The Taming

by Imogen Keeper

  The commander’s name was Windio, a seasoned soldier. His reasoning was sound, but he was far too cautious, and overly impressed by the size of the armies of the Alliance. “Without Himbanna, we’d be facing an enemy on both sides.”

  “Maybe.” Tor sat in his father’s chair, the leather sticky under his thighs. “I’m pretty sure I can deliver Himbanna. The nobles there rely on us for grain. And they hate the homeworld tax. What percentage of your household income goes to the Alliance?”

  Windio was silent.

  Gaspart spoke up mid-chomp. “It’s twelve percent, isn’t it?”

  “Fifteen,” said Windio.

  “But that’s just the estate fees, right?” Chomp, chomp, chomp.

  Windio shifted, the leather of his weapons scraping against the leather of the chair. “Yes. There’s also the half percent on sales, the solar tax, the water tax.”

  Chomp. “And a food tax, right?” Chomp. “Kind of silly, isn’t it? I mean, we grow the food here, they tax it, then buy it, then tax it and sell it to us again.” Chomp.

  “It adds up.”

  “And yet...” Tor tapped his thumb on the desk. “They draft us into their wars. They take our grain, our yenna, and they give us nothing back.” He tap-tapped again. “They send Pijuan to watch us.”

  Windio pursed his lips.

  Tor leaned forward, annoyed when his balls stuck to the leather. There was something to be said for a cool breeze on a hot day, but sitting bare-assed on leather wasn’t fun. “I asked you here because I trust you, Windio. You taught me how to fight. This conversation stays within these walls.”

  Windio nodded.

  “We are not ready yet,” Tor said. “I know that, and I wouldn’t ask men to fight a losing battle. But when we’re sure we can win, when we have our allies in place, and the men are trained, can I count on you?”

  Windio’s eyes narrowed, and Tor was glad because a man who gave his word lightly wasn’t a good man in a war.

  He waited, letting Windio think and study him.

  Gaspart chomped away, and the birds chirped.

  Finally, Windio blew out his cheeks. “I’ve seen you in battle.”

  “As I’ve seen you.”

  “Do you lead like you fight?”

  Tor thought about Jasto’s death, and the other men he’d lost on Araa-Ara. Men he’d lost, men he’d failed. “I do not.”

  Windio’s brows drew together.

  “I’m more cautious with the lives of the men I lead.”

  “Then I don’t need to know anything else.” Windio stood. “If you need me and my men, we’ll be there.”

  They clapped hands and said goodbyes. Tor walked him out and then came back to perch on the edge of a chair, not wanting to sit on it again in the short togata. He eyed the seat where his dad had sat every day of his life, his wrinkly old balls resting right on the leather.

  Gaspart made a big show of sucking on his teeth. “Well done.”

  “I want a new chair,” Tor said.

  “Talk to a steward.” Gaspart tilted his head. “You fuck your wife yet?”

  It took effort not to get pissed. “My relationship with my wife is not open for discussion.”

  “Then you’ll lose Tamminia. If you think Pijuan isn’t asking questions, you’re being blind. What is it? She doesn’t like you?”

  “My relationship with my wife is not open for discussion.”

  “Fine. Don’t discuss it with me. But you need to discuss it with her. Does she know the way she smells could destroy a country?”

  He rotated his jaw. “No.”

  “Maybe she’d like to know.”

  “Don’t tell her.” Tor stalked to his desk. He’d be goddamned if he’d get her to want him that way. He stabbed his finger at the digi and stared down at his growing list of shit to do for a country—and a planet—he’d never thought he’d come back to.

  “Who killed Father?”

  Gaspart smirked and pushed back from the table, spreading his arms across the sofa back. “I think you should be asking why they did it. Maybe they just have a problem with regios?”

  Tor smiled. “You think they’re coming after me?”

  “I don’t know, but I know they’re willing to kill.”

  “Pijuan?”

  “No.”

  Tor tapped his foot. He knew Gaspart well enough, even after a decade apart, to know the man had a theory. “Who?”

  “Mother, maybe. Or Sanger. A noble who crossed him. A disgruntled cassia servant, a pissed off felana, a mother angry that he kept sending her son off to war. You name it. I could name a hundred people without even breaking a sweat who wanted him dead, including me. And you.”

  The list was good. Sanger was the option Tor preferred. There wasn’t a person on Vesta with more motive to kill his father than Sanger, the illegitimate Prime son he’d raised, promoted, and then slapped down. Sanger had risen the ranks in the army faster than anyone, commanding loyal followings. He was Vintalliana, a man who loved the battle, the fiercest fighter Tor had ever seen. He’d commanded a thousand men, and when they went to one battle too many, lost a few lives too many, Sanger had spoken out against the constant raids, the meaningless war. His father had retaliated with grim, cold resolution. Sanger’s sister, father’s own illegitimate daughter, had been sold as revenge, and Sanger’s wife had been taken.

  Tor’s father had ordered Tor to revenge-breed his own brother’s wife.

  Tor had always known it was an act worthy of murder, but never before had he had a wife of his own. Imagining what it must have felt like for Sanger when his father had taken his wife and fucked her through a heat. It made him snarl. Imagining another man taking Klym from him, claiming her, fucking her to punish him, stirred some place inside him. A low growl sounded in his throat.

  Sanger had played a role. He had no doubt, but he’d have needed help from somewhere to get into the cassia.

  But for one.

  “Mother? She loved that miserable bastard.”

  “She did.” Gaspart used his thumb to pick at a molar. “She loved Dillan too. Sanger had more motive than anyone. But how’d he get in?”

  Tor couldn’t help but smile. If Sanger wanted to get in, he’d have gotten in. “And Pijuan? If he did it?”

  “He’d have paid someone. And he wanted it. If you hadn’t come back Pijuan would have taken over the Roq in a matter of weeks. But the same question holds. How did they get in?”

  “There are ways. Climb the cliff. Override the sensors.” He crossed his arms. “I don’t really care why father’s dead. I’m glad he’s dead. I’m more concerned about you and that woman of yours who isn’t actually yours. Take my advice, Tor. Claim her tonight. So, if Pijuan comes tomorrow, anyone within a thousand miles will be able to smell it.”

  26

  Over my shoulder

  BY THE WEEK’S END, Klym could attest that slippers designed for the noblewomen of Tamminia were no better than those designed on Argentus.

  By day she learned of Vesta, touring the halls of the cassia, meeting with stewards, members of the household, the cleaners and the cooks, the gardeners, and by night she begrudgingly learned of Tor.

  He behaved as if he could simply orgasm her into staying on Vesta. He offered her no choice on that front.

  He pleasured her comatose, ensorcelled her with illusions of love and safety, and marked her in the mornings. It had become a strange sort of ceremony. It was the only time he took pleasure and didn’t return it, which left her confused and strangely aroused by the possessive, dominant gleam in his eyes as he stared down at her, holding her neck in his hands, muscles tightening and clenching with every thrust of his fist.

  It had to be deliberate.

  And she couldn’t entirely say it wasn’t working. Every day, the allure to stay grew.

  She called home daily, but all she achieved from her father were demands that she get to a peace planet.

  She had seven days left to find someone to collect h
er. Spiro was looking more and more attractive. She’d taken to reaching out to some of her other friends from the Institute, but none of them had any idea how to fly a ship either. It was a half-hearted effort at best.

  The cassia was magnificent, she couldn’t deny it. It had been built piecemeal, half engulfed in turquoise vines and orange flowers, and the result was surprisingly charming.

  She toured gardens and galleries, training yards where men and even a few women practiced fighting with hands, knives, swords, axes, and rezals. Libraries and kitchens, drawing rooms and private family quarters abutted public spaces. The entire fortress bustled with people, busy going about their tasks, most of them casting surreptitious eyes her way.

  Finally, after five days of walking and touring, Janna brought her to a massive gate speckled with quatrefoil cutouts. “This is the last place to show you.”

  In the yard behind them, felanas gathered, all of them watching with narrowed eyes and hard mouths, whispering about her. None of the snippets she caught were complimentary.

  It was exhausting being universally loathed. That, more than anything, served as a constant reminder of why she had to leave. She would never be accepted here.

  Klym peeked through the slats in the gate. Birds leaped on trees with massive fronds, and lush orange flowers and violet bugs with wings the size of her hand fluttered on sunbeams.

  “The private garden of the regio. Reserved for him and his felanas only.”

  “You mean just me?”

  Janna nodded.

  What a waste. “You’ve never been inside?”

  “No. My mother used it, and my father’s secondary felanas, but the children are not allowed.”

  Klym tugged open the gate, took a step on a quartzstone path into a paradise of turquoise and birdsong. She turned back toward Janna, but she was already closing the gate.

  “I can’t enter. This is only for his wives... wife. Just you.”

  “That’s ridiculous. What in the world would I do in here all alone?”

  Janna frowned. “It’s never happened before. A regio with only one wife.”

  That took her aback for a moment. Why was Tor getting rid of them? Because he hated being tied down and more wives meant more obligations?

  Janna backed away, but from the way her eyes took one last look across the garden, Klym could tell she was tempted, and curious.

  Klym glanced behind her at the jungle-garden surrounding her. “I can’t keep this all to myself.”

  Janna’s gaze darted to the pack of felanas behind them.

  “Oh, for goodness sake. Come in.”

  Janna’s dark eyes were wide. “It’s not right.”

  “Is it illegal? Will you be arrested?”

  “No, but…” Her face twisted with indecision.

  Klym couldn’t help but laugh at the youthful expression. She opened the gate and grabbed Janna’s hand, tugging her closer. “I insist.” She pulled her down a path between two enormous flowering bushes. “Let’s invite them! Everyone. Surely, they couldn’t resist seeing the one forbidden place in the cassia. And I could get to know them.”

  “Why do you care?” Janna asked, face twisted with something that almost looked like suspicion, winding a strand of her hair around her finger. “They’re leaving.”

  Klym couldn’t help but smile because the question was so practical, so quintessentially Tor. “An emotional journey doesn’t end with leaving home. They’re all being displaced because of me.”

  Janna stared down at the braided length of dark hair she was toying with. “Kindness on Vesta isn’t always rewarded.”

  “Nor is it on Argentus.”

  Janna lifted a shoulder and turned to amble down the path, and they fell silent as they roamed past ponds and pools, fountains and statues so old they crumbled. For a moment, when Janna pointed out an especially beautiful grotto, Klym could almost pretend that she was back at the Institute with a friend.

  Except Janna wasn’t a friend, not yet, and this wasn’t the Institute where she’d been safe and protected, cloistered and designed for breeding.

  This was Vesta, where she owed nothing to anyone, except one gigantic alien man.

  She looked up at the only balcony overlooking the gardens.

  “It’s the regio’s balcony,” said Janna.

  Klym stared up for a long time, but if Tor was in his office, he wasn’t looking over the balcony. She hadn’t seen him all day, which was beyond unsettling. It felt like her skin was crawling with the need to find him, see his eyes, smell him, touch him.

  She turned to Janna. “What do they want?”

  “Pardon?”

  “The felanas. Do they want to stay here? Go home? If they tell me what they want, I could speak with Tor. Maybe I can help.”

  Janna touched her finger to an unopened blossom. Its smooth petals were almost white at the base. The corner of her mouth tightened. “Forgive me, my lady, for being blunt, but they will not take kindly to offers of help from you. They...”

  “Hate me.” Klym finished for her. “I hear them. They call me the senashba. ‘Foreign whore,’ no? Anio paggia. That one’s not so insulting. My personal favorite is farina miganea.”

  That one had made her laugh, thinking about the incident on Frigorria. The devil’s ass hairs.

  Janna coughed into her hand and didn’t meet Klym’s eyes.

  “I can imagine how they feel. Very well, in fact. I’d like to help them, but I don’t know how.”

  Janna’s fingers continued tracing the flower, and she sucked in her bottom lip. “My, lady, I think—”

  “Klym,” she said firmly.

  “Klym.” Finally, Janna looked at her. “I think the people of Argentus are softer, easier maybe. The people here are not so gentle. Most of them see kindness as a weakness. Don’t underestimate the strength of their hatred.”

  “There is strength in being kind even when it’s hard.” Klym took a deep breath. “I’d like to help them. But to do that, I need to get to know them.”

  Janna made a face. “You need to discuss this with Tor.”

  “I will.”

  Janna sighed.

  “And I will find the steward, but from this moment on, these gardens are open to all women of the Roq.” Klym sat down on the stonewall that circled a pond. “Tell me more about the food shortages and the Alliance.”

  Janna didn’t look happy, but sat down slowly and told Klym about scheming nobles and deals with the Alliance.

  WHEN SHE LEFT the gardens, she hurried to their rooms. Tor wasn’t there, but her new clothes were hanging from the horizontal posts of the four-poster bed.

  She trailed her hand down the silky, flimsy pants and bit her lip. Did she dare?

  Yes.

  Yes, she did.

  When in Vesta.

  She would wear this flimsy, white, clingy, exotic thing to dinner. It was only exotic to her, after all. To everyone else it was normal.

  Moving fast before she could change her mind, she untied her bodice and yanked the dress and chemise over her head.

  She pulled the shirt over her head and tugged on the loose pants of pale gold and a clingy white top. On the floor sat a new pair of embroidered golden slippers with toes that curled up at the top and had bells. It was the most bizarre thing she’d ever worn. Agammo would have swallowed his tongue, and she couldn’t wait to see what Tor would do when he saw her.

  Her skin warmed at the thought.

  His eyes would go hot, and he’d smile, and push her into a private room or drag her back to bed, and maybe she’d reach her hand up his bare thighs, high under his togata and touch...

  Refusing to give herself a moment to change her mind, or remember that she hated him, she left for dinner.

  Every step in the loose clothes felt naughty and wild. No skirt to hold out of her way, no corset, no bodice making it hard to breathe.

  He was there, in the great hall, surrounded by people.

  When she entered the room, he turn
ed, his eyes locking on hers. His lips curved, and she was certain she knew exactly what he was thinking.

  The dimple was there. It was decidedly sexy this time, and even at a distance, his eyes went hot enough to make her belly clutch. He said something, too low for her to catch, to the men around him and crossed the cavernous space to where she stood.

  His face was unreadable.

  She’d expected… something, but he said nothing.

  She held her hands out, gesturing at her pants, her nipples tightening when his gaze lingered on her breasts.

  He still said nothing. He never did what she expected.

  Hating herself for the weakness of caring, she sighed. “So?”

  “You look good. You always look good.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

  A smile curled across his cheek. “What did you expect me to do? Throw you over my shoulder and drag you off to bed?”

  “Ssshhh.” She glanced around, and everyone was looking at them. She stepped closer, keeping her voice low. “Maybe. I thought you’d… I don’t know.”

  His eyes crinkled.

  She bit her lip. “I thought you might like seeing me dressed like a Vestige woman.”

  The smile faded. “Would you want to see me dressed like an Argenti?”

  She thought about it. Imagined him in the colorful formal jackets with epaulets, then eyed his hard thighs and broad, bare chest in the togata. “No.”

  “Then why would you think I’d want to change you into something you aren’t?”

  “I just thought…” She twisted her hands and looked down at the floor, searching for the right thing to say.

  His hand settled on the back of her neck, his thumb tilting her face up to his. “If you’d rather wear Argenti-style dresses, we can have more made for you.”

  “No. I just thought…” She stared up at his dark eyes. She’d thought he’d like the way her body looked in the clothes. She’d thought maybe he’d kiss her or call her abellina, or maybe a tiny part of her did wonder if he’d throw her over his shoulder and carry her off to bed. A part of her had been looking forward to it, and now she just felt silly. “Never mind.”