by Loki Renard
“I am going to tell Berner you beat me!” Mara suddenly screamed at the top of her lungs.
Rikiar did not pause in bringing the lash down again, but Aisling saw his lips quirk with what must have been amusement. She realized that he was not actually as angry as he was pretending to be. Though he seemed fearsome, he actually treated Mara with a great deal of affection.
“Berner will avenge me!” Mara sniffed as Rikiar swept the lash across her upper thighs, making her squeal and dance in place.
Aisling knew that Berner would do no such thing. It was just Mara’s way of fighting even when she was thoroughly defeated. Aisling wondered why Rikiar allowed her to be so impudent. She noticed that the punishment was going on far longer than any ever did for her. All Mara’s silly arguments were getting her were more lashes of the strap and more hot red welts.
Before long, her bottom looked entirely uncomfortable. It was a bright red shade all over, with darker lines where the strap had landed twice over. Mara stopped arguing and instead sniffled little pleas for clemency, which must have eventually had some effect, for Rikiar laid down the lash and bade Mara lower her skirts.
“You are excused,” he said. “Go and think about your behavior.”
Mara rushed out of the room as quickly as her feet would take her, leaving Rikiar and Aisling alone. She was still on the floor. He offered her a hand, and helped her to her feet.
“If you are going to start disciplining the servants, Mara probably isn’t the best one to begin with,” he said dryly. “The girl has always had an attitude. The sooner she marries Berner, the better for all of us.”
“So I am allowed to discipline the servants?”
“If you see fit,” he said. “Though I do warn you, it is better not to punish at all than to leave a punishment half done. Insubordination is much worse if a servant or follower senses you are unable to handle them at their worst.”
“Mara doesn’t respect me,” Aisling said as Rikiar drew her into his embrace.
“She will with time,” Rikiar said, dropping kisses on Aisling’s face and neck. His ardor seemed to have been inflamed by the proceedings.
“Is this because you enjoy whipping Mara so much?”
“It is because I enjoy the sight of your cute rump rolling about with another,” he admitted, nipping her lip lightly. “If it were not so apparent you were on the losing end of things, I would have not intervened.”
“I was not losing!”
“You were,” he said, cupping her bottom. “She had you on your back. There’s little chance of winning from that position, especially against a girl who has been scrapping all her life.”
“Oh,” Aisling said.
“Yes,” Rikiar drawled. “Just as well you have another lesson for today, hmm?”
“Can I not stay here with you?” Aisling pressed her body against him suggestively, grinding her hips against the familiar ridge in his pants.
“You could,” he said. “But I do not think Helsa will be lenient if you are late.”
The prospect of being punished by Helsa was enough to convince Aisling to obey. Helsa had been nice the previous evening, however, so she hoped their relationship might have warmed a little.
Unfortunately, the expression on Helsa’s face when Aisling got to the arena suggested her hopes would be dashed. The woman was waiting with her arms folded across her chest, her mouth pressed into the thin line that was quickly becoming familiar as a sign of danger.
“I heard you were in a fight,” she said as Aisling stepped into the arena.
“It wasn’t a fight, so much as…”
“You will never lift your hand to anyone else unless you are defending yourself, understand me?”
“But…”
“Where are we?” Helsa snapped the question.
“In the ring.”
“You don’t argue with me here, do you?”
Aisling nodded, then stepped outside the ring. “It wasn’t even a fight… ow!”
Helsa dragged her back in, hand firmly clutching the front of Aisling’s tunic in such a way that escape was impossible without leaving the garment behind.
“Don’t play cute with me,” she growled down at Aisling, making Aisling wonder where the nice woman who had come to dinner was gone.
“I wasn’t,” Aisling said. “Besides, Rikiar said I could discipline Mara. Or any of the servants.”
“Discipline is not a battle.”
“It is when the disciplinee fights back,” Aisling said.
“If done properly, the person receiving the discipline will never consider fighting,” Helsa said, releasing her grip on Aisling. “True leadership doesn’t come at the end of a lash—though it might sometimes make use of one.”
Aisling was more than aware of her shortcomings in the leadership department. Being kept in a tower had not been much of a preparation for the challenges of a life where she was expected to be something other than a chattel.
“We do not have the luxury of coddling our women, especially our leaders,” Helsa said. “If you are to be Rikiar’s bride, you must be equal to the task of whipping a deserving servant.”
“But you just told me never to raise my hand…”
“For the moment. You are unable to follow through. You are unable to make others follow you. In time, that will change.”
“Or it won’t.”
“It will,” Helsa said. “You have only been here a matter of weeks, and Mara is not at all a suitable companion or servant. She is not who I would have chosen to attend to you.”
“Mara is not that bad,” Aisling said, feeling somewhat protective.
“She is that bad. She has never understood her place,” Helsa said. “Even when Berner offered to marry her, she was too foolhardy to agree to the match. She could do no better.”
“Mara has been punished.”
“And she will need to be punished again, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps the day after, but certainly again. But not by you,” Helsa lectured sternly. “In fact, you will abstain from laying a finger on anyone without my express permission.”
“But Rikiar…”
“What Rikiar said will be irrelevant when I take a switch to your thighs for disobedience.”
“What do you want from me?” Aisling asked the question with angry desperation. She was no longer certain what her role was. She was a princess, but a prisoner, the chief’s bride, but still subject to the brutish discipline of a warrior.
“I want you to learn to defend yourself, from attackers and maidservants.” Helsa’s smirk put Aisling on the offense. If Helsa wanted her to fight, she would fight. Bunching her fists, Aisling rushed forward and swung right at Helsa’s stupid smile.
The warrior leaned back, dodging the blow, but Aisling’s other hand caught her in the midsection hard enough to make her double over. Ordinarily it would have had no effect, but her stomach muscles had not been clenched; she had been caught entirely off guard by the brazen attack. Aisling saw that plainly on her face. Helsa’s eyes were wide with surprise, and her mouth hung open for a second but soon clamped shut with determination.
She reached for Aisling, and Aisling, anticipating a thrashing, made quick to dodge away. Her relatively small size made her more agile than Helsa. What Helsa lacked in speed, she made up for in relative strength. Her second attempt at grabbing Aisling was successful. Writhing and wriggling, Aisling was pulled hard against her body, so close that their lips were almost touching.
“Well, well,” Helsa said, “what’s this about, little one?”
With a grunt of anger, Aisling tried to pull away and strike Helsa again. Laughing, Helsa tripped her, following her down to the ground, pinning her in place. Helsa’s breath came hot on the back of Aisling’s neck, and she felt the toned warrior woman’s hips pressing firmly against the back of her buttocks. She was pinned. Defeated. Shamed.
Ordinarily she would have accepted the loss, but something in her sparked. She would not tolerate another loss, not
on the heels of her defeat by Mara. Aisling was tired of losing, tired of being weak. Growling into the mud, she pushed up with both hands, managing to dislodge Helsa just enough to roll away and get to her feet at the same time as her beautiful tutor.
“You want to fight me? Beat me?” Helsa purred the question, her eyes flashing. “Good.”
Aisling opened her mouth to speak, but there was not time. Helsa had closed the distance between them yet again, arm outstretched. If it had been a blow, it would surely have connected, but the warrior was more intent on grappling than hitting. For a second time, Aisling hit the ground. Her mouth filled with dirt on impact and she spit it out, disgusted by the taste.
“You’re not going to beat me if you let yourself get caught,” Helsa said. “Move faster. Fight harder.”
Again Aisling flew at Helsa. Her attempt was ill-fated, for Helsa was ready for her. She did not make contact. As her arm came forward, Helsa grabbed it and pulled her to the side, using her own momentum against her. Aisling grabbed Helsa’s tunic on her way past, spinning them both as she once again went to the ground.
This time she fell on her back, but she did not let go of Helsa. She kept a furious grip on the warrior woman, holding her close as she wrapped an arm around the woman’s neck. Their bodies were pressed together in squirming contact. Aisling could feel Helsa’s breasts against her own, the warrior’s slim but strong thigh protruding between her legs, foot wrapping around her calf.
“Easy, princess,” Helsa laughed, dropping an unexpected kiss on Aisling’s lips. “We don’t want you hitting that pretty head of yours.”
Aisling cursed and shoved at Helsa. Amused, Helsa backed off and rose. “Try again,” she said. “This time don’t flail. And don’t try to strike unless you want to be caught.”
“What should I do then?”
“A smaller person can easily subdue a larger by grappling,” Helsa said. “I have bested Rikiar himself in training that way.”
“You mean the holds you taught,” Aisling said, wiping her mouth on her sleeve.
“Remember them?”
Aisling did not. She had practiced them a handful of times, hardly paying attention. Now that she needed the knowledge, the memories were faded and useless. She was being tested and found wanting.
Helsa’s hand caught Aisling’s left buttock with a resounding slap. “Do not hold back,” she lectured. “Make sure your grasp is fast and free of timidity. You must act with all your strength.”
Aisling growled and turned, casting a blow at Helsa, which caught her jaw.
“Or you could do that,” Helsa said, barely acknowledging the pain. Aisling knew it must have hurt, for her knuckles burned with the force of it. She was tiring. She was sore. And she was not going to win, not if she fought for a thousand years. But landing that blow, and the ones before it, that was a triumph of sorts. Though she wavered on her feet, she felt a new strength running through her veins. She might not be able to win, but at least she could hold her own.
Unfortunately the feeling was very short-lived. At her very next breath, her knees buckled beneath her. She would have fallen to the ground, but for Helsa catching her and pulling her close.
“That was excellent,” the warrior smiled. “The best you have ever done.”
“You bested me time and time again.”
“Ah, but you fought with your heart. You gave no thought to failure. That is what you must do. That is more important than technique or weapon—the will to survive. That is what carries a warrior through when her comrades are falling all about her. Now go rest. You’ve earned it.”
That was an order Aisling was prepared to follow without hesitation. She went and lay down atop Rikiar’s bed and she soon fell into a sleep that made the middle of the day disappear into heated dreams of warrior women coated in mud and grasping at her from all directions.
* * *
Only later that afternoon did she wake and realize that Mara was missing. The servant was not anywhere in Rikiar’s house and Berner said he had not seen her either. Aisling was worried, so she took it upon herself to search for the missing maidservant. It was a task that took her the better part of the afternoon and led her all around the village. She spoke to many people, some who claimed to have seen Mara, most of whom had not.
Eventually, Aisling circled around to the stables behind Rikiar’s home. There she followed what she fancied to be Mara’s footsteps all the way to the hayloft. She knew she was on to something when she noticed that the hay appeared to be sniffling.
“Mara?”
The sniffling stopped.
Aisling climbed up into the loft and began looking through the hay. She found Mara’s shoe first, and Mara shortly thereafter. Peering into the half-light with genuine concern, Aisling questioned the servant. “Why are you crying? Are you hurt?”
“Nobody likes me,” Mara sobbed.
Aisling crawled into the hay next to her. “That’s not true,” she said. “I like you. Rikiar likes you.”
“Rikiar said he only keeps me on because nobody else will have me. Helsa said I was always bad. You even wanted to beat me, and you’ve never beaten anyone in your life.”
“Just because you’re bad doesn’t mean people don’t like you,” Aisling said pragmatically.
“So I am bad!” Mara’s voice lifted in a wail.
“You know you’re bad,” Aisling said. “You’re proud of it.”
“I am not,” Mara sniffed. The tone of her voice told Aisling that Mara knew she was wrong. “Even if I am,” she continued, “it’s not nice hearing people say terrible things.”
“You could be good,” Aisling suggested.
“Like you? You’re not even actually good. You break more rules than I do. You just act all sweet and nice when you’re caught.” Mara’s gaze was accusatory.
“You and I are not the same,” Aisling said gently.
“I’m not a princess. I’m not Rikiar’s bride. I shouldn’t even be speaking to you,” Mara said, screwing her pretty nose up in rejection of the words coming out of her mouth.
“I meant we are different women,” Aisling reached out and squeezed Mara’s hand. “You are the only friend I have here. You are the only real friend I’ve ever had. I don’t want you to think I hate you.”
“Friends don’t beat friends, do they?”
“No,” Aisling said, shaking her head. “I didn’t like doing that. I won’t do it again.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Mara smiled. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Aisling said sweetly. “Shall we leave the loft? I think there are mice up here.” Something had been rustling in the far corner for as long as they had been talking.
“Oh, it’s not a mouse,” Mara said knowledgeably. “That’s a rat.”
Aisling squealed and scrambled out of the loft as fast as she could go, Mara’s laughter following her down into the evening air.
Chapter Seven
Days soon passed into weeks. Aisling began to grow comfortable with her lessons, Mara’s behavior improved a very slight bit, just enough to save her from whippings that made her cry, and Ravenblack Village began to feel like home.
Preparations were being made for the wedding, many of which took up both Aisling and Mara’s time. The decision of which wildflowers would adorn the bride’s hair took days. The decision as to which horses should pull the wedding cart took just as long. Helsa accused Aisling of being distracted many times, but with a kindly indulgence that Aisling very much appreciated.
Her gown was being sewn by the best dressmaker in the village. There were fittings galore, for the woman had never had an excuse to make anything so very ornate and had decided to create a gown fit not just for the chief’s bride, but for a queen.
One fine afternoon after a fitting, Aisling was left to her own devices. As was often the case, her devices became Mara’s devices and Mara soon had a plan to entertain the both of them.
“
Come,” Mara beamed. “I have a donkey.”
“Congratulations?” Aisling was not sure of the proper response one was supposed to give when a friend announced ownership of a donkey.
“No,” Mara frowned. “I mean, we have a donkey.”
“I don’t…”
“Stop being so dull-witted! I mean there is a donkey we can go out riding on. Into the fields and maybe up into the foothills. Or the forest, if you are really brave.”
“Does Rikiar know?”
“Does Rikiar know?” Mara mimicked her in an unfavorable tone of voice. “No,” she said boldly. “Rikiar doesn’t know. But Rikiar is busy today. This is the day he dispenses justice, so we can do as we like.”
“We should ask…”
“The point of doing fun things is not asking to do them,” Mara said crossly. “Has Rikiar ever told you not to go riding on a donkey?”
“Well, no,” Aisling admitted.
“Then it must be okay,” Mara concluded. “Now are you coming, or do you wish to sit here all day being boring?”
Aisling thought it was probably not a terribly good idea to go with Mara. She also thought that she would probably have a rather good time if she did go, as Mara always seemed to have a good time. At least until someone strapped her silly.
“There is a spring,” Mara said. “In the foothills. It always runs hot and it fills a pool that is always warm. It’s like magic. Warm magic.”
That piqued Aisling’s curiosity a little more. “How far is it?”
“Only an hour or so,” Mara said. “You can see the village from there.”
“Very well,” Aisling said, convinced. “Show me this donkey.”
The donkey was a charming beast with large dark eyes and a relaxed temperament. It stoically bore both Mara and Aisling away from the village and up toward the foothills where the hot pool was supposed to be.