Slavemaster's Woman, The (16 page)

“No,” the medic replied as he studied the
readouts, re-adjusted a few settings and checked the results again.
“No, nothing fatal, but odd.”

“What do you mean by odd?” Cushla’s nose
wrinkled. The Refadi native had an odor and his scaly fingertips
felt scratchy against her skin when he touched her. She wanted to
get this done quickly but also needed to know if she was ill.

“There’s neurotransmitters jumping the
synapses in your frontal lobe that don’t appear to be doing much
other than looping in a continuous organized pattern.”

“Neurotransmitters?” Tarken questioned the
medic.

“Brain chemicals, Master Tarken,” Cushla
answered and then asked the medic, “Could it be an inherent
attribute awakening from a dormant state?”

“What inherent attributes?” This time Tarken
directed his question toward Cushla, and he eyed her
suspiciously.

Her lips pursed as she suppressed a grin at
his ignorance. She could use it later to taunt him.

“It isn’t a sequence I’ve encountered in
your species prior to this, and I do have some experience with the
Zeralon,” the medic told her. “You are a Zeralon correct?”

Cushla nodded.

“Well…” The medic frowned. “I am unable to
speculate, other than to assume it’s a problem with a lack of
adjustment to the slave band.”

Cushla nodded. “Has anything metastasized to
other areas of my cerebrum or lymphatic system?”

“Metasta…?” Tarken released a grunting sound
but said nothing further. A muscle in his cheek twitched.

Cushla glanced away, but not before she
caught the annoyed expression on his face for his lack of
knowledge, but inside she felt liberated. He allowed her without
reprimand to lead the questions about her own body, and she truly
appreciated that. Of course it sat sourly in the back of her mind
that she was indeed being
allowed,
but it was the most
freedom she’d had in many solars, and she intended to take full
advantage of it. “What about the head throbs?”

“I’ve detected no cortical changes or trauma
in the neuronal tissues,” the medic answered. “I wouldn’t be
concerned.”

“So, I’m not at risk for a cerebral vascular
accident?” Her peripheral vision caught Tarken’s confused frown and
Cushla fought the urge to look at him. She snorted inwardly. He had
no idea what they were talking about. “Then how might I rid myself
of these excruciating headaches?”

“It seems that the only thing to do is
remove the slave band.”

“No!” Tarken interjected.

Cushla and the medic stared at him briefly.
She then turned her gaze back to the medic. “Can the slave band be
removed without killing me?”

“Enough!” Stalking toward the examining
table, Tarken snatched Cushla’s wrist and yanked her to her feet.
He dragged her toward the door and glanced over his shoulders at
the medic. “Thank you for your time.”

Cushla remained silent until they reached
the building’s exterior corridor. She then decided to antagonize
Tarken openly. “That went well, master. I was sure an aneurysm had
formed in my cerebral cortex.”

“Enough Cushla.” Tarken kept his back to
her. Treading with a heavy foot, the strike of his boot heel
clacking and reverberating from the floor, he continued toward the
exit.

“I might’ve needed emergency
cranio-transphototic intervention.”

He didn’t respond.

Cushla gasped stopping dead in her tracks,
the sound causing Tarken to swivel around. She pressed her palm to
her chest, widening her eyes as if in fear though her real intent
was to antagonize the slavemaster. “What if it’d been a pulmonary
embolism?”

“I said that’s enough, Cushla,” Tarken
warned.

She failed to heed him. “I could’ve suffered
a myocardio infarction!”

“Cease!” Tarken balked irritation clear on
his face. He loomed over her but didn’t touch her, glaring
dauntingly.

“I could’ve died!” She continued with an
overabundance of melodrama. “I still could.”

“I said cease, Cushla!” Tarken warned again,
the volume of his voice becoming louder.

Unaffected, she angled her head to look up
at him, her expression serious. “Shame, I couldn’t learn about
removing this hell forsaken band attached to my brain.”

Grasping her by the shoulders Tarken forced
her backwards, firmly planting her against the wall behind her. He
pressed his body against hers, effectively pinning her. Grabbing
her beneath the chin, he tipped her face upward. His grip was
tight, but just short of painful. “Cushla, I’m warning you. If you
escape from me here you will be the target of thieves and rapists.
Wind Drift isn’t exactly the safest port and I’m already concerned
with why Mecor’s cousins have decided to bypass every fucking
wormhole in the Adar Rhiannon Galaxy, thus exposing our presence
and prolonging our travel.”

“They already told you they were taking the
scenic route.” Cushla averted her eyes to several passersby who
slowed their paces and gawked briefly before continuing down the
corridor.

“What they told me was that Mecor ordered
it.” Releasing her, Tarken scratched his temple. “What I don’t know
is why.”

“Why does it matter to you, Tarken?” Cushla
asked. It felt good to finally be out of the stuffy ship Tarken
kept her
imprisoned
in until he deemed her
well-punished
. They could stop at a thousand more ports for
all she cared. She was in no rush to be turned over to Mecor. “I’m
nothing but worthless property to the king.”

Tarken stepped back from her his brow
furling pensively. “It’s more than delivering the king’s goods
intact, Cushla. Rube and Scoac are excessively boasting our
presence and it seems odd to me.”

“It does seem as though they are trying to
draw attention.”

“But for what reason?” Taking her wrist,
Tarken turned, and with Cushla shuffling slightly behind him, he
began strolling up the hall. They reached the complex exit, and
once outside found themselves directly amidst a bustling
marketplace.

Inhaling deeply, Cushla looked around. When
they passed through the plaza prior to the examination she was too
concerned about her health to appreciate it. Now she took the time
to savor the mix of sights, smells and sounds. Lifting her face,
she enjoyed the warm feel of the sun on it.

Halting, Tarken examined the fresh jobri
breads being offered at one of the concessions. After choosing a
loaf, he inserted his credit disc into the pay slot and then
refused the linen bag the merchant offered for an additional price.
“I’m beginning to think that the royals are advertising your
purchase.”

“But why?” Cushla’s attention floated to the
greenery they passed, just to her left side. The pleasant scent of
herb plants and flowers mentally transported her to another time,
and she remembered running and tumbling through a field of fresh
Cripchi blossoms. She was very young, carefree—just free.

“The birthmark on your ass has something to
do with it, I’m thinking.”

A Dormothian native brushed by them at that
moment and his head turned, his gaze riveting his to Cushla. The
pale blue stripes that began to shimmer in his shoulder length,
black hair, revealed he was targeting Cushla to mate.

Tarken growled at him.

The Dormothian snapped immediately from the
trance he was in, drawing his now narrowing eyes toward the
slavemaster. His rigid form visibly relaxed as he sized up Tarken.
He smiled cordially and nodded, apparently deciding there would be
no challenge for her. Turning away, he retreated and moved on
without incident.

Cushla suddenly felt safe and protected a
feeling that rarely came her way. She found herself wishing that
the slavemaster was watchful over her because he wanted to be, not
because he was being paid to. The thought twisted in her stomach
and she tamped it, exhaling harshly as if it were possible to blow
the emotion away. Feelings of this kind she couldn’t risk playing
with.

“How is the head throb?”

“What?” Cushla blinked as she realized what
he was asking. Her head hurt far less than her heart did at the
moment. Tarken didn’t care about her emotionally, not really. His
concern was all about delivering her to Mecor in one piece. “It’s
fading.” She stared at the loaf Tarken held. “My stomach likewise,
is shriveling as we speak.”

Tarken nodded, tore a sizeable chunk from
the jobri bread and handed it to Cushla. He continued walking
again.

She followed, this time strolling by his
side. At least she could be grateful he’d given her a quality piece
of pastry to eat instead of the slop she was usually given.

“I suspect that mark on your ass is what
Ayia and the royals were looking for,” Tarken commented.

“My birthmark?” Cushla gave him a curious
look. “To verify my identity?”

“Precisely.”

“I’m nothing special, Tarken. It’s beyond me
why I would specifically be the one the king wanted to find.” At
least nothing special that anyone knew about—she hoped no one knew
about.
No,
her family would never betray her. Cushla bit
into her bread, savoring its melting texture and sweet taste while
thinking about what Tarken was saying. She swallowed and then
considered something else. “Maybe it has something to do with my
father?”

Tarken tipped his head askew, giving her a
sidelong glance. “How so?”

“I lived on Buranis when I was a child. My
father was part of King Mecor’s court.”

“You have origins in the noble echelons
then?” One of Tarken’s brows lifted. He stopped and looked at her
directly. “I think your residency on Buranis is likely key to the
king’s reasons for purchasing you, Cushla. Why, is the ongoing
question, however.”

“I cannot say what it is the king might want
with me.” She shrugged. “My father’s duties were in research, of
which the king had a fascination, for as much as I can remember
hearing.”

“Research?” Tarken inquired. Gripping her
upper arm, he tugged her slightly and they began walking again.
“Such as what?”

“Again, I am unsure. I was young and not
privy to such adult doings.” Pondering that, Cushla pursed her
lips. “I do remember overhearing my father’s angry voice and my
mother…” Pausing, she gulped as anguish filled her. She really
didn’t want to think about her mother right now, but she continued,
“My parents argued about something my father was doing with the
stones they were digging from the quarries on Buranis, something
about destroying planets…”

Tarken scratched the back of his neck and
furled his brow pensively. “The only thing we excavate from the
quarries is the muartzin stones.”

“Of what importance are the stones?”

“Precious gems that in very large quantities
create atmosphere on uninhabitable planets, but large quantities
are difficult to come by. On Buranis, we mine the quarries
throughout the eves and straight through the dawnings. I’ve assumed
it’s the method as to how the Mecor lineage gained its wealth and
built its empire” Coming upon a bench, Tarken sat down and
indicated with a nod for Cushla to sit beside him.

She hesitated at the invitation as she was
used to sitting at a master’s feet on the ground. Other masters
prior to this had tested her insubordination by asking her to sit
beside them, only to slap her down when she did so. As it was,
Tarken had already demanded she sit on the floor in a public place,
so she had to wonder why he asked her to sit beside him now. “We
were on Buranis when Anzer Mecor and his followers conquered the
throne.” Lowering to sit, Cushla kept cautious eyes on Tarken,
considering he too might be testing her. She relaxed a margin when
he merely nodded at her compliance. “It was a horrible time when he
began his reign of tyranny. As for the stones, I haven’t a
clue.”

Neither of them said anything for a span of
time, though Tarken continued to look her in the eyes. She stared
back at him, trying with all of her might to evade an emotional
connection, attempting to see him as nothing but a loathsome
slavemaster.

He smiled at her and Cushla’s attempts fell
apart. Her gazed dropped to focus on his upturned lips while
licking her own in the process. She liked his smile, more than she
probably should. It was warm and sincere and engaging, the type of
smile that almost had her forgetting with whom she was talking to,
what his purpose was in her life—a slavemaster. Cushla stiffened
and again fought the ease she was beginning to feel when in his
company. Letting her guard down was a dangerous thing to do.

“What’s your father’s name?”

Her gaze snapped upward again to fix on his
dark eyes. “Bazil…Bazil Zaviot.”

“What happened to him?”

“My father…” Her attention shifted away from
him as she tilted her head upward to watch a sparkling green and
silver bird that was fluttering over her head. It flapped lower to
settle on her toe, its feathers shimmering as it shook them.
Looking downward, she smiled softly at the creature. Absently, she
held out her palm and fed it the few crumbs from the small piece of
bread she had left. “He was shot as we were trying to escape.”

“Shot?” Tarken asked as he watched her bend
to cup the feathery creature between her palms and then rest them
on her lap with the bird still nestled inside them.
“Fascinating.”

“That my father was shot?” Cushla looked at
Tarken directly.

“No that.” He nodded toward her hands.
“They’re usually skittish little things.”

“They seem to like me, always have.”

“Is he dead?”

“The bird?” Cushla suddenly looked worried
“Goodness, I don’t think so?” She opened her hands to see it was
alive and well and looking rather comfortable.

“Your father, Cushla” Tarken rubbed his
brow. “Not the creature.”

“Oh.” She chuckled at the confusion, but her
mirth faded quickly. “I hold onto hope that he lives, but do not
know for sure.” She gulped back the sadness wrenching inside of
her. “He handed me off to a friend of his, a royal guard, who
escaped with me.” Spreading her hands open further, Cushla gently
tossed the bird upward. It flapped its wings and then flew off.
“Shortly after that, I became the payoff to Lavidis in a lost
gambling game.”