After being soaped three times and dunked four, then having my hair thoroughly washed, I was finally let out of the pool. I’d tried demanding that they let me take my own bath, but was told that that wasn’t part of their instructions. I’d been placed in their care, and they’d be doing whatever was necessary. The topic of necessary seemed to include drying me thoroughly with large cloths and then rubbing thick lotions into my skin, lotions which seemed downright erotic in their allure. I was put on a dry cloth on the marble for the lotion spreading, and was finally told by the first woman that if I didn’t stop yelling and trying to spill the lotion, I’d be given a good strapping before they went any further. I was shocked at the promise, even more shocked that the woman wasn’t joking or merely threatening, but I just couldn’t stand it. After what Dallan had—or rather hadn’t—done to me, I couldn’t bear being touched all over like that. When I began crying I was comforted in a firm, stern way, then the rest of the lotion went on.
By the time my hair had been thoroughly dried and neatly combed, my skin had absorbed the thick yellow lotion, all excess having been earlier patted away. I stood on the cloth I’d been ordered to when they’d first begun on my hair, my head down, my mind filled with misery and deep depression. I was being prepared for show again, being prettied up at the orders of and for the benefit of a man of Rimilia again. What made them think they were so damned special that they had the right to do that to me? I was a Prime of the Centran Amalgamation, an empath whose abilities were sought after by everyone who knew of them; why wasn’t ! the one with special privileges?
“Weerees, I see a foolish look upon your face,” the first woman said, bringing me back to that hateful room. She was standing right in front of me and looking down at me, her voice carrying as much of a warning note as her narrowed eyes and annoyance-tinged mind. “It cannot be that you have not as yet learned the lesson we attempted to teach.”
“Your words hold no meaning for me,” I answered, my tone sullen despite everything I could do. “The sole lesson I have learned here is one already known: I would be best off far from this place.”
“Perhaps.” She nodded, her mind disagreeing with the voiced thought. “You, however, are not far from this place, therefore would you be wise to heed the teachings of another lesson. The drin Dallan may do with you as he pleases, therefore is it to your benefit to see that it pleases him to do other than punish you. He need not have merely had you bathed.”
“His generosity overwhelms me,” I answered, looking away from her toward the windows. The day was beautiful and bright and sparkling, with only a few clouds marring the loveliness.
“You are indeed a fool for failing to understand that he is no other thing than generous,” the woman said, angry now. “Ever has he been more generous even than his brother, the drin Seddan! A woman must needs be bereft of her senses to spurn his interest and incur his wrath! Have you no concept of how many yearn to be his?”
“The number is surely beyond counting,” I said with a small shrug, still looking out the window. “I, however, preferred him when he was no more than a loyal servant-slave. He was then so much more—amenable.”
“No slave is amenable,” she snorted, totally out of patience. “A slave is obedient, a state awaiting a stubborn weerees of a wenda, who thinks to pit herself against a man. You will learn better, and be the better for it. Let us place her within that, and have done with it.”
Her last comment was for the other women, but it was enough to take my attention from the windows to see what she was talking about. One of the other two had just rejoined our jolly group, and was carrying a fold of sheer pink silk in her hand. It was little more than a scrap of material, short and narrow and thin, far too small to be a gown or even an imad or caldin. The first woman saw me looking at the material, and immediately radiated amusement and self-justification.
“That garment is an excellent example of the generosity of the drin,” she informed me, flicking a finger toward the silk. “Had you shown yourself sufficiently repentent and eager to please the drin, you would not have been required to wear such a thing. For a free woman to wear the garment of a slave is a great shaming and punishment.”
I stared as the woman holding the bit of silk unfolded it and held it up, her laughter and ridicule matching that of the others, my head shaking in negation even as the other two closed with me. It seemed impossible for anyone to wear such a skimpy little thing, but once they had forced me into it I found it was more than possible. The silk was mostly skirt, tied with two thin strands at my left hip, leaving all of the outer portion of my left side and thigh bare. As if that weren’t bad enough, what there was of the skirt barely reached the tops of my thighs, showing it was designed for titillation rather than coverage. From the center of the skirt’s waist flowed two narrow streamers of silk, two halves of an oval, which rose to be fastened behind my neck, only incidently—and scantily—covering the very centers of my breasts. The very sheer silk did nothing to conceal me, in point of fact made me feel more naked that I had before it was put on. I fought the grips of the women, trying to free my arms so that I might tear the silk off again, but it was no use. They were stronger than I, and fully as determined.
“You had best not struggle so,” the first woman chuckled, looking me over with her hands on her hips. “You have more height than the slave meant to wear that, which will undoubtedly please the drin greatly. Should you continue to move yourself about so, he will be more than pleased. He is after all, a l’lenda and a man. Bring her.”
Again her last words were for the other two woman, who smoothed my hair and straightened the silk even as they pulled me toward the door to the next room. The first woman led the way through, knowing we followed, continuing on until she reached the middle of the room. When she stopped about ten feet in front of Dallan, who sat among the cushions on the carpet fur, I expected her to speak. Instead she waited until I’d been brought directly behind her, then simply stepped aside.
I felt the man’s eyes and mind as though they were physical blows, watching with numbed attention as he slowly sat straight among the cushions. His thoughts were a roiling growl of insatiable desire, the heat in his blue eyes arising from open, leaping flames. I could feel myself flinching from the roar that rolled at me from his mind, trembling but rooted to the spot. He got smoothly to his feet, cat-graceful despite the size of him, and walked toward me, the smile on his face barely noticeable below the look in his eyes. I swallowed and tried to control the trembling that had taken me, nearly crushed beneath the weight of his mind, but still couldn’t keep from cringing when he stopped right in front of me and put a hand out to touch my face. I’d gone through too much with the men of that world to trust one of them, and some of the soaring pleasure in Dallan’s mind faded and died.
“Wenda, you are lovelier than I have ever seen you,” he said, slowly withdrawing his hand. “Do you believe me capable of bringing harm to such loveliness, that you fear me so? Why do you cower away from the mere touch of my hand?”
“I . . . do not cower,” I said, disgusted with the way my voice shook, looking down to avoid meeting his eyes. “I do not fear you, therefore may you do as you will.”
Again I could feel his eyes on me, and when his hand suddenly touched my arm I jumped, automatically shrinking back toward the women who had come into the room with me. Consider my shock when I discovered they were gone, their exit so quiet and unobtrusive that I hadn’t noticed it through the turmoil in my mind and the growling in Dallan’s. I was all alone again and terribly vulnerable, and when a whimper escaped my throat, Dallan’s arms were immediately around me.