by Jean Winter
“Shh,” he soothed. J'Kor cupped her face in his hands. His lips went to her forehead, leaving the tingle from a soft kiss there. “I will be so gentle, Lyra. I want you to enjoy this.”
Then his mouth was brushing down the bridge of her nose, breath hot and sensual. The air moving in and out of Lyra weakened to shallow spurts. Remnants of logic screamed that she should be responding to him—doing something. She had to play the game. Keep up the facade. Protect the Tohmu'vah!
J'Kor's hands roamed lightly down her body until they reached her hips where he drew her against him. His lips finding hers.
Oh God, I really can't do this! She turned her head. “M-m-my lord, please—” Lyra nearly choked on the threatening sob.
J'Kor paused.
Pulling back, he beheld a single, traitorous tear glistening at the corner of his khar's eye. It began its descent, lingering for a moment at the height of her cheekbone before rolling over the edge where he checked it with a light touch of his thumb. “Lyra,” he said, his voice husky, a little embarrassed even, “just … give me a chance.”
“I'm sorry, my lord! I'm sorry. I just—I have never been with another man before.”
“You mean … another lord?” J'Kor clarified, earnestly searching her expression for understanding.
“No,” Lyra moaned. She had to come clean. She couldn't take it anymore! “I mean another man—a husband.” Her throat constricted on the word. More tears formed.
His mouth dropped open. “You have a husband?”
“No! Yes. He … I—I am widowed.” Of all that is righteous and holy, I am totally losing it!
J'Kor took a wary step back. The temperature between them, soaring only a moment ago, plummeted to something just above absolute zero. He shook his head, agitated. “Wait. Are you telling me that up until two weeks ago, you—you were a free, married woman?”
“Y-y-yes, my lord.” Lyra quickly swiped at offending moisture dripping off her chin and sniffed. “My husband was … he died.”
“Sooo, your husband beat you?”
“No,” she shook her head wearily. “We had a wonderful marriage. I—I loved him.” Now her chin was quivering.
“But you said you were beaten.” Tension rippled in his neck. His fingers tightened to fists.
Frantic, Lyra's mind raced. He may be a good man—of sorts—but he was ex-military. She couldn't tell him her real origins. She couldn't trust him completely. Not with that!
A deep breath was needed to calm herself. “Our settlement came under attack from a band of roving savages,” the truth, “and I barely escaped alive. I was wounded, on the run for two days, before the caravan picked me up and took me in. The Keeper … she saved my life.” Pretty much the truth.
It was a few moments before J'Kor seemed able to speak. He stood incredulous, completely discomposed. Finally—
“You lied to me, 'Na Lyra.”
Her gaze fell. It was true, even if it was to save her life.
“Bloody zeth', you lied to me!” J'Kor suddenly charged again, this time with much greater force. He turned angrily to the flickering glow of the passion candle on the dresser.
Then his fist suddenly flew, striking down hard on the wooden surface. It rattled the candles in their glass bases; caused the player's music to skip. Lyra jumped, heart skipping with the beat, and shut her eyes tight in preparation for the next strike that would be aimed at her face.
None came.
When she was finally brave enough to peek, she found J'Kor sitting on the edge of the bed, fingers laced together between straddled legs, eyes burning a hole in the rug at his feet. The romantic music, morbidly inappropriate now, continued to grind from the player. He chuckled bitterly.
“I knew you were hiding something, 'Na Lyra, but I did no' think it was anything like that.”
“Forgive me.”
His face turned up, strong shadows blending half of it into the blank darkness behind. “You really have no idea what you are doing, do you? I knew your scar looked too fresh. Just what were you thinking, agreeing to be joined today without proper orientation or time for your husband's body to even grow cold in his grave?”
Lyra's eyes flashed at the insinuation. “What I told you about that was true. That miserly dungwasp Shorn couldn't bear to lose the money from an unfilled spot and I was just lucky enough to become his last minute patsy!”
“Wrong,” he returned sharply, springing his feet. “Apparently, I am the last minute patsy.” J'Kor swore loudly. “I just spent thirty thousand notes on a completely unprepared khar, with post-traumatic stress, WHO IS IN MOURNING!”
The pronouncement hung heavily in the air between them. Condemning and accurate.
J'Kor rubbed at his temples and growled, turning away toward the window. Lyra didn't have to see his face to know he was deliberating over what to do next.
“I'm s-so sorry for the deception, my lord,” Lyra tried again, awkwardly stepping from her puddle of a dress. “I just—I have been so afraid.” Ugh! This was so hard! She still wasn't giving him the whole truth. What would he do if he really knew where she came from and what she was protecting? She felt like she was teetering dangerously on the edge of a cliff.
J'Kor spun and strode back to the dresser to finally turn off the gratingly sappy music. A strained silence filled the room.
“I will no' touch you tonight,” he finally muttered, eyes on the machine as he fought to regain control of his emotions. “In the morning, I will wire my lawyer and have him prepare a formal complaint against the caravan. I imagine you will wish to return there, once I get my money back.”
“No! Please no, my lord!” Panic rose in Lyra's already tight chest.
Any investigation into the circumstances surrounding her sale would be disastrous. Once she was exposed as a hated Believer, she would either be executed or sent to some horrific labor camp, her possessions seized. Further, in the aftermath Maehan would surely be found guilty of bribing an officer and forgery. It was possible that even Hundt could be implicated as an accomplice.
Lyra dropped to her knees before him, head bowed, heart pummeling her rib cage. “Please, I can do better. I want to stay here with you—I need to stay here with you.”
She could feel his eyes on her. Heavy. Mistrusting.
She gulped and went on. “Take me as you please. It is your—your right. I promise I won't get emotional again. I can also cook and clean for you, and I am strong. I can work at outside chores just as well—”
“Stop, 'Na Lyra,” J'Kor finally cut in, his tone heavy with disparaging forbearance. “That is more than enough.”
He rigidly turned away and sloughed off his top, uncovering a large tattoo of the cat-like reptile, the oscekhiss, spread across the back of his left shoulder. Tales of the extremely venomous, nocturnal predator of the southern continent's equatorial rain forests with its multiple, string-like tongues and supposed magical abilities were the stuff of nightmares to many a young child lying in bed at night, and the image sent a shiver through Lyra.
The shoes and pants came next until he was stripped down to nothing but loose-fitting underwear and a firm physique that advertised years of hard physical labor. He tossed his trousers over the bed's footboard with an edgy sigh. “Snuff out the candles, 'Na Lyra. You can put them away tomorrow. It is late. … Good night.”
At the far side of the bed, J'Kor pulled excess pillows to the floor and climbed in. His one remaining pillow got a few fluffing (and driven) punches. Then he adjusted the checked comforter halfway up his body, lay back, and was still.
Still on the floor kneeling before no one, Lyra was at a loss. Sooo, that's it for now?
Half a minute went by before she was brave enough to get up. No reaction from the man in the bed.
With a tool she found on the dresser, she cautiously began snuffing out the candles, one by one … by one. The red one she left for last, uneasy about putting it out herself. It appeared he was done with her for tonight, but was she supposed
to let it continue burning until … tomorrow? Tomorrow night? These candles were not meant to last more than half a day.
The moonlight broke up the room into strong shadows, but Lyra could still make out the silhouette of J'Kor lying on his back, his hands clasped across his middle. He hadn't moved a muscle. Quickly, she extinguished it and set the tool down like it was a dirty, shocking thing.
What now? Did he expect her to crawl in next to him? Maybe he was so upset he didn't want her nearby. Completely spent emotionally and physically, Lyra's chin began to quiver again as she stood alone, undecided in the darkness, and she feared another breakdown. A swift retreat to the vanity closet seemed in good order. No need to risk an audible surge of emotion that would annoy him further.
Lyra let the comforting cloak of total privacy envelop her as she closed the door lightly behind her. Somehow, it made it easier to breathe. She felt her way past the vanity desk to the far end and crumpled against the back wall, permitting herself to cry for some minutes, softly, but fully. The cleansing tears washed away pent-up tensions from an entirely horrific day.
When the worst of it was over and she had gained control again, Lyra gradually became aware of a dim light spilling across her face. It was him—at the door. His hand rested on the oval, silver knob and his purple stripe of a shadow cut across the length of the floor and part of her huddled body. How long he had been there watching her, she really didn't know.
“Come to bed, Lyra,” he murmured.
The shadow retreated.
Wiping her face dry, Lyra got up and followed. He stood at the near side of the bed, waiting for her to come out, and nervously she went to him, ready for anything, but he merely pulled back the comforter a little to indicate she get in.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He answered nothing—just returned to the other side where, with a loud, tired sigh, he flopped back down and didn't move again.
Lyra pulled back the comforter some more to climb in and started in surprise at the large, velvety flower petals scattered across the bedsheet below. His last layer of attempted romance. Guilt ripped another ragged chunk from her conscience. He had tried so hard.
As quietly as she could she climbed into the bed, cuddling against the edge of the serenely comfortable mattress, far away from the body and heat of her owner. She breathed in the scent of the petals—a familiar scent. Lilicanth. Of course, that's what he would choose.
Then with her lids shut tight Lyra prayed to her Heavenly Father while she waited for blessed sleep to whisk her away. She tried to be truly grateful for the miracle He had sent her. Any other lord would have let her go to Malig'ahnt. Any other lord would not have been able to defend her from those thugs. Any other lord would have had his way with her tonight, regardless, and left her weeping in a corner—probably with a black eye and bruises for her “offensive” display of emotion. But still …
Father? Lyra turned doubtful eyes on the sleeping form nearby. Are you sure you know what you are doing?
# # #
Under the moonlight by the still, shining water of the tranquil pond, a figure gazed quietly upon the J'Kor home and bedroom window that had gone dark not too long ago.
“Well, Father,” the man said calmly as if he were speaking to someone right next to him, “they are finally together.” There was a moment's silence and then he laughed softly. “Yes, that was a bit of a rocky start, wasn't it? But, they will learn to listen better in time—once they start to understand their missions.”
He continued to stare at the house, hands clasped comfortably behind his back, a bright grin lighting up his features, until he suddenly retorted, “Well, of course, I'm looking forward to it. You know how long I've been waiting for this.”
J'Kor's dog at his side whined softly for attention and the man squatted to affectionately scratch the furry head. The animal snapped his tail lightly, a wet tongue lolling happily out the side of his mouth. A light screech overhead made the man glance up and, as if in response, he stood again.
He looked toward the house one last time, his eyes shining with an unfathomable gleam.
“So let it begin.”
Part 2—Healing Dissonance
CHAPTER 1
The usual nightmare didn't plague her that night: Jon's murder and total unresponsiveness behind that curtain of rigid light. No. She had a new one now, and this one was even scarier because it began when Lyra opened her eyes.
She had been sold like livestock and now she was someone's khari'na.
Curled on her side, Lyra stared with disquiet at the strange bedroom now softly illumined with the first hints of the red sun through the large breakfast nook window. Faint, pinkish beams yawned over the little table and rug-covered, hardwood floor, all the way to the dresser still strewn with the candles of Lord J'Kor's attempted—
J'Kor! Lord Kadent J'Kor.
The soft, even breathing behind her said he was still asleep. A furtive turn of her head confirmed it as he lay there, back to her, body and muscles slack. Lyra breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Then she caught sight of the tattoo—the oscekhiss tattoo, its vertically slitted pupils peering wickedly at her from the back of his left shoulder. Suppressing a shudder, Lyra turned away.
So what now? The man was still her “miracle,” she supposed, but what would he do with her—or to her—now? All the excitement of yesterday was past and here she lay in his bed, untouched for the moment only because he thought her a new widow in mourning thrust onto the auction stage before she was ready. She was completely at his mercy.
That happy thought got her slipping covertly from the bed to find something to wear.
The vanity closet appeared to hold quite the collection of women's attire. His late wife's? He had mentioned having some things she could use to start out. He must have meant this, only, after filing quickly through a row of hung dresses, Lyra soon concluded that the late Lady J'Kor's taste in clothes had not leaned toward the practical. There were all dinner and cocktail gowns. Delicate. And skimpy.
They wouldn't do—not for what she needed. Her thorough rejection of his touch last night must have been terribly embarrassing and Lyra could only imagine what a mood he would be in today. Her best defense against his making good the threat to return her to the caravan and certain death should surely be making herself useful—in any other way Lyra could think. She needed work clothes.
Eventually she found a simpler frock one from the city might term “everyday.” Some drawer rummaging produced more practical undergarments, too. Lyra was pleased to also find a basic shawl for shielding against the spring's hoarfrost. Then, with one more peek at the slumbering man—her godless, immoral, enemy patriot, possible dark necromancer, slave owner, hunk of a savior lord, whom Lyra would never vocally admit how peacefully she had just slept beside—she tiptoed from the room.
Only after the bedroom door was carefully closed behind her did Lyra felt at ease to draw her first full, deep breath.
J'Kor's comfortably decorated great room in his interesting and eclectic home smelled pleasantly of wood, leather, and old books. The sweet, friendly shepherd dog, Ahskr, with his unusually textured coat, shooting up in one long spray along the ridge line of his back like a fountain, pattered around on the front porch where J'Kor had left him for the night. The view of lush pasture acreage with contentedly grazing sheep out the large front window was idyllic. How nice it would be to live in a place like this … under other circumstances.
In the bathroom down the hall Lyra continued to put herself together. The clothes were a tolerable fit. Apparently J'Kor's Ahna had been a little bustier in the chest and about three inches taller, but she could make it work. She tied the ribbon sash round her waist a little tighter and tucked a portion of the full skirt up in it so it wouldn't brush the ground. Then Lyra busied herself braiding two small sections of hair at her temples to pull around either side of her head and secure together in the back. There. She looked much more like herself.
From h
er backpack still resting on the dining chair where J'Kor had placed it last night, Lyra took out her boots. It was with great pleasure that she laced them, reveling in the comfort of their perfect, worn-in conformation to her arches and much more roomy interior than the more fashionable torture devices she'd been forced to endure lately. She also retrieved her armband, holder of her razor throwing stars and the note from Gralion Hundt.
Grally.
Lyra deftly secured the wide leather band with its decorative nature impressions over her left bicep and couldn't decide which items were more precious. The stars or the note he'd written. Well anyway, now she felt much more like herself.
The next few minutes were spent in much needed morning prayer and meditation. Lyra thanked the Father for her continued safety and miraculous security of the sacred Tohmu'vah, and still held out hope that, somehow, He would help her return it (and herself) back to her people. She yearned for her own, worn copy of The Book of God (as it was referred to in the common tongue) though, for her usual daily devotional. Three thousand years of religious history, prophecies, teachings, and commandments of Heavenly Father, handed down from the Beginning through His prophets to the present day was not something easily memorized. She and Jon would study it together every night …
A quick and stubborn shake of her head helped clear it. Lyra had to get past breaking down every time she thought about him or the kids, hopefully still safe and sound with the rest of the colony.
“Know thou, my son [daughter], that I will not give thee that above ye are able.
For I will be with thee, and strengthen thee to perform the Work thou hast been called to do.”
The scripture verse from The Chronicles of Rayne, Lyra's favorite ancient prophet, came to mind. And another from The Letters of Zephram: