Gentle Chains (The Eleyi Saga Book 1) (18 page)

“Juhan?” Sadi calls and I startle, half-turning to look at her. Kendal
is leading Tin toward a room near the back of the brothel. “Are you coming?”

-Your owner?-
the Eleyi asks.

I stare at her, at her scarlet bars that announce she is a pleasure
slave. And for some reason I don’t want to lie to her.

-It’s complicated,-
I
answer and she laughs. -
I have to go, but I’ll come back.-

Her tone is amused. -
I won’t be going anywhere.-

I stand and hurry after Sadi. Her emotions are walled off and she
refuses to look at me as I take her hand. “Kendal wants us to bring food and
water to the injured,” she says quietly.

She glances back at the Eleyi and then me. “Who is she?

I blink, startled. “A pleasure slave. She’s Eleyi.”

Something flares in her psyche and she doesn’t bother to contain it.
“You’re jealous,” I say, amazed.

“So? What if I am?” she snaps and begins to stalk away from me.

I catch her arm, turning her back to me. “She’s
Eleyi
. The first I’ve spoken to since I left the auctions. Do you
really begrudge me stopping?”

“You make me sound completely unreasonable,” she grumbles and I shake
her, slightly.

-It
is
completely
unreasonable,-
I snap back, unable to contain my own anger. –
To
deny me the right to speak with a fellow Eleyi because you’re jealous is cruel,
lady.-

She jerks as if slapped, and I stalk past her, snatching up a bag full
of survival packs. The first of the wounded I come to is a boy, and I crouch
next to him, trying to ignore his nakedness. “Are you hungry?” I ask, and he
stares, his eyes glassy and unfocused. “Or water. I have water. And hydro
patches.”

“Morphine?” he gasps and I shake my head.

“Sorry,” I mutter, feeling useless. There is one thing I can do, one
thing that might ease his pain a little. I glance around quickly, but Sadi and
Tin are several patients away, ignoring me as they tend the slave Sadi is
giving water to. I lean closer to the boy, and murmur, “I can help you, a
little. Drink some water for me.”

I tear open the pouch, putting it to his dry lips and he tries to
swallow. Most of it runs down his chin and dribbles on his chest, but I look
busy. That’s what really matters.

I settle in my mind, finding my focus, and slip through the psychic
storm to just this one mind, writhing in agony. His psyche screams when I touch
it, a wordless shriek of pain and fear. I ignore it and force my mind on his,
slowly draining off his emotions and, most importantly, his pain. I can feel it
when he realizes it’s gone—the startled pause in his scream, the slight
withdrawal. I control his mind enough that he can’t go far, only as far as I
allow, and that realization causes another kind of panic.

I shift my grip on his psyche and ease him into unconsciousness. His
eyes flutter a few times, and then he slumps into a healing sleep.

Quickly, with less care than is safe, I pull free of his now blank
psyche and glance around. I’m shaking, chills wracking my body, and I struggle
to appear normal as I stand and go to the next victim, and begin the process
again.

We circle the wounded for hours. I tear open survival packs until my
fingers bleed—or maybe it’s the blood of the wounded. I’ve lost track of how
many minds I’ve eased, and how much pain I’ve stolen—I only know that my entire
body is shaking with fatigue, and I haven’t done enough. Haven’t helped fix
anything. It’s so temporary. When the wounds are desperate, when I can look at
the wounded slave and see they will not live, I force my will on them, steal
their pain, weave an illusion of peace, and take enough of their emotions to
ease their passing.

By the time Kendal returns for us, Sadi is halfway across the cavernous
hall, and I’m swaying on my feet. She speaks to the queen’s second, then looks
over to me. “Juhan, we should return to the Leen for the night.”

It’s the first she’s spoken to me since I berated her for her jealousy,
and I’m surprised by the civility in her voice. I nod and try to stand.

I have a moment—a brief, dizzying moment—to realize I’ve stolen too much
before I fall, too fast to stop myself, into oblivion.

I wake up slowly, and lift my head. The quiet hum is comforting and
familiar. I’m on the Leen. “Where is Sadi?” I murmur, shifting to stand.

“Galley,” the ship answers promptly, and I stagger to the door.
“Ill-advised. I will inform Sadi of your status.”

“Disregard. I’m fine,” I answer, and the ship subsides, with a minute
rumble of systems that makes me think it’s disgruntled.

I find Sadi slumped at the table, cradling a mug of warm chocolate,
fatigue pulling her eyes closed. Tin stirs something on the hotsurface, the
smell of spice and cream and vegetables thick in the air. I watch them, testing
the surface of their emotions before I clear my throat. Sadi glances blearily
at me, and then nudges a chair out with a loud screech. I sink down and we sit
silently for a long time before she asks, hoarsely, “Want some? Chocolate can
make anything better.”

I take the proffered cup, recognizing it for the peace offering it is.
“How’s that working for you?” I ask before taking a sip. Liquid, velvet heat
fills my mouth, slides down my throat. It tastes like a memory, and I struggle
to see past a vision of Chosi and a thousand mornings, sitting at the table
with her while she cradled a cup of chocolate. I force the memory away,
focusing on Sadi.

Sadi shrugs and gives me a weak smile. “Not terribly well.”

I touch her psyche again, feeling the conflict, disgust and desperation.
Her eyes are impossibly young when they find mine. “How does this happen? There
are thousands injured. We didn’t even make a dent today. And that says nothing
of the dead. And no one cares. Because they’re
whores
,” she finishes bitterly. She almost snatches the chocolate
from me, burying her nose in the cup.

“What are the estimates on the dead?”

“Thirty thousand in Cenktari alone,” Tin answers. He ladles out soup and
hands steaming bowls around. “Ninety percent of the dead were slaves.”

Sadi glares. “That doesn’t make the deaths acceptable.”

“No one said it did, Sadi,” he says mildly and nudges her spoon. She
stares at it and then takes a tiny bite. As soon as she swallows, her eyes
widen and she bolts from the table.

Tin drops his spoon with a curse and moves to go after her. “Let me,” I
say, standing and following her.

She’s leaning over the commode, tears streaming down her face. I touch
along her psyche, a flutter of moth wings. It’s so fragile, shattered into so
many pieces it stuns me. How can she appear so
together
when she is
completely broken?

-Sadi?-

-How can we expect to make a difference?-
she
whispers. -
It’s so much and we are so small, and no one cares. No one is
even here. The IPS will gladly let their world burn.-

-They
care,-
I say, uselessly.

She twists to glare at me
. -Don’t you dare lie for them. Don’t you
dare. They look the other way while your entire world is raped of its people.
While your sister is Taken and branded and sold. They
use
slaves. So
don’t you dare lie for them. They don’t deserve it.-

I push aside the truth in her words, the rush of anger that she’s one of
the slave owners she’s denouncing, and crouch next to her, brushing hair over
her ears and murmuring, “We’ll make a difference because you can’t help it,
Sadi. You change things.”

As I say it, I realize how true my words are.
She has changed me.

She looks up at me, hope flaring in her psyche. I flinch, watching her
with careful eyes as she shoves mental walls in place, locking them around her
emotions.

“Help me up. This floor is filthy,” she mumbles.

The Leen beeps loudly. “Untrue. System cleaned and purified twelve hours
ago.”

She smirks and I feel something loosen in me. The worst seems to be
over. I tug her up into my arms and she settles there naturally, her head
tucked into the curve of my shoulder. I smooth a hand over her hair. “You need
to eat. Tin is worried.”

 
“Tin worries about everything,”
she mutters against my shirt and I breathe a laugh, hugging her tightly for a
moment longer.

We walk through the Leen, back to the galley. I manage to relax a little
as she settles, calming Tin and warming our dinner. She hands me bread that is
thick, heavy, covered with a creamy cheese that makes my mouth water.

“Do you want to explain what exactly you did today?” Sadi asks, nibbling
her bread.

I glance at her, then Tin. Both are watching me with curious eyes, but
neither looks like they’ll be distracted. Carefully, I swallow my soup and say,
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

She nods. “I thought you might say that. But the fact is that you
shouldn’t be passing out from distributing food and water, Juhan.”

“There was the psychic storm before that,” I point out coolly. “And it
was ungodly hot in there.”

She stares at me, disbelieving, and I drop my head, focusing on the
table in silence. “I can’t tell you,” I murmur, finally, the weight of my
people sitting on my shoulders.

Sadi’s eyes are hard when I look up. Even without touching her psyche, I
know she’s fighting herself and I wait. So much will depend on how she handles
this, if she will respect my boundaries.

“I’m trying to help, Juhan. How can I do that, if you refuse to trust
me?” she says at last.

“How can I trust you?
You own me,
”
I answer, before I can stop myself.

She recoils and I reach for her, psychically and physically. “Sadi, this
isn’t just me. This is so much bigger than I am. Telling you would betray every
Eleyi alive and Taken. And I do trust you, but I cannot betray my people. Can
you understand that?”

She pulls away, and I reluctantly release her hand. “I
don’t
understand,” she says, quietly
furious. “I betrayed my father to help you. And if word of how were to reach
the IPS, it would affect
everyone
on
New Earth. So I do not understand how you can continue to distrust me, how you
can place your people, who will not help you, before me.” She walks away
stiffly and I stare after her, cursing.

“Screwed that up, didn’t you?” Tin says, looking at me.

“Don’t,” I warn.

“What? Point out that you’re being an idiot? Point out that she is
risking everything for you? She asks because she’s worried about you—about your
health and mental wellbeing. She doesn’t ask because she’s looking for some
long lost secret that could destroy the Eleyi.” He stands, snatches Sadi’s
still full bowl from the table and glares at me. “I broke into the Yalten
records. She wanted to know you were strong enough to hear it. But since you’re
going to be an ass, there it is. We found your bloody sister.”

The room spins, tilts, focuses on his words. All my anger, all my
arguments, dry up and I stumble, falling into my seat as it reverberates in my
skull, the words that are both exhilarating and terrifying: we found her.

We know where Chosi’le is.

Chapter 23

Chosi’le

I SQUINT INTO THE rising sun and sigh. The entire jakta is awake and on
edge—most have not slept. The honored dead were taken to the arena last night,
and for a moment I am worried about Kristoff. He has been quiet since the
announcement, and I don’t know what he’s feeling about facing the arena today.
I feel guilty, inexplicably. I should have asked, should have offered him more
support.

Krato comes for me and Miwya before the first moon rises. “Ja Argot
wants you at the arena early, girl. Get your devil and go to the hover.”

I nod and reach for Miwya’s mind. -
Are you ready?-
He bugles in
my head, a comforting assent, and I shove my nerves down. I grab my bag
containing my spectacle attire, wing tips, and whip.

The hover is huge—for a moment, the size reminds me of the slave ship,
and I falter. Miwya butts me with his head. I take a deep breath, steadying
myself. Then I force myself to board, my draken at my back.

The premthas are already in their pen, their Eleyi beastboys lounging in
front of the pen’s large window. I watch them shrink back, wary of my draken,
and I grin as he shifts, hunched because of the low ceiling.

One of the ship’s crew hurries toward me and points at the largest of
the pens. “Put him in there.”

I hide my smile at his nerves, nodding at him, and the shadow and smoke
flows forward, into the pen. I follow Miwya, aware that his illusion is
wrapping around me. The crewman is watching me, eyes wide. “I can’t close the
pen with you in there, Brielle.”

I give him a scornful glare, going about settling my draken while the
crewman waits, fidgeting nervously. -
Will you pull in the illusion?-
I
ask, but Miwya ignores me, curling into a tight circle and laying his head on
folded claws. I am clearly dismissed. I sigh. There is nothing to do but step
out of the pen and let the crewman key it closed.

“You can stay here or go to the galley. The trip to the arena won’t take
long, but we’re still waiting on the hukron,” the crewman says, visibly more
relaxed now that Miwya is secured. I nod, settling against the wall of the pen
and closing my eyes.

It’s been a long morning already, and the day promises to be longer. I
didn’t sleep. I lay in my bed, alone, wishing Jemes was with me. I haven’t
slept. I can’t sleep now.

-Stop,-
Miwya says, gentle in my mind. -
Rest. You’ll
need it before the day is done.-

I nod, taking a breath and slipping deep into my mind, focusing on my
inner thoughts until everything fades away but the empty space inside me.

I awake suddenly.

Miwya hasn’t moved, but I can feel his thoughts prodding me as I look
around. The hovercraft has slowed, and as my thoughts come back from the deep
place where I have been, I become aware of the seething mass of minds around
us. I shiver at the sensation. I’ve become used to the babble of minds at the
jakta, and just as used to tuning them out. But this is different, and it takes
me a moment of struggle to force the thoughts back into nothing but white
noise. The other beastboys are in the same process when I blink, clearing the
spots from my vision. Miwya bugles impatiently behind me and I nod. -
I know,
I’m coming.-

I force myself to stand, my legs aching from sitting cross-legged too
long. The crew is moving through the hover, the pilot hurrying past me and off
the ship as quickly as he can without breaking into a run. I want to laugh at
the stench of fear rolling off him, but I swallow it.

They unload the premtha pride and garilia first and then the hukron
while I wait impatiently.

And even when that is done, the crew waits until finally I stalk to
where they stand clustered together. When the crewman finally looks at me, I
demand, “Is there a reason you are not letting me unload my draken? I need to
accustom him to the arena before we’re due to fight.”

“Sorry Brielle, but Prator asked for you to wait to attend him,” he
says, not meeting my gaze. His partner isn’t so circumspect, a lewd smile
turning his lips into a grimace. The edge of his thoughts make me flush and I
turn away, retreating to Miwya’s pen.

-What does he want?-
I
think furiously, and Miwya makes a soft noise, trying to soothe me. It’s not
working and we both know it. I twitch my bag impatiently, my wing tips rattling
inside.

It’s not long at all before Prator strides up the ramp, his lightweight
pants and sleeveless shirt dusty, sweat beading on his forehead. I’m
surprised—I had thought he would be immaculate, hidden away with the Ja while
they waited on the matches.

He catches the look on my face and grins. “It is not my job to court the
patrons, Brielle. I run the gladiators and my brother plays the gentleman for
the patronage.”

The term is familiar—the name of those who bet the most, who invest in
their favorite jaktas in exchange for privileges, access to the gladiators and
fighters. Idly, I wonder if the patrons will be interested in me when the day
is over and the blood is dry. I shake the thought and raise an eyebrow at
Prator. “Shouldn’t you be off doing Prator-ly duties, then?”

Desire and amusement glitter in his eyes. “Soon enough, Brielle.”

He watches me as I cross my arms, leaning back against the solid panel
of Miwya’s pen. I know he wants me to ask, to push for the reason he’s here,
and that is reason enough for me to bite my lip and force back the questions
bubbling inside of me. Let him break first.

He smiles as if he knows the game I’m playing. I don’t care.

Finally, he says, his voice like silk, “Have you given any more thought
to my proposition?” I shake my head and his eyebrows go up. “You should
consider it, Brielle.”

“Oh, I have. I meant I’m not interested. I’m here to fight and to train
the draken. I will because I have no choice. But I don’t have to warm your bed.
Find another slave to fuck,” I say, and though my voice is calm, inside I’m
shaking, terrified. Hoping that everyone I care about will survive my defiance
and overly aware that in a matter of hours, Kristoff will dance on the sands.

Prator is very still and quiet for a long moment, and my breath slides
from me in a rush. “Can we go?” I ask, and turn.

His emotion hit me a half second before he does, his entire body
pressing me into the panel of the ship. Miwya bugles furiously, but all I can
feel is Prator, his body hard and heavy against me, his voice in my ear.

“You’re a slave. At my jakta. I don’t have to
ask.”

“Then why did you?” I snap, trying to hide the wobble in my voice. He
laughs, the motion shaking him against me, crushing my wings.

“Because I’d rather you be willing.” He bites down on my ear, and I
shudder as pain and fear slam through me.
 
Then he steps away, adjusting himself and smiles at me thinly. “All
right. Come on then—let’s get the draken settled.”

I swallow hard and follow him. As long as Miwya and Kristoff and I walk
away today, I can stomach his presence. I watch him tap in a complex key and
then the panel shivers and vanishes and Miwya explodes out of the pen. I rub
his head and I take a deep breath before we follow Prator out of the hover.

The arena is a hive of activity, and I flinch as people scream at the
sight of me, Miwya crowding behind me, his head almost on my shoulder. Prator
leans down and murmurs in my ear, “Spread your wings, darling. Let the audience
see the Deadly Beauty.”

I snort at the title, and mutter back, “Is that what the Ja is calling
me?” But I do as I’m told, my wings spreading into a wide arch, my pale
coloring framed by my black draken’s smoke and shadow. The crowd screams again,
half hysteria, half bloodlust, and my stomach lurches. I’m absurdly grateful no
one forced food on me this morning.

Prator pulls me along in his wake, and I follow gratefully, eager to
escape the eyes of the crowd. The door is too small for Miwya, though, and I
dig my heels in against Prator’s grip, unwilling to leave my draken behind.
Prator gives me an amused look as he taps a command into the wrist tablet he
wears and the doors rise, continuing to lift until the bottom of the gate is
two feet higher than Miwya at full height. I blink and Prator laughs as
Miwya crowds me forward. He’s anxious as well, eager to be in the dark cells
where we will await our match.

“They will call you when it’s time,” Prator says, pausing after leading
us through a warren of tunnels and passages I have no clue how to navigate. His
head tilts as he stares at me. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t object to sharing you
with your aide.”

I whip around, glaring. “How do you even know about him?”

He stares at me, patiently waiting, and I close my eyes, my lips pressed
together, and shake my head.

He looks at me once more before he leaves, a quiet mocking question in
his cold eyes and I look away. I’m not sure I can refuse him again, if he asks.
I’m not that brave.

In the cool darkness, I expect Miwya to ask about it, but he merely
curls on the rocky sand, sharpening his claws on a boulder while I collapse
next to him and will myself to sleep.

The first wave of screams from the arena wakes me and immediately, I
know it’s different. They don’t scream for exotic beasts and their winged
trainers. Now the crowd screams for blood, and the feet beating on the sand
promise to give it to them. The arena shakes with the sounds of their screams
and the scent of blood. I struggle not to be swallowed in the swell of raging
minds, so fierce and hungry and excited. It’s so much, an almost group psyche
that makes me feel tiny.

“Brielle?”

I jerk upright at my name, startled to see Kristoff. He’s been prepared
for his fight, and smiles at me now, a serene expression at odds with the
nerves that sing through his psyche. I push off the ground, going to him.

“When is your fight?” I ask, touching the boiled leather armor that
covers his chest. It’s against arena rules for a glad to fight in anything else,
such as steel or alloy metals. It’s considered unsporting, unfair.

He smiles. “There are a dozen matches before I fight.” He glances at
Miwya, then me. “Can you get away for a while?”

I look over at Miwya, and he shifts slightly in my mind, a gentle nudge.
I nod.

Kristoff takes my hand, a rare personal gesture, pulling me along behind
him through the busy arena. Above us, the screams from the crowd are reaching a
crescendo, and I pale as they shake the walls around us. He looks at me. “It’s
the end of a fight. Come on.”

The room we enter is large and empty. A few knots of gladiators litter
it, a man dressed similarly to Prator, in colors that are strange and clashing.
The man’s eyes skim over us, and his psyche sharpens with interest. He gives
Kristoff a single nod, turning his gaze back to the massive vid screen that
dominates the wall. It’s quiet, the cameras panning over the restless crowd
waiting for another match to begin. I can see where the glads disturbed the
sands, their blood staining it, and I feel sick. I don’t particularly want to
face that.  Kristoff drops into a chair and I sink down next to him and we
watch.

The match starts with a ritual I recognize from training. A deep bow to
the arena manager followed by a brief, shallow bow to each other. Then a few
paces away from each other, and the drawing of weapons before the bell sounds,
and the crowd screams and they are charging each other. The glad in orange and
purple is heavy on his feet, his trident flashing in the bright sun. His
opponent—clad in crimson and green—is lighter and less committed to the blade.
He doesn’t react at all other than to fall back, blocking the other’s trident
and turning it aside with an easy twist of his broadsword.

“Who wins?” Kristoff asks as he glances at me.

I consider them again. The crimson is still dancing away, a half smile
on his lips as the other glad lunges. He’s toying with him, and as the purple
charges once more, the crimson flicks out with his sword, and a whistle shills.
First blood.

“The purple,” I say, and Kristoff laughs softly. We’re both silent,
watching the tune of the fight change. The blooding has enraged the purple—and
focused him. It’s over in moments, too fast for the crowd to be appeased.
Thinking now, the purple glad feints with the trident, and swings it around to
deliver a ringing blow to the crimson’s skull. It jars his opponent, giving the
purple just long enough to slam his trident into his opponent’s leg. Blood
spews forth in a bubbly froth, and he throws the wounded glad down as the bell
gongs above us, silencing the crowd.

Winner.

Kristoff looks at me and I feel sick, watching the images flickering in
the small screen as we await the next match.

I gasp, sitting forward suddenly and Kristoff tenses next to me.
“Brielle?” he asks, frowning. His psyche shivers with concern as he watches me.
I point, and wordlessly, he brings up the story playing in the corner of the
screen. For a heartbeat, staring, I almost think I’m wrong. That I could
mistake him—I’ve spent every moment since the slave auction watching for him.
It’s not such a stretch to imagine seeing him—especially here.