Chapter 21
CHAPTER 21
C orrik is alive.
I wake up tired, having got no sleep last night. Bayaden kept me in his bed and when I tried to slide off in the night, he thought I was waking him for more sex and proceeded to put his cock into my sore arse for the seventh time. Or was it the eighth? I don’t know, I lost track. Look, it was a lot, okay?
What I do know is that if he approaches me one more time, I’ll either slit his throat or die trying. I feel his fingers brushing across my skin and his voice is just as smooth. “Wake up, Tristan.”
He is the only one that calls me just Tristan here. “What? I swear to the Gods Bayaden.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t take you again. I just want breakfast.”
“All right. See you in a bit then.” I slump back down on the bed.
“Tristan?”
“Yes?”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Huh?”
“You are my manservant. ”
“And?”
“You’re supposed to get the breakfast.”
“But I’m so tired. You shouldn’t have kept me up all night. You get it.”
“Now, Tristan.”
I sigh heavily but get my sore arse moving. Corrik is alive.
The kitchens are busy; I’m still not used to them. The few times I entered the kitchens back home was when Lucca and I stole pies from the kitchens and then later when I was being punished for stealing said pies.
I’m well received here. Most of the servants in the kitchens are humans of various races, but the kitchens’ headmistress is an elder Elven female. I don’t know how I managed it, but she likes me.
“Are you here for Prince Bayaden’s breakfast?”
“And a breakfast pie for me?”
She gives me a scurrilous look. “Here you are then. You’d better eat it before you return. Bayaden has me under strict instruction not to feed you anymore.”
I put on my most charming expression. “You make the best pies, Meren.” I eat it quickly and pick up the tray meant for Bayaden. It’s filled with a feast fit for a prince. I get little to eat now compared to what I’m used to.
When I’ve returned, he sits at the table, his black hair is almost camouflaged against his black robe, streaming down it, brushed into waves around him. He’s reading again. Bayaden is always reading. I set the tray in front of him.
“Your breakfast. I’m going to have a lie down.”
“Tristan.”
“What is it?” I almost snap at him. I’m in no mood this morning for him or anyone else.
“Join me and lose your insolent tone. I’m a prince if you’ll kindly remember.”
“As am I.” I stalk past him and lie down on my bed, which is a comfortable mattress with lots of pillows and blankets and is oh so cozy. Just as I’m closing my eyes, a hand whacks my poorly clad arse, hard . I “get” to wear a pair of thin, beige pants, ones I stole a ways back. Many of the servants don’t get to wear anything. I’m lucky I have these, but they do little to protect me. I now have a stinging handprint on my left cheek.
“The Gods’ sake, Bayaden. Let me rest. I’m tired.”
“Get up! Get up, now!” he says, pulling me and the blanket from the bed.
“All right. All right,” I say as I stand up, tangled in the blanket and make my way across the room and to his table. We both take a seat, me begrudgingly and him snidely.
“So, what’s on for today?” I ask.
“Practice. You have much to work on.”
“Practice,” I say. “Why should I bother? They’re going to slaughter me like they do every day.” I notice he’s making up two plates.
“Do you mean you no longer wish to fight? My brother said it’s your heart’s desire.”
“It was. I finally realize it’s as Corrik said; I stand no chance against Elves. It’s nothing more than a daily beating.”
“It’s not like you to give up so easily. Come now, what’s the matter?”
“What do you know of me?”
“You’ve lived in my pocket for several months and I’m a Warlord. I’ve watched you.”
I stare at him astonished. Has he been paying that close attention to me? It didn’t seem like it, but I suppose it makes sense; I watch him too. It’s good to know your opponent, his strengths, his weaknesses.
“Nothing’s the matter. I can’t win against an Elf like I’ve already said—it’s humiliating to lose every day. Besides, everyone hates me.”
He considers me for a time and takes a bite of food. “Do you want me to tell them to lay off you? ”
“Absolutely not. That you would even ask is an insult. It would make me look all the more a pathetic human. Isn’t that how you think of us? Pathetic?” I tug the blanket tight around me for protection against whatever retort he’ll have and notice he’s put the second plate of food he’s made up in front of me. It’s filled with the good stuff too—sausage, fresh bread, cheese, and fruit.
“I did think you pathetic.” He gestures to the food. “Eat.”
Did? As in past tense?
“What in the Gods’ names is going on with you, Bayaden? Stop this nonsense. You’re not supposed to say things like that. You’re supposed to call me a filthy, flea-ridden human, not feed me gourmet palace fair,” I say pushing the plate of food back to him. “Besides, I’ve already eaten.”
He stands up suddenly. “When could you have eaten?” His voice is dark and angry. I’ve never seen Bayaden quite like this—it’s frightening.
“In the kitchens, it was no big deal.”
“Meren. I ordered her not to feed you. Does no one listen to me?” he says to himself and then slams his large hand down before me. “It is a big deal, Tristan. Can you fathom why?”
“No?”
“What did I say only yesterday in regard to whom would provide for you?”
“You said you would.”
“Was I somehow unclear as to what ‘I will provide for you’ means?”
“No, but you say a lot of things—I didn’t think you were serious, you don’t normally care what I do.”
“Well for future, I do care.”
“Okay. Sorry.”
“No—you’re not. You have disobeyed me, come with me.”
“Bayaden—I mean it—I really am sorry.”
“Now.” He will not be swayed so I follow him with great apprehension as he leads me to a room, two rooms down from his chambers—I’m still wrapped in the blanket; it feels like protection.
With a wave of his hand, the dark room illuminates. It’s filled with all kinds of odd-looking benches, straps, buckles, and chains. Things hang from the ceiling and the walls are lined with large grey stones and blocks of pink salt. The room is just this side of cold, but there’s a warm breeze wafting in through the windows that are way up high so no one can see in or out of the room.
“What is this place?”
“It’s a room that can be used for great pleasure or great pain. Do you see where this is headed?”
Now I’m a bit worried. On second look, some of the equipment looks to be painful. “C’mon Bayaden. It was just a breakfast pie.”
“You were deliberately defying me—testing me—I’ll have no more of it, Tristan Kanes. Don’t you know what I am? Your nature practically calls out to me each day with your behavior as it is, but for you to disregard a direct order I’ve given you? That’s a challenge. Not to mention you running to my brother for discipline is like spitting in my face. He isn’t even dominant. What do you think that does to me?”
Only half of his words shock me—the half that says Andothair is not a dominant—though I should have figured on it after what Bayaden told me about Corrik and Andothair last night. If Corrik and Andothair were together, Andothair would have to be submissive—Corrik doesn’t have a submissive bone in his body.
Bayaden—I realized he was a dominant the first time I laid eyes on him, even with only little knowledge on how it all works. His very essence oozes a presence, dark and authoritative, his nature calls to mine whether I want it to or not, and it hits me like a sledgehammer. It was hard to breathe around him those first weeks until I got to know him, and I still use sarcastic, brat-like humor to ease my unease at being near him.
Nothing eases me now and being near him is like standing next to a thunderstorm .
“I guess you wouldn’t know. How could you? You are a human and can’t have the slightest clue as to what Elves feel.”
No. I don’t know, but I’ve learned from both Corrik and Bayaden, mating with an Elf seems to make that Elf insanely territorial—especially the dominant sorts.
“Do you mean to punish me?” I can barely say it—part of me wants him to with only a small bit of apprehension left.
“Oh, I mean to all right. You will obey me from now on, Tristan Kanes.”
“But. No. I told you no yesterday when you asked.”
“Does it look like I’m asking now?”
“You can’t.”
“You keep forgetting: you belong to me. Not to my brother and certainly not to Corrik Cyredanthem. It is my right, a right you gave to me when you became mine. You do remember giving yourself to me, yes?”
I give a jerky nod because I do—he’s right. I made a pledge on a bitter evening in exchange for a life. My resistance is moot. I’ll never see Corrik again and even if I could, I couldn’t face him.
“How do you want me?” Silent tears slide down my cheeks.
A hand runs gentle through my short locks. “Everything off, stand over there,” he says softly, pointing to the middle of the room.
I put the blanket down and remove my sad, thin pants, but I take up the blanket again and shroud my naked body in it as I make my way to the center of the room. The tiled floor changes pattern to form a circle here and I stand in the middle.
“Put your arms above your head,” he instructs in a serious tone. I can’t help but compare him to Corrik. Corrik is hard when he gives out discipline, but somewhat light-hearted. Bayaden is treating this like it’s a grave matter—I fail to see it as such.
The pale blue blanket falls. Pale blue like the blanket Corrik and I had our first “date” on. The blanket falling is like shedding—shedding what’s left of the time I spent with Corrik as I walk into this new life with Bayaden .
I shiver as I look above to see the chains with cuffs at the end. The cuffs are soft suede, and he buckles them tightly around my wrists. I can just touch the floor with my toes; the weight of my body is heavy in my shoulders, and I don’t like it. I’m already uncomfortable and he hasn’t touched me yet. My tears fall faster.
“Don’t cry, Tristan. It will be over soon,” he says and kisses my lips tenderly. He’s quite taciturn and speaks with actions instead of words. His kiss says it all, he cares a great deal for me. This knowledge creates confusion, but one thing I’m not confused about is that I will be all right.
I’ve come to trust Bayaden, much as I hate to admit that.
“This is what I’ve chosen. I believe in teaching lessons well or not at all.” He holds a thick, leather strap in front of my face and I take a sharp inhale. Father has used something like it on me in the past—it felt not very nice. I don’t look forward to this, yet I crave the resolution it will bring.
It seems like a formal moment. Should I say something? For the life of me my lips won’t move, and I can only follow that sharp looking strap with my eyes until he moves around me so I can’t see him or the strap anymore. My breathing is shallow and rigid. I bite my lip in anticipation.
I jump when his hand glides down my back and stops in the middle of my smooth skin. He whispers something in Elvish that I don’t understand. I’ve gotten quite good at Elvish in the months since I’ve been here, I’m still no expert, but I get by. But he says it too low for me to hear the enunciation. Elvish is like that, a change in inflection and the same word means something entirely different.
After the completion of his strange little ritual, I feel the first taste of his whip on my back. One. “Ahh!” It hisses into my skin and my skin heats up. I tug at the cuffs, lifting myself from the floor in a chin-up motion. It hurts.
Two. “Ahhhmmphh.” I attempt to cut off my cries.
“Let go Tristan. This is punishment for your disobedience. I’m disappointed, but I’ll not forbid you the release of your emotions. We will reach a point where it will be impossible for you not to cry out.”
That does not sound promising.
Three, four, twenty . His whip is slow, methodic, and consistently timed. The pain is all I am, and I lose count of how many times his strap has licked my back. My shoulders burn from holding my weight and now the twisting and the writhing as I try to get away, but there’s nowhere I can escape to. I can only face this. I’m panting and breathing hard, it’s intense; my skin feels alive with sensation. He kisses me again slow, soft then more of his strap and more pain.
My face is wet from the sweat and tears that pour in streams. My sinuses clot with liquid as I continue to cry and scream through the pain that will never stop. Lash after lash, down my back, my arse, and thighs—oh Gods the thighs—that’s the worst of it. Sensitive, unforgiving—I jump as I feel the air move when he lifts his arm and the skin on my arse quivers before the strap ever touches it because it knows how much it’s going to hurt.
My body is so wrought with pain, I can’t feel when he stops and I hang limp, sobbing. “It’s over, Tristan—let that be an end to it.”
I remember someone saying that to me a long time ago or at least what seems like a long time ago. He kisses me again and wipes the sweat through my short dark hair. When he unshackles me, I can barely stand; my limbs have turned to jelly, and he has to scoop me up after retrieving the pale blue blanket and wraps it loosely around me. I hiss when his arms make contact with my heated skin. I wrap my arms around his neck.
He carries me the short distance to his chambers and places me down on his bed like I’m made of glass. He’s gone for a moment and when he returns, he has hot, wet towels he uses to wipe my face clean.
“I’m going to roll you over, Tristan. I’m going to apply some salve to your back, it will help the skin heal smooth.”
I cry out as he moves me of course, but the smooth salve feels as lovely as I remember. He’s used it on me before. I opt to remain on my stomach even after he’s finished.
“You feel better now, don’t you? You needed that.”
I sigh into my pillow. “I do feel better. Thank you, Bayaden.” I hate that I do; I hate that I, a grown man, would need such a thing—but the Gods curse me, I do.
“It wasn’t just for your benefit, I promise you. Get up now. We’re going to practice.”
Something soft lands on me, my beige pants. I flinch. “You can’t be serious? I won’t be able to move.”
“That’s your problem—you shouldn’t have defied me. The salve should have eased your pain considerably,” he says.
I test the skin by moving. The pants slip off my back and onto the mattress and he’s right, it has helped, but I can still feel every mark. I won’t admit that to him.
“Bayaden,” I whine. All I’ve wanted this whole morning is sleep; I should’ve quit while I was ahead.
“Would you like my help?”
I answer by getting up gingerly and slip on the loose pair of pants. The weather is warm here and I suspect we are in the south. It’d been getting colder while we were on the ship and that was months ago, the weather in Mortouge should be cold now. Diekin told me it’s their winter. But here, it’s summer—I don’t know if they get a true winter. Bayaden says that it’s summer all the time in Aldrien.
Bayaden wears little; a wide belt, with the emblem of his family crest as big as his abdomen and a baldric strap that runs diagonally across his chest so his sword can rest on his back. He’ll wear shoulder armor on one side, his right, that I will help him put on once we arrive at the fields, and wide bands of armor around his wrists. Bayaden has a tattoo like Corrik’s on his face, but whereas Corrik’s is over his forehead and down his nose, Bayaden’s is over his right eye and lights up in yellow tones rather than ultra-violet. He’s very beautiful; though that’s no surprise, is it? All the Elves are sublime creatures. Where Bayaden is impressive is in the training fields. I’ve watched him move on the field and command his army so pristine, so flawless. Bayaden moves like a panther but strikes like a dagger; he’s quite the sight to watch and sometimes he succeeds in mesmerizing me. When I’m on the field, I strive to be like him; to learn from him.
I know dressed as I am, Bayaden’s men will see what he’s done to me. I don’t care much. It’s a common thing in Aldrien and Diekin told me it’s equally common in Mortouge. There is little place for embarrassment and it’s better I learn to accept this. I’ve learned that marks are only placed upon those who are meaningful in Aldrien; it’s a big deal that I—a lowly human—receive any markings at all. It’s going to cause quite the stir at practice today when they see how many new ones I have from their Warlord. I smile. I recall the only other time Bayaden marked me where others could see. He chained me to the wall in his bedchamber for almost two days after that and made me apply the magic salve until all the marks not covered by my pants healed. When I finally deciphered the meaning of marks to Elves, I decided that Bayaden must’ve lost himself in a fit of lust that night and was embarrassed to have marked me in such a meaningful way. Of course, he wouldn’t want anyone seeing the marks and getting the wrong idea—that maybe he cared about his human pet. But now, he doesn’t seem to care and shows me and his marks off proudly.
We trek the long distance from the palace to the large fields where the barracks are. Sometimes we sleep and eat in the barracks if Bayaden has to be up early—something I’m used to from living with my fathers. Life in Aldrien is quite like Markaytia.
As soon as we approach Bayaden’s warriors, I find out how right I am about the throbbing welts on my back. After I’ve helped Bayaden with his armor and have adorned my own, I’m sent to work with my sword. We’ve been split off into groups.
“Hello again, human,” Siagin says, smirking at me, speaking in Elvish. He doesn’t like me, but that’s okay, I don’t like him either. Without giving me the chance to draw my sword, he grabs my arm and twists it behind my back. I scream; can’t help it. My back is on fire and it’s not hard for him to take me to the ground and to my knees.
“That’s good. You need to learn to always kneel before your betters. If you were mine, you would be on your knees all the time—what’s this?” He ghosts his hand along the marks he sees on my back, and I picture the surprise on his face. “Oi! Luthern, look at this?”
A large, copper-skinned, blond Elf comes over to inspect me while I try not to show them how much pain I’m in.
“What’s the matter, Siagin? Jealous?” I say in perfect Elvish, with as much venom as I can. He releases me, pushing me toward the ground.
“What sorcery is this? How did you fool our Warlord into giving you marks like that?”
“Believe me, I didn’t ask for them.” I glare at him from my knees knowing better than to get up. In the past, I was defiant, but it only ever served to get me a beating that wouldn’t be as fulfilling as the one I just received from Bayaden. I don’t want or need another black eye.
“You most certainly did,” says a voice from behind. Bayaden. “What is the meaning of this, Tristan?”
“We know he’s tricked you, Warlord. You would never honor a human with such marks,” Siagin answers for me.
Bayaden studies his two warriors then turns to me still on the ground. He doesn’t answer them and that says it all. “Stand up, Tristan.”
I do at his command.
“Come with me.” I follow behind him like his lost duckling and don’t like it. I told him not to save me from his men. I glare at his back.
“Stop, pouting,” he says. I swear he’s got eyes in the back of his head. “I wasn’t saving you. I merely have something else I’d rather you learn.”
I don’t believe him and when I see where he’s taking me, my dragon blood boils. We head away from where his warriors practice with swords and toward where his warriors practice archery .
“This is Deglan, she will teach you how to use an Elven bow. Learn well, Tristan. I will come get you for lunch.” He gives me another kiss—he’s given me a lot of kisses since yesterday—and leaves me with a lithe looking creature.
She’s as proud as she is strong with intelligence shining in her eyes. Her blonde hair swoops up high and down over her shoulder, covering her buttocks and I know immediately she must be royalty. Her hair is undercut on one side giving her a fearsome presence and there is an opaque tattoo above her right, Elven ear. I recognize the royal crest.
“I am Ando and Baya’s younger sister—the pretty one,” she says and winks at me. “My brother is quite taken with you, young Tristan. I’ve never seen him this way.”
I swallow. “Pleased to meet you, though it sounds as if you already know who I am?”
“I’ve heard nothing but Tristan this and Tristan that for months—though it wasn’t always in your favor.”
“You have? From whom?”
She laughs a pleasant laugh. “Baya. I told you, he is enchanted with you.”
As much as I suspect that as well, it’s hard to believe. “I don’t understand, I thought he hated humans?”
She runs a smooth finger gently over one of the marks that reach to my shoulder. “No one would give marks like this to someone they hated and most certainly not my brother.”
“But, but when I first got here …”
“He didn’t hate you then either. He might have hated his feelings for you, but not you—never you. They drove him insane. He didn’t want to care for you, but he did— does . I’m glad to see he stopped fighting his heart.”
Dear Gods, Bayaden enchanted with me? What next? Pigs flying? Why do Elves keep falling for me?
“Enough chatter then. I’m excited to teach you all I know about the bow. ”
Deglan is a master of the bow, and so was my father. He offered to teach me on many occasions, and I refused, preferring the sword.
Then he made me, much to my dismay. I didn't appreciate the lovely art, but I soon found I inherited his gift. Deglan is far more skilled than my father or me. With her Elven grace and strength, she's quick and flawless.
“All right, your turn.”
I expect I’m going to be rusty, but I’m not. Despite my preference for the sword, Father was relentless, making me practice with the bow at least as much as the sword. After all, I would have to teach and choose archers as acting Warlord, I needed some level of mastery.
I end up sinking into the familiarity of it, feeling a pang of longing for my family. Though it was Father who made me practice, Papa fashioned my first bow for me.
Pulling the string back and timing the release with my breath turns into a meditation and I’m relaxed on the inside, even if my muscles are tired on the outside, by the time she calls for me to break so she can give me feedback.
"You have skill, Tristan. We can work with that, but you must improve your speed if you want to match that of an Elf."
"Is that possible?"
"We shall see."
She’s a hard taskmaster and makes me work all morning until past noon.
"Look, young Warlord. You have an admirer," she whispers in my ear.
She's right. From the corner of my eye, I spy Bayaden. He's pretending to be focused on his warriors, but his mind is far from them. I laugh inside, amazed. I was certain the man hated me only yesterday and he still hasn’t stopped referring to me as 'nordo’wa,' the Elvish equivalent of idiot, but now he’s watching me in a way that only can be described as admiration.
I'm still not convinced I'm not just a passing fancy and that he's enjoying having a toy in his bed. He might think he loves me today, but tomorrow I could be a toy for the guards.
In true Tristan style, I decide to play a trick on him. I shoot a few more arrows and make a show of getting a little more intimate with the bow than is necessary. I have no trouble hitting the target.
When I reach the last arrow in my quiver, I check to see if he's still watching me—he is—and pretend to aim for my target. At the last second, I turn and release my arrow; it pierces through the air, landing in the spot I want: in the tree above Bayaden’s head.
He frowns at me, and I make my way over to him.
"See something you like?" I say running a hand nonchalantly through my short hair as I push my hips toward him.
He blushes. Blushes. Ladies and Gentlemen, I've done the impossible. I've caused one of the most indecent creatures of all time to blush. He didn't want me to catch him staring at me.
He clears his throat. "Why would I look at you? And did I say practice was over?"
It’s not even his best rejoinder. "Did I say I was stopping? I came to get my arrow. I'm not as good as your sister. My aim is poor," I say tugging my “stray” arrow from the tree.
"Nonsense," he scowls. "Your aim is good for a human."
"So, you were watching me."
"I was not … All right, maybe for a short time," he admits. "You’re good, Tristan. I thought you would be. Your body is perfect for archery."
"My father is the best bowman in all of Markaytia."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I prefer the sword."
"This is your best bet against an Elf. There are less factors to overcome and, of course, you can have the element of surprise."
"True." Unless I have a magic sword.
"Are you ready for lunch then?"
"I can't. I'm in the middle of practice. Haven't been dismissed yet, Warlord. "
He smiles. "You are dismissed. You must get lunch for your Master, and yourself—go before you anger him."
"Yeah, yeah. I'm going."
"Tristan, wait. Come here."
When I'm closer, he pulls me to him pressing a firm kiss to mine with his soft lips. I hate how much I like him kissing me.