FREE SPIRIT

by JennaKay Francis

  "I couldn’t say," Kittellan returned. "But it may be a short one if we’re late to supper."

  Diesa sighed and followed him downstairs. Scanlon had already ordered and large bowls of steaming vegetable stew waited. There was fresh bread, still warm from the oven, butter and honey to spread, and some sort of custard-like dessert. A carafe of wine stood nearly full, only Scanlon’s serving gone.

  Diesa stared at the food in disbelief. She had not seen such a feast for more than a month and couldn’t believe Scanlon would order such for mere slaves. Her stomach reminded her audibly how long it had been since she had eaten, and she slid onto the bench next to Kittellan, her mouth already watering in anticipation.

  "By your leave, M’lord?" Kittellan asked politely.

  Scanlon nodded and Kittellan attacked his soup. Diesa tried to follow suit but could not. Her arms had suddenly and forcibly been pinned to her sides by magic, Scanlon’s magic. She stared at the elf in dismay. So this was to be her punishment then? Forced to sit before such tempting foods and be kept from satisfying her ravenous hunger, to watch Kittellan satiate himself while she would go to bed hungry. Her dismay rapidly transformed into anger, though tears stung her eyes.

  ::The truth?:: Scanlon’s voice came into her mind.

  Diesa frowned, confused. It took her a moment to figure out what the elf wanted. She licked dry lips. "I hit him," she said.

  Kittellan stopped in mid-bite, his gaze darting from Diesa to Scanlon and back. The elf shot him a glance and the boy warily resumed eating.

  ::Continue,:: Scanlon ordered Diesa.

  ::He—::

  ::Aloud,:: Scanlon interrupted.

  Diesa drew a deep breath, humiliation and fatigue driving her tongue, stilling any caution. "I tried to drown myself and he stopped me!" she snapped. Tears of rage leapt to her eyes and she forced them back. "And I will try again and again," she went on, her voice thick and shaky. "I should have died weeks ago. My own stubborn stupidity has kept me alive. But no more, Scanlon. You may own my body, control my mind, but you’ll not corner my soul. I will not be owned by you or anyone else!" Her tears spilled over, running down her cheeks to fall soundlessly on her tunic. And you’ll not have my heart, she thought wildly. You’ll not. She closed her eyes, trembling, but Scanlon’s words brought them open again.

  "Too late," he said coolly, as if the words left a vile taste in his mouth. "I do own you. Eat."

  Abruptly her arms were freed, and she brushed the tears from her face angrily, then glared at Scanlon. "I seem to have lost my appetite, M’lord," she seethed, unable to stop the sarcastic bite on the last word.

  Anger flitted across the elf’s face. "Then find it," he said curtly.

  Diesa stared at him, but was no match for his cold glare. She snatched up the spoon and ate the stew without tasting it, then gulped two glasses of wine in rapid succession, feeling it go immediately to her head. She didn’t care and would have downed a third but that Scanlon stopped her, his smooth, cool hand overlaying hers on the carafe. She felt a tingle shoot through her at the touch. Her breath rushed from her and she reeled dizzily, jerking her hand away.

  "Kittellan," Scanlon said. "Take Diesa to your room. I will awaken you in the morning when it’s time to go."

  "Yes, M’lord." Kittellan rose, pulled Diesa to her feet and half dragged, half carried her upstairs to their room where he lowered her onto the bed.

  Diesa watched him through eyes blurry with drink. "And what now, Kittellan?" she murmured. "Scanlon bought me as much for you as for himself."

  Kittellan grimaced. "Then he made a poor purchase."

  Diesa sat up, the words stinging. Anger tried to take hold, met with the wine and turned into self-pity. "Am I that awful? That pathetic to behold?" She rose, stripped off her tunic and regarded her half-naked body in the mirror, the drink banishing any embarrassment. "Seventeen," she murmured. "Seventeen, and I look as though I’ve not seen my tenth year." She frowned at herself. "It’s no wonder no one wanted me."

  "The bidding sounded good to me," Kittellan replied, dropping into a chair before the fire. He looked at her steadily but his gaze was not on her body, only her face. "Are you indeed Crayoven?"

  Diesa studied him for a long moment. "Would that please you?" she finally asked.

  Kittellan shrugged. "It wouldn’t matter except that I would be more wary of where I chose to sleep."

  Diesa laughed lightly, though it was without mirth. "So the sexually deviant are not your type? No, I am not Crayoven. I am dryad. At least, partially."

  "Ah, that’s why Scanlon can read your thoughts then?"

  Diesa nodded, returning to her self-appraisal. She could see Kittellan’s reflection in the mirror beside hers. If Scanlon was perfect, Kittellan was next to it. She belonged to him, yet clearly he did not want her. Her self-pity grew to self-loathing and she spun, gained the bed and huddled under the heavy blankets, cursing her own conflicting emotions. Yet she knew it would be her anger that would sustain her in the days ahead and she quietly drew it forth.

  Chapter 2

  * * *

  Diesa woke with a thick tongue and a roaring head. But at least she was warm and dry—something she had not awakened to for quite some time. She glanced toward Kittellan. He was sprawled in the chair, his head thrown back, his mouth slightly open, gentle snores escaping. He looks like an angel, Diesa thought, but for the purple bruise across one cheek. A bruise given to him by the devil herself. She shuddered as old, painful memories came back to haunt her. She had been called many unkind words in her young life, but that perhaps hurt the worst – Devil Woman. Given to her because of her dark tresses, and her brilliant green eyes. Eyes some claimed were not normal, not God given, but given by a demon to one of his kind. She again shuddered, and rose.

  Kittellan’s blanket had slipped to the floor and she noticed he shivered in the cool air of the room. She reclaimed her tunic, slipped it on and crept toward the boy. Carefully, she retrieved his blanket and placed it over him. But before she could withdraw her hand, Kittellan’s eyes snapped open. His hand shot out, gripping her wrist like a band of steel—like the manacles she had only just shed.

  Diesa fought to pull away from him and as he came fully awake, he abruptly released her. She lost her balance, stumbled and fell hard against the fireplace. The large fieldstones bit into her back and she cried out, arching away, collapsing at Kittellan’s feet. She fell forward against him as waves of pain assailed her spine and nausea gnawed at her stomach.

  The door to their room flew open and Scanlon burst inside, his fine face alarmed. When he saw Diesa with her head on Kittellan’s lap, he stopped, clearly flustered. It was obvious he thought he’d interrupted some ritual of human lovemaking.

  ::I’m wrong?:: He seemed almost embarrassed to ask.

  ::How dare you?:: Diesa returned hotly, struggling to stand. She felt warm wetness on her back and knew she bled

  Anger flashed across Scanlon’s face and a swift jolt of magic swept through her. She gasped, stumbling backward. For a moment, no one moved, no one spoke. Then Diesa’s stomach chose that moment to retaliate against the pain, her fear and the previous night’s drink. She flung herself toward the tub and heaved several times into the now cold water, before sagging to the floor beside it. She gripped the edge of the tub, and trembling, pressed her forehead against the cold metal. She heard a sigh of irritation escape Scanlon.

  "Kittellan, help her to bed," the elf ordered.

  "No!" Diesa snapped. "I can get there on my own." She staggered to her feet, swaying dizzily.

  "Kittellan!" Scanlon’s voice was like the crack of a whip.

  Kittellan leapt to Diesa’s aid at once, helping her to the bed.

  ::Am I too disgusting for you to touch, M’lord?:: Diesa thought angrily.

  ::Would you suffer my touch?:: Scanlon sent, his own voice like ice.

  ::No, M’lord,:: Diesa retorted hotly. ::No, I would not.::

  Kittellan had her lie face down and gent
ly peeled her tunic upward to reveal the wound. "It’s not large, M’lord," he stated. "I can wrap it easily."

  Diesa felt a peculiar warmth surge through her, a warmth with Scanlon’s touch behind it. The feeling was gone as quickly as it had come but her heart quickened in alarm. "You may proceed, Kittellan," the elf said. "When you are done, I expect both of you to join me downstairs for breakfast."

  Diesa heard the door close and she exhaled sharply.

  "I’m sorry," Kittellan said as he gathered some bandaging material from his pack. He returned to the bed and sat beside her. His hands were gentle, his voice comforting. "I startle easily from sleep."

  "And why is that?" Diesa asked.

  "To keep from being killed," he answered. "This will sting." He rubbed salve into the wound.

  Diesa sucked in her breath, going stiff. When the brunt of the fiery pain had passed, she spoke. "You have a lordly presence. Were you a squire?"

  "Your mind is quick," he replied, applying the dressing.

  "And your knight? The House you served?"

  "Gone. And I am left as wartime spoils." His voice was bitter. He finished his task and lowered her tunic, then sighed and helped her sit up. He went to the wardrobe and opened it.

  "A fully trained squire is a commodity," Diesa said, watching him. "How is it you ended up at a slave auction?"

  Kittellan paused, pulled out a clean tunic and hose from the wardrobe and brought them to her. Without missing a beat, he helped her to her feet, gently removed her blood-stained tunic and slipped the clean one into place. "My sexual preferences were not in line with the conquering House," he said bluntly as she pulled on the hose.

  Diesa stared at him, shocked, then began to laugh. Kittellan went red, and whirled away from her.

  "Oh, Kittellan," she cried, at once chagrined. "I didn’t mean anything by it. I just find the situation amusing."

  "The situation?" he seethed, turning on her.

  "Scanlon doesn’t know," she explained. "He thinks you should be quite pleased with me. How could he know that you’d rather have him?" She dissolved into giggles, while Kittellan stood red-faced and trembling with anger.

  "And what of you?" he breathed. "You practically bed him with your eyes!"

  Her laughter stopped abruptly and fire leapt to her eyes. "That’s not true! I despise him! I despise anyone who buys another person as if they were stock! But I especially despise elves and their arrogance. I won’t …" She stopped, staring at him in disbelief. "Look what he’s done! He puts himself before us so beautiful and perfect that our hearts cry out for him. We can’t have him, so he gives us each other and we can’t have that either." She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the sudden pain in her heart. When she opened them, Kittellan stood close to her. He was not much taller and their gazes met.

  He took her hands in his, sighed, and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. "Perhaps we can’t be lovers as he intended, but we can still be friends."

  Diesa smiled through her pain. "Friends, then, Kittellan," she murmured. "And let’s play a game. Let him think we are lovers. It’s the one thing we’ll have that will be ours alone."

  "But he can read your mind," Kittellan pointed out.

  "Aye," she whispered and blushed. "But my thoughts of you are not so far from our deception. I am doubly cursed."

  "I’m sorry," Kittellan whispered back, then turned toward the door. "We’re late already. Scanlon will not be pleased."

  They hurried down the stairs, each step jarringly painful to Diesa, and stepped into the dining hall. It was crowded and loud. Scanlon sat near the fire and although he made no movement, Diesa knew he had seen them. They pressed through the crowd to join him. Two bowls of porridge and two mugs of tea awaited them.

  "Sit," Scanlon commanded. "Eat."

  Diesa took a spoonful of porridge and grimaced. It was cold and tasteless. She glanced at Kittellan, who had also downed a spoonful.

  "When next I tell you to join me for breakfast you will be on time," Scanlon said, obviously annoyed. "Eat."

  They said nothing, but gagged down the cold, sticky cereal as quickly as they could. Scanlon watched every bite, and when their tea, lukewarm at best, was gone, the elf rose.

  "Go to your room and get your things," he instructed. "Meet me in front of the inn. And do not delay."

  They exchanged quick glances and dashed upstairs. Kittellan quickly strapped on his sword and shouldered his pack before turning to Diesa. She had once more unsheathed her dagger and was examining it. It was sharp, deadly and efficient. Her hand trembled as she re-sheathed it and strapped it about her waist, wincing as the strap touched her wound. She shouldered her pack carefully and followed Kittellan back down the stairs and outside.

  The air was cold, the wind brisk, and both donned their heavy cloaks. Scanlon waited patiently, two horses at his side. They were without saddles, and had only blankets and bridles, although packs were fastened across the back of one. That one was a gray-white gelding, the other a jet-black stallion, and Diesa thought how like her companions the animals were—both beautiful to behold and both beyond a mare’s reach, for very different reasons.

  Scanlon motioned Kittellan to the gelding, then grasped Diesa’s arm as she followed the boy. "You will ride with me," he said. He swung astride the stallion, leaned down and pulled her up behind him in one easy movement. Startled, surprised at his strength, she took hold of his cloak. She caught Kittellan’s eye and saw there—what? Sympathy? Envy? Longing? She quickly looked away as Scanlon turned his horse’s head to the south. He gently urged it to a canter and to keep from being jostled off, Diesa was obliged to wrap her arms about Scanlon’s waist.

  Anger raged through her, mingling with pain as her pack bounced against her wounded back. They rode at a steady pace until noon and, when they finally stopped along a small, half-frozen stream amidst a grove of trees, Diesa slid from the stallion’s back to walk out her stiffness. Kittellan saw to the horses, then brought the saddlebags to her, dropping them at her feet with a knowing glance. She knelt carefully, grimacing in pain, and opened the packs to prepare lunch. Scanlon leaned against a tree trunk and watched her. He offered no words, either verbally or mentally and Diesa was glad of the peace. Still, her hands shook under his penetrating gaze and the round of bread escaped her grip. It fell to the frozen ground and toppled into the stream.

  With a gasp, she lunged forward and snatched it up but it was too late. The porous loaf had quickly absorbed the water and was soggy in her hands. She cringed, closed her eyes and waited for Scanlon to punish her. Instead, his response was cool, calm and annoyed.

  "It appears we’ll have just cheese and fruit for lunch."

  Diesa dared a glance at his face but his gray eyes were impassive and unreadable. She carefully laid out the rest of the lunch without another mishap, leaving the soggy bread to the birds.

  "M’lord," Kittellan said when they had finished and repacked, "by your leave, I’d like to look at the wound on Diesa’s back. I fear it may have bled through."

  "You may examine it."

  "It’s of no consequence," Diesa said quietly, glaring at Kittellan. "It will heal whether you look at it or not."

  "It is of consequence if you ruin another tunic," Kittellan said coolly, "since we have no others. Or," he added, softer, "if you faint from pain."

  "I will not faint!" Diesa declared hotly, then withered under Scanlon’s gaze.

  "You will not suffer yourself to my hands," the elf said, "but you will to Kittellan."

  Diesa’s gut tightened, but she yielded to Kittellan’s examination. He pulled back her cloak and rolled up her tunic. The cold air on her exposed skin made her shiver.

  "It is as I feared," Kittellan announced. "It bleeds again." He rose, procured his pack and once more crouched behind her.

  ::I could heal it with a touch.:: Scanlon’s voice entered her mind.

  ::As could I,:: she retorted, ::if you hadn’t bound my magic.::

  ::I should leav
e it intact then, that you might use it against Kittellan?::

  ::Or against you!:: Diesa raged.

  Scanlon laughed aloud at that. ::Dryad magic against elfin magic? How quaint. And how terribly arrogant. It’s unbecoming.:: He rose and strode away.

  Diesa gave herself over to the pain of her wound to still a scathing retort. She stared at Scanlon’s back, watched him feed an apple to each horse, then gently stroke their noses, all the while whispering to them in elfish. She wondered what he said in the beautiful, lilting language. It was almost like a song—a gentle, caring song that wove through the air, touching at her skin playfully, like dandelion fluff floating on summer air.

  She found herself sinking into it, letting it embrace her with its tender touch. It enveloped her, held her, caressed her with its power. Too fatigued not to, she surrendered herself to it willingly. Peace flowed through her, peace and happiness, two emotions she had not felt for months, maybe years. Not since Kyran had left.

  Kyran. The name filled her mind, the image her soul. Kyran, betrothed since birth, befriended since childhood, loved since puberty. She had not thought of him for months, had buried his memory deep within her. And now it was free—free to torment her heart with renewed grief, a grief so overwhelming it consumed her just as the fire in Omerron had consumed him and his new love. She choked on a sob and shook her head to clear it.

  Scanlon still sang and Diesa focused on him. How dare he loose these memories! She was a slave, but of body, not of mind! Her memories were hers to deal with as she chose. He had no right to intrude on them, on her! Her anger grew, becoming a hot, living thing fueled by pain, grief, hopelessness and disdain. She wondered how tightly he’d bound her magic, and reached for it, gathered it toward her. She trembled and, as Scanlon’s song ended, she hurled what she had gathered toward him.