by Grace Martin
I suppose I’d expected more guards on the other side of the gate. I’d expected that it was going to be regimented, that there would be someone to make sure we didn’t try to escape. I thought there would be cells and watchtowers and guards with grim faces. Instead, there was nothing but a pile of garbage.
I turned to Ronan, then back at the wasteland before us, like it would change in the interim. There was trash everywhere, sheets of metal piled against one another, rags tied in big balls, discarded pottery, bits of wood scattered everywhere, here and there a recognisable piece of furniture, damaged beyond repair.
‘What is this place?’ I whispered.
I may think I’m hilarious, but when you ask a question like that the last thing you want to hear is a chuckle.
I turned around in a slow circle but couldn’t see anyone besides Ronan and Lynnevet and neither of them thought I was very funny anyway.
‘Who’s there?’ I called.
Still the laughing continued.
‘Show yourself, you creepy bastard!’ I shouted.
‘Don’t… antagonise them… Emer!’ Ronan whispered. Let’s be honest, not antagonising people isn’t exactly my special skill.
‘Show yourself, I said!’
There was a sound of metal scraping on metal. I turned to face the source of the sound and saw one of the piles of metal sheets sliding open. A man emerged, dressed in a collection of rags and damaged armour barely held together by frayed rope. A smile was dragged across his lean face and he clearly thought he was just as hilarious as I am. Around his head was a crown, made of hundreds of strands of wire, clumsily braided and woven together.
He came towards us. I didn’t dare take my eyes off him because this man was obviously more cracked than an egg. I’d seen that look on a creepyguardian’s face once, before they took her away. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. More people were emerging from the piles of garbage, which I was now realising were primitive shelters. They moved slowly, carefully around us. Surrounding us.
Ronan was tense beside me. He must have seen what they were doing. Lynnevet moved into the tiny space between me and Ronan and hooked her fingers into the back of my belt.
‘Welcome, welcome!’ the stranger cried, still smiling that unnaturally broad smile. ‘Welcome, my new subjects! Welcome to Solastel, the Slaves’ Spire. I am Yar Yarinann, henceforth your King.’
He bowed, although I was pretty sure it was supposed to be the subjects, not the King who bowed. Perhaps when the King is a Slave, the rules are reversed.
‘I’m Meran,’ I lied, because this man didn’t deserve my real name. ‘This is my friend, Ruairi and my sister Elann.’
Yar Yarinann kept smiling too broadly at us while the men ‒ and they were all men ‒ tightened their perimeter around us. I noticed that they were all dressed alike, in mud-coloured padded suits, thick gloves on their hands, boots in good repair and strange padded helmets that covered nearly all their faces. The muddy colour of their clothes made them look curiously indistinct, like the earth had formed itself into the shape of men but wasn’t capable of adding sufficient detail.
I pressed a little closer to Ronan and his arm came around me and Lynnevet. ‘It’s all right,’ he murmured.
‘Not exactly,’ Yar Yarinann said. ‘It won’t be all right. If you’re good, it might be all right later. Right now, though, my Quarantine men will take you to the tombs.’
‘Tombs?’ Ronan asked.
‘Quarantine-’ I repeated and didn’t have time to say any more before they grabbed us. Throughout the whole of it, as the Quarantine men ripped me away from Ronan and then tore Lynnevet from my arms, as we screamed and shouted and fought, as they dragged us across the garbage-strewn plain away from each other, Yar Yarinann didn’t stop smiling for a moment.
My arms were pinned tightly to my sides by the Quarantine man behind me. I managed to keep my feet, but even if I’d just let my legs drag on the ground, we wouldn’t have gone any slower or faster. It was only that by staying upright, I managed to retain just a little more dignity.
He took me to a small mound, covered with garbage. There was another Quarantine man with him. I looked over my shoulder and saw the other Quarantine man pulling aside what had probably once been the top of a table, now used as a door. Beyond it was in darkness.
I lost my footing as soon as we moved from the light to the dark. The ground beneath us was uneven and sloped sharply downwards. It smelled musty and I fancied I could hear screaming in the distance. We didn’t go far into the dark before the Quarantine man stopped and let me go.
I tried to dash straight back to the entrance but one of them grabbed me, without saying so much as a word. I had the feeling they’d done all this before, and I wasn’t sure exactly how terrified I was supposed to be by their efficiency. One of them held me from behind, while the other one came around to face me.
My eyes were adjusting to the darkness, but it was still very dark in there. All I could make out were a few general shapes and it was made worse by the blandness of the Quarantine man’s uniform. He took off the padded helmet and I saw his face in the gloom. Once I made eye contact, I couldn’t look away.
He stared at me, like he was talking to me, his mouth even opened and closed, but he didn’t speak. Behind me, the man pinning my arms down shook his head. I couldn’t see him do it, but I felt the movement. The man in front of me frowned. He raised his hands to his neck and made an odd flicking gesture with his fingers, then moved his hands down his chest a few inches and made the movement again, then moved his hands and did it again.
I went cold all over. ‘No,’ I whispered. ‘Oh, please, I beg you, don’t.’
He shook his head, then made the gestures again. Now that I’d figured it out, it was clear he was miming unbuttoning a shirt. He wanted me to do it myself. My breath caught. There were two of them and I couldn’t escape. I was still covered in feathers. I couldn’t reach my magic. I still carried Umbra invisible within me, but in the featherskin, I couldn’t even use Umbra’s power where she resided in my brow. The thought crossed my mind that I should just submit, just let it happen. Maybe it would be less painful if I didn’t fight, if I pretended I was participating.
But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t even move. My arms were limp at my sides and if the man behind me hadn’t been holding me up, I wasn’t sure my legs would have supported me. ‘Please don’t make me,’ I whispered and realised I was crying.
The man bowed his head for a moment, then grunted and looked up again. He compressed his lips briefly, then, without taking his eyes off my face, took off his gloves.
I stopped whispering and started screaming when he reached out to take my clothes off. The man behind me held me so tightly I couldn’t escape as his friend stripped me naked. In the end, I stood there, weeping. The Quarantine man scooped up all my clothes, then, to my utter disbelief, turned and left the tomb. The Quarantine man behind me let me go. I fell down into a crouch, my arms crossed around my body, as he left, too. He dropped something soft beside me before he left. I picked it up eventually. It was a ragged dress.
I had no idea what had just happened.
I had plenty of time to think about it. I was completely alone. I explored my tomb. The walls were made of roughly cut rock, like a hive, without any windows. The only entrance or exit was the door I’d entered through and it was blocked by the table.
I tried to push against the table, but there must have been something heavy holding it in place because I couldn’t even budge it. That night, when the sun set and the moon rose, I tried to position myself so the moonlight fell on my bare, feathered skin, but the tomb was facing the wrong direction and I couldn’t even see the moon. I watched its light track along the piles of garbage until all hope of rejuvenating my magic was gone.
There were some supplies in the tomb. In one corner was a small barrel with a tap near the base, full of water. There was even a wooden cup on top of the barrel. Beside the barrel was a bask
et containing rounds of a hard, dry bread, almost like a savoury biscuit. There was a blanket, stitched together from the remnants of other blankets, folded neatly in the corner. I was fed, watered and warm. There had been times in my life when I couldn’t have laid claim to so much, and I wouldn’t have minded, if it hadn’t been a tomb.
There was too much time to think. Sparrow was gone. David was held firmly in Maldwyn’s hands. Lynnevet and Ronan had been snatched away from me and the very best I could hope for them was that they, too, had been entombed alive. And Caradoc was dead, killed by lightning from Aoife’s fingertips.
There was far too much time to cry in the tomb.
I was sparing in drinking the water and eating the bread. It was hard to keep myself from eating when there was nothing else to do. I tried to occupy myself with digging my way free, but the tomb was made of solid rock. I tried to push past the table, but whatever held it in place was stronger than I was. I contented myself with picking at the wood, removing one splinter at a time until my fingertips were a bloodied mess.
Then, one morning, many mornings later, the Quarantine men came back. I woke up before the night was past and sat behind the table, picking at the wood in the dark. I noticed that the thin strip of sky at the top of the table was growing lighter, but I was already accustomed to time ceasing to matter. Who cared if I was up at night? I couldn’t get out under the moonlight. Who cared if I slept during the day? No one even knew I was there.
They moved the table away from the doorway so quickly I didn’t even have a chance to get up. I felt like a child who’d been caught doing something naughty, sitting on the bare rock floor, my arm still extended towards where the table used to be.
The two same men were standing there in the blinding daylight. I squinted at them and belatedly brought my hands up to protect my eyes.
I heard one of the men gasp. The other groaned.
‘What?’ I asked. I looked down at myself ‒ thin, pale, barely covered by the short, ragged shift, but more than covered by the coating of feathers. I looked back up at them and wasn’t ready to read compassion on their faces.
One of them crouched down in front of me and reached out to take my hands. It was a wonder I hadn’t worn them down to stumps. Even the feathers were worn away from my fingertips. The fingers were scratched and bloody, inflamed and swollen in places where I hadn’t been able to get the splinters out of the skin.
They looked terribly painful, but I barely felt anything. The Quarantine man held my hands, sighing when he turned them over and saw the damage to the palms. He looked up and caught my gaze. He rested both my hands in one of his and then put his other hand over his heart.
I sighed too. ‘You can’t speak, can you?’ I asked.
He shook his head.
‘I wish I knew why I was here,’ I said. ‘I know you can’t answer, but I wish I knew.’
He cupped his hand around his ear.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, are you hard of hearing?’ I asked. ‘I didn’t think-’
He cut me off by putting his hand up between us. He repeated the gesture, cupping his hand around his ear. Then he reached towards my ear and barely touched it.
‘You want me to listen?’
He nodded, then touched the side of my face with his fingertips, at the temple. He stared at me. I stared back until he shook his head and pulled his hand away.
He stood up and drew me to my feet. He led me away from the tomb, over a field of garbage. The other Quarantine man followed us.
There was another wall, barely visible behind the mound of garbage piled up against it. The only section of wall clear from garbage was a set of gates. They were also constructed from odds and ends and wouldn’t stand up to a determined foe, but they would keep out ‒ or keep in ‒ a young woman who’d had her strength sapped by being held in a tomb for a month.
The gatekeepers must have seen us coming. The gates clattered open and a group of half a dozen men in mismatched armour came to meet us. The Quarantine men bowed and the guards nodded in haughty assent. One of the Quarantine men put his hand reassuringly on my shoulder.
I turned to watch them go when they walked away. A guard took my arm to turn me to walk with them, but I still cast one last glance at the strange, silent men who had been so terrifying and so gentle. The gates closed them from my sight.
Chapter Nine
I was in a settlement. To call it a village would be too generous. There were shelters that couldn’t be called houses, flattened stretches of mud that couldn’t be called roads. People paused for a moment to watch me pass then went on with what they were doing. Whatever was happening to me, it wasn’t anything unusual. Whether that was reassuring or terrifying remained to be seen.
Call me stupid, but I still hadn’t adjusted to the idea of being alive again. I let them lead me. They took me to Yar Yarinann, still with that dreadful smile pasted on his face.
‘Glad to see you haven’t died of some terrible disease,’ he said, like that was still an option.
I shrugged. ‘Can’t please everyone’ I muttered. He was sitting on a chair atop what could only be described as a pile of garbage. Bits of old furniture piled into a heap, stuffed with rags and shards of pottery made Yar Yarinann a throne.
He ignored me, which is usually the best course of action, but it’s one that never fails to rub me the wrong way. I started to get, let’s call it… tetchy.
‘You are one of us now,’ he said. ‘You are a slave and I am your King. You may make yourself a shelter from the abundant resources of my realm. Food will be provided for you, according to the usefulness of your work. What is your name?’
I considered lying again. I felt like this smug, smiling bastard had no right to the name that Caradoc had used, but something stopped me. I already hated Yar Yarinann with every fibre of my being and I resented his assumption that I was nothing and fit only to serve him. I’d lost Sparrow, Caradoc, David and everyone else I’d ever loved. I had nothing left but my name.
And attitude.
I flung my head back and eyeballed the Slave King. I raised my voice so the few people vaguely interested in the proceedings could hear me.
‘I am Emer of Rheged, Bach Chwaer to the Empress of the Thousand Counties, sister to Umbra and rightful Queen of Meistria. One day, Yar Yarinann, my name will be known by all and you will be forgotten, except for the memory of what I did to you.’
Yar Yarinann didn’t stop smiling, but he did look suddenly interested. He made a small gesture. One of the guards beside me turned suddenly and struck me so hard across the face that I fell to the ground. I was in a good position to see him draw his foot back ready to kick me.
‘Stop!’ a man shouted. He looked like he was about a thousand years old, lean and white haired. The guards seemed to listen to him.
‘Don’t hurt her!’ he cried. He bent down to help me to my feet. ‘Emer, are you all right?’ he asked, raising his hand to my face. Healing magic warmed up the bruise and the pain went away. I felt the warmth travel to my hands. I hadn’t realised how much they hurt until the pain went away.
‘She’s just a stupid girl, crazy from her time in the tombs,’ the old man said. ‘Have mercy, great King Yar Yarinann, on this fool of a girl. Everyone remembers Umbra when they’re in the tombs. This young idiot has convinced herself she’s famous!’
He laughed and the people laughed with him.
Yar Yarinann didn’t laugh. ‘You are often wise, Cuchulainn,’ he said, ‘but you overestimate my mercy. As ridiculous as it sounds, we know that the Bach Chwaer promised to return to us. One day she will return. This girl is very young, but so was the Bach Chwaer.’ He leaned forward and his smile grew even broader. ‘And do you remember what people said about the Bach Chwaer? She was the most powerful mage in history. Not since Umbra has there been a mage so powerful.’
‘What do you care if she is a mage or not?’ Cuchulainn asked, still holding my hand. ‘She will serve you, the same as all of us.’
‘She will serve me as I decide she will serve me, not you, Cuchulainn. Put her in the cage in the moonlight and remove the featherskin. In the morning, we shall see how she fares.’
‘The cage? No ‒ let her go!’ The guard pulled me away from the old man. He tried to grasp hold of me again, but the guards came between us. They pushed him away. He went backwards, stumbled and fell.
He looked at me for a moment as the guards started to draw me away. Cuchulainn leaped to his feet and ran towards us.
I thought an old man would last about two seconds in a fight with men half his age, but he was holding his own. There was half a dozen of them against him, but it was only moments before it was obvious that Cuchulainn was a skilled fighter. I could barely follow his movements. One guard hooked an arm around me and started to drag me away. I turned my head to watch the small battle raging behind me. The guards were younger than Cuchulainn, stronger, but every move he made efficiently incapacitated the younger men.
As he fought, I glimpsed a small blue bead tied into his white hair. That was a Camiri custom. A blue bead represented a lost comrade. Back in the days when the Empress ruled Meistria she had kept the Camiri people enslaved, forced them to bear children and stolen their children to be raised as warriors for her army. They were trained from childhood to be ruthless warriors. Cuchulainn was unmistakably one of the Camiri Brutes. Caradoc had also been a Brute. I had never seen Caradoc fight, but seeing Cuchulainn trounce the younger guards made me wish I had.
A man stepped out of the crowd that was quickly growing around them. He flung himself in front of Cuchulainn and grasped him by the shoulders. Cuchulainn tried to pull away, but he didn’t strike this man. ‘Stop it, my Lord! She isn’t worth it!’ He put his face close to Cuchulainn’s and only the guards and I heard his whisper, ‘Remember our cause ‒ you do us no good by antagonising the King!’
