Ruler's Concubine (18 page)

Making herself as small as possible, she regarded him warily, looking toward the open door, wondering if she could get past him… She risked making him angrier. “Why am I here?”

Quentan visibly regained control, wiping at his mouth and smoothing his ruffled tunic over his bony chest. His breathing returned to normal and his eyes showed only that elongated slice of black in the middle of the pale green. He looked down his nose at her and huffed. “I had hoped that Morat would find the
Ruler
”—he nearly spat the title at her—“abed, an easy target while he rutted upon you. That first servant, Bast, could never have covered up the slaughter of the Ruler
and
his concubine, and my goal would have been reached. But Morat was incompetent and wasted his chance. He could only gain access to the Ruler’s quarters the one time and the fool claims you foiled him.”

Had she? When she’d left Lysett’s room, Morat had been right outside.
Had
her presence kept him from entering? The door had slid closed behind her… A bubble of relief enclosed her heart and pushed away the fear. Lysett was safe.

“What? Nothing to say? You hardly look the warrior type.” Quentan’s stare raked over her again. “But you sacrificed yourself for the precious Ruler, so you’ll be the one to deliver my message. In addition, Lysett might not survive the loss of yet another concubine, regardless of your pathetic worth, and thus, I shall prevail.”

She didn’t need to ask about his message. He appeared to be the head of the purist movement and lucky her, she was his houseguest. It was like the Searchers all over again, and if she’d felt powerless before…

Quentan paced, waving his hands as he disparaged human females and those Meridians who supported a connection with them. He obviously wasn’t looking for a response, carrying on with barely a breath in between imprecations. “Better we become extinct than sully our lines with the likes of you,” he finally hissed.

Stepping closer, he wrinkled his face. “You bear his marks and his scent. I am disgusted.”

Celeste covered the base of her throat with one hand, sadly noting the absence of her mother’s necklace before remembering how Lysett had suckled her there. She knew she smelled like him, knew their joining had imprinted upon her, and she desperately wanted to live and see him again.

Her kidnapper loomed over her, and she felt the evil emanating from his body. His hand shot out and grasped her hair, dragging her toward him. She made him work for it, making her body slack and heavy, even as her scalp burned and strands of her hair tore free, then pushed off hard with both feet. The momentum carried them both to the floor, and she scrambled along his body in an effort to gain the door. Two males, both dressed in what she knew to be warrior garb, filled the opening and blocked her attempt. Behind her, Quentan shoved to his feet.

Knowing she’d embarrassed him in front of his guards, she braced for another blow, and he obliged, his face purple with fury. Rolling with it, she escaped most of the impact, though her face now ached on both sides, and her eye began to swell.

Quentan gestured to his guards. “She is to be prepared and brought to me within the hour.”

He shoved past the larger males, who studied her curiously. Celeste shifted her body and slipped the dagger she’d purloined from Quentan’s belt between the folds of the coverlet. The guards were clearly interested in her, regardless if they supported their master in his antipathy. If they attacked, she was going to use that ridiculous weapon, all encrusted in precious stones and obviously a sop to Mr. Bantam Rooster’s delusion of grandeur. She might not be able to deter them but was willing to die trying. What awaited her would be far worse, she knew it. The Rooster was nuts.

But the guards moved back into the hall and a stooped, older female entered the room. She had a swath of fabric tossed over her shoulder, and a basket trailed from one arm. She didn’t look friendly, not like Ellyce, and her words didn’t change Celeste’s opinion.

“Whore. Attend me.” The old woman plodded into the adjoining room. One of the guards, a stalwart fellow with a glint in his eye motioned to Celeste. It was clear that he’d “help” if she didn’t acquiesce.

Moving slowly, she slid across the bed, surreptitiously fitting the dagger into the sleeve of her gown, never taking her stare off of the guard. He watched impassively as she made her way to where the other woman waited.

“Remove that. Or the guards will do it for you.” The crone pointed at her gown, and Celeste slipped out of the garment, struggling to retain the dagger in its folds.

“And those.” Her underwear followed and she stood, uncertainly, holding the wad of fabric.

“Cleanse yourself. Quickly. My son awaits.”

She saw the resemblance now. Crazy Quentan had a mother who was obviously complicit in his plans. She complied, stepping into the warm stream of water, setting her clothes on the shelf where they quickly became soaked. The woman made no comment, shaking out the material from her shoulder.

It was a shapeless sack dress of some kind, fabricated from a heavy white cloth, almost like a … shroud. Celeste’s mouth dried out and she could barely will herself to wash with the harsh soap that stung her abraded cheeks. Did the Meridians bury their dead in such things? Her imminent demise became tangible and she glanced at the wad of clothing concealing the dagger.

“Hurry.” Mrs. Yehudda, or whatever she went by, tapped her foot and sneered. Quentan must have patterned the look after his mother, and Celeste nearly laughed before reining herself in. Hysteria wasn’t going to help her. She rinsed her hair and accepted the towel thrust at her, casually sweeping her sodden dress down to her feet where it landed with a dull thud.

The woman didn’t appear to notice, merely passed over a brush. “Make yourself presentable. Your destiny awaits.”

“My destiny?”

The old female started, as though she didn’t expect Celeste to be able to speak. What had Quentan told her about Earth women? What did she know? She wished there was time to try to engage with his mother, perhaps convince her that Celeste and the other women were sentient beings.

“You and those like you cannot defile the bloodlines of Meridia. My son has foretold it. He will execute you for all to see, and others will follow his lead. There will be no Earth concubines here. No other species to join with ours. We will embrace our fate, unsullied.” The blank look in her eyes and the rote speech said it all. There wasn’t any possibility of getting Mrs. Yehudda to change sides. She wondered where Quentan’s father was.

Celeste shuddered as the swathe of white fabric enveloped her, making her formless and a nonentity. She dipped downward to scrabble for the dagger, managing to grasp the hilt and lay the blade along her forearm. It was awkward but with her arms free beneath the shroud, she could fold them against her chest.

“What are you doing?”

“I thought there were shoes?”

“No footwear. Be grateful you are allowed clothing of any sort. My son would have made an example of you naked, but I wouldn’t allow him—or any of the true believers—to see you that way.” She fingered the shroud. “Your blood will mark the white most effectively. All will receive our message.”

The old woman was crazier than her son. She’d probably put him up to this, or at least encouraged him. Celeste clutched her weapon harder and wondered what she should do when a clamor filtered into the room. She heard it first, the other woman then tilting her head and obviously straining to listen. Shouts and screams indicated an altercation.

Without stopping to consider her actions, Celeste pushed the old woman away. Though hardly a shove, the woman stumbled backward, one arm coming up to flail uselessly as her feet came out from under her. She went down in a welter of limbs, her head meeting the edge of the sink with a resounding crack. Celeste winced, and crouched to touch her slack face, but the increasing noises turned her attention to the other room, and survival beckoned. Angling the dagger to slash against the material of the shroud, a gap opened up and she cut one for her other arm and shoved them through.

She stepped forward, but the sack billowed around her, impeding her progress, so she kneeled to slash off a strip of the hem, winding it around her waist in her next movement. Her heart pounded and air sawed in and out of her lungs. She moved quietly, peering through her undamaged eye around the frame, and saw no evidence of the guards. The sounds of battle grew ever closer and she hustled, tentative, but hoping to take advantage of the confusion and somehow make an escape.

Quentan staggered in, his fancy clothes disheveled and marked with blood spatter. He stumbled to a stop when he spotted her and snarled. She’d seen a sick dog look like that once, desperate and wanting to take down anyone in its path and share its misery. Steeling herself, she held the dagger in front of her and focused on his face, hoping he’d telegraph his next move.

“Where is she? What have you done with my mother?” Well, at least he had a heart and some care for his parent.

“In there. She … she’s resting.”

“What have you done to her?”

“She fell down. She’s okay.” Celeste hoped she’d be okay, but couldn’t find it within herself to worry at that moment.

“Whore.”

It was getting old, being dubbed a whore. Belinda had said they were prostituting themselves, but Shirley loved her male, and so did Celeste, not that she’d admit it to anyone, not even herself. Sure, they’d agreed to come here, albeit with encouragement, and the promise of a future but they were giving back. Besides, women had a right to survive, no matter how they did it.

“You’re nuts.”

“What do you mean by that?” The translator wasn’t converting slang, but Quentan must have gotten the gist because he snarled again and reached for the silver weapon on his belt.

She stood no chance against it, having brought a knife to a gun fight, but there was no place to run or hide. In desperation, she threw herself forward and slashed at him, much the same way as she’d hacked down the insidious vine choking out the old oak tree at home. She connected with his shoulder and upper arm, a gash opening up to flood his tunic with blood, and she danced backward to look for another opening. Her belly clenched with nausea and desperation.

Perhaps because of the close quarters, he struck out with the weapon, its barrel catching her in the temple, and she saw stars as her vision blurred. The dagger slipped from her grasp. She tried to remain upright but sank toward the floor, Quentan bringing the weapon to bear.

A crack of sound filled the air as she collapsed in an ignominious heap, then was buried beneath Quentan’s slack form. Curiously, there was no further pain.

“Celeste!” With the familiar voice, Quentan’s body rolled away, and warm breath washed across her sore face. “Celeste! She’s hurt. Bring a medico!”

Lysett’s worried tone skittered across her consciousness and she tried to hang on, willing her eyes to open so she could see him. A cool hand touched her brow, something pressed against her neck, and then she drifted away.

Chapter Twelve

“She will be fine, son. Our best healer has said so. Her injuries have been treated and she will soon wake.” His mother patted his hand and smiled. “You must clean up and change your clothes. You won’t want Celeste to see you looking as you do.”

Lysett scanned himself. He sported a few injuries of his own, obtained in the struggle against those supporting the House of Yehudda. Liaison Ashtun believed the purists to be contained either within that House or one other, and simultaneous raids had been carried out. Amends would be required for the House of Jabari, whose inhabitants were taken aback when his men stormed their compound. While it was true there were no Earth concubines on the premises, it wasn’t for a lack of interest. The head of Jabari would be offered the first choice of the next group of Earth females.

He winced. When he thought about it that way, it reeked of dominion and prestige. He would offer the head male the opportunity to
court
an Earth female should one concede. Celeste would approve of that approach. If she woke up. Of course, she was going to wake up.

Nodding to his parent, he rushed to his quarters to cleanse and re-dress. He wanted to be there when his concubine opened her remarkable eyes again, to be the first one she would see. The sight of her falling at the feet of the traitor, her white apparel vividly stained with crimson, and Quentan bringing a weapon to bear, would haunt him for the rest of his days. Another instant and he would have been too late.

Quentan was dead, phased, and his mother under healer care with little hope for survival, her brain synopses irretrievable. Lysett felt nothing but satisfaction in that regard. The fewer fanatics he had to deal with, the better, and it appeared that without those two, the remainder of their House was no longer inspired. In fact, the resistance had been half-hearted once the perimeter had been breached by a helpful person within. Only a few members were as committed and most had died with the first volley.

One male was willing to speak and identified a relative of Quentan’s remaining on Earth and presumably continuing to sew the same seeds of fear and discontent. But not for long. Remove the male, and weed out his co-conspirators, if any, and perhaps some reparation and negotiations might take place. As for his own, more personal revenge, he had Morat.

Toweling off, he pulled on clean clothing and spared a glance in the mirror. He continued to appear wild-eyed, out of control, not the calm, purposeful leader most knew. Adrenaline still pumped through his body, and he grimly decided he’d unleash it on the traitorous guard. Bast indicated Morat had resented his status and inability to be considered for a concubine and had settled for a vast sum of wealth, offered by Quentan and his mother.

But first, he would see to his concubine. If he’d lost her… But he hadn’t. She would wake and they would have a conversation, one to discuss their relationship and come to a meeting of minds. He would tell her… Lysett swallowed, and wondered if the battle ahead would be far more dangerous than the one he’d just fought to save his concubine. He should return to the status quo and avoid such horrid indecisiveness and become settled within himself.
Coward.

“She awakes, Ruler.” The healer, the one who’d shared the grim news about Trosan, motioned toward Celeste who lay dead center in her bed, a small figure draped in a light sheet.

He fought a shudder, the fabric as white as that which she’d been wrapped in when he’d stopped Quentan. Lysett had recognized the significance of that sacrificial shroud and he’d ordered it burned, but not before the sight had churned his guts.

Her face now bore only very faint signs of abuse, and he knew they would fade shortly. The mark he’d placed on her in the throes of passion was no longer evident and he supposed the healer had addressed that as well. He hated the thought that the outward evidence of their connection was so easily erased. Kneeling beside the bed, he carefully grasped her hand. “Celeste.”

Her long lashes fluttered and lifted, impossibly blue eyes clearing as she met his stare. She looked a question and he guessed. “You are home, and safe. Quentan is dead, his parent incapacitated.”

“Is she… I mean…” Her hand familiarly sought her necklace, and he was relieved that he’d placed it about her neck as soon as he’d brought her home.

“You protected yourself as you should, Celeste. She’d have spared no thought for you. There is no need for guilt.”

“She cared about her son, and he cared about her.”

With a sigh, he nodded. His concubine was indeed blessed with a kind heart. “The head of the House, Quentan’s father, Baruk, passed several years ago. His concubine, Jamille, was dealt a harsh blow and evidently became twisted in her thinking.”

“Her heart was broken and she went mad.”

He studied her, wondering at her understanding. “I suppose that is true. And she lavished all attention on her son, who became less than what one might expect of a warrior, or a politico, for that matter.”

“Was it you who stopped Quentan?”

“It was. Though I’d have been happy for anyone to have done so.”

She sighed. “Thank you.”

Was she thanking him? Thanking the male who had allowed a traitor to guard her and take her from the royal House? To a place where she very nearly died? Lysett stitched on a smile. “There is no need to thank me, Celeste. You fended well for yourself.” Despite the emptiness resulting from a resurgence of his terror, he felt a prick of pride for her. A warrior, no matter the circumstances, yet one who submitted to him.

The enormity of what he’d burdened her with sapped his strength, and he bowed beneath the weight of it.

“What’s wrong? Were you hurt?” She struggled to sit up, and he hastened to aid her.

“No. I’m fine.” He’d heal the few minor injuries on his own, eschewing the healer’s help. He needed the reminder of his ineptness … and other things he failed at.

“I’d like something to drink. Tea? Please?”

Bast and his mother vied for entry, each bearing a tray. His father hovered in the doorway, his face turned in Lysett’s direction. His guilt and shame were so great he avoided his parent’s stare, applying his efforts to ensuring his concubine was comfortable. She sipped at the beverage and managed a few bites before asking him about Morat.

“Morat kidnapped you and transported you to the House of Yehudda. He must have drugged you. The small pocket of purists was ensconced there.”

“I know that. But why? Was he a purist, too?”

“No.” He explained what he understood of Morat’s reasoning. “And I plan to deal with him shortly. I will make an example of him.”

Celeste shook her head. “I might not feel as charitable had he succeeded, Ruler, but wouldn’t it be more effective if he made amends?”

He wanted her to call him Lysett, to hear his name pass her sweet lips, and dispense with the formality, the way she’d moaned it in his bed. “That isn’t our way, Celeste.”

“But you’re moving in different ways, Sir. You’ve brought Earth females here to ensure the survival of your species. Morat wasn’t against that, but greedy and jealous. He didn’t want anyone else to be … happy. There will be others like him, and won’t they be more desperate if they know they’ll be … executed? Instead of having their dissatisfaction heard, and alternatives considered?”

His soft, sweet, kind, little concubine. Who would rise up and fight if she had to. He relished the dichotomy, even as he couldn’t grant her this. “I will take counsel on it.”

Hurt flashed across her delicate features and she shut her eyes. When she opened them, they were serene—and blank. “Of course. There will be those who can offer insight.”

He’d made another mistake in discarding her advice, but he was at a loss. Surely she could understand he knew his people and Meridia best, and would act accordingly? “I would have a conversation with you privately, Celeste.”

His parents shifted behind him, as did Bast, and her stare flew to them. “Surely we can talk later, Ruler. I could really use … the company right now. I never thought I’d see … anyone I knew here again.”

His chest compressed at her request. Yet how might he deny her? He longed to be the only company she desired but had to accept she had closer ties with his first servant and his mother. Their sexual intimacy hadn’t forged a bond.
Because I give her only my body and withhold myself.
It was best they return to their original agreement, but he would take better care of her.

Ignoring his inner voice and that nugget of wisdom, he forced another smile and pressed her hand. “Of course. We can talk later. When you’re feeling better.”

Easing away, he made room for his mother to press forward. Bast rushed to her other side and awkwardly patted her arm. Both spoke quietly to her, expressing their relief and happiness that she was home and relatively unscathed. Lysett took his leave, and his father accompanied him.

“What is wrong between you and your concubine, my son? You haven’t moved past the awkward stage as I’d hoped, yet you obviously cherish her. And she you.”

“This isn’t a conversation for the hall, Father.” Numerous guards—loyal ones, he hoped—thronged the corridors, although it was likely to protect against a foe now vanquished. He could accept that he cherished Celeste, for she was beyond price, but could it be possible that she cherished him?

“Then we’ll take it to your office,” his father announced, forestalling any further consideration.

“I’ll join you there. I wish to speak to the healer before he leaves.”

He dreaded any conversation about Celeste with his father, but the older man’s wisdom had been welcome in the past. As his parent turned in the direction of the office, Lysett called to the healer. Taking him into an alcove, he pitched his voice low.

“Is the royal concubine breeding?” As with Trosan, he knew a pregnancy could be detected by their healers within hours of conception.

“She is not, Ruler. I am perplexed, because there is visible evidence of her fertility, and you have obviously … uh, obviously applied yourself to your duty, but she has not conceived. It is peculiar. But do not lose hope. Other concubines have conceived.”

“Perhaps science doesn’t always have the answer.” His father stood within earshot and Lysett flinched.

Dismissing the healer, he glared at Yu’un and hurried him to the office where they might continue their conversation in private. “Some things are personal.”

“Agreed. But these
things
, as you refer to them, are obviously causing you and your concubine considerable angst. It goes past this nonsense with the House of Yehudda. I want to offer my support and any input you might accept.”

He decided to ask his own questions first. “What does Mother say? About Celeste?”

“She finds her to be delightful and hold great promise as your mate. There is a reserve, to be expected, yet Ellyce is more concerned about her happiness. Not that your concubine has uttered a word of complaint. But your mother knows not all is well.”

“Celeste understands her role, Father.”

“And that is?”

“I require heirs. As did you. Our House rules this planet and others. To continue and prevent civil war, I must have a son. Meridia must have children to continue.”

“And have you thought past Celeste’s role as the vessel for your heirs?”

A warrior’s growl built in Lysett’s chest as he stared at his sire. His first response was to attack—if only verbally. Except his anger was out of proportion, just as all his reactions in regard to Celeste had been different. With an effort, he composed himself. “She is hardly a mere vessel.”

“Exactly. As your mother was not.”

“Say what you mean.”

“Bast has explained it to you, but perhaps too delicately. So while I haven’t interfered for years, I will have my say now, in this matter. Trosan wasn’t your match. Oh, the scientists believed they could make it work, but ultimately failed. She was your friend and confidante, wise in the ways of our politics. And her loss won’t go unappreciated.

“But as Celeste pointed out, things have changed. What greater of a change is there than joining with another species? You have human males on their way, and I know they aren’t coming here to work only in jobs Meridians disdain. And we no longer have slaves. I intuit your reasoning for them coming to live on Meridia. You haven’t forgotten our females, some of whom long for a loving union and the blessing of children.

“So I wish to know why you are denying yourself such a thing? And please don’t tell me it is out of loyalty to Trosan, who would be the first to box your ears for such misplaced devotion.”

Resisting the desire to toss a chair through the window or break his fist on the unforgiving stone wall, Lysett answered. “I don’t want to experience such violent and difficult emotions again, Father. If I ensure her safety and don’t allow Celeste to connect with me, past giving me heirs, then I can rule and guarantee progress.”

“Progress for Meridia. At a cost to yourself. And a greater one for your concubine. A much greater one. How can you not see that?”

Silence reigned, and Lysett blinked past his blurring vision and the pounding of the blood in his head. He knew the truth when he heard it, as he’d known it despite Bast’s station. But could he leave himself open again? He had essentially killed Trosan. And now, Celeste’s kidnapping had gutted him. If he let her in and something else happened… It wasn’t to be borne.