A Warrior's Redemption

  *****

  I sipped punch from the cup in my hand as I watched the couples go by on the dance floor. Well, that wasn’t exactly the whole truth. I watched her and no one else.

  They called her Sebastian’s Passion Flower. It was her owner Sebastian with whom she now glided in the moves of the dance. Sebastian’s idea of a gathering and mine were two different things.

  This extravaganza was a fully fledged ball. Several women had come up to me, seeking my hand in the next dance. I had let them down as gracefully as I could. The simple truth was, I couldn’t dance and in this setting it was an embarrassing thing to have to admit. In the arena I had danced, but that had been a dance of death with the goal of staying two steps ahead of it and hopefully finding another step after those two were gone. Here in this glittering world of manners and decorum, I was completely lost.

  There was no end of beautiful women present, but the only one I had eyes for was the girl in Sebastian’s arms. The rest of the women present at the ball could have been turned to pretty flowers adorning the wallpaper for all I cared, but her, she was amazing!

  She had changed so much and yet she was the same. In a way, I thought to myself, it was easier to relate to her than any of the finely dressed, higher born people around me. What was so amazing about her? What consumed me with a passion to know everything about her and to spend every moment of my time with her? She was beautiful, but so were the other women, only they didn’t make me want to lose control like looking at her did.

  It was alarming and I made myself look away and focus on the seriousness of the event instead of the growing infatuation I had for Sebastian’s slave girl. The dance was over. The noise of the crowd grew with the chatter of conversations and I turned back to the refreshment table to get some more punch.

  I had the dipper half raised to refill my glass when another glass came into my field of view. I looked at the hand holding the glass and followed it up to its owner’s eyes. She was even more breathtaking up close. She had an impish look on her face as she stared across the punch bowl at me.

  “Master Roric.”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re spilling the punch on your shirt,” she said, as a smile crept out at the corners of her mouth.

  Somewhat dazed, I looked down at the punch bowl and my shirt. Sure enough I had spilled some of the bright red punch on the white shirt that I wore. I mopped it up with some nearby hand towels, which only spread the red stain further across the shirt. My face was tinged red with embarrassment and I avoided meeting her eyes as I filled her glass with punch.

  “Thank you,” she said softly, a tinge of humor still in her tone as she turned to leave.

  I asked her quickly before she went back into the chattering throng where I felt like a foreigner, “What’s your name?”

  She half turned and looked back at me speculatively and then answered, “Krista Denas.”

  She walked away from me then. The exotic tattoo on the back of her left shoulder pulled my eyes up and away from the swaying of her hips, as she glided away from me. I went still inside at the sight of it.

  My back suddenly itched all along the lengths of the burn marks of my own brand of slavery. I knew what the exquisitely tattooed flower so artfully covered up. The symbol of our shared shame, as being viewed as less by others, lay beneath the artful application of ink.

  Suddenly, as I watched her leave, I saw her whole back tense up into a tight knot and she stopped abruptly. She was staring at the far end of the room as if the devil himself had just walked in. Following her gaze, I saw that an aging portly man with silver tipped hair had entered the room with a much younger blond haired companion on his arm. He had the appearance of haughty influence about him and the dead eyes of a cold hearted backstabber.

  Krista started walking again. She set her cup of punch down on a table and with a speed of hand that impressed me, she slipped a table knife from the table beside her, unnoticed by the table’s occupants. She continued walking slowly and purposefully towards the man, with the knife’s blade held up the back of her wrist out of view.

  The huntress’s approach hadn’t gone unnoticed by everyone. My alarmed eyes met Sebastian’s from across the room and we shared an unspoken communication. I quickly caught up with Krista. My left hand closed over her right hand, forcefully immobilizing the knife it held in place.

  She gave a surprised jump as my hand closed over hers and glanced quickly at me. She made as if to struggle, but Sebastian had arrived at her other side and she completely stopped the attempt to struggle. She didn’t resist as we moved her off from the main room in which the ball was taking place towards the inner chambers of the mansion.

  Sebastian opened a door and we all entered. This must be her room. It was tastefully decorated with bright silks and tapestries and feminine knickknacks. The wooden floors had colorful area rugs spread across them.

  The room served as yet another insight into the life of this enchanting woman. Sebastian led Krista to a sofa and had her sit down and then he sat down beside her.

  Taking one of her hands in his he asked, with evident concern in his tone of voice, “What is the meaning of this behavior, Krista? Who is that man to you and why were you going to kill him?”

  Krista’s head was hanging down and her countenance was downcast as she responded softly, “I’m sorry Sebastian! I didn’t mean to cause a scene and lose control like that. It won’t happen again Sebastian, I promise!”

  “I know it won’t, but you still haven’t answered my question. Who is that man to you?”

  There was a moment of silence and I saw big tears coursing down her cheeks as she answered, “His name is Count Sarn Nivaron. He is an important magistrate under the governor of Capeacal. When I was very young he saw my mother in the marketplace and desired her for his own. He tried to buy her from my father, but my father refused. So he had my father killed and brought me and my mother to live on his estate as slaves. We were there for a couple of years. My mother was one of his many whores. When he got tired of her, he sold us at the slave market.”

  “I see, my dear,” Sebastian said, patting her hand gently.

  “I’ll take care of the problem, but this changes our relationship I’m afraid.”

  Krista looked up at him and said, “I’m sorry!”

  Sebastian leaned forward and kissed her on the brow as a father would. “It was going to have to change anyway soon enough.”

  Sebastian stood up stiffly. “I need to get back to the ball.”

  Sebastian turned to look at me for a long moment and I wondered what he was thinking. I knew what I was thinking. I’d like to take the confiscated knife in my hand and go back to the ball and shove it in between the ribs of the Count, where a heart should have been located, and then snap it off at the hilt.

  “Roric, I’ve noticed that you’ve shown a marked interest in my companion slave. I assure you, this is not a common request on my part, but I need her occupied for the duration of the night and, as I am needed elsewhere, I give her to you to enjoy however you may wish.”

  Krista gasped loudly and cried out, “Sebastian!” in an outraged voice. I was just as shocked and stared mutely at Sebastian, as he walked past me out the door and closed it.

  Standing dumbfounded, looking at the closed door, I was rudely interrupted by a hard knock to the back of my head. “What.…?”

  Half turning, I reached back to feel the back of my head as I saw an apple rolling away along the floor. Looking up towards Krista, I had only enough time to duck as a glass container holding some jelly like substance smashed against the door post where I had been only moments before. The room was chokingly wreathed in the perfumed fragrance of the substance now oozing down the doorpost.