THE TAMING OF JAELLE'N

by Deidre O'Dare

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  THE TAMING OF JAELLE'N

  by

  DEIRDRE O'DARE

  Amber Quill Press, LLC

  http://www.amberquill.com

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  The Taming Of Jaelle'n

  An Amber Quill Press Book

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Amber Quill Press, LLC

  http://www.amberquill.com

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  Copyright © 2004 by Deidre O'Dare

  ISBN 1-59279-328-2

  Cover Art © 2004 Trace Edward Zaber

  Layout and Formatting

  Provided by: ElementalAlchemy.com

  Published in the United States of America

  Also by Deirdre O'Dare

  Karola's Hunt

  Pickup Man

  Dedication

  I dedicate this book first to the Goddess of the Ancient Celts. She, The Lady of many names and faces, taught her people that the physical expression of love was both a duty and a gift. The sacred and magical celebration that takes place when two people truly make love honors Her in the highest possible way. Second, I dedicate it to the many wonderful authors of fairy tale, history and romance who led me to believe that "happily ever after" could be real and guided me to daring dreams, which today allow me the magic of telling tales of my own.

  Chapter 1

  In The Slave Market

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  Jaelle'n walked erect, keeping her spine very straight. She stared rigidly ahead, but saw little. She refused to reveal her fear, her growing sense of dejection. Gazing into the distance with an unseeing stare, she pretended she wore one of her beautiful gossamer robes of arachensilk instead of a skimpy tunic of dingy gauze. Instead of the collar and wristlets of dull iron linking her to the coffle, she imagined she wore the massive gold toque and bracelets that she'd been allowed to wear for state occasions as Princess Royale of Cymrydda.

  The women on the chain stumbled to a halt. Third back, Jaelle'n glanced around to discover they had come to an open square in the city. So this is the infamous Challabah, the slave market of Challabadur where once a ten-day, the finest of captives were sold to the highest bidders. In rich Challabadur, even in the whole prosperous kingdom of Dar-Islah, such bids could be high indeed. Even in distant Cymrydda, she had heard of the Challabah.

  For one such as she, with the flame red hair and pale skin of her people, a wealthy Challabadan merchant or noble might pay ten thousand gold rajans, or so she had heard. There was hardly that much wealth in the whole land of her people. The Cymryddi had been late entering the wealth-building trade with the spice and jewel lands to the east, having little enough of value to offer save their valiant warriors, beautiful women, and a few head of fine horses. The royal treasury lacked sufficient wealth to pay her ransom, even if her father should somehow learn where she was.

  Reality hit her with the power of a wild boar's charge. She was linked in a coffle with a score of other women, exotic captives from a dozen lands. And like the rest, she would be sold into slavery ere this day was over. She, Jaelle'n, Princess Royale of the Cymryddi, would be sold. Enslaved! No more than the kine and steeds of the wealthy, not a person but a possession!

  Sick rage boiled inside her, anger at those who had betrayed instead of protected her, choking fear of what was to come. She still held her head high, but that small act of defiance cost her almost more than she had left to give. For forty weary days she had marched, slept the short nights on the hard, cold ground, and eaten only what scraps the slavers deigned to toss to their captives. Some of the women had fought and snatched food from one another. Jaelle'n refused to stoop to such behavior, but that, too, had its cost. Her portions had oft been the least.

  As a group, the women sank to the ground, most too weary to stand, too dejected to pretend. Jaelle'n could not continue to stand, bearing the bulk of the chain's weight, but she did not fall gracelessly as they did. She folded her legs and sat back on her heels, the short tunic drawn down to cover as much of her as it would. Where most looked dully at the cobbles beneath them, she continued to gaze around the square.

  Although she'd overheard the slavers say the sale would not begin until the sun had crossed the zenith, potential buyers had already begun to gather. Another coffle was led into the square from the opposite side, this one a group of males, strong muscular men who would be bought to serve as workers and warriors. The rusty hue of one's hair hinted that he might share her blood, but he showed little pride, less intelligence and no interest. She dismissed him and the others at once.

  A prickle between her shoulder blades began, gradually growing almost unbearable. She could not reach to scratch her back without bending into an awkward contortion. What was causing the awful sensation? Has a bug crawled off one of the others, perhaps one of the three filthy wild creatures from the inner reaches of Gandessa? Did it now embed itself in the tender skin on my back? She almost shuddered at the idea, until she realized she had not felt anything work its way up to reach that spot.

  Finally she glanced behind her to see if one of the other women had bespelled her out of malice. They knew of her royal status and had mocked her for it without mercy. But no, they all slumped, eyes to the ground, the picture of abject surrender. If one of them was working magick, she hid it well.

  As she started to turn back, her gaze was drawn to a man who stood at the far side of the round platform in the middle of the square. He stood, feet apart, the picture of masculine confidence. His dark eyes riveted to her in a very measuring stare. Then he smiled, lifting one jet eyebrow with an arrogant little twitch.

  Oh, he is magnificent! The thought came before she could suppress it.

  She tossed her head and turned quickly away, but his image lingered as if burned into her eyes. Her people were tall. Cymryddi women frequently stood taller than men of the southern races and the Cymryddi men towering like giants, but this man was the equal of any Cymryddi warrior, even the towering Bodanan, champion of her father's famed troops.

  The stranger's wide shoulders spoke of a warrior's strength, his lean waist and long muscled legs of an athlete's prowess and grace. His raven-black hair hung almost to his shoulders in rich waves and his eyes made her think of two polished chips of ebony set in the weathered ivory-amber of his face.

  Her skin--when not burned scarlet by the harsh southern sun--was barely tinted with the faintest blush of tawny rose, scarcely darker than the snow, the fleecy white clouds. Most of the southern peoples were some shade of brown, from tan to mahogany, but the strange man was neither. His skin showed a rare golden color, almost the same hue as her father's prized golden stallion, the like of which had never been seen in Cymrydda before Ard Righ Calumcille took him as tribute.

  Who was he and what did he want? She could still feel the pressure of his gaze boring into her back. What if he were a potential buyer? She shivered slightly, awed by the fanciful idea that the golden man might purchase her.

  No, I'll not even think of such a thing. Surely something will save me ere that occurs.

  At first, the coffle had settled in the shade of one row of the tall buildings, which edged the square on all sides, but as the sun rose, it moved to beat down upon them. Now the blazing orb shone straight down into the square. T
he surrounding whitewashed walls threw back the heat and light, intensifying the force of both. Moisture trickled down Jaelle'n's body beneath the thin tunic, causing the cloth to stick to her skin. Thirst burned her throat and hunger gnawed in her belly. She had never known such misery in all her eighteen summers.

  Behind her one of the swarthy barbarian girls began to moan, a low keening howl like the voice of a wolf, coming from deep in her chest. One of the slavers had stayed to guard them, while the others went to arrange for the sale or seek their pleasure in the alehouses and bordellos. This one, called Churd by his fellows, now gave the howling woman a hard kick in the ribs. She doubled over, falling abruptly silent, and clutched her body as well as her chained arms would allow.

  Sharp footsteps echoed on the stones, drawing closer. Jaelle'n turned to look, unable to restrain her curiosity.

  The golden man approached the slaver. "Fool, what will your leader say if you damage the merchandise? Injured slaves do not bring the best prices. I had thought to purchase the lot, but if you have broken the ribs of that one, I will not take her."

  The slaver sank to his knees, groveling. "Your pardon, Lord. Her wailing grated so that I erred in the degree of her punishment. I beg forgiveness, but I think she is not truly injured. She and her two sisters are given to whining and feigning hurts they do not have. They are exotic but will be difficult to train."

  The golden man smiled. It was the smile of an ice-bear, a dire wolf. His mobile lips drew back from clean white teeth in a wicked taunt. "I will have no trouble. Within a moon cycle each of these women can be prime pleasure-slaves. But I will buy them only if they are healthy and free of scars. My healers will examine each of them before I bid one rajan. My house has a reputation to uphold and I will not see it sullied by flawed merchandise. Keep that in mind, scatling."

  He walked on past, glancing down at each woman in the coffle as he went. He paused a moment beside Jaelle'n and again looked at her keenly. She felt his gaze but refused to look back at him. He was too arrogant, too overbearing! The very idea--that he would purchase her and make her into a pleasure-slave in a single moon cycle.

  Ha, I will claw out his eyes, knee him in his male parts, bite and scratch and snarl like a wildcat before I will be treated so!

  Soon the clatter of hurrying feet and the tinkle of small bells filled the square. Four huge swarthy Nojans trotted into the square, bearing a sedan chair. When they set it down on the cobbles, an immensely fat man stepped out. Two of the Nojans unfurled parasols and walked on either side to shade him as he climbed the three steps to the central dais. Two more lifted the heavy throne-like chair from the curtained carrier and hauled it after him, placing it where he indicated. He settled his bulk into the chair and looked around the square, his small eyes beady and measuring.

  In a few moments, a thin wizened man approached, carrying a roll of parchment. He was followed by two hunched dwarves. One of them bore a gilded bucket and a bulging leather bag, while the other lugged a small but ornately carved table. A slender woman with pale hair but beige skin, clad in diaphanous trousers and a floating over-robe, trailed them, bearing a golden ewer and a silver cup. When all was arranged to the fat man's pleasure, he rapped sharply on the table, a signal that had everyone crowding closer to the dais.

  The leader of the slavers who had brought Jaelle'n's group to the sale returned. He grabbed the chain and jerked the women to their feet. He jingled his ring of keys and gave them a gap-toothed smile. "Look pretty now, girls, and maybe you will get a wealthy master. No one wants a drooping and spiritless wench."

  The advice was wasted on Jaelle'n, but the rest seemed at least to try to straighten their posture and lift their heads. But clad as they were in little better than rags, thirsty, hot and exhausted, no one looked their best, and they knew this, all too well. Would they find buyers who would see in them anything more than a drudge for the kitchen, someone to clean up his home or business, or perhaps to offer her favors on the street for thin coppers? A miasma of gloom hung over the group. Try as she might, Jaelle'n could not escape its shadowing touch.

  They edged closer to the dais, a curious structure. Jaelle'n studied it, thinking perhaps it had once been a well or community cistern when Challabadur was much smaller and less prosperous. But if that were the case, someone had since built over it a capping of heavy timbers which served as the dais floor, and added a round block, just to the right and front of the fat man's table. He obviously served as auctioneer, but was equally clearly a person of vast prestige and wealth.

  In all, four coffles of slaves were to be sold. One was all children, some appearing barely old enough to have left their mother's breast, although others were approaching puberty. There were seven boys and twelve girls in that group. Then there were the men, two dozen tall and strapping young males, who would probably become mercenaries or heavy laborers. A third group was mixed, a dispirited and dismal looking lot, clearly bound for little beyond menial service and routine labor. Last, of course, was Jaelle'n's own group, twenty-one women, all still young and most fair to look upon despite their lack of cleanliness and weakened state.

  One slave at a time was taken from each coffle and sold. Although she did not understand all of the languages used, Jaelle'n followed the bidding and sales as best she could. A pretty child with light brown hair and a tawny skin went for 50 rajans. A tall massively built man sold for 250. A skinny, filthy woman of indeterminate race was bought for 3. Then the first of Jaelle'n's group was led up to the block.

  Inger, as she was called, was more voluptuous than Jaelle'n and not as tall, with hair falling to her buttocks in a thick golden braid. She stood with stiff dignity, staring into space over the heads of the crowd, her wrists locked behind her back. Someone in the crowd shouted something and all the men guffawed. Without a word, the thin man glanced at the auctioneer, who nodded. The helper paced to her side, grasped her tunic at the neckline and gave a sharp jerk. The simple garment split asunder and fell away, leaving her naked before the crowd. They hooted and whistled their appreciation.

  "That's better," someone shouted, speaking in a tongue Jaelle'n knew. "Don't wanna buy no pig in a poke, ya know."

  A chill slid down her back. Would she likewise be stripped before the eyes of all these men, prey to their lecherous gazes and lustful thoughts? Few women mingled with the crowd of buyers and onlookers. Challabadan custom kept the wives, sisters and daughters of the aristocracy within the protective walls of their homes. If they went out at all, they went veiled and surrounded by stout eunuchs and slave guards. Occasionally a woman would survive her husband and assume his business or title, refusing to marry again and lose her rights, but such were few and far between, frowned upon as not following the tenets of the Bah'jura faith.

  When Inger sold for 1,000 rajans, Jaelle'n noted the small dark man who led her away took her to the shaded spot where the golden man fastened her wrist to a chain anchored by a large golden ball at his feet.

  Three more from the other coffles passed across the block and left with their new owners or the agents of such owners. The second woman from Jaelle'n's group was small, her skin so dark it looked almost black, and the lithe body of a gymnast or acrobat. She, too, stood proudly when she climbed to the block and did not flinch when the auctioneer's helper tore away her tunic. She arched her back to thrust out her proud breasts and undulated slightly to draw attention to her curvaceous hips and sleek thighs. The bidding became frenzied as several buyers vied to have her. When the price reached 2,500 rajans, three of the five bidders ruefully shook their heads and fell silent. She sold for 3,000 and she, too, ended up on the golden man's chain.

  Jaelle'n thought her turn would come in the next round, but that did not happen. Instead, the leader of her slavers selected a woman from the far end of the coffle, one of the dark barbarian girls. On the block, she glowered around her, almost snarling when the lean man ripped off her tunic, giving every appearance of being wild, perhaps even of carrying the blood of the
wolf people of the inner steppes. Some brave soul finally bought her for 500 rajans, put a muzzle and heavy leather collar on her, and led her away. The golden man had apparently decided to pass on her.

  The next round, another of the dark girls, the one the slaver had kicked, went to the block. Even though her skin looked dark, the mark of the man's boot showed clearly on her side. She gasped when her garment was torn free and drew her arm close against her side, biting her lip in an obvious effort to stifle a cry of pain. She glared defiance, but with the stubborn pride of a wounded animal, too fearful to give in. Perhaps the golden man took pity on her. He bid 1,000 rajans and no one sought to go higher.

  Three more of the women's coffle went before the lead slaver finally unlocked Jaelle'n's wrist and led her up to the block. She took pains not to stumble, not to hesitate, although every instinct urged her to try to jerk away, to flee and perhaps be cut down by an arrow or spear, ending her ignominious captivity. Common sense told her she could not escape, that any effort to do so would only worsen her plight. She stepped up on the stump and resolved not to give any sign when she was stripped.

  The auctioneer smiled, his syrupy voice sliding like oil on dry leather when he spoke, rolling out the words with a lubricious glee. "Here is a prime bit of female flesh, men, a princess of the far north. Look at her hair, a sign of the fires that blaze within, ready to heat your bed on the coldest of nights, to light your hours with unimaginable pleasures. For this one, the opening bid shall be 2,500 rajans."

  "Let us look, show us her quality," an anonymous someone in the audience yelled.