With a shake of his head, Dagan went off to do her bidding.
While she waited for Dagan to return, Ashlynne drew back the blankets, felt her cheeks grow hot when she saw that the prisoner was naked save for a scrap of burlaplike cloth that covered his loins.
Taking a deep breath, Ashlynne peeled the bandage from the prisoner's thigh. She pressed a hand to her mouth, her stomach churning, as she gazed at the wound. Thick yellow pus and black-red blood oozed from the center.
She stared at the wound, horrified by the ugliness of it, the stink of it. She couldn't imagine the pain he must be feeling.
When Dagan returned, she swallowed the bile in her throat and began to wash the ugly wound.
Falkon stared at the girl kneeling beside him, wondering if he had died. Surely only angels had silver-blond hair and eyes the color of new grass. Surely only an angel had such gentle hands. She washed his face and chest, his arms and legs, his back and shoulders. The warm water felt cool against his burning flesh.
With quick efficiency, she applied a medicated pad to his thigh. It sucked out the poison, eased the pain, and disinfected the wound all at the same time. A second pad drew the edges of the wound together. After making sure the medi-pad was doing its work, she taped it in place. She worked quickly, efficiently, hardly looking at him.
He wished for the strength to refuse the medicine she offered him, to refuse the cup of strong black tea she held to his lips, but the instinct to survive was strong within him, stronger than his wish for death. He swallowed the small blue capsules she placed in his mouth, drained the cup. A part of him, a small part he refused to acknowledge, blessed her for her kindness even as the rest of him, the strong part that would not yield, hated her for it.
Hated her for the pity he read in her eyes.
Hated her because she was one of them.
Hated her because his wife and child were dead and she was alive… alive and beautiful, with her whole life ahead of her, while he had nothing to look forward to but endless days of slavery and long, lonely nights of darkness.
But he was too weak to maintain his anger, too weary to cling to his hatred. His eyelids were suddenly heavy, too heavy to keep open. Her face was the last thing he saw before sleep claimed him.
When he was resting comfortably, Ashlynne left the cell. Outside, she brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead, squinting against the glare of the sun.
"I beg you, Dagan, tell no one I was here."
He fidgeted under her gaze. "I should tell Parah."
"If you do, if anyone finds out I was here, I'll be punished."
"Lady Ashlynne—"
"I have one more favor, Dagan. I want you to tell Parah that the doctor isn't doing his job and should be severely reprimanded. Another day or two, and the prisoner would probably have died. Do you understand?"
"Yes, my lady. I'll take care of it. But… I really should tell Parah about your visit."
"You must do as you think best, Dagan." She offered him a dazzling smile. "Whatever you decide, you have my gratitude for what you've done."
Dagan released a heavy sigh. He knew what he ought to do. And he knew what he would do. And they had nothing in common.
Chapter Three
The strange restlessness that had plagued her since the day she had visited the mine continued to haunt Ashlynne. Days turned to weeks, the weeks to a month, and with every hour, her sense of unease grew stronger.
With her parents home, she dared not leave the compound to ride along the beach. It was strictly forbidden. There were dangers outside the compound's protective walls— a chance encounter, however unlikely, with an escaped prisoner; the lure of the jungle, wild and emerald green; the threat of attack by ferocious beasts; the churning riptides along the northern shore. She had always avoided the jungle, but the ocean, ever seething, ever changing, called to some primal sense deep within her and she answered whenever she had the chance.
Her days, once filled with pleasant diversions, now seemed boring. She was tired of reading, tired of playing games and watching vids on the tele-screen, tired of playing the piano. Tired of painting and sculpting.
Tired of living behind the compound's high walls. For the first time, it occurred to her that she was as much a prisoner as the slaves who labored in the mine. As much a prisoner as Number Four.
Number Four. She spent far too much time thinking about him, wondering about him, daydreaming about him. It had to stop.
She heaved a great sigh as she went to the window and watched the storm rage across the sky. Slender bolts of brilliant white lightning slashed through the roiling thick black clouds. Thunder rumbled in the heavens, vibrating through the earth. Rain pelted the window. The wind howled through the night like an angry, ravenous beast.
A streak of lightning stabbed through the clouds on the far side of the compound, and a tree burst into flame. It flared for a moment, burning like a giant candle in the darkness, and then the rain snuffed it out.
The elements were still raging when she climbed into bed. Drawing the covers up to her chin, she closed her eyes. She had always loved the savage unpredictability of the storms on Tierde. Lightning sizzled across the skies, casting eerie dancing shadows on the walls. Gradually, the fierce rain lessened to a slow, steady rhythm, which soon lulled her to sleep.
By morning, the storm had passed, leaving behind a wide swath of destruction. Trees and plants had been uprooted; debris-floated on the surface of the pool. The tree that had been struck by lightning stood like a dark sentinel near the side wall.
Her parents conferred, then her father called the mine and told Parah to send one of the prisoners to the jinan to clean up the wreckage.
She wished, but didn't dare believe; prayed, but expected no answer. It was too much to hope that Parah would send him— Number Four, with his shaggy black hair and cool blue-gray eyes.
She stood at the back door, one finger tapping restlessly on the wall, her gaze fixed on the side gate. She felt her heart jump into her throat when she saw Number Four enter the yard, followed by Dain. Some prayers, it seemed, were answered after all.
She stood in the doorway, listening surreptitiously while her father issued his instructions. Number Four was to dig up what was left of the tree that had been struck by lightning and haul it away, and then he was to clean up any other debris left by the storm.
Excitement bubbled up inside Ashlynne's stomach as she found a book, grabbed a couple of big yellow apples and headed outside to sit in the sun and read.
She found a perfect place on a flat rock a few yards away from where Number Four was working. Pretending to be engrossed in the old novel she had hastily pulled off one of the bookshelves in the library, she studied Number Four from beneath the veil of her lashes. She hadn't realized how tall and broad-shouldered he was. He wore a pair of loose-fitting tan leather breeches and black mud boots, nothing more. His skin was a deep golden brown; each muscle was clearly defined beneath his taut skin. The gash on his cheek had healed, leaving a thin white scar. Sunlight glinted off the thick lynaziam collar at his throat, off the heavy shackles on his wrists. His hair, as black as the baneite crystals he dug out of the mine, fell past his shoulders. She had never seen anyone quite like him before. He was beautiful, wild and untamed. Exciting. Forbidden. As dangerous as one of the big black mountain lions she had seen at the circus when she was a little girl. The cats had been prisoners, too, she thought, locked in cages at night, controlled by a collar and leash by day….
Falkon listened to his instructions in silence, nodded that he understood. A muscle worked in his jaw as he began shoveling dirt from the base of the fire-ravaged tree. He sent furtive glances at the girl. There was no doubt in his mind that she was the one who had watched him from behind a tree that day at the dock, the same one who had come into his hut and tended his wounds. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. She wore her hair in queenly fashion in a thick coil atop her head. Her skin was the color of pale honey, her cheeks were dusted w
ith a light sprinkling of golden freckles. Her eyes, those deep green eyes that had been haunting his dreams, seemed intent on the book in her lap. He recalled the way she had looked at him when she treated his wounds, her expression one of pity and revulsion. Much as a fine lady might look at a wounded cur.
Rage spiraled through him as he shoveled dirt from the tree's roots. He was a sky warrior, meant to fly, to fight, not to dig in the earth like a Hodorian slime-worm! Among his own people, he was a hero, treated with honor and respect. He had achieved scores of battle honors, saved dozens of lives at the risk of his own.
He felt the girl watching him. Did she take pleasure from his captivity, he wondered, in knowing that the fine clothes she wore, the food she ate, everything she possessed, came from the forced labor and misery of others? She was his enemy, as he was hers. No doubt it brought her an enormous sense of satisfaction to watch him toiling in the hot sun.
Boldly, he lifted his gaze to hers.
Ashlynne's senses reeled as Number Four's impertinent gaze met her own. The hatred in his eyes was almost palpable. She saw him glance at the guard, his thoughts as clear as the words on the book in her lap. Could he kill Dain before Dain activated the collar? And if he managed to kill the guard, how far would he get before they came after him? If he managed to put a good distance between himself and the mine, would the collar still be effective?
She held his gaze for a timeless moment, and then she shook her head in silent warning. Though many had tried, no one had ever escaped from the mine. Those who were not caught were usually found dead in the dark green heart of the jungle, their bodies mauled and mangled almost beyond recognition. The ones who were caught were returned to the mine and placed in solitary confinement. One month for a first attempt; two months for the second, and so on. Magny said few men were foolish enough to try to escape a second time.
He moved so fast, she saw only a blur. Number Four lunged forward, his hands closing around Dain's throat, and the two men crashed to the ground. The controller, knocked from the overseer's grasp, flew through the air to land inches from where she sat.
Startled by the speed of Number Four's attack, Ashlynne jumped to her feet, her book and the remaining apple tumbling to the ground.
The two men scuffled for several moments, rolling over and over like playful puppies, only they weren't playing. Number Four drew back his arm and drove his fist into Dain's face and the guard went limp.
Breathing heavily, Number Four stood up. Fear washed through Ashlynne when his eyes met hers. Stark, unreasoning fear.
With a cry, she reached down, scooped up the controller and pointed it at Number Four, her thumb hovering over the activation panel on the top. His blue-gray eyes, as turbulent as a storm-tossed sea, raked over her from head to foot.
And then he took a step toward her.
Fear clogged Ashlynne's throat. Her heart was racing wildly, pounding as if she had been running for miles. He didn't look exciting and mysterious now, only savage and ferocious and completely untamed. The sun glistened on his sweat-sheened flesh, glinted on the thick collar at his throat.
"Lady Ashlynne!"
She glanced past Number Four to see Dain struggling to his feet. Number Four took another menacing step toward her and she tossed the controller to Dain, who caught it in mid-air and quickly applied pressure to the top of the control panel.
The effect was immediate.
A hoarse cry erupted from the prisoner's throat as the collar was activated, a harsh rasping cry that seemed torn from the very depths of his soul.
Caught in the inescapable grasp of the collar's power, Number Four dropped heavily to the ground, writhing in an agony she could not begin to imagine, his body twisting, thrashing helplessly in a vain attempt to escape the pain that engulfed him.
Ashlynne had been told the pain was akin to being severely shocked over and over again.
She watched in horror as Number Four's body convulsed, his muscles bunching, quivering. Sweat oozed from every pore. Once begun, there was no way to end the punishment until it had run its course. Moments passed, each one seeming an eternity as she watched. Spasms coursed through him, his face was contorted in a harsh mask of agony.
She bit down on her lower lip, wishing there was a way to end his suffering. She had never seen the effects of the collar before; she hoped never to see them again.
Gradually, the punishment diminished, then ceased. Number Four lay on the ground, gasping for breath, his knees drawn up to his chest, his body drenched with perspiration, his eyes tightly closed. His muscles continued to twitch convulsively.
She flinched as Dain kicked Number Four in the back.
"Get up!" the overseer ordered curtly. "You've still got work to do." A cruel grin twisted Dain's thick lips as he watched the prisoner struggle to his hands and knees. "A month in the hole should cool that temper of yours."
Falkon stood up, swaying unsteadily. He felt weak, drained. Every muscle in his body ached.
"Get back to work." Dain held the controller in his right hand. For all the pain it caused, the controller left no lasting ill effects. It was a remarkably effective instrument. He had worked in the mine for ten years and in all that time, he had never had to punish the same slave twice. It was a lesson learned once, but learned well.
Picking up the shovel Number Four had dropped, Dain thrust it into his hands. "Move it."
Jaw clenched in silent protest, Falkon took the shovel and turned back to the task at hand. He could feel the woman watching him, her eyes burning into his back. Damn her! Damn them all!
The earth was hard and unyielding. The punishment had left him feeling weak and a little light-headed. He cursed viciously under his breath, his pride in shreds. It was humiliating enough to be a slave without her standing there, watching him writhing in agony in the dirt, helpless as a worm squirming on a hot rock.
Why the hell didn't she go back into the house where she belonged? Time and again, he thrust the shovel into the earth, wishing the tool was a weapon, wishing that it was Drade at his feet. At last, he exposed the tree's roots. He was panting heavily now, plagued by a relentless thirst.
Dain picked up his communicator and called the mine office. "Dagan? I need a couple of men up here to haul this tree away." He paused a moment, his gaze never leaving the prisoner. "Right. We'll be there in a few minutes. Out."
With a mocking grin, Dain touched the left side of the controller, activating the magnets within the heavy lynaziam shackles on the prisoner's wrists. The bands snapped together with a sharp click.
"Let's go," Dain said, jerking his head toward the path. "The hole awaits."
Eyes forward, Falkon started down the path that led to the mine compound. He refused to look at the girl, but he could feel her gaze on his back, knew she was watching him with those enormous green eyes.
He cursed her all the way down the hill.
Solitary confinement. Falkon squatted in a corner of the hole, his head resting against the damp dirt wall at his back, his eyes closed. He had thought his cell the worst kind of prison, but he had been wrong. This was worse. Much worse.
It was a hole he had dug himself. A rough square, four feet wide, four feet deep. They had stripped him of his boots and breeches and ordered him inside, then covered the hole with a canopy made of thick ebonywood. A narrow slit in one corner allowed him just enough air to breathe. The earth beneath his feet was damp and cold.
It was like being buried alive.
They opened the hole once each day, just long enough to pass him a loaf of dark brown bread, a bowl of weak broth, and a cup of sour wine, and then he was left with his own company again, his own dismal thoughts.
By the end of the first week, he could scarcely tolerate his own stink. The air in the hole reeked of excrement and sweat. During the day, he spent hours staring at the narrow ribbon of light that filtered through the slit in the wood. The sun pounding down on the thick black wood turned the hole into an oven. Sweat dripped down his
body to puddle at his feet. The collar and manacles chafed his skin. At night, he huddled into a corner, his body shivering convulsively in an effort to warm itself.
The close confines of the hole pressed in on him. He stared into the darkness that surrounded him, his hatred for the overseers, for the mine owners, for Drade, growing until he thought he might choke on it.
In his imagination, he killed them all over and over again, devising new methods of torture, of execution. His favorite was to put them in the hole he now occupied and leave them to rot. All of them. The overseers. The couple who owned the mine, who now owned him, body and soul. Their servants. Their daughter, with her long silver-blond hair and eyes as green as the oceans of Daccar. Ashlynne.
He muttered an oath, and then he swore aloud, unleashing a long string of the most foul profanity he knew.
They let him out of the hole for ten minutes each week so he could remove the pile of excrement from the corner. But he could not remove the stink. Not from the earth that surrounded him on all sides. Not from his skin.