Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
T here was an auction block in the west end of the city, packed on the third and twenty-third day of every month, filled with prospective buyers and the products they hoped to own.
It was impossible to miss the shouts of bids and general hubbub if one were to find oneself in that part of Saeren on either of those two days.
Leander had been several times since his fall from grace, often accompanied by one of his brothers.
It was an interesting and entirely unique experience and emotional enough to watch as a bystander. The experience of being directly involved in the proceedings was exceedingly much less pleasant.
But, as stated by his father previously, Leander was not to go on auction in the public eye.
Ostensibly, this was because of the risk of such an individual (a divine being no less) being humiliated in such a fashion.
Certain things were best kept quiet, and this situation was one of them.
But Flavian had already elucidated on the true reason for the private auction: they needed someone with the means and power to control what was considered to be a very dangerous individual.
As promised by Flavian, Leander waited two more days in his dark and depressing cell—two very long days—before some palace guards came to escort him from the prison to the castle, where the auction would be taking place.
He did not put up a fight, nor resist the manacles placed on his wrists. He silently accepted what was happening to him with all the grace and calm outward facade that he could muster.
With two days to think about his sentence, his fate, Leander had quickly come to the conclusion that there was no point in speaking in his own defence and trying to make the king’s court see reason.
The decision had been made and he was, simply, too fucking tired to resist.
Leander was transferred through the city in a windowless carriage—all the better, so the common folk would not see his shame. It was a short journey, but it felt infinitely long and the rattle of every cobble on the road sent sharp blades up his spine.
The two guards in the carriage with him said nothing. They were armed but relaxed in posture. The demigod surmised that they didn’t view him as a threat, bound and locked away as he was.
For his part, Leander made no effort towards communicating with the two men sitting opposite him either. What was there left to say?
No one would believe him. That much was clear .
Eventually the cobbled road evened out and Leander felt and heard the wheels of the carriage manage a much smoother ride over the gravelly path that marked the grounds of the King’s palace.
They were almost there.
When the carriage finally pulled to a stop, one guard alighted first before assisting the manacled demigod out. There were an additional two guards waiting and Leander soon found himself flanked front and back by all four men as they escorted him into the palace.
They led him to a small parlour, where there was a bath. On closer inspection, Leander could see the steam rising from it which told him that it was hot.
He glanced at one of the guards, a question in his expression, to which the guard nodded.
Knowing he would not be afforded the luxury of privacy, Leander began disrobing immediately, suddenly desperate to clean the days of grime from his body.
One bath would not be enough.
When he encountered the issue of removing his shirt while manacled, a guard approached and removed the chains before retreating again.
Stripped naked, Leander abandoned his filthy clothing on the floor in a messy pile and tested the temperature of the water with his toe.
It was delightfully hot. He sighed and settled in, only just now realising how his joints ached from days stuck in a cell with a straw bed hard enough to feel like it was made of stone.
“If you’re here to stay, one of you could at least wash my back,” he finally spoke to his four watchful guards, trying— and probably failing—to speak in a disinterested tone of voice.
None of the guards moved or even acknowledged that he had spoken.
Sighing again, Leander reached over for the bar of soap, wet it in the water, and worked on scrubbing the parts of himself that he could reach.
Leander’s fingers began to prune and the water, which was now brown, began to cool. Despite this, he made no effort to exit the tub. After a number of minutes lying back in the tub unmoving with his eyes closed, a guard coughed. Leander shifted and realised his time was up.
Without shame, he stood and exited the tub.
Shivering momentarily, he grabbed a towel and ruffled it through his sopping wet locks and patted his face dry before wrapping it about his waist. Clothes were waiting for him.
His clothes. He was to wear the blues of his family, a tailored outfit indicating his (former) rank.
How humiliating.
Once dressed, he was escorted by the four guards down corridor after corridor before entering a room packed full of people.
Glancing around, Leander recognised most, if not all, of the faces that turned to look at him as he entered the room. Conversation died immediately and Leander worked had to maintain a passive expression.
The demigod was guided forward to the centre of the room, where a temporary raised platform had been placed. The crowd stood around it.
He was free of shackles and manacles: it was expected that he would simply… just stand there. And he did just that.
The platform was raised just enough that Leander could look straight ahead without meeting the eyes of anyone else in the room.
Small mercies, he supposed.
The King’s Justice was present and began to speak.
Leander heard, but did not listen to, what was said. He simply stood, resisting the urge to worry at the seams of the front of his jacket. Arms fell loosely at his side and he continued to stare at a point somewhere over the head of his father, who watched on impassively.
Leander did not look for friendly faces.
The only one he wanted to see was that of his eldest brother, but he knew Flavian would never have allowed Verin to attend this…
event. No doubt Verin had been sent on some urgent errand by their father, and maybe it was for the better that he wasn’t present.
This was difficult enough without Verin’s pitiful expression bringing his younger brother to shed the tears that were threatening to fall.
There was no one else he wanted to see, no one who would bring him any semblance of reassurance.
Praying to Cysan that this torture would be through with, and quickly, he blinked back tears of humiliation.
He would not let them see a single moment of weakness.
Leander was broken from his thoughts when he realised that arms were being raised as the bidding began. He had not heard the starting price. Shame, he had wanted to hear just how much the city thought a fallen demigod was worth .
There were only three or four bidders, the rest seemingly just overly curious onlookers wanting to see the spectacle.
“Four thousand gold sovereigns,” came a new voice from the corner of the room. There was silence that followed this announcement, quickly followed by a low murmur all around the room.
Breaking his self-imposed rule of not showing any interest, Leander’s gaze followed the rest of the room to look in the direction of the new bid. He turned slowly on the spot and his eyes fell on the exiled Crown Prince of Desanne.
Jarryn was leaning against a decorative pillar built into the wall of the room, his arms crossed against his chest and one leg raised against the wall. He looked completely at ease in this situation, which in reality made him look utterly unlike the man Leo had grown to know and care for.
Desanne had abolished slavery long before he had even been born. To have a member of that country’s royal family partake in something that was so fundamentally morally abhorrent in their culture caused Leander’s eyes to blink owlishly and push the corners of his lips downwards in silent confusion.
The bid was a high one. Unrealistically high. At the low-end, an unskilled individual started at twenty gold sovereigns. The highest Leander had ever seen a slave go for was a pleasure chattel, who had gone for little over two hundred. A thousand was unheard of.
But four thousand?
There had never been the sale of divine blood before. There was no precedence for this, but Leander thought (and it seemed like the room as a whole agreed) that Jarryn’s unexpected bid was taking the piss.
“Very funny, Your Highness,” the Justice regained his wits and tried to politely dismiss the prince’s words and bring the room back to order to continue the process. “We were bidding at?—”
“No, I am serious,” Jarryn interrupted again. He pushed himself off the wall and weaved through the crowd, each of whom stared with confusion, towards the raised dais that Leander stood on. “I wish to purchase Leander, for the price of four thousand gold sovereigns.”
Leander’s gaze remained fixed on Jarryn who, in turn, appeared to be deliberately refusing to meet his eyes.
“You… but… Your Highness, you have never attended an auction before. We raise the value of the auction in increments. There is a process we must follow to allow the fair sale of goods.”
Leander could tell from his vantage point that Jarryn did not appreciate the way in which the Justice spoke about ‘goods’ from the way he bristled, jaw set in determination.
“I don’t care about your process. I have offered my bid and I challenge anyone to contest me. I will raise it further if I must.”
“But—”
“Feed the poor with it, buy the king more hunting dogs, build a school.”
“But—”
“Continue, Justice.”
All eyes, including Leander’s, whipped over to look at the king, who had been watching from his throne .
“Prince Jarryn has offered his price. This has just gotten interesting.”
Leander’s gaze returned to look at the man who had once been his adversary, now his friend, who dipped his head in a respectful bow of hand to the king.
Jarryn then turned to look expectantly at the Justice.
The Justice took a few seconds to compose himself but when he continued his voice was a little unsteady. “Well… four thousand and… ten sovereigns?” he asked of the room uncertainly, glancing around.
Everyone was silent. No one raised a hand.
“Four thousand and one?” was asked after a few uncomfortable moments of silence.
Again, no one even moved.
“Congratulations, Your Highness,” the Justice finally said, looking a little deflated by the dramatic turn of events which had caught him off guard.
“It seems all is in order.” There were beginnings of the gathered body of people clapping the prince’s success, but it was unenthusiastic amid general confusion, and it died down as the Justice continued, “You may settle with my clerk before collecting… Leander… from his guards.”
Leander waited impatiently, pacing up and down the small room he had been brought to as he waited for his new owner to come and get him.
The guards still watched him, one posted at each of the four walls, silent sentinels guarding what was now the most lucratively expensive possession ever to be known in the written history of Vyrica.
As a runaway criminal from his own country, Leander could not fathom how Jarryn had the means to settle such a large sum of money.
But somehow he did, because less than an hour after the bidding had concluded, the door opened and in Jarryn stepped.
Jarryn did not look at Leander, instead his gaze passed over the guards. “You are dismissed. My own household protection is now responsible for Leander.”
Following deeper bows than were strictly necessary, the guards exited the room, leaving Leander alone with the prince and his single man at arms.
Watchful, Leander stood waiting.
“Vyrican… custom,” Jarryn spoke without inflection, but his expression indicated his distaste for what he was about to say, “dictates a brand of my family sigil to mark you as my property.”
Leander balked.
“This is non-negotiable, it seems. I’m sorry, Leander, I tried, but it is the law. We will have it done immediately.” Jarryn jerked his head, indicating for Leander to follow him.
Leander had been to the royal palace many times before, but only once to the private residences, where Jarryn had been afforded lavish apartments during his exile in Saeren. His last visit had been in a haze of drugs and alcohol, though, so he was scarcely able to remember it.
On any other occasion, Leander would be examining the intricate artworks that lined the walls or curiously peeking through open doors to get a glimpse into the private lives of the people who lived there. Today, it was all he could do to watch the floor as he forced one foot in front of the other.
It did not take long before they reached a door, which another waiting guard from Jarryn’s own retinue opened, and Leander followed Jarryn inside.
“I thought it best to do… this”—Jarryn waved a hand at the fireplace, where a metal rod rested on the floor, one end heating up in the flames—“in private.”
Leander nodded mutely. His swallow caught in his throat as he stared at the brand waiting to be used on him.
“Remove your trousers. We will brand the outer thigh. The mark will be there, as law dictates, but the world does not need to see it every day. Nor do we have to be reminded of it.”
Leander thought that he was unlikely to forget its presence for the rest of his existence, regardless of where Jarryn decided was best to place it, but he nodded again nonetheless.
Jarryn inhaled deeply and finally looked at his new property, meeting his gaze. When he spoke, however, it was to the guards in the room, who were conveniently flanking Leander without him even realising. “Restrain him.”
They did so, quickly and efficiently. Each took an arm and manhandled Leander forwards until he fell face first onto a long chaise.
He gasped, consciously reminding himself of the importance of breathing.
The guards each knelt on either side of the chaise and pulled at his arms until they were taught with no more give in them.
Leander felt, but did not see, further hands grab and do the same with his legs.
There was no count down. No mental preparation. But nothing would have had him ready for the blinding, searing pain that attacked his right thigh. The branding iron met his skin just below his hip and the white hot heat radiated down his leg and up his torso.
He convulsed, an innate reaction in an attempt to escape the pain.
And he screamed—a high pitched noise that could only indicate terror or agony. And Leander felt both.
The screaming and convulsing did stop, though, because his vision—so blinding white up until now—went dark. He succumbed to oblivion: his mind’s only remaining defence mechanism to escape the pain.