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Book: The Commander: A Sacrificed Short Story (The Last Oracle) by Emily Wibberley
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Authors: Emily Wibberley
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badly.
Tenderly, he took her foot in his hands so he could find the source of the blood fever. There, just above her ankle, was the danger. A deep gash split her skin. Dried blood and filth caked the ragged edges. He’d seen injuries like this before—had almost died of one himself. He rubbed the ruined and scarred skin of his neck as he gazed down at the girl. He could heal this—heal her—but should he? He knew the answer, but he knelt over her anyway.
With one arm under her knees and the other just under her shoulders, he lifted her, bringing her close to his chest as he walked through the hallways deeper into the bowels of the pyramid.
Her head fell against him, and Riece couldn’t help but look down on her slumbering form. She fit so well against his chest. Her skin, beneath all the dirt, was dark and smooth. Noble ladies would have envied her for her beauty. But she wasn’t noble, Riece knew that.
She was a slave. When he had first seen her in the lineup, he thought her a pleasure slave. But surely, no master would sell a beauty such as she. And she had managed to slip out of Tenoch’s grasp. She had been fast, much faster than a girl who had been dragged across the hollow lands should have been.
And when she had spit in his face, he had understood why her master would have wanted to sell her. She was rebellious, spirited. Qualities that did not sit well in a slave. When she kicked Riece, he felt her unusual strength, and he didn’t know if he should be impressed or scared. He’d never come across a slave such as her—never come across a girl such as her either.
He reached the infirmary and gently laid her down on a feathered mat.
She mumbled something in her sleep, sending a wave of relief coursing through Riece’s body. She would be all right.
Until she was sacrificed.
He pushed the thought from his mind and knelt down to try to catch the words slipping from her lips.
“Derik…” she breathed. Her eyelids squeezed shut, as if she were fighting off a stab of pain.
Derik . Curious. Perhaps the girl had a boy in her life. Someone to miss her.
Riece moved a small pot over the hearth and lit a fire beneath it. He couldn’t help but imagine who the girl was, where she came from, where she learned to fight. It was such a waste to give her life to the Deities, but there was no questioning the Emperor on this.
Derik.
Why had this boy let her get away from him? How could he let her be sold as an offering? Something churned in Riece’s gut, and it took him a moment to recognize the feeling. Jealousy. But that was foolish. He could not be jealous of this boy he didn’t even know, on behalf of a girl he didn’t know—a girl he could never know.
He soaked a piece of torn cloth in the hot water and looked down at his reflection. His sister Tirza was right—he did look worn. Too many sacrifices this moon. He had stayed up all last night guarding the cell of the last daughter of the Oracle of Sheehan, forced to listen to her cries. Tenoch was in a particularly foul disposition over it. He had thought that surely Riece wouldn’t deny the men when it came to a blasphemer and a traitor. Riece had harbored no kind feelings for the Oracle, but he couldn’t let the men even consider abusing any slave, no matter her crimes.
Bringing the dripping rag over to the sleeping girl, he began to clean and dress the wound. It would be futile. He knew that much. But if he could ease the pain of this girl—this fighter—in her final days, then he would.
He felt her wake beneath his hands. He wanted to ignore her, to treat her with the distance that was proper between guard and slave, but instead he found himself speaking to her.
“You know, for someone with such a severe infection, you really put up quite the fight.” He allowed himself a brief glance at her face, wanting to read her secrets through her eyes, but her expression was guarded. “I can’t say I approve of that move you pulled
Tenderly, he took her foot in his hands so he could find the source of the blood fever. There, just above her ankle, was the danger. A deep gash split her skin. Dried blood and filth caked the ragged edges. He’d seen injuries like this before—had almost died of one himself. He rubbed the ruined and scarred skin of his neck as he gazed down at the girl. He could heal this—heal her—but should he? He knew the answer, but he knelt over her anyway.
With one arm under her knees and the other just under her shoulders, he lifted her, bringing her close to his chest as he walked through the hallways deeper into the bowels of the pyramid.
Her head fell against him, and Riece couldn’t help but look down on her slumbering form. She fit so well against his chest. Her skin, beneath all the dirt, was dark and smooth. Noble ladies would have envied her for her beauty. But she wasn’t noble, Riece knew that.
She was a slave. When he had first seen her in the lineup, he thought her a pleasure slave. But surely, no master would sell a beauty such as she. And she had managed to slip out of Tenoch’s grasp. She had been fast, much faster than a girl who had been dragged across the hollow lands should have been.
And when she had spit in his face, he had understood why her master would have wanted to sell her. She was rebellious, spirited. Qualities that did not sit well in a slave. When she kicked Riece, he felt her unusual strength, and he didn’t know if he should be impressed or scared. He’d never come across a slave such as her—never come across a girl such as her either.
He reached the infirmary and gently laid her down on a feathered mat.
She mumbled something in her sleep, sending a wave of relief coursing through Riece’s body. She would be all right.
Until she was sacrificed.
He pushed the thought from his mind and knelt down to try to catch the words slipping from her lips.
“Derik…” she breathed. Her eyelids squeezed shut, as if she were fighting off a stab of pain.
Derik . Curious. Perhaps the girl had a boy in her life. Someone to miss her.
Riece moved a small pot over the hearth and lit a fire beneath it. He couldn’t help but imagine who the girl was, where she came from, where she learned to fight. It was such a waste to give her life to the Deities, but there was no questioning the Emperor on this.
Derik.
Why had this boy let her get away from him? How could he let her be sold as an offering? Something churned in Riece’s gut, and it took him a moment to recognize the feeling. Jealousy. But that was foolish. He could not be jealous of this boy he didn’t even know, on behalf of a girl he didn’t know—a girl he could never know.
He soaked a piece of torn cloth in the hot water and looked down at his reflection. His sister Tirza was right—he did look worn. Too many sacrifices this moon. He had stayed up all last night guarding the cell of the last daughter of the Oracle of Sheehan, forced to listen to her cries. Tenoch was in a particularly foul disposition over it. He had thought that surely Riece wouldn’t deny the men when it came to a blasphemer and a traitor. Riece had harbored no kind feelings for the Oracle, but he couldn’t let the men even consider abusing any slave, no matter her crimes.
Bringing the dripping rag over to the sleeping girl, he began to clean and dress the wound. It would be futile. He knew that much. But if he could ease the pain of this girl—this fighter—in her final days, then he would.
He felt her wake beneath his hands. He wanted to ignore her, to treat her with the distance that was proper between guard and slave, but instead he found himself speaking to her.
“You know, for someone with such a severe infection, you really put up quite the fight.” He allowed himself a brief glance at her face, wanting to read her secrets through her eyes, but her expression was guarded. “I can’t say I approve of that move you pulled
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