“There.” His tone is indifferent. “I have found you a cure.”
Unmitigated hatred for Zeldek burns in my chest, and I open my mouth to curse his soul to the devils when Bellator claps her hand over my mouth and throws me from the room. The doors slam behind us, cutting off the sobs of the heartbroken parents.
I free my mouth from Bellator’s hand, and she releases her grip on me. I turn in a circle, clutching my head, overwhelmed by the horror I just witnessed. “What kind of a—” I begin, and cut myself off, swallowing back the overpowering nausea that engulfs me. It isn’t the first death I’ve witnessed, but never have I seen a young child so carelessly and brutally murdered. “That man – that beast! He’s the devil!”
“Walk!” Bellator says coldly, shoving me away from the door.
“But—”
“Now!”
I have no choice but to do as she says, and the only reason that I don’t thoroughly despise her for it is that despite her pretence of carelessness, I have a feeling that she may have tried to intervene to protect them.
The only sound that follows us as she directs me through a maze of dark halls is the echoing of our footsteps, which seem to reflect the despair growing inside me, both for myself and for those poor parents. The scene replays itself over and over in my head as the silence continues, and I know that it is forever branded in my mind. But no, I cannot allow myself to dwell on it. I have to push it from my mind. I must if I want to remain sane.
There’s one thing I know for certain. There is no way that I will ever give my allegiance to that monster, no matter what he promises me.
After we’ve passed through two levels of empty, torch-lit halls, Bellator stops in front of a door. She pulls it open a crack, and a surge of steam pours from the room, dampening my face with warmth. I jerk my head backwards. Bellator, however, remains quite still until the steam has passed over her, and then peers inside.
“Curse him!” she cries in exasperation, throwing the door fully open. “Where’s that good-for-nothing knave?”
Inside, the light of the torches on the walls shimmers on the surface of the pool in the centre of the room. Towels, soap, a scrub brush, and other such bathing materials lay on the tiled rim of the pool. I recognize it as a very civilized bathing room, having had some experience attending to a few of my more prestigious masters while they were washing.
Bellator shoves me into the room. “Get cleaned up. Well. You smell like a slave.” And she slams the door in my face.
I glance back at the closed door, feeling separate from my body. One part of me is too numb to feel anything, while the other part grows indignant at her words.
I take a few more steps into the room. The tiles are warm against my bare feet and the movement of the water is alluring. It has been a good while since I last had a proper bath, I realize. I begin to undress, taking off the oversized cloak, which still has a strong scent of liquor hanging about it. My ratty tunic and bulky trousers hold no sentiment in my mind, what with them being large enough to fit a grown man. I’ve had to tie the trousers up with a rope since I was given them by an auctioneer, who thought my previous ones were too worn to be considered decent. And he was right.
I untie my knotted, shoulder-length hair and comb it out as much as I can with my fingers. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, I step into the pool. The warm water engulfs me, caressing my tired, aching muscles, and forcing me to relax. The nausea finally fades, and I inhale deeply. In the next few minutes, I use the brush and soap from the side of the tub to scrub away the layers of dirt and grime that darken my skin. I’d forgotten the fresh touch of the air on my skin, and just how pale my complexion could be. I feel new, and I like it.
Just as I am contemplating getting out of the pool, the door swings open. Embarrassed, I sink down to my neck in water as a red-haired boy is thrust into the room by Bellator.
He curses at her, but she merely curses back at him and slams the door in his face. He swears louder, kicks the door, and then utters a yelp of frustration and pain.
“Um... hello?” I say when he has quieted down some, shivering from the cool air let in by the open door.
The redhead turns and spits at me. Fortunately, he is too far away to hit anything but the floor.
“I ain’t no stupid half-breed’s servin’ boy!” he shouts, either to me, or to Bellator, or perhaps to the both of us. His accent is strictly Avian – he’s obviously a native, though he doesn’t have the characteristic dark skin – as he has a habit of drawing out his vowels and skipping half of his consonants. “I won’t be!”
“Y-you don’t have to be,” I stammer. “I don’t mind.”
“You shut it!” he shouts, throwing the bundle of clothing in his arms onto the floor.
His face is almost as red as the freckles that speckle his skin, and he stomps his foot angrily on the dark tiles. But it seems as if his shouting is to no avail, because after letting out another grumble of frustration, he snatches up my old clothes and carries them toward the door.
I bolt upright. “What are you doing?” I cry, starting out of the pool.
He turns back to me, his anger switching to confusion in an instant. “What’s it look like? I’m burnin’ this sad ‘scuse for clothes!”
“Just... one moment,” I say, pulling a towel around myself in case Bellator decides to open the door again.
I pick my way across the wet tiles toward him.
He hesitates. “What for?”
I snatch the trousers from him and feel along the inside seam of one of the legs until my fingers find the hidden lump. I rip open the seam, and an amulet rolls out into the palm of my hand. A perfectly round pearl the size of an eyeball is embedded into a maze of silver lines that curve and swirl into the shape of an eye. It hangs on a simple metal chain which is wound carefully around the amulet. This amulet is the only precious thing that I possess. I’ve had it for as long as I can remember and I know it’s the only link I have to the identity of my parents.
I close my fingers over it and throw the balled-up trousers back at him. “There, now you can throw them out.”
But his gaze is fixed on my hand. “What’s that you got?”
“Nothing,” I reply, turning back toward the pool.
“Oh, it’s somethin’,” he says, starting after me. But a sudden pounding on the door redirects him and he hurries out of the room.
I snatch up the clothing he brought me, and quickly pull them on: a black tunic and trousers; a black doublet with golden stitching; black stockings; a pair of leather boots; a belt; and a blood red cape that fastens at my shoulders. Each article of clothing fits as if it were made for me – a foreign feeling, as I’ve never worn clothing that fit me before.
When I am fully clothed, I put the amulet around my neck. It feels as if it’s suddenly gained ten pounds of weight, but when I pick it up in my hand, it is as light as ever. I haven’t worn it since I was very little. I don’t know where it came from or why I was allowed to keep it; I am sure it could be worth a fortune to the right buyer.
The door opens, and I slip the amulet down the neck of my shirt. It feels cold against my bare chest. The redheaded boy enters again, looking just as annoyed as he had when he left.
“How do I look?” I ask, turning to face him.
His critical green eyes flit over me, and he shakes his head with a nasty grin. “That hair’s gotta go.”
“What do you mean?” I put my hand to my hair, which is dangling in wet strings over my neck.
“You look like a girl, that’s why!” He pulls a stool from against the wall, and sets it in the middle of the floor with a bang. Then he taps the seat. “Sit yerself down and I’ll give you a more manly haircut.”
I hesitate. I don’t want that boy anywhere near my head with a knife. “Can’t I just tie it back?”
“Sure. Might ‘swell braid it too. Look like fancy pants captain girly out there for all I care.” He shoots a glare at the door. “Just sit down an
d get it over with!”
I give in and sit down on the stool, clutching the seat beneath me with both hands. He takes a rusty knife from his pocket, and begins cutting away at my hair, making a point of jerking at it as much as he can. After a few long, painful minutes, he’s finished. I look down at the tangled black locks scattered on the tiles and can’t help feeling a tinge of sadness. But as I run my fingers through the tousle of hair left on my head, I decide I don’t mind it short as much as I thought I would.
“Now,” the boy says, casting an admiring glance at his work, “get outta here. The ‘general’s’ awaitin’.”
I stand up. “Thanks,” I pause, and turn to him. “What’s your name?”
He glares at me, his sour mood returning. “What’s it to you, half-breed?”
I stare at the floor, weariness washing over me at the sound of the hated insult. “Nothing, I guess.”
His suspicion fades slowly and he attempts a crooked smile that ends up looking more like a sneer. “The name’s Uri.”
“Well, thanks Uri.” The next words come out of my mouth without deliberation. “I’m Ealdred.”
A grin flickers over his speckled face. “Well, Ealdred, welcome to hell.”
Chapter Seven
W hen I exit the bathing room, Bellator is waiting outside. Leaning back against the wall across from the door with one foot crossed casually over the other, she folds her arms over her chest and casts a careless glance over my new appearance.
“Trying to make you into a prince, is he?”
I shrug. I know she isn’t asking because she wants an answer.
“He’s wasting his time.”
She pushes off from the wall, coming to stand directly in front of me. I look up at her, but for some reason, I don’t withdraw or lower my gaze. I feel steady as I look her in the eyes, and a new confidence is born within me.
“I will admit,” she adds, “you’d come closer than most from your background if it came to acting regal. You have an unusual confidence about you for a slave.”
“As do you, for one who serves a man like Zeldek,” I say. “Back in the throne room... with the little girl... he did that to spite you, didn’t he?”
Her eyes flash and she folds her hands behind her back. “Lord Zeldek does not tolerate disrespect, and neither do I. You will learn your place here, or you will have me to answer to. And I promise, I won’t have as gentle a touch with you as the Master has had thus far.”
Spinning on the heel of her boot, she strides back up the hall, barking over her shoulder, “Now follow!”
I trot after her obediently, and we are soon ascending a wide flight of spiral stairs. They end abruptly at a short walkway that halts before a small door. Bellator draws a key from her belt and thrusts it into the lock of the door. It grinds in the keyhole as she turns it, and there’s a resounding snap as it unlocks.
She throws the door open. “Welcome to your new prison.”
I stumble over the threshold, expecting to see a dingy, dark space with straw on the floor and a small barred window that would barely let in any sunlight. Instead, I am greeted by the dancing light of crystal chandeliers, the soft touch of red carpets on stone floors, and the brilliant hues of black, red, and gold in the elaborate tapestries decorating the walls. In the centre of the floor is a small, circular table with a single chair beside it.
“Sit!” Bellator orders, closing the door behind us.
Caught in a daze, I walk over to the chair and sink down onto the cushion. A black, velvet tablecloth trimmed with golden lace graces the surface of the table, and silverware is set out upon it. I reach out, my fingers barely touching the prongs of the fork. They have been polished well so the candlelight reflects on them like tiny stars. I’ve never had such a privilege before, to use eating utensils. I hope I don’t embarrass myself too much if I don’t know what to do with them.
“This apartment is a triangle of three chambers,” Bellator explains jadedly, leaning back against the wall beside the door. “This is your dining chamber. To the left is your living chamber, and to your right is your bed chamber. You will be staying here indefinitely, unless otherwise summoned. Zeldek wants to appear non-threatening, but the reality is that you are a prisoner. Get used to it.”
At least she’s honest.
The door to the apartment is pushed open, and a maid enters. Her arms are laden with a tray of food, which she carries carefully toward me. The pleasant aroma of roasted fowl fills the air, and my empty stomach grumbles eagerly. It’s been weeks since I’ve had a full meal, and days since I’ve eaten anything more than the scraps Lye left for me.
The girl sets the platter in front of me and places a crystal goblet of wine to the left of it.
Wait! How does she know that I am left-handed?
“Thank y—” I begin, glancing up at her nonchalantly. But my voice dies in my throat.
She averts her gaze, the blood rushing into her rosy cheeks. A ringlet of white hair falls from the snowy braid wound around her head and rests on her cheek. She cringes, as if expecting me to blow up.
But I’m not angry. I feel as if I’ve been punched in the gut, and everything I feared falls into place with a sickening thud in the pit of my stomach.
“Annalyn?”
“I’m so sorry, Ealdred!” she blurts. “I had to do what the Master told me.”
That only makes me feel worse.
She didn’t know my name. I never told her my name!
“You were sent to spy on me.” But it isn’t a question.
She bites her lip. “Not spy, exactly. My assignment was to relay information regarding the effects of—”
“That’s enough, girl!” Bellator snaps. “Return to your duties at once.”
Annalyn backs away. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I had no choice.”
Then she’s gone.
Once the door has closed behind her, I turn to Bellator, my fingers twisting the stiff lace of the tablecloth. “Why did Zeldek send her to spy on me?”
Bellator shrugs, crossing her arms over her chest again. “Why are you so worked up about it? The Master has sources everywhere, and Annalyn happens to be one of them. How else did you think the Master knew so much about you?”
I feel betrayed and I don’t know why. I should’ve guessed that Annalyn was up to something, that her kindness was merely a facade. I should’ve remembered that no one is just nice to a half-breed.
“Oh, spare me the tears, half-breed. Go on and eat while you still can.” Then she adds under her breath, “And preferably choke to death while you are at it!”
My gaze drifts down to my plate. The food on it is far richer than anything ever set before me. But I’ve lost my appetite.
“Just eat!” she bellows, clearly working out her own frustration by shouting at me.
I grab a roll from the platter and cram it into my mouth, following it with a gulp of wine to help it go down. But even that threatens to come back up. I push away my tray and put my elbows on the table, resting my face in my hands. I run my fingers through my unfamiliarly short hair, trying to regain some sense of calm.
Why is this upsetting me? I know better than to put my faith in anyone but myself.
“Well, it’s not my problem if you want to starve,” Bellator says, and pounds her fist on the door.
Annalyn returns to take away my food, but she doesn’t look at me as she gathers up my tray, silverware, and goblet. She carries them away, and the room is lost in silence.
Bellator fumbles with the hilt of the dagger in her belt, staring at a section of floor with a dark scowl. I wait for her to give me an order, or at least say something. But she doesn’t.
At last, I push back my chair and stand up.
Bellator’s glance is hostile as it flashes to me. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Halting, I slide my chair back into its place at the table. My life thus far has never been in my hands to decide. I’ve always had masters telling me what t
o do, forcing me to follow their rules. Yet now I am expected to make a decision that will undoubtedly mean the difference between my life and my death? I need help from someone. Someone who, quite possibly, has made such a decision.
I clear my throat.
“Bellator,” I begin, and then wince.
Why is she so hard to talk to?
She stares at me blankly, waiting. I take it as leave to continue. “I- I was wondering; if you were me— no... not that you are me, but if you were ever in my... position,” I pause, taking a breath to untie my tongue. “What would you do? About Zeldek’s offer, I mean. Would you agree to it?”
Her expression doesn’t change.
I realize that I am nervously twisting the amulet under my shirt, and I jerk my hand away. A quiet moment passes with no response. “Y-you did hear me, right?”
“I did.” She tosses her head to the side, knocking her bangs out of her eyes. “Why are you asking me? You either want it or you don’t. What I would do has no sway over what you’ve already decided.”
I wet my lower lip. “I know, but it’s just that he killed that girl without a thought, didn’t he? Refusing him would be asking for the same – or worse – treatment.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Scared to die, are you?”
I cross my arms to shield against the very notion. “Aren’t you?”
“Oh no. There are things far worse than death.” She outlines the deepest scar on her face with her finger. “I should know.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
“Don’t believe me?” She pulls out her knife and turns it over in her hands. “You’ll find out soon enough without my help.”
Without so much as a warning, she leaps forward and hurls the knife at my head.
My hand shoots up without deliberation, catching the knife by the hilt, the point inches from my nose. I feel an icy chill retreating up my arm, and the hilt of the knife is warm in my palm. Heart pounding, I look from the knife to Bellator. Her expression is one of restrained shock, her eyes withholding a glimmer of admiration. At least, that’s what I hope it is.
Broken Arrow (Darkened Destiny Saga Book 1) Page 5
