A ripple of embarrassment ran through her body. In all her life no one had ever said such a thing to her. She was a mere initiate, not a high priestess, not one gifted with the touch of her god. That Brenin would think of her as such pleased her. She and the servant stood before the stage and watched the horses come and go. When the gray dappled one stepped across the ramp and reared on the platform, Shenya knew it was the one she would bid for. The stallion had a proud, wild spirit, much unlike hers. She figured her sense of independence had been broken long ago, and this animal’s was intact.
A half purse of coin later, she watched the yeinei tie the gray’s lead to the rear of the carriage. “He is a fine horse, lady. Brenin will be pleased with your choice.”
Shenya ran her hand along the animal’s neck and patted him. “He is beautiful.”
“He was the best of the lot.” The servant went to the carriage to open the door.
The ride back brought with it a cooling midday. Othia shone down on Bisura, trying to break through a gathering of puffy clouds. Shenya thought of Brenin, the way his mouth felt against hers, the rough invasion of his fingers and cock inside her the night before. She thought he was mad at her when he left, and she didn’t want to anger him again. Waking in his arms at dawn appealed to her. She longed for him to stay there.
Shenya sat back against the seat and closed her eyes. Her imagination wandered to what she could have done to his cock after he showed her how to hold it. Between her legs her pussy wept in anticipation. Her skin prickled with goose bumps. She pushed her hand under the tabard and touched the sore nub of her clitoris with only her chemise parting her fingers from her center. She gently massaged herself until a slow orgasm made her tense and quiver with release. She relaxed and soon drifted off in a nap for the rest of the way to the keep. When the carriage door opened, she blinked at the unexpected light.
“We are home, lady.”
“Home,” she repeated when she stepped down. She had always been on the move with the Assantra. Always traveling to the next temple or shrine. Home was only an ideal, a distant thing like hopes and dreams that must be sacrificed in service to the sun god.
The servant nodded and motioned for Shenya to go inside. “I will see to the horses. Masal will be waiting for you in Brenin’s library.”
Shenya passed through the arch and courtyard. She stepped up her pace, wishing Brenin was back early and that she might see him before night came. She wound her way through the halls and stairs until she found the other yeinei where she had worked on the lists before.
“Tiern is colder than me,” the woman said in an apologetic voice. “She tends to be blunt. She will excel in her duties after our service here.” Masal set a stack of parchments atop the desk. “I hope she was not unkind to you today.”
“No. It was fine. We went into town and bought a horse.”
The yeinei nodded and blew out a relieved sigh.
“Can you tell me where Brenin is?” Shenya sat at the desk and touched the pile of lists awaiting her attention.
Masal cleared her throat. She circled the desk before she answered. “Lord Brenin has…taken it upon himself to exact revenge. He does not wish for you to know this side of him, lady. I ask that you not demand my betrayal of his wishes.”
“Betrayal.” Shenya shifted her feet beneath the desk, unsure what this all could mean. “No, of course not. I will ask him myself when I see him next.” She drew out the quill and set it in the inkwell. The task of listing the keep’s accounts bored her, but as Brenin had known, it was work she was used to under the Assantra’s care.
Masal excused herself to prepare the meal.
Shenya nodded and waved her away, but she put the quill aside. How would he know what my tasks were for the Othian Temple? Few initiates took on my duties. It would not be common knowledge.
Chapter Eight
Shenya woke in the middle of the night to the bright blue of the sister moons united in Brenin’s window. The eerie feeling that she wasn’t alone made her skin prickle. She held as still as she could and scanned the large bed chamber. The blood red curtains appeared purple in the changed light from the moons. The heavy fabric moved ever so slightly, and a shadow emerged, only to drift and sway into many others at the opposite end of the room. She held her breath to see if the shadow might return.
“I have done as you asked.”
Brenin’s shape emerged from the darkness where the shadow had gone. Beside him a ghostly specter wavered. Her lover spoke again, his voice soft and quavering. “Now leave me be. Don’t come here again. I can’t bear it. I’ve killed them all.”
Shenya breathed in and squinted at the shadow he spoke to. It looked as though its essence were made up of robes…like the garments the priests of the fallen goddess wore. The specter extended a blurred hand to touch Brenin’s cheek.
The being spoke. “You are forgiven.” With a crackle, the shadow vanished.
Brenin staggered forward and fell against the rug.
Fearful, Shenya shimmied off the bed and hurried to his side. The coppery scent of blood lingered near him. He had fallen face down, so she tried to turn him up. Her hands met warm, slick wetness. “Brenin.” She managed to push him on his side. “Brenin!” Blood trickled down the scarred side of his face. “Tiern! Masal! Help!”
The yeineis’ steps made no sound, but the door creaked when it opened alerting her to their sudden arrival. Lamplight flickered across his body. His clothing was soiled and cut in several places, revealing knife wounds on his side and arm. Panic gripped her. So much blood. What would she do if he died? Where would she go? Shenya couldn’t return to the temple now, not after what she had done.
Masal placed her pale hands over a bloodied gash. “He will be all right, lady,” the yeinei said, her voice muffled by her shroud. “Fetch your needle and thread. You must sew up his wounds.”
“Did you see anyone else in the room?” the other woman asked. She held a hand over the dagger in her belt, ready to strike at any intruders.
Shenya wasn’t sure how to answer, so she spoke the truth. “I did…but I think it was a ghost.”
“Your needle.” Masal nodded to the window where the basket of embroidery sat upon a chair.
She hurried to do as she had been told. Her fingers shook when she sat beside Brenin again. Tiern drew her blade and cut away his shirt. Three large wounds stood out although there were other, lesser injuries. Shenya took a deep breath, steadied her hand, and set to work mending what had been done to him.
“We need wash water,” Masal ordered. Tiern obeyed and left them.
“Tell me of this ghost. What did it look like?”
Metal poked through skin and pulled thread taut, closing off gore. “Like a shadow. I’ve never seen a ghost before tonight. And Brenin spoke to it.”
Masal asked nothing more. Instead, she said in a solemn tone, “All who are touched by the heavens are cursed in their own way. Understand that. Accept its truth, and your life will be easier.”
“Nothing is ever easy,” Shenya said. “Who do you think did this to him?”
Masal lifted her hand to allow Shenya access to the cut she had been keeping pressure on. The needle pierced skin and mended in slow, even stitches. “Brenin must tell you these things. His business is his own.” She laid the back of her hand on his forehead. “These wounds are not as bad as they seem. He needs rest and time to heal.”
Tiern returned and used a wet cloth to clean away the blood. The women tended him until all the injuries he had suffered were sewn closed. Rather than risk trying to move him and tearing open the stitches, they set a pillow beneath his head and covered him with a blanket from the bed.
Shenya washed her hands in the small basin by the door. The clear water soon turned a dark shade of tainted pink. The servants lit more lamps in the room which only served to illustrate how much blood there was on everything. Spatters of it had trailed across the floor and led to him.
“Change your nightclothes,�
�� Masal told her. “Get some sleep and I will keep watch over him.”
Shenya did as she was told, but sat down beside Brenin. “No, you get some rest. I’ll make sure he’s all right.”
The yeinei nodded. “As you wish, lady.” She waved at Tiern and both of them took their leave. After the door closed, Shenya lay down beside him, settling beneath the coverlet. His cold skin and shallow breathing caused her to draw closer to Brenin’s body. He needed to warm up. She carefully placed her arm across his muscled abdomen. Her fingers bumped his belt. She figured she ought to try to take it off, weighed down as it was by his weapons. After unfastening his buckle, the daggers thumped against rug.
He moaned.
She sat up and watched his eyes open. No light glittered in the darkness of his pupils. He offered her a pained smile.
“What happened to you?”
“I followed my father’s advice.”
“You said your father was dead, that you inherited this keep after he passed.”
He raised a shaking hand and touched it to the side of her face exactly as the shadow man had done to him earlier. A wave of longing and affection crashed over her—emotions she knew must be his. “For me, the dead rarely rest, Shenya. My father came to me the night after my mother was killed and asked me to avenge her death.” His thumb traced her lower lip. “That’s what I’ve been doing when I’m away from you.”
She placed her hand over his. “Promise you will never go out to kill another person again. I can’t bear it. I can’t stand to see you bleeding, or to wonder where you are, and if you’re coming back to me.”
“My Othian priestess,” he whispered. “However could I deny you? Even in the city when you looked down on me with your dark, pleading eyes, I knew I would do anything you asked of me.” His thumb pushed past her lips for her to suck on. She did so, and released it with a soft kiss. “My mother was alive when I found her. She asked me to look after you, even though she didn’t know me. She said your place is with Othia.”
“Then why did you bring me here?”
“Because looking after you is not giving you over to a loveless god and a life of pain. That’s what it would be if you go back, Shenya. Nameless men forcing themselves on you whenever a priestess deems them worthy. Your children taken at birth to be raised in the nursery until their marking day. Is that what you want?”
“What I want.” She frowned. “No one has ever asked me what I want before now.” Her fingers intertwined with his.
“Shenya, what do you want?”
She closed her eyes and concentrated on the feel of his hand in hers. His skin had started to warm up. His question puzzled her. She belonged to him. He had bid on her and paid for her, and claimed her body with his. She also belonged to Othia. “I don’t know. I…it’s never been a choice I was allowed to make.”
“I understand.” He pulled her down with a gentle tug. “But I want you to think about it, and tell me what it is you want.”
She snuggled beside him.
With his other hand, he pulled free the belt and pushed it away from them. Beneath the blanket and close to each other, Shenya and Brenin drifted to sleep.
Chapter Nine
The light of Othia heated Shenya’s cheek and lower arm. She breathed in the scent of Brenin’s skin, manly and close mingled with the taste of her god’s heat in the air. Her eyes opened to his body asleep beside her. What do I want? she wondered. She hardly knew Brenin, and what little she did know set off warnings. He was away often. He didn’t answer her questions. His mother was the Assantra and his father must have been a priest of Shan-Sei. Ghosts spoke to him. A strange, white sparkle glittered in his eyes denoting his magic. The mix of darkness and light was bad enough—volatile and forbidden. How his parents ever could have come together was a mystery.
She kissed the side of his chest.
He stirred, his lips muttering incoherent phrases, but he didn’t wake.
Shenya crawled out of their makeshift bed and went to sit by the window to think. In the pasture below, sheep grazed, looked over by the black dog she had seen before. Her gray stallion kept time with Brenin’s black horse as the two galloped along the edge of the fence. One of the yeineis was picking vegetables from the garden. It was a beautiful spring day, and the world outside the window was pleasant. The man behind her was handsome to look upon, and although so many things told she should leave, part of her wanted to stay.
“Please Othia, tell me what I should do.” The small prayer hung in the air, answered by silence as all her prayers were. She looked into the sun’s brilliance for a moment, before turning away. When she closed her eyes, she saw the face of her god and he smiled upon her.
Shenya waited but Othia did not speak.
She opened her eyes and stared at the dagger catching a ray of light from the window. Small, insignificant in appearance, it hung with many others in Brenin’s belt on the floor. But she knew this athame. The mark of Othia was upon it, and like all things the temple owned, it must be returned to the god. She knew her way then, whether she wanted it or not. As she had been chosen, as she had sworn, Shenya belonged to the Othian Temple. She took up one of Brenin’s cloaks and fastened the clasp. Stockings and riding boots came next. She didn’t care that she wore a nightdress. Fearful of changing her mind if she looked upon him, she sidestepped Brenin to unsheathe the marked dagger.
She got as far as the doorway when his voice halted her. “Is this what you want?” The sadness in his tone weighed on her soul. Shenya looked back.
Brenin sat up on his knees, his amber eyes beseeching her. Before she could answer, he stood and started her way. “Have you decided to leave me?”
“This is the Othian dagger.”
“It is. Last night, I killed the last of the band of assassins that attacked your caravan. I took the blade from their leader.” He stopped a step away from her.
“What did you intend to do with it?”
Brenin shrugged and then winced from the pain it caused. “Return it to you, Shenya, if you would have it. You are the closest I ever plan on coming to an Othian Temple.”
She nodded. “I must take it back to where it belongs.”
“Must you?”
She looked down the hall and then back at him. He crossed the last step to her and reached for her hand. She let him hold her fingers, let him bring them to his lips to kiss, and she sighed at the soft heat of his lips on her skin. He curled his body against hers in an embrace that didn’t stifle her. She felt free in his arms, free to stay or go as she pleased. “Must you?” he asked again beside her ear, his voice a luring whisper.
In the window the bright circle of sunlight merged with the shape of the fallen goddess so ornately portrayed in lead and rainbow hues. The two were one, just as she and Brenin had become one. “What are you, an assassin?”
“Yes.”
“Can you stop that for me?”
He hesitated, his mouth running up and down her cheek for a time before he replied, “Yes.”
“What do you want from me?”
His fingers combed up into her hair where they spread at the back of her head. He drew her face to his and kissed her hard. Beneath his pants his cock hardened, though she didn’t think they ought to do anything about it given his stitches. He pulled her backward into his bedchamber. Without his touch the door closed and the bar dropped into place, sealing them in privacy. She followed him to the bed and let him guide her onto the mattress. With care he lay down beside her and reached to touch the handle of the dagger she held.
“If you would go from here I only ask that you kill me before you leave. There was never much hope of me finding anyone like you. Ask Masal—she knows me well enough. I am torn by the two halves of what I am. I lean toward the darkness because my father took me in after I ran away from my mother, and he was my only teacher. But death is all around me in this assassin city. Bisura is a playground for murderers and thieves. I’ve tried to hide myself away from it in this keep,
but I am what I am. I have done terrible things. Unforgivable.”
“Yet your father forgave you.”
His eyebrows furrowed. “My father? You saw the spirit last night?”
She nodded. “I saw you speaking with it.”
“There are others, Shenya, dark beings that swore themselves to the fallen goddess. They come to me often and ask things of me. They haunt my dreams each night.”
She cupped his cheek in one hand. “This can’t last between us.”
“Night turns to day. Day turns to night. Life is a cycle ever changing. Who can say how long anything will last? We have this moment, this time however fleeting. When I looked up at you on the auctioneer’s stage, I heard your thoughts. I saw myself in you that day. I hoped I could do for you what I wanted for myself.”
The Highest Bidder Page 4