Alarm shot from the balls of her feet to the crown of her head as she realized she was still standing at the edge of the table staring, and worse, biting down a crazy, unexpected laugh.
Backing away hurriedly, she covered her mouth to stifle it. The master, thankfully, didn't appear to notice, and neither did anyone else.
Why on earth am I amused?
The Alacian king was getting drunker by the minute, and the noble ladies around the table were turning red-faced and giggly.
Maybe it was the dim, flickering light from the chandelier, or perhaps just her own fatigue, but it seemed the lord's aristocratic guests were becoming increasingly garish as the night bore on, their posh, splendid costumes merely gaudy, their smiles plastic, their laughter false and irresponsible. And in their midst sat Telyra, drinking steadily but hardly flushed.
He's the one that disgusts me. He's supposed to be like that!
But he alone of all these people held himself in reserve. He seemed a center of stormless calm, unshakeable. And he made it look effortless.
The lady in the red gown beckoned to Julia. "The souffle, dear—"
The master and the king were engaged in a quiet but heated argument at the far end of the table. The king sputtered, flustered, and every time he spoke, Telyra cut into him, too softly for her to make out the words.
Returning to the lady carrying the souffle bowl in both hands, she struggled to get a rein on her hunger. Liberated from the kitchen, the dish smelled mouthwatering, and the savoury aroma wrenched at her stomach, twisting it. It’d been eight hours now since she’d had so much as a bite. She was scooping it out onto the lady’s plate, her gut rumbling, when the lady herself spoke up, projecting her silky voice across the table.
"—Lord Telyra, surely you can see the wisdom in my cousin's offer."
He glanced up.
Julia’s hand shook over the souffle bowl, overwhelmed by a new hunger.
Look at me, she thought desperately. I’m right here! Look at me, please—not at her. At me.
He was so tantalizingly close.
Please …
"Duchess Salga, if either of your soldiers take one step across my border—"
His eyes shifted just slightly, focusing into an unbearable point.
"—I will hit you so hard and so fast you’ll never see it coming. If you cross me, I will trample you. If you challenge me, I will cut through all resistance."
She dropped the ladle with a clatter, and backed away from the table, stunned. Was he looking at her?
"Lord Telyra!" started Duchess Salga with a wary laugh. "We're hardly threatening an invasion—"
"Do you know what pain is? ... I doubt it," he seethed, hurling his voice across the room with an almost physical force, each word striking Julia like a blow to the stomach. "You've seen your share of hell, you think ... but you've had it easy, haven't you, living under my protection?"
His eyes narrowed. "I'll show you hell."
There was a palpable silence. Clasping her shaking, sweaty hands to her chest, she staggered back against the wall, her hatred turning quickly to trepidation.
The assembled guests searched each other's faces, at a loss as to his reckless, nonsensical turn of conversation. Duchess Salga broke into a shrill peel of laughter.
"Oh Lord Telyra—ever the dramatic one. We know you're hardly serious." But her chuckle was nervous as it faded.
The master gave a soft laugh. He was still holding her eyes—not the duchess’s. She was sure of that now. Every second that passed between them was immeasurable. Then he broke his stare, picking up his knife and turning back to his neighbour.
Her lungs filled with air again, haltingly and tremblingly, like he’d removed a heavy weight from her chest.
Gradually the tension fell from the faces around the table. Shoulders relaxed, drinking got heavier, voices got looser.
Jimon sidled over to her. "Second course is about ready I'd think. Do you want to take a walk in a few minutes and check? ... What's the matter?"
"Did you—" she broke off, glancing at Lord Telyra, who was deep in conversation with the fur-mantled lady. He laughed at something the woman said, taking a bite. She tried to repeat his strange, verbal assault in her mind and reconcile it with the portrait of indifference in front of her, and couldn't.
You fool, she admonished herself. He was talking to the duchess. You’re nothing. Nothing to him.
("I'll show you hell.”)
"Julia!" whispered Jimon.
"What?"
"Are you ill? Why are your hands shaking?”
"I dunno," she answered faintly. "I feel a little queasy."
"Do you need to retire?"
"No ...!" she gasped violently.
Why not though? Just what did she hope to accomplish here tonight? To tell the master how he'd managed to ruin her entire life, all without even knowing she existed, so that maybe just for one tiny fraction of an instant, he would feel just a little bit guilty?
She started to laugh insanely under her breath, her giggles laced with acid. Of course he wouldn't feel guilty. If he was the sort of person to feel guilt, he'd have bothered to find out who he owned in the first place—
... Or maybe she wanted something else. It flashed through her thoughts before she could stop it. His face close to hers, near enough to see the shifting hues in his eyes, that cold, clarion voice addressing her—
"Julia," said Jimon.
"What?"
He laughed. "Something's really the matter with you tonight, huh? This job isn't that hard. Why don't you go check on that second course, and then maybe you should retire—"
"I'll be right back," she stated defiantly, sticking her nose in the air and heading for the exit.
... See if you can stop me, any of you lot. I'll make him notice me again—and then I'll tell him what a piece'a shit he is if it fucking kills me—
"You," said a soft, clear voice.
She froze, hardly daring to turn. That voice seemed to have the power to dead bolt every muscle in her body.
"Slave. I'm talking to you."
She twisted her neck around cautiously, her heart pounding. Lord Telyra was seated sideways in his chair, leaning against the table with a casual, predatory grace. From here, their eyes were level. His complexion was sheet-pale, as if his long dreadlocks had soaked all the blood out of his face. Instinctively, she started to lower her gaze, and then changed her mind, snapping her eyes back up at him.
"Y—yes?" she managed finally.
He nodded mutely toward his empty goblet.
She was near enough that she could reach out and touch him—a forbidden, profane act. Would his skin be warm …?
There was a knife on the table beside him. If she cut him, would he bleed …?
I belong to him?
"... Refill my wine, please?"
Frenetically, she scanned the table, and then saw the crystal decanter at his elbow. Stepping around him, she reached for it, hearing him breathe just inches away, and wrapped her fingers around the handle. Tilting it shakily, she watched the liquid trickle over the spout, placing one hand on the table for support. Lord Telyra’s sleeve brushed against her bare arm. She felt suddenly hot and sick. Again the loathing boiled up inside her—
"That's enough," he said, his hand closing over hers on the table.
Her grasp on the decanter slipped at his unexpected touch, and the pitcher teetered on the brink of the table. She wrenched to catch it, but he clamped her hand down on the table and yanked at her forearm, dragging her away. It hit the ground and broke into three pieces, splashing wine; the sound was deafening, even muted by the drunken roar of the dinner table conversation.
His hand curled around hers in a hard vice and squeezed. Blood welled out from the cut on her finger. She watched it trickle between his in enraptured fascination.
He appraised her for a moment, his manner relaxed. When he spoke, his voice was slurred with disgust.
"Get out of my sigh
t.”
He released her, and she turned around, but she couldn’t move. Her face ached with the tears she fought to contain. Why wasn’t she saying something, anything? What did it matter? What was there to lose? Insult him, attack him, impress him, what difference did it make? She tried to open her mouth, to speak—
Lord Telyra grabbed her again by the arm, whirled her around to face him.
Fuck you, she thought miserably.
But then there was that other, quieter voice, pleading inside her head. Don’t let go of me. Please.
He observed her as she struggled silently, then shouted, "GET OUT!"
She backed out the double doors and fled, back to the kitchen, back to the inferno, pumping her legs as hard as she could, feeling the air rip through her lungs—and hit the end of the hallway. It wasn't far enough; it was never far enough. She couldn't breathe, there wasn't space enough in this cage even to suffer her own rage; it mouldered inside her, bottled and stale, festering and poisonous. Maybe in another twelve years she'd see him again. By then she'd be twenty-four. Twenty-four years of ... what? Why was she still here? Exhausted, she collapsed over the counter, her head in her hands, itching to destroy something …
Why was she still alive ...?
"Psst—Julia,” came a soft voice moments later.
Blinking, she looked up into Jimon's narrow face.
"Julia's sick," he announced to the kitchen at large. "She should go to bed."
For a moment, Celian looked like she was about to protest, then shrugged. "Did Lord Telyra say anything about it?"
"Why would he? Although he did say—" he turned to Julia. "That he would like to see you in two hours. Boy are you going to get it."
Julia stared through him. "Thanks, I—What?"
Jimon shrugged. "I'll come get you. Go back to the dormitories and get some sleep, if Celian says it's okay. I don't think his lordship expects to see her till then," he added to the cook. "He’s dismissed her. She’s done for tonight."
"I have dishes to be cleaned," Celian glowered.
"But she looks like she's gonna throw up.”
"Fine—" she said. "But—" she grabbed Julia's arm. "I hope you know what you're in for. What did you do anyway?"
"I don't know," she said. But as she walked away, she had the strange feeling that she did, even though she couldn't have put words to it. It had nothing to do with a broken decanter.
~~~
Jimon knocked on the study door with Julia squirming beside him.
"Stop fidgeting," he suggested in a whisper.
"I can't, my dress itches."
He rolled his eyes. “And don’t you know you’re not supposed to look at him?”
She shrugged.
"Who is it?"
"The slave Julia, sir," he announced.
"Let her in. Alone."
Jimon patted her once on the shoulders and shrugged. "Well," he said, and without another word, hopped away down the stairs.
Julia followed his path with her eyes, somewhat apprehensively, and then raised one clammy hand to turn the knob.
("I'll show you hell ...")
"—I said come in ..."
She cracked the door open just wide enough to peek inside at a cold, blackened fireplace framed by two wall-spanning bookshelves. A couple of solitary embers crackled lonesomely in the grill, smouldering into ash, and a cool breeze brushed against her skin from the narrow window in the far wall. Under the window was a mysterious sphere like a white-gold sun, balanced on a slender ebony pedestal. A steady, pale light poured out of it. Cautiously she inched the door open and slipped inside, and stood alone facing the man she hated.
The cracked remains of the decanter rested on the desk between them. They sized each other up, and he said quietly, "Close the door."
She slid her palm from the doorknob to the edge of the door, and tripped backwards. The door slammed loudly.
"Do you know why you're here?"
"No," she whispered.
He lifted the largest fragment of the decanter from his desk, hefting it by the handle, which was still attached, the jagged edge gleaming in the steady light. She could see clearly his meticulous shave, the texture of his skin, his chiselled brow and the severe, high bones of his cheeks. The circlet he wore was tarnished with rust.
"This has been in my family for years," he noted, rotating the decanter. His irises darkened to a deep, cold blue. "It is an irreplaceable heirloom. I don't suppose you'd know what an heirloom is."
"Not really," she simpered.
"Come closer.”
Julia took three hesitant steps into the middle of the floor. She felt her knees starting to fail her and locked them together.
"You should ... Your entire life is an heirloom. Or you are, I suppose—another of mine. But in your case, one that needs breaking. Or rather—breaking in."
He became silent, scrutinizing her carefully. The proprietary, dehumanizing tone he used rang in her head, summoning her animosity like a ball of cold fire, and with it a wave of sick anxiety. He looked at her like he owned her. Which he did, but it seemed wrong that anybody should be allowed to look at another human being that way. She was an object to suffer under his gaze, her feelings and thoughts irrelevant.
His fingers caressed the glass handle of the broken decanter. "Come here," he said firmly. "And don't worry … the glass is already cracked."
She glanced back at the door in confused foreboding and backed away a step.
He leapt to his feet before she knew what was happening and swung the decanter forcefully. It struck her full in the back, propelling her into his desk.
"You embarrassed me tonight, SLAVE—" he roared. With this he clouted her again; the splintered edge bit into her flesh, her hips slamming into the desk. She squealed, and then clamped down on her lips, spasming with pain.
I will NOT scream for him. I will NOT give him the satisfaction—
"—in front of my GUESTS—" he went on, punctuating it with another blow; she grunted, squinting her eyes shut. "—Might as well FINISH what you started—don't you think—those were very important people—do you understand what they must THINK of me now—? Can’t even control my fucking staff. Open your eyes, you little shit."
She whimpered, her back pounding. "Y—yes—"
He brought the decanter down in a vicious arc; it connected with a splintering thud and shattered. "Yes MASTER," he snarled.
"Yes Master—!" she choked, covering her head as fragments of glass rained down on the desk and the floor.
He grabbed her hands, pinning them down.
She thrashed, recalling the hearsay: Lord Telyra is a serial rapist. His legs pressed against hers, the warmth and weight of his body stifling and oppressive, the alcohol acidic on his breath, his powerful chest heaving against her back.
But after a moment she realized he wasn't violating her. He was winded, his breath hot on her neck, but aside from that he was motionless as a rock, containing her struggles. She fell limp, a moan escaping her throat as the pain from his blows still smarted in her back. She expected him to assault her then, but he made no move. Instead, he squeezed her hand, drawing his breath more slowly, his hair skimming against hers.
Eventually she stopped shaking and he let go of her hands. There was a chill emptiness at her back as he rose and stood aside.
"Get up," he said after a while, his voice tired.
Ruefully, she obliged, clutching onto the desk to steady herself, closing her eyes against the tears that kept wanting to come. Why did she want to cry? Because it had hurt, or because he’d held her, calmed her, and she hadn’t wanted him to let go?
This is nothing. I’m not the first slave he’s beaten.
Then do I want it to be something? How can I? He’s the enemy.
"I'm stepping out. I'd like you to clean that up—" he indicated the shards of glass on the floor as well as the papers that had fallen. "I'll be back in half an hour. When I return, I want to find these shelves cleaned,
and this table as well—mind the lamp, it's priceless—and my desk put back in some semblance of order."
"You're not—you're not telling me to leave—?"
"Obviously, girl. Do I need to repeat myself?"
"No—" she said, reaching up to examine her back.
"No Master," he corrected, slapping her hand down.
"No ... Master."
"There's a closet down the hall to the left with some rags in it." Lord Telyra strolled over to a small blue couch beside the desk and withdrew a bundle of cloth, unfurling it and flinging it over his shoulder. It draped to his ankles, a standard military cloak. "Get to it—I'm sick of doing it," he spat, and stalked out without looking back, his heavy footsteps fading down the hall.
Julia sat alone for a moment on the edge of the desk, listening to the patter of rain on the windowsill. Didn't she want to leave ...? She looked at her hand, red where he'd slapped it, and traced the mark of his hand with hers, then padded stiffly down the grey, silent hall until she found a small, narrow door. Fetching a grimy rag off of a heap in one corner, she returned to the study and closed the door behind her.
The small glowing sphere shed a soft, even light across the room. Curiously she knelt down and touched it, pulling back her hand instinctively—it wasn't hot. Gently, she cupped her hands around it and lifted it from its narrow pedestal, turning it this way and that, expecting it to flicker out like a candle flame. It didn't.
Unwelcome thoughts were creeping into her mind, nudging aside her better sensibilities—his voice, his threats, his stare, his violence, she felt full of them—it was the first time in her life anyone had taken more than a swipe at her. But his absence—
No, she wouldn't think of that.
Rising to her tiptoes, she examined a large spherical black stone object inlaid with a grid work of lines in gold and marked with illegible script. She rotated its surface slowly in its wooden stand, cool and smooth against her hands, countries and continents and territories drifting through her fingers.
The bottom shelf was occupied by a large square wooden board with a checkered pattern in black and white, blue and red pieces lined up in ranks along each side. Kneeling in the broken glass, she lifted one, squinting at the tiny engraved stone features.
Talystasia: A Faerytale Page 17