Siren Slave (6 page)

He’d already kept her from harm today. But if he knew the truth, he probably would have cut off both her arms for General Pompey. Freya held her tongue until her mother finished her lecture and left her to dress for the evening. She removed a small mirror from her satchel, deciding to use dramatic colors, wings of color around her eyes as Hedwig had worn. Even if she looked a little too painted, she could not risk Pompey recognizing her.

She gave her reflection another glance, thinking she looked more like a whore now than she had when Pompey had found her, but not at all like the one Pompey had seen. Satisfied, she swept into her parents’ audience chamber. She had taken several steps into the marble-floored chamber before she realized there were two perfidious creatures sitting in the carved pine chairs. General Pompey was studying her, and Odilia’s square shoulders were hunched over her lap as she contemplated something. Freya wanted to turn and run.

“Freya,” her father called. “Ah, it is good to see you.”

Freya smiled at her father, ignoring the two unwanted visitors. Two servants entered, one bearing a plate of salmon, the other bearing a tray of wines and ales. Freya grabbed a tankard. When she saw the disapproving stares of Odilia and her mother, she tipped the vessel back, draining half. Not as good as Balder’s blueberry ale but passable.

General Pompey’s uniform included a ridiculous red horse tail atop his head. Male visitors usually doffed their headgear in her parents’ solar, but not Pompey. Maybe he was balding, but more likely he was just a typical Roman who paid little respect to tribal people.

Freya began twirling her hair, assuming the persona she adopted around Odilia and others of her ilk. When Freya pretended to be an empty-headed princess, her enemies dropped their guard and spoke more freely, giving more information for her to pass through Ulf.

Ulf…
Knowing he’d been killed today gave Freya some leeway to insult his murderer. Insult now, not mourn.

“Interesting,” Freya said to Pompey’s head, stepping around to his side. She gave the horse tail a tug. He was staring at her throat and her breasts—openly. She pretended not to notice, as she normally did in such situations. “I don’t understand why you’d wear this. The metaphor is tragically obvious. Under a horse’s tail, you’re sure to find an asshole.” She clamped her mouth shut. That part of her, the impulsive part that had surfaced earlier… She was finding it harder to control her tongue.

Adele spit out her water. Odilia turned several shades whiter than her normal pasty.

“Ah, my daughter means no insult,” her father said. “She’s a bit nervous, especially with her wedding on the morrow.”

“I was actually going to say that the horses you take them from might be frustrated about having to prance around bare-assed,” Freya said, twirling a lock of hair. “I always see that Roman horses have tails. Yet you have all these helms.” There, she’d restored her stupid image.

Pompey laughed, returning his gaze to her breasts. It was obvious he thought her a fool. He continued speaking with her father, leaving Freya out of the conversation completely, giving her mind the freedom to daydream.

Maybe Siegfried would still come to stop the wedding. She could imagine it now, meeting her pirate for the first time.
“Siegfried, come to Folkvang. I offer you protection and safe harbor here.”

He would get down on one knee.
“Thank you, my fairest lady. To what do I owe this boon?”

“Simply, because you are you. A beacon of freedom. The moon in the endless night of despair.”

The scene in her imagination was replaced with one of her and Siegfried at the helm of Siegfried’s ship, the
River Queen.
Their heads were tossed back as they laughed while Roman warships tossed on the seas around them.

“Piracy is much easier with you at my side, dearest Freya,”
Siegfried said and kissed her.

Odilia cleared her throat. “About Siegfried’s burning of Ostia…”

Freya grabbed another tankard. “Are you sure it was him?”

“Of course, I’m sure,” Odilia said. “He is a pirate. A ragtag group of men have been spotted, their leader wearing all black and a black mask.”

Freya sighed into her tankard, imagining Siegfried barging into the room and gutting Odilia, then running Pompey through before he swept Freya away onto his boat as his reward. She would gladly be his battle spoils.
Why am I imagining Siegfried with Etainen’s bluish-greenish-grayish eyes? The name for that color doesn’t sound very nice. Bleenay? No, that name doesn’t sound any nicer. I’ll settle for stormy.

“We think he’s fled back to the Rhinelands,” Pompey said to her father, not even sparing a glance for Freya. But why would he bother speaking to one he regarded as a twit? “Considering the burnings in the Cimbri lands, this seems most logical. Our spies have seen nothing of him near Vercingetorix in months. But, there’s a good possibility he could come here, too, in the hopes of stopping his tribe from being absorbed into yours.”

Odilia shuddered and rubbed her hands over her arm, glancing out the window toward the gardens, as if a pirate might leap from the burbling fountain of a horse that had been modeled from Enbarr. Freya gave in to the resulting fantasy of Siegfried leaping bare-chested from the fountain, his bow in his hands, shouting, “My loving Mistress of the Waves, I will rescue you from this insanity.” She wanted to laugh and weep at the same time, as if she were going mad with all that was happening around her.

“Why are you smiling?” Odilia asked Freya. “It is no laughing matter to have such scourges amongst us. And pirates look just like everyone else. They could be anyone.”

The fact that the fey had revealed Freya was not related by any kind of blood to Odilia gave her some relief.

You tease me,
Freya thought. If only Siegfried
were
everywhere. She thought of Ulf again. The blade that almost took her arm had severed her friend’s head. That wouldn’t have happened if Siegfried were here. Rain battered the windows.

“But you had descriptions of them wearing all black,” Freya said.

“You’re not understanding,” Odilia said in her usual, condescending tone. “They could be any one of us.”

Freya gasped, dropping her empty tankard. She squealed and jumped behind a wooden chair carved with rearing horses. She peeped out from behind the backrest, giving each of them a nervous glance. “Any one of us? Mother? Father? Are you pirates? Odilia, you could be one!”

Pompey chuckled and Adele looked as if she wanted to be anywhere but here. Odilia glared at her. There were rumors the woman dabbled in the black arts. Now that Freya was assured magic was real, she was taking no chances with having Odilia plotting to kill her, too. She wanted Odilia to think her a simpleton.

She grabbed another tankard and looked to Pompey. “What are we going to do about the pirates? Are we going to invent a secret code for only non-pirates? Like a…a special hand clasp that involves standing on one’s head and shaking with one’s toes? I suppose it would be a toe-clasp, then.”

Pompey ignored her but turned to her parents. “Chieftain Iccius, these people who are suspicious and resist, we can send them to work for Rome. These slaves would be considered payment for our services of seeing to the safety of your people.”

“But none of us have been hurt by pirates yet,” Freya said. “I think we should focus on Druid assassins. I’ve actually seen those. Well, I’ve seen the capes that cover them.”

“The pirate threat is real,” Pompey said, finally answering her. “You are near the river on which they sail their murderous ships. Surely you don’t wish to anger Rome. Siegfried could be here, even now.”

Really? Where? So Pompey didn’t think Siegfried had gone mad?

“Um, the Druids seemed pretty real, especially when one of their knives cut my arm.” Freya gripped the tankard handle so hard her nails dug into her flesh. It was beginning to rain harder.

When Pompey answered her, he spoke slowly. “There are many Druids in Gaul. Perhaps they are upset that your people now worship our gods. Perhaps Siegfried or Vercingetorix has managed to send them to assassinate you and your family. They could even be pirates or warriors in disguise.”

She frowned. Fey, not Siegfried, were behind the Druids, but she couldn’t exactly tell Pompey that.

She wondered if Pompey knew more about Siegfried’s whereabouts than he admitted. He’d said Siegfried could be here already. What if her pirate had seen her in the market? What if he thought her a prostitute? What if he thought she had some attraction to Etainen? She’d been saving herself for Siegfried. She wasn’t sure yet how her marriage to Etainen would affect that, but having a headache seemed to work for other women. She just needed a reason for having a perpetual ache between her ears…if she could stop those inconvenient reactions to Etainen.

If Siegfried was here, she would need to find and protect him from all these Romans. What if he didn’t know Pompey was around? Somehow, she hadn’t found out about that either, probably because she’d been spending so much time being fitted for her wedding garb.

“I questioned a merchant today, a seafarer passing on information about Siegfried,” Pompey said.

“Yes, Freya,” Odilia said. “If you continue to go about dressed in a long cloak, roaming through the marketplace like you were doing today, you’ll be questioned too, just like the commoner you want to be.”

“We are in a heightened state of awareness now,” Pompey continued. “Besides the wedding, there are the executions of the pirate supporters on the morrow.”

Executions?

Was someone beating drums far away? Where was that rhythmic, low thud coming from?

“It’s for your own good, Freya,” Odilia said, not seeming to hear the odd drumming. “We can’t have you accidentally ending up with that group of rebels.” Her steely gray eyes met Freya’s. “We know you don’t like blood, but it can’t be avoided. We will most likely have to torture them for information before they are executed. Pompey has been kind enough to bring the proper devices. You should be glad of his assistance.”

“For what crimes are you executing them?” Freya cried. “What happened to Remi law?”

The rain battered the glass, the wind howling as if a pack of great wolves ravaged the skies. That primal something surged inside Freya, pushing aside caution, awakening. It was powerful, and she couldn’t hope to resist it. Hecate’s blood. She couldn’t describe it, only that it did not want these people to chain it with their rules. At least Freya knew from her Power Dream that she wasn’t really a Beast. But, right now, she wished she were. It would be convenient to turn into a winged lion or a dragon and remove the Romans from Remi lands, whether her parents welcomed them there or not.

“I don’t want to have to hide or be questioned by Romans. I’m more afraid of them than Siegfried the Fox or King Vercingetorix. The Romans are more likely to kill an innocent man, like you might be doing tomorrow.” Freya turned to plead with her father, whose power as a chieftain seemed to be dwindling before her eyes. “If I weren’t your daughter, I’d probably be dying with them, like Odilia said.”

“This isn’t a matter for a pretty girl like yourself to worry about,” her father began, but Freya had no patience to listen to the rest.

“It’s not exactly a secret they want our horses, Father. They’re obviously better than Rome’s, so Rome’s got to have them. Can it be any more transparent? They also want slaves, women for their hair and to keep as sex slaves, men for their strong backs, and we’re giving them this as a damned tribute. If Rome keeps protecting us by taking all we have, then who’s going to protect us from them?”

She met Pompey’s eyes. Pompey did naught but laugh.

“My daughter has suddenly turned her fashion-addled brain to politics, it seems.” Her father laughed nervously as he tugged her away from Pompey by one arm. “Come, child, these matters are not fit for a blushing bride to discuss on the eve of her wedding.”

Odilia rose from her chair, grunting under the burden of her own weight. “You cannot let the pirates see any weakness in our defenses. Freya is a weakness. Etainen will have the real leadership. You’ll be in the palace, dear princess, doing nothing but bearing his babes.”

“Let us not forget that we need Rome’s protection from Vercingetorix,” Adele said.

“There’s always some kind of threat where we need Rome’s protection, isn’t there?” Freya demanded.

Her mother continued patiently. “It won’t end well for any who assists the rebellion.” It was there, in her mother’s tone, the true message. Rome would not hesitate to wage battles against them, decimating their kingdom. Freya wanted to fight, wanted to pick a fight right now, and wield her magic against Pompey and Odilia and anyone else who sought to turn Folkvang into more of a prison that it already was.

The voices around her were being slowly drowned out by the increasing volume of the steady drumming.

“There is little we can do,” her father said, his eyes pleading for her understanding.

“Why is there little you can do? If everyone did as Siegfried did, maybe Rome wouldn’t be such a problem. Sometimes I’m ashamed of both of you, Mother, Father. I wonder who the real rulers are. Odilia, perhaps. And, you know what? Pompey?” She whirled on the general, abandoning all pretenses of being less than competent. “I know you’d love to kill me now. But you need a Remi princess, and guess what? I’m the only one you’ve got. When I am queen, the first thing I am doing is banishing Odilia off Remi lands along with the Romans, under penalty of death. Any who wish to join Vercingetorix’s fight can. But I won’t force them, not like our men are forced to serve Rome. I’ll see to it myself. And maybe, maybe I’ll see to it a lot sooner.” Her voice sounded strange, a snarling voice, a little deeper than the one she used for her usual silly rants. Only, she couldn’t control it at all. “Maybe
I
can do something more.”

She turned to leave, but Pompey grabbed her arm, wrenching it in the same way he’d done outside the palace.

Freya reacted without thinking. “Let go of me.”

She didn’t want him to touch her again and only now realized she’d been summoning the Blood Call when she sensed the beating of Pompey’s heart, the flow of the blood pounding through his veins in his rage. That had been the drumming sound. She had been slowly tugging at him with her magic, building up a slow seething within his veins as he continued to utter one foolish thing after another. She fought a smile when he began to scream as several blood vessels in his cheeks popped. A window shattered, lightning scorching the sill. He dropped her arm. The shattering glass restored her reason. Disgust twisted her stomach.