Page 143 of Mates for the Raskarrans #1-6

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Shemza

T he door opens into a place unlike any I have ever seen or imagined before.

Gregar has talked to us of what he has seen of Liv’s world many times, and he describes a grey, dull place.

That is not what my Lorna takes me to. This place is the colour of sand and perfectly smooth and straight.

The flooring beneath my feet reflects the light coming through the clear, domed ceiling overhead.

On either side of me, rows and rows of cages are raised on pedestals.

Birds stare out of them, no light of life in their eyes.

“Where are we?” I say.

“The aviary,” my Lorna says. “Robert’s aviary.”

My jaw tightens. There is something about the way she says this name that I do not like.

“I do not think this is the place where you found your love of birds.”

My Lorna glances up at me, a hint of a smile on her lips. “No. I always hated this place. But… it’s where it starts. Where it ends.”

She touches her fingers to one of the nearby cages.

The bird inside it does not move, does not flinch.

It is as though it has given up entirely.

I think of my Lorna living in this world.

It does not seem possible that the bright light of joy playing with Jassal and Ahnjas brings to her eyes could exist here.

It gives me some comfort in a strange way - that no one here ever truly saw her.

Then the doors open behind us. I look round, expecting to see the strange female, Rosa.

Instead, I am looking at a younger version of my Lorna.

Much younger. She must be Molly’s age, not even full grown.

Her sunshine hair is captured, forced upwards atop her head, rather than being allowed to hang loose about her shoulders, and she wears an elaborate dress made of so much unnecessary material.

The skirts stick outwards, making her shape appear to be wider at the bottom than at her waist. The dress does not cover her shoulders, and her breasts are pushed upwards by the material, so they almost spill out, as if the whole purpose of the dress is to draw attention to them.

I think of Molly in my hut last night, how I thought her nightdress was just too big for her.

But perhaps she was trying to show her skin, to entice me.

She did not realise that I look at her and see only a youngling.

I thought it was a fault with her headspace to think otherwise, but perhaps it is just what the world she has come from has taught her.

This youngling version of my Lorna is with an elder, her arm looped through his.

He pays close attention to the cut of her dress, his eyes raking over her body with approval, making my stomach churn.

“When you are my wife,” the elder says, “your family’s problems will be my problems. I will make them go away.”

I feel my Lorna’s shudder next to me and put an arm around her, drawing her to me. I wish there was a way to protect her from these memories, but I do not think I am wrong to think that part of her wishes to show me. That part of her wants to be unburdened of them.

“What is wife?” I ask.

The dreamspace translates many things, but sometimes it struggles to find an equivalent word. I get the sense that it is like a mate, but also like a trade arrangement, and I am unsure how those two things go together.

“You know humans do not have linashas and mates the way you do,” my Lorna says, her voice dull.

“They choose who they wish to be with. Sometimes they do that because they care deeply for each other and wish to spend their lives together. Sometimes a man might choose a woman because he wants a pretty ornament on his arm. Sometimes a woman might have no choice in the matter at all. It might be arranged on her behalf by her parents. There’s a ceremony - a wedding - that humans have to seal the deal.

A wife is what a woman becomes once she is wed to a man, whether she chose him or not. ”

“This male wishes to do this ceremony with you?” It is a struggle to keep my voice even, but my Lorna needs my calm right now. My healer’s ability to push emotions aside and deal with the problems in front of me. “He wishes to take you as his mate?”

“Yes.”

I realise that when she spoke of parents doing the choosing, she was speaking of herself. Her parents chose this male for her when she was still too young to mate. And he an elder, at least three times her seasons.

“I am sorry your parents were so cruel as to choose this for you. How many seasons before you have this wedding ceremony?”

I only hope that she landed on our shores before it could take place. She is like me - younger in her seasons, only just of mating age.

My Lorna gives a bitter laugh. “Not even the duration of the big rains. This is the night Robert and I were engaged - promised to each other for marriage. We were wed a month later.”

Bile rises in my throat. “But, you are a youngling still.”

“By raskarran standards. By many human standards, too, but my parents didn’t do anything illegal. I was sixteen. At sixteen, I could get married with their permission.”

I look to the elder and try to imagine Namson or Torfen looking at Molly the way he looks at my Lorna. It would never happen. They look at her and see their own daughters.

Then the male, this Robert, raises a hand to my Lorna’s cheek, trails a finger down the curve of her neck. It is an intimate touch. A claiming touch. Youngling Lorna is resolute and still, but my Lorna shudders on her behalf.

“I’m sure you’ll find many ways to show me your gratitude, Joanna,” Robert says.

His voice is laced with desire and cruelty and I am so sickened by it, I pinch my eyes shut, willing us back to the healer’s hut. I scoop my Lorna into my arms and carry her to the bed, sitting with her as she sobs softly into my shirt.

“You will never see that male again,” I say to her, stroking my hands over her hair, her back, seeking to give her comfort any way I can.

My tail is looped around her thigh, almost pinning her to me, and I wonder a moment if she would prefer not to be so trapped against me.

But when I shift a little to give her more space, she only burrows closer to me.

“I know I won’t,” she says, and there is fear in her voice, making it tremble. It makes me wonder if she believes her own words.

“Even if he came to our forests, he is soft and weak. I may not be a warrior, but I could best him easily. I would not let him near you.”

With almost violent suddenness, my Lorna pushes herself back from me. I let her go, though every instinct in me wants to grab her, cage her in my arms. But my Lorna has had enough of cages. If she comes to my arms, it must be with willingness.

“I know I won’t see him again,” she says, her voice harsh, almost biting. “He’s dead. I killed him.”