Battling the opposing emotions, she force fed the anger she needed to feel toward Tarken, needing to remind herself that he’d betrayed her. Lifting her hand, Cushla touched her fingertips to the slave band. He’d not only activated it, proving his obvious domination over her, but she knew by the intensity of the agonizing shards scraping over her nerves that the remote controlling her slave band was set to maximum.
Tarken intentionally wanted to hurt her.
Moving away from the curtain, Cushla caught her breath at the intense pang in her chest as she mentally attempted to separate herself emotionally from the slavemaster. She glanced around her room. It was her old room from many dawnings ago, the memories of living on Buranis beginning to surface as she reacquainted herself with the castle’s surroundings.
Leaving the window behind her, Cushla walked toward the bed and ran her fingers along the comforter draped over it. The covering was made of the finest, thickest and softest argamor materials that credits could buy, the once vivid lavender color now faded. Aside from the curtains and the furniture, it was the only thing of her personal possessions that remained. All else was gone.
With a heavy sigh, Cushla dropped her hands to her side. She moved toward the vanity on the other side of the room and lowered to sit on the bench in front it. Silently, she stared at the reflection of the face that bore more than a young woman’s share, of anyone’s share of unspeakable, most unjustifiable experiences. She thought about her mother and in her head, she heard her father’s cursing voice, her mother’s echoing screams, and then morose filled her as she lamented the loss of the innocent child that once peered back at her through this same reflection.
Cushla swallowed a hard lump and pushed the horrid thoughts aside. Instead, she considered some of things Tarken had said, about the notion as to why Mecor had purchased her. It was now clear it indeed had something to do with her father since the tyrant had barely paid her any heed since her return, at least so far. He’d eyed her from head to toe in the most lecherous, disconcerting manner, but said nothing, and made no attempts whatsoever to bed her.
For now.
She’d already resolved that if he tried she would find a way to slit his throat. Her gaze unconsciously returned to the drapery and she resisted with dismay, the rising urge to ease them aside again, to lay her eyes upon the only man she desired to touch her—a desire she vowed to fight with all the might within her.
He—the slavemaster was a traitor to her heart.
* * * *
Tarken closed the door to his quarters with a snap. Sighing with frustration, he removed his belt unit and sat down to remove his boots. Wearily, he swiped his hand over his eyes. How could things that seemed so promising one moment…turn so sour the next? In the several dawnings, nearly half a moon phase since their return, Cushla had not once spoken to him.
The one time he did corner her in the gardens outside the castle and tried to explain, she refused to look at him, had actually seemed to look through him, as if he weren’t even there, the coldness clear on her beautiful face. Damn the stars! He was worried to sickness that Mecor would hurt her, and was disturbed beyond unbearable torment that he was barred from entering the castle and thus, unable to physically protect her.
He should’ve insisted on accompanying her to the king upon their arrival, instead of relenting and allowing Rube to take her, but the trip from Aracome to Buranis was hellish with Cushla refusing to even speak to him.
She’d even chosen to sleep on the floor of the ship rather than share the bed with him. She obeyed his every order, including lying on her back when he intended to sex her, spreading her legs in a mechanical fashion as one would expect a well-trained slave to do.
It wrenched Tarken’s stomach as it did his heart and he turned away from her, unable to bear seeing Cushla with such a broken spirit, which ironically had been his initial intent when he’d first taken possession of her. For the remainder of the journey that was his only attempt at touching her.
When they’d finally arrived on Buranis, Scoac announced his assignment as her slavemaster was over and Tarken released Cushla because it was true. What choice did he have? He was a slave to his own limited power.
At least his informants had assured him that King Mecor paid little attention to Cushla, that the king had taken her into his royal chamber the dawning of their return, and that it was quiet in there the entire time. When the doors opened again she wasn’t in the room, having been escorted from the chamber through another door. Surely, Cushla would’ve fought the king had he attempted to sex her, would she have not? Screamed even? She had certainly fought Tarken wholeheartedly on that first eve.
Tarken chuckled fondly at the memory, but it died quickly. The relief he felt that perhaps Mecor refrained from touching her was marginal, his thoughts persistently filled with despair that perhaps she was so broken inside, so pained by what Tarken had done on Aracome, by being ripped away from her father that she merely laid there lifeless and uncaring as that bastard king had his way with her.
What if the king decided to tie her up? Growling with helpless fury, Tarken clenched at his hair. He was driving himself crazy with such thoughts. He was going to go mad if he went any longer without seeing her, seeing that she was safe.
He knew she watched him again this dawning, as she seemed to do almost every dawning since arriving. The hill at the edge of the field where he frequently stood to oversee the slaves gave him a full view of castle’s posterior and he was informed as to which windows were part of her bed chamber.
Through his peripheral vision he’d often seen the curtain shift aside. Tarken always refrained from looking in that direction for quite awhile, but when he finally did he would catch a glimpse of her before the curtain closed shut. He wondered why she watched him, when she went to such great lengths to avoid him in person. She’d even seemed to now avoid coming outside.
Cushla, wasn’t his only main concern, however. In his absence, things had changed with the slaves. Just as he had feared, Durnin had run amuck with power. His use of corporal punishment, his demand that the guards have their slave band buttons set on high at all times had cost the lives of several of his minions, and it was apparent their trust in him during his time away had changed for the worse.
This enraged Tarken so much that he demanded that Durnin report to him immediately, but the cretin retreated to his quarters. He had yet to confront him, but no more! Rising to his feet he stalked to the door and jerked it open. He crossed the distance of the field, coming to stand in front of the door to Durnin’s quarters. Lifting his hand and balling it into a fist, he was about to pound on the door when it swung open.
“Tarken…” Durnin started, jumping back with the unexpected arrival of the slavemaster, but then his expression changed and an arrogant grin appeared on the man’s face.
The look of smug satisfaction was so palpable that Tarken nearly wiped it away with his fist. He fought as he always did, for control. “What the hades were you thinking, Durnin? Keeping the buttons set on high. Your decisions were reckless and completely irresponsible!”
Durnin smirked at him. “I think not. Not a single slave has escaped under my watch.”
The rage that filled Tarken likely had more to do with what was happening with Cushla than it did Durnin.
Nevertheless, Durnin became the target, and Tarken pushed his way into the room, slamming his hands on the man’s chest, pushing him against the wall. “No slave has ever escaped, but several have died under your watch!” Gripping the man by the collar, Tarken bared his teeth, bringing his face to an intimidating hairsbreadth away from the lackey’s face. “You are relieved of duty as of now.” Regaining his composure, Tarken released the man and stepped back a few paces, putting distance between himself and Durnin. He held out his hand. “Give me your belt,” he spoke with a cool, even tone though he still battled the compulsion to beat the man to a bloody pulp.
“Hellstars, if I will!” Durnin bellowed. “You’v
e lost your control slavemaster. I rule here now.”
“Your belt, and if you refuse to give it to me willingly…?” Tarken’s upper lip twitched and his nostril’s flared dangerously. “…You will find my alternate method of taking it from you much less appealing” Tarken knew his eyes and expression promised that much and he actually hoped Durnin would be foolish enough to refuse. He needed to beat something or someone, badly. It would be a pleasure to make use of Durnin in that way, to release the angst and sense of helplessness provoking his insides.
The two men glared at each other, the hesitation Durnin afforded himself, pushing Tarken to the edge of his tolerance.
Finally, Durnin released a resentful grunt. He then removed the belt and tossed it to Tarken who snatched it from the air.
“You are confined to quarters until I speak with the King.” Turning on his heels, Tarken stalked from Durnin’s quarters with near disappointment that he was denied the satisfaction of burying his fist into the subordinate’s gullet but in truth, knowing it was himself he wanted to beat up.
He headed back to his chamber and made a feeble attempt at getting some rest, but the effort was futile. The dawn came too quickly, and Tarken rolled out of bed exhausted and sleep deprived. He stretched as he yawned and then wearily ambled to the galley where he heated a mug of acajafa in his ionic cooker, hoping the stimulating drink he consumed on rare occasions would help keep him alert. He showered and donned a fresh set of clothing and then headed out toward the fields to check on the state of the slaves, hoping his rapport with them was above disrepair.
Unable to resist, his gaze snapped toward the castle, to the windows belonging to Cushla’s chamber, but on this dawning the curtains were drawn and still. Briefly, he considered how he might scale the wall of stone façade and decided it was a viable option. His patience was thinning and if that were the only method by which he could see her, then so be it.
His attention shifted back toward the field. At first glance all seemed normal, but he began to see a pattern in the movements of the slaves. When they worked in the fields before Tarken left Buranis they would cluster around central areas, but now they seemed to have spread out, one slave per area. There appeared to be a chain reaction in position going on.
One would move off of the field and the next would step into his place. After a short time, the area that a slave vacated would be filled by the next in line and so on, creating a rippling effect. It was very subtle, and Tarken probably would’ve paid it no heed but with all that had happened of late, his nerves were irritated and his perception of his surroundings was on constant alert. It was very odd, almost calculating.
He continued to watch them well into the dawning, but no one moved from his or her spot as the mid-dawning meal time came upon them. Tarken thought that perhaps he’d imagined the whole thing after they had all eaten…until he saw something else unusual.
A royal was speaking to a male slave. He could tell it was indeed royalty by the man’s attire. This was strange, as the royals almost never interacted with the slaves, and when they did it was always the females they bothered for sexual favors.
Frowning, he watched as the two conversed and as the royal strolled away, the slave walked to the next area, another slave stepped into his place and the whole pattern of movement began again. Tarken moved. Running toward the rise that royal had just disappeared over and he intercepted him, grabbing him by the shoulder.
The royal turned and Tarken was taken aback. He recognized him. “Rube?”“Slavemaster,” Rube returned calmly.
“What were you doing in the field with my slaves?” Tarken pinned him with a demanding glare.
Rube stared at him for a moment, his expression a bit snobbish. “I am a Royal. I can go where ever I please and speak to whomever I please. I don’t answer to you, slavemaster.”
“You do when you interrupt the work of the slaves.”
“I saw no interruption.” Rube turned his back on Tarken and walked away.
Tarken let him be. Something was amiss but he needed more information to determine what exactly that was. Turning his gaze to look at the castle, once again he saw the curtain in Cushla’s window fall shut. Damn the Stars! He needed to get the wench, the king’s property out of his head. He needed a drink, a serious drink…or two. It might numb him for a spell, or it might only feed what he really intended to do.
Kidnap her.
Chapter Twenty One
The early eve was upon them. Having left one of his more trustworthy subordinates in charge, Tarken walked the stone streets of Kiron, a nearby town that handled most of the commerce for the area.
There was a space port there where commodities were imported from other planets, and although ships that arrived and departed were carefully monitored, there was also an occasional shuttle that some of Mecor’s upper echelon used to visit other planets.
He wondered how much it would take to bribe a pilot, and if not, where he would hide the body after he killed the man and hijacked the ship. Hellblazers! Was he mad for such murderous thoughts?
Tarken made his way to the seedier side of town in the docking and warehouse district. Surely, he would find someone there he might entice with a good amount of credits. If not, he could at least find a drink strong enough to eat a hole in his gut and if he were lucky enough either a willing woman or a good fight. His mood was turning quite fowl and he needed some aggressive release.
He halted at the entrance of a shabby looking tavern, the loud music and loud rambling of voices flowing to the outside. There was a crash, and Tarken jumped aside in time to avoid the two men who crashed through the door and began throwing punches. He jumped again, avoiding the man whose body shattered the window he’d just been thrown through.
Yes indeed, he thought. This just might be the place. He was just about to enter the tavern when he saw someone he thought he recognized as they darted between the buildings. Though eve had settled upon them, the deep orange of her skin nearly glowed in the darkness, despite doing her best to hide beneath the hooded cloak she wore.
It was her, the Shalcar woman, Vialin.
Tarken gave chase. Rounding the corner, he entered the narrow passageway she’d gone down. He thought he had lost her for a moment until he heard a door close at the far end. Trying the first one, he came to he found it locked. He listened briefly but heard nothing.
Voices just a little way down caught his attention and he moved to the next entrance. He heard murmurs coming through, that of a male and female.
The voices faded, and when they did, Tarken cautiously tried the lever on the door and found it unlocked. He entered a dimly lit corridor, a dank, musty odor permeating the air around him, the smell of too many unwashed bodies and the fluids that excreted from them.
He stepped over one of the bodies, a drunk, slumped to the floor and passed out against the wall. It brought back memories of a darker time of his life just after the death of his wife and child, memories best left buried.
Doors, worn and splintered, lined each side of the hallway, and he stepped lightly, listening and finally stopping at one them, pressing his ear against the scarred wood trying to interpret the words of speakers inside. Quietly, he tried the door. It opened and he peered inside. He’d chosen correctly.
Vialin stood with her back to him, speaking to someone.
Someone Tarken recognized when she shifted to the side.
Bazil.
She handed him a device, a portable viewer, which he began to study, and then she sat beside him and they studied it together, their heads tipped toward each other in close proximity.
Tarken must have made a noise or perhaps exhaled too loudly, because just then their heads snapped up.
Vialin jerked her stunner free and pointed it in his direction.
“You!” Bazil growled the fury in his eyes palpable as he glared at Tarken.
Undaunted by the stunner and Bazil’s threatening expression, Tarken stepped inside of the room. He was caught u
naware however when Bazil charged him, even more so at the brute force with which the older man slammed into him, grabbing him by the throat.
Tarken’s arms came up and he broke the hold only to be met with a fisted hand that came flying at his nose. He dodged the oncoming blow and lobbed a punch of his own, missing the man.
Bazil ducked and then threw the entire weight of his body into Tarken’s gut.
They both went down, rolled, knocked a chair, which tumbled over them, hit the table and caused the mugs atop of it to fall over. They crashed to the ground. “I’ll kill you, bastard!” Bazil dug his fingers into Tarken’s mane and yanked hard. “This is for my daughter.” Bazil smashed his head into the floor.
Tarken grunted at the pain shooting through the back of his head, but retaliated by flattening his palm against the man’s face and pushing at him. At that point, he had an opening to bring both arms up and snap the man’s neck, but the last thing he desired was to hurt Cushla’s father. Tarken kept his silence.
Bazil pulled a blade, holding it against Tarken’s throat.
Most certainly Tarken was far from gutless but he also wasn’t stupid. Cushla’s father had no reason to refrain from splaying him open.
“Enough, both of you!” Vialin snapped.
Bazil ignored her. “Give me one reason, one reason, as to why I shouldn’t slice you from end to end, slavemaster.”
“Because I’m in love with your daughter.” Tarken fixed his eyes on Bazil’s. It was all he could say, the words coming straight from his heart and shining as a testament from his gaze as he hoped Cushla’s father would see the truth in them.
Bazil narrowed his gaze and pressed the knife harder to Tarken’s throat, causing a bead of blood to form from the puncture. “I saw how well you love my daughter. You love her so well that you activated that damn slave band she wears so it caused her to pass out. She doesn’t need that kind of love!”
Tarken dared not gulp less the motion cause the blade to go deeper. “That was an error on my part. I had no intention of stunning her with such a high dose,” he growled through clenched teeth. “At least I didn’t lose her as you did. What kind of father hands his only child over to an untrustworthy gamester?”
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