67. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
S teele
As I watch my mate lead us to a table filled with people eating dinner, I remain silent. I’ve known her for two annums and she’s been acting oddly all day. The public kiss? It shocked me down to the soles of my feet. Chaste Zoey, the female who doesn’t like to be naked in front of her own mate, the female who has never kissed me in front of our closest friends, pulled me in for a long kiss in front of everyone in the arena.
Now, instead of finding the table farthest from the others as she’s done since we met, she plops her tray down at a table that’s not just full, it’s full of the people she barely knows. They’re from the pirate ship. And now I can barely keep my mouth from popping open as she initiates conversations with them.
“Allura, I would vote you least likely to be on a pirate ship. Some day when we have time, you’ll have to tell me how you wound up with this crew,” Zoey says, as if she laughed and joked with people all the time.
“There’s not that much to tell. This terrific bunch of males rescued me from the galaxy’s worst slave owner after I was pursued by planet-eating animals. They offered to let me fly with them through the stars and promised to keep me safe. How could I say no?”
She’s a petite female, her skin is opalescent blue, and her four arms always move so gracefully. My mate is correct. She looks like she should be dancing on stage somewhere rather than hanging with our pirate friends.
“Lexa, I…” Zoey pauses a minute. I know her so well I can almost hear her thoughts. She’s about to divulge something difficult. Instead of letting her words drift off, though, she pushes through. “I never played cards, but I watched people playing poker when I was flipping through the channels. I hear you’re a… card shark. Do you think you could teach me the basics?”
My mate is beautiful in my eyes. Her brown hair, the shade of a crema nut, is always brushed to a shine and hangs to her shoulders. Her eyes are the exact color of Sillerian whiskey. But right now, her face is even more beautiful as it bursts with excitement. She wants to play cards? I’d love to play with her.
“Card shark? I don’t know about that,” Lexa laughs. She’s big, blue Sextus’s mate. He’s head of security, which on a pirate ship means he’s what the females would call a badass. I hear he and Lexa barely leave each other’s side—they’re inseparable. His arm is possessively slung across her shoulders even as we speak.
“Of course you’re a card shark,” Sextus pipes in, his deep voice booming, “you won millions off Daneur Khour himself!” He turns to me, since I’m the only male at the table who’s not part of the pirate crew. “I was not happy to hear your two ships killed the bastard, by the way,” he says, his face serious. Then he laughs and says, “I wanted to kill the motherdracker with my own two hands. But I guess I should thank you for putting him out of the entire galaxy’s misery.”
We’ve all heard Khour tried to flay the male alive. I hadn’t known whether to believe the stories until I saw him today in the arena. He was wearing a loincloth and there, right on his upper thigh, was a large rectangle of flesh that had been cut and repaired.
Now that I think of it, there’s a scar like it on Revikk’s thigh, too. I don’t know his story, but that looks like Khour’s signature.
A flash of hatred at Khour flies through me, hot and fast. My fists and jaw clench not for what he did to me, but because he stole my sweet Zoey from her life and ordered her thrown into that cell with me. It devastated her.
“No one plays poker in space, Zoey,” Lexa interrupts my angry thoughts, “but klempto is almost the same game, and I’m certain you won’t have to work hard to coax the males on your ship to play with you. Catch me before you leave, and I’ll teach you the basics.”
Lexa looks at me. “You know how to play, Steele?”
I nod.
“Now your mate can play with you. I’ll teach you enough to beat the pants off him. Zoey, you’ll be good enough to win at strip klempto .” Lexa winks at her.
Not more than a day ago, that comment would have turned Zoey’s cheeks fire red. I would have bet credits she would have excused herself and run to the bathroom. But now Zoey’s cheeks stay their usual rosy pink.
“Strip klempto ?” Zoey asks. “You’ll have to teach me the rules.”
“I think Steele’s the male for that job,” Lexa says, her mouth pulled into a playful leer.
It dawns on me that Zoey is earnest and caring and always follows through with her promises. What she isn’t, or wasn’t until today, is relaxed or fun or outgoing. I’m honored to get these little glimpses into other sides of her. I’m certain I’m going to love these parts of her, too.
Zoey
Every time I think of slinking away from this table and waiting in the bathroom until dinner is over, I order myself to sit tight and keep trying. I want to be different. What’s that old expression? The only way out is through. I need to get through this.
To accomplish that, I review pictures of my younger self. In high school, I googled the Hematite Church and saw hundreds of pictures, mostly of us picketing things. There was little five-year-old Zoey holding signs and looking as if she wished she were anywhere but where she was standing. Poor thing. I have so much love for her now. It was awful for her—me—but I lived through it.
And I’m going to live through this. I’m even going to enjoy it, or die trying.
“Okay, everyone,” Naomi says as she stands at the front of the room.
After we left Fairea, having freed the eight gladiator males and five human females who Khour had imprisoned here, we kept in touch. For the first few months, we heard persistent complaints about Naomi. The word “bitch” was used frequently. On this trip, she seems to have mellowed.
She still wears straight brown hair and a rather severe expression, but when I look past that, I see her pretty blue eyes have brown specks—unusual. A small smile tips her lips. It’s her attempt at being welcoming.
“I just want to remind you we have a lot planned for the next few days. Tomorrow, let’s have breakfast at eight and work in the arena again, because we’re going to have sandwiches in the bleachers and then start the first of several competitions on the obstacle course.
“Tomorrow night is karaoke night. I have no idea how that’s going to work music-wise, but Cally and Elyse tell me the tech is all worked out. That will be in the sanctuary. Sanctuary’s sanctuary, get it?” she quips.
We all dutifully laugh.
“But tonight, the males have organized an impromptu Biryang . They’ve told me nothing about it other than it involves music and dancing, and we’ll enjoy it. I’m excited to see what’s in store. We’ll reconvene in the open area near the old well in one hour. BYO blankets if you want. Some nights it’s warm, but lately it can be brisk. We’ll have some pews set up as seating. See you then.”
When I glance at Steele, he gives me a shy smile. Steele doesn’t have a shy bone in his perfect body.
“When did you guys cook this up?” I ask, my brow lowering.
A gray cloud of unhappiness passes over his face for the briefest moment, then he leans to brush his lips across my forehead. Just his soft touch melts me. “Last night while drinking more Sillerian whiskey than we should have.”
Steele walks me to our cottage, puts on a clean loincloth, kisses me goodbye, and leaves. After waiting until the appointed time, I hurry to the meeting place. I’m dying to know what a biryang is, but Steele was tight-lipped when I probed.
A fire is roaring in the five-foot circular pit they built. They even took the time to carry several pews from the sanctuary and placed them in an arc in front of the pit. They’re about fifteen feet from the large rocks they dragged in to ring the fire.
None of the males are present, though. It’s just us women who are comfortably ensconced on the cushioned pews. I brought a thin blanket and have covered myself in a tight cocoon.
Dhoom stalks over from the dining hall. All the gladiators we rescued from Sanctuary were terribly abused. Khour had deemed them underperformers and tormented them mercilessly, some of it on camera to incentivize his other fighting flesh to perform better.
When Bayne, who is a canine shifter known as WarDog in his shifted form, sniffed them out, they were in tiny cells in a darkened hole in the ground. They were all in pitiful shape.
Dhoom was elected spokesman for the males, and along with Naomi, has some decision-making power. He has flaming red hair, glowing red eyes, and horns that are black as night. His skin is patterned in swirls. There is no doubt in my mind if my papa saw him, he’d label him the devil.
He’s wearing only a loincloth as he stands in front of the fire and addresses the females.
“A gladiator’s life is a serious one,” Dhoom begins, “filled with little but sorrow and pain. The days are full of lifting weights, weapons training, and sparring. At night, most of us are lucky to receive a warm meal and a moment’s rest.
“But over the millennia, gladiators developed our own traditions. The biryang is, in my opinion, the best of them all. No one knows who started it, but the tradition traveled from ludus to ludus, and planet to planet as we were bought and sold. The songs aren’t always the same. The words have been changed over time and have been transposed because of different tongues and translations. But it’s interesting how most of us know the same tunes with similar words.
“The biryang was something even the harshest master couldn’t steal from us. We needed no instruments. It could be performed without an extra ince of room if necessary. We’ve found it’s best after a drink of even the foulest home-brewed alcohol, but can be enjoyed while stone sober. It celebrates not only the camaraderie of the brotherhood of gladiators but the fact we’re still alive.
“It was never meant to be a spectator sport, but we decided to gift it to you. We will dance to five of our favorite tunes, and invite you to join us for the amenga , the sixth. Some of us consider it sacred. It is often performed after the death of a friend. It reminds us of the sweetness and swiftness of life. It is our contribution to the Blessed Peace Day holiday traditions.”
With that, he bows his head to us, then uses his fingers to whistle to his comrades. The somber mood is broken, and the males rush out of the dining room doors and converge around the fire.
My gaze darts to Steele, following his every step as he approaches. He’s smiling widely, showing me a new side of him.
The males wait for So’Lan as he brings up the rear. He was minutes away from death when Captain Zar carried him out of that fetid pit when we rescued the males. He’s still recovering. I was wondering why he wasn’t sitting on the pews with the women, but no male, certainly no gladiator, would tolerate that.
The males brought him a comfortable chair from the dining room, and he takes his place there. I couldn’t see what covered the ground around his chair, but now I see it’s littered with kitchen implements.
So’Lan starts up a drumbeat with a wooden spoon on the bottom of a pot. One solitary beat so primitive and moving after Dhoom’s introduction that it pierces through me and raises goosebumps on my arms and the back of my neck.
This dance is solemn and slow as the males follow each other in a circle around the fire. I picture them, even confined to their cells, being able to dance while one male pounded out a beat.
Hot tears prick my eyelids when I picture my beloved mate under those horrid circumstances. I don’t think about it much. It’s so depressing. But Steele was enslaved for a long time. He knows every step, every word of these slave songs. It breaks my heart.
Erro leaves the group to join So’Lan for the next song. It’s livelier and the point/counterpoint of So’Lan’s metal drum against Erro’s clapping is as enchanting as it is primitive.
The males are happy, dancing and swaying. I can’t tear my gaze from Steele, though. His silver skin has a reddish glow from the fire. It’s as if I can feel his emotions. Our hearts are so connected. He was somber during the first song, but now he’s allowing his happiness to soar. I’m certain the biryang allowed him just a moment’s happiness during long years of pain.
The time flies by as the males dance and sing. The words to the songs are interesting combinations of melancholy and elation, despair and hope. They reflect the reality of their enslaved lives.
I don’t know how I find the courage, but Dhoom promised six songs, the last of which we’ve been invited to join. I’ll figure out how to be brave enough to do that in a moment. Right now, on the fifth song, I leave my place on the pew, walk to So’Lan, and rummage at his feet to find just what I was looking for—two metal spoons.
One of the good parts of my childhood is that almost everyone in the family played an instrument. I was the youngest, and by the time I came around, there were no more instruments to be found. Someone taught me how to play the spoons around the time I carried my first protest sign, and I’ve been playing them ever since.
It only takes a moment to catch on to the lively beat of this song. I raise my foot to rest it on a nearby pew and play my spoons against my uplifted thigh.
There’s nothing childish about the spoons, they can sound beautiful in the right hands. Yes, there’s the clacking that pounds out a beat. In unskilled hands, this is the extent of the technique. But in my hands, I perform more than the melody.
I create the most beautiful bell-like chimes from even the oldest pair of spoons. I play syncopation to a regular beat, and at the right moments in any song I can make a waterfall of the open fingers on one hand and coax the most beautiful trill to accentuate dramatic pauses in the music.
I’d be humiliated to just stand here and play for all these people. It would be painful to see them watching me. I imagine I’d die of embarrassment. But it’s almost easy to play as I keep my back to the crowd and watch my male.
My beloved mate is in his element, as he dances and sings. And when he glances over at me standing in front of the assembly, I can see his face fill with pride.
He smiles at me, gifting me with all the love in his heart, and I smile back. “Ditto,” I say, although I’m certain he can’t hear me. “Ditto to all the love you’ve given me since the first moment you reached your hand out to me in that horrible cell.”
I flinched from him then, fearing him so much I decided I’d rather die than allow him to touch me. I did him wrong in that moment, and I’ve done him wrong a thousand times since then, even though I love him with all my heart.
I renew my vow to make this up to him. I’m going to fix myself so I can be a better person for him.
As this melody comes to a close, Dhoom steps forward once more. “Now we invite all you females to join us. As you can see, those of you who are unmated don’t need a partner. We’ve all been slaves. This biryang is to celebrate freedom. Naomi? If you would join me?”
He reaches out his hand to her and her normally pinched, composed face shows utter shock. The gossip from Fairea that floated to my ears aboard the Fool’s Errand intimated these two fought nonstop. Perhaps this is his attempt to offer an olive branch of forgiveness. Naomi rises from her seat. She doesn’t take his hand, but gives him a small smile as she joins him in the circle the males have been trampling all evening.
I toss my spoons to the ground and am about to join Steele when So’Lan gently catches my arm, pulls me close, and whispers through what I assume are damaged vocal chords, “You played those so beautifully. I’ve never heard anything like it in all the ludi I’ve lived in. You can make music with me anytime.”
“Th-thank you.”
I feel honored he would reach out to me like this. Although we’ve never exchanged a word, I’ve always felt an affinity for him. Perhaps he had it the hardest of any of us.
I hurry to Steele and make no complaint when he pulls me close and kisses me right on the mouth in front of everyone. That barrier was crossed today in the arena. I never have to feel embarrassed about kissing my mate again, no matter where we are.
This is the most exuberant song of the evening. We all dance around the fire, sometimes jumping, sometimes crouching low. The song tells the tale of freedom that their fallen comrades could only taste in death. The refrain is so poignant as we sing, “Free, free, free, we will never be in chains again. Free, free, free we will bow to no master.”
If anyone had asked me 48 hours ago if I could kiss my mate in public, or play my spoons, or jump and dance with abandon, I would have not only told them no, but I would have said they were crazy.
But here I am, singing and dancing and whooping and jumping and for good measure, when the final note has faded in the air, I throw myself into my mate’s arms and kiss his lips with all the love exploding in my heart.