The Wife Market
The desire grew in him slowly, like the crops he nurtured. Tarnos watched the way the sheepdogs crouched and ran about their flocks, herding skittish charges into the very pens they wished most to avoid. He was drawn to the ropes the farmers used for their draft horses and dogs, strong yet smooth, and wondered how they would feel against soft skin. He found himself surveying the farmwives’ daughters, wishing for one of them to spark something in him.
Money was no issue, not for a centaur mage like him. He bought yards of soft, woven cord, ignoring the curious look of the ropemaker when he asked for a guide on restraints. He studied the chapbook intently in his free time, practicing on staffs and walking sticks, longing to replicate the feel of the fibers wrapping around the yielding skin of his arm. How would it be to tie up a maiden, to see the rope cut into her flesh and know that she was utterly helpless?
He sketched out tools for probing and teasing the most intimate parts of the body, imagining how he would play with her trembling form. He took his drawings to the blacksmith, commissioned a fine set of steel tools, and bought a box lined in velvet to store them. Now and then he’d open it up and caress the shining metal, considering how its cold hardness would shock her warm membranes, how the depths of her body would slowly warm up the steel as it penetrated her deeper and deeper.
But he’d need oil, he knew. He inquired with physicians about the lubricants they used, with merchants about the kinds of oils they stocked. Olive and coconut were exotic and expensive, rose was less so. He bought small bottles of each, experimenting with mixtures until he found the perfect combination of scent and texture. He daydreamed about spreading the oil across the secret places of a woman’s body; his own skin couldn’t compare.
It was late spring, all the plowing and sowing done, and his purse was full of coins. Of course he returned regularly to all the farms that hired him, walking the fields to ward them from pests, nourish the soil, encourage the budding crops to grow tall and strong. But he still had time to wander nearby towns, even to visit the spring fair in the nearest city, Ekewell. He perused the stalls, buying a comb to tend to her hair, hard candy to reward her good behavior, a leather strap for him to wear so she could hold onto him as he carried her near and far.
He meandered his way to the center of the fair, knowing what he’d find there. The wife market boasted a range of women, some experienced and eager to find a household in need of them, others desperate to leave their homes and start a new life. He gazed at the lines of women, waiting to feel some spark, some recognition. But his magic felt nothing, so he passed them by until he came to a smaller block. These women were bound together, some weeping, some pale, some hard-faced.
He felt his magic ignite, a small flame beating in his heart.
“Who are these girls?” he asked the auctioneer.
“Troublemakers,” the man replied. “Their families sold them off, and they’re as like to run as follow you. See any that you like?”
But he didn’t. He swallowed down the disappointment, shaking his head and trotting off.
And yet, the flame was there, small but bright and burning hot. He tended it as he tended his garden, weeding out doubts and watering with patience. The next fair was at high summer, and he traveled there eagerly, hoping for a girl to catch his eye. He walked up and down the line of quivering young women, judging which of them would serve best to sate his urges, but none of them spoke to the need in his heart.
The autumn and winter fairs were the same. Spring returned, with a fresh crop of wives for sale, but still he found not a single one he wanted to bring home. Years passed, and his desire grew. Each passing season only solidified his want, and he cultivated it unhurriedly, keeping the flame steady and strong.
It was spring again, and his purse was heavy at his waist. He walked the wife market deliberately, without expectation. The auctioneers all knew him by now, knew he liked to be left alone to inspect their wares. So they didn’t try to chat him up as he eyed each face, one by one, in search of something he’d never yet felt. He knew in his bones he’d recognize her though, this woman of his dreams and desires.
And he did. His gaze alighted on a scrawny face with eyes as wide and dark as a deer’s. Her dark blonde hair was streaked with gold, her lips were full and sad. He stopped before her, and they trembled, then hardened into a frown. She jutted out her chin and glared at him as if to sayI’m not the one you’re looking for.
But she was. The magic in him knew it, the flame in his heart expanding. He smiled at her, and her eyes narrowed. He knew what he must look like to her: Solidly built but not too heavy, his coat and tail dark brown, matching his hair and beard; he was tanned from his work in the fields, with a broad nose like all centaurs, and had his mother’s blue eyes.
Looking her over, he spied the pointed tips of her ears peeking out from her wavy hair. He felt his smile broadening, recalling that elves disliked dealing with centaurs, seeing them as little more than women-stealing brutes. Those days were long past, but for once he didn’t mind carrying such a reputation.
Turning to the auctioneer, he asked about the skinny blonde with the big doe eyes.
“She’s an elf,” the man responded.
Only human women could breed with centaurs, usually bearing more centaur sons. But Tarnos wasn’t here for a brood mare.
He stamped a hoof. “I don’t care,” he said firmly.
That caught the other man’s attention. He glanced over at the young woman, as if to remind himself of her story. “She’s from Gudif,” he supplied, “on the other side of the Elisnia.”
Tarnos cocked his head, recalling what he knew of the remote eastern region. “She’s a long way from home,” he remarked.
The auctioneer waved his hand. “We bought her from an elven merchant. She was caught fooling about with some local boys, so no one there would have her.”
Tarnos nodded. With their long lifespans and low birthrates, elves were a conservative kind. In a rural community, with her ruined reputation, it was no wonder her family sold her off.
“How old is she?” he asked.
“Twenty-six,” the man answered.
Young for an elf, but still of age. Tarnos stepped closer, appraising her. She flinched but didn’t cower back. This pleased him: He liked her spirit as much as her fear.
“She’s in good health, for all that she’s scrawny,” the auctioneer said. “Good teeth, good eyes, and a good bosom too.”
The girl flushed at this last assessment, and Tarnos savored the sight of her cheeks blooming crimson.
“Would you like to inspect her for yourself?” the man offered. “You can touch her as you like, since she’s already, well, you know.”
This made the girl shy back, but she could only go so far, tied as she was to her neighbors. They grumbled and jerked her forward, but still she strained at her bindings like a stubborn filly.
As much as her fear and fight inspired pity, it also aroused him. It promised a delicious challenge, an opportunity to carve and mold this frightened, wild thing into a trusting and subservient pet.
“How much?” he asked, relishing the panic that flashed across her face.
“Seventeenzimri,” the auctioneer replied. “But you only need to advance one to reserve her for the next three days. We’ll be moving on after that.”
Tarnos put a hand to his purse. “I’ll advance eight.”
The girl’s eyes, already wide, grew nearly as round as the gold coin he held up. The man’s eyes bugged, and he quickly ushered Tarnos to a tent where a pair of draft horse-built centaurs guarded the head merchant and his strongbox. A contract was written and signed, gold was handed over, and Tarnos left with a light purse and a soaring heart.
He galloped all the way home to his cottage amidst the towering oaks and beeches. His wards hummed, sensing his expectant energy, and he began to make a list of all the items he would need to buy, the magics he would need to set now that he’d finally found her. He smiled to himself as he worked, imagining already how he’d teach her and train her and transform her into his perfect little pet.
The next morning dawned bright and clear, and the memory of finding her came back to him like the sunlight streaming through the windows. His heart swelled with such joy that it spilled out into the air, and he raced out of the house, bucking and whooping to burn off his excitement. He was going to bring her home today.
On the way back to the fair, his purse once more full, he stopped by the local carpenter to order a small bed, a tall chair, and a bedside table. He himself slept on a bed of straw and ate at a centaur-sized dining table, but he had a sheepskin for her to sleep and sit on in the meantime. He reached the fair by midday, interrupting the merchants at their lunch. But they were eager to complete a sale, happily accepting the final ninezimrithat would make her his.
A burly guard led him to a smaller tent where the girl was sitting on a stool, her meager belongings in a pack at her feet. Her hands were bound and tethered to the tent-pole, her eyes red-rimmed as though she’d been crying.
“This is your husband now,” the man said gruffly, pointing to Tarnos.
She shook her head, eyes wide. “No, he can’t be!”
“You’re lucky you found a proper husband instead of being sold to a brothel, a delicate elfling like you,” the guard retorted. “At least you only have to serve one man now, eh?”
“But he’s not a man!” she wailed. “He’s a – a – a monster!”
Tarnos worked to keep the smile off his face. This was better than he’d hoped.
But the guard was clearly losing patience. “The law says he’s a man, and your husband too, who can beat you for such disrespect!” He shook a finger at her before turning back to Tarnos. “You’ll be wanting a collar for this one. She tried to run away last night, the little bitch.”
Tarnos tilted his head. “Is that so? I can make my own, but I’ll need a block for her to mount up.”
“You’re a mage, are you?” the man asked.
“Yes,” Tarnos replied. He glanced at the girl for her reaction, pleased to see her shifting uneasily.
The guard left to fetch the mounting block, and Tarnos walked forward. She stood and tried to move away from him, but all she could do was circle the pole, shortening the rope as she went. Realizing this quickly, she stopped and stood taller, though it did little to lessen the feet of difference in their height. She lifted her chin, meeting his eye, and he raised an eyebrow in return.
“Don’t touch me!” she said.
“I don’t need to,” he replied. “But you will need to stay still.”
They stared at each other for a few heartbeats before she looked away, and he smiled to himself. This was only the first battle of many.
He approached her slowly, reaching out a hand until his fingertips neared her throat. She whimpered at how close he was but remained still. Tarnos focused on his magic, weaving basic spells for binding and protection. Once finished, he sent the spellwork out to wrap around her neck, and the dark green tendrils encircled her gently.
“All done,” he said lightly, pulling his hand away.
She frowned and felt at her neck, her fingers passing through the immaterial collar.
“You won’t feel it unless you try to run,” he explained. “Then it’ll tighten about you until you pass out.” Her lip trembled and her eyes went glassy, and he sighed. “It’s only temporary. You won’t need it once we reach home.”
This seemed to calm her, and he would have liked to talk with her more, but just then the guard returned. He set down the heavy mounting block outside the tent, asking, “Are you done yet?”
“Yes,” Tarnos answered, backing out slowly to stand next to the block.
The man went inside and untied the girl, handing over her pack and steering her out into the spring sun. She slipped her arms through the straps of the pack, her face set in an unhappy expression.
“Now mount up,” Tarnos told her, gesturing to the block. She shied back, and he stamped a hoof impatiently. “If you won’t ride, you’ll have to follow me about on a rope.”
Slowly she came closer, stepping up onto the block. She hesitated before placing her hands on his second back, and then seemed unsure of what to do next. He resisted snorting in irritation. She was like a wild filly, he reminded himself. She required patience.
But they didn’t have the time, today. “Put her on my back,” he told the guard.
The girl turned around, trying to push the man away, but she was quickly lifted and placed on Tarnos’ back, where she teetered gingerly.
“Face my torso and swing your leg over,” he instructed, but she hesitated. “Would you rather follow behind on a rope?” he asked her.
Reluctantly she turned and slid a leg over his back, clutching the handle of the neck strap about his waist. She remained silent as he nodded to the guard and walked off toward the edge of the fair.
He reached a line of trees where some horses were tethered and munching at the new spring grass. Tarnos came to a halt, focusing on the girl in his mind. All living things had a life essence, each one unique, which could be used to bind objects to them more deeply than the simple spells he’d used to make her collar – or to bind them to others, as he did now.
She shifted uneasily behind him. Though she possessed no active magical ability, elves as a whole were more attuned to magic, and she could no doubt sense as he spun an invisible connection between her body and his. If he’d specialized in sentient creatures instead of plants, he’d have learned to do this without detection, for espionage or thievery or some other shadowy profession.
But it didn’t matter: By the time she registered the bond, it was already done. Her presence bloomed in his mind’s eye, his magic filling every cell of her body. He could feel her heart beating, her blood flowing, her diaphragm expanding as she breathed. And she could feel it too, he knew, even if she didn’t have the magic to understand what it was. His gaze upon her was as wide as a horse’s in the grasslands, as keen as a wolf’s stalking its prey, and it was the uneasiness of being watched that spurred her to speak.
“What did you do to me?” she asked, rubbing her breastbone. Unlike her earlier tense outburst, her voice now was light and silvery as a stream flitting down a mountainside.
“That tug you feel at your heart,” he told her, “is from binding your life essence to mine.”
She gasped. “You can’t do that!”
“I can, and I have,” he replied levelly.
“But I didn’t give you permission! Undo it!”
“I don’t need permission, and I won’t undo it,” he retorted. “You’re mine, and I can do whatever I want with you.”
Just saying the words aroused him, and he stamped a hoof in frustration at his eager body. Though he craved her, needed her, he had to keep his lust in check so he could focus on mastering her body and her needs first.
She continued, unaware of his desire. “But if you don’t, I’ll die when you do,” she said, tears filling her eyes.
He shifted his weight, hooves scraping the dirt. “Centaurs live just as long as elves.”
“But you’re –” She pinched her face together, the words on the tip of her tongue. But she’d thought better of it, which pleased him.
“Too old?” He chuckled. “You only think that because elves can’t grow beards.”
She was glaring at him again. “Then how long do I have to live?”
He snorted. “At least another hundred years.”
She pressed her lips into a line, and he guessed what she was thinking: Was it better to die young or to spend a century with him?
Her chest was warm and tight, as though lit by fire, and she let out an angry huff. “I don’t like you,” she said finally.
He grinned. Oh, he was going to enjoy this.
