Khari'na Made (Muse Book 1)

by Jean Winter

  The linen sheet shielded everything overhead and the wet ground had to be watched as she ran. Lyra couldn't tell at all toward what kind of structure they were heading. It was only after they entered a large gate and found shelter in the form of a dark brick hall that they slowed a little and she could peer about her. There was not much to see.

  Lyra began to shiver. Her gown did nothing to insulate her from the chill, damp air, and the ground was frigid against the soles of her feet.

  They turned into a different passageway then descended a set of stairs before continuing along a more narrow hall that finally ended in a set of double doors. Here, everyone paused for breath. It didn't do much for Lyra. A tumbling circus act had begun in her stomach, and she started shivering inside as well as out.

  “Welcome to the Coliseum, 'Na Lyra,” Go'mar said grandly.

  The metal hinges creaked as the door opened into a huge indoor arena. The floor stretched at least a hundred and fifty yards to the other side, and around the oval-shaped perimeter, extending upward for rows and rows, were long wooden benches. A high, domed ceiling floated seventy-five feet above it all.

  “This place must seat thousands!” Lyra exclaimed in hushed awe.

  “Eight thousand three hundred and thirty, to be exact. It sure beats the little hall where the auctions used to be five years ago,” Mar'go said.

  Go'mar beamed. “This architectural marvel is Caldreen's pride and glory. The largest known man-made structure to date.”

  “All this for the k-k-khari'na auctions?” Lyra's teeth had begun to chatter. Mar'go quickly wrapped the linen round her shoulders. It was damp, but it was better than nothing.

  “No,” Go'mar laughed. “This is where all the major sporting, musical, and political events happen. Then, all these benches are filled all the way to the top. The auctions are a much more intimate affair. Only the upper class are allowed in to watch and participate.”

  They took her onto removable, stained wood flooring that covered more than half of the arena floor. Above, the space was lit with modern electric bulbs made to resemble elegant torches and sconces. Many of the lights were not on, creating a more intimate ambiance.

  Go'mar led her past round tables that seated four, each covered with a white, satiny tablecloth. At this time, however, only some hosted formally dressed gentlemen enjoying drinks together.

  To Lyra's left a modest-sized stage rose up to a level of about three feet. It boasted a catwalk center front that extended right past the first few rows of tables. Draped above was a huge national flag.

  Hired hands were still constructing the stage's final details. Others tested the overhead spotlighting before a tall, richly textured background curtain that was pulled partially open. A worker pounded loudly away at something behind. Lyra averted her eyes.

  Don't worry about going up there yet. You'll ford that river later.

  A new prayer for strength and courage pressed upon her chilled lips as she followed Go'mar up a few steps to the first level of spectator seating. It was about ten feet deep with the space having been partitioned lengthwise by a single rope suspended a few feet off the ground. The khari'na stood on the outside of the rope while interested buyers walked up and down the length on the inner. This was where the majority of the gentlemen mingled. The social hour was more than halfway through.

  Mar'go lifted the barrier for Lyra to duck under and a few nearby gentlemen turned to look, interested at the latecomer. Lyra willed her teeth to stop chattering as she clutched her makeshift cloak about her harder. It was definitely warmer in here, but her cold extremities weren't all that was making her tremble.

  They had Lyra sit on the second level step. Mar'go took up where she left off with Lyra's makeup while Go'mar hovered around her head, checking for unruly hairs that had escaped their bounds. From this relatively safe distance, Lyra observed the other khari'na and their suitors.

  It was soon evident that the flimsy rope barrier was only a suggestion. There was nearly as much friendly, flirtatious touching as get-to-know-you dialogue—like the khari'na in the bright magenta gown that was greeted with a caress to the side of her neck before the man's fingers slid over her front, searching their way across the thin, clingy fabric to her hip. The sight inspired in Lyra a few choice words regarding her first impression of Caldreen'n high society lords.

  She wanted to look away. Badly. But she made herself keep watching. She had to; she would be over there herself in just a few more breaths.

  Thankfully, it was also soon made manifest that not all of the patrons were so uncouth. One lord moved along the rope line at a steady pace, nodding kindly to each woman he passed. Granted, he also looked about eighty-five and traveled in a wheelchair, but Lyra didn't let this fact extinguish her tiny spark of hope. Besides, it seemed that the khari'na being groped most were the ones really encouraging it, the ones willing to do whatever it took to intrigue the richest and handsomest gentlemen they could get to glance their way. Lyra didn't know whether she should be disgusted or simply pity their upbringing. On the other hand, they were khari'na after all. This was their purpose.

  “Done!” Mar'go proclaimed.

  She and her brother stood before Lyra to admire their work.

  “Very nice,” Go'mar admitted, “but the bet still stands.”

  “You are on, bro!” This time, Mar'go's punch in the arm was more affectionate.

  “Um, do either of you have a mirror or something?” Lyra desperately wondered what her stylists had made of her. What will the animals be seeing?

  Mar'go grimaced. “Ooh, sorry. I forgot to grab one.”

  “Do no' worry, 'Na Lyra. You look maahhrrrvelous.” Go'mar said, drawing the word out comically with a wink, but Lyra could only give a token grin in return. Her fingers maintained a white-knuckled grip of her security blanket linen round her. Go'mar kindly knelt to help her with her shoes after which he and his sister stood before her.

  “Good luck,” they said, each twin giving her one more encouraging smile. Then suddenly they were gone—melding with the crowd of bodies on the other side of the rope.

  Wait! Uh …

  Lyra felt utterly alone.

  Her heart started racing and the continuous prayer in her heart intensified ten fold. Blessed heavenly hosts! How did she ever think for a second that she could do this with the poised calm she had promised Hundt? Impossible. She was scared out of her wits. She would be seen as old and dowdy and no lord with the kind of money Maehan wished for her was going to look at her twice. She would be sold at the starting bid to one of the whorehouse bordellos.

  Father help me!

  Building tears threatened to run down Mar'go's carefully applied makeup, until Lyra noticed something—something at her feet that was not there a moment ago. She breathed out in surprise. It was a single, long-stemmed flower. A lilicanth!

  She bent over to pick it up. These were her favorite.

  A scan of the crowd up and down the lane brought no results. No face looked like the considerate “guilty” party. In fact, many bodies were wandering back to the arena floor. They wanted to get good seats before the show began.

  Disappointed, Lyra's eyes returned to the beautiful bloom in her hand. She gently stroked the velvety, cupped-shaped petals, their fluted edges, a fitting showcase to the blush pink pistil and stamens arcing gracefully from the base like a fountain. Her spirits lifted as she breathed in its heavenly scent. The lilicanth had great meaning among her people. In their scriptures, it was symbolic of purity and light. More importantly, it was also closely associated with strength and power.

  God must be watching out for her. She was going to be okay.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Clasping the flower to her breast, suddenly the room full of life-sucking egomaniacs in swash tunics and satin weren't so scary anymore. They seemed more like a bunch of bratty, spoiled boys that needed to be reminded how to treat a woman. A smoldering indignation warmed Lyra's chilled veins. Strengthening h
er. Creating focus.

  Okay. It was time to play the game.

  Lyra scanned nearby faces for a likely first candidate—some shamefully rich soul that really needed a healthy dose of feminine manipulation. She met eyes with a bulbous-nosed, rather stodgy countenance pasted under a comb-over that had lost its effectiveness ten years ago. He raked her up and down with great interest. Lyra noted his doughy hands flaunting more jeweled rings than he had fingers.

  Too much money, not enough brain. Perfect.

  With a smile, she let her linen slip into soft folds on the floor around her, and Lyra breathed in the lilicanth's heady perfume one more time.

  Then the flower tipped out from delicate, manicured fingers to plop softly at her feet, the bloom discarded for something infinitely more desirable: that of the nubile dish of wealth, wittiness, and power before her hot, pining limbs; gracing her with his notice and attentions; a man that she could happily make her whole world and never want for anything else ever again.

  At least, as far as he knew.

  One hip at a time, Lyra ambulated toward him. The man squared his shoulders in preparation to meet her, his smile growing broader with her every step, her every promising glance from under insinuating lashes.

  Dear Heaven and Earth, please don't let me trip in these heels now!

  “Good afternoon, my lord,” Lyra said with a tip of her head. “I trust I find you well on this fine day.”

  “Very well,” he replied, looking extremely pleased. “Lord B'ohkyn, at your service, miss—looking forward to a beauty like you, perhaps, soon being at mine.”

  Lyra didn't disappoint the ego's effort at cleverness. She tilted her head, grinning in amusement, but when his right arm twitched in a move for her waist, Lyra deftly caught it at the wrist.

  “Oh, not so, my lord,” she said, her levity twisting to an alluring scold. “My services are earned, and first, you must prove over there,” she indicated the stage with her chin, “that you can afford me.” Teasingly placing his arm back at his side, she made it quite clear that he should keep his crystal studded fingers to himself.

  “Indeed,” replied the lord in wonderment.

  “Now,” Lyra said, eyes still locked on his, “what would you like to discuss next?”

  In such manner, Lyra attracted the attentions of a steady stream of lords—sometimes two and three at a time.

  To the question, “What is your name?”, she'd answer softly, “That depends. What would my lord like to call me?”

  When asked of her talents or skills, she'd laugh. “Oh, I am tolerably efficient at a number of things … but only the man who wins me tonight will learn the limits of what I'm really capable,” (a subtly meaningful graze of him up and down) “or able to master, given a little time.”

  At an inquiry regarding her gown, she gave a mysterious grin. “It was custom made by a khari'na for a ghost, decades ago, but I fear it is doomed to remain an absolute one-of-a-kind, seeing as how this silk in this quantity is nigh impossible to find anymore.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Well, wasn't the worm's habitat nearly decimated in the hostile takeover by our own army? It is such a shame. That entire, beautiful, islander culture is now lost forever.”

  “I think my 'lady,'” (said in enamored, though slightly patronizing tone) “does no' understand the intricacies o' foreign commerce and how much more expensive free trade would have been.”

  (Bat the eyelashes.) “But aren't we still unable to replicate the islander's traditional silk synthesis process? The quality, I hear, is greatly diminished.”

  At the poorly concealed astonishment and a fumbled answer of confidence in Caldreen eventually cracking the mystery and successfully building up the worms' population again, Lyra heartily agreed.

  “Oh, I have no doubt. The men of Caldreen are so clever and intelligent. It's just that … I wonder if our leaders may have acted a little rashly and the army went in too fast and hot.” Her voice leaned toward husky with that last word and she shifted closer. “You see, I appreciate a man who takes his time, a man who calculates what he wants … and can coax his prize to come to him.”

  And so forth.

  With the mention of the attractions of a man with power, two lords were maneuvered into a debate over the justification of the High Lord D'Pendul's recent veto of his cabinet's suggested amendment, who had (so Lyra learned) been urging him for some time to ease up on the compelled military service placed on the Republic's peasantry. There was fear of revolt. A heated argument erupted between the pompous pair over whether Supreme Chancellor D'Pendul's subsequent firing of half his cabinet was warranted, but after they satisfied their pride with lofty rebuffs and quoting obscure political theories, things calmed down. Then Lyra was ready with an innocent, demure smile for the two, fostering a different kind of warmth in them.

  “Gentlemen, the event is about to begin,” a voice echoed over the loudspeaker. “Please take your seats.”

  Lyra suddenly sensed Maehan's presence. The Keeper had come up quietly, patiently waiting for the conversation to finish. Lyra sent the gentlemen on their way with a deep curtsy and an especially encouraging smile to the older one. He did not appear to be in as robust health as his companion and through the course of their conversation, had revealed that his land holdings were extremely impressive. She allowed him a kiss to the back of her gloved hand.

  Once they had walked off, however, a long sigh streamed from her and her shoulders slumped. She suddenly felt worn out.

  Maehan came round to her front. “You are doing very well, Little Tiger. How are you feeling?”

  Lyra huffed bitterly. “Cheap. Deceitful. … Scared.”

  “Do no' lose your faith now, child,” Maehan said, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “I know it must be hard to see it at this moment,” a figure approached along the rope barrier, “but your god has something special in mind for you.” Lyra heard something like, “move it, old woman,” but Maehan, didn't notice. Her hand came to rest over her heart, saying, “I can feel it.”

  “I said, out o' the way, crone!” an impatient voice snarled. “I wish to view the merchandise.” A threatening arm reared to push Maehan away.

  Lyra's reaction was instantaneous.

  She pulled Maehan to the side and redirected the arm with an upward block. Maintaining a tight grip on the jacket sleeve over her head, she glared into shocked, yellow eyes. “I would treat my elders with more respect if I were you.”

  “How dare you!” A strikingly handsome face glared back, his pleasing, masculine features, full head of white blond hair, and light, smooth skin shadowed only by his dangerous expression.

  Yanking his arm out of her grasp, the lord went for a backhand across her face, but Lyra shifted sideways and deflected it away. Then she used the deflected arm as a shield to check his next blow aimed at her jaw. Surprise and frustration bellowed from thin lips framed by a smartly cut goatee, and the man flung his tangled arms away, incensed.

  This was the time for a retreat, but Lyra had become unbalanced her in her uncomfortably tall shoes and fell hard to the floor onto her side. Livid, the lord stepped over the slack barrier, coming at her.

  Panicking, Lyra ducked her head and kicked at him with all her might. There was a sharp grunt.

  … But it wasn't from her kick. Her heel had only met with empty air. Three loud heart beats passed before she ventured to peek up.

  There was her attacker, standing there with murder in his eyes, being held off by Mr. Hundt in a bear hug from behind.

  The gentleman fumed, “What do you mean by apprehending me, you idiot! Did you no' see what that—” Lyra cringed at the vulgar name he hurled at her, “—just tried to do to me?” His carefully combed, silvery-blondness lay askew across his forehead.

  Hundt's pleasant, gravelly bass spoke down to his captive. “Please forgive an unlearned brute, Lord Malig'ahnt. I was only meaning to preserve your ability to procreate.”

  Another full second rol
led by, however, before Hundt finally released him and turned to help Lyra up. Every single eye in the arena was fixed on them.

  Dead silence had never sounded so loud.

  Lord Malig'ahnt tried to advance again, but Hundt smoothly placed himself in the way. “I am afraid I must ask you to return to the floor, my lord. The auction is about to begin.”

  “She just committed a felony, sir, and I intend to carry out her sentence immediately.”

  “I saw no crime, my lord,” Hundt responded.

  Lord Malig'ahnt spluttered, “Are you blind? She blatantly lashed out at me!”

  “Ah,” Hundt said, casually draping an immense arm across the man's shoulders and directing him back over the rope, “you must have mistaken simple evasion techniques for strikes. And I do no' believe you got kicked once.”

  Lord Malig'ahnt swept Hundt's arm off. “Do no' play me for a fool! I am completely within my rights.”

  The security guard placidly returned his arms to his sides, but lowered his head enough to look the man in the eye. “Look, friend,” he said, all pretense dissolved, “there are a lot o' good people here who only wish to have a few drinks with comrades, watch the show, and spend a lot o' money. I am fairly certain that a public beating will only serve to dampen spirits and ultimately hurt the financial success o' this auction.”

  “Perhaps it will serve as a good reminder to the merchandise o' their place, friend.”

  “And perhaps my lord needs reminding that until money is handed over,” Hundt pointed a finger at Lyra, “that khari'na is my charge. You have to buy her if you want to break her.”

  Malig'ahnt's golden eyes burned dangerously. “We have an agreement, then?”

  Hundt straightened to his full height—a whole head taller than the man before him. “Excuse me, my lord. I must ensure all is ready for my women to take the stage.”

  Without another word, Gralion Hundt beckoned to all the khari'na. Nervous girls crossed the rope line, gingerly sidling by the scowling gentleman, and it didn't take long for Malig'ahnt to realize he was in the migration path his adversary had just created. With reluctance, he stepped out of the way. Then, giving Lyra one more heated glance, he whisked his fingers through his hair to ease it back in place, lifted a defiant chin, and stiffly retreated.