“He said you were beautiful—he seemed much taken by your loveliness, wife,” Harryx snarled. He had Nallah on the bed with both arms twisted above her head. He held both her wrists pinned easily with one large hand.
In the other hand, he held the shrive.
The three-bladed ceremonial knife looked as deadly and sharp as it had at their wedding ceremony, when her father had presented it to him along with her hand in marriage.
It was a traditional part of the Hascion ceremony, an acknowledgement that the marriage could end at any time if the husband decided to cast his wife out. All he had to do was draw the shrive across her cheeks, scarring her permanently, and declare her one of the Disgraced. After that her life was functionally over, since she had no place to live, nothing to eat, and no protection from the Punishment Gangs which roamed the streets every night.
Nallah remembered now how the instrument of female destruction had looked in her husband’s big hand during their wedding ceremony. After signing the bill of sale, her father had handed it to him with the traditional words:
“I offer you now this worthless woman, my daughter, as your bride. You have bought her and so you own her—her fate is yours to decide, her body yours to despoil, her punishment yours to undertake. If at any time she displeases you, you must cast her out with my blessing. I sell her to you and give you the instrument of her undoing if she does not please you. Please use it as you see fit.”
The words were supposed to be a formality and most new grooms would refuse to take the shrive at least three times, as a symbol that they intended to keep their new wife—or at least not condemn her to life as one of the Disgraced. But Harryx had taken the shiny, silver instrument the very moment her father had offered it—taken it and examined it coldly before nodding and slipping it back into its tough leather sheath and putting it in his pocket.
At the time, Nallah had thought nothing of it. She had been too excited to be getting married to such a handsome member of the Inner Circle. Now, however, with Harryx leaning over her, the shrive naked in his hand, she felt sick with fright.
“Please, my husband!” she begged brokenly. “Do not mark me—do not cast me out! I didn’t know it was not you inhabiting your body!”
Although she supposed the signs had been there—she just hadn’t wanted to see them. She’d fooled herself into thinking Harryx’s eyes got darker by a trick of the light and shadows and told herself his new personality was a result of the bump on the head he’d taken during battle. Now she knew the truth—another man’s spirit had been controlling her husband’s body—a man she desperately wished was here now, though she didn’t even know his name.
Please, she thought desperately. Whoever you are, can’t you come back? Can’t you take over Harryx again, at least long enough to help me get away from him! I can’t let him mark me—I can’t!
The blades of the shrive were razor sharp and treated with a chemical which caused extreme scarring. A woman marked by the three-bladed instrument would end up with three raised purplish-red marks across each cheek—scars that would ruin both her beauty and her reputation. No man would ever dream of taking her for a wife after that—she was fit only for the Punishment Gangs until she finally died of exposure and trauma.
“Please,” Nallah begged again. “Please, husband, I didn’t know!”
“If you didn’t know, you should have!” Harryx snarled. “Now hold still, wife, I wouldn’t want to take your eyes out when I mark your cheeks. Then you’d be ugly and blind. How would you like that?”
His words froze Nallah’s heart and she stopped struggling. Harryx would do it—he would blind her if he wanted to. Moreover, he would take pleasure in the act. Better to just lie still and let him get this over with—there was no stopping him and she could only make things worse by fighting.
How many times had she told herself these words—just lie still, it will all be over soon, no sense in fighting, you’ll only make it worse… How many times had she bitten her tongue and held back her tears at her husband’s cruel treatment? And she had done it because she had been taught it was right and proper—because she didn’t know any other way to exist.
But the stranger who had entered Harryx’s body—the stranger she had grown to love—had showed her there was another way. That she didn’t have to be always cringing and cowering and frightened. He had shown her that a man could respect a woman, that her lesser physical strength didn’t have to mean a lesser status or lesser respect.
He loved me, she thought as Harryx drew the shrive in three, stinging parallel lines across her right cheek. He showed me what love really is—what it can be. I didn’t know until then.
And this, what Harryx was doing to her, wasn’t love. It wasn’t even a husband’s duty or right. It was evil and cruel and hateful and she hated Harryx for doing it—hated him with all her heart. Suddenly the emotion boiled over into words.
“I hate you,” she whispered to her husband, looking up at him, her eyes blazing, filled with tears of defiance and pain. “The other one—the man who took your body—he was a thousand times the man you are. I wish he was here right now. I hate you!”
For a moment, Harryx looked almost taken aback. Clearly he hadn’t expected any show of defiance from her at all. Nallah was a little surprised herself. Part of her was screaming that she’d better apologize—better be quiet. Harryx could do more than just mark her with the shrive. He could blind her, maim her—even kill her and nothing would be done about it. There was no penalty for punishing a wayward wife on Hascion Five, for women had no rights at all. Nallah was entirely at his mercy. And yet she couldn’t help herself.
“I hate you!” she shouted again and spit in his face.
Harryx’s face darkened.
“You little bitch,” he growled. “I was just going to mark you up and throw you out to the Punishment Gangs but you’re losing both your eyes, your lips, and your nose for that. The Gangs will have to throw your robes over your face before they punish you or your ugliness will make their shafts wilt!”
“No!” Nallah began to fight as hard as she could. There was no point in lying quiet and still now and hoping Harryx wouldn’t hurt her too much. He had stated his intent to blind and maim her and whatever else he was, her husband always kept his word—especially when he was talking about punishment.
She writhed and fishtailed in his grip, managing to get one hand free. Reaching up, she clawed at his face, leaving long, ragged furrows across his cheek—not far from the others she had made when he had actually invited him to hit her.
No, not he—not Harryx—the other. The stranger. Where is he? Why did he leave? Why can’t he help me? I’m going to die here—Harryx will kill me!
“You little cunt!” her husband roared. Gripping the shrive tighter in his hand, he raised it above his head and Nallah had no doubt where it would land—in her eye or her heart. Or maybe he would just rip her to ribbons with it while she shrieked and screamed and begged.
“No!” she cried, rolling to one side, trying in vain to get her other hand free of his grip. She kicked out with her legs, hoping to hit him in the groin but Harryx was too fast for her. He moved to the side and her foot merely hit his rock-hard thigh.
“You’ll pay for that. You’ll pay for all of it,” he snarled.
Then he was on her, as heavy and bulky as a mattress, pinning her body to the bed, his heat smothering her, his cold blue eyes only inches from hers. He raised the shrive again and this time Nallah knew there would be no reprieve—no getting away. Harryx had decided to kill her and so she would die. The only question was how long it would take…how much agony he could wring from her before she breathed her last. The blood dripping from her ruined cheeks was nothing to what he would do to her now…nothing at all.
His hand came down and she wanted to look away, wanted to close her eyes to the killing blow but somehow she couldn’t—her gaze was glued to the silver shrive…
Which was why she saw a strong hand grip her husband’s wrist, keeping him from completing the blow.
“No you don’t, you son of a bitch,” a low voice growled. A face appeared over Harryx’s shoulder—a dark face with bronze skin and a white scar across the bridge of the nose. Midnight black eyes were narrowed in concentration and anger as he wrestled to get the shrive away from Harryx.
Harryx was caught by surprise but not for long. Turning, he somehow managed to keep his grip on the knife as he faced the newcomer.
“Hello, Harryx,” the new man said, scowling. “Good to see you again—from the outside this time.”
“You,” Harryx breathed, his eyes narrowing to cold, blue slits. “So you came back.”
“You thought I wouldn’t?” the stranger growled. “I knew exactly what you were up to. Leave Nallah alone and come fight someone your own size you fucking coward!”
Harryx roared with anger and swiped forward with the shrive, but the stranger was too fast for him. He ducked away, leading Harryx away from the bed, away from Nallah, giving her time to catch her breath in panting sobs.
Could this dark stranger be the one who had inhabited Harryx? Was he the mystery man she had fallen in love with? Harryx certainly seemed to think so and it was clear the man wasn’t Hascion—he didn’t have the up-tilting eyes of her people and his skin was much darker than any she had ever seen.
And what will he think of your skin now that Harryx had ruined you—marked you with the shrive? whispered a little voice in her head.
Without thinking, Nallah pulled out the thick, black veil she’d pocketed earlier and put it on. Her eyes followed the two men as they circled each other warily. Harryx still had the shrive with its long, wicked-looking blades, now dark with her blood in one hand. The stranger seemed to have a blaster in his belt but even as he reached for it, Harryx charged him.
The stranger tried to dodge to one side but his boot got caught by a small hassock which usually sat by Nallah’s favorite reading chair in the corner of the bedroom. With a crash he went down and Harryx was on top of him.
The two men were almost the same size and Harryx was the only one with a weapon in his hand. Nallah saw the shrive rise and fall, rise and fall. She screamed breathlessly—No—no it must not happen! Harryx couldn’t kill the stranger—he couldn’t!
Rushing forward, she grabbed the first weapon she could find. It was a heavy, ornamental vase made of filigreed silver and filled with teribiths, long blue flowers which grew in the little wilderness in the back yard. Nallah had placed them there just that morning, hoping to brighten up the room for the husband she thought she loved.
I don’t love him anymore—I never really loved him! she thought and brought the heavy vase down on the back of Harryx’s head.
Her husband gasped and the bloody shrive fell from his hand. He looked stunned, Nallah thought. He wouldn’t be able to hurt the stranger anymore. It should have been enough but somehow it wasn’t—it just wasn’t.
With a cry, she raised the vase and brought it down again. And then again and again. It wasn’t enough—it would never be enough for all Harryx had done to her. She couldn’t stop.
Beneath Harryx, the stranger was struggling. There was a sound like a shot being fired and a smoking hole appeared in the back of her husband’s shirt. Then the stranger was rolling out from under Harryx and getting to his feet.
Nallah barely noticed. She gripped the vase in both hands, so hard her knuckles went white, and her vision doubled and trebled as forbidden tears filled her eyes.
“I hate you!” she sobbed. “You hit me and hurt me and scarred me, Harryx! I hate you!”
“Hey, sweetheart…hey, Nallah. It’s okay, baby…it’s all right. He’s gone—he’ll never hurt you again.”
Gentle hands were taking the vase, which was dripping with gore, and someone was telling her to stop now because Harryx was gone…he was dead.