CHAPTER 2
Gayriel reeled from Fothmar’s easy capitulation. Everything she had work for, destroyed in one moment. She didn’t dare raise her eyes when she stepped from the choosing house. Emotions rioted through her.
She won’t be needing them.
She swallowed. Ever? Because it sounded like that was what he had implied. And she did not find that interesting, not at all.
She attempted to refocus. Here she was, betrayed by her parents to the choosing house. Now, three years later, betrayed by the choosing house to this stranger. Even her body betrayed her. She cursed herself to the underworld. Blinking back tears, she peered up. She needed to gather information to make her next move. She stepped forward...and stumbled over her silk slippers.
The transport was a black carriage, smooth and gleaming in the sunlight. Sturdy beams attached it to a team of creatures that left her mouth hanging open.
A firm hand steadied her.
The only thing she thought for one elongated moment was that the heat from his fingers would scorch her. How had he even moved so fast? She had been behind him, three steps as her training dictated.
She swallowed hard and stared at the six giant wolves before her. A mixture of grays and browns and even black pelts, all with human-like, alert eyes. They sniffed at the air as she stood there. The intelligence glinting in their assessing gazes frightened her.
“They are subordinate, they will not hurt you,” Firestriker muttered. His breath stirred the locks at her ear, raising bumps along the skin of her neck.
Right. Big fluffy puppies...with long swords for teeth.
She didn’t move, not yet. How did wolves even grow that large? They towered in their harnesses, as tall as the horses that pulled regular carriages. Big horses. Gayriel would struggle to reach the back of the smallest wolf. Not that she intended on nearing within arms-length to find out.
“Come Gayriel.” Firestriker hadn’t moved and his heat seemed to seep through the silks along her entire side, anywhere he stood close.
Pressure on her back propelled her forward, and she moved toward the carriage.
The inside appeared as opulent as the exterior. Smooth gleaming redwood formed the benches. It gleamed along arm rests and twisted in a band of decorative knots near the ceiling. Soft cushions in various shades of amber stuffed the sitting area. Gauze curtains pulled back from the window, held with a black hook shaped like a dragon in flight.
She stood on the top step, uncertain. Protocol dictated she would sit on the floor, at the feet of her master. Yet the benches and pillows took up so much space there was not room. Where should she go?
“Sit Gayriel,” Firestriker grunted.
She frowned. He sounded irritated. Maybe he no longer wanted to command her to complete his instructions.
In extreme discomfort, she sat herself on one of the soft benches, and waited, warily, as he climbed in behind her, taking the opposite seat.
Without a word to the...well, actually, she hadn’t seen a driver. How then did the carriage surge forward? How did it know where to go?
She pictured the great beasts attached to it. Trained perhaps? Were they trained for other tasks as well? Such as hunting down slaves who escaped?
She shuddered and forced the thought away. If she did not get a hold of her imagination she would resign herself to this fate. That was not acceptable.
She peered out the door.
Fothmar stood at the top of the stone stairs. He did not seem surprised by the transport’s appearance. Instead, he frowned, his arms folded in front of him, brows puckered.
He looked worried.
Firestriker leaned forward and pulled the door shut, cutting off her last view of the house, and she was left alone with her new master.
A sunbeam cut through the dimmed space like a sharp blade. Dust motes danced within its influence. Every few moments, one changed direction. It swirled away from its counterparts, against the tide.
That was her. All her careful plans continued on their path, but she was that dust mote, turning in circles and floating in the wrong direction.
She kept her eyes lowered, submissive, but she couldn’t resist peering through her lashes. Who was this Firestriker? What kind of master would he be? Her gaze traveled up his stubbled, square jaw and cheekbones, straight to his...
She choked on her next breath. Six Gods help her, his eyes glowed. Or at least they appeared to. They were most definitely brighter than they should be back in the shadows where he sat. Just what was he? Not a man, anyway. Or not just a man...or something.
A muscle twitched against his jaw. She was staring. Hardly submissive, and, as she had been instructed, displeasing to most lords. She lowered her gaze.
This was not going at all as she had planned. The longer she floated on this path, against the tide, the farther from her goal she would get. Would it be best to attempt an escape before they reached...wherever it was they were going? She stared at the carriage floor. Less than a full step to the door, but so was Firestriker. He was stronger than her for certain, and likely just as fast, or faster. She had not counted on a fit master. Plus, she couldn’t discount the dagger-toothed wolves strapped to the carriage. It seemed they were trained to pull without command or direction. She didn’t want to imagine what they might do if she ran. In common practice, a running slave received only death. Her active imagination had no trouble picturing what that might be like at the mercy of such beasts. She withheld a shudder.
“You are afraid.” Firestriker’s voice was soft, and she caught a hint of disappointment.
She fought the urge to frown. And argue. Slaves didn’t argue, or frown at their masters.
“Do you fear me?” he asked.
“No master,” she answered automatically. The pleasing answer, the right answer.
“No?”
“No,” she lied.
Firestriker blew out a breath. Amusement? Or irritation? She didn’t dare raise her eyes to his again to find out.
“Come closer,” he commanded.
Her heart slammed against her ribs and her stomach leapt upward. She sensed him shift in his seat, stretch out and lean back. Legs with bulging muscles filled her vision and her nostrils filled with the scent of the air after a storm. His scent.
She had little time to process how it was possible for a man to smell like rain. Another bulge caught her attention...and held it. His black fitted pants did little to hide his straining erection. Her mind filled with years of training. All the things the managers had forced her to learn—but never experience. Except instead of dull, factual positions and techniques she was bombarded with images of carnal actions and possibilities. Images involving a dark-haired man with amber eyes. Her body reacted of its own accord, with a deep pull at her core and a tingling warmth between her legs.
I do not want to consummate. A deeper part of her mind reminded. She struggled to rein in her wayward desire, but her body was having none of it.
Strong fingers gripped her chin, a gentle touch, but one that demanded no nonsense. Firestriker pulled her face up. “Look at me,” he demanded.
She obeyed and shrank back at what she saw. The amusement in his eyes had disappeared, replaced by a hard, challenging look. His intention clear. He released her chin and indicated a spot next to him on the opposite bench.
She eyed the spot warily; there was hardly enough room for his own bulk, she would be crushed against him.
The lump in her throat, her stomach maybe, forced her to swallow. Everything inside felt upside-down. She did not want to consummate. And I lie, even to myself.
She rose to a half standing position and took a step toward him as commanded. His scent grew stronger, nearly overwhelming in its headiness. A bump in the road shook the carriage, the wheels ground over it with a terrible scraping sound. Gayriel flailed and tipped toward Firestriker. Fortunately, she managed to catch herself before falling, one hand on the seat beside him and one on his chest.
How was he so hot? Her palm burned with a pleasant warmth, just short of painful. She tried to pull it away, but a strong grip held her there, so that she was caught, hovering over him, her face a hand’s-width from his.
Amber eyes scanned hers and somehow she could feel him searching again.
“We will have to work on your lying,” he growled softly.
Ohh, she was in trouble, he was definitely displeased. So much for acting the passive slave. Mentally, she prepared. At the choosing house, nothing short of physical pain was punishment for such a mistake.
“You will need to get much better at it,” he muttered after a breath. “And I will show you how to hide your fear, as well, you reek of it.”
For a moment, she thought nothing, just blinked in confusion, her face so close to his. And then, she was desperately trying to bury the fury that boiled within her. I reek of it?
A bedroom slave did not hold much dignity, but the indignation, the shame of his words, struck her like a physical force. Not since the day her parents sold her to the training house had she felt so debased.
What did you think it would be like when you were sold? A voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like Fothmar chided.
She stuffed him away. Stuffed everything away and cleared her mind. Meditation had been one of those trainings she disregarded as useless. She would have much rather worked on her endurance, or strength. Those, she reasoned, would be useful one day. Now, she found herself wishing she had paid a little better attention to the methods. She pushed that thought away too, to the place she was stuffing all her other emotions.
Firestriker said nothing more, though he studied her face while she struggled for neutrality. Her arms ached from supporting her own weight.
After a long moment, he nodded and tugged her down to the seat beside him. He kept hold of her left arm though, so her body draped against his side.
She held still and waited for his next motion. He remained in the same position for a good long while, making no move to farther their closeness, nor demands of her services. When it was clear that he would not, she shifted, relieving the pin pricks forming along her leg.
She let out a shaky breath, relieved to be facing the carriage interior once more. The man was far too intense for her liking. What now? She had not planned for this. Firestriker was a long way from the greedy, dim-minded Lord that she had sought. She would need an entirely new strategy to fool him. And for the first time since she formulated her plan of escape, she worried that she couldn’t do it.
“It is a long way to the Amber Guard Aerie,” Firestriker muttered. “Sleep.”
As if joined with his words, her eyelids sunk. The last thing she recalled was the heat of his shoulder against her cheek.
Clean and sterile white stone surrounded her. Granted, it had a pleasant, smooth quality about it, the square bricks shone with a brightness that belied the fact that she was in a windowless room. A heavy, wide bed sat in the precise center of the far wall, the posts of which were the only luxurious items in the chamber. Carved with more dragons, it reminded her of the curtain hooks from the carriage. She explored the posts earlier, brushing her fingers over each smooth wing and scaled chest within reach.
Did Firestriker have something to do with the great beasts? She knew that dragons protected the city. From what? Well, that was something she didn’t know.
It might have been hours, or days, since the carriage stopped. Firestriker had hopped out, jostling her awake, then told the burly, armored men outside to see to her confinement. In her dazed state, she glimpsed a massive stone courtyard, and the guard rushed her to this room. Just like that.
She tried to keep the frustration from her mind, for she wished to think with clarity. To find a solution to her conundrum. She tried not to be confused and angry, and, if she were honest with herself, a little disappointed…not that she wanted his attentions, not really. She sighed and rubbed her forehead. It would have been easier to remain at peace if he had left her in a room with a window, preferably one that opened. And some rope. All those stairs they climbed meant she was up a fair distance relative to the ground.
Since then, she checked every smooth white brick and every cranny between them. One bit moved in the corner next to the door, but a hole the size of her pinky would not allow her to escape.
She sat on the bed, defeated. Forced again to await an opportunity. Unoccupied by escape, her thoughts drifted back to Firestriker, and his odd behavior. Despite ridding himself of her when they reached...what had he called the place? The Amber Aerie. Though he ordered her confined and hadn’t seen her since, she did not mistake his look at the choosing house. Or the erection he sported in the carriage. He would consummate.
Her body reacted to the thought with a viciousness that surprised her. For a bedroom slave, consummation was a fact of life. Something that would guarantee the master’s happiness and discourage poor treatment. She understood such things, though in all her plans, she hoped to avoid it. But never had the thought of consummation been...interesting. Never had she imagined the stroking of strong fingers, or the erection that bulged beneath the black cloth of a fit master. Would it be hot? The heat that emanated from Firestriker was the most unusual thing she had encountered. She wondered if the burning would be pleasant, or otherwise, against her naked skin.
A jostle of the door pulled her from her thoughts. She twitched at the intrusion and then chastised herself. What was she doing mooning over the thing that stood between her and her freedom? If she wanted an opportunity she would have to keep her thoughts in order, especially to evade such a master. She perked up, alert, determined to be open to any opportunity.
But it was not Firestriker who entered. Instead, a guard stood in the doorway. He wore a vest of heavy looking leather, bound with tight straps and supported by broad shoulders. Thick arms bursting with muscle stuck out from the arm holes.
How did these men grow so huge? It looked like this one might run through the forests, tackling venison with his bare hands...and eating it, too. His shoulder length hair hung shaggy and thick, a strange mixture of tawny brown and gray. Wide, intelligent eyes studiously avoided looking toward her.
“Come, you have been summoned,” he said. His voice rumbled, smooth and smokey. Something about it reminded her of the shadows in the wild woods.
She rose from her position. The crimson silk was wrinkled and marred from the dusty carriage ride. Gayriel smoothed it with nervous fingers. She could recall several long lectures about perfection of appearance at all times, but what was she to do? Firestriker had forsaken the rest of her clothes, and no one offered her anything new. She brushed at the dress a few times and stepped forward.
Before she reached the door, the guard strode forth. He turned right along the corridor outside the room.
She calculated; to the left, thirty yards down, sat a long set of stairs. And then more corridors and more stairs. The path they had traveled to reach the chamber.
If she wished, she could probably find her way back to the massive courtyard the carriage had halted in, but that had been teaming with armored men. With muscles chasing her down, she wouldn't make it three steps.
Speaking of the guard, he stopped a distance away. He did not turn, but his head cocked, as though listening, and he tensed.
She reassessed. She wouldn’t make it one entire step before he tackled her.
Instead, she adjusted her skirts, like that had been the issue all along, and hurried to fall into step behind him, the picture of an eager slave with no wayward thoughts of betrayal.
She counted as they passed six more doors, constructed of heavy wood and solid, iron fastenings. After the doors, another set of stairs loomed. There were five rooms on the other side of her confinement. Twelve in all. Perhaps there were slaves in each? Surely all these burly men needed women to relieve their needs.
She was pulled from her musing before she reached the pale stone landing. The stairs there split, continuing both downward and up, but her attention caught on the architecture. On the other side of the corridor, the stairs were unimaginative and closed in. These were beautifully carved and open to another vast courtyard. From where she stood, she spotted a variety of fruit trees and flowers, all potted and well-tended. The echoing notes of a fountain carried upward to her ears.
The guard began downward, on a path that led to a covered walkway which traveled along the courtyard. Above her, a second walkway stretched from the stairs, joining her building to the next one over.
All around, white-stoned walls rose. Some with colorful windows, or decorative metalwork. Which suggested bright rooms with access to sunshine and fresh air. And above everything towered an outer protective wall, or that’s what she assumed. The silhouettes of more guards patrolled the top of it. And that confirmed her conclusion that it contained the outer limits of the aerie. This place was massive, it would take a lifetime to learn. The buildings formed more of a fortress than the palace she had first assumed.
She withheld a groan. Of all the places fate could send her. A fortress. The hope she had held within for so long threatened to flutter out. It seemed circumstances kept stacking against her.
She stepped down the stairs, a light breeze scented with the smell of water and warm forest floor rose to meet her. What was beyond the wall? Certainly not the city, for she heard none of its clatter. No gongs or voices, no vendors crying out their wares desperate for a chance at a sale.
She did hear the sounds of nature, and the incessant clash of metal against metal. Voices too, and grunts of effort.
She passed through a pattern of shadows as she descended and looked up. Arches hovered above the staircase, beautiful in structure. She reached the bottom landing and stood beneath the shade of the walkway above before she saw them.
Her mind—and everything else—stuttered to a halt. Two men stood in the courtyard, black swords raised above their heads. Well, there were actually many men, lined up in an audience at the far end of the open space, but the ones at the center overshadowed everything else.
Ridged muscle defined their naked torsos. One deeply tanned, with black designs swirling across his chest. Chocolate locks fell wild about his shoulders. He stood, holding his fierce position, amber eyes flashed.
Amber, just like Firestriker.
Opposed to him was a paler man with golden locks bound tight at his nape, broader even than the first. She could make out drips of sweat collecting between the muscles on his shoulders.
But what drew her attention wasn’t that display. What drew her attention was the wide spread of leathery wings protruding from their backs.
Wings.
A golden set for the blond man, and a darker, mottled green and brown for the other.
Her jaw fell, and she stood staring. She just couldn’t wrap her mind around what she was seeing. The darker...she struggled for a word. He was most definitely male, but was he a man? The darker one spotted her, his amber eyes flashed, and a grin quirked the corner of his lips. His expression must have given her away, for the blond man turned, too, cocking his head to the side. His eyes shone amber, as well. They lit up and a cocky smile spread slowly, lighting his handsome features with a pleasant warmth. He winked.
Six Gods have mercy.
“Come,” the guard returned. He still did not look in her eyes, but he seemed displeased at her delay. Or perhaps he thought she looked foolish standing and staring with her mouth open. Mortification tugged at her mind. She snapped her mouth closed and ignored the scene before her. A difficult feat since it seemed she was now the entertaining aspect of the courtyard.
“Tharissa is waiting,” the guard grunted. He gestured and then led her onward.