by Krista Rose
Her expression grew pensive as I talked, a heavy weight descending onto her shoulders. She stared out across the Camp as my words ran dry, and finally sighed.
“I believe in our purpose here,” she began slowly. “I was born free, as you were, though my parents sold me so young I can barely remember it, or them. I was raised in the Salt Flats, which is a hell unlike any you’ve ever known. Every moment of every day was accounted for, and we were worked until our bones broke and our fingers bled. I was freed by a rescue team, and they brought me here.” Her eyes gleamed with memory, and I remained quiet, listening. “There was a different Prince then, and we lived further to the south. When the old Prince died, Hamund was elected, and the Camp was moved so we wouldn’t be found. It is because of our shared history under the old Prince that I am not touched.”
She swallowed, and I could see how hard it was for her to speak of it. Still, I had to know. “What do you mean, touched?”
She took a deep breath. “Hamund is young. He’s a good Prince, a good leader, and good for our purpose here. But he’s still a man, and has all the desires of one, some of which burn hotter than most.”
I blinked, and my brows drew together. “So, he- what? Forces the women into his bed?”
“No. Well, nearly.” She stared off, refusing to meet my gaze. “He offers them a choice. Either they can willingly enter his bed, and he will lavish them with the gifts of a mistress, or they are exiled from the Camp.”
I gaped at her. “Alone? But- but that’s not a choice!”
“No, it isn’t.” Her face was strained, and sad. “Most of the women simply leave. They would rather die than live hating themselves. But he’s the Prince, and the men follow him, so what can we do?”
“He should be stopped,” I growled, my anger rising. My palms itched as they heated, and I was careful to keep them from the dry ropes of the bridge. “He should answer for what he’s done!”
“Hush.” Her eyes widened, and her head jerked around in fear, but there was no one in sight. “Don’t you understand?” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “There are no trials here, no guards, no justice. The Prince is our law, and he takes what he thinks he is owed. We cannot disobey. You can’t speak against him, or they will kill you. It’s not even for your sake that I told you.”
“But… then why did you tell me?”
Her eyes were guilty. “You have sisters.”
The breath slammed out of me, and I almost collapsed to my knees. What heat had been building in my hands vanished as my skin turned to ice, my blood freezing beneath it. I have sisters. Would the Prince truly dare to try to claim them? His face swam in my memory, dangerous and predatory, and I realized I had no doubt of it.
Poor, pathetic boy. You can’t protect them.
But who would he try for? Kylee was too young, still gangly with youth, and her tongue sharp as a blade. Kryssa was the eldest, and he knew her for our protector; he would be able to manipulate her easily. But she was still healing, and her madness might deter him.
And so it was Lanya I feared for the most: lovely, calm, and gentle. I tried to remember if the Prince’s eyes had lingered on her when we’d met, and couldn’t. He would think her soft, and weak. He had no knowledge of the steel beneath her skin. The Crone’s throat slit like a gaping smile, the bright sheen of the knife, blood dripping from her hands.
If he tried for her, I was certain he would lose.
I can keep them safe. My resolve hardened, silencing my doubts. I have my fire. I can keep Lanya safe from the Prince, and we can stay. I looked back at Marla, swallowing against the pull of her dark eyes. Please, Gods, I want to stay.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, putting a hand on my arm. “I thought we could help you when we found you in the woods. It didn’t occur to me until later-”
I kissed her.
I do not know what prompted the urge, what madness or frustration convinced me to capture her face in my hands and plunder her mouth with my own. I only know that, after her first surprised squeak, she melted against me, and her mouth trembled open with a soft moan.
Desire, strange and foreign, pulled at me, driving me to take more and more of her exotic taste, until we were both left breathless and aching.
She drew away first, cheeks flushed and dark eyes dazed. Her lips looked bruised and swollen, and I wanted nothing more than to pull her back to me and continue ravishing her.
She saw my face, and put a hand to my chest to restrain me, laughing weakly. I thought I might climb out of my skin. “Brannyn, we’re in the middle of a bridge.”
I did not want her logic. I didn’t care if we were in the throne room of the Imperial Palace. I wanted- Gods, I wanted. But some part of me that hadn’t been reduced to a ravening beast knew she was right, and taking her here when we were visible across the whole of the Camp would say little of me.
Shame overrode my frustration, and I stepped back, trying to calm the need clawing at me.
She took my hand, tracing the lines of my palm and sending shivers through my bones. “There is a bridge to the left of the armory. Do you know it?”
My voice was raw. “Yes.”
A smile tugged at her mouth, rendering her expression mysterious. “It leads to a small platform. A rope ladder will hang there, and you should climb it.” She pressed her lips to my palm, and closed her fingers over it. “At sundown.”
She walked away, and I stared after her, lost and dazed.
BRANNYN
11 Syrthil 577A.F.
It took forever for sundown.
My impatience was nearly tangible as I paced our small house, glaring out the windows at the indolent sun and driving my siblings to distraction. Lanya tried to calm me, but I could only think of what Marla had told me, the secret weighing in my gut like a stone, and I snapped at her to leave me alone. She withdrew, hurt, and I felt small and petty for it.
I was not meant for Kryssa’s place.
I wanted to tell my elder sister everything, to lay the responsibility and weight of these secrets at her feet and indulge in the bliss of being burdenless once again. But I knew her response: she would insist on leaving the Camp immediately, ignoring her weakness and half-healed state. It would not matter that winter was looming ever closer, evident on the frosted leaves in the early morning. It would not matter that she would undoubtedly catch sick again long before we reached Fallor, which was two weeks away at Teodore’s tired pace, and I knew we could not depend on a miracle to save her a second time.
Those were the excuses I gave myself for why I did not run to tell her. Deep down, I was simply afraid she would tell me a truth I already knew, that she would confirm what I refused to think of. I did not want to consider that Marla had waited over four months to tell me of the dangers to my sisters, and then only when I had confronted her. I did not want to admit that, for all her convictions and fearlessness in the face of death, she was a coward, unable to stand up for what was right, unwilling to challenge something so wrong. She had blinded herself to all wickedness but slavery, and so did not see that this was an even worse form of evil, for it came disguised as freedom. She was a hypocrite, and I did not want to see it.
I just wanted her, selfish desires scraping through my skin, the memory of her lips pushing aside my ghosts, the haunting smell of her drowning out my nightmares at last.
And so I kept the secret to myself, and watched the sun slide toward the horizon with building desperation.
At last, the sun set the tops of the trees on fire, and I took off with a muttered farewell to the others, heading unerringly for the armory. I found the bridge she had spoken of, and the platform, and climbed the rope ladder into the concealing overgrowth of limbs and foliage above it.
From below, it was impossible to see anything but the leaves, and so I was relieved to find a well-hidden house at the top of the ladder, neatly tucked amid those upper branches. Marla was waiting for me at the door, her dark eyes filled with the secrets of women, and my impatienc
e was tempered by sudden nerves, making me shy and clumsy as I pulled up the ladder behind me.
She smiled and took my hand, and drew me inside.
The interior was more feminine than I had expected, the walls covered with silken curtains, and the large pile of blankets that made up her bed on the floor was strewn with an extravagant number of pillows. Rich colors, reds and golds and purples, all danced together beneath the light of the dozens of candles. A bath had been drawn, steaming and alluring as twilight’s chill began to creep through the windows.
She pressed a tin cup into my hands, and I stared at the murky liquid within, confused.
“Salixweed,” she explained, reaching up to play with the ends of my hair. “It prevents pregnancy.”
I wanted to ask how she knew this, or why she simply did not wear a charm to prevent it, but I found myself stammering, awkward and unsure of myself.
She finally silenced me with a kiss, her lips curving against mine. “It’s alright,” she murmured, running her nails lightly down my arms, making me shiver. I gulped the liquid hastily, barely noticing the bitter aftertaste. “I’ll be gentle.”
And she was, excruciatingly so, undressing me slowly until I stood naked before her, vulnerable and aching. She urged me into the bath, her eyes as unreadable and mysterious as stars, and I lowered myself into the hot water, unable to take my gaze from her face.
She stripped, sensuously, revealing soft skin that glowed golden in the candlelight. My body felt taut, stretched until I was nearly in pain, and my hands clenched so tightly on the edge of the tub that my knuckles turned white. She laughed softly as she watched me, enjoying my torment, and I moaned through gritted teeth as she at last let down the glorious mass of her raven curls. I prayed to every God I knew that my skin wouldn’t catch fire to the tub.
She bathed me.
I had not been bathed by another since I had been very small, and there was a world of difference between that memory and the erotic feel of her touch. The oil she poured on my skin glimmered in the light, and her fingers massaged, soothing and scorching, wherever they touched, turning me at once lax and rigid.
When I thought that I would finally burst from the wanting, she slipped into the tub with me, straddling me, her lips pressed to mine as she guided me into her intense heat, both filling and drowning me in overwhelming pleasure.
Her moan nearly drove me to madness.
My fingers dug into her hips, but she set a gentle pace, rising above me like a wave lapping toward a distant shore. I wanted that moment to never end, but her hips rose faster and faster, beating against my will as her nails dug into my shoulders, her breath hot and labored in my ear. Her body arched, and she threw her head back with a cry as she convulsed around me like a vise.
I groaned and spent myself inside her, the release sharply sweet, almost like pain.
Exhausted, we collapsed into each other, the splashing water in the tub slowly calming around us. I drew my hand lazily down her spine, and grinned into the curls of her hair when she shuddered.
I think I could have stayed that way all night, but she had other plans for me, and I had no will to argue. She climbed from the cooling water, drawing me out with her, and fetched us towels. She insisted on drying me herself, sinking to her knees as she rubbed the cloth down my legs, and then ignored it as she drew me into her mouth.
I gasped, my fingers diving into her hair, and her quiet laugh thrilled me as she rose again to kiss my lips. The towel remained forgotten on the floor, and the air chilled the droplets still clinging to my heated skin, confounding me with new desire.
“I have a lot to teach you,” she murmured, and took my hand to draw me toward the bed.
I swallowed, unsure if I should thank her or the Gods.
Then she pulled me down with her, and I didn’t think again for a long, long time.
REYCE
12 Syrthil 577A.F. - 1 Veyshin 577A.F.
Winter crept closer, frost appearing on the leaves in the night and failing to vanish in the sun. Flurries of snow, soft and pristine, began to arrive, changing our evergreen fortress to muted silver, dusting the world in blinding glitter as the Forest became both foreign and lovely.
The mood of the Camp began to change. When we had arrived, summer had been dawning, and the fervent beliefs of the Prince’s followers had been steadfast and pure. But snow and short rations cooled the warmer passions, and the encampment emptied of the less-than-enthusiastic, who suddenly felt their skills might be more useful somewhere warmer. Soon, only the ardent and the desperate remained, with us falling among the latter.
Lanya, for her part, seemed not at all affected by the desertion, continuing to make blankets and bandages even after the older seamstresses left. Though it meant more work for her, she handled it with the same grace that she handled everything else, and I was grateful that she was allowed that calm. We were the only two that truly understood the terrible cost of death, the weight of the blood-guilt hanging around our necks. We talked about it in the late hours of the night as the others slept, trying to deal with the shame and remorse that occurs after atrocity, trying to find healing in the knowledge that we had done what was necessary. The vivid torment of it eased as the months passed, but it still lurked in our dreams; sharing with each other helped.
Alyxen actually celebrated the abandonment of the encampment, for it meant that, other than a few of the most devoted of the tinkers, he was finally left in peace to create and experiment at will, without having to sneak parts and pieces of his designs back to our house to fiddle with by candlelight. He had been working on an elaborate hand pump and water delivery system, which would effectively fill the baths without the use of buckets, and, once the others had left, was at last free to build upon his idea. Surprisingly, the remaining tinkers were not only impressed, but began to assist him, so that after a few weeks each of the houses became equipped with a clever hand pump and pipes that emptied water into the tubs without serious effort.
Kryssa remained in the Infirmary, as both her sleeping and waking nightmares continued, flashes of horror intruding into her mind. They were muted somewhat by the teas Bryonis made for her, some dreadful combination of vervain and skylily, sweetened with honey. They smelled of lemon and wood chippings, and made me sneeze, but my sister said they helped with the dreams, and that was all that mattered.
She grew stronger, and, as the healers joined the exodus from the Camp, began to assist Bryonis in the tending of the Infirmary, bottling simple potions and drying herbs. It was easy labor compared to ours, but she was still weak, so we did not resent her for it.
Kylee did not complain either, though her eyes grew darker with some unnamed emotion as the snow steadily built upon the ground. I thought she would be happy with the Camp’s sudden emptiness, for it left her alone with the animals, which is what she preferred, but she kept herself so shielded and quiet in those days it was hard to be certain of anything with her, at least until the evening she returned to our house, pale-faced and shaking, looking as if she might faint at any moment.
Lanya gasped.
I jumped to my feet. “What’s wrong?”
Waves of distress rolled off her skin, and she opened and closed her mouth several times, finally managing to speak. “Don’t eat the pigs.”
Despite our coaxing, she would not explain any more of her cryptic statement, curling into a ball on the floor unmoving, until Alyxen finally fetched Bryonis, who brought her the tea he normally gave to Kryssa. It chased some of the shadows from her eyes, though she continued to stare past us, afraid. We at last learned that the pigs had been slaughtered that day, and would be served to the Camp in the stew. Why we shouldn’t eat it, she refused to explain, only repeating her warning: do not eat the pigs.
It made our lives a little uncomfortable, avoiding the food in the mess, but we all took her warning to heart, even Bryonis. Brannyn convinced Marla and Tanner to leave the pork untouched, though his explanation left them staring at us, wonderi
ng. But I worked twice as hard after that to provide us with fresh venison as a substitute, staving off our hunger as winter crawled on.
In truth, Brannyn and I were the only ones who begrudged the loss of so many people to the Camp, for we were forced to double our efforts to make up for it. We spent long, miserable days out in the snow, trying to keep supplies stocked. The rescue teams, left without purpose with the winter’s halt on slave traffic, assisted our efforts, but the toll was still hard on us.
Brannyn didn’t complain, though, and why would he? We rarely saw him that winter. He spent every moment he could with Marla. He never discussed his relationship with her, though I do not know if it was because he wanted to keep it a secret and thought we didn’t notice his absence, or because he simply assumed we knew, and so there was nothing left to talk about.
I did not know if he loved her, but I thought he might. I resented her a little, for I missed my brother.
I told Kryssa as much one afternoon when I visited her in the Infirmary. She stared out the window as I talked, her eyes far away and sad.
“I miss him, too,” she murmured, but I almost felt that she was talking about someone else. “But I’m happy for him.”
“Then why are you so unhappy?” I asked, wondering if she would finally tell me of the mysterious Vitric she had refused to speak of.
She smiled, but beneath it I sensed her heartache, sharp and bittersweet as she hugged me. “It makes me sad to think of losing Brannyn.”
I frowned in confusion. “But he’s our brother. We can’t lose him. He’s still right here, even if he does spend all his time with her.”
“Love makes you lose things, dear heart,” she whispered. “Pieces of yourself. No one else matters after a while.”
“That doesn’t make any sense, Kryssa.” I made a face at her. “Loving Marla shouldn’t make him forget his family. If she loves him, then she loves us, too, because we’re important to him.”
