The Taming

by Imogen Keeper

  “I am.”

  Dimples flickered and a wide, white grin spread across his face. “Come here, amiera. I’ll make you happier.”

  She sucked in a long breath and crossed the room, stepping between his spread thighs.

  He tugged her down so she was sitting on his lap. “So, what can I do for you, Selissa?”

  She touched her hand to his hair, toying with a loose end. “Apparently I need something nice to wear to the feast.”

  He hummed happily, his eyes closing when she touched his hair. “You’ve got tons of clothes.”

  That made her laugh. “We’ll have to agree to disagree on the meaning of tons. I have a few outfits. I want something special.”

  “Okay. I can have a tailor come up. They’ll make whatever you want.” He slid a hand up her waist, pulling her forward so he could get his nose right between her breasts. He sucked in a long breath.

  She pushed at his shoulders and got nowhere. “The thing is, Tor, a group of the felanas are going into town to visit a tailor there.”

  He grumbled and pulled a breast from her blouse, nibbling away until she went positively lightheaded. “No, I had something else in mind.”

  He shifted her so she was in his lap, her legs on either side. “You can’t go into town, Klym.”

  She pushed at his shoulders again, and this time he let her, a deep line between his brows.

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  “So it’s just like the Institute, then? It’s just like with Spiro? I’m here in a pretty cage, locked away for my own safety.”

  His jaw tightened, and he picked her up off his lap and set her on the floor. With a cranky glare, he rose from his seat and strode across the room. “This is not Argentus. And it’s not your Institute. And you’re the fucking selissa.”

  Her eyes burned. “You don’t understand. They invited me, Tor. Don’t you see what that means?”

  He put a hand on his hip. “There’s a civil war brewing out there.”

  “B-b-but Staria says Dillan let them do whatever they wanted. Even his selissa, Monna.”

  He scoffed, digging around in a desk drawer, not even bothering to look at her. “Well, he had twenty-seven of them, didn’t he? Poor bastard. I’ve just got you, and it’s a full-time job.”

  She absolutely hated how much that hurt. He barely saw her except for at dinner. She refused to rise to the bait though. If she pushed, he’d only push back harder. “Please.”

  Evidently, he found whatever he was looking for, because he slammed the door shut, and rose with a comm in his hand, which he held out toward her. “Look, I’ll take you in myself, with a household guard, and every fucking felana you want in a few hours. I have to get out to the farms now. I don’t have time for this. Bu—”

  He was going to brush her off again. He thought it was all about the clothes. But it wasn’t. This was the first thing she’d asked from him since they’d come, the first time she’d hoped he’d be on her side. And instead he was busy, always busy.

  “Don’t bother with any more of your lies.” She turned over her heel and left the room.

  28

  Migane, indeed.

  THE FELANAS, apparently, had access to a collection of personal hovers. Klym found the group of them gathered around them in front of the cassia. Three women with dark hair, shining around their shoulders, boldly colored pants and tops, glittering like tropical flowers.

  Staria waved when she saw her. “Are you ready?”

  Klym shook her head. “He said no.”

  Staria laughed, her nose wrinkling. “Why?

  Klym shrugged. “He says it isn’t safe.”

  One of the other felanas—Klym was struggling to keep track of all their names—she thought this one was Sylese, came up, with her button-round eyes and pointy chin. “At the tailor’s? What is he afraid of? You’ll be stuck by a stray pin?”

  Even Monna, who had avoided Klym since the first night at the banquet, tilted her head back and laughed, her curly hair blowing in the wind. “He’s got it bad for you? What is your secret?”

  “Secret?”

  “Well, we know you don’t le—”

  Staria elbowed her and she broke off. “Do you want us to pick something out for you?”

  Sylese made a rude noise. “Don’t trust Staria—she has horrible taste in clothes. She’ll have you dressed drag as a servant.”

  “I do not have bad taste! It’s just that you always want to look like a cake.”

  “You always insist on wearing yellow. It’s horrible with your complexion.”

  While they carried on their argument, Monna, the previous selissa, touched Klym’s elbow. “Do you want me to talk to him? Dillan wasn’t nearly so possessive.”

  Klym wrung her hands together. If it were just possession making Tor behave this way, she’d be more understanding, but it wasn’t that. It wasn’t possession at all. He just didn’t want to be bothered with her. He hadn’t even listened to understand why it mattered. It wasn’t about clothes. It was about these women accepting her.

  She shook her head. “Did Dillan really let you go in alone?”

  Monna nodded. “Yes, but admittedly, the city was safer then. There’s been some unrest lately. It’s rare, but…”

  Klym blew out a breath and shook her head.

  Staria and Sylese finished their argument and with sympathetic noises at Klym, climbed into the hover. Just before they shut the door, Staria raised one of her black brows. “Are you sure? Last chance?”

  Klym stared at her. It was so unfair, watching them go. It reminded her of the Institute all over again. How she and Malina snuck out, and nothing bad happened until they came back. Tor had no right to lock her up. He’d said so himself that she wasn’t a prisoner here.

  Before she could give herself a minute to change her mind, she climbed in. Her hands shook. Maybe he’d spank her later. Fine. It would be worth it, to feel for a moment as if she belonged with these bright, laughing women. “Y-y-you can fly one of these?”

  Staria gave her a strange look. “A hover? A little one like this? Of course.”

  Klym frowned, watching with interest as Staria touched a clear screen and the hover buzzed to life. Tor had said she should do whatever she wanted, but he’d also told her not to trust anyone and not to leave without permission. She studied Staria, her slim shoulders, her long nose, and her deft hands on the controls. Maybe he meant she shouldn’t leave Vesta, not just the Roq?

  “Do the women of Argentus not know how to fly?” asked Monna, her eyes wide.

  Klym buckled her harness. “They used to. I know my mother did. But, after the sickness, they wanted to keep the remaining women safe, so... I was never taught. I don’t think it’s a rule or anything.” She’d never considered asking. She would now. Whether she ended up on Argentus or Vesta, she wanted to fly one of these things.

  Staria cocked her head, her fingers moving over the clear panel of the control system. The hover lifted smoothly. “Watch me. I’ll let you fly home. It’s not hard.”

  She pointed out the controls as she flew, and Klym watched with interest, listening to the other ladies’ happy chatter. “Is it safe in the city? Should we tell anyone where we are going?”

  “Kiava knows,” said Sylese.

  “I’d worry less about the city and more about what the regio is going to do to you when we get back,” Monna said, laughing. “I never dared disobey a direct order.”

  “Did he spank you?”

  Silence reigned in the car for a long moment, and Klym worried she’d said something terribly rude.

  Then Staria burst out laughing, and Sylese and Monna joined.

  “Oh, Vaniiya. The first time I was so scared.” Staria was the first to answer coherently.

  “He had those huge hands, right?” said Monna. “I figured I wouldn’t sit for a week, but it was like being stroked by a baby.”

  “I hated being spanked, even if he was too g
entle to make it hurt much. Made me feel like a child,” said Sylese.

  “That was the point though, right?” Monna sent a knowing glance at Klym. “I don’t think you can expect the new regio to be as soft hearted as his brother was.”

  “No,” Klym said. “I don’t think I can.” And that was a problem for another time. Coming with them would likely result in all manner of bellowing and likely a spanking, but for now, she may as well enjoy freedom while it lasted. It would be short lived.

  “Relax. The shop is in a safe part of the city. Nothing will go wrong. You are the new selissa, foreign-born.” Sylese made her voice sound sappy and wistful. “You are marked by the regio. You’ll be safe.”

  Klym swallowed down the awkwardness along with her rising nerves. Vesta was not Argentus. The women here wore pants. They could fly. They weren’t kept apart at Institutes like they were on Argentus. Women had more freedom here, more autonomy, more respect.

  He’d marked her that morning; it would give her some protection, perhaps, but still...

  “Such a worrier,” Staria said with a laugh, guiding the hover into an easy glide down the cliff face that made Klym’s belly hitch and flutter.

  As they flew, the felanas pointed out landmarks, sculptures of famous Tamminians, parks with springs and bathhouses, flower gardens, the library, and finally, a market of stalls covered in orange awnings that stretched endlessly down the sides of city streets.

  Staria set the hover down beside a fountain with a sculpture of a lady in the center. Her arms stretched high over her head as if she were reaching up to touch the stars.

  “This way,” said Staria, sliding open the hover’s door and hopping down to the pavement, Sylese and Monna right after her.

  Klym followed. “Are we going to a market stall? I didn’t even think about cred.”

  Staria took her hand, her fingers cool and slender, small and bony. She’d grown so used to Tor’s big, warm, rough palms and long fingers, it felt strange. “Don’t worry. The cassia’s credit is long. He will pay for whatever you require.”

  She tugged at Klym’s palm and drew her down a side street, away from the market. “Just a few blocks in from here.”

  Klym tried not to panic, but every growing footstep felt like a yawning vacuum stretching between her and Tor. She should have told him. But Monna and Sylese kept on chattering away about how gold and white were the perfect colors for Klym’s hair and skin and how Staria’s cousin was a genius.

  They walked up two streets, made a left, and then down a couple more, and made a right, or was it a left? Passing people on the streets who stopped and stared at her as if she’d grown a third eye. The blond hair must have been like a flashing beacon. By the time they stopped walking at the entrance of a windowed shop, she was so confused that she couldn’t have said from which way they’d come.

  The interior was cool, all polished stone floors and glittering lights above. And fabric. Everywhere was fabric. Bolts of it on the walls, piles on tables, in baskets and tubes and shelves. She sucked in a breath. Beautiful fabrics, in bold, exotic colors, with intricate patterns, delicate embroidery, laces, and tulles, shimmering, silky, velvety, nubby.

  A tall, broad woman greeted the felanas, giving Staria an especially close hug, before she turned on Klym, her shrewd gaze roaming over her blond hair. “Welcome, Selissa.”

  Klym imitated the way the others had smiled and inclined her head.

  “I am Itta.” She moved in closer than Klym would normally have found comfortable, but she’d grown used to the Vestige’s less strict observation of personal space. The woman ran a hand down Klym’s waist. “What did you have in mind?”

  Monna babbled in fast Vestigi, demanding the outfit be finished in time for the feast. Klym caught most of the words.

  “And colors,” said Sylese. “Gold and ivory. And something for her hair.”

  Itta trailed her fingers along the pearls at Klym’s throat. “Argenti pearls,” she said in Vestigi. “Very valuable.”

  Staria slapped her hand playfully. “She’s the selissa now. She won’t sell them.”

  “They belonged to my mother,” Klym said. “I’d never sell them.”

  Itta shrugged and moved her hands to Klym’s hair. “Feliarrios miane?”

  Staria shrugged. “She usually braids it up into a coil.”

  “I have something for my hair,” Klym interrupted. She’d use her own flowers, weave them through her bun. “Could we add some blue to the design? Something small? I have these flowers. They’re bright.”

  Itta’s dark eyes narrowed. “Show me.”

  They spent an hour picking out the fabrics, sticking pins in Klym and measuring her, talking in such fast Vestigi that her head swam and a headache formed behind her eyes. But it was worth it. The outfit Itta sketched was stunning.

  The sun took on a decidedly orange hue. If Tor looked for her before dinner, he would find her gone. He’d be irate. He’d bellow for sure. And the spanking. She sucked in a long slow breath at the image of him bending her over his lap, peeling down her pants, baring her body for his view, trailing a hot palm over her skin.

  As they left the shop, she tried to make a right, but Staria pulled her left. Monna and Sylese were already headed that way. “This way.”

  They walked several streets in, and Klym didn’t recognize anything. The streets were even more packed now, the people staring openly, even pointing at her hair.

  A crowd gathered around them. Mostly kids, but several young men, too. Following them.

  “We’re almost there,” said Monna.

  It felt wrong, like they’d gone the wrong way, but she joined Staria in a steady jog, pressing their way through increasingly dense streets.

  Just when she’d started to seriously doubt their sense of direction, the awnings appeared, bright and orange at the edge of a street.

  “See.” Sylese pointed. “Just there.”

  A series of shouts and pops sounded from the direction of the market. And clapping. Someone’s voice was amplified, shouting in rapid-fire Vestigi. About tammin, and shame, and lying nobles.

  Klym looked around at the faces of the felanas. They looked nervous, and that scared her almost more than anything else.

  “Migane,” Staria muttered, and Klym had to agree. Migane, indeed. The group surrounding them had grown. They were closer now, and they weren’t just staring. They were taunting them, shouting at them, calling them horrible names.

  A bald man reached out and touched Klym’s hair, and she shrank back.

  Staria shoved him. “Don’t touch the selissa.”

  Klym pulled Staria back, Monna and Sylese staring around with wide eyes. “L-let’s just go. Quickly.”

  They darted through the crowd, but with all the clapping and cheering and the amplified voices shouting about poverty and yenna and grain, it was impossible to think.

  Staria clutched her hand, Monna and Sylese only a breath ahead of them, and the crowd was so thick now that they had to elbow and push their way through, running openly.

  Monna disappeared into the crowd. Then Sylese.

  More heads turned. People kept grabbing at her hair and pulling it, too hard, smarting and making her eyes water. She lost Staria’s hand.

  The last she saw was Staria’s eyes, wide and terrified before she was lost in a sea of hands, tugging at her clothes, touching her hair.

  Someone crashed into her. A hard elbow connecting with her orbital bone so hard her vision blackened.

  In that moment, far from home, on a foreign planet, surrounded by people who saw her as their enemy, blinking with blurry eyes at a sea of angry faces, she realized something.

  She only wanted one person. It wasn’t Agammo. It wasn’t her father.

  It was Tor.

  Because whenever he was there, he made things okay.

  She threw her elbows out and kicked with her feet. Screamed and bucked and hissed. She connected too, and if there was pain she didn’t feel it.

&nbs
p; Someone shouted about pale hair, their breath rancid in her face.

  Someone else tugged at her clothes. A fist closed around her hair in a grip so strong her eyes burned, and she screamed out, but they kept on pulling.

  A hand slid around her waist, a hard groin bumped against her hip.

  She connected with someone’s nose, and there was a nauseating crunch, but the pressure never left her scalp. Everything came in bright flashes.

  Rancid breath.

  The metallic glint of a knife as it slashed near her head and the grip on her hair was gone. The pain faded. More shouts and groping hands, and bodies slamming into her from all sides.

  Someone held a length of golden hair over his head, shouting, and she had the vaguest feeling of ridiculous sadness. She’d lost her hair.

  A hand closed around her waist, pulling her forward, and a man’s voice growled in her ear. She didn’t understand a word, not amidst the havoc.

  She kicked and screamed and shouted, but all her noise was lost in the din of the crowd, and nothing she did made any difference. His grip was far too strong, and every time someone got in his way, he kicked or elbowed them aside, dragging her behind him.

  29

  He had her what?

  TOR PROPPED HIS HIP against the back of the boat, surveying the landscape of the farm in Iurrassa. It was one of the closer farms to the cassia. Tammin grew on trellises in tidy rows up a hillside, vibrant under the sun. Orchards and fields. This was the heart of this country, and this country was the heart of all Vesta.

  A broadfly with wide, iridescent wings quivered in the breeze, keeping time with the boat's motion up the river.

  The man he’d come to see, Fandig, tapped the rail. He’d been the Captain of the Guard for ten years, then fired by Tor’s father a few years ago for disagreeing with him publicly. He stood on the prow of the boat now, and the last ten years had only made him harder. He crossed his arms. “What you’re asking isn’t simple.”

  “I know that.”

  “It’s treason.”

  “It’s not.” Tor held his finger in front of the bug. “Or maybe it is. But if it’s treason, it’s treason against a government I don’t recognize.”