“You see, you cannot help but judge us. You will not last long as a slave, Kady.”
“Unless you decide to keep me in your service?”
“Exactly.”
Given the alternative, Arkady didn’t need to think about it for long. “Fine. Sign me up.”
Cydne let out a woeful sigh. “Even now, you speak as if you have a choice; as if I am discussing options with you. Whether you approve of this plan or not is entirely irrelevant, Kady. You must understand that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“If only you were,” he sighed. Then he squared his shoulders, as if bracing himself for something unpleasant. “There is, however, a task you can perform to prove your reliability. If you perform it adequately, I will consider allowing you to accompany me as my assistant when we reach Port Traeker and you will be spared the fate you are so desperate to avoid.”
“So . . . what . . . this is some sort of test?”
“If you like.”
Arkady couldn’t see the harm in that. She even sympathised with Cydne’s position. She knew she was going to make a lousy slave. She could hardly blame the young doctor for wanting to make sure of her before taking on the responsibility of such a fractious servant. And she was prepared to do whatever it took to avoid becoming a batch-bought slave slated for an early death after being shipped to a mining camp or a slave compound as a concubine.
“What is this test, then?”
“In four days, I am to be married.”
“Yes, you told me that.”
“I am expected to . . . know certain things . . .” He was all but cringing with embarrassment. “About women . . .”
Arkady frowned, not sure what he meant. And then she noticed he was blushing crimson again and she realised what he wanted from her. The idea seemed so absurd, she couldn’t help but smile. “Are you serious? You’re asking me to show you what to do?”
“Again you assume this is a request.”
“You are a doctor, aren’t you? I mean, you know the basic—”
“Do not mock me, Kady,” he warned. “You have no status here or any right to question me. I have kept you with me up until now because your presence gives me status among the crew, and you appear to be disease free. There is nothing more to it.”
“And that’s your idea of being romantic, is it?”
Her question clearly puzzled him. “What?”
“Is that what you’re planning to say to your blushing bride on your wedding night? I have chosen you because your presence gives me status, dear, and oh, you appear to be disease free?” She shook her head in wonder. “I’d be gearing up for that family feud you’re so desperately trying to avoid, if I were you, Cydne. Once your new wife reports back to Papa about your bedside manner, you’re going to be in big trouble.”
He glared at her. “I am not asking you to comment on my . . . my bedside manner; simply to show me the most appropriate . . . you know . . . the physical things that might make my wife, perhaps . . . enjoy—”
“Why do you assume they’re two different things?”
“What?”
Arkady sighed, finding it hard to believe she was having a conversation like this with anyone, let alone the man who currently considered himself her master and had shown little inclination to do much of anything in his bunk but get it over and done with in the shortest time possible. “There’s a difference between making love and just having your way with someone, you know. And I’m assuming, since this is the woman you’re planning to spend the rest of your life with, your goal is the former, not the latter.”
“Well . . . yes . . . I suppose . . .”
“And I’m guessing Senestran custom insists your new bride will be as inexperienced as you are.”
He nodded, looking very uncertain. Arkady thought he might be regretting ever raising the subject with her. He was asking for a lesson in technique, not a lecture. But this was a subject close to Arkady’s heart. She had been in the place Cydne’s future bride would soon be forced to go, and it wasn’t pleasant. “Then put yourself in her shoes for a moment. Try to imagine what it must be like to be young and innocent, and in the power of a man you barely know, aware he can do anything he wants to you, and you have no way to stop it.”
“Marriage is a woman’s sacred duty!” he objected. “You make it sound as if I will treat her no better than a slave.”
“If you march into the bridal chamber on your wedding night and the best compliment you can come up with is ‘you’re disease free,’ I’m pretty sure that’s what you’ll be making her feel like.”
The determined set of Cydne’s shoulders began to sag. Arkady wondered how long it had taken him to work himself up to even mentioning this. He was a proud—albeit painfully shy—young man. The pressure of his upcoming nuptials, the weight of his family’s expectations . . . all of it must be eating him up inside.
Desperation had made him bold, and she wasn’t doing anything to help, she supposed. She felt a momentary pang of pity for him. It surprised her to discover she was even willing to consider helping him.
Arkady had never expected to feel sorry for someone who was, effectively, her gaoler.
“So, let me get this straight. In return for lessons on how to please your new bride, you’ll keep me in your service as your medical assistant? Is that right?”
Cydne nodded. “It’s a fair bargain, don’t you think?”
Arkady shook her head. “Only a Senestran would think that.”
He seemed to be growing impatient with her. “We dock in the morning, Kady. Either we have a deal, or you may return to the slave quarters now and await whatever the fates have in store for you in Port Traeker tomorrow.”
When he put it like that, Arkady didn’t think she had much choice, but he was asking a lot of her. This wasn’t the same as lying there, blocking out what was happening to her body by detaching herself from the physical experience. Being able to lie there and convince herself this was happening to someone else, allowed her to survive.
What he wanted of her now was different. This would require her active participation. “How do I know you’ll keep your promise?”
“Tides, woman! That I’m even offering you a choice is more than you should expect!”
That was the stone cold truth, Arkady suspected. The trouble was, in her entire life she’d had only one experience of making love she would count as pleasurable, and she certainly did not want to relive the intimate details of the one surreal night she had spent with Cayal in the Shevron Mountains so this inhibited young man could do the right thing by his bride on his wedding night.
On the other hand, she didn’t want to be shipped off to a mining camp either.
Arkady sighed as she contemplated this impossible choice, wondering if this would be her life from now on.
Or maybe not. Those scalpels were right there on the tray, after all.
“What’s her name? Olegra, isn’t it?” Coward, she added silently to herself.
“Yes,” he said, nodding his head.
“Then that’s the first thing you should, do—say her name.”
“What? Olegra?”
“Like you mean it,” Arkady said. “Like the word tastes of . . . of pleasure . . . of delicious torment, even. You must say it as if the very mention of her name is a prayer, and you’re worshipping at the altar of her body.”
“What is the point of that?” he asked, a little annoyed.
Arkady resisted the temptation to slap him. “The point is to make her feel desired. Men don’t need to be loved to take pleasure from a woman; they just need somewhere to plant their seed. Women aren’t like that. To truly enjoy making love, they need seducing, coaxing. They need to feel as if they’re loved, not just a convenient receptacle. They need to feel there are other reasons you desire them that don’t involve treaties, mergers or exciting commercial opportunities.”
This news seemed to be something of a revelation to the young doctor. “And this is more ple
asurable for women? This emotional involvement?”
For a moment Arkady allowed herself to remember what it was to feel that, and then nodded with the wisp of a smile. “Oh, yes. It’s much better that way.”
“Then you will also instruct me in what to say.”
Arkady nodded and took a deep breath. “Then, for the Tide’s sake,” she said, as she began to remove her shift, “the first thing you’re going to have to do is learn to say her name without choking on it.”
Chapter 12
“Cecil, bring me more wine.”
Warlock bowed silently and brought the carafe to the table where the Lady Elyssa sat bent over a deck of Tarot cards, studying them intently. Outside, a rainstorm beat against the windows, punctuated by the occasional flash of lightning and the low rumble of distant thunder. It seemed to rain all the time here in Caelum, even more so than in Glaeba, and the palace, set high in the hills overlooking Cycrane, was a dark, dank and depressing place, which the relentless damp did nothing to enhance.
Warlock topped up her wineglass, glancing surreptitiously at the cards as he did so. He was surprised to discover Elyssa wasn’t trying to read her Tarot. She had all twenty-two of the major cards laid out, and was sorting them into some kind of order he couldn’t quite discern. The immortal glanced up as he approached and then ignored him and went back to sorting the cards.
He bowed again when the glass was full and retreated to his post by the door, not wishing to give the impression he had any interest in her game. That was a lie, of course, because Elyssa spent hours each day studying every card in the Tarot, and Warlock had never been able to figure out why. It drove him mad trying to work out what she was up to.
“In Crasii lore,” Elyssa said without warning, “who came first, Cayal or Jaxyn?”
“I believe it was Lord Jaxyn, my lady,” Warlock said, hoping he didn’t sound taken aback by her unexpected question.
“Then that would mean this one goes there,” she said, mostly to herself, as she rearranged the cards. She squinted at them for a time, staring at them with unmoving patience, as if she had all the time in the world and nothing better to do, which was—Warlock had to admit—probably the case.
“Cecil, according to your lore, who are the First?”
“Lord Kentravyon,” Warlock answered, hoping she hadn’t noticed his slight hesitation. “Lord Pellys and Lady Maralyce. They are the First.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, my lady.”
Elyssa pursed her lips. “And the Chaos Crystal? What do you know of that?”
Warlock shook his head. “There is no such thing in Crasii Lore, my lady. At least not that I’ve heard.”
“You probably know it as the Bedlam Stone.”
He shook his head. “I know nothing of any stone, my lady. Or any crystal.” But I’d very much like to know why you’re so interested in it, he added silently to himself.
“That’s not surprising, I suppose,” she sighed. “The Chaos Crystal probably long predates your existence. Have you ever served any others of . . . my kind?”
“I’ve not had the honour, my lady.”
“You’re very lucky, Cecil. Every Crasii alive would kill to be in your position.”
“The Tides have blessed me with luck beyond imagining,” he replied, hoping she took his words at face value and didn’t hear the irony in them.
Fortunately, she was distracted by a knock at the door. Warlock opened it to Speckles, a dour and misnamed canine who’d been here in the Cycrane Palace since he was a pup.
“I have a message for my lady,” Speckles announced.
Warlock stood back to let him enter. The tricoloured Crasii stepped into the room and bowed obsequiously to his mistress. “My lady, I have come to inform you that the bitch has started to whelp.”
Warlock stiffened, his tail betraying his interest—and concern.
“Tabitha Belle?” Elyssa asked, looking up from the cards.
“Yes, my lady.”
“Oh, goodie!” the Tide Lord announced. “I love watching them being born. How far along are they?”
“The Kennel Master says they should be born within the hour, my lady.”
Elyssa stood up from the table, smiling delightedly. Her excitement over the imminent arrival of his pups worried Warlock a great deal. Elyssa’s interest in their future was nothing short of remarkable. She had argued with her brother over keeping the pregnant female slave, and even defied her mother’s wishes when Syrolee had tried to intervene on Tryan’s behalf.
But why? Warlock couldn’t imagine what she had planned for them. Or why you’re so interested in my pups when surely your Kennels can give you all the pups you want . . .
“Cecil, are you listening to me?”
“My lady?” he said with a start, when he realised he was letting his concern distract him from the matter at hand.
“I said . . . did you want to come down to the Kennels and watch your pups being born?”
“Of course, my lady.”
“Then we’ll all go,” she said, clapping her hands. “The change of scenery will do us good.”
Warlock followed Elyssa and Speckles through the palace and down into the courtyard where the relentless tattoo of rain on the cobblestones made them slick and dangerous. Elyssa walked in the lead, untouched by the rain, while the two Crasii, wet and bedraggled, followed along behind her. When they reached the Kennels—which were more like dungeons than living quarters—Elyssa led them down a narrow staircase to where the isolation chambers were located.
Warlock heard Boots before they reached her; she was howling in pain and snapping at the midwife who was trying to tend her. When she spied Elyssa she snarled, but the Tide Lord didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes were alight as she took in the scene; the smell of blood lay heavy in the air. Warlock knew humans couldn’t smell things a Crasii could, but from listening to Cayal he’d learned how much the Tide enhanced the senses of those able to ride its magical waves. The reek of fear, pain and birthing fluids would have been almost as strong to Elyssa as they were to the canines in the room.
The canines, however, did not appear to be aroused by them.
“How are you doing, Tabitha Belle?” Elyssa asked, kneeling beside the pallet where Boots knelt facing the wall, panting in pain. The immortal reached forward to stroke her back, smiling. “There, there, girl. You’re being very brave, aren’t you?”
Boots nodded wordlessly, but her eyes fixed on Warlock with a look he took to mean roughly: Get this evil bitch away from me and my pups before I tear her throat out.
If only I could, he wanted to tell her. I would get rid of her, Boots, if only I could.
“The Kennel Master says you might have as many as three pups,” Elyssa said. “Won’t that be nice?”
“Yes . . . my . . . lady,” Boots managed to gasp as another contraction ripped through her.
Warlock winced in sympathy, glad the fates had decided he be born male. Was it really necessary for the creation of new life to be so . . . so fraught? Maybe it was the Tide’s way of ensuring one knew the value of the gift it had bestowed upon them, if one had to suffer for it.
Still kneeling by the bed, Elyssa turned to look up at him. “Have you thought about names yet, Cecil?”
“We’ve talked about it, my lady, but we’ve not decided on anything.”
“Good,” the immortal said, turning back to Boots as she raised her head and howled in pain. “Then I shall name them for you. Be brave, Tabitha Belle; it’ll all be over soon.”
There was something in the tenor of Boots’s last cry that alerted the midwife to an impending change in the status quo. Pushing Warlock aside in a business-like fashion, the human midwife employed to attend birthing slaves pulled a stool up to the end of the bed, took a seat and raised a candle higher to facilitate a better look. She nodded.
“First one’s crowning,” she announced, as Warlock stood by helplessly, watching his mate writhe in pain.
&n
bsp; No, she was more than writhing in pain. Boots was howling in agony, her hands gripping the rough fabric of the pallet until it was bunched and torn. The room was close and dank and smelt of blood. Watery blood trickled down Boots’s thighs, pooling on the bed beneath her.
Elyssa stayed beside Warlock’s mate, stroking her pelt comfortingly, doing nothing more than muttering useless platitudes.
Evil bitch, he thought. The Tide is on the rise. You have the power to ease her pain. But you won’t, will you? You’re enjoying it.
“Here comes the first one,” the midwife said, as Boots’s tortured screams grew even more agonised.
There’s something wrong, Warlock decided in a panic. This can’t be normal.
“Tides, help me!” Boots cried out in between her howls of pain. “It hurts!”
“There, there,” Elyssa said. “It’s supposed to hurt, girl. That’s what makes it special.”
Boots snarled at the immortal in reply, something no magically wrought minion of the immortals should be able to do. Warlock stiffened in fear, waiting for Elyssa to realise Boots was a Scard and order her and her pups immediately put to death, but she didn’t react. Perhaps she thought Boots’s growl was just another symptom of her labour and had not seen it for what it really was—the snarl of a creature who loathed and despised the suzerain and would cheerfully have mauled her, had she not been otherwise engaged.
“Push!” the midwife commanded, her voice barely audible over Boots’s howls.
“I am pushing!”
“Then push harder,” the woman said, her tone lacking anything even remotely resembling empathy for her patient’s plight.
Boots howled again, even more tormentedly, which Warlock wouldn’t have thought possible.
“Here it comes!”
He leaned forward in time to see a small, dark head appear. It hesitated for a moment, as if debating whether or not it wanted to leave the safety of the womb, and then Boots howled again as another contraction expelled the tiny creature, robbing it of the choice.
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