Chapter Three
Teresa stood in the sands of the Pit, looking at the man in the Imperial Loge who didn’t seem capable of taking his eyes off her. What an intriguing creature he was, she thought to herself, as she used the seconds she had before the second trumpet to absorb as much of him as she could.
He wore what looked like armor of a shiny black material she did not recognize, and even though he was seated, she could tell that he had a few inches on her, and possibly a few dozen pounds as well. Unlike her, however, he was built of nothing but muscle, sinew and bone, and looked as if all of it had been gained through strenuous physical work. His face was very rough and very masculine, all hard edges, deep-set eyes, strong nose and square jaw, with a wild head of jet black hair that fell down his shoulders in uneven, wavy tresses that made her want to run her fingers through them. There was an olive tone to his skin, and she was too far away to see such details as the color of his eyes, but that didn’t diminish the tremendous amount of strength – no, power! – he radiated, or the focus with which he watched her. There was something almost animalistic about him, something wild and dangerous, yet Teresa felt an undeniable pull towards him.
Lady Esplyn was sitting between him and another man of similar build and garb. She spoke to the man briefly, glancing towards Teresa every so often, most likely taking the chance to play procuress. Then the Emperor himself became involved in their conversation, and the next time Lady Esplyn looked at Teresa, she was so furious, it frightened her.
But then the trumpets sounded, and Teresa was forced to concentrate on the more immediate danger.
Teresa knew the Firuzian was quick, but only now did she realize just how slow she was in comparison. He danced around her like a venomous butterfly, his sword darting out to cut her every so often until the bare parts of her arms and legs were covered in tiny lacerations and the crowd was laughing at her.
The thing about dance moves, though, was that you dance with a rhythm.
Teresa simply allowed the Firuzian cut her without striking back to give herself a chance to catch his pattern. She looked ridiculous doing so, but being the ‘fat kid’ all her life had taught her how to tune her self-consciousness about such things out along with any negative comments she’d receive from others.
She learned two things about the Firuzian. The first was that he, like she, clearly had his orders, and his were to humiliate her as much as possible before he finally struck in earnest. The second was that, while she was right about his moves having a pattern to them, she had underestimated its complexity. Rather than following a single rhythm sequence, the Firuzian employed an intricate pattern of separate sequences he repeated at uneven intervals, and never in the same order. The smartest course of action in this situation was to memorize one sequence and play it against him, and Teresa used the one where he would prance about left and right before hopping over to her back and cutting her forearm. Sometimes he’d cut right, sometimes left... but he always did it from the same spot behind her back, standing roughly a foot away.
The next time he landed there, Teresa had her daggers ready, and as his gilded sword sliced through her skin, she turned around from the opposite side.
The blades of her daggers landed on the Firuzian’s cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” Teresa whispered in the Common Tongue and cut down.
The razor-sharp blades went clean through the thin flesh.
The Firuzian let out a blood-curdling scream and fell to the ground.
The crowd in the rafters went wild.
And Teresa was left standing, feeling more like a monster than the victor.
Shortly after, she was back in her cell, but she barely had any recollection of how she got there. When the food was brought in, she ate mechanically, out of pure habit, still dulled by the experience. As though through a fog, she registered Lady Esplyn making an appearance, but the only thing she remembered was that her mistress did not look happy at all. Some hours later, guards arrived to escort her to the bathhouse, where she was thoroughly washed and dressed in a red flowing garment and had a pleasure-collar closed around her neck before the guards appeared again and led her away.
It was not until she reached her final destination – a large, luxurious room somewhere in the guest wing of the Imperial Palace – that she regained her focus, and even that was only because of the man sitting before her.
She had a closet narrower than his shoulders, Teresa thought to herself as she watched her patron, who observed her with a steady, pensive gaze from his seat in a padded chair. The hard shadows cast from the candles that illuminated the room danced on the harsh slopes of his face, making him look positively sinister and his eyes glow brightly like an animal’s.
“Come here,” he told her. His voice was raspy and rough, but to her surprise, there was no command in his tone. As she closed the gap between them, he straightened his back, and Teresa once again found herself marveling at the size of him. “Kneel,” he said, and she did. Once down, she reached for his belt buckle, but he stopped her, grabbing her wrists. His palms were rough with callouses, and his hold was firm, but he took care not to hurt her.
Teresa was confused. What did he want from her, if not what he had paid for?
Gently, he laid her hands on his knees and then reached for the pleasure-collar. “I’ve heard these collars make bed-slaves enjoy whatever their patrons do to them,” he mused aloud, running his long, thick fingers across the metal weave of the collar.
“They make a slave’s body respond in a fashion stimulating to those who paid to have use of it, yes,” she replied candidly, caring little for whatever punishment such brazen insolence would earn her.
And, indeed, the man looked angry, but his eyes remained on the collar. “And all the while your mind knows exactly what’s going on, doesn’t it?” he asked, understanding the hidden meaning of her words, and Teresa nodded. “As if rape itself is not vile enough,” he all but growled and snatched the pleasure-collar off her neck. “You will never be forced to wear one of these again,” he said and threw the collar away. “Not as long as I live.”
Taken aback by his words and actions, Teresa rose, her hand reaching for her now bare throat. “Who are you to make such claims?” she asked.
He stood up then, the light finally catching his face, and Teresa uttered a little gasp as a pair of gold and green eyes, slit in the middle with a vertical iris, locked onto hers.
“I,” he said, “am your new master.”