Battles of Salt and Sighs by Val Saintcrowe
CHAPTER ONE
SHE WAS SHIVERING, but no one noticed, least of all him.
He wasn’t even looking at her. He was surveying the rest of the men in the tent—dirty fae men with their pointed ears and pointed eyebrows and luminous eyes, their skin smeared with dirt and blood.
Since the fae slaves had gotten free from their villae, they’d all started letting their hair grow, even though before the world had gone mad, they would have been forced to keep it close-cropped to their head. But now, the tent was full of flowing locks of white and magenta and cyan. Exotic colors of hair full of clumps of blood.
She was shivering.
Her teeth were even chattering.
She wasn’t cold.
She suspected it was shock.
Now, he turned to her.
She had heard of him. His name was Larent. He was only half fae. She didn’t know how much human blood he had in him, but enough that he could grow facial hair, because she could see the hints of a beard at his chin and growth above his lips. His hair was black, inky black. If there was blood and dirt in his hair, she couldn’t see it.
He was huge. Fae were always tall, but usually slim and graceful. He had enough human blood that he seemed nearly burly. His eyes, though, his eyes were fae. They were light, light green, seafoam green, like the waters that lapped against the shores of the Quinta Island, her home, which… would she see it again? She didn’t know. She didn’t know what they were going to do with her.
Oh, she knew what was going to happen to her now, but… but after?
What happened to her after?
When he was done with her, would he kill her, like he’d killed her husband and her father and her brothers? She didn’t know if it had been him personally who’d done the killing, but she had seen their bodies, and she did know they were dead.
Everyone was dead.
Not Magdalia. They took Magdalia.
He stepped closer to her, and his hand shot out. He took her by the chin. His fingers were callused and dirty. There was blood under his fingernails. He turned her face to one side and then to the other, looking her over like a ewe at the marketplace.
No, like a fae slave at auction.
A shudder went through her.
He felt this and dropped his hand. His jaw twitched, and he turned his back on her. “She’s very young.” His voice was deep, almost musical, soothing, which struck her as incongruous. Shouldn’t he sound threatening and terrifying?
Across the room, a fae man stood up from behind a table where he’d been lounging. He had an earthenware goblet—of course the fae never used metals—and wine sloshed out as he got to his feet. “You wanted one that was married,” said the man. “Well, that was his wife. Are you going to find fault with this one, too? We all know why you do. It’s because deep down you—”
“No fault,” said Larent, cutting the other man off. “She’s perfect.” He turned back to her, fixing her with a glare—a leer—something ugly and male and lewd.
She shuddered again, and her teeth clashed noisily against each other.
Larent snatched her up from where she cowered there. He yanked her to her feet, pulling her body against his.
She could smell him. He smelled like blood.
“Mine,” said Larent, thrusting her forward at the gathered men.
They cheered.
She shivered.
Larent’s arm tightened around her, warm and thick. But his fingers didn’t dig into her waist. They only curved there. Possessively, yes, but not painfully.
Well, he isn’t hurting me, so I am grateful. How quickly I become grateful for the smallest of kindnesses.
It was only last night that she had danced at her wedding feast. Only last night that she was the domina of the Villa Prantia, and that she had fae slaves helping her out of her finery and into her nightdress.
One day, and everything was different.
He walked, and she had no choice but to walk with him.
Well, that wasn’t true. She could have gone limp and forced him to carry her. But he would have. He was strong. She could have fought. She could have made fists and beat them against his chest. She could have raked her nails down his cheek. She could have done any number of things, and she didn’t do them.
Why don’t I fight?
She suspected it was shock. And so she walked with him, and they left the main tent, the one where the fae army was gathered, and they wound through the encampment here. There were more tents, a sea of tents, so many tents.
How many slave uprisings had there been? How could they have such a force?
There are more of them than there are of us. There have always been more. And they hate us. Of course they hate us.
Why wouldn’t the fae hate the humans? It was odd how she’d not really contemplated it before. She had actively attempted not to contemplate it, all those years in the capital, the seditious pamphlets flung at their doorsteps and into their windowsills, and she had thrown them in the fire and refused to think, because she knew… she knew if she did…
But the fae were dangerous and evil.
Everyone knew that.
They were enslaved as punishment for their many, many wrongs. They were enslaved because if they went free, they would perpetrate evil on the world.
Yes.
That was all.
There was no other thought to think about any of it, and she shouldn’t let those half-formed dangerously revolutionary ideas take root at this moment, the moment when she was about to be… to be possessed by this monster.
Her lower lip started to tremble.
Oh, she couldn’t let herself cry.
If she started crying, she would not stop, and she hadn’t cried yet. She had not cried when they showed her the pile of bodies, when she saw her father’s lifeless form face down against the blood-stained rug, her brother splayed out with his throat cut open, or her husband with his eye gouged out.
She had not cried when she was torn away from the other women, sorted through as one who didn’t have a squealing babe in her arms, when the fae men had squeezed her breasts through her clothes, as if testing her, like an animal about to be slaughtered, for fatness.
She hadn’t even cried when they ripped her sister Magdalia out of her arms and put her on that horse and galloped off with her, took her away, took her because the Croith wanted her, the Night King wanted her, and that was why they’d come.
For my sister.
She hadn’t cried then.
She wouldn’t cry now.
Larent pulled them into a middling-sized tent, one that marked him as an officer in the army. She thought that the fae army mimicked the organization of the empire, because she had heard him referred to as a centurion.
The tent had two flaps in front. One was a sort of netting, see-through, that fell down to let in the breeze but keep out the insects. The other was a thick canvas.
He tossed her inside and then spent too much time fiddling with the flaps.
The effect was that the canvas was not covering the tent. It looked almost haphazard, as if he’d been in too much of a hurry to pull it completely closed, but she had just watched him, and it had been very deliberate.
She shivered, hugging herself, watching him warily.
He wasn’t looking at her.
He was, instead, looking through the net, as if waiting for something.
She watched him, also waiting.
Nothing happened.
Time passed.
She turned her head, looking around the tent. There were rugs on the ground, but they were muddy. There was a bed, a kind of folding cot that seemed to be imperial legions issue. It must have been stolen. The fae had stolen so much since these revolts had begun.
Oh, why am I still saying that? We’ve known for a while it’s a war, not a revolt. Not something easily put down. We are at war.
And I am the spoils.
There was conversation in the distance, and then she saw men moving in the distance. It was a lot of voices.
“There,” muttered Larent. “Akiel’s let the men go.” He looked up at her. He took a deep breath. He made a face that might have been a grimace.
And then he closed the distance between them and seized her arm.
He tugged her—not roughly but firmly—over to the bed, which was visible through the net.
He pushed her face down into the bed, and he grasped handfuls of her skirt and pulled them up. He yanked down her drawers, exposing her.
Anyone walking by can see, she thought, and she was ashamed.
His hand was between her legs.
Fight him now.
She didn’t.
He was spreading something against her opening, something that felt like grease.
She tensed, and she couldn’t help but let out a little mewling sound.
No, be quiet,she told herself.
Yes, that seemed right for some reason. She also thought she should close her eyes, but instead, she caught sight of him unbuttoning his trousers, and she couldn’t help but stare as he took himself out.
He was soft, and he dipped his hand into a small container that sat near the bed and smeared more of whatever he’d smeared on her on himself. She watched, fascinated, as he rubbed himself stiff.
She’d never seen a male member before.
What was it that the women in the capital were always calling them when they were whispering and giggling together? His cock. That was right. That was the word.
He held it between his thumb and forefinger, lining himself up with her.
Pressure.
Now, she closed her eyes.
He stretched her as he pushed his way inside.
She shuddered again, but she didn’t make noise.
It hurt.
She bit down on her tongue, trying to distract herself from one pain with another.
He thrust into her. He was quiet, too, and the only sound was his trousers making contact with her skin.
In the distance, she could hear the conversation of the men.
Then, a hoot. “Larent! Get it!”
Larent turned. She felt him do it. “Little help with that flap, Aher?” He sounded amused.
Laughter from without.
She opened her eyes, and there was a crowd of them looking at them. She realized she was mostly blocked by Larent’s body, however. If they could see anything, it was only her bare legs.
Then the flap whisked closed, and it was darker.
Larent let out a noisy breath. He had stopped moving inside her, and he stayed there, as if frozen, for several moments, and then he stepped backwards and his cock slid out of her.
“Ancestors save me,” he muttered. “I asked for—” He let out a heavy sigh and he moved away from her.
She was shaking everywhere now. She was rattling the cot where she lay.
He came back into her view and he dropped a towel in front of her face.
She just stared at it.
“For the bleeding,” he said. “Your maidenhead. I see your husband didn’t get around to deflowering you.”
Now, she realized there was blood on his cock. But there was blood all over him. He was covered in blood—her family’s blood, her people’s blood. She bared her teeth at him, and she was finding some kind of anger now.
He had another towel, and he was scrubbing his very stiff cock clean.
He hadn’t finished. She hadn’t done this before, but she understood the mechanics, and that men felt an apex of pleasure when they spilled their seed, and he hadn’t done that.
Of course, it was obvious he’d done it for show.
What was that all about?
With trembling hands, she picked up the towel and thrust it between her legs, pulling down her skirts at the same time. She retreated into the middle of the bed, keeping her limbs tight against herself. She shook.
“Sacred magics,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”
She gazed at him, wary.
“There’s nothing for it, though,” he said. “It could have been a lot worse. It will be worse, undoubtedly. It’s not as if I’m not going to be obliged to have you again.” He tucked his still-hard cock back into his clothes and muttered more oaths to the fae ancestors under his breath. He wasn’t even looking at her. “I specifically wanted someone who wasn’t a virgin.”
Her voice was sullen. “I don’t see why that would matter.”
“Maybe it wouldn’t.” He sighed heavily.
Now, it was quiet again, but he was staring at her, and so she felt as though she needed to stare back at him. She couldn’t look away. She couldn’t bear the idea of him looking at her without her looking back. It would be a violation.
A further violation.
She wasn’t shaking anymore. She sneered. “You didn’t finish.” She threw this down like a gauntlet, like an accusation.
His expression contorted. He looked away.
She felt as though she’d won some sort of contest, but why she thought that, she didn’t know. She had won nothing. She was violated and tired and dirty, and he and his army had won everything, including the use of her body. They had triumphed over her people, and she bore the consequences of that now.
“Why?”
His gaze flicked to hers. “What gave you the idea that you had the right to question me?”
“Wasn’t I to your liking?” Her voice was caustic.
He barked out something like a laugh. “As a matter of fact, no. I prefer my women willing. I’d much rather fuck someone who was enjoying it.” He turned his back on her. He let out another heavy sigh, looking down at the bloody towel in his hand.
“So, then why?” she said, and now her voice broke, and she hated herself for it. “Why do it at all, then?” She fought a sob that was welling up in her throat.
He ignored her. He stalked over to what appeared to be a writing desk in one corner. There was an oil lamp on it and something that looked to be a map of Tertia Island. He tossed the bloody towel on the desk and sat down.
She licked her lips and spoke again. “My sister.”
He rolled up the map and secured it with string, which he tied up. He tossed the map into a basket that seemed to be full of similar scrolls. Were they all maps?
She scrambled up off the bed. “Please, where did they take her? That’s why you came and attacked. I know it is. I heard them talking about it, and I know the Croith bade you come for her. I know everyone died just so that…” The sob came out then.
He glanced at her. His voice was soft now, gentle. “War is death. That’s just the way it is. I promise you that every man in my centuria knows to kill quick and clean. No one suffered needlessly.”
This was suppose to make her feel better? Was he insane? She gaped at him.
“As for your sister, she is the property of the Night King now, but there’s every reason to think she’ll survive. He was specific about wanting her alive.”
“But what did he want her for?” She swallowed. “Did he want her for… for this?”
“For her magic, I think,” said Larent. He surveyed her. “Listen, it’s not going to be easier if we talk, I don’t think. You’re not going to convince me not to fuck you again, because I have to. So, why don’t you rest, hmm? You can’t leave my tent, not until morning. It won’t look right.”
“Why not?”
“Aren’t you tired?”
She balled her hands into fists.
He nodded at the bed. “Lie down.”
“No.”
“Do as I say, and don’t speak unless I tell you to,” he said.
“Where is the Croith?”
He glowered at her.
And because she still felt the echo of his cock within her, she cowered. She bowed her head and then she retreated, going back to the bed.
Another sob wanted to escape, but she didn’t let it.
She curled up in a ball, wrapping her arms around her knees. She concentrated so hard on not crying that she didn’t notice when she fell asleep.