Blinded by the Sun (Erythleh Chronicles Book 4) (11 page)

In answer, Lyssia returned her gaze to the middle distance, and held out her arm. The limb was stiff with tension, attributable more to anger than fear, but it was presented in the proper fashion, with the inside of the wrist exposed. Kavrazel wrapping his fingers around the joint, and rubbed his thumb over the smooth, so soft skin where he would make the first cut of many. The skin was pure and unmarked, and so much darker than his. He pressed more firmly, trying to bring Lyssia's attention back to him, but her eyes remained fixed on nothing. He returned to examining her. Her fingers and palm bore calluses that spoke of toil and hardship. He remembered that she was, had been, a warrior. He looked further up her arm. There were no scars at all on the lower half of her forearm, but there were some marks of old violence below the crease of her elbow. It was likely that she had worn bracers to protect and strengthen her wrists.

And still she would not look at him.

Now that she was close, he could smell the fragrance of cedar, ginger, and oranges that swirled around her. He wanted to bring her wrist to his face, so that he could breathe deeply of the scent, but knew that it would be unwise to do something so absurdly intimate.

Kavrazel picked up his slim blade and placed the cold metal edge against the tender skin of Lyssia's wrist.

And still she would not look at him.

"Lyssia." He had murmured her name, rolling the syllables on his tongue.

And still she would not look at him.

Making the cut for the blood toast was second nature, he didn't need to watch what he was doing, so Kavrazel kept his eyes on Lyssia's face as he drew the blade over her wrist to part the skin. Her eyes remained fixed on that obscure point. They flashed with suppressed rage and indignation, but she did not flinch; she did not even blink.

"May Taan's fire burn forever," Kavrazel intoned, and then touched his tongue to Lyssia's skin.

Kavrazel knew immediately that he had made the right choice in this new slave. He licked the wound, perhaps longer than strictly necessary, as he savoured the spicy sweetness of her blood. The taste of her was entrancing, as was her defiant demeanour, and the intelligence evident behind it. Reluctantly, he relinquished her arm and sat back in his chair. He picked up a napkin and offered it to her, but Lyssia ignored the square of damask. She turned on her heel, obviously ready to leave now that her duty had been completed.

"Please, join me."

When Lyssia turned at the sound of his invitation, he caught a flash of hatred in her expression before she schooled it into more respectful lines. "Is it usual for your slave to join you to eat?"

"Not at all."

"I was given to understand that you ate alone."

"I would enjoy your company this night." He could see that Lyssia was desperate to leave, her intention was telegraphed in her rigid stance, but he wasn't ready to let her go yet. He was strangely resentful of the way that she had held herself apart during the blood toast. He wanted to break a little of the barrier that she had constructed.

"Do you often break with tradition?" Lyssia asked, her tone arch and just a shade more sarcastic than was polite.

"Customs have their uses, but they are not always necessary."

"Except for the barbarous ones. They appear to be indispensable."

Kavrazel grinned at the spirited fury that she could not suppress. "You are referring to the reason for you being here."

"Yes."

"Please, take a seat." Kavrazel motioned at the chair nearest to his. "If you wish to debate such a weighty subject, you should be comfortable, and we can eat as we talk."

Lyssia turned slightly, ready to ignore him and make good her escape, but she paused. As if her body were acting against her better judgement, she grudgingly took the seat that he had indicated. Kavrazel filled a small plate with a variety of the delicious foods laid out before them and set it in front of her, but she kept her hands under the table, in her lap. Unless Shinu had been devoting a great deal of time to instruction on deportment, despite her rough life, Lyssia seemed to have an inherent poise.

"Shinu told you of the history of our people?" Kavrazel asked before biting into a slice of roast beef.

"He did explain that my situation could be much worse, that I should think myself lucky I am not currently being roasted on a spit over an open fire. He explained that you could not steal enough people to eat, so now you sip from them instead."

Kavrazel gave a sardonic grin as he poured wine the colour of rubies into a crystal goblet, and placed the drink by Lyssia's plate. "I'm sure he didn't phrase it quite like that."

"That's the abridged version of the fairy tale he spun."

"He explained about our beliefs in the magic of the royal blood?"

"That you owe your throne to corpses? Yes." Apparently hunger had overcome her indignation, because Lyssia finally ate one of the pieces of cheese from her plate. "Such people would be burned as demons in my country."

Kavrazel thought about reminding her who she was speaking to, and cautioning her to watch her tongue and her tone, but there was something about Lyssia's bravery that he admired. She was undaunted by his presence, or his title. She refused to be intimidated, and he wanted her to retain that strength and dignity.

"Vuthron is not Sannarrell."

Lyssia's only response was to raise an eyebrow as she chewed her food.

"Personally, I don't believe that blood from anyone's veins but my own fuels my power. To suppose such is to say that I hold my throne by the grace of strength not my own, and that is false. Blood and flesh are an intrinsic part of our culture. The actual practice has evolved out of necessity. True, it is no essential part of our way of life; it is not the air we breathe, the fire that warms us, or the food that fills our bellies, but I will not deny my people their identity."

"You would deny me mine."

"Not at all." Kavrazel shook his head. "You are free to practice as you will. We do not ask that you worship Taan. You may keep your own gods."

"Goddess."

"Semantics." He felt his temper begin to fray. "The principle is the same. You do not have to give up your identity."

"Only my freedom," Lyssia countered.

Kavrazel leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. Lyssia leaned back, as if unwilling to share the reduced amount of space.

"There is a war brewing between Vuthron and Morjay, the land of the giants."

"I know of Morjay," Lyssia interrupted.

Kavrazel was surprised at her grasp of geography beyond her homeland, but his shock was smothered by his scowl at her argumentativeness. "Vuthroans will soon have to fight for their lives, for their way of life. I will not ask them to give any part of that up before I ask them to defend their homeland. I will not weaken their spirits, or shake their faith. I will not risk a civil war."

"So you will continue this travesty of abuse and suffering."

Kavrazel sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair. "No, I will not allow the traders to continue unchecked. Their brutality is ignorant, and does not represent Vuthron. Your time here will pass more easily if you try and reconcile yourself to your situation. After all, it's not the worst that could have happened to you."

Lyssia pushed her plate away from her and shoved her chair back from the table. In doing so she knocked a fork onto the floor; it hit the stone with a peace-shattering clatter. The violence of the movement almost caused her glass of wine to tip over; it rocked, shedding liquid onto the varnish like drops of blood. Her anger had finally gotten the better of her. The break in her composure sent a small thrill down Kavrazel's spine.

"I was confronted with the worst that could happen to me every night that I was forced to listen to that band of scum raping the women that had been taken along with me. With every slap and punch and kick, with every grunt, I heard how it could have been worse. I see how it could have been worse every night in my nightmares."

Kavrazel felt an uneasy regret, and no small amount of shame for the actions of people that he was ultimately responsible for. "I cannot erase those memories. I cannot undo the wrongs done to those women, but know that the practices of the slavers disgust me. I will see to it that they change their ways, or that they suffer the consequences of my displeasure."

"But you will not stop this trade in human life," Lyssia sneered.

"No. I will not."

"Then I will not reconcile myself to the life of a slave," Lyssia spat, and stalked from the room.

Kavrazel watched her make her exit, still regally dignified in her rage, and tried not to jump when she slammed the heavy door shut behind her. When he looked over, Girogis was smiling broadly, and fighting a losing battle with a case of hysterics.

Chapter Eleven

"Again!"

Lyssia muttered a vile curse, but she brought the long staff back into the low guard position, just as Girogis had commanded. She inhaled, and held the breath. The ache in her leg was insistent, but she disregarded it as best she could, and lunged.

Girogis parried, blocking her blow with his own staff, putting almost his full strength behind the hit. The length of ash wood vibrated in Lyssia's grip, sending a shock up to her shoulder and jarring her fingers into numbness. Another breath, half a heartbeat. She flexed her grip, knowing better than to hold her weapon too tightly, but needing to reaffirm the feel of it in her hands. She hitched her shoulder, telegraphing her next move, and Girogis fell for the ruse. As he lunged one way into a high attack, Lyssia forced her weight onto her weak leg, bit back a groan, and swept her staff into Girogis' exposed midsection.

Winded by the blow, the king's bodyguard doubled over and expelled a breathless grunt. Lyssia brought her staff up, over, and down, but pulled the stroke at the last moment. She tapped the back of Girogis' neck to let him know that if they had been in a real fight that she could have broken his spine, and thus claimed the win in their spar.

Lyssia lifted her staff, and planted it vertically by her side as Girogis straightened, or tried to. He was recovering quickly, but she had put a decent amount of force into the blow she'd landed. There was a good chance that he might be bruised by the next morning. He planted the end of his staff into the floor, as Lyssia had done, and rested some of his weight against it. Girogis' weapon was as tall as he was. Lyssia's staff matched his for length, putting the tip of it some distance over her own head.

"Well done." There was just the barest hint of a gasp in his voice. "You're finally getting better."

Lyssia only grunted at the obtuse compliment. True, the long staff was a weapon she hadn't tried before, but the movements required to wield it felt remarkably like those she used with her double-bladed sword. She had surprised Girogis with her capabilities. She was used to her tutor being grudging in his praise, though.

"Aren't you worried that I might use these skills against you? Or against the king?" she asked. She didn't really care whether Girogis was concerned or not; she was playing for time. Her leg was hurting, and if she could replace training for chatter, then so much the better.

"No." Girogis grinned and shook his head.

"You sound terribly sure."

"I can see the future."

Lyssia swept the bottom end of her staff out and round in a sudden gesture as she said, "No, you can't."

With a speed that she hadn't guessed he would be capable of yet, Girogis brought his staff down on her arm. Her fingers spasmed, and she lost her grip on the wooden pole. As it clattered to the floor, Girogis aimed a hit at her weak leg. In half a moment, Lyssia found herself on her back on the floor.

"Yes, I can. I saw that coming."

Lyssia put all her energy into a sudden snap and jerk movement that twisted her body almost completely off the floor, so that she could lash out with as much power as she had left at one of Girogis' ankles. Her foot connected, and as he staggered, she managed to contort herself into a sweeping kick and took his legs from under him.

"You didn't see that coming." Her sniping would have had more bite if she hadn't been panting and half-limping, but the point had been made. Keeping a wary eye on each other, both stood and retrieved their weapons.

"And that's why I'm not given to betting," Girogis smirked.

Lyssia was laughing at his joke before she realised that she was doing so. It felt strange to be lighthearted in this place. She was a slave, stolen from her homeland, and kept against her will. She hadn't thought that humour, laughter, or friendship would ever be part of her life again. For the span of a moon now she had been attending the king before every meal, and despite the act of the blood toast becoming familiar to her, she didn't think she would ever be able to accept it, or to treat it as any sort of typical existence. It simply was not within her comprehension of normality to allow it to become so.

The ritual of the toast was not so very painful. She had been injured far more grievously in Sken, and she could bear the discomfort now without visible effort, but Lyssia could not get used to the feel of Kavrazel's mouth on her skin. She was sure he lingered longer than necessary, given the shallow nature of the cuts that he made. Each time he lapped at her skin, his tongue rasping over the pulse point, he looked up at her, demanding her attention. Stifling her flinch at the bite of the blade was easy, keeping her eyes on the empty wall across the room when she could feel the warm wet of his mouth was not. She had looked once, only once, and had met storm-grey eyes peering from under a fringe of bronze lashes. It had been a mistake to catch his gaze; it had made the moment feel like so much more, it had made the taking of her blood more intrusive, more personal, more intimate.

The daily demand of being required to gracefully relinquish her life fluid had severely affected her self-esteem, not that she would allow anyone to see that it was so. Her time spent as a cripple had also hurt her more than she had realised at first. She had felt weak in spirit, as well as in body, until Girogis had shifted his focus from her leg. He had listed many reasons to train Lyssia in different forms of combat and weaponry. He had said that it would be would enhance the king's image to have a visibly strong blood slave, that she would be better able to accommodate the demands of her duties. He had said that she needed to be able to defend herself, that being close to the king made her a target, and that it gave him an extra pair of eyes and hands should anyone attack Kavrazel, but Lyssia believed that, truly, Girogis had understood that she had felt weak, and that she needed to feel strong in order to be able to thrive.

Although she would only grudgingly admit preferential feelings for any Vuthroan, if pressed, she would have said that she and Girogis were friendly, if not friends. She could not deny her affinity for Shinu; the man had done much to make her feel at home in the castle. She saw the way he looked after all of the slaves. He was a good man. He did not see captives, he did not see foreigners, he did not see people as less; he saw individuals who were far from home and in need of compassion and guidance. He fathered everyone he came into contact with, but the full force of his paternalistic nature was reserved for those directly under his care.

"He lets you get away with a lot, you know."

Lost in her thoughts, Lyssia hadn't been paying attention to Girogis. She had to wrench her mind back into the moment. "What do you mean?"

"Kavrazel, the king, the way you speak to him. It's insubordination to the worst degree. You're the only person he allows to get away with it. Not many people would dare take that tone with him at all."

Girogis was referring to the handful of occasions when the king had requested that Lyssia join him for his evening meal, all of which had ended in an argument on the same topic, and also usually with Lyssia storming from the room.

"You speak freely to him."

"I've earned the right, in time and blood."

"So why does he allow me such a liberty?" Lyssia was truly curious. She had briefly met the king's former blood slave when Lathriss had been visiting with Shinu, and she couldn't imagine anyone with a temperament more different to her own, or someone less likely to partake in a dispute.

"I have no idea. I don't know whether to warn you to watch your mouth, lest you end up being whipped, or whether to let you carry on. It's almost too funny to see you render him speechless."

"I'm glad I can provide you with some amusement," Lyssia said, letting sarcasm drip thickly from her tone.

"You always amuse me, pet. Especially when you're falling on your arse."

Lyssia was too preoccupied with Girogis' use of her hated nickname to avoid the sudden and wide swing of the staff that caught her behind her knees and resulted in her landing flat on her back on the floor again.

~o0o~

There was one point to Kavrazel's personality that Lyssia still could not fathom. They had often argued the purpose and pointlessness of the blood toast, and Kavrazel's refusal to admit that the custom was obsolete, so Lyssia could not understand in what mind the king had been in when he had purchased all the slaves at the auction at which she had been offered for sale.

She could see for herself that there were now many more slaves than the castle needed, at least for the provision of blood. Shinu had organised a system of rotation so that slaves were not present at meal times on every day. Lyssia had spoken to enough of the existing slaves to know that this was an entirely new happenstance. Everyone pitched in with the household duties, although Lyssia often found the broom taken from her, or the knife if she tried to help the cooks. She had even tried to chop wood, although the skirts of her damnable dress had snarled around her legs, but Shinu himself had stopped her and had tutted at her as if she were an errant toddler.

The divide that Seff had fostered between her and the women that had been captive with her had widened and deepened under the weight of her new duties and the king's regard. Seff's greed had evidently outweighed his good sense, and despite Dessa's advice to the contrary, he had offered all his wares at the auction, no matter their state.

Lyssia fought not to touch her wrist as she entered the smaller hall next to the kitchens where the slaves ate their midday meal. It didn't hurt, but it itched, and the memory of the king's mouth on her skin was uncomfortable.

The room was furnished with several long tables of rough wood. The benches that lined each table had been worn smooth by years of people sitting on them. There were portions, fairly evenly spaced along the edge of each table, where elbows had rubbed the unfinished wood to a polished shine. As always, Lyssia was later to the meal than everyone else. Somehow, she always seemed to be the last to arrive. She tried to find a place at one of the tables, but everywhere she turned, even if there was a visible gap, it seemed that the space shuffled closed as she approached.

After several frustrating moments, Lyssia realised that she was being silently shunned. There was room, but she was not being allowed to join them. No one was speaking, no one had communicated their intent; it seemed that everyone was in on the spiteful spurning.

It wasn't fair. She hadn't asked for special treatment. She hadn't asked for Seff to set her apart, although she couldn't argue that she wasn't glad she hadn't been assaulted as the others had. She hadn't asked to be bought by the king. She hadn't asked to earn his attention, and she certainly hadn't asked for, nor did she want, the preferential treatment she was receiving as a result of her station. She wanted to be like them. She was like them. She had as much, or as little, freedom. She had as much or as little chance of ever seeing her homeland again, or her family and friends. She, too, had to offer herself as part of a ritual to worship a god she did not believe in. And yet the people she should have been closest to were punishing her for it all.

Lyssia felt her eyes beginning to burn with hurt and shame. She would not give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her so affected. She made sure that she stood tall and proud as she walked from the room. By holding her breath, and hurrying through the shadows, she was able to gain the sanctuary of her room before the tears fell in truth.

She didn't want to huddle into a miserable, weak ball and cry, but she couldn't help it. She had been strong for so long, and now she felt she had reached the extent of her capacity for false strength. She was scared in this land of strangers with strange customs. Everything was a risk to her. Nothing was her own, not even her body. The king could decide he was bored with her, and then she would have no safety at all. As much as she hated him for being everything that he was, for everything that he meant to her, she needed him.

Her head was beginning to hurt as much as her soul, although her sobs were no longer causing her body to judder and shake. When a soft knocking sounded at her door, she was sorely tempted to ignore it. She would have done, if Shinu's voice had not followed the rapping.

"Let me in, child."

Lyssia gulped back the last of her misery, angrily scrubbed her hands over her eyes, and went to open the door before Shinu became impatient and decided to use his key.