Chapter 19 #3
And then Alrik went back to the avoiding-me thing he does. I haven’t seen much of him since. My arse is almost fully healed.
“Come, Tristan. There’s somewhere I want to take you today,” Corrik says. He’s nervous.
“Don’t do something you’re not comfortable with, Cor.”
He shakes his head. “This isn’t about my comfort this time, it’s about who you are. Unfortunately, there was only so much I could do. You might not be marrying my brother anymore, but you’ve made an impression on him and he’s become protective. The prophecy is still a concern.”
Great. Now I’ve got two of them.
We travel across the palace grounds on foot.
Corrik was advised to get light exercise.
He was told that it would help with his healing.
We take our time, enjoying the sights I’m still getting to know.
People recognize me though. They distinguish me as mate to their young prince.
It’s cold here, so we have to bundle up.
Normally, Corrik would rely on his Elven powers for some warmth, but because that has to go to his healing, he wears his large, white fur.
My fur is white mixed with bits of grey, and it matches my long, dark hair.
I’ve got my sword, strapped to my back like Corrik does.
Corrik’s sword is much larger of course, which means it’s a lot heavier.
I complained about that, saying he should leave it until he’s well again.
“Carrying it will help me get strong,” he said. There was no arguing with him.
The walk is a distance, and we bump into a familiar face. “Master Strobavik!” I’m surprised at how much my heart lifts.
“There he is, the extra naughty kitten.” He’s, of course, referring to my most recent disappearing act.
I can’t help but feel like dropping to my knees, it’s what I was trained to do for him.
“I think we have an appointment,” he adds.
I shiver. “We do?”
“Yes. Did you think you could run away like that and not end up over my knee?” While I stand with my jaw half-open, he turns to Corrik. “Highness, I am delighted you are home, but he was under my care at the time.”
This means something to Corrik who needs no further explanation. “I understand.”
“Cor!” I am betrayed—of course Corrik is more than happy to allow me to be spanked. I try to plead my case. “The king and queen have already had me punished.”
As if he didn’t see it.
“I don’t see what that has to do with me. We have our own score to settle. I will be by tomorrow at noon.”
Ooooh! “Yes, Master Strobavik.”
“Oh and, Tristan? I’ll be bringing my paddle which now literally has your name on it.” I can practically hear his self-satisfied smirk as he walks off. I’m still slack-jawed.
“That’s right,” Corrik says, remembering. “You had sexual training with him as well.”
“I did,” I reply getting shy.
Corrik pulls me to him for a kiss. “I want to see.”
I get excited when I see the edges of the training field. My eyes are wide, filled with little boy excitement, no wonder he was nervous. I can’t believe he’s brought me here. “Tristan, this is our Warlord, Zelphar Virkalyn. Zelphar, this is Tristan.”
He’s massive. I could never hope to compete with someone like him.
He reminds me a lot of Bayaden with how thick he is, and his ears seem to reach up taller than even Corrik’s.
He’s wrought with scarring on all the skin I can see—face, arms, the bit of his chest poking through his shirt.
I never had the chance to earn my scars.
Sure, I’ve got a few from the time I spent in Aldrien, but they’re not from a real battle and therefore I don’t count them.
Immediately, I get more respect than I did in Aldrien, but I suspect it’s only because I am royalty, and to appease Corrik. If I want respect from this Warlord, I’m going to have to earn it. “Pleased to meet you, Highness,” he says to me with a shallow bow.
“Tristan was next in line for Markaytian Warlord, until I stole him away,” Corrik says, only marginally sorry about it, which is at least more than before.
Zelphar has long, dark hair like mine, but his is shorter in front and sticks up tall over his right ear. He’s uninterested in this conversation, likely wanting to get meeting the new human prince over with so he can get back to his much more important duties. “Will that be all, Prince Corrik?”
“No. Tristan will train with you. I want you to work with him one on one. He’s shown great skill, even as a human. When he is Elf, I expect he’ll be something even more magnificent.”
“Forgive me, Highness. I understand he is your mate, you’re bound to sing his praises, but I recommend you bring him back when he’s got real ears over those stubs.” The Warlord moves to turn away.
I’m not surprised at his attitude, this is what Warlords are like. To add to that, most Elves have a negative view of humans. “It has been ordered by Alrik himself. You will do as you are told, Zelphar,” Corrik says.
“Fine. Be here at dawn.” He turns away after that wanting nothing to do with me.
Corrik isn’t pleased and I can tell he wants to go after him, but I stop him. “Don’t worry about it, Cor. I’m used to Elven arrogance by now. I’ll delight in showing him up.”
He pulls me in for a kiss. “He has no idea the trouble he’s in for. You’ll still have to obey him I’m afraid, he is Warlord, and he must command the field, or the system doesn’t work.”
“I understand, Corrik. I can behave myself for that long.” I wink at him.
When Strobavik shows the next day, I drop to my knees like I wanted to yesterday. A chord of guilt sings—I don’t have this innate pull when I’m with Corrik. Should I? What does it mean that I don’t?
Strobavik has come to mean something to me. We are not lovers, we are not friends, we’re somewhere in between. He’ll always be my dungeon Master. You kneel for your dungeon Master.
My head is down, eyes focused on the stone floor.
I keep the perfect amount of sway to my back—at least I think I do—and my arms are behind me, a wrist gripped in each hand.
I’m in my black, silk robe since I no longer have the items I wore for Strobavik; my black hair surrounds me.
“You may look at me, Tristan. Your punishment will be handled formally but we can both relax some.”
I look up, relieved to have the chance to stare at him.
Strobavik has striking beauty. His blue eyes are sharp and appear darker with the black eyeliner he has under them.
I found out it’s not actual eyeliner—of course Elves don’t have use for such things like Markaytians do—but a tattoo.
His white-blond hair has a natural wave to it, and it tumbles down his body in an airy fashion.
Strobavik is smaller than either Corrik or Alrik and even Zelphar, but he still towers over me.
I might reach his chest if I’m standing tall enough.
I smile.
“Don’t think you can charm your way out of this.”
“I don’t, Master Strobavik. It’s just good to see you.”
“The Gods help me. Get up, come over this way,” he says pulling out a chair and setting what I know to be the Tristan Paddle on the dining table. Gods that thing always looks so heavy even as it sits there trying to look innocent. It’s not innocent. “Where has Corrik gone?”
“To see the healers. He was sorry to miss this.” Corrik has obsessively been to the healers since we’ve returned.
He wants to know the moment they approve him for travel so that we can make our way to Drakora.
According to him, the sooner I am Elf, the sooner we marry again—he won’t rest until he’s my husband again.
He smirks. “I would have loved to have shown off for the prince. Perhaps I should wait.”
I grit my teeth. “Sir!”
“There he is. My naughty kitten.” A proper submissive would have said something like, whatever should please you, Master.
“I know what it means for a brat to have to wait, and I should make you anyway, you would deserve it, but I haven’t been feeling right either. I’m just as anxious to get this done.”
He sits in the chair and pulls me toward him.
I don’t say a word. I’m not sure what I am right now or what I’m supposed to be.
When he trained me, I was meant to embody slave.
I think those lessons are done, now that Corrik’s returned—though no one has said as much—and if they’re done, we’re done.
Strobavik trains slaves. He’s familiar enough with the other designations, but they’re not his specialty.
These are our last moments together like this.
I will see him, of course, but it won’t be as before. Strict as he is, I adore him. I understand him. I’ll miss him.
I’ll behave myself for him today. Mostly. I’ve only ever behaved myself, mostly.
He pulls me between his legs. “Tristan, when it was discovered you’d left, I went mad with worry.
I’m not made for long treks, but I found myself ready to mount a horse.
Prince Alrik assured me it was unnecessary, that he was personally seeing to the matter and that I was better off here in case you returned. ”
“I’m sorry, Master Strobavik.”
“I believe you’re sorry but not sorry enough not to do it again.
” His eyes are hard, I duck my head. He uses his long fingers under my chin to make me look at him.
“That’s why you were a mess that day, because you were planning to leave.
I remember how you behaved. You earned yourself two hours of kneeling time which means that even you were conflicted about your decision. ”
“How do you know I wasn’t just scared? After all, I was about to embark on a perilous journey, Master Strobavik.”
His smirk is back. “You would be a fool not to have any amount of fear, but you live for perilous journeys. That did not cause the chaos in you. Even if you didn’t know it at the time, it bothered you to have to disobey so many people.”