CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 7
Sleep was a blessed thing. This time, when Firestriker returned Gayriel to the confinement chamber and set a guard outside, she hardly cared. She strode directly to the bed in the darkened room and fell upon it, grabbed one edge of the buttery silk coverlet and rolled herself into slumber.
She awoke to a harsh, impatient knocking.
She must have slept, the decimated bed was proof, but her body encouraged her to ignore the noise and fade back into dream, some wild imaginings of dragons and their unique body parts.
She opened her eyes, surprised to find the room much brighter than when she had closed them. She angled her head upward and noticed, for the first time, rows of vents. These were square, unlike the ones in Tharissa’s sitting room, and tiny, but their effect was the same.
The knocking repeated, and this time it was accompanied by a set of unhappy mutters.
Why wasn’t the guard taking care of...whoever it was?
“Yes?” she called. Her throat was dry and the word came out more of a croak. She cleared it and tried once more.
“Finally,” a distinctly male voice echoed. “Lord Firestriker ordered us to bring you a bath, are you decent Lady Delegate?”
Lady Delegate.
She winced in shame, how far a charade from the truth.
“Yes, I am dressed,” she called.
Immediately, the doors opened and revealed the reason for the impatience. Four very large men carried a fat wooden tub. The way their muscles strained, it must have weighed as much as a horse or two. They moved in without a word and plunked the tub in a corner of the room. Behind them, a line of boys, youth nearly grown, carried buckets of steaming water.
She pulled the covers around herself as she sat.
The procession was fast and efficient and, within a matter of minutes, the tub was filled to the brim with steaming liquid. The last youth carried a bucket of petals, three towels, and a bar of some yellow soap. He placed the towels and bar in a neat stack near the tub and then dumped the petals directly into the water. Then he was gone, and the door closed behind him.
No one had spoken, or asked if she wanted a bath. She did, but she wondered if a delegate would have more say in when.
Lady Delegate.
A young girl’s dream, to make it to the nobility. The city streets were mired in troubles, sometimes the only way to escape was to daydream. And now she played at it for real.
A sweet sugary perfume reached her nose, tempting her to the edge of the bed. She abandoned the coverlet altogether and padded across the stone toward the tub. It was a large beast of a thing, the rim nearly reached her waist. Wide enough for two of her at least, and long enough she should be able to recline without bending her knees too far.
In short, it looked delicious. She shed the shirt and pants she wore, chucking them in a heap close to the towels and stepped in.
Her muscles cried in ecstasy when the heat reached them. The climbing and the running of the day before punished her with aching limbs and bruises. The bottoms of her feet stung, the many cuts and sores making their presence known.
She ignored them and lowered herself slowly, until only her neck and head were above the waterline.
At first, she worried that she might doze as she sat, slide beneath the water, and risk drowning. Instead, a wary alertness grew within her, turning her thoughts from one to another.
Seduce Celcath, steal his orb, and she earned her freedom.
Sounds simple.
Right.
Impersonate a noble, without flaw. Become interesting, engaging enough to draw the attention of a man who apparently isn’t expected to like her. Then, if she can earn an invitation to his bedchambers, find some mysterious orb and remove it without his notice.
And though she doubted it was on the Archon’s mind at all, avoiding actual consummation was her own personal goal. She scrubbed at her face.
What was this orb anyway? And why didn’t Firestriker just tell her what she was bought for?
The water was cooling, so she grabbed the soap, holding it so it didn’t touch the wounds on her fingertips. Now that the blood was washed off, they didn’t look so bad, but soap would sting.
She remembered the gentle manner in which Firestriker...Dynarys inspected them. He should have been thinking of ways to punish her insolence, but he hadn’t. It wasn’t even mentioned. Nothing in this world made sense and she was left feeling a little bit like a lost child in a crowd. She needed to understand the Dragon Lords and their ways if she was going to seduce one.
She stayed in the bath until gooseflesh rose along her arms. Then she stepped out and rubbed herself dry with the soft fluffy towels the youth had provided. In a moment, she was redressed and running her fingers through her hair, pulling out the worst of the knots.
There was no mirror in the chamber, so she could not check her appearance. She hated the way such things made her stomach twist, so conditioned was she by the choosing house and the punishment exacted if she were to appear less than perfect. Had it really been only a day...or was it two now? She sat at the end of the bed. It would take time to undo all of that conditioning, she imagined. She prayed to the Six that she might receive that time as a free woman.
Knocking startled her awake—apparently she was still tired enough to doze sitting upright.
“Yes?” she answered, it felt very odd for people to be requesting her input to enter the room.
The door opened and Dynarys strode in. He had bathed recently, as well, droplets of water still hung from his short dark locks. His face was clean of stubble, the strong lines defined in the room’s light. He wore his usual black clothes and multiple sheaths, the wings that had graced his back now gone. Her rested mind had the energy to remember his form without clothes and it was busy doing just that.
“Is something wrong?” he asked with a slight frown.
“Ah...no,” she lied.
Foolish girl.
She noticed then that he held a bundle in his left hand, mostly because he tossed it toward her. She caught the fabric. Clothes of some type. It was red, a deeper color than the dress she had ruined, more of a blood red than crimson. She blinked as it unfolded. It wasn’t one piece, as she had first imagined, but a collection of strips, held together subtly in the essential areas and gaping in the rest. This would expose far more of her flesh than the choosing house dress, and even some of the bedroom wear that she had expected to bring. She frowned at it. She had learned her lesson with silly useless dresses. They were not practical.
“Put it on,” Dynarys commanded, though he made no move to leave. What? Did he think she would dress with him staring at her like that? And she decided, if she was given a choice, she would wear no such thing.
She stared back at him. Contemplating her new position. They needed her cooperation, which rose her standing slightly higher than the ‘obey or be punished’ of slavery.
“Do you ever just do as you are told?” he grumbled after a moment. “How did they deal with you in that choosing house?”
She ignored his muttering and looked back at the fabric, making a decision.
“I won’t wear this,” she told him at last. “It looks impractical.”
“Impractical,” he mouthed. Then he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Many human women wear such things while they are at the aerie. You need to wear clothing if we are to go into public today.”
She looked at the dress critically, the way he said that many human women wore such clothes led her to believe this had belonged to one of them. Maybe a lover? How else would he gain possession of it? An irrational jealousy jabbed at her.
“I will wear these,” she gestured downward. “At least I can move in them.”
Dynarys’s amber eyes narrowed and he took a step closer. For a moment, she thought he meant to force her into the dress, should she like it or not.
“I am no longer your slave,” she forced the words to come out smoothly, and not hitching with nerves as they wished to. “In fact, I never was.”
“Is that the problem here? You wish to learn your place?”
Now Dynarys advanced fully, already within arms-reach. And she retreated, coward that she was, until her legs bumped against the end of the bed and could go no farther.
Dynarys did not stop. He crowded into her space until she had no choice but to reach out to him for balance or topple onto her backside.
He snatched her arms, holding them tight against his chest. Heat seared through them. She breathed in a deep lung-full of rainstorm.
“I am not one to be defied...or denied Lady Delegate.”
Desire hit her hard, her nipples pebbled beneath the contours of her shirt. She wondered, vaguely, if he would notice such a thing. He leaned closer, and with her hands trapped in his she had nowhere to go unless she leaned back over the bed. It didn't take much intelligence to know that would not be a wise move. She looked away from his intense focus, her gaze sliding naturally to his slightly parted lips. Would he kiss her now?
He held her there for a long moment, his breath fanning her face. “If you were wise, you would simply submit to my request.”
She did not struggle, she was no match for his strength, anyway. But she did not capitulate either, or take back her words. He raised a hand to her cheek, keeping her captive with the other. Long fingers brushed at a damp black lock that rested there and then rubbed the remaining droplet off her skin. His fingers felt warm and rough, his touch gentle. She could very much imagine him touching her elsewhere, as well.
Dynarys let out a deep breath, his muscles bunched and then slowly relaxed. “You tempt a fate you do not understand, Gayriel, I only have so much control.”
His words echoed those of Tharissa, what seemed like days ago now. Control over what? His dragon? How did that work? Was the beast within him, listening?
“Very well. If you wish to appear in this state, I will not stop you,” Dynarys growled at last and released her, stepping back toward the doors.
Cold air rushed in where his heat had pressed against her. She wobbled unsteadily for a moment, sucking in a deep breath of her own, then she narrowed her eyes at him. His words gave her what she wanted, but why did that sound like a trap?
It was too late to waver, however, he had moved to the door and gestured impatiently. “Come, it is market day and you require a wardrobe for our delegation.”
She followed, eager to escape the room. Two guards lined either side of the door in the hall. They watched impassively as she passed, but did not meet her eyes.
“Why do they do that?” she asked after a distance.
“Do what?” Dynarys paused, frowning back down the hallway searching for some great offense.
“Look away from me. Scet does it as well.”
“Ah,” he relaxed and stepped forward once more, leading her toward the stairs that opened into the courtyard. “It is part of their culture. For the Shifters, eye contact is often a challenge, either of authority or an invitation to mate.”
“Oh.” Well, that was relieving, actually.
Early morning sunlight filtered down between pillars, giving the white bricks a pink glow. Dew dampened the air and hung in jewels from the fruit trees. She noticed that a few of the plants were missing, and despite having obviously been cleaned, the stones on the ground were stained with blood.
Dynarys had been so casual when he mentioned the battle to the Archon, but faced with the evidence, she realized the seriousness.
“How did you escape death?”
Dynarys looked at her, one brow raised. The light slashed across his face, highlighting long thick lashes and the beginning of stubble darkening upon his jaw. She swallowed and forced her eyes back to her path.
“There were so many wolves, why didn’t they tear you apart?”
He snorted softly. “I see I need to work on your confidence in my abilities.” He looked toward her speculatively. “I am very skilled, both in and out of battle.”
“And modest,” she muttered in return. She could feel color rising to her scalp at his insinuation.
The corner of his lip twitched upward. He turned into a familiar corridor.
“I thought we were going to the market?”
He paused outside of Tharissa’s door.
“Since my clothing choices do not please you, I have decided to enlist some aid,” he rapped his knuckles against the wood.
Shuffling behind the door halted anything she might have said. The wood swung outward into the hall and a man stood in the frame. A naked man.
Her breath caught. Great Six was there no end to the male perfection in the aerie? The man in the door—Morkuth, she assumed—was tall and broad, defined by muscles like every Dragon Lord she had encountered. Black hair stood cropped into short spikes that stuck out in charming disarray. An old scar on his cheek twitched as he scowled at Dynarys. No wings protruded from his back and she wondered vaguely what color they would be when they did.
“What is it Dynarys?” He urged at last.
She tore her gaze from the view to find Dynarys glaring furiously at her. What had she done now?
“Lady Gayriel needs a wardrobe. I thought Tharissa might be willing to help her choose.”
Morkuth eyed her, his eyes traveled from her bare feet to the loose fitting shirt and tangled hair. A smirk grew on his face,.
“Indeed?” he chuckled. “I will fetch her. I believe she will be happy to aid Lady Gayriel.”
He abandoned the doorway, leaving it open.
“He is mated.”
“Huh?” she looked to Dynarys once more.
“Morkuth is Tharissa’s mate, you should respect that position.” He glowered at her and then faced the doorway, brooding in silence.
“Was I disrespectful? I don’t know much of your culture. Should I avoid eye contact?”
“I believe ogling another woman’s mate is frowned upon in any society.”
She opened her mouth to object, but the truth was she had been admiring Morkuth’s form. “Perhaps if the men around here had less of a penchant for walking around nude that would be achievable,” she argued.
The dark cast of his face didn’t brighten.
“Gayriel?”
Tharissa appeared where Morkuth had vanished. She wore a golden, fitted gown that tightened about her breasts, pushing them upward and displaying her ample cleavage. The skirts remained loose enough for easy movement, but their soft sheen glimmered in the light from the vents. The gold seemed to catch the green of her eyes as they sparkled out at them. She blinked for a second at Gayriel's appearance, but wisely did not say anything. “Morkuth says you wish to shop?”
“Lady Gayriel requires an entire wardrobe, are you up for the challenge?” Dynarys said before she could open her mouth to respond.
“Lady Gayriel?” Tharissa squeaked. Apparently the new title surprised her as much as it did Gayriel. She rubbed her beautiful face and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like I’m a fool.
“Morkuth?” she called back into the dwelling, “I am heading to the market.”
“I will escort you,” he called back. “Allow me to dress woman...unless you wish to come back here for a moment...or hour...first.”
Tharissa blushed red, her eyes met Gayriel's and she gave her a sheepish grin. “Ah, I don’t think our guests wish to wait that long.”
Morkuth appeared, even as she spoke. He wore black, similar to Dynarys, but a looser fit, and with less blades. “You are right, love. I will need far more than an hour.”
He kissed her furiously, pressing her against the doorjamb with his body.
It was Gayriel's turn to blush; she stared at the stone tiles. The one at her feet had a chip on the edge and, at the moment, it was the most fascinating thing in the world.
“Maybe we should look for help elsewhere,” Dynarys grunted. He was annoyed now, but his foul mood seemed to have dissipated. He raised a brow at her, as if to prove his point about Morkuth being mated.
“No,” Morkuth and Tharissa separated, at last, though he held to her like he had no intention of letting go. “Tharissa wishes this, and I wish my mate happy.” He growled, bit her neck and then propelled her into the hallway.
Tharissa shook her head a little, dazed, her lips puffed up a bit from the rough kiss. Then she looked up at Gayriel and smiled wryly.
“Let’s get to the market, before he changes his mind.”