Passion Play Read online

  So make the trade, a part of her whispered. It’s only your body, lent for a few moments, a half hour. Then you can walk away free.

  Over and over, from one side and the opposite, she argued with herself, all the while aware that Brenn and Volker had not moved far away. As if they knew she was desperate. As if they knew she had no choice. She wrenched away from the rope and twisted her wrists, only to have the rope bite deeper into her skin. With a curse, she collapsed onto the wet ground and bit her lips to stop the sobs from breaking free of her throat.

  Stay and let Brandt sell her back to her father. Go, make the trade, and walk free.

  She closed her eyes, felt her heart thumping against her chest. So hard and fast, as though she were running a race. Perhaps I am, she thought. She drew a long breath. “Brenn?” she whispered softly. “Volker?”

  Volker knelt beside her in a moment. “Changed your mind?”

  Her throat had closed, she could not speak. She nodded.

  He whispered something to his brother, who whispered back. A moment later, Volker crawled underneath the wagon and beckoned to Therez. Awkwardly, she crawled to his side and lay down. Brenn sat with his back to them, shielding them from view.

  Volker unbuttoned Therez’s shirt and untied her bandeau. The cloth fell away, and he laid a hand over her breast with an ah of pleasure. The night breeze brought goose bumps to Therez’s bare skin, but she didn’t mind. She didn’t mind anything now, she told herself.

  “Roll over,” Volker whispered. “Quick. Before Alarik walks by.”

  Yes. Get it over with. Therez lay on her back. Volker unbuttoned his trousers and knelt between her legs. He shoved her skirt high around her waist. Her underlinens thwarted him only for a moment. He cut through them with his knife and tossed the pieces to one side. All the while he told her what to do, but Therez found it difficult to attend, and so she was unprepared for the sharp stab when he made his first thrust. She bit her lips as Volker pushed harder, grunting with the effort. Something broke, finally, and he slid fully inside her.

  She lost track of things then. It was hard to breathe, hard to keep from crying out against the insistent pain. Volker was panting in her ear—little grunts and moans of pleasure. Finally, when she thought she could bear no more, Volker collapsed on top of her, laughing softly. “Oh, that was good. Now it’s your turn, Brenn.”

  The cold night air washed over her a moment, then Brenn took his brother’s place. “Not how I wanted it,” he muttered. “But it’ll do.”

  Brenn was bigger and heavier, and the pain went on much longer. Volker took up the pan of stew and lay next to them, eating and watching. Therez met his gaze once. He was grinning.

  With a hard jerk, Brenn finished and rolled off Therez. She lay there, numb and aching and sick. A sweetish smell filled the air, underneath it the distinct scent of blood.

  “Ilse?” Brenn touched her hair.

  She recoiled from his touch. Awkwardly, he pulled her skirt down and buttoned her shirt, but she refused to move. Volker had already left—she heard his voice from a distance, excited and merry. Finally Brenn muttered a farewell and crawled out from under the wagon to rejoin his brother. She was alone, just as she wanted.

  * * *

  MUCH LATER, NIKO came by and tossed a blanket to Therez. Brandt circled the camp a few times, talking with various members of his crew, but did not speak to her again. Slowly the camp settled into quiet. Ulf banked his campfire and sent his boys to their tents. Guards took their places along the perimeter for the first watch. A few passed the wagon on their way to the latrine ditches, but no one glanced in her direction. Then, just when Therez thought the boys had forgotten her, Brenn slowly came past. He, too, visited the latrines. On his way back, he knelt and fiddled with his bootstrap. When he stood, Therez saw a flash of metal from the newly risen moon.

  My knife.

  She waited until there was no one in sight. Her hand closed over a wooden handle, still warm from Brenn’s touch. It was a short paring knife from Ulf’s stores.

  Footsteps brought her pulse leaping. She went still, the knife held close to her chest. It was Brandt and another man. They were talking about the crew’s mood—which was sullen from boredom—and how the stopover in Mundlau had only worsened it.

  “We’ll take a longer break at Donuth,” Brandt said. “That runner said we could find Zhalina’s agent there.”

  “Won’t the old man make trouble?” the other man said. “About hiding the girl?”

  “But I didn’t,” Brandt said. “The girl showed up later, on foot. Maybe she rode with another caravan. Maybe she ran off with a boy, and the boy abandoned her. Besides, what matters is that Zhalina promised us gold for any word of his daughter. We did better and found the daughter herself. That should be worth something.”

  A grunt and a laugh. “So she’s not a thief.”

  “Oh, she is, or I’d have to give back the money. Right?”

  The pair moved on. Therez waited until the camp fell silent once more. With her pulse thrumming in her ears, she braced the knife between her knees and began sawing at the ropes at her wrists. It was painfully slow. Twice she cut herself on the blade. But at last she sliced through the last strand.

  With a few strong slashes, she cut the rope tying her to the axle, then pulled on her boots and tucked the knife into one. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and emerged from under the wagon.

  In starts and stops, Therez crept between and around the wagons, into the forest beyond. Moonlight filtered through the branches, casting blue shadows over the undergrowth and forest floor. She could make out a dark trench that marked the latrines. Farther on, to her right, a stream glittered.

  Two shadows, moving between the trees, sent her into a crouch. The perimeter guards. They made frequent rounds, she knew. She would have to time her escape carefully.

  Once the guards passed by, Therez counted to ten, then rose to her feet and slipped from tree to tree. Leaves whispered and stirred beneath her feet, no matter how lightly she trod. In spite of the urge to run, she paused every few steps, hoping the guards would think her a forest animal.

  She had just reached a point beyond the horse picket, when her foot sank into a muddy patch. Without thinking, she jerked her foot free, stumbled, and heard a sudden noise, like that of men startled into movement.

  “Who’s that?”

  Therez bolted.

  “Grab her!” a guard shouted.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Alarik’s girl. She’s got loose.”

  Therez dodged around a tree, fell over a half-buried root, picked herself up, and kept going. The blanket flapped loose from her shoulders. She let it fall, not even slowing down. More shouts sounded from the camp. Therez glanced back and saw lamps flaring into life. Then she heard Alarik Brandt’s hoarse bellow.

  Faster. Faster. Faster.

  Her pulse beat in time to the words. She plunged into a dense thicket, jumped over a rivulet, and dodged between tall oaks and bristly pines. Thorns and branches tore at her clothes and face. She broke free, stumbling, only to pitch over the lip of an unexpected bank.

  She hit the ground with a thump and kept falling, tumbling over rocks and branches, finally crashing against a massive tree trunk at the bottom. The tree had fallen over, and she could see the hollow underneath, veiled by roots and dirt and leaves. Therez scrambled inside and lay still.

  Just in time. Footsteps thudded heavily down the hillside. The men, three of them, circled the clearing, whispering and muttering to one another. One paused by Therez’s shelter, his boots just inches from her face.

  “She’s not here,” he said.

  “Probably got away,” said another one. “Damn. Well, there’s no use tripping around the dark. Let’s go back and tell Alarik.”

  “He won’t like it.”

  “Don’t I know that.”

  They walked off, expressing their disgust by kicking the branches and leaves. Therez heard their noisy
climb back up the slope. Quiet returned, but she counted to a hundred, then another hundred, before she crawled from her hiding place. By now, the moon was well up, and the sky was clear. It was cold, but she could survive. All I have to do is walk.

  She turned and froze. A man stood before her, outlined by moonlight. Therez spun away, but another man lunged at her and threw her to the ground. When he tried to contain her arms, she fought back, biting and clawing and screaming, until he stunned her with a hard blow.

  “Don’t break her face,” the other man commented. “Alarik wants that fun himself.”

  “Right.” His companion hauled Therez to her feet, twisting her arms behind her back. She sobbed in pain and terror.

  The third man came sliding down the bank. “That was easy.” Then to Therez, he snapped, “Quiet. Alarik’s fucking angry enough without you howling.”

  The camp was awake and filled with tense activity. Ulf had relit the fires and was handing out coffee. Brenn sprawled over a log, held down by two guards, while Niko beat him with a knotted rope. Volker leaned against a wagon wheel. He looked dazed and sick, and his face was bleeding freely. A dark figure moved in the shadows—the scholar. Therez caught a glimpse of his face, but his expression was unreadable.

  Alarik Brandt stalked into view, one of the sentries at his side. He glanced at Brenn’s back, covered with bleeding welts. “Put him to bed and give the other one six cuts.”

  “Dock ’em?” Niko asked.

  Brandt nodded. “Ten days for both. Scut work from now to Duenne.”

  He swung around and saw Therez. His lips drew back from his teeth. “You.”

  Therez shrank back. Brandt seized her arm and propelled her past the circle of wagons, to a point near the horse pickets. A smaller fire burned here, its light casting a ruddy light on Brandt’s face. He still had that feral smile.

  “You’ve whored my men,” he said in a low voice. “You bribed them to disobey me. I don’t like that.”

  She licked her swollen lips. “I had to.”

  “Had to? You stupid bitch. Don’t you understand? I’m getting good money for you.”

  “No,” she said in a low voice.

  Brandt made a guttural sound. “What do you mean no?”

  She forced herself to meet his gaze directly. “I mean no. You can’t send me back. Not after what I did.”

  He laughed softly. “Is that what you believe? I can. And get your father’s thanks and reward. Think on that, girl.” His eyes narrowed as he studied her. “Unless …”

  His gaze traveled down her body. His expression changed from rage to one colder and more speculative. She swallowed, her mouth hot and dry, and tasting of blood. “Unless what?”

  “Unless you want your freedom more.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying the choice is yours. Go home to your family. Or make it worth my effort to keep you. It’s a favor, wench. Say the word.”

  A trade.

  She felt a curious tightness in her belly. She had no name for this emotion. It wasn’t desire, nor was it panic. It was like standing on a lofty cliff and staring into the abyss. Not six feet away, the outriders and drivers and sentries were talking. A few openly watched, and she heard their muttered laughter.

  I have no choice, Ilse thought. Unless you call it a choice to let this man sell me back to my father. I shall have to pretend and hope he believes me. And pretend that I believe him.

  She lifted a hand to her shirt. Brandt tensed, then relaxed as Ilse slowly unbuttoned her shirt and dropped it to one side. Boots and socks followed. She unbuckled her belt and let the skirt slide to the ground. Stepping from the puddle of cloth, she stood before Alarik Brandt, with as much grace as she could muster.

  Cold smote her back. A wave of heat billowed from the nearby fire: its light gilded her copper brown skin and reflected from Alarik Brandt’s bright eyes. He watched her, lips parted, the pulse at his throat beating faster. After weeks on the road, he stank of sweat and horse, but so did she.

  Ilse took his hand and pressed it against her breast. His fingers tightened. She forced herself to smile. “I will do whatever you like. Tell me what you want.”

  Brandt told her, and she obeyed. “Good bitch,” he said roughly, midway through. “Very good. The boys gave you a first lesson, eh? Softened you up. Made you ready for me. Oh no. I’m not done yet. Not nearly. Good, sweet bitch. Oh yes.”

  It lasted longer than she had hoped. When he finished, Brandt called Niko over. “You’re next,” he said, casually lacing up his trousers. “Choose three more after you. That’ll be the routine—four a night not counting me. More when she gets used to the work. We want this one to last.”

  Niko flashed a grin and nodded. When Brandt was gone, he ran his fingers along Ilse’s throat. He was a raw-boned man with knotted muscles from hefting barrels, and his hands were rough and callused. “Pretty,” he said. “Never had one so pretty like you.” His hand dropped from the skin of her throat to her breast, already sore from handling. Ilse winced, and the man laughed deep in his throat. “I like that, too.”

  He gave her to the second man, the third, the fourth. Afterward one of Ulf’s boys came with a bucket of water and rags and a rope coiled over one shoulder. “Clean up,” he said. “Alarik’s orders.” She dunked a rag and wiped her face. The boy had not moved. He was there to watch, she realized.

  She washed herself thoroughly, shivering all the while. The water was frigid, its waters born in the nearby mountains. Water from Duszranjo’s glaciers. From her father’s homeland. Taking up another rag, she scrubbed her body clean.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  HER NEW DUTIES became a part of the caravan’s routine, no different from breaking camp or resting the horses at intervals. When Brandt judged her used to the routine, the four men became six. Sometimes he offered her during rest breaks, as a reward for work done well. Otherwise they kept her bound, and when the caravan passed near settlements, he ordered her gagged and hidden behind the pots in Ulf’s covered wagon.

  She lost track of the days, but she remembered other details. The curses the men used. The taste of their skin. The weight of their bodies atop hers. She remembered whether they took her fast and brutally, like Niko, or used her slowly, like Alarik Brandt.

  “Open your mouth,” Brandt said. “Make it soft, like a peach. Good.”

  Pretend, she told herself, opening up her mouth to his. Brandt’s manner was different this night. He had ordered her to strip. Now he kissed her slowly, as a lover might, and ran his hands over her bare skin in a light caress.

  Pretend.

  Murmuring softly, Brandt kissed her throat, her shoulder, the crook of her elbow, the inside of her wrist. He’d unbuttoned his shirt; she saw a number of scars—a long jagged one near his shoulder, a semicircle of small ones like tooth marks above his left nipple. His rough gray hairs tickled her skin, and his mouth felt hot as he bent to suckle her breast. Slow. Insistent. He gave a groan and slid up to kiss her full on the mouth, inserting one hand between her thighs.

  “Good,” he whispered hoarsely. “Now do the same with your other mouth, wench. Makes it easier, eh? Almost feels good, right? Yes, now grip tight, tighter.”

  I chose him. I chose him.

  She never knew why her body betrayed her—whether she had worked so hard to pretend that she had crossed an invisible boundary—but when Brandt slid his fingers inside her and caressed her with skill, she unexpectedly moaned in response.

  Brandt smiled. “I knew you could. Now do it again.”

  That night he would not yield her to the next man until she had cried out for all to hear.

  * * *

  HE SET NEW demands on her and watched to see that Ilse complied. Yielding wasn’t enough. Consent wasn’t enough. He wanted her willing participation.

  I can pretend anything, she told herself.

  No matter how shameful the act, she never resisted, knowing that Brandt watched sometimes, when she coupled with the
other men. His presence was like the night breeze upon her skin, or the salt taste in her mouth. With Brandt himself, she had entirely lost her defenses, it seemed, because when he caressed her, she moved, and when he entered her with his customary skill, the tightness in her belly relaxed into warmth. She had never meant to make a trade like this. She would have wept, except for Brandt’s dark eyes that studied her so closely.

  Four weeks passed. Ilse never saw Volker, except at a distance. Sometimes she caught Brenn glaring at her. She didn’t blame him. She didn’t blame any of the men. Not Ulf, who was always glad for his turn. Not the horse boys. Not even Niko, who liked it rough. Blame was too easy.

  The fifth man for the night had just left. Ilse was wiping her face with a dirty cloth, thinking she had just one more obligation for the night, when a soft voice said, “My turn.”

  Brenn pointed from her to the blanket. She obeyed and lay back with her skirt pulled up. He unlaced his trousers and took her quickly, not bothering with kisses or talk, the way some did. When he finished, he rolled off to one side with a groan. “Alarik has plans,” he whispered.

  Ilse started. “What do you mean?”

  “He says he’s done with you. He wants the money your father offered.”

  “He can’t,” she whispered. “He promised.”

  “He will,” Brenn insisted. “He’ll hand you over to your father’s agent in Donuth. He’ll get a reward and be gone inside a week.”

  “My father will have him jailed.”

  Brenn shook his head. “He’ll say he found you on the road. Niko will back him up. If you talk about whoring, Alarik can say you started it yourself.”

  “That’s not true. I—”

  “Ilse, everyone heard what you told Brandt. You did ask for it.”

  Cold swept through her. She had. By Lir’s mercy she had asked Brandt to make her a whore.

  I pretended too well.

  Brenn pulled her close and kissed her on the mouth. “One more time,” he murmured. “Pretend good for me, Ilse.”