Unbound

by Evangeline Anderson

  “Very well.” The King made a dismissive wave. “Take the princess back to her nursery—the Sisters will be coming for her soon. And as for you,” he said, looking at Varin. “It’s time to begin your training. You have much to learn if you’re to be worth the price I paid for you.”

  “Yes, your Majesty.” Reluctantly, Varin nodded and pulled his finger out of the princess’s grasp. For a moment she clung to him, as though she didn’t want to let go. When he finally did get free of her, she began to wail again, spitting out the sweet-suck and screwing her tiny face up into a fist of misery.

  Varin felt her pain as his own—an aching loss that filled his soul and made hot tears sting his own eyes, though he had sworn to himself never to cry again.

  “Princess!” he gasped, reaching for her. But the nurse was already taking her away. He watched her go, hands fisted at his sides.

  I’ll see you again, he thought. I swear I will! And the next time I see you, I’ll never let you out of my sight—not ever again.

  Chapter Two

  “You must be so excited!”

  “Your Presentation Day!”

  “Your first day at Court! Oh, Princess—how wonderful it’s going to be.”

  Brynnalla’s new ladies in waiting twittered about her like brightly colored flutterbys.

  Brynn could hardly take them in—their full, flouncy dresses were so different from the somber gray robes worn by the Sisters of Chastity and Obedience and their excited prattle was the exact opposite of the quiet she was used to.

  One in particular, Lady Amalthia, was especially loud and pretty. With her bright green dress and pale blonde hair done up in an elaborate puff of ringlets around her lovely oval face, it seemed to Brynn that she looked much more like a princess than Brynn herself did.

  She looked at herself ruefully in the full length 3-D viewer which was part of her lavishly appointed chamber in the palace. She had on the deep blue dress her Lady-mother the Queen had picked for her but it fit her oddly.

  Brynn plucked at the dress. She didn’t possess the full curves Lady Amalthia had to fill out its flounces and shirrs. Instead, a too-thin girl with a slim, almost boyish figure swallowed up in the voluminous dress stared back at her from the viewer. Her breasts were no bigger than teacups and her hips were only slightly curved.

  Lady Amalthia, on the other hand, had a bosom that was full to over flowing, her ample cleavage filling her bright green dress beautifully. Compared to her lady in waiting, Brynn thought she looked like a flower in the bud beside one fully bloomed.

  Her hair was hopeless too. Her ladies had tried to curl it—truly they had. But the result had been only frizz and Brynn had been forced to go and wet it down to make it behave again. It was long and black and fell straight as a curtain rod to the small of her back, refusing to do anything else.

  To make things worse, her long strands were too silky to hold any of the elaborate hair pins the other girls were wearing in their curly, poofed up hair. The fans of feathers and big, bright bows fell right out of her stubbornly straight mane until at last Lady Amalthia had thrown up her hands in disgust and declared that she gave up. Brynn’s long, black hair was left loose around her narrow shoulders in defiance of Court fashion, which made her feel even more out of place.

  “Well, at least your dress is lovely,” Lady Amalthia murmured diplomatically. “Even if the rest of you is…somewhat lacking.” She smiled unkindly and the other girls giggled nervously.

  “It doesn’t fit right.” Brynn tugged at the dress again. “And the color seems…wrong.”

  “I heard your Lady-mother the Queen picked it to match your eyes,” Amalthia told her. “I’m told when you were a baby, they were a blue as deep as the heavens.” She looked at Brynn’s eyes in the viewer and frowned. “Hmm. I wonder what happened? Your brother the royal Prince who was born a year after you still has blue eyes. It's a pity he's not here or you could see for yourself.”

  Brynn sighed. Her eyes might have been blue when she was a baby but they had changed when she grew older to a quiet, dove-gray. It wasn’t an ugly color—in fact, her eyes were quite pretty when she was wearing the soft gray robes of the convent where she had been raised. But they weren’t flashy or arresting like Lady Amalthia’s brilliant green gaze or big and brown and dewy like Lady Tenna’s or deep lilac like Lady Chenwith’s or—

  A rapping on the door cut into her miserable thoughts.

  “King Jerund and Queen Isolde to see the fair Princess Brynnalla,” announced a guard from outside her chamber.

  “Oh, the King and Queen! The King and Queen are here!” Her ladies in waiting fluttered like a flock of excited birds, dithering and chattering nervously, rushing to get into the right position around Brynn, framing her like flutterbys around a drab, gray moth, she thought.

  “Bow your head, Princess,” Lady Amalthia hissed in her ear as the door opened. “Though they are your parents, they are still the rulers of this planet—you must show respect!”

  Brynn needed no such prompting. She hadn’t seen her royal parents since the day of her birth and was as much, if not more, in awe of them as everyone else.

  Trembling, she bowed her head and waited as she heard the royal footsteps echo on the marble flagstones of her floor.

  “Now then, there she is!” The King’s voice—no, my father’s voice. He is my father, Brynn reminded herself—echoed a bit too heartily in her chamber.

  “Indeed she is. Now, Brynnalla, don’t be shy—raise your chin that your father and I might look at you,” the Queen commanded in a high, nasal tone.

  Slowly, Brynnalla looked up. Daring greatly, she scanned the faces of the two royal persons before her—her parents. She looked for any likeness in their features and hers but found none.

  The King, her father, had a hooked nose and a narrow, pinched face unlike her own. The Queen had a sallow complexion and a huge halo of frizzy red hair completely unlike Brynn’s straight waterfall of black. Her mouth—heavily lipsticked in a violent red hue—was pursed in a way that made her look like she’d been sucking sour-fruit all day. And Goddess above, why did they both have to be so tall?

  “Why is she so short?” the Queen demanded, glaring at the King. “Did the Sisters not feed her enough at that convent? Goddess knows we paid them well enough to raise her!”

  “What’s wrong with her dress?” the King asked, not bothering to answer his wife’s complaint. “Why is it so big on her?”

  “What happened to her eyes? They used to be so blue. As blue as mine.” The Queen put a hand to her darkly rouged cheek as though to highlight her own eyes—which, to Brynn looked like the faded blue of a garment washed too many times.

  “If it please your Majesties,” Lady Amalthia spoke up, smiling sweetly, “I think the princess is tired and a little overwhelmed by all the finery of the palace. Perhaps if she had a more simple dress to wear—”

  “Yes, yes—do as you please,” the King snapped, frowning. “But whatever you do, hurry. The tournament is about to begin and the princess must be sitting in the royal box between her Lady-mother and me when it does.”

  “And do something with her hair,” the Queen added. “It’s dreadful.”

  “They tried,” Brynn said, surprising herself by speaking up at last. “It won’t…won’t do anything. It’s too straight to curl.”

  “Ugh!” The Queen made a face and glared at the Lady Amalthia. “Do you mean to tell me you intend to let it hang lank about her face like that?” She gestured as though Brynn’s hair was a limp mass of seaweed instead of a straight, shiny waterfall. “It looks horrid!”

  “Forgive me, your Majesty.” Lady Amalthia curtsied gracefully. “I will try again.”

  “See that you do. And hurry! The King and I are going to the Royal Box.”

  The Queen turned and took the King’s extended arm. As they swept from her chambers, Brynn heard her mother say, “Such a disappointment.”

  The King patted her arm. “Yes, but never fear, my d
ear. We have Prince Rolando so the Princess is quite superfluous.”

  “What a mercy we had him directly after her so I didn’t have to bother with yet another baby,” the Queen said. “Children are so exhausting—especially when they don’t come out like they’re meant to.”

  Her father grunted in agreement and then they were gone.

  “Well…” Lady Amalthia frowned and shook her head. “Let’s see what we can do, Princess. I think I have a dress that might fit you—it was my favorite back when I was only twelve solar years old.”

  Brynn felt her heart sink but she only nodded.

  “Very well—we’d best hurry so as not to keep my royal parents waiting.” But as her ladies in waiting buzzed about her, bustling here and there to get her changed, she couldn’t help feeling a heaviness descending on her.

  She was home now and there was no going back.

  Chapter Three

  Princess Brynnalla sat numbly in the royal box between her tall parents and wished she could melt into the ground and disappear. She had thought she might meet her brother—Crown Prince Rolando in the box—but a few careful questions had yielded the fact that he was away on a pleasure cruise in the southern sea and was expected to be gone several solar months.

  Though he was a year younger than her, her brother hadn’t been sent away to live in a convent as Brynn herself had been. Instead, he had grown up here in the palace, indulged in every way.

  Brynn wondered what it might have been like to be raised at her royal parents’ side. Would she feel closer to them if she had? Would they view her more favorably or would she still be just a “disappointment?”

  In the arena below the box an endless round of sporting matches and feats of daring-do were taking place but Brynn was so miserable she could scarcely pay attention.

  Homecoming—she had thought of little else her entire life at the convent. The nuns had told her stories of the finery of the palace and the love her parents felt for her—though Brynn had never thought to question until now—if they loved her so much, why hadn’t they ever come to visit? But she had told herself that once she took her rightful place in court, everything would be beautiful and wonderful and filled with light and life—not like the quiet gray sameness of the convent which could drive you mad if you let it.

  Now she longed for the silent halls of the gray stone building where she had been raised…the soft hum of the Sisters murmuring prayers to the Goddess…the simple clothing which never bunched or itched or looked odd because she had the wrong shape.

  The dress that Amalthia had put her in was almost as tight as the blue dress had been loose. It was a brilliant red that made Brynn feel even more conspicuous than the ill-fitting one her Lady-mother had picked out for her.

  In an effort to tame her mane, her ladies in waiting had pulled her long hair up into a high ponytail at the crown of her head that made her temples ache it was so tight. Even so, her slippery black strands were escaping to frame her face in a way Brynn was certain was most unbecoming. And speaking of crowns, the delicate filigree silver crown Lady Amalthia had placed on her head kept wanting to slip down over one eye—it, like the first dress, was much too big.

  Nevertheless, it felt like every eye was on her so she tried to sit straight and tall—well straight, anyway—and pretend she was enjoying the show being put on in honor of her homecoming.

  Home, she thought. I’m home…so why do I feel so wrong? So out of place?

  It didn’t matter how she felt, though—there was no going back to the convent now. She was stuck here—far from everything comforting and familiar. Stuck with parents who thought her a “disappointment.” There would be no leaving until her father found her an appropriate match and married her off.

  Make the best of it, Brynn, she told herself grimly. Take things as they come and deal with one problem at a time, just like the Reverend Mother always said.

  Lifting her chin, she tried to take more interest in the field below. She might not look like the other girls—she might be too small and too short with hair that refused to behave—but she was still a princess and it was important to act like one, at least in public.

  I can do this, she told herself. I have to—I have no choice.

  There was a tumult on the field and the crowd roared. Brynn sat up straighter, suddenly finding she no longer had to fake her interest. What were they shouting for?

  She soon had her answer. A new figure had entered the arena—one so tall and muscular he seemed to dwarf every other warrior there. Goddess above, she’d never seen such a one before…or had she?

  Brynn felt a shiver run through her though she couldn’t exactly say why. Maybe it was just that the male was so big—he would stand head and shoulders above her father, the King. And speaking of shoulders—his were fully twice as broad as her own, Brynn estimated.

  His arms were roped with heavy muscle and he wore a tight black leather vest that left them bare to the shoulders, while covering his broad chest. His trousers were also made of black leather, hugging the muscular curve of his buttocks lovingly and outlining his long, well-muscled legs. As for his groin…

  Brynn looked away quickly, blushing. Goddess above, she’d never noticed that part of a male before! Actually, she’d never had much opportunity to notice any part of any male since they were strictly forbidden at the convent. Still, from time to time she’d climbed a tree and looked over the high stone wall which surrounded the Sisters’ land when she'd heard a deliveryman passing, so she wasn’t entirely ignorant of the sex.

  She told herself she ought to study his face instead—but there was nothing to study, for he wore a mask. A hammered bronze affair with slits for eyes and mouth and two holes for his nose and little more—certainly nothing to give a clue as to what he looked like under it.

  “Oh, it’s him—it’s the Kindred,” Brynn heard one of the ladies beside the Royal Box twittering excitedly.

  “Last time he bested ten strong guards, all armed to the teeth,” her companion murmured. “Let’s see if he can beat his own record.”

  “But he doesn’t even have a blaster! Just swords.”

  “He’s not allowed a blaster—it would be too dangerous. But it doesn’t matter—he doesn’t need one. Watch.”

  Looking at the male, now standing in the center of the Arena, Brynn could well believe what she was hearing. This warrior was so huge—who could possibly stand against him? As she watched, he drew a pair of sharp and lethal looking swords with wickedly curving blades. Crossing the deadly weapons over his broad chest, he bowed low to the Royal Box.

  Somehow, even though it was impossible to tell with the mask on, Brynn felt he was watching her especially. Another shiver ran through her. Who was he and why did she feel like she’d seen him before?

  Seen him before? Don’t be ridiculous, scoffed a little voice inside her head. You’ve scarcely ever seen a male in your life—certainly not up close. And this male you would certainly remember.

  Yes, for how could she forget him?

  As she watched, a group of other warriors came out of the other side of the Arena. They were all wearing white and they, too, were heavily armed. They ranged themselves against the one in black and though none of them were nearly his size there were so many of them.

  “Fifteen against one,” Brynn heard the lady in the other box remark. “Even for the Kindred that’s going to be a challenge.”

  Brynn had to agree. Even as big as he was, how could one lone warrior take down so many?

  She soon found out.

  They rushed him in a group—the lot of them surrounding him—and it seemed at first as though he must go down. But his curved blades flashed and blood splashed the white leather and pattered to the sandy floor of the Arena like rain. The group fell back—all but five of them which lay twisted in the sand, never to rise again.

  Brynn’s breath caught in her throat. She’d never seen such violence before! The Sisters of Chastity and Obedience lived quietly with littl
e physical contact and no physical violence. Once Brynn had witnessed a fight between two other students, but that had mainly been hair-pulling and name-calling. It was nothing like the deadly silence of the huge warrior as he cut down his opponents one by one.

  “How does he do that?” the woman in the next box wondered aloud. “It’s like he knows exactly where to strike each one. Look at him—he almost never strikes twice. He doesn’t have to!”

  “It’s his gift—some say his curse,” her companion murmured darkly. “To always see the weakest point of any enemy and exploit it with deadly accuracy. Why do you think his Majesty bought him in the first place?”

  Bought him? Brynn frowned as she watched the bloody spectacle below. So the huge warrior was a slave? But she saw no pain collar circling his thick neck, such as the others who were bound to her father’s service wore. How could he be a slave with no collar? He did have a thick black band around his left wrist—which was hard to see because his arms were rising and falling so tirelessly as he fought—but other than that she could see no mark of slavery upon him.

  “Enough!” her father roared as the last of the Kindred’s opponents fell. “This bores me—give him a real challenge!”

  A real challenge? Brynn thought as attendants hurriedly cleared the fallen bodies in red-spattered white off the bloody sand. What can be more of a challenge than fifteen against one? Are they planning to double the number?

  But only one came out of the Arena gates in answer to her father’s call. Only one, but it wasn’t humanoid.

  Brynn bit her lower lip in terror as she saw the huge, sleek form of a zanther prowl into the ring below. It sniffed the blood-soaked sand and curled its lip back, showing teeth as long and bright as knives.

  Then it saw the Kindred.

  Its deep maroon scales, which had been lying sleek against its muscular frame, stuck out in every direction and a low hissing rattle of warning came from them. It lowered its head and narrowed its golden, slitted eyes, sizing up the male in front of it. A forked tongue escaped its mouth and extended towards the warrior, as though tasting the air around him.