Khari'na Made (Muse Book 1)

by Jean Winter

  An involuntary rush of pleasure coursed through Lyra there in the circle of his arms, in the semi darkness, the heat from his body warming hers, and for the first time, she truly entertained the thought of offering herself to him. Just grip his shirt a little tighter. Raise her lips to his. Press herself against him in the way she knew how and let natural physiology take over. It would be so easy. It would cement his continued protection. He would maybe even help her.

  Lyra's breath was already coming faster, a tingle beginning to spread at the daring thought.

  No.

  No.

  No.

  The tingle subsided.

  She wouldn't do it. She couldn't. It would be totally destructive. She would be using her body for personal gains, and then she really would be a prostitute. A prostitute to a faithless, slave-owning Caldreen'n. A khari'na.

  She had better redirect the mood. And fast. Pulling away a little and jutting her bottom lip in a pout, she said, “And yet, I see that I am sharing you tonight. You seemed quite busy on the dance floor for a while.”

  He grinned, allowing the change. “Oh, are we jealous?” Lyra shrugged noncommittally to which J'Kor nodded. “I can handle 'jealous.' 'Jealous' is a good start.” He opened the door for them to head back to the festivities. “I do no' think we can let what D'Pendul may or may no' do in the future consume us now. We should just stick with the game plan and finish out this party. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  J'Kor kept a tight hold on her for the rest of the pre-meal dancing. Even when someone tried to cut in once, he pretended not to notice and swept her away elsewhere. D'Pendul, meanwhile, conversed with guests, took many women onto the dance floor, and otherwise did a masterful job of ignoring Lyra and pretending nothing happened. Interestingly, his chosen dance partners reflected quite the menagerie of females: young, old, large, bony. He knew every step and every woman fawned after him, and it irked Lyra to no end—this racking up of public opinion points. Well, at least he was ignoring her.

  At the announcement of the last number, Lyra finally noticed Breht in attendance. He was standing quite uncomfortably with Maryn, his invitation to her to dance, so awkward it almost wasn't funny, but Maryn smiled and accepted politely.

  At his expression of profound relief and anticipation, Lyra sucked in a breath of sudden comprehension. She thumped J'Kor on the chest. “Look,” she said. “Look at Breht.”

  He looked, but didn't seem too impressed. “Breht has danced with Maryn before.”

  “No,” Lyra insisted. “Look at the way he looks at her, the way he moves.” A grin tugged at her lips. “He has a crush on Maryn.”

  “That is no' possible. He is too young.”

  Lyra snorted. “He's not that young, my lord. What was your interest level in girls when you were fifteen?”

  With alarm, J'Kor made a closer study of his son. The glowing smile. The overdone posture. The hands holding the buxom beauty with just a touch too much enthusiasm. The father's clear discomfiture made Lyra laugh.

  “He's growing up faster than you are prepared, isn't he?”

  J'Kor took up the next dance with her and shook his head in self-reproof. “I knew his sudden desire to give up the plans with his friends was fishy. I have been dreading this day.”

  “Why, my lord, you suddenly look a little flushed. Maybe you need to sit down and relieve your poor, aging bones.”

  “Ho there, little woman,” he said, spinning her once then bringing her back to him, “I forbid old age jokes.”

  “Then that leaves me with either crotchety father or more clumsy sloth cracks. Take your pick.”

  “I choose …” J'Kor thought a moment, “dashing lover.” And his eyes sparked waggishly, making Lyra want to cringe.

  “My lord, I—”

  “Or how about just good friend?” he said, saving her.

  Phew! That, she could handle. “Crotchety father would be more fun, though.”

  “Shush,” he chuckled, holding her close, “you are breaking character.”

  The last half of the number they spent laughing at Mejhisk partnered with Jos'lie whom he had standing on his toes, making cracks to each other about adolescence and coming-of-age, and glancing warily in D'Pendul's direction. When everyone was herded outside so the ballroom could be transformed into a grand dining room, J'Kor took Lyra along one of his favorite, winding garden paths.

  BOOM!

  Lyra jumped, clutching at J'Kor's arm. Someone was coming for her tonight! But J'Kor just laughed and indicated that she look up. Oh.

  “Is that firesparks?” In awe, Lyra watched the twinkling, colored lights slowly faded into the night sky. “I've heard of them, but never seen them.”

  Another set was launched and they settled themselves onto the grassy path to watch.

  “Well, I have to say this for the man,” J'Kor told her. “Sal never does anything small.”

  “O' course no',” Mejhisk scoffed, coming upon them with Maryn. “I have always said if you canno' go big, it is no' worth doing.”

  “When have you ever said that?”

  “It is implied—every day o' my life.”

  “Well, this is a great party, mate—as usual—though you lied to me about needing my help. You have so many people here, the Upghim's have effectively been swallowed up whole.”

  “I always like to include a contingency plan or two. You were Plan B. Besides, I did no' personally invite this many people. Even more crashers than last time,” Mejhisk surmised as he gazed mildly upon all the bodies scattered through his grounds.

  J'Kor laughed, “You get any more people here and your events will be declared national holidays.”

  “They might as well. This is almost a holiday, anyway, what with the 'Exalted One's' son showing up out o' the blue. What is his name? Deven? Devil?”

  “Devor,” Lyra corrected softly. It was a name she wished she could forget.

  “Ah, aye! Well, I wonder, with him as a guest, do you think I could declare all my expenses tax free?”

  “You should be wondering if you have enough food for everyone,” J'Kor chided.

  Mejhisk remained entirely unruffled. “I said I did no' invite this many, but that does no' mean I have no' prepared for such a number. Lyra, my pretty, how are you enjoying yourself?”

  The light show lasted for several minutes before the guests were ushered back to Mejhisk's ballroom that had been magically transformed. Long, white and purple covered tables (matching the host) sat in rows, each with silk runners and tall, nature-inspired centerpieces. Gleaming white and gold china sets at every seat were topped with linen napkins artfully folded to resemble the graceful, crook-neck trumpeter fowl of the lowland lakes. And each chair back was swathed in a satin bow. It must have taken a small army of servants and considerable coordination to pull off this dining setup so quickly.

  When Jos'lie skipped to her papa with her servant shadow, begging for Mama Lyra to sit with her at the children's table, he complied. Lyra was grateful. That would be the less conspicuous location for her to remain for the next hour. Her energy was waning and J'Kor had noted her lackluster. It was only yesterday morning that she had woken from a two-day coma, after all.

  This left an open spot next to J'Kor that Breht plead to let him fill. He loathed to endure another party consigned to eating with the “kiddies.” J'Kor cupped a fatherly hand on his son's shoulder and agreed that perhaps it was time to let him transition.

  The children's table was situated near the band and Lyra was soon greeted by the members who were on break until after dinner was served. She remembered Frett and Gell from her visit to Burhnee's on the night of the auction. Now she was introduced her to the other half of their troupe—Riff and Dunk.

  Several other children sat with Lyra and Jos'lie—the younger segment of Upghim's family-in-law. They poked each other with forks and argued over whose father made the most money, who was the fastest runner, or who was smartest. Jos'lie was eyed with unease when she
tried to introduce herself and they heard her manner of speech. But seeing that she was being watched over by two adults, they offered short, uncomfortable hellos and went back to their clamorous jabbering. Lyra began to feel a measure of sympathy for Upghim if this was, indeed, any reflection on the rest of the family into which he had married.

  While the first course was being served, Lyra and Jos'lie chose to engage in much more enjoyable conversation with the band. The guys were happy to chat. They had nothing better to do at the moment and they showed Jos'lie their instruments and let Lyra see how their cell-powered amplifiers were wired. It led to banter back and forth about favorite old melodies and tunes and Lyra felt vigor returning once more. The subject of music had always had an effect on her. It seemed the joy of it was slowly returning.

  Dunk had just finished his reminiscence of a drinking song he'd once used to (unsuccessfully) serenade a brewer's daughter when, out of the blue, Jos'lie requested the pop tart song from that morning. “Pleeeeease, Mama Lyra. The song! Sing me!”

  With hesitation, Lyra decided she could indulge her—and the interested band members. Very softly though, so as not to bring attention.

  I can be,

  Be so good and sweet and

  I could be,

  Be the perfect treat but …

  At the second verse, Dunk started tapping out a rhythm on his sticks and Frett strummed softly along, following her chord sequences. By the chorus, however, Lyra was petering out, having turned rather self-conscious.

  “Naw, keep going, sister. This is good stuff,” Gell encouraged. “What happens next?”

  They were all watching her expectantly.

  “Well, the pattern changes up at the bridge …”

  Quietly, they began to work through the subsequent instrumental solo Jon always had a good time doing and the D section before the key change. Upon finishing, Riff made a comment about never looking at a pop tart the same way again and they all erupted into laughter. A soft, appreciative clap followed.

  “Lyra, darling, you never told me what a fine voice you had. I shall have to hear it again,” crooned Mejhisk.

  Not happy to realize she'd had an audience, Lyra mumbled, “Uh, thank you, my lord,” and turned back quickly to her food as if she were suddenly quite hungry again. Her empty plate stared up at her in mockery.

  Mejhisk's smile was broad as he turned to the band. “Boys, we are ready for your next set. You have the lineup?”

  “Sure thing, MJ.”

  CHAPTER 9

  It was nice, having this time with Breht. Aware of the privilege he had been granted, and with Maryn only a few seats down, the boy was on his best behavior, and Kade finally coaxed a real conversation out of his son—the first in a long time. He learned how Breht felt about some of his classes at school, what his teachers were encouraging him to explore in next year's curriculum, and his thoughts on team strategy in disc. A different training method, he thought, might prove to be useful to the team's overall performance and he had been discussing options with his coaches to see about putting them into practice.

  Sal was readying the band for their next set and Kade's next glance at Lyra found her staring rather intently at her empty plate. Jos'lie, at her side, accidentally knocked over her cup again, which brought on snickers from other children at the table. This snapped Lyra to attention and she helped to clean it up.

  “Good evening, my friends, acquaintances, and accompanying party crashers. How are you enjoying my hospitality?” Sal's jocular, amplified voice rang through the room.

  A roar of approving shouts and appreciative fist banging on the tables rose up.

  “Aye!” Sal exclaimed. He always enjoyed the limelight, especially when drunk—which he was by now. “I do believe that I see more unfamiliar faces than familiar ones tonight, but that is easily remedied. At the conclusion o' the evening, I will be offering personal and individual farewells,” Sal's smile widened, “beginning with all ladies between the ages o' eighteen and thirty. Please start a line outside my personal study and I will be happy to introduce myself to you.” Uproarious laughter erupted intermingled with catcalls and a shrill squeal or two from some aghast females. This was, of course, exactly what Sal was going for. “All ladies between eighteen and thirty, aye, right down that hall on the left!”

  Kade chuckled with a measure of contentment. The rest of the night was going smoothly and all the faces around him seemed happy and smiling, though Maryn appeared somewhat flushed. She probably had too much to drink, too.

  The noise eventually died down enough for Sal to continue. “But before I let Frett and the gang continue, I have a special request to make from a new, favorite friend.”

  Something icy cold sloshed over Kade's shirt front and the guest at his left jumped up, apologizing profusely in slurred language, for his clumsiness in dropping his drink. Blast. This was the second time today he had gotten wet! Kade took the apology with good graces, however, and endured a few seconds of bungling fingers trying to pat him dry with a napkin before he politely got up and left for the servants' kitchen entrance and nearest sink.

  Kade nodded to the servants as he entered—most he knew by name—and started running some water. He'd already removed both his swash tunic and his shirt when Lyra's voice through the microphone registered in his ears. What?

  She sounded very reluctant, but evidently Sal was egging her on to do or say something. With a curse, Kade shoved an arm back into his wet shirt and nearly jogged back into the ballroom where he saw her standing before everyone, looking like she'd almost rather die, as Sal merrily ran the show, an arm at her waist, the microphone in the other.

  “Ah, do no' be shy, my dear. I know you have no' been at home,” he joked with a wink to more raucous laughter from guests.

  Kade couldn't get his shirt back on and buttoned fast enough. Whatever Sal was wanting from her, it could not be good. Bringing more attention to herself was so dangerous right now. Bloody whor', he missed another button!

  A chant rose up. “Ly-ra! Ly-ra! Ly-ra!—”

  Her look at Sal was imploring, but, caught up in the moment, he just shoved the mic into her hand. “The Mistress J'Kor, ladies and gentlemen!” he shouted. The chant died down.

  “Umm,” Lyra said hesitantly into the mic, “this is just a little children's song that a friend and I made up several years ago. For fun. It's about a pastry. …”

  She was going to sing? For EVERYONE! Working his last troublesome buttons, Kade made a beeline for her. He had to stop this before it started. But as he came up the side, Sal intervened with a big, sloppy smile. “Kade what did you do to your shirt? Are people getting rowdy back there already? That usually does no' begin until dessert.”

  “Never mind that. Sal, do no' make Lyra do this. Stop her.”

  “For whatever reason why, brother? Have you heard her sing?”

  “Aye, Sal, but that is no' the point … well, it is the point but—people should no' listen—I mean, I do no' want—” Bless the Mother! Kade didn't know what to say. What good excuse did he have other than the one he wouldn't tell?

  “You never could keep your liquor down as well as me, my friend,” Sal snickered. “You should go sit down before you stumble over something more than just your words.”

  “I am no' drunk.”

  A soft, captivating drum beat started with a few introductory chords and Lyra began her song.

  I can be,

  Be so good and sweet and

  I could be,

  Be the perfect treat, but

  I am more,

  More than you reckoned.

  'Cuz I could blow at any given second.

  Blow-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh

  You never know-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh

  Just when I'll go-oh-oh-oh-oh

  Out of con--

  trol.

  Pop.

  Pop.

  Pop.

  Nothing happened. Well, nothing unusual was happening. For that, Kade breathed a sigh of relief.
Nim must have been wrong, after all. However, his concern was not totally alleviated. It seemed Lyra could sing beautifully, even when nervous, and he could almost feel the interest level in her growing—especially from D'Pendul at his table. Most everyone appeared merely captivated by the impromptu number, but Devor D'Pendul watched the woman with a distinctly marked calculation, the kind that created plans and schemes. Devor suddenly looked over, meeting Kade's eyes, and a small, knowing grin materialized on his filthy rich, over-privileged face.

  Kade tried to stare him down, but as the song progressed he presently became aware of a new problem. Something about Lyra's music was putting him on edge. It didn't sound like it was just about food. The way Frett and the boys drove the beat, taking liberties with chord modulations on their amplified strings, and the way Lyra followed along, made the whole thing sound … decidedly more mature.

  Better re-,

  Re-spect the recipe,

  Handle me,

  Me, oh, so carefully and

  If I end,

  End up getting spurned.

  Boy, it's you who's gonna get burned.

  Blow-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh

  You never know-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh

  Just when I'll go-oh-oh-oh-oh

  Out of con—

  The intensity got kicked up a notch at the key change when Frett launched into an instrumental solo which he milked for all he was worth.

  Pop, pop.

  And it won't

  Stop, Stop.

  Until you

  Drop this act of superiority and

  make the things I need top priority

  You don't want me to start chain reacting

  The price you pay might be too exacting.

  Now Kade was less concerned about others hearing her voice and more about her message conveying some seriously disturbing political undertones. A survey of the crowd suggested most of the guests were merely getting a charge out of the unexpectedly powerful music. They shouted with enthusiasm and clapped along. But some people, especially those with governmental connections, sat quietly with a much different emotion playing about their features. Alarm.