Impenetrable Fortress Ch. 01

The silk is cool against my eyes, caressing my face gently as I jostle from side-to-side in the carriage. When I sway too hard, I feel hard, metal armor scratch my skin. A soldier sits on either side of me, another one sits across. They have not spoken a word to me. Our only interaction was the brush of fingers against my face as they tied the blindfold, rough hands gripping mine as they bound my wrists with rope.

At the crack of dawn, these soldiers arrived at the Lavender Manor--the brothel where I work. Or, I suppose, had worked. Through the open crack of Madam's office, I saw the soldiers lay down a hefty sack of gold coins. Madam's brows furrowed. She exchanged a few curt words with the soldiers, who nodded or shook their heads in response. Her mouth was pressed into a line, the way it often did when she was in deep contemplation. Catching my spying form through the doorway, Madam called me in.

Counting each coin, she informed me that an important man was purchasing me for private use. And paying a pretty sum at that. Neither she nor the soldiers answered my questions about who the man was. There in her office, I was bound and shuttled out to a carriage. No time to pack my things--not that I had many things--and no time to say goodbye to the other women I had come to love as sisters during my two years there.

Initially, I attempted to count the twists and turns in the road as we departed Kitlanya, guessing at our route. But Vablit is a vast nation and soon I had no sense of north or south. We traveled far longer than I had anticipated, out of the capital city and to some strange place I was clearly not to be made privy of.

Now, in the flaccid evening heat, I cannot even be sure that we remain in Vablit's borders. As this thought crosses my mind, the horse-drawn carriage lurches to a stop. Sweaty hands grasp my upper arms. I do not flinch. Being bound, blindfolded, and roughly handled is child's play. The soldiers haul me out of the carriage and indoors; I can tell by the sudden lack of sunlight streaming through my blindfold, the soft dirt ground beneath me turning to hard stone.

Once inside, two of the soldiers hoist me up and carry me on their shoulders as if I am a sack of potatoes. All day, I have not been fed or given water. The sudden change in elevation sends my head spinning and I fear I will faint before we reach our destination. Their caution piques my curiosity. It seems that they do not want me to learn the layout of this building, either. I wonder about the identity of the mysterious man who purchased me, what he has to lose if I am made aware of our location.

At last, I heard a wooden door creak open. I am set down on a plush chair. The door clicks shut. The familiar sound of a lock being turned. And I am alone.

Those bastards. They did not have the decency to untie me or remove my blindfold. In the dark, I try to find solace in the cool room, a welcome reprieve from the summer heat. Sweat has blossomed across my chest, pooled between my bound wrists. Without the scent of horse dung and mud in the air, I realize that I am emanating my own musk. I long for a perfumed bath.

Wrestling with the rope, I attempt to free my hands but it is no use. Those soldiers were no amateurs. Without any light, I lose track of how much time passes in the room. Despite my thirst and hunger, I hold my head high in case someone enters. My stomach knows better than to protest outwardly, twisting in painful knots but uttering no sound.

The lock turns again and I hear two men's voices enter the room.

"Station the troops near the edge of the forest. Have a small unit patrol the interior and report back to me." His voice is deep, raspy, and tired. Each word comes out quickly, yet unhurried. Authoritative, I surmise.

"Yes, sire. And as for the..." His voice is just as deep but he sounds older, drawing out his vowels and pausing after each end consonant. I can tell that my presence is the reason for the older man's sudden hesitation. "Shall I leave you two alone, sire?" he offers.

"Leave me alone with who...?" The authoritative man's voice also tapers off as, I imagine, he finally notices me. Following orders I had been given by the soldiers, I do not speak. Much like with clients at the brothel, I am only to respond if addressed directly.

I hear heavy footsteps approaching me and in an instant the silk is torn from my face. The older man is lighting a torch in the sconce and I squint, my eyes having grown used to the darkness. I can scarcely make out the figures of the two men. Slowly, as my eyes adjust, their faces come into focus. The one who removed my blindfold--dark haired, honey eyes--stares at me with a tense expression.

"Yes, I think it best for me to leave you two to it..." the grey-haired man says after clearing his throat.

"Dumace, what do you know about this?" the dark-haired man calls out. But Dumace had already slipped away, closing the door firmly behind him.

Those piercing amber eyes find their way back to me. "Who brought you here?" he demands. My mind has slowly been processing the oddities in his speech, and I now recognize it as an accent from the south. I mentally sigh with relief--we are still in Vablit.

"I don't know, sire," I reply, repeating the honorific I heard the older man use earlier.

Turning away, he runs a hand through his dark wavy locks. He mutters to himself, something about insubordination and absurdity.

A knot forms in my chest as I deduce the situation.

This man does not want me here. And if he does not want me, I will either be returned to the brothel or... Thrown to the streets. It is unlikely that Madam will want to return the gold she received. Then, to the streets it is. I was only able to escape that life thanks to Madam's generosity. Countless times, I have stepped over beggar girls in the streets, shuddering at the sight of their tattered clothes and bony limbs.

Recollecting such images triggers an involuntary growl from my stomach. The noise alerts the man, turning back to observe me the way one would look upon a rabid animal. Our eyes lock for several moments but he does not utter a word.

"Apologies, sire... I have not eaten today," I manage to mutter in explanation. I hope that I will not be admonished for my honesty. Some men think it an attack on their character for a woman to point out her discomfort, as if a simple fact of her existence offends his honor.

"Shut your dumb mouth and spread your whore legs. Don't get any ideas about engaging in high-minded conversation when you're entertaining guests. They're not paying you to have ideas." Madam drilled these instructions into my head my first week at the brothel, having taken me straight out of the orphanage when I came of age. She had an arrangement with the orphan master, who pointed out the pretty, unadopted ones to Madam. The orphan master advertised my round features and handsome face, symmetrical in a way that indicated adequate nourishment and lack of disease as a child. Sure enough, I attracted more men in my first month than any other woman at the brothel.

Madam never pried into my situation, did not ask why a young woman of good breeding such as myself was not wed. I was thankful for her discretion, as I did not know how to recount the horrors I had endured. The accident that took my parents' lives when I was thirteen. The extended family members who had turned their noses at me--a girl for whom they would have to provide tuition and a dowry. There is no place in the world for an orphaned girl with no marital prospects.

The dark-haired man scans my body up and down. I mentally prepare myself for what happens next, praying that he undresses me and uses me to fulfill my purpose. I also pray that he will not touch me at all. From what I have been able to observe of his bedchamber, he is a man of means. Perhaps he will overlook the gold he has spent, hand me my identity documents, and set me free. To no longer be a slave... I gulp the daydream back down my throat, afraid I may blurt it out loud.

"Good lord," he mutters under his breath. Shaking his head, he exits the room.

Several moments later, a servant girl enters. She is clearly younger than I. Her bright eyes glisten in the torchlight as she lays a tray down on the table next to me. A bowl of soup and half a loaf of bread. My mouth waters.

"Do help yourself," the girl instructs chipperly, though with some apprehension. When I do not make a move for the food, her eyes travel down to my hands and widen when she realizes they are tied behind my back. With clumsy movements, she releases the knots.

Relief floods through me as I can finally move my hands again, the raw skin beginning to sting. The servant girl gazes at my red wrists with concern as I reach out for the loaf of bread. Savoring each bite, I try to make the bread last as long as possible. Still, it is gone too soon. Next, I start on the soup. It is a simple flavor--carrots and celery--but far more delicious than anything I had been fed at the brothel. In the middle of my third spoonful, the door to the room bursts open again.

"There she is! The most beautiful woman in all of Kitlanya, they said. I selected her just for you, cousin!"

A third man--short and jubilant, the dark-haired man's cousin--barges into the chamber as if it is his own. His hands fly about enthusiastically as he speaks. Seeing these two men enter, the servant girl makes herself scarce. I did not have a chance to ask her name.

The shorter man crosses the room in quick paces, heading straight towards me. Without any warning, he grabs me by the hand and hauls me up to standing. The top of his head only reaches the tip of my nose.

"Look at this figure! Simply marvelous."

He grips both of my hips tightly, squeezing them too forcefully. He runs his hands up the sides of my waist before cupping my breasts. As if they are not attached to a human being, he pinches my nipples through my dress and gives them a hard tug. I suppress a cry, my training overriding any instinct. Still, tears spring to the corners of my eyes as I stand motionless like a statue.

"Izolda, a name as beautiful as your body." My name comes out of his mouth like a snake's hiss. The name Madam gave me when I entered the brothel. At first, I was unaccustomed to responding to it. As time passed, I came to appreciate the barrier the name presented me with. In the company of men, I was Izolda. In the quiet morning hours, as I bathed and exchanged secrets with my sisters, I was Ellyce.

"I told you, Nicolin, I have no interest in prostitutes," the dark-haired man scowls.

"And I have told you, Alder, about the many, many rumors regarding your... Abstinence."

The short man, Nicolin, speaks as if I am invisible, as if I am simply another piece of furniture in the room. The typical man I am used to dealing with. The dark-haired man, Alder, seems different. Disgust flashes across his face every time Nicolin touches me. I can only hope the emotion is directed towards his cousin.

"Our family cannot afford to be at the center of such idle chatter at this critical time," Nicolin continues. "We must gain the support of the other nobles, especially the Meryld family. Yet you continually delay your engagement to the eldest daughter." During his monologue, he circles around me, squeezing my ass, rubbing my thighs, pulling at my fingers and ears.

"Henceforth, you shall keep this whore in your room until you find it in yourself to behave like a man." I feel his meaty hands close around my hips from behind. Then, he presses himself into my backside. His hardness takes me by surprise, still, I do not flinch. "Otherwise, I will gladly fuck her myself!" I stifle another yelp as he slaps my ass.

Nicolin makes his way for the door, stopping to pat Alder on the shoulder before exiting the room. The man's eyes seem to flicker with rage as he stares after the door. He storms off into the hallway. I assume he his going to give chase to his cousin, but I hear him calling for the servant girl.

"Byrde! Draw a bath. If that woman is going to sleep in the same room as me, make sure she is spotless."

The servant girl, Byrde, hurriedly enters the room and ushers me out. It is my first time stepping out of the chamber and I am immediately fascinated by what I see in the hallways. Lush curtains draped decoratively from the ceilings, large paintings of various men hanging from the walls. Based on their conversation and the decor, Alder and Nicolin clearly hail from a noble family--but I am at a loss for which one. I had not reached that stage of education before my untimely withdrawal from the girls' school all those years ago. My knowledge of Vablit's current political affairs and noble class is centralized in the capital area, gleaned from my more talkative clients.

Byrde leads me across the hall secretively, like a child trying to conceal a small animal smuggled into the home. I hypothesize that only Nicolin, Alder, and a select number of soldiers and servants are aware of my presence in this place. And only Nicolin appears to be pleased by my presence.

Once I am steeped in the bath, my worries about belonging melt away. Although he did not express pleasure at my being here, Alder likely has more than enough authority to send me away should he wish it. The fact that I remain is a positive sign.

The bathwater is perfumed with flower petals. Byrde helps wash my hair and scrub my skin. She does so vigorously, and I cannot determine whether to attribute it to malice or inexperience. If she is displeased about serving a fellow slave, it does not show in her expression. Wearing a constant smile on her face, Byrde dries me with a soft towel and dresses me in a low-cut silk nightgown clearly designed to show as much cleavage as possible. I raise an eyebrow when I see the garment, wondering who selected it. I convince myself it was not Nicolin who did so.

Re-entering Alder's room, I smell a faint fruity sweetness. Alder is at the table, drinking what must be wine. He stares contemplatively into his cup. The bath took longer than I anticipated, pale moonlight now glowing through the window. As I close the door behind me, he does not lift his head. He does not beckon me towards him, but I am at a loss for what else to do in his presence. I stand behind him and begin massaging his shoulders. They are muscular and tense. He does not resist.

After a few minutes of massaging his arms and back, he lets out a sigh. The bottle on the table is empty. A combination of drink and my handywork has finally allowed him to relax, I think. Surprisingly, he takes one of my hands and kisses it gently.

"Mirilis..." he mumbles so quietly that I think I am mistaken for a moment. But then he mutters it again. A woman's name. "Mirilis..."

Taking my hand, Alder stands and pulls me to the bed. He sits me down and slips the straps of my gown off my shoulders. He begins kissing my collarbone, my neck. I let out a small moan. His lips are warm. So are his hands. He runs his palms up and down my thighs, up my arms. My hands wander to his biceps, feeling the muscles ripple with each of his practiced movements. His hair smells like forest and steel.

Pushing me onto my back, Alder begins tracing kisses up my stomach. One hand gropes my breast as the other hikes my dress above my hips. Shivers run up and down my body. His touch is so tender that I momentarily forget where I am. Alder runs his mouth across my ribcage, tasting my sweet, floral skin. Then, he finds one of my nipples and sucks gently, rolling it around on his tongue.

I grab for his shoulders, gripping him tightly as he presses a knee against my pubic bone. He is careful not to place too much of his weight on top of me, his body enveloping me in warmth. As often with new clients, my heart races and my skin prickles, urging me to run away. Alder's advances are not unwelcome, but they are unexpected considering Nicolin's earlier comments. He is drunk, the wine on his breath lingering on my skin. But he moves with purpose that I have never before seen in a drunk man. Teasing one of my nipples, he moves to nibble on my ear, finding a spot that sends shivers down my spine.

With his knee rubbing against me, I feel myself growing wet on his pant leg. At this point, men usually grow impatient if I do reciprocate the pleasure. Yet, when I reach for his trousers, one of his hands grabs my wrist forcefully.

Alder stops kissing me. The sudden shift in mood makes me dizzy. When I clear my mind enough to focus on his face, I see his brows furrowed in confusion. Then, his expression hardens and he throws my arm down, as if touching me left him with a burn. Swiftly, he pushes himself off the bed.

Cursing to himself, Alder stomps over to the wall and extinguishes the torch. Wordlessly, he wanders back to the bed and draws himself under the covers.

I lay on the bed in a daze for several moments. A draft wafts across my bare skin and I shiver. Repositioning myself on the bed, I tuck under the blanket as well. Alder turns to face the window, away from me. I stare up at the canopy of the bed, pondering the cause for his turbulent behavior.

Mercifully, sleep finds me quickly.