Nightmaster. Susan Krinard
a wide, dimly lit corridor, elaborately etched and painted with baroque designs and stylized figures in different hues. The corridor led to another and yet another, a maze humans might negotiate only with the aid of the changing colors and designs on each wall. Trinity could feel the passages descending into the bowels of the city, smelling of dampness and a taint of old blood.
The final corridor ended in a row of holding cells. Two by two the new serfs were ushered into the cells, and Trinity found herself housed with Rachel. The cell itself contained only two narrow cots, a toilet and a sink with towels.
“Are we supposed to clean up in here?” Rachel asked in a dull voice.
“I don’t know,” Trinity said, examining the sink. “There’s some kind of soap dispenser, but I can’t believe they expect us to do much with it.”
Nevertheless, she wet one of the towels, squirted a little soap on it and washed the grime off her face. She undid her hair from its rough ponytail and shook it out.
“You’ve got pretty hair,” Rachel said.
“Thanks,” Trinity muttered, hardly knowing how to react to the compliment. She wasn’t good at that even under the best of circumstances.
As Rachel washed her own face and sat on the edge of one of the cots, slumping in exhaustion. Trinity lay face up on hers, pillowing her head on her arms, and tried to clear her mind.
She knew what was coming: the Claiming, where the highest-ranked Opiri were given a chance to bid on the new serfs. Considering the process from an entirely intellectual perspective, Trinity knew the experience was going to be unpleasant. But her only goal was to catch herself a Bloodlord or Bloodmaster who would unwittingly help her achieve her goals. The higher the rank of her owner, the more freedom she was likely to have within the Citadel. And such freedom was what she needed to carry out her mission.
* * *
Trinity woke to the sound of the door to the cell swinging open. She jumped to her feet in a single motion, forgetting that she had to blend in with the untrained serfs. Rachel got up more slowly, shrinking behind Trinity as if she knew her cell mate was capable of much more than her ordinary appearance indicated.
In the doorway stood a Freeblood, white haired and pale skinned, no soldier but some kind of functionary in plain black robes. He gestured to Trinity and Rachel.
“You are to be prepared,” he said in a voice that told Trinity that he had little interest in the proceedings. “Come with me.”
She assumed her role as a subjugated human and walked out of the cell, Rachel on her heels. The other female prisoners were huddled in the corridor under the supervision of several black-robed Opiri. The Nightsiders herded the new serfs to the door of a much larger room, fitted with open showers, a row of curtained booths and three female attendants.
As Trinity and the other convicts entered the room, two of the attendants, wearing shapeless white shifts, smiled encouragingly. The third woman, dressed in a white tunic and trousers, was considerably more severe.
“You have to be examined,” she said without preamble.
Trinity stiffened and then forced herself to relax. She’d been thoroughly briefed, after all. The bloodsuckers had to know what they were bidding on.
The new serfs were instructed to undress, shower and then enter the booths. A few minutes later the examiner swept aside the curtain and entered Trinity’s cell. With practiced efficiency, the women examined Trinity’s body, looking for scars, disease or other defects.
She frowned as she finished. “Something different about you,” she said.
Trinity laughed to hide her unease. “I don’t know if that’s an insult or a compliment.”
The examiner sighed. “Are you a virgin?”
“No,” Trinity said, releasing her breath. “Is that important?”
“It doesn’t really matter,” the other woman said. “Not to most of them.” She made a notation on her pad. “You’ll do.”
The examiner instructed Trinity to dress, and then swept out of the booth. Trinity followed, and the attendant waiting outside gestured her to a seat facing a row of mirrors.
“The more attractive you appear,” she said, smoothing her fingers over Trinity’s damp hair, “the greater the chance that you will be claimed by an Opir of high rank and live a life of relative ease.” She selected a brush from among the items on the nearby shelf. “You have lovely hair. I think we’ll leave it loose.”
When the attendant had finished brushing Trinity’s hair to a glossy, chestnut sheen, she produced a shift similar to her own but much shorter and sheerer. It would do little to disguise the body beneath.
That, too, was no surprise.
The other prisoners were put through the same ordeal, and when the attendants were finished even the older women, dressed in more modest shifts, seemed nearly incandescent. Only their grim and frightened faces spoiled the effect.
“Be brave,” the elder attendant advised them. “Remember, your fate is at least partly in your own hands.”
The prisoners were led into the corridor where they met the equally dazed men, who were dressed in longer tunics and groomed to their greatest possible advantage. With the black-robed escorts around them, the humans were ushered into a large elevator, which swiftly ascended several floors.
When they arrived at their destination, the humans stepped into an entirely different world—not dark like the lower levels, but gleaming with saturated color like rich velvet and painted with golden symbols.
Trinity observed carefully as she was shown to a private cell, this one with a transparent front wall and no furnishings at all—the “display case” for the serfs to be claimed. Through the slightly opaque sidewalls she could make out the boy who had panicked earlier, though his face was only a blur.
Outside the clear wall was a semicircular room, a kind of covered amphitheater with rows of richly upholstered seats. Within minutes the first of the Opiri arrived, male and female, some dressed in embroidered robes that reached nearly to the floor, others in thigh-length tunics and loose pants tucked into handmade leather boots. Jewels cascaded from long white hair, at throats and belts; the men were as regally clothed as the women. Each and every one could pass as a king or queen of his or her own realm.
But one stood out from all the others. A silence fell among the murmuring Nightsiders as a tall lord wearing a long tunic, wide embroidered belt and trousers of deep blue entered the room. He appeared to be in his early thirties, but Trinity knew he could be anywhere from one hundred to ten thousand years old.
This man’s age wasn’t what interested her. He had raven-black hair. No Opiri except vassals, who retained their human coloring for some time, had anything but white hair. And this one’s skin, instead of being bone-white, was a very fair gold. His face was lean and handsome, and his eyes...
As if he sensed her stare, he looked directly at Trinity. His eyes were not the deep purple or maroon of a normal Opir’s; they were a pale tint of violet that would have been extraordinary in any human. Trinity could feel that gaze stripping her shift from her body.
Without taking his eyes from her, the Nightsider gestured to the young human male behind him. The attendant held a tall staff capped with what looked like an ancient Corinthian helmet cast of gold. He handed the staff to his master, and the Nightsider held it firmly planted on the floor beside his chair as if he were staking a claim to territory no one dared dispute.
He was powerful. Trinity didn’t need anything but simple observation to make that very clear. The other Bloodlords and Bloodladies kept their distance from him, and several seemed to regard his presence with surprise.
Trinity knew then that he was the one. She couldn’t have explained it rationally, but instinct told her she was right. Dhampir instinct. And she intended to trust what her half-vampire nature told her.
Even