The Acolyte was the wild card. But how much protesting could he do? After all, she wouldn’t be killed! Just slightly damaged. He laughed soundlessly. Let the Acolyte decide if he wanted his precious girl after she’d been with a Warrior!
Kendam held the paper to the candlelight and studied it, looking for a flaw in the argument. Finally, he shook his head, then held the dry parchment over the flame.
It burned quickly.
* * * * *
High Priest Bandar scratched the dry pen on the parchment and winced. Damn these quill pens! He reinked it and started again, letting the pure thoughts of Rand flow through him and onto this paper.
A commotion outside broke his concentration. The door thunked open. His second son strode in, clearly angry, followed by a Cabal guard. The guard tried to apologize for the interruption, but Bandar waved him away.
“Father! You must tell me where Symal is! I have to see her! We’ve found a solution to our problem!” The Acolyte’s words came out in a rush.
Bandar held up a reassuring hand. “Hold on, my young Acolyte.” He spoke as if Lepdar was still a child. “Calm down. Now tell me why you felt it was necessary to interrupt my religious writings.”
Bander watched the flash of anger cross his son’s face. “I must see Symal!,” he cried out, his emotions bubbling over. “I’m worried about her! Where have you taken her?”
“I don’t know. I let Kendam handle that. He thought it would be best if I stayed out of it.”
“Stayed out of it! Why?”
“For appearance’s sake. It wouldn’t look right if the High Priest gave preferential treatment to a subject because she’s involved with my son!”
“But where is she? I demand to see her! You must order Kendam to tell me where she is!”
“Why? We need time to sort this all out.”
“I’ve found a solution already! My scribe uncovered a proclamation by High Priest Nidlet himself! It says the princess and I can be married in name only, and live separate lives!”
“What? What? I know nothing of this.”
“It’s old, father. More than seventy rynes!” Quickly, he explained it as best he could.
Bandar stared at the wall, considering what his son had told him. He recalled Raparn’s similar protests about love versus duty before he married Princess Tymir. There had been nothing anyone could do—they had to make peace with the princess’s father. Raparn had reluctantly agreed, but in the rynes since, he’d never completely forgiven his father.
Now Bandar had a chance to make it right with Lepdar. But what would Raparn say? He’d be angry he didn’t have this opportunity. Would he claim it now? Would that ruin the pact? Still, Lepdar wasn’t the heir. Perhaps it was not as critical he be married in the same way his brother had been.
Bandar shook his head. “I don’t know, my son. I’d have to see this document and have my counsel study it.”
Lepdar nodded eagerly. “I left it with Kendam. Come, father, I’ll show it to you now!”
Bandar had to admit he was curious. He glanced back at his half-completed document. The glow of Rand had faded for the moment.
“Very well, Lepdar.” He rose. “Let’s see what your scribe has uncovered.”
Chapter Seventeen
Symal hung from the post, her hands tied above her, and tried to squirm away from the blows. The guard, a middle-aged warrior with a nasty battle scar on his cheek that ran through one eye, reared back and struck her again with the whip, causing her to cry out and writhe in pain.
“Please,” she begged. “Please stop!”
The guard ignored her. He had been ordered to give this girl ten lashes and ten it was going to be. Personally, he thought she was getting off easy. He’d given recalcitrant breeders up to twenty-five lashes at a time. He struck her again, counting to himself: That’s seven…
The guard heard the door open and turned, startled to see Dyson walk in. “My lord,” he bowed slightly, then turned back to his task.
“Wait.”
The word stopped the guard in his tracks. The slave pen owner approached the girl, eyeing her carefully.
Dyson, though he tried not to show it to the one-eyed guard, was worried. This girl had been placed in his care by High Priest Kendam himself. Kendam had ordered him to “soften up” the slut, then send her into the breeding chambers with the other Warrior slaves.
Now, seeing her sagging from her chains, her back marked with oozing red welts, Dyson thought this might have gone too far. Rarely was a breeder beaten, then sent immediately to the chambers. They usually need a sun or two to recover. Having this whore on her back while a foul-smelling Warrior rutted with her would be sufficient punishment for whatever she’d done to offend Kendam—it wouldn’t do to have her faint from the pain of her wounds in the midst of the activity.
“That’s enough. This girl is too soft,” he said by way of explanation to the guard. “She’s never felt the kiss of the lash before this sun. I fear if you give her the full measure, she might be too damaged to enjoy the breeding experience.”
The guard shrugged and turned away. He did not appear to care one way or another.
Symal, only semi-conscious, felt enormous relief at this news. She almost wanted to thank this evil man for sparing her. Almost. Deeper in her mind, she wanted revenge. She wanted Lepdar to ride to her rescue and drive his sword into this fat bastard’s stomach.
But where was her Acolyte? Had he abandoned her?
“Get her ready for the chambers,” Dyson barked.
* * * * *
Kendam wasn’t worried when he saw the Acolyte and his father enter. Bandar had made his feelings clear on the issue and had left the details to him. Now they just had to assuage Lepdar, convince him to do what had to be done for the good of the priestdom. Lepdar would have to learn that lesson, sooner or later.
“Ah, my priest,” he greeted his leader as one would an old friend. “I see you met with Acolyte Lepdar. I trust you were able to convince him of the wisdom of your decisions.”
Bandar looked uncomfortable. “Um, yes, Priest Kendam, my son is aware of his duty. However, this ancient document he claims to have seen causes me some concern. Lepdar said it was scrolled by High Priest Nidlet himself! I thought I’d better have a look. As you know, I’m a student of his works.”
Kendam blanched for a moment, then recovered. “Unfortunately, it was a forgery, my priest. It didn’t seem like Nidlet’s writing style at all. Nor do I believe that he would ever pen such a blasphemy.”
He turned to the angry Acolyte. “Forgive me, my young priest. I didn’t want to tell you until you talked to your father.”
“No!” Lepdar said. “My scribe—the scribe—said it was real. He said he got it from High Priest Bandar himself!”
“And he didn’t return it?” Kendam jumped on the attack. “That violates so many church edicts, I can’t begin to tell you how much trouble this scribe is in. Who is he?”
Lepdar paled. “Um, he’s, er…” He knew he was trapped. If the document was a forgery, or if Rydah was found guilty of hoarding church relics, the Acolyte had to distance himself from the scribe. “Lord Rydah,” he blurted.
“Yes, I believe he’s one of mine,” Bandar admitted. “Third-tier, isn’t he? Son of that ne’er-do-well, Fyrad.”
“Ahh,” said Kendam, smiling, as if that explained everything.
“Enough!” Lepdar shouted. He put his hand on his sword. “I demand to know where Symal is being held. I will take personal charge of her while we sort out the authenticity of this document.”
Kendam looked at Bandar and raised an eyebrow as if to say, You can’t control your children?
Bandar cleared his throat. “I’m familiar with Nidlet’s writing. Let me see the document and we might be able to resolve this at once.”
Kendam paled as his mind searched about for an answer. Finding no lie that would suffice, he was forced to tell his version of the truth. “My priest, having determined the docume
nt was blasphemous, I destroyed it.”
“WHAT!?” Lepdar pulled his sword and placed the tip against Kendam’s neck. “I’ll kill you for this!”
Kendam’s guards stepped forward, not sure what to do. Both hands reached for the hilts of their swords.
“YOU’LL DO NO SUCH THING!” Bandar roared, stepping in and grabbing his son’s arm. “Put down your sword at once or I’ll have the guards disarm you!”
Lepdar wouldn’t budge. His eyes bored into Kendam’s. “Go ahead, father. By the time they pull me off, Kendam’s head will be off his shoulders—unless he tells me where she is!”
Kendam, quite at ease with political intrigue and double-dealing, was completely unfamiliar with sudden violence. “Goren,” he squeaked, his round eyes focused on the tip of the sword. “She’s at Goren.”
With a move too quick to register, Lepdar stepped in close, placing his forearm hard against Kendam’s throat, cutting off his oxygen. “You sent her to a slave pen?” He said with quiet incredulity.
Kendam’s eyes cast wildly about for rescue. No one moved.
Lepdar’s voiced deepened with menace. “Hear this, my priest: If she tells me she’s been mistreated in any way, I’ll be back for your head.” He pushed himself away, leaving Kendam sucking air.
“Lepdar!” Bandar shouted, to no avail. The Acolyte had already swept out of the room.
Chapter Eighteen
Symal, chained to the floor by her neck, jerked her head hard, hoping to find a weak link she might break. She had maybe a capek’s clearance, but it wasn’t enough to allow her to move off the thin pad that protected her aching back from the cold stone floor. All she could do was pull helplessly on the chain and hope for a miracle.
She looked around desperately. There were just six other women in the room with her. None seemed as frantic as she did. Most lounged on their pads, talking to their nearest neighbor or lay back, thighs falling obscenely open, and simply waited.
Symal believed most were long-time breeders, as they had lost their shapes. Each of them outweighed her by dozens of gabons. Their breasts sagged like eggplants on their wide chests. Their tangled, greasy hair did not appear to have been washed in suns.
Her heart pounded in her chest. She’d heard about Warriors and what they did to women, whether in a conquered city or in the breeding chambers. They were ruthless, brutal and ignorant. A woman like herself would appear to be a rare flower to be trampled underfoot. They might kill her while trying to breed with her.
Her back throbbed, but it seemed the least of her worries now. The doctor had put a salve on the wounds, easing the sting somewhat. Lying down didn’t help though. Having a giant rut with her would double the pain.
She heard a noise and startled. Symal squeezed her legs together, even as she knew it would not stop a Warrior.
The door! She could hear a key turning the lock. Her eyes were riveted on the coarse wood. The door swung inward and six Warriors streamed in.
All eyes swiveled to and fro, as if selecting the right mate. Immediately, their level gazes stopped when they spotted Symal, as if someone had grabbed each head and gripped it.
The Warriors made a mad scramble toward her. She screamed and tried to roll into a ball. She felt hands on her, pawing, feet thumping down beside her.
There came the sound of grunting, fists hitting flesh. She looked up through her fingers to see all six men fighting over her. This was not a polite jostling for the right breeder, no—this was a full-fledged battle for the rights to the tender maiden.
The fact that the Warriors were naked except for loincloths did not deter them in the least. It was hand-to-hand combat. Fingers gouged eyes, teeth clamped down on arms, elbows swung at heads. Several times, Symal felt a heavy foot stomp on her arm or leg as she writhed, trying to escape the melee.
A thud caused her to whip her head around to see a wounded Warrior, his face a bloody mask, crash to the floor then roll away. Another man went down, then a third.
As they crawled away, they didn’t even try to mate with the other women. They simply sat in a circle around the remaining fighters, as if waiting for an opening so they could rejoin the battle.
The rejected women stared, mouths agape. They’d never seen Warriors act this way before.
A fourth man screamed and fell down, narrowly missing landing on Symal’s legs. She pulled herself into a tighter ball and knew her time was approaching.
The two largest, toughest, meanest Warriors were clenched, jockeying for position, each trying to convince the other to quit. There wasn’t much quit in them. Both had survived many battles and had the scars to prove it.
One Warrior with a nasty scar on his forehead was younger than the other, and that, finally, made all the difference. He pushed and pulled the older man until Symal could tell he was exhausted, then quickly kicked his legs out from under him. When the older Warrior crashed to the floor, he did not get up to challenge Scarface again.
Scarface stopped for a moment to stare at the other men in a circle around him, as if to dare them to try again. After a long lapar, the Warriors stood and moved to the other breeders. No one fought over any of them.
Grinning, the young Warrior approached his prize. He ripped off his loincloth, exposing his cock. Symal watched in disbelief as it grew in girth and length. She glanced up at his face, silently pleading with him. She knew immediately there would be no mercy.
Scarface climbed over her. Symal kept her legs pinned tightly together, sobs wracking her body. With barely an effort, the giant yanked her legs apart, exposing her virgin pussy to his onslaught. She screamed and the Warrior simply backhanded her, splitting her lip and stunning her to silence.
He crawled up between her legs and aimed his hard cock at her entrance. Symal, afraid to speak, could only shake her head as he pressed the tip to her opening. She bit her lip, hard, and begged Rand to save her.
The door crashed open. Dyson stumbled in, pushed from behind by Acolyte Lepdar.
“STOP!” He shouted, seeing Symal cowering under the rock-hard body of the Warrior.
Scarface paid no attention at first. He pushed harder, and Symal felt the tip slip past her labia. The girl opened her mouth wide and started to inhale, ready to scream anew, when—
The Acolyte placed the tip of a very sharp sword against the Warrior’s neck. “If that cock enters her, my sword will enter you,” he said in an icy voice.
Scarface’s cock deflated immediately. Breeding with this defenseless girl suddenly lost its appeal. He craned his head around and appeared startled to see Acolyte Lepdar himself standing over him.
The Warrior climbed off the girl and knelt to the side, his left foot flat on the floor, his left arm resting on the knee, his head bent as he had been taught.
“My Acolyte,” he said, confused. “I did not know it was you.” Emotions played over his features. He appeared confused at the sudden turn of events.
“Unfasten her,” Lepdar barked to Dyson. The owner, clearly terrified, rushed to obey. “Give me your cloak.” Dyson hesitated only a moment before stripping it off and holding it out.
The Acolyte reached down to help Symal up and caught sight of the whip marks on her naked back.
His head swiveled around like a snake’s. “Who is responsible for this?” he said, turning Symal so Dyson could see her back for himself.
“Um, my Acolyte, I, er, was acting on orders,” he whispered, ashen-faced. The cloak slipped from his trembling fingers and fell at their feet.
“Whose orders?”
“Uh, er,” Dyson looked around wildly. He didn’t know whom he was more afraid of, the Acolyte or Kendam. He decided the Acolyte was the more immediate threat. “It was High Priest Kendam himself, sire.”
With a sudden roar, the Acolyte exploded, swinging his sword in an arc, severing Dyson’s head from his neck. The head rolled backwards between his shoulder blades, bounced off his ass and thumped to the floor. His body lost coordination and slumped down to the ston
e paving stones, spurting blood from the neck wound.
The Warrior didn’t move from his subordinate position, though he had been splashed with blood. His stillness indicated that he expected to be the next to fall.
Lepdar reached down and picked up the discarded cloak. He placed it carefully around Symal’s shoulders. “Did this man succeed in breeding with you?” His eyes, full of death, bored a hole into Scarface.
The Warrior kept his eyes fixed on the floor.
Symal hesitated, then spoke in a halting voice. “No, my Acolyte. He did not.”
Nodding, Lepdar put his arm around Symal and led her out. Scarface let his breath out in a slow release of tension.
Two guards, standing at the door, snapped to attention.
Lepdar noticed the insignia on one guard’s shoulders. “You’re the captain of the guard?”
“Y-yes, my Acolyte,” he stuttered. “On this shift.”
“You are now acting administrator. Clean up this mess and maintain order.”
“Yes, sire.” The guard nodded.
The Acolyte brushed past him, guiding a shaken Symal down the corridor.
Chapter Nineteen
Lord Rydah was sitting with Jenya in a cool, open-air patio having a cup of renda when two guardsmen spotted them.
“We’ve been looking for you.” The captain of the guard said curtly.
“Oh, really? How may I be of service?” He looked up, smiling. His smile faded when he saw the stern expressions on the guards’ faces.
“I have orders to place you under arrest, Lord Rydah. Please come with me.”
Rydah was thunderstruck. “Arrest?! On what charges?”
Had the scribe determined his passes were forgeries?
“That has yet to be determined,” the captain responded. “I was only told to bring you before High Priest Kendam.”
“What? What nonsense is this?”
Jenya’s head jerked from her master’s face to the captain’s, not understanding what was happening. They had been so happy, just moments ago!
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