Claiming: A Drow Rite - Part 1

Part 1

Typically, she was just another stipend and that was how Duilliath approached the task. She was a target. Another church investment gone sour. Where the temple hunters failed, he and those of his brotherhood were summoned into action. And he was the best.

What made this dispatch interesting was that his objective was a temple hunter, a Templar - a member of the elite. Kept under rigid control themselves and reporting directly to a small security council of the clergy's own elite, the Templars were the church's division of extreme doctrine enforcement. Only the best of those were trained to work alone in search and retrieval of heretics considered as dangerous and dissidents who fled in desperation. This Templar had carved a name for herself by bringing offenders back alive for conviction and punishment, a practice that she made her specialty. She frequently emerged to the Surface World or captured her own objectives just before they emerged themselves. She also kept her blade and hand-to-hand skills honed by devoting her free time to fighting in arenas. She was one of their best. Duilliath was no foo. He saw the challenge ahead.

Names and affiliations meant nothing to Duilliath's order. Their collective accomplishments and centuries of discretion and anonymity were the reasons their services were engaged, especially by upper stratum members of drow society. Names ordinarily did not matter to him either, but when Duilliath learned that this target was also a member of a merchant-mercenary house that swore allegiance to his own noble house he made certain the job was his alone. The objective's name was Æiristus Vrynn. Either the denizens of the church were taking pleasure in their affinity for irony, or one of his house's supporters had gone rogue. Occasionally, Templars who spent too much time TopSide would also get accused of trying to defect to the Surface World. These became targets of forced retirement and, once the brotherhood was contracted, any senior member had the right to declare the hunt as his for his own reputation. This time it was in Duilliath's family's best interest to investigate the problem.

As part of his practice—and his art—Duilliath researched his objectives; this one had a chequered history with church and clan. As an adolescent Vrynn was ostracized from the seminary, as well as from the mage's academy, for willfulness and failure to progress—which he found coincided with a disappearance rumor and a near-fatal accident barely a season before. Not many young people had the fortitude or mental discipline to be able to attend both schools simultaneously. Duilliath knew the demands had to have been unbearable; a suicide attempt was not an unreasonable assumption. Consequently, he learned that her clan had also disowned her for the embarrassment her excommunication and expulsion had brought. She left her hometown and in a few short years she became a celebrity in the arenas, for which the church later recalled her to duty to serve in their warrior caste in preparation for later utilizing her as a hunter. Her martial arts ability was reputed to be skillful—regardless that she had a tendency to grow overly enthusiastic with swords and often broke what was in her hands at the time. Her hand-to-hand expertise was fast, precise, and deadly. Her survival skills proved remarkable, both underground and eventually TopSide, as well. Though Duilliath had not enjoyed the opportunity to witness the female in action, he took the consistent reports of the residents of the arena where she spent her time as a tenant as reliable. Most people eagerly admitted to betting on her when she entered the arena for melee. It was reputed that the woman was well on her way to earning a gold belt in her favorite arena for two hundred kills.

Melee and hand-to-hand: neither of these were Duilliath's strengths. If this one brought him down alive during an attack it was certain she would see the irony in dragging him back to the church as a prisoner, and do just that. He needed to focus on her weaknesses. Pride had to be one such weakness. One did not achieve her stature in their society, after having suffered a critical wound to the pride, and not show-up her critics, especially with the history she had.

The news began as a rattle at the docks, a gossip. Then, as the pace picked up and confirmation eventually wound its way through the streets, Duilliath could hardly believe what he heard. The Banon Pride, the ship she was on, had been pirated and sunk. Chances were the crew and passengers had met with cruel fates. Chances were, from what he had learned of her, Duilliath mused, that with a woman like Vrynn around almost anything could have happened. He opted to wait out further incoming ships for a while, a week or a month perhaps, for the possibility the female might yet show, regardless of the Banon Pride's demise. In the meanwhile, rather than continuing to skulk around during the night like a rat, he intended to mingle with the local inhabitants. But his white hair and night-black flesh made him an oddity, so rather than isolate himself socially from the townsfolk he donned desert garb and went about making an ally or two in case his plans for Æiristus Vrynn did not go well.

---

Two days later as Duilliath exited a dry-goods store on the docks he saw a ship painted in vibrant hues of gold and red draw in to the harbor. Its banners were long and streamer-like snapping sharply in the wind. Oars bristled from its sides smacking into and turning up out of the blue-green water. Not far away from the dark-elf one of the piers prepared for the ship's docking. Duilliath pulled an apple from his robes and watched.

As the ship settled next to its pier, men moved around on deck hustling chained individuals up from below. Another slaver ship, Duilliath realized. In the seven days and nights he'd spent here he'd identified what ships were commonly used for what purposes.

Down the wooden plank people in chains were prodded. At least thirty captives staggered from darkness into daylight. There was a fair mix of races represented in the bunch. Duilliath narrowed his gold eyes. At least five men looked out of place. One's skin was dark-grey in color and he was small in frame, a half-blood drow. One man, a near-blonde elf, shot his gaze around like a thief gauging the area for an escape. Another, a half-elf with grey hair and a short beard, kept his head discreetly lowered. The others, both very tall and heavily built humans, whispered to each other. As the procession moved, most of them barefoot, down splintery walkways to the dirty streets and toward the old stone gaol that served as a holding pen for the new arrivals, two women were brought out. One woman was pleasant looking with fair skin and flaming red hair, the other was as dark as Duilliath with hair that gleamed silver in the tropical sunlight. Both women were as scantily clad as the male slaves, in effect stripping away any personal sense of identity. And to make more money from their belongings, Duilliath knew. These people were fortune hunters in a tight spot. And one of them was his target.

Duilliath watched with interest as the females were marched forward. The drow female was hobbled more so than the others and her wrists were bound in front while her elbows were pulled back where they were tied tightly behind her. As she tossed back her mane to glare at her captors, Duilliath saw she had not been the model captive. Her eyes burned red with fury. A metal bar was jammed between her teeth and tied in a leather thong behind her head. The woman's guard shoved her until she stumbled and he barked at her to settle down. The red-haired girl reached out to catch the dark-elf woman from falling. From the women's exchanged glances Duilliath could guess they had traveled together for a while. Possible evidence that the drow woman had turned renegade. Another motion Duilliath caught from the corner of his eye was the forced restraint on the part of the tall, half-elven male. Disapproval and irritation was very clear on the man's face.

Duilliath finished his apple, tossing the core into the dirty sea water, and made his way to the small crowd watching the newcomers thinking on what to do and how to handle the female who appeared not to have the knack of working or playing well with others. He saw the redheaded female coaxing co-operation from the drow, and failing. He saw the drow woman resisting and casting her glare between the male adventurers and the guards and getting shoved by her personal guard. He lost sight of her when they entered the old brick gaol.

Duilliath wondered at how much the spirited female would auction for. Women with dispositions like hers sold on two ends of the spectrum: high, if the buyer wanted a fighter, or low, if the town was docile and had no need of the trouble an angry spit-fire was sure to bring with her. The town did have a small pit arena, mostly for animal fights and the occasional fisticuffs match, but it lacked the backing of a large town with its ability to support a coliseum-style arena; it did not have the same draw. The townspeople here gave him the impression that they preferred tame servants. After he overheard a comment stating that the dark woman would not even do well in the brothel, he realized that she would most likely be put down like a rabid animal, or hung as a criminal. She was probably lucky she had not been thrown overboard to drown before they reached port.

Letting the town do away with her could be a good thing, if he was interested in letting humans do his job for him. He was not. He had his professional pride.

---

Every day for five more days Duilliath visited the auction block waiting for his target to show up on display. Five more days to ponder and plan. When ships and caravans were not making deliveries to the gaol, visitors were allowed to go inside and view the specimens. Duilliath melted in with the parade of gawkers and buyers to get better assessments on the female. He found that she was kept in a cage along with the redheaded human woman. The drow had been permitted to have the thong and bar removed from between her teeth. The binding that had pinned her elbows together had also been removed. It was another full day before their captors removed the shackles from the dark woman's wrists and ankles. Where her manacles chaffed her flesh shackle-rot was trying to set in.

Food was brought in once a day for all gaol residents. Medical checks were made on the prisoners and any wounds were tended. No one wanted to part with good coin for a sickly servant.

The more Duilliath saw of the dark female the more he observed her mannerisms and wondered at his present assignment. Spirited though she was, she was not fully beyond control. He saw the reason why the humans decided not to throw her overboard, at least he saw why he would not have thrown her overboard—she was quite lovely. And, he was sure that in their eyes she must appear exotic. Her silver hair was thick and long, reaching the lower curves of her backside. He saw that she was shorter than most drow were. She stood just barely over the height of a mountain dwarf. The top of her head rose just above the human woman's shoulders. Her frame was well proportioned and put together with strong lines of muscle giving her the definition of a master metal smith. She carried herself with the confidence of a warrior. Her motions were feline as she paced the cage and challenged visitors with defiant stares at any who looked her way. The males who were delivered as part of her group often advised her to relax, especially the half-elf, as though he assumed some measure of authority over her. When he listened in on the male's conversations, besides their irritability and trying to figure a way out of their predicament, he learned that the drow female acted as the half-elf's second-in-command. More probable evidence against her.

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Finally, the afternoon came when Duilliath watched as an angry drow female was lead to the block along with a host of other slaves. Duilliath reasoned that with so many slaves available today the majority of them would be sold off cheaply. It also made him believe that the local government needed money to finance their current boarder war.

Duilliath found he was correct in that bidding on the feisty drow would be easy. No one here wanted a difficult servant. Keeping his haik wrapped snuggly about him and his heavy black veils covering his face, concealing his race and identity, he stepped forward to claim his prize. Æiristus' eyes were glowing red from her fury and the indignity forced upon her. She could not, or did not, see through the heavy gauze that covered the eyehole through Duilliath's dark desert veils. Duilliath hoped that she would not struggle, as her superior strength would cause him problems in getting her to his rented room.

Æiristus snarled and threatened any guard who stood too close as she walked by in her new owner's custody. She cast a final look at her companions. The humans offered a sad wave. The half-elf appeared apologetic. The elf looked at her once and then away. The half-blood dark elf male vowed to find her again in a barely audible voice. The redheaded human woman watched unhappily as her dark, abrasive companion was led away.

Once back at his rented room in the inn, Duilliath locked the door and secured the wooden window shutters before he addressed the woman.

Æiristus stood in the middle of the room and watched her heavily robed new owner. The muscles in her arms and back twitched anxiously, tensely awaiting the chance to spring and attack. Finally, as the ambient light dimmed with the closing of the shutters, the heavily robed man lit a single candle and turned to face her.

"Æiristus Vrynn," he said, removing the manacles from around her wrists. "I am here to kill you."

Æiristus stepped back, astonished that the stranger knew her name and stunned that he informed her of his heinous intention in her native tongue. Her white eyebrows narrowed, closing the gap of an old, angry scar that crossed the center of her face. Wide green eyes gazed upon the black-robed man in suspicion. Her legs crouched slightly of their own accord from so many years of training having long ago become instinct. Her hands readied to move defensively. "How is it you know me?" she demanded. "And what quarrel have I with you?"

"We have no quarrel." He was amused by her complete lack of submissiveness and respect. Indeed, with her abrupt stance of self-defense.

"I differ," she countered. "I have no wish to . . . "

"Nor do I." Duilliath slid the heavy turban and veils from his head revealing himself to her.

Æiristus green eyes widened. She could not believe what she saw. A drow male would have been enough to surprise her, but this male she recognized, she remembered seeing him in procession. "Prince Duilliath?" she quickly remembered herself and bowed her head. "My prince, what are you doing so far from home?"

Duilliath chuckled. "So, station does mean something to you after all, does it?"

"My humblest apologies, Prince Duilliath," she offered sincerely expecting to be backhanded to the floor for her lack of respect.

"Just, Duilliath, revered Templar," he bade her. "And, as I said, I was sent here to kill you."

She blinked and looked back up at him. Her lips were parted ready to ask her question, but nothing came out.

As Æiristus stared in continued disbelief as Duilliath slid off his outer robe and draped it over the back of a chair, she swallowed, forcing her mouth to close. The House Prince was uncomfortably more striking now that she saw him up close than she recalled from pageant. Underneath the robe he wore black pants that hugged his hips and thighs, and a loose-fitting, embroidered black shirt that he tucked into a wide brocade belt around his narrow waist. His medallion of tiny crossed silver daggers winked at her in the candlelight as it swung freely around his dark throat. Glossy black boots snug to his knees and short black gloves gave him the appearance of a dark buccaneer. His long, stark white, wavy hair that fell to his shoulder blades, although neatly combed, gave him an even more untamed appearance. He was gorgeous.

"Um. Why? Why is it you want to kill me?" Æiristus managed, finding her confidence suddenly, awkwardly absent. "With you here, I should be protecting you."

"I was appointed to find you and retire you in a formal order intended to protect our kind from sedition," he informed her.

"Sedition? You were hired? Like me? Like what I do?"

"Not quite. When your kind go bad, they contract us."

"They? You mean the church? They think I have gone renegade?" Æiristus stumbled back, abruptly dizzy and sick. "Oh, goddess, they think I've gone heretic!" All of a sudden a bee swarm of nightmares and dread churned up in her mind. A role reversal of the worst kind roared up at her like a hungry black predator. Her superiors had assigned a male, a house prince—her house prince—to rein her in as an alleged dissident. And they most likely expected her to run. Hence, their reason to have her killed instead of sending another Templar after her to bring her back. She had to sit down.

Without thinking, Duilliath reached and gripped the woman's upper arms to keep her from falling. The muscle there, though no longer tensed, was like living iron. Cords flexed and slid beneath silky smooth skin. There was no doubt in Duilliath's mind that if those arms were to move against him in full fury they would easily snap his neck. Being this close to a Templar made him appreciate that he did not have to hunt them down more often.

Æiristus found herself seated on a bed she had barely noticed when they first entered the room. She was dazed. "I warranted an assassin? How? What happened? The church just sent me on assignment. What are they thinking?"

"Calm down." Duilliath sat beside her. In the back of his mind he wondered who her unlucky target was. Templars came dangerously close to martyrdom when killed in the line of duty. This job had to be kept quiet. Which meant before he could complete the task he had to get her far away from those she knew, especially the half-drow. He was relieved that she trusted him enough on recognition of who he was that she fell so easily to his advantage. "I've been watching you," he told her.

"I did nothing . . . I cannot . . . This is all wrong!" Her ferocity was shaken with her realization of her situation. She was visibly bewildered.

"Relax. Calm down."

Æiristus shot to her feet. "I'm loyal!"

"I know."

"But you are going to try and kill me now."

"I was," he admitted taking note of her usage of the word ‘try' in her statement. "You've already been subject to two stages of a three-stage poison, my dear. Presently, I am leaning against finishing the job."

"The candle and the gloves," she noted quietly.

"Very good," Duilliath said, impressed with her assessment. "Your alchemy classes have served you well."

"I also know that any number of means could be utilized as the third carrier," she told him feeling her self-confidence, and the itch of suspicion, returning. At the same time, ghost faces of men and women she had hunted down in her life whispered at her. How many of those accused of subversion were wrongly charged? How many pleas for mercy had she ignored? "Alchemy classes have nothing to do with what I know about poison application."

Sensing her misgivings Duilliath took a gentle hold of her hand and pulled her back down to sit next to him. She was beginning to ignore the charm. "Listen, we have the same house allegiance, you and I. We share the same political interest remember? So, before we discuss business any further I think we should bathe and have dinner, do you have any preferences?"

Bathe? she wondered dimly. Her mind was awhirl of both realized and imagined betrayal. How far could she trust a man who was both an assassin sent to kill her and, that same man, be of the house she swore her fealty to a lifetime ago? Was he only being amiable with her to lull her into lowering her guard? Poison oils in bathwater or tainted food would kill her, finishing the job, if what he told her about the first two stages having already been applied was true. It was a reasonable assumption, she knew; dizziness and nausea were indeed troubling her as they spoke. He could kill her in her sleep. By right of their differing stations he could openly kill her. She looked into a pair of soft, tawny eyes that appeared to be gazing back at her with warmth and genuine interest. How effective of an assassin was he? Would she have to kill her liege-lord in self-defense? Could she do it? At the very least, if word got back, an act like that would alienate her from her pledged house and more hunters would hound her. Would she be compelled to take her house prince as an escort with her in death? If the house she swore loyalty to wanted her dead, did they not have every right to end her life as they saw fit? The priests who hired him would be reveling in her dilemma right now. Was the priests' plan to be rid of them both all along? "Um, dinner? I do not understand." She struggled with not over-thinking her situation.

"Yes, dinner. I'm hungry and believe me we both need a bath. Look, I find that I'm really not interested in killing you. It's clearly a misunderstanding, or more likely some form of political maneuvering. Perhaps it was even a completely different group of priests who contacted my guild than the ones who sent you on assignment. Splinter opportunists perhaps. As I said before, I've been watching you since you've arrived. Although you've displayed some debatable mannerisms since your arrival, I hardly witnessed the behavior of a heretic. That, and the church needs to remember who's allied with whom before they hire someone to do their dirty work for them."

Æiristus' mind was numb. She knew that only one group of priests had the authority to contract hunters to collect rogue Templars. Anything could have happened. With his suggestion of splinter opportunists, it was possible that he truly did not know the procedure. Imposters could have contacted his guild hiring them under false pretenses to get her out of the way for some scheme. Or, he was out-right lying to her.

"I'll be right back," Duilliath told her and patted her leg assuming a great deal of familiarity with her. "I am going to order that bath."

She watched as he rose and left the room. She did not hear the click of a door lock as she expected. What is going on? Æiristus wondered. She walked silently toward the door and tried the handle. It turned without resistance and the door opened. Looking through the opening she saw a dim corridor and no one there. If she wanted to she could easily leave. Was it a test? She decided, probably not, and closed it going back into the room. Why was Prince Duilliath way out here, so far from home? Could he have really been hired to kill her? Why was someone from the very house she was sworn to protect hired to kill her? Duilliath was an assassin? When did that happen?

Deciding her thoughts were only leading her in circles, she moved toward one of the bags the prince brought with him during his travels. Satchels and baggage of fine materials filled with resplendent clothing and toiletries amazed her. "Damn," she whispered in amazement. Elaborately decorated brushes and combs, fancy bottles and jars of colored and etched glass, embroidered wraps, brocade robes and vests of materials she had only seen in the noble circles filled the bags before her.

"The money's in the blue one," Duilliath told her as he entered the room.

Æiristus looked up at him. "You are a thief's dream. Do you know this?"

Duilliath smiled and closed the door. "It's not beyond me to let a thief take his fill and then track him for sport. Besides, if you were a thief you'd have already nabbed your bounty and been away. Oh! The bath stuff. Grab that, would you? They're preparing the bath in the building around the corner. We can go now." He stepped over to one of the bags that Æiristus had looked through earlier and pulled out a bathrobe. "Let's go," he invited and draped the dark violet silk robe over her bare shoulders.

Shaking her head over the extravagance of his traveling gear, Æiristus allowed the robe he gave her, which was obviously one of his extras. The aura of his presence made her uncomfortable again with his closeness.

"Sorry, I don't have any shoes for you," he told her. "We'll be going to the public bathhouse and it's a little dirty out there. You can borrow my shoes if you like."

"They're probably too big for me," she replied not sure of what else to say.

"That's all right. It's just down the street. We'll soon get you some of your own. No one's going to accept you looking like that for dinner. By the time we get done shopping it'll be dinner time anyway." They began their short trek to the bathhouse.

"Who are you and why are you being so nice to me?" Æiristus wondered out loud. At his expression she flushed almost the color of the robe she wore, "Did I say that aloud?"

"Yes, you did." He smiled. "Your being a member of a lesser-allied house, you should understand that it would reflect poorly upon me and my house to have a shabby-looking servant. It's a simple matter of image management, it's what the public expects." He told her jokingly.

"Really?"

"Which part?"

"All of it. Are you serious?"

"Um. Yes, you're a servant. The rest is drivel. There it is."

Comtinued in Part 2

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