Slaves were rioting in the north. The Magisterium had convened, and made orders to put them down. Any one that surrenders would not be killed, simply punished. The leaders would be dealt with accordingly.
Hadriana was progressing smoothly. It would be many years yet before she was ready to pass her tests and gain the rank of magister, but she was well on her way. Danarius was confident about her.
She sat in the chair opposite to him, sipping honeyed tea, and perhaps wondering why she had been summoned. "I want you to make a trip back to my country manor—Vinewood," he informed her. He would go himself, but he thought she could handle it, and he'd like to put her to the test anyway. Besides, he had to head in the opposite direction to oversee the putting down of a small elven riot—they were tiring. He would just enslave them all if he could, but there were a few laws against that.
She set the cup down on its saucer. "As it please my master," she answered with a sweet smile. "May I inquire as to the occasion?"
His fingers laced together. "I've reason to suspect some of my servants of theft. I want you to pay them a surprise visit. Take a few men with you—the road will be dangerous."
She seemed pleased by this errand. "I would love to. When would you have me depart?"
"On the morrow," he answered coolly. "Come back once you've gotten to the bottom of it. I trust it won't take you very long."
"Have you selected the men I will bring with me?"
He nodded. "Yes."
She finished her tea. "Is that everything?"
"For the moment. I suggest you pack your things."
She smiled pleasantly. "Fond advice, Master. I shall. I bid you good evening." And she left. Such good manners. Much better than Raith. More pleasing to the eye too; she had developed into a fine woman.
Speaking of young women, though, there was also the matter of his little niece. But he would inform Hadriana of that in the morning, before she left. For the moment, he would rather not daunt her with the thought of "babysitting" the girl on the way back. He didn't want to tolerate a sulking teenager for the rest of the day. He knew she wouldn't be fond of the idea. Better not to mention it.
He would send his breeding destriers too—war horses, some just a little too old to be put in the field any more, but ornery creatures that needed a long journey and some exercise to keep them from being mischievous.
Hadriana scowled, but held her tongue, and smiled pleasantly. Of course it was perfectly all right that she escort the highborn brat to Minrathous. Of course it was.
And of course she didn't mind Danarius insisting that Fenris come with her—mostly as a personal nurse maid to Annalkylie. The elf seemed uncaring either way, as usual. Of course, she had tried to argue, saying that her master needed his bodyguard with him at all times. He assured her that the next few weeks he would more or less be living at the council house, deliberating what to do about the recent outbreak of riots, among other things, and thus Fenris would just be at the manor most of the time anyway, and not guarding him either way. He also claimed that Annalkylie liked Fenris for some reason, so it couldn't hurt to bring him along, to keep the girl happy if for no other reason—she would be more likely to tolerate the elf's presence as a guard than the others.
More like, the girl just liked looking at strange things.
But they set out anyway, one of the men with a team of horses and a wagon of supplies. The others rode, including Fenris, which was more comfortable anyway. There would be a carriage on the way back, for the comfort of the child.
It was little over a week to the manor, and the wagon was slow even with the team. There were inns along the way, and part of it even took the Imperial Highway, so they camped but rarely. She was glad that it was late autumn; the sun was cooler now, and more pleasant. She had grown used to the city, though, and its smells. The country seemed strange to her now, and, while nice to look at, she preferred the life of the city.
And she hated camping. That, more than anything else in the world, she hated. She was pleased to note that Fenris relished it no more than she did. Perhaps even less so. He was a city creature, same as she. That thought disturbed her, to think that they might be even a little alike.
But as the days passed on the road, in long empty silences between herself and her entourage, she got to thinking. It had been three years since she had been on this path—almost four since she had been this way. So much had happened since then. She had grown, in body, mind, and magic. She was a woman, an accomplished mage, and well on her way to becoming a magister.
She had not done it for years now, but she found herself thinking of her family. Some part of her felt hollow for that, as she thought about her stern mother, her distant father, and her brothers and sisters.
All dead, she thought.
And she drew up her horse to a halt. The village was just down this road. It was only an hour's ride, maybe a little more, if she hurried, and it was only midday. "Wait here," she told the men, and kicked her horse into a trot. She was annoyed when someone was following her, and more annoyed when she saw who it was.
"Are you deaf, slave?" she snapped at him.
He regarded her as if from a lofty distance—an expression she especially hated on him. If not for the distance between them, she may have slapped him. She did it often enough when she thought she could get away with it. Fenris wasn't the sort to tattle on her, as it were, but Danarius was, well… Danarius was the only one allowed to harm Fenris in any way, and he rarely had cause to so much as scowl at the slave. "My master decreed that I am not to allow you to wander off alone," he told her. He left unsaid that this was because of the outbreak of riots going on, even though that was miles away.
She hated that. She couldn't even order him to go away. She ground her teeth, and kicked her horse into a gallop. But she should have known better; he was a better horseman than she, and she hadn't lost him at all. She sighed, and stood up in the stirrups, trying to relieve some of the saddle sores she felt. When she dismounted after the day's ride, she walked bow-legged, and her legs hurt something fierce. She could always ride in the wagon, and had on occasion, but the horse was less stuffy and more comfortable. On the way back, she may ride in the carriage, but she doubted that would be much better. She hated traveling.
She held the reins in one hand, and rubbed her thighs with the other, grumbling to herself about horses. Fenris observed her for a moment, and seemed very much like he wanted to say something. She glared at him. "What is it, elf?"
He frowned. "You should tuck in your knees more when you ride, and lean with the horse when she runs… you'd be more comfortable."
It was good advice. Helpful advice, with good intentions. Her mother had good intentions, when she had wanted to marry her off. Good intentions when she had tried to perform and exorcism, to drive the imagined demons from her with starvation, dehydration, and depravation. And she was so very, very tired of people talking down to her, belittling and mocking her—how dare this knife-eared bastard say such things to her? Hadriana wanted desperately to hit him. Rather, she reigned in her temper, and stopped her horse, and smirked. "Elf. Get off the horse, and walk. You can lead the animal, but you'll walk."
It would have satiated her if he had made some expression or noise of complaint or discomfort. Rather, he made no expression at all, nor any sound, robbing her of any satisfaction she may garner from this. He simply swung out of the saddle with a grace she lacked, and gently led the creature by its reigns. The horse nuzzled against his shoulder, begging for attention. Her own horse seemed to shun her.
She walked her horse, and seemed all the more annoyed that Fenris seemed perfectly content leading his, as ordered. Less than half a mile of that, she drew her horse to another halt.
She swung out of the saddle, and Fenris stopped, waiting. "Trade horses with me," she snapped. Even when everyone in her village had known she was a mage, they still had never treated her with the respect she had deserved. They had shunned her, called her selfish for not knowing enough useful spells, and whispered about her when they thought she didn't know. And now, she had come to Minrathous expecting such things to stop, and they had not; they had only evolved into something different.
At that, he raised an eyebrow. "Mistress, I must object—"
She slapped him, and he did nothing to prevent the blow. His face was red where she had struck him. Everyone talked back to her, no one treated her with any kind of respect, her entire life. She was alone and miserable, and so angry that he would be so impertinent. "Don't talk back to me, slave!" A fire took them all away.
But the insolent brat just started again, "Siren is a destrier, not a palfrey—"
Her family had plow horses—common creatures. Her older brothers had once ridden the creatures bareback, armed with sticks, and played at being knights. "A horse is a horse," she hissed, and slapped him again. He dropped the reigns into her hand, bowing his head.
"Apologies, Mistress," he said, and slunk to the side. Satisfied, she watched him take her bay mare, but led her, scratching the mare on the neck affectionately. She nuzzled against his chest. All the horses liked him. But that made sense. He helped take care of them at night. Years ago, it had been her older brothers' job to care for the horses and the other herds beasts—sheep and goats mostly. The women had taken care of the two dairy cows, and the chickens. For everyone else, it was the mill. She huffed, and climbed into the saddle. She made Fenris adjust the stirrups for her, which he did, and glanced at the horse again, and seemed anxious about something.
The horse seemed pleasant enough. That knife-ear was just an audacious sot, that was all. She should have done more than slap him, but she so enjoyed doing it. And oh, how he deserved it. All of it and more. She found herself wanting to take out all of her hurt and anger upon him, and saw absolutely no reason not to. Her fingers wound in the reigns, putting on tension. In her anger, her knees dug into the horse's sides. There was a loud snapping sound, and the horse paused for a moment, ears flat.
She was lost in her thoughts when the horse got the bit in its teeth, though was not experienced enough a horseman to see anything out of sorts. She looked about for the snapping sound, but assumed it was just a twig. There was a cry of some animal in alarm, and a bird shot out of the high grass, its wings brushing the horse's face. Two other birds were startled out of their nest, and their wings kicked up dust and gravel. The horse was a war horse, and horses were simple creatures. It did not know the difference between the kicked up gravel and the darting birds and a stone hurled from a sling to kill. The horse bolted.
She held on with her legs, one hand fiercely gripping the saddlehorn, her heels digging into its side in her fright. She tried to control it, yanking back on the reigns. This was a signal to the destrier to move backwards, and Siren did so, trotting backwards, and to the side as Hadriana pulled one way to the other, irritating the horse. The animal tossed its head, kicking up its hooves. The reigns slipped out of her fingers like sand. Hadriana fell forward in the saddle, gripping the saddle horn. One of her feet fell out of the stirrup, putting more weight on one side. She heard Fenris yelling something, but couldn't make it out beyond her terror.
The animal, accustomed to this being a signal, wheeled suddenly to one side. All hope of gaining the reigns again was lost; she couldn't reach them, and was falling out of the saddle. She struggled to get her foot back into the stirrup, kicking the beast by accident while putting weight into the other stirrup. The animal whinnied, sharply pulling to the side again, and reared. To be fair, it simply lifted its front legs a bit and let her fall out of the saddle before it darted off. She tumbled to the ground, falling into a field.
Fenris whistled, and yelled something at the horse. The animal slowed, and turned around. It whickered, sounding very much like a laugh to Hadriana.
The elf caught up to where she sat, inspecting her for any harm. He looked concerned enough. She wondered how much of it was an act. The scheming knife-eared bastard. "You—this is your fault!" she accused him, and climbed to her feet, stumbling a little as she did.
He looked taken aback. "I… No, I…"
"You—You made the horse do that!" she continued, pointing at him, taking a half step forward. He had whistled, and called out something, and the horse had stopped. Surely, there was some signal to make the animal… go crazy!
He took a step back from her, automatically, and that enraged her. "No, Mistress, I tried to—"
She closed the distance between them and back-handed him, as hard as she could, across his face. He didn't even stumble, but his pretty face might be bruised in a few hours. "You lying little bastard," she hissed. "I'll have you whipped for your lies. If your master wasn't so fond of you, I'd have that lying tongue cut out."
He looked astonished. "I…"
She raised an eyebrow. "You?" she countered. "Get the damn horse, slave." She yanked the palfrey's reigns from his hands, and hit him again, just because she was angry. He slunk away. She glared at him as he went to the destrier, and calmed the horse. She should hack off all that long white hair. Danarius had it cut a year ago, and sold it to a wig maker for a very good price. No doubt, he had intended to do that again; his hair was past his shoulders once more.
By the time he returned though, she was calmed, and got back on her palfrey, but made the elf walk.
He had tried to tell her. He really had. Fenris sighed inwardly. It wasn't his fault if the mage would not choose to listen. He just wished that she didn't blame him. He hadn't lied about anything, and being accused of doing so bothered him, maybe more than it should. Danarius would have at least listened to him. Oh, he might hit him, but he would at least listen to him.
He also wouldn't have made the stupid mistake of trying to ride a destrier. Danarius had bought the veteran horses, and had taken an interest in breeding them in recent years. There was such a difference between a palfrey and a destrier, especially to someone as inexperienced a rider as Hadriana.
Well… there was nothing to be done about it. He had done all he could do to prevent it from happening. He disliked that she blamed him for it was all.
He did wonder what she was doing down this forsaken country road, but she had such a determined expression that it had to have some point to it.
In another mile, they came upon the ruins of a village. The place had never been large, but some fire had burned down half of it, and the rest had simply been abandoned. There were fields of wild wheat and barley all around it. A river cut close to it, and Hadriana dismounted from her palfrey, and secured it to a half-rotted fence post. She walked amongst the ruins of the village, running her hand along the charcoaled wall of a burnt out hut. The fields were claiming the village, slowly.
She walked up to the mill, and Fenris followed her. He left his own horse nearby, and had to follow after her on foot, as this part was littered with debris from the village remains. She picked her way gingerly through the rubble and the high grass to stand amidst the ruins of what had clearly once been a mill. Fenris stayed a respectable distance away, and waited.
Hadriana stood, silent as a sentinel, amidst the ruins, watching the river as if she did not really see it. She stood there for nearly half an hour in silence, before she shifted, and knelt, as if in prayer, but she did not pray; only stared, and then as if she saw nothing around her. Fenris kept an eye on the area, checked on the horses.
He waited, and shifted from leg to leg, and she knelt there, sometimes shifting, but mostly only staring, until the sun began to set. Fenris had, upon seeing that Hadriana likely would not be getting up any time soon, hobbled the horses and removed their bits so they could graze, and would remove their saddles too if he only knew how long she would be. The hour grew dim, and only then did she rise. Her face was dry, and she had not cried, yet still she looked hollow. He knew it had been a penance for something—what else could it be?
"Did… you know someone who lived here?" he asked her, gently as he put the bit and bridles back on the horses.
She looked up at him, and he saw that her eyes were full of unshed tears. "No. I never did," she whispered, blinking. One, solitary, lonely tear spilled from her eye, trailing over her cheek.
In that moment, she wasn't Hadriana, his master's apprentice and a mage. She was a little girl—lost and alone, and wretched. She looked so miserable that… if she were anyone else in the world, he would have tried to comfort her.
Mieta was nervous when she was sent to the docks for bolts of cloth. It wasn't a place for elves. How her blind grandchild ever got along so well here, she didn't understand, but she saw that the sailors, the whores, even the pickpockets seemed to like the child. She understood why. He was charming, and there was something humbling about speaking to him. It made her cherish her own sight, made her cherish what she had.
And he led her boldly to the merchant unloading his bolts of cloth. Mieta was timid, but Shaislyn wasn't. He hailed the merchant—a rotund fellow with a beard, and a thick stack of papers as he supervised his men unloading the crates.
The man turned toward them, and gave Shaislyn a friendly sort of scowl. "And what are you up to?" he demanded of the child.
Shaislyn looked at him as if he could see him—something that he had to learn to do, because it was less unnerving for others. "Escorting my grandmother to see you. What else?" he asked. "We've an order."
Mieta gave him the proper papers. He reviewed them to see that everything was in order. "Ah. The market changed on this last bolt—the linen," he said with a small nod. "Cost of flax is down—so you've some change owed you. Kiersten!" He turned, and bellowed the name again, toward the ship this time.
A middle-aged blonde woman leaned over the rail. "What do you want?"
He laughed. He had bad teeth. "For you to get married—but we all know that will never happen," he joked, but Kiersten didn't seem to think it was very funny. "Bring me a bag of silver and copper—I need to make change."
It was rare to find a man unwilling to cheat an elf. Or maybe it was only because he liked Shaislyn. Mieta would have to question her grandson about just how often he went down to the docks—as well as the sort of charm he worked on people.
The man loaded up Mieta's cart himself, and let her inspect the fabrics before he loaded them. Shaislyn dashed away to talk to the sailors. One of them was telling him a story about sailing while Kiersten stepped down the gangplank. She was carrying two small pouches.
She was a pretty, middle-aged woman, and was probably quite beautiful in her youth. When she smiled warmly, Mieta could only wonder why she was unmarried at her age. "The linen, right?" she asked the elf woman. Mieta could only nod. She counted out the change. "Father used to cheat everyone." She was smiling as she said it. "But I set him to rights when I wouldn't let him leave me at home anymore."
Mieta returned the smile. "I'm sure your customers are grateful."
She laughed. "We've a bit more business now, to be sure," she said, pleased.
As she handed her the coppers first, Mieta heard herself say, "How could such a lovely woman as yourself be unmarried?"
Kiersten's smile was cheerless. "My love was a knight, and sailed to Seheron to fight." She sighed wistfully. "He died long ago."
The elven woman looked at her sadly. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"I was too… But I won't believe them when they said he was a traitor," she admitted, as if defending something.
Something about the story made Mieta frown. Something… familiar. "A traitor?" she echoed.
Kiersten nodded sadly, and counted the silver back to her. When she finished, she pulled the drawstring shut on the bag. "Caught stealing slaves from the army."
A chill ran up Mieta's spine. "What was his name?"
Kiersten looked at her forlornly. "Newlyn," she answered with a small sigh.
Mieta almost dropped the money she held. "Kiersten," she breathed. "You and I need to talk."
The woman looked at her, confused. "Talk of what?"
The elf swallowed. Her throat felt so dry. "I think I knew your Newlyn," she told her.
Kiersten blinked slowly, as if processing this. She turned to her father. "Father, I'll walk with this woman to the shop." He hadn't been listening, and only shouted that he had heard her. She walked beside Mieta, and Shaislyn walked on Mieta's other side as she pulled the cart. "How did you know Ser Newlyn?"
Mieta looked away. "Shaislyn, why don't you go run along now?" she asked him. He pouted, resenting being excluded, but sighed and split from them. Another story from the sailors was better than his grandmother's anyway. She turned back to the other woman. "He was a noble man."
Kiersten was silent for a moment. "Yes. And brave, and good." She left unsaid that he had died, but it was apparent by her tone that she was thinking it.
The elven woman felt suddenly reluctant to go on. She hadn't talked about it to anyone. She had never felt the need or the will to do so. But Kiersten deserved the story. She told her about her first meeting of him—under the stairs in her basement. He had let her and Leto go change their clothing and get food. He had treated them gently and with courtesy. She told her about the march, and how he had let her ride his horse Bluebelle while he walked, and put her son beside her on the horse.
Kiersten asked about her son. "How old was your son?"
"Three summers," she answered sadly. "A spring child." She found herself missing her firstborn as much as she had ever missed him. Her body ached for missing him. She wanted to hold him again, like she had when he was a child, and he would be safe in her arms. "He looked like his grandfather, actually—with his eyes like sage and hair like jet. I've never known a braver child."
Kiersten was quiet a moment. "I'm sorry for your loss," she said softly.
Mieta shook her head. "I don't know if he's alive or not. But let me tell you the rest of the story." She cleared her throat, and went on. She described the rain, the uprising. She told how Newlyn had come for them in the night with the fires all around, and they had ridden into the forest. "He was very gallant."
"Gallantry didn't keep him alive."
"No. It didn't," Mieta agreed.
Kiersten looked at her sidelong. "I do not mean to imply that I would rather you and your child be slaves. I understand. But he was foolish too." She shook her head, and her eyes were wet before she blinked it away. "He could have given you his horse, and that would have been better. That would have kept him alive." Mieta said nothing. Maybe that would have been better. For everyone except Varania, that is. And Shaislyn, she realized. The child would not exist had anything else but this happened. "But I digress," Kiersten said, her words sorrowful. "Go on, please."
Mieta went on, and told Kiersten about the run through the forest. She told him about the knife he had given Leto, and their sleepless, hungry nights. They arrived at the shop, but Mieta and Kiersten left the cart by the door, and sat down on the steps. Mieta continued talking about their flight, and how the hounds had eventually found them. She told Kiersten about the mage, and that he had sent she and her son on ahead in the hopes that they would be content with his death. His death was old to Kiersten, and she did not cry, but she seemed no less saddened for it.
"Did you escape, then?" Kiersten asked her.
Mieta looked away. "They caught us too," she confessed.
Kiersten frowned. "But you are no slave, Mieta."
The elven woman wanted to cry for that. "Were I, I might know where my son is."
The human woman considered. "I think… I need to know the rest of this story."
And for some reason, Mieta told her. She told her everything, but left out the part about Mieta killing a man. She told her about her son's first beating on the road. She told her about the slave ships, and reminded Kiersten that she had been pregnant with her daughter. She told her about the warehouse in Minrathous and the cages. She told her about her son and the magister, and about being given to the same man. She mentioned Lura, of how the poor child was left alone in the cage.
"You were fortunate," Kiersten told her, putting a gentling hand against hers. "Many are not so lucky."
Mieta looked down. "It didn't feel lucky at the time, but I know that." She told her about the slave compound, and Kiersten looked fit to weep. Mieta knew it wasn't the worst place, but Newlyn had once told Mieta that Kiersten hated slavery something fierce. He had said that Kiersten did not see as others saw—that she saw a person's soul, and not the body they had. Mieta told the woman about her master, and the daughter she gave birth to in slavery. She spoke of how her children had grown, of how her son was chosen to train for the arena. Kiersten looked on with sympathy. She spoke of how Varania was found to be a mage. She even mentioned the Dalish girl, Ginger, for the brief time she had been there before making her daring escape.
She told her about Leto's first match, and how frightened she had been when he had left. How she was terrified every time he went to the arena, for any fight could be his last.
"He fought a dragon once," she heard herself say. "He came home boasting about its breath, how it singed his hair, he was so close to it. It was a young one, though—half-grown at most."
"It is no small thing to stand before a dragon," Kiersten said, but the words were not comforting for Mieta.
"He won our master a good-sized purse," she said acrimoniously. She spoke of how Varania had been raped then, and came away from it pregnant. Kiersten's gaze flicked in the direction of the docks, and Mieta knew what—or who—she was thinking of. "Yes. It's Shaislyn."
Kiersten shook her head. "Your story is only sadder and sadder," she told her.
Mieta laughed bitterly. "Danarius held a tourney—the winner of which would become his experiment."
"That seems an odd prize."
Mieta shook her head. "The winner was to get a large purse if they were not a slave, an easy job, and one boon of the magister."
Kiersten frowned in thought. "I remember the tourney," she said suddenly. "I didn't go—I never liked the games. But I remember it."
Mieta nodded once absently. "Slaves were allowed to compete." She wanted to weep. "Leto won." She smiled a little. "Of course he won; he had never lost, save once, and that was to a fever more than the opponent."
Kiersten suddenly understood. "He used the boon to free you and Varania."
"And Shaislyn and Lura—yes." Her eyes watered. She swiped at them, but it did little good. She felt she had to tell Kiersten that Leto had met Lura again, years later, and had begged for her freedom too. "If he had but lost, we might still be together."
Kiersten didn't seem very certain of that. "This… experiment…" she said. "One hears… dark things… about the magisters."
Mieta's lips pursed into a frown. "I had little interaction with the man, to be honest. Varania and Leto both saw him more frequently. But Varania is certain they are maleficarum." This last bit in a hushed whisper that would not go beyond Kiersten's ears.
Kiersten had gone very quiet. "The slaves in the compound. After this… experiment was over, and he shipped you off… Did you ever see any of them?"
The elf didn't quite understand what Kiersten was driving at. "No… Why?"
She stared downwards, at her hands. "At the docks, you hear all kinds of things," she said, as if it had nothing to do with the conversation at hand. "Servants on errands gossip there, and rumors are like wind." She swallowed. "Mieta… I don't think you would be alive had Leto not won."
Mieta felt suddenly cold. "Kiersten…"
The other woman looked at her. "A servant told one of my father's men… about the bodies. They had to pile them into a cart, they said, and they were burned, their ashes buried in a mass grave outside the compound."
The elf shook her head, refusing to believe what she had heard. "No… there were children…"
Kiersten's eyes watered. "The servant mentioned the children especially. He said that they were all naked and bloodied."
Mieta licked her suddenly dry lips. She couldn't make sense of it. All those people… dead? For some silly ritual? Nothing could be worth that. "No…" She thought of all their faces, their names. She had thought—miserable and in slavery, certainly. But… this? It was all the worse that it had been years ago, and she had been ignorant all this time.
Kiersten sat beside her as Mieta grieved without tears, and silently. She would mourn later, she decided. "Thank you for telling me," Mieta finished.
Kiersten nodded. "Thank you for telling me the truth of my knight's death. It is good to know he died for a noble cause."
And it is good to know that so many others died without even good cause. But she would rather not live in ignorance of it any longer. All those people deserved more than that. They deserved names, and someone to remember them. They deserved so much more than death and a cramped hole in the ground.
Hadriana wasted no time once they arrived at the vineyard. She had once asked if the estate had a name and any kind of heritage. He had only replied that it was an old family estate, and called "Vinewood," for the forest as well as the grove.
The servants were surprised at her arrival, but were quick to see to their accommodations. She had half a mind to send Fenris with the other slaves, but decided servant quarters would do. Her master didn't want him getting to know anyone—he wanted to keep him isolated-and a private room kept him more secluded.
She inspected the grounds thoroughly, and lightly questioned the overseers, feigning nothing more than a surprise inspection. The guards had not been told why they were coming here, so she had nothing to fear of them letting slip the real reason for their visit.
Hadriana was tireless in her pursuit of the crime, and was always watching, prowling. She had two assistants who met her at the estate a day after her arrival, who were to assist her in her search. One of them decided that the servant quarters needed a thorough "cleaning"—and gave them but a few minutes' notice before he oversaw the work being done. Of course, it was the slaves he used to clean them out, not the servants themselves. No, they were sent about their usual duties. Some evidence was turned up—a small stash of coin none of them could have possibly obtained except through ill-gotten means. The steward stammered and stuttered when presented with the idea that one of the hired help had been thieving. But it could simply be a savings. The purse was taken as evidence, for the moment. Not an hour later was further evidence found—a wax seal from one of the bottles.
Hadriana felt that her work was nearly done, but still they searched, just in case. Justice was delivered; the penalty for theft was the loss of a hand. She had the man escorted to a block outside, ordinarily used for chopping wood. He babbled the entire way there, and continued babbling when someone stoked a fire, to heat steel to seal the wound that would be made. It pleased her to have Fenris do the deed. A slave to cow a servant.
"Are you right-handed?" she asked the babbling thief.
He stammered. "I… Y-yes, mesere," he burbled.
She nodded. "Let it be said that I am not unjust. The left hand," she said to Fenris with a curt nod. He had a sharpened axe, the sort used for cutting wood, but this would do.
The man had to be held still by two guards, and still he begged and screamed. He squealed like a pig when the axe came down, and shrieked anew when they burned it shut. The hand lay on the ground. Hadriana had it nailed to a post by the brewery, so all may witness the justice.
She promised a lesser punishment if the conspirators came forward. She promised a small finger, no more, if they confessed and repented their deed, but for every day they did not come forward, another finger.
The man could have given away his conspirators, but he hadn't really believed that they would cut off his hand until the axe fell. Men were like that, the lot of them; they thought themselves invincible. It pleased Hadriana to show them otherwise.
She took a glass of wine in the solar, and summoned the slave to pour her a second. She looked at him over the rim of the glass. "Danarius had you bring a serving outfit, I trust?" she asked him.
The slave hated those; it showed in the way he moved in them—self-conscious and awkward. He only really looked truly confident when a weapon was in his hands though. He seemed reluctant to answer, but did, "Yes, mesere."
Just in case, she thought. "Good. We're having company tonight, so go clean yourself up and put it on." She didn't finish the second glass. There would be plenty enough tonight, when her master's daughter arrived.
Mieta had been working for most of the night, to catch up on an order. It had been slow lately, and there was reason for it. Reason she would rather not give.
It only worried her daughter, and the owner of the shop was always kind enough to send her home if she were feeling ill, but they were running behind, and she had to catch up, so she stayed, and she worked by the light of the lantern.
Her back ached from being hunched over with her needle, her neck felt cramped. She straightened, and stretched for a moment, and bent back over her work. I'll just finish this, then I'll go home—get a bit of sleep.
She told herself that, but the work did not go as quickly as it had when she was younger. Her hands were shaking, and it was so hard to get her stitches straight. Sometimes, it looked like all the colours were blurring together.
She blinked, then held her eyes closed for a moment, trying to focus. She was so tired, but she was almost finished.
There was a knock at the door—a soft rapping. It could only be either the owner—unlikely, as she had a key—or perhaps Lura or Varania.
She set her work aside, and walked to the door, surprised at how good it felt to stretch her legs. She peered outside cautiously from a slit in the shuttered window, then opened the door wide, stepping aside for Lura.
The girl smiled warmly at her. She carried a basket. "I brought you some soup… You didn't come home for dinner," she explained, stepping inside. She wiped her feet on the matt, and went to an empty table. Mieta shut and locked the door behind her.
Mieta smiled. "You're the daughter I never had," she said.
Lura looked back at her, and echoed a sadder version of the smile. Daughter-in-law. What should have been but wasn't. "You've been like a mother to me since my own passed away," she told her instead. "Passed away"—that was quite mild a term.
They left out that Mieta had been separated from the child for over a decade, and simply resumed the role of parent when they were reunited again. "And treat you like an adult?" Mieta teased. "Never." Lura laughed good-naturedly, opening the little basket. She had a small tin, which she set out, a flask, bread, and cheese. Mieta sat down, surprised at how hungry she was. Lura sat across from her. "You would have made a good wife, Lura."
The girl only smiled. She hides behind her smiles—they are a disguise she dons. "Unlikely. I never would give my husband's parents any grandchildren." Her words were light and meant with humor, yet there was a tinge of sadness to them.
"That's not all that being a wife means."
Lura laughed, clapping her hands together. "Oh, yes—cooking and cleaning. I like cooking, but you know I do a half-assed job cleaning at best; I always have to go over things again. When it's wet, it just looks clean to me." She shrugged. "I think I do all right with Shai, but I couldn't possibly run a household."
And there it was again—intentionally missing what Mieta was telling her. She opened the tin, surprised to find it still warm. "I would have wanted you to marry my son."
Lura smiled again. "If he'd have me."
"I wasn't going to give him a choice," Mieta said amiably, lifting her spoon. "But he'd have you anyway." She had seen the way they looked at each other. She wished… But she would never see Leto again, and that… that was heartbreaking for a mother.
Some of her thoughts must have shown, for Lura touched her arm gently. "I'm sorry, Mieta."
Mieta swallowed, and stared into the soup. How long had it been since she had seen her firstborn? About four years. She missed him so much. So did Varania, and Lura. Shaislyn would have liked him, admired him. The boy needed a man around the house. Speaking of which… She looked up, as if all her sorrows were forgotten. "I've been so busy lately. Is Varania still seeing that boy?"
Lura chuckled. "He's a man grown now, you know. And yes—I think it's getting serious, dare I say." She leaned forward, eager to spill the juicy gossip. "He comes over quite often. Shai is fond of him too." She considered. "I walked in on them kissing once. You should have seen Varania blush."
Mieta's lips curved into a small smile at the news. She was happy for her daughter. Varania deserved some joy in her life, after so much sorrow and heartache. "If they were to marry, I would support it," Mieta confided in Lura. "If she talks about it, you may tell her I said so."
The young woman nodded. "Yes, I shall. Now-you eat, and don't let me distract you."
Mieta started into the soup, and used the bread to mop the broth. She knew it was Lura's cooking after the first few spoonfuls. Varania was fair at cooking, but she had a tendency to become impatient. Sometimes, she would use magic to cook things, and it always tasted funny if she did it. She swallowed another bite, and opened her mouth to compliment her on her choice of spices, then her vision began to dim. She seemed to go deaf, but she was aware of Lura saying something. She looked concerned. Everything was going hazy—dark around the edges. Pain lanced through her, and she was aware of sliding downwards before everything went black.
When Mieta woke again, Lura was kneeling beside her. Varania was there as well, looking as if she had run there from bed. Blue healing light was spilling from her hands, her brow creased in concentration.
Varania's hands fell away, and the girl looked exhausted. Mieta looked at the two. Her lips felt dry. "Water," she croaked. Lura snatched the flask from the table, and helped her to sit up and drink from it. It was cider instead of water, but it was good all the same. Though she protested, Varania cleaned up the shop, and put the basket together again. Lura and her daughter took her home, and put her to bed.
Annalkylie hadn't seen Vinewood Manor since she was five years old. It hadn't seemed to have changed a bit in the past three years, but she certainly had.
She was blossoming into a young woman—and the woman she was becoming was nothing but dismay to her parents. She never outgrew her love of adventure. She never outgrew her love of the unknown and wanting to learn.
Unfortunately, everything she wanted to learn was severely frowned upon. She had bullied the cooks into teaching her to cook. She had enjoyed that, until her father found out about it, and he put a stop to it immediately. It was improper for a highborn lady, he had said, to chop turnips like some farmer. So, put out but undaunted, she sought out her brother and the master at arms, and wouldn't leave them alone until they conceded to give her fencing lessons. Her lady mother put an abrupt halt to that nonsense, though, and Kylie had cried.
She had tried the lance, too—a light one her brother gave to her, and he started giving her jousting lessons, but her parents made her stop that too, and Agasius was chastised thoroughly for his part. So, she had sought out a stable boy who knew how to juggle, and she convinced him to show her. She could barely juggle two oranges, though, before they made her stop that too.
Everything fun in the world was forbidden.
Oh, they allowed her to go riding, and hawking sometimes—she had a fine falcon and a beautiful black gelding. But she couldn't care less if her stitches were crooked, or if her dress was soiled.
Which was why she was being shipped off like so much baggage to Minrathous, she assumed.
She was courtly and ladylike when she met Hadriana again, and the apprentice complimented her on how she was growing into a lady. Kylie smiled and did all the pleasantries she had been forced to learn. But she stole away from the meal as soon as she was able, leaving Agasius to tend with Hadriana.
Kylie crept out on to the balcony, looking out over the vineyard. She was watching two slave children chase each other about the yard by the compound. How they found the energy for it, after the work they had to do, she didn't know. She disliked slavery, she had found when she was old enough to understand the concept. She couldn't look into a person's eyes and send them into a field in chains. Agasius only told her that she had a woman's heart, and at the time, had teased her about it until she hit him, then he teased her some more.
She looked at the children only a few years younger than herself, and wondered what it would be like to have no past and no future. All the world, nothing but the present. Her future loomed over her like a thing alive ready to devour her. She had heard talk of marrying her off to some highborn man, likely twice her age, by the time she was ready for marriage. She made a pretty prize, after all. For a peasant like Hadriana had been, being born a mage might be elevating. But not for Kylie, she had found. True, she would be married off to some pompous buffoon even if she were not a mage, but being able to zap people with lightning bolts meant she was a rarer course, best served selectively.
But not until she had flowered, she reminded herself. She prayed it was years off—but who knew? If her sisters were anything to go by, she had a couple of years at least. Maybe longer, if she were very fortunate.
Tomorrow, maybe she could ride her horse, and take her falcon out to hunt by the lake. She remembered getting lost in those woods as a child, and smiled at the idea of how foolish she had been. Five years old seemed so young to an eight-almost-nine old, three years a lifetime away.
"My lady!" a servant cried. "There you are—come inside. You'll catch your death of cold." And, just like that, what little freedom Kylie had managed to grasp on the balcony was whisked away, by a servant no less!
She was ushered into a parlor room, where Agasius and Hadriana sat in cushioned chairs, sipping wine from tall glasses. Kylie only sighed. Agasius smiled encouragingly to her. "Sister, come sit. Have a glass."
She made a face. "Strawberry cordial, if you please," she told the servant, taking her seat. And her brother and the apprentice made to include her in their talk, but her answers were curt and did not prompt much conversation, so the two quickly sought to fill in the voids she left behind. Soon, she was simply an ornament in the room, forced to be there. She could pretend that she was tired, she supposed, and send herself to bed. Perhaps she could stay up and read for a while—that would be pleasant enough.
Hadriana seemed to be drinking a lot, she noticed. Her mother did that when she was stressed about something. Perhaps Hadriana had cause to be a bit stressed.
Kylie's eyes roved about the room. Fenris stood off to the side, she saw, just as ornamental as she. She frowned. Perhaps more so. He was wearing nothing from the waist up, and the silken sarong swept to his ankles and was not sheer, but it was open at the sides, revealing his legs. A thin golden chain was all that connected the two strips of fabrics at the sides. There was nothing underneath it—that was plain enough. His hair was braided so tightly that it gave the illusion of it being short from this angle. He had jewelry too—more thin bits of gold; a gold collar, a gold snake curled around his arm and another at the opposite ankle. And of course, his skin was oiled so it glistened prettily in the firelight. She had seen her own father's slaves in less, and more. But none of them were so heavily tattooed.
She remembered him from her earlier childhood, and how he had seemed so big and strong when he carried her through the forest—that memory made seeing him like this seem silly. So gentle when he dabbed mud on her, to help with the bee stings—something that had never been required of him, but he had done it anyway—which told her that somewhere in him, there was a sort of kindness that was normally eclipsed by the deeds and will of his master. He had gotten older, she reflected. Everyone had, and changed with time. Agasius would be married soon—in the summer, as a matter of fact, and his twin would follow that path in the fall.
Kylie only wondered who her parents would choose for her own husband, but it just didn't bear troubling herself over. Whoever it was, she just hoped he had land, hawks, and horses. It was the only real pleasure she was allowed in life, after all.
Agasius and his sister retired. More specifically, Annalkylie was yawning—likely more with boredom than sleepiness—and Agasius took his leave to escort her to her quarters. Hadriana had said that a servant could do that just as easily, and he had laughed and said, "My lady, you do not know my sister."
So she finished off her glass, and made to stand, but the ground tilted and tottered, and she fell, catching herself on the low table, and knocking something off of it. She scarcely noticed, and stumbled toward the door. She may be drunk, she reflected.
She fell again, but someone caught her. She looked up to see Fenris lift her, and settle her back on her feet. She pushed away from him, but fell again. Again, he caught her—dutiful as ever.
It annoyed her.
But it became plain that she would not make it to her quarters unassisted. She hated it, but swung an arm around his shoulders, and the elf walked with her to her room.
As she walked, her drunken mind wandered, thinking of many things, but mostly Agasius. He had avoided her, she knew. He had rejected her. She was drunk enough to be easily taken advantage of, should he but move first, and she would even be willing; he was quite comely with his soft brown curls and broad shoulders. But he was betrothed, and entirely too courtly for such things, it would seem. She had made it quite clear that she was willing, as much as was possible with his sister in the room anyway.
It dampened her mood, and lent a sour taste to her mouth.
She fumbled, and almost made Fenris trip. It was her clumsiness, but she glared at him all the same. Or, rather, tried to glare at him. The world was spinning quite a bit. He has pretty eyes, even if they're as alien as any elves', she thought before she looked back at the carpet. One foot in front of the other…
All elves had pretty eyes. And pretty faces. Pretty hair, and pretty skin. It was why her ancestors had taken such delight in enslaving them. Jealousy inspires nothing but hatred.
They came to her quarters. He fumbled with the door; she was too drunk for it. He helped her through, and she almost fell again. He lifted her back to her feet, and brought her to her bed. The dutiful slave set her down on the big featherbed, and saw to a number of tasks she was too drunk to fully comprehend. Namely, tending the fire, fetching water, and closing the windows to keep out the draft.
She caught his arm as he walked by, and looked up at him. He stared down at her, those pretty sage eyes a mystery to her. "I…" she began. "Don't…"
He remained aloof. "Mesere, you've drank too much."
She sat up with some effort, but kept an iron grip on his arm. "I mean it," she whispered, and stared up at him. Don't make me beg. "Won't you stay with me tonight? It's cold."
He stared at her for what felt like a long time. "The fire will warm the room, Hadriana."
She wanted to become angry, but somehow couldn't manage it. "I could order you," she threatened him, and felt her eyes brim with tears. She had been rejected by Agasius, and now a slave too. Everyone rejected her, abused her, mocked her. "I could force you to stay."
He only looked at her, his eyes full of pity, and she hated him for it. "Hadriana, you can't force me to want you."
She ground her teeth. "You're a man. Don't you want to be with a woman?" she demanded, and her tears spilled from her eyes unbidden. "Am I not pretty enough? Not as pretty as an elf? Is that it?"
Her grip had slackened, and he gently pried her fingers off of his arm. "Danarius has forbidden that to me," he reminded her, and moved to snuff out the candles. It didn't matter to him if he wanted to have sex or not, she realized with disgust; his master had forbidden it to him, and he obeyed.
She watched him. "I'm his apprentice."
"He is my master," he answered.
Hadriana stared at him. The room grew dimmer. "No one ever needs to know."
"I don't want you," he said, as gently, as tenderly, as softly as he could manage.
The tears spilled anew. Rejection hurt more than she felt she could bear. Why was he doing this to her? A thousand things came into her mind in that moment. She could plead with him, but she knew she could not order him. She wanted to spurn him then, to chastise him, torment him, hurt him. "Danarius is getting old. Who do you think will be your master when he dies?" she demanded. He lowered his eyes, and did not deign to respond. "Stay with me—now—and I'll give you anything you want later. Anything."
He looked her in the eyes then, for the first time that she could recall. It was bold for slave, and insolent, but she was too drunk to realize it. "I want nothing," he answered.
She stared at him in open shock. "Nothing?" she demanded. "Gold? Jewels?" She paused. "Freedom?"
"Nothing," he assured her, and left her alone in the room, with nothing but her thoughts for company.
Nothing.
Even if he had wanted Hadriana—and he didn't—he wouldn't have. He had been explicitly forbidden that. When his master wanted him… bred… he would tell him, no sooner. That had been made quite clear to him.
It was difficult to sleep. He tossed and turned on the itchy straw-stuffed mattress, and sighed to himself. He wanted something to drink—liquor or wine or something. He hadn't slept well in days. He still had the randomly selected pain suppressants, but they didn't dull it enough. And then Hadriana… A surge of emotion made the lyrium flare instantly to life. If only she had known how tempting that really had been. How… enjoyable it would be to dominate her—even for a few minutes, an hour. Even if they never spoke of it—even if she didn't even remember it afterward—it would be… pleasing. And even so, well, he was a young man. He regained a sense of calm with effort, and the light faded away, leaving behind a raw ache in its wake.
Fenris lay alone on the straw-stuffed cot and thought about Perya.
A year ago, his master hadn't even considered such things. He had kept Fenris too busy to think about sex. But, like it or no, Fenris was still a young twenty-something, and couldn't help but be distracted by a woman's skirt, even momentarily.
Danarius had threatened to have him gelded. It hadn't even been… Nothing had happened. Nothing.
Perya was a slave at the mansion in the city—had been anyway. She was petite, even by elven standards, and the top of her head barely came up to his shoulder—on tip-toe. She was so tiny that he imagined he could carry her one-handed without even noticing the weight. Her hair was the color of freshly tilled soil, and her eyes a soft golden hue, flecked with green upon inspection.
He had first met her when she had been struggling to lift a simple bucket of water. He had carried it for her, and she had giggled and said that he was very strong. It had made him want to blush, considering how frail and weak he had been when first he had woken, three years ago at the time.
She served wine at table, and he saw her dressed in a serving outfit a few days later. He had to look away from her, lest he become aroused and humiliate himself, and she seemed unaware of it completely. He had lain awake that night and been nearly mad thinking about the way her shoulders had been bare, how the fabric swept over her hips and exposed her slender belly.
He had finally succumbed to the urge to touch himself, and thought about the maddeningly flimsy piece of cloth that composed her outfit, her taught nipples showing under the fine fabric. It had been chilly in the hall… She had such a slender waist that he could have covered it with a hand.
He had woke thinking about her, and erect. He saw her again a week later, when his master sent him on an errand to the kitchen, and she was cutting vegetables. He had stared at her for what must have been an uncomfortably long amount of time, before he realized it, and delivered his message to the head cook, but she slipped out the door, to the yard, and he found himself following her. She had gone to get water from the well, and was hauling the crank. He did it for her, and she had smiled, and finally gave him her name.
They saw each other a rare handful of times later—exchanging nothing more than furtive glances and half smiles.
Someone took notice.
Danarius had backhanded Fenris hard enough to knock him backwards, his ring slicing open his cheek. Blood had ran down his face while his master threatened to geld him to keep him in his place, if that was "what it took" he had said. "You'll be with a woman when I want you bred, and no sooner—if that ever happens at all," he had hissed to him, closing the distance between them. "I'll choose her, and I'll give her to you, but you are mine." And his hand had clenched around the bulge between his legs, until Fenris cried out in pain. "Every." Tighter. "Single." Tighter. His eyes watered. He couldn't breathe past the pain. "Part." Sweat beaded on his forehead. He made a small, pained noise. "Of you." He released him, and Fenris crumpled to the carpet. His master turned from him, and let him writhe in pain, before looking back at him. "Get up. Go fetch your little Perya. Bring her to me."
Fenris had no idea what he meant to do, but he scrambled to his feet, and rushed to obey, but would rather be writhing in a ball of agony on the floor—he stumbled and couldn't stand fully erect at first. He found Perya in the slave compound, already bedded down for the night, and he was loathe to make her dress and come with him. He told her what he had been bidden to do, and expressed a bit of his puzzlement. Perya, though, seemed to know, and she went deathly silent, and remained that way all the way there. She wouldn't even tell him of her enlightenment.
Danarius was waiting. The magister barely said a word. He inspected Perya, and told her to take off her clothes, and only then did Fenris understand. His mouth had run dry. His heart slowed. The world seemed dim. He felt a fool for not having put it together.
Perya removed her clothes, and Fenris couldn't help but look at her, and want her, and that, more than anything, felt wicked just then. Danarius inspected her the way a butcher inspected a choice cut of meat, before he nodded in seeming approval.
"You don't have bad taste, pet," he commented, a butcher complimenting the farmer on how well he breeds cows for the slaughter. "Girl, undress me." Wordless and deadened, Perya obeyed, removing his garments, folding everything neatly, never looking directly at him. Fenris watched in mute horror. Perya stepped away when it was done, hands clasped tightly in front of her, staring downwards at her feet. "Fenris, come here." The elf had flinched, but obeyed, and was not surprised when his master forced him to his knees, and gave him his instructions. The humiliation was bad enough, knowing that Perya was watching him take the mage in his mouth. He felt him harden in his mouth. Danarius' hand caressed the side of his face as he did it, touching his hair, his throat. His thumb ran lightly over his eyelashes, and he spoke gently when he rubbed the back of his throat.
"Enough, pet," he said. Fenris stopped, pulling away, and too ashamed to glance back at Perya. He wondered to himself if it made it that much worse that he had… assisted in this. "You." His master was addressing the girl. "Get on the bed." She made a squeaking sound, but obeyed. Danarius ordered Fenris to the other side of the room, back to the wall, and he closed his eyes against the sight of his master raping Perya. The girl was brave, not to cry, or scream, or beg.
He heard it. All of it. The sound of the bed creaking, skin slapping against skin, the wet sound of him pumping into her. Her occasional yelp or gasp of pain, his master's heavy breathing. And then the mage started hitting her, biting her—it sounded like, and she began to sob. Fenris' fingers clenched into angry fists, and still he stood vigilant, and obedient. Even through his closed eyes, he could see the evidence of his rage in the way the lyrium had begun to glow. If he had wanted to kill his master, there had never been a more perfect or just moment. But he had stood idly by, the thought never even occurring to him. And it still didn't occur to him, a year later.
After it was done, Danarius all but tossed Perya out, and commanded Fenris to walk with her back to the compound, but he did not give her back her dress. He had said, snidely, "If you still want her, take her. With my blessing."
Fenris had peeled off his tunic, and put it around her shoulders. She was beaten, bloody, and bruised, and his seed was running down her legs. He took her to the well, and tried to help clean her up when she stumbled and fell, shaking to the ground. Perya glared at him when he came near, fixing him with a cold, hateful stare until he backed away. He stayed a short distance away from her from then on, but walked her back to the compound all the same.
"Perya," he said, and she turned to him, her face a blank mask. He closed the short distance between them. His eyes were full of sorrow, his heart heavy in his breast. "I'm so sorry. I…" Her fist flew. She may have forgiven him, in time, but for that he caught her fist in his hand, automatic and without thinking about it. She had glared at him with such hatred that he stepped away from her, taken aback, letting go of her wrist. She had turned and fled. He found the tunic outside his door the next evening, neatly folded.
Perya had disappeared within the week. Little over a month later, he had learned that his master had simply moved her to one of his whore houses, insisting that she belonged there now. The magister had laughed at this, and Fenris had only thought, It's my fault.
Thinking about Perya still made him feel sick somehow. He had never even looked at another woman after that. And, when he started to think of those things again, he only remembered the sounds of his master raping the girl, and he lost all taste for it. The rape might as well have happened to him. I wish it had, he thought. I wish I had begged him to do what he did to her to me instead. At least then…
He almost laughed. Even if he had stayed with Hadriana that night, he doubted he'd be able to perform. Perya was all he could think about, when it came down to it. It was better not to think about it at all.
Hadriana decided to treat the entire incident as if it had never occurred. She barely remembered any of it anyway, so pretending she didn't remember was not a far cry. It felt like some kind of horrible dream where some puppeteer had seized control of her body and made her say things she did not want or intend.
Agasius was entirely too gracious to mention it, and Fenris entirely too subservient to mention it. Unless she asked him, and she wasn't about to ask either of them.
The incident threatened to utterly consume Hadriana's thoughts, but the threat was kept at bay by her own work; finding the rest of the conspirators. Or had she been going about this the wrong way from the start? She smiled to herself. No, she knew now what Danarius had really intended for her to do. The question, of course was, was she ready? And, did she know enough?
But she held her head high, lips pressed together in something akin to a smile as she locked the shackles around Fenris' wrists herself. She didn't trust him to stay still on his own while she did this. So he knelt on his knees, head down, naked to the waist, his wrists above his head hanging in the iron shackles. The air was cold down here, but would be heated comfortably soon with the warmth from the brazier. His breath fogged the air.
She lifted one of the thin, razor-sharp knives from the table, bringing it into a comfortable grip in her hand. Fenris did not look up.
They were alone down here, and if he screamed, no one would hear him but Hadriana.
She wanted to say something like "you should have stayed with me last night" or something. She wanted to, but couldn't quite bring herself to. Her face burned just to think about it. The light blade flipped upwards, her heart hammering. This was the first time she had done this without Danarius there to guide her, but she knew, without doubt, this was the reason that he had sent Fenris, and this was the reason he had sent her instead of just having an ordinary servant handle the matter. When Fenris was used as a blood sacrifice, his blood and the lyrium both made blood magic so much stronger that she was quite confident in her ability. The elf was useful, she would give him that.
The first mind she had plunged into had actually been Fenris', and she knew the elf did not thank her for it. It had been before she had learned to conceal her presence, and he had felt her rifling through his mind like another consciousness beside his own, seeing whatever she saw and powerless to make her stop. Not that he had much to hide, but that wasn't really the point. Rather, she had seen his thoughts on the matter—and it had been worse than rape, akin to a violation of a holy place. You always thought you were safe inside your own mind, she supposed, and discovering that you were not… Well… But it hadn't been the first time Fenris' mind had been violated by a mage, Danarius had told her with a small smirk. Fenris had only stared blankly ahead, like a man who had lost everything. But he had never had anything to lose, had he?
The magisters controlled their subjects by policing their thoughts, and while the house slept, she worked.
She sliced along his bicep, a thin, shallow cut that would bleed a lot but was otherwise superficial. He flinched, but did not move otherwise. Her other hand touched the blood, her eyelids fluttering.
She had found them. Every last conspirator, every last servant harboring ill will. Some were simply fired, but one more needed proper punishment. Fenris stood nearby, and she could smell the medicines on him, see his bandaged arms. One cut for every mind she had sorted through; his arms were covered in cuts, and she had eventually cut his shoulders, his chest, and would have cut into his back too, except that she was finished by then. He had been shaking, from fear, the cold or a simple loss of blood, she couldn't tell, and didn't care.
"For not coming forward yourself, you will lose one hand, and one eye," she said pleasantly to the conspirator. "I will allow you to choose which."
The woman was pale. "I… You said we would but lose a finger…"
Hadriana kept her smile pleasant. "If you came forward of your own volition. Now, please choose which one, and do so quickly. To the block," she ordered, and led the march to the yard. The woman begged and pleaded the entire way there.
Ah, the benefit of acting with her master's authority.
A hand was chopped—Fenris did that again—and someone nailed it to another post beside the other rotting hand. The eye was another story, though. The woman did not even make her selection, so Hadriana had Fenris hold her still—and she seemed more terrified of the elf coming so near to her than almost anything else. Hadriana stepped close, fire dancing around her palm. With her other hand, she forced the woman's left eye open, and poured the fire into it.
When it was done, it was only a few hours until the last conspirator came forward. He was rewarded for coming forward, and lost but four fingers of his choosing. When all was set to rights again, Hadriana began preparations to head back to Minrathous.
