Echoes - Chapter Two
TITLE: Echoes - Chapter Two
AUTHOR:
flighty_dreams
WARNINGS: NC-17 (eventually). slavefic. F/m. fantasy (medieval type) setting. institutionalized slavery.
WORD COUNT: 3,050
SUMMARY: A slave in a foreign land finds himself dragged back into a world he never wanted to return to.
NOTES: The index to this story available here. Written for the Women in Power challenge over on slavefics . Thanks Lothy.
FEEDBACK: Always welcome, even if it's just to say you read it. ;-)
Chapter Two
On the seventh day, they reached their destination.
Upon leaving the farm, first they stopped at the village, retrieving the belongings his new master had left at the country inn there. Those went in the back of the wagon with Kurth, along with supplies. Then they continued on, to only the Lord and Lady knew where.
Their travels followed a new routine, one day becoming much like another. But after years spent in the same village, only rarely leaving the farm, the passing scenery captivated Kurth. They journeyed through forestlands, hills, towns and more fields. Confined to southern Zidara, he’d never been to the northern part of the country, and he was content to observe it now. Add to it the replacement of strenuous labor with the opportunity to laze about in the cart quietly, and he could not complain of much.
But the uncertainties still plagued him. Where did they travel to? And why would a merchant from the north-he’d had time enough to place his new master’s accent by now-buy a field slave in the south and take him so far away? To demand his name meant his past was involved, but he’d no idea how it could be of any importance now.
It was a puzzle Jevin would have given him. He strove to untangle it, but too long had passed since his mind was challenged in such a way. And the only resource he possessed was his master, whose name he learned was Quin. However, each time he carefully broached the subject, he was ignored or reprimanded for speaking out of turn. After a few tries he conceded; the man had no intention of revealing any of it.
At last they arrived at Halar, the bustling capital of Zidara. They passed through the city gates with little difficulty, he observed; the guards were clumsy at their watch. Then the merchant turned his horse’s head, guiding the cart onto one of Halar’s broad avenues. It was midday, and the streets were crowded with vendors hawking their wares and other travelers like themselves. All around them rose several story multi-colored buildings, traditional Zidaran iron latticework adorning their windows and balconies.
They finally stopped at an inn in the center of the city. From his master’s sudden tension, Kurth realized they were traveling no further. There was a preoccupied air about the man that bespoke of pressing business ahead.
His master left him chained to the cart while he entered the building, speaking briefly with the innkeeper. Then he spoke briefly to a boy inside, who ran off into the streets a minute later. Afterwards Quin returned and had the cart brought to the inn’s stable and his horse settled before releasing the Rorkan.
“Come with me,” said the man, as Kurth climbed out of the wagon, rubbing at the marks the restraints had left on his wrists. Unbidden, he retrieved his master’s belongings from the cart, carrying them for him as he had on prior nights.
He followed Quin inside and up the stairs into one of the rooms. Uncertain what was expected of him, he halted in the middle of the chamber and glanced at the merchant.
His master directed him to place his burdens in a corner. He did so, and then turned back, catching the merchant looking at him. The man was studying him with a frown, surveying his attire. Along the way Quin had bought him a tunic, but by now all his clothing was dirty. The summer heat bearing down on them as they traveled had left their clothes decidedly in need of a wash.
“You need new clothing,” said his master, grimacing.
Kurth looked down at his trousers and sandals, worn down by heavy use, and flushed. Long ago, seeing himself in such a sad state would have been cause for mortification, but five years of slavery had ways of changing one’s outlook on things. It was difficult to remember the last time he’d felt truly clean, much less clean and well-dressed.
The merchant weighted his coin purse in his hand, his gaze staring past Kurth as he made a silent calculation. Nodding to himself, he went to his pack and retrieved a length of rope. “Come here.”
Reluctantly, Kurth obeyed, but as he approached the Zidaran words tumbled past his lips. “Sir, I will not run.”
The man didn’t scoff at him immediately, giving him an assessing look, and Kurth felt encouraged enough to add, “What is there left to run to?”
The bitterness that tinged his words was impossible to miss, and a flash of sympathy lit Quin’s green eyes for a moment. “True.”
Dropping the rope back into his pack, his master headed for the door, beckoning him with a hand gesture. “Follow me.”
That evening found Kurth in a much better state.
His new attire, while not of elaborate design, was of good quality. Proper shoes covered his feet, and his master had paid one of the inn’s maids to trim his hair into order. Recently he’d had his hair cut short for the summer, as all the field slaves did, but it had been sloppily done. After correcting his hair she’d also shaved his face, removing a week’s worth of growth.
But best of all, he’d had a proper bath. His master had bathed first of course, shedding the grime of the few days since his last bath. Then Kurth had been allowed one, and he’d stepped eagerly into the tub. On the farm they’d never been given more than a scrap of cloth, some soap and a bucket. Whatever the reason for all this care-and he knew there must be one-it mattered not at the moment. Feeling this pleasant was worth almost anything.
Once presentable, he glanced at Quin. “Thank you, sir.”
The Zidaran’s mouth twitched wryly. “Although you benefited, it was not done for you.”
“All the same…”
His master acknowledged the response with a nod before directing him to kneel at the back wall of the chamber near the window. Then he turned away, dismissing Kurth. Quin’s preoccupation had increased; he paced about the room like a restless animal in a cage. Each time he heard footsteps in the hallway he stopped, listening intently. Glancing about the chamber, lit by the fading light of the sun, Kurth wondered who he waited for.
A while later his question was answered, when Kurth heard about three sets of footsteps approach. There was a knock upon the door, and Quin hastened to open it. Kurth saw the guards first; one stayed outside while the other walked in, his keen eyes surveying the room. Once satisfied, he retreated to the door, closing it behind him as he exited.
His charge was a woman, tall for a female, wearing a full length hooded cloak over her dress. When she pulled back the brown hood, it revealed Zidaran features accented by dark blonde hair and blue eyes. If Kurth had thought the guard’s eyes were sharp, hers were penetrating. She looked at him only a moment, but it was enough to unsettle him.
Her focus on Quin now, he bowed to her in greeting. “My lady.”
Kurth studied her apparel more carefully, searching for what she wore beneath the cloak. The boots she wore were of high quality, as was the intricate hem of the dress that peaked out from underneath the cloak. Another glance at her aristocratic features, and he wondered what business brought a noblewoman here.
“Haveshar,” she said, acknowledging Quin’s greeting. “What have you to tell me?” The authority in her silken voice echoed through the room.
“I found him working on a farm in the south, my lady.”
“And you are certain it’s him?” asked she, frowning.
The man’s confidence slipped under the pressure of her weighty gaze, as a dam before a flood. An uncertain note to his voice he explained, “I asked his name, and he said he was Saldrev Katic, my lady.”
“What else did you ask him?”
His master blanched. “I-”
“Fool. Unwilling to give his own name, he might have given that one falsely,” she said, crossing her arms.
“But he fits the description of Katic-”
“Black hair, brown eyes? So do many other Rorkans, Haveshar,” she interjected.
“I’m sorry, my lady.” Quin hung his head.
“You are not the first to fail me in this task.” Her eyes shifted to Kurth, assessing him. “But perhaps you will be the last.”
The Rorkan fidgeted, disturbed by the air of command that hung about her so naturally. His sweet, gentle wife had only been frightening when severely provoked. This Zidaran was a completely different creature.
“It seems the work shall fall to me, as always,” she said, stepping towards him.
Her long strides ate up the distance quickly, and her assertive bearing was more overpowering upon closer contact. He found himself as nervous as Quin, although he’d done nothing wrong.
“So,” said she, pausing as she halted before him. Kurth kept his eyes lowered, preventing him from seeing her expression. “You claim you are Saldrev Katic.”
“I was once, my lady.”
“Or never were. You seem not much of a man, much less a former leader of men.”
The insult and the doubt in her voice stung, stirring his last embers of pride. He lifted his head, glaring into her eyes.
“Ah,” she said, a smile curving her lips and humor in her gaze, “a bit of the man surfaces.”
He gritted his teeth, controlling his tongue, but he did not look away.
A pale, elegant hand reached out from the confines of the cloak, fingers grasping his chin. “If you are Katic, tell me of Jevin Yarkiv.”
Kurth grimaced, his stomach clenching at hearing that name upon her lips. He hesitated, reluctant to speak of his teacher and wondering what she wanted of Saldrev Katic. Perhaps it was safer for him not to be himself.
“Why do you seek Katic?” he asked, judging angering her worth the benefit of avoiding a greater mistake.
The fingers at his chin tightened. “You are to answer questions, not ask them.” Her scowl lessened to a frown then, as she added pensively, “But perhaps you have answered me after all.”
Kurth blinked, not following her logic.
Her fingers dropped away. “A fool falsely giving Katic’s name would not think to question whether or not he should convince me to begin with.”
“Or he might be stalling while he polishes his lies,” Kurth countered.
“Or stalling because he does not wish to speak of his old teacher,” she replied, a smirk upon her face.
He flushed at being caught out, his eyes shifting away from hers.
She grabbed his chin again, forcing him to look at her. “Tell me.”
Staring up at her, he was overwhelmed once more by her piercing blue gaze. She was not a classically beautiful woman; her features were not soft enough for that. But she was striking, and her fierce spirit only made her more so.
She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, about ten years younger than himself. Old enough to be a grown, confident woman, but still young enough that her strength was surprising. Her lips distracted him, their fullness enticing to any man. While her curves were hidden by the cloak, his proximity to her gave him hints of what lay beneath it.
“You are staring at me.”
Redness returned to his cheeks, but with effort he summoned the charm he’d so readily wielded once. “Can a man not admire a beautiful woman?”
Her smile then was hard, and the fingers against his jaw pressed harder in warning. “I have sycophants enough to praise me, spinning their artful half-truths. Do not bother.”
“Those sycophants have not spent five years in the countryside, rarely seeing women, much less cultured ones, my lady.”
A startled chuckle slipped out of her. “True,” she said, smiling genuinely this time.
Her tantalizing laugh sent a pleasant thrill through his body. Kurth instinctively sensed that she did not do so often. Wagering that it was better to keep her pleased rather than angry, he gave her the answer she’d waited for.
“Jevin Yarkiv was my teacher and much more, my lady. He was like a father to me, and a better guide a man could never have. There is good reason why he was renowned throughout the world, and it was not just a matter of intelligence or knowledge, although he had those as well. Other men looked at something and could only perceive one important fact about it, while Jevin could discern five.”
Listening quietly yet intently, she let him speak his piece. But when he paused she prodded, “And you?”
“I studied with him for many years. We learned a great deal about fighting, diplomacy and strategy, as well as other cultures and languages.” His lessons in Zidaran had certainly helped him during the past five years. “He was a great teacher but a stern one. He accepted nothing less than our best efforts.”
“So will I.” Her eyes pierced him again, and he caught his breath. However, he must have seemed puzzled, for she added then, “It was coin from my coffers that paid for you.”
Reminded pointedly of his status as property, not a person, he tried to duck his head. The grip of her fingers tightened, preventing it. He closed his eyes for a long moment, gathering himself, before opening them again. “Of course, Mistress.”
He should have realized it once he witnessed Quin answering to her. But her very presence had been so distracting that he’d not taken a moment to piece it together.
However, this was an excellent opportunity to discover what purpose lay behind all this. “What is it you wish of me?”
Those lips, full and tempting as they were, quirked into a smile. “Many things.”
He frowned at the vague, frustrating answer, and her eyes sparkled with merriment. She released his chin, her hand gently stroking his cheek and then his hair. His skin tingled at the caress; years had passed since he’d been touched with affection.
“Do you have a Zidaran name?” she asked, her fingers playing with his hair.
Her touch flustering him, he mumbled, “Kurth.”
Surprise made her brows rise, and her hand dropped away. “Wolf?” she asked, translating the name into Rorkan, startling him. He’d not heard someone else speak his language in a long time. “A strange name for a man once known as the Mountain Lion of Rork, commanding his outnumbered men to pounce on their enemies in mountain passes. Whoever named you thus had no idea who you had been, did they?”
He shook his head. “I was traded a few times before the farmer bought me.”
“No one at the farm knew your name?”
“No, Mistress.”
She looked out the window above him, her expression pensive. The fading day’s last rays bathed her face in golden sunlight.
“Would something be amiss if they did?” he asked curiously, eager for answers.
The question was not acknowledged. She stared out, continuing to think, until she finally looked down at him again.
He decided on a different approach, and commented then in his native tongue, “You speak my language well.”
For an instant her mouth curved before her expression sobered again. Still speaking in Rorkan, her voice was foreboding as she told him, “Listen well. From now on you have no name but Kurth. You will tell no one of your former name and life. If anyone asks, tell them I have forbidden you to speak of it. Later we will concoct some tale to satisfy the curious.”
The insistence on secrecy both intrigued and frustrated him. “I understand, Mistress,” he replied, although he did not.
She moved away then, turning back to Quin, who’d remained silent through it all. Embarrassed, Kurth realized he’d forgotten the man’s presence, having eyes only for his new mysterious owner. Such careless inattention would have killed him during the war.
Her gaze was all on Quin now, no longer paying Kurth any mind. He should have felt relief at being free of her intimidating scrutiny, but instead the dismissal piqued him. And now she spoke of him as if he could not hear every word, further irritating him.
“Bring him to Weaver and tell him he’s to be taken to Virrul. It will delay my plans, but he requires training.”
Her servant flushed. “I’m sorry, my lady. There has been no time to instruct him, and he’s been working the fields, not serving-”
“I am aware of that,” she said, interrupting his excuses. Her eyes flickered to Kurth before returning to Quin. “He will also need his tattoo redone. The sun has faded it, but it was poorly done in the first place. Virrul will arrange it all.”
“Yes, my lady,” he replied, bowing respectfully.
Kurth grimaced, resentment washing over him. Knowing that each prick sealed his fate as property, he’d not enjoyed the needle’s work the first time, and he knew a second experience would be no different.
“I must return,” she said, putting her hood up again to cover herself.
Frustration rose within Kurth again upon realizing that she was about to leave and he knew nothing more than when this had begun.
“Mistress.”
She had stepped toward the door, but his voice made her turn. The sky had darkened during her visit, but the light from the lantern near the door let him see her brows rise.
Moving toward him, she halted in front of him again. “You truly do require that training,” she said, her tone dry.
He reddened, his hands turning to fists at his sides. “Mistress.”
“Yes?”
“May I know your name? Please?” He added the last to increase his chances of receiving an answer.
His eyes were lowered, but he felt her gaze upon him. “Rise.”
Kurth obeyed, standing as she moved to the side of him. Her cloak covered skirts rustled against him as she stepped close to him. He inhaled, catching the subtle scent of violets.
Placing one hand on his arm, she rose onto her toes, her warm breath against his ear making his blood stir as she whispered the words to him in Rorkan.
“I am the Queen of Zidara.”
AUTHOR:
flighty_dreams
WARNINGS: NC-17 (eventually). slavefic. F/m. fantasy (medieval type) setting. institutionalized slavery.
WORD COUNT: 3,050
SUMMARY: A slave in a foreign land finds himself dragged back into a world he never wanted to return to.
NOTES: The index to this story available here. Written for the Women in Power challenge over on slavefics . Thanks Lothy.
FEEDBACK: Always welcome, even if it's just to say you read it. ;-)
Chapter Two
On the seventh day, they reached their destination.
Upon leaving the farm, first they stopped at the village, retrieving the belongings his new master had left at the country inn there. Those went in the back of the wagon with Kurth, along with supplies. Then they continued on, to only the Lord and Lady knew where.
Their travels followed a new routine, one day becoming much like another. But after years spent in the same village, only rarely leaving the farm, the passing scenery captivated Kurth. They journeyed through forestlands, hills, towns and more fields. Confined to southern Zidara, he’d never been to the northern part of the country, and he was content to observe it now. Add to it the replacement of strenuous labor with the opportunity to laze about in the cart quietly, and he could not complain of much.
But the uncertainties still plagued him. Where did they travel to? And why would a merchant from the north-he’d had time enough to place his new master’s accent by now-buy a field slave in the south and take him so far away? To demand his name meant his past was involved, but he’d no idea how it could be of any importance now.
It was a puzzle Jevin would have given him. He strove to untangle it, but too long had passed since his mind was challenged in such a way. And the only resource he possessed was his master, whose name he learned was Quin. However, each time he carefully broached the subject, he was ignored or reprimanded for speaking out of turn. After a few tries he conceded; the man had no intention of revealing any of it.
At last they arrived at Halar, the bustling capital of Zidara. They passed through the city gates with little difficulty, he observed; the guards were clumsy at their watch. Then the merchant turned his horse’s head, guiding the cart onto one of Halar’s broad avenues. It was midday, and the streets were crowded with vendors hawking their wares and other travelers like themselves. All around them rose several story multi-colored buildings, traditional Zidaran iron latticework adorning their windows and balconies.
They finally stopped at an inn in the center of the city. From his master’s sudden tension, Kurth realized they were traveling no further. There was a preoccupied air about the man that bespoke of pressing business ahead.
His master left him chained to the cart while he entered the building, speaking briefly with the innkeeper. Then he spoke briefly to a boy inside, who ran off into the streets a minute later. Afterwards Quin returned and had the cart brought to the inn’s stable and his horse settled before releasing the Rorkan.
“Come with me,” said the man, as Kurth climbed out of the wagon, rubbing at the marks the restraints had left on his wrists. Unbidden, he retrieved his master’s belongings from the cart, carrying them for him as he had on prior nights.
He followed Quin inside and up the stairs into one of the rooms. Uncertain what was expected of him, he halted in the middle of the chamber and glanced at the merchant.
His master directed him to place his burdens in a corner. He did so, and then turned back, catching the merchant looking at him. The man was studying him with a frown, surveying his attire. Along the way Quin had bought him a tunic, but by now all his clothing was dirty. The summer heat bearing down on them as they traveled had left their clothes decidedly in need of a wash.
“You need new clothing,” said his master, grimacing.
Kurth looked down at his trousers and sandals, worn down by heavy use, and flushed. Long ago, seeing himself in such a sad state would have been cause for mortification, but five years of slavery had ways of changing one’s outlook on things. It was difficult to remember the last time he’d felt truly clean, much less clean and well-dressed.
The merchant weighted his coin purse in his hand, his gaze staring past Kurth as he made a silent calculation. Nodding to himself, he went to his pack and retrieved a length of rope. “Come here.”
Reluctantly, Kurth obeyed, but as he approached the Zidaran words tumbled past his lips. “Sir, I will not run.”
The man didn’t scoff at him immediately, giving him an assessing look, and Kurth felt encouraged enough to add, “What is there left to run to?”
The bitterness that tinged his words was impossible to miss, and a flash of sympathy lit Quin’s green eyes for a moment. “True.”
Dropping the rope back into his pack, his master headed for the door, beckoning him with a hand gesture. “Follow me.”
That evening found Kurth in a much better state.
His new attire, while not of elaborate design, was of good quality. Proper shoes covered his feet, and his master had paid one of the inn’s maids to trim his hair into order. Recently he’d had his hair cut short for the summer, as all the field slaves did, but it had been sloppily done. After correcting his hair she’d also shaved his face, removing a week’s worth of growth.
But best of all, he’d had a proper bath. His master had bathed first of course, shedding the grime of the few days since his last bath. Then Kurth had been allowed one, and he’d stepped eagerly into the tub. On the farm they’d never been given more than a scrap of cloth, some soap and a bucket. Whatever the reason for all this care-and he knew there must be one-it mattered not at the moment. Feeling this pleasant was worth almost anything.
Once presentable, he glanced at Quin. “Thank you, sir.”
The Zidaran’s mouth twitched wryly. “Although you benefited, it was not done for you.”
“All the same…”
His master acknowledged the response with a nod before directing him to kneel at the back wall of the chamber near the window. Then he turned away, dismissing Kurth. Quin’s preoccupation had increased; he paced about the room like a restless animal in a cage. Each time he heard footsteps in the hallway he stopped, listening intently. Glancing about the chamber, lit by the fading light of the sun, Kurth wondered who he waited for.
A while later his question was answered, when Kurth heard about three sets of footsteps approach. There was a knock upon the door, and Quin hastened to open it. Kurth saw the guards first; one stayed outside while the other walked in, his keen eyes surveying the room. Once satisfied, he retreated to the door, closing it behind him as he exited.
His charge was a woman, tall for a female, wearing a full length hooded cloak over her dress. When she pulled back the brown hood, it revealed Zidaran features accented by dark blonde hair and blue eyes. If Kurth had thought the guard’s eyes were sharp, hers were penetrating. She looked at him only a moment, but it was enough to unsettle him.
Her focus on Quin now, he bowed to her in greeting. “My lady.”
Kurth studied her apparel more carefully, searching for what she wore beneath the cloak. The boots she wore were of high quality, as was the intricate hem of the dress that peaked out from underneath the cloak. Another glance at her aristocratic features, and he wondered what business brought a noblewoman here.
“Haveshar,” she said, acknowledging Quin’s greeting. “What have you to tell me?” The authority in her silken voice echoed through the room.
“I found him working on a farm in the south, my lady.”
“And you are certain it’s him?” asked she, frowning.
The man’s confidence slipped under the pressure of her weighty gaze, as a dam before a flood. An uncertain note to his voice he explained, “I asked his name, and he said he was Saldrev Katic, my lady.”
“What else did you ask him?”
His master blanched. “I-”
“Fool. Unwilling to give his own name, he might have given that one falsely,” she said, crossing her arms.
“But he fits the description of Katic-”
“Black hair, brown eyes? So do many other Rorkans, Haveshar,” she interjected.
“I’m sorry, my lady.” Quin hung his head.
“You are not the first to fail me in this task.” Her eyes shifted to Kurth, assessing him. “But perhaps you will be the last.”
The Rorkan fidgeted, disturbed by the air of command that hung about her so naturally. His sweet, gentle wife had only been frightening when severely provoked. This Zidaran was a completely different creature.
“It seems the work shall fall to me, as always,” she said, stepping towards him.
Her long strides ate up the distance quickly, and her assertive bearing was more overpowering upon closer contact. He found himself as nervous as Quin, although he’d done nothing wrong.
“So,” said she, pausing as she halted before him. Kurth kept his eyes lowered, preventing him from seeing her expression. “You claim you are Saldrev Katic.”
“I was once, my lady.”
“Or never were. You seem not much of a man, much less a former leader of men.”
The insult and the doubt in her voice stung, stirring his last embers of pride. He lifted his head, glaring into her eyes.
“Ah,” she said, a smile curving her lips and humor in her gaze, “a bit of the man surfaces.”
He gritted his teeth, controlling his tongue, but he did not look away.
A pale, elegant hand reached out from the confines of the cloak, fingers grasping his chin. “If you are Katic, tell me of Jevin Yarkiv.”
Kurth grimaced, his stomach clenching at hearing that name upon her lips. He hesitated, reluctant to speak of his teacher and wondering what she wanted of Saldrev Katic. Perhaps it was safer for him not to be himself.
“Why do you seek Katic?” he asked, judging angering her worth the benefit of avoiding a greater mistake.
The fingers at his chin tightened. “You are to answer questions, not ask them.” Her scowl lessened to a frown then, as she added pensively, “But perhaps you have answered me after all.”
Kurth blinked, not following her logic.
Her fingers dropped away. “A fool falsely giving Katic’s name would not think to question whether or not he should convince me to begin with.”
“Or he might be stalling while he polishes his lies,” Kurth countered.
“Or stalling because he does not wish to speak of his old teacher,” she replied, a smirk upon her face.
He flushed at being caught out, his eyes shifting away from hers.
She grabbed his chin again, forcing him to look at her. “Tell me.”
Staring up at her, he was overwhelmed once more by her piercing blue gaze. She was not a classically beautiful woman; her features were not soft enough for that. But she was striking, and her fierce spirit only made her more so.
She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, about ten years younger than himself. Old enough to be a grown, confident woman, but still young enough that her strength was surprising. Her lips distracted him, their fullness enticing to any man. While her curves were hidden by the cloak, his proximity to her gave him hints of what lay beneath it.
“You are staring at me.”
Redness returned to his cheeks, but with effort he summoned the charm he’d so readily wielded once. “Can a man not admire a beautiful woman?”
Her smile then was hard, and the fingers against his jaw pressed harder in warning. “I have sycophants enough to praise me, spinning their artful half-truths. Do not bother.”
“Those sycophants have not spent five years in the countryside, rarely seeing women, much less cultured ones, my lady.”
A startled chuckle slipped out of her. “True,” she said, smiling genuinely this time.
Her tantalizing laugh sent a pleasant thrill through his body. Kurth instinctively sensed that she did not do so often. Wagering that it was better to keep her pleased rather than angry, he gave her the answer she’d waited for.
“Jevin Yarkiv was my teacher and much more, my lady. He was like a father to me, and a better guide a man could never have. There is good reason why he was renowned throughout the world, and it was not just a matter of intelligence or knowledge, although he had those as well. Other men looked at something and could only perceive one important fact about it, while Jevin could discern five.”
Listening quietly yet intently, she let him speak his piece. But when he paused she prodded, “And you?”
“I studied with him for many years. We learned a great deal about fighting, diplomacy and strategy, as well as other cultures and languages.” His lessons in Zidaran had certainly helped him during the past five years. “He was a great teacher but a stern one. He accepted nothing less than our best efforts.”
“So will I.” Her eyes pierced him again, and he caught his breath. However, he must have seemed puzzled, for she added then, “It was coin from my coffers that paid for you.”
Reminded pointedly of his status as property, not a person, he tried to duck his head. The grip of her fingers tightened, preventing it. He closed his eyes for a long moment, gathering himself, before opening them again. “Of course, Mistress.”
He should have realized it once he witnessed Quin answering to her. But her very presence had been so distracting that he’d not taken a moment to piece it together.
However, this was an excellent opportunity to discover what purpose lay behind all this. “What is it you wish of me?”
Those lips, full and tempting as they were, quirked into a smile. “Many things.”
He frowned at the vague, frustrating answer, and her eyes sparkled with merriment. She released his chin, her hand gently stroking his cheek and then his hair. His skin tingled at the caress; years had passed since he’d been touched with affection.
“Do you have a Zidaran name?” she asked, her fingers playing with his hair.
Her touch flustering him, he mumbled, “Kurth.”
Surprise made her brows rise, and her hand dropped away. “Wolf?” she asked, translating the name into Rorkan, startling him. He’d not heard someone else speak his language in a long time. “A strange name for a man once known as the Mountain Lion of Rork, commanding his outnumbered men to pounce on their enemies in mountain passes. Whoever named you thus had no idea who you had been, did they?”
He shook his head. “I was traded a few times before the farmer bought me.”
“No one at the farm knew your name?”
“No, Mistress.”
She looked out the window above him, her expression pensive. The fading day’s last rays bathed her face in golden sunlight.
“Would something be amiss if they did?” he asked curiously, eager for answers.
The question was not acknowledged. She stared out, continuing to think, until she finally looked down at him again.
He decided on a different approach, and commented then in his native tongue, “You speak my language well.”
For an instant her mouth curved before her expression sobered again. Still speaking in Rorkan, her voice was foreboding as she told him, “Listen well. From now on you have no name but Kurth. You will tell no one of your former name and life. If anyone asks, tell them I have forbidden you to speak of it. Later we will concoct some tale to satisfy the curious.”
The insistence on secrecy both intrigued and frustrated him. “I understand, Mistress,” he replied, although he did not.
She moved away then, turning back to Quin, who’d remained silent through it all. Embarrassed, Kurth realized he’d forgotten the man’s presence, having eyes only for his new mysterious owner. Such careless inattention would have killed him during the war.
Her gaze was all on Quin now, no longer paying Kurth any mind. He should have felt relief at being free of her intimidating scrutiny, but instead the dismissal piqued him. And now she spoke of him as if he could not hear every word, further irritating him.
“Bring him to Weaver and tell him he’s to be taken to Virrul. It will delay my plans, but he requires training.”
Her servant flushed. “I’m sorry, my lady. There has been no time to instruct him, and he’s been working the fields, not serving-”
“I am aware of that,” she said, interrupting his excuses. Her eyes flickered to Kurth before returning to Quin. “He will also need his tattoo redone. The sun has faded it, but it was poorly done in the first place. Virrul will arrange it all.”
“Yes, my lady,” he replied, bowing respectfully.
Kurth grimaced, resentment washing over him. Knowing that each prick sealed his fate as property, he’d not enjoyed the needle’s work the first time, and he knew a second experience would be no different.
“I must return,” she said, putting her hood up again to cover herself.
Frustration rose within Kurth again upon realizing that she was about to leave and he knew nothing more than when this had begun.
“Mistress.”
She had stepped toward the door, but his voice made her turn. The sky had darkened during her visit, but the light from the lantern near the door let him see her brows rise.
Moving toward him, she halted in front of him again. “You truly do require that training,” she said, her tone dry.
He reddened, his hands turning to fists at his sides. “Mistress.”
“Yes?”
“May I know your name? Please?” He added the last to increase his chances of receiving an answer.
His eyes were lowered, but he felt her gaze upon him. “Rise.”
Kurth obeyed, standing as she moved to the side of him. Her cloak covered skirts rustled against him as she stepped close to him. He inhaled, catching the subtle scent of violets.
Placing one hand on his arm, she rose onto her toes, her warm breath against his ear making his blood stir as she whispered the words to him in Rorkan.
“I am the Queen of Zidara.”