Men In Chains

by Virginia Reede

  As she fought to control her emotions, she was aware Jeryl was still sitting in the chair near the worktable, waiting for her to speak. She breathed deeply, making sure her shoulders were relaxed and he would notice no stiffness. Steadying herself, she turned to face him.

  “Thank you for explaining all that to me. But that is not the main thing I wanted to work on today. I wanted to discuss phase three of my plan. It appears things are moving more quickly than I had anticipated. For various reasons, I can no longer wait to move forward. I need to take action and I will need your help.”

  She walked to the cabinet that held her notes and papers and removed the familiar sheaf. Instead of spreading them on the worktable as she usually did, she removed a heavy ledger that had been hidden underneath them. She set it haphazardly on the floor, causing it to thump loudly. Underneath where it had lain, she lifted a false panel in the bottom of the cabinet and took out a much smaller stack of papers. She turned and placed them on the desk.

  “I am about to tell you how I will accomplish the most difficult step of my plan,” she said to Jeryl. “How I must replace Bloduewedd as Rahntadrine of Glamurhaven in order to destroy the Eye of the Goddess.”

  * * * * *

  Beteria was feeling just a little giddy this morning. For the second week in a row she had failed to show up at her meeting with Grenda, instead spending the appointed hour in Duwall’s arms. He had assured her there would be no consequences of avoiding her rendezvous, pointing out that she herself had said Grenda was unlikely to come looking for her. Grenda would just assume something had prevented her from getting to the designated spot unobserved, and although she would not be happy, she would have little choice but to wait until the following week.

  It had seemed perfectly reasonable last night as she gave herself to the bliss and heat of their passion, and she had slept soundly and awakened when he kissed her and slipped from her room. This morning, however, she was not so certain. Grenda might make up some excuse to visit the estate, or lay in wait until Beteria was in the backyard completing some task, or even send another spy. Grenda was not noted for her patience, and Bloduewedd was even worse.

  Only weeks ago, Beteria’s greatest fear was disappointing her mother. Now she was terrified something would happen to take away her newfound happiness. Delinda treated her with respect, Letta was her friend and she had Duwall. She might even have a baby, if she and Duwall kept spending their nights as they had for the last two weeks. She stopped in the middle of dusting the wood paneling and indulged in a pleasant reverie, imagining herself cradling an infant while Duwall stood by, watching them both adoringly.

  A loud thump brought her back to the present. She looked around and realized it had come from the library. She saw the door was open a crack, and moved to close it so she could dust it as well. Before her hand touched the knob, she heard Delinda speaking inside.

  “…how I will accomplish the most difficult step of my plan. How I must replace Bloduewedd as Rahntadrine of Glamurhaven in order to destroy the Eye of the Goddess.”

  Beteria froze, suddenly unable to breathe.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Beteria paced in the stables, not noticing the inquisitive eyes of the horses as they watched her progress—or lack thereof—as she wore a path on the straw-covered ground. Her thoughts whirled dizzyingly as she tried to sort out right from wrong.

  Her purpose for coming here had been to make her mother proud. She had believed—foolishly, perhaps—if she were able to report that Delinda was doing something at cross-purposes to Bloduewedd’s plans for the sector, her mother would see her in a new light and treat her with the respect she had coveted for as long as she could remember.

  She had been unprepared to like her new employer, but that Delinda was likable was probably the least surprising thing about her new surroundings. The first thing that had taken Beteria by surprise was that in coming here as a spy, she had found herself receiving the very respect she had so craved—and it was being supplied by her purported enemy. Delinda treated everyone with respect, even when criticizing or reprimanding, which was seldom. Mistakes were, as often as not, treated as inconsequential.

  When Beteria had taken her first turn at the laundry and washed Delinda’s vest in hot water, causing it to shrink alarmingly, Beteria had been terrified of what would happen if she were found out. When she had confessed, Delinda had merely laughed and asked whether “Lora” was insinuating she needed to lose weight.

  The next shock was learning Delinda did not use magic to control the slaves. In fact, she insisted they were not slaves, but employees, who received room and board and would get a share of any profits gleaned from the estate’s harvest, livestock sales and wool. What was more, Delinda’s assertion that happy employees were vastly more productive than abused slaves seemed to be true. The estate was shockingly productive for having only just been restored to a workable condition.

  Bloduewedd had always insisted slaves were incorrigibly lazy and had to be driven constantly to prevent idleness. Delinda’s employees seemed to work twice as hard as the cringing men that labored in the fields of the Rahntadrine and her Reliants.

  The thing which Bloduewedd would probably find the most unbelievable was how the men, once free of the influence of the dark Rahnta, behaved toward women. Beteria had grown up believing men did not like to breed, and only did so when coerced or to gain favors. Women, on the other hand, found the act itself enjoyable, but must expect that the men would need to be coaxed at best and forced at worse.

  Bloduewedd had always used a combination of magic and drugs to induce a willing state in whatever slave caught her fancy, but Beteria had lately overheard her grumbling that even this was no longer always effective.

  Here, the men behaved more like the male farm animals did around willing females of the same species. They all vied for the attention of the women, including Delinda, although she seemed to be too busy to pay attention. The women had all either chosen a favorite man to share her bed or sampled whoever was willing, like the lusty sisters who boasted they were having a contest to see who would have the first baby. And then there was Duwall. Beteria could hardly claim to have chosen him. It seemed to her it was the other way around.

  Beteria sighed and quickened her pace. She had justified her decision to stop her meetings with Grenda with the idea that even though her mother might not approve of Delinda’s methods, there was no reason that Delinda could not run her own affairs any way she chose. What happened on one estate need not affect what happened on another, and Bloduewedd and her Reliants could go on as they always had. Delinda did not intend her mother any actual harm.

  What she had overheard in the library, however, had shocked Beteria to her core. Delinda intended to retake her family title of Rahntadrine of Glamurhaven! And, as there was no way Bloduewedd would ever relinquish that title voluntarily, that meant Delinda must plan to do so by force.

  Beteria knew she should seize her horse dozing placidly in his stall and ride home as fast as she could to warn her mother. And yet…

  She had already known it would be difficult to give up her happy life here, and the thought of giving up Duwall caused a pain so severe it seemed her heart would cease to beat. But she was prepared to make this sacrifice to save her mother.

  No, the far more difficult problem was a persistent idea that was disloyal in the extreme. Delinda would be a better Rahntadrine than Mother.

  Beteria stopped in her tracks. Now that she had allowed the thought to form, she could not dismiss it. Was it true? Would the sector really be better off with Delinda in charge? What would the Reliants do without the dark Rahnta? And what would happen to Mother?

  Beteria tried to answer her own questions and only came up with more. The Rahntadrine was a leader, not a ruler. Delinda would not be able to force others to use her methods, although if she destroyed the Eye of the Goddess, the Reliants would be unable to use magic to control their slaves. Eventually they would have to try someth
ing other than force to run their farms, but what would happen to them in the meantime?

  What if the men, free of the power’s influence, rose in revolt? Would they seek to harm their former mistresses? Perhaps Delinda was counting on that, although Beteria had told Grenda the truth when she said she had seen no sign of training at arms.

  Of course, when she had fled the house in a panic, she had done so without stopping to consider that it might be important to hear the rest of Delinda and Jeryl’s conversation. For all she knew, they may have been planning lessons in swordsmanship and archery, and talking about how to import weapons without arousing Bloduewedd’s suspicions.

  Mother would still have her soldiers, of course, and would be protected. But would she give up her title without a fight? Beteria knew the answer to that. Bloduewedd would never relinquish leadership or control of the dark rahnta while she had a breath left in her body. Delinda would have to kill her to win.

  Yet another horrible thought struck Beteria. What if Mother kills Delinda? Beteria sat down on a bench, weak-kneed and dizzy. Would telling Bloduewedd about Delinda’s plan make things better or worse? If Bloduewedd took steps immediately, it might be possible to prevent bloodshed. Beteria suspected that preventing bloodshed might not be one of her mother’s priorities. Exhausted by all the possibilities, Beteria put her head in her hands and squeezed her eyes shut.

  The sound of footsteps alerted Beteria that someone else was entering the stable. She looked up and saw Duwall, smiling in a way that made her love for him swell and threaten to block her throat. As he came closer, his expression changed as he saw her face. She tried to compose her features, but it was impossible.

  “Kitten, what’s wrong?” he said, his concern evident. “You look as if you have seen a spirit.” He sat next to her and put his arm around her. “What has happened?”

  “I cannot tell you!” she blurted, more emphatically than she had intended.

  His smile returned, teasing and tender. “Of course you can tell me,” he said in the voice she found so difficult to resist. “You can tell me anything.”

  How I wish I could. It would have been a great relief to share the details of the dilemma with someone she could trust.

  As if reading her thoughts, Duwall said, “Do you not trust me, Beteria?”

  “I would trust you with my life,” she replied passionately, silently adding, but not with my mother’s. She knew Duwall had only animosity for Bloduewedd, both for the way she treated her daughter and her slaves. If she were to explain why she was torn between her duty to her mother and her love for him—and Delinda, Letta and the others, of course—there could be no doubt whose side he would take.

  “Then you know there is nothing you cannot tell me, my darling.” His tone was patient yet expectant. He stroked her hair and the back of her neck. How she longed to just relax into his arms and let him make everything better. This time, however, she was on her own, and she knew it. Oh well, she was used to being on her own. Instead of relaxing, she stiffened her spine.

  “Not about this,” she said. His hand froze in the act of smoothing her hair and he dropped it in order to take both of her hands in his. He turned her to face him on the bench.

  “Look at me,” he said softly but firmly. When she raised her eyes to meet his, she found them cool and direct. “You say you want a new life with me and you love me. You know I love you. What can be so terrible that you cannot tell me? Please, Kitten, you must let me help.”

  “You cannot,” she wailed, breaking their gaze and pulling her hands away. She turned away from him on the bench to hide the anguish on her face. “Do you not think I want to tell you? Do you have any idea how much it hurts me to keep something from you?”

  “I have a very good idea,” he said, and his tone startled her. She turned and saw he was smiling again. This smile, however, held no trace of humor. She realized she was seeing him angry, and that was something she had not seen for a very long time. Not, in fact, since her mother had sent him away. Dismayed at this unexpected reaction, she could only stare open-mouthed as he went on.

  “I have heard ‘you do not know how much this hurts me’ too many times, Beteria. All my life, it seems. Every time someone sold me because the very same things that made them think it might be fun to own me turned out to be a bit more than they could manage.”

  His eyes bored into Beteria’s, the unpleasant smile becoming even more frightening. “Is that how it is with you, Kitten?” he asked softly. “Falling in love seemed like fun, but pledging yourself to a slave turned out to be a little too much for the daughter of the Rahntadrine?”

  Where did this come from? thought Beteria confusedly. Where was the easygoing, kind man she had known all her life? Who was this cold, angry stranger whose golden eyes had turned into glittering stones? Just because she had a secret—one secret? Any thought she had harbored of giving in and sharing her woes vanished in an instant. She found herself on her feet, backing away from him.

  “I’m sorry I cannot tell you what you want to know,” she said woodenly. “And I’m sorry I have done something to upset you.” She continued to move away from him but he jumped to his feet and easily captured her. He grabbed her arms and held her in a grip that made her wince. She started to struggle, but abandoned the notion when his grasp tightened.

  “Always apologizing, aren’t you little Kitten?” he said in that terrible, soft voice. “At least your mother spoke plainly when she had no further use for me. When she realized her plaything spent more time looking at her daughter than at herself, and no longer could pretend his enthusiasm for sharing her bed.”

  Beteria’s mouth hung open. “You…” she sputtered. “And my mother? But you hated my mother. You tried to intervene when she treated me unfairly. You were my friend!”

  “And why do you think she listened to a mere slave when even her soldiers were afraid of her?” he countered. “How do you think I secured my influence?”

  It was true, Beteria knew. It all made perfect sense, now that she thought about it. All this time she thought he had loved her all her life. He had been her friend—her only friend. How old had he been when he first coupled with Bloduewedd? All those times when he disappeared and would not tell her where he had gone—

  Another realization hit her. She wrenched herself from his grip. “You pitied me! Because my mother preferred your company to mine! That’s why you were nice to me—because you felt sorry for me!” Her anger began to rise. “Is that it? Do you still pity me Duwall?”

  “Ahhh, the kitten has claws,” said Duwall. “Funny, for the first time you begin to remind me of your mother.”

  “What of it? I am her daughter!” said Beteria, fully furious now. “I know you hate her, but I do not apologize that I do not. She is my mother and a great leader—the Rahntadrine and the inventor of the dark rahnta. I’ll wager you do not even know who your mother is!” The moment it was out of her mouth, she realized she had gone too far.

  Duwall’s face became whiter than Beteria had ever seen it. At least that horrible grin is gone. He stared at her silently for a few moments, then took a deep breath and visibly calmed himself. The smile that returned was his old mocking one.

  “You are right, of course,” he said. “I am but a slave, no matter what Delinda chooses to call me. And your mother,” he stressed the word, seeming to pour the last of his animosity into it, “is the most powerful woman in the sector. It was foolish of me to forget that.”

  He reached out as if to cup her chin in his hand but she jerked away automatically. He raised his eyebrows and, widening his smile, turned and sauntered toward the door of the stable. Only someone who knew him extremely well could have detected any tension in his gait. As he stepped out into the afternoon light, he turned to look at her. “Goodbye, Kitten. It was fun, wasn’t it?” He turned and shambled toward the back of the house.

  Stunned, Beteria turned and fled. She ran until she found herself at the spot where she met with Grenda. She had
not previously been here in daylight, and if she had not been so blind with pain and anger, she would have noticed what had seemed a forbidding place was really beautiful. The path, which had to be so carefully navigated in the dark, was well enough trod that she could run with little thought of getting lost or falling over an errant root or fallen tree.

  When she came to a particularly large one of these, instead of climbing over it, she stopped and allowed herself to collapse. Seated on the log, she panted like an animal that had narrowly missed being captured by a predator.

  For the moment, the sound of her breathing and the pounding of her heart drowned out the quiet forest sounds. By the time her heart rate had slowed and she could breathe normally, she realized she had been hearing something else for the last few minutes. It was the sound of something, a large animal perhaps, moving through the underbrush. Startled, she rose to her feet and tried to determine the best direction to flee. Wild boar sometimes roamed these woods, and she was unarmed.

  Before she could move, a form much too tall to be a boar became visible through the underbrush. When Grenda stepped out from behind a clump of bushes Beteria relaxed, although the expression on Grenda’s face was far from reassuring.

  “Where in the name of the Goddess have ye been?” said Grenda. “I’ve better things to do with me time than sit in these cursed trees in the middle of the night, waiting for ye to decide ye might want to do the very thing ye were sent here for. Ye’re lucky I’m here at all—but ye’re mother said maybe ye were havin’ a hard time slippin’ out at night and left some kind of note or somethin’. I’ve been searchin’ the area for hours and was about to leave. I’ve torn me trousers and missed me ale, and ye better have a good reason is all I can say.”

  Normally Beteria would have apologized to Grenda and stuttered out an excuse, but she was still simmering with indignation at Duwall’s unfair treatment. “I do not have time to waste on explanations today, Grenda, and I’m in no mood for your grousing,” she said crisply. “Do you want to hear what I’ve come to say or not?” She had not expected to see Grenda or planned to tell her anything, but the woman’s tone irritated her already raw nerves.