“Sorry Brielle, but Prator asked for you to wait to attend him,” he says, not meeting my gaze. His partner isn’t so circumspect, a lewd smile turning his lips into a grimace. The edge of his thoughts make me flush and I turn away, retreating to Miwya’s pen.
-What does he want?- I think furiously, and Miwya makes a soft noise, trying to soothe me. It’s not working and we both know it. I twitch my bag impatiently, my wing tips rattling inside.
It’s not long at all before Prator strides up the ramp, his lightweight pants and sleeveless shirt dusty, sweat beading on his forehead. I’m surprised—I had thought he would be immaculate, hidden away with the Ja while they waited on the matches.
He catches the look on my face and grins. “It is not my job to court the patrons, Brielle. I run the gladiators and my brother plays the gentleman for the patronage.”
The term is familiar—the name of those who bet the most, who invest in their favorite jaktas in exchange for privileges, access to the gladiators and fighters. Idly, I wonder if the patrons will be interested in me when the day is over and the blood is dry. I shake the thought and raise an eyebrow at Prator. “Shouldn’t you be off doing Prator-ly duties, then?”
Desire and amusement glitter in his eyes. “Soon enough, Brielle.”
He watches me as I cross my arms, leaning back against the solid panel of Miwya’s pen. I know he wants me to ask, to push for the reason he’s here, and that is reason enough for me to bite my lip and force back the questions bubbling inside of me. Let him break first.
He smiles as if he knows the game I’m playing. I don’t care.
Finally, he says, his voice like silk, “Have you given any more thought to my proposition?” I shake my head and his eyebrows go up. “You should consider it, Brielle.”
“Oh, I have. I meant I’m not interested. I’m here to fight and to train the draken. I will because I have no choice. But I don’t have to warm your bed. Find another slave to fuck,” I say, and though my voice is calm, inside I’m shaking, terrified. Hoping that everyone I care about will survive my defiance and overly aware that in a matter of hours, Kristoff will dance on the sands.
Prator is very still and quiet for a long moment, and my breath slides from me in a rush. “Can we go?” I ask, and turn.
His emotion hit me a half second before he does, his entire body pressing me into the panel of the ship. Miwya bugles furiously, but all I can feel is Prator, his body hard and heavy against me, his voice in my ear.
“You’re a slave. At my jakta. I don’t have to ask.”
“Then why did you?” I snap, trying to hide the wobble in my voice. He laughs, the motion shaking him against me, crushing my wings.
“Because I’d rather you be willing.” He bites down on my ear, and I shudder as pain and fear slam through me. Then he steps away, adjusting himself and smiles at me thinly. “All right. Come on then—let’s get the draken settled.”
I swallow hard and follow him. As long as Miwya and Kristoff and I walk away today, I can stomach his presence. I watch him tap in a complex key and then the panel shivers and vanishes and Miwya explodes out of the pen. I rub his head and I take a deep breath before we follow Prator out of the hover.
The arena is a hive of activity, and I flinch as people scream at the sight of me, Miwya crowding behind me, his head almost on my shoulder. Prator leans down and murmurs in my ear, “Spread your wings, darling. Let the audience see the Deadly Beauty.”
I snort at the title, and mutter back, “Is that what the Ja is calling me?” But I do as I’m told, my wings spreading into a wide arch, my pale coloring framed by my black draken’s smoke and shadow. The crowd screams again, half hysteria, half bloodlust, and my stomach lurches. I’m absurdly grateful no one forced food on me this morning.
Prator pulls me along in his wake, and I follow gratefully, eager to escape the eyes of the crowd. The door is too small for Miwya, though, and I dig my heels in against Prator’s grip, unwilling to leave my draken behind. Prator gives me an amused look as he taps a command into the wrist tablet he wears and the doors rise, continuing to lift until the bottom of the gate is two feet higher than Miwya at full height. I blink and Prator laughs as Miwya crowds me forward. He’s anxious as well, eager to be in the dark cells where we will await our match.
“They will call you when it’s time,” Prator says, pausing after leading us through a warren of tunnels and passages I have no clue how to navigate. His head tilts as he stares at me. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t object to sharing you with your aide.”
I whip around, glaring. “How do you even know about him?”
He stares at me, patiently waiting, and I close my eyes, my lips pressed together, and shake my head.
He looks at me once more before he leaves, a quiet mocking question in his cold eyes and I look away. I’m not sure I can refuse him again, if he asks. I’m not that brave.
In the cool darkness, I expect Miwya to ask about it, but he merely curls on the rocky sand, sharpening his claws on a boulder while I collapse next to him and will myself to sleep.
The first wave of screams from the arena wakes me and immediately, I know it’s different. They don’t scream for exotic beasts and their winged trainers. Now the crowd screams for blood, and the feet beating on the sand promise to give it to them. The arena shakes with the sounds of their screams and the scent of blood. I struggle not to be swallowed in the swell of raging minds, so fierce and hungry and excited. It’s so much, an almost group psyche that makes me feel tiny.
“Brielle?”
I jerk upright at my name, startled to see Kristoff. He’s been prepared for his fight, and smiles at me now, a serene expression at odds with the nerves that sing through his psyche. I push off the ground, going to him.
“When is your fight?” I ask, touching the boiled leather armor that covers his chest. It’s against arena rules for a glad to fight in anything else, such as steel or alloy metals. It’s considered unsporting, unfair.
He smiles. “There are a dozen matches before I fight.” He glances at Miwya, then me. “Can you get away for a while?”
I look over at Miwya, and he shifts slightly in my mind, a gentle nudge. I nod.
Kristoff takes my hand, a rare personal gesture, pulling me along behind him through the busy arena. Above us, the screams from the crowd are reaching a crescendo, and I pale as they shake the walls around us. He looks at me. “It’s the end of a fight. Come on.”
The room we enter is large and empty. A few knots of gladiators litter it, a man dressed similarly to Prator, in colors that are strange and clashing. The man’s eyes skim over us, and his psyche sharpens with interest. He gives Kristoff a single nod, turning his gaze back to the massive vid screen that dominates the wall. It’s quiet, the cameras panning over the restless crowd waiting for another match to begin. I can see where the glads disturbed the sands, their blood staining it, and I feel sick. I don’t particularly want to face that. Kristoff drops into a chair and I sink down next to him and we watch.
The match starts with a ritual I recognize from training. A deep bow to the arena manager followed by a brief, shallow bow to each other. Then a few paces away from each other, and the drawing of weapons before the bell sounds, and the crowd screams and they are charging each other. The glad in orange and purple is heavy on his feet, his trident flashing in the bright sun. His opponent—clad in crimson and green—is lighter and less committed to the blade. He doesn’t react at all other than to fall back, blocking the other’s trident and turning it aside with an easy twist of his broadsword.
“Who wins?” Kristoff asks as he glances at me.
I consider them again. The crimson is still dancing away, a half smile on his lips as the other glad lunges. He’s toying with him, and as the purple charges once more, the crimson flicks out with his sword, and a whistle shills. First blood.
“The purple,” I say, and Kristoff laughs softly. We’re both silent, watching the tune of the fight change. The bl
ooding has enraged the purple—and focused him. It’s over in moments, too fast for the crowd to be appeased. Thinking now, the purple glad feints with the trident, and swings it around to deliver a ringing blow to the crimson’s skull. It jars his opponent, giving the purple just long enough to slam his trident into his opponent’s leg. Blood spews forth in a bubbly froth, and he throws the wounded glad down as the bell gongs above us, silencing the crowd.
Winner.
Kristoff looks at me and I feel sick, watching the images flickering in the small screen as we await the next match.
I gasp, sitting forward suddenly and Kristoff tenses next to me. “Brielle?” he asks, frowning. His psyche shivers with concern as he watches me. I point, and wordlessly, he brings up the story playing in the corner of the screen. For a heartbeat, staring, I almost think I’m wrong. That I could mistake him—I’ve spent every moment since the slave auction watching for him. It’s not such a stretch to imagine seeing him—especially here.
But I could never make that mistake.
The vid screen shows a gorgeous girl, her hair a river of darkness, shadowed by a burly guard. They seem vaguely familiar, as if from a different life. Not as familiar as the Eleyi at her shoulder, backlit by the burning fires of Cenktari.
I have imagined my brother a thousand places, a thousand horrible owners. But this—to see him here, is shocking and painful. I blink back sudden tears as a well of longing opens in me. Holy Eleyi roots, I miss him. I didn’t realize how much, until this moment, watching them moving through the devastation of a broken planet, a cybertulres rambling about Sadiene Renult and her new consort.
Juhan has found a place of position, it seems. As a consort. Jealousy bites at me, and I look away.
“Brielle?” Kristoff says softly, questioning. “Who is it?”
I motion at the pale Eleyi, his cold gray eyes—when have his eyes ever been that cold?—his wings spread to cover his lady. Why is he there? He promised to come for me. “My brother,” I whisper, and Kristoff’s eyes go wide. The image flickers, and I cry out, a soft noise of distress that I cannot stop.
The arena is already forming, prepared for the ritual bows and the angry dance.
I close my eyes and focus on my brother, a galaxy away.
“How long has it been?” I ask, my voice hoarse. “Since we were sold and brought here?” Kristoff hesitates, and I open an eye to look at him, anger simmering in my chest. “How long?”
“Four months,” he says.
Such a small window of time. And yet it feels like a lifetime. I close my eyes and my brother is there, cold-eyed and protective behind his lady. Protecting her instead of coming for me.
How is he called her consort? Don’t they know she bought him? A surge of anger goes through me and I bite my tongue until I taste blood and the anger begins to fade. But the questions remain.
“Brielle?” he asks and I shake my head.
“Don’t, Kristoff,” I say, my voice quiet. I can’t handle his questions, not on top of the unexpected appearance of my brother. He quiets, pulling me against his shoulder as the next match begins and I lose myself in examining the gladiators dancing on the sands.
The premtha pride exhibition makes me sick. The cats explode out of the pen, plowing into the fodder. I gag at the ferocious hunger from the cats feasting on the fallen fodder. One of them still has a laser gun, and I squeeze my eyes shut as he shoots, the searing bolt cutting one of the premthas in half, spilling blood and intestines on the stands. Kristoff wipes my face when I throw up. Even here, sequestered under the arena and the creatures, the agony of loss and death hits me like a blow.
He forces me to stand as the emotions crash over me and the screams of the surviving premthas come closer. “Come on. Watching isn’t doing you any good, and I can help you get ready before I’m due to the holding room.”
I stumble after him, tears in my eyes. He retrieves my bag from Miwya’s pen and pulls me into a private room. Shivering, I strip and pull on the silver leggings that cling to me like a second skin. A small black half-vest that fastens below my breastbone. A wide black belt with a hook for my whip and laser harness, and then he helps me fasten on my wing tips. The weight is unfamiliar for a moment, but I sweep them slowly forward and back several times, adjusting. Kristoff stares at me, smiling gently.
“What?” I ask, self-conscious.
“You’re gorgeous.” He looks so proud it makes tears rise in my eyes again. He kisses my forehead and his expression turns serious. “Promise me you won’t watch my match.”
It’s a demand and it sets my nerves off, and I shake my head, silently. The warmth and affection leech from his face and he shakes me, just short of violent. There’s my jackass mentor. “Brielle, don’t. You need to focus; you can’t afford to be distracted. If it goes badly for me—” he breaks off, his gaze distant. “Don’t watch.”
I can’t argue with him, not when we are both dressed for the arena, and the crowd is screaming. I nod, and he gives me a sick smile and shoves me lightly. “Go,” he says, and I do, tears blurring my vision. He doesn’t say anything and I am absurdly grateful. If he were to call out a goodbye, I think I would scream.
-How did life get so impossible to understand, so damn fast?- I ask, when I reach Miwya. The draken blinks at me sleepily, and nuzzles his head against my chest, almost knocking me over. I smile through my tears and kiss his scaly head as we listen to the screams of the other beasts.
Miwya lifts his head when we hear footsteps, his golden eyes narrowing. –Prator,- he says, soft and menacing. I shiver, glad that dangerous tone isn’t directed at me, and force myself to stand.
“Come with me,” he says brusquely, and I glance quickly at Miwya before following him out of the pen. He leads me to a lift, and I step in behind him. I’m tense, standing as far as possible from him, but as the lift glides upward, and he makes no move toward me, I relax by slow degrees. A few seconds before the lift stops, he looks at me. “Brace yourself.”
The door opens and the noise of the crowd engulfs me. And the emotions. It’s euphoric, the mass hysteria that feeds on itself, each nudge of excitement building on the last. It hits me like a drug, and I gasp. Under the arena it is filtered, all of the anger and hysteria without any of the endorphins. But here nothing buffers me from it, and for a moment—in the heartbeat it takes me to finish putting my mental walls in place—I don’t care. I don’t want anything to buffer it. Prator’s hand is on my arm as I shudder free of the emotion, pulling me along, and for the first time, I am grateful. I can’t look weak in front of these people who will scream for my blood in only a few hours. And they are watching, curious eyes drawn by my jakta colors and Prator’s familiar face.
“Can you handle this, on the sands?” he asks, voice low. I nod, paling. If I had felt this for the first time on the sands, when facing a phalanx…I shudder, shaking the thought. My death is too easy to contemplate.
“Come, Brielle. Patrons wish to see our new spectacle.”
I grit my teeth and follow him. The room we enter is crowded with people, Pente mixed with Others, all seeming to swirl around Ja Argot. His eyes dart to us as the door opens, and he smiles. “Ladies, gentlemen, I am so pleased to introduce you to our new spectacle.”
Prator gives me a light push and I’m in their midst, the curious and hungry gazes, the high-pitched voices and wandering hands glancing off me as Argot draws me to his side. He positions me at his shoulder, just behind him. A subservient position, even as he uses it to draw attention to me.
A bug-eyed Myeteran glides closer to eye me, bringing a Cenktari whore who hangs on his arm. “What will she do? She’s a bit small to face the arena,” he says doubtfully.
A surge of pleasure from Argot, and relief from Prator as Henri smiles silkily. “Would you like to wager on her?”
I’m dismissed in the sudden interest of betting, ignored except for a few assessing glances as one of the arena’s robots records the odds.
“If I lose, I
’ll beggar the jakta,” I whisper, listening to them.
Prator laughs, and turns me away. “Then be sure not to lose, Eleyi.”
The sands are ready, and the furor dies as attention is called back to the arena. Tension spikes and a service AI moves through the room, handing out drinks silently. I wave it away when Prator offers, and stare at a distant spot on the sand—the robots missed a splotch of blood when they readied the arena this time.
“Watch, Brielle,” Prator says, steel and amusement in his psyche. I glance at him, startled. He nods at the sands and I look down. There’s no warning—my mental walls are too high for me to pick up on their pysches.
Two glads, both clad in the silver and black of the Argot jakta. Kristoff is easily recognized, with his traditional Pente dreadlocks and nervous swagger as he crosses the sands.
Jemes stands across from him, his familiar face pale.
I sway, watching them bow, and a patron murmurs behind me, “Argot is fighting his glads against each other? Unusual!”
“But exciting; his are always so beautiful to watch,” a woman answers, her voice breathy.
I feel my gorge rising and I choke it down, clutching the wall to keep from falling. Prator is standing too close to me, and even behind my walls, I can feel his psyche spiking, lust radiating off of him in unrelenting waves.
“Who would you rather live, Brielle? Both are there because of your refusal.” He says it so casually, like he has not pronounced a death sentence on my lover and mentor.
Who would I see live? How can I make such a decision? I open my mouth, ready to beg, and I see his eyes—the hunger there. The expectation that I will. Close my mouth again.
I lick my lips, and the bell rings. Jemes’ trident flashes in the sun, and Kristoff steps away, drawing his attack. Without hesitation, he follows. Blessed tears blur my vision as they fight. A shrill whistle, and a high spray of blood—first blood goes to Kristoff. He’ll win. There is no doubt, not watching how Jemes overextends himself, how he overcommits to an attack even when Kristoff would give him a chance to rest.
Gentle Chains (The Eleyi Saga Book 1) Page 19