Chapter 7
He knew.
Before he even climbed out of unconsciousness, he knew. He could feel it, deep inside.
She had… she had… she had really done it.
He didn't know how to feel. He knew that she would make him pay, but this… to transform him into an Arcan. It was almost too much. He was furious with her, enraged, indignant and flabbergasted, but he was also bitterly, bitterly disappointed and crestfallen. Betrayed. He felt betrayed. He had trusted her, and this was how she repaid that trust. She had attacked him–even now the memory of the pain of her fangs ripping into him made him mentally cringe–had taken everything from him. She took his magic, she took his humanity, and because of that, she took his freedom. It wouldn't take long for someone to try to capture him, since he was an uncollared Arcan. He would be hunted like an animal.
And yet… he had agreed to this. He had his own share of blame for it. He had blindly believed that the fox was benevolent, that she would never do something this terrible to him, but he had been horribly, horribly wrong. He had allowed her to set her own price, and now she was punishing him for his foolish supposition. This was a lesson, no different from the others she had taught him, punishing him for his stupidity, and now she was going to twist that initial punishment to teach him other wisdom. A small part of him could appreciate the worth of the lesson, but the rest of him hated her for what she did to him.
It was the shattering of an illusion. He had thought that there was something special between them, some special relationship. He saw her as a… a mother figure. Ever since the death of his mother, she had been there, always watching him, always with him. Even when he thought she was a delusion and was afraid of her, she was still there, a part of his life. When he found out what she was, he felt like he mattered to her, that she felt about him the way he felt about her. He was wrong. Trinity, was he wrong. Though he'd seen her as an authority in which he could trust with his life, she saw him as nothing but… but… an asset. She was teaching him, but she did not love him. He was her possession, almost as much her slave as Whisper had been a slave before he freed her.
By the Father's grace, what a twisted irony. He had freed Whisper, only to deliver her into a different kind of bondage. The Shaman weren't free. Not by a country minar. They were the slaves of the spirits, every much the way other Arcans were slaves to humanity.
He would be through with her forever, but for the fact that she now held his very humanity, and had offered to give it back to him should he please her. So he was trapped. Trapped. He had to do her bidding to get back what she took from him, or he would live out his life as an Arcan.
He began to feel his body. He was totally drained, exhausted, and his whole body throbbed with every beat of his heart. But there was more to feel now. He could feel the tail, laying limply, felt where it came out of the base of his bare buttocks. He was naked, he realized. He felt the ears, just higher than where they used to be, larger, feeling air ghosting the fur on them, which was a creepy sensation. He was feeling things on parts of himself he didn't have when he was last awake.
He became aware of… smells. Lots of smells. They were much sharper than he remembered, and there were more of them. He didn't smell grass and pine trees and dirt, though, he smelled hay, wood, and waste, a stale stench that was right under his nose. He felt a strange motion under him, a jarring, rocking motion. His other senses began to return. A strange buzzing in his ears overwhelmed his hearing, until it faded and he became aware of the sound of wood creaking, and the faint sound of chains rattling. Then he heard soft voices, whispers, behind and to the sides of him, and became aware of light striking his closed eyelids, light that shifted and moved.
Voices. Men talking, but it was muffled, like he was several paces away from them.
He wasn't in the meadow. He was… somewhere else. Someone must have found him.
And if someone found him, then–
He jerked violently, consciousness roaring back into him. He opened his eyes and found himself in an open-barred cage, with four others. They shrank back as he took a ragged, powerful breath, but then something grabbed him by the neck and caused him to slam back to the–the floor.
He took a ragged breath, seeing stars, and felt his long, sharp claws scrabble on wood, gouging it. He panted, feeling weak, his neck hurting, then slowly dragged himself off the floor, his head hanging limply. He lowered his nose to the straw-strewn wood, seeing the hazy, blurry image sharpen to his eyes. He had a manacle on each wrist, chaining his hands together, as well a chain leading to a steel collar around his neck that was chained to a ring on the wooden floor. That was what grabbed him by the neck; he'd pulled the chain taut.
It was no room. It was a wagon, a wheeled cage. A warm breeze ruffled through his fur, blowing in through the bars of the cage, a cage with bars on three sides and rings bolted to the floor to which chains were secured. He blinked several times as he finally got his eyes under his control, seeing vibrant colors and sharp light, almost thinking for a moment that he was seeing through spirit sight, but it was just Arcan eyes. They must see differently than human eyes, for things seemed… clearer. Sharper. His eyesight was better. He was caged with four others, two female canines, a huge bull with two sets of chains on his hands, and a very nervous-looking rabbit. He tried to rise up on his knees, but he had trouble making his legs work. It felt… weird, down there. Strange. He looked back and saw that his legs were Arcan, with the elongated foot and slightly shortened lower leg, but which still made him taller by average than he had been should he stand erect. His feet looked… deformed, with the wide ball of his foot and the large, nasty-looking black hooked claws on his toes. He looked at his hand and saw that it too looked differently, looking down his own muzzle at it, slightly larger and a tiny bit wider, covered with fur, with pads on his palm and fingertips. His nails were gone, fur covering his fingertips except for the pad and a long, hooked claw, looking like a cat's claw but fixed in place, unable to retract.
She had turned him into one of her own. She changed him into a shadow fox Arcan.
His first impulse was to channel cold into the post to shatter the chain holding him, but her words haunted him. She would withhold her blessing from him, she would deny him his powers, allowing him only spirit sight… which would get him instantly killed should the humans see his eyes glowing. Glowing eyes were the mark of the Shaman, and he no longer had the assumption that a human couldn't be a Shaman. Now, if anyone saw his glowing eyes, they would correctly deduce the truth of him in an instant and he would be slaughtered. That was something he would use only as a last resort.
"Oi! Baver, it's awake!"
He shook his head and looked up. A small man with greasy hair was riding a horse by the wagon, a moving wagon. Another man looked back into the cage from the driver's seat. Beyond the man, Kyven could see farms and buildings, and a look further ahead showed the tiled roof buildings of a city. Was it Cheston? Had he only been out for hours, or had he been unconscious for days?
"That's our little meal ticket," the man on the wagon chuckled. "Told ya he was worth keepin'! We'll get a hell of a lot more for him than we would just for that pelt! A black-furred fox! If some rich guy doesn't buy him cause he's so exotic-looking, The furriers will make us rich bidding for that fur of his!"
What they were talking about dawned on him, and it filled him with panic. They were going to sell him to someone that would kill him for his fur! He again tried to get up, and again pulled the chain taut, but he was expecting it this time. He tried to get one of his legs to work, clumsily trying to set his foot under him, but not quite sure how his foot worked now that it was different.
"And I told you he couldn't be wild," a third man said calmly as he rode up behind the first man's horse. He was carrying a long, slender red rod negligently in the hand not holding his reins. "He was smart enough to wear clothes to look like a tame Arcan. The wild ones don't have those kinds of brains."
He tried to indignantly declare that he wasn't an animal, but nothing came out but strange growling sounds. His jaws were now entirely different, and his attempts to speak were met with a pitiful sound as a different body tried to comprehend instructions that no longer worked to produce the desired result.
"I'll bet he slipped a collar and escaped. They never go far when they do. Can't live by themselves," the short man sniggered.
"Well, he's ours now, and that fine pelt of his is going to make us a pretty chit."
He would not be skinned for a rich woman's dress! He put a foot under him, finally figuring it out, put both hands on the chain around his neck, then strained every muscle in his body as he pulled. Though he was now an Arcan, he was still highly conditioned and monstrously strong, and he applied that strength now, pulling inexorably at the post driven through the wood of the bottom of the wagon. The wood under him creaked ominously, and then it split with a loud crack, sending him tumbling over backwards as the chain and post shot up into the air. The chain dropped back on top of him as he squirmed around and got back on his hands and knees, as the other four shied away from him.
"Holy shit! Stop the wagon!" the tall one with the rod called. The wagon pulled to a stop as the two men looked in with a mixture of amusement and surprise. Kyven grabbed the chain attached to the manacle on his neck and took up a length of it in his chained hands, because he knew what was coming next. The tall one with the rod turned his horse and lowered it, aiming to jab Kyven with the end of that thing. The Arcans called them pain sticks, he recalled, and he had a pretty good idea of what they did. He watched the end of the stick with intent eyes, and when it came between the bars and reached for him, he reacted. The free post of the chain lashed out like a whip and struck the tip of the device, and there was a brilliant flash of light and a loud BANG that thundered down the street. The pain stick was shattered by the blow, and its alchemical power exploded from the tip. Kyven was blown back against the bars on the far side, but the man was unseated from his horse, which bleated in fear and bolted down the street.
"Holy shit, he's fast!" the small man said with a laugh. "Strong little fuck, too!"
"Little fuck, he broke my stick!" the man on the ground growled as he got up, reaching for a shockrod in a holster on his belt. Kyven had a much better understanding of how those worked than the man did. The metal bars around him would deflect the lightning, so long as he stayed away from them. He immediately situated himself in the center of the wagon, which was too low for him to stand up, so he stayed down on all fours, just like an Arcan, literally growling at the man as he leveled his shockrod at him.
"Brend, put it away," the man on the wagon said simply. "Go get your horse."
Those other men were out of his reach. That one was not. Freed from the post, Kyven had full range of the entire cage, and he could easily reach out and grab that one. That was a fact that seemed lost to the two men sitting on that bench. The other four Arcans all cowered on the floor, even the huge bull, but Kyven was not surrendering his pelt without one hell of a fight. Kyven turned and lunged, his black-furred, clawed hand erupting between the bars, then his hand pulled back, claws punching into the waistcoat of the man Baver and slamming his back against the bars. The driver shouted in surprise and bailed off the wagon, and there were quite a few screams and sudden shouts around him.
They were in the middle of town, and all the citizens on the street had stopped to watch.
Kyven growled as he tried to speak, trying to get a feel for it. His tongue worked the same way, though it was longer, but his lips now went all the around his muzzle, and were more chops than lips. They were semi-prehensile, though, letting him try to seal out the sides while the front and his tongue tried to work together to make coherent sounds. It wasn't easy. What came out of his mouth was a lisping growl, almost incoherent, but there was just enough there to be understood. "Oooophen sthe caaage. Ooophen. Ophen now!"
The man actually chuckled, quite fearlessly. "Certainly. Sandin, open the cage door. Let's see how far he thinks he can get."
"Baver, he ain't got no collar!" the small man protested. "If someone else catches him, we lose–"
Kyven howled in pain when something white-hot punched into his side, a pain that was almost mind-shattering in its intensity. He recoiled and fell backwards, tearing away the man's waistcoat and leaving bloody gashes on his chest as he fell back into the cage hunched around his side, almost convulsing from the aftereffects of the. A fourth man he hadn't seen had pushed a second pain stick through the bars and jabbed him with it. It was–holy Trinity, how did they survive those things?
His arms shaking, he tried to roll up onto his hands and knees, but another explosion of mind-shattering agony tore through his back. He flinched away violently from that contact, and his mind swam in a haze of pain and disorientation. He felt hands grab the chains holding his wrists together, but he was in too much pain to respond to knowing that they were inside the cage now, they had his neck chain in hand. He felt himself being dragged by that chain through the cage, then there was a much duller pain when he felt someone kick him in the back. He felt the foot stomp his head much more clearly, leaving him dazed and unable to fight back. He shakily tried to move, but his brain wouldn't work, and the sounds and sights and smells swirled in his brain like soapy water in a laundry tub.
When he regained his senses, he was cinched up against the cage. The chain around his neck was pulled taut, keeping his head against the bars, and holding his head against the very base of the bars, near the floor, at an awkward angle that made it hard for him to do anything or gain any kind of leverage. His feet were now bound, tied to the bars, and he was partially on his side and partially on his stomach, since his hands were now chained behind him instead of in front of him. The sight before his eyes was his own muzzle and a sideways view of the bars and floor and the crowd beyond them, pointing at him and talking among themselves.
"Think this one might go for something other than his pelt," the man Baver said calmly from out of his field of vision. "He's strong, fast, and clever. May have to see if the Pens is interested in him."
"It has an attitude problem," the man whose stick he'd broken growled, and he yelped when something hit him hard in the back of his hip, dangerously close to his tail.
"Brend got his butt kicked by an Arcan," a fourth, new voice called tauntingly, a female voice.
"It broke my fucking stick! You know how much those cost?"
"Your own fault, Brend," Bevan said calmly. "He was loose in the cage, you should know better than to try to stick them when they can see it coming and can do something about it. You should have just held its attention and let Milli stick him from behind. Buying another one will teach you a lesson, just as much as these love marks he gave me were my lesson to get out of his reach when he got free. I'll live with my lesson, you live with yours."
How bitter those words were to him now. Teach him a lesson.
His mind worked feverishly as he tried to figure a way out of this. He couldn't move like this; he'd break his own neck if he tried to squirm to where he could get leverage to free his feet. He was stuck, stuck like that until they untied him, and then they'd have those brutal pain sticks ready to jab him if he tried anything.
For the first time in his life, Kyven felt utterly helpless. He was completely in their power, at their mercy… and they had no mercy. He could scream at them that he was not an Arcan, but they wouldn't believe him. He could try to fight, but they'd just lay him out with those pain sticks, where just a single touch would put him in such agony that he'd be helpless. And if he fought too much, if he was too much trouble, they'd just kill him and skin him and sell his pelt, which they seemed to think would be quite valuable.
It was a terrifying situation. He was worth just as much to them dead as he was alive, and they'd have no qualms over killing him and taking the money for his pelt rather than seeing how much they could get for him alive. And there was nothing he could do about it. He was powerless. The fox had destroyed his life and abandoned him to fate in a world where fate was cruel. He could do nothing.
The knowledge of that made his shoulders slump, and he sagged to the floor of the cage in sudden despair. He was a slave now. A slave. Before, he always rather childishly wondered why the Arcans didn't just do something about it. He wondered why they were so broken, and pitied them because they seemed weak. But now he was starting to understand. What else could they do? What else could he do? He could fight them, but that would earn him certain death. Or he could comply, at least for now, and hope that he would find an opportunity to escape.
Yes, that's what he had to do. Live now, fight later. But the instant he saw an opening, he was taking it.
But the realization was still… numbing. For the first time in his life, he had no real control, was utterly at the mercy of others, who had no mercy towards him. To them, he was just an Arcan. An animal, a tool, to be bought and sold like tobacco, then killed and butchered like cattle when the fancy struck them. He had no rights, he had no status other than property, had had nothing but his wits and his spirit sight to try to get him out of this.
He would get out of this. He would show that fox bitch that he wouldn't give up. She valued guile and deceit, well, he'd use that to get himself out of this. They wouldn't keep him in chains forever.
The wagon rolled through the streets without incident. Kyven watched the world outside go by, and all he could think of was that just yesterday, he could have walked down those streets without a single eye glancing at him. He had been free. But now he was on the other side of the bars, under the thumb of these people, having no idea where they were taking him or what they would do with him. Was there a skinning knife waiting for him when the wagon stopped? Would they simply stab him in the back, or cut his throat so as not to damage his pelt? Crush his skull with a club? He had no idea. He couldn't see anything, just the street beyond and the legs of the other four Arcans in the cage. They stayed together, he saw. They had enough play in their chains to huddle together, and that was what they were doing, sitting almost on top of each other… which was what the females on the ship did, both when they were in their cages and after he freed them. He didn't see why they did it. It made no sense to him, unless they were just seeking comfort with one another.
Small comfort.
The wagon stopped. Kyven almost dreaded hearing them dismount their horses, heard them moving around. He heard the door of the cage unlock, heard voices talking. "Not many this time, Baver."
"True, but we got ourselves a prize," the man Baver responded as booted feet appeared in front of him. "Look at that fox."
"That's a fox?" the unknown voice called, then laughed. "Yeah, sure is, isn't it? A fox with black fur and white markings? Rare. The furriers are going to drive up the price on him."
"He's spunky," Baver noted, and the other voice laughed. Kyven felt very offended at being thought of as spunky.
"I see that. He did that to you?"
"Ah-yup. The scouts for the Pens might be interested in him. He ripped the eye ring out of the cage floor, and he was fast enough to break a pain stick before it could hit him. He's got some potential."
"I'll make sure to make note of that to them when they come look at the stock," that voice called.
"Is the next block auction still tomorrow?"
"Yah, it's on schedule," the voice answered as he saw the other Arcans pulled out of the wagon, leaving him alone.
"You men, be careful with that one!" Baver called as Kyven felt tugging at his feet. "He's got some claws on him, and he'll stripe you if you're not paying attention! See?"
That caused some laughter around the cage. Kyven felt strange clinking vibrations in the heavy ring around his neck, and then something was crammed over his face. It was a leather muzzle, he realized, preventing him from opening his jaws, the leather straps holding his jaws together. After they had him muzzled, his head came free of the cage when they released the chain from his collar. His cramped neck throbbed as it was freed from the awkward position, but a boot came down against his muzzle, applying painful pressure and threatening to break some of his teeth as he felt his feet freed from the bars. Something was attached to the steel collar around his neck, and then the boot holding his head down was taken away. His collar now had a long, sturdy pole attached to it, and the burly man on the other end pulled on it to urge Kyven off the floor. Rough hands grabbed his chained wrists and yanked on him as the pole urged him up, which caused him to try to get his feet under him. He still didn't know how to work his feet very well, so he very shakily rose up on his feet, bowed over because the cage was too short to let him stand fully erect, and then he was literally dragged out of the cage by that pole when his feet slid out from under him. He flopped to the ground, but painful pressure on his neck forced him again to his feet.
He didn't know how to walk. The men around him that he could see were laughing when he shuffled and stumbled, falling down repeatedly because he didn't understand how his feet worked. He fell down again, then again, then again, but on the third time someone kicked him in the ribs, blasting the air out of his lungs and making him fall on his side. "Get up!" came a growling call, and the pole attached to his neck yanked painfully on him, threatening to break his neck if he did not follow its motion. He did so woozily, trying to find his breath as the pole attached to his neck pushed him forward from behind, almost making him fall down again as he tried to make his feet work, tried to figure out how to walk on his altered legs.
Toes. It was all about the toes. He stopped trying to walk on his whole foot and concentrated only on his toes. He rose up a several fingers in height when he went up on his toes, but it helped tremendously. He stopped stumbling and shuffling, and started walking more steadily, if not very gracefully. But he stopped falling down as he moved on shaky, uncertain legs, and that was a little victory.
He was pushed through a stone-paved courtyard and into a large, foul-smelling building. He was stopped by a small, reedy-looking woman who affixed some kind of little tag to the steel collar around his neck, then was pushed down a large aisle that had many cages on both sides on four stories, all of them with Arcans in them. The upper stories had metal catwalks in front of the cages, and it was very quiet in the place. As he was pushed forward, he glanced into the cages. Some cages only had one or two, some had nearly ten, all of them wearing steel collars with little tags on them. The cages had plaques on them that he could read, an alpha-numeric system of identifying cages. He was brought to a cage that had the same four Arcans that had been in the wagon, and the four of them looked up with dull eyes as the escort opened the door. The door had a curious horizontal slot in its edge, whose function was apparent as he was pushed inside and then the door was closed. He was yanked back against the door, and he felt a hand remove his muzzle, then he felt the pole being disconnected from the collar. When he felt it pull away, he was jabbed in the back by a stick, flinching violently from that contact for fear it was a pain stick, but it was just the end of a small baton. He staggered into the small cell, almost stepping on the feet of one of the two female canines, then heard the men who had put him there walk away.
Just like that, he was left and forgotten.
Immediately, he bent down and looped his chained hand around his legs, getting them out from behind him, wincing when he pulled some hairs out of his tail that caught on the chain links. The limb dropped back down and began to move by itself as he turned around and looked out into the aisle. There was nothing to look at but a stone wall on the far side, not even a window. The inside of the cage was only about ten paces by ten paces, cramped for five people, with nothing but a bare floor and a small grilled area and hole back against the wall in the corner, near which none of the others was sitting. Looking through the bars into the other cages, he saw almost all the Arcans in all the other cages were sitting or laying in them, staying very silent. He could hear some whispering, but it was very faint. He prowled the cage, but saw that it was solidly built, and the hole led to a pipe running with pungent waste. A look up showed a similar large pipe running over the cage ceilings over them, which was the sewer pipe for the second floor.
He could see no easy way out, and the other four gave him fearful looks. No doubt they thought they'd been caged with a Touched Arcan, a crazy male that was violent and contrary. Needless to say, without food or water, and with his cellmates afraid of him, this was going to be a very unpleasant stay. Unpleasant for them because they were afraid, unpleasant for him because… they were Arcans. He had no idea what to say to them, how to talk to them. He didn't know how they acted outside of what he'd seen as a human, and he had little doubt that how they acted outside of the public eye was quite different. He looked at them, and had no idea what he was supposed to do, what he was supposed to say. Clearly, he had already frightened them and that seemed to put him out in their minds, from the defensive body language. Was he supposed to greet them? Was he allowed to sit with them, or had he committed some cultural sin in their eyes and would be shunned by them?
Well, one part of the fox's intent was starting to show itself here. If he had no idea how to relate to the Arcans on their own level, well, some small part of him could see why he was here. But he still hated her for doing this to him.
Unsure of what else to do, he stepped in as far as he could without stepping on their legs and hunkered down. He found that sitting on his haunches was quite easy. He remained silent, uncomfortable with looking at them, so he instead studied his own hands. They were covered with short, thick black fur, with slightly longer and thicker fingers than he remembered, with rough black pads on his palms and fingertips. He had claws on the tips of his fingers, growing out from the top centers of each tip, where they hooked down and ended in a point, a very sharp point. His fingers were every bit as agile and nimble as they'd been when he was human, and a few tests showed that he still had his manual dexterity. The claws made it a bit tricky to close his fists, since they didn't retract, but he could do it if he didn't curl his fingers into his palm. His claws were actually… sensitive. He could feel vibrations and pressure in them when he touched them that told him when they were in contact with something. The centers of the claws, he realized, were alive, like the quick of a fingernail, and he could feel vibrations and pressure in them that actually made the claws sensitive, not dead like a fingernail would be. He looked down at one of his feet. It was wider across the ball, looking like any Arcan's foot, with large, long, nasty-looking claws on the tips of his toes, that were also sensitive.
Without anything else to do, he practiced. He had a tail now, and he had no idea how it worked. The other four looked on at him in confusion and speculation as he seemed to be mystified by his tail. He stared at the white-tipped, bushy tail for hours, watched it sway back and forth, getting a feel for what it felt like when it moved. Then he probed what of it he could reach with his hands, comparing what he was feeling under his claws to what he was feeling in his tail. He approached the problem with all the logic of a crystalcutter, first analyzing, then executing. He analyzed the tail, the sensations of its movement, then he executed, quickly getting an understanding of this new appendage's movement and range of motion. It was remarkably flexible, he discovered, almost capable of looping back on itself, but not so flexible he could tie it in a knot.
It was then that Kyven was introduced to one of the more humiliating aspects of being caged. He had to relieve himself, and there was absolutely no privacy in the cage. He resisted the urge for as long as he could, but then could no longer hold it off. He found that defecating when one had a tail made the process… delicate. It was good he'd worked with his tail enough to have control over it, both keeping it out of the way and also keeping it off the floor as he endured performing what was a private act to him in plain view of anyone who cared to look.
At sunset, footsteps and the tapping of wood on stone startled him out of his exercises, and the four others in his cell seemed to take notice of it as well. A quick glance down the line showed him that other Arcans too took note of them, and were edging towards the backs of their cells. Kyven didn't know why they were doing it, but he wasn't about to ignore it. He scrambled back against the back wall, hunkered over the hole the others had been using to relieve themselves, then he dropped down onto all fours, his hands on the cool stone in the hot, muggy prison as the makers of those footsteps came into view through the bars. It was a trio of men, all wearing very expensive black waistcoats and twill pants, and one of them was carrying a cane. Two of them were older, and the third was very tall, burly, and with sandy brown hair that was cut short and sharply. These were men of means.
They stopped in front of their cell and looked in. "This is it, sir," the uniformed guard told the three of them, pointing into their cell. "As you can see, he has very exotic coloration. Black fur, with white tips on his ears and tail, a white ruff, and those green eyes. Quite unique for a gray fox. Some fellows in the office speculate he's some kind of mutation."
"Very well. I'd like to get a better look at him," the oldest of the three said. "Open the cage."
"Ah, he's a bit wild, sir. Let me get a handler."
"Poppycock. These animals won't lay a finger on me. Open the cage now."
"But sir–"
"Now."
The uniformed man sighed, and stepped up with the key. "I want it known I do this under protest, sir," he said. "This Arcan took a piece out of the hunter that brought him in."
"Then your hunter has no inkling how to handle these animals," the old man snorted as the door was unlocked. The old man marched right in fearlessly, just as Kyven had done to the females on the boat, showing no fear at all. But the main difference was that Kyven was not an Arcan. He wasn't about to cow to the man, nor would he show him his teeth and be a good little slave. With his hands chained together, there wasn't much he could do with his claws and still keep his balance, but he now had a mouth full of very sharp teeth, and jaws large enough to bring them to bear. The man came right at him, but when Kyven hunkered down and bared his fangs at the old man, he stopped uncertainly. When he took another step forward, Kyven lunged at him, going low, his jaws snapping just fingers from the man's ankle as he scrambled backwards.
He then rose up to his full height and glared down at the old man, showing him just who was the one that was afraid in the cell.
"Oh, a feisty one," the younger of the two older men laughed. "I'd be tempted to buy him just to break him!"
"You'll be bidding against the furriers, Warren," the youngest of them said. "There's already talk of them trying to get him."
"Ridiculous," the cane wielder snorted. "You don't skin the golden goose! This is a prime specimen for the breeding pens." He looked to the uniformed man. "Can he talk?"
"The hunter says that he can, but not well. The hunter picked him up in the wild, so we think he grew up tame but slipped his collar and went wild before he was fully grown."
"Wrhy donn' you assk mme?" Kyven slurred, tired of being treated like he wasn't even there. The other four Arcans, though, were giving him strangely fearful looks.
"Well, I think there's your answer, Dad," the youngest chuckled.
"He is a cheeky one, isn't he? Definitely wild," the oldest of them said from a safe distance, then he left the cage and the handler locked it again. "So, the short-sighted furriers are interested in him?"
"He does have a gorgeous pelt, sir," the uniformed man said simply.
"But if he's a mutated gray, odds are his coloration will breed. I say, Staven, do we have any female grays?" he asked as the four men started walking back down the aisle.
Well, that was offensive. He knew that people treated Arcans like animals, like they didn't matter, but having it done to him was putting it in an entirely new light. They talked about him like he wasn't there, or like he didn't matter… and of course, to them, he didn't. Even talking about a furrier buying him to kill him for his fur didn't matter to them, for not only did they feel that he could do nothing about it, the fact that he might object had probably never crossed their minds.
After all, he was only an Arcan. An animal, easily replaced. His only attribute that even made them pay attention to him was his unusual coloration.
He padded back out off from the toilet hole, then hunkered down, and then laid down across the cell from the other four. He was still a little angry and indignant, but he wasn't used to that. Always before, he wanted to avoid attention, to not be bothered, because he didn't want people to discover his secret. But now, ironically enough, he had his wish. Now, he was nobody, just another Arcan, a being discounted by humanity as an animal, and not understanding Arcans enough to seem to have them want anything to do with him. He was truly alone now, where nobody would care about him even if he wanted them to. The fox had abandoned him, the humans thought he was nothing, and the Arcans were afraid of him because he didn't act like them.
He was alone now.
He put his chin on the backs of his folded hands and closed his eyes, feeling just a little sorry for himself. It wasn't a total loss, though. The fox said she'd–
Fuck her. She stripped him of his humanity, he didn't even want to think of her right now. He'd change his tune in a few days for sure, but for right now, the wound was too raw, too deep. He loved her, trusted her, and this is what she did to him. Changed him into an Arcan, took everything from him, then taunted him with the chance to get it back if he did what she wanted, enslaving him to her. Teach him wisdom, bullshit. She wanted a slave, plain and simple. She wanted to punish him.
Guile and deceit. Trinity, did she ever deceive him.
"Were you really free?" came a bare whisper. He opened his eyes and saw one of the canine females laying with her head just by his, with brown eyes and tawny short fur, and a black nose.
"In a whay," he slurred quietly. "But yes, I whas frrree."
"You've never been caged, have you?" the other female asked in realization as she slid over and laid down with her head near his.
"Nno."
"Are you Shaman?" the first one asked in a voice so faint he had to strain to hear it.
He closed his eyes and put his head back down. "I could ha' been," he said. "But the spirrits betrrayed me."
"How could they betray you?" the second female asked. "They look over us!"
"Then whry arre we herre?" he demanded, in a sudden loud voice which made the two female flinch and cower from him. He sighed and put his head back down. "I trrusted my totem, and she betrrayed me," he said in despair. "She denies me now, and blocks me frrom my magic. I am alrone now."
"We are none never alone," the bull told him in a sonorous, low tone. "As we walk this hard path, we always have life and each other."
"You can't be alone when there's five of us in here," the rabbit added with a quirky smile.
"You must be terrified," the first female said, putting a hand on his shoulder. He flinched under her touch, but said nothing. "There may be no tomorrow, Shaman, so take what you can from today," she told him, sliding against him, putting her arm over his back, nestling her muzzle close against his and nuzzling him.
"I am no lronger Shaman," he said in a tiny voice. "Plrease, neverr call me that again."
"Do you have a name?"
"Kyb–Kyb–" he took a breath. "Kyven."
"Then take what comfort you can with us, Kyven. Who knows what the fates will bring on the block?"
He looked at her, and she took that opportunity to burrow her boxy muzzle under his sharp one, then just lay there in content silence. In a singular act, he understood the Arcan practice of huddling. They were taking comfort from each other, because that was all they had.
Each other.
The two females urged him off the floor and pulled him between them. They huddled with the large bull and the rabbit, a tangle of arms and legs of soft fur and gentle silence, and he truly did find some small measure of comfort. With them nestled against each other, it was almost possible to forget about the terrible position they were in. One of the females stroked his fur on his neck and back in a most pleasing manner, causing him to drift into a fitful, worried sleep.
Sunrise of the first full day of the rest of his life.
He was almost resigned now. His night was full of dreams, dark dreams where he was trapped in a cage in a city with light but no sun, full of shadowed buildings with no population. He was alone, trapped in the middle of an empty city, with no way out, screaming at the top of his lungs and shaking the bars, screaming, screaming… The nightmares had caused a fitful night, but the other Arcans in the cell with him took it with surprising compassion. They laid with him, against him, surrounding him with gentle warmth, hands touching him and soothing away the pain. It was almost exquisite, how gentle and kind they were, even in the face of their own uncertain futures. These Arcans were giving, kind, gentle, willing to help one of their own through his terrifying first night as a slave.
And they never once asked him what it was like to be free, almost as if they dare not even dream of such a thing.
When sunrise came, he was startled awake by the sound of their cell door opening. A bucket was dropped heavily by the door, and then it was closed. The bucket held dirty water, the first water they'd had since they'd been put in the cell. Though some ugly spats erupted in other cells over the water as it was dropped into their cages, the five of them were very calm about it. The other four let him drink first, which he had to take slowly and carefully. His jaws were different now, so he had to work out how to get the water from the bucket to his mouth without it spilling out through the sides of his maw. He had to literally lap the water up with his tongue, using his nearly prehensile tongue to scoop the water up into his mouth, then swallow it. He only drank enough to feel that would tide him over, not wanting to deprive the other four of anything on his account.
"Whry do they fight?" Kyven asked in a whisper.
"Sometimes hunger or thirst overrides good sense," the bull said sagely. "That, or there may be too many for the water they left. When such things happen, the strong take what they can from the weak."
Not long after they were watered, they watched as a quartet of uniformed men arrived at cells, opened them, and then pulled the Arcans out. They followed no pattern that Kyven could make out, but all the Arcans were very afraid of them when they showed up. "They take us to the block, where fate rolls the dice," the bull said simply. "Some go to easy tasks with kind owners. Some go to the butcher's block or the furrier's pen, to await the day some human decides she would look good wearing our skins."
"Easy for you to say that, big guy, you don't have fur like mine," the rabbit said with a nervous twitch.
"Then you will be joining the spirits before me," the bull said philosophically. "And your troubles will be over."
The uniformed men came to their door, two of them carrying those long, thick rods with hooks on the end, while the third wielded a pain stick and the fourth held the key. The key bearer opened the door, and the man with the pain stick edged in with it pointed at them as one of the handlers came in behind him. "On your feet!" one of them barked, which caused the other four to quickly start rising. Kyven was slower to stand, but he was the first to be taken. The hooked stick man advanced, grabbing him by his chained wrist, then pulled him forward and slammed him into the cage bars on the other side of the cell. He was held there with an elbow to the back of his head as he felt the hook being attached to his steel collar, then he was dragged out of the cell and marched forward. He was still a little awkward on his hybrid legs, walking unsteadily as he was taken out of the building and into the fresh air, into a brilliant summer morning where the sun rose over the buildings and ocean to the east, and the large square outside the building was filled with men, women, and attending Arcans along with cage wagons.
This was block day, he realized. The scheduled Arcan auction, and from the looks of it, he was the next one up for sale. He was manhandled up a flight of stairs, up onto a raised platform, and then held near a man wearing a blue waistcoat and gray pants. "And here's a rare treat for you, ladies and gentlemen!" the barker boomed. "We have here a young male fox of unique coloration. Though we have no scientific proof, it's believed by our vets that he's a gray fox, but look at him, good Chestoners! His unique coloration is just the beginning! Though he was caught in the wild and will need taming, he's strong enough to pull a ring post out of a cage floor, and was fast enough to break a pain stick before it could be used on him! How's that for physical attributes! Put his prime condition together with his unique pelt, my friends, and you have a first class breeding stock Arcan up for bids, the kind you'd only see in the blue ring in Alamar! Turn him," the barker called to the handlers.
Kyven tried to resist the idea of it, but the hook on his collar made it impossible. The handler turned him on the platform, showing him off to the assembled men and women.
"Has he been checked over by a vet?" someone called.
"Yes he has, my good man!" the barker called. "He has all his teeth, no injuries, and has no known parasites or diseases. He doesn't even have fleas!" he said grandly.
"You're just milking it now, Devier!" someone called, which made the throng laugh.
"As the Trinity looks down on me, come check for yourself if you doubt my words!" the barker called. "Though he was penned up with other Arcans, I doubt he's been infested quite yet!"
Kyven had never considered the possibility of fleas… and it was a disturbing idea given how much fur he had.
"You said he was wild-caught?" a woman asked.
"That he was, ma'am!" he shouted in reply. "He's not quite tame yet, I'm sorry to say, his only drawback. He can talk, though he sounds like a toddler, so he's not stupid like most wild Arcans. But think of it as just a challenge on the road to owning a prize like this!" the barker said, pointing to Kyven. "I'll open the bidding at fifty chits, ladies and gentlemen!"
Kyven stood there, then, and listen to his freedom get auctioned to the highest bidder. He had no idea who was who down in that crowd, which ones were the furriers that wanted him for his pelt and which was the agent of that one that wanted him to be breeding stock, but more than just two bid on him. Kyven listened with detachment and building ire as the bids went back and forth for almost five minutes, until someone made a bid for him for five hundred chits, which was a massive sum for an Arcan. The kennel in Atan had never sold an Arcan for more than a hundred chits. "Five hundred is the bid. Five hundred. Five hundred going once. Five hundred going twice. Sold to Master Arthur Ledwell for five hundred chits! See the secretary, Master Ledwell."
Kyven was dragged off the platform and to an open area near the building where cages were parked. Some of them had Arcans in them, some did not. There were also several carriages parked near them. Kyven was dragged into a fenced pen area where another Arcan was, a mink Arcan being held down by two men. Kyven flinched violently when a third man came up and clubbed the mink in the skull with a heavy steel bar, which made the mink's body jump and then sag. The man hit the mink several more times to make sure of it, and then the two men picked up the body and tossed it into a high-fenced wagon that had Coroba Furriers painted on its side.
Seeing that made Kyven's blood run cold. They'd sold him to a furrier! He was going to be killed for his pelt! No! He wasn't going to die like this! He would not die like this! He instantly stopped, which caused the man holding the pole attached to his collar stumble, but Kyven didn't allow his weight to push him forward. He slipped and fell, and Kyven used that momentary brace to slam his manacles down onto the wooden pole, shattering it and freeing him of the restraint of being held by the neck. The two men that had held down the mink turned and advanced on him, as did the third holding the steel bar, but Kyven was not going to just lay down and let them club him to death. He lunged at them with his claws leading, which caused the men to gasp and then turn to flee, but Kyven did not attack them. He instead put his hands down and tried to mimic the way he'd seen the wolf run all those days when he first left Atan, knowing what it looked like and trying to copy it. The wolf could run so incredibly fast when he did that, as fast as a horse, and Kyven needed that speed now if he was going to live through this!
It only took five strides to find the rhythm of it. He just had to bring his legs up past his hands and then push off, like jumping forward, then put his hands down when he came back to the ground and do it again. It was actually easier than walking on his legs. The manacles didn't interfere with his running that way, and that allowed him to bound all the way across the pen before the man who had been pushing him with the pole had a chance to shout in alarm.
The fence. He worked out how to get over the fence, shortening a stride as he came up on it–
Something slammed into him from the side, something big and heavy. He saw a chaotic darkness and brown as he tumbled across the pen, then he yelped when his head struck a fencepost, leaving him dazed and unable to focus, unable to think clearly. He could only remember that he had to run, and his body responded to that hazy intent by causing him to try to roll over. But something snagged the chain holding his hands together, and then he felt himself get jerked to the side. Something came down over his legs, holding him down, but he was too dazed to respond with anything more than a feeble attempt to get up, but that was still enough to dislodge whatever was on his legs. "Holy fuck, this one's strong!" a voice droned, buzzing in his ears, then bright lights popped in his skull, and he knew no more.
He wasn't dead. The pain in his head convinced him of that.
He became aware of the pain, and that awareness caused him to climb out of the black pit of unconsciousness. He became aware of rolling, of him gently rocking back and forth, of him laying on his stomach and side on something warm and hard, something that smelled of urine and sweat. He groaned and rolled fully onto his side, then opened his eyes.
He was in another cage wagon. He was no longer in the pen, or even the city, they were on a country road that split vast farms of short green plants growing in neat rows, as Arcans tended to them. They weren't food plants. This was Cheston, and if they weren't food plants, then that had to be a cotton plantation, where they grew the cotton from which many clothes and other things were made, like heavy denim. This time, he was careful to take full stock of what was around him. There were no horseback riders escorting the wagon. He saw only two figures in the seat at the front, separated from the small cage by just enough to prevent him from reaching out and grabbing the two. One was a human wearing a white waistcoat and wearing a white felt hat, and the other was a hulking Arcan of unknown breed, because he could only see its back. It was very big, though, with tan fur and a shaggy-furred tail that hinted that the Arcan was canine. Kyven realized that the Arcan was driving, and the white-garbed human was riding along in silence.
Kyven realized that he was no longer chained. His hands were free, and a quick check at his throat showed him that the steel collar was gone… but a new, more slender collar was in its place, a piece of metal that was curiously warm to the touch, tingling under his fingers.
He almost slumped. It was a collar. An alchemical collar, the instrument of control humans used to keep control of Arcan slaves. If he performed an action beyond the established parameters of the collar's operation, it would punish him with an electrical jolt. The collars in Atan were set to zap the wearer if they went beyond established boundaries, penning them in, which was usually all it took to keep them obedient. But they could be set with other conditions. The collars the miners wore would punish the Arcans with a killing blast if they touched human blood, which seriously hindered any attempt to revolt. If they attacked their overseers and a single drop of his blood touched them, they were dead.
The sun was warm and the sky clear. He looked up to the sky, and felt bitter remorse. Just on the other side of those bars was freedom. Just on the other side of those bars he would be more than an animal, just on the other side of those bars, the horror of seeing an Arcan murdered for his pelt wouldn't be burned into his memory. And part of his mind reminded him that that could have been his fate. It seemed that his break for freedom had caused someone else to buy him from the furrier, because he was still alive. It was just on the other side of those bars… but it was more than a world away. Even if he did get out, he was an Arcan now, abandoned by his totem and left to the cruel whim of fate, and he'd have a hard time finding freedom out in that free world, not when men would hunt him to make a slave, and some men would try to kill him for his pelt.
There was a touch on his foot. He turned and looked back over his shoulder, and saw another Arcan. It was a female coyote, her eyes dim and hooded, sitting against the bars with a casual slouch that told him that the young female had done this before. He saw that she had no manacles, no steel collar, no nothing. She didn't have a collar like he did. She was completely nude and unrestrained, and rather handsome after a fashion, with larger breasts than was normal for Arcan females–they all tended to be a little flat-chested–and very thick fur with a quite pleasant coloration of gray, brown, and white in sleek bands along her sides. He crawled over to her in the small cage, not having to go very far at all, and sat down beside her, seeking her out. She accepted him, putting her clawed hand on his arm, then reaching up and putting her hand around his muzzle, holding it shut and shaking her head.
What did that mean? That she couldn't talk, or that he shouldn't? He wasn't sure, so he decided to play it both ways, and did not try to speak to her.
She huddled against him, comforting each other, and he lowered his head as she put her head on his shoulder. Where were they going? If they weren't bought by a furrier, then who was that human, and what was in store for them? Working the cotton fields like the other Arcans? Was he off to the life of being breeding stock, like those other men were talking about? Or was this furrier the kind that kept his pelts alive until he needed them? Did the Pens buy him, and he was on his way to a short, violent life fighting for the amusement of the spectators in gladiatorial combat, Arcan against Arcan?
He got no answers from the man riding in front. He rode along in comfortable silence.
His headache eased as the wagon rolled along through the morning, as field after field of cotton went by, and Arcans and human overseers on horseback took note of the wagon as it passed. They crossed a wooden bridge over a small river, and yet more fields separated from the road by a whitewashed rail fence. A human on horseback, a young man with blond hair wearing a straw hat and sturdy work clothes, trotted his horse up to the fence and matched pace with the wagon. "Master Ledwell!" the man called. "I thought you were buying some new workers?"
"Change of plans, Bobby, change of plans. I found some very good ones today. Look at the male."
The young man did so. "Is that a fox?"
The old man chuckled. "Beautiful coloration, isn't it?" he answered. "And he's wild."
The young man chuckled. "You and your projects, Master Ledwell," he said. "So he's a resale?"
"Oh yes," he nodded. "He'll be shipped to Alamar as soon as he's ready."
"What about the female? Is she wild too?"
"No, she's just rather handsome. I had to outbid Beston for her."
"Ah. He must not be too happy about that."
"That's half the reason I was doing it," the older man chuckled. "We'll try her out in the house and see how she does. If she doesn't pan out, I'll send her to the fields."
The coyote gave an audible sigh of relief, and flopped her head against his chest. She seemed to have had a good throw of the dice on the block, and had secured a decent life for herself.
"That's fine with me sir, but I really do need two or three more at the least, a good ten if I had my way. I barely have enough to keep up as it is."
"Corbley is still at the auction, Bobby. He'll bring some workstock along this afternoon. I just wanted to get these two here early, to keep from fielding offers for the male from Coroba and get the female out of Beston's sight before he lost his manners."
"Coroba? Why would he want him? Isn't that killing the golden goose?"
The older man chuckled. "Coroba was angling for the prestige of it, Bobby. If he kills the only male with a pelt like that, then there won't ever be another coat like the one made out of him. He could have sold it for thousands of chits."
"Well, why didn't he win the auction?"
"Because he was short-sighted, Bobby. He spent too many chits on minks, martens, foxes and rabbits before the male came to the block, and the bid went past what he had left. You know they take cash only there, they don't take promissories. You should have heard him trying to borrow money from anyone in the crowd!" the man laughed.
"How much was he?"
"Five hundred," the older man answered. "Worth every chit, too."
The young man whistled. "Five hundred for an Arcan? You're a brave man, Master Ledwell. I wouldn't spend that much on an Arcan."
"He would have went for five thousand in the blue ring of Alamar," the old man said simply. "I'm amazed the hunters didn't think to take him there instead of bringing him to Cheston, that was stupidity on their part. Once I'm done, that's where he's going. A fox with that pelt and his kind of physical prowess? They'll fight over him. I'll get great returns back for this investment."
"He gray or red?"
"From the claws, I'd say he's a mutated gray," the old man said. "That's what the kennel's vet believes, at any rate. I'm inclined to agree."
"Let me get back to work then, sir," the mounted man said.
"Very good, Bobby. Good day."
"Good day, sir."
So that was his fate. The man bought him as an investment. He'd be sent to Alamar and sold in the famous blue ring. He guessed he should be a little flattered over that. Only the most prime Arcans went to the blue ring.
The wagon literally went to the end of the road, for the road went through a hole in the fence and up a long lane with cotton fields on both sides. It pulled up to a huge plantation house that had several Arcans out front, beating on a large rug hanging on a clothesline with shaped wire paddles to the side of the house. The front yard had a tiled walkway flanked by large trees leading up to a huge front porch. There were many buildings behind the plantation house, showing how large and successful this farm was. The wagon went around the main house and into a large yard in the back, where a huge barn and large building flanked each other on one side, and a series of small huts were strung along the edge of a cotton field on the other. There were quite a few Arcans there, mainly very young ones, and two burly human men watching over them as two young girls in pretty dresses sat on a porch table, pencils in their hands as they wrote on something on the tables.
The wagon stopped, and the hulking Arcan got down and went around, then helped the older man down. The Arcan was a wolf, a wolf with an unusual pelt, and looked every bit as big standing as he did sitting, towering over the small, thin man. He had pale skin and wrinkles around his eyes, with gray at his temples visible under his hat, and a gold chain going from pocket to pocket in his tailed waistcoat. "Bruno, take the coyote to the overseer and get her a house collar," the man said to the wolf. "Leave the fox in the cage for now."
The wolf nodded. He came around to the back of the cage and opened it, then leaned in and reached for them with huge, long arms. He grabbed the coyote by the ankle, and physically dragged her out. She gasped from the rough handling, but then the wolf set her down on the ground, let her go, and then pointed to a building with a huge paw on her back lightly, almost gently.
He could see it in her. She had no collar. She was outside the cage. She was not chained or restrained in any way. If she ran, she might reach the forest on the far side of the cotton field behind the house, might make it to safety. All that was between her and that forest was the wolf Arcan, whom she would have to outrun, and whatever workers might be in the fields that would try to stop her. He saw the speculation in her body language, then her shoulders slumped, and she obediently padded towards the building to which the wolf pointed, the wolf walking behind her.
But it wouldn't have really been a choice, Kyven realized. She was going to be working in a house, easy work, all because she was attractive to the human eye with her large breasts and handsome coloration. Her lot here would be much better than the uncertainty that lay beyond those trees, and she accepted the life she could see over the risk of a life she could not.
And after seeing that mink get brained right in front of him, just because she had beautiful fur, he couldn't blame her one bit.
Kyven noticed that the wolf didn't lock the cage door when he closed it, and the man didn't seem to notice. Well, he might be getting out of here sooner than he thought.
The older man gave Kyven a long, speculative look. "They said you can talk, fox," he said to him. "Why don't you tell me your name?"
Kyven said nothing, just staring at him.
"Don't have one, do you? Good. You don't need one," he said bluntly. "They said you're wild. Did you slip a collar, or were you born wild? And if so, where did you learn to talk?"
Kyven said nothing.
The man reached into his pocket and produced what looked like a golden pocketwatch from his pocket. He opened it, then glanced at Kyven and put his thumb to it.
The world exploded in pain. The collar seemed to assault him with it, sending shockwaves of agony through him, pain so intense he convulsed on the cage of the floor, losing control of his bladder. His head and feet banged on the wooden planking of the cage floor as he was assaulted with mind-shattering pain, and a strangled, growling howl escaped his muzzle.
It stopped. He collapsed to the floor, laying in a puddle of his own urine, his entire body feeling like he'd been boiled in oil.
"And you learn your first lesson, fox," the man said quite pleasantly, closing his little device and putting it back in his pocket. Kyven struggled to his hands and knees, his muscles trembling, his tail drooping over his buttocks and laying limply on the floor behind him and over his calf. "When a human gives you an order, you obey. Now, answer my question. Were you born wild?"
Kyven just gave him a cold look, but when the man started reaching for his little device again, fear overtook pride. "Ye–"
The world exploded again. Kyven howled, kicking his feet on the floor, claws gouging the wood, but it passed quickly, leaving him gasping for air, shaking hands reaching for the bars of the cage.
"Animals do not talk," the man said calmly. "Your collar will remind you of that. You were wild, Arcan, and that introduces into some of you a silly idea that you're more than what the Trinity made of you, tools to humanity, as the Trinity has declared you to be. You are an animal, Arcan, no different from a sheep or a cow or a chicken. We will use you as we see fit, and slaughter you when it pleases us.
"You are an animal, and animals do not talk, nor do they have names unless they earn them," he said, pointing to a chicken coop near one of the large buildings. "It is one of my few pleasures to take wild Arcans like yourself and tame you, remind you of your place in this world. When I send you off to Alamar, you will be a proper Arcan, compliant and silent. I may even give you a name. And you'll earn me a pretty chit or two, I might add.
"You should feel lucky, Arcan. You'll be a breeding stud for sure. Day after day of mating with females. Quite a lucky life for an Arcan, I would gather, if your kind gets any pleasure out of it. You'll have a soft life mating females to produce a new line of exquisite black-furred foxes, and I'll get ten times the return on my investment. I could send you on to that lucky life now, but you're wild, and I do adore taming Arcans," he said with a smile that was as dreadful as it was cold. "Once you're nice and broken, I'll send you on to Alamar. You'll bring me both entertainment and profit, Arcan. Truly worth every chit I paid for you." He reached into the other pocket of his waistcoat and produced another watch-shaped device and opened it. "Well, not even lunchtime yet," he noted, closing what was clearly a real pocketwatch. "I think I'll leave you in there for a while, and let you think things over and fully appreciate things," he said, mainly to himself. "If you're entertaining enough, maybe I'll even feed and water you today, Arcan. Keep that in mind. You have to earn your food and water, and there's not much you can do to earn it in that cage," he said with a cold smile.
A murderous impulse washed through Kyven. If he could get his claws on the man, he'd tear him–
The world exploded into pain. His hands clamped down on the bars before him as the pain ripped through him in waves of agony, and then it ended after a few seconds, leaving him weak and shivering in the cage.
"Ah, so you thought to take a bite out of me, did you?" the man asked with a cold chuckle. "And so you discover the second function of your collar. It was made just for Arcans like you, fox. I paid two thousand chits for that collar, it's my special wild Arcan breaking collar. It will ensure that you'll be nice and tame when you leave this plantation. I could explain how it works to you, but I'll just leave those lessons for you to learn on your own," he chuckled. "But, as you just discovered, any time you think of harming your betters, it reminds you of your place."
The man walked up to the porch and talked to the two girls there, leaving Kyven in the cage, and desperately trying to control the desire to rip the man's head off. By the Father's grace, what a bastard. He got pleasure out of torturing Arcans, breaking them, making them docile, compliant little slaves. But it left Kyven in a very precarious situation. He was trapped in the cage, with the collar, and now he faced being broken, becoming what he'd hated and pitied in the Arcans he'd seen on the ship, the ones that would just sit and wait for the humans to come and take them back to captivity. That was what this man was going to try to do to him, make him just like them.
He was afraid now. He was very afraid.
Maybe being sold to the furrier may have been the better thing. At least then, it would have been over quickly.
He had nothing to do.
He lay on his side in the cage, near one corner, lazily looking out at the activity of the plantation as the day marched on. The man owned quite a few Arcans, and all of them were eerily silent, at all times. They went about their chores around the plantation house quickly and quietly, the ones working in the house wearing little maid dresses or steward suits of black and gray, but the Arcans who worked outside, in the buildings or the fields, were kept naked. That was an important distinction in Kyven's mind, that the man would clothe the Arcans working in his house but leave the rest nude.
He lay there, watched, and tried to ignore his hunger and thirst. He hadn't eaten for days and had only had that one drink of water in the kennel that morning. But hunger and thirst were hard to ignore when one had nothing to take his mind off of them.
He'd entertained the idea of escape once it got dark, since the cage door was unlocked, but he discovered the third function of the collar before that got very far, and instantly squelched any idea of it afterward. The collar wouldn't let him leave the cage. The one time he'd reached outside the bars more than half a rod, trying to catch a butterfly flitting near the cage, he was against punished with incredible pain, which was exacerbated by the fact that he didn't have the mental faculties to pull his hand back inside the boundaries of the cage. He lay there for long moments, eternities, until he managed to draw his hand back into the cage, which made the pain stop. His howling and shrieks had brought the older man back out onto the porch, to watch and laugh as he talked to an older matron who had come out with him, a woman in her fifties with her gray hair done up in a severe bun, wearing a light blue dress. Kyven lay there panting, his chest heaving as he recovered from the intense ordeal, and that was when he realized just how helpless he was.
Kyven was strong, and had very sharp, tough claws. If the cage door had been locked, he could have gouged his way through the wood of the bottom of the cage easily, but to do so would kill him. The instant any part of him left the cage, he would be punished. He was trapped within the cage by the collar, and in a cruel twist, he had the ability to escape the cage were it not for the collar around his neck.
It was the cruelest of taunts. He was in an unlocked cage, but he could not escape from it. The collar around his neck was more effective than any bars or locks.
Trapped in the cage, he had nothing but his hunger and thirst as companions. The Arcans ignored him, wouldn't even look at him, and the humans just stared at him and chuckled or made comments, but they wouldn't come close to the cage. He had to keep his mind neutral when he looked at them, fearing another painful punishment from the collar should his desire to kill them creep into his mind.
He had nothing to do but watch. He watched the activity wane as the day became hot, a heat that didn't really bother him because of his thick, luxurious fur which insulated him from the heat despite being black, keeping him at a comfortable temperature despite a hot summer sun shining on him through the bars. He watched the Arcans come in about an hour before sunset, nearly a hundred of them, then line up in that open area between the big building and the huts and receive bowls from a large cauldron, bowls with the heavenly smell of food that wafted through the cage when the wind blew the right way, a smell that made his empty stomach growl and knot up.
The Arcans ate in total silence, and after they were done, some few of them bent to the task of cleaning the cauldron and the bowls while the rest retired to those small huts, three and four to a hut. After they were all inside, music began to come from the huts, which surprised Kyven. The master here thought Arcans were animals, yet allowed them to play music?
Strange paradox.
Music also came from the plantation house, the sound of a piano and a flute, playing a song he'd never heard before. It was lively and upbeat, a happy song, which introduced emotions into him that conflicted with his parched throat and empty stomach. He drifted to sleep with that music in his ears, for since he had nothing else to do but sit there and starve, sleeping seemed the only option to dull the hollowness inside.
He was awakened during the night by thunder. He awoke to find all lights out, and for the first time since the fox had betrayed him, he dared to use spirit sight… but not before making some pretty extravagant preparations. He gathered up all the straw he could find in the cage and put it against his eyes, which allowed him to see through it but dulled the glow of his eyes. With his eyes open to the spirits, he saw that everyone was asleep, both human and Arcan, and that no one was watching him.
Now was his only time to try anything.
He reached up and felt around his collar carefully. It was split into four sectors, with a knob at each border that held a crystal. It took four crystals to power the collar, which meant that the collar could have quite a few different abilities, powers, and functions. A single crystal could power the three abilities of which Kyven knew, so there was no telling what abilities the other three powered. It all had to do with how well the collar was built, how the alloys were set to focus the power of the crystals. If the collar cost two thousand chits, then Kyven would bet that it had several dozen abilities over what he'd already seen.
Well, no alchemical device was worth much of anything if there was no crystal to power it. He had a great deal of experience with alchemical devices because of his cutting background, much more than most people outside of alchemists themselves. If he could figure out how the crystal settings opened, the could pull the crystals and be free of the limitations of the collar. His sensitive claws probed the device, but, to his dismay, found that it consisted of only two pieces, a top half and a bottom, and there was no catch or seam he could find on it to disconnect it or pull it apart. It didn't make much sense. The collar was too small to over his head, yet it was fixed at a set width, just slightly wider than his own neck. How did they get it on him? If he could figure that out, he could take it off.
There was… another option. He could burn out the crystals, make the collar exhaust them. That would mean intentionally being punished, face that agony over and over, until he used up the charge in the crystals and they shattered.
He shuddered just thinking about that. Burn out the crystals on purpose? Face the punishment until he burned them out? No. Hell no. Fuck no. He'd rather die than try that, because trying that would kill him, and he could think of less painful ways to die.
There was a flash of lightning, and a distant rumble of thunder. He looked up at the sky after closing his eyes to the spirits, grasping the bars, wishing with all his heart that it would rain.
That, at least, was given to him. It started as a sprinkle, and then developed into a storm, with lightning, thunder and wind. Kyven couldn't reach outside the bars, but he could get against the side of the cage that faced the wind and open his mouth, feeling the rain pound against his gums and tongue. He soaked it up like a withering plant, even licked the water streaming off the bars and off the floor of the cage, desperately doing anything he could to get as much water as possible. It rained for a merciful full half hour, from a gentle sprinkle to a pounding rain with strong wind and heavy lightning, which soaked Kyven through and gave him plenty of water to drink. The wind abated after a while, and the heavy rain reduced to a steady drizzle, but Kyven still licked the water off the bars hungrily, tasting the metal as he stripped the precious water off of them, and when there was no more, he curled up into a ball in the middle of the cage, trapping the water in his fur. If it came to it, he would lick the water out of his fur, but he couldn't do that if the day dried it out of him.
This was the time to think of survival.
"Aww, he got all wet!" a voice drifted in from the void.
Kyven opened his eyes, and the hunger attacked him. He had slaked his thirst, but the hunger still consumed him, made him feel weak, almost delirious. How many days had it been since he'd eaten? Two? Three? He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious after the fox attacked him, betrayed him. It could have only been two days ago, it could have been two weeks ago. He'd never been this hungry before in his life, not even when he was on the ship after waking up after exhausting himself taking over the ship.
It was morning. The sun was fully up and over the horizon, and there was activity around him. The smell of food drifted on the gentle wind, causing his stomach to scream in protest. The smell was coming from the table on the porch, as the coyote Arcan, wearing a new dress, served pancakes with berry sauce smothered on them to three girls sitting at the table, the oldest in her late teens and the youngest looking to be about six. The speaker was a girl of about ten, with blond curls and wearing a pretty little white summer dress with lace at her cuffs and collar, standing with her nose between the bars, looking in at him.
"Leave the Arcan alone, dear, and come eat!" the matron called as she came out of the door leading into the house.
The blond girl looked into the cage at him, and he stared back at her. He could have lunged out and killed her before she could even blink, but she was just a kid, filled with a child's curiosity. He thought to scare her away, but he thought that maybe, if he could get on the good side of the child, maybe she'd bring him food. He uncoiled and slinked towards her on all fours, staring down at her, getting almost to where he was nose to nose with her. She gave him a curious look, then boldly reached up into the cage and scratched him on the top of his muzzle. Her fingers were gentle, surprisingly gentle. Kyven laid down placidly and closed his eyes and let her scratch his muzzle, then she reached up and tugged gently at his ears, reaching through his shaggy black hair to find their bases.
"Varra! Get back right now, that Arcan is wild!" the woman called fearfully. "Varra!"
Kyven opened his eyes, and saw the woman reaching into a pocket in her dress. When she produced a small gold disc, just like the one the man had, he gasped and recoiled from the girl, backing completely into the far corner out of raw terror, dreading being punished.
The woman marched down and grabbed the girl by her arm, then dragged her away. "How many times have I told you not to play with Arcans in the cage, young lady?" she said harshly. "That Arcan is wild! He could have hurt you!"
"Why would he, Mama? If he did, Dad would just kill him."
"Arcans aren't smart, dear. They're animals. They may understand our language, but they don't think like rational people. I'm surprised that thing didn't try to eat you. Your father hasn't fed it yet."
"I think he's pretty," the girl said, looking back at him.
"I think he is too, dear, but I'm not going to go pet it until your father tames him. Just be patient, and you can pet him all you want after he's safe. Now eat your breakfast."
Kyven reflected on the girl, and himself. After just one night, he was already almost reflexively afraid. The pain from punishment was so intense that he was already doing anything he could to avoid it. He had been avoiding thoughts of hurting the old man, and though he did try to get the collar off, he hadn't tried anything else. He was afraid… so afraid. If he was found out or messed up, the fear of facing that punishment was almost worse than death. He'd honestly rather die than be punished again, and that fear made him reluctant to do anything. He didn't know what else the collar did, how else he might be punished, and that fear was keeping him from doing his best to escape.
He wouldn't watch them eat. He curled up with his back to them, keeping the fur on his waist and legs damp to trap the water, burying his nose under his tail to try to ignore the smell of pancakes and berries, trying to go back to sleep. Maybe he wouldn't be so hungry when he woke up again. They always said that there would come a time when you just stopped being hungry. He inhaled the smell of his own fur and closed his eyes, and did nothing.
There was nothing else he could do.
The beetle ambled across the shaded wood lazily, fluttering its wings before tucking them under the hard carapaces on its back. It skittered along the wood, following the grain, going about its business.
It never saw it coming.
Kyven slammed his paw down over it, then snatched it up and shoved it into his mouth without hesitation. He was beyond caring about what he was eating. The beetle was crunchy at first, but then squishy and not very tasty, but he didn't care about taste. He swallowed every bit of it, licking the spoor off his teeth and trying to swallow as best as he could with a dry mouth. The taste it left in his mouth was terrible, but his stomach didn't care. All it cared about was that it had at least a tiny thing inside of it, trying to fill the gaping hole inside him that sent pain shooting through him every time he moved, pangs of hunger so sharp that they put spots in front of his eyes.
How many days had he been in the cage? Three? Four? Three, he thought. Three days of watching them walk by him, not even pay attention to him anymore, almost like he was a statue sitting in the garden that had been there so long ivy was covering it. The master of the plantation seemed to have lost interest in him, he thought, for he hadn't seen him at all since yesterday morning, but he also hadn't been either fed or watered. Nobody would come near the cage, nobody would even look at him, it seemed. He would kneel at the bars, looking at them pleadingly, begging people with his eyes to do something–anything for him. Throw him a crust of bread. Drop a blade of grass in his cage. Dip a hand into a glass of water and let the drops fall on his tongue. He didn't care. He was starving, starving to death, and so thirsty, so very thirsty. He yearned to cry out, to call to them, but even in his desperation, he feared the punishment he would receive if he used his voice. All he could do was bang on the cage with his fists, shake the bars, move to get someone to look at him, but nobody would.
He became so hungry that the smells of food around him were like knives through his belly, and the people around him stopped looking less and less like people, and more and more like food. By sunset, he was so hungry that if that little girl were to come up to him and put her hand in the cage, he would bite it off and eat it. He was beyond caring, the only thing that would stay him was the dreaded fear of the punishment of the collar, the only thing stronger than his hunger.
At sunset, the master of the plantation returned. He was wearing a gray waistcoat and brown pants, carrying a cup of tea. He stopped in front of the cage, almost within reach, and took a sip of his tea as Kyven knelt in front of him, hands on the bars, his eyes fixated on the teacup with dreadful yearning, his hand twitching to reach out for it, but fear of the punishment staying him. Several other men came up behind him from the house, and they all gave him a good look. "Magnificent, isn't he?" the master of the house said, motioning at him. "A black-furred fox. Look at that coat. Still wild, but I'm taking care of that right now. I'll get back tenfold what I paid for him, easily."
"I say, he's looking a tad thin there, Ledwell. And his coat looks dull."
"Part of breaking him, old friend, just part of the system," the man said, giving him a cold smile. "Trust me, I'm not going to lose my investment. But I can't be selling him in Alamar wild. It'll take some off his price if they have to tame him."
"When will you feed him then?"
"When he begs for it," he answered, staring into Kyven's eyes. "When he bows down to my authority and begs for his supper, and not a crumb until then. But, since he's been eating bugs that have wandered into his cage, I'll have to deny him anything for a while yet, even if he does beg," he added with an almost infuriating little knowing smile, as if he was the teacher catching the students whispering in class. "After all, I did warn him that he'd have to earn his food and drink, and eating bugs isn't earning it. So he'll have to be punished for disobeying me."
The man took another sip of his tea, then, looking Kyven in the eyes, he held it out before him and turned it, pouring it out into the grass. Kyven's eyes went wide as he saw that precious water pour into the grass, and was so desperate for it that he actually reached out, without thinking, lunging for the needed water. The instant his hand left the boundary of the cage, though, his world exploded into pain. He fell back and screamed in agony, his claws tearing furrows in the wood as the collar punished him for his disobedience, a pain that only seemed even more excruciating with him weakened by hunger and thirst, building on that already present plateau of pain inside him. He whimpered when it was over, crawling away from the man, crawling deeper into the protection of the cage, away from the pain, then collapsed to the floor.
"You can be a cold bastard sometimes, Ledwell," one of the men said, which made them all laugh.
"Be glad I'm only cold to wild Arcans, Skivvers," Ledwell joked in reply. "Come, let's get back to cards. I doubt my pet will be any more amusement to us now that he's tasted the collar. That always makes them quite tentative for a while, you know."
If there was any water left in him, he would be crying. But there was not even the water in him for that.
Dawn.
Or maybe sunset. He didn't know.
Kyven swam in a misty haze. He had no idea how long he'd been in the cage. He had been in there for… he had no idea. He had been so hungry… so hungry. Starving, while they walked past him, not looking at him. He could smell food, could smell water, but it tormented him with its nearness, and yet was beyond his reach.
All he had to do was beg to be fed, but sometime during the night… some night, one night, he didn't know… he lost track of that idea. He lost track of everything. He no longer knew where he was, or what he was doing. He only knew that he was trapped, trapped like a rat with no food, no water, and he was… waiting. Waiting for rain. Waiting for something edible to stumble into his trap. He didn't know. He just knew that he was beyond hunger now, and too weak to care. His entire world was the cage, a barren desert with no food, no water, nothing but death, but a cruel death that would not come to take him from his misery. It hovered over him, taunting him, mocking him, making him suffer for as long as it could before finally showing mercy on him.
Flies buzzed around his body like an omen. He couldn't feel them anymore, not even when they crawled boldly into his mouth, as if they knew that soon he would be their feast. He lacked the energy to shoo them away. He lacked the energy to do anything but lay here, as his body shut down everything to keep his heart beating.
He could hear voices, could hear people walking, but it was like he wasn't there. Life went on around him. There was music, and talking, and children playing in the yard. There were Arcans tending the chickens, the house staff waiting on the family sitting in their favorite spot at the table on the porch, in full sight of him, but doing nothing for him. Almost as if his suffering was a spectacle for them, an object of entertainment. He was in the middle of them, and yet they just went by him, ignored him, like he didn't exist.
As the hunger gnawed away at him, he began to wonder if he really did.
Was this all a dream? Was this just a vision, like the ones he used to suffer when he was a child? After all, he didn't feel anything anymore. This could all be a dream, just a nightmare from which he might awaken.
If he awakened. He didn't really care much anymore. He wasn't thirsty anymore, or hungry, or in pain. He was just… tired. So very tired.
Voices. He could hear them, but couldn't make out what they were saying without effort… and he just didn't have the energy. He tried to raise his head, but he couldn't, laying it back down on the wood, his dry tongue laying on the deck between his open jaws.
"Oh, I think you shouldn't worry, dear, this is just part of the process," a voice called, but he couldn't understand it. "You have to wear them down first, show them their rightful place, with a combination of hunger and respect for our authority. He'll be fed and watered in the morning, and he'll be much more tractable. After all, we'll have fed him without him begging, shown him mercy. His limited Arcan mind will put that together and equate us with feeling good, of taking away hunger. It's part of the taming process, dear."
"I was just worried, Dad. He hasn't moved all day, he's just laid there, even when Jerri poked him with a stick to see if he was dead. He's so pretty, and he was so gentle when he let me pet him."
"Don't mistake them being nice for them being tame, dear. Arcans can be quite cunning, especially the foxes. Odds are, he was just trying to trick you into feeding him, playing on your interest in him."
"You think so?"
"Dear, I know so. You'll see in the morning."
Kyven drifted back into the haze, lost in a world of weakness and delirium, and then he spiraled down into darkness.
He begged for it to be the darkness of death.
The night again brought a cool breeze, and the smell of water. That smell heralded the rumble of thunder, and then the rain fell. Wind blew the water into the cage, spattered his face, fell onto a parched tongue. At first, the still form didn't respond to the water, as rain soaked into dull fur, rain pattered off his tail, into one of his ears, off his teeth, the form remained as still as death.
But then his tongue twitched.
The taste of water in his mouth stirred him from his drifting haze, caused him to open his eyes, roll from his side onto his back. He began to pant as rain pelted into his mouth, just enough for him to swallow. The water assaulted his throat, caused his stomach to heave, but it also ignited his spirit like a fire. He struggled to his knees and opened his mouth to the wind, as it blew the heavy, pounding rain into the cage, into his mouth. He swallowed more water, and more, and the water brought both great pain to his stomach, a stomach shocked by something in it, and seemed to focus his mind after just a couple of minutes. He lapped at the rain, lapped at the bars to get at every bit of water he could, drank in the rain as it poured down upon him. The slow rate he could drink the water kept him from drinking it so fast it made him sick, letting him slowly rehydrate as the pounding rain came down for nearly an hour, with just enough wind to blow it into the cage.
The hunger returned, more powerful than ever, but at least he could think now. The lack of water had left him delirious, listless, weak and helpless. But the water refreshed him, brought rationality back to him, and made him see a stark truth.
For all his intelligence and his budding powers as a Shaman, he was helpless. He was saved by pure chance, saved by the rain, for it seemed that the old man had forgotten about him and was allowing him to die, literally die surrounded by people and Arcans who saw him, but would not help him. To them, he didn't exist.
And so long as he was in this cage, they were essentially correct.
He was totally in the power of the old man, just as much as the fox held power over his very humanity, to take and give back at a whim. Kyven survived by the whim of the holder of the control for his collar, and he would starve to death within sight of food, would starve to death with it literally within his reach if they set it down in front of the cage. He was nothing. He was insignificant. He could die in this cage and rot, and nobody around him would care. Without his magic, he couldn't defeat his collar. With the collar on him, he was helpless.
He was truly trapped. He was totally in the power of another, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. All he could do was wait for sunrise, and beg to be fed… because if he did not, he would die.
He would beg for his life.
It was a humbling realization. He'd known that he was at the mercy of others before coming into this cage, but now, now he understood it. He hadn't felt this weak and helpless when he was in the cage of the hunters, or standing on the auction block. It took coming here and nearly dying of dehydration to see the truth of his situation. The old man had almost killed him by denying him food and water, just to weaken him to make him more tractable for his taming. And at that moment, that was all he was, all he was worth.
Five hundred chits.
He looked away. He knew she was there. He could feel her, looking at him through the rain. He did not want to look at her. He hated her, he hated what she'd done to him. She betrayed him! She was why he was in this cage, so hungry that his body was consuming his own muscles for energy to keep his heart going, so hungry his ribs stuck out like bare branches. If it wouldn't bring him punishment, he would curse her at the top of his lungs, but he was too afraid of being punished to dare.
She seemed unmoved. He felt her out there, staring at him, and then she was gone.
He looked to where he knew she had been, confused. Why did she appear? Why did she leave? Was she sending him a message, or just reminding him that she was there, that he had to please her to regain his humanity?
He didn't know. And in a way, he didn't care.
He went back to drinking, licking at the bars, taking in the precious moisture, feeling it reinvigorate atrophied, dehydrated muscles, reawaken parts of his body that had all but shut down from lack of water. The rain renewed him. The rain had saved him, for he didn't know if he would have survived to see the morning. Shaking arms held him up as he licked at the metal bars, tasting them, but also tasting the wonderful sweetness of water.
Nothing had ever tasted so good.
Sunrise.
The smell of the breakfast cooking for the fieldhands tore at his belly, but he could tolerate it, for he had drank his fill, drank until his belly was filled with water, even as his system absorbed it. The water flushed his system quickly, so quickly that he was able to urinate for the first time over a day, expelling a dark yellow urine through the bars of the cage that burned painfully, but also helped him a great deal by clearing out what his body had been stockpiling and had been unable to discharge. He felt much better after drinking and urinating, so much so that he actually licked at his fur like an animal as he lay on his side in the cage, licking the dampness out of his forearm, for more water went onto his tongue than was left by it with each stroke.
He was still weak, almost debilitating weak. He could barely hold himself up in a sitting position, his hands shaking like he had the palsy, but it felt good to know he could sit up if he wanted. Thanks to the rain, he had survived the night, if only just, and though he felt much better, he knew that he wouldn't even be able to support his own weight. He was too weak to sit up without shaking like a leaf, so he just stayed down, resting, conserving what little strength he had.
"See, dear, he's moving just fine," he heard the older man say distantly, probably from the porch. "Licking water from the storm out of his fur, it seems. I suppose I should hold back his meal until sunset for that."
"Arthur, quit tormenting that poor thing!" the matron answered, very sternly. "How long has it been in that cage?"
"Oh, five days now, I suppose."
"And you haven't fed or watered it once!"
"It's part of the taming process, dear."
"Yes, and I talked to the kennel. They didn't feed it either! And who knows how long it went without food in the cage of the hunters that caught it! Did you ever think of that when you started taming it?"
"He was quite strong and healthy when I got him, dear. I know my Arcans, I know how far I can push one before it's permanently damaged. They're actually very resilient animals."
"I think you've tamed it enough! Now feed that poor animal, or so help me, I'll take the five hundred chits you spent on it out of your brandy money!"
"Oh, stop being so melodramatic, dear."
"Me? Am I the one that keeps talking about all the money we'll earn when we sell it at Alamar? For someone so excited about this investment, you seem awfully indifferent about whether our investment lives to see the sunset! Now feed it!"
Kyven almost felt smug. He'd been willing to beg to be fed, but it seemed that the man's angry wife was pulling rank on him. Perhaps his cruelty to Kyven was just so he could feel better about the fact that he wasn't the one that really ran the house.
He had his back to the cage door, and he was too weak to look when he heard it open. But the smell of food that was very close to him urged him to action, as his stomach howled at him to find the source of that smell, to satisfy a sudden ravenous hunger.
It was scraps. Meat, potatoes, corn, a thick bone, all on a wooden platter, inviting him to end his forced fast and know something other than hunger.
On shaking, palsied hands, he rolled over, crawling on unsteady limbs, his mouth hanging open as he kept his eyes on that gorgeous bounty. Every rod moved across the cage was an eternity as he neared his goal, until it was within his reach. His shaking hand reached out and grabbed the edge of the platter–
And the world exploded into pain.
Kyven's body jerked, sending food flying all over the cage as the hand holding the platter cramped, and he writhed on the floor of the cage, writhing in his own food, stars exploding behind his eyes as his breath locked in his throat, and he felt like he was smothering. The pain came in wave after wave after wave, far beyond his endurance, far beyond when he would have done anything to beg to make it stop.
It was just too much. He was too weak. He gurgled incoherently, his eyes rolling back into his head, and he passed out.
"Arthur!" the woman screamed in shock and anger, storming down from the porch. "Have you lost your mind? What in the Trinity are you doing?"
"I told him he had to beg for it," he said simply, putting away his control for the collar. "And he will not eat a bite until he does."
Her eyes flashed with cold fury. "This silly need to torment that poor animal has gone much too far!"
"I know what I'm doing, Annette."
"Do you?" she asked coldly, pointing. He followed her finger, to the porch, where his daughters looked on in only what could be called growing horror. They had never seen their father treat an Arcan like that before, and they were horrified by it. Varra, the third of his four girls, burst into tears and fled into the house.
He looked honestly chagrined. "Well, they need to learn the proper way to handle Arcans, dear, but perhaps I did overestimate the fox's health. I didn't expect him to faint. Maybe he was weaker than I believed."
"Clearly," she said through clenched teeth. "Misty, fetch the vet immediately!" she shouted to the raccoon maid who was serving breakfast to the children. "If he dies, husband, you are in for five thousand chits worth of brandy and cigars!"
He winced. "Let's not get hasty, dear. I'm sure he's fine, the collars don't do any physical harm."
"Does that look like he wasn't physically harmed?" she asked hotly, pointing at the thin rivulet of blood oozing from his mouth, seeping across the wooden planks.
"Must have bitten his tongue," the man noted absently. "I think the vet might be a good idea after all. Annette!" he protested when she yanked the golden chain from his white waistcoat, taking both his watch and his collar control.
"You will not tame this animal any longer, husband," she told him icily. "That was absolutely outrageous behavior! You have starved that poor thing for six days, and then you punish it without any warning after putting food in its cage? What did you expect it to do? What would you do if someone starved you for days and then dropped food at your feet, ask for permission to eat it? At this rate, the poor thing will be dead by sunset! The more I see of your behavior, the more I think you are the animal between the two of you!" She stormed off. "Misty! Misty! Get the vet here immediately, it's bleeding!"
Arthur Ledwell gave his wife a startled look, honestly shocked at her quite adamant reaction. She'd never shown any kind of opinion towards Arcans before. Was she upset over the Arcan, or upset over the money? She didn't complain about the last Arcan he'd tamed, or the one before that, and he hadn't treated those any differently than this one outside of the fact that the other two had not held out as long as this one, had begged for their food within three days of being caged. This one had never begged, and he was not about to show weakness by giving in after setting the terms by which the Arcan would be fed. That just invited a wild Arcan to misbehave.
This one was just stubborn.
But he had pushed it too far. He had invested way too much money in him to be quite so careless. Perhaps he could tame it if he wasn't so mindful of its value, but he did have to be much more careful from here out. That Arcan was worth a fortune, and he couldn't let the Arcan's own stubborn nature kill it.
He would tame that fox, but he needed to use a slightly gentler hand, if only to protect his investment.