Khari'na Made (Muse Book 1)

by Jean Winter

  The reflection—his own reflection—was considerably revolting. His beard and hair, matted and crusted from earlier wind and sweat, hadn't been trimmed in weeks. A layer of dirt practically smothered his face, and his entire frame clothed in his pullover work tunic and coarsely woven leggings was a dusty, dung-smeared mess.

  Well, maybe “deranged hermit” wasn't quite accurate.

  It was worse.

  He actually looked like a diseased cave gorilla who had just lost a fight with a swamp slog trying to pass for a deranged mountain hermit.

  The face in the mirror scowled. It was times like these that sometimes made him second-guess his choice to abnegate the family fortune and take over his family's generations old farm against his mother's will. Making sheep one's life could certainly take a toll on one's appearance. And “one's” appearance was showing it today.

  Resigned, Kade turned and watched the outline of the woman's cloak get smaller and smaller. Well, it was better this way, anyway. Complications, remember?

  Still, he remained there, long after her figure was swallowed up in the crowd. Customers sidled past him as his mind replayed each moment of that brief interaction.

  Those eyes.

  Her glow.

  The sound of her voice when she—Kade's lungs suddenly interrupted his thoughts.

  Breathe, stupid.

  CHAPTER 6

  Lyra was too nervous to look back until she had gone about four blocks. When she did, all appeared clear—no familiar faces—so Lyra slowed her pace and made herself shrug off the creepy feeling of being followed. Jon always did say she was on another planet when she poked her nose in a book. It seemed he was right after all.

  That man—that baker. What was his deal? He said he hadn't followed her in, but …

  Voices inside whispered that he was no pastry merchant. His dress was of a common workhand's. Lyra shook her head. That didn't make sense, either. The lilt of his speech, his bearing, his manner … If she hadn't smelled the dung on his clothes herself, she would have pegged him for a gentleman.

  And those eyes. Like the turbulent sky before a spring rain—

  No! Lyra irksomely shoved that last thought aside before it got any further and crossed the final street that brought her back to the holding station. She unloaded her shopping and massaged her tired arms as she went to meet Mr. Hundt.

  He was already waiting for her, the pleasant scent of his shampoo hanging about him once more, and Lyra wondered if this was another product of sisterly influence. The thought almost made her smile.

  She was given a note after returning the extra money. It was from Maehan, asking her to finish the prep kits and bring them to her in the smaller commons room once she'd had a chance to eat. Polite goodbyes were exchanged with Mr. Hundt then Lyra headed straight to dinner, her stomach leading the way. Evidently, all that walking and shopping had made her hungry.

  In the large commons room that also served as the dining area, almost everyone else had already finished and gone. Lyra loaded up a plate and took some pleasure in reacquainting herself with her previously estranged appetite, until she noticed she was quite alone with Snivelee wiping down tables. A few more quick bites and she left before he got too close.

  The preparation kits took another hour to finish. She stacked them in a large box on a dolly and wheeled them to where the Keeper was in full-swing orientation. All the khari'na were there. Lyra quietly placed the dolly just inside the door and sat on a nearby chair to listen.

  Details of the joining custom the girls would perform for their new lords after the auction were being discussed. Apparently, there was kneeling involved with some recitation. (The only formality of the otherwise mundane transaction that was the purchase of another human being.) Then, a new lecture was broached: What to expect the first week in your new home.

  Stifled yawns and overall bored expressions predominated, the attention span threshold having been exceeded an hour ago. Maehan was similarly nearing the end of her patience stores. No one was listening. With a terse wave of her hand, she finally just opened the floor for questions.

  Everyone sat up straighter.

  “Do we get to choose our own necklet?” one of the new, redheaded recruits asked first.

  “That depends. Your new lord might already have one for you.”

  “What if he is really old?” said another. Giggles cascaded through the room.

  “He is still your lord and you will perform your duties to him as he desires.”

  “Even if he has trouble … you know …” More giggles.

  “Aye,” was the flat reply.

  “Will we have to do cooking and cleaning as well?” a bored voice called from the back.

  “Aye,” someone else whined, “that cleaning stuff chafes my hands—“

  “You will do exactly what is commanded o' you and nothing less!” Maehan snapped.

  Everything went quiet and the girls stared at their Keeper who glared right back. “You already know this,” the old woman urged in exasperation. “Do no' forget that your life depends on your ability to keep your lord happy. The laws do no' favor khari'na in matters o' domestic disputes.”

  Young women shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Then a nervous, high voice inquired, “But what if we try hard to please him and he is still … cruel?”

  A deathly silence followed.

  Maehan motioned for Lyra to begin passing out the kits. Her features softened. “There is a card in each o' these bags with the wire numbers o' the three main khari'na holding stations on the caravan's circuit. Should you have reason to fear for your safety, wire the one nearest you and you will have a chance to plead your case with a Keeper.” She drew in a deep breath. “My girls, your lord's well-being is your first priority. Any other work is irrelevant if you canno' handle that.”

  There were solemn nods and murmurings of assent. They had all heard about where returned khari'na could be sent. They had all heard about the state in which some khari'na were returned. Lyra's outer shell of polite disinterest began to wear dangerously thin as she distributed the kits.

  … egotistical, self-serving, hypocritical, slobbering brutes who have the gall to call themselves gentlemen!

  “But, do you want to know a secret I learned long ago about lords?” Maehan said, her voice suddenly sheathed in a tone that set every ear to tingling and every eye to watching. “The khari'na who pleases her lord best will find she is able to hold a certain influence that can pay off in many ways. When exercised carefully, she can enjoy privileges of society and wealth that would make even a lady jealous.”

  The woman winked and a general intake of breath was heard. Lyra rolled her eyes. She had no doubt what Maehan said was true. What was the phrase her people used to describe the underlying major influences of this society? Sex, lies, and politics?

  When the kits were all distributed, permission was given to look inside. The atmosphere instantly transformed to birthday party mode. Everyone eagerly tore through their bags while Lyra worked her way past flying arms and exuberant cries to kneel at Maehan's side. “Will you need any more from me tonight?”

  “Aye,” Maehan said softly. “Please take my personals to our room—the local Keeper will show you which one—then return here to me. The day spent in this chair has no' been kind on my legs. I am afraid I will require help getting to bed tonight.”

  Lyra kissed the old hand trembling with fatigue, and rose. The Keeper smiled affectionately upon her before turning back to her young, enthusiastic charges. “Your final auction preparation will begin on the road tomorrow with manicures and—Ekili, please do no' take anything out o' its original packaging until it is time to be used …”

  Lyra left the room, another small grin reawakening nearly forgotten laugh lines.

  The Keeper of the Bansool holding facility was much younger than Maehan, and of a much more severe countenance. She resembled a boot camp sergeant, barking off rules and regulations while showing the way. Lyra became even
more grateful for her own sweet, old Keeper.

  The room, with its dilapidated vanity, mirror cracked in two places, and accompanying rusty metal chair, was not much more inviting than the prison cell in Flantilly, except it had real beds. Beds with frames and mattresses. Fitted sheets and full-size pillows. Everything. Lyra flopped onto one as soon as the Bansool Keeper left, stretching her body luxuriously to its full extent. Ahhhhh!

  She had never owned a real bed. They were too bulky for nomads like the Believers to transport. Jon did an admirable job of keeping their homespun bedcase stuffed with fleece and soft, dried grasses, but that was nothing compared to the even comfort of the hornroot's spongy, empty seed pods used in these commercial mattresses. Lyra's fingers lazily ran across the thin, silky sheets by her head. She should sleep well tonight—troublesome nightmares notwithstanding.

  When Lyra returned to the commons room, Maehan was fielding questions about etiquette in upper-class social situations, but soon concluded the evening and briskly sent everyone to bed. Not only did Maehan end up needing help to her feet, she required support heading down the corridor to the sleeping quarters, as well.

  “I am so glad you could do that shopping for me,” she told Lyra. “I do no' think I would have made it myself today. Did everything go well?”

  Lyra nodded vigorously. “It was quite enjoyable, actually. I have never seen so many shops and people and fine things for sale, all in one place, in my life.” Wow. Was she gushing?

  “Ah. There is that elusive smile on my little wildcat,” Maehan observed, pleased. “We have no' seen much o' it yet. Do you think your broken heart is finally beginning to heal?”

  Lyra sobered at the thought. “Well, all hearts mend with time, right?”

  She remembered she hadn't cried once today. Also, the constant dullness in her chest seemed less present. Pangs of longing and worry still spiked on occasion, but they weren't as intense anymore.

  It was a start.

  Lyra helped Maehan through her bedtime routine, eventually ending up at the vanity, Lyra brushing out Maehan's thinning, white hair. Lyra began to hum softly. It quite surprised her. It seemed like the music was all gone out of her these days, but this was a favorite lullaby. She often sang it to her girls while combing the day's tangles away and tucking them—

  Suddenly the music got stuck in her throat.

  Yeah, singing was not helpful anymore. Now she just felt … drained. Between the mirror's cracks, Lyra noticed that her eyes had welled up. Reddening. Ready to overflow again. Oh well, maybe tomorrow.

  “Lyra, who taught you to do that?” Maehan's question broke through her thoughts. The woman was staring oddly at her through the reflection.

  Lyra quickly blinked the moisture away. “Do what? Brush hair?”

  Cry?

  “No. Your … singing, your—” Maehan hesitated.

  “Oh, that? Uh, I—I just like to do it.” At least, I used to. “I'm sorry, was it bothering you?”

  “No, no. Just—“ Maehan stopped. “Never mind. Thank you, my dear. I think I am ready to lie down now.”

  And before Lyra could put the brush down to help, Maehan rose and went to her bed.

  Lyra did sleep more comfortably than she had in a long time. Deep and calm.

  … the colors of honey and storm clouds …

  “I meant no harm … Miss!”

  Her lids flashed open to the light of morning creeping across the cracked, plaster ceiling above. Lyra yawned and stretched, trying to remember what she had been dreaming about. The memory was like a thick fog, present but ungraspable. It faded.

  Oh well. At least the nightmares had not returned. That was a first.

  Lyra soon discovered she wasn't the only one that liked her bed. Maehan looked much better this morning. Rejuvenated.

  In fact, everyone seemed in high anticipation to get on with the day. Most of the girls had never been to the capital city, Lyra among them, and with no tents to break down, the caravan got under way quickly.

  Lyra's first task entailed helping with manicures. However, her services were quickly commandeered by the barber/laborer in the next coach when her tongue accidentally blabbed that she had experience cutting hair. He was quite enthused to have a partner.

  “But I am not a professional by any means! Just family really.”

  “Girls?”

  “A few.”

  “That will do,” he grinned broadly. “Most o' these heads only need a trim anyway.”

  An air of festivity permeated the coach, akin to the sleepovers Lyra's daughters would plan, and she got an earful of all the gossip there was to tell between young women looking forward to entering lives associated with high society. Extremely rich family names were passed around like candy. Rumors of their extravagant lifestyles, tasted with hungry speculation.

  Hot debate erupted over certain notoriously eligible bachelors and who was more handsome or charming. At the top was Lord Devor D'Pendul, son of the supreme chancellor, himself. This was news to Lyra. Who knew that the tyrannical embodiment of all that was evil and unjust in this world had a son?

  The knowledge was third hand, colored by servants, adapted by merchants, and shaped into town news, but nobody cared. It was fun.

  Unfortunately, Lyra also learned more than she ever wanted about many of the young women's past conquests—in explicit, full-color detail. They boasted of long lists of boyfriends. Steamy one-night stands. The occasional married dignitary bearing gifts.

  “What about you, Lyra? Tell us about your first time.”

  Lyra looked up, startled. She had been in the middle of taming a head of coal black curls. All eyes were turned on her, expectant, curious about the unusual, more mature shadow of the Keeper who kept to herself.

  “Oh, uh, nothing unusual or exciting, really,” she stammered. What was the story Maehan had made up in her file? Lyra suddenly couldn't remember a thing. “You won't want to hear about it, I'm sure.”

  No one was deterred. The head of hair she was working on spoke up. “We want to hear, Lyra. Come now. Spill the palts.”

  “I bet she does have something real good to tell and she wants to keep it a secret,” a voice guessed.

  “Mr. Hundt seems to enjoy your company enough. You must have a few skills you are working to get someone like him to notice you.”

  Lyra didn't see who made that last comment. She only knew she had begun to blush violently. To think that she and Hundt and their few, innocent interactions had become a topic of gossip!

  Drat. She had better say something. “… Well, honestly, my first time was on the night of my, uh, joining.” Use that word.

  There were gasps all around. “No way!”, “Are you serious?”, “You must be joking!”

  “It's true,” she shrugged, taking another snip of ebony. “I wanted to save myself for one man.”

  “It must have been awkward—your first time on a night like that,” the black curls said.

  “No. It really wasn't.”

  The memory of Jon on their wedding night suddenly washed over her. He had taken her in his arms in the privacy of their newly erected home, and his kiss—it held something new. Something more fervent. Something terribly exciting.

  Lyra remembered his husky murmur of her name, his first husbandly touch and the shooting tingles it left behind. She remembered the giddy pleasure of being undressed by warm, solicitous hands, and the heat of his body against hers. Somewhat shyly at first she had encouraged his advances. But within Jon's attentive presence, under his careful, considerate hand, the timidity soon progressed to eager discovery where, to a duet of wildly beating hearts, two innocents became one. Husband and wife. Lovers.

  Her first time? It was fevered anticipation. It was blessed release. It was needing and giving.

  Plunging and soaring.

  It was … exquisite.

  A chorus of blissful sighs arose, and with a start, Lyra realized she must have expressed that last bit out loud.

  “Tha
t is soooooo romantic,” Black Curls gushed.

  A moment of thoughtful silence followed. Then a mischievous voice trilled, “I would never have been able to wait that long. I like men too much.” The coach instantly burst into squeals and giggles.

  Thankfully, the conversation moved on to other things and Lyra was let off the hook, but not before one round-faced girl caught her eye with a shy smile before turning away.

  Phew!

  By the time every head was neatly trimmed and every nail perfectly smooth and polished, it was well past midday. Lyra brushed her perspiring forehead with a weary back of her hand, cramping fingers limp and red. She helped clean up then threw herself onto a padded bench to rest for a minute.

  The air drifting in from open windows had taken a humid turn. They had dropped further in elevation as they continued coastward and Lyra took in a lung full of blessed, oxygen-rich air.

  Suddenly, there it was—Caldreen City—erupting hazily along the horizon.

  Whomping wetworms! (as her children would say) It's huge!

  Dark roofs stretched for miles like a blob of thick, brown oil settling puddle-like across the otherwise bright green landscape. A massive clump of altitude-defying buildings grew near the middle, each one fighting its neighbor for domination of the sky. The caravan drew closer and the slight haze blurring the city revealed itself to be more than just atmospheric distortion. Tree-size factory smokestacks blew up black clouds that hung grayish and murky, as if trying to obscure the glory of the great city from prying eyes.

  “The population just surpassed half a million, last I heard,” Maehan said from the door.

  Lyra continued peering out the window. “How can so many people live so near each other all at once?”

  “Oh, somehow they seem to manage quite well. Caldreen is emerging as the superpower o' the continent. It is only a matter o' time before its banners stretch from ocean to ocean across the whole land.”

  Lyra blanched at the thought. “Have you eaten yet?” she said.

  “Aye. And you need to as well before the food is put away. Go on. Have a few minutes to yourself before we reach the city. Remember, we still have the dress shop today.”