The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Riders

Part One

This is Part One of a two-part story.

The aches and bruises told Acanthus that she was alive. As she fully regained consciousness, she felt the sunshine on her head and the weight of her soaked clothing. It was morning and she guessed that she had lain here throughout the night. It had been two hours before sunset when the storm had struck, turning the sky to black and lashing the small boat that Acanthus had been travelling on. Maybe an hour had passed, maybe more, until the bore had erupted down the River Terz sweeping the vessel from the flow and spinning it out over the flooded grasslands. Laid low with nausea, Acanthus had clung to the wall of the cabin, looking out through the porthole whenever she dare, though the view had made her feel even more helpless.

Acanthus coughed and lifted her head clear of the ground, aware of dried mud cracking from her face. She rolled on to her back and looked up at the sky which was now blue and sun filled. Slowly, painfully, she sat up and surveyed what was around her. There was no sight of the river and it looked peculiar to see the parts of the boat which were still recognisable, dumped here in the midst of grasslands. Only the drying mud which streaked the grass gave a clue that this area had been covered by floodwater. Acanthus stood, hoping she could find her large hat to protect her from the sun. In the distance, to the South, she could see some woodland; to the North were mountains. She had a feeling that they had been taken over the western bank of the Terz meaning she would now be at the extreme eastern end of the Plains of Voy, termed by some as the ‘Ocean of Grass’.

Acanthus assessed her clothes. The full skirt of her dress was torn as high as her knee. She was missing one sleeve from the top. Her boots were muddy and she could walk in them, even though they squelched with every step. She began to pick her way through the debris from the boat. She came across a part of the gunwale with its name, ‘Terz Duchess’, painted on it. Much of the wreckage around her was of unidentifiable broken pieces of wood and lumps of metal which presumably had held the boat together. She found a cap of the kind that had been worn by the small crew of the boat and though it was hardly ladylike she put it on to protect her head. She walked East; the direction where the Sun was still climbing slowly towards noon. Now she came across belongings from some of the dozen passengers that had been on the boat. She found a shawl that she thought had belonged to Lady Allesep and wrapped it around her naked arm. She found a cane that had been a possession of the lady’s husband and took it too, to help her manoeuvre across the increasingly uneven ground.

“There you are, at last.”

The voice jolted Acanthus away from proceeding carefully among all the rubbish. For a moment, recognising the tone as that of Cerelia de Marasantel, she wondered if she was hallucinating. Acanthus had been brought on this sight-seeing voyage as a companion to Cerelia. The Marasantels were a cadet branch of the Duchess of Herill’s family and, as such, their ancestors had been some of the founders of Jarator. As a result, their name supplied the name of a district in the city. Acanthus’s family, the Gureances were far from being as well connected. Her grandfather had been nothing more than a wealthy merchant who had profited, like the Marasantels, from the foundation of settlements on the eastern shores of the Latchader. For his work for the city and his clever marriage, on his retirement, he had been raised up into the minor nobility. While Acanthus had been born a noblewoman it had only been a matter of years since the entire family had been transformed. The recent arrival of the Gureances among the elite of Jarator was something Acanthus had been often reminded of. It was for this reason that her mother had battled so hard to have her selected to be Cerelia’s companion for this trip. As she walked through the wreckage towards the blonde-haired young woman, Acanthus wondered if ultimately it would prove that the other candidates had been fortunate in not winning out.

“Cerelia, I am sorry.” Acanthus said, hurrying now.

Acanthus knew that there was no point in making any excuses to Cerelia. The woman was incapable of seeing anyone else’s perspective. All that entered her mind were her own concerns with no recognition of the implications of them for those who had to assist her. Acanthus imagined these were characteristics of a true noblewoman though she had never been able to find the ability to mimic them. Whenever she asked for something from a servant Acanthus could perceive what effort that man or woman would have to put into providing it. Perhaps this trip was one of the clearest expressions of Cerelia’s narrow focus. The Terz Delta was renowned throughout the civilised lands for its beauty and the curiosity of its wildlife. It was common for people whether young or old; from Jarator, Julitor or even Kerans to travel to see it. However, this was insufficient for Cerelia and she had insisted on the organisation of a journey upstream to see Lake Owden. It was not an unknown visit, but tended to be restricted to those more hardy souls who had the patience to have horses drag their boat the necessary leagues upstream. Cerelia had hired a boat and then invited anyone of interest that she encountered to join her. This had meant that in time she had required a larger boat and more teams of horses. Maybe another woman would have waited until the season when storms were at their worst had passed and the year was cooling a little, but Cerelia had insisted on going when she chose.

Cerelia’s clothes, possibly because they were finer, were far more torn than Acanthus’s had been, but she had draped a man’s cloak around her. She had also secured a bottle of wine and even a glass from somewhere and was sipping her drink as if this was an afternoon’s picnic in the hills over Jarator rather than on a rise on the edge of the largely uncharted Plains of Voy.

“What took you so long?”

Acanthus wondered if Cerelia had been unconscious or had remained awake simply waiting for someone to come and attend to her.

“Erm, I was knocked out, I was half a league back there.” Acanthus muttered gesturing the way she had come.

“Well, that was no good. Why did you not remain closer to me when the ship broke up?”

Acanthus could not remember the boat breaking up, and she wondered now if her head ached from a serious blow rather than the sun.

“Is there anyone else around? Summon the steward or his assistant to help us; one of the other servants aboard if you cannot find them.”

Acanthus imagined that at least some of these people would be dead or if they had survived had returned to the river to try to find passage back to Terzover.

“And find my trunk. This dress is ruined, I will need something fresh. And some food. You have some cookery skills do you not? I am sure you will find some of that ham or otherwise kill one of the chickens.”

Acanthus tramped off, saying nothing. While her family might be only recently-made nobles, she was certainly a long way from being a peasant girl who could slaughter a chicken. She did have some cooking and sewing skills that had come from her grandmother. Her grandfather had also insisted that she learned to ride astride; he had no time for the side-saddle fashion, seeing it as unnecessarily risky especially if a horse took a fright. Though Acanthus was unable to find Cerelia’s trunk, she did pick up a sodden but pretty clean dress that she imagined had belonged to the daughter of the Wadrelns. What had happened to the woman herself, she could only guess. There were footprints, heading East that tallied with what she had imagined would have been the route taken by passengers and crew who had survived. She passed two corpses that someone had covered with remains of the boat to protect them from scavenging birds. She had no desire to find out who they had been.

Having found some skins of water and food that was damp rather than ruined, Acanthus began to walk back to Cerelia steeling herself already against the criticism she would face. She was pleased that the smashed boat had left such a trail as she could imagine easily becoming lost among the rolling hills and plains of this sea of grass. When she reached Cerelia she saw she was with their guide, Amarenold. He was a short and wiry man with long black hair the same shade as that which Acanthus had. His features were hard and Acanthus felt that he had the air of a hunting dog. His weathered skin and far-looking gaze simply added to that effect. He had some food and weapons with him and Acanthus was glad that if they were not going find anyone else alive from the wreck, at least they had him. He certainly appeared to be worth all that Cerelia had paid for him.

“There you are. You took ages.” Cerelia protested. “No, that isn’t one of my dresses; where’s the trunk?”

Embarking at Terzover, neither Cerelia nor Acanthus had been able to lift the trunk and had relied on porters at the dock and crewmen on board. How Cerelia now envisaged Acanthus dragging it herself back here, she had no idea. Setting down the dress next to Cerelia she stepped back, hoping that Amarenold had better directions for her.

However, Cerelia continued speaking. “Sir Amarenold has advised that rather than going back to the river, we head to the North, to the lake. There are some settlements there.”

Then Cerelia sprung to her feet and snatched up the dress. She stomped off behind part of the boat’s bow and began to change.

“Good: water, food.” Amarenold said, looking at what Acanthus still carried.

“So we go to the North?” Acanthus asked.

“Yes Lady Gureance. Are you injured?”

“No, not really. I think I was hit on the head, but not too badly.”

“Well, inform me Lady Gureance if you feel dizzy or nauseous; the effects may be delayed.”

“How far do we need to go?” Cerelia reappeared

“Ten leagues, perhaps twelve. I have not been this far South of the Lake for many years, bar on the river.” He nodded eastwards. “However, we do not know what flooding remains closer to the river; we do not want to become bogged down. This way is more certain. As a bonus, you will get to see the Plains of Voy at first hand.”

“I’d not be interested if you were going to take us to the Seven Seas of Rhye, I just need to be back in some civilised settlement, even if it is a backwater.” Cerelia stated as she reappeared; finished she began to march ahead heading northwards.

However much safer this route was, Acanthus could only imagine how quickly Cerelia would begin to whine about having to walk that far. She habitually took a sedan chair around Jarator. Fortunately she had decent boots on, but Acanthus could easily imagine her slumping down after half-a-league’s walk demanding that Amarenold carry her no matter how ridiculous it would appear. Acanthus could see Cerelia looking around as she walked as if she still hoped that one of the crew would appear from somewhere to make her journey easier. As they walked on, Acanthus amused herself thinking what a bedraggled group they must appear. They had been walking for perhaps half-an-hour before Cerelia began to complain. Acanthus imagined the delay had been caused in part by the young woman finishing off the wine and so, perhaps, dulling her senses a little to what was happening.

Amarenold presumably was experienced at shutting out the moaning of spoilt sight-seers and Acanthus had long been skilled ignoring it coming from Cerelia. Amarenold walked confidently, clearly unperturbed, now leading the way. When he stopped abruptly, Cerelia, focused on her feet, almost walked right into him.

“Why have we stopped?” Cerelia demanded.

“There’ll soon be no reason to keep walking.”

“Why? Has someone come to rescue us? Is there another flood?”

Cerelia’s expression flicked between different states as she scanned the horizon to the North, but Amarenold raised his arm and pointed West. The two women turned to look where he indicated. At first Acanthus could only make out dust rising from the top of a ridge but then she saw the figures of possibly ten riders coming towards them. It seemed likely that she was going to encounter some of the renowned horsemen of Voy. Some served as cavalrymen around Jarator and could be seen in the city. However, those examples were dressed like the other soldiers of their units and presumably complied with the laws of the city. These were the untamed horsemen of legends that attributed them with a mix of nobility and cruelty. As they approached, she prayed that these particular men would display the former characteristic.

For once Cerelia stood without speaking and Acanthus imagined she was making similar judgements. This development could mean her being ridden back to the river with just some mild discomfort or her facing rape or murder. While Cerelia made a great deal of her shapely body and long blonde hair, rather coldly Acanthus now wondered whether they would mean Cerelia was more appealing to potential abductors than her own heavier form and black hair. With ten riders, if so intentioned, she imagined that even Amarenold might be at risk. Acanthus wondered what she could have done to have done in her life to have deserved to end up in this situation and whether she was paying the debt for the success that her grandfather and father had enjoyed.

The men were soon around them and Acanthus was assailed by the smell of ten horses and the men that rode them. They were long and slender, looking over-sized for the horses they rode. Both riders and their mounts appeared bred for speed and endurance rather than the heavy-blow combat that was more familiar in the civilised lands. The men’s skins were weathered and tanned by the sun. Their hair was as long as a woman’s would be in Jarator but they were all bearded. Their clothes were leather; no doubt good protection against the weather. However, in this season they were only partially clad and their bare arms showed off large tattoos of geometric shapes. There was certainly something raw about these men but surprisingly Acanthus found they were handsome and had a natural allure around them which meant that curiosity overcame fear. The horseman, armed with a spear, who was apparently the leader, now spoke in a guttural language that Acanthus was glad that Amarenold was able to respond to immediately. Then there was gesturing back the way the men had ridden.

Acanthus looked around the other men some sitting listening to the conversation, others riding their horses back and forth slowly or guiding their heads down to graze. Almost all looked at her and Cerelia whether directly or slyly but Acanthus did not feel hostility or even lust from them. Perhaps these men were no more than a patrol more concerned about protecting what they saw as the borders of their territory from intruders rather than ravaging strange women they found there. Acanthus wondered if she would get to see how these men lived. What were their women like? Did they dress similarly; were they rough and uncultured?

“We are their prisoners. We are going to their encampment. I think they will keep you two.” Amarenold explained quickly.

“For ransom?” Cerelia asked.

“Perhaps. I must warn you now that there is a good chance that you will be enslaved. You will become servants to one of the families. This is their way. It relieves their own women of the work, especially those of the leading families.”

Cerelia burst into sobbing and as they moved off, hemmed in by the horsemen, Acanthus almost had to drag her companion along with them to stop her simply slumping down to the ground. While she did not say it, she feared that such an action would lead the men to abandon Cerelia here to fend without food or water. Cerelia said nothing coherent as they walked. It was less than a league before they came among herds of goats, cattle and horses, even some long-legged sheep, tended by boys and old men who clearly were part of the horsemen’s tribe. Then, cresting a ridge, they saw laid out before them a town of tents. Acanthus had no idea how many, perhaps forty or fifty. Their leather was decorated with patterns resembling the men’s tattoos and Acanthus imagined that they all signified different families, perhaps also the status of them relative to each other. They were taken to the centre of the encampment where the largest tent stood. Close by was another in a pavilion shape and of a whitish glittering cloth. Acanthus wondered if this housed the chief or perhaps his wives; maybe it was home to some priest or indeed a temple itself.

As she looked between the tents she saw that the women did resemble the men. They wore very similar leather clothes, though with chestplates tailored to accommodate their full breasts. Their hair was long and black and braided in complex styles. It held all manner of beads, stones and silver bands. The women too were tattooed about the upper body, though some had their shoulders concealed beneath sheepskin wraps or leather waistcoats. Many stopped to stare at the newcomers. Most of the horsemen had peeled off on the edge of the encampment, probably, Acanthus imagined, to go back on their patrol. Three, including the spear-carrying leader accompanied the survivors of the boatwreck. It was apparent they were being taken before the leader of this tribe.

The tent they were led into was as large as the state room of one of the leading noble houses of Jarator. It was floored with carpet and even that muddied by those entering would have fetched a fair price in any city. Braziers burning sweet smelling herbs rimmed the room. Aside from the man in his fifties sat in a large chair at the end of the tent, everyone else, men and women, perhaps relatives or advisors to this man, sat on leather or textile cushions arcing out from the chair. A couple of armed men stood at the entrance to the tent but Acanthus imagined they were as much ceremonial as defensive. This tribe clearly did not feel under threat. Acanthus found that she liked the unashamed distinctiveness of these people. There seemed to be no effort, no desire even, to mimic the styles of the cities.

“The people of the buildings we found.” The leader that had brought them said; though his words were accented, it was clearly said in the Mosairan language that Acanthus spoke.

Now she looked at the chieftain she could see similarities between him and the leader of the patrol; the pattern of their tattoos, large swirls, matched too. Were they father and son? It seemed possible. Furtively she glanced at the younger man. She had always dreamed of marrying an accomplished man of at least the lower nobility if not the middle ranks. That had been one reason for acting as Cerelia’s companion. She had envisaged her future husband as knowledgeable about the ways of elite society, adept at dancing and music, able to recite and to sustain an engaging conversation. Yes, he would be able to defend himself and her but with weapons far more refined that anything carried in this encampment.

Despite all these requirements, Acanthus could not suppress the lust she found for the man presenting her to the chieftain. Maybe it was simply that he was exotic. Perhaps it was that there was more of his body on show than with men she typically encountered. Acanthus pondered if it went beyond that and it was something connected to his size, his clear strength, the natural appearance of him, perhaps simply that he appeared to contain an unadulterated manly essence. She imagined what it might feel like to run her hands over his painted skin, so sleek across his muscles but marked in many places with nicks and scars. She envisaged him recounting how he had come by each.

The man stepped back and Acanthus realised she had allowed her focus to slip from what was happening around her. Maybe tiredness or her injuries were causing this. Amarenold was speaking animatedly with the chieftain in Voyar and Acanthus wished she had an idea of what was being decided. She guessed that her entire future may be decided by the discussions now taking place. There were points raised by the chieftain and a few by men seated close to him. A woman of his age gestured at Cerelia and, given her tattoos, Acanthus thought she might be the chieftain’s wife, contributing her own views on these two young women from the East. Then the discussion stopped and Amarenold came over to his charges.

“What have they decided?” Cerelia snapped. “Why cannot they converse with you in a decent language?”

“It is their encampment.” Amarenold observed drily.

“What have they decided?” Acanthus pressed but in a less challenging tone.

“I am to be given food and water and allowed to continue my journey to Lake Owden.”

“To raise ransom?” Cerelia asked sharply.

“Naturally I will do that. However, Chief Galaren is not seeking ransom. If he would it would be in the form of good steppe horses not currency, I am sure. However, I will send word to Jarator and will see what can be done.”

“So what will happen to us? Death?”

“No, this is a prosperous tribe, as you can see from the tents and the livestock. No, they will keep you. They always have use for young, healthy women.”

“As slaves; as playthings?” Cerelia shuddered.

“They will find a purpose for you.” Amarenold was evasive. “Galaren is a man of nobility, he has daughters and this is not a time of war. However, they are likely to put you to work as they cannot sustain mouths that do not contribute, certainly not ones of outsiders who have not given long service to the tribe.”

“Servant? Do they know who I am? You cannot have explained it properly.”

“No, they know all your lineage and the wealth of your families as they are known to me, but as I have said, even coin does not represent a great deal to them. The hierarchy of the noble families of Jarator has as much relevance to them as the habits of a herd of goats might have to you, perhaps less.”

“I am disappointed in you, guide. You have failed in your duty. When I return to Jarator you can be assured that your reputation will be utterly blackened.”

Acanthus felt this was foolish even for Cerelia: to disparage the only person who held a link to their previous lives and their families.

“She is distraught Mr. Amarenold, please forgive her.” Acanthus desperately intervened.

Amarenold made a dismissive gesture. “I have guided too many of her kind not to know how little she comprehends these things. I have too much pride in my reputation not to have done my best even if she cannot see that.”

“Don’t speak about me as if I was not here.” Cerelia jibed irritably.

“Thank you Mr. Amarenold.” Acanthus said rapidly to his back as he moved briskly away without a further word.

Acanthus counted herself lucky that rape or murder no longer appeared to be her immediate fate. With Amarenold gone, the leader who had found them came over. He was accompanied by two women.

“My sisters will carry … will lead you to the place, to the tent, where you will … be to stay.” The man addressed Acanthus.

His gaze connected with Acanthus’s own and she found it difficult to look away. When he finally dropped his eyes she found hers viewing his muscles and the tight leathers he wore with an interest which surprised, perhaps even startled her.

“Thank you.” Acanthus stuttered. “I am Acanthus.”

“Name of beauty.” The man smiled warmly. “I am Hastaran.”

The chieftain said something and Hastaran turned away to answer him. His sisters then gestured to Cerelia and Acanthus to move off. With one in front of the pair and one behind they were guided a short way to a smaller tent. It was less ostentatious than the chieftain’s tent but had a carpeted floor and plain cushions, most of leather but some of reasonably fine cloth. There was a ewer on a stand and some fruits in a copper bowl. Cerelia gathered some of the cushions together and dropped herself on them like an annoyed child. Acanthus brought a beaker of the water and some of the fruits to Cerelia but she ignored them.

“Prisoners.” Cerelia said at length.

“Better than corpses.” Acanthus responded aware how pleased she was that her future had seemed to improve at least a little.

“Typical statement: morbid, morbid, morbid. You lack the imagination both for an astute assessment of the situation and to provide the kind of conversation I require.”

“I am sorry Cerelia.”

“Well, at last, you have apologised. Do you now see that your failure to find food and clothing fast enough at the wreckage, let alone secure some of the crew to assist us has led us into this dire position? You see it: do you? You must; you’re not that much of a dullard.”

Acanthus’s mind wrestled with the right thing to say to calm her companion. However, the two women’s focus on each other was broken by an abrupt clap and they looked up to see that another horsewoman had entered the tent. The woman was perhaps the same age as themselves. She had clothes over one arm and leather items, perhaps clothing too, over the other. Acanthus looked at this horsewoman, curious to see one close up. Her skin was weathered but had a vigour about it missing from the women Acanthus knew. Her hair was long and black, the same as all the tribe Acanthus had seen bar a few elder members whose hair had greyed. It was braided in a complex pattern and threaded through small bands, rings of silver and beads perhaps of glass or stones of some value. Talon-like dark metal earrings emerged from her ears and a gem was pierced into the side of her nose. Her arms were bare showing that she had been tattooed in the dark blue; her patterns were like tendrils and appeared to carry on up her neck and emerged around her ears.

The woman’s clothes were leather. She wore a breastplate, its leather scored to match the patterns on her skin. Rather than skirt she had leggings, tight to her and padded up the thighs. Her boots were long, rising above her knee. They had a block heel, though Acanthus realised this was for practicality, to keep the boot in place on the stirrup in inclement weather. There were bracers and gloves on her hands making appear overall like a female artisan. Acanthus imagined that should be no surprise, presumably this woman worked horses or cattle, perhaps she even hunted. A long bladed knife was sheathed at her hip, attached to a broad leather belt, studded with silver. Acanthus wished they had been able to save some silver coins from the wreck; here they perhaps would have bought their freedom.

“I am Jannara. I have been sent to work with you; so that you can live in this tribe.”

“Ah, a lady’s maid. I wondered how long it would take them to sort that out.” Cerelia stood up looking over Jannara but with a clear air of disdain.

“A maid? No I think you misunderstand, madame. I am a speaker of tongues. I travelled over the river with my father when I was a girl, trading horses and cattle, so I speak your language. Through me you can receive the commands of the Chief.”

“Commands?”

“We are prisoners Cerelia, what else do you expect?” Once more Acanthus intervened to calm the situation.

Cerelia huffed. “Yes, as soon as my brother brings the ransom, though, I will be leaving here. Cannot this chieftain take me to Terzover on trust? Surely the word of a lady is counted even out here.”

“No, we will be heading to Halcrow.”

“Why there?” Cerelia asked as if it was an idiot’s decision.

In turn Jannara grinned as if it was a foolish question. “It is the season.”

“The season for what?”

“Going to Halcrow, I imagine.” Acanthus said rather concerned that her friend’s questions might lose them the shreds of hospitality they were being afforded.

“That is most unsatisfactory.”

Cerelia wandered over to the items that Jannara had brought in. She picked up what was clearly a fine dress. It was loose and the material was sheer, though with silk strips stitched in places to maintain some modesty. Acanthus knew it would appeal to Cerelia but was concerned how warm it would be.

“These are clothes for you. You must change from those torn things.”

Acanthus wondered if this was something to ensure they did not try to escape. She could hardly imagine walking even a league in the silk ankle-length boots Cerelia was looking at now; the scarlet shade would make them easy to spot at a distance too.

“I suppose they will do.”

Acanthus held back while Cerelia sifted through the silks, pulling out the dress and underskirt. There was even jewellery with the clothing. This seemed a little odd to give to a prisoner, but perhaps, as Cerelia argued, they had actually finally appreciated her standing. By the time she was finished and had taken the fine clothes to the far side of the tent, Acanthus saw that she was left with the leather items and was uneasy at changing into these. She imagined that they resembled what Jannara was wearing and that meant they were utterly alien to Acanthus. Like all women of Jarator, in fact almost all women of the civilised world, she wore skirts not trousers and the only women who wore long boots were sex-slaves. However, she guessed such clothing was practical out here where it was said that children were born in the saddle.

“I will assist you.” Jannara said to Acanthus.

“No, if you are to assist anyone, it is me. I am the lady of standing.”

“One, I am sure is familiar with such clothes. These are different to what Kaelen is to wear.”

“Kaelen, who is Kaelen?”

“This is Kaelen,” she indicated Acanthus, “and you are Zuza.”

Cerelia laughed. “Well, they are strange terms for our ranks. Can you not say ‘Lady Cerelia’? Is it so hard even for you who speak our language?”

“I think you misunderstand, those are names …”

“No, girl, I think you misunderstand. I am a lady: that is recognised wherever the sun shines. You will do well to remember it. Now, girl, help me dress.”

“I am no girl, as you can tell from the tattoos. I am no maiden even, but married, as you will see from the gem here,” she patted the side of her nose, “given to me by my husband.”

“Barbarian markings are of no interest to me.”

Acanthus was alarmed that Cerelia could not see the danger she was putting herself into. There was no certainty that, angered, Jannara would not simply stab her and say she had been trying to flee.

“Cerelia: the one you call Zuza, she needs more assistance than me. Can you help her and, if I am struggling, come back to me.” Acanthus intervened smiling at Jannara and hoping she could win her over.

Acanthus spoke now to her companion, trying to get things into terms she understood. “She is a lady-in-waiting of this place, Cerelia, and like many ladies has family who may take offence if she is not properly treated. You know they have ranks here.”

“I see.” Cerelia responded as if at last she was willing to concede a little to the circumstances.

Jannara gave a curt nod to Acanthus and went over to Cerelia who stood passively clearly waiting to be dressed. Acanthus turned to the leather clothes a little curious to see how she would look in them. If she ever returned to Jarator, she would certainly have stories to tell of her adventures. To distract her for now from the concern that she would live out her days here as a servant or a slave, Acanthus focused on how she would describe what she had seen. Her family might not be able to raise the ransom that Cerelia’s could, but she felt they might secure sufficient good horses to make this tribe happy.

As she had suspected, the clothes were the same as those which Jannara wore. They were a dark tan shade of leather that had been oiled on the outside and lined with the softest wool on the interior. She laid them out, quickly distinguishing the leggings from the breastplate. There were hose in the boots and she was glad for this padding as she had worried it would all chafe. She shed her torn dress and unbound her breasts. She pulled the breastplate around her, enjoying the feel of the lambswool as her breasts fitted into the leather cups that held them firmly, no doubt to spare them bruising on the road. There were leather thong laces down the left side and she quickly laced these closed. Then she turned to the leggings. She lowered her underskirt, something Cerelia had seen her do before but she was self-conscious of being watched by Jannara. She shot a glance over at the other two only to witness them squabbling over getting Cerelia’s head into her new dress.

Acanthus pulled up the leggings, they were tight to her body but the leather was soft and formed to her quickly. She laced them into place at the front and at her bum; mischievously she giggled as her pussy was tickled by the soft wool. Certainly these were more comfortable than she would have anticipated. She took the plain broad leather belt and wrapped it around her waist, closing it with a simple clasp at the front. Now she sat down on the edge of paillasse and removed her boots and the hose beneath. Whilst she was sure they were both tough enough to suffice, she was excited to try on the horsewoman’s boots. Her leather clad legs slid easily into them and she pulled them up beyond the knee; lacing the closed at the rear. The leather was soft enough to bend to her walk but tough enough in the right places to protect her on a long ride. Acanthus felt a little excited in these clothes, imagining herself being mistaken for a horsewoman; her hair would help that being as raven black as the women she had seen at the encampment. In contrast, Cerelia’s blonde locks would stand out.

“Where has the woman of buildings gone?” Jannara asked as she came across to Acanthus, smiling to show it was not a criticism. “I thought you’d be the tougher to get dressed, but I see Galaren’s imagination was right.”

Jannara reached down for the sheepskin shawl that Acanthus had overlooked. She draped it over Acanthus’s shoulders and fixed it in place with its plain broach at the front.

“Here, these are your reward, Kaelen, for doing so well.” From her belt Jannara pulled a pair of bracers.

Acanthus knew not to refuse them and took them and laced them to her forearms. The aroma of leather was a little overpowering, but she guessed that as with everything else here, in time she would become accustomed to it.

“Have I disappeared into thin air? Have I been made invisible by a spell of a shaman of this place?” Cerelia demanded.

Acanthus looked over at her companion who was now dressed in red silk, stitched with patterns that resembled tattoos she had seen on the tribe members. She was in a dress with a tight fitting body and buttoned closed sleeves; a long but slender skirt, with a long slit also buttoned closed. She had on the silk boots that were raised from the floor by wooden heels and platform soles. Large bangles were on her wrist and resting over her boots at her ankle. A thin metal chain acted as a belt, pulling the dress tight against her. The outfit certainly differed from what a lady in Jarator let alone Kerans would wear. However, there was a beauty about it that made Acanthus think of a princess of some exotic court at the top of the world. Maybe the social distance between her and Cerelia had just widened further.

As she crossed to her friend with the sound of the leather creaking with every step, Acanthus realised she was not unhappy with the clothes she had been given. Yes they were unfeminine but there was something about being held tightly by this leather that made her feel armoured and somehow strengthened. It was as if she was now better equipped to face what the world may throw at her even if it was as a skivvy in the tribe’s caravan. Certainly she could envisage crossing the steppes dressed like this, though she wondered to what extent even these clothes could protect her from the soreness of sitting hours in a saddle. A fantasy of running away from here and finding some other tribe and pretending she was one of them, flickered through Acanthus’s mind but her rationality told her she would be detected very quickly. She might have a set of the clothes but there remained many things that made her stand out from the women here still, let alone the skills she imagined she lacked.

“So she is now my servant?” Cerelia asked Jannara gesturing to Acanthus.

Clearly this was a joke to the horsewoman and she laughed deeply.

“You know so little of our society. No, she is not your servant, nor you hers. You will have your roles assigned soon enough.”

“When?” Cerelia pressed.

“When the greater moon is full.” Jannara responded.

“Well, people had better begin acknowledge my status sooner than that.”

Jannara laughed again. “You are an impatient one. Have no worries, I’ll taking Kaelen with me and women of the gilded tent will come to tend to you.”

“Good, as it should be.”

Cerelia plonked herself down on to a cushion as if not having her companion reduced to being her servant had been somewhat compensated by having these others to serve her. Cerelia seemed ignorant of the phases of the moons, but Acanthus knew that the greater moon would be full within the next ten nights.

“Kaelen, I will arrange for the artists who will tattoo you.” Jannara said as if this was something to look forward to.

“Yes.” Acanthus said, at a loss what to add.

“You should say ‘yes’, that is the word in Voyar.”

“Yes.” Acanthus repeated in Jannara’s language.

This clearly pleased Jannara further.

“Good. Our Chief is a fine judge of character.”

In moments Jannara was leaving the tent and Acanthus went to sit on one of the cushions. She wondered how long it would be before Jannara returned. Acanthus was at least pleased to be out of her shredded dress and the other odd items she had clothed herself in. However, she did wonder what the different outfits they wore signified. Beyond that she was very nervous about what Jannara had said about her being tattooed. Whilst to the horsewoman it might seem something of interest, perhaps even of beauty, if she ever returned to Jarator tattooed, Acanthus knew she would be treated as an outcast, perhaps even as a curiosity to be displayed.

“It seems clear to me, Acanthus, that they have different plans for you and me.” Cerelia had clearly been having similar thoughts.

“Yes, Cerelia. These fine silks they’ve given you certainly are of higher quality than these leathers.” Acanthus observed drily.

It seemed to her that even here in such an alien place as Voy, the distinction between them was not forgotten.

“The tattoos, they clearly are possession marks. I think they’re afraid you’ll flee and those will show which tribe you belong to. I imagine they’ll collar you too.”

Self-consciously, Acanthus pulled her sheepskin tighter to her bare shoulders as if to protect herself. For a brief time she had come to see these clothes as beautiful but now was concerned at what they designated. She guessed she had been a fool to expect anything different from what Cerelia was saying was the case.

“As a slave?” Acanthus had to ask.

Cerelia closed her eyes but nodded slowly. “It is such a shame that you are the one who was chosen as my companion.” Cerelia continued now with a clearly pitying voice.

Since she had awoken amongst the wreckage, Acanthus had been having similar thoughts, wishing she had lost out to one of her rivals this time round.

“Those others, Jocasta, Eleanor, Illona, all of them have a natural grace that would have resulted in them being treated like me. With you, well, they have selected you for some lesser role and so I am going to be left alone here with no-one to console me, not even someone who can speak a civilised language properly. I should have realised that you would prove to be a disappointment, but your mother with her deceiving ways clearly proved adept at tricking mine.” The Cerelia chuckled. “I suppose I should be pleased that her scheming has come to naught and that rather than associating with noblewomen any longer her daughter will be a slave to savages and not a valuable one at that.”

Acanthus found herself feeling sorry for Cerelia and had to work hard to remind herself that she was not to blame for them being wrecked. In fact, if they had set off sooner on a smaller boat or waited until this season had passed they both could have been spared this fate. Though she would not admit it, Acanthus was apprehensive herself about being alone in this tribe, especially as servants were treated more poorly than those women who had the status Cerelia had been assigned, even if they were prisoners. The one ray of hope was that Jannara had appeared friendly and Acanthus hoped she would be assigned to work somewhere where she might run into her again.

The two women were brought food by a girl dressed like Jannara and Acanthus noted that she carried similar tattoos but had no gem in her nose. Acanthus went to her and helped her in with the large bowl of stew and the smaller bowls and spoons.

“Are you Jannara’s sister?” Acanthus asked.

The woman said something in Voyar that featured ‘Jannara’ but Acanthus was uncertain if it was a confirmation or not. Apparently seeing Acanthus’s confusion, she looked at her and spoke slowly in Mosairan.

“I am Janelsa. Sister from Jannara.”

Acanthus thought to mimic it, she pointed at herself.

“I am Acanthus.”

Janelsa laughed. “No, you Kaelen.”

“Yes,” Acanthus responded, pleased she had learnt that Voyar word already, “I am Kaelen.” She laboured.

“Good that you are picking up the language.” Cerelia said rather sourly, “All the better to understand what is required of you.”

Janelsa then gave something like a lecture to Cerelia that neither of the women from Jarator could understand. Cerelia looked a little taken aback by the sudden haranguing, but regained her composure as the girl turned and left with an air of indignation.

“There, you see: if you have the proper authority, these savages will respond eventually. Serve me some of the food, though I doubt it will be edible.”

Wondering if this was indeed going to be her fate, Acanthus complied with Cerelia’s direction. While Cerelia turned her nose up at it, it was clear she was too hungry to reject the food entirely. Acanthus found it tasty and wondered what herbs had been used. She guessed she would have time enough to learn all about the food of Voy.