I saw the girls watching too, their eyes wide, too, with pleasure.
I threw back my head and the bells flashed at my ankles and wrists, and in my body the music, in its bright flames, burned.
I would make them mad with the wanting of me!
I would do so.
Something deep and female within me emerged, something I had never felt before. I would torture them! I did have power. I would make them suffer!
I was white silk!
It was safe to dance before them as I pleased.
And so Elinor Brinton danced to torment them.
They cried out with anguish and pleasure. How pleased I was in my power! As the music changed so, too, did the dancer, and she became as one with the music, a frightened girl, new to the collar, a timid girl, delicate and submissive, a lonely slave, yearning for her master, a drunken wench, rejecting her slavery, a proud girl, determined to be defiant, a raw, red-silk slave, mad with the need for a master's touch.
And, too, as I danced, I would sometimes dance toward a warrior, sometimes as though begging him his glance, sometimes as though seeking his protection in my plight, sometimes as though I could not help myself, but was drawn to him, helplessly, in the vulnerability of the female slave, sometimes, when I chose, to deliberately, overtly and cruelly, taunt him with my beauty, my desirability, and my inaccessibility.
More than one cried out with rage and reached toward me, or shook his fist at me, but I laughed, and danced back away from him.
Then, as the music struck towards its swirling peaks I unaccountably, boldly, for no reason I understood, faced Rask of Treve, and before him, my master, I danced. His eyes were expressionless. He sipped his wine. I danced my hatred for him, to make him mad with the desire of me, which desire I could then frustrate, which desire I could then, in my strength, for I was not as other women, for I did not have their weaknesses, fail to fulfill! I could hurt him, and I would! He had captured me! He had enslaved me! He had lashed and branded me! He had put me in the slave box! I despised him. I hated him. I would make him suffer! How desperately, in my dance, I tried to arouse him! Yet his eyes remained expressionless. And, from time to time, observing me through narrowed lids, he would sip his wine. And then I knew my body was dancing something to him that I could not understand, that I feared. It was strange. It was as though my body would, in its own right, speak to him, as though it were trying, on some level I could not comprehend, to communicate to him. And then again I was as I was before, and could dance my contempt and hatred for him. He seemed amused. I was furious.
When the music finished, I fell to my knees, insolently, before him, my head to the ground.
There were many shouts of acclaim, and pleasure, from the men, and even from the girls, who struck their left shoulders with the palms of their hands. 'Shall I have her whipped?' asked a man of Rask of Treve.
I was frightened.
'No,' said Rask of Treve.
He gestured that I should leave the sand. 'Bring others forward to dance,' he said. I picked up the bit of silk which had been torn from me and left the sand, putting it on. I was sweating, I was breathing heavily.
Inge and Rena thrust forward by Raf and Pron, that they might please the feasters.
There was more shouting.
I walked into the darkness.
I encountered Ute, outside the rim of the firelight. 'You are beautiful, El-in-or,' she said.
I followed her to the kitchen shed. There, with water, and oils, and towels, she bade me clean and refresh my body. I did so, and prepared to go to the shed. 'No,' said Ute.
I looked at her.
'Prepare yourself as you did before,' she said.
'Why?' I asked.
'Do so,' she said.
Again I prepared myself, as I had been earlier in the evening, as a belled, silken-clad, rouged Gorean slave girl.
'Now,' said Ute, 'we will wait.'
For more than two Ahn we sat in the kitchen shed. Then the feasting grew less, and the warriors, taking what wenches pleased them, went to their tents. Ute approached me and, behind each ear, touched me afresh with perfume. I looked at her puzzled. Then I shook my head. 'No,' I cried, 'no!' Her eyes were hard.
'Go to the tent of Rask of Treve,' she said.
'Enter,' said Rask of Treve.
I was alone, defenseless in his war camp, his slave.
I entered the tent.
'Tie shut the tent flaps,' said he.
I turned and tied shut the flaps, with five cords, fastening myself in the tent with him.
I turned to face him, his girl.
There was a small fire in the fire bowl in the tent, and the tiny tripod set above it, where wine might be warmed.
The interior of the tent was lined with red silk. The hangings were rich. There were, here and there, small, brass tharlarion-oil lamps, hanging from projections set on the tent poles. At the sides of the tent, where it sloped downward, there were many chests, and kegs and sacks, filled with the booties and plunders of many raid. Several of the chests were open, and from some of the sacks, onto the rugs, spilled pieces of gold. I could see the glint of the precious metals, and the refulgence of gems, reflecting the light of the fire and the lamps.
Rask of Treve owned much.
'Come closer,' he said.
I heard the bells of a slave girl approach him.
I stopped, head down, several feet from him. My bare feet sunk into the deep, soft, scarlet, intricately wrought rugs which floored the tent. I felt the pile about my ankles.
'Come closer,' he said.
Once again there was a rustle of slave bells.
I stood before him.
'Lift your head, Girl,' he said.
I looked into his eyes. I wore his collar. I quickly dropped my head. I felt his large hands part the bit of silk that I wore and, gently, drop it about my ankles.
He turned from me and went to sit down, cross-legged, some feet behind the tiny fire in the fire bowl.
We regarded one another.
'Serve me wine,' he said.
I turned and, among the furnishings of the tent, found a bottle of Ka-la-na, of good vintage, from the vineyards of Ar, the loot of a caravan raid. I then took the wine, with a small copper bowl, and a black, red-trimmed wine crater, to the side of the fire. I poured some of the wine into the small copper bowl, and set it on the tripod over the tiny fire in the fire bowl.
He sat cross-legged, facing me, and I knelt by the fire, facing him. After a time I took the copper bowl from the fire and held it against my cheek. I returned it again to the tripod, and again we waited.
I began to tremble.
'Do not be afraid, Slave,' he said to me.
'Master!' I pleaded.
'I did not give you permission to speak,' he said.
I was silent.
Again I took the bowl from the fire. It was now not comfortable to hold the bowl, but it was not painful to do so. I poured the wine from the small copper bowl into the black, red-trimmed wine crater, placing the small bowl in a rack to one side of the fire. I swirled, slowly, the wine in the wine crater. I saw my reflection in the redness, the blondness of my hair, dark in the wine, and the collar, with its bells, about my throat.
I now, in the fashion of the slave girl of Treve, held the wine crater against my right cheek. I could feel the warmth of the wine through the side of the crater.
'Is it ready? he asked.
A master of Treve does not care to be told that his girl thinks it is. He wished t be told Yes or No.
'Yes,' I whispered.
I did not know how he cared for his wine, for some men of Treve wish it warm, others almost hot. I did not know how he wished it. What if it were not as he wished it!
'Serve me wine,' he said.
I, carrying the wine crater, rose to my feet and approached him. I then knelt before him, with a rustle of slave bells, in the position of the pleasure slave. I put my head down and, with both hands, extending my arms to him, held forth the wine crater. 'I offer you wine, Master, I said.
He took the wine and I watched, in terror. He sipped it, and smiled. I nearly fainted. I would not be beaten.
I knelt there, while he, at his leisure, drank the wine.
When he had almost finished, he beckoned me to him, and I went to kneel at his side. He put his hand in my hair and held my head back. 'Open your mouth,' he said.
I did so, and he, spilling some from the broad rim of the crater, I feeling it on my chin, and throat, as it trickled under the collar, and body, poured the remainder of the wine down my throat. It was bitter from the dregs in the bottom of the cup, and, to my taste, scalding. I, my eyes closed, my head held painfully back, throat burning, swallowed it. When I had finished the wine he thrust the wine crater into my hands. 'Run, El-in-or,' he said, 'put it back, and return to me.' I ran to the side of the tent and
