Gentle Chains (The Eleyi Saga Book 1) (12 page)

“Shall we sit?” Senator Harvine asks, finally, smiling at his daughter.

Sadi’s grip on my arm tightens, and I let her feel my flare of pain. She
loosens her grip a tiny bit. -
Sorry.  This is where we’ll have the most
trouble.-

I know, even without her warning. The IPS is moving toward the dining
room, to the long table set with tiny pots of floating flowers and candles.
Long-stemmed glasses and Jentr-made crystal plates. Carved cherry wood chairs
and linen napkins—both have to be synthetic. Even a Senator of Harvine’s means
doesn’t have that kind of wealth.

And above and below the extravagant beauty, like a discordant note in a
beautiful song, is the buzz of anger. So much anger that for a heartbeat, I
stumble. I can feel their eyes—Sadi’s worry and Brando’s spike of interest, the
IPS watching with hungry intent, Sadi’s hot desire twisting with my psyche.

So I use it.

As I straighten, I tug Sadi closer and lean down to kiss her. It’s the
first time I’ve initiated contact like this, and as my lips ghost over hers, gentle
and exploring, I feel a breath of hesitation before she responds, deepens the
kiss. She twists into my embrace, natural and seductive. Her emotions push at
me, pulling me deeper, and for a heartbeat—an eternity—the anger of the IPS
fades into white noise.

Her hand on my arm is tugging as she nibbles my bottom lip, and the
combination throws me. I sway. Instinctively, my wings spread, maintaining my
balance.

A hiss, low and outraged, jerks us free of each other. A Senator is
glaring, trembling with rage as he watches us.

“Is something wrong, Senator Xates?” Harvine asks, voice casual as he
sits back in his chair.

I move to step away from Sadi, feeling the rising anger in the room, and
Xates’ words stop me cold. “You have always loved them, supported them. But you
have never taken a leech into your household. Yet now your
daughter
shares a bed with one? Have you
no
shame?”

Harvine’s eyes darken and outrage washes over me—from Brando. Startled,
I struggle not to glance at the quiet bodyguard. Sadi steps forward, causing
Xates to skitter back a step.

“Who shares my bed is not your concern, Senator. Juhan isn’t a slave.
And this isn’t a cybertulre feed. Let’s not act like it is.”

“This is unnatural and an abomination,” Xates spits.

“Have a care, Senator,” Harvine warns softly. “This is still my home and
daughter that you insult.”

The other senator sneers. “Perhaps you should control her behavior so it
gives no cause for embarrassment.”

He turns without a word, stalking from the lavish dining room. Several
Senators watch him, uneasy and anxious. Brando motions for Tin, and the
bodyguard hurries to the door, whispering with the extra security.

I allow Sadi to tug me away, amusement coloring her psyche. Already the
heat from the kiss is fading, leaving me in a wash of chilly anger and reserved
distance. Sadi sinks into a chair and with no other option, I sit down next to
her.

Across from us is the Bterean Senator. It’s a lush planet with brilliant
forests and soaring mountains and untamed oceans. The races—a long-lived
people—united into an empire that joined the IPS fifty years ago when the current
emperor ascended the throne. Rumor has it that she shared the Bterean Emperor’s
bed for two years before she was disgraced and sent from the empire to the IPS.
Her hand trembles as she reaches for her glass of wine—a dark red from the
vineyards of New Earth. At her side is a Pente who is watching me with avid
interest. Curious, I brush his psyche. There is no hostility there, just a
detached sort of interest that makes my skin prickle.

“You met Miss Renult off-planet?” the Pente asks, and there is a hitch
in conversation before it swells around us with artificial brightness.

“I met her on Faculatas.” I toy with my fork. Why is he asking?

“I heard, yes. I find it curious, since there was no vid feed of you
together there. Sadi” she stiffens at the informal use of her name—“is quite
the darling of the cybertulres.”

“Obviously, they don’t record her every move,” I say, giving him a razor-thin
smile.

“Mhmm. Remind me, why were you on Faculatas? Most Eleyi prefer
the...safety...of Eleyiar.”

I breathe a laugh, quietly bitter. “Eleyiar hasn’t been safe in
centuries, and I am not most Eleyi. I want more than the treetops and waiting
for slavers.”

The lie sets off an ache in my chest. It’s not true. I never wanted
anything more than Chosi and the trees. I shove the thought down before it
fully forms, leaving only a trace of longing in my psyche.

The Pente’s eyes unfocus for a moment and then he smiles. “You must miss
it. Eleyiar.”

A cold anger washes over me as I suddenly understand. Even though they
are not present, —he, like most of the Senators, is using Eleyi to pick out
emotions. I shake with fury and slam walls around my mind, so forcefully it
ruffles my wings and causes Sadi to shift next to me.

“Of course I do,” I say, my voice quiet. Around me, conversation falters
into silence. “But you know that. Tell me, why are you afraid of an Eleyi with
a daughter of the IPS? That
is
what you’re afraid of, isn’t it?”

The Pente smiles, slowly, shaking his head. “That is why your people
will never be accepted as equals. It is too easy for you to steal our thoughts,
our emotions. You should learn control.”

“Don’t confuse yourself. I have no lack of control. I take what I want,
just as your slave does.”

“You’ll be killed for your inexperience if you don’t learn the rules the
IPS lives by,” the Pente says casually.

I focus, forcing my mind into Common, and send my thoughts to all of
them. Every damn IPS member sitting here, every escort murmuring and
speculating. -
Do not mistake inexperience for unintelligence. I may not know
your game, but I am smart enough to beat you at it.-

A few glasses shatter down the table and several minds are suddenly
gone, locked behind strong mental walls—walls I could breach, if I wanted. I
feel the shock and surprise from a few Eleyi minds as they realize just how
strong I am. Smiling a tight, savage smile, I stand and give Chosi a neat,
court bow, catching her hand and brushing a kiss there. And then I leave them.

Chapter 15

Chosi’le

JEMES AND KRISTOFF ARE WAITING when I enter his room. Kristoff looks
furious, Jemes a worried afterthought. As soon as the door slides shut behind
me, Kristoff pins me against it, his arm heavy across my throat. “What the fuck
are you doing?” he demands. I gag as he leans into me, his arm choking off my
air. “Are you trying to get yourself killed, and me in the process?”

Jemes starts to step in and I catch his eye, shake my head as much as I
can. He can’t interfere—he doesn’t need to face Kristoff’s anger. Not for me.
“It was an accident,” I choke out.

My wings thrash—I
hate
being
pinned. Pain flares in one, and I feel blood dripping from it. “You can’t
afford accidents like that,” he snarls.

A quiet voice from the doorway intrudes. “You’re damaging her.”

Kevan’s words shock him, and Kristoff drops me instantly. I crumple to
the floor in an ungraceful heap. He looks at me, at the wall where he held me—the
blood smeared there—his eyes wide and confused.

“I’m sorry,” he stammers.

I glare up at him, tears in my eyes. Kristoff’s are afraid and
confused—two things I have so rarely seen in him. “Thanks for that,” I force
out. “You reminded me you aren’t a friend. You’re nothing to me but a tool to
survive—and worse, you’re
his.
”

Kristoff pales. Behind him, Jemes inhales sharply, and I feel guilt and
anger flood the room. Kevan is staring at me like I am less than nothing. He
motions once, and Jemes steps forward, pulling me to my feet and out of the
room. The bathroom door slides closed behind us, shutting out Kevan’s murmur as
he soothes Kristoff.

Jemes nudges me gently toward the bed. “Sit. I’ll see what I can do
about your wings.”

I’m too tired to argue, emotionally wrung out and barely able to keep my
eyes open. I can feel Jemes’ worry and fear. As he returns, touching a wet rag
to my bleeding wing, I lean my head against his leg. “Don’t worry so much,” I
say.

He makes a noise, something too bitter to be called a laugh. “Someone
has to.”

The words are like a fist to my gut. How many times have I heard those
words, spoken with amused exasperation, from my brother? Exhaustion sweeps me
abruptly. All I want to do is curl on the bed and cry, for everything I’ve lost
and the brother I miss.

“I’m being punished,” I say instead. Jemes pauses, a hiccup of movement
that tells me he heard. “Ten lashes. It won’t be so bad. The brand was worse,
when I was on the slave ship.” I’m trying to reassure him and he knows it. I
can’t understand why it matters. Why he matters. He’s little more than fodder,
blood on my steel, but I can’t seem to prevent myself from caring.

A fist slams on the door in the other room and Kevan steps through the
bathroom door. His eyes are hard. “It’s time.”

I swallow hard and squeeze Jemes’ hand—
when did I clutch his hand in mine?—
before I slip past them both
and join Kristoff. He won’t look at me. I can feel the remorse in him, but the
door slides open before he speaks, and two glads pull me roughly from the room.

“I can walk,” I protest as they haul me through the hall. One of them
hits me on the back of the head, and I clamp my mouth shut, swallowing my
arguments. I can feel their pleasure, their satisfaction at my humiliation. I
struggle to get my feet under me, and stumble along between them as best as I
can. I feel weak and hate it.

The courtyard is full. Glads and trainers, cooks and maids, beastboys
and weapons masters. All of them stand waiting, some bored, some impatient. And
all of the jakta’s Eleyi, clumped in a corner of the courtyard, watching me
with hostile, angry eyes.

Fodder. Every last one of them is just walking dead. My lip curls.

That’s why they hate me.

I lift my head and look away, and there is an open space. My escorts
push me into it, and I fall to my knees in the sudden void.

A pair of shackles hangs down in the center of the great arches, and one
of the glads jerks my arm up, locking one around my left wrist. I manage to get
my feet under me and then the other hand is shackled.

My arms suspended, I look around. Primus, Prator, and Ja Argot step
onto the viewing platform and Argot raises a hand to quiet the crowd.

“Brielle has been accused of using Eleyi Speech. The penalty for her
offense is ten lashes.”

A buzz fills my ears: the murmur of the crowd and Catelyn’s excitement.
He makes a sharp motion and my arms jerk upward, pulling me off my feet. The
metal cuffs dig painfully into my wrists as I twist, struggling to find footing
that is no longer there.

The crowd is quiet—quiet enough that I can hear someone approach me and
I tense, my wings snapping tight to my back as I go still.

For an eternity, nothing happens and some of the tension leaks out of
me. I look up, and catch Prator’s eyes. Something lurks in his gaze. Pain
explodes in my back. The force of the blow swings me forward and I bite back a
scream as my wrist takes all of my weight.

“Not her back. I don’t want her wings damaged,” Argot calls down.

Anger spikes behind me in a psyche that I recognize as Catelyn’s. Then
the next blow comes, slamming across my legs. I want to scream, but I swallow
it down, force my mind to empty. The next blow lands just above the last, a
flat bruising blow that makes my muscles ache. I latch onto a thought, a memory
of laughing with Juhan as we flew through the treetops, teasing the sentries.
Mother had been furious. Father always knew I was reckless, and loved me for
it. I was the different one in so many ways, but Father and Juhan doted on me
for those differences.

Another blow jars me and I gasp, a tiny noise I know the Ja hears. I can
feel his satisfaction, feel it like a hot brand that infuriates me. I grit my
teeth as the next two blows come across my arms straining to hold me. I swing
forward, and pain dances black spots across my vision. I want to give in, to
fall into oblivion.

Staying conscious through the remaining six blows is the hardest thing
I’ve ever done.

But I cling to the thought of my twin, my determination that I won’t
give Argot the satisfaction, my fury and disdain for the fodder and Eleyi who
hate me. I hold onto my determination. And finally, it’s over. Ja Argot nods to
whomever is behind me and the restraints drop me down as he turns away. My
weight lands on my feet, shooting up my abused legs, and I stifle a scream.
Quick fingers release me from my shackles and with a half sob, I fall, rolling
to my side as pain smothers me for a long moment. When it finally clears, when
I can see something beyond the black spots clouding my vision, I realize the
figure standing over me is holding a long flat cudgel.

Kristoff
.

Shock rips through me, and it hurts more than the beating.

I shake my head, trying to clear it, and he reaches for me. I lurch
backward, landing on my wrists, and I can’t hold back the scream of pain that
takes me by surprise. Panic flares in Kristoff’s mind and before either of us
can do more than stare, a pair of arms is slipping around me, pulling me to my
feet.

“I’ll take her to Jenalle,” Jemes says. His voice is tight, not masking
the anger simmering in him. For a long moment, I expect Kristoff to protest,
but he finally nods and Jemes pulls me away. Every step is agony and it
drives away the burning betrayal. “Let me carry you,” Jemes says, his voice
still harsh with anger.

“Can’t. I’m
not
fodder. Can’t
be weak,” I manage to grit out through clenched teeth.  Jemes mutters an
oath, harsher than I’ve ever heard from him, but he doesn’t try to carry me. It
takes an eternity to reach Jenalle’s hall and I’m unsurprised to find her
waiting, green eyes tight with anger and worry.

“Did you see?” Jemes asks and she shakes her head shortly as she comes
up on the other side of me. In the safe haven of her medhall, I allow them to
take over, wrestling me onto the table while I concentrate on containing the
scream building in my throat.

She examines me with brisk efficiency. “They used a cudgel, didn’t they?
Someone doesn’t want her permanently disfigured. It’s something they don’t
usually care about in the gladiators.”

“Not a glad,” I slur, “a spectacle.”

There is a frightened hush and I curse my stupid tongue. Jenalle is
moving again, rubbing something into the welts on my legs that makes me moan in
relief as the pain begins to ease.

“Kristoff beat her,” Jemes says and I cringe as his fury washes over me.
Who knew my quiet roommate had a capacity for such anger?

“Of course he did,” Jenalle answers absently. “Mentors always deal out
punishment. Ja doesn’t assign mentors to be your friends—and the first beating
usually kills whatever warmth may have sprung up. It’s a lesson for everyone.”

That makes Jemes falter, and if I were closer to consciousness, I would
care more. But I don’t, and as Jenalle presses a small patch into my skin, the
pain dulls. Her hand works over my muscles, rubbing away the worst edge of
pain. And as it abates, I close my eyes and fall into the pit of oblivion that
has been pulling at me.

I wake up to motion.

A soft rocking that reminds me of home, but it’s different. Jemes is
carrying me through the jakta, Jenalle leading the way with a light. I struggle
for a moment and he tightens his grip a fraction. “The jakta is sleeping. No
one sees your
weakness
,” he says,
voice twisting on the last word, and there is no room for argument in his
psyche. I relax.

Jenalle taps on Kristoff’s door, and I tense. Worry and anger war with
desire to protect me and I glance up, startled by the emotions pouring out of
Jemes. He won’t look at me as he places me on Kristoff’s bed, ignoring the
stares from Kevan and my mentor.

“This should help, in the morning,” Jenalle says, holding out a jar of
pungent cream. She hesitates when both Jemes and Kristoff reach for it, then
shrugs and puts it with a small pouch of pain pills. I wonder how many of these
I’ll need to take, and how many I can smuggle into my growing stash. I shove
the thought away and focus on Jenalle as she glances over me one last time.

Then she’s gone, taking the only buffer to the rising tension. Kristoff
clears his throat, his voice deferential. “I’d like to speak with her alone.”

Jemes twists, disbelief written all over his face. “You think I would
leave her with you, after this afternoon?” he demands.

“
Jemes
,” Kevan snaps, and there is a world of warning in his
name. Jemes wilts, and he glances at me. I shake my head, a tiny motion.

“Go. He won’t hurt me,” I murmur.

Muttering a curse under his breath, Jemes stalks into the adjoining
room, followed slowly by Kevan. I look at Kristoff. “I didn’t know it would be
you,” I say, and he winces.

“I don’t have a choice, Brielle. Not when Ja orders something like a
beating.”

That doesn’t make it any easier. And from the shadows in his eyes, he
knows that. “What happens now?” I ask.

“Prator ordered you moved to the draken trainer’s rooms tomorrow. They
want you to begin training for spectacle.”

I nod. I expected it, but for some reason, the idea of leaving this tiny
room makes me sad. It’s become a safe haven, as much as any place in this
wretched world can be.

I shift, struggling to sit up, and pain radiates through me, and I gasp.
“Don’t,” he says. “You can stay here tonight.”

Smiling is difficult, but I summon one, and shake my head. “I need this
last night with Jemes. He’s grown attached.”

Something flickers in his eyes. I could read his emotions without much
effort, but the truth is I don’t want to. I’m too tired, and he confuses me too
much. I stand and wobble my way to the bathroom door. Kristoff follows me
uselessly, and at the door, I turn to him.

“You did your best for me; thank you.”

Kristoff frowns. “We’ll still work together, Brielle.”

We will. But after today, it will be different.

Kevan doesn’t spare me a glance as he pushes past Jemes and me to reach
Kristoff, the door slamming behind him. I drop onto the bed, and Jemes sits
gingerly next me. “Do you need more of the ointment?” he asks.

I shake my head, and glance at him. A bruise is blooming on his
cheekbone, and I reach for it, running my fingers over his skin. He leans
forward, slightly, into my touch, and I pull away. “Kevan?”

“He doesn’t appreciate my attitude,” Jemes murmurs. “Lie down, Brielle.”

I hate that name. So much. I want to tell him my name, to whisper for
him to use it. I feel something that is me slipping away and I feel panicked
until he squeezes my hand. And I realize, in a rush, why he matters. Why this
unassuming quiet slave has managed to become important.

He grounds me.

I lie down, leaning against Jemes propped on the wall. He holds me,
loosely—Jemes picked up quickly that Eleyi crave touch, and seems all too
willing to offer it.