Arena (48 page)

“So,” Mira said, patting her leg. “Not what you expected, is it?”

“I knew it would be nice.”

“This nice?” She waved around the courtyard. “You’d have the freedom to pursue your art and a guaranteed audience. No more worries about making ends meet. And the weather is wonderful.”

“Where are the children?”

Mira shifted uncomfortably, eyes flicking away from Callie’s gaze. Then she smiled and patted Callie’s hand. “
You
are our children. As you grow and learn our ways, we nurture you as if you were our blood born.”

“There are no old people, either.”

Now Mira was confident. “Nor will there ever be. We do not age. In Splagnos you can truly have eternal life.”

“You never die?”

“No.”

Callie glanced at the other patrons. “Well, then . . . how do you control your population?”

The Splagnosian woman blinked.

“If everyone lives forever,” Callie went on, “with no disease or starvation or death, why is Splagnos so small? I’d think it would wrap clear around this mountain.”

Mira was frowning now. “Well . . . there are the wars, of course. The other cities are always attacking. They want what we have, and so we are forced to defend against them.”

“With everyone obligated to take his turn of service.”

Mira lifted her chin. “It is an honor to serve. Splagnos has the finest soldiers in the Inner Realm.”

“But there must be casualties.”

“A few.”

Callie eyed the patchwork of tinted panes in the dome overhead, their mismatched colors and transparencies betraying decades of ongoing repair. “And living on the flanks of a volcano must bring its problems. An earthquake would cause considerable damage, might even crack the dome. To say nothing of an eruption.”

“The volcano is dormant,” Mira said tightly. “And we have lava channels and underground shelters.”

“An earthquake could damage those, too.”

“Very well, yes. We have occasional disasters. And people die.” The Splagnosian woman stood, clearly annoyed. “Come. We have much to see.”

It took the rest of the afternoon to tour all the museum’s exhibits, the most intriguing of which was a series of idyllic landscapes said to depict the Inner Realm “before Elhanu destroyed it.” During that time Callie tried to see if she could slip away from Mira even momentarily— without success. There were surveillance devices everywhere, and with the locator strap on her ankle, escape wasn’t likely.

They ate dinner in one of the fern-decorated, city-run restaurants— another fabulous meal—and afterward attended an elaborately costumed but incomprehensible opera at the Partas’s own Crown Theater. The plot seemed to concern a man falling in love with a shovel, and the four hours it consumed were among the most boring Callie had ever endured. She dozed through a good deal of it.

When they returned to her suite, she learned she would not leave Mira’s side even to sleep—twin beds awaited in the bedroom. Since both doors and windows were sealed, guaranteeing she wouldn’t escape, she assumed Mira’s continual presence was part of a brainwashing attempt. Well, they wouldn’t get far tonight. Except for the nap in the opera, Callie had hardly slept for many days. She’d barely laid her head on the pillow before she was out.

She dreamed of Pierce—a dream so vivid, so intense, she awakened panting in sweat-soaked sheets. Frustration sharpened the pleasure she had felt, but the memory embarrassed her deeply. To distract herself she concentrated on the sensations around her—the morning sun filtering through the blinds, the soft sheets, the rhythmic clipping of the gardener outside her window. When she rolled over, Mira was sitting on the other bed, fully clothed, watching her with a self-satisfied smirk. At once the smirk broadened into a cheery smile. “Hello, sleepyhead. Breakfast’s waiting, and we’ve got a full schedule.”

They spent the morning at a hydroponics installation viewing giant corn and cabbages produced by adapting the “curtains of life” to agricultural use. Afterward they visited a clinic, whose technicians assured Callie that the worst side effect of the Splagnosians’ carefully calibrated, state-of-the-art Sigma-Alpha Wave Generators were some occasional lesions, easily removed. In exchange, one received excellent health, vibrant beauty, the instant healing of any injuries, and various other “enhancements.” Their final stop was the music hall and a concert by the Splagnosian civic orchestra. It was better than the opera.

That night Callie was again tormented by vivid dreams of Pierce. When she awoke in the morning and again found Mira watching her, she began to suspect the dreams were not of her own making. Pierce had warned of the Splagnosians’ telepathic abilities. Planting dream images was likely one of the simpler skills. The next night Callie made a point of acknowledging her fears and frustrations and concentrating on Elhanu as she drifted into sleep. The disturbing dreams ended, and Mira did not look pleased the next morning. Nevertheless, she forced a smile and bubbled on about the day’s plans as Callie dressed.

Except for the dreams, and the fact that Mira never let her out of her sight, Callie really couldn’t complain about how she was being treated—the woman’s main purpose seemed to be to show her a good time. They toured the transportation system, the zoo, the city garden, and the library. To her credit, Mira was an excellent conversationalist, relating interesting stories and drawing out Callie’s opinions without being judgmental. It turned out, not surprisingly, that they shared much common ground. Mira’s parents had divorced, too, her mother even more domineering than Callie’s. And Mira was also an artist.

They went on several sketching expeditions, and even spent a day painting in Mira’s wonderful light-filled studio. The time they spent together made it difficult for Callie to think of the woman as the enemy—which, she kept reminding herself, was entirely the point.

Finally, late on the sixth day, the Partas himself summoned Callie to dine with him, an invitation that clearly shocked and dismayed Mira, though she tried to hide it with her usual exuberance. “How wonderful! We must find you something to wear!”

They didn’t have to search long. A dress and matching jewelry arrived shortly after the summons. The dark green satin gown fell in a floor-length drape from a low-cut neckline trimmed with emeralds and pearls. It had thin shoulder straps, no back, and was slit up one side to the hip. Callie took one look and refused to wear it, which distressed Mira even more than the initial invitation. Nearly in tears, she said that Callie absolutely must not offend the Partas. She insisted that this was a great honor and the dress was much preferable to the alternative. Chilled by Mira’s words, Callie relented, unhappily allowing the woman to pin her long red hair into a pile of ridiculous curls atop her head, then thread the pearl earrings through her earlobes.

Babbling nervously about what an enormous privilege the invitation was, Mira delivered her to the palace on the hill above the Halls of Government, where a white-tunicked giant brought her through a maze of gleaming corridors to the Partas’s private sitting room.

The sitting room, a vaulted L-shaped chamber, was furnished in a dark European style of massive scale. Potted palms and marble statuary, lit by recessed lamps, stood at strategic points, and large paintings decorated the walls. Some depicted the Old Inner Realm, and others were more contemporary, with strident colors and grotesque imagery. Windows on the far wall overlooked the city, its lights glowing red-orange against the dark buildings.

In front of them, the Partas reclined on a couch—waist high from Callie’s perspective—and was attended by two scantily clad women. He was huge, extremely well muscled, and wore only a short skirt of red leather and a wide gold belt. Light gleamed off his bared torso and the thick auburn hair flowing over his shoulders. Even from a distance Callie felt a jolt of the same animal magnetism she’d once sensed in Garth, though this at ten times the power.

The Partas waved her over while his attendants, so small she figured they must be new acquisitions, rubbed his shoulders and back with spice-scented oil.

Callie stopped ten feet away and, as he looked her over, was finally forced to confront the reason for Mira’s distress—this visit clearly would entail more than dinner.

“You may go,” he said to his women.

Wordlessly, they picked up their flagons and slipped away. It was then that she recognized the taller one—pale skinned, narrow waisted, big busted, with silver blond hair cropped to fuzz on her skull. The oozing sores had healed, but one ear was still a lump. Rowena—slave girl to the Partas. This was the Splagnosians’ idea of “well compensated”?

“She’s happy with it.”

The Partas’s smooth voice drew Callie’s gaze. His eyes were clear green beneath level brows, his face Aggillon-gorgeous, a perfect match for his splendid body. Except for something in the eyes, she might have been totally enamored.

Those eyes moved over her now, head to toe and back again. He was so clearly stripping away the satin, she wanted to cover herself, and it took an act of will not to turn away.

“You
are
lovely,” he breathed. “No wonder my ward is smitten.”

Ward? Of the Partas? Surely he didn’t mean Pierce.

His focus shifted to something behind her, his lips twitching with amusement. She turned and found herself reflected in a gilt-framed mirror, her naked back—bared to several inches below the waist—gleaming in the soft light. Heat flared into her face, and again she fought the compulsion to run.

“Don’t worry, little gazelle. I’m just looking.” Her gaze snapped back to him.

He grinned, a dazzling little-boy expression that, in spite of everything she sensed about him, stole her breath and sent shivers across her skin. Aghast, she tore her eyes away and looked out the window behind him onto the glowing, fulminating city.

He chuckled, then waved toward the adjoining couch. “Please. Sit down.”

When she did not move, he sighed. “Miss Hayes, I only want to talk.”

They had provided a step stool so she didn’t have to climb onto the couch like a child. She settled onto the velvet upholstery, tucking her feet under her so they wouldn’t dangle over the edge.

The Partas gestured to the goblets and food tray on the table between them. “Have some wine. It will relax you.”

“Maybe I don’t want to relax.”

He chuckled again, plucking blue plum-sized grapes from the cluster beside the goblets and popping them into his mouth. The grace of his action, the play of light upon his face and on the grapes themselves, drew her eyes like a moth to flame. He was mind-numbingly attractive. Even the way he ate the grapes—slowly, deliberately, savoring every nuance—was arousing.

“I trust your rooms are comfortable?” His voice broke the spell, and she forced her gaze away from him, onto the tray between them. Some flatbread and a wedge of white cheese accompanied the fruit. He sliced off a piece of cheese and laid it on a piece of flatbread. “We’ve gone to great lengths to see that you are happy.”

“It’s difficult to be happy when one is a prisoner.”

The Partas snared her gaze again. “Well, your state has not changed from the day you set foot in the Arena, now, has it?” He bit into the cheese and bread and chewed. “You should try some of this.” He ate the rest. She did not move.

“Your lover is quite entertaining,” he said when he’d finished. “A worthy antagonist—and soon to be a friend, I hope. If he joins us, he will be well compensated.”

She thought wryly of Rowena’s compensation. “He’ll never join you.”

“Mmm.” The Partas sliced more cheese, laid it on another piece of bread, and handed it to her. Reluctantly she took it.

“So,” he said, fixing another for himself, “what did you think of our opera company’s opus?”

“I thought it an ingenious form of torture.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, Miss Hayes, you are indeed a cool breeze on a hot day. I could get used to you!”

She nibbled her cheese and cracker. It was quite good.

“And our fine-arts exhibit?”

“Some of it was nice.”

“And some of it should have gone to the recyclers.” He shook his head. “The price we pay for freedom. Artists must be allowed to create as they see fit or the muse is stifled. They aren’t all so atrocious.”

“Are there a lot of artists in Splagnos, then?”

“A good number, yes.”

He poured wine into his emptied goblet, then handed her hers, so far untouched. Using both hands to hold it, she sipped under his watchful eye.

“Well?”

“It’s good.” And it was, though she wasn’t fond of wine. She sipped some more, then set down the goblet and tried a grape.

Though she felt like the fly in the spider’s parlor, the Partas Guivas was undeniably a charming host. Gracious, witty, easygoing—a smoother talker she had never met. And she could not keep her eyes off him. The way the light played off his musculature and highlighted the even planes of his face was fascinating. Time and again she found herself wanting to touch those sculpted muscles, and, as with Garth, she became disconcertingly aware of her sexuality. But she was also aware that he knew exactly how he was affecting her, was probably even enhancing the effect with his telepathic abilities. She was sure he was deliberately striking poses, glancing at the mirror as he flowed from one position to the next, holding each just long enough to pique her artist’s eye.

They had finished the flatbread and cheese and he was topping off her goblet when the building began to shake. The curtains swayed, the tray rattled, the statuary jittered briefly in place, and the tremor faded. Though Callie clutched the couch, Guivas weathered it unconcerned.

“Don’t you worry the volcano will erupt?” she asked finally.

“It can’t unless I let it.” The Partas handed her the newly filled goblet and smiled. A shadow flicked across his face, and Callie glanced around, thinking someone had entered the room. But they were alone. His lips curved as he watched her, waited for her . . .

To understand. He was Tohvani. Or rather—

Her confusion must have shown, for his brow arched. “You thought we could only appear in that humiliating nakedness? Not at all.”