Chapter 15
Chosi’le
JEMES AND KRISTOFF ARE WAITING when I enter his room. Kristoff looks furious, Jemes a worried afterthought. As soon as the door slides shut behind me, Kristoff pins me against it, his arm heavy across my throat. “What the fuck are you doing?” he demands. I gag as he leans into me, his arm choking off my air. “Are you trying to get yourself killed, and me in the process?”
Jemes starts to step in and I catch his eye, shake my head as much as I can. He can’t interfere—he doesn’t need to face Kristoff’s anger. Not for me. “It was an accident,” I choke out.
My wings thrash—I hate being pinned. Pain flares in one, and I feel blood dripping from it. “You can’t afford accidents like that,” he snarls.
A quiet voice from the doorway intrudes. “You’re damaging her.”
Kevan’s words shock him, and Kristoff drops me instantly. I crumple to the floor in an ungraceful heap. He looks at me, at the wall where he held me—the blood smeared there—his eyes wide and confused.
“I’m sorry,” he stammers.
I glare up at him, tears in my eyes. Kristoff’s are afraid and confused—two things I have so rarely seen in him. “Thanks for that,” I force out. “You reminded me you aren’t a friend. You’re nothing to me but a tool to survive—and worse, you’re his.”
Kristoff pales. Behind him, Jemes inhales sharply, and I feel guilt and anger flood the room. Kevan is staring at me like I am less than nothing. He motions once, and Jemes steps forward, pulling me to my feet and out of the room. The bathroom door slides closed behind us, shutting out Kevan’s murmur as he soothes Kristoff.
Jemes nudges me gently toward the bed. “Sit. I’ll see what I can do about your wings.”
I’m too tired to argue, emotionally wrung out and barely able to keep my eyes open. I can feel Jemes’ worry and fear. As he returns, touching a wet rag to my bleeding wing, I lean my head against his leg. “Don’t worry so much,” I say.
He makes a noise, something too bitter to be called a laugh. “Someone has to.”
The words are like a fist to my gut. How many times have I heard those words, spoken with amused exasperation, from my brother? Exhaustion sweeps me abruptly. All I want to do is curl on the bed and cry, for everything I’ve lost and the brother I miss.
“I’m being punished,” I say instead. Jemes pauses, a hiccup of movement that tells me he heard. “Ten lashes. It won’t be so bad. The brand was worse, when I was on the slave ship.” I’m trying to reassure him and he knows it. I can’t understand why it matters. Why he matters. He’s little more than fodder, blood on my steel, but I can’t seem to prevent myself from caring.
A fist slams on the door in the other room and Kevan steps through the bathroom door. His eyes are hard. “It’s time.”
I swallow hard and squeeze Jemes’ hand—when did I clutch his hand in mine?—before I slip past them both and join Kristoff. He won’t look at me. I can feel the remorse in him, but the door slides open before he speaks, and two glads pull me roughly from the room.
“I can walk,” I protest as they haul me through the hall. One of them hits me on the back of the head, and I clamp my mouth shut, swallowing my arguments. I can feel their pleasure, their satisfaction at my humiliation. I struggle to get my feet under me, and stumble along between them as best as I can. I feel weak and hate it.
The courtyard is full. Glads and trainers, cooks and maids, beastboys and weapons masters. All of them stand waiting, some bored, some impatient. And all of the jakta’s Eleyi, clumped in a corner of the courtyard, watching me with hostile, angry eyes.
Fodder. Every last one of them is just walking dead. My lip curls.
That’s why they hate me.
I lift my head and look away, and there is an open space. My escorts push me into it, and I fall to my knees in the sudden void.
A pair of shackles hangs down in the center of the great arches, and one of the glads jerks my arm up, locking one around my left wrist. I manage to get my feet under me and then the other hand is shackled.
My arms suspended, I look around. Primus, Prator, and Ja Argot step onto the viewing platform and Argot raises a hand to quiet the crowd.
“Brielle has been accused of using Eleyi Speech. The penalty for her offense is ten lashes.”
A buzz fills my ears: the murmur of the crowd and Catelyn’s excitement. He makes a sharp motion and my arms jerk upward, pulling me off my feet. The metal cuffs dig painfully into my wrists as I twist, struggling to find footing that is no longer there.
The crowd is quiet—quiet enough that I can hear someone approach me and I tense, my wings snapping tight to my back as I go still.
For an eternity, nothing happens and some of the tension leaks out of me. I look up, and catch Prator’s eyes. Something lurks in his gaze. Pain explodes in my back. The force of the blow swings me forward and I bite back a scream as my wrist takes all of my weight.
“Not her back. I don’t want her wings damaged,” Argot calls down.
Anger spikes behind me in a psyche that I recognize as Catelyn’s. Then the next blow comes, slamming across my legs. I want to scream, but I swallow it down, force my mind to empty. The next blow lands just above the last, a flat bruising blow that makes my muscles ache. I latch onto a thought, a memory of laughing with Juhan as we flew through the treetops, teasing the sentries. Mother had been furious. Father always knew I was reckless, and loved me for it. I was the different one in so many ways, but Father and Juhan doted on me for those differences.
Another blow jars me and I gasp, a tiny noise I know the Ja hears. I can feel his satisfaction, feel it like a hot brand that infuriates me. I grit my teeth as the next two blows come across my arms straining to hold me. I swing forward, and pain dances black spots across my vision. I want to give in, to fall into oblivion.
Staying conscious through the remaining six blows is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
But I cling to the thought of my twin, my determination that I won’t give Argot the satisfaction, my fury and disdain for the fodder and Eleyi who hate me. I hold onto my determination. And finally, it’s over. Ja Argot nods to whomever is behind me and the restraints drop me down as he turns away. My weight lands on my feet, shooting up my abused legs, and I stifle a scream. Quick fingers release me from my shackles and with a half sob, I fall, rolling to my side as pain smothers me for a long moment. When it finally clears, when I can see something beyond the black spots clouding my vision, I realize the figure standing over me is holding a long flat cudgel.
Kristoff.
Shock rips through me, and it hurts more than the beating.
I shake my head, trying to clear it, and he reaches for me. I lurch backward, landing on my wrists, and I can’t hold back the scream of pain that takes me by surprise. Panic flares in Kristoff’s mind and before either of us can do more than stare, a pair of arms is slipping around me, pulling me to my feet.
“I’ll take her to Jenalle,” Jemes says. His voice is tight, not masking the anger simmering in him. For a long moment, I expect Kristoff to protest, but he finally nods and Jemes pulls me away. Every step is agony and it drives away the burning betrayal. “Let me carry you,” Jemes says, his voice still harsh with anger.
“Can’t. I’m not fodder. Can’t be weak,” I manage to grit out through clenched teeth. Jemes mutters an oath, harsher than I’ve ever heard from him, but he doesn’t try to carry me. It takes an eternity to reach Jenalle’s hall and I’m unsurprised to find her waiting, green eyes tight with anger and worry.
“Did you see?” Jemes asks and she shakes her head shortly as she comes up on the other side of me. In the safe haven of her medhall, I allow them to take over, wrestling me onto the table while I concentrate on containing the scream building in my throat.
She examines me with brisk efficiency. “They used a cudgel, didn’t they? Someone doesn’t want her permanently disfigured. It’s something they don’t usually care about in the gladi
ators.”
“Not a glad,” I slur, “a spectacle.”
There is a frightened hush and I curse my stupid tongue. Jenalle is moving again, rubbing something into the welts on my legs that makes me moan in relief as the pain begins to ease.
“Kristoff beat her,” Jemes says and I cringe as his fury washes over me. Who knew my quiet roommate had a capacity for such anger?
“Of course he did,” Jenalle answers absently. “Mentors always deal out punishment. Ja doesn’t assign mentors to be your friends—and the first beating usually kills whatever warmth may have sprung up. It’s a lesson for everyone.”
That makes Jemes falter, and if I were closer to consciousness, I would care more. But I don’t, and as Jenalle presses a small patch into my skin, the pain dulls. Her hand works over my muscles, rubbing away the worst edge of pain. And as it abates, I close my eyes and fall into the pit of oblivion that has been pulling at me.
I wake up to motion.
A soft rocking that reminds me of home, but it’s different. Jemes is carrying me through the jakta, Jenalle leading the way with a light. I struggle for a moment and he tightens his grip a fraction. “The jakta is sleeping. No one sees your weakness,” he says, voice twisting on the last word, and there is no room for argument in his psyche. I relax.
Jenalle taps on Kristoff’s door, and I tense. Worry and anger war with desire to protect me and I glance up, startled by the emotions pouring out of Jemes. He won’t look at me as he places me on Kristoff’s bed, ignoring the stares from Kevan and my mentor.
“This should help, in the morning,” Jenalle says, holding out a jar of pungent cream. She hesitates when both Jemes and Kristoff reach for it, then shrugs and puts it with a small pouch of pain pills. I wonder how many of these I’ll need to take, and how many I can smuggle into my growing stash. I shove the thought away and focus on Jenalle as she glances over me one last time.
Then she’s gone, taking the only buffer to the rising tension. Kristoff clears his throat, his voice deferential. “I’d like to speak with her alone.”
Jemes twists, disbelief written all over his face. “You think I would leave her with you, after this afternoon?” he demands.
“Jemes,” Kevan snaps, and there is a world of warning in his name. Jemes wilts, and he glances at me. I shake my head, a tiny motion.
“Go. He won’t hurt me,” I murmur.
Muttering a curse under his breath, Jemes stalks into the adjoining room, followed slowly by Kevan. I look at Kristoff. “I didn’t know it would be you,” I say, and he winces.
“I don’t have a choice, Brielle. Not when Ja orders something like a beating.”
That doesn’t make it any easier. And from the shadows in his eyes, he knows that. “What happens now?” I ask.
“Prator ordered you moved to the draken trainer’s rooms tomorrow. They want you to begin training for spectacle.”
I nod. I expected it, but for some reason, the idea of leaving this tiny room makes me sad. It’s become a safe haven, as much as any place in this wretched world can be.
I shift, struggling to sit up, and pain radiates through me, and I gasp. “Don’t,” he says. “You can stay here tonight.”
Smiling is difficult, but I summon one, and shake my head. “I need this last night with Jemes. He’s grown attached.”
Something flickers in his eyes. I could read his emotions without much effort, but the truth is I don’t want to. I’m too tired, and he confuses me too much. I stand and wobble my way to the bathroom door. Kristoff follows me uselessly, and at the door, I turn to him.
“You did your best for me; thank you.”
Kristoff frowns. “We’ll still work together, Brielle.”
We will. But after today, it will be different.
Kevan doesn’t spare me a glance as he pushes past Jemes and me to reach Kristoff, the door slamming behind him. I drop onto the bed, and Jemes sits gingerly next me. “Do you need more of the ointment?” he asks.
I shake my head, and glance at him. A bruise is blooming on his cheekbone, and I reach for it, running my fingers over his skin. He leans forward, slightly, into my touch, and I pull away. “Kevan?”
“He doesn’t appreciate my attitude,” Jemes murmurs. “Lie down, Brielle.”
I hate that name. So much. I want to tell him my name, to whisper for him to use it. I feel something that is me slipping away and I feel panicked until he squeezes my hand. And I realize, in a rush, why he matters. Why this unassuming quiet slave has managed to become important.
He grounds me.
I lie down, leaning against Jemes propped on the wall. He holds me, loosely—Jemes picked up quickly that Eleyi crave touch, and seems all too willing to offer it.
“What did you mean, in the medhall?” he asks.
“When?”
“About the spectacle,” he says quietly.
I sigh. I knew he would ask. And I knew I would have to explain tonight. It doesn’t mean I want to. “Kristoff thinks I’ll be killed in the arena. Not at first, but soon. He had an idea—a plan to make me a spectacle.”
“How?”
“Argot bought the Eleyi as beastboys. But I’m too well-suited for the arena. So why not mount me on a draken, where I could be seen and untouchable?”
The quiet from Jemes is so complete it startles me, and I glance up, trying to see if he’s asleep. His grip tightens when I move, and I whimper as pain flares in me. He immediately lets me go and sits up.
“It’s insanity,” he says tightly. “The draken are too wild. Too unknown.”
“They’re psychic,” I say, and he stops. “I’m not completely sure, but I think—I think they might be. It would explain much of why they seem like shadow and smoke, but they’re substantial.”
“It’s an illusion?” he asks, and I nod. “Are the teeth? The fire? Because those will kill you, Brielle.”
I lie back down. “I know that. But I can do this. And it’s my best chance at survival.”
“Kristoff has nothing to lose if you die. Why would you trust him so blindly?” he demands.
I hesitate, but it needs to be said. “Kristoff will lose everything if anything happens to me. Argot will take my purchase price out of his emancipation.”
That silences Jemes for so long that I think he goes to sleep. I am almost asleep, almost lost to dreams of Juhan and home, when I hear him whisper, “You’re not doing this alone, Brielle. Not this.” Something brushes my forehead—his lips—before he settles me more comfortably against him and we both give in to sleep.
Chapter 16
Juhan’tr
TINEX WAKES ME.
I dress silently, and as I am tugging on my boots, I glance at Tin, slouched by my door. “How angry is she?” I ask.
He shrugs. “You can never tell with Sadi. Things I think will infuriate her don’t. And she did want you to be remembered.” He sips his coffee and shrugs. “But memorable and suicidal are two very different things.”
“I’m not suicidal,” I protest, and he hauls me to my feet, shoving my mug at me and leaving the room. Because I have no choice, I follow.
“Challenging the IPS like that? That’s suicide. Some will attack you just for the hell of it, because they think it’s a game. Not all the Senators are like Harvine. Most aren’t. Most are vicious, and can’t see past their own species. And profits.”
“I don’t care about that. And I didn’t intend to challenge them,” I snap. “I just reacted—I’m not going to sit by while a senator uses my own people against me. That’s bullshit.”
Tin whirls to face me, his expression a blend of fear and frustration. “You don’t get it. You might not care, and you might not have meant to challenge them, but you told a senator you could beat him. Beat all of them at their own game. That is a challenge. You say shit like that, and you don’t just put yourself at risk. You endanger Sadi.” His psyche is fierce but sour with fear, and that stops me.
He turns, stalking toward the hangar whe
re we have been practicing. I trail him slowly, thinking. Is that what I have done? And should I care? Sadi is my owner, and despite her decent—even good—treatment of me, should I care that her life is at risk because of me? I owe her no loyalty. Even as I feel guilty for the thought, I remind myself that I didn’t choose this. Didn’t want any of it.
I enter the large hangar, and catch the practice stick that Tin throws at me. On the other side of the empty space, Zoe and Brando are dancing through the kuduva forms, a silent flurry of motion that in the corner of my eye.
How early must they have risen, to be here before us? From the looks of it, they’ve been sparring for a while.
“Go through your forms,” Tin snaps. Annoyed, I settle into position, emptying my mind of everything but the motions. I glide smoothly through them, glad I found time to practice. A shrill shout shivers through the room, and my concentration breaks as I glance over. Brando has a dagger at Zoe’s throat, leaning over her.
“Do you yield?” he asks.
She snarls something and it surprises a laugh from Brando. It’s a surprisingly light sound. It startles me. I haven’t ever seen that much emotion on his face.
A sparring stick slams between my wings—a solid, bruising blow, and I crumple, pain flaring between my shoulders and into my wings. I flap them weakly before the pain makes me gasp. I glare up at Tin, who stands over me, unrepentant and cold. “If you want to risk your life, fine. If you risk Sadi’s, you had damn well better be able to defend yourself, or expect a beating in training. I’m not going to let her get killed because you’re careless.”
He lets the stick clatter next to me, stepping back. “Do the forms again.”
“Tin.” Zoe’s voice rings out sharply and the bodyguard relaxes into the Tranquil form as she stalks over.
Gentle Chains (The Eleyi Saga Book 1) Page 12