To trust his mistress... that was something he had not expected. To be trusted by his mistress-that was something a slave could anticipate. It was the last step before being freed. A trusted slave was one who received responsibility and one who could expect reward for handling it well. But to trust a woman again, when the one who should have rewarded his diligence had betrayed him-no, that was so far from his mind that the idea had never occurred to him until now.
Food had made him sleepy, and the poor district in which the house resided was a quiet one, at least. They had both been exhausted by their mutual ordeal in the arena, and as soon as the sun had set, Xylina had gone to sleep. After making certain that the gate to the street outside was locked, he did the same, setting his bed across the doorway so that no one would be able to get by him. There was something about this situation that felt wrong, and he was taking no chances that she might come to harm.
After all, no matter what his feelings in the matter were, if she died, he would be executed. That would have been tolerable if he hated her; he could have been less than diligent in her defense, and in that devious manner taken her with him. But it was not tolerable now, for a reason he was unable to quite fathom.
He was not certain what had awakened him, until he glanced through the door into the other room, and saw that Xylina's bed was empty. He almost went back to sleep then, assuming that she had left it for the obvious reason, but his feeling of something wrong would not leave him. So, instead, he left his own bed and walked softly into the back court, where the little pump and the outdoor kitchen were. He moved quietly, with great care, not certain why, but somehow knowing he should make no noise. The hard-pounded dirt of the. courtyard was still warm from the sun beneath his toughened soles, and he reflected that the sun would be unbearably hot in high summer, without a single tree to shade all this stone and bare dirt. Yet another good reason to move.
He eased around the corner of the building, sure that he had heard something odd.
There, he froze in shock.
Xylina was in the middle of the courtyard-kneeling on the hard dirt, as hard as stone. Her long hair covered her face, falling loose about her shoulders.
Weeping.
And in her hands, a knife-blade glittered; from the way she held it, Faro had no doubt that she intended to use it on herself.
The realization that had eluded him before abruptly burst into awareness. Not only did he not hate his new mistress, he cared for her. Not as a man for a woman, of course; that was beyond his aspiration as a slave. But as a family member. As he might care for a child. She was so-so innocent. So much in need of protection. He had to serve and protect her, of course; it was his oath and his duty. But now he realized that he also wanted to. That put a significant new perspective on it. He was prepared to die in her defense, as any slave was for his mistress. But now he was prepared to do more than that. He had to keep her alive-which was not the same thing.
His mind swam. What was he to do? If he surprised her, she might plunge the blade into her breast-if he left her alone, she would almost certainly do that anyway. If she died, he died-
And why -
She looked up, and saw him, a dark shadow against the white stone. She gasped and froze, like a frightened doe. She had probably forgotten that he was with her now, and took him for an intruder.
That gave him the chance he needed, and he took it. Moving quickly, he leapt to her side and took the blade from her hands. He cast it across the yard, where it hit the wall with a clatter and dropped into the shadows. She remained where she was, paralyzed, looking up at him. She looked dazed, as if she had been sleepwalking-or sleep-weeping. He had clearly startled her so much that she was not able to think clearly.
"What in demons-fire did you think you were doing?" he snarled, as if she were another slave and not his mistress. "I-" she began, then folded in on herself, her shoulders shaking with sobs.
Those sobs cut straight to his heart, cut through all the layers of indifference and self-protection he had built about himself. He forgot himself, his position and hers. She was only a frightened, damaged child-and he responded to that.
He didn't even stop to calculate what he was doing; he just picked her up as if she were a child who had hurt herself, and he smoothed her hair, murmuring comforting things to her, until her weeping subsided into exhaustion.
She dropped all of her masks, dazed with her shock and her grief, and the words spilled that explained everything.
Her mother's death-the plague-the constant eroding of her fortunes, and the pain of loss after loss, until even trusted Marcus had died and she was left alone, with no one to advise her and no one to confide in.
Where were her relatives? Surely her mother could not have been without sisters, cousins at least. Or had they been persuaded to leave the child to struggle, completely on her own but for the single slave? And if they had been so persuaded, who had done so?
His suspicious nature was aroused on her behalf. He did not have answers yet-but he would. A slave saw a great deal, and heard more.
He realized that she had stopped talking. She was looking askance at him. She was beginning to realize how far the two of them had transgressed the bounds of mistress/slave association. He couldn't afford to let her do that, right now while she was so vulnerable, because she might try to kill herself again. Yet how could he stop her?
"Faro," she said, and he knew it was coming. "I shouldn't have tried to kill myself. I know why you stopped me."
"You have no good reason to kill yourself now," he said quickly. "You won, today! You became a full Mazonite citizen, and you gained a useful slave. Your lot is already improving, and I will help improve it more. This I swear."
"Yes, that too," she agreed. "I was being hopelessly foolish. Maybe the excitement-I just wasn't thinking it through. But what I meant was that I shouldn't do it while you're here, because then you'll be executed. Tomorrow I'll take you to the border and free you. Then you'll be safe. I- I apologize for not thinking of that before."
"Don't apologize to a slave!" he protested, though that was not his real concern.
Now she gazed at him with a certain wistful insight. "I think I stopped thinking of you as a slave when you started talking like a scribe. I'm sorry I embarrassed you."
"You're doing it again! Never say you're sorry for a slave's feelings. They don't matter."
She shook her head. "I know you're right, according to our custom. But somehow-"
"I swear never to tell," he said. "I must protect your reputation as I do your person."
"It won't matter, after I free you."
"Don't free me!" he said, anguished.
"But I must, because-"
"I don't want to be freed," he said carefully. "I can not be a freedman in Mazonia, and I would have a worse life elsewhere than I would as your slave. You are a compassionate mistress, and I want to remain with you."
"You don't have to say that, Faro," she said. "I saw your hate for me when I chose you to fight. I thought you would kill me. I-"
"I think I never had a chance. Your powers of conjuration-I've never seen such strength of magic before."
"Oh, surely the Queen-"
"Maybe the Queen," he agreed. "But no lesser person. You are destined for greatness."
"Not with my curse," she said wanly. "But that's not the point. I don't hate you, Faro, and I don't want to humiliate you, or doom you with my fate. So it's best that I free you."
"I don't hate you," he said. "I never hated you. I hated the society. I thought you represented it, but now I know you don't."