White Stag (Permafrost #1)(9)



When the man saw me sitting there, his eyes narrowed and he paused, before thinking better of his action and continuing toward Soren. As much as I did not want to, I understood the hatred in his gaze. Why was I sitting here, treated in a way he was not? Why did he work under someone who treated him poorly, but I didn’t? I knew the treatment of thralls varied highly depending on the goblin who had captured them. From the beginning of time, humans had been stolen across the border of the Permafrost in raids, along with many other types of plunder. Those brought across the border had the status of a thrall, expected to work and do the bidding of the lord who had stolen them. They were put under that lord’s protection by the laws of winter. To harm a thrall who was not your own was a grave offense, but there were no hard and fast laws in place for the treatment of a thrall by their captor. The concept wasn’t new; humans had done the same to their own kind for generations as well, and I would’ve been lying if I said that back when I lived among humans, our village didn’t have its share of thralls, all of whom varied in levels of status, safety, and treatment. Before the Permafrost, it was something I’d never thought about and I’d accepted it as the way things were.

The burning difference here, though, was that our captors weren’t human.

The elder goblins especially were known to be more focused on domination, on supremacy over the thralls they had. While younger ones, like Soren, tended to view them as members of their household, the thralls were still officially captives held against their will. The dynamic among humans was slightly different, but the concept of the situation was the same.

If I was under someone else, I’d never be brave enough to sit here, seemingly without care, exchanging fire back and forth with a goblin whom I’d seen hunt down others for sport. But I’d been by Soren’s side for a hundred years—though the decision hadn’t been my choice in the first place—and after standing by the side of the young goblin lord for so long, I’d grown to know him, maybe better than I knew my own self.

The man set down trays of food, raw liver and heart, some type of fleshy, poisonous tubers, and an assortment of eggs in varying stages of development. I’d never consider eating any of them.

Human crops didn’t grow in the Permafrost the way they did in the human world. Stalks of corn would strangle a harvester, cotton would choke those who held it, fruit would assault you from the air, and harvesting was always a risky business.

The man’s gaze shifted back to me before he bowed to Soren. Soren beckoned him forward with a finger, and the man came on wobbling legs. Fear flashed in his eyes until Soren whispered something in his ear. Then he noticeably calmed and exited the room.

I couldn’t help the stab of pity I felt for this man. He might’ve seen me as Soren’s lapdog, but I understood where he came from. If I found Soren to have some … interesting idiosyncrasies and was occasionally baffled during the time we spent together, then others must’ve found him a complete enigma. It didn’t help that the young lord was now ripping through the raw meat with long, clawlike fingers and tearing through the tough flesh with sharp canines.

“You should eat,” he said, as I stared at the blood staining his hands. “You never eat enough.”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you? The last time you ate anything real was at least two weeks ago. Not to mention you look so exhausted, the bags under your eyes have bags. Have you been having nightmares again?”

I looked away, unable to meet his eyes. “I can deal with it.”

“You don’t have to deal with it alone.”

“What are you going to do? Sing me to sleep?” I asked.

“I’ll have you know, I have a beautiful voice.” Soren smirked, and my unladylike snort of amusement followed.

“If you’re so worried about me, I’ll drink the nectar again.” Nectar was the holy food of the folk—the term for all sentient humanoid beings in the Permafrost—and it bound them to the realm. It could restore health to a human as long as they stayed in the Permafrost. I’d taken the drink a long time ago and more since. Despite its sweet taste, it always left bitter memories of the intense healing I’d gone through after Lydian had finished with me.

“As you like.” He put down his food. “Would you like to know why you’re here?”

A chill crept down my spine. Now we were getting to the point. I kept the emotions off my face and let myself fall behind the massive walls I’d built to protect myself. Before I was composed enough to answer, the door slid open again. The human was back, this time with a golden goblet. He set it down in front of me and then hurried out of the room without a second glance.

I glared at the cup of gleaming reddish liquid before taking a sip of the sweet nectar. “Lucky guess.”

Soren shrugged. “I know you well. Which is why we need to talk.”

I took another drink of the nectar and energy began to pour back into my body. “Then let’s talk.”

He propped his chin up with one hand. “Most humans die before they get this far,” he started. “They waste away in the ’frost after their first few years. You’re quite the anomaly; it makes you fascinating.”

I stiffened at the warmth in his voice. Unlike other goblins, whose coldness I dreaded, it was when warmth came from Soren that he was most dangerous to me. Warmth meant he was trying to establish a connection, that he valued me enough to speak to me in such a way. Warmth was the difference between an enemy and a friend. It didn’t fit with my denial and Soren knew it.

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