Slavemaster's Woman, The (28 page)

With a heavy sigh, Cushla dropped her hands
to her side. She moved toward the vanity on the other side of the
room and lowered to sit on the bench in front it. Silently, she
stared at the reflection of the face that bore more than a young
woman’s share, of anyone’s share of unspeakable, most unjustifiable
experiences
. She thought about her mother and in
her head, she heard her father’s cursing voice, her mother’s
echoing screams, and then morose filled her as she lamented the
loss of the innocent child that once peered back at her through
this same reflection.

Cushla swallowed a hard
lump and pushed the horrid
thoughts aside. Instead, she
considered some of things Tarken had said, about the notion as to
why Mecor had purchased her. It was now clear it indeed had
something to do with her father since the tyrant had barely paid
her any heed since her return, at least so far. He’d eyed her from
head to toe in the most lecherous, disconcerting manner, but said
nothing, and made no attempts whatsoever to bed her.

For now.

She’d already resolved that if he tried she
would find a way to slit his throat. Her gaze unconsciously
returned to the drapery and she resisted with dismay, the rising
urge to ease them aside again, to lay her eyes upon the only man
she desired to touch her—a desire she vowed to fight with all the
might within her.

He—
the slavemaster was a traitor to
her heart.

* * * *

Tarken closed the door to his quarters with
a snap. Sighing with frustration, he removed his belt unit and sat
down to remove his boots. Wearily, he swiped his hand over his
eyes. How could things that seemed so promising one moment…turn so
sour the next? In the several dawnings, nearly half a moon phase
since their return, Cushla had not once spoken to him.

The one time he did corner her in the
gardens outside the castle and tried to explain, she refused to
look at him, had actually seemed to look through him, as if he
weren’t even there, the coldness clear on her beautiful face.
Damn the stars!
He was worried to sickness that Mecor would
hurt her, and was disturbed beyond unbearable torment that he was
barred from entering the castle and thus, unable to physically
protect her.

He should’ve insisted on accompanying her to
the king upon their arrival, instead of relenting and allowing Rube
to take her, but the trip from Aracome to Buranis was hellish with
Cushla refusing to even speak to him.

She’d even chosen to sleep on the floor of
the ship rather than share the bed with him. She obeyed his every
order, including lying on her back when he intended to sex her,
spreading her legs in a mechanical fashion as one would expect a
well-trained slave to do.

It wrenched Tarken’s stomach as it did his
heart and he turned away from her, unable to bear seeing Cushla
with such a broken spirit, which ironically had been his initial
intent when he’d first taken possession of her. For the remainder
of the journey that was his only attempt at touching her.

When they’d finally arrived on Buranis,
Scoac announced his assignment as her slavemaster was over and
Tarken released Cushla because it was true. What choice did he
have? He was a slave to his own limited power.

At least his informants had assured him that
King Mecor paid little attention to Cushla, that the king had taken
her into his royal chamber the dawning of their return, and that it
was quiet in there the entire time. When the doors opened again she
wasn’t in the room, having been escorted from the chamber through
another door. Surely, Cushla would’ve fought the king had he
attempted to sex her, would she have not? Screamed even? She had
certainly fought Tarken wholeheartedly on that first eve.

Tarken chuckled fondly at the memory, but it
died quickly. The relief he felt that perhaps Mecor refrained from
touching her was marginal, his thoughts persistently filled with
despair that perhaps she was so broken inside, so pained by what
Tarken had done on Aracome, by being ripped away from her father
that she merely laid there lifeless and uncaring as that bastard
king had his way with her.

What if the king decided to tie her
up?
Growling with helpless fury, Tarken clenched at his hair.
He was driving himself crazy with such thoughts. He was going to go
mad if he went any longer without seeing her, seeing that she was
safe.

He knew she watched him again this dawning,
as she seemed to do almost every dawning since arriving. The hill
at the edge of the field where he frequently stood to oversee the
slaves gave him a full view of castle’s posterior and he was
informed as to which windows were part of her bed chamber.

Through his peripheral vision he’d often
seen the curtain shift aside. Tarken always refrained from looking
in that direction for quite awhile, but when he finally did he
would catch a glimpse of her before the curtain closed shut. He
wondered why she watched him, when she went to such great lengths
to avoid him in person. She’d even seemed to now avoid coming
outside.

Cushla, wasn’t his only main concern,
however. In his absence, things had changed with the slaves. Just
as he had feared, Durnin had run amuck with power. His use of
corporal punishment, his demand that the guards have their slave
band buttons set on high at all times had cost the lives of several
of his minions, and it was apparent their trust in him during his
time away had changed for the worse.

This enraged Tarken so much that he demanded
that Durnin report to him immediately, but the cretin retreated to
his quarters. He had yet to confront him, but no more! Rising to
his feet he stalked to the door and jerked it open. He crossed the
distance of the field, coming to stand in front of the door to
Durnin’s quarters. Lifting his hand and balling it into a fist, he
was about to pound on the door when it swung open.

“Tarken…” Durnin started, jumping back with
the unexpected arrival of the slavemaster, but then his expression
changed and an arrogant grin appeared on the man’s face.

The look of smug satisfaction was so
palpable that Tarken nearly wiped it away with his fist. He fought
as he always did, for control. “What the hades were you thinking,
Durnin? Keeping the buttons set on high. Your decisions were
reckless and completely irresponsible!”

Durnin smirked at him. “I think not. Not a
single slave has escaped under my watch.”

The rage that filled Tarken likely had more
to do with what was happening with Cushla than it did Durnin.

Nevertheless, Durnin became the target, and
Tarken pushed his way into the room, slamming his hands on the
man’s chest, pushing him against the wall. “No slave has ever
escaped, but several have died under your watch!” Gripping the man
by the collar, Tarken bared his teeth, bringing his face to an
intimidating hairsbreadth away from the lackey’s face. “You are
relieved of duty as of now.” Regaining his composure, Tarken
released the man and stepped back a few paces, putting distance
between himself and Durnin. He held out his hand. “Give me your
belt,” he spoke with a cool, even tone though he still battled the
compulsion to beat the man to a bloody pulp.

“Hellstars, if I will!” Durnin bellowed.
“You’ve lost your control slavemaster. I rule here now.”

“Your belt, and if you refuse to give it to
me willingly…?” Tarken’s upper lip twitched and his nostril’s
flared dangerously. “…You will find my alternate method of taking
it from you much less appealing” Tarken knew his eyes and
expression promised that much and he actually hoped Durnin would be
foolish enough to refuse. He needed to beat something or someone,
badly. It would be a pleasure to make use of Durnin in that way, to
release the angst and sense of helplessness provoking his
insides.

The two men glared at each other, the
hesitation Durnin afforded himself, pushing Tarken to the edge of
his tolerance.

Finally, Durnin released a resentful grunt.
He then removed the belt and tossed it to Tarken who snatched it
from the air.

“You are confined to quarters until I speak
with the King.” Turning on his heels, Tarken stalked from Durnin’s
quarters with near disappointment that he was denied the
satisfaction of burying his fist into the subordinate’s gullet but
in truth, knowing it was himself he wanted to beat up.

He headed back to his chamber and made a
feeble attempt at getting some rest, but the effort was futile. The
dawn came too quickly, and Tarken rolled out of bed exhausted and
sleep deprived. He stretched as he yawned and then wearily ambled
to the galley where he heated a mug of acajafa in his ionic cooker,
hoping the stimulating drink he consumed on rare occasions would
help keep him alert. He showered and donned a fresh set of clothing
and then headed out toward the fields to check on the state of the
slaves, hoping his rapport with them was above disrepair.

Unable to resist, his gaze snapped toward
the castle, to the windows belonging to Cushla’s chamber, but on
this dawning the curtains were drawn and still. Briefly, he
considered how he might scale the wall of stone façade and decided
it was a viable option. His patience was thinning and if that were
the only method by which he could see her, then so be it.

His attention shifted back toward the field.
At first glance all seemed normal, but he began to see a pattern in
the movements of the slaves. When they worked in the fields before
Tarken left Buranis they would cluster around central areas, but
now they seemed to have spread out, one slave per area. There
appeared to be a chain reaction in position going on.

One would move off of the field and the next
would step into his place. After a short time, the area that a
slave vacated would be filled by the next in line and so on,
creating a rippling effect. It was very subtle, and Tarken probably
would’ve paid it no heed but with all that had happened of late,
his nerves were irritated and his perception of his surroundings
was on constant alert. It was very odd, almost calculating.

He continued to watch them well into the
dawning, but no one moved from his or her spot as the mid-dawning
meal time came upon them. Tarken thought that perhaps he’d imagined
the whole thing after they had all eaten…until he saw something
else unusual.

A royal was speaking to a male slave. He
could tell it was indeed royalty by the man’s attire. This was
strange, as the royals almost never interacted with the slaves, and
when they did it was always the females they bothered for sexual
favors.

Frowning, he watched as the two conversed
and as the royal strolled away, the slave walked to the next area,
another slave stepped into his place and the whole pattern of
movement began again. Tarken moved. Running toward the rise that
royal had just disappeared over and he intercepted him, grabbing
him by the shoulder.

The royal turned and Tarken was taken aback.
He recognized him. “Rube?”“Slavemaster,” Rube returned calmly.

“What were you doing in the field with my
slaves?” Tarken pinned him with a demanding glare.

Rube stared at him for a moment, his
expression a bit snobbish. “I am a Royal. I can go where ever I
please and speak to whomever I please. I don’t answer to you,
slavemaster.”

“You do when you interrupt the work of the
slaves.”

“I saw no interruption.” Rube turned his
back on Tarken and walked away.

Tarken let him be. Something was amiss but
he needed more information to determine what exactly that was.
Turning his gaze to look at the castle, once again he saw the
curtain in Cushla’s window fall shut.
Damn the Stars!
He
needed to get the wench, the king’s property out of his head. He
needed a drink, a serious drink…or two. It might numb him for a
spell, or it might only feed what he really intended to do.

Kidnap her.

Chapter Twenty One

The early eve was upon them. Having left one
of his more trustworthy subordinates in charge, Tarken walked the
stone streets of Kiron, a nearby town that handled most of the
commerce for the area.

There was a space port there where
commodities were imported from other planets, and although ships
that arrived and departed were carefully monitored, there was also
an occasional shuttle that some of Mecor’s upper echelon used to
visit other planets.

He wondered how much it would take to bribe
a pilot, and if not, where he would hide the body after he killed
the man and hijacked the ship. Hellblazers! Was he mad for such
murderous thoughts?

Tarken made his way to the seedier side of
town in the docking and warehouse district. Surely, he would find
someone there he might entice with a good amount of credits. If
not, he could at least find a drink strong enough to eat a hole in
his gut and if he were lucky enough either a willing woman or a
good fight. His mood was turning quite fowl and he needed some
aggressive release.

He halted at the entrance of a shabby
looking tavern, the loud music and loud rambling of voices flowing
to the outside. There was a crash, and Tarken jumped aside in time
to avoid the two men who crashed through the door and began
throwing punches. He jumped again, avoiding the man whose body
shattered the window he’d just been thrown through
.

Yes indeed,
he thought.
This just
might be the place.
He was just about to enter the tavern when
he saw someone he thought he recognized as they darted between the
buildings. Though eve had settled upon them, the deep orange of her
skin nearly glowed in the darkness, despite doing her best to hide
beneath the hooded cloak she wore.

It was her, the Shalcar woman, Vialin.

Tarken gave chase. Rounding the corner, he
entered the narrow passageway she’d gone down. He thought he had
lost her for a moment until he heard a door close at the far end.
Trying the first one, he came to he found it locked. He listened
briefly but heard nothing.