Khari'na Made (Muse Book 1)

by Jean Winter

  “O' course, he knows I plan to pay him back in a timely manner,” J'Kor said pointedly.

  “Posh! Now get along you two, over to the arches and let us finish this. I am starving!”

  While Mejhisk paid, Lyra was led to the decorated arches, confusion intensifying the flipping of her stomach. J'Kor needed to borrow? And she still didn't understand why he had been traipsing around Bansool the other day as a common, dirty laborer.

  He brought her by the hand under the romantic white silk and rosewood twig arch and Lyra tried to concentrate on slowing her heart rate as she remembered she still had a slip of paper to read. Why was she feeling so nervous about this stupid little pledge? According to the Caldreen'n nation she was already property, bought and paid for. This part—well, this part was merely vocal acknowledgment of ownership. Nothing more.

  But when she looked up at him, she knew. She didn't want to act out any false pretense of commitment, say words she didn't mean. The whole setup was so ludicrously superficial that she felt cheap just thinking about it.

  Unfortunately, J'Kor didn't appear to regard it with the same derision. He brought himself close, both her hands in his, his pleasant earthy, fresh scent—like sweet grass and summer citrus—seeping into her airway like a gentle narcotic as he lightly caressed the side of her cheek. “I was so surprised to see you again there in the arena,” J'Kor told her softly, “but afterward … I had no desire to bid on another.” Lyra's heart doubled its output.

  When Mejhisk came over, new necklet in hand, Lyra swallowed nervously and lowered herself rather unsteadily to her knees. This was it. She would just read the words without thinking about them and get this all over with as quickly as possible.

  She pulled the slightly crumpled paper from her glove and quickly scanned over the few lines of Maehan's shaky script.

  Bless the Saints, you've got to be kidding me!

  CHAPTER 13

  Silence.

  Lyra read through the pledge again and again, getting more upset each time. She tried to tell herself it wouldn't be a sin to vocalize the statements and not mean a word of it. This was a forced situation. If she made a scene now, J'Kor could still demand his money back and she would be back facing Shorn again.

  Yeah. She didn't want to go there.

  The memory of her wedding, long ago, suddenly blazed to the fore: Jon dressed in white, kneeling across from her, their hands clasped over the specially consecrated altar between them. He had gazed on her with such love as they made sacred promises to each other and God—promises to love, serve, and honor each other, and not just for this life, but for eternity. Their family and loved ones were present to celebrate with them. It was all so perfect. So pure.

  Not like this.

  J'Kor shifted his stance. She should begin.

  Still, she had never outright lied before in her entire life. And compelled or no, wasn't a pledge a pledge? Wouldn't she be obligated to honor her words, at least to some degree, or else be unclean before God?

  Tears threatened and Lyra took a shaky breath. Suddenly, J'Kor was crouched in front of her. “Lyra?” He saw her reddened eyes, her trembling lip. With a meaningful thump on Mejhisk's leg and a quick word, he procured a handkerchief which he began to gently use on her salty wetness. “Are you no' feeling well?”

  You have to do this!

  Lyra carefully brushed his hand away. “In the name of Caldreen, our glorious motherland, under whose benevolent wing I owe all happiness,” she decided to hold the paper up in front of her so she could also look into his eyes, “and to whom I willingly offer myself as a faithful servant, I pledge my body … and soul to you, my honorable lord and master, in companionship, in service, and in devotion so long as I have breath to give.”

  There! Lyra breathed out heavily, dropping her hands in her lap. She did it! He probably thought she was crazy, but she did it. J'Kor, still crouched on one knee, stared at her. Yup, crazy.

  Then he gave a little sigh. “Look, I can see how going home with a total stranger could be … stressful, and honestly, I know it would be unrealistic to expect anything more than a cordial friendship, but please believe my honest sincerity in this commitment anyway.” He tenderly brushed at a tear threatening to run down her cheek.

  Ugh! How dare he be so thoughtful. Again!

  Reassure him.

  Lyra obeyed the Spirit. She sniffed, half laughing, “I am so sorry, my lord. I guess … I guess I am just nervous. And today has been quite unexpectedly eventful.” She quickly wiped at another wayward tear. “Please don't be angry at my hesitation.” Be sincere. “It's just that, I take my promises seriously and—”

  J'Kor touched a couple fingers to her forehead and slid them lightly across her brow. Then they went down the side of her face, curving to end with a soft touch at her lips. Lyra was almost in shock. That gesture was usually reserved for someone very special, someone regarded as an equal—symbolic of respecting the mind as well as the beauty.

  He smiled, causing cute crinkles in the corners of his eyes to appear, and something began fluttering giddily through her. “To a beautiful friendship, maybe?” he asked.

  “… Maybe,” was all that came out.

  “Will you two please take me to dinner before you go find a room?” Mejhisk quipped, merrily rocking back on his heels as he stood off to the side. “Look at me. I am almost blushing.”

  Mejhisk was not blushing in the least. But Lyra was—hot and red as a horn pepper in a skillet. She swiftly ducked her head, hands flying to her cheeks. Lord Almighty! She had only been a widow for two weeks!

  Get a hold of yourself you hypocritical weakling! He is only buttering you up for later. And we'll just see how tender he talks in bed after this dress comes off.

  J'Kor chuckled. “Fine. I guess I can wait a little longer.” He brought her head back up, looking quite pleased over her flattering physical reaction, and dabbed a little more around her eyes. Lyra feverishly collected her wits about her to hold herself steady and solemn.

  “There. Perfect again,” he pronounced, finishing his ministrations. J'Kor helped her up and took the new necklet from his friend. Bringing himself behind her, he said softly, “May I never give you cause to be ashamed o' this symbol o' our connection.” And he put it on her, connecting the clasp at the back of her neck. “My Lyra,” he added, like he enjoyed the possessive sound of it. A few fingers slid down to touch the skin stretched over her implant.

  “My congratulations to the happy couple!” Mejhisk wrapped his arms around them both in a group hug. “May I kiss the new Mistress J'Kor?”

  J'Kor regarded his friend. “Would you be able to kiss her like a sister?”

  “O' course no'.”

  “Then my answer is an emphatic no.” J'Kor entwined his fingers through Lyra's who managed to gain enough possession of herself to give Mejhisk a teasing shrug in apology. The man laughed and gave his cane a little toss in the air.

  Lyra almost giggled. Clowning around with him was much easier than dealing with the complex emotional intensities sparking between her and her new owner.

  They headed toward the exit where Maehan and Hundt waited. The small, hunched Keeper looked rather emotional. Lyra disentangled her hand from J'Kor's and stepped ahead to envelop her friend in a hug.

  “Goodbye.”

  “Little Tiger,” Maehan whispered tearfully, “Grally told me what you did for me. How can I ever repay you? I canno' even keep you safe with me.”

  “I owe you my life, Maehan,” she murmured back. “And this new turn of events is not your fault. You did your best to protect me. I will forever be indebted.” Lyra let go and bent her knee in respect to the wizened face.

  The side of her neck was touched once more by Maehan's wrinkled hand. “Lyra, I only want you to promise me one thing.” Lyra looked up into eyes suddenly bright and keen upon her. “Promise me you will keep singing. It … it is important.”

  An odd sentiment, but Lyra nodded nonetheless. She was sure she'd feel
like singing again. Someday. When she was long gone from here. She took the old woman's hand and kissed the papery thin skin affectionately in return. Hundt was next.

  Lyra hesitated. What does one say to the most extraordinary, taciturn, surprising, thoughtful, warrior brute one has ever known? A sly grin emerged. “You will be able to keep your men under control without me, right?”

  A small, very Hundt-like grunt issued from the man. Then he turned to J'Kor. “My lord, I strongly advise you to offer proper care and respect to this one.” His eyes settled back on her with a distinct spark. “You have no' seen what she can do with knives.”

  Lyra struggled to keep a straight face. She turned. “Shall we, my lords?”

  Glancing uneasily between her and Hundt, J'Kor took her by the elbow to walk her out.

  “Grally,” she said, inclining her head as she went.

  “Lyra,” he grunted back. The simple words spoke volumes.

  Going down the hall, J'Kor only lasted about twenty feet. “So,” he said lightly, “am I going to get any explanation about what that guard meant?”

  Lyra thought a moment. “Does my lord command me to answer?” What were his expectations? His first impulse?

  He didn't respond right away. “I do no' wish for the new woman o' my home to feel invaded with prying questions,” he finally replied. “Though, I do hope that in time she will choose to offer the mysteries o' herself willingly.”

  Good answer.

  Darn. Wasn't there anything for which she could justify hating him?

  “Thank you, my lord,” Lyra said, grateful nonetheless. “Mr. Hundt was only teasing about an incident that happened a few days ago. It was nothing, really.” Then she went quiet. Would he honor his statement? Allow her some independence—even this meager bit?

  To his credit, J'Kor kept his mouth shut. Mejhisk on the other hand …

  “'Na Lyra, such tight lips on a mouth lovely as yours is unquestionably unbecoming. I insist you spill every juicy, gruesome detail immediately,” he said with a tap of his cane on the floor. “Kade, tell her.”

  J'Kor shook his head. “Sorry, my friend. The woman is allowed this one.”

  The hallway eventually conceded to a large lobby with windows that showed they had reached the structure's perimeter. They were hailed to an exit door where a very small pile of things sat at a worker's feet: Lyra's backpack, a colorful tote bag filled to the brim, and a tan paper packet.

  “Khari'na number forty-one's personals, my lord,” said the worker, holding out to J'Kor a voucher to sign.

  Lyra knelt down and took a peek into her pack. God bless you, Grally! Not only was her precious box still nestled within its cotton wrapping, but Iyalyn's doll, Rorn's switchblade, and her boots and armband were all carefully packed as well. A test lift of the armband told her Hundt had seen fit to return her razor stars. There was also a piece of paper sticking out from the pocket slit. A note.

  Within the pack's sheltering sides, Lyra quickly slid it out and read the penned words:

  Thought you might appreciate these back. Hope you do not need to use them on any more Caldreen'ns. If you find yourself in trouble, a message can be left for me at the following number. Grally.

  At the bottom was a six number sequence. Grinning, Lyra returned the note to its hiding place and pressed a fervent hand over the pocket. The man would never know how much that meant to her. Then she shouldered her pack, picked up the auction prep kit—Cindry's auction prep kit, and stood.

  “Is that all you have?” J'Kor said, packet in hand. Her tracker and official papers, no doubt.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “You have no clothing to come with you?”

  “I've got my boots right here.” Ooo … Lyra winced at the mental image she had just so conveniently created.

  “Well,” J'Kor chuckled, wrapping an amorous arm round her waist, “I canno' wait to see them on you.” Then he gave her a friendly squeeze before letting go. “No worries. I already have some things at home that should fit you well enough until we can get you outfitted properly. Here, let me take that for you.”

  Uneasily, Lyra passed off her backpack—the receptacle of her holy, sacred stewardship—onto the shoulder of the enemy Caldreen'n lord, terribly aware of his slight surprise at its weight. But thankfully he chose not to comment.

  The fading softness of dusk on the streets outside was muddled further by continued cloud cover, and J'Kor removed his swash tunic for her before they stepped into the damp, spring chill.

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “Ah, there we are.” Mejhisk pointed out into the street. “Our carriage awaits.”

  Lyra beheld a splendid taxi coach with a pretty pair of threshers and a driver who stood at the coach door, holding it open for them—for the lords, that is. Mejhisk hopped in first followed by J'Kor. At the step he hesitated, but only for a moment.

  Of course. I am subordinate. Resigned, Lyra put a foot on the step plate.

  J'Kor's hand was suddenly there to offer assistance. Tentatively, Lyra took it and let it guide her to the spot beside him. Mejhisk had settled opposite.

  The driver stowed her pack in a back compartment and put his face in the window. “Where to next, my lords?”

  “The Vishke, Sullee,” J'Kor ordered. Then to Lyra kindly, “Are you very hungry?”

  The carriage got under way. “A little, yes.”

  Truth be told, she was ravenous. Her midday meal had been completely forgotten. No wait. She had missed breakfast too! Oh gutlins! She had jumped right into hair that morning, planning to just grab something later.

  Now consciously aware of its extreme emptiness, Lyra's belly began to make small movements under her hand, threatening an embarrassing growl. She reminded herself, however, that she had better ration her portions carefully tonight. Eating large amounts of food during emotional upheavals had never equaled a happy stomach.

  “Good.” He sounded pleased. “The Vishke is the premier establishment for fashionable dining in Caldreen City. You will probably get to see some o' your friends there, too. It is the place to go for post-event socializing.”

  He spoke like making an appearance in this place would be a real treat for her. Little did he know that everything he had just said sounded extremely repulsive. She didn't want to be in the public's eye anymore. She had no friends—well, maybe Bit, if she was there. She was also not interested in challenging her palate tonight with unrecognizable, strangely spiced foods. Lyra was exhausted and scared and her feet were killing her.

  Her mouth opened, hoping to form something like, “That sounds fun,” or “I can't wait!”, but all that happened was a forced smile.

  “'Na Lyra,” Mejhisk said, “do you dance?”

  “Um, yes. I do a little.” Her people planned regular gatherings for music and dancing. She and Jon would energetically whirl around the ground in the lively two-step reels, then enjoy slowing things down during the romantic waltzes. He would hold her closer than needful and whisper things in her ear, making her laugh, and sometimes blush with pleasure.

  “Ah, I knew it!” Mejhisk slapped his thigh. “I could tell from watching you on stage.”

  “But, I'm sure I don't know any of the same ones as—”

  “Why was that no' mentioned in your introductory sketch?” J'Kor interrupted, his gaze suddenly sharp and precise. This time, he did want an answer. “And why did it no' mention anything about your reading ability or anything else? It was mysteriously absent o' material.”

  “Brother, could you no' tell it was all part o' her brilliant stunt to create a mystical persona for herself?” Mejhisk said. “The fog? The dress? Her guard friend? It is all so obvious now. Everyone was talking about it. I am even beginning to wonder if that business with Malig'ahnt was a gutsy, planned move, as well. 'Na Lyra, you pulled it all off amazingly well, I must say.”

  “No! No, my lord. There was no stunt,” Lyra retorted, temperature rising. Was everyone really believing that? “Th-th
e steam was just a fluke of mishap and timing. This unbelievable gown was pulled out at the last minute by the Keeper who had been secretly saving it for years, and it was only through her special connections that I could even get someone to help me prepare so quickly. Then I was only defending us from that disgustingly violent lord. It was not my intention to make the other girls look bad. I was not even supposed to be auctioned … today.” In her growing passion, Lyra almost forgot to slide that word in there. “The emcee had nothing but my basic history because Mr. Shorn forgot to take care of the important little detail of my personal qualifications before the folders got passed off—although, now that I think about it, I wouldn't be surprised if he did that on purpose, as well, that crooked stinkrat. He's had it in for me since the day I joined the caravan. And I have not been having an affair with the head of security!”

  Whoa.

  The sounds of the city night life outside grew much louder as the two gentlemen stared at her in awkward silence.

  Where in the world had that come from?

  Weakly, Lyra clarified, “I, uh … he—he just knew I wasn't steady in these shoes and … he didn't want me to fall.”

  Way to keep your cool there, Miss Calm and Composed.

  Clearing his throat—or stifling a guffaw, Lyra couldn't tell—Mejhisk turned with raised brow in expectation of his friend's response.

  It was several seconds before J'Kor seemed ready to speak. When he did, Lyra didn't know what to make of it. “Move over there, mate, will you?”

  Mejhisk did as asked and J'Kor took his place, directly opposite Lyra. He sat forward so that their knees were almost touching and reached for one of her arms. To Lyra's surprise and trepidation, he began to pull off her long, white glove.

  “'Na Lyra, I must say, you come across as something o' an enigma, and this little time I have had with you so far has no' been helpful.” A faint smile passed across his features. “Forgive me, but, for my own peace o' mind, I think we had better clear up a few things about you.”

  Taking her other arm, he removed that glove as well, then he tipped her chin up toward him and placed her hands palms up on his knees. His fingers made stroking motions across her wrists before, satisfied with their placement, he let them settle there against her skin. Lyra tried to block out the feel of his touch as her mind raced, trying to understand the strange ritual. A glance at Mejhisk showed the man relaxed in his seat, content to observe his friend at work.