She was too frightened to look back. Hessa raced through the jindi fields, flat leaves slapping at her legs and tugging at her skirt. All the while she ran, she heard Gunnar’s voice tempting the wind. She reached a brick road that wound its way to the tower’s mouth. The entrance was ornate, with vines and a trellis, and even ornamental flowers at the border edges. But none of that mattered. She ran through and into the unknown, hopeful for sanctuary.
“Hold there,” a woman’s voice said. Garbed in a shroud and hidden by the fabric but for her dark eyes through its netting, a yeinei servant came forward. “What business do you have here?” She sounded angry, and her hand strayed to a dagger at her belt.
“Please, help us,” Hessa begged. “My…man and I are journeying to the forestlands. But they want him for the pits.”
The yeinei bypassed Hessa and set her hand across her forehead to peer at the scene unfolding near the city gates. “My master is no longer of the trade.”
“What?”
The yeinei took a few more steps in the direction of the city, her attention set on the ensuing battle. “My master is no longer an assassin. He is not for hire, if that’s the kind of help you need.”
“We just want to leave the city.” Her voice sounded meek, insignificant. “We want our freedom.” Hessa stared in the direction of Bisura, but she had come too far to see anything of what had become of Gunnar. The city gates were hardly visible, and she listened, but couldn’t hear his windsong.
“You desire freedom,” the yeinei said under her breath. “It is a noble cause, but to bring down the wrath of the guilds on my master’s house is not something I want to face up to. He would not forgive me for that. Your pit fighter must stay where they have charged him.”
“Freedom is not a popular right in Bisura.” This time a man spoke. He came up behind Hessa, his footsteps soundless, his face half scarred, much like hers. The yeinei gave him a short bow.
“What is your name, dark one?” he asked.
“Hessa.” She glanced at the belt of blades about his waist, and was well aware of the richness of his clothes. This man had the look of danger in his eyes and a serious expression on his battle worn face. He stared hard at her, awaiting the rest of her name.
When she did not answer, he stepped forward and touched the ruined side of her face. “We look of the same ilk,” he said, for his cheek seemed to match hers with its scars. He pushed down the neckline of her dress to expose the brand that had been burned into her skin as a child. “Hessa Omi,” he said and nodded in understanding. “How did you manage to come this far from the holdings of your masters?”
She wrung her hands together, frowning. “My lover…and I…”
One of his eyebrows arched in question. A muscle in his cheek tensed. “Yes?”
“We…escaped.” She knew he would be well within his rights to tie her up and drag her back to the city. Omi House would likely reward him for doing so.
“Mm.” The man bypassed Hessa and the yeinei. He paced a moment, his thumb and forefinger pinching at his chin. After a time, he whistled through his teeth, a shrill noise that echoed in the charmed wind. A horse nickered somewhere in the distance before it galloped toward the estate. When the black animal reached him, he climbed atop its bare back and nodded at Hessa. “Come with me. We will settle this matter.”
She took a step back, afraid. He would take her back to Omi House now. Gunnar would be punished if he had not managed to escape the guards, and so would she.
“Come,” he said again, and held out his hand.
She shot a worried look at the servant, but the yeinei only spoke to her master. “My Lord, see how the winds have changed. I can smell the magic of the seas in the very air. The islander from the pits must be fighting again.”
He nodded. “I will not hurt you, dark one.”
Hessa gave in and placed her hand and her life in the palm of the strange man. “Are you Lord Brenin?” She looked up into his eyes and saw a small white light there, glittery and mysterious.
“I am.” His fingers closed tight. He hoisted her up in front of him and braced her waist with one arm. “You will do well to hold your tongue about what happens this day. It is not something I do at all.”
She clenched her teeth, unsure what to think.
With a nudge, the horse started into a gallop, bringing her back the way she had come. Hessa shivered and kept thinking that at least she had been held by Gunnar, at least she had experienced a small moment of happiness, of passion and a connection she didn’t think possible. Their time together had made her attempted escape worth the risk.
The man at her back leaned forward, forcing her to lower herself closer to the horse. He clucked his tongue. The animal responded, increasing its pace. They tore through the jindi field. Clods of earth and ruined plant parts sprayed in their wake.
At the city gates, which were now partially closed, three of the four men who had confronted Hessa lay wounded on the ground. Gunnar had vanished. Blood stained the earth.
“Lord Brenin!” a man shouted. “One of the pit fighters has escaped. There’s a high price on his head should you see him.”
“The islander?”
“Yes, Lord.”
Brenin’s horse circled the guard. “I will keep an eye out for him. He shouldn’t be hard to miss. I’ve seen him fight many times over.”
Soon after, Brenin rode to the main servant quarters in the Omi holdings, and dismounted. He helped Hessa down and held her wrist as he led her through the main entrance of the building.
At the counter, the wrinkled man in charge raised his balding head to regard them. “Can I help you?”
“Omi Master, I wish to purchase this woman.” Brenin tugged Hessa up to the counter. He kept a tight grip on her so that she couldn’t run. But his words served to confuse her even more. She had expected to be turned in, not this. Why would he want to buy her? What could his motive be? He didn’t know her, didn’t have need of anything. He was Brenin Drake, the highest paid and mostly deadly assassin known to the city. But his yeinei had said he was no longer an assassin; that comment puzzled Hessa.
“Ah. Lord Brenin.” The old man smirked. “There are other, more attractive, women available. Are you certain this is the one you want?”
“Yes.” He sighed and offered a grim look of disdain. “I have a woman to warm my bed. This one will have other tasks. How much for her?”
The master reached across and touched Hessa’s scarred cheek. “I know this girl. She has no guild traits. Not desirable as a brothel ward. Only good for hard labor.” He pulled his hand away. “Basic laborers are ten.”
Brenin reached into his purse and counted out the coins. “I want the Omi mark burned out.”
“Do you want your mark upon her?”
Brenin squeezed Hessa’s arm before he released it. “Of course. She is mine and all my possessions bear my mark.”
The man raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. After turning his back to them, he searched the bookshelf behind him for the tome that contained Hessa’s records. He flipped through the pages until he came to the sad entry of her birth. Her mother’s name was scrawled there in neat writing, marks that she couldn’t understand made to represent a woman she had never met or known. “Sign here to claim her. I will have her delivered to your home this evening.”
Brenin drew his name across the parchment in a flourished font. Hessa stood there staring at the marks, wishing she could read, and astonished that she had been sold away to a new master as simply as that. Brenin stomped out before she could thank him.
“Get to the bathhouse,” the man behind the counter said. “I’ll have a woman clean you up and dress you better than those rags. It wouldn’t do for you to come to the Lord’s house in such a poor state. I don’t know why he wants the likes of you.” He frowned. “Unless he thinks you are his twin because of your scars. Could be that.” He snorted out a sardonic laugh before he waved her away.
In a daze, Hessa walked out. She followed her feet to the rear of the main house and went into the bath rooms. Steam and scents of perfume drifted through the dim air. She stood at the entry until someone came to attend to her. Hessa let the other woman strip away her soiled shift and wash her in a lukewarm bath. She closed her eyes as stiff fingers dug into her scalp and scrubbed. Bathing had never been as luxurious as this. It was usually a harried chore before bed or at daybreak with chilly water and harsh soaps. This was the bath house used by the whores. Although it didn’t sit well with her, she knew she had moved up a notch in the status of life if she was here. Hessa was no longer an undesirable servant of the pits, but a servant who would work in the house of a wealthy assassin.
“Lord Brenin does not buy servants of Omi,” the woman said as she set a drying sheet over Hessa’s shoulders. “What have you done to draw his eye?”
Hessa chewed her lower lip, thinking. “Nothing.”
The other woman snorted. “Indeed. I should take your place. I can clean better than you can. You’re only fit for the pit fighters, an ugly thing for them to look upon before they die.”
Hessa gritted her teeth, angry. She pushed away from the woman and scowled. “I am fit to do what I please. While I tend the manor of a high assassin, you will still be washing whores here in Omi House. Maybe he wants me because I’m not twisted and cruel like you are.”
The woman huffed and walked out, leaving Hessa to find the clothes she had brought. She dressed herself in the new shift, a work of finer linen with no stains and golden embroidery at the hems. It tied at the back so that it could fit most wearers. She ran her fingers over the design and thought of Gunnar. Had he been returned to his cell, and allowed only the loincloth to wear? If so, no one would tend his wounds or offer him any kindness now.
She picked up the small bag of her belongings that he had so carefully packed for her. At that moment, the horn sounded in the pits, announcing a battle. The crowd cheered. They had gathered in the drizzling rain, their clothes sodden but their lust for blood insatiable. Nothing had changed much at all.
When Hessa stepped out into the weather, the jilted washwoman waved her hand to the burning house where Hessa would go to have the Omi mark removed and Lord Drake’s mark burned into her skin. Walking with fortitude and without fear for herself for the first time in her life, she stepped inside. The small house stunk of coals and smoke.
The man there had one blind eye, and he had been expecting her. A hot brand stood by the hearth in the midst of the round house. It was in the shape of a winged serpent curling in on itself.
“I am the property of Lord Drake,” she said.
“Come and bear his mark then.” He smiled a crooked grin and beckoned to her with one hand.
She sat across from him and slipped down the neckline of her shift. Hessa closed her eyes and clenched her teeth, determined not to cry out. The fire popped. Metal grated against stone. The man warned her with a word, and then she felt the bite of heat press into her flesh.