Page 4 of Across the Sapphire Sea
Elias shrugged out of his hold and sat on the chest at the foot of the bed, clutching his belly. “Not much. He asked how we met. I told him about the farm.”
Valeri narrowed his gaze, a cloud of suspicion in his eyes. “And the rest?”
Elias shook his head. “Not the rest.”
“Good. It’s none of their business.”
“They’re stronger than us, but you’re older than Laurence. You made him. How is that possible?”
“It shouldn’t be, but his fledgling is witchborn. Turning a witch is unnatural.”
Elias thought they were all unnatural, but he wouldn’t say so. “Their eyes glow like the ancient ones. Is it true Mahu gave them his blood?”
“Where did you hear that? Who’ve you been talking to?”
“No one in particular. Everyone’s saying it. Remy mentioned that without Mahu’s help, he would have died.”
“If you want to know something, you ask me.”
I just did, thought Elias sadly.
“I’ve work to do. Stay put. I’ll return soon.”
“Try to get along with the others, Valeri, please. We’re stuck with them for weeks; we ought to make friends.”
“You have me. You don’t need friends.” Valeri spun and left without saying goodbye, shutting the door harder than strictly necessary.
Elias heaved a long sigh and wondered, not for the first time, if their relationship could be saved.
* * *
Four Years Ago
The setting sun stole the day’s warmth with its departure. Elias felt the chill creep into his bones as he continued to work under moonlight. His muscles ached, and his empty stomach groaned in protest, but the barley would not harvest itself.
Fingers clenched around the heavy scythe, Elias scanned the windswept fields. They’d planted the grain late in the season, and the first frost threatened an early arrival—an unlucky combination. Not that Elias cared. These weren’t his fields. This wasn’t his crop. Little more than a slave to the overlords, Elias did what he was told or else he’d be beaten and starved. More than once he’d learned that lesson.
A glance over his shoulder revealed two men cresting the hill on horseback. Overlord Makinen sat astride a roan mare with his chest puffed out and his chin held high. His primary joy in life was looking down on everyone else.
The other man, not so big or intimidating as Maks, was a stranger, though he’d come around often lately, always in the evening. Chestnut brown curls, arching cheekbones and deep-set brown eyes Elias often found focused solely on him. Maks preened under the stranger’s attention, so he must be of some importance. The stranger wore fine leathers cut to fit his muscular frame and a flowing woolen cloak dyed a black so dark it would have disappeared into the night had Elias not already committed the man’s appearance to memory.
The stranger caught him staring. Their eyes locked. A pleasant flutter erupted in Elias’s chest. The stranger’s lips curled to a sly smile, and Elias knew he should look away but found himself pinned by the weight of that loaded gaze.
“Ho there,” Maks’s booming rumble echoed over the fields, startling Elias to urgently hide the trespass. It was a punishable offense to stop working and stare idly off into the distance. Elias swung his scythe toward the barley, knocking down a neat row, but the effort came too late. Maks had seen him lollygagging and there would be consequences.
“What do you think you’re doing, standing there while the others work?” A scowl etched across Maks’s face. “Lazy wretch. I feed you, clothe you, house you, and this is how you repay me? Twiddling your thumbs in my field?”
Elias hunched. “Sorry, my lord.” He furiously wielded the scythe, working double-time to make up for the error. Shame coiled in his gut to be so chastised in front of the handsome stranger, but worse than that, a deep fear Maks wouldn’t stop with a lecture, not when he could lash a servant in front of a man he clearly wanted to impress.
Hoofbeats approached, each thud intensifying Elias’s terror until his muscles trembled.
“Put it down,” Maks ordered, gesturing to the scythe. “Five lashes, then back to work. Maybe next time you’ll think twice about stopping before the crop is in.”
Elias squeezed his eyes shut and let the tool fall from his hands. Five lashes. He tried to take comfort that it was not ten or twenty, but even five would leave him bloody and vulnerable to infection.
The other bondslaves continued to work the field as if none of this were happening. Elias didn’t blame them. If they paused for a second, if they threw him even a glance of concern, they’d meet the same fate.
“Come. Present your arms,” Maks demanded from atop the mare.
