Page 96 of A Brat's Tale
“Yes. Did you think you could run away like that and not end up over my knee?” While I stand with my jaw half-open, he turns to Corrik. “Highness, I am delighted you are home, but he was under my care at the time.”
This means something to Corrik who needs no further explanation. “I understand.”
“Cor!” I am betrayed—of course Corrik is more than happy to allow me to be spanked. I try to plead my case. “The king and queen have already had me punished.”
As if he didn’t see it.
“I don’t see what that has to do with me. We have our own score to settle. I will be by tomorrow at noon.”
Ooooh! “Yes, Master Strobavik.”
“Oh and, Tristan? I’ll be bringing my paddle which now literally has your name on it.” I can practically hear his self-satisfied smirk as he walks off. I’m still slack-jawed.
“That’s right,” Corrik says, remembering. “You had sexual training with him as well.”
“I did,” I reply getting shy.
Corrik pulls me to him for a kiss. “I want to see.”
I get excited when I see the edges of the training field. My eyes are wide, filled with little boy excitement, no wonder he was nervous. I can’t believe he’s brought me here. “Tristan, this is our Warlord, Zelphar Virkalyn. Zelphar, this is Tristan.”
He’s massive. I could never hope to compete with someone like him. He reminds me a lot of Bayaden with how thick he is, and his ears seem to reach up taller than even Corrik’s. He’s wrought with scarring on all the skin I can see—face, arms, the bit of his chest poking through his shirt. I never had the chance to earn my scars. Sure, I’ve got a few from the time I spent in Aldrien, but they’re not from a real battle and therefore I don’t count them.
Immediately, I get more respect than I did in Aldrien, but I suspect it’s only because I am royalty, and to appease Corrik. If I want respect from this Warlord, I’m going to have to earn it. “Pleased to meet you, Highness,” he says to me with a shallow bow.
“Tristan was next in line for Markaytian Warlord, until I stole him away,” Corrik says, only marginally sorry about it, which is at least more than before.
Zelphar has long, dark hair like mine, but his is shorter in front and sticks up tall over his right ear. He’s uninterested in this conversation, likely wanting to get meeting the newhumanprince over with so he can get back to his much more important duties. “Will that be all, Prince Corrik?”
“No. Tristan will train with you. I want you to work with him oneon one. He’s shown great skill, even as a human. When he is Elf, I expect he’ll be something even more magnificent.”
“Forgive me, Highness. I understand he is your mate, you’re bound to sing his praises, but I recommend you bring him back when he’s got real ears over those stubs.” The Warlord moves to turn away.
I’m not surprised at his attitude, this is what Warlords are like. To add to that, most Elves have a negative view of humans. “It has been ordered by Alrik himself. You will do as you are told, Zelphar,” Corrik says.
“Fine. Be here at dawn.” He turns away after that wanting nothing to do with me.
Corrik isn’t pleased and I can tell he wants to go after him, but I stop him. “Don’t worry about it, Cor. I’m used to Elven arrogance by now. I’ll delight in showing him up.”
He pulls me in for a kiss. “He has no idea the trouble he’s in for. You’ll still have to obey him I’m afraid, he is Warlord, and he must command the field, or the system doesn’t work.”
“I understand, Corrik. I can behave myself for that long.” I wink at him.
When Strobavik shows the next day, I drop to my knees like I wanted to yesterday. A chord of guilt sings—I don’t have this innate pull when I’m with Corrik. Should I? What does it mean that I don’t?
Strobavik has come to mean something to me. We are not lovers, we are not friends, we’re somewhere in between. He’ll always be my dungeon Master. You kneel for your dungeon Master.
My head is down, eyes focused on the stone floor. I keep the perfect amount of sway to my back—at least I think I do—and my arms are behind me, a wrist gripped in each hand. I’m in my black, silk robe since I no longer have the items I wore for Strobavik; my black hair surrounds me. “You may look at me, Tristan. Your punishment will be handled formally but we can both relax some.”
I look up, relieved to have the chance to stare at him. Strobavik has striking beauty. His blue eyes are sharp and appear darker with the black eyeliner he has under them. I found out it’s not actual eyeliner—of course Elves don’t have use for such things like Markaytians do—but a tattoo. His white-blond hair has a natural wave to it, and it tumbles down his body in an airy fashion. Strobavik is smaller than either Corrik or Alrik and even Zelphar, but he still towers over me. I might reach his chest if I’m standing tall enough.
I smile.
“Don’t think you can charm your way out of this.”
“I don’t, Master Strobavik. It’s just good to see you.”
“The Gods help me. Get up, come over this way,” he says pulling out a chair and setting what I know to be the Tristan Paddle on the dining table. Gods that thing always looks so heavy even as it sits there trying to look innocent. It’s not innocent. “Where has Corrik gone?”
