Memoirs of a Fallen God

Chapter 15

It didn’t take me long to relate, in between great, heaving sobs, the tale of my sordid deeds. The only detail I held back was that of the slave girl in the Overseer’s bed; I was too ashamed to admit what I might have done even to my closest of friends.

Briar insisted I change out of my soiled garb, but he was otherwise silent and still throughout my confession. When I finished, he sighed deeply and stood. “Come with me.”

For a moment I froze, wrestling with the impulsive fear that shot through me. Where would he take me?  Straight to the Count, to confess my crimes and accept my punishment? And then? There was little doubt. A short stay in a dank cell, then a quick jaunt to the gallows.

Did Briar truly expect me to follow meekly to my own execution?

And yet, even as the thought raced through my head, I came to my feet and fell in behind him. The alternative was no alternative at all. I would not fight the last friend I had left in the world. I would not run from him. No. If Briar was to lead me to my doom, so be it. He had his duty, just as I had had mine. I had done what needed doing; now I would pay for it, if such was his choice. At least I would meet my fate with a friend beside me.

But he did not lead me to the Count’s quarters. Instead we travelled only the few feet of dark hallway to his room.

He closed the door firmly behind us and locked it. He turned to me, gestured toward the chair. “Sit.”

I sat. It was not wise to argue with Briar when he used that tone, even if I’d have the inclination.

He turned from me and began rummaging through his desk drawer. His fingers ran along the wooden bottom—there was a soft click. He lifted the bottom away. “There we are.” He reached into the hidden compartment and pulled out a stack of papers and shuffled through them. He took one and put the rest back. A moment later and he had the hidden bottom back in place and closed the drawer.

He turned back to me. His brow furrowed. He shook his head softly. “You have been a terrible slave, Telth.”

I could only nod. It was simple truth.

“Lift up your sleeve,” he said, pointing at my right arm.

The request confused me, but I had already resolved to take whatever punishment my master saw fit to dole out. I tugged my sleeve up to my shoulder, revealing, along with a sun tanned expanse of skin, the Count’s mark branded into my upper arm.  I spent a few seconds staring it; it had been some time since I’d given the mark any thought at all.  Every slave bore the mark of their owner, the undeniable proof that such a person was not their own master. Count Delokay’s mark was two crossed swords over a field of wheat.  I’d always thought it a rather handsome design, though it would have been a far prettier picture had it not been seared into my own flesh. I could still remember the pain of the branding. 

Briar’s hand went to his neck, pulling free a coin-sized medallion from where it dangled on a chain beneath his shirt.  He eased the piece of metal over his head and set it in his palm.  I was curious now; I couldn’t remember seeing that medallion before.  I leaned forward for a closer look.  The design on the medallion was a perfect match to that burned into my arm, save in full color instead of the rough outline of the brand.

Briar stepped forward and grabbed my arm, laying the medallion in his palm firmly against the brand.  The metal was cold, far colder than it should have been, and the feel of it against my skin was a shock.  I pulled back slightly, but Briar held on, even pressed harder.  The metal grew warm.  Then hot.  Then suddenly it was burning, and I jerked away, cursing.

I threw an accusing look at Briar as I rubbed my arm.  That had hurt. 

But he just smiled at the pained look on my face.  He gestured toward where I still rubbed my arm.  “Look.”