deadly divinations

Summary: Seen as nothing more than a nusiance by her mother's new husband, Sorrow was sold into slavery by her Gypsy mother.

Now she must endure the life as the Father of Darkness's new Daughter. Daughters are nothing more than sex slaves and maids for the Father's Sons. His Sons are spies and trained assassins, trained in every aspect of combat.

Never is a Son supposed to allow a Daughter to view him preforming his Sacred Duty to their Father. Never is a Daughter supposed to learn the Sacred Ways of the Darkness. That is until Sorrow enlists the help of three of the Father's most deadly and skillful Sons.

Now Sorrow must train hard if she is going to survive the Tasks of Darkness. Her life and honor rest upon the shoulders of her three comrades and her own ability to kill without mercy.

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Chapter One

The sitting room's walls were covered with weapons of all shapes, sizes, and types. As she clung to the pale pink skirt that rested motionlessly against her mother's lithe Gypsy legs, the little girl wondered at the names of each of them. A man, the man her mother had brought her to see, cleared his throat and brought her attention back to his long, slender face. He had a beak-like nose, almond-shaped brown eyes, pale white skin, and brown hair tied back in a loose braid. Her mother's new husband woudn't have liked this man for the simple fact that he wore his hair so long. In his Noble-born eyes no man should have had hair so long. It just wasn't right, he had said when they'd passed an elderly Gypsy man on the streets of their town one day. Her mother hadn't made any comment. Instead she just took her daughter more firmly by the hand and tugged her away from the old Gypsy man.

The man himself wasn't a magnificent sight. Compared to the ornate silver chair that he was occupying he looked quite shabby indeed. He wore a black cotton tunic, brown britches, and black knee-high boots. They weren't raggedy clothes. They just weren't the sort of clothes that a man sitting in a throne should have been wearing. Or at least that's what her mother's new husband would have said.

"So why do you want to give me this child, Gypsy-woman?" asked the man in the throne-like chair.

Her mother placed her hand upon her head and scratched her scalp in the loving manner she did to put her to sleep at night. "My husband..." she began but her voice faultered

He nodded knowingly, steppling his fingers. "So your new husband doesn't enjoy the fact that you are keeping the get of your dead husband?" he said with a vicious smile.

"Yes," her mother said softly. "That's...That's it."

"How old is she?" he asked.

The Gypsy-woman drew a shaky breath but managed to choke out, "Seven. She has seven winters, Father."

The man looked back at the middle-aged woman standing behind his throne. She had long brown hair, shot with gray, tied in a tight bun behind her head, beady blue eyes, and a horse-like face complete with oversized teeth hanging slightly over her lower lip. "We should have room in the dormitory for another Daughter, shouldn't we?" he asked.

She nodded, the middle-aged woman, but said nothing in response.

Looking up at her mother, the girl felt a stone sink into the pit of her stomach. "Mommy?" she asked softly. "What're they talking about Mommy?"

Shaking her head, the Gypsy-woman tried to hide her tears. When she turned her watery gaze back to the man sitting in the throne-like chair he nodded. Drawing a shaky breath, she pulled her skirts out of daughters hands and hurried out of the room. The little girl whirled around, crying after her mother. She stood in the middle of room with its weapon-covered walls and screamed at the top of her lungs for her mother to return to her. No matter how her louldy she wailed her mother didn't return for her.

"That is enough girl!" the man barked. Gone was the honey-sweet voice he'd used upon her mother. Now it was stone-hard. "You will cease that infernal wailing this instant or shall we introduce you to my First Son?"

"My name is not 'girl'!" the child cried angrily. "My name is-"

The man waved his hand, slicing the air with finality. "That word that your mother called you has no meaning in this place, girl!" he growled. "Mother Fresia will name you."

Mother Fresia turned those beady blue eyes upon the girls tear-streaked red face and frowned so deeply that her lips became nothing more than a thin line and her brow furrowed. "Sorrow." she said flatly.

"That's not a name!" the girl cried indignatly. "That's not MY name!"

Mother Fresia looked ready to kill but the man in the throne put up a hand. "It would seem that our little Sorrow needs to meet the First Son sooner than anticipated." he said softly.

To the left of the chamber an unseen door opened and a boy in his late teens stepped into the room. He wore stainless white clothes with a black whip wrapped many times was resting on his shoulder. His hair was blonde and resting loosly upon his shoulders, his skin was slightly tan, and his amber eyes seemed devoid of all emotion. Sorrow felt her blood go cold as the man, the First Son, came to stand before her. A twisted smile pulled the corners of his cupid bow-shaped mouth into the most frightening smile that the child had ever seen in her life. She began to tremble as the man reached out his massive hand and grabbed a handful of her long blond hair. He drug her forward, to a spot five feet in front of the throne that Sorrow hadn't noticed before. A pair of chains and manacles rested there, waiting to latch onto an unwilling victim and hold them fast so that the First Son might sate his sick pleasure for torturing.

Sorrow fought him, screaming all the while as he latched first one manacle and then the other around her small wrists. "It doesn't do to struggle." the First Son whispered in her ear. "It'll only make the pain worse."

He moved behind her and the sound of the whip uncoiling and brushing the white, black veined marble floor. "Don't scream." he said in a voice so soft she almost didn't hear him. "It only makes it last longer."

She had to close her eyes to keep from looking back at the man who was about to crack that vicious black whip upon her back. The sound of the whip being drawn back prepared her for nothing. A wave of pain so intense crashed over her body and she nearly drowned in misery. It curved around her body, lacing her skin with leather fire. It drew away from her but it didn't stop. The whip cracked against her back and wrapped itself around her ribs again and again. Sorrow whimpered and bit into her lip bottom lip so hard she tasted blood.

No screaming! she demanded of herself as the taste of her own blood filled her mouth. No screaming! For the love of the gods don't scream!

It lasted for what felt like an eternity, that first beating. When the whip finally ceased to caress her body with it's hateful touch, Sorrow rocked back and forth on her knees. When had she hit her knees? That didn't matter, she decided. All that matter was that it was over and that she was free of the First Son's clutches. For now, she thought bitterly.

"Take her away, Mother." said the man. "She'll need some salve to keep the wound from getting infected."

Sorrow felt calloused hands lightly touch her shoulders and hold her gently against a muscular body. "You did well." he whispered. "Made me proud, you did."

The First Son lifted her into his arms and stood before his Father and Mother, waiting for word that he could depart with the newest Daughter. Neither spoke. Mother Fresia sidled from behind the throne and proceeded him through the door he'd come through only moments before. As Mother Fresia led them down the strangely lit corridors of her new home, Sorrow did her best not to pass out. The elderly woman led the First Son and his burden into a side room where he lay her on her stomach upon a soft bed.

"You'll be better in a few days." he whispered.

Drawing himself upright, he gave his Mother a bow and hurried out of the room. The Hall of Daughters wasn't somewhere he wanted to be. Once the First Son was gone from the room, Mother Fresia undressed the girl and treated her welps and the one great gash that marred her milky white skin from her spine and curved along the middle of her left rib cage. Done treating the wounds, Mother Fresia pressed a tiny goblet of fruity smelling blue liquid to her lips and bid her to drink. Sorrow did as she was told, coughing and choking on the bitter tasting liquid.

Mother Fresia drew the goblet away from her lips. "You'll bear that scar for the rest of your life." In a swirl of black cloth the Mother was gone from the room.

Drawing a shuddering breath, Sorrow felt her world go black and she sank into a drug-induced sleep.