Guest Reviewer: I suppose you didn't notice my authors note in the first chapter, but this story is not mine. If you're curious for a little more information on the origin of this story, please visit the first chapter again. Thanks!
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Satin Hostage – Chapter Two
Serena awoke the next morning, unaware of her foreign surroundings until the smell of pineapples grew strong. She opened her eyes, unmoving, her first sight galvanizing her.
It all came back to her like a rushing torrent. The raid, the long ride, the ship. The burn on her leg was sore where it rested on the linen sheet, but she didn't move it. The window was still open and she thought Darien might close it if he knew she was awake.
She watched him shave at the washstand by the window. His black hair shone from the sea's relentless sun out the window, and his skin darker than most of the Randalian people she had seen. She knew he was Randalian, too, because she recognized his accent. He wore no shirt now and she could see darker lines lace his back. She watched the muscles tighten as he leaned over the basin, intent on the mirror. She wondered why he'd been lashed, and assumed there were many crimes from which to choose.
How has he become my problem? She wondered. She consciously steered her thoughts from what she had heard of him.
"Change your dress today," he said suddenly, turning around and wiping his face with a cloth. "I'll not have you greeting your husband in a burnt rag."
Serena pulled the sheet higher around herself. He began to light the lantern and she sat up quickly.
"Please don't close the window," she asked of him, but he was already shaking his head.
"I'll leave it open when we sail." The shutter locked into place, muting sounds of the waking town.
"Sail?" she echoed. "When do we sail?"
"Tomorrow morning."
She flinched under his gaze that swept over her as he pulled on a shirt. "But Zoicite may not be back yet." Her fingers twisted the sheet in her grasp. "You said I could go back."
"You will. After Maeyen meets my demands." He rolled the hammock to the corner and tied it. "He can read, I presume."
She allowed a short laugh. "You can write?" His dark glare made her immediately sorry she had said it. "How much are you asking for me?"
He unlocked a case by his wardrobe and took out a cutlass and baldric. He slung the belt over his shoulder and looked her over thoroughly until the uneasiness leased her eyes. "How much are you worth?"
Her lips pursed into a pout. "Zoicite won't succumb to dealing with pirates."
"You better hope he does." He smiled in an uncharming manner. "Yesterday you said he'd pay whatever I asked. Now you tell me he won't negotiate with a pirate for his Izmaruthen bride. Are you worth less today?"
"I'm not Izmaruthen," she denied boldly despite the fears creeping through her.
"You're not entirely Embrossen, either." He adjusted the baldric buckle and holstered the cutlass, observing the contrast of white sheet against her lightly tanned skin. "You're Luresian or Izmaruthen too."
Serena sat back against the headboard, sheets pulled to her chest. "And you are Randalian."
He nodded and locked the case, looking at the form her legs made beneath the sheet. "How's your leg?"
"Fine."
"Put more oil on it."
Darien took the braid from the mantle and left, the door lock clicking locked behind him. She sighed in momentarily despair, and then pulled the sheet back to expose her leg. The burns were scabbed and dark, the largest about the size of an egg yolk. Her leg was not fine; it hurt. But it was not her biggest problem. They were sailing tomorrow.
She got out of bed, cursing the lantern's poor light. Already the room was warming and stuffy. How had Zoicite garnered the pirate Montaro's attention? She asked herself. What had he done to bring on such a raid? Or had he done anything at all? Was this how Darien operated, swooping down on helpless villas? She had never heard of it before.
She opened the armoire and appraised herself in the long mirror. He was right about the dress. It was torn and hanging at her calf, ripped in other places from the hedge barbs and spotted with lamp oil. With a guarded look toward the door, she poured water into the washbasin and scrubbed her face vigorously. She picked up one of the clay jars and lifted its cork, smelling the contents. She recognized it was a powdered soap Zoicite imported from Nya Gakari.
She frowned. Darien wasn't lying, not about the ships. The soap was to come in on the Northern Hoshi, due this month. The other jar contained sandalwood oil, which would have been on the Ten Bells from the Delucian Islands. Darien had declared war on Zoicite, indeed.
From the armoire she took a deep amethyst dress. It was of finely woven gauze, but not thin enough to be transparent. She brought it, the basin, and soap behind the changing screen with her. When she emerged and stood before the mirror later she found her image more composed and presentable. The sweeping neckline gathered at her shoulders and fell gracefully into a full skirt accented by a black and gold embroidered belt. Already the room seemed cooler with the change of apparel.
Serena dabbed caron oil on the burns, savoring the relief. If she was going to escape it had to be before they sailed in the next morning. Maybe if he gained a little confidence in her he would lower his guard. She could take advantage of even a few moments.
She combed her hair thoroughly, pausing to marvel at the detail on the comb and brush. Both were of ivory and the brush was set with pink shell, onyx and jade. She wondered if they were from Delucian also.
A bowl of rice waited for her at the table. Rice had been a coveted treat in her father's house where it was rare in the dessert country. No amount of irrigation could provide adequate weed control for flooding rice fields in Izramuth. Even ships carrying it in from middle Luresia's coast often docked with puffed and rotting grains from damp voyages.
Her eyes wandered over the roomy bedchamber as she ate. Whatever it was now, the Eliana Nor had once led a grander life, she guessed. The smooth dark panel-lined cupboards and closets showed little wear or repair and no ornamentation. It was not the quarters of a military or noble man, she determined, and certainly not royalty. Perhaps the Nor had been the property of a wealthy merchant, a man more of comfort and necessity than showy extravagance. A good transport for a pirate seeking discretion to his vessel. The series of shutters and blinds that accompanied each window told her the Nor was more prone to warm waters than the chill of the Northern Croa Sea's permanent autumn. This seemed in contrast to what Serena had heard of Captain Montaro's pirate ventures.
She ate most of the rice before realizing it was topped by not only honey but brandy as well. She felt the warmth start slowly in her and pushed the bowl away. So he wanted a docile captive. She went to the armoire and found the pearl-studded starched lace fan she had seen earlier and opened it wide, then looked purposefully over the room.
There had to be a way out and she had to find it before morning. After a few moments with the fan she tossed it on the bed. For a long while she reinvestigated every corner of the room, again tugging on the fireplace grate and checking the window locks.
As she passed his washstand she caught sight of herself in the mirror above it. She picked it off the wall. It was thin, easy to break, and would probably produce several sharp edges.
Serena carefully hung it back up. Surely Darien would notice the mirror's absence. She glanced at the mirror above her own washstand and came to the same conclusion. She looked about the room, the ebb of hopelessness increasing as the morning slowly passed. She tried all the drawers and closets again, hoping to find something, anything, to use as a weapon. But the fireplace was devoid of irons and there was not so much as a stylus to serve as a knife.
Serena sat on the chest, staring vacantly at the hearth, fanning herself. Her only companion was a moth caught in the room, flittering around the lantern at the ceiling. She looked up at it, thinking to smack it to a quick death, but refrained. No doubt the light would break and set the room on fire.
A new thought brought her to her feet. Yes, Darien would be suspicious of a dark room. She listened, but heard no other sounds on the ship. In the water closet she inspected the globe on the small lamp cleated to the wall. It was of thicker glass than the lamp she had dropped yesterday.
He wouldn't notice this one, she thought, taking it into the bedroom. If Darien had gone to confront Zoicite he wouldn't be back until late. It had taken nearly half the day just to reach the port yesterday. The water closet lamp hadn't been lit last night, and the candle in it showed little use.
She wrapped it in a corner of the bed sheet and crashed it against the bed post. The result was two large pieces and three smaller, useless ones. The two she put under her pillow, undecided how to use them yet. The other three she buried in her old torn dress and tucked it in the armoire.
Serena took a deep breath, confident she had succeeded in at least finding a weapon. Now she wondered how she would use it, and if an opportunity would present itself before morning. The comfort of making the crude weapon faded as she realized she was far from free. And home.
She reached beneath the pillow and looked at the two pieces of glass, comparing their razor sharp edges and angles. As a precaution, she ripped a length of material from her old burnt dress and wrapped it testily around her hand, pleased with its thickness. She put the glass and material back under the pillow, and sat against the headboard.
Darien returned early that evening, waking Serena with a creak of the door. He opened the window just as the night before, commenting on the room's heat.
"Did you see Zoicite?" she asked anxiously. She slipped her hand beneath the pillow and felt the wrapped lumps there. "Is he back?"
"No." He lit an oil lamp at the table and replaced the lantern's short, meekly burning candle. "Where did he go, Serena?"
She licked her dry lips, recalling her effort at cooperation. She decided to answer would not further her predicament. "He went to look at a horse from Mortania."
"Did he go to Mortania?" he asked sharply.
"No. Just the border."
He nodded, rummaging through a cupboard at the fireplace wall. He set two bottles on the table. "You don't like wine?"
"I don't want any."
She sat at the bed edge, wishing he would open the starboard window nearest the bed. She heard someone call from outside the office stair door and Darien went into the other room, reappearing with the boy who had brought her supper the night before. This time, the boy whom Darien called Brons, set the table with plates and several dishes before leaving.
Darien pulled out a chair and opened the window above the table.
"Sit down," he said with a nod.
Serena slowly took a deep breath, hesitating. Cooperation was proving more difficult than she anticipated. She sat at the chair he held and he took the seat across the table from her. She looked at the white fish on her plate, realizing she hadn't eaten since that morning. The cool air from the windows allowed a welcome breeze carrying the scent of pineapples and pomegranate.
"The soap powder and sandalwood oil are from Zoicite's ships," she blurted, trying to check her agitation. "Why are you attacking him? He's done nothing to you."
"That discussion is not for tonight," he said lowly and continued eating.
She didn't voice the remark that came to her mind. She tasted the fish, frowning in frustration. "You should take me back now," she said steadily. "Zoicite is well connected with King Thulgarde, and he won't tolerate your effrontery."
Darien shook his head and kept eating.
She watched him with puzzlement. "You're a pirate, in Embrossen waters," she said. "There are numerous warrants and rewards for you all along the coast, and -"
"A fact King Thulgarde will dismiss for my loyalty to him," he explained, pouring a gold liquid into her pewter goblet.
"What loyalty?" she scoffed. "He isn't your king. This isn't your country."
"Nor yours."
"It will be soon," she pointed out. She ate for a moment, confusion increasing. "Why should he forgive your crimes?"
He took a long drink from the dark bottle, enjoying her simmer, and broke off more of the twisted, seeded bread. "I sailed for him in the war against Jorz Baed."
Serena's mouth dropped in disbelief. She snapped it shut with a sniff, assessing him anew. He watched her shake her head, lamplight dancing gold through her hair.
"You were never in his service. You're no naval hero."
He laughed, not the reaction she expected. "You don't think your dear King Thulgarde would resort to privateers during war time? I admire your unquestioning patriotism, Serena."
"I don't believe you," she murmured.
"You don't have to." He shrugged. "King Thulgarde will blink if Zoicite approaches him with your situation. He will not aid him. I daresay your affianced husband would even attempt taking this matter to the court. He has too much to lose. And I'm not talking about you," he added bitterly.
His words alone held meaning, but the cold tone he used weakened Serena's courage. Her eyes dropped to her plate, fuming as she considered what he had said about his service to her king.
"You're going to sink all Zoicite's ships."
"All I come upon."
"You can't do more to him," she debated. "You've slaughtered his household and plan to take his ships. What has he done to you?"
Darien stopped eating and glared at her until she squirmed. "I said that subject is closed for the night," he repeated with restraint.
She nodded without speaking, trying to eat the fish that no longer held any appeal. Under his stare she sipped the sherry, but didn't finish it.
After the meal Darien shut the window by the table despite Serena's pleas to leave it open. She was aware of him taking a bottle of brandy from the cupboard and pulling the cork, of the cabin boy Brons collecting the dishes from the table and the hammock being unrolled as she busied herself with the caron oil. She rested her heel on the bed, her cheek against the knee, touching the burns as they numbed.
There was only one way to use the pieces of glass, she'd decided. She glimpsed the bottle Darien drank from when he wasn't watching her. She turned back to the burns, hoping the brandy was very strong and that he would drink much.
Neither piece of glass was long enough to effectively stab, but one had a good cutting edge. She had never entertained the thought of slitting a throat and did not relish doing so now. She wasn't sure she could.
Serena was aware of one thing, however. Once she started, she could not hesitate. If she tried and failed - and if he lived - she would not have to worry about going home again. He would kill her tonight, perhaps among other things.
"Are you changing for the night?" Darien asked from the armoire.
She looked up quickly, her thoughts scattering. "No."
He paused at the light as she dropped her leg from the bed and pulled down the sheets, for a long moment his eyes moving over the form her body made beneath the linens. She pulled the sheets closer at his attention in spite of the rising humidity, and then sighed as the light was put out.
When Darien awoke in the thick night a short time later it was to a soft hand over his mouth and a cold sharpness at his throat. Instinctively his hand grabbed the one at his throat and within seconds he was on his feet. He caught Serena as she turned away, his grip on her wrist tightening as his arms engulfed her. She struggled in his embrace, but refused to relinquish the glass.
"Drop it," he said in her ear from behind her.
In response she twisted even more, clenching her teeth against defeat. The arm surrounding her subdued her fight and his fingers closed around the glass, ripping it away.
A cry escaped her it its release. He dragged her to the table and lit a lamp. She felt a small sense of triumph when she saw a timid trickle of blood at his neck and more on his hand. He put the glass on the table, his hand still firm on her wrist. He unwrapped the torn dress wound about her palm, reddened with his blood.
"Where is the rest?" he demanded.
She only stared at him in defiance. Both his hands went to her shoulders and he shook her.
"Where's the rest!"
Serena turned her face, expecting a strike. None came. She chanced to look up. He was studying the glass, recognizing it. He looked to the water closet, then around the room at the lights and mirrors.
His full attention fell on her again. "All right, Serena Bella Ver," he said tightly. "You've made your decision."
She shrieked when he pushed her to the bed and tied one hand with the torn material.
"I'll tell you," she said hastily.
"Too late."
He looped the material around the post at the headboard and tied her other hand, making her sit awkwardly on the bed.
"Lay down!"
"No!"
She moved as far from him on the bed as the short tether allowed, crouching. She held her breath in fear as he stood at the bedside. He leaned down and grabbed the back of her neck, pulling her face close to his own.
"Where is the rest?"
Serena looked to each of his dark eyes and said: "Under the pillow, and, and in the closet, in the dress."
He let her go and found the piece under the pillow. She recoiled when he jerked the sheet over her and turned to the armoire.
At the table Darien fitted the pieces of lamp back together, satisfied they were all present. A moment later Serena heard him pour water in his washbasin, followed by a low cursing. She could not see much with the limited movement the bonds allowed, nor did she care to look. If he was going to kill her she would find out soon enough.
A moment later the lamp went out, and darkness swallowed the room. She breathed easier until realizing he now stood by the bedside. He tested the tether at her hands.
"You should have been quicker, Serena," he said without emotion. "You won't get another chance."
She remained silent as he moved away. He was right. There wouldn't be another opportunity like tonight. The allowances she had would be gone tomorrow. She heard the groan of the hammock, and buried her face in her pillow as the tears fell uncontrolled.