The Captive (2 page)

Later, lying there in the dark, warm and safe in her own
bed, Number Four’s image rose to haunt her. Dark bronze flesh streaked with
blood. Eyes filled with hatred. What color eyes, she wondered. Long black hair,
matted with dirt and sweat. Wide shoulders. Legs as solid as tree trunks. Arms
corded with muscle. A jaw roughened by a coarse black beard.

Number Four, so-called because that was the number of the
dead slave he was replacing. Number Four…

She fell asleep still thinking of him.

Falkon stared at the bloody bandage wrapped around his
thigh, wishing the lazer wound had pierced his heart instead of his leg.
Wishing he was dead.

A prisoner on the mining planet of Tierde. It was a fate
worse than death. He came from a wild and untamed people. Never, in all his
life, had he been forced to submit, to bend his will to the will of others.
Never had he been confined in such small quarters; never had his freedom, more
prized than life itself, been taken from him.

Lifting his shackled hands, he fingered the heavy collar
that circled his neck, wondering what depraved monster had devised such a cruel
instrument of torture. He could barely breathe, scarcely swallow.

He stared at the thick
lynaziam
cuffs on his wrists.
He had spent an hour trying to pull the metal apart, but to no avail. The thick
lynaziam
bands, held together by a powerful magnet inherent deep within
the metal itself, held fast. His hands would remain locked together until the
overseer decided to release him. Falkon cursed under his breath. His shoulders
ached. His back ached. The brand on his arm ached. His thigh throbbed dully,
monotonously. He had spent hours, days, pacing the cold stone floor, wishing he
could stretch his arms.

Lying on the thin straw pallet that served as his bed, he
stared at the small square opening cut into the thick wooden door. Through it,
he could see a slender ribbon of midnight sky. And a single shining star,
twinkling like an ice-blue crystal suspended high in the heavens.

He had been imprisoned in this forsaken place for ten days.
It seemed an eternity. On board ship, the prisoners had been bathed with a
strong-smelling disinfectant. He had been examined by a heavy-handed physician,
who had poked and prodded every inch of Falkon’s bruised flesh until Falkon had
wanted to scream. The lazer gash in his thigh had been examined, and he had
been pronounced in good health.

He had a vague recollection of being examined again after
the beating he had endured while being collared. The mine doctor had
re-bandaged his thigh and looked after the cut in his cheek, saying he would be
back to check on his wounds within the week. That had been ten days ago, and he
had seen no one since then save for the scrawny, one-eyed man who brought him
his meals twice each day.

He blew out a heavy sigh of resignation. He had known it was
futile to resist, known he couldn’t win, and yet the thought of submitting
without protest had never occurred to him.

Ten days of isolation in a room no bigger than the storage
locker on his ship. The closeness, the lack of sunlight, was driving him slowly
insane. Never, in all his life, had he been imprisoned. Rarely had he spent
more than a few hours at a time within the confines of four walls. He was a
fighter, a rebel, a mercenary. He had spent most of his adult life at war. Away
from home, his bed had been the ground, his blanket the sky.

He stared at the four cold walls of his prison, and prayed
for death. Night and day, hour after hour, the same hopeless prayer.

With a sigh, he closed his eyes. The gash in his thigh ached
anew with each breath. The wound, sustained in the heat of battle before he had
been captured, was festering. He smiled into the darkness. With luck, it would
kill him. Better he should die than spend the rest of his life, short as that
was likely to be, imprisoned on Tierde. It was not in him to be a slave. He
would fight to be free with every breath in his body, even though he knew he
could not win. But he could not submit. To do so would be like turning his back
on everything he had fought for, everything he had once loved…

An anguished cry rose in his throat as he thought of his
wife and infant daughter lying in a pool of blood in the wreckage that had once
been their home, killed by Romarian sky cannon. Killed because he had gone to
fight against the Romarian hordes invading Riga Twelve. It had not been his
fight, but he was a warrior, the highest paid mercenary in the galaxy, and
fighting was in his blood. He would have fought the Romarians for nothing. He
had hated them all his life. They were a cruel, heartless people, determined to
enslave every planet in the galaxy.

Their attack on Riga Twelve had been proof of that. Riga
Twelve was a small farming planet, one that had been neutral for centuries. Its
people had never posed a threat to anyone. The ruling Jigahn of Riga Twelve had
sent him an urgent message, begging him to come to their aid, promising to pay
any price he asked if he would teach their people to fight. He had accepted the
call even though he knew that, in the end, the people of Riga Twelve were sure
to go down in defeat. The Rigan Army had fought valiantly, bravely, and he had
been proud to fight at their side.

The fight had been in vain; the end, when it came, came
quickly. The ruling family and all those who had refused to lay down their arms
and acknowledge the new regime had been executed, the Romarian army had taken
over the capital city, and the fighting was over. The people of Riga Twelve,
once a free and peace-loving people, now lived in bondage, slaves of the
Romarian Republic.

Falkon had managed to escape from Riga Twelve. He had known
he would be executed if the Romarians captured him; he had not expected them to
take revenge on his family.

When they caught him, he had been prepared to die. Had
wanted to die. He had attacked the Romarian soldiers without mercy, boldly
inviting death, and it had been denied him. Instead of executing him, they had
taken him to see what was left of his home, his family, and then they had taken
him to see Drade.

“Drade.” The name tasted like bile in his mouth.

Jayson Drade, who had shared a room with him at the Training
Academy, who had once been his friend. Drade, who had fought at his side until
the Romarians lured him away with the promise of wealth and power.

Drade, who had ordered the attack on his family. Drade, who
could have had him executed quickly and cleanly, but who had sentenced Falkon
to life in prison instead, knowing he would find confinement worse than death.

Falkon swore as the memories unfolded. He had managed to
escape his guards the night before he was to be transferred to the prison, had
managed to escape capture for five years. Five years of fighting against the
Romarians, of trying to get close to Drade. Five years of seeking vengeance.
And then, six days ago, he had lost his freedom for the second time. He had
been wounded in a battle and taken prisoner by the enemy. Just his luck that
one of them had recognized him. They had contacted Drade, who had instructed
that Falkon was to be sent to the mines of Tierde. He could still hear Drade’s
delightfully evil laugh as he said, “Let’s see if he can escape from there.”

Sitting up, he ripped the bandage from his thigh and dug his
fingers into the wound. Pain screamed through his leg. Stifling a groan, he dug
deeper, relishing the agony that ripped through him, the sticky warmth of his
own blood as it flowed over his hands and down his leg into the dirt beneath
him.

Blackness swirled around him, beckoning him, and in the
center of that endless void he saw a young woman dressed in blue.

* * * * *

A strange restlessness possessed Ashlynne during the next
two weeks. None of her former occupations brought her pleasure. Reading bored
her. Playing the piano lost its appeal.

The pictures she painted, once filled with sunrises,
tranquil seas, or brightly colored birds, were now filled with dark landscapes
and depressing. Needlepoint seemed an enormous waste of time. She lost interest
in sculpting. Her poetry, once light and filled with joy, was now filled with
pathos and despair.

Only horseback riding maintained its appeal. One afternoon,
tired of riding in the corral, she snuck out of the
jinan
and roamed the
island, carefully avoiding any path that led in the direction of the mine. He
was there. Number Four. The nameless man who plagued her days and haunted her
every dream.

She was almost caught returning to the
jinan
. Heart
pounding, she put her hand over Artemis’ nose to keep her from whinnying,
praying her father wouldn’t see her standing just inside the gate. She blew out
a sigh of relief when he turned and went in the other direction. Never again,
she thought. Never again.

Two weeks to the day since she had seen the prisoner, her
parents left for Partha. Her father had business in the city; her mother wanted
to visit friends. Ashlynne pleaded the onslaught of her monthly flow and begged
to stay home.

Her mother frowned and looked doubtful. Her father gave his
permission.

“We will return day after tomorrow,” Jadeleine said. “Be
sure and stay inside the compound while we are gone. Carday will be here look
after you.”

“I want you inside the house by dark,” her father said. He
gave her a perfunctory hug. “I had a letter from Niklaus today. He wants you to
come for a visit this summer.”

Niklaus Hassrick. Her husband-to-be. A man almost fifteen
years her senior. A man she had never met. “Do I have to go?”

Marcus nodded. “It will be good for you to meet him and his
family before the wedding, don’t you think?”

“I guess so. But why can’t he come here?”

“He’s a busy man, Ashlynne. He can’t afford the time away.”

Ashlynne forced a smile. “Have a good trip, father. Mother.”

She waved goodbye to her parents, sighed with relief as she
watched them climb into the shuttle craft. For the first time in her life, she
was alone. Well, she amended, almost alone, with only old Carday in the house
to look after her.

What to do first? With carefree abandon, she kicked off her
shoes, peeled off her stockings, unbraided her hair and let it fall in wild
disarray down her back.

Running upstairs to her room, she took off her dress and
petticoats, then pulled on a pair of soft leather breeches and a loose-fitting
cotton shirt that she had bought from a wandering band of gypsy travelers but
had never had the occasion, or the courage, to wear.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she pulled on a pair of
thick wool stockings and her riding boots, and then she ran down the stairs and
out to the stables located behind the house.

She waved away Otry’s offer of help, preferring to saddle
Artemis herself. For these two days, she would do as she pleased. She would
wear pants and ride astride. She would let her hair fly free in the wind. She
would go to bed late and sleep late, eat what she wanted when she wanted. And
pray that Carday and Otry would hold silent and not betray her.

Swinging into the saddle, she opened the side gate and raced
out of the yard and down the narrow, tree-lined path that led to the beach.
When they reached the shore, she gave Artemis her head, and the fleet little
mare lined out in a dead run, her dainty hooves flying across the sparkling
golden sand, eating up the miles until Ashlynne reined her to a halt.

Ashlynne lifted her face to the sun and smiled. It was a beautiful
day. The water was as clear and as blue as the sky. Tall trees grew along the
shore, their leaves a bright emerald green. Tiny wildflowers bloomed on the
hillsides. Beyond the tree line, she could see the high red sandstone walls
that enclosed the compound where she had lived her whole life.

She let the mare rest for a quarter of an hour, then turned
her toward home. Cresting a ridge covered with short yellow grass and white
star daisies, she stared down at the mine spread below. She had not intended to
come this way, but something—someone, she thought ruefully, had drawn her in
this direction.

She looked at the dark cavern that led down into the bowels
of the crystal mine. Was Number Four down there, laboring in the heat and the
gloom? Had the wound in his thigh healed? Did he have a limp? Was his back
scarred from the cruel beating he had received? Had he learned to submit, to
bend his will to the will of Parah and the other overseers, or had he been
terminated, his body unceremoniously tossed into the depths of the sea?

Ashlynne shuddered as she remembered the way he had looked
at her, his eyes filled with loathing and rage. She had an overpowering desire
to know the color those eyes.

She studied the mine. It was late afternoon, and there was
no one in sight. At this time of day, all the overseers and the prisoners were
likely deep within the cavern. Magny had told her that the slaves were driven
into the mine shortly after dawn where they toiled until mid-day, at which time
they were given three-quarters of an hour to eat and relieve themselves. They
never left the mine during the day; at nightfall, they were herded into their
cells.

She could hardly imagine such a life, a life of constant
hardship and misery, a life spent in the bowels of the earth, never seeing the
sun, never being able to ride Artemis, forced to submit her will to that of
another…

Ashlynne frowned. Wasn’t she being forced to submit? Forced
to wear dresses and shoes when she preferred breeches and boots, forced to walk
when she wanted to run, to be docile when she wanted to be rebellious? Forced
to marry a man she had never met? Funny she had never thought of it quite like
that before.

Feeling reckless and defiant, she reined Artemis down the
hill and across the wide wooden bridge that led to the mine.

Ignoring every dire warning she had ever heard, she
dismounted near the long row of small stone cells that housed the prisoners.
She had never seen the prison cells close up. She had never been allowed to
come here to visit Magny; Magny always came to her.

Dismounting, she walked toward the overseer’s residence. It
was not near so large or so fine as her own. Only when she knocked on the door
did she remember that Magny had gone to Partha the day before and wouldn’t be
back until the following night.