Gentle Chains (The Eleyi Saga Book 1) (15 page)

Jemes starts the holostim, and a hukron bellows, charging across the
sands. Sora hisses, crouching down, wings tucked to his sides, fury warring
with fear in his mind.

-
No!-
I shout, -
Open your wings! Use your size to intimidate
him!-

Too late. The hukron tusks slam into Sora’s hind legs, tearing into his
tail, and the draken screams. Perched on the mountainside, the others scream
back until the air is filled with the music of the anger and commiseration.

I glance at Jemes, and he kills the holostim, and the draken falls back,
hissing in confusion.

-You can intimidate them, remember?-
I
say, struggling to keep my voice patient. -
Use your wings to startle it.
Miwya, come demonstrate.-

The big black drops to the sands, and I shove down my shiver of fear.
Miwya is large enough that a hukron wouldn’t stand a chance, even as ungainly
and ponderous as draken are on the ground.

“Again, Jemes,” I order, the nape of my neck itching from Prator’s gaze.

The hukron appears again, and Miwya’s head snakes down, hissing. As the
large amphibious creature rushes across the sands, my black flares his wings,
blocking the sun for a heartbeat. And the hukron stumbles, missing his stride
at the sight. Miwya spits fire, and the hukron screams in the fire inferno.

-
Now,-
I shout, and Miwya slams his long tail on the hukron as he
lashes out with razor-sharp claws, claws sharp enough to slice through the scaly
hide of the hukron. Blood spews for a moment, and then the thick skin closes
over, holding it in.

It’s dying, choking on its own blood. A grisly way to go, that.

The simulated match ends, the dying hukron vanishing. -
That is what
you need to do, Sora,-
I say, exhausted.

-Yes,
lady,-
he says, and he sounds so contrite I flash a smile.

-Go. Jemes and I will be there shortly with your
goats. It was a good day,-
I tell him, and
pleasure
bursts from them, firing through me like brilliant fireworks. I laugh.

“Prator is still here, Brielle,” Jemes murmurs as he approaches, and my smile
fades. What does he want? Doesn’t he have a jakta to run?

I gather up my discarded whip and Jemes’ shirt, and turn to Prator.
“Sir,” I say respectfully.

“You do well with them,” he says, watching as Miwya leads the others
into the tunnel.

I shrug. “It’s not that hard. If I can get the big black to demonstrate,
the others usually remember what to do next time.”

He frowns at me. “You realize we’ve never had a beastboy with this kind
of success. Not so soon. Usually the draken eat them after a few days.”

A laugh bursts from me. “Isn’t that why you made me their trainer?”

He holds something out, and for a moment, I can’t place the small
device. Why does it look familiar? I recognize it suddenly—the harness Krato
ordered me to use, the one I’ve studiously ignored. My stomach sinks and I step
back. “I don’t need that, sir.”

He toys with the laser harness. “Brielle, you need to use this.”

“I don’t,” I insist. “You said yourself, I’m having success. Why
introduce something that will threaten that?”

“Because they are draken. They are wild and unpredictable and you need a
way to control them.”

I blink at him. Does he really think they can be controlled? Even by a
laser harness? Nothing can control a creature as immense and powerful as Miwya,
and the others follow him because he is like a father. The patriarch of the
clutch.

I shake the thoughts, flushing when I realize Prator is still watching
me, still holding out that damn harness like I will use it.

“I don’t need it,” I repeat, and his eyes harden.

“This isn’t an option, Brielle. You need to train them with it, get them
accustomed to it before the upcoming Eclipse Games.”

I open my mouth to argue, and he arches an eyebrow, his eyes empty and
cold, his psyche crawling with emotions that make me want to hide. I close my
mouth with a snap and nod.

“Ja Argot wants the big black in the arena for the Eclipse,” Prator
says. I nod—I had expected it, and we’re ready. As ready as we can be, for
something like this.

“I like you, Brielle,” he says, and there is something in his voice that
makes me nervous. Jemes is watching. I motion for him to leave and his
expression tightens. “Go,” I snap, and Prator steps back, watching in amusement
as my aide stalks off.

“He’s very protective,” he says lightly.

“What do you want?” I demand, ignoring it.

He moves, faster than I expect, catching my shoulders in a tight grip,
his lips on mine. They’re curiously soft, at odds with the hardness that is
Prator, but as they move over my lips, I struggle not to gag. I twist out of
his grip and glare at him, just stopping myself before I slap him.

Prator laughs, the sound crawling down my spine and I suppress a
shudder. “There are benefits,” he says, “to warming my bed. Protection,
elevated status. It’s not so bad.”

He runs a finger down my arm, catches my hand in his and brings it up to
kiss. A gentle gesture for a violent man. I pull away and shake my head. “
No.”

 
He smiles, confident. “I will
wait.”

Without another word he turns away, leaving me with my skin crawling and
a laser harness that makes me want to vomit.

Juhan would kill him. No matter how passive and disgustingly
Eleyi
my brother can be, he would kill Prator for touching me. The thought is somehow
reassuring, and I take a deep breath, looking out at the sand dunes and rocks,
shaded by the mountain.

When I rejoin Jemes, he’s bloody from slaughtered bovine. We’re quiet
while we work, feeding the draken and cleaning the cave. Miwya watches me, and
I absently wonder what he senses in my mind. I don’t really want to know. Not
so soon after Prator’s words and kiss.

The draken settled for the day, I lead the way out of the cave.

“What did he want?” Jemes asks and I sigh, shake my head. He catches my
arm, and I flinch a little. Anger and hurt fill him before he walls them away.
He is better at hiding his emotions now.  Living with a psychic will do
that.

“He wants me to use the harness,” I say. Jemes nods, and I catch his
hand. “I won’t do it.”

He looks down at me, a protest rising in him, and I stare at him, at his
pale blue eyes. “I won’t do it, Jemes,” I repeat and he nods slowly. I’m not
talking about the harness anymore, and he knows it. He squeezes my hand, a
smile playing at the edge of his lips.

“Come on, Brielle. We’ll be missed if we’re much later,” he says
affectionately.

Kristoff catches us as we enter the dining hall. “You’re late.”

“Prator kept me,” I say.

That makes him pause, and I can feel him, his gaze on me and his psyche
curious. “Come with me,” he says, and he tugs me from the dining hall.

“Kristoff, I’m hungry!”

“Jemes, get her food,” He throws the order over a shoulder and hauls me
from the dining hall.

“What is it?” I demand, but he ignores me until we reach the medhall.
Jenalle looks unsurprised, clearly waiting for us.

“Spread your wings,” she orders brusquely. Bemused, I do as she says,
and she stands on tiptoes, her fingers carefully probing my blunt wingtips.
There is a ghost of pain, the echo of feeling, where something should be and
isn’t.

It’s how I feel when I think of Juhan.

“She’s healed nicely,” Jenalle says with a satisfied smile. Kristoff is
watching me, his eyes bright.

I snap my wings closed, and cross my arms. “Why am I missing dinner? I
spent all day on the sands—I’m hungry.”

“Deevid sent something you want to see,” Kristoff says, and I pause,
remembering the arms dealer we met after the auction.

He unrolls a bundle of steel cloth, and with a clatter of metal, they
fall out. I gasp as they glitter under the bright lights of the medhall, reach
to touch them.

“Careful,” Kristoff cautions. “They’re weapons—razor-edged.”

I laugh. Of course Deevid would make something this lovely to be deadly.

“Want to try them on?” Kristoff asks, and I hear the grin in his voice,
but I manage to ignore his gentle teasing as I nod. He positions the metal tips
easily, and I almost shudder at the strangely familiar weight as he straps them
on.

When I stand, let my wings unfurl, the silver metal glitters and I know
they are just as dangerous as Kristoff says. Wingtips, lovely and curving, the
sharp edges close to what I have missed. “Will I fly with them?” I ask, and
Kristoff hesitates.

“No. They’re too heavy. They’re for show—for spectacle and weaponry,” he
says. I nod, trying to hide my disappointment.

“Thank Deevid for me,” I say.

Jenalle won’t rest until she’s examined me, checking for strain, and I
submit to it without complaint. I’m happy just to feel the slight weight. She
murmurs quietly to herself as she bends my wings and orders me to fold and flex
and relax. I cut my shoulder with the sharp edge, and hiss a curse, swinging my
wings back as I reach for the thin wound. Janell laughs, quiet. “You’ll need to
be careful.”

I give her a wry look. “It’ll take some time to get used to them—and the
weight of them.”

She nods, and helps me remove the wingtips, stowing them safely away.

As Kristoff walks with me back to the dining hall, he touches my arm,
“Tomorrow, Ja will announce who will fight at the Eclipse.”

I nod. “Prator told me he wants the black draken.”

He frowns. “Are you ready for it?”

“I think so. He trusts me, and with that, I can do a lot. But it’s hard
to prepare for spectacle when I don’t know what we’ll fight.”

“There is a rumor,” Kristoff says quietly, and I feel the hesitation and
curiosity in his psyche, “that Prator favors you.”

I laugh, a bitter, unamused noise. Kristoff watches me, and sighs.
“Brielle, if you have his favor, it’s a bad idea to spurn it. Give him what he
wants. Use it to buy a little protection, or knowledge. He’ll tell you what
you’ll face.”

I raise an eyebrow, watching him. “Is that what you would tell Kevan to
do, if it were him?”

His eyes darken, and he looks away, something broken and helpless
filling his psyche. “I would tell him to do what it took to survive, and to
keep his draken safe.”

“That’s easy to say, when you are safe from Prator and it’s a moot
point,” I snap. “It’s
my
life,
Kristoff. I can survive slavery, but I won’t whore myself to anyone.”

Without waiting for his response, I stalk through the jakta to the
dining hall, the wingtips, wrapped in steel cloth, banging against my hip. I
can feel their eyes on me—the glads’ and Eleyi’s— and for the first time, I
flush at their curiosity. Do they honestly think I warm Prator’s bed? Is that
why they hate me? Or is it simpler than that: the envy of my questionable skill
and position, the hatred from my people for forsaking the Eleyi way?

I can feel Prator watching me, feel his cool amusement as Kristoff
trails me across the hall to where Jemes is waiting with Kevan.

When I reach my aide, I finally look at Prator. He’s still watching me,
his head bent toward Ja Argot as Henri speaks. They are both so remote, so
coolly dispassionate in the ordering of our lives. It makes me nauseous, and
the smell of the lamb and rice makes my stomach churn.

“Let’s go,” I say, after two bites. Kristoff is quiet, glaring at his
plate as if it has offended him, and I feel as though I’ve missed something
vital, to inspire this much anger.

I’m too tired to try to find out what.

“You need food,” Prator says from above me, and I curse, wondering when
he moved. Jemes’ eyes narrow, and he starts to stand.

“Sit down, aide,” I snap, suddenly terrified.

“Have you thought more about what we spoke of?” Prator asks, and I cock
my head.

“The laser harness?” I ask. “I still think it’s a bad idea.”

Displeasure flickers in his gaze but he smiles, accepting my deliberate misunderstanding.
“I suggest you rethink that, Brielle,” he murmurs. His gaze flicks to Kristoff.
“The Ja would like to see you in his office in two hours.”

Kevan’s psyche flares with despair and hatred, so strong I twist to
stare at him. I miss whatever Kristoff says. By the time I’ve gotten over the
shock of Kevan’s emotions, Prator is moving away.

“What?” Kristoff hisses at me, and I struggle to keep my gaze on him,
and not Kevan.

I shake my head and stand. I have to get away from all the emotions seething
around me, away from the hostile eyes and Prator and my mercurial mentor.

Jemes follows me, carrying my dinner, and I almost tell him to throw it
to the garilia, but I don’t. Later, after my stomach settles, I’ll want it.