Unbound

  If the massive warrior was worried, Brynn could see no sign of it. He simply stood there, sizing up his new opponent.

  Looking for weaknesses? Brynn wondered, remembering what the people in the next box had been saying. But what weaknesses could such a terrifying beast have? It was huge—its head coming up to the Kindred’s shoulder. If it stood on its hind legs it would be more than twice as tall as him. What chance did he have against those razor sharp fangs and curving claws?

  The two circled each other and Brynn wondered if the Kindred was waiting for the beast to spring. But then, to her astonishment, he struck first. Rushing forward, he slid the blade of one sword between the raised scales, just at the beast’s right shoulder.

  The zanther roared in anger and swiped at the warrior, who danced back easily, out of the way of its massive claws. It ran at him but plainly it was hurt—somehow the Kindred had found the one weak spot in its armored hide and had exploited it. He led it around the Arena, moving with grace and ease despite his size and never displaying any fear. He might almost have been a male playing with a canis—except the zanther was about twenty times as large and deadly as those common household pets were.

  Finally, the beast had had enough of his teasing. Roaring angrily, it snapped at him and this time the Kindred wasn’t quite fast enough. The long teeth got his hand—his fingers at least—and when he managed to pull away his hand was bloody.

  “He’s lost a finger—maybe two!” the lady in the other box exclaimed.

  “No matter,” her companion answered. “He can grow them back. Watch—he’ll keep on fighting. It doesn’t even bother him.”

  Brynn didn’t see how losing a finger couldn’t matter but just then the confrontation in the Area came to a climax.

  The zanther growled and gathered itself for a leap. Just as it did, the massive Kindred appeared to stumble and go down on one knee. Seeing its opportunity, the zanther sprang. The warrior crouched low and, as the beast passed over his head, he slid one curving blade into its heart.

  The zanther collapsed in mid-spring, its massive weight sagging, forcing the warrior to the ground beneath it.

  It will crush him! Brynn thought, her heart in her throat. The weight of it—it’s too heavy!

  She became aware that she was leaning forward, gripping the edge of the Royal Box with both hands in tense anticipation. The silver filigree crown fell off her head and landed in the bloody sand, causing the people around her to gasp. But even though she knew she must be making a spectacle, she found she couldn’t stop.

  Is he all right? Where is he? Where—

  Suddenly the zanther’s carcass heaved as though it was coming back to life. Brynn gave a little cry and clapped her hand to her mouth. But it was only the Kindred—he rolled out from beneath the huge animal and came to stand before the Royal Box, not even breathing hard.

  Leaning forward as she was, Brynn was no more than three feet from him. He was covered in blood—both the red of his humanoid opponents and the black ichor of the zanther. Even his mask was streaked with it.

  His mask…how she longed to see under it! And yet, she dreaded it too.

  “Your Majesties…” He bowed low, his rich, deep voice somewhat muffled by the bronze.

  “Well done.” The King nodded gravely. “You never disappoint, Varin. And now your true job begins.”

  “Indeed—I have trained all my life for it. I have not lived until now,” the warrior rumbled.

  Again, Brynn got the feeling he was looking at her as he spoke. She wished she could be certain. Even more, she wished she could sit back but somehow she felt frozen to the spot, staring down at the massive warrior just a few feet below her.

  “For heaven's sakes, have him lift the mask,” the Queen snapped waspishly. “Who can understand him otherwise?”

  “My apologies, your Majesty.” The Kindred sheathed his swords and one blood-stained hand came up to raise the bronze plate that had shielded his face during battle.

  As his face was revealed, Brynn felt something break loose inside her. A memory that had floated in the back of her subconscious all of her life, like a boat on black waters, suddenly snapped its moorings and rushed into the forefront of her mind.

  “You,” she whispered, for the face revealed when the mask was removed was well known to her—as well known as her own face in the viewer.

  Dark, heavy brows were drawn low over light bronze eyes ringed in black. The straight nose, the sensual mouth, even the small cleft in his strong chin—all these features were known to her.

  I dreamed of him, Brynn realized. I’ve dreamed of him every single night. And every day’s waking had erased him, though sometimes she tried to hold the dream. But it was like trying to hold a sunbeam. Until now, she had never seen the massive male outside her sleep. She could scarcely believe it.

  “You’re real,” Brynn whispered to him. “You’re really real.”

  “You’re just as I saw you, Princess.” His deep voice was a soft rumble that seemed to go straight through her body and vibrate her very soul.

  The intensity of his bronze stare was too much. Brynn wanted to sit back but somehow she couldn’t. She clutched at the railing of the Royal Box, feeling cold sweat break out on her brow. The too-tight dress was pinching her, cutting off her air. She couldn’t breathe…couldn’t breathe.

  The dream who was not a dream stepped forward, a worried look on his face.

  “Princess?” he said. “Mistress? Are you well?”

  “I…I…” Brynn’s head swam dizzily. She hadn’t eaten since that morning—just a bit of dry crunda toast—it was all she’d been able to choke down, excited as she was for her Presentation Day at Court. Now she wished she’d tried to eat more. Not that she was hungry—she felt too dizzy and sick for that. She felt herself tilting forward.

  “Honestly Brynnalla, whatever are you doing?” her Lady-mother the Queen demanded from behind her. But her shrill, nasal voice seemed very far away from the black hole Brynn was falling into.

  She swayed dizzily, her fingers losing their grip on the railing.

  Goddess, she thought. He’s really real—not a dream at all. Think I’m going to f—

  And then everything went gray and she toppled over the side of the Royal Box.

  Chapter Four

  Varin had sworn to himself he would never touch her.

  How could he? He was her sworn protector, nothing more. Not her lover or even her friend—just a guard to stand by and make sure of her safety. Really, it would be better not to even talk to her. Or so he had told himself a thousand times after waking from a dream of her or catching a glimpse of her in a vision.

  It wasn’t just his obedience band that stopped him from trying to get close to her—though he well knew it would shock him if he ever tried to lay a hand on her bare skin. It was the knowledge that the Princess was so far above him. As far as the lovely, pale blue moon that rose in Galen Prime’s sky each night. She wasn’t his to have and the pain of that was best born silently and in solitude.

  But when she came into the Royal Box and he saw her in person for the first time in eighteen years, his heart ached fiercely, despite his resolutions. He was watching from the interior of the Arena—the staging area where those about to fight and die for the King’s pleasure waited their turn. Even from that distance he recognized her, though seeing her in person was much different from his visions.

  She had on a tight red dress that seemed to make her uncomfortable. It emphasized her slim, lovely figure, her small, perfect breasts pressing up and out of the top of the bodice which buttoned tightly around her rib cage. Her hair was unlike the poofy frizz of curls the other court ladies favored. It was long and sleek and silky—the color of midnight. Immediately Varin’s fingers itched to stroke that soft waterfall of black, to feel the long strands whisper over his chest as she laid her head against him.

  When he realized what he was thinking, he had curled his hands into fists and frowned.

 
Hands off, he reminded himself. She’s not for you—she never will be.

  The old king, Varin’s master, would marry her off to some royal dolt to seal an alliance—she would be given to another and there was nothing he could do about it. The princess wasn’t his, even though he felt he’d been dreaming about her forever.

  He had fought in the Arena for her honor—had even killed the deadly zanther, though he preferred not to. The beast had done him no harm but what could he do? The King decreed it must die so Varin had killed it. But always, even in the heat of battle, his mind was on her—on his princess.

  Then, when he came to take his bow before the Royal Box, he thought he saw something in her eyes—her lovely gray eyes that he had dreamed about for years.

  “You,” she'd whispered. “You’re real. You’re really real!”

  And then she had grown dizzy—her breathing, perhaps constricted by the too-tight bodice that gripped her slim body in an iron fist. She fell and Varin reached instinctively to catch her—breaking the rules he had set for himself in the first five minutes of their meeting.

  He cradled her in his arms, oblivious to the gasps of the crowd—oblivious to everything but the female he held and the current of electric pain running through his entire body. It was much worse than the pain of any wound he’d sustained in the fight—even the pain of his lost fingers—which were already regrowing. It was an agony so fierce it threatened to bring him to his knees.

  It was the obedience band of course. The bare back of her neck was pressed against the skin of his arm, causing its sensors to go off, telling it that Varin was breaking the rules of non-contact between himself and the one he was sworn to protect.

  “Stop,” Varin sent to it—a mental shout. “I can’t help that I’m touching her—I have to hold her. She’s fainted and if you don’t Goddess-damn stop shocking me I’ll drop her and she’ll be hurt!”

  Since the obedience band was a quasi-sentient bio-mechanical organism, he knew it had at least a limited capacity to understand him. But would it listen? Gods, if it didn’t…

  Just as he felt all his muscles locking up, the fierce electric current of pain lessened, though it didn’t disappear completely. The band appeared to be telling him he could hold the princess to keep her from harm, but he needed to find a way to stop touching her as soon as he could.

  Well, then—he would have to find out what was wrong with her. He well remembered the squeezing sensation and the feeling of breathlessness he’d caught from her just before she fainted.

  It’s the dress—this Goddess-damned dress someone forced her to wear. He knew instinctively Brynnalla wouldn’t have picked it out for herself. She preferred the long, soft robes of the convent where she had grown up.

  The King and Queen were leaning forward and frowning at him but Varin scarcely noticed. Cradling the unconscious princess in one large arm, he began to unfasten the buttons of her bodice with his other hand.

  “Wait, slave!” It was the King’s voice, ringing out above the noise of the crowd. “What are you doing?”

  “How dare you lay hands on the princess?” the Queen demanded, looking horrified.

  “It’s this damn dress,” Varin growled, looking up at the pinched royal faces with a frown. “It’s constricting her breathing—I felt it. She can’t breathe because of it.”

  “He can feel her breathing?” the Queen hissed at the King in obvious surprise.

  “It’s the bond—he feels everything,” the King replied.

  Varin paid them no mind—he was too busy working the tiny buttons loose, giving his princess room to breathe.

  When he had the top three or four unbuttoned, revealing her thin, white undershift, her breathing got deeper and her eyelids fluttered open.

  “You,” she whispered again and raised a hand to his cheek.

  “Princess,” he muttered hoarsely.

  The touch of her soft little fingers trailing across his cheek caused his obedience band to shoot agony through him again but Varin scarcely noticed it. He just wanted to keep holding her forever—to never let her go.

  But it was not to be. Several of the Court physicians were already bustling across the sand. They brought a hover-stretcher with them, leading it on a strap like a faithful canis. Before he knew it, they were taking her from him, bundling her off to the physician’s corner for treatment.

  She gave a little cry when they took her from his arms but Varin knew he had to release her, though it was the last thing he wanted to do. She needed to be seen by one who could help her, even if his heart muttered rebelliously that he was the only one who could do that.

  And then she was leaving and there was nothing he could do but watch her go.

  * * * * *

  Brynn’s eyes fluttered open to see Lady Amalthia leaning over her, a frown look on her pretty face.

  “Oh good—you’re finally awake,” she exclaimed impatiently, when Brynn opened her eyes. “My goodness—you gave us all such a scare, fainting like that!”

  “I…what?” Brynn put a hand to her head, trying to still the ache that throbbed in her temples.

  “You fainted, dear Princess—fell right over the side of the Royal Box into the Arena—don’t you remember? And then that huge Kindred of yours actually caught you!”

  “He…he did? Oh—he did!” Suddenly it all came back to her, the feeling that she couldn’t breathe…the sensation of falling…and then waking cradled in his massive arms with those strangely beautiful bronze eyes looking down into her own.

  “Yes, he did! Oh my dear, such a scandal!” Lady Amalthia’s bright green eyes went wide. “I mean, everyone knows your father, the King bought him for you when you were just a baby to guard your life. But he’s not ever supposed to touch you like that! Especially not to unbutton your gown! He said it was too tight and that’s why you fainted but I think it was just the excitement of the day—don’t you?”

  “Where is he now?” Brynn sat up so suddenly she felt dizzy. “Is he all right? What happened to him?”

  “Who—the Kindred?” Lady Amalthia frowned vaguely. “I think I heard he was off having his obedience band tested. It’s supposed to give him a nasty shock if he lays so much as a finger on you but there he was, holding you and trying to take off your dress in front of the whole Arena as brazen as you please! The King wanted to be certain the band was still in working order to keep anything like that from ever happening again.”

  “It’s a good thing he did unbutton my gown,” Brynn said sharply, surprising herself with her acrid tone. “I really couldn’t breathe in it—he might have saved my life!” She didn’t add that the shock of seeing the man from her dreams as much as the constricting dress was to blame for her fainting spell. She could only imagine how Amalthia would pounce on that bit of juicy gossip.

  Did you hear? The princess has been dreaming of the Kindred all these years! Yes, dreaming of a slave—can you believe it?

  No, Brynn thought. Far better to keep that little tidbit of information to herself. Although…had she really dreamed of the huge Kindred? Could it be her imagination? There was one way to find out but she didn’t know if she had the courage to try it…

  “Well!” Amalthia said huffily, breaking into her thoughts. Clearly she had been offended by Brynn’s sharp tone. “I’m so sorry you found the dress unsatisfactory, your Majesty. I was only trying to get you something that fit and it’s not my fault you couldn’t fill out the one your Lady-mother the Queen picked for you!’

  She glared at Brynn as though it was her fault she didn’t have a voluptuous figure—as though she had chosen to be flat and small and plain.

  “Why you—” Brynn took a deep breath, angry words rising to her lips. But then the advice of the Reverend Mother at the convent rose to her mind. Always think before you speak, dear and remember—a soft answer turns away wrath.

  She didn’t need Lady Amalthia angry at her right now. In fact, what she needed most was information and she wasn’t going to get it if s
he made her head lady in waiting upset.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, giving the other girl a smile instead of the sharp retort she wanted to spit out. “The dress was lovely. I was just…so overwhelmed by the crowds and noise in the Arena. It’s all so different here from the convent where I was raised.”

  That much was true at least. And to Brynn’s relief, her soft, calm words seemed to mollify Lady Amalthia.

  “Well,” she said, straightening Brynn’s covers briskly. “I’m certain your Lady-mother the Queen will send the royal tailors in soon to see that you’re fitted for something that suits you.” She smiled sweetly. “They’ll just have to make everything extra small.”

  “I’m sure,” Brynn murmured, longing for the simple gray robe she’d worn when she was with the Sisters.

  Well, maybe if she had something made for her specifically she could at least pick the color—something soft and calm like a blue-gray or a sage-green. But clothes were the last thing on her mind right now.

  “Tell me about the Kindred,” she said to Lady Amalthia, who was bustling about with a tray that appeared to contain food and a steaming drink. “Everyone seems to know about him but me. You say my father bought him for me?”

  “Yes, when you were just a baby. I don’t blame you if it makes you nervous—the idea of him guarding you. It’s rather like being guarded by a zanther, don’t you think? Ugh!” She shivered. “I know he’s been here since you were a baby but foreigners always make me nervous.”

  “Um…I can see how you might feel that way.” Brynn nodded thoughtfully. Truly, the Kindred did appear big and brutal and wild. But the way he had held her so gently…the way those strangely beautiful bronze eyes had looked into her own…

  “Here—I’m meant to feed you this.” Amalthia plopped the tray on a little table impatiently and sat on the edge of the bed beside Brynn. “Can you eat or not?”