by Anne Wheeler
Though there was something else about it about well. Something strange and sympathetic, almost as though Westermark wore it with a disdain that was wholly unfamiliar to him. Maybe, just maybe, it was a reminder to himself of who he was. Coming home to Vilaria had to be a difficult transition for him, too, and a pang of compassion sparked through her.
“Again,” he said, “you can speak to me. Whenever you want. I rather miss your past impertinence, even if it seemed the interrogators were growing tired of it.” He sighed. “Though I suppose I understand your reticence now.”
“I don’t know what to say to you, Your Highness.” She nearly vomited on the title, but it sounded like the right thing to add to her bold confession.
“I suppose not.” He eyed her for a moment, then took a sip of his drink. “I would prefer if you thought of yourself as a guest here. With some restrictions, of course. You will have some freedom, more than you probably expect. But outwardly, things must appear . . .”
“The marking that man spoke of.” She hadn’t been able to get his comment out of her mind all night, even as she’d inspected the static fields.
“Yes.” Westermark shifted uncomfortably from side to side, a strange movement from a prince who controlled her very life.
“What is it, exactly?” Ryllis fought the impulse to turn around and lock herself in the bathroom.
“A tattoo. My family crest. Required by imperial law.” He seemed to gather himself, then pointed at the symbol on his jacket. “It is—I’ve only witnessed it applied twice, but it can be quite unpleasant. I thought you should know that before I begin. Being prepared might help.”
“Unpleasant?” Her heart fluttered. What could be more unpleasant than the current situation? “How?”
Westermark hesitated. “It’s quite painful, as you can imagine. Among other things.” He didn’t seem inclined to say more. “But there is an alternative. An only vaguely legal one, but some of us are able to get away with it, I suppose, especially up here in the mountains.”
He shrugged and focused on her head. “You can lose the hair, Amaryllis,” he said quickly, like he’d have second thoughts if he didn’t. “That would mark you as slave enough for anyone who visits this household, and no one else would dare argue with me.”
Ryllis reached for her hair, damp and loose around her shoulders. He might as well have asked her to cut off her arm. “I can’t do that. You—you know.”
“I would prefer the tattoo myself.” Westermark’s lips thinned. “It would be quick, placed wherever you’d prefer, and afterward, hidden by clothing. You wouldn’t have to subject yourself to the procedure every few weeks as with your hair.”
“But it’s permanent.”
“Yes.” He frowned at her. “That it is. But what does that matter? You knew of the permanence of this situation when you were eradicated from Cereth, and there are far worse things to be marked with. No one will bother you as long as you wear the symbol of the Westermark family.”
He sounded so bewildered at her reluctance that she almost laughed. Could he not see the difference? She couldn’t be branded the whore of one of the emperor’s sons if she were to ever return to Cereth—or even escape this house. It seemed Westermark had no idea of her rebellious thoughts, though, and that was the one bright spot of the entire situation.
With that realization, she made her decision.
“The hair,” she said, clenching her hands into fists. If she reached up and touched it, she would lose her nerve and agree to his original offer. It would grow back, and she would appear outwardly normal again, even if the trauma of being eradicated would remain for the rest of her life. “Please.”
“You understand this will be a weekly routine as long as you remain in this household, and that if you choose not to cooperate in the future, I can make it permanent as well?” He ran a few fingers over his clean-shaven chin, and she took his meaning at once. “Do not think I’ll forget this agreement.”
“I understand—Your Highness.”
She tried to swallow the lump in her throat, tried to imagine what her father would think if he could see her without the ribbon. Would he think she’d surrendered to this captivity too easily? Or simply that she’d disappointed him just like she always had?
Westermark gestured toward the bathroom without another word. Ryllis sat on the edge of the tub and stared at her feet. The ribbon caught her attention, lying where she’d dropped it before, and she grabbed it and wound it between her hands as Westermark dug through a few paneled cabinets for his tools. By the time he approached her, holding a razor and sharp pair of scissors, the tips of her fingers were as purple as the silk. She loosened it and bit back a gasp as the blood flowed toward her hands again.
“Ready?” he asked. “Slide down into the tub—it’ll be easier to clean up.”
Ryllis closed her eyes and climbed inside the deep bath to face the timber-edged window, rewrapping the ribbon around her fingers as she did. It hurt even more than the first time, but the new pain couldn’t distract her from the sudden sound of scissors that filled the room. She wanted to put her head down on her knees, to hide from everything, especially Westermark, but the blades were so sharp that moving was out of the question. She stared straight out the window instead, at the birds that alighted in a tree as she watched, at the leaves rustling in the breeze, at the faraway highlands that barely showed through the dense forest.
The prince’s mountains were beautiful.
The view was a balm to her breaking heart. She might be a slave, but oh, if she could only catch glimpses of the wild outside every so often, she might eventually heal. She’d never been grateful for her perilous gift before, but now . . . yes, it meant she would heal. For it went both ways, this power of hers that the Star Realm forbade—her presence nourished nature and nature sustained her soul. She would survive without it, naturally, and had in the prison, but she couldn’t thrive. She couldn’t feel joy.
But here? Yes, even here, she could sense delight waiting on the edges of her emotions, and not for the first time, she hated her power. She had to hate her situation. Had to. Tears spilled over at the realization that she couldn’t, amplified by exhaustion and the sudden change in her circumstances. From behind her, ignoring her emotion, Westermark continued cutting as the trees danced and sang their obliviousness; a weight lifted off the crown of her head. Ryllis chanced a look at the bottom of the tub.
So much hair.
“Don’t look,” he said. “It’s mostly gone, but it’s rather ragged. Let me clean it up first.”
Even the mountains couldn’t heal the hurt that time. She put her head on her knees and squeezed her eyes shut to stop the tears, then flinched as the scissors hit the counter beside her. The razor began to whirr, and she recoiled as it touched her almost bare scalp.
This was wrong. She should have fled. Struck Westermark once more after she’d learned of his identity. They’d have had to kill her then, wouldn’t they? Death would have been better than this shame. The razor brushed over her head a few more times, then the bathroom became silent, except for birds protesting something outside.
“Relax, Amaryllis,” Westermark said. “It’s all done.”
She looked up at him, dizzy.
“Do not cry over this.” His gentle tone turned harsh when he noticed the tears. “I will not have an outburst over a decision I allowed you to make out of compassion.”
“No, Your Highness,” Ryllis whispered, pressing the ribbon against her mouth. She put her head down on her knees again and prayed he didn’t say anything about how much she was shaking. He was asking too much. He had to know that.
Westermark’s shadow moved in what was left of her peripheral vision. “Clean yourself up and meet me in the courtyard,” he said. “Lina will show you the way if you get lost. There are no other servants here, so I suppose I should find you something to eat.”
She was crying too hard to hear him leave.
Chapter Four
&n
bsp; Kresten stalked from his bedroom, brushing loose hair from his hands. It clung to his pants, and he swore under his breath at both the mess and the situation. The Cerethian woman should have chosen the tattoo. He’d only offered the alternative—an ancient ownership symbol scarcely accepted on Vilaria anymore except in the most rural of areas—because he’d been dead certain she would decide against it. Ryllis was right—he knew what being able to advertise her district meant, since it was one of the few pieces of their culture the Star Realm allowed. It was harmless in the grand scheme of things as far as the emperor was concerned, so it was something the subjugated planet clung to. He imagined he’d be in the same way about his uniform in her situation.
Of course, he’d practically talked her out of the tattoo, so it was no wonder she’d chosen the way she had. He wanted to kick himself for that. Telepathy in the confines of the Shadow Force’s medical center was easier, but even out here in the wildness, it would have been a simple enough matter to add the nanobiotes that allowed him access to her mind to the ink, and she wouldn’t have had any idea until it was too late. He had a canister of them locked in a safe in his office, like every telepath, just in case. Ryllis might have known he’d done something to her, might even have guessed what, but by then she’d have been in too much pain to fight back. Why had he emphasized how painful and permanent it would be?
It’s nothing. Just a few pricks. You’ll barely feel it.
That wasn’t true, but that was what he should have said. Why hadn’t he? That was a decision he was not going to analyze yet—except to tell himself it had everything to do with the blackouts that were becoming more and more frequent each time he accessed a prisoner’s mind. It had absolutely nothing to do with the strange feelings she’d stirred in him since the very first time she’d looked at him with that desperate need to hope. Yes, that was it. Who wanted to end up on the floor their first night on-world after almost a solar cycle?
In any event, it was done, and as long as he didn’t have to fight her once her hair began to grow back, he could convince himself he didn’t care how badly he’d messed up. The Eradication Council man had been right, anyway. Ryllis’s dark hair had been too much of a reminder of Elise, and there could be no mistaking what she was here for. It wasn’t for sex, and it was not for love. She was here for information, and nothing else. He’d never needed to use telepathy for that. It was a shortcut, nothing more, and he had no deadline. And when he was finished with her? Well, he’d have to see about that.
He cornered Lina on his way to the kitchen. She’d seen the lights the night before from her cottage up the hill, and like each time he appeared at his hideout without notice, she’d begun to open the lodge before he woke. Her loyalty was almost enough to bring him to tears. His brothers could wonder all they wanted how he’d managed to maintain such a faithful housekeeper since his age of majority, but it wasn’t a mystery. Treat them well, and they stuck around. Treat them poorly, and . . . well, there was a reason Vidar in particular couldn’t keep a manservant, much as he insisted he couldn’t understand what the problem was. Not a soul would remain in his household of their own free will for long, and even Vidar wasn’t stupid enough to employ captives in his private quarters.
Lina charitably ignored his grumblings as she searched through the cabinets in the small kitchen. “No produce right now, sir,” she said, pulling a few bright yellow objects from her bag and laying them on the counter. “But I sent a request, and you should have fresh food later this afternoon. I brought eggs to tide you over until then.”
Kresten rolled one between his fingers. The hens Lina and her husband kept were vicious creatures he wanted to shoot whenever they appeared on his land, but he couldn’t deny how much he missed the taste of their eggs when he was off-world.
“Eggs are fine,” he said. “Plain is fine, too. Add one to the coffee. Find some honey, too. I don’t care if you have to hunt all over the mountain for it. I’ll be in the courtyard when it’s ready. No, not alone, before you ask.”
The orders were curt and rapid. He knew what was coming and was desperate for escape before it did, but Lina didn’t blink.
“Honey? It’s rather early in the sea—”
“Just find some,” he grumbled. It was too early for an interrogation, and he could tell when a welcome was about to turn into one. Lina had served him long enough to know better than to ask for details of his missions, so she usually shifted her innate curiosity to more personal matters. Good for operational security, bad for his sanity.
“Honey. Of course, sir. Your . . . guest is Cerethian, then,” she said to his back.
Kresten bit his tongue and began to walk off, then turned. “My new slave is Cerethian, yes.” He forced normalcy into his tone. “She’s also a reward for my time away, so I intend to enjoy her company as I eat breakfast.”
“You’ve never accepted a slave before. Never even asked for one, especially such a trophy from the Eradication Council.” Lina raised her eyebrows—and the pitch of her voice—in feigned innocence. “Did they force her on you, Your Highness?”
“Oh, for pity’s sake. What’s with the questions this morning?”
He darted away before she could answer—or ask him anything else. Escape was a pathetic means of resistance for a member of an elite a unit as his, but no one ever thought to train soldiers for a nosy housekeeper. The sound of dishes being slammed around in the kitchen echoed down the corridor, and unpursued, he pushed open the door to his courtyard refuge, safe at last.
While the house itself was locked while he was off-world, the gardens weren’t treated nearly so shabbily, and he was pleased to find the evergreen shrubs trimmed and new flowers sprouting from the damp ground.
“I didn’t expect it to be so green. It’s lovely.”
Kresten spun at Ryllis’s voice. Her wide gray eyes were swollen, but they weren’t red anymore, and he had to give her credit for that. The shapeless prisoner uniform she’d worn on the jump ship must have been gone when he’d cut her hair, but he hadn’t bothered to notice, as long as she had been suitably clothed when she’d exited the washroom.
Now he noticed. Governor’s daughter or not, the outfit Lina had provided was likely the most expensive clothing Ryllis had ever worn, and the change from prisoner to pretend imperial houseguest was remarkable. He’d been a little off on the measurements he’d given Lina, and the pants were a little large, but they clung to Ryllis’s hips just fine for now, and the sleeves of her gray sweater were detailed with a clematis vine she probably hadn’t noticed. They would need to order better-fitting clothing for her later, but this second, all he wanted to do was to kiss Lina for trying to make Ryllis feel better.
“It’s been cold,” he said, forcing his gaze away from those hips. “If you think it’s lovely now, you won’t believe what it’ll look like in six lunar cycles.”
A shadow crossed her face—mentioning the future was a mistake. He noted that for later. Today’s mistakes led to tomorrow’s victories.
“Come. Sit.” He flopped to the ground on one of the cushions set back by the fountain and extended his hand. “Breakfast is on the way.”
Ryllis followed, much more gracefully than he was capable of, and leaned away from him, toward the laciniata shrub. “I’m not hungry, Your Highness.”
“I’m not surprised. The jumps will do that to you, but it won’t last.” It was true, and also a brilliant segue. “You’ve never jumped before, have you?”
She shook her head.
“Haven’t ever left Cereth?”
“No. Not even for other parts of the system. But you know this. I told them over and over.” She fiddled a bit with the decorative trim of her cushion. “Maybe you really were sleeping against the wall all that time.”
“Idle conversation,” he lied. “I want to make sure you’re well and don’t require a doctor. And I’m surprised at how limited your travel has been, given—”
He slammed his mouth shut, quickly, before he could
end with given who your father is. Ryllis didn’t have a father anymore. Like all Vilarian slaves, she had no family at all—not legally, not emotionally. She’d been erased from legal records on Cereth, and when she died, mourning would be forbidden, for who grieved a person who didn’t exist?
“The governor never took you off-world?” he asked instead, in a more diplomatic manner than felt comfortable. Maybe it was the way his chest tightened and his stomach turned at her plight—hypocrite, his brothers would say. Sanctimonious coward. You say no to slaves until you find one pretty enough?
“I rarely left Therus.” Ryllis met his eyes. “And you know he never took me off-world. Even if we’d wanted to explore, the Star Realm kept us from doing so.”
“Did we, now?” Her lashes fluttered as she stared at a point just beside his ear. She was clearly trying to be the last to break the stare, and he let her win. “I hope you like yellow gold coffee,” he went on, stretching out his legs in front of him and focusing on the silver ash across the courtyard. “And eggs. They’re bright orange, which is a little strange for me, but don’t let that concern you.”
“I like coffee. And eggs”
“But?” he prompted. “I know there’s a ‘but’ here.”
“But I’m really not hungry.”
The tinkle of glass charms in the doorway interrupted further protests. Lina hurried through the cutout hedge carrying a tray loaded with more food than he’d expected. She froze at the sight of them, and her mouth parted as her attention landed on Ryllis. On Ryllis’s head and swollen eyes. Kresten didn’t need to be able to read her mind for him to recognize her disapproval—and without reading her mind, he knew what she was thinking.