”