FREE SPIRIT

by JennaKay Francis

  He caught it, smiled coldly, and sent it hurtling back with a defiant wave of his hand. Diesa gasped, then collapsed as surely as if she’d been struck by a physical object. Kittellan caught her, his face white and bewildered. Scanlon swung astride the stallion. "She will ride with you," he stated and started away.

  Kittellan helped Diesa stand. "What happened?" he whispered, taking up their packs.

  "Nothing," she returned quietly, still trying to gather her emotions. She took her pack. "We’d better catch up."

  Kittellan swung astride and pulled her up behind him. She hugged his waist, laid her cheek against his cloak, and convinced herself it was the cold wind that brought tears to her eyes.

  They caught up to Scanlon easily and followed at a safe distance the rest of the afternoon. Diesa studied the road, the hills and groves of trees around her, knowing the landscape would be important if she chose to run. A sharp sting bit at her mind and her gaze swept past Kittellan to Scanlon. He kept his back to her but she knew he had read her thoughts and she cringed, pressing closer to Kittellan.

  By early evening, the wind had picked up and the chill drove deep. Diesa was glad to see the lights of a village ahead. Scanlon seemed to know exactly where he was going and led them to a small, comfortable looking inn. He dismounted, then reached up, took Diesa’s arm and pulled her down.

  "Stable the horses," he instructed Kittellan, "then bring the packs here."

  "Yes, M’lord." Kittellan nodded, gathered up the stallion’s reins and turned both horses away.

  Scanlon went into the inn, Diesa trailing after. "Warm yourself by the fire," he said. "I will see to our rooms."

  He stepped up to the counter as Diesa walked slowly to the fire. She lowered herself carefully onto a bench, aware of the men in the room appraising her. For what? she wondered. Gods, she didn’t even know where she was, what the men here might want with her. By morning she might have a new master. She had no doubt Scanlon would sell her if the price were right. But six hundred yemmocks? Enough to recoup his losses? She doubted any of these men would have that kind of money. Her gaze drifted to Scanlon and her heart froze.

  A tall, muscular man was deep in conversation with the elf. He was finely dressed in silken brocade that shone dully. Heavy gold rings flashed in the lamplight as he gestured at her. Scanlon wore a small smile as he looked her way and nodded slightly. He clapped the man on the shoulder and shook his hand, then approached Diesa. "Come," he said, and turned toward the stairs as Kittellan entered the room with their packs. Scanlon motioned him to follow. He led them up a flight of stairs and down a short hall to their rooms.

  "Rest," he said. "I will fetch you for supper in an hour." He said nothing about the man or their conversation, and left Diesa and Kittellan alone.

  Kittellan dropped the heavy packs with a weary sigh. He removed his cloak, laid it carefully over a chair, then went to splash cold water from the washbasin onto his face. He dried vigorously, ran a brush through his hair, dusted his tunic clean, then turned to Diesa.

  She had done nothing more than to collapse on the bed watching his actions with sadness. "He sold me," she mumbled, going cold at the words.

  "What?" Kittellan paled and approached the bed.

  "To that finely dressed lord in the dining hall." She gave a grim chuckle. "Who got a bad deal."

  "Stop it!" Kittellan hauled her upright, unfastened her cloak and put it with his. He wet a cloth in the washbasin and brought it to her. "Wash," he said gently, then moved around behind her to unbraid her hair.

  She scrubbed the dust from her face, letting the cold water revive her. "One day," she mused, relaxing as he brushed her hair. "One day was all he could stand. Gods, even the slave driver lasted longer than that before he knocked me senseless. Scanlon’s not as tough as he acts. Remember that, Kitt. You’ll be his in no time."

  Kittellan paused in his brushing. "No one’s called me Kitt since my mother," he said softly, resuming his task.

  "I’m sorry if I …"

  "No. No." He shook his head and began to braid her hair. "It’s nice to hear it again. And what makes you think I lust after Scanlon?"

  "Don’t you? He’s beautiful. More beautiful than a person has a right to be. And you—you’re close to that beauty. I feel like an ogre surrounded by gods."

  "Diesa! Look!" Kittellan led her to the mirror. "You’re no less beautiful. You enchanted a roomful of men downstairs just by walking in, perhaps one to the point of ownership."

  Diesa stared at her reflection, seeing only panic and despair. She didn’t want to leave Kittellan. He was the first person to show her any kindness in months, the first person expecting nothing in return. She whirled and buried her face in his shoulder, her arms wrapping about his neck in a fierce hug. By tomorrow it would be done. He would ride off with Scanlon while she would begin a new life filled with uncertainty and, most likely, pain. She trembled and held on to Kittellan while he stroked her hair tenderly.

  The tap at the door startled them both and they parted as Scanlon entered. Apparently he had thought twice about entering unannounced. The idea almost brought a smile to Diesa’s lips. Almost, but not quite.

  Scanlon had also freshened up and he looked radiant. His hair shone as if it had a light of its own and his gray eyes sparkled. Diesa looked at him and felt her heart reach out for him. She fought the emotion only briefly before yielding to it. What did it matter? After tomorrow, he would be gone anyway. He’d be just a memory, like Kyran and De’el and Kittellan. Just another beautiful face to torment her heart.

  "Come along," he said and led the way back to the dining hall. After they were seated he smiled, though it was more at Kittellan than her. "A rare treat. You have your choice of dinner tonight. Soup or roasted lamb."

  "I’m not picky, M’lord," Kittellan said. "Whatever you decide will suit me."

  "Diesa?"

  "I’m not hungry, M’lord," she answered quietly, then actually experienced a wave of nausea.

  The man Scanlon had spoken with entered the dining hall. The lord smiled at her and seated himself some tables away. Scanlon glanced at him, nodded a greeting and returned his gaze to Diesa.

  "M’lord," she said, "I’m feeling quite ill. I would rather retire for the night than eat."

  "Nonsense," Scanlon replied. "You haven’t eaten since noon. And even then you ate almost nothing. But I know of a dryad’s distaste for animal flesh. Therefore, you will have the soup while Kittellan and I will dine on lamb."

  "Yes, M’lord." Diesa yielded, wondering at his jovial, almost caring attitude. When the soup arrived she made a valiant effort to gag it down.

  Scanlon seemed to be enjoying himself immensely and, halfway through the meal, invited the lord to join them. Diesa thought she might truly be sick as the man sidled in next to her. His musky odor was offensive and his hand continually strayed from the table to her thigh. She kept edging away until she was pressed against the rough wooden wall. He had moved with her and now had her trapped while his fingers periodically squeezed and caressed her leg, each time going higher and higher. She tried to push him away, all the while acting as if nothing were happening, and seething over the fact that Scanlon still bound her magic.

  Scanlon abruptly called the meal to an early close with a polite but firm ultimatum to the lord. "You will remove your hand from my slave’s leg or I shall be forced to remove your hand from your arm."

  The lord’s face paled; at once he withdrew his groping fingers. He rose, made an awkward bow and hastily exited the room. Diesa stared at Scanlon, thunderstruck.

  "Kittellan, leave us," the elf ordered.

  "Yes, M’lord." Kittellan rose, gave Diesa a reassuring glance and left them.

  There was a long silence during which Scanlon ordered a carafe of wine and one glass. He waited until it had arrived and had been poured before he spoke. "So have things turned out as you expected?" he asked coolly. He took a sip of wine.

  "M’lord?" Diesa barely got the word out. />
  Scanlon leaned on his elbows, his glass held delicately between his long fingers. "Did you really think I would sell you to that travesty of a man?"

  Diesa clenched her jaw in disbelief. Of course he would know! Gods! He had read her thoughts hours ago and had let her anguish over it all evening! He had drawn her in, forced her to drop her shields against him, manipulated her emotions, allowed that man to touch her. She shivered at the memory, feeling dirty and used.

  "And yet," Scanlon said, "this is what you wished for at auction. To have a man such as that outbid me. Has the day you spent with me been so awful?"

  Tears sprang into Diesa’s eyes. "No, M’lord," she whispered, unable to summon the anger she knew was there. She was defeated. For tonight, at least. But tomorrow was another day.

  Chapter 3

  * * *

  Diesa woke with Kittellan’s arms about her and Scanlon’s gaze upon her. The elf stood near the bed Diesa had insisted Kittellan share with her. She lay perfectly still, returning Scanlon’s gaze evenly, trying to read what emotion lay behind those gray eyes, trying desperately to shield her own emotions. They were still raw, laid open through last night’s deception, and Diesa summoned the rage to close them. It worked, to a point. She broke her gaze, bolted from the bed, startling Kittellan awake, and bowed to Scanlon.

  "Forgive me, M’lord," she said, her tone biting. "I did not hear you knock."

  Kittellan sprang from the bed, bowing and mumbling his apologies. Scanlon silenced them both with a raised hand. His steely gray gaze settled for a long moment on Diesa. She returned it defiantly. He did not try to read her thoughts and she was thankful for that, as they were thoroughly scattered and confused. Instead, he turned to the tub of water, heated it to steaming with a touch, and walked to the door.

  "Bathe," he instructed. "Breakfast will be ready in thirty minutes. I trust you will not be late again."

  "No, M’lord," Kittellan promised.

  Diesa said nothing. Scanlon gave her a brief glance and left the room.

  Kittellan exhaled sharply. "You go first," he said. "I’m not quite awake."

  Diesa stripped off her clothes and stepped carefully into the tub.

  "Wait!" Kittellan came to her and gently removed the bandages from her back. He grimaced. "It’s going to sting."

  "I’ve suffered worse pain," Diesa replied and sank down into the water. She bit her lip to keep from crying out as the hot water flooded through the wound. She reached for her magic, found none and cursed Scanlon. Quickly she washed and allowed Kittellan to help her from the tub and re-bandage the wound. She dressed and brushed her hair, while Kittellan took his turn bathing. It took all of the thirty minutes allotted them to prepare for breakfast, and they joined Scanlon just as eggs and sausage were being served.

  "Excellent," Scanlon commented, then looked at Diesa. "I expect your hair to be properly bound henceforth, or I shall cut the locks myself."

  Diesa clenched her jaw in anger, but a quick glance from Kittellan stayed her tongue. No matter, she thought, seething. If Scanlon wanted to know what she thought of his words, he had but to touch her mind. She ate quickly and silently, shunning the sausage.

  "Let’s not waste food," Scanlon said. "Some poor beast gave its life for that. Kittellan."

  The boy gave a quick grin, and stabbed up the sausage from Diesa’s plate. Scanlon watched him with amusement. Diesa scowled down at her plate. Kittellan was his. Entirely his. Scanlon had taken Kittellan’s heart and held it securely. The thought disgusted her.

  Later, back in their room, she turned on him. "Have you no pride?" she demanded. "You follow Scanlon like a whipped puppy! Do you enjoy being a slave, Kittellan?"

  He regarded her coolly as he repacked his bag with exaggerated care. "Do you enjoy being so angry all the time, Diesa?" he countered.

  "I have to!" she cried. "If I don’t have my anger, I have nothing. And Scanlon will draw me in, just as he has you. He won’t love you back, Kittellan. He’ll hold your heart, squeeze all of the passion from it and return it empty and old. You’ll not know warmth or tenderness or a lover’s caress. And you’ll go to your grave dead before you get there."

  Kittellan sighed. "What will I ever know of a lover’s caress, Diesa? Me, born into a body that doesn’t fit. My heart is already old, Diesa. What does it matter how the body spends life?"

  "But as a slave? Forever groveling and serving?"

  "My life has been one of servitude," Kittellan told her, starting on her pack. "First as a page, then as a squire. I know nothing else."

  "But I do," Diesa said quietly. "I have always been free. And I will be again. Don’t you ever wonder what it would be like, Kitt, to come and go when and how you pleased? To say aloud thoughts and words that burn in your mind? To be with who you want when you want?"

  Kittellan sighed again, finished with the packs and spun her around. "Your hair—" he began.

  "Never mind the hair!" she cried, escaping his hands. She grabbed her dagger from the table, gathered her locks together and drew the blade through them, severing them just below her shoulders. Kittellan gasped as she dropped the cut tresses to the floor. She regarded him steadily. "He will not command me, Kittellan. He owns my body, not my spirit."

  Kittellan approached her, took the knife and evened out the cut. When he was done, her hair sprang upward in soft black curls that gently caressed her neck. He laid the knife on the table and absently picked up the leather thong he had used to bind her braid. She took it from him, wrapped it around his wrist and tied it off.

  "To remind you of free spirit, Kittellan," she said quietly.

  He gazed at her face for a long moment, then took up their packs. "We’d better go down. Scanlon is no doubt waiting."

  Diesa swept up her dagger, re-belted it, then shouldered her pack. She followed Kittellan downstairs and out into the cold air. Scanlon stood on the porch, the horses nearby. They were untethered, yet waited docilely as if they too were bound to the elf.

  Scanlon’s eyebrows rose in surprise when he saw Diesa’s hair but he said nothing about it. She rode with him by unspoken command, her body rigid and tense. Once during the ride he freed one hand from the reins and stroked her hands about his waist. She shivered and pulled away. Scanlon laughed and urged his mount into a gallop, forcing her to hang on tighter.

  She had thought after lunch that Scanlon would deliver her over to Kittellan but instead he kept her with him, riding at a steady pace until early evening. The stallion was winded and fatigued but a gentle caress and a whispered word from Scanlon drove him on to the village. Diesa grimaced. The beast would die for the elf astride him, so complete was its devotion.

  ::And what of you, Diesa?:: The voice came unexpectedly, startling her. ::Would you die for me?::

  ::I would die for no man!:: she retorted hotly. ::Least of all, you, M’lord!:: She fairly spat the word, making it sound vile and loathsome. She expected a reprimand, got none and sulked in trepidation. His silence was worse than his punishment.

  They reined up in front of a large wood frame inn that had once seen a finer life. The boards still flashed a bit of paint and tattered blue curtains fluttered at windows gaping darkly like mournful eyes. Diesa dismounted stiffly, Scanlon following. Without a word, Kittellan took up the stallion’s reins and sought out the stables. Diesa frowned and shook her head, then followed Scanlon inside, hating herself for being so obedient.

  The inn was shabby and dirty, the occupants of its dining hall no less. The men leered openly at her, while the women, few that they were, scanned her and dismissed her. Scanlon paid for the rooms, told the proprietor to direct Kittellan up, then motioned Diesa to follow him.

  The room and bed were small and the hearth, though stacked with wood, was cold. Nothing was very clean. Diesa shivered and glanced toward the bed in disgust. It was probably crawling with vermin.

  Scanlon brushed his hand before the hearth and it flared brightly, rapidly removing the chill from the room. He moved to th
e bed, drew back the covers and again gestured with his hand. He turned to Diesa. "The vermin are gone," he stated. "Remove your cloak and tunic."

  Diesa caught her breath, staring at him. A flush rose to her cheeks, and she clutched at her nape. "Wh—why?" she stammered, furious with her own inability to handle this unexpected situation.

  Scanlon approached her and with cool, gentle fingers removed her cloak and pulled the tunic over her head. Diesa closed her eyes, clenched her fists and sought her anger. But it had fled, leaving her empty and vulnerable. Her heart hammered wildly and she tensed, waiting for, and curiously yearning for, his touch. It came, cool hands upon her shoulders, turning her and urging her to lay face down on the bed. Then to her surprise, Scanlon began to remove the bandages from her wound. She stiffened, tried to squirm free, found she could not. She was once more bound by his magic. He would heal her and her soul would be forever lost.

  "Please, M’lord," she whispered, ashamed at the tremor in her voice. "Please let it be. Or release my magic that I might tend to it."

  "It is infected," Scanlon told her. "Your magic would do little good. You will have a scar and this could all have been prevented if you had simply surrendered to my hands at the onset."

  Diesa clenched her jaw, willing some movement in her body. But his control was too strong, too complete, and he had his hand upon her back. She trembled at the touch. It grew warmer, the heat searing into her back, reaching deeply into muscle and tissue. She bit her lip to keep from crying out in pain then succumbed to the agony and wept like a small child, trembling under his hand. The healing seemed to last an eternity but slowly the heat faded and with it the pain—the pain that had given her focus, given her anger. It was gone and with it, her soul. She lay still, her cheek pressed against sheets wet with her tears and thought of the knife that lay on the table.