But perhaps this was Fortune smiling upon her and waking her while he slept. Instead, she scooted down to the foot of the bed—carefully, slowly, watching his sleeping face at every moment, afraid he would wake—until she was able to step down onto the muddy rugs that swathed the bottom of his tent and get out of the bed.
There, on her feet, she sucked in breath and looked about the room.
She scampered over to the basket that contained the scrolls, knelt down, and began going through them. They were maps. They were maps of all the Eeslia, all eight of the islands. She ran her fingers over the shape of Octavia Island and then rolled them all back up and secured them with string and put them back.
She glanced back at the bed to make sure the noise of the papers rustling hadn’t woken him.
It hadn’t.
That had been no help. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, a map with a big, black line on it, with a star at the end and a note proclaiming, Here is where the Croith has Magdalia?
She stood up.
All right, well, he was asleep, and she needed to go.
Yes, but where?
She couldn’t leave this encampment without knowledge of where they’d taken Magdalia. Someone had to know.
Perhaps if she left the tent, she could overhear something helpful if she crept through the shadows and listened to the men gathered around campfires?
No, that’s stupid. I won’t be that lucky.
Maybe she could ask someone. Maybe she could… could trade. There were fae who were only soldiers and they might be eager enough for just the sight of her bare flesh, eager enough to give her information for it. If that wasn’t enough, she was… well, it was done now, she was already whatever-he’d-called-it.
Deflowered, that was what he’d said.
That was done, so it wouldn’t matter if she had to trade that.
Once she had the information, she’d leave the camp and then she’d go for Magdalia.
And do what? You were worthless to her before.
Well, she couldn’t stay here.
She tiptoed forward, quietly pushing through the flaps of the tent.
Outside, it was dark and quiet.
She eased herself out under the stars.
Immediately, there was movement out of the corner of her eye and a man came forward, clutching his rifle against his chest. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Her heart squeezed. Why hadn’t she seen that man? She was horrible at sneaking around. Of course, she supposed this man was likely trained to be stealthy, and everyone knew that the fae had more skill at moving gracefully and quietly, especially in the darkness. They were naturally nocturnal, she thought, but here they were, all sleeping at night like humans.
The armed guard pushed her back inside Larent’s tent, and Larent was on his feet immediately.
“Slept too deeply after taking your pleasure with her, I guess,” teased the guard.
Larent glared at the man.
“You’re welcome, centurion.”
“Thank you, militus,” Larent said. “That will be all.”
The guard shrugged and took his leave of them, offering a salute that seemed sloppy to Onivia.
Larent looked her over once the man was gone, nostrils flaring. “That went well, of course. You’re only making things worse for yourself. Definitely, be spirited so that I have to do a lot of elaborate, public breaking of you. That’s quite intelligent on your part.”
She only breathed, saying nothing.
“Of course, I suppose I haven’t explained, have I? But what is there to explain?” He sighed. “It doesn’t matter to you, and you’re not going to be inclined to do me any favors. I just killed your entire family. Well, the men anyway. Which could have been worse, but you don’t know that. You don’t know that the original plan was to kill all the children and keep every single woman for the use of the soldiers, but I said that women whose children have been slaughtered are likely to slice the throats of the men who’ve used them after those men have fallen asleep. I said that if we kill children they will think they were right about us, that we are animals, and I said… and so you.” He held out his hands, gesturing at her.
She had no idea what he was talking about, but she supposed this was why they’d sorted through the women and sent off the ones with children. But what was to become of those children? Because the villa was now in the hands of the freed slaves, and the human women and their children had been turned out to fend for themselves, and they might starve out there or run afoul of the wild animals in the jungle, and he couldn’t honestly think she would thank him for this, could he? She glared at him. She hated him, and she tried to put all of her hate into her expression.
“So, then you. They give me you.” He cocked his head to one side. “I’m going to have to hit you, aren’t I?”
She flinched at this, in spite of herself.
“What if I say that I’ll simply clap my hands and make it sound like I slapped you. Would you scream, to help along the charade?”
Her lips parted. Why was he saying this?
“I doubt it,” he said. “You hate me, and I can’t fault you for it. Of course you do. You’re not inclined to do anything I say.” He squared his shoulders. “Well, I’ve never hit a woman before, but it can’t be that hard.”
“I won’t scream even if you do hit me,” she said suddenly, and there was panic in her voice.
He regarded her for a few moments and then he barked out another of his mirthless laughs. “I don’t think you would, at that. Maybe if I persisted at it long enough, but I don’t know if I have that in me. Hurting helpless things, it’s…” He shook his head. He turned his back on her, and slid his hands into his long black hair.
It was quiet.
Then he began muttering oaths to the fae ancestors again. He whirled on her. “You can’t leave the tent until morning, all right? Afterwards, I’ll put you in with the other women, and we’ll we be on the march, and I can conceivably be busy enough to leave you be for some time, I think. I can probably even just bring you in here from time to time for nothing but sleep and no one will be the wiser. If you would cooperate with me, I might be able not to touch you much at all, in fact.” He raised his eyebrows. “Would you cooperate with me?”
She opened her mouth to speak.
He cut her off. “Never mind. Don’t answer that. You go and talk to the other women and see how it’s going for them, and then maybe you’ll be grateful. I do forget how spoiled and pampered and entitled you human dominissae are. Or domina, because you were married, even if he never bothered to claim you.” His voice changed, and now his tone was patronizing, as though she were stupid or small. “This, domina, is what it’s like to be owned.”
“Fuck you,” she said, and she spat in his face.
He wiped it off, gritting his teeth. “I really should hit you.”
She clenched her hands in fists. “Why don’t you? Why play at honor, when you have none? Everyone knows that the death fae are evil, that you can’t manage goodness.”
He smirked. “Yes, but you humans, you’re the epitome of morality, what with the slavery and hierarchies and the haves having so much and the rest of the poor sods starving in the streets. But it’s the ‘natural order of things’ for you and your family to be rich.” He nodded sagely. “That’s utterly rational, domina.”
Her face twitched. This was… the pamphlets, the capital, the revolutionary thoughts she’d always refused to have. “You have human blood. Perhaps that’s why you are capable of—”
“I have human blood, and that’s why Akiel, the princep, thinks that I am sympathetic and soft on humans and why he doesn’t trust me,” said Larent. “So, I have to show my contempt for your race by using you ill, so that my position in this army is assured. Perhaps if you keep flapping your lips, it will be easier to hit you.”
“I wish you would,” she seethed.
He seized her by the arm and tugged her back over to the bed.
She struggled. “If you attempt it again, I will fight you. I don’t know why I didn’t fight before, but this time, I will rake your skin to ribbons—”
“Relax, domina,” he said. “I’m not going to fuck you. I’m only going to tie you to the bed so that you can’t leave.”
She hurled herself at him, trying to hit him.
He caught her wrists and stopped her and wrestled her down onto the bed. And then he did tie her down, and it was hardly a contest.
Why am I so weak? How is it that he is so much stronger than me?
Breaking, he’d spoken of, and it was happening. Every time she tried to fight and she was shown how physically weak she was, something in her cracked.
ONIVIA SHOULDN’T HAVE been able to fall asleep because her bonds were tight and they dug painfully into her wrists and ankles. And not only that, but Larent draped his leg over her waist and his arm over her chest, and fell asleep like that, face turned away from her, his body hot and heavy over her skin, the smell of him invading her nostrils.
But she did sleep, perhaps because she was very tired or perhaps because of those cracks she was speaking of. Maybe the sleep would help to fortify her.
It is hopeless to think that you can help Magdalia, said a weary voice in her head.
And it might be true, but it wasn’t something she could believe, because she needed it to be false. She needed hope. Hope would be the one thing that would keep her from breaking. She must cultivate it at all costs.
In the morning, Larent untied her and did as he said he would. He took her to the women’s tent, which was large and crowded. The women who had been guests at her wedding feast were there, at least the ones who had not had children. There were several very young girls, only thirteen or fourteen, girls who she recognized from the wedding, and they were sitting around with blank expressions on their bruised faces.
Too many of the women were bruised.
Then maybe you’ll be grateful.
Oh, fuck Centurion Larent. She gritted her teeth and pulled her hatred around her like a warm, comforting cloak.
The women were supposed to be wrapping up their bed rolls and dismantling their tent. She learned this from a woman who she vaguely recognized as the domina of a villa on Sextus Island. “We need to move, and if you’re still in a daze about all of it, you’d better snap out of it, sweetheart, because you won’t like what happens to difficult women.”
The problem, Onivia gathered, was that the women who’d come in from her wedding were sitting inside the tent on their bed rolls, and making it impossible for anyone to tear down the tent around them.
So, Onivia took it upon herself to go and speak to each of them in a soft voice, tentatively touching their shoulders at first, until she realized her touch only made them flinch, and then convincing them to get up and leave the tent.
Once she had cleared the place, she helped the other women, who’d obviously been here longer, to tear down and pack up the tent.
There was a meal distributed, something bland, a sort of grain mush of sorts, and then the army was on the move, marching across the island.
“You’re Larent’s prize, aren’t you?” said a woman who walked next to her.
“I’m Onivia,” she said fiercely.
The girl smiled shyly. “Marta.” She shrugged. “But I don’t see that it makes much difference, not in the end. Our prima names are always from men. First, the names of our fathers and then, the names of our husband. We women are always connected to some man or other, someone’s possession. Now, we belong to the fae, and some women are horrified at the unnaturalness of it, but they are just men in the end. It’s all the same, truly.”
Onivia wanted to argue that it wasn’t, but she didn’t have the strength for it, so she only sighed.
“What’s he like, Larent?” said Marta. “He’s one of the handsome ones, I think.”
Onivia turned on her. “Handsome? They are… they killed—”
“Oh, yes, it’s still like that for you.” Marta shrugged again. “Did he hurt you badly?”
Onivia sighed in defeat. “Not really.”
Marta pointed at the woman who’d been yelling that everyone needed to be on the move. “She was Akiel’s prize, but he discarded her for someone else, someone younger, two weeks ago. She’s still with us, though, and we’re in the pool of women who can only be used by the centurions and higher ranked men. Mark my words, the last thing you want is to be thrown to the militem, passed around amongst the foot soldiers.”
She cringed.
“As for me,” said Marta, “I have cultivated certain skills with my mouth that ensure that I am always in high demand.” She winked at Onivia.
Onivia was horrified.
“It’s all about survival,” said Marta softly. “The sooner you understand that, the better. The dangers are as follows: becoming boring and being cast aside, being too much trouble and being cast aside, and falling in love with the man who owns you.”
Onivia turned to her in disgust. “I would never—”
“Oh, good,” said Marta. “Because that never ends well. But, if you can contrive to get one of them to put a babe in your belly, that’s the best of all. Because then you are safe, and you are sent off from the wars to live elsewhere. Mother of a fae officer’s child? You will not be trifled with.”
Onivia blanched.
“Of course,” said Marta, “some of them have magic and aren’t the least bit sentimental about children with human blood. Larent is a half-blood. He likely can’t wither something in your womb. If I were you, I would try it, and the sooner the better, for you never know when one of them is going to tire of you.”
Onivia did feel grateful, then, grateful that Larent hadn’t finished, that he hadn’t planted his seed within her. She couldn’t imagine anything worse, and it was such a likely thing to happen.
Marta chattered on, and they marched.
They came to the shore soon enough, and then they were all loaded onto three ships, and Onivia was not on the same ship as Larent, much to her relief.
They had days on the boats, days of peace, days to scheme and to ask questions. Marta knew nothing of the Croith, but Onivia was able to get some information from the other women.
The Croith stayed in the capital, apparently. It was from there that he issued his orders and oversaw the war.
So, if—no when—Onivia got free, that was where she would go, and that was where she would find her sister.
CHAPTER FIVE
“NO.” THE WORD escaped Magdalia’s lips, a wail. “No, no, no.”
The Croith walked towards her, a cold smile wreathing his features, which were familiar to her, because she knew him.
He crouched down in front of her, resting his elbows on the tops of his legs, looking her over. “Well, look at you. All grown up.” His gaze dragged itself over her and she saw the light in his eye, the way he was looking at her—
“No!” She got to her feet. “You can’t be the Croith.”
He gazed up at her, still in his crouch. “Oh, I thought you would have figured it out, after everything.”
A sob escaped her lips and she covered her mouth with both hands, gripped by horror.
“You were never exactly intelligent, I suppose.” He sighed, shrugging.
“How dare you?” she snapped.
“You do seem to have developed other assets, however.” His gaze settled on her chest.
She hugged herself. “Duranth, stop it.”
He chuckled, long and low, deeply amused. “Do you remember when you were in love with me? You must have been, what, four years old? I was nine. And you told everyone you were going to marry me when you grew up until your nurse informed you that humans can’t marry fae, and that you must think of me as properly below your exalted station in life.”
“I never said that,” she said, shaking her head furiously. “I don’t remember it, so… it can’t have… no.” She did remember it, of course, because she h
ad loved him. But she’d been a child, an idiot child, and she hadn’t understood anything then.
Over time, she had left behind all that childish whimsy and seen him for what he was—a sort of dear pet, beloved but not her equal. And even at the end, when she’d tried so hard to save him from her father’s wrath, it had only been out of a sense of that sort of love, not… nothing like what he… when she was a little girl, she hadn’t understood anything about marrying someone, and—
“Don’t you remember your promise?” His voice had dropped suggestively.
All right, so maybe it had been sort of like that, but not really. She didn’t have any true feelings for him.
Suddenly, she realized something. “Your hand.”
He laughed. “Oh, it’s rather lifelike, hmm?” He reached over, and she saw a leather strap and a buckle—bone, not metal—which he undid, and then he tugged his hand off and tossed it at her.
Clumsily, she caught it. She wasn’t good with things like that, but he was only standing a few feet away. Even so, she fumbled it, nearly dropping it. She turned it over. It was an artificial hand, encased in a leather glove.
He held up the stump. “You did a good job healing it, of course. Look how smooth. No scar tissue at all.”
Her heart stuttered. She didn’t want to think about that. “I’m sorry about your hand,” she whispered.
“Yes, it was cut off because of you, wasn’t it?” He smiled at her, a particularly nasty smile.
“I wish I could have helped you,” she said.
“Well,” he said with a shrug, “I hope you still wish to help me, Magda.”
“What do you mean?”
He held out his good hand, palm up.
Wordlessly, she put his artificial hand into his hand.
He busied himself with reattaching it. “You know what we can do together, and so I want us to work on that and to put it to good use.”
“No,” she said. “For the fae rebels? You think I would help you in your mad attempt to overturn the empire?”
He glanced at her. “Oh, so patriotic now, are we? I thought little Magda never paid attention to such things.”
Battles of Salt and Sighs (Rise of the Death Fae Book 1) Page 4
