It slaps me in the face, a dry wave that steals my breath and saps my strength. I gasp and a mentor—a tight faced Pente woman—slams into my back. “Move, leech.”
I look for Kristoff, who strides across the rocky sand, dust swirling in his wake. “I can’t breathe,” I gasp, when I catch him. Dust coats my throat, and I choke.
Without slowing, Kristoff slaps a slimy round hydro-patch to my arm. Almost instantly the dry, choking sensation fades and I can breathe again.
I suck in air, and glance around. The jakta has high walls of sandstone surrounding it, three large buildings dwarfing the smaller ones, all light colored sandstone, in clean straight lines. They are spread out, leaving wide open areas of sand and stone for practice and sparring.
“Drop our bags here,” he says as we leave the spaceport behind. “We went over this—assessment first. I can’t help you here, but go for weapons you’re comfortable with. I know Eleyi are pacifist, but you have to fight.” He glares at me.
“Has anything in the past ten days suggested I’m pacifistic?” I demand, and he arches an eyebrow. I catch his arm, staring into his eyes. “We are not all the same, Kristoff. Remember that.”
He finally nods and I relax, focusing on where we are going. There are large buildings to the side, and Kristoff nods at them, “Those are the trainers and glad dormitories. The lowest level is our dining hall. Just past it is the armory.”
I nod, and we turn into a narrow corridor, a long tunnel toward a bright patch of sand. I can feel the minds around me, the angry glads, and terrified fodder, the service slaves bored as they go about the menial work that keeps the jakta running. And a few minds, feral and fierce—the heavy minds of the draken. I shudder away from them, inexplicably afraid of losing myself in their vastness.
Kristoff catches my arm, shaking me. “Don’t be afraid, Brielle. You have the ability to be a champion, but it will all be determined by how you do out there.” He waits until I nod, and then shoves me into the light.
I spill out onto the sands, blinking in the brightness after the tunnel. Overhead, the harsh glare of Pente’s twin moons and sun beats on me—on us. There are five other new slaves on the wide expanse of dark sand. I straighten, looking around me. Two of the slaves I dismiss easily: the bat-winged Eleyi, Petyr, and a human who has already pissed himself. The other three—the male with the thick skin and silence that marks all from Ludie, the Crathian from earlier, and a muscular human—worry me more, and I wish for a moment that I wasn’t pitted against them.
A tall man, larger than any I have ever seen, steps onto the sands in a pair of faded trousers. A scar runs down one side of his face and a brand—the jakta’s sigil in a circle of stars—stands out on his chest. The Primus. “You have thirty seconds to arm yourself. Then you will fight, and you will continue until only one of you is standing. We are not looking for kills—merely a show of strength and your ability to disable an opponent.”
The weapons are piled in a corner by the entrance. I jerk into motion before Primus finishes speaking, darting past Petyr in my haste. I snatch up the only hurkya I see as the Luden slams into me, and above us I hear a shrill whistle. “Disqualification—you must wait for thirty seconds before engaging,” Primus booms. A high-pitched whine fills my ears and the Luden collapses on me, a dead weight. I wiggle free and snatch up a broadsword as the clock clicks down. I can feel Kristoff’s mind, his anger—I haven’t the first clue how to use a sword, but it will have to do.
The human screams, charging at me as the bell clangs and I jerk the sword up, parrying the blow from his katana. I stab out ineffectually and he laughs, sweeping it aside effortlessly and stabbing at my shoulder with a short dagger. I hiss as it hits home, driving deep. Blood streams down my arm, then the Crathian is attacking and the human whirls to meet him. I consider going for another weapon and dart a quick glance at Primus. Unwilling to risk disqualification, I clench my teeth and jerk the dagger from my arm. For an instant, the edges of my vision fuzz, going black.
Just a few minutes longer.
I push myself into motion, darting toward the Crathian hunched over the human. I slash the blade over the soft skin behind his knee and he howls, dropping like a rock. With one quick motion, I slam the blunt edge of my sword against his skull and he slumps.
I straighten, wiping my blade clean on my pant leg. The human fodder has collapsed by the wall, blood oozing from his leg. It’s only me and the Eleyi who stands watching me warily, weaponless. My hand is shaking, and I clench my fingers, trying to hide how hurt I am.
“Take the sword,” I rasp, motioning, and his wings twitch.
“Why?” he says, quietly bitter. “You’ll win, if I have a weapon or not.” I struggle not to flinch at the judgment in his voice and mind.
I growl in frustration and throw the dagger at his feet. He steps calmly away, his eyes never leaving me. I can feel Primus’ eyes on me, Kristoff watching, and it makes my anger spike higher.
I know what I have to do—I can feel it in the heavy expectation from my mentor and the Primus.
I want to force him to fight, turn away, anything but the inevitable. Instead, I swing out, catching him with my hurkya, yanking him close enough to elbow him the face. Blood gushes from his nose, staining his shirt and spraying me. But he drops, and it gives them what they want—a bloody display. I turn, tilting my head at Primus.
He murmurs something to the boy at his elbow and motions a hand. “Dismissed. Clear the sands, prepare for the next round!”
I throw down the hurkya and stalk toward the arches. New slaves are crowded there, but they clear a path as I approach.
Kristoff comes sprinting up, skidding to a stop before he reaches me. He takes me in, the bleeding wound on my shoulder, the blood drying and flaking on my skin, my feral expression—I wonder which makes him check his step.
“Is that what you had in mind?” I demand, my voice hoarse.
Kristoff nods and wraps an arm around my shoulder. “Come on, Brielle. Let’s get you bandaged and settled in.”
The medhall is quiet, and for the first time since arriving on Pente, I am still. A Pente woman slightly older than me—Jenalle—moves around me with brisk efficiency as Kristoff leans against the doorframe. “Is Primus doing assessments?” she asks. I study her—she’s thin to the point of skeletal, her hair chopped in a severe line around her face, and sharp, but kind eyes as she works around me, her movement sure and efficient.
“Mmhmm.”
She sighs, reaching for a sealing wand to suture my cuts. I flinch as the soft hum of it fills the room, and she gives me a sympathetic look. “It won’t hurt. And it’s medicinal—there will be no scar. It’s not like…” Her blue eyes flick to the brand exposed on my thigh. I nod nervously and she smiles at me, applying an anesthesia patch to my arm below the cut. It makes my arm feel strangely removed. She swabs the wound, and I shift, wanting to scratch the sensation away. There’s a soft buzz, and my skin twitches.
“Be still,” Jenalle snaps, her sympathy gone. Behind her, Kristoff laughs softly. A few minutes later, she pulls back, a satisfied smile on her face. “Keep it dry for at least five hours. I’d prefer you sleep on it before you wash it, but I would have trouble sleeping that covered in blood. Make sure you keep it covered while you shower. Take these for infection and these for pain and you should be fine,” she says, handing me two small bags with little yellow and green pills. “Now, get out of here; I’m going to have my hands full.”
Kristoff straightens as I rise and I follow him out of the medhall. The corridor is lined with the slaves I fought. I keep my eyes up, my back straight, and follow Kristoff, skirting the angry Crathian. I can feel his gaze chasing me, furious and bitter—dangerous. Kristoff leads me out of the tunnel, across the open courtyard and into the dormitory. The first floor is open to the elements, a large cavernous place cluttered with chairs and tables and the lingering smell of food.
“I’m on the third floor,” Kristoff says, excitement spi
lling from him. It startles me, feeling his mind. He’s usually closed off.
“My room is secure—but I’m having your retinal scan added to it, so you’ll have access to it without me,” he says as we pause at a door. His retinal scan unlocks it, revealing a barren room. A narrow bed stands in one corner, the blankets a messy pile at the foot. There is a small chest of drawers, one sticking out like he had closed it halfheartedly. The desk is covered with weapons and dirty oiling rags.
“Bathroom is through there”—he points at a different door—“but we share it with Kevan and his trainee.”
I glance at him. “Do either of them want to kill me?”
He laughs. “No. Right now, you’re safe.” He pauses, watching me, and I meet his gaze steadily as he asks, “Why did you hesitate?”
“He didn’t have a weapon,” I answer.
Kristoff shakes his head, anger spiking in him. “He’s fodder, Brielle. You need to understand that, and accept it. If you hesitate every time you run across fodder, you’ll be blood on someone’s sword.”
I bite back the urge to tell him I can’t kill the innocent or unarmed. Because for a heartbeat, I’m not sure it’s true. What am I willing to do to survive? Juhan’s promise echoes through me and I look down.
“Tomorrow Primus will assign you to trainers who match your level of skill. They’ll work you harder than I do, but they’ll take into account what I think.”
“And what do you think?” I ask, forcing myself to focus on him and not what they’ll demand of me.
“Argot bought you with the intent of having you train his beasts. But you will appeal to the arena. What if we gave them a show no one’s ever seen?”
I arch a brow, hooking the chair with my foot and dragging it to me. Exhaustion tugs at me, and the thought that tomorrow will bring more savagery makes my head ache.
“I want you to ride the draken,” he says quietly.
I blink up at Kristoff, startled and sure I’ve heard wrong. “Excuse me?”
“You’d be untouchable up there,” he explains. “And you’re strong enough, psychically, to train them.”
I frown, interrupting him. “How do you know that?”
“I had Catelyn test your psychic strength a few days ago.”
Anger flares in me, red hot fury at the invasion without my consent. Kristoff is oblivious, staring at me with expectant eyes, crackling with excitement. “So, what do you think?”
“I think it’s a mad plan,” says a drawling voice and both of us look up. A Pente with an amused smile is watching us from the bathroom door, his green eyes warm on Kristoff. A Sinese male lingers behind him.
“Kevan,” Kristoff breathes, and I’m shocked by the sudden spike in his feelings—love, affection, a sense of belonging that screams home.
I glance between the two, and understanding fills me.
“Why don’t we give you some space?” I suggest and slide past Kevan. “Come on, you.”
Pulling the Sinese along, I let the bathroom door slide shut behind us. Then I stare at the slave I’ve just locked myself away with, and I hope he’s not hiding a blade somewhere. He’s humanoid, with the inky dark skin of all his people, and silky hair that is tied back into a long braid. Large, warm eyes gaze at me curiously. “I’m Jemes,” he says shyly, and I relax.
“Brielle,” I say, almost choking on the name.
He eyes the door behind me and then: “They are lovers?”
“Apparently,” I say dryly. He’s holding his bandaged arm gingerly, and I motion at it, “How bad?”
“Not very. I yielded before they gave me a concussion.” He pauses, then: “You did very well. I thought Eleyi were pacifists by nature.”
I laugh. “Being sold into slavery and branded and shipped half a galaxy away from home will cure you of that. And I was always too temperamental to be a good pacifist.”
He looks uncomfortable suddenly and I cock my head, going over what little history I know of Sine. A quiet planet, not particularly vital to the IPS, but protected by them. So how is he a slave? “Aren’t the Sinese part of the Interplanetary Senate?”
He nods, swallowing. So he is protected by law from the slavers. I don’t push. The details of how he came to be here are irrelevant. The fact is he is a slave bought and branded as much as I am.
“How long do you think they’ll be?” he asks, nodding at the door.
I shrug. A yawn threatens and I blink, suddenly so exhausted I sway. I nod at the bed. “Do you want it?”
He shakes his head, his aura radiating quiet kindness. “You look like you need it more.”
I muster a smile at that and tug a blanket free, throwing it to Jemes. Hopefully Kevan doesn’t mind. Then I curl on my side, heedless of the blood still staining my skin, tangled in my hair, and surrender to the siren song of sleep.
Too soon, a hand shakes me awake.
I curl deeper into the pillow, for hazy moment lost between waking and dreaming. Then it crashes down on me—this isn’t home, isn’t my hammock, isn’t my brother waking me. I roll over, coming to my feet. Jemes is gone; Kristoff grins at me, something easy and relaxed about him now. “You need a shower, Brielle.”
I nod, and he goes into the bathroom, toying with the control panel. “Hurry, girl. Dinner begins in thirty minutes.”
I nod again, waiting until he closes the door behind him before stripping and stepping under the spray.
Hidden by water and the sliding door, I allow myself the rare luxury of thinking of home. Of Juhan’tr. I wonder where he is. Cautiously, I lower my mental walls. I feel the psychic brush of the Eleyi around me, and the pain and anger and desperation in the Others. Deeper is the primal, almost indecipherable thoughts of the hukron and feline premtha and giant, apish garilia. And the draken.
But not my brother. Tears sting my eyes, and I swear. Hit the command for the soap and scrub at my skin until I feel raw and all thoughts of Juhan have been safely stowed away.
When the water swirling at my feet finally runs clear, I step out. My wings feel heavy and useless lying against my back, a feeling I loathe. I try to ignore it as I rummage in my bag and dress quickly in a loose, synthetic linen shirt and pants.
Kristoff is waiting, an expectant look on his face. I consider his earlier suggestion as we walk through the jakta.
“Do you think I would survive the arena?” I ask him abruptly.
He glances at me sideways. “Maybe. For a while. But long enough to earn emancipation? No.”
“Why not?”
“You’re small. Your wings are lovely but they’re an added target. You may surprise them for a while, but eventually the other gladiators would figure you out. And then you’d be another bloody corpse.”
“But if I try your mad plan?”
He frowns. “If you do that”—he steers me through a throng of gladiators—“technically you’re a beastboy. Your entire job would be to care for the beasts. But you’re also a spectacle, and the audiences and patrons love spectacle. You would be given advantages in the arena, because your fights are riskier. But spectacles draw patrons, and that will put you closer to emancipation.”
“How risky is it?” I ask, a little surprised by how much I’m considering the idea.
He grins at me. “It’s not much more risky than facing three glads twice your size. And after today’s assessment, you’ll never be just a beastboy. You’re too savage to keep you off the sands.”
We step into the crowded dining hall, the noise and smell assaulting me. And the emotions—so many not held in check that I clench my teeth, trying to ride out the suffocating wave. This is not my forte, though. All my life, I have been surrounded by minds who lived behind walls and a brother who was strong enough to shield us both. An ache blossoms in my chest, throbbing in rhythm with the one in my head.
Kristoff keeps a hand on my elbow, pulling me forward when I lag, until I find myself sitting next to him. As I force the emotions to recede, I register a plate of food: a lump of mashed
vegetable drizzled with cheese and a thick, dark sauce, a large piece of meat still on the bone, skin crispy with spices, a small pile of fruit, and a slice of bloody roast. Jemes is watching me curiously, Kevan ignoring me as he talks to Kristoff.
My brother swore he’d find me. But I have to survive the jakta long enough to let him. Determination fills me and I catch my mentor’s eye as I cut into the roast. “All right. We’ll try your mad plan.”
Chapter 12
Juhan’tr
I WANDER THE GROUNDS idly, my wings fanning the warm air.
Who ever heard of a slave bored to death? I glance up, almost involuntarily, searching the sky. I can’t feel her. Wherever she is, Chosi is too far for me to feel anything other than a distant pressure in the base of my skull, throbbing like a toothache, or a heartbeat that isn’t wholly mine, but could never be separate from me.
I miss her. Endless afternoons of walking in gardens and lounging in libraries and napping in the soft breeze has reinforced two things: if left on my own, my thoughts will turn to my sister. And I miss her so much it hurts to breathe. Tin’s been busy chasing down the slaver queen’s network, but he says it will be a while before he’s broken her firewall. Sadi is kept busy by her family, which is fine—it’s easier to pretend to care for her when I don’t have to do it constantly.
A clatter of noise jars me from my thoughts, and I glance around. I’ve wandered from the gardens, nearer to the house itself. One of the large shuttle bay doors is open, and I glance inside.
Tinex and Brando are dancing around the open floor, silent and violent, intent on each other as they spar with sticks, bricks, fists, anything they can find. It’s savage and brutal and I wince as Brando delivers a vicious kick to Tin’s unprotected side and the breath whooshes out of him. I expect Brando to pause, give him time to recover, but the older man pushes forward, pressing Tin down and keeping him there with a series of quick kicks. Tin flinches back, and then a hand darts out and catches Brando’s black boot, twisting sharply. Brando drops, rolling lithely, springing away and to his feet. But the time it takes—seconds, no more—gives Tin the time he needs to find his feet and level a razor sword at the other man.
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