Blinded by the Sun (Erythleh Chronicles Book 4) (14 page)

"I don't think you will."

"You're so sure?"

"No."

Her expression softened, she was curious once more. No, curious was not quite the term, perplexed, she was truly confused. "But you would gift me this freedom anyway?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I would see you happy." That was as much of the truth as he was prepared to offer her, for the present. It was as much of the truth as he was prepared to admit to himself.

Lyssia paused. Thoughts and feelings flashed across her eyes. Her lips tightened and relaxed, her jaws clenched, her forehead creased, and then all fell back to repose. Eventually she distilled those myriad notions into one vocalised word. "Why?"

"Why not?" It wasn't really a question, but Kavrazel made it sound like one. He wanted to hear more of Lyssia's own conclusions.

"Because you own me."

"Precisely."

He could tell that his answer was half what she had expected, but that it did not satisfy her. "How can you call yourself Master to someone, yet care what they think, or how they feel?"

"I would argue that caring is essential if you are someone's master; it should not be absent from the equation."

"But surely, if you truly cared, you would set them free?"

He sensed that the conversation had turned from the hypothetical to a focus on the actual. "Perhaps I am, in so much as I am able to. In so much as I am willing to."

"You don't want to set me free?" The way she asked the question, it was as if she had been harbouring some ridiculous false hope that she might one day be told to go home, as if such a thing might be possible for Kavrazel.

"No."

He wanted to go to her. He wanted to take the two steps that would close the impossible chasm between them. He wanted to take her face in his hands, to feel her soft skin against his palms. He wanted to know her, to taste her, to kiss her. He knew that if he did, if he acted in so proprietary a manner, that she would never see him as anything more than a haughty lord, a master who took what he wanted, regardless of the consequences. No, he didn't want that, he wanted Lyssia to give herself to him.

He would wait until she did.

The ground, for all that it was perfectly stable, was shifting beneath him. He needed to steady it to be steady again.

"If you wish to try her, you may do so this afternoon."

"You have no need of me?" Lyssia's expression was, for a moment, completely unguarded. He could see just how much she longed to try the mare.

"Not as a scribe. However, your first duty is pressing."

The hopefulness that had softened her features was gone, replaced by hardened disgust. Although careful not to disturb the mare, Lyssia spun and stalked back through the stables, giving the king her back, apparently not caring one whit for appearances or propriety. Kavrazel followed her, hoping that he was heading for the dining room. He wasn't sure whether his gift remained the success it had seemed, but at least the ground was level once more.

~o0o~

"And the people here... and here." Kavrazel indicated a section of the coastline of Vuthron on the map unfurled on the table before him, "They have been moved?"

"Yes, your Majesty," Multha answered. "Not all were happy, but all saw the necessity."

"They're safe?"

"As safe as they can be."

Kavrazel was not satisfied. War was a risk, that fact was indisputable, but he wanted his people, the common people, the fishermen, miners, and farmers, as far removed from it as possible. The ability to raise legions of the dead was no real use if common folk had to bear arms.

"And our scouts? What do they say?"

It had been some time since their spies in Morjay had sent word. All had agreed on the worst possible outcome: the scouts had been discovered and executed. The giants were probably waiting for the opportune moment to taunt them with the remains. The scouts stationed at the coast, though, were concise and accurate, and very perceptive.

"They see movement, but they are... concerned."

"What is it, Multha? Spit it out." It was unlike his commander to be so reticent.

"It's hard to say, your Majesty. They can't provide a shred of evidence, but they think that the activity they see is... fake in some way. They think that the giants are leading us to believe that they will attack our southern coast.

"We don't have another coast they can attack."

"But they might not come in force."

"I think we would notice a giant, even a lone one, amongst us."

"Yet there are the abnormalities, the half breads, that we would not see. They don't disregard their runts, they make use of them."

"You think they will try to deceive us?"

"After everything they've done so far," Multha sighed heavily, resigned to the fate of the country, "I think it is a certainty."

Kavrazel look around the table. All faces were turned to him, expecting some sort of foresight, some sort of answer. He had none.

"Sire! Sire!"

The shouts from the corridor penetrated the closed door. The frantic tone was not dulled by the heavy wood. Kavrazel turned, as did everyone else. Girogis was opening the door as the first beat of a small fist hit it.

One of the stable lads tumbled into the room. It was without precedence for someone so lowly to interrupt such a private meeting, but Kavrazel's ire was quickly doused by the ice of dread. Something was wrong, very wrong.

"What is it?" Fear made him snappish.

"Lyssia, Sire. Your slave..."

The stable lad was too winded to continue on the same breath. Kavrazel had taken two steps forward before he realised that he meant to shake the young man He arrested his intent. "Speak more."

"She... rode out... this morning." The lad braced his hands on his knees and hung his head. He was gasping for breath, but tried to look his king in the eyes as he continued. "She... rode out... after breakfast."

Kavrazel had offered Lyssia respite from her duties as a scribe since the day had dawned so mild and bright. It had been the perfect morning for a ride. He had felt, somewhat whimsically, that if he should be constrained by his sovereign duties, she should enjoy the freedom that he could not.

It was now almost luncheon time. If Lyssia had not yet returned, she would be late to perform her duties as blood slave, duties that she hadn't yet missed, despite the freedom of her mare. Kavrazel's stomach turned and flipped.

"She hasn't... returned, Sire."

"And you're sure she is not simply tardy?" Kavrazel forced himself to ask the redundant question.

The lad shook his head, and pulled something out of his trews pocket. A scrap of blood-stained parchment. He held it out to the king with tremulous fingers.

Kavrazel took it, hopeful that everyone in attendance was too mired in the sense of emergency to notice that their monarch's fingers were also shaking. He unfolded the note. Only three words were scrawled on it.

"We have her."

Chapter Thirteen

Lyssia had been awake before the first cock crow had announced the dawning day. She had been awake for some time before that, and had lain in her bed watching the silver moon traverse across her window. She had pulled the drapes aside when she had realised that sleep would not come, no matter how much she wished for it. Her mind was twisting on the complexity that the king was not perhaps a bad person, despite presiding over her unfortunate situation.

She slept on the mattress now, on the lofty bed frame, rather than the floor. It had taken more than a handful of nights to get used to the sensation of height, to accept it enough to relax into sleep. Doing so had been worth the effort, if only so that she didn't have to witness Shinu's look of consternation every time he encountered her curled up in her makeshift nest. He wasn't given to letting himself into her room at all hours, but if he was passing at a particular time of day, he would knock to check if she needed anything for her ablutions. Every time his eyes caught her bundle of blankets and pillows in the corner, he looked... disappointed. Lyssia hated to see that wounded expression on his face.

She had been in the country for almost three moons, longer really, but she was counting from the morning after the auction. The time before that was sometimes hazy and indistinct. Pain and confusion had turned many of her memories into half-dreams and nightmares. She was no longer sure what was real and what was false, so she counted from what she knew for certain, that finite point in time.

She rolled off the bed. She was still somewhat shocked by the distance between the mattress and the floor. Her bare feet seemed to take an inordinately long time to hit the cold stones. The temperature change shocked her out of her state of half-sleep. The icy water in the basin and ewer brought her further into a state of awareness. The water closet was supplied by pipes sunk deep into the ground. The water they provided was heated by the pockets of volcanic magma that was prevalent beneath Vuthron. Consequently, the whole country benefitted from readily available hot water, a luxury Lyssia had never heard of before. She preferred not to take advantage of it at the beginning of the day, though. She needed the jolt of the wickedly cold liquid to force her brain and limbs into motion. She would utilise the convenience of the water closet before bed.

Awakened and clean to a level she was satisfied with, Lyssia slipped into her robes. The other sign of her enslavement, the collar, was never removed. She wasn't sure that Kavrazel even had a key. If it was to ever leave her neck, she was sure it would need a pair of heavy shears. She fastened the jewelled pins at her shoulders, and clipped the chain at her waist. She fussed with the folds until she felt they were perfect, and then wondered why she was bothering.

She had only to lace her sandals and brush her hair. The sandals took moments; the soft leather slippers and thongs were not a complicated affair. She paused as she attended to her hair. She did not keep it braided all the time now, although she still preferred to braid the sides if she was going to be riding. There was a mirror, which she used out of habit rather than necessity. She was aware of her appearance, and her reflection rarely changed. She knew quite well how to find her own head with her hands. On this morning, the visage it showed to her did not seem to be the same woman that it had presented the day before. She couldn't define quite what had changed; her face was the usual shape, her eyes were the same colour, her nose was still there, but by some infinitesimal difference, she was not who she had been. She tossed the brush onto the dresser in disgust and stalked from the room to perform her duties.

~o0o~

"Good Morning. Did you sleep well?"

She wished that the king would not be so polite, so solicitous. It was as if he genuinely cared about her nightly rest. She would have preferred him to be arrogant and indifferent, but she could accuse him of neither crime. He did not ask after her wellbeing out of forced courtesy, only to then ignore her answer; he listened to her responses.

"Yes, your Majesty."

"And yet your pallor and the shadows under your eyes suggest you are not being entirely truthful."

It was infuriating that he should be so observant. She could hide nothing, even if she were to be covered and hooded in skins and blankets, he would see, she was sure.

"It was, perhaps, not the restful night it could have been."

"Did something disturb you?"

She knew that if she answered in the affirmative, he would demand to know what or who. She knew he would ensure that whatever it was never disturbed her again. But he could not aid her with this; he was the problem itself.

"Only my own mind." He was going to ask another question, and she wanted him not to, because if he continued to probe with that silken voice of understanding and care, everything, all the confusion and fear and anger would come tumbling out on a tide of tears; and she would not cry in front of him. "I long for my homeland."

As she had known it would, the turning of the subject in such a way caused Kavrazel's eyes to harden and his expression to turn grim. He was frustrated by her continued struggle against her enslavement, and Teema help her, but she was beginning to understand his aggravation.

Lyssia held out her wrist, impatient for her duties to be over. She had become used to the pain. The king was always careful, always composed. He was talented with the blade, and the cut was now a discomfort and nothing more. She experienced more agony when she stubbed her toe.

She could see from Kavrazel's frown that he was not happy, but he said nothing as he slid the knife against her wrist and intoned the ceremonial words. Now came the worst of it. Now came the time when he would fasten his mouth to her skin to suck her blood. He didn't need to use his whole mouth. He could have lapped at the cut, she was sure that would have been enough. He never cut so deeply that the blood gushed or spurted; it only ever seeped, or trickled at worst. She hated to feel his lips and tongue working against that tender skin, the slick warmth that reminded her of other feelings, other sensations. He only touched her wrist, but she felt that caress low in her belly and between her thighs, every time.

As always, he held onto her wrist for a moment longer than necessary. She thought that he would invite her to join him at the table, but instead he released her from her secondary official duties for the morning, and suggested that she take advantage of the beautiful morning.

Lyssia couldn't escape the dining room quickly enough, but instead of heading to the kitchens for her own meal, she returned to her rooms. She changed with clumsy haste into the clothes that she had been gifted when she had first arrived in the castle, the woollen trews and tunic, the clothes she now wore for riding. The king had granted her permission to wear something other than a slave's robes when she left the castle, which made it immeasurably easier to ride astride, although the collar remained.

She left the castle by a route that took her through the kitchens, so that she could pilfer a small loaf and some meat and cheese, and then made swiftly for the stables.

It had been almost a moon's span since Kavrazel had gifted the mare to Lyssia. She had named the animal Sensha, a name that in her own language meant 'magnificent', because the animal truly was. She was beautiful, pure in colour, with a long, silky mane and tail, and she was spirited and brave, but complicit to the commands of her rider. The mare was a joy to ride and seemed to thoroughly revel in long gallops across the flat plains that banked the mountain ranges that over-shadowed Vulc. On this day, rather than heading inland, Lyssia decided to ride towards the coast.

She had been slowly exploring the country, but had kept her paths to the north and east of the capital. She had been avoiding the west and south. She did not want to give any false impression of attempted escape, but today she did not care.

She knew she couldn't make the coast in a day, even riding hard. She remembered that much from the dizzy time between being stolen and being bought. It would take her many nights to reach the coast, and she was sure that, as swift as Sensha was, there were faster horses in the king's stable. She would be brought to heel before she got far. Then there was the small matter of finding a boat to traverse the sea of Thleen, and the fact that sailing made her sick. Not to mention that she had no money and nothing to trade to purchase such passage. Most likely, by the time she reached the coast, every native would be aware of her and would deny her aid if the king commanded it be so. Lyssia wasn't vain about her appearance, she had never had any cause to be, but she was not unaware that she was... striking. She was tall to begin with, taller than most women, and her eyes in particular seemed to mark her out. It was unlikely she would be able to disguise herself.

As she rode, Lyssia considered every avenue that might take her home to Sken, but none seemed to logically end in anything other than a return to Vulc and a worsening of her condition in the crucible of the king's rage. She was comfortable now because he showed preference to her. If that preference were to be withdrawn... She had no doubt that life could become more than uncomfortable. Even with the benefits of his regard, she was not immune to the derisive attitudes of others.

One of the benefits of his regard had been gaining a position of trust. If someone had tried to describe the duty of scribe to her without allowing her to experience the role, she would have scoffed. Having attended the same meetings as the king, and having been privy to the same information, she could see now what a valued and trusted role he had granted her. He had fully taken her into his confidence. She knew now of the history between Morjay and Vuthron, and of the danger that his country faced, a danger that its residents were largely ignorant of.

She had to admit that she had benefitted physically. She was stronger now than she had ever been. Her diet was better, she did not have to toil as much, and yet she was exercised to exhaustion by Girogis. The injury that she had sustained to her leg would have meant a permanent disability if she had returned to Sken that night. The Skennites had neither the knowledge or the supplies to treat such extensive damage effectively, and no one would have had the time or the understanding to devote to helping her regain her strength. Yet Girogis had not ended his association with her when she had healed, he had carried on training with her, more intensively than before, adding weapons and other skills. He had crafted her into in extension of himself, another deadly associate for the king. Lyssia felt better prepared to defend herself than she ever had.

She avoided the evacuation zone as she headed south. She was aware of the commonly held belief that the giants were unlikely to undertake such a confrontational attack, but she decided to err on the side of safety. There was a promontory from Vuthron that mirrored a natural bay in the coastline of Morjay. It was a place where the Aelddean pass was at its narrowest, and where Kavrazel and Multha had agreed that the giants would be most likely to cross. It was a point that could only be viewed by the two countries concerned, it was the narrowest point of the channel that divided them, and the immense, sheer cliffs were at their shallowest point there. Girogis had described the bleak, cavernous pass to Lyssia, and she was not sorry to have never set eyes on it.

Although the point they had designated was the most convenient at which to cross, Kavrazel and Multha had decided that it was unlikely to be overlooked as obvious. Their reasoning had been that the giants would not come from the end of the pass that let out into the sea of Cevnavor. There the estuary widened substantially and was all tumbling rapids and vicious riptides, as the constrained waters of the pass merged with the current of the open ocean. At the other end of the pass was the island of Aelda, the home of a race of warriors, to whom Girogis owed some distant relation. Everyone involved had agreed that the giants would not want to be under anyone's observation. Lyssia herself had agreed with the reasoning, except that she felt they might be missing some salient trick. The point on a map which was topographically the easiest was rarely the one that any attacking force used, whatever the justification.

Lyssia found herself in a valley of swirling mist that the bright sunlight had not yet burnt away. The sloping hills were not steep, but they had trapped the turgid air. It was not a pleasant place, and since she had no idea what was at the end of the valley, she decided to retrace her path. Sensha seemed equally unsure of the eerie, grey silence. The mare shied and bucked even as Lyssia turned her around.

A shadow skittered at the edge of her vision. She was sure she must be mistaken, until another flitted past, and another. It was not vegetation wafting in the stilted breeze; plants did not lift their roots and run. There were people in the fog. Lyssia kicked Sensha into a faster gait, just as something hard and sharp hit her on the back of the head. Agony exploded down her neck and across her shoulders. Her fingers became independent of her command, and ceased to grip the reins. Her legs turned to ribbons. She felt herself slipping from the saddle.