by K. C. Julius
“Enough, Nadoma!” Donka snapped. “We’re all sisters here. Halla speaks our tongue, and she wears a ring of friendship from the Arges.” She lifted Halla’s hand so all could see the silver band that had been one of Bria’s gifts. “As much as we’d all like to escape, it’s not an option, not here on the open sea. Today, striving to survive is enough. Tomorrow, we can perhaps dream of more.”
Halla made no comment, but her resolve didn’t waver. Somehow she would find her way out of this nightmare. In the meantime, she would keep her own counsel.
* * *
In the days that followed, Halla did her part to soothe the girls who succumbed to seasickness, and to help keep their cramped quarters as free from vermin as possible.
She also took her turn tending to the woman named Laludja, who refused to eat. Donka had told Halla that Laludja had seen her babe dashed against a tree, and didn’t want to go on living without him. It was not long before her wish was granted.
When the growler next appeared with his pails of gruel, he hefted the woman’s wasted corpse over his shoulder. As he disappeared with her up the ladder to cast her overboard, he was followed by a chorus of wails, for an å Livåri’s spirit could only rest if the body was laid in the earth. Laludja was doomed to haunt the world of the living for all eternity.
The growler returned shortly with threatening fists, which silenced them—and somehow the ensuing stillness was even more terrible than the keening had been.
It was Nadoma who broke it, taking up a slow dirge. One by one, the women added their voices to the song of mourning, which began softly, then swelled up before descending to barely a whisper. It was as though they were building a castle in sand, which was then lifted and scattered by the wind.
Delvla, čhajjie,
čhajjie burkaňi,
tel na lela tet osa paňni
o palňori tet tel lena,
o čhavoriji del rovenja
o palňori tet tel lena,
lo čhajijore, de karina.
It was the only time Halla wept on the voyage, for the women’s haunting voices brought to mind Ruv’s lavuta, and how she’d danced with abandon to its magic, and their bitter sorrow tore at her heart.
When her tears had run dry, she joined Donka in scraping together the dead woman’s bedding straw to add to their own. In her watery grave beneath the unhallowed sea, Laludja no longer had need of it.
* * *
The following day, the growler ordered them all on deck. Halla’s heart hammered as she followed Donka up the ladder, but despite her fears, her spirits lifted in the freshening breeze. Seabirds wheeled overhead in a cobalt sky flocked with clouds, and the sea spread around them in undulant splendor.
She was surprised to see only a skeleton crew awaiting them—fewer than twenty sailors in all. Most of their number were å Livåri, but she’d learned her lesson, and didn’t try to appeal to any of them.
She drew a sharp breath when she spied the cruel narrow face of her captor. He caught her eye, and despite herself, Halla trembled, cursing inwardly when she saw him mark her fear.
“Ah, my daughter,” he said, in a pleasantly pitched voice, then strolled toward her. “The Lady of… where was it?” He fingered her matted hair, then took a step back and covered his nose with a soiled cloth. “Of the sty, perhaps?”
Halla, staring defiantly past him, willed herself to stand tall.
The man’s gaze swung to the other women. “You’re to cleanse yourselves, all of you!” he barked. “Palto, see to it that they’re thorough!” He spun on his heel and strode toward the foredeck.
“You heard the cap’n!” ordered the growler, who now had a name. “Strip and wash yourselves!”
The women obediently began to drop their soiled shifts. Halla was happy to do so, and to feel the warmth of the sun against her bared skin. They were given water, ladles to scoop it over their heads, and rough bars of soap to scour off the grime. Halla submitted to Donka’s and Tsura’s ministrations as they lathered her abundant tresses, then she helped them with theirs. When at last they were all clean, they stood shivering on the deck under the eyes of the leering men.
The captain came back to inspect them. “Arms to your sides!” he ordered, and the women reluctantly dropped their shielding hands.
Only Halla had not tried to cover herself. She stood brazenly before him, her gaze fastened on the mast above his head. But when he came to stand before her, she couldn’t resist flicking a look at him, and was alarmed to see the lust in his eyes. “A fine form,” he remarked. “Too tall and muscular, but otherwise… near perfect.”
He ran a finger around the curve of Halla’s breast. Instinctively, she slapped his hand away. His eyes widened, and she braced herself as he raised his fist. She was as surprised as any of them when he let it drop with a bark of laughter. “Oh, my beauty,” he said softly, an evil glint in his black eyes. “You’re spared for that impudence only because you’ll not fetch as much bruised and blue. But you’ll pay all the same, my lady. Oh yes, you’ll pay.”
He moved on to Donka and the others, demanding to see their teeth and ordering them to turn slowly before him, making crude comments all the while. Although he didn’t glance again in Halla’s direction, she could sense his rancor, and she was certain he would make good on his threat.
After inspection, they were returned belowdecks. Halla was gratified to see the crew had removed the filthy straw and scattered a few dried rushes about. New linen shifts were distributed, along with several combs to wrestle the tangles from their hair, with orders to braid it. Unused to plaiting her own unruly curls, Halla struggled with the task, and Nadoma silently took over.
“You’ll bear watching, donja mea,” Nadoma murmured. Her voice held a grudging respect.
“We must be arriving at port soon,” Donka said. “That’s why they’ve allowed us to bathe.”
“I didn’t see land on the horizon,” said Halla.
“But you saw the birds, didn’t you? We’re not far from some coast, and judging from the sun, I’d guess we’re nearing the continent.”
That night, none of them slept.
* * *
At first light, orders were shouted and pounding feet above them ran to carry them out in a sudden flurry of activity. The women clustered together in small, protective groups; Halla sat with Donka, Tsura, and their young cousins, Aila and Carola. Aila’s atrous eyes, fringed with sweeping lashes, were bright with tears. She can’t be more than twelve, thought Halla, squeezing the girl’s hand reassuringly.
The rattle of the anchor chain reeling to the seabed signaled the end of their voyage. After what seemed an interminable time, Palto descended to the hold, followed by several men in uniforms of bright coquelicot ornately braided with gold. Their hair was tied back in long dark ringlets, and their peaked, pillowed caps sprouted slender white feathers.
Donka gripped Halla’s forearm. “Albrenians,” she hissed. The cousins covered their eyes, but Nadoma stared boldly at the newcomers.
Despite the fresh rushes, it seemed the air in the hold was not to the officials’ liking, for they both pulled lace handkerchiefs from their sleeves to cover their noses. When their eyes lingered on Halla, she glared at them. After conferring briefly in Albrenian, the men climbed awkwardly back up the ladder, hampered by their long-toed slippers.
“Inspecting the inventory,” Nadoma muttered. She spat and uttered a crude oath. “They were particularly interested in your little circle,” she said, looking directly at Donka and Halla. When Carola, her cousin, whimpered, Nadoma rounded on her. “It’s no good weeping. We’re all destined for the market. The best we can hope for is that some of us are bought together—to share the burden of our master’s demands.”
Halla forced herself to shut out the horrific images this conjured up. She knew nothing about Albrenia or its customs. Slavery was forbid
den in Drinnglennin, and to take a woman by force was a crime, although it happened often enough all the same.
A commotion overhead silenced them all, then Palto’s bristly face appeared at the top of the stairs. “You’re ta come up now!” he snarled.
None of them moved.
Halla found herself exchanging a glance with Nadoma. By unspoken agreement, they started together toward the ladder. The older woman went first, Halla followed, and the others climbed up behind her.
Halla blinked in the brilliant light, then blinked again at the sprawling white city rising from the edge of the crystalline sea. Flat roofs, like giants’ stairs, stacked up the cluttered hills to a tiered castle of horseshoe arches crowned with golden domes. They reminded Halla of the hats worn by the port officials, who were now being rowed back to the docks. Strains of strange music, unintelligible shouts, and the squawks of seagulls mingled with the clanging of the cordage as the crew worked at lowering the sails.
“Behold, my lady,” murmured a snide voice close to Halla’s ear. “Segavia—where your destiny awaits.”
Halla and the other women were ordered down into shore boats, then rowed to the docks. More orders were shouted as the oars were shipped and they were herded onto the pier. Halla was uncomfortably aware of the appraising eyes of bystanders as Palto secured them together with ropes, wrist to wrist, and they were led through the labyrinth of the great bazaar that bordered the docks.
In other circumstances, Halla would have marveled at the sights she beheld: the fragrant waxes stacked higher than her head, the cones of caramel-colored sugar, the baskets of gingers and comfits, the rolls of fine camlets stamped with exotic flowers, lambskins and fine taffeta from the East, vast arrays of gemstones— jasper, rubies, topazes, chalcedonies, amethysts, beryls, and jacinths—and vials of rose water, attar, and fragrant oils. But she was not here to make purchases from this cornucopia—she was just another piece of the merchandise. She moved forward as if blinded by the colors and deaf to the cacophony around her.
The mocking words of the captain taunted her as he separated her from the other women and pushed her into a cage at the edge of a broad scaffold. Clutching the bars, she watched in mute horror as the rest of her traveling companions were stripped, prodded, and sold, then bound once more and led away.
It was just Halla who was left behind, with only the echo of her captor’s jeer to keep her company.
Segavia—where your destiny awaits.
Chapter 24
Maura
The distant skirl of pipes drew Leif to Maura’s window. “It’s coming from over by the river,” he declared, pulling his head back in. “I think I’ll be able to hear them better from my room. Will you come?”
Pleading indisposition, Maura declined. “I’m for my bed,” she said. “Why don’t you go down and find out which side won?”
She hadn’t minded missing the mob ball match today, but Leif had been bitterly disappointed. They’d both been required to serve in daily attendance on her royal uncle since the Twyrn, and the long tedious hours were taking their toll. Her head hurt, as it did so often these days, and she wondered if only a reunion with Ilyria could rid her of the dull, persistent ache.
Leif brightened at the suggestion. “I think I will.”
As he slipped out the door, Maura lost no time in crawling between her satin sheets. The pipes droned on, drawing nearer before diminishing to a lone player, who sounded as though he was passing by in the gardens below. Too tired to rise and close the casement, Maura let the slow, haunting notes lead her down into her dreams.
* * *
It wasn’t until the next morning that Maura learned the piping had signaled the tragic death of young Cole of Windend. Heulwin, who had broken this news, said the entire court was reeling with shock and horror—Another anonymous targeting of a noble, and this one successful! Shot with an arrow fletched with the same feathers as the one that barely missed our High King! Treachery and intrigue are afoot!
Maura’s immediate reaction was to seek Borne Braxton, both to offer her condolences and to ask if there was any news from his friend about Master Morgan.
She sent apologies for her absence to her uncle, then headed out to find Netley Street, where Borne had told her he resided. Heulwin insisted on accompanying her, and Maura acquiesced rather than expend the time in trying to dissuade her. It turned out to be a good thing the maid was persistent, as once they had secured horses from the royal stable, Maura realized she hadn’t the slightest idea where to find the lodgings she sought. Heulwin did, and happily took charge.
They passed under the festive banners of the ill-fated game as they entered the Grand Square. Scavengers were sifting through the debris left by spectators, merchants had set to work prying the boards from their windows, and a few early marketers were making their way to the stalls, but otherwise the streets were eerily empty.
They turned up Fulcrum Lane and rode past the charming residences in the old sector of the capital. Netley Street veered off to the right, and soon they were reining in before a handsome house latticed with dark beams under a peaked roof. The door was just swinging open as they arrived, and a great dog padded out, followed by its master, his hat pulled low.
Maura slipped off her horse. The dog scented her and fanned its bushy tail in greeting.
Borne looked up, and for a breath, Maura glimpsed his sorrow. Then a mask of civility fell. “My lady,” he said, his voice without inflection. “May I be of service?”
Maura handed her reins to Heulwin. “I… I came to offer my condolences for your young friend. I’m so very sorry.” Instinctively, she reached out her hand, but let it drop when he ignored it.
Gazing fixedly past her shoulder, he replied, “Thank you. Yes, so am I.”
“Have you organized to contact the earl? Is there anything I can do?”
“Regrettably, I’ve had to send a courier to break the news to Lord Heptorious. Like all who participated in the Twyrn, I am still restrained here by the king’s command.”
Only the tightening of his jaw hinted at what this exchange was costing him. But Maura knew only too well the burden of grief. Cole had been only a few years older than Dal.
“If there’s anything…”
“Thank you.” Borne made a short bow. His eyes held no warmth. “I must beg your pardon, my lady. There are things to be arranged.” With a curt nod, he stepped past her and strode off down the street, the dog at his heels.
“M’lady?” Heulwin had already turned their horses. “It’s best we return to the castle. It won’t do you or the young sir any good for folks to see you standing here outside his residence.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Yet Maura remained staring after Borne until he had turned the corner, as though she were still held in his cornflower gaze.
Her thoughts lingered on the encounter as she and Heulwin retraced their steps through the waking city. She felt slightly foolish for having acted on her impulse to comfort Borne, who had been firmly discouraging. Yet there was no denying the pain she’d glimpsed behind his guarded eyes. She understood that his sorrow was still raw, and there was nothing to be done about that—but she resolved to seize whatever opportunity presented itself to help ease his heartache. They were both far from home.
She realized she hadn’t taken the opportunity to ask Borne if there’d been any news of the wizard. Under the circumstances, she hadn’t wanted to further burden him with her own cares, and she reasoned that if his friend had heard back from Master Morgan, he would have told her.
When they arrived back at the castle, a page in Nelvorboth livery was waiting outside her chamber door with a sealed missive.
“A reply is requested, milady.”
Maura waited until she was alone in her rooms before she broke the letter’s seal. The firm handwriting was familiar to her.
My dear Lady Maura,
By now, you will have heard of the unhappy conclusion of the mob ball yesterday. I wish to beg the pleasure of your company for Eventide, at which we can offer our prayers for the deceased Lord Cole, then perhaps afterward we might share a private supper. I’ve been told His Majesty will not attend the services, but we shall be properly chaperoned by any attendants you wish to bring.
May I expect you at the chapel in the east wing this evening?
With fondest regards,
R.
Maura sighed. With the exception of his very public request for her favor at the Twyrn, Lord Roth of Nelvorboth had been unfailingly polite and deferential to her. She could find no fault with the man—comely, courtly, humble—but surely his attentions would be more appropriately bent on a more accomplished noblewoman of his circle. Maura hoped to return soon to Mithralyn and her dragon. It had never been her intention to get caught up in a court dalliance.
However, it wouldn’t do to offend the knight. He was of a powerful house, and although she felt no threat from him, she had to be ever on her guard, for one misstep could give much away that should remain concealed. She decided she would accept the invitation to join the man at prayers. She was far less comfortable with the idea of a dinner alone, even if, as he indicated, Heulwin would be present.
She couldn’t deny that a small part of her was flattered by his attention. Surely there could be no harm in enjoying his company for the brief time she would be in Drinnkastel. All her life she’d done what was expected of her by her parents, and these past weeks she’d been at the High King’s bidding. Wasn’t it time for her to enjoy a little frivolous pleasure? After all, soon she would return to preparing for the time when she must honor her oath of fealty to the next true heir to the Einhorn Throne.
Feeling a bit reckless, she scribbled her reply before she could change her mind. The page turned to bear it away and nearly collided with Leif, who came careening around the corner.
“You’ve been out riding?” he said, taking in her attire. “So you’ve heard the news about Lord Cole of Windend?”
