The Captive (5 page)

“The pond needs cleaning,” Jadeleine remarked at dinner
several nights later. “Ask Parah to send one of the slaves up to take care of
it, will you?”

“As you wish, my dear,” Marcus replied.

“Actually, we could use a full-time slave in the compound,” Jadeleine
said, her brow furrowed thoughtfully. “Otry’s getting too old to do more than
care for the horses, and since Fiurmin left, there’s no one to trim the shrubs
or weed the flower beds on a regular basis.”

Marcus grunted softly. “Are you sure you want one of the
slaves?” He glanced at Ashlynne. “It might be wiser to hire someone from the
city.”

“Why spend good money for hired help when we have slaves at
our disposal?” Jadeleine countered. “I dare say, slaves are easier to control
at any rate.”

“Without doubt,” Marcus said agreeably. “I shall go down
tomorrow and look them over.”

Ashlynne sat up in her chair, her foot tapping nervously as
she listened to her parents’ conversation. One of the slaves, here? She bit
down on her lower lip, wondering if there was any way she could persuade her
father to pick Number Four. Six weeks had passed since the incident with Dain.
She wondered how he had endured the long weeks of solitary confinement. Magny
had told her that slaves sometimes went insane after being imprisoned in the
hole for more than a week. How did anyone endure a month? Was he glad to be
back in the mine? Did even his dismal cell seem welcome after four weeks of
being buried alive?

She glanced around the room, its opulence unmatched anywhere
on Tierde, and tried to envision being trapped in a dark hole in the ground,
with nothing to see but darkness, no voice but her own.

“We’ve never had a slave in the compound,” she remarked
casually.

“Does the idea bother you, daughter?” Jadeleine asked, her
voice holding a faint note of concern.

“No, of course not,” she replied quickly. “Will you pick him
out yourself, Father, or let Parah make the selection for you?”

“I don’t need anyone to make my decisions for me,” Marcus
replied. He looked at Jadeleine. “I will, of course, take Parah’s
recommendation into account, since he is more familiar with the slaves than I.”

Ashlynne smiled at her father. “Of course.”

“I’ll go tomorrow morning,” Marcus decided. “I’ve been
meaning to speak to Parah about the recent decrease in production.”

Tomorrow morning. Ashlynne sat forward, trying not to look
too eager, too anxious. “May I ride with you?”

“To the mine?” Marcus asked, astonished. “Of course not!”

“But, I mean, I just thought how nice it would be if I could
go with you. I could wait for you at the bridge, and when you’re finished
talking to Parah, we could take a ride along the beach.” She smiled her most
winning smile. “It’s been months, Father, since we’ve had any time alone
together.”

“She’s right,” Jadeleine said. “You haven’t spent much time
with Ashlynne lately. I don’t think it would hurt for her to accompany you,
this one time.”

Ashlynne held her breath, waiting for her father’s decision.

“I’ll be wanting to leave immediately after first meal,” he
said gruffly.

Jumping up, Ashlynne threw her arms around his neck and
kissed his cheek. “I’ll be ready! Thank you, father.”

Walking around the table, she bent down and hugged her
mother. “Thank you,” she whispered.

* * * * *

Ashlynne glanced at her father as they rode down the narrow
tree-lined path that wound down the hillside to the mine compound. He was a
handsome man. He wore his short dark hair cropped close to his head. Clad in
dark gray breeches, a light gray shirt, and black leather boots, he cut a
dashing figure astride his favorite mount, a high-stepping black stallion. Both
his horse and hers had been imported from Earth.

Her father had taught her to ride almost before she could
walk. He was an excellent horseman. She knew he was proud of her, had overheard
him bragging about her good seat and light hands. Her mother had been thrown
when she was a child and as a result she had a deep-seated fear of horses.
Marcus had bought her a gentle gelding, but she refused to ride, declaring she
much preferred her small shuttle cart, which had no mind of its own, didn’t
buck and didn’t smell, but Ashlynne and Marcus went riding every chance they
got.

“How’s the new mare working out?” Marcus asked.

“Wonderful, Father. I love her. Thank you.” The chestnut
mare had been her father’s gift to her on her seventeenth birthday six months
ago.

Ashlynne ran her hand over the mare’s sleek coat. Before her
birthday, she’d had to ride one of the native Karu-Atar, which, while pleasant
to ride, had none of Artemis’ speed or beauty. The Karu-Atar roamed wild up in
the north. They were horse-like in appearance, with long coarse hair, clawed
feet, and a whip-like tail.

“You should start making plans for Niklaus’s visit,” Marcus
remarked. “It will be year’s end before you know it. Perhaps you should
redecorate the two corner suites upstairs. I’ve asked his parents to stay on
after the wedding. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Rugen and Zahara.”

Ashlynne nodded. “I’ll talk to Mother about it.”

“I know you don’t want this marriage, Ashlynne, but Rugen is
my closest friend.”

“I know.” Rugen and her father had fought in the last
Tierdian war together years ago, had pledged their children to each other when
Ashlynne had been born.

“Niklaus is a fine young man, with a brilliant career ahead
of him.”

Ashlynne nodded again. Few girls of her class were permitted
to choose their own husbands. Women were pawns, traded for land, offered in
marriage to secure peace between feuding families or forge alliances between
worlds; or, in her case, to fulfill her father’s pledge to his best friend.

“I want you to keep silent while I examine the slaves. Most
of them haven’t seen a woman in quite some time.”

“Yes, Father.”

Parah had been advised of their imminent arrival and he
hurried forward to greet them. Marcus dismounted near the bridge and handed the
reins of his horse to Ashlynne. From her vantage point on her horse’s back, she
watched her father and Parah cross the narrow wooden bridge to the compound
that housed the prisoners. The small stone cells looked like blocks set in a
row.

It was Sunday, and the prisoners were all locked inside
their cells. On any other Sunday, they would have been toiling in the bowels of
the mine, but not today. Today her father was going to look them over.

Parah started at the far end. Unlocking each door, he
ordered the occupant to step outside. As soon as the prisoners emerged from
their cells, the shackles on their hands and feet were activated, rendering
them immobile. They were a motley crew, she thought sadly. Eyes empty of life,
of hope, they stood like so many sheep, waiting for the slaughter. Dressed in
coarse leathern breeches and sleeveless vests, their hair long and unkempt,
they all looked alike.

Except for Number Four.

Ashlynne leaned forward in the saddle as the tall,
dusky-skinned slave emerged from the darkness of his cell to blink against the
early morning sunlight. She saw the way his jaw clenched as the bands
encircling his hands and feet snapped together. They had not yet broken his
spirit, she mused. Even after months of captivity and four weeks in solitary
confinement, his eyes still blazed with anger and defiance.

She wished she could hear what was being said, what
questions her father asked as he walked up and down the row of prisoners, what
answers they gave. None of the prisoners dared to meet her father’s eyes. Even
Number Four looked properly subdued when her father stopped in front of him.
She saw him nod curtly, once, twice. Saw her father speak to Parah a moment,
and then her father was walking back toward her, his military upbringing
obvious in the square set of his shoulders, the length of his stride, the
self-confidence that was so much a part of him. She had always been proud of
her father, proud of his many accomplishments, of the fact that he had been
decorated for bravery above and beyond the call of duty.

She handed him the stallion’s reins, and he swung into the
saddle, effortlessly, gracefully.

“Ready for that gallop on the beach?” he asked.

“Yes, sir!” She glanced back at the compound. The prisoners
had been returned to their cells. “Did you make a choice, Father?”

“We’ll talk of it later,” he said, and touching his heels to
the stallion’s flanks, he raced over the bridge and headed for the beach.

With a wild cry, Ashlynne sent her mare after the horse,
delighting in the heady sense of freedom that engulfed her as they raced across
the hot golden sand, reveling in the wind in her face and the scent of the sea,
the thundering power of the chestnut mare.

Leaning low over the mare’s neck, she drummed her heels
against the mare’s flanks. “Let’s go, girl!” she cried, and let out a shout as
the horse jumped a large piece of driftwood.

Oh, to be free! To be able to ride forever. To be able to
live her life as she pleased. To marry whom she pleased, when she pleased! To
pick a man of her own choosing, a man with long black hair and eyes as
turbulent as a storm-tossed sea…

Why couldn’t she get that man out of her mind?

* * * * *

“Did you find a slave that suited you, Father?”

Her father had won the race, and now they were sitting on a
patch of dark blue grass near the shore while the horses rested. It was a
pretty spot. She loved the sound of the ocean, could sit for hours watching the
waves lap at the shore. Tiny little birds with gold and black wings scurried
along the sand, chirp merrily.

Marcus nodded. “I believe so. Parah tells me the man has
caused some trouble in the past, but he seems fit and appears to have been
brought to heel.” He shook his head ruefully. “Not much of a choice, really. So
many of them lose the will to live after a few months in the mine.”

“Does the man you’ve chosen know horses?”

“He claims to.”

Ashlynne plucked a long blade of grass and twirled it
between her thumb and forefinger. There was no way to ask if it was Number
Four, not without fear of revealing that she knew more about the man than she
should.

“Well, shall we go?” Marcus asked. He stood and offered
Ashlynne his hand. “Midday meal should be ready by now, and you know how your
mother hates us to be late.”

With a smile, Ashlynne took her father’s hand and let him
pull her to her feet. She would find out soon enough who her father had chosen.
Until she knew, she could hope.

And then she frowned. What if her father did pick Number
Four? And what if Number Four told her father about her little adventure with
Magny the other night? Her father rarely got angry with her, but she had never
forgotten the few times that he had.

She told herself she was worrying needlessly. There was no
reason for Number Four to mention it, no reason at all, but try as she might,
she couldn’t put the thought out of her mind. Her father had warned her that
she wouldn’t be allowed to see Magny if they got into any more mischief. And
she had a feeling that her father would consider sneaking down to the mine in
the middle of the night much worse than any of their other pranks.

Suddenly, she hoped he hadn’t chosen Number Four at all.

Falkon stood in the center of the floor, his gaze roaming
around the room. The walls, painted a muted shade of sea green, were bare of
any decoration. There was a small window covered with a dark green shade. It
was sparsely furnished, containing only a narrow bed covered with a light brown
spread, a small square table and a single chair. Still, his new quarters seemed
like an abode fit for a king compared to the cell he had left only a short
while ago.

And yet it was still a prison.

He lifted a hand to the thick collar around his neck. And he
was still a prisoner.

Muttering an oath, he began to pace the floor, his footsteps
muffled by a deep brown carpet. He had been taken from the mine, bathed with a
strong-smelling disinfectant, dressed in a pair of black breeches and a
loose-fitting white shirt. His hair had been thoroughly washed, deloused, and
trimmed. He’d even been fed a decent meal. It was the first time in months he’d
had enough to eat. He had forgotten how good bread fresh from the oven tasted,
forgotten the taste of coffee.

He swore again, remembering how the slaves had been lined up
in front of their cells that morning so that the owner of the mine could
examine them. The man had walked up and down the line, inspecting each
prisoner, checking their teeth as he might have examined those of a horse he
was thinking of buying.

It had been degrading, humiliating, and yet, with the bands
at his wrists fused together and the overseer standing at the ready, lightly
tapping the pommel of his whip against his hand, there had been little choice
but to submit.

And now he was here, in a small square room located in the
back wing of the main house. No longer would he toil deep in the bowels of the
mine, deprived of sunlight and fresh air. His lot in life had improved, Parah
had informed him. In the future, he would work in the mine owner’s
jinan
,
where he would be expected do whatever he was told, without question or
complaint. Any attempt to escape would see him back in his cell, locked inside
without food or water, until he died.

Falkon had nodded that he understood.

And now he paced the floor. The room was not large by any
means, yet it was more than twice the size of his cell at the mine. It seemed
odd to be able to take more than a few steps in any direction, to look out the
window and see the sun shining, to have a real bed to sleep in, clothes that
weren’t torn and stained, that didn’t reek of his own sweat.

He heard footsteps in the hall, and then the door swung open
and the owner of the mine stood in the doorway, one hand resting on the
controller at his belt.

“I trust Parah has told you of the consequences should you
try to escape?”

Falkon nodded.

“Your escaping is not my primary concern,” Marcus said
tersely. “The security walls are more than adequate to keep you in. Should you
somehow manage to slip past them, the collar you wear will lead us to you.” He
paused, his expression hard. “My concern is for my family. I have a wife and an
impressionable young daughter. Should you show either of them the slightest
disrespect, should you dare to lay a hand on their person, you will lose that
hand, and then your life. Is that clear?”

“Quite clear.”

“The last storm has played havoc with the foliage. Your
first task will be to trim the shrubs and clean up the debris left by the
storm.”

Falkon nodded. He saw no reason to tell the man he had been
here before, or that he had seen the man’s daughter only a few nights ago,
peeking into his cell in the middle of the night. He didn’t know what the devil
she had been doing in the compound, but he was reasonably certain she wasn’t
supposed to be prowling around the mine after midnight, or at any other time.

Marcus regarded the prisoner for a few moments. He wasn’t
sure why he had chosen this particular slave to work within the compound. The
fact that the man appeared to be the youngest and the most physically fit had
certainly been a factor. He had almost changed his mind when Dain had informed
him of the prisoner’s attack. When confronted, the prisoner had not denied it.
When asked why he had tried to escape, the prisoner had glanced at his
surroundings, then looked Marcus in the eye and said, “Wouldn’t you?”

At the time, Marcus had been impressed with the man’s
honesty. He shook his head, hoping he hadn’t made an error in judgment. “Come.
I’ll show you the way to the yard. You will stay there until someone comes for
you. Is that understood, Number Four?”

Falkon choked back an angry retort. He wasn’t an idiot.
Hands clenched at his sides, he nodded curtly.

Without another word, Marcus turned and walked down the
hall, confident the slave would follow.

* * * * *

Falkon rested his back against a tree and closed his eyes.
It was good to be outside. He had removed his shirt, hungry for the touch of
the sun on his skin, on his face. He took a deep breath, drawing the scent of
sun-warmed earth and grass into his lungs. He had been working for several
hours, trimming trees and bushes, raking leaves, cleaning debris from a small
blue pool. Never in all his life had he seen a place such as this. Even the
royal residence on Riga Twelve paled in comparison. The house was of white
stone that seemed to glow in the sun. There was a large pool surrounded by
graceful ferns and flowers and small groups of tables and chairs. Birds with
bright plumage chirped in the treetops; colorful fish swam in a small man-made
lake on the far side of the grounds. There were flowers everywhere—large
brightly colored blooms, delicate buds, lacy ferns. His home planet was a
dreary place, plagued by wars and drought. And yet it was home, and he longed
to be there, fighting for freedom with his kinsmen.

Freedom… He stared at the shackles on his wrists and
wondered if he would ever be free again.

Muttering an oath, he followed the narrow path that led
toward the main house, intending to weed the gardens that grew along the south
side of the building near the pool.

Rounding a bend in the path, he came to an abrupt halt. The
girl was sitting beside the pool, one hand dangling in the water. Dread welled
up inside him when he saw the controller lying beside her.

Ashlynne looked up, suddenly aware that she was no longer
alone. Seeing Number Four reminded her of the last time she had seen him.
Instinctively, her hand closed over the controller.

Her gaze clashed with his, and time seemed to stop as they
stared at each other.

Ashlynne frowned. Cleaned up, with his hair washed and trimmed,
and clad in a decent pair of breeches, he didn’t look so wild and ferocious,
yet he was a slave, a prisoner, and she couldn’t help being afraid of him. In
all honesty, she knew she would have been afraid of this man no matter what he
was. In her sheltered life, she’d had little contact with men, never associated
with a man like this one. The men who came to visit her parents were
businessmen, diplomats, couriers, they weren’t warriors. They weren’t’
fighters, like Number Four had been. The number four branded on his upper arm
was clearly visible, another reminder of the kind of man he was. Her fingers
tightened around the controller.

Falkon watched the girl, unable to draw his gaze away.
Dressed in a bright yellow frock, with her silver blonde hair falling around
her shoulders, she looked like the sun come to earth in human form. Her eyes,
those beautiful green eyes, stared back at him, filled with undisguised fear
and distrust. She held the controller so tightly, her knuckles were white.

Damn, he thought, what the devil was she doing here? His
hand brushed the collar at his throat, every muscle in his body tightening as
he waited for her to activate the pain reflex.

Ashlynne felt her breath catch in her throat as her gaze
slid down over his bare chest. His shoulders were incredibly broad, his dark
bronze skin glistened with perspiration. She swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly
dry. He was a big man, taller than her father, more muscular than Parah. His
tight black breeches left little to the imagination.

Falkon cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and let it
out in a long sigh. “Are you gonna use that thing?”

Mesmerized by his darkening stare, Ashlynne glanced at the
controller in her hand as if seeing it for the first time. “If I have to.”

“Go into the house.”

She blinked at him, momentarily taken aback by his audacity.
Imagine, a slave telling her what to do! She shifted her hold on the
controller, saw his expression grow suddenly wary. Reassured that she was the
one in power, she shook her head. This was her favorite place and she would not
be driven away by an insolent slave. “I want to sit here and read.”

“And I have work to do.”

“So, do it.”

Muttering an oath, Falkon knelt in the dirt and began to
weed the patch of spiky blue and lavender flowers that grew along both sides of
the path. Anger churned deep inside him. He was a warrior, not a gardener. He
had been born and raised to give orders, not take them. He was accustomed to
fighting, not digging in the dirt like some Nardian farmer.

Fighting, he mused bleakly. If he hadn’t been off fighting
another man’s battles, his wife and child might still be alive. He wondered if
Maiya had gone to her grave hating him for it. Guilt and regret warred within
him, flaying his soul. He had never been a true husband to Maiya. Waging war
had been his life and what did he have to show for it? His wife and daughter
were dead because of it, and he was a slave on a distant planet.

He thrust the bitter memories aside, only to become aware
that he was being watched. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the girl staring
down at him, her eyes wide, as if she was studying some new species of Venusian
earthworm.

He had a sudden urge to grab her, to draw her up against him
and plunder those pouting pink lips, to prove to her that he was every inch the
savage she thought he was, to prove to himself that he was still a man.

Disgust welled up within him and he turned away, ripping the
weeds from the garden with a vengeance, wishing it was as easy to rip away the
guilt that consumed him day and night. Not for the first time, he wondered if
he wouldn’t be better off to make them kill him outright and be done with it.
Perhaps, in death, he would find the peace that had eluded him all his life.

After thirty minutes, he stood up to stretch the kinks out
of his back and shoulders. Slowly, he turned around, hoping the girl would be
gone, but knowing somehow that she was still there, still watching him.

Ashlynne felt her cheeks grow warm as her gaze met his
again. She looked down at her book, but it was impossible to concentrate on the
words. Always her gaze strayed toward the prisoner, to his broad scarred back,
to the play of corded muscles rippling beneath his sun-drenched skin. He moved
with such fluid ease, such strength, just watching him did funny things in the
pit of her stomach.

Their gazes locked, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe,
couldn’t think, could only stare into his eyes, those beguiling blue-gray eyes
that seemed able to penetrate her very soul. A flush rose in her cheeks. No one
ever dared look at her with such insolence.

“What were you doing at the mine the other night?” he asked.

“Nothing. We were just…” She lifted one shoulder and let it
fall. “Just having an adventure.”

“Pretty stupid, wandering around in the middle of the night
like that.”

“I don’t think it’s any of your business what I do in the
middle of the night, or at any other time,” she retorted, and turned her
attention to her book again.

He stared at her a moment. If he was smart, he would get the
hell away from her. Spoiled, pampered lady of the manor, she was nothing but
trouble, and he had trouble enough. “What are you reading?”

She looked up, her gaze meeting his once again. “Excuse me?”

“I asked what you’re reading?”

“A book.”

Before she could stop him, he plucked it from her hand.

“Give me that!” She made a grab for it, but he held it out
of her reach. With a sniff, she sat down again. “You probably can’t read
anyway.”

He glared at her, then glanced at the title of the book.
“Poetry?”

She felt a flush rise in her cheeks. Meardon was an old
world poet, and one of her favorites. Her mother had forbidden her to read his
works, declaring that most of his poetry was too suggestive for a girl her age,
but Magny had bought her a copy the last time she went to Partha.

“What’s wrong with poetry?” she asked defensively.

He shrugged. “Nothing. I like it.”

“You?”

His gaze settled on her, a challenge in their blue-gray
depths. “Why not me?”

“No reason, I just didn’t think…”

“Didn’t think what? That a barbarian like me could
appreciate it?”

“Well, yes, something like that,” she muttered, then felt
her cheeks grow even hotter as he opened the book and began to read aloud.

There are ways to
feel love

to touch

and taste love

I feel her

with my soul

I have tasted her
kiss

with a simple breath

filling me

moving across my
heart

she touches

…so lightly

sending waves of
pleasure

that pulse through my
core

she lifts my pain

…with her gentle
laugh

a simple ‘hello’

and my eyes fill with
her sparkle

there are ways to
feel love

…sharing a fear

holding a thought

…flowing in the
softest silence

where only the soul
hears

always with me is
she…

thank you…my angel

for loving me….