Kittellan frowned at her. "Why would I lie, Diesa? What could I gain by it?"
"My compliance, that’s what! I know he’s punished you because of me, Kittellan, and you would like nothing better than to see me accept my position as you have accepted yours. But I can’t! I just can’t! If I give in to him, Kittellan, I die. Maybe not physically, but I die just the same."
"When are you going to stop fighting, Diesa? I love you and it’s wearing on me. I can only imagine what Scanlon must be feeling."
Diesa cringed and got slowly to her feet.
"You’re not to be up." Kittellan sighed although he made no move to stop her. "Please, just this once, listen. Unless you enjoy seeing me punished."
Diesa returned to her blanket, flushed. "No, of course I don’t, Kittellan. And I can tell you what Scanlon is feeling. If I don’t become the proper little slave, he’ll sell me in Estower."
Kittellan didn’t seem to believe it and shook his head in resignation. "Then please, Diesa, try your best. Please." He looked past her. "Now’s your chance. Scanlon is coming back."
Diesa frowned and hunched further into her blankets. Scanlon reined in his stallion next to Pearl and dismounted. Diesa’s first impulse was to leap up and rescue the mare from the stallion’s amorous advances. But as she turned, she saw Pearl nuzzle up against the black, snorting softly. The stallion nipped gently at Pearl’s neck and blew air through her soft mane.
No, Diesa thought. Not you too! She turned away and glared at the fire. Scanlon dropped a cloth bag at Kittellan’s feet. "Vegetables," he announced. "From a farmwife several leagues away. Perhaps you could roast some of the potatoes to go with our bird." He looked at Diesa. "You’ve been up. Didn’t Kittellan tell you to stay down?"
Diesa shot a quick glance at Kittellan who closed his eyes as if waiting for a punishment. Diesa looked back at Scanlon and answered. "I stood, M’lord, he told me not to and I returned to bed at once." Like a good little slave, she added mentally.
A smile twitched at Scanlon’s mouth. "I trust you are feeling improved?" he asked, and sat down near the fire. Kittellan relaxed with a soft sigh. Diesa frowned.
"I am, M’lord. I should be able to return to my duties by tomorrow."
"We’ll see," Scanlon returned, and stretched out his long, lean legs. "We should reach Estower by tomorrow eve."
"Tomorrow?" Diesa echoed, surprised. "But I thought you said three days."
"Two and a half, three, does it matter?" Scanlon asked casually, though his steely gray eyes bored a hole in her.
Yes, it matters, she thought wildly. It gives me no time. No time to prove that I can be a slave. An obedient, self-deprecating little slave. Damn you, Scanlon.
"Does it matter?" he asked again.
Diesa sagged. "No, M’lord. It doesn’t matter," she whispered.
Chapter 6
* * *
Scanlon kept their pace carefully controlled the next day and, despite Diesa’s protests, assigned her duties to Kittellan. The boy didn’t seem to mind, although Diesa was wracked with guilt. They arrived in Estower, a large dirty township populated with all manner of people, late in the afternoon. Diesa kept her mount close to Kittellan’s and avoided the leering gazes and crude comments thrown her way. Kittellan got his share as well and gave Diesa an embarrassed grin.
Scanlon must have sensed the interest his two slaves were garnering for he remained with them in the stables while Kittellan brushed out the horses. The elf would not let Diesa help, so she sat steeped in guilt, watching Kittellan. When he was finished, they went together to an inn.
It was not one of the finer ones in town and Diesa wondered why Scanlon had chosen it. He seemed to like his comfort and was willing to pay for it. Absently she wondered where he got his wealth. He had mentioned no job nor title, she had never seen him doing business. Yet, his purse never seemed to run empty. Diesa sighed. How she wished she had such a bottomless purse, had never had to scrimp and save, or go hungry when she had not. She began to wonder just where Scanlon lived, in what sort of grand place she would find herself in residence. And what she would be forced to do there.
Scanlon continued his protective behavior by purchasing only one room and Diesa was glad for that. She had been in a slight panic at the thought of being left alone and now relaxed as the three of them settled into the large room.
It had a bathtub, seemingly a requirement for Scanlon, and he heated it first thing. Without another word, he stripped off his dirty clothes and plunged in. Kittellan ignored him, busying himself with stoking the fire, but Diesa stared in surprise, shock and—she had to admit—delight. If nothing else, Scanlon had a fine build, one which she, as a young woman, could fully appreciate.
Scanlon caught her eye, smiled, climbed from the tub and slowly, deliberately reached for the drying cloth. He wrapped it around his lower half and stepped to the fire to dry, then gestured Diesa to the tub. Her eyes grew wide and she approached the tub with pounding heart. She could feel his eyes on her back, waiting.
What does it matter? she thought. He’d already seen her body. Everyone at the slave auction had. Why should it bother her now? She dared a glance at him. He smiled again and settled into a chair, his back to her. Kittellan grinned, positioned himself behind the elf, his back to Diesa as well, and began to massage Scanlon’s shoulders.
Diesa could not suppress a sigh of gratitude as she peeled off her clothes and got into the tub. There was something about bathing in the same water as Scanlon that sent a chill through her, but she wasn’t sure quite how to analyze it. She shook herself, buried that thought, climbed from the tub and dried.
"There is a clean nightshirt in your pack," Scanlon announced without turning. "We will take dinner in our room tonight. I’ve no wish to dirty myself with the inhabitants of this town. Kittellan, you may bathe as well. Diesa, you may brush my hair."
Diesa caught her breath. Kittellan shot her a warning glance, and pressed Scanlon’s brush into her hand. It was made of silver, the bristles soft and white, and it felt awkward and cold in her hand. Kittellan gave her a shove toward Scanlon, then busied himself with his own bath.
Diesa took a deep breath, placed herself behind Scanlon and drew the brush through his golden locks. His hair was incredibly soft and she was mesmerized by the shine that seemed to dance with a fire all its own. She drew her fingers through it, gently easing out the tangles, then followed with the brush. He relaxed under her touch and sighed heavily.
"I can feel the healer in your hands," he murmured. "They’re good hands, Diesa, capable of much tenderness."
Diesa frowned, caught off guard by the compliment. "Thank you, M’lord," she mumbled.
A tap sounded at the door just as Kittellan stepped from the tub. He grabbed up a drying cloth, secured it at his waist and hurried to answer the knock. A boy, not much older than Diesa and Kittellan, stood in the doorway, holding the meal tray. He had large brown eyes and a finely chiseled face framed by shoulder-length brown curls.
Though he was very slight of build, looking near starved, he handled the heavy serving tray with ease and would have delivered it without mishap had his eyes not been on Kittellan. As it was he stumbled over Kittellan’s pack, pitched forward and dumped the entire contents of the tray onto the floor. Hot stew splashed outward, hitting Diesa’s bare legs and feet. She yelped, dropped the brush and leapt backward, quickly brushing the offending liquid away. Scanlon bolted to his feet, anger sweeping across his face. Kittellan froze, his eyes wide, his face white, his mouth gaping.
The boy sat up, dazed, his chin bleeding, sliced open on the jagged edges of the broken crockery.
"You … you …" Scanlon seemed at a loss for words.
Kittellan leapt forward and helped the boy to his feet. "M’lord," he cried. "It was my fault! I should have stowed my pack out of the way! Please, M’lord, have mercy!" He grabbed Diesa’s discarded drying cloth and pressed it against the boy’s wound, his hand trembling.
Scanlon studied
the boy for a long moment, his expression tight and irritated. His gaze went to the mess at his feet, then he glanced at Diesa. "Are you burned?" he asked.
She nodded. Several chunks of vegetables had landed on her exposed skin and left red marks. "But they are small burns, M’lord," she said quickly. "They are of no consequence."
"No consequence?" he repeated, then looked back at Kittellan. "Your fault?" His gaze shifted to the boy, who went white and clutched at Kittellan for support. "You, boy. Your name?"
"Drake, M’lord," he whispered.
"Drake." Scanlon narrowed his eyes. "I’ve seen you before, last I was here. Are you now a freeman, Drake?"
"No, M’lord," Drake answered in a small voice.
"Then your master is who?"
"The inn’s owner, M’lord. His name is Corwin." He looked as if he might faint.
"And where might I find him?" Scanlon demanded.
"He …" Drake took a breath and drew himself up tightly. "He’s at the counter, M’lord. You no doubt spoke to him when you arranged for your room."
"Kittellan, get my clothes!" Scanlon snapped, stepping around the mess toward the bed.
"Yes, M’lord." Kittellan scurried to obey and Scanlon dressed, his tight, jerky movements showing his anger. Anger that seemed to rise each time he glanced toward Drake. When he was ready, he motioned to the boy to come near.
"Let me see your wound," he ordered.
Drake complied as if Scanlon controlled his movements. Scanlon reached out, touched the wound and in seconds, it was healed. Drake felt of it, pure awe settling in his brown eyes. He bowed low mumbling his thanks.
"I will speak with your master now," Scanlon said and stepped to the door. "Clean this up before I return." He left, closing the door firmly.
Drake collapsed in a heap, tears spilling from his eyes. "That’s done it," he mumbled. "It’s another flogging for sure."
Diesa stared at him horrified. "Your master flogs you?"
He looked up at her, then crawled forward and began to pick up the mess. Kittellan quickly joined in. "It’s as I told you, Diesa," he said. "Not every master is as kind as ours."
Drake looked at them. "Your master doesn’t beat you?" He sounded completely incredulous.
"No," Diesa answered, bending to help. She remembered the proprietor of the inn, Drake’s master. He was a big man with arms as big around as her whole body. To think he would wield a whip against a boy one fourth his bulk made her sick. She put her back into the task of cleaning up. "Maybe if we do a thorough job of this, he’ll go easier on you," she said, depositing handfuls of warm vegetables onto the tray.
Drake surveyed the broken crockery sadly. "Three bowls," he said. "Ten lashes for each."
Diesa gasped. "Thirty lashes for broken bowls?" she cried. "You’ll not live through it!"
Drake shrugged although there was a tremor in his voice. "It doesn’t matter. I’ve grown tired of this life anyway. It’s time to move on."
"Run away?" Diesa asked. "But if you’re found …"
"I’ll not be found in a condition that will matter," Drake told her.
Diesa looked from him to Kittellan, puzzled. Kittellan sighed and finished mopping the floor. "He’s not speaking of running away, Diesa. He’s speaking of death."
Diesa caught her breath. "No, Drake, not that."
Kittellan rocked back on his heels, amused. "And how many times have you entertained that same thought?"
Diesa paused for a long moment. "I was wrong then," she replied quietly.
"Aye, you were." Kittellan rose and hefted the tray of broken crockery, cold stew, wet rags and dented tea mugs. He set the whole mess on the table.
Drake picked up one of the mugs and grimaced. He put it down, then turned to Kittellan, forcing a grin to his lips. "At the least my clumsiness had a good reason. It’s not often that my eyes take control of my brain."
Kittellan flushed, then clutched at the drying cloth as if suddenly aware that it was all he wore. Quickly he slipped a nightshirt over his head and wriggled free of the cloth.
"I’m sorry," Drake said. "I spoke out of line."
Kittellan opened his mouth, closed it, then blushed fiercely. Diesa suppressed a smile, quickly assessing the situation. "No, Drake, you didn’t speak out of line. And I have an idea." She snatched up her clothes and quickly dressed, totally ignoring Drake’s stares. Kittellan grabbed her arm as she headed for the door.
"Where are you going?"
"To find Scanlon. The proprietor needs a helper who can control her own two feet and you, Kittellan, you need Drake."
Kittellan shot a glance at Drake as Diesa wriggled free of his hand and bolted into the hallway.
She met Scanlon on the stairs. He wore a satisfied look that went cold when he saw her out of the room without his permission.
"M’lord," she addressed him, remembering to bow. If ever there was a time to grovel, it was now. "M’lord, a word with you please?"
He paused, then nodded and bade her to follow. They went back up the stairs past their room to another, which Scanlon opened and ushered her into. She wasn’t sure what this was all about, but she stepped into the center of the room, shivering. Scanlon brought the fire to a blaze with a gesture, then sat down, steepled his fingers and waited for her to speak. She stood before him, then on impulse, knelt, seeing his eyebrows rise in surprise.
"M’lord, the boy, Drake," she began, "he’s a good strong boy …"
"Clumsy," Scanlon put in.
"Aye, perhaps," she agreed, her heart pounding. "But for good reason. It’s Kittellan, M’lord. Drake was momentarily distracted by Kittellan’s state of undress. It’s not likely it would happen again, M’lord."
"Again?" he echoed. "And he would be serving me again?"
"He would if you took him with you," Diesa replied, then forced her next words from her with an effort. "In place of me, M’lord."
Scanlon’s fingers interlocked with a jerk and he glared at her. "Then you still wish to be free of me?"
Diesa sighed. "Actually, no, M’lord," she whispered, then abruptly wrapped her hands around his. "But Drake will be flogged, M’lord! Thirty lashes for the broken bowls! Corwin will take me in trade, I know he will. I saw his eyes on me. Kittellan would be happy, Drake would be safe and you wouldn’t have to listen to me anymore. Please, M’lord, please help Drake."
Scanlon stared at her, then dropped his gaze to where her hands lay on his. She jerked back in alarm and he looked her in the eye, amusement in his. "You would sacrifice yourself for Kittellan and a boy you don’t even know?"
"Aye, M’lord. I love Kittellan. I want him to be happy. If we leave here knowing Drake is being punished, it will weigh heavy on Kitt."
"And if we leave without you, what will that do?" Scanlon countered.
"I … I don’t know," Diesa admitted.
Scanlon sighed and rose. "We will gather your things," he said calmly, then pulled her to her feet.
She followed him next door with a sickened gut, but when she saw Kittellan and Drake sitting together on the floor by the fire, Kittellan’s arm about the other’s shoulder, she knew she had made the right choice. The boys scrambled to their feet at the sight of Scanlon, and Drake went very white. Kittellan took his hand, offering reassurance.
"We are in need of more dinner," Scanlon said. "Kittellan, you and Drake will fetch it. There should be four bowls and as much drink. Bring some bread and dessert as well. Drake, you now serve me."
Diesa’s gaze darted to Scanlon in astonishment. Drake gaped, while Kittellan grinned. "M’lord," Kittellan said, bowing, then nudged Drake into movement.
The boy went down on one knee before Scanlon, took his hand and kissed the back of it. "M’lord, thank you," he whispered. "Thank you so much."
"Go!" Scanlon commanded sharply, although there was no bite in the word. He watched them hurry out, then looked to Diesa. "You’re awfully quiet. Where’s that anger you’re so proud of?"
"Buried beneath gra
titude, M’lord," Diesa replied and began to gather her things. When she was done she hauled herself up in front of Scanlon. "Is Corwin expecting me, then? Where do I go?"
Scanlon smiled. "Next door to my room. There will be no trade."
"M’lord?" Diesa wasn’t sure she’d heard him right.
"There will be no trade, Diesa. I have made my decision. You will stay with me."
"In your room, M’lord?"
"In my room, not in my bed," he retorted. "We will be camping outside for the next week. Let Kittellan and Drake get to know each other without witnesses."
Diesa stared at him, her mind whirling. Kindness of such magnitude for a slave? The thought astounded her. She shook herself, bowed and carried her pack to Scanlon’s room, then went back for his things. He watched her silently with only the merest trace of a smile.
It was not until later, after dinner had been eaten and the boys left alone—Kittellan wide-eyed and nervous, and Drake calm and beholden to Scanlon—that Diesa had a quiet moment to think. She lay on her mat in Scanlon’s room watching the fire and trying not to watch the elf although her gaze strayed to him often. He was stretched out on the bed breathing quietly although Diesa couldn’t be sure he slept. He had been reading and the book now lay on his bare chest, his slender fingers resting lightly on its pages. She wondered what type of book interested someone like Scanlon.
With a sigh she returned her gaze to the flames. He was beautiful, he was intelligent, he was kind. There was no doubt in her mind that he had chosen this particular inn because of Drake. He must have had it planned all along to purchase Drake as a companion for Kittellan. He had encouraged the boy to eat his fill at dinner, remarking several times on Drake’s thin frame, encouraging the young man to talk. Drake had filled them all in on his time with Corwin, and Diesa had seen anger tighten Scanlon’s jaw more than once. It was plainly obvious he was outraged at the inhumane treatment Drake had endured. And yet, he, himself, had bought and owned slaves. How could he be so angry with Corwin, when he had done the same thing?
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