Khari'na Made (Muse Book 1)

by Jean Winter

  A period of casual silence followed until Sal eventually said, “So, did you catch last week's disc game on the—?”

  The carriage jolted and suddenly skidded to a bumpy, slanted stop.

  As soon as they regained their balance, both men were clambering to the ground where the driver, Sullee, was already bent beside the frame assessing the damage. He swore when he saw the crooked front wheel and bent axle below the vehicle's floorboard. Then Sullee looked up. “Beg your pardon, my lords,” he said, apologizing for both his bad language and the unexpected inconvenience. “Are you two all right?”

  “Aye, we are just fine,” Kade answered. He and Sal squatted next to the man. Kade wanted to swear, too, when he saw the taxi's axle, clearly bent at a thirty degree angle near the center. It looked like the metal tubing just collapsed from wear. “Do you think you can jerry-rig that somehow to make it last until we get to town?” he asked doubtfully. Kade looked at his watch for the hundredth time. Two hours until auction.

  “Well, I can try to brace it, I suppose, my lord. I have some tools and spare parts in back. I canno' promise anything though. And it will take some time.”

  “What luck!” Sal exclaimed. He jumped up and began to pace randomly. “Where are we anyway? Probably still nearly an hour and a half away. How much time do you think it will take to get this buggy running again?”

  The stout and bow legged driver was already opening up his tool compartment. “I will only be able to answer that question, my lord, when I have finished the patch.”

  Kade shook his head. Blast! It looked like he was going to have to wait several more months for the next auction.

  With a deep sigh he took off his dress tunic and laid it on his seat. Then he removed his bow sash and began to roll up his sleeves. “Let me give you a hand with that.”

  For the next twenty minutes the three men worked to unhitch the team, jack up the carriage, and take the front wheels off. While their driver pounded away at bent tubing, Kade and Sal led the threshers to some grass on the side of the road.

  Sal patted the long, thick fur on the shoulder of the one he held and eyed his friend. “You know, brother, this kind o' thing would never be a problem if you would just pay to have your drives tracked. When are you going to let go o' any o' that money you have been saving up for the last who knows how many years?”

  “When I can afford to build a new house on the property,” Kade answered sourly. “You know that. Besides, I was planning on spending some o' it today.” His thresher's long, flexible nose nuzzled his arm and Kade felt the creature's small forepaws touch him near his hip, its agile, padded “fingers” obviously hoping for a hidden treat in a pant pocket. “Sorry, boy,” he said, rubbing the top part of its sensitive nose in a friendly manner. “I have nothing for you in this getup.”

  He tied the animal to a sturdy shade tree to graze and meandered down the lane a bit, putting his hands in his pockets as he gazed across the sleepy countryside. Sal followed.

  “Aye, but you must be getting close by now.”

  “Oh, I think I should be able to start drawing up plans with a contractor this fall and begin the groundbreaking next spring.”

  An encouraging hand was placed on his shoulder as Sal told him, “I will say one thing, no one but you could have turned that ranch around to start making a good profit again after so many years. You know, my offer to help you move things along a little faster still stands.”

  “Thank you, brother. I know. But no.”

  “Blast that wretched resolve o' yours!” Sal slapped him on the back, his good-natured smirk cracking between merry dimples.

  “Oy! My lords!” cried Sullee.

  The driver's finger was pointing up the road at a large, dirty barge pulled by a team of churung slowly ambling toward them. As it neared, Kade read Spit Shine Custom Mobile Parts painted in large, red letters on the side. The two friends hurried back to their taxi to greet this timely traveler.

  A barrel-shaped, middle-aged man, all scruff where hair was exposed and grease stains everywhere else, pulled up beside them, tipping his cap. “Good day to you, friends. Are you fine fellows havin' a little trouble with yer rig there?”

  “Aye, sir, as a matter o' fact we are,” replied Sullee. “I am afraid my axle is bent. I am trying to fix it enough to transport these gentlemen the rest o' the way into Caldreen this afternoon.”

  “Ha! Well, what do you know?” the barge driver laughed in a most amused away, heartily slapping his thigh. Kade and Sal gave each other looks. Then Kade noted the small collection of beer bottles rolling idly on the seat beside the stranger. Most of them were uncorked and empty.

  The man chortled. “Do you know that I do no' usually travel this way from S'looth to Wern? But just an hour ago, I was leaving home and, says I to myself, 'Yute,'—fer that is my name—'Yute, why no' take the scenic route today?' And since I always listen to myself, I did.”

  “But, my good man—” Sal began.

  “Yute. My friends call me Yute, friend.”

  “Yute.” Sal humored the drunk. “Do you realize that coming this way is adding nearly three hours to your journey?”

  “Three hours, you say?” Yute echoed, taking off his hat and scratching his head. “Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time …” Then, his thoughtful expression brightened. “Ah, but if I had gone the usual way, I would no' have time to finish this fine quantity o' spirit nectar here.” Very pleased with his conclusion, Yute merrily lifted the bottle propped at his side and took a healthy swig. Then, he looked upon his company, suddenly embarrassed. “Great gutlins, where are my manners? I beg you pardon my rudeness, good sirs. Would any o' you care fer one?” Two more bottles were taken by the necks and held out.

  “Why, that is very generous o' you, friend Yute,” Sal said quickly. “My throat is feeling rather parched.” He took a hopeful step forward, but Kade's hand on his chest stayed his feet. Sal shot him a grumpy look.

  Kade addressed the man. “Am I to guess correctly—Yute—that you might have something in there that would repair this vehicle?”

  “Might have something? Might, you ask?” Yute's belly shook heavily as he laughed. “Yer lordships, sirs, this is yer lucky day indeed! Er, which one o' you offered yer proper oblations to the moon gods this morning, I wonder?” The inebriated man chortled at his own joke. “Someone wants you to make it to Caldreen today, I do no' doubt it. No, I do no' doubt it, indeed!”

  Kade patience was thinning. “Good sir—”

  “Yute,” Yute corrected again. “My friends call me Yute, friend.”

  “Yute.” And Kade ignored Sal's jab to his ribs. “Are you able to help us repair this carriage?”

  “Repair it? Repair it! Why, o' course I can.” Yute struggled to scoot his bulk to the side and ease his way to the ground. “What a silly question that is.” The built-in step on the side of the barge, set about two feet off the ground, made for a short hop resulting in a rather unsteady landing. “Whoa there!” But once his squiffed inner ear became master of the planet's orbit again, he stood up fully. Yute tugged at his trousers, sagging despite the effort of sturdy suspenders, and addressed them grandly. “Yer lordships, right back there in my barge you will find the most beautiful collection o' carriage axles yer eyes will ever be privileged to behold.”

  Another skeptical glance between the friends. Then Sal said, “Is that so, my good man? Just how many are you talking about.”

  “Oh, nigh about a hundred I would say, all stacked in pretty rows running the whole length o' Ole Sharlissa here.” He proudly patted the barge's side wall. “I deal wholesale to repair shops and am on my way making deliveries.”

  This news was surely too good to be true. Who would have believed the coincidence? Kade, Sal, and Sullee followed Yute to the back of the barge whereupon the doors were opened wide. Daylight flooded in, dispersing the darkness and revealing a specialized shelving system that allowed axles to be neatly stacked upright in two rows through the thirty foo
t length of the unit.

  Sal gave a low whistle. “Well, will you look at that?” He turned to Kade with a jerk of his thumb toward the shelves. “Axle rows.”

  The right one was soon found and all four men assisted in replacing the part and making the carriage travel-ready once again. Kade was surprised how quickly the job went. In no time, the threshers were back in place, Yute was paid by Sullee, and the two men were patting shoulders in parting. Kade checked his watch again. One hour!

  “Well, I may no' have time to do any scouting,” he told Sal, “but we might still make it for most o' the sales.”

  Thanking Yute once more for his most generous assistance, Kade felt somewhere inside that he might also express gratitude to some greater power, but he knew no such entity nor how to speak to it. His culture's fondness for making references to gods of the moons and elements were only expressions. Ancient myths and legends. No one really believed in those things anymore. He didn't appreciate the concept of extraterrestrial beings somehow dictating his fate according to their passing wills and pleasure, anyway. It made him feel like a microbeetle crawling across a vast desert landscape under the scrutiny of some “moon mother” who, in a sudden fit of random temper, might step on him just to make herself feel better. No. He much preferred to just call it luck and be done.

  From inside the coach they waved to Yute and Ole Sharlissa rolling past. With a wave back, Yute lustily struck up a merry song—interspersed with frequent pauses for another swig from a sun-warmed bottle, while his barge's back end expounded an inspiring valedictory bromide in bold script.

  I listen to the voices in my toolbox

  “I rather like that Yute,” Sal reflected happily. “And why you would no' let me share a sip o' spirits with such an amiable fellow, mate, I do no' know.”

  “I need you sober until after the bidding is over.”

  Sullee appeared at the window. “Are you two gents ready to take leave o' this fine wayside spot?”

  “More than.”

  Kade gave in to his watch's incessant need to be looked at one more time and, taking notice, Sal turned to the driver. “So, Sullee,” he began in a rather conversational manner, “would you say that this buggy is back in tip top shape?”

  “Aye, I would, my lord.”

  “And would you agree that your young yoke o' threshers there are rested and raring to go?”

  “Indeed, my lord.”

  Sal nodded approvingly. “Very good. Well, my good friend here is very anxious to make it to the capital as swiftly as possible for a certain important event that happens to begin just shy o' an hour.”

  “I understand, my lord. We will pick up the pace a bit.”

  “Aye,” Sal readily agreed, “but I would like to inquire o' one more thing first.” Out came Sal's wallet, positively bulging with rednotes. He began to finger through them. “I am wondering just how fast your pretty pair can go.”

  A portion was handed to the driver whose eyes grew a touch. “Well, my good lords, shall we find out?”

  “Now that is a good man!” Sal playfully tapped Kade's leg with his cane. “Brother, how did we end up so fortunate today to find ourselves in such good company?”

  Pocketing the cash, Sullee leaped to his driver's seat like a coiled spring just released. “Hold on to your pant seats, my lords!” he called as he snapped the reins. “This might get a little bumpy!”

  CHAPTER 8

  Lyra prayed—harder than she ever had in her entire life.

  She thanked the Eternal Father for deliverance into the hands of good people—Maehan, Mr. Hundt—and asked for blessings on their heads according to the kindness they had each shown her. She spoke words of gratitude for her returning health, and prayed for the safety and well-being of her children, as well as the rest of her family and friends, too.

  Then Lyra pled profusely for forgiveness of her neglect, her forgetfulness, and recommitted herself to more diligent faithfulness. She also prayed for the ability to continue to fulfill her stewardship. She prayed in the sacred language and order handed down from God himself to His holy prophets and immortalized in scripture verse—just as she had been taught to do all her life.

  With head bowed and hands clasped, kneeling before her God, Lyra continued in humble petition to the Creator of the Universe to watch over her, to be mindful of her predicament. She was facing impending sexual servitude and she needed guidance. She needed direction. She needed to know what to do!

  What options does one really have with no allies and a deadly tracking implant screwed into one's bones? Lyra wasn't sure. She could make herself so sick she couldn't go on stage. She could try to dig the thing out of herself. What would Hundt do if she came to him begging for possession of her tracker so she could make a run for it?

  No. None seemed a viable choice. Anything she could think of only seemed to lead her right back to where she was now—but in bigger trouble—or dead. But wait.

  Might death be an answer?

  Suicide was a terrible sin, Lyra knew this, but was it suicide to fight to the death to defend your honor?

  An uncomfortable stirring in her soul steered her thoughts to an even more difficult dilemma. Her stewardship was worth dying for, yes … but was it worth living for, as well?

  A morose weight settled thickly on her with this thought. She had covenanted to keep the contents of that box safe, and choosing a course of action resulting in her demise could be construed as breaking her promise. She would be leaving her backpack in the hands of the enemy. Giving it up to the very people she was supposed to hide it from. Lyra's spirit groaned.

  Please, no, Father. Please send a miracle. Pass this bitter cup from me. Don't ask me to give up my virtue for Thee! I have sacrificed so much already. A tear ran unchecked down her cheek.

  A light knock sounded and Lyra, finishing her prayer quickly, wiped her face dry.

  Thy will be done, but a special miracle would be really great about now.

  Somehow, by virtue of the peace that comes naturally from sincere communication with God, Lyra felt a little better, and in faith, she left the spot of floor made warm by her kneeling. Taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders, she opened the door … and found herself greeting a young and rather extreme-looking couple loaded with organizer totes and various appurtenances. No kindly old Keeper in sight.

  They didn't wait for an invitation, but just carried themselves in, smiling brightly as they unloaded their paraphernalia onto Lyra's bed.

  “'Na Lyra?” the woman said, stepping rather close to peer at her intently through unnaturally black lashes.

  “Uh, can I help you?” Bewildered, Lyra acknowledged herself with a curtsy while the man started to circle her, examining every inch up and down, as if he were critiquing a piece of art.

  The woman, fuchsia-haired, perhaps mid-twenties, chirped, “I am Mar'go and this is my brother, Go'mar.” Lyra must have looked at her funny because her vibrantly glossed lips stretched into a crooked grin. “Aye, we are twins and, aye, our parents had a weird sense o' humor.”

  Mar'go's attire, bright and sharp as her hair, was practically molded to her body, except for the long, flowing skirt wrap cut at an extreme angle from the thigh of one leg to the foot of the opposite. She sported a colorful, stylized zethrin tattoo running up her neck, the uppermost wingtips extending past one jawbone to end delicately just below her cheek while the beast's writhing tail dipped across her breast to an unknown end below. It held a flower in its mouth.

  Her brother had hair dyed white as snow, styled up in short, wavy spikes. He shared his sister's fashion sense, minus the skirt and zeth tattoo. Instead, Go'mar had decorated himself with a shimmering gold tattoo that made a concentric circle around his right eye. The tribal themed line work was very intricate, making it appear as if he had mystic powers. Lyra figured the sibling pair was probably considered ultra chic in their own social circles.

  As fraternal twins go, they looked no more alike than brother and sister, bu
t they did share a strong family resemblance in their wide, pleasant features and light, freckled skin, and guessing from their eyebrows, also a true hair color of berry blond.

  Sweeping up one of Lyra's hands, Mar'go began a scrutiny of her fingernails. “We are friends o' Maehan—Ooh, when was the last time you had your cuticles pushed? She wired us a little while ago asking for our expert help in—how did she phrase it, brother?—a particularly singular makeover.” Her brother “hmm-ed” in the affirmative and continued his silent appraisal. “How could we say no to such an intriguing request? Oh, and she wanted us to tell you that she was sorry she had no' the time to come introduce us personally.” Mar'go went on to an examination of Lyra's calloused elbows. “… Some blond started throwing a fit that she was no' to be auctioned today.”

  “Oh,” Lyra said, trying really hard to take Mar'go's utter disregard for personal space in stride. “Um, I guess you are stylists?”

  The woman stepped back in astonishment.“Have you no' ever heard o' 'Go-Two's Salon and Styles'?”

  Lyra didn't have time to answer, for Go'mar came to a stop beside his sister, and in a light, airy tenor said, “A little more than two hours to 'magic' time, sis. Shall we discuss our game plan on the way to the bath house?”

  “We shall, brother.”

  The twins grabbed some of the things they had brought and the door was opened for Lyra to lead the way. The couple followed right behind.

  “Maehan was right,” Lyra heard Go'mar tell his sister, sounding quite enthused. “This should prove to be a most interesting challenge.”

  Lyra wondered if she should be offended.

  Then a twin consult ensued. “Gracious gods, we only have one hour until she needs to leave with everyone for the Coliseum! All right, you stay with her to get her bath, buff, and shave done then you can start on her hair.” Gulp. Was that Mar'go telling her brother to help with the bathing? “I have the lotions and oils right here. Do you have the hair dryer?”