Captivity's Rewards

[Victor Lark]

Alessa’s eyebrows bounced up and down over a growing frown, and she loosed her grip from the slave’s wrist. “Hear that, Abigail? The little wretch thinks I care what your husband thinks.”

“You should,” replied the wife of Lynnea’s master, never once meeting the konti’s eyes. The other three pairs of cold grey gazes were on her; Alessa, Yvette, and Emille stared with respective disdain, scrutiny, and envy. For an instant, no one spoke.

And then Yvette, loath to be wrong, mentioned, “Tristan does not need an expert. He needs a woman. The Costiens have one of her scale-skinned sisters, and she’s suited them fine for over a generation.”

“The only way to know is to learn,” Alessa pointed out, turning a grinning glare to hersister-in-law.

The girl at the end of the table, younger by a generation and just as detached in grace and beauty, swallowed an olive. “But she’s not really a woman, is she?” Perfunctory arrogance singed at the edge of her tone, but the eyes that met Lynnea’s desperate blues spoke of salvation. Whether or not Emille believed that claim of inexperience, she could recognize how the young slave seemed to dread the prospect of her brother’s bed. “She’s not even human. Tristan deserves better.”

Their attention turned to Abigail, the boy’s mother, who fidgeted irritably. A moment of consideration passed, and finally she spat at Lynnea. “Attend to my husband’s orders. Get out of my sight. I may have need for your later.”

When she closed the door behind her, the source of their quarrels looked up from his book. Tristan remained reclining in the opposite hall, reading in the light that shined through the window... which then produced two more Larks, crawling down from the roof. Darian Lark hopped from the sill and flew toward Lynnea, suddenly colliding with her and wrapping his arms tightly around her. Though he was already thirteen and eager to be a man, the youngest of Vernon’s offspring had suffered a life of clinging and coddling. With his cousin in hot pursuit, he buried his face in the slave’s stomach and screamed.

“She’s base! You can’t get me!”

Victor stopped, huffing and glaring playfully at his prey, then his prey’s protector. “Your loss,” he said stubbornly. “I got you down, and now your insolence in on your ass, not mine. Have fun with your father’s wrath.” With that, he swept from the room and through the door opposite, apparently keen on pestering the women beyond.

But Darian still clung to Lynnea, as if he had convinced himself that she would protect him. “You saved me,” he admitted, and it was hard to tell how genuinely he believed the words. He wrung his hands through her soft dress. “You’ll protect me from father, won’t you?”

[Lynnea Timandre]

A breath released, a gaze dropped. Lynnea eagerly existed the dining room.

Despite herself, she case an irritable glance at the reclining Tristan, almost shaking her head. This is your fault, boy, a malicious thought spat, your fault I was almost raped, and your father's fault for putting me into this situation in the first place...

But that wasn't really true. No one here was to blame for this – not all of it, anyways. A lot of it, maybe. But, in the end, they were just following tradition. If anything, it was this whole town, this petching Ravok, that was to blame for Lynnea's troubles.

Perhaps it was the desperation flowing through her, but then and there Lynnea swore to one day tear this place down, brick by brick. An unseen tear caught at the corner of the eye and left a thin damp trail down the ridges of her cheek.

Still somewhat in shock from her close call with the Lark women, it was a long time coming before Lynnea noticed the pubescent drama unfolding around her. Besides her sister Zha'iva, who was her elder, all of Lynnea's sisters were at least three years younger than her; and, even in such surroundings, their games were barely paid attention. When Darian grabbed her and begun to speak to her, however, a gaze was leveled his way.

Softly urging hands, pale scales ashimmer, tried to relieve the boy's stranglehold on Lynnea's legs. “Now listen here, master Lark,” she said softly to him, “I can't protect you from your father. Only you can do that. Your father might be mad at you now...but you have to own up to your mistakes. Offer to make up for it. If you act like a man, I'm sure your father won't be as wrathful as you think.”

A chaste smile, the one of her Spelltower schoolteacher, was plastered across her face, even as she continued to work on loosening his grip. “Do you understand, Darian?...”

“Now, then.” she pressed on, “I must go.”

OoCShameless near-ripoff is shameless.

[Victor Lark]

“I...” Darian loosened his grip, unable to concentrate in his confusion. “Yes, I think so.”

He was too young, or at least too naïve, to take the slave girl’s advice seriously, much less fathom his father’s forgiveness. As he stepped back, he glanced at the golden chains that hung from her wrists. When he turned his face up to hers again, he did not look her in the eye. “Okay,” he answered meekly, watching her leave.

When she returned to the hall, Lynnea was lucky to find no one there to stop her again, to pester her and hinder her progress. She passed the dining hall, the kitchens, and moved to the sitting room just inside the back terrace. There a young boy dawdled, and looked up to the flash of white as she entered. He was about Darian’s age, though hardly a Lark, dressed like she was in the gimmick afforded to the family’s slaves. He opened his mouth as if to speak to her, and then suddenly changed his mind. Whether intimidated or indecisive, he ran from the room without a word.

The room itself was lit by the sun, shining through large windows that opened to a small courtyard, complete with flowering trees and a marble fountain. The yard was modest compared to the sprawling gardens of Mura, but nonetheless it was a sizeable patch of green in a city of hard stone and dark water. On its other side stood the stables, a veritable beacon of freedom in this sea of her bondage.

Almost instantly, a man emerged from the stables, clad in nobleman’s black and a gaudy yellow cravat. He fussed with his lapel, moving awkwardly in the restrictive garb, clearly unaccustomed to it. He looked back just as a similarly dressed woman stepped behind him, followed by the groom himself. His leather apron and large boots covered in the work of horsemanship, Robert pulled a pair of carriage mares behind him. Each of them was looking around carefully, anxiously, suspiciously.

It was the woman who saw Lynnea first, between the trees and through the wide windows. Troubled, she wrapped her arm in the man’s and said something; his eyes searched the glass panes and met with his fellow slave’s soon enough. He blanched, panicking, and then waved hastily at Robert. Without question, the groom urged his horses back into the stable and the departing trio retreated into the shadow of the stables again.

[Lynnea Timandre]

Lynnea watched the boy go with treachery stabbing at the corners of his eyes. The innocence of youth...it didn't belong in a place like this. This naïve child that had stood before her, he was the flesh and blood of Vernon. The man of death, eyes black and cold. She simply couldn't reconcile it.

It saddened her to realize that Darian would most likely grow up to become just like his father.

Purpose forced her onwards, relentless and unforgiving. She passed through the kitchen with scarcely a word, though a concerned gaze was spared for the younger slave. No matter. She pushed on.

The gardens beyond finally gave her pause. The spicy scent of flowers and the feeling of the sun upon her skin brought memories of a happier time back to her. For a moment, she saw it, experienced it, seeing blue water and white sand before her and hearing the laughter of her sisters. The vision seemed so real that for a moment Lynnea thought she had returned home.

Then, it faded away, and Lynnea was back in Ravok.

Blinking the last remnants of her dreams away, eyes of a cerulean blue chanced upon the nobleman and woman across the yard. Her fragile brow dove down and suspicion clouded her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, only to be beaten by the woman.

Understanding dawned upon her as the trio retreated into the stables. “No,” Lynnea croaked, her throat suddenly seeming constricted. “No, I am a friend. I need help. Please!”

“Don't leave me here,” she cried.

[Victor Lark]

The woman glanced toward the exit and the man wrung his hands. Robert sighed. “Be quiet, girl,” he urged, but was not impatient. As soon as he neared, he clasped a hard hand against her fragile arm. The gesture was, perhaps, more hostile than he intended it, but the dirty green eyes within his gruff mask held calm reassurance. He simply wanted to comfort her. “What’s your name? You’re lucky you’ve found us.”

“Where is Ines?” The other man interrupted. He leaned out of the entrance to stables, glancing at the motionless house.

“Can’t say,” Robert sighed. “Where ever she is, she’s running out of time. Your best bet is to leave without her, and with... what is your name, konti?”

“She’s still wearing the chains,” the woman complained, caught between the obligatory sympathy between slaves and her impatience. “But... but she could fit in the clothes you had for Ines.”

Robert nodded. “Come here,” he said to Lynnea, motioning to a small anvil at the other end of the lane. He was no blacksmith, but he had a workshop for mending horseshoes and leather work. He walked to it and picked up a hammer. “I don’t have a key, so I can only break the chain without risking your wrists. We’ll find you a cloak, to hide the shackles. Just put your hands on either side.”

Whether or not she complied, Lynnea might be able to see the second story windows of Vernon Lark’s home from her vantage at the anvil, through the window of an empty stall. There she saw a woman nodding meekly at some impassioned Lark, whose back faced to the garden. The woman turned to look down at the stables more than once, and the face Lynnea saw could only be of the woman who had introduced herself as Ines.

She was Ines, who had given her that note, this great opportunity. But there was only one more disguise; it was apparent that both slaves could not go, and Lynnea was taking the chance that Ines would lose.

With one more swing, the chains would part. Robert stood and grabbed the noble’s clothes from where they had been draped over a beam. He threw them at her and turned to untie the horses again. As he did, he noticed the bandage on her hand. He chuckled. “You’ve not been around for long. That’s fine. You’ve still got the passion in you.”