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FREE SPIRIT
by
JENNA KAY FRANCIS
Amber Quill Press, LLC
http://www.amberquill.com
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Free Spirit
An Amber Quill Press Book
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Amber Quill Press, LLC
P.O. Box 50251
Bellevue, Washington 98015
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
Copyright © 2002 by Kay Allen
ISBN 1-59279-019-4
Cover Art © 2002 Trace Edward Zaber
Rating: R
Layout and Formatting
Provided by: ElementalAlchemy.com
Published in the United States of America
Also by JennaKay Francis
A Gift Of Blood
The Drums Of Diraenia
The Faery Sickness
From The Heart
The Guardians Of Glede Series
Dedication
For my friend, my critique partner,
my editor and my strength—
my mother.
Chapter 1
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Diesa de Tyronmen struggled angrily against the shackles, tipping her head back to take a breath. She had complained time and again to her captors that the neck shackle was too small—a complaint that had fallen on deaf ears.
Oh well, Diesa thought grimly, it doesn’t matter now.
In a few short minutes she would go on the auction block and whoever bought her would have to provide their own shackles, iron being as expensive as it was.
She closed her eyes against the glare of the winter sun and shivered in her thin slave tunic. The voices of the market crowd were loud in her throbbing head.
A head that wouldn’t be throbbing, she reminded herself sourly, if you could only learn to keep your mouth shut.
Eight days of her constant complaining had at last driven the slave keeper to blows. The evidence, however, was well concealed under her thick, waist-length black hair. It wouldn’t do to sell damaged goods.
"Up!" barked a heavy-set man, yanking her to her feet. He prodded her along past other slaves and up the three steps to the auction platform. Once there, he stripped off her tunic, allowing her attributes to show. A blush rose in her cheeks and to thwart it, her gaze traveled swiftly over those men seated at the buying table. A Kalaithen—he would be looking for boys. A human, big, ugly and old—he might be a problem. A brothel madam—she would want someone more well-endowed. A dwarf—he was already turning his eyes away in disinterest. A Diad—he was leering, obviously interested. Another human, younger, more pleasing to look at, but with a cold grin that sent shivers up Diesa’s spine—his interest was clear. And last, an elf—exquisitely beautiful, with fair skin, hair the color of summer sunshine and cold gray eyes that appraised her thoughtfully.
The auctioneer brought his gavel down hard startling Diesa, and the bidding began. It started low and Diesa cringed. Not only was it a blow to her ego but it meant she could be forced to stand naked for a longer time, shivering in the cold air.
"Come now," the auctioneer whined. "Surely we can do better than fifty yemmocks! She’s a fine young specimen with only seventeen years behind her, worthy of any brothel."
"She’d have to grow some knobbies first!" a man’s cry came.
Laughter erupted and Diesa flamed red. She knew her breasts were small. But that’s the way her body was—small, tight and wiry. Still, it did not give him the right to draw attention to it. She lifted her chin defiantly.
"She’s part dryad," the auctioneer admitted, "but the other half is all Crayoven. Crayoven! Think of it!"
Diesa gasped. It was a bald lie, meant to raise the bids. Crayoven! The word stuck in Diesa’s mind like poison. To even suggest she could be part of such a sexually deviant race of people brought the taste of bile to the back of her throat. She shuddered and forced herself to look at the buyers.
"One hundred yemmocks!" the madam offered, her heavily-painted eyes squinting at Diesa. "Based on trial."
"One hundred fifty, no trial," the young human countered.
"One hundred eighty." The elf’s offer was not loud, though it rang clearly.
Oh Gods, Diesa thought. Not the elf. Please, not the elf. She knew his kind. Her clan had told her all about them. How they could claim a heart with their words, a soul with their touch. But not mine! Not mine! She would not be owned by anyone, least of all an arrogant, narcissistic elf. Her gaze settled on him and their eyes met. The corners of his perfectly formed lips turned up just slightly, although his gray eyes remained cold and aloof. Diesa could not look away and felt her heart hammering against her ribs. He was beautiful! Painfully beautiful. You’ll make me love you and give me nothing in return. Nothing but aching emptiness.
::And you know this?:: His voice came clearly in her mind.
The Diad bid two hundred.
Quickly Diesa brought up her shields to keep the elf’s magic out, anger rising inside her. Anger at him, at every man who had caused her pain and used her heart as a door pad.
The elf’s smile grew. "Two fifty," he called.
She started. No, her mind cried. Not him. Please, let someone else…
"Two seventy five!" The young attractive human was back in the bidding.
::You’d rather go to him?:: The elf broke through Diesa’s shields easily.
::At least his pain would only be physical,:: she shot back.
"Three hundred," the elf said.
::I hate you! You know that!:: Diesa seethed.
::Why?:: His question was curious, as the human once more raised the bid.
::You come into my mind without asking. That’s the way with your kind. With men! They take what does not belong to them and then discard it like trash. Get out of my head!:: Diesa strained with all of her psychic power to reform her shields.
The elf’s smile grew. "Four hundred."
::No!:: Diesa shrieked mentally. ::You’ll take my mind first, then my heart! I can’t stand it!:: Her gaze went to the young human who had been countering the elf’s bids. Please, she begged, willing her thoughts to him. Please.
The young man shifted uncomfortably, his face wrinkling into a hard frown. "Four twenty five," he called as if the words had been forced from him.
The elf smiled fully, his gray eyes sparkling with surprise. "Six hundred."
A gasp went up from the crowd, followed by a heavy disbelieving silence. The auctioneer regained his senses quickly, slammed the gavel down upon the bidding block and jabbed a finger at the elf. "Sold!" he cried.
Diesa sagged in defeat as the guard dragged her from the platform. She was barely aware of the elf heading her way, but as he drew up beside her, she became rigid with anger and hate. She watched the gold coins fall from his long, graceful fingers into the dirty, outstretched palm of her captor. Each gold coin sealed her fate.
The collar shackle suddenly became too tight to bear and she clawed at it with desperate fingers, her breath caught in a throat gone dry. The elf motioned to the metal, a grimace of distaste on his face, and the gaoler twisted the key in the lock. The shackle fell away, landing at Diesa’s bare feet with a heavy thud. Her gaze traveled with it, and even though she knew it to be gone, her throat remained tight and closed.
Tears fogged her vision and she blinked them away rapidly. The shackles she now wore were of a different kind, invisible to the eye, yet more powerful than those of any metal. She was a slave. She jumped as the elf shoved her tunic into her hands.
"Dress," he said firmly and when she had, he caught at her chin, lifting her face upward. He stared at her for a long moment, his gaze burning into her mind. She could feel him there, taking up residence, gathering information, but she had no strength left to shut him out. He would take what he wanted when he wanted it. She trembled and he released her.
"Come." He turned and strode off through the throngs of people. Diesa followed numbly, mind whirling. Several times she lost sight of him and once entertained notions of simply slipping away into the market crowds. The idea was disposed of quickly as the elf sent a quick stab of pain through her with his magic. She hurried to catch up, anger burning in her gut. She found him near the back wall of an inn, a young boy beside him.
She appraised the youth. He was as fair as she was dark, of a slight, though muscular build, and not much older than she. His blue eyes traveled over her in apparent distaste and her anger overwhelmed her.
"This is Kittellan," the elf said. "He is my swordsman. Kittellan, this is Diesa. She will prepare our meals, see to our clothing and satisfy your human needs."
Diesa gasped, embarrassment flushing her face. Kittellan looked no less thrilled and glared openly at her. Diesa whirled on the elf, words of rage forming. The look in his cold gray eyes stopped her. He continued, "I have secured a room. Follow me."
They followed him to the front of the inn and inside. It was blessedly warm and Diesa realized how cold she’d been. But then, eight days with nothing between her and the winter winds except the light tunic she wore had hardened her to the cold. It had become like everything else on that grim trek from her ravaged homeland—a test of endurance and her dryad powers.
The elf led them to a room. Inside, a large bathtub full of steaming water stood against one wall. A fire roared in the hearth and two sets of clean clothes lay on the bed, serviceable clothes—heavy woolen tunics and hose, leather boots and hooded cloaks.
At least, Diesa thought, I’ll be warmly dressed.
"I will be back in an hour," the elf said. "I expect you to bathe and dress before I return. And wash your hair. I am not fond of lice."
Diesa clenched her jaw, her words coming before she could stop them. "I am not street scum," she seethed, then gasped as another stab of pain lanced through her. She brought her shields to bear, tensing, waiting for further punishment. But it did not come. Instead, the elf smiled, though there was no warmth in it. And Diesa suddenly sensed an underlying anger within the elf. She had wish to find out just who or what he was angry with, and silently she backed away.
"My name is Scanlon," he said, his gaze hard on her. "You will both address me as M’lord or Sir." He turned toward the door. "One hour. Be ready." He pulled the door shut firmly behind him.
Diesa glanced at Kittellan. At least Scanlon’s words had cleared up one question. Kittellan was as much a slave as she was. Her gaze traveled to the bath. "Will you go first or shall I?" She fought to keep the tremor from her voice.
Kittellan gestured at the tub. "Please, by all means, ladies first." He sounded as nervous as she felt.
"Your back, then," she said, and when he had turned, she quickly shed her slave tunic and slid into the water. She had not bathed for at least two weeks—eight days shackled like some animal and six days before that, wandering hopelessly through a land gone dead, destroyed in a fierce battle between opposing warlords. Everyone and everything she had known was gone, perished in the raging fires that had consumed her beloved forest.
Tears stung her eyes and she let the water close over her head. Why was I allowed to live? she wailed to herself. It would have been far less painful to burn as the forest had burned, to offer herself up to the Gods and their will. Perhaps she still could. She had only to breathe now beneath the water and her life would end. It would be so simple. She closed her eyes, steeling herself against the panic of self-preservation. So simple.
"Are you mad?" Kittellan’s fierce cry shocked her. But not so much as the pain that flared through her scalp as the boy hauled her from the tub by her hair. She gasped and struggled free of him to collapse in a puddle of water on the floor. "Fool!" he spat and tossed a drying cloth at her.
Diesa came to her feet, trembling with rage. She reached for her magic, magic that would send this human into spasms of agony, and found it blocked by Scanlon. Fury swelled in her, a growl escaped her lips and she swung her fist with all the strength she had left. It caught Kittellan soundly on the cheek and he reeled, surprised and in pain. His reaction was swift. He picked her up and threw her onto the bed. She rolled, expecting to feel his weight upon her. Instead, he peeled off his dirty clothes and plunged into the tub, sinking beneath the water.
Diesa watched in disbelief as he resurfaced and began to wash vigorously. Slowly she reclaimed her drying cloth, dried and dressed, aware as she did so that Kittellan never once looked at her. With a scowl, she sank down on the wooden floor out of his sight, her back against the bed. She heard him leave the tub, and rummage about. Several moments later he rounded the bed, fully dressed and drying his hair.
He was remarkably handsome, in a sweet, feminine way. His blond hair was long and curly, framing a V-shaped face with a sharp, pointed chin, a full mouth, delicate nose and wide, innocent blue eyes. Diesa felt homely by comparison—she with her slightly full face, finely chiseled features, dark skin and pale green eyes, all offset by the black hair that spiraled in tight, wet ringlets to her waist; hair that seemed too thick and heavy for such a small frame.
"Scanlon left a brush," Kittellan said. "I suggest you use it."
Angered that she had allowed him to take charge, Diesa rose and snatched the brush from the table. She tried to draw it through her hair, but as always, the curls fought back. She watched Kittellan from the corner of her eyes. His brush moved easily through his hair, tempering the curls into soft waves and bringing out a shine. Angrily, Diesa jerked her own brush harder, ignoring the pain as she ripped dark curls of hair from her head.
"Here." Kittellan caught her hand and removed the brush with one easy movement.
"I can do it myself!" Diesa snapped.
"Be quiet and turn around!" he said. "Scanlon will be back any moment and we’d better be ready." He spun her around, quickly brushed out her hair and plaited it into one heavy braid, tying the end with a thin strip of leather he found on the table.
His touch was incredibly gentle and soothing and, in spite of herself, Diesa relaxed. She was tired, so very tired. Her eyelids drooped and her shoulders sagged.
"No time for rest," Kittellan said, jolting her back to the fore. He set the brush down and turned to the tub. "We’d better get this water cleaned up."
Diesa looked at the puddle, one she’d caused by her desire to take her own life. And yet Kittellan was mopping it up instead of ordering her to do so. Chewing thoughtfully on the inside of her cheek, she joined him. In moments the floor was dry, the cloths hung over the back of a chair, the bed straightened and the dirty garments heaped in a pile. Diesa glanced at Kittellan. The large red spot on his cheek would be a hideous bruise by tomorrow.
"Kittellan," she murmured. "I’m … I’m sorry I hit you. I had no right to vent my anger on you."
He grimaced and opened his mouth as if to speak but at that moment the door opened and Scanlon stepped inside. He had a large burlap bag in one hand and a sword and leather scabbard in the other. His steely gray gaze swept over the room and the two before him. Slowly, silently, he closed the door and put his purchases on the table.
Diesa felt him probe her mind as he turned on her. Without looking at the boy, Scanlon addressed him.
"What happened to your face?"
Kittellan answered steadily, calmly. "A fall getting into the tub, M’lord."
Diesa caught her b
reath. The elf watched her a moment longer, then turned away. She shot a glance at Kittellan, but he ignored her.
"I have brought you something," Scanlon said, opening the bag. He dumped the contents onto the table. Rolled packs, blankets, waterskins, tin mugs and eating utensils tumbled out—two of each. In addition, there were medical supplies, a digging spade, and a fine dagger in a leather sheath. The latter was handed to Diesa, the sword to Kittellan.
"Prepare your packs and join me in the dining hall," Scanlon ordered. "Twenty minutes."
"Where are we going?" Diesa asked, looking over the items. Scanlon eyed her with raised eyebrow, and she glared back defiantly. She had not addressed him as M’lord or Sir, nor did she intend to. She would not accept her position as slave and he could not make her.
::Can’t I?:: he asked and the tone was so incredibly cold and hard that she actually flinched. ::We shall see.:: He studied her for a moment longer, then spun on his heel and strode from the room, slamming the door behind him.
Diesa stared at the door for a long moment, puzzlement furrowing her brow. She had read something there, something in Scanlon’s anger that was not really directed at her or Kittellan. She shook her head and turned on Kittellan. "Are you trying to get yourself punished? He knows what happened. He can read my mind."
Kittellan stared at her, obviously startled. "You could have said the truth."
"Aye, I could have. And brought his wrath down on me at once," she replied. Her voice softened, her knees suddenly weak. "I’m sure I’ll pay later, Kittellan, but thank you for trying."
He said nothing further about it but divided the articles on the table. They finished with the packs and Diesa drew the dagger from its sheath. It was a fine blade, well balanced and sharpened to a wicked edge. She looked at it thoughtfully. "He buys us as slaves, outfits us as brethren, and arms us as comrades." She brought her gaze up to Kittellan’s face. "We’ll be traveling, that’s certain. But where to and for what purpose? What do you suppose our future holds?"
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