It was mid afternoon when Diesa finally woke, feeling vastly improved. Her stomach had settled, her eyes were able to focus and the fog had lifted from her brain. She sat up to find she was still alone. Carefully she got out of bed, stripped and forced her body into the cold water in the tub. It was a shock but it fully revived her. She dried and quickly donned clean clothes from the wardrobe. She felt a twinge of guilt, knowing Scanlon would have to pay for them, but she could not bring herself to put on her soiled garments. Once dressed, she brushed out her hair, rinsed her mouth and headed for the door. She would apologize, grovel before him, beg his forgiveness. She had to.
The handle turned under her grasp and she stepped backward, her breath caught in a throat gone dry. Kittellan staggered inside, flushed, sweaty and out of breath. He collapsed onto the bed as Scanlon stepped into the room, red-cheeked and smiling. He had healed himself of her attack. No bruise or redness remained to flaw the perfect skin. Diesa remembered to breathe, wondering what Scanlon had done with Kittellan, what had caused his vastly improved mood, Kittellan’s fatigue. It was then that she caught sight of the two swords in Scanlon’s hands, one of which he now slipped back into the sheath on the table.
"Oh, Gods, Diesa," Kittellan groaned. "I’ve found muscles I didn’t know I had! That was without a doubt the most grueling sword practice of my life!"
"A hot bath will relax you," Scanlon said.
Kittellan sat bolt upright, his blue eyes wide. "M’lord! I thought you’d gone on! My apologies!"
Scanlon waved the words away with a smile, heated the bath water and motioned him to it. "It’s an hour until dinner. I’ll meet you downstairs." He left without even a glance at Diesa.
She felt a strange flutter in her heart, fought it back and turned to Kittellan. "Have you been with him all day?"
He nodded, stripped to bare skin and plunged into the tub. He disappeared under the water for a moment, then came up sputtering and rubbing at his face. Diesa had never seen him this happy. "What have you two been doing?"
Kittellan regarded her with a half smile, obviously guessing her real concern. "He was the proper gentleman, Diesa. I read to him, we played a few games of Bridges and Castles, took lunch and practiced swords. The only time I touched him was to massage the anger out of his shoulders this morning. The anger you put there." He scrubbed his hair into a foamy cap, then ducked under to rinse. When he resurfaced, she handed him a drying cloth.
"Did he speak of me and … and …" Her words died away.
"No, Diesa," Kittellan replied as he dried himself. "Not a word."
She frowned. "His silence is frightening, Kitt. You say you know of servitude. What does a master do to a slave in a situation like this?"
Kittellan smiled at her as he dressed. "I doubt there’s any other slave who’d have the courage to create such a situation."
"Kitt, tell me. What usually happens if a slave strikes her master?"
Kittellan sighed. "At the least, a flogging, at the worst, death." She went white and he took her by the shoulders. "It would have been done by now, Diesa. Scanlon is not going to punish you any more than he already has."
"Perhaps he is only waiting until I’m well so that I may more readily feel the pain." She swayed in his arms and abruptly he held her to him.
"I don’t think so, Diesa," he murmured. "I don’t think he will hurt you. Not like that. Although," he released her and turned to pick up a hairbrush, " those magic slaps are pain enough."
She cringed. "And that’s a very small portion of his power, Kittellan."
"Then I shouldn’t want to anger him further," Kittellan said, his point driving home.
"I’ll try not to," Diesa replied. "It’s just that everything he says or does infuriates me. It feels like he torments me on purpose. I’ve never been one to hold my tongue. Perhaps that’s why they all leave me. In the end, they all leave me." She sagged onto the bed, a cloud of gloom settling over her. "I drive them away, Kitt. I don’t know why, but I drive them away. Do you suppose that I’m afraid to love? I accused Scanlon of being incapable of love. Perhaps it’s me who’s incapable of it."
Kittellan finished getting ready for dinner, watching her all the while. "Come here," he finally said. "Let me brush out your hair."
"I already did," she muttered, going to him nonetheless.
"I know," Kittellan said, beginning to brush. "But it relaxes you." After a few moments of gentle brushing, he spoke, his voice quiet and soothing. "I must say, you’ve recovered quickly from your night of drink. I’d have been laid out for days after two carafes."
"Really? I’ve never been drunk," she said. "I don’t plan to be again." She frowned as a sudden thought occurred to her. "Did Scanlon come into this room without you?"
Kittellan paused his brushing. "No, I don’t—oh yes, he did. To fetch my sword. He’d spilled his wine at lunch and left me to clean it up while he came to"—his eyes widened and he finished his sentence in awe—"to heal you."
Diesa winced and closed her eyes. "And to tighten his grip on my soul," she murmured.
"What?" Kittellan put the brush down.
She drew herself up stiffly. "The payment for elfin healing is one’s soul," she told him. "That’s twice he’s healed me. Twice that he’s wrapped his hand about my soul."
"He healed my face," Kittellan pointed out. "And my soul is still mine."
Diesa sighed. "I guess it really doesn’t matter. I probably didn’t have a soul to begin with."
"What do you mean by that?"
She shrugged. "Demons don’t have souls, do they?"
Kittellan frowned, and took her hand. "You’re not a demon. Far from it. Let’s go down to dinner."
The dining hall was crowded with a rowdy bunch of traders, dirty to look at and worse to smell. Scanlon had taken a table in the corner, the same table Diesa had sat at the previous night to drink her anger away. She wondered if he knew, if he’d planned it that way.
He had already ordered. Great slabs of roast pork with vegetables were on two plates, while hers held only vegetables and bread. There was also a carafe of wine and her stomach almost crumpled at the sight of it until she noticed there were only two glasses. Tea waited for her.
They bowed to Scanlon and took their places. Kittellan’s eyes were alight with pleasure as he eyed the food. Scanlon chuckled. "Go on, my young squire," he said. "Eat. From what I saw at sword practice, you need more strength."
"Thank you, M’lord," Kittellan murmured and took up his eating utensils.
Scanlon glanced at Diesa as if waiting. She swallowed her pride. "By your leave, M’lord?" she whispered. He nodded, though surprise lit his gray eyes. She picked up her fork, suddenly no longer hungry. She stared down at her plate, stabbed at the chunks of potatoes and pushed the greens around as tears stung at her eyes.
Scanlon and Kittellan ate, talking as if they were friends, not master and slave. The wine flowed freely as did the laughter. Neither of them addressed her or attempted to bring her into the conversation. She felt completely alone in a room full of people.
Dinner went agonizingly slow but at last Kittellan and Scanlon had satisfied their hunger and thirst,and Scanlon rose, the other hurriedly following. For the first time, Scanlon addressed Diesa.
"Go on up to bed," he said flatly. "Kittellan will be along shortly."
Diesa shot a glance at Kittellan, then nodded and started away. Scanlon stopped her with a touch and she scowled down at the floor. "Yes, M’lord. By your leave?"
"You may go." Scanlon’s voice was so cool and detached it made a painful stab into Diesa’s heart—the heart she was so sure she didn’t have.
She hurried upstairs, each step fueling her anger, and slammed the door to her room behind her. Anger raged through her. She wanted to hit something. Anything. What was his game? To take her down to the slave he’d purchased? Groveling, no longer in charge of her own actions, unable to make her own decisions? She flung herself onto the bed and pummeled her pillow.
It was much later when Kittellan finally arrived. He blushed when she looked at him. "Will you stop that!" he cried. "Scanlon is not going to make me his lover." He started to gather up his things.
"What are you doing?" Diesa demanded.
Kittellan’s flush deepened and he avoided her eyes. "Scanlon has decided that since you and I aren’t … can’t … Well, he’s decided you should have your own room."
She gaped at him. "But I …"
"I’ll be bedding down in Scanlon’s room," he told her. "That’s the usual place of a squire, Diesa." He finished his packing, added some wood to the fire, then turned to her. "It’ll be fine, Diesa. You’ll see."
"Kitt, if Scanlon … if he … asked … would you?"
Kittellan went bright red. "If he asked, no. If he commanded, yes. He is beautiful to look at, Diesa, but he does nothing for my heart. Still, I know my place. He is my master. He bought me and he owns me. I am as much his property as the horse in the stable." He kissed her gently on the forehead. "Good night, Diesa."
She watched him leave and as the door closed behind him the room seemed very large and empty.
* * *
They left the next morning right after breakfast. Scanlon had purchased a horse for Diesa, a small, delicate, brown mare that stared in wide-eyed alarm at the black stallion. Diesa spoke to her mount gently as they rode.
"He’ll not have you, sweet thing," she whispered, leaning low over the horse’s neck. "You and I are alike. Both bought and owned and sought after by a thing of beauty. A thing of beauty with a cold and wicked heart." There was a subtle tug at her mind as Scanlon withdrew. Diesa gasped and looked up. She had not known he was there.
They rode on, stopping only briefly for lunch and to rest the horses. They passed several small townships, populated by hard working farmers, and Diesa frowned. Was anyone truly free? The farmers worked hard, dawn to dusk, trying to produce enough crops to sell at market. Maybe to make a few coins above that which the landlord would claim. They were as much a prisoner to the land they toiled on as she was to Scanlon.
She watched them and sighed. Maybe Kittellan was right. Maybe life with Scanlon was easier than most. She shivered, catching her thought like an annoying gnat and crushing it. If she believed that, then she accepted her position. And that was not something she was willing to do.
They arrived at a township long after dark. Although their ride south was gradually putting them into warmer weather, the night air was cool, reminding them that winter had not yet released its grip on the land. Diesa’s hands were stiff and aching, her body no less. She was not a good horsewoman and, as gentle and accommodating as the mare had been, it had taken all Diesa’s concentration and strength to handle the animal.
Scanlon dismounted before a stately inn and handed the stallion’s reins to Kittellan. "I will procure the rooms. See to the horses. Diesa, the mare is yours. Your hand alone will care for her."
It was the only thing Scanlon had said to her all day and she somehow felt relieved that he had actually spoken to her at all. Perhaps his anger was dissipating, although why she cared, she didn’t know. She followed Kittellan to the stables and led her mare into the stall provided. Kittellan handed her a brush and helped her remove the blanket and bridle in spite of what Scanlon had said. She smiled her gratitude, dropped her pack and set to work. Her muscles ached horribly, yet the task almost felt good, as if she were finally doing something normal and not related to slavery. She worked hard and steadily, but Kittellan had finished brushing both his horses before she was even half done.
"Do you want me to help?" he asked.
"No. Scanlon will be expecting you. If we both come up together, he’ll know you helped. I’ll do it."
Kittellan nodded. "Don’t be long. You know how he is about supper." He shouldered the packs and left.
Diesa watched him with a heavy heart. She didn’t tell him that she had no plans to go to the inn. That the room would be cold and lonely. That she missed his presence, his words, his warmth. It was Scanlon’s doing, she seethed. His plan was to isolate her, to cut her off from human touch. Even the mare was part of the plan. Diesa rode alone now, holding neither Kittellan nor Scanlon. Alone. As always. She bent to the task with a vengeance and the mare nickered, startled.
Diesa at once stilled her hand and stroked the soft brown neck. "Forgive me, sweet thing," she murmured. "It is not you I’m angry with. In fact, I don’t really know who I’m angry with anymore. Maybe just myself. Scanlon says you are mine, so I shall name you. Something fitting, something as delicate and beautiful as you are." She stroked the mare gently with the brush. "Ah. Pearl. For you are like the gem. Did you know that to hold a pearl is to hold comfort? It’s called a mothering stone among my people. It softens pain, brings peace, much as you have done for me. It is round and perfect and since it is a circle, it returns love again and again." Diesa laid her brush aside. "Will you love me, Pearl? Will you love me and not trample on my heart?"
The mare snorted softly and nipped at Diesa’s hair. She smiled. "Hungry then? And no doubt thirsty too." She sought out the oats and poured a generous helping, then picked up the water bucket and went to the trough.
It was dark outside. Much darker than she had expected and she looked skyward. Although the moon was near full, heavy black clouds had slid across its face, taking most of its light from the land. Shivering in the cold, Diesa hurriedly dipped the bucket and started back to the stable.
Her way was blocked by a large, heavily muscled man. Without so much as a word, he knocked the bucket from her grasp, clamped a strong hand over her mouth and dragged her away from the stable. Diesa fought with every remaining bit of strength she had. In desperation she reached for her magic, remembered that Scanlon still bound it and fought harder. But the man was far too strong for her. He threw her to the ground so hard it knocked the breath from her. If she’d wanted to scream, she couldn’t. And then he was atop her and she reached up, raking her nails across his face, aiming for his eyes and missing. He growled and brought his fist to the side of her head in a resounding blow, then another, and blackness fell over her.
Chapter 5
* * *
Shivering, sick and mercifully alone, Diesa woke to darkness. Her head throbbed, her lips tasted of dried blood. She choked back a sob, gathered up her discarded hose and stumbled to the safety of the stable. Blood ran down her leg and she stared as if it were foreign to her before collapsing onto the straw next to Pearl. Shaking violently she pulled Pearl’s saddle blanket atop her. Blackness claimed her again and when she next woke, it was to early morning light and Kittellan’s voice.
"Diesa, wake up," he called gently, stepping into the stall. "Scanlon is practically livid that you …" He stopped in mid-sentence when he looked into her eyes. He crouched next to her. "What’s wrong? Are you ill? What’s that?"
Diesa turned her gaze to her hand. She still clutched her torn hose in a fist so tight the knuckles showed white. Kittellan’s eyes went wide and he yanked the saddle blanket away, saw the dried blood on her legs and thighs, and gasped. "Oh, Gods, Diesa!" He wrapped his cloak about her, picked her up gently, and hurried back to the inn.
They got strange stares from those at breakfast as Kittellan rushed her past. He pounded up the stairs and to her room, where he kicked the door open. He took her to the bed and laid her gently on it. "I’m going for Scanlon," he said.
Diesa grabbed his arm in panic. "No! Don’t! I don’t want him to know! Please, Kitt! I’ll be fine. I’ll just wash and change and …" She shuddered and burst into tears.
Kittellan sat on the bed and held her close, rocking her and stroking her hair until her trembling subsided. "He has to know, Diesa," he whispered and laid her back. He brushed the hair from her face and went after Scanlon.
Diesa turned on her side, pulled the blanket about her and stared at the wall. He would be furious, he would blame her for being out too late, he would curse her for delaying their journey—this great j
ourney to nowhere.
She had no idea of their destination. Scanlon had never said. Diesa had never cared. It didn’t matter much. One part of the country was as any other, one road as foreign and lonely as the next.
She heard footfalls cross the threshold and stiffened, closing her eyes.
"Turn over." Scanlon’s voice was cool and quiet.
Diesa did as she was bade, gazing up into the gray eyes. What she saw there surprised and terrified her. There was concern and worry, but it was clouded with anger. He pulled the blankets free, saw the blood, and his anger turned to rage.
"M’lord!" Diesa cried, not knowing where his anger was directed. "I’m sorry!"
He stared at her. "Are you in pain?"
"No," she lied, then winced as he nudged the truth from her with a small jolt of magic. She changed her answer, her own anger charging her words. "Yes! Yes, I am! I’m seventeen. How many lovers do you think I’ve had? How accepting do you think my body is? I may be a slave but I’m not a whore!"
Scanlon silenced her with a look. Magic flowed over her, easing her pain. She felt his mind probe hers, search, and at last find what he sought. He flinched, then turned, heated the water in the tub, sent the wood in the hearth to roaring flames and strode from the room.
Kittellan was silent for a moment then approached the bed. "Let’s get you cleaned up," he said softly.
Diesa shrugged off his touch, suddenly just wanting to be alone. She rose, stripped off her tunic and got into the tub. She scrubbed vigorously, almost to the point of pain, before Kittellan snatched the bath brush from her hands. He helped her out, dried her as he would a child, wrapped a blanket around her and set her before the fire.
"I’m going to get you some tea," he said. "Will you be all right?"
She nodded numbly and he left. She sat still for a moment, watching the flames lick hungrily at the wood, remembering how her homeland had burned with just such a hunger. I should have died, she thought, then suddenly gave a grim smile. Perhaps I did. Perhaps this is hell. A life of servitude to a man who attempts to steal my heart. A man I can never have. An eternity of longing and need, never fulfilled, never answered. She shuddered and her gaze drifted to the table. Kittellan had brought her pack up the previous night, her pack and her dagger. She rose, wincing in pain, went to the table, picked up the weapon and drew it from its sheath. It hadn’t been used yet. Its sharp edge sparkled in the firelight and Diesa returned to her chair holding the dagger gently.
FREE SPIRIT Page 5
