Slavemaster's Woman, The

by Angelia Whiting

Tarken did care. In fact he was beginning to care very deeply about her well-being, but he wouldn’t reveal he felt that way. “I’m merely concerned about delivering healthy goods to the king."

  “If it’s fatal, perhaps death will be my path to freedom.”

  “You’d likely be a corpse by now, mistress, if it was fatal.”

  “If I was a corpse, Tarken, would you bury me?” Without waiting for an answer, Cushla brushed by Tarken and sauntered through the door. “Or toss my body on a rubbish heap?”

  “I would bury your body, Cushla,” Tarken mumbled, knowing she wouldn’t hear. “But never the memory of you.” His chest went tight, and grief struck him almost as if she’d really died. And what if Cushla did die? Tarken knew immediately it would hurt.

  Secondary to that, a greater reality became profound. Mecor was capable of killing her, especially if he became annoyed at her belligerence. Two choices came to Tarken’s mind. Somehow, find a method to tame Cushla’s hostility, or premeditate a way to murder the king and get away with it. The latter was much preferred.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “There is abnormal brain activity.”

  “Is it fatal?” Tarken leaned against a wall in the examining room of the health complex on Wind Drift.

  “No,” the medic replied as he studied the readouts, re-adjusted a few settings and checked the results again. “No, nothing fatal, but odd.”

  “What do you mean by odd?” Cushla’s nose wrinkled. The Refadi native had an odor and his scaly fingertips felt scratchy against her skin when he touched her. She wanted to get this done quickly but also needed to know if she was ill.

  “There’s neurotransmitters jumping the synapses in your frontal lobe that don’t appear to be doing much other than looping in a continuous organized pattern.”

  “Neurotransmitters?” Tarken questioned the medic.

  “Brain chemicals, Master Tarken,” Cushla answered and then asked the medic, “Could it be an inherent attribute awakening from a dormant state?”

  “What inherent attributes?” This time Tarken directed his question toward Cushla, and he eyed her suspiciously.

  Her lips pursed as she suppressed a grin at his ignorance. She could use it later to taunt him.

  “It isn’t a sequence I’ve encountered in your species prior to this, and I do have some experience with the Zeralon,” the medic told her. “You are a Zeralon correct?”

  Cushla nodded.

  “Well…” The medic frowned. “I am unable to speculate, other than to assume it’s a problem with a lack of adjustment to the slave band.”

  Cushla nodded. “Has anything metastasized to other areas of my cerebrum or lymphatic system?”

  “Metasta…?” Tarken released a grunting sound but said nothing further. A muscle in his cheek twitched.

  Cushla glanced away, but not before she caught the annoyed expression on his face for his lack of knowledge, but inside she felt liberated. He allowed her without reprimand to lead the questions about her own body, and she truly appreciated that. Of course it sat sourly in the back of her mind that she was indeed being allowed, but it was the most freedom she’d had in many solars, and she intended to take full advantage of it. “What about the head throbs?”

  “I’ve detected no cortical changes or trauma in the neuronal tissues,” the medic answered. “I wouldn’t be concerned.”

  “So, I’m not at risk for a cerebral vascular accident?” Her peripheral vision caught Tarken’s confused frown and Cushla fought the urge to look at him. She snorted inwardly. He had no idea what they were talking about. “Then how might I rid myself of these excruciating headaches?”

  “It seems that the only thing to do is remove the slave band.”

  “No!” Tarken interjected.

  Cushla and the medic stared at him briefly. She then turned her gaze back to the medic. “Can the slave band be removed without killing me?”

  “Enough!” Stalking toward the examining table, Tarken snatched Cushla’s wrist and yanked her to her feet. He dragged her toward the door and glanced over his shoulders at the medic. “Thank you for your time.”

  Cushla remained silent until they reached the building’s exterior corridor. She then decided to antagonize Tarken openly. “That went well, master. I was sure an aneurysm had formed in my cerebral cortex.”

  “Enough Cushla.” Tarken kept his back to her. Treading with a heavy foot, the strike of his boot heel clacking and reverberating from the floor, he continued toward the exit.

  “I might’ve needed emergency cranio-transphototic intervention.”

  He didn’t respond.

  Cushla gasped stopping dead in her tracks, the sound causing Tarken to swivel around. She pressed her palm to her chest, widening her eyes as if in fear though her real intent was to antagonize the slavemaster. “What if it’d been a pulmonary embolism?”

  “I said that’s enough, Cushla,” Tarken warned.

  She failed to heed him. “I could’ve suffered a myocardio infarction!”

  “Cease!” Tarken balked irritation clear on his face. He loomed over her but didn’t touch her, glaring dauntingly.

  “I could’ve died!” She continued with an overabundance of melodrama. “I still could.”

  “I said cease, Cushla!” Tarken warned again, the volume of his voice becoming louder.

  Unaffected, she angled her head to look up at him, her expression serious. “Shame, I couldn’t learn about removing this hell forsaken band attached to my brain.”

  Grasping her by the shoulders Tarken forced her backwards, firmly planting her against the wall behind her. He pressed his body against hers, effectively pinning her. Grabbing her beneath the chin, he tipped her face upward. His grip was tight, but just short of painful. “Cushla, I’m warning you. If you escape from me here you will be the target of thieves and rapists. Wind Drift isn’t exactly the safest port and I’m already concerned with why Mecor’s cousins have decided to bypass every fucking wormhole in the Adar Rhiannon Galaxy, thus exposing our presence and prolonging our travel.”

  “They already told you they were taking the scenic route.” Cushla averted her eyes to several passersby who slowed their paces and gawked briefly before continuing down the corridor.

  “What they told me was that Mecor ordered it.” Releasing her, Tarken scratched his temple. “What I don’t know is why.”

  “Why does it matter to you, Tarken?” Cushla asked. It felt good to finally be out of the stuffy ship Tarken kept her imprisoned in until he deemed her well-punished. They could stop at a thousand more ports for all she cared. She was in no rush to be turned over to Mecor. “I’m nothing but worthless property to the king.”

  Tarken stepped back from her his brow furling pensively. “It’s more than delivering the king’s goods intact, Cushla. Rube and Scoac are excessively boasting our presence and it seems odd to me.”

  “It does seem as though they are trying to draw attention.”

  “But for what reason?” Taking her wrist, Tarken turned, and with Cushla shuffling slightly behind him, he began strolling up the hall. They reached the complex exit, and once outside found themselves directly amidst a bustling marketplace.

  Inhaling deeply, Cushla looked around. When they passed through the plaza prior to the examination she was too concerned about her health to appreciate it. Now she took the time to savor the mix of sights, smells and sounds. Lifting her face, she enjoyed the warm feel of the sun on it.

  Halting, Tarken examined the fresh jobri breads being offered at one of the concessions. After choosing a loaf, he inserted his credit disc into the pay slot and then refused the linen bag the merchant offered for an additional price. “I’m beginning to think that the royals are advertising your purchase.”

  “But why?” Cushla’s attention floated to the greenery they passed, just to her left side. The pleasant scent of herb plants and flowers mentally transported her to another time, and she remembered running and tumbling through a field of
fresh Cripchi blossoms. She was very young, carefree—just free.

  “The birthmark on your ass has something to do with it, I’m thinking.”

  A Dormothian native brushed by them at that moment and his head turned, his gaze riveting his to Cushla. The pale blue stripes that began to shimmer in his shoulder length, black hair, revealed he was targeting Cushla to mate.

  Tarken growled at him.

  The Dormothian snapped immediately from the trance he was in, drawing his now narrowing eyes toward the slavemaster. His rigid form visibly relaxed as he sized up Tarken. He smiled cordially and nodded, apparently deciding there would be no challenge for her. Turning away, he retreated and moved on without incident.

  Cushla suddenly felt safe and protected a feeling that rarely came her way. She found herself wishing that the slavemaster was watchful over her because he wanted to be, not because he was being paid to. The thought twisted in her stomach and she tamped it, exhaling harshly as if it were possible to blow the emotion away. Feelings of this kind she couldn’t risk playing with.

  “How is the head throb?”

  “What?” Cushla blinked as she realized what he was asking. Her head hurt far less than her heart did at the moment. Tarken didn’t care about her emotionally, not really. His concern was all about delivering her to Mecor in one piece. “It’s fading.” She stared at the loaf Tarken held. “My stomach likewise, is shriveling as we speak.”

  Tarken nodded, tore a sizeable chunk from the jobri bread and handed it to Cushla. He continued walking again.

  She followed, this time strolling by his side. At least she could be grateful he’d given her a quality piece of pastry to eat instead of the slop she was usually given.

  “I suspect that mark on your ass is what Ayia and the royals were looking for,” Tarken commented.

  “My birthmark?” Cushla gave him a curious look. “To verify my identity?”

  “Precisely.”

  “I’m nothing special, Tarken. It’s beyond me why I would specifically be the one the king wanted to find.” At least nothing special that anyone knew about—she hoped no one knew about. No, her family would never betray her. Cushla bit into her bread, savoring its melting texture and sweet taste while thinking about what Tarken was saying. She swallowed and then considered something else. “Maybe it has something to do with my father?”

  Tarken tipped his head askew, giving her a sidelong glance. “How so?”

  “I lived on Buranis when I was a child. My father was part of King Mecor’s court.”

  “You have origins in the noble echelons then?” One of Tarken’s brows lifted. He stopped and looked at her directly. “I think your residency on Buranis is likely key to the king’s reasons for purchasing you, Cushla. Why, is the ongoing question, however.”

  “I cannot say what it is the king might want with me.” She shrugged. “My father’s duties were in research, of which the king had a fascination, for as much as I can remember hearing.”

  “Research?” Tarken inquired. Gripping her upper arm, he tugged her slightly and they began walking again. “Such as what?”

  “Again, I am unsure. I was young and not privy to such adult doings.” Pondering that, Cushla pursed her lips. “I do remember overhearing my father’s angry voice and my mother…” Pausing, she gulped as anguish filled her. She really didn’t want to think about her mother right now, but she continued, “My parents argued about something my father was doing with the stones they were digging from the quarries on Buranis, something about destroying planets…”

  Tarken scratched the back of his neck and furled his brow pensively. “The only thing we excavate from the quarries is the muartzin stones.”

  “Of what importance are the stones?”

  “Precious gems that in very large quantities create atmosphere on uninhabitable planets, but large quantities are difficult to come by. On Buranis, we mine the quarries throughout the eves and straight through the dawnings. I’ve assumed it’s the method as to how the Mecor lineage gained its wealth and built its empire” Coming upon a bench, Tarken sat down and indicated with a nod for Cushla to sit beside him.

  She hesitated at the invitation as she was used to sitting at a master’s feet on the ground. Other masters prior to this had tested her insubordination by asking her to sit beside them, only to slap her down when she did so. As it was, Tarken had already demanded she sit on the floor in a public place, so she had to wonder why he asked her to sit beside him now. “We were on Buranis when Anzer Mecor and his followers conquered the throne.” Lowering to sit, Cushla kept cautious eyes on Tarken, considering he too might be testing her. She relaxed a margin when he merely nodded at her compliance. “It was a horrible time when he began his reign of tyranny. As for the stones, I haven’t a clue.”

  Neither of them said anything for a span of time, though Tarken continued to look her in the eyes. She stared back at him, trying with all of her might to evade an emotional connection, attempting to see him as nothing but a loathsome slavemaster.

  He smiled at her and Cushla’s attempts fell apart. Her gazed dropped to focus on his upturned lips while licking her own in the process. She liked his smile, more than she probably should. It was warm and sincere and engaging, the type of smile that almost had her forgetting with whom she was talking to, what his purpose was in her life—a slavemaster. Cushla stiffened and again fought the ease she was beginning to feel when in his company. Letting her guard down was a dangerous thing to do.

  “What’s your father’s name?”

  Her gaze snapped upward again to fix on his dark eyes. “Bazil…Bazil Zaviot.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “My father…” Her attention shifted away from him as she tilted her head upward to watch a sparkling green and silver bird that was fluttering over her head. It flapped lower to settle on her toe, its feathers shimmering as it shook them. Looking downward, she smiled softly at the creature. Absently, she held out her palm and fed it the few crumbs from the small piece of bread she had left. “He was shot as we were trying to escape.”

  “Shot?” Tarken asked as he watched her bend to cup the feathery creature between her palms and then rest them on her lap with the bird still nestled inside them. “Fascinating.”

  “That my father was shot?” Cushla looked at Tarken directly.

  “No that.” He nodded toward her hands. “They’re usually skittish little things.”

  “They seem to like me, always have.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “The bird?” Cushla suddenly looked worried “Goodness, I don’t think so?” She opened her hands to see it was alive and well and looking rather comfortable.

  “Your father, Cushla” Tarken rubbed his brow. “Not the creature.”

  “Oh.” She chuckled at the confusion, but her mirth faded quickly. “I hold onto hope that he lives, but do not know for sure.” She gulped back the sadness wrenching inside of her. “He handed me off to a friend of his, a royal guard, who escaped with me.” Spreading her hands open further, Cushla gently tossed the bird upward. It flapped its wings and then flew off. “Shortly after that, I became the payoff to Lavidis in a lost gambling game.”

  Tarken’s mouth twisted with disgust. “To use a small and innocent child is repulsive.” He looked away from her, staring at nothing in particular but then he shook his head and sighed, his attention returning to her. “Think, Cushla. You must remember something more about what your father did for the king.”

  “Why is this so important to you, slavemaster?” Did she really want to conjure up old, painful memories? “What does it matter now? It isn’t as if knowing the truth will set me free.”

  “Just think, Cushla. Whether you believe it or not I am a man of integrity and your purchase reeks with deception. The king is up to something and I sense it isn’t good.”

  Struggling with her memories, she allowed pictures from her youth to flow free, and then she remembered something. “The king, when he was ill�
��”

  “Ill?” Tarken tipped his head inquisitively.

  “Medic.” Cushla looked over at him. “Yes, he was a personal medic to the king and a…” Cushla’s gaze dropped and her eyes darted back and forth and then she mouthed a word, a large word. She repeated it silently several times before actually speaking it aloud. “Bio—something. Biophys…biophysicist. Yes, that’s the word. When I was small, I used to practice saying it, so I could pronounce it correctly. It’s been so long since I’ve even said the word.”

  “Impressive,” Tarken commented.

  Cushla shrugged slightly. “He’s a smart man.”

  “I was referring to you, Cushla, and the persistence you had as a child. It’s a resolve that has obviously carried through to your life as an adult. It also explains your exceptional knowledge of terms back there.” He tipped his head in the direction of the medical building.

  “My father taught much to me.” Again, she shrugged. “Much I learned from books, and I had one master who allowed me access to his library. He was the closest I ever came to actually liking a master.”

  “I suspected you were well too educated for a mere…”

  Cushla angled her head to look at him. Her brow wrinkled causing her eyes to narrow. “A mere what Tarken? A slave?”

  “I was in error to assume you lacked education. It’s an admirable quality and desirable for the right owner.”

  “Are you complimenting me, slavemaster?”

  Tarken smiled softly. “I find intelligence and the ability to use that intelligence wisely an admirable thing, yes.”

  “Then you would be wise to remember my intelligence. Or else you may underestimate your foe.”

  “Is that what you are, Cushla?” Tarken leaned into her, his form nearly curving over her, forcing her to tip her head back at an excessive angle just to see his face. “My foe?”

  “No, master. I am a mere slave.” She smirked, her grin wily.

  Tarken chuckled. “Your arrogance is much too elevated for me to believe you think of yourself as such. You are not a mere anything.” His amused expression then faded, becoming more pensive. “Tell, me Cushla, for what reason did this favored owner return you to the slave trader?”