Siren Slave (3 page)

Freya glanced back toward the town at the sound of a woman cursing. She moved aside the curtains of needled pine limbs to better see. The cutpurse stalked toward the Dark Wood and yanked off a shoe with a broken heel. A very high heel.

“I am going to wring her neck. A broken shoe. Shit on my face. Unforgivable.” The woman was not pleased and was definitely looking for Freya.

Unless, unless people often send her into dung heaps. Sometimes weird things frequently happen to people, like me with falling down stairs.

When she heard Roman voices in the distance, she waited until the woman was close enough to her hiding place, then she grabbed her arm and pulled her into the needled bower.

“What are you doing?” the woman with a possible knife fetish asked, shoving at Freya’s arm. Freya held on all the tighter, so she wouldn’t fall.

“Simple,” Freya said. “If you’re trying to kill me, I—”

“You think I’m spending my time trying to kill you, a peasant?” The woman had stopped struggling and settled for glaring in outrage and disgust at Freya’s hand on her arm.

“You have a knife. You’re wearing a cloak. You’re following me. If I hold you in front of me, you can’t be behind my back.”

“Excuse me?”

“That, and I’m going to run into the wood, because of people following me, some of the same people following you. Do my enemies being your enemies make us friends?”

“No, and you—”

“Then, there’s the Leg Rule. Anything with more than four legs is bad, to be avoided at any cost.” She cast a fearful glance at the tree branches above. “There are definitely lots of things with more than four legs in the wood. You might be kind enough to remove one of those things from me, should one—”

The other woman snorted and glanced at a tree before she slapped something into Freya’s long bangs that had come loose from the kerchief she wore under her hood. Freya glanced up, seeing a small black shape that definitely had more than four legs—she didn’t even need to count. She shrieked, releasing the woman. Her legs became tangled in her cloak, and she tumbled forward, hitting her head on branches, twigs and nettles scraping her skin. She rolled and rolled downward.

She landed on her back at the bottom of the incline and opened her eyes. She was in a clearing, and it was wet. The forest floor was swampy here, and jagged ruins rose from black pools of water, making a circle of moss covered arches and smashed gray stones. Two women and one man stared down at her, but Freya couldn’t be bothered with them, not when black shapes still squirmed in her pale tresses

“Spiders, in my hair.” Both hood and kerchief had fallen off in her ignominious descent.

“Oh, seriously, stop,” the possible assassin said. “It’s a spider.”

“Princess,” the other woman said. “Calm down.” She had hair as black as the assassin’s. So did the man.

Still shaking from the spiders, Freya couldn’t comprehend how the assassin had beaten her to the bottom of the hill during that tumble. Confusion sent her thoughts careening wildly.

Princess? I suppose they recognize me. It couldn’t be helped.

Better assassins than spiders.
But what if the assassins learn my fear and send assassin spiders?
They have eight legs to hold knives, so they’d feasibly be able to use four or six, and probably poison-tipped, because they are spiders. Add in the knives in addition to the fangs, and I’m done. Now the possible assassin knows my fears, too. Oh, Freya, watch for the assassin spiders.

Freya offered no protest as the man took her hand and guided her to her feet. He persisted in hovering at her side once she had been safely seated on a moss-covered section of the crumbling stone.

The other woman produced a shell comb adorned with barnacles and began to pull it gently through Freya’s tresses. Freya closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of her mane being straightened and de-spidered. The man pressed a cool cloth to the scratches and cuts on her face. Goodness, these people must have had experience being servants.

At least I haven’t ended up with a knife protruding from any vitals. Unless…

What if these three are behind the whole plot? No. Why would they bother helping me only to kill me?

“Who are you? What is this place?” Freya tilted her head, studying the three strangers. They were all very beautiful, pale-skinned creatures. And the material of their clothing—she’d never seen the like. Oh, but she did want entire chests of it.

She glared at the assassin with the broken shoe. “Why did you put a spider in my hair?”

“That’s
the princess, Morrigan?” The assassin snorted.

The other woman, Morrigan, held up a hand. She had dark eyes, so dark they appeared almost black. They matched the coiling black hair that fell to her waist. She was slender, the silver gown hiding very little. It was a simple article of clothing, but the material shimmered.

The man wore smooth, black breeches, tucked into shining black boots. A white tunic shimmered over his muscles. Clasped with gold medallions over his broad shoulders was a pale blue cape that matched his eyes. The cape was embroidered with gold thread, skillfully done in the shape of songbirds. No, he was no warrior. His soft hands rested on the glimmering strings of a gold lyre.

The assassin tossed off her cloak to reveal a much stranger garb. Fish scales? Fish scales in brighter shades than Freya had ever seen, pinks, greens, and shocking blues in a swirling pattern that centered at the woman’s large breasts. Clasped to her shoulders with small bits of coral were streams of sheer material in the same vibrant green that appeared in her dress. On her feet were a pair of gold sandals with insanely high heels. Well, one had a ridiculously high heel. The other was missing one.

“Fair Freya, I am Balder,” the man said with an elegant bow and flourish of his cape. “This woman wearing the scales of fish is Hedwig.”

“Balder? Hedwig?” Balder was a god, a son of Woden, king of the Germanic gods. Or, in Chiron’s texts, they were something else—fey. Not quite gods. “Like the bard god and the Sea Witch?” Freya asked.

“That’s what he just said,” Hedwig said with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “I don’t want to hear it. You’re a princess and wearing that,
that…
I’m not even touching that shit.”

“Um, you were actually the one wearing shit earlier,” Freya said.

“Freya, let yourself be at ease,” Balder said. “I know that being confined and trying to hide from assassins wearies the heart and taxes the soul.”

“Considering
Hedwig
was trying to find me and carrying a dagger…” Freya shrugged.

“Just how else am I supposed to encourage people to get out of my way?” Hedwig stomped her foot. There went the other heel. She frowned with disgust and retrieved it. “Morrigan, she’s here now. I found her, so I will be on my way.”

“No,” Morrigan said. “You are still needed. Freya is going to need your help.”

Balder pressed a skin into Freya’s hands, along with a hunk of yellow cheese. “This might help you relax.”

She bit into the cheese and followed it with a long swallow of whatever was in the wineskin. It was sweet. Too sweet, and it did weird things to her stomach. Freya had never liked overly sweet drinks, instead preferring the bitterness of ale.

I probably shouldn’t drink this. It could be poison.
She spit out the sweet mead, already beginning to feel an odd tingling flow through her body.

“What’d you do?” she demanded. She moved to rise from where she was perched on the remnant of a stone wall, only she could not budge. Her body from the neck down had lost all feeling. Was she becoming a statue?

“I’m going to die, aren’t I? And this is going to be one of those slow, excruciating deaths. I’ll probably bleed out of all my orifices or watch the skin slowly rot from my bones yet feel like I am being burned alive. Or perhaps I won’t be able to breathe or scream. Did you put something in my food? What if I had a horrible reaction to it that made my face swell? Or worse, if my windpipe began to close up.”

“It is fey food,” Balder explained. “You needn’t trouble yourself over strange reactions to it. Well, not the sort that could shut your windpipe and cause your face to bloat.”

“So you’ve fed me fey foods and now you’re going to carry me away to make me your slave for all eternity in the land where no one ages. Chiron’s old legends were right? You are fey, not gods?” Had her Greek tutor known the truth of the gods all along?

“Freya, that is usually what happens, getting dragged to the Otherworld, humans becoming slaves,” Morrigan said. “But not to you.”

“Something worse?” Freya asked as Balder strode away. His movements were lithe and quick. Her gaze followed him until he was swallowed by the shadows of the trees.

“I’m getting sick of this,” Hedwig said. “Here is what you need to know. Those attempts on your life were made by Druids. Human Druids, not fey. We think that’s just the beginning, because someone fey had to have sent them. No one cares all that much for human Freya. They all think you just drink in the barracks with the soldiers. Even if some Roman has figured out you’re Swan, they still wouldn’t have sent Druids after you. But if they know who your parents are, there are a lot of reasons for the fey to want you dead.”

“My parents are Chieftain Iccius and Chieftess Adele of the Remi,” Freya said. “How could you not know that? Did they do something to anger the fey or make some sort of deal to trade me for something?” She’d heard stories of things like that happening.

It was Morrigan who now rolled her eyes. “No. Cease trying to guess because you keep guessing wrong.”

“She’s not totally wrong this time,” Hedwig said. “If you want to look at it that way, her parents did make a deal. Hint, Freya. The so-called palace, that pile of rocks in the shape of a really large hut? Your Remi people didn’t build that.”

Balder leaned over Freya’s shoulder to hold a wineskin before her face. She had not even heard him return. “I do hope this is more to your liking, sister. I see they were beginning to explain the truth to you. I am your brother, of a sort.”

“Um, no. I’m not fey.” How much weirder could this possibly get? If she were fey, if she were one of them, she wouldn’t have suffered Romans for so long. “But…I am adopted.”

“You are,” Balder said. “Your human parents exchanged me for you. And, no, I’m not bitter about it. I rather like my life amongst the fey. It is, however, lovely to meet my sister. I’ve been curious about you, you know. We were exchanged for each other and grew up with each other’s parents, or parent, in my case. Your mother didn’t raise me, just your father.”

He lowered his head and kissed her hand. He had Iccius’s eyes and Adele’s black hair.

“You needn’t suffer alone,” Balder continued. “Indeed, I am glad not to suffer alone any longer.” He gave her hand a firm squeeze.

What did Balder have to suffer about?

He brought the skin to her lips, filling her mouth with a steady stream of ale. It was good, only a hint of sweetness this time. A refreshing sort of sweetness, though, not the cloying sort. The sweet and bitter mingled, but also with the slightest bit of tart. She’d tasted nothing like this before. But the faint aroma… Freya could almost forget her current predicament with the wonderfulness of the blueberry ale dancing on her tongue.

“Chiron’s taught you all about Woden, your father,” Balder said. “My father by a bond, yours by blood.”

The warlike Woden had raised this bard? Freya looked again at Balder’s ringed, lithe fingers and spotless cape, then thought of the pictures she’d seen of Woden, his mouth open in some battle cry, clad in a loincloth as he fought monstrous beasts in some icy land. Who would wear only a loincloth in a place like that? Balder dressed much more sensibly. No, there was no way Balder could have been raised by the snarling, one-eyed god. Not god. Fey.

Freya grinned. “I heard fey like to play random tricks on mortals. This isn’t going to work on me.”

“We didn’t get to the best part,” Hedwig said. “Your mother is Hecate.”

Freya choked on the ale. She must have misheard. “This is getting more and more ridiculous. Hecate and Balor were a couple, not Hecate and Woden. They were evil Beasts, too. If I had fey parents, they’d be one of the heroes, like Lugh Lamfada, the one who conquered the Beasts.”

Morrigan’s eyes flashed red. “Remember that the victors are the ones who write the tales. As to your parents, it was a bit of a forbidden romance. They met at some sort of, well, discussion.”

“Discussion? That’s what you’re calling it?” Hedwig turned to Freya. “At this rate, Morrigan will be telling you Woden gave Hecate flowers and booze and sang ballads. Didn’t happen. Well, just the booze did. After several barrels of booze, I believe Hecate said to Woden, ‘Bed, now.’ Woden gave her a stupid smile, similar to yours, and grabbed her arm. Even though Hecate isn’t the most well-loved of the fey, she was well loved that night.” She gestured to Freya. “And here you are, a weird product of a really weird mismatch.”

“If I believed this at all, I could see why neither of them wanted to raise me,” Freya said. The texts made it seem as if Hecate lived on the outskirts of fey society, a Beast who could consume anyone she pleased. Woden would never want a daughter who ate his warriors on a regular basis. But Freya was nothing like those Beasts.

“What Chiron didn’t tell you,” Balder said, “was that our parents talked long enough to agree to give you to the Remi leaders along with enough riches to provide you with a good life. Why do you think you’ve always had more than enough luxuries? Why do you think the Remi live better than other tribes? How many other tribes have a white structure with three stories, decorated with swan and horse statues? How do you think you get to ride Enbarr? You had Chiron for a teacher, too. Your blood parents haven’t forgotten you, sister.”

Enbarr? The palace? She’d never thought about these things or questioned them. She’d never heard of Enbarr in Chiron’s tales, but he
was
more than a mere horse. The Romans prized the steeds sired by the incomparable Enbarr, whose mane drifted to the earth in silken waves. Enbarr had unsurpassed speed. When she rode him, she could not even feel his hooves strike the ground.