Taking off her modified robe, which she'd tailored to match Wrath's judogi, as he called it, she waded into the pool with her undergarments still upon her. The temperature was always perfect . . . and made her long for a bath that was either too hot or too cold.
In the center of the great marble bowl, the water was deep enough to swim through, and her body relished the stretching motion of her weightless strokes.
Yes, indeed this was the best part of the sparring. Save for when she caught Wrath a good one.
When she got to the waterfall, she waded up toward it and unplaited her hair. It was longer than Wrath's was, and she'd learned to not just braid the stuff, but tuck it up at the base of her neck. Otherwise, it was like handing him a tether to yank her around with.
Under the falling spray, bars of sweet-smelling soap awaited her palm, and she used one all over herself. As she turned around to rinse, she found that she was no longer alone.
But at least the dark-robed figure who had limped in was not her mother.
"Greetings," Payne called out.
No'One bowed, but did not answer, as was her way, and Payne was abruptly sorry that she'd just left her robe on the flooring.
"I can get that," she said, her voice echoing around the cavern.
No'One just shook her head and gathered up the cloth. The maid was so lovely and quiet, doing her duties without complaint even though she had some kind of disability.
Although she never spoke, it wasn't hard to guess what her sad story was.
One more reason to despise She who had birthed the race, Payne thought.
The Chosen, like the Black Dagger Brotherhood, had been bred within certain parameters with a desired result intended. Whereas the males were to be thick of blood and stout of back, aggressive and worthy in battle, the females were calculated to be intelligent and resilient, capable of harnessing the males' baser tendencies and civilizing the race. Yin and yang. Two parts to a whole, with the requirement of blood feedings ensuring the sexes were tied together forever.
But all wasn't well within the divine scheme. The truth was, inbreeding had led to problems, and though in Wrath's case the laws provided that, as son of the king, he was to take the throne with or without impairments, the Chosen were not so lucky. Defects were shunned by the breeding laws. Always had been. And so someone like No'One, who was handicapped, was relegated to serving her sisters under a cloak . . . a hidden, unspoken-of embarrassment that was nonetheless regarded with "love."
Or "pity" was more like it.
Payne knew precisely how the female must feel. Not about a physical defect, but about being relegated to a slot of expectation that one couldn't possibly live up to.
And speaking of expectation . . .
Layla, another of the Chosen, entered the bath and removed her robing, handing it over to No'One with the gentle smile that was her trademark.
The expression was lost as she lowered her eyes and entered the water. Indeed, the female seemed to be tangled in thoughts that were not pleasing.
"Greetings, sister," Payne said.
Layla's head whipped up and her brows rose. "Oh . . . verily, I knew not you were herein. Greetings, sister."
After the Chosen bowed deeply, she sat on one of the submerged marble benches, and although Payne wasn't a conversationalist, something about the dense quiet around the other female drew her.
Finishing her rinse-off, she swam over and settled beside Layla, who was sluicing puncture wounds on her wrist.
"Whom did you feed?" Payne asked.
"John Matthew."
Ah, yes, the male to whom the king referred, perhaps. "Did it go as it should?"
"Indeed. It did indeed."
Payne leaned her head back against the edge of the pool and stared at the Chosen's blond beauty. After a moment, she murmured to the female, "May I inquire something of you?"
"But of course."
"Wherefore the sadness. Always with you . . . you return in sorrow." Even though she knew. For a female to be forced into sex and feeding just because it was tradition was an unconscionable violation.
Layla regarded the puncture marks on her vein with a kind of dispassionate absorption, as if she were puzzling over the wounds of another. And then she shook her head. "I shall not bemoan the glory I have been given."
"Glory? Verily, you appear to have been given something else entirely." A curse was more apt.
"Oh, no, 'tis a glory to be of service--"
"For truth, do not hide behind such words when your visage belies your heart. And as always, if you carry criticism of the Scribe Virgin upon your lips, come sit around my fire." As a pair of shocked pale green eyes flipped up, Payne shrugged. "I've made no secret of how I feel. Ever."
"No . . . indeed you have not. It just seems so . . ."