“You know nothing of our plight, you slopsucker.”
“I know enough. I know that Cushla was sold into slavery at the first opportunity by your supposed trusted friend. I know of the harshness she suffered because of it!”
A blast from a stunner exploded against the wall just above Bazil’s head. Both men turned their gazes to see Ayia and Vialin standing side by side, Ayia’s stunner pointed at them. “Get up, both of you. We don’t have time for this nonsense!”
“This man al—” Bazil began.
“Enough!” Ayia shouted. “We have work to do.”
Bazil looked between Tarken and Ayia, debating with himself whether to go ahead and slice Tarken’s neck or do as he was told.
“Don’t try it old man,” Ayia advised. “I would hate to kill you. That would really ruin our plans.”
Tarken felt the blade leave his neck.
Bazil stood and walked away, though he kept an angry gaze keenly on Tarken as he did so.
Tarken then stood as well, trying to make sense of what was going on. “What are you doing here?” He dabbed at the area of his throat where Bazil had pressed the knife blade. He examined his fingers, which came away red and sticky with blood and then rubbed the tip of his thumb and fingertips together before brushing them against his trousers to wipe the blood away. “I thought you were trapped in the castle.” He looked over at Ayia.
“It’s none of your business Slavemaster, I am a free person and I can go where I will. The real question, is what are you doing here?”
Pausing, Tarken considered how much information he would choose to offer them, but decided he would get nothing if he had nothing to offer. He pointed toward Vialin. “I saw her slipping down the alley way and I followed.”
Ayia glanced at Vialin, flashing a disgusted looked for her carelessness.
Vialin merely shrugged at her.
“Have a seat, slavemaster.”Ayia motioned to a chair with her chin.
Tarken looked at the hard straight backed chair and back at her. “I prefer to stand.”
Stepping up to him, she placed the stunner against his chest.
Tarken’s brow lifted as he glanced briefly at the weapon and returned to stare at Ayia almost daring her to zap him.
“Sit,” she demanded her voice tight and low.
“I say kill the bastard and be done with it,” Bazil growled. He pulled his own stunner and aimed it at Tarken.
“No!” Ayia poked her weapon beneath Tarken’s chin. “We may need him later.”
“Why would we expect him to help us? He works for the king.” Vialin dragged a chair from the table and pushed it behind Tarken.
“Well it doesn’t matter now. He’s found us out and we can’t let him return. He may go directly to Mecor and inform him of our presence here.”
“Your assumption as to what I might or might not intend to do Ayia, is a matter of question,” Tarken returned, trying to stall them. “If you’d explain your reasons—?”
Bazil pressed his stunner to Tarken’s temple. The two women were one issue, but he had no doubt that Cushla’s father wouldn’t hesitate to blow his brains from his skull, given the chance. He lowered to sit in the chair.
“Tie him,” Ayia instructed Vialin.
With a sadistic smile, Vialin produced four cuffs from a sack on the wall and then pulled Tarken’s arms around the back of the chair. She snapped the cuffs around his wrists and then did the same to his ankles, binding them to the legs of the chair. Grabbing a wider band, she wrapped his chest.
Tarken glanced over his shoulder and watched as she anchored the ends to a hook on the wall so the chair could no longer be moved. He tried to move his limbs to find any play in the bindings but she had done her job well. He was firmly bound without cutting the circulation.
They were clearly experienced and prepared for obstacles that might prevent them from completing whatever they were plotting.
“What are you doing in this area, Slavemaster?” Vialin asked, as she came to stand in front of him. Crossing her arms while she glared down at him. “Or do you just happen to have a taste for the seedier side of town?”
“What in the hell does it matter?” Bazil barked. “He almost killed my daughter!”
“I don’t think he did, sir.” Ayia turned to Bazil. “Following Cushla’s purchase—”
“Where is my daughter being held?” Bazil visibly winced at Ayia’s comment about his daughter being purchased, but continued to stare daggers at Tarken, the rage in his gaze burning hot and barely repressed. “If Mecor has harmed even a strand on her head…”
“He hasn’t,” Tarken answered.
“How can you be sure?” Once again, Bazil pressed his stunner to the side of Tarken’s head.
Tarken blew out a gust of air. “I have sources, more than you know, and if I thought for even a flash that the tyrant was harming her in any way, I would scale the damn wall of the castle and snap his neck with my bear hands. In fact, Cushla is the reason I am here in this part of town.”
“How so?” Bazil demanded.
“She’s furious with me, Bazil. Enraged, because I failed to protect her as I promised—bitter that I kept her from you. Angered that I caused her pain after I gave my word that I would not. I came into town to think, to come up with a plan on how to escape with her, and how to return her to you, although it seems your presence here has now made that part of my plan a bit simpler.”
Tarken’s admission was met with silence.
“I believe him,” Ayia finally said. She lifted her hand pressing it to the top of Bazil’s stunner, urging it downward and away from Tarken’s head. “I watched him carefully, and despite your daughter’s rebelliousness, despite her resistance to his orders, and even when Vialin almost escaped with her, not once did the slavemaster activate the slave band to punish her. I believe him.”
“Maybe,” Bazil mumbled, seeming to consider that it was the truth. Still his eyes remained narrowed with anger.
“I’ve answered your questions,” Tarken turned his attention to Ayia. “Now perhaps you can offer me a token since I am now your prisoner and obviously going nowhere.”
“I might, slavemaster,” Ayia answered. “It would depend of course on what token you request.”
Getting the answer was likely a long shot, but Tarken asked anyway, “What are these plans you’re talking about?”
Ayia and Vialin exchanged glances, silently communicating something Tarken couldn’t read. Ayia turned and walked the small circumference of the room, as if considering how or if she would answer. Turning, she studied Tarken for a long moment.
Tarken did nothing but steadily return her gaze.
“How loyal are you to the king Tarken?”
“I have no loyalty to Mecor, and I have not always been a slavemaster.”
“Then, why are you a slavemaster now?”
“I was trainer for the military troops in the fifth zone. Mecor, I’d heard needed a trainer. I came to Buranis without realizing at first exactly what he needed a trainer for.”
“Then why did you stay once you became aware?”
“I witnessed the results of Mecor’s cruelty. I couldn’t give the slaves their freedom but I could perhaps make their plight more tolerable.”
“How noble of you” Vialin sneered.
“And you would give up this—noble work…” Ayia snorted. “For one slave?”
“I owe you no more explanation than that, Ayia.” Tarken tipped his head askew. “So, am I wrong in guessing that you are something other than a pleasure worker?”
Ayia shrugged. “Sometimes, extreme measures are necessary for the sake of a cause.”
“And what might that cause be, Ayia? Who are you?”
“Do you know the Royal who ruled this planet before Mecor came to power?” She countered.
“No, when I arrived he was already on the throne.”
“Take heed, Ayia,” warned Vialin. “We’re still unsure of whose side he’s on.”<
br />
Tarken’s head snapped toward her, “The only side I care to take Vialin is the side of justice. Which side are you on?”
“Enough of this! At the moment, I couldn’t care less about whose side anyone is on!” Bazil’s glare shifted between Ayia and Vialin. “The only thing I care about is getting my daughter away from that sick bastard before he does harm to her!”
“In due time, Bazil. We can’t afford to make any mistakes by reacting on emotion rather than logic!” Ayia retorted, irritation rising in her voice. She glanced at her time piece. “It’s time. The slavemaster’s fate, we’ll need to decide later. For now, we have to go or we will miss our contact.”
“Would someone tell me what the hell blazes is going on!” Tarken shouted. His patience was growing thin, and their allusiveness was causing him to feel angst at leaving Cushla overlong. He had no idea if this thing they were planning was well-constructed or if it was the lame-brained, reckless scheme of three fools. What if it resulted in Cushla being hurt, or worse and he wasn’t there to help her? With mounting concern, Tarken struggled against the bonds but to no avail and he stared in surprise as the three of them walked out the door.
He went still. For a several moments, he fixated on the closed door, waiting, sure that at least one of them would return but it appeared that no one was going to. Tarken snorted and shook his head, his opinion now leaning heavily toward the side of fools.
Had they really just left him alone and unguarded?
Chapter Twenty Two
He left her. Tarken was gone. For several dawnings Cushla peered through her curtain seeking him out, waiting to see him appear on hill, his usual place when overseeing the field of slaves, but Tarken was nowhere to be found. “He left me.” The sob she released was unintentional but it rammed such a painful tightness in her chest that she was having trouble breathing.
Out of desperation, Cushla stalked to the door of her chamber and pulled it open. The two guards posted outside turned to look at her, and Cushla’s mouth twisted to one side. Whenever she left her room, they followed her everywhere. She needed to ditch them. Quietly, she closed the door and then turned around leaning against it.
With a heavy sigh, she scanned the room, searching the recesses of her for memories, her eyes falling to the large wardrobe cabinet that she remembered playing in as a child. There was something about it—something. A smile curled her lips. “I remember,” she whispered.
Bending, Cushla lifted the hem of her gown and found the seam. She tore it and then made quick work of shredding parts of the material. She then stalked to the wardrobe and retrieved a hooded cape hanging inside of it. She tore the seam on one shoulder and partially tore off one of the pockets. Her aim was to make the garments appear as tattered as possible. She wrapped the cape around her shoulders, her eyes falling to a full-length mirror inset within the wall across the room.
She moved to stand in front of it, gazing toward the top. When she was small, she had to stand on her vanity bench to reach those high corners, but now—Cushla reached and tapped thrice on the top, right corner. She sighed nervously. Moving her hand to the left corner, she tapped twice and then crouched to study the bottom edge. “One hand width from the right,” she murmured. It had been two hand lengths when she was a small child.
After eyeing the distance, Cushla pressed her palm against the mirror. It would take a moment because the trigger was heat activated. “Aye—yes!” She breathed out in relief as the mirror silently opened inward to reveal a secret staircase. With a quick look around, she threw the hood of the cloak over her head and then stepped through the opening, and made quick work of closing the mirror door behind her.
From where she stood, Cushla could see through the two-way looking glass and directly into her bedchamber a feature that had come in handy if someone was in the room whenever she had decided to return from her explorations and adventures. An old nursing maid had shown it to her, but she never found out how the woman knew of its existence. She could’ve never speculated how handy it would be so many phases later in her life, but at this point, she was just grateful to have it at her disposal.
Turning, Cushla hurried down the steep steps of the narrow passage, now lit dimly by lights that were activated by triggering the mechanism in the mirror. They would only remain on for a short period of time so she had to hurry, less she be feeling her way in the dark. She passed two more doors hidden within the castle’s walls, memories of to where they led returning.
Cushla grinned as she brushed at the cob webs that were thick along the walls. No one had been in there for a long, long time. The castle was filled with secret hideaways and escapes that she loved exploring as a child. Perhaps she was the only one who ever knew about them with the exception of the maid who’d passed on, not too long after.
Reaching the bottom of the stairwell safely, Cushla found herself facing the familiar brick wall. “One, two, three,” she counted. “And four bricks down.” She pressed and a door opened. Peeking through it, she was pleased to see it was still shrouded by the Ospor bushes, now thick and overgrown. She shimmied her way along the castle wall tugging at her cloak, which kept snagging on the branches, until she was finally clear of them. She repressed a laugh and scanned the area to be sure no one spotted her.
Satisfied she hadn’t been seen, Cushla strolled casually toward the fields, purposely keeping her gait slow to avoid drawing attention. She intended to question the other thralls about Tarken’s whereabouts, but who to ask? Marching directly to Tarken’s favorite place, Cushla stood and surveyed the fields. It now made sense why he chose this spot. From here, she could see the expanse of the grounds, the quarry, the gardens and the orchards.
It occurred to her rather quickly that Mecor owned a vast number of slaves and for that her stomach suddenly felt sour. She had finally figured out what the king wanted with her. She was the means to her father, though she still didn’t know of what value he was to the evil royal.
Her attention fell to a group of women examining fruits in a basket. She shuffled down the incline of the hill and casually walked to where they were working, stopping in front of them. “Excuse me—ah please?”
The three women and the one child with them stilled, one of them sheepishly lifting her eyes to get a gander at Cushla, her gaze slowly curving its way up the length of her clothes, and then stalling on her slave band before dropping while not making eye contact with her.
“Do you know where I might find the slavemaster?”
The woman ignored her, turning back to her work.
Perhaps they failed to understand her? Clearing her voice, Cushla asked again. This time a little more loudly. “Please, do you know where I might find the slavemaster?”
One of the women whispered something so low that Cushla was unable to hear what she said, but the answer to the question she asked was quite clear when they picked up their baskets and walked away from her without saying a word, one of the woman turning the child’s head forward as she attempted to glance at Cushla over her shoulders while being pulled along.
Well, Cushla wasn’t about to give up that easily. She attempted to converse with another group of women, and then a few more, but was met with the same coolness and still no answers. Before long, she realized the problem. With her being a stranger to them, few were willing to offer up much in regard to information, despite the slave band she too wore.
Moreover, if they recognized her as one who lived in the castle, that in and of itself was cause to mistrust her…apparently? It didn’t help that despite tearing her clothes, the materials she wore were still of better quality than what they all wore, and she wasn’t sweaty or dirty from working dawning to dusk as they did.
With nowhere else to turn, Cushla decided to inspect Tarken’s dwelling. She knew which one belonged to him as she watched him emerge from it each and every dawning, though refusing to admit it was because she missed waking with him. She knocked on his door and waited. When no answer came, she peered
through one of the windows to the small abode, thinking perhaps he was ill, but the place appeared empty and undisturbed.
“The master is gone.”
Cushla pivoted quickly coming face to face with an old man, another slave she figured, by the band he wore around his forehead. “What do you mean, gone?” Her heart was sinking fast. “Where?”
“Come with me.” The man held out his hand.
Staring at it, Cushla was hesitant, unsure if she should trust him. Thinking on it, she concluded that there was little worse that could happen to her that had not already occurred, so she took the chance and placed her palm in his.
The man’s fingers curled around hers and he patted the top of her hand with his other, warmly, almost too warmly, affectionately even.
Cushla wondered now, if she was indeed doing something she might regret. Nevertheless, she went with him, down the hill, past the orchards, down the path that traversed the quarry and then out to the planting fields.
“Help me plant,” the man told her as he bent and opened the lid to a wooden box. He took out a cylindrical can and pulled the lid off. Taking Cushla’s hand, he turned it over and poured a few seeds into her palm. He crouched to pick up a small shovel and began poking at the dirt with it.
Odd, Cushla thought as she studied the man, then the seed in her hand, and gazed at the man once again. With a shrug, she knelt down beside him and poured the seed into the hole he’d dug.
“You do not recognize me do you, Cushla?”
Cushla’s breath caught in her throat at his use of her name. She stared wide-eyed at him, fret filling her. Glancing at the area surrounding them, her mind immediately began seeking out places to run, to escape, but the instant panic she’d started to feel, subsided a margin, and she returned her gaze to him.
“My name is Kleb.” He smiled at her, a warm smile, one that shone clear to his eyes, his expression filled with what seemed to be…endearment.
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