by Geno Allen
What brought me here? He now wondered. If she's gone, why should I not have something I desire? He looked around again and saw the people carousing. Jealousy rose in his heart. No one has ever chosen to be close to me as these ladies do with the men I see here, and I have risked all that I am at another’s will. Several such thoughts ran through his mind before his reason took a sharp stand. If I don’t pursue Raine’s rescue until either I succeed or am assured of its failure, then I will have failed her and Galwen and Molly and Tearis…he realized there was another he would be failing… and myself.
He looked closer at those staggering from one building to another. It was their eyes that told the true tale. There was no happiness there, nor could he see compassion in more than a handful. “That is not who I desire to be.” a tug of war still played in his heart.
As he tried to find some semblance of peace inside himself, a nobleman’s squire, only a few years younger than Zam, bumped into a drunken man as he passed and was struck to the ground near Zam’s feet. Zam helped him up. “You all right there?”
The boy dusted himself off and looked at Zam, surprised by the help. “Yeah, I’m all right, M’lord. And I thank ye. I best be returnin’ to me master.”
Zam nodded. The boy turned to leave, but Zam called out, “Boy?” The squire turned back. “Would you know if the Coriaerans are at market?”
The boy smiled. “Oh yes, M’lord. Ye can find their women toward the other end of the market in the stone courtyard.” A troubled look fell over Zam as he thought of facing down his own will, there where the most beautiful slaves would be brought before him. The boy saw his dismay and quickly added, “Unless it's their mercenaries ye seek. They’re a little farther beyond.”
“Thank you.” Zam said.
“Aye, M’lord.”
The boy turned again to find his master, and Zam continued on to the courtyard, all the while trying to ensure that his heart and mind would stay the course, that he was not the young man he had seen in the mirror, that he would not sacrifice Raine for his desire to feel, for once, that he had power over another.
The path to the stone courtyard was full of staggering, stumbling, drunken men and women. Two or three times women threw themselves into Zam’s arms and offered him mugs of ale and a few private hours with them, if only he had some coins to spare. He graciously declined. One woman spat on him for declining, and another accused him of only wanting “those Coriaeran harlots.” Zam apologized and quickly moved on.
As he approached the outer walls of the courtyard he recognized the Coriaeran standard waving in the wind. It was just as he had painted it.
As if on cue, a nearby man said to a youth walking beside him, “Coriaeran standard, Boy. Heralds the best warmth that can be had in winter.” The boy laughed, and another man passing by added, “That is, if you can afford it.”
Fear stirred in Zam again, growing to an uneasy anticipation as he pushed past the arched entryway into the courtyard and through the tightly packed crowd to stand in front. A Coriaeran slave dealer listed the benefits of each woman as he paraded them before the men to bid. This one was good for child bearing; that one had eyes that could seduce your soul; another had this quality, and another that.
Zam watched as the slaves passed, longing, hoping that soon he would see Raine. Every so often his heart raced. A couple of the women who passed had Raine’s color of hair, and some were very appealing to the eye. He found himself battling again, having a tug of war in his heart. That one was beautiful, the next exotic, but Raine would be coming out soon, and she needed saving.
Suddenly his heart leapt up into his throat. There she was. Amid hoots and howls, the slave he had waited for was brought forth, the most desirable of the lot. Not Raine, but the one from his reflection in Seven Mirrors.
Only then did he realize he’d been waiting as expectantly for her as he had for Raine. Her raven hair, olive skin, alluring face, and pleasing frame painted her a stark contrast to all of the other slaves that had passed by. Zam’s heart skipped a beat. She was beautiful. Her eyes were captivating. She turned her head and caught Zam’s gaze, holding it longer than any other. He found that he desired her, against his will. She mouthed something he could not hear, but he knew the words just the same: I am yours, just as she had said in the mirror.
Her seductive lips were crimson red and held his imagination long after the words were spoken. Desiring her, Zam closed his eyes, hoping, against himself, that the seductive lines of her mouth would clear from his mind. He swallowed hard against the lump forming in his throat as the bidding on this slave began.
He tried to strengthen his heart. “I am not who I have seen in the mirror.”
The image of the harlot’s lips remained. I am yours.
“I am not who I have seen in the mirror,”
I am yours.
Her eyes, her hair, her lips, the body beneath her gown.... I am yours.
Zam paused a few seconds more. “Elyon,” he said quietly. “I am not strong, but I long to fulfill this task you have set me on.” Two men had bid on the slave already.
Part of him reveled in the fact that he had enough money to purchase whomever he chose. And part of him feared his own choice. He opened his mouth as if to bid, but stopped short. “This is not me,” he said to himself. I am not that man. He turned his back to the slave and added firmly. “I will not be that man.” A realization struck. “I don’t have to be that man.”
There was a sudden release of the tension which had nearly led him to purchase the woman. Just then a blustery nobleman shouted out. “I must have her! Fifteen hundred durras should be more than sufficient! I dare any man here to match my price!”
Zam opened his eyes and looked at the nobleman, relieved that the temptation had passed, but just as quickly came an arrogant thought: I could match his price.
Zam reached for the bag of jewels as he turned back toward the exquisite slave. Zam the tyrant flashed through his mind, followed by Zam the arrogant adventurer. But what kind of man would that make me? He returned the bag of jewels to his belt, finally resolute, waiting for Raine.
As the nobleman paid for and claimed his prize, Zam saw that the beauty of the slave was somehow diminished, as though the seductive sheen had been removed. She glared at him with hatred in her eyes—the hatred borne of a Seritheen's failed plan. Zam could almost see the creature clinging to her as she left with her new owner. The realization that a Seritheen had prompted her interest in him made his blood run cold. Had he seen that first, the battle would have ended the moment it began.
With that challenge over, he was deeply grateful for the reprieve from battling his will. The afternoon passed as slave after slave was brought before the crowd and sold. Slowly, men acquired their prizes and the courtyard began to empty out. It was near to evening, and the sun had just begun to change the color of its light when the head trader informed everyone that only one bedding maid remained. Zam’s heart rose. He was preparing to mimic the blustery nobleman in daring any man to meet his price.
The last girl was brought out. To Zam’s dismay, it was not Raine. This girl was purchased quickly by a wealthy merchant, and the courtyard continued to clear.
Zam stood there in shock. Corben had been right. Raine was not there.
He could not think.
He could not cry.
He simply stood.
An elder Coriaeran man dressed in fine robes, intricately stitched with gold and blues, began to pass by and said with a heavy accent, “Selling’s done, young one.”
“Are there no others?”
Zam’s sorrowful tone caught the Coriaeran’s attention and he stopped. “Price run too high?” he asked in broken Cairemian. “You were look for wife? Not just... warmth? I see many time... young man leave empty handed, but purse still full.” The old man smiled and patted Zam’s shoulder. “Buy from own people. Easier make woman happy.”
Zam knew the man meant well, but he couldn’t possibly understand. “No,
Sir. The girl I sought is of my people, but I expected she would arrive here from Coriaer.” The man scanned Zam’s eyes. “Is Raine Dorria of who you speak?”
The surprise on Zam’s face told the old man it was. He said with excitement, “She is here, but she is not bedding maid. She is mercenary. She have been displayed two days, but none have buy her. She is fierce more than those who want her. She battles rich man now. If he best her, he buy her.”
A thrill of fear ran through Zam. “Take me there, please!”
The old man led Zam as quickly as he could to the place where the mercenaries were sold. There, in a makeshift ring fashioned of rope and wooden stakes, clad in ornate armor and looking very little like the young girl from the painting, Raine Dorria was locked in battle with a rich lord nearly twice her size. Her amber hair flowed in the wind, and her face was radiant in the slowly waning light.
She twisted and turned this way and that, striking, blocking, and parrying. The lord drove fiercely at her, “Mercenary or no, when I best you, my bedding wench you'll be.”
Her eyes, blue as the sea, blazed with fury born of determination that she would not be owned. “I am not to be won or bought,” she said, parrying, turning his own force upon him, and driving him back. “And let me add, to sooth your wounded pride once I have beaten you, far greater swordsmen than yourself have failed to best me.”
It was not so much arrogance in her voice as it was confidence. Zam knew the skill with which she had been trained and saw the way her words undermined the lord.
“I will have you!” the lord shouted as he swung his blade back and around, bringing it across her arm. The intricately etched armor and the high-collared Coriaeran blouse she wore beneath had no sleeves. The lord’s blade slid across her bare skin. She turned as swiftly as he struck evading the force of the blow, but the blade drew blood nonetheless.
A cheer rose up from the crowd, and the old man beside Zam explained. “This, the first strike touched Raine Dorria in two day.”
The lord reveled in having struck her, but Raine pressed the attack. “I will not be had by a braggart, or by one who would take me against my will!”
The lord blocked her blows and returned them.
Raine countered with absolute grace. She was stunning to behold in battle. Zam imagined her as a young warrior queen in days of old, full of fury and strength, but somehow grace and compassion also.
Once more she attacked her foe, before him, beside him, in moments behind him. He struggled to keep his footing. Another blow was struck, and the lord nearly lost his sword. He stumbled and Raine swept his feet out from under him, bringing her sword down lightly upon his chin while kicking his sword from his hand. “One more defeated foe,” she said as she sheathed her sword. The crowd cheered.
Zam was deeply impressed. Raine reached her hand out to the lord who had not bested her and helped him to his rather dejected feet.
Zam called out to the merchant overseeing her sale, “Good Sir, I would like to buy this one.”
From across the ring the slave peddler laughed, as did all who had been watching her fight. “You and every other man who has left this ring bloodied and bruised these last two days.”
Raine walked to the edge of the ring and looked Zam squarely in the eyes. “I do not wish to be bought, Sir.”
The old Coriaeran who led Zam over added, “Prince’s command—Raine Dorria cannot to be sold unless buyer best her with sword.”
Zam looked at Raine with the care he had grown to feel for her in all these months and smiled. “After that display, I don't know that I am able to best you, Raine Dorria, but if I’m to take you from this place, I suppose I must try.” Zam’s tone and the look in his eye gave Raine pause.
The merchant laughed. “Boy, you are no match for this fine warrior! You’re no older or stronger than my boy. When he took his foolish chance with her, he lost. This girl’s bested men stronger than I!”
Zam turned his gaze from Raine to the merchant. “Neither age nor stature will win a battle.” He said then turned again to meet Raine’s eyes. “Rather heart and skill are what’s required.”
Those words struck something in Raine. She looked at him strangely for a moment then took a battle-ready stance. The merchant chuckled and shook his head. “Do as you will, but all those who want to attempt, must put down something in trust before the slave will be put at risk.”
Zam reached in his satchel, pulled out a ruby the size of his thumb, and tossed it to the merchant.
“Well, that’ll do!” was the somewhat shocked response, followed by, “Pray she doesn't do to you what she did to my boy. I warned him that she was beyond his skills, but he said her beauty and passion bewitched him. He'll be limping for weeks.”
Zam drew his sword and stepped into the ring. “Is there a formal start, or do we simply begin?”
Raine quickly launched the first assault. Zam blocked, parried, and said with a smile, “I take it we just start,”
Raine nodded and attacked again.
It was impressive to watch the battle that ensued. Here, there, behind, around, strike after strike, block after block. Raine’s wide blade sweeping close to Zam’s face, his heart, his legs; Zam’s picture-perfect deflection of Raine’s onslaught. Those who stood by were awed by the precision of the battle.
Small crowds had gathered to watch each time Raine had battled in these last two days, but now a far greater crowd gathered. She had defeated all other challengers rather quickly, but here she seemed matched, blow for blow, block for block, strike for strike. Both combatants hoped to tire the other, she with her attack, he with his endurance. Twice, locked blades sent a thrill through the crowd as a disarming seemed close at hand.
Raine said, “You’re a better swordsman than I expected,”
Zam, obviously enamored of her, smiled at the remark. “Your skill is every bit what I imagined.” He pushed back against Raine’s blade, gaining some room and attacked again.
As the battle continued Raine could not help but wonder at the young man before her. Why did he not seem like those she had battled previously?
She asked, “Why do you wish to buy me?” she brought her blade crashing down upon Zam’s.
He twisted out from under her blade and parried, strike, strike, strike, driving her back. Then said in a tone he hoped sounded trustworthy, “I wish to free you.”
Her skepticism was easily read on her face.
Zam left himself open for a moment.
She pressed in and at the last moment he blocked, leaving her close to him. He said softly, “I cannot bear to see one with your heart remain a slave.”
His words struck a chord in her, but she feared trusting. Perhaps his words were a trap intended to keep her off her guard. Perhaps he was a skilled actor. She found herself wanting to believe him but in no way ready to concede the battle.
“I will not be bought!” she said forcefully, dropping to the ground and pulling Zam with her.
In the tumbling, he lost his grip on his sword, but sprang free from her grasp. The crowd cheered, believing the battle nearly over. Zam scrambled to his feet, found Raine’s gaze, and said plainly, “Then, Raine, you will remain a slave.”
Her heart was struck by his words, and it startled her, leaving dark thoughts hanging in her mind. Were she to best him, she would remain a slave, battling until one could be found who would best her. If she could not best him, she would become his slave. Either end led to her continued servitude.
Fear filled her as she pondered this. It grew to a peak and she sprang at Zam with greater force than she had any other foe. Everything seemed to move slowly.
Zam saw the fear on her face and felt the pain in her heart—her desire to be free. In a moment of clarity, he chose his next move.
Raine crossed the distance between them.
Zam kept his gaze on hers.
She was terrified of remaining a slave. At last she swung to strike.
Zam dodged the attack and, using her f
orce against her, knocked her off balance, sending her crashing to the ground. The crowd roared with excitement.
When Raine stood she found that she had been disarmed. There in her opponent’s hand was her sword. Defiance flashed in her eyes. “You have not bested me yet, Sir.”
Her exhaustion was matched only by Zam’s, for now in the midst of this battle, his lack of sleep began to take its toll. She prepared to run at him and reclaim her sword, and he could see that she would not be stopped.
The moment she began, he shouted, “Hold!”
It worked. She stopped in her tracks. Even she did not know why. Zam, holding her blade lightly, turned its hilt back toward her. “This is yours. Mine is there behind me.”
As a single movement he dropped the sword at her feet and moved swiftly to reclaim his own. Raine was astonished at his action. She retrieved her weapon and a moment passed where the crowd was silent, save a few drunkards calling out, “Finish her and take her you fool!”
Zam, now rearmed, looked with care upon Raine. His gaze penetrated to that place within where resided not Raine the warrior, but Raine the young woman, far from home, alone, and though appearances would say otherwise, very much afraid. “I would not have our battle end so.” He bowed slightly, keeping his eyes fixed upon hers. “Press your attack at your leisure. You have fought many battles today, and this is but my second.”
Raine held her place, bewildered by Zam, unsure of his intention. Her inability to understand his actions, coupled with her desire not to be mastered, led to a moment where, blinded by her fear, she charged him. Strike, strike, parry, strike, tumble, block, strike, parry, hold. There, with swords locked, standing eye to eye, Zam gave her a look which reached inside her then spoke the words that truly disarmed her. “May Elyon decide in our battle.”
Keeping tension on the swords, Zam took a step back, twisted his blade against Raine’s, and with a move she could not help but recognize, swept the blade clean from her hand and caught it by the hilt.
