And then I open my eyes, and the dreams vanish. The synth pillow is scratchy beneath my cheek, the sterile smell of the ship overrides the smell of cooking. My nose wrinkles. Bad cooking, at that. I sit up on the bunk, and flex my wings with a slight rustle as I yawn. The cockpit is quiet, the spaceship gliding effortlessly through space. I can hear a rhythmic thudding from somewhere, and detect the burnt smell of frying lemils. Despite the foul odor—how, I wonder, do you screw up lemils—my mouth waters, and I realize how hungry I am.
I ignore Tin—from the emotion radiating from the back of the ship, he is still angry and I don’t want to intrude. Instead, I go into my small bathroom and after washing my face in the tiny sink, I wander toward the smell of cooking.
Sadi stands in the kitchen, arms akimbo, glaring at the pan of lemils currently burning on the hotsurface. Literally.
With a muttered curse, I leap past her and jerk the flaming pan from the hotsurface and dump it into a nearby sink. The mess sizzles and hisses, and I stare forlornly at it.
“First time trying to make lemils?” I ask, turning on the water for good measure.
She laughs, a surprisingly light noise that makes me twist to look at her. “What gave it away? I mean, aside from the flames and shit.”
I swallow, watching her from the corner of my eye as she digs out a mesh bag full of fresh green lemils and hands them to me. “Wanna teach me?” she asks, and I blink. Her tone—
“Ill-advised,” the computer chirps and I flinch as she growls a curse.
“Shut up, Leen,” she orders.
I stare at her and she sighs, her psyche filled with disappointment. “Fine. You cook. Tin would be pissed if I burnt the ship down in deep space.”
“I thought Tin was already pissed,” I say, surprising myself. Sadi shrugs, and I glance at her as I reach for her knife. If she’s nervous about a slave with a weapon, she doesn’t show it. Not that I would use it as a weapon. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t seem to care.
“He’s worried,” she says, quietly. “And he has never been good at channeling emotion—he usually just gets mad and hits things. It makes for a wonderful bodyguard, but not for a very easy person to work with.”
I slice the lemils methodically, processing her words. “He’s your bodyguard?”
“Daddy’s idea, not mine. I think he draws more attention than he deters, but Daddy is paranoid.”
“The Queen knew who you were,” I point out.
She is so quiet I eventually look at her. She’s staring at me, her expression pensive, but I can’t feel her emotions. Where did she learn to lock them away so completely? And what kind of life would call for it?
I pause in the middle of slicing and she pulls herself onto the counter and swings her legs. “You aren’t what I was expecting,” she says.
I could say the same, I think, testing the hotsurface. The lynn oil, a sweet byproduct of the bitter lynn fruit, pops, and I hiss as it singes my arm. Turning the heat down a little, I toss the lemils and onions into the pan and rummage above the stove for spices.
“What did you expect?” I ask, curiously.
She laughs, her cheeks flushing suddenly. “I’m not sure. You would think I’d know more about you—about the Eleyi. But everything is book knowledge, ya know? That’s why I did all this.”
She looks at me, hopeful, and I frown. Did what?
“If you are not a slave owner, why did the queen know you?” I ask abruptly, stirring the food.
She is quiet, her mind so still I glance at her, nervous.
“I’m Sadiene Renult,” she says at last.
I blink, and a tiny smile turns her lips.
“The only daughter of Danick Renult-Harvine.”
The name tickles my memory. I frown at the lemils, thinking, and Sadi heaves a sigh. “Senator Harvine of New Earth?”
The title clicks and I drop the fork into the lemils, turning to stare at the girl who owns me. She smiles smugly. I wonder if she always gets this reaction.
“Your father is the Senator?”
She nods. “That’s how the queen—how most of the slavers—know me. When I’m not at school, I’m usually with Daddy.”
“I don’t understand,” I say, stupidly. “Why would the Senator’s daughter own a slave?”
She must sense something in my voice—her back is stiff when she says, “This isn’t Daddy’s idea. You can’t blame him.”
I turn to stare at her. “You, the underage daughter of a prominent politician, decided that buying an Eleyi slave would be a brilliant idea. Despite the fact that your father has built his political career on Eleyi rights and abolishing the slave trade. Is that what you’re telling me?” I demand, a strange anger filling me.
She looks distressed and then pleased, before she shrugs. “That’s about right.”
“Why?” I whisper, and she tenses.
Behind her Tin approaches, large and silent. But I know she is aware of him, in the slight curve of her shoulders as he stops a few steps away, the flash of relief in her emotions before it’s gone, locked behind her mental walls.
“Because, Eleyi, the lovely lady has a plan,” Tin answers for her, pausing for a split second before he allows a miniscule smile to tilt his lips. “And if you help, she might just pull it off.”
Sadi and Tin sit across from me, empty plates discarded on the table. I feel nauseated, and push my untouched lemils away, reaching instead for the bottle of Tryen Curso. My hand trembles a little as I pour the brilliant blue liquor and swallow it.
Fire ignites in my throat and I wheeze. I’ve never enjoyed drinking—not as much as Chosi, and certainly nothing as strong as Curso.
“You want me to pose as your consort,” I repeat, staring at her, trying to think past my confusion and the growing anger. “And...what? What the hell do you think that will do?”
Oh. I glance down at the empty glass in my hand and push it away. Apparently, the rumors that it quickly enhances emotion are spot-on.
“I think,” she says tartly, “that no one in the Interplanetary Senate gives a damn about the Eleyi. They know your people are peaceful but there is nothing about Eleyiar that makes it valuable. The IPS has no reason to protect you and the public. They hear about slavery, about how it is awful and how Eleyi deserve rights—but you have no face. You need to make them care about a person, rather than the race. You are too isolated on-planet and too damn stubborn to leave it.”
Her words fan my anger, and I sit back to give her a cool stare. “And being your consort will change that?”
“It could.” Her voice is steely but I can taste the edge of emotion under it—hurt. She didn’t think I would refuse this.
Without thinking, I blurt out bitterly, “I can’t refuse this. I’m a slave.”
She flinches as if I have struck her and Tinex tenses as I look away, guilty. I wasn’t trying to hurt her. Sadi’s eyes meet mine, and I feel her just outside my mental walls, a probing but unobtrusive presence. When I acknowledge her, she says, -I won’t force you to do this. You were paid for because I couldn’t get close to an Eleyi any other way. But I will send you home, if that is your wish.-
I can feel the truth behind her words. And for a heartbeat, the temptation of my world, orange-tinted waters, leafy trees, home, is thick and tears blur my vision. Then guilt, so hot and fierce I can’t breathe, slams into me. How can I even consider it, with Chosi enslaved?
“I can’t go home,” I say quietly. “My sister is somewhere in this universe, a slave to that Pente, and I will find her. I swore it.”
I look up at them, my words echoing in the sudden silence that fills the tiny spacecraft. I feel, for the first time, the crushing weight of space, the vastness of it, and the impossible task I have taken on.
How? I have promised, and I will find Chosi, but the question that begs to be answered is how.
I look at Sadi. She owns me. My life is at her whim, my time is hers—legally, I cannot even appear in public without her or a writte
n order from her.
But could I use her? Could I play her game and use it to get closer to Chosi? It would be easy enough to convince her I was a doting lover—I could make her believe it and use her feelings against her.
It makes me feel sick—but I wouldn’t truly be fighting. I’d be manipulating.
And if it makes the difference in getting Chosi, I can live with that.
Sadi clears her throat. It snaps me out of my thoughts, pushes my anger down, and I reach again for the bottle. I pour two—three—shots, and scoot them across to Tinex and Sadi. My eyes are placid, showing none of my inner conflict, as I lift the glass. “To our success.”
Chapter 9
Chosi’le
THE PENTE WHO COMES for me, hours later, is short, with features similar enough to Henri that I suspect they are brothers. He was here earlier, when Henri first came and explained things, and eyes me now dispassionately.. “Come on,” he says, turning without waiting to see if I will follow. I almost don’t—curiosity and hunger make me move. The hallway is dimly lit, and the enclosed walls feel suffocating. I hate being enclosed. Small rooms with bad lighting have always been Juhan’s area. I bite my tongue, and the pain pushes my brother from my mind.
With so many Eleyi around, and one clearly loyal to Henri, I will have to guard the memories of my brother. I smile bitterly—mental defense was always Juhan’s forte. I tend to defend with my fists more than my mind.
He leads me into a large room, where the scent of herbs and baked fish fills the air and my mouth waters, ravenous despite my grief and fear. My escort points to a long table, the seats filled with the bewildered faces of what I can only assume are slaves. Do I look like that, so broken and lost? My lip curls and I bare my teeth and the escort gives me a sharp shake. “Sit down and eat. Keep your head down and listen to the rules.”
I hiss and he slaps me, a quick tap. I can feel the strength that he held back. I touch my cheek, and he stands there, waiting. My face burning, I go to one of the seats he indicated. A plate of fish and pebbly rice, heavily seasoned and spicy, is waiting. A small round of flat bread, an empty cup and a steel pitcher, sweating with cold, sits with it.
I glance around, but my table mates seem unsure, unwilling to eat. Most are human, or humanoid. A few Eleyi, a few scattered Others. None of them will look at me. Idly, I tear a tiny piece of bread and nibble it.
It earns me more worried glances from my table mates. I shrug—they wouldn’t have fed us if we weren’t meant to eat. And if it is a test of some kind, at least I’ll face it with a bit of food in my stomach.
When Henri stands, though, my appetite disappears and I straighten, looking up at the man who holds my future in his hands.
He’s attractive, in a Pente way. Skin browned from days outside, golden hair that is cut severely, close to the scalp. And eyes blue as the sky.
Mother used to say that the eyes could tell more about a man than his words, as much as his aura. Henri’s are blank, cold. As cold and unfeeling as his mind. And that is terrifying. As he surveys the room, the slaves quiet, waiting.
“You belong now to the Argot jakta. We will leave for Pente within the next few days, where you will be trained and assigned tasks based on your performance. Some of you want to be here—sold yourself for a chance at glory in the arena and a few creds for your families. Some of you”—he glances at the Eleyi, and I shift—“are less happy to be here. But it doesn’t change that you are. And there are rules that will be followed in my jakta.”
“My brother will assign all new slaves to a mentor. You will bunk with, eat with, and train with your mentor. How you do reflects on them.” Across from us, at a separate table, a group shift and Argot looks to them, “Likewise, you will be penalized for how badly your trainee does. Take this seriously.” He reaches for a cup of water but he doesn’t drink. “Nutrition and hydration are important on Pente, especially for the gladiators. When food is put in front of you, eat it. Every time.” He pauses, watching, and I snatch up the bread. It’s not as warm now, but it’s still delicious and my action seems to loosen some of the others, because they begin to eat, cautiously.
Henri’s eyes flick over me, and I meet them, stubbornly refusing to look away. “When we reach Pente, we will go directly to my jakta. There you will all be put into training for two sevendays. This will determine your strengths, and how you can best serve the jakta. I buy slaves with a thought as to their purpose. Service, spectacle, gladiators, beastboys. Fodder. But until you train, nothing is certain. That is the only way your place is guaranteed.”
Henri pauses again and then says, his deep voice rolling over the room, “Life in a jakta is hard and brutal. But if you perform well, if you serve well and earn the pride of your ja—your owner—it can be a life that is well rewarded.”
He nods and sits, returning to his dinner and ignoring us completely.
His brother, Prator, stands, wiping his hand on a napkin before he taps a command into the micro tablet on his wrist. He calls out, “Lena will mentor Eleyi Petyr’re.” The Eleyi two seats down startles. A slim woman sitting at Henri’s table motions impatiently and he stands, scurrying to her side. Prator continues calling names and I watch disinterestedly, picking at my fish. Even though I’m hungry, eating because I’m told to grates on my nerves.
“Kristoff will mentor Eleyi Chosi’le.” I glance up as he calls my name, and look around as voices begin murmuring around me.
My mentor seems to interest the other trainers.
Kristoff is a small human—shorter than I am, with a smirk on his face that encourages others to laugh at some private joke. He’s young—he looks to be around my age. His eyes, scanning me slowly as I stand, are shrewd, professionally assessing, and somehow disturbing—they’re old in a way Kristoff isn’t and it gives me chills. I clamp my wings tight to my body to keep my balance and walk to where he sits. He nudges a chair out and I sit stiffly. Prator finishes calling names and looks around. “Mentors, you have a supply of creds to outfit your new slave. We leave for Pente in two days. And you will give your trainee a Pente name.”
I fidget nervously until Kristoff pushes his plate at me as conversation swells in the room. I shake my head. “You didn’t eat enough to make Prator or Henri happy. So this isn’t really a request, Eleyi,” he says mildly.
I glance at him and he stares back, impassively. “I’m not hungry,” I say.
“I don’t believe you were asked,” he says, and I clench my hands, nails digging into my palms to keep from snapping. He watches me for a moment, then picks up the round bread, cutting a slit in it to reveal a pocket. He dumps the pebbly rice and fish into the bread, drizzles a creamy dip onto it all and hands it to me as he stands. “Come on.”
He leads me back down the dark hallway, and despite the confinement, I breathe easier out of Henri Argot’s gaze.
“You don’t like being enclosed,” Kristoff says, when my wings twitch restlessly, the long edges brushing against my legs.
“No,” I say shortly and he glances at me, amused, before we enter a small bedroom.
There is only one bed, a detail that makes my stomach twist, threatening to send all I have eaten back up. I can’t do this.
“You’ll sleep on the floor. Henri doesn’t believe in coddling you. Tomorrow we’ll get you some gear, and practice a little—I’d like to get a feel for your strengths before we reach the jakta.”
“Why?” I ask, without thinking.
“Because I want an advantage when we get home. Did he clip your wings? Spread them; let me see.”
I shake my head, and Kristoff’s eyes narrow. Impatience and disgust fill his psyche.
Violence doesn’t. Which is why the blow to my kidneys stuns me. I half-crumple against him, wheezing. “Stand up and spread your wings.”
“No.”
Kristoff sighs, a noise that conveys regret and annoyance, and then he punches me again.
After each blow—the kidneys, my diaphragm, my ear, my face—he
makes the same demand. I’m wheezing, blood pouring from my nose, and he cocks his head at me where I’m on the ground. “It’ll be your wings, next. Stand up and spread them.”
I straighten slowly, and this time I let my wings spread. The tips sting, and I flinch as they bump the door behind me. He watches, surprise flickering across his face. “Well, you are a rarity—a fighter and a le,” he murmurs, taking in my translucent, blue moth wings. Moth wings are rare—they usually morph into butterfly at puberty.
And anything rare has more value.
“How much do you know about the Eleyi?” I ask, folding them back and falling into the only chair.
Kristoff shrugs. “As much as you’d expect for a slave raised in the jakta. Enough to be knowledgeable, but not dangerous.” He gets a wet towel and hands it to me before he sits on the bed, watching me. “Do you have a name in mind?”
I shake my head. “I like my name.”
His lips twist, amused, “Your owner doesn’t. And that matters much more than your opinion.” I glare and he laughs. “You’re going to be difficult to break, aren’t you? You remind me of a slave we had from Ceren system. No one expected anything from her. Ja Argot bought her to be beautiful fodder. She was deadly in the arena, even though she was tiny. We called her Brielle.”
I let the name roll around in my head, taking its place. Except, it doesn’t.
It feels alien and Other.
It’s not me.
Morning comes early in the jakta—or, the boarding house they use. I blink sleepily as Kristoff dresses. Sitting up hurts. Everything hurts after sleeping on the ground all night.
Something tickles the edges of my consciousness, the memory of a dream almost forgotten. Juhan’tr, his spirit brushing mine at a distance that seems impossibly far. I shove the thought down and stand, shrugging the silver wrap around me. It’s dirty, wrinkled, bloody from my beatings. But for the moment, it’s all I have to wear.
Gentle Chains (The Eleyi Saga Book 1) Page 5