Breakfast is less formal than the night before—the new slaves are mingled in with the mentors, and Argot hasn’t made an appearance. There is more fish, spicy sausage, and poached eggs with a hearty bread. Fruit from across the galaxy, glistening on top of a chilled cream. Kristoff quickly makes two plates—far more food than I could possibly eat—and carries them to a small table in the corner. A few mentors watch us, and I twitch under their invasive appraisal.
Kristoff snaps his fingers and I jerk, my eyes darting to him nervously. I can’t read him well enough to know when he’ll hit me, and it has me on edge. “Don’t worry about them,” he says, pushing a plate at me. “They’re curious, and you are being talked about. I’m not often given new slaves to train. And it’s rare to find a le in the auction house. Ja Argot has a fondness for them. The best way to deal with their curiosity is to ignore them.”
“Why do you call him that?” I ask, for lack of anything else to say.
“Ja? It’s a title on Pente—only jakta owners are called Ja. The master trainer is titled Primus.” He grins and nods at my half eaten breakfast. “Finish and we can get you away from all these voyeurs.”
I tune them out, ducking and picking at my food. I can feel their emotions—disgust, interest, open lust—beating at me, more insistent than their eyes and I hurry to finish, trying to ignore my twisting stomach. Kristoff still manages to finish before I do and he sets his coffee down. “Let’s get you some clothes,” he says, standing. The idea of being dressed is enough to get me moving. I follow him quickly out of the room, and release a sigh of relief when we’re out of the overfull dining hall. I bump into Kristoff when he stops abruptly after three steps.
“Ja Argot,” Kristoff says, and I go still, my eyes darting up to look at the man who owns me. Anger makes me shake, and I look down.
His eyes skim over me, and then slide to Kristoff. “What do you think of her?” he asks.
Kristoff ducks his head, “Pardon, sir, but I have yet to test her. I haven’t even gotten her clothes yet.”
Argot nods. “And her face?”
“A slight misunderstanding,” Kristoff says. Henri grunts and Kristoff nudges me aside to let him stride past. I finger the diamond at my throat as he does, and I can feel amusement rolling off him and hitting me with the force of a wave. I drop my hand, and follow Kristoff out of the boarding house.
“I’m tired of being poked,” I snap as Kristoff steers me into yet another small, dimly lit shop.
He gives me a sharp look, and I bite my lip, my gaze dropping. “Then you’ll be happy to know, Brielle, that this isn’t a clothing store,” he says, his voice mild.
As we enter, I glance at the sign, but I can’t read it. Inside, there are dusty, antique weapons. Guns, of all sizes and shapes. A knife, with a steel blade as long as my forearm. A curved blade on a long handle, long flat swords, heavy axes, darts, bows and arrows, archaic ray guns. So many weapons on display my fingers spasm with the urge to reach for them, to caress them and slide a blade into a pocket of my newly purchased clothing.
I clench my hands into fists against the unnatural—un-Eleyi—thoughts and follow Kristoff to the counter where a man is waiting, watching us with shrewd, knowing eyes.
“A new addition to the jakta, Kristoff?” he says in Common and I reach for his mind instinctively. He’s native Pente. How did he end up here, half a galaxy away?
“I want to test her,” Kristoff says and the Pente squints at me.
“She’s tall, but a bit on the scrawny side,” he says doubtfully.
“She’ll fill out,” Kristoff says. “Brielle, spread your wings.”
I hiss, and his eyes harden. It’s the only warning I’ll get. I open them carefully—the little shop is so cramped I’m afraid I will catch them on a counter or sharp edge.
The weapons dealer whistles once, startled. I tuck my wings close as the two men watch each other, Kristoff waiting while the other thinks.
“Follow me.”
Kristoff relaxes a little and we follow the Pente through the dim shop. He pauses and taps a command on a small screen mounted on the wall, then he pushes through a door and into a large, open room. It’s so bright compared to the store, my eyes water. “Have you tested her yet?” he asks Kristoff as he rummages through a pile of wooden weapons.
“Haven’t had a chance.”
The arms dealer grunts and continues searching. Kristoff leans over and murmurs in my ear, “Deevid is an old, retired glad. Used to mentor Argot before old age took him out of the arena and politics put Henri in the owner’s seat. He still has the best instinct in the business.”
Deevid finally turns and hands me a hurkya, a long wooden weapon with a wicked hook on the end. He also gives me a coiled whip.
Then he steps away and the room goes dark, so black I can’t see anything, not even my hands clenched on the hook before light flares. A beast—scaly-backed, running at me on four legs, its mouth open in a roar—charges forward and I stumble back, falling out of the way. A hukron. Native of Section 83, it’s massive, merciless and hard as fuck to kill. And its teeth and spikes are coated with a paralyzing venom.
It whips around, impossibly agile, and charges me again.
I snap the whip, the sharp crack singing through the air. The hukron falters and I stab out with my hooked staff, aiming for the eye as it rushes me. At the last possible second, I hurl the weapon and roll to the side, and the hukron vanishes.
A gladiator stalks toward me with a heavy sword. He is wearing a helm but no armor, and I scramble to my hooked staff, spinning and sweeping it in a wide arc as the glad closes in. He dodges easily and swings his blade down, grazing me as I dance backward. Pain sears up my arm and I grit my teeth, struggling to hold the staff as he comes at me again.
The whip coils against my feet and I scoop it up, throw it in his face. It slows him for just long enough for me to slam the blunt end of my staff into his stomach and he doubles over. The glad vanishes suddenly and I go still. There is a screech, metal and stone grating against each other and a shape made of shadow and smoke and flame looms above me, wild and gorgeous.
Draken. What humans once called dragons—that is the closest description anyone could find of the dangerous creatures made of mist and fire.
Without realizing it, my weapon has dropped, the hook digging into the dust of the arena floor. The draken regards me solemnly, a heavy presence brushing my mind. I shudder under the psychic assault, almost falling.
Then it belches fire. My wings and hair ignite and I scream.
I fall into a crouch as heat burrows into me, and then it’s gone, faster than it came, and I’m left hunched, blinking in the suddenly bright, empty room. Deevid and Kristoff stand to one side, watching me like I’m a fascinating insect. I lick my lips and demand, “What the hell was that?”
Kristoff frowns, and but doesn’t say anything about my impertinence. Deevid answers instead, “That’s a holostim, Brielle. A simulated test to see how you’d fare in the arena.”
I straighten slowly, back aching. “And how did I do?”
Kristoff shrugs, “Better than I’d expect. Until you saw the draken and froze. Not the brightest move if you’d like to survive long. Aside from that, you have a natural talent—it’s raw but there.”
I look away, embarrassed. How do I explain that seeing a draken was like seeing a god, a creature of ancient legend, alive and breathing? Breathing fire, no less.
“I was startled,” I tell him.
“She’ll make a good glad,” Deevid says, “And a pretty picture on the sands, with those wings. She’s savage enough to last a while”.”
“But?” Kristoff prompts, and the old Pente squints at me.
“But she’d make a better trainer. Even in the holostim, the draken hesitated at the sight of her,” he says at last.
Kristoff makes a frustrated noise, and shakes his head. “Ja Argot won’t agree to that after he sees her fight. He won’t hide her in the cages when he will
make money in the arena.”
“Do you want to live?” Deevid asks without preamble and I blink. His mind is rough, but not completely uncaring, and there is genuine interest, as if I’m a challenge that he’d like to puzzle with.
“Of course,” I say, working my way through his emotions.
“Then become something the Ja has never shown the audiences,” he says, and I frown, glancing at Kristoff. His eyes are distant. Deevid’s advice has given him reason to think.
The old man turns and re-enters the tiny shop. “A whip and tips for those wings. She won’t fly, but they can be weapons if she uses them properly. And that hurkya—it’ll give her a longer reach, which she’ll need in the arena.”
“Armor?” Kristoff asks quietly.
Deevid pauses, looks back at me. “When she’s done training, contact me. I’ll send what she needs. Including her wings.”
As Kristoff holds out his wrist for the arms dealer to scan, my mentor grins, startling and young. “How many of the others have been by?”
Deevid snorts, scans Kristoff’s wrist, pulling creds from the embedded chip. “Three today. But I’ve only seen one other new slave. A bat-winged fellow. Watch him; he’ll be fodder on the sands.”
With that rather dismal assessment, he hands over my newly purchased weapons and I follow Kristoff back to the boarding house.
I’m sore. So unbelievably sore. A bruise has blossomed on my shoulder where I landed when the hukron charged me and it hurts to breathe. When I woke up this morning, I didn’t think I could hurt any more. Now, two hours before dinner, I know I was wrong.
Kristoff stares at me with indifference and I lift the wooden hook again. “I thought training didn’t begin until we reached the jakta,” I say and Kristoff grins.
“I’d be bored just sitting in the room, and this edge might save your life.” He rushes me suddenly and my staff swings up, too late. His wooden swords slaps across my neck, and I hack, trying to breathe. Kristoff sighs. “Dead. Again.”
My prowess the day before in the holostim has vanished. I’m fumbling and slow and have yet to actually hit him with my weapon. It makes me angry, and I shove his practice sword away. Lash out with my hook. He pins it with one foot and pushes the other on my throat, just enough pressure that I’m paying attention.
“You aren’t trying,” he says, and anger shivers through his voice. “You do realize what Argot means when he says that the training determines your place, don’t you?”
I shake my head, trying to keep from throwing up. “What?”
“The worst trainees are fodder. Slaves who are put in the arena to die,” he says flatly and my eyes widen. “And quite often, their mentors are sent with them. I don’t much care what happens to you, but I’m not dying in the arena because you are sore.”
“Does it occur to you that maybe I need to build up my strength before you beat me to death with a wooden stick?” I snap and he swings out, delivering a ringing blow to the side of my head. My head spins, and I dry heave as the pain wins, doubling me over. Through it all, his psyche never flickers.
“Watch yourself, Eleyi. You’re a slave, and this attitude won’t be accepted by the Ja, Prator, or Primus at the jakta. I’m barely tolerating it, and I have an unusual threshold for bullshit.”
I shake my head, trying to shake the ringing in my ears, but I have to sink to my knees. Tears gather in my eyes and I blink them back, furious. I want to go home.
I struggle to my feet, reaching for the wall to steady myself. He watches me, his gaze assessing as I lift my sword. Kristoff sighs. “Let’s go for a run. Tomorrow we leave for Pente and there isn’t much to do on the ship. The least we can do is start your conditioning now.”
Later, I lie awake long after Kristoff slips into sleep. My body is screaming in pain, every muscle stiff and tight, and the floor makes it impossible to get comfortable. My head throbs from his blow this afternoon. But what bothers me most is not the ache of my body or head—it’s the utter solitude in which I find myself. All the Eleyi around me are locked off, minds hidden behind mental walls I don’t have the energy to breach.
I wonder if it will always be like this: long days that leave me aching, and longer nights filled with nothing. Tears sting my eyes and I shake my head—no. I can’t live like that. I’ll die first.
Chapter 10
Juhan’tr
SPACE IS LIKE A cold blanket, wrapping me in a cocoon of ice and emptiness. It’s different here than it was on the slave ship—there are no psyches pushing at me. It is the curious quiet in my mind that makes me acutely aware of how alone we are. The only thing I hear is Sadi and Tin talking, quiet, hushed, excited.
She bought it—my quiet acceptance of her insane plan. She didn’t even think to question my motives. I’m almost embarrassed for her—that kind of blind trust is dangerously naïve.
It took very little effort on my part to convince Sadi to help me look for Chosi. She offered to have Tinex hack the slaver queen’s records, find out who bought my sister. It will take time, time that we will use to seduce the cybertulres—tabloid news feeds that people adore—and through them the people of the Interplanetary Alliance. It’s all broad strokes of a plan that is risky and ludicrous.
Frankly, I don’t care. It’s merely something to distract me while I wait for information.
“Juhan?” Tinex says, a slight intrusion that shakes me from my thoughts and brings me back to the ship. He’s extends a small stack of clothing. “We’re approaching Ariede.”
I take the clothes, glance at them questioningly. They’re nice—but then, if we’re going to Ariede, the seat of the IPS, that is to be expected.
“You need a shower. And fresh clothes—you reek of the slave houses.” He says the words without inflection, but they sting. I can’t meet his eyes as I take the clothes and he directs me to a shower stall.
There is a tiny computer screen that blinks to life. A green orb appears as I step into the stall. “Enter command,” Leen voices calmly.
“Um,” I stammer, staring blankly at the screen. Eleyiar rejected tech, and talking computer systems unnerve me.
“Not a viable command.”
I wonder for a heartbeat what a viable command is before I say, hesitantly, “List options?”
The computer rattles out a list of shower choices, and I latch onto the first one. Warm water gushes down from the invisible faucet, streaming through my hair. My wings beat once, twice, water rushing over them, sluicing the dirt and grime away. The bite of soap stings my eyes and I begin to scrub. Glitter mingles with dirt and dust and water, swirling around my feet, vanishing into the drain, carrying away the evidence of my time in the slave ships.
I didn’t realize how desperately I wanted to be clean until I am.
“Do you wish to end shower?” the computer asks as the water pressure decreases, and reluctantly I give an affirmative. The water puddles around me as I stand in front of a heat shield, and the hot air stirs around me, briskly drying my too-long hair, my wings. My hair stands in uneven tufts, and I smile, remembering how often Chosi complained about the heat shield we used to dry back home—she hated the way it was impossible to control her curly hair, the spark of static electricity it left. More often than not, she’d ignore the shield, and let her wings and hair dry naturally.
I shake the memory as the heat shield turns off, reaching for the clothes Tinex has provided.
The pants are black, a supple synthetic material. I tug them on, startled by how well the fit. I wonder where they found an Eleyi style vest. It slips over my shoulders, lacing midway up my back, covering me without hindering my wings in the least.
I pull on a pair of ankle-high boots, ignoring the knife sheath.
An intercom chimes, and Sadi’s voice fills the room. “Can I see you for a moment, Juhan’tr? I’m in the cockpit.”
I swallow hard as my stomach lurches at the pull of gravity, and step into the cockpit.
And bite my tongue when I see her.
Sadi is dressed in a loose, thin shirt, synth leather pants so tight they make mine look loose. A pair of boots with a gold seal—her family crest—comes up to her knees. Her hair is swept into a high knot, spilling down her back in a dark wave. What startles me is not the clothes, but the color.
Even on Eleyi, where we live in self-imposed exile, we know the significance of purple. And this, this is not just the violet hues of a wealthy family, or a bright shade of minor nobility. Sadi wears a deep, rich plum, so dark it is almost black, with a shimmer of iridescence. It’s the color of power, royalty, the highest social orders. And she wears it like a second skin, as natural and regal in it as she was in Tin’s old practice leathers.
It occurs to me that I am playing a dangerous game, attempting to manipulate a princess.
She eyes me, and approval sparks across her, a deliberate lowering of her mental walls. I shove aside my flutter of nerves, forcing an empty smile, and her eyes harden. “That won’t fool anyone. You need to make this believable, or we can just go to Eleyiar now. If you can’t be the ardent lover, then be cool and shy. I don’t particularly care, but make the cybertulres believe it.”
I frown at her. “They won’t know yet, will they?”
She breathes a brittle laugh, and it strikes me how different she is already. The carefree, laughing, cursing girl I had begun to adapt to is missing, replaced by someone cold and regal and beautiful.
“I’m returning home. Even if they thought it was from my academy, the cameras would be waiting. As it is, I’ve been missing for over two weeks. The sharks were circling before we hit the atmosphere.”
There, hidden under the arrogance, is bitterness, a slight note in her psyche that sours my stomach. She turns back to the computer panel, long fingers skimming and tapping commands. “Find a seat,” she says over her shoulder. “Tin, have you purged the system?”
The bodyguard murmurs, making it clear he hasn’t. She twitches, impatient, and addresses the Leen. “How many of my father’s people are waiting?”
Gentle Chains (The Eleyi Saga Book 1) Page 6