Slavemaster's Woman, The (38 page)

Cushla swung her head skyward and released a
sorrowful, angst-ridden cry.

“Now!” Tarken yelled. He and Rube fired
their stunners, taking out Durnin first, stunning but not killing
him, and then the same with remaining guards, save one that dropped
his weapon and held his hands high to surrender.

Still in his self-absorbed laughter, the
king never saw her coming—was oblivious when Cushla suddenly went
silent and her head lunged toward him. She snapped, catching the
king’s head in her beak. She thrashed her head to one side and then
clamped down, slashing through his neck and crunching bone,
severing the king’s head from his body.

“Oh Cushla,” Bazil winced at the horrific
sight of blood spewing from the king’s lifeless body now in a heap
on the floor. He scanned the room to see who was still
standing.

Rube, Shre, Tarken and a very shaken royal
guard all stood and stared wide-eyed.

“Well…” Rube commented drolly. “All’s well
that ends well?”

Tarken tucked the weapon into his waistband
and with an outstretched arm reached out to Cushla. There was grief
in her eyes…tears, and it pained him. “Forgive me, Cushla.”

She dropped the king’s head and it landed at
his feet.

Tarken glanced down at it.

First, her slave band and now the king’s
head, it seemed his beloved was fond of bestowing him with
presents.

“It’s over, love.” Tarken stepped closer to
the Libertas…Cushla.

Cushla was rapidly shifting, her body
shrinking, and reshaping until she was once again, the petite
lovely woman he adored. Crouched before him, her beautiful white
hair draping around her naked body she looked so frail—a complete
contrast to the mighty creature she was just moments before. She
swiped the blood from her lips with the back of her hand, smearing
it across her cheek and then stared at the blood on the back of her
hand. “Oh…e-e-w.” She grimaced and glanced at the king’s headless
body. “I had his head in my mouth!” she cried.

“You’re free, Cushla,” Tarken spoke softly
to her and held out his hand. “It’s over.”

Lifting her head, she fixated on his face
and then her gaze dropped to his open hand before darting back up
to meet his eyes. “No!” She shook her head vehemently. “No!”

“Cushla—”

“No!” She yelled and instantly shifted,
taking shape of the spirit bird once more. Flapping her wings she
screeched, pivoted and flew through the large gap at the top of the
chamber that was left open when the glass had shattered. She
screeched again several times, each subsequent sound becoming
fainter and fainter as she disappeared into the skies.

“Where did she go?” Bazil furled his brow
and stared at the opening. “Why did my daughter leave?”

“Perhaps she fears what she is?” Rube
commented. He was crouched over Shre Vialin checking her condition.
He smiled at her when she opened her eyes.

“Aki e astabocu,” Shre murmured in her
native language. “You are a sight for wor—worn eyes, handsome. Tell
me I’m not dreaming.”

Rube chuckled in return, brushed a strand of
hair from her face and then stroked her cheek.

Tarken merely sighed. Reaching down, he
grasped the king’s head, lifting it by the hair and stared at it.
“I’ve never seen you looking better, your Majesty.” He slapped the
head into the chest of the opened-mouthed guard who’d earlier
surrendered. “Take care of
that
.”

The guard
oomphed
when it struck his
chest, his hands coming up to catch it as if he’d been passed a
ball. Then, he released a sound of abhorrence and dropped the
king’s head to the ground. He backed away quickly, flattening
himself against a nearby wall.

Tarken walked over to where the king’s crown
lay on the floor. He picked it up and then approached Rube, handing
it to him.

Rube lifted his brows as he accepted the
headdress from him.

“As for your daughter, Bazil,” Tarken
belatedly answered. “He who possesses her holds her power. I
suppose that displeased her.”

Bazil studied the slavemaster seeming to
briefly consider the words of the legend. He then nodded with
understanding. “She loves you. You possess her power, because you
possess her heart.”

Tarken smiled sullenly and stared through
the gaping hole the Libertas had flown through. He wondered if he
would ever see her again and a grave sadness filled him. “I only
wish that Cushla understood that she also possesses mine.”

Chapter Twenty Eight

Tarken gazed out over the fields, watching
as the workers…the paid workers attended to their duties.

A short distance away, Kleb held a compu-pad
and was tapping away at the screen. He then spoke to the worker
standing in front of him who nodded and then went on his way after
apparently receiving some assignment. Kleb looked up and glanced in
Tarken’s direction. He waved and Tarken returned the greeting. He
and Ayia had escaped Durnin’s order of execution. Unbeknownst by
the sleazy royal, the guards he’d commanded to carry out the task
were a part of the rebellion. They had let Kleb and Ayia go.

Durnin was presently attempting every angle
to curry favor in an attempt to save his own hide, following Rube
around like a submissive pup. Rube had deemed him harmless and
incapable of causing trouble, but Tarken was still reluctant to
trust him…ever.

Ayia had returned to Orboka, her home planet
and one of Mecor’s holdings to deliver the good news of the king’s
annihilation. Shre Vialin, who’d suffered several broken bones
during the uprising, was now nearly healed from the ordeal. She was
living in the castle and there were rumors that she and Rube were
becoming quite cozy with each other.

Inhaling, Tarken savored the scent of
freedom, and the joyous harmony restored to the once oppressed
citizens.

Under Rube’s rule, Buranis and the other
galactic holdings in the dominion were prospering, making its gain
through numerous natural commodities, fruits and precious metals.
On Buranis itself, visitors were beginning to spread the word of
its lush gardens and natural hot springs, bringing tourism to its
beautiful terrains. Even the local town, which under Anzer Mecor’s
reign had become a cesspit for illicit activities, was developing
into an attractive marketplace and artisan’s corner for art, music
and theater. The transformation taking place on the planet was
remarkable and it was flourishing.

For Tarken, it had simply become home.

Tipping his head skyward he searched the
skies. The air was fresh and the sun was warm upon his skin, but
despite the beautiful dawning his heart was hollow. It had been two
cycles of the moon since she’d left him and there was still no sign
of her.

“When she was a little girl, her mother
wondered how we would handle the power of what she was.”

Shifting his gaze Tarken studied Bazil. With
one foot propped up on a tree stump he too, was searching the
skies. Tarken had been so lost in his thoughts he hadn’t even heard
Cushla’s father approach.

“You always knew who she was?” Tarken asked.
He’d spoken to Cushla’s family very little since the uprising. He
needed time to process all that had happened, to reflect on her
place in his heart and how he would survive her self-imposed
absence. He did know one fact however, that if she ever decided to
return to him, he would be waiting with open arms for her.

Bazil dropped his foot to the ground and
smiled at Tarken. “Most of the legend’s details have faded over
time, the tale of the Libertas becoming little more than a child’s
bedtime story.” Turning his head, Bazil watched his father who was
speaking to some of the workers. “When my mother Pulomi, Cushla’s
grandmother passed we found the ancient tome of spirits amongst her
belongings. According to the doctrine written within its pages, the
Libertas manifests in physical form during times of grave spiritual
quandary. She must’ve foreseen the fate of Buranis.”

Tarken looked at Bazil curiously. “Then why
did you flee with her if you knew she could prevent Mecor’s
uprising?”

Bazil frowned as he cast his eyes downward.
“She was a tiny child—my daughter.” His gaze shifted and met
Tarken’s eyes. “Despite her appearance, despite the telltale mark
she bears, it was I, who refused to believe it.” He pressed his
lips tightly together and furled his brow. “I was never much of a
spiritual man. I only meant to protect her and denial was the
easier path.”

“She never shifted as a child?”

Bazil shook his head from side to side.

Tarken dragged his fingers through his hair
and sighed. “There were signs while I was with her. Even knowing as
little as I did about the Libertas, I suspected when I saw the
beginnings of her shifting,” he paused, his mind wandering
momentarily to his memories of Cushla, and he couldn’t help but
feel the warmth of it. The faint smile on his lips faded and his
attention once again, returned to the skies. He scanned its vast
openness. “With all she endured, all she had to do was shift to
save herself. I don’t understand why she did not.”

Walking closer to Tarken, Bazil reached out
and patted him twice on the shoulders. “That is something I have no
answer for. You’ll have to ask her yourself.” He then turned and
walked away.

“If only to be given the chance,” Tarken
whispered. Sadness filled him. “My heart aches for you, Cushla. I
miss you.”

Shouting in the field snagged his attention
and Tarken’s gaze shifted to see what was happening. Several of the
workers were dropping to their knees while others fell flat to the
ground.

Kleb however, was looking upward and waving
while Bazil stood nearby. He too was looking upward.

Tarken followed the line of their gazes and
his heart leapt.

Cushla!

She was traversing the sky. With her wings
outspread she was in an easy glide as she cut across it. Changing
directions, she swooped down on him until she was close enough to
pluck him from the ground with her talons.

Tarken never flinched as she did not clutch
him, he merely tracked her path of flight, watching her admiringly
as she arced upward again, creating a greater and greater distance
between the ground and the skies
.
Tarken
resisted the urge to chase her, to run and wave to her, though he
wanted dearly to call to her. He would leave that up to her if it
was what she decided—he deeply hoped she decided to come to him,
but his heart sank when she vanished over the horizon.

He waited, his gaze fixed to the spot and
then he saw movement in the skies to his left.

She was arcing around, diving and ascending,
coming lower and lower, her form casting a greater and greater
shadow upon the ground until her talons touched it. As soon as they
did, she transformed her forward flight effortlessly and smoothly
yielded to a forward stride as she walked toward him. It was as if
she’d been transitioning for solars. “You summoned me master?” She
spoke coolly. Her eyes with their spectrum of colors shifting to
the sparkling crystal irises.

Tarken was so familiar with that wondrous
gaze of hers. He smiled softly, watching her hair whip around her
and then settling like a silken drape around her naked body. His
heart was swelling almost painfully at her unexpected
appearance—excitement mixed with fear that her visit would be
fleeting. “I didn’t summon you, Cushla.”

Did I?

“I thought I heard you…” Lightly, Cushla
touched her temple with two of her fingertips. “…in my head.”

“I assure you, mistress I did not order you
here.”

She looked almost disappointed. “But you
could’ve…” she hesitated her lips parting as she took a shallow
breath.

The mere simple act of those luscious lips
caused Tarken’s cock to stir and an incredible urge nudged at him
to scoop her up and take her immediately to his bed.

“…if you had so desired…” she continued.
“You could’ve if you wished.” With that comment she cast her eyes
downward.

“I promise this to you, Cushla.” Tarken
attempted to convey what he felt inside, and used the utmost of
sincerity in his voice. “I will do my very best to make no demand,
command or take liberty with you against your will.”

Cushla’s gaze flicked upward. “That I find
surprising, Tarken. Many a man would abuse such power. Mecor
certainly would have.”

“Mecor didn’t love you.”

She stared at him, and he could tell by the
expression on her lovely face that she didn’t completely understand
what he was saying. Or she was reluctant to believe him.

It mattered not. He would say it again—and
again, and again. “I love you Cushla.” Unable to resist her any
longer, Tarken stalked toward her, aching to touch her, to kiss
her, to hold her in his arms. He half expected her to dodge his
advance but she only tensed slightly when he swept her into his
embrace and pulled her against his body. He could tell by the
glimmer in her eyes and the subtle smile on her lips that she was
pleased.

He laid his lips upon hers immediately.

She responded with a sigh, taking the kiss
and returning it with equal fervor, perhaps even more so as it was
Cushla who barged her way into his mouth with her tongue and
pressed her lips hard against his.

Tarken groaned and tightened his arms around
her.

She broke the kiss, tipped her head away
from his and drew in a gasp of air.

It was then Tarken gathered her up, lifting
her from the ground.

“Are you forcing your will upon me, Tarken?”
Cushla wrapped her arms around his neck. She attempted to suppress
a smile but failed.

“Do you object?” Tarken nuzzled his cheek
against her hair and inhaled. She smelled magnificent, like she’d
bathed in the petals of a freshly bloomed garden.

“No,” she answered.

“Good.” Tarken turned and headed to his
quarters. It was the same humble abode with which he’d grown
accustomed to, preferring its simple charm to the larger, more
lavish accommodations in the castle that Rube had offered him.