Storms of Destiny

by A. C. Crispin

  Eregard had stared at him for a moment, feeling the metal collar around his neck seem to tighten. “Yes, sir,” he mumbled.

  The Prince had worked the fields before, and had come to dread the experience. His hands were rough and callused now, but the rough-handled farm implements could still raise blisters. He could tell that he was stronger than he had been—he was certainly far thinner—but his back still ached fiercely from the endless bending and straightening, bending and stooping.

  But he’d learned quickly to say as little as possible, so he silently followed Barlin to the fields. He and the other twenty field slaves had worked hard the entire day, breaking up the winter-hard clods of earth with hoes, hauling barrows full of rocks out of the field, then planting and fertilizing the seeds.

  Eregard had worked as hard as any of the field hands. He’d also learned that slacking was sure to call the Overseer’s attention to him.

  Apparently, Master Corlena had told the man about Eregard’s claim to be a Prince of Pela, because Barlin never lost a chance to gibe at Eregard, calling him “Your Highness”

  and burlesquing formal bows whenever he addressed him.

  Eregard tried to close his ears, but rage built in him, slowly but surely. By the end of his third day in the fields, he found himself hoping that Barlin would trip in a furrow and break his bull neck.

  Still, he’d managed to keep his temper until the work was finished, mid-afternoon of the third day. “All right, come on, come on in!” Barlin shouted, waving them to him. Eregard was glad to dump his last load of rocks on the rock pile, then head back. He was thinking about nothing more profound than a long drink of water, then a wash at the pump.

  One of the young, female slaves, pregnant with her first child, was slow to return from the field. Barlin had waved at her impatiently as the others gathered around him. “Analis!

  Hurry up! Run, bitch!”

  By the time she plodded, one hand on the small of her back, up to where the work crew was gathered, and reached out for the dipper that stood waiting in the water bucket, Barlin, never a patient man, had been in a black mood. As Analis raised the dipper of water to her lips, the overseer slapped it out of her hand, then cuffed her sharply across the face. “No water for you until you learn to obey orders, you ugly sow!”

  Analis had stood there, water running down her face, staring at him in shock. Eregard must’ve made a sound of protest, for the big man swung around to confront him. “Oh, so you fancy pigs, Your Highness? Well, this one would make a clumsy lady-in-waiting!”

  Eregard didn’t think; he made no conscious decision. He was as surprised as his fellow slaves when he saw his own fist connect squarely with Barlin’s face. As if it had happened to someone else, he heard the man’s nose crack as it broke, saw blood gush as the overseer fell back onto the ground, then stood there gaping at the man lying still.

  After long moments, Eregard realized that his hand hurt.

  Absently he stood there rubbing it, unable to believe what he’d just done. Then, while several slaves tended to Barlin, two of his fellows grabbed his arms and marched him back to Master Corlena. Excitedly, they reported the entire incident.

  The master had shaken his head. “I knew you’d bring me trouble,” he said to his erstwhile clark. Turning his head, he ordered his grown son to go and tend to Barlin.

  Corlena had overseen Eregard’s punishment personally.

  First they’d branded him on the wrist with the numeral 1.

  Striking a master or overseer was not a crime punishable by death … the first time. If he ever did it again, though, Eregard knew that brand would mark him for a slow and grotesque death.

  “Fifteen lashes,” Corlena ordered. “You two—the ones who brought him in—see to it, and stint not. Your reward shall be a jug of ale for each of you.”

  Eregard had been in such pain from the brand that he offered no resistance as they marched him to the whipping post, then fastened his bound hands to a hook set up high.

  One of the burly fieldmen swished a long teamster’s whip

  back and forth. When Eregard was securely tethered, his captor stepped back.

  The leather lash was narrow, and cut deeply with each stroke. Eregard repressed a shiver as he relived that slow, deadly count. “One …” and then the hissing of the lash through the air had followed, and the loud crack as it struck.

  He tried to keep silent, but by the time they reached “Five” he was screaming. By the time they cut him down, he was barely conscious, and so hoarse he could scarcely whimper. They’d tossed the bucket of brine over him, then dragged him to the prisoner’s crib and flung him inside. He hadn’t even felt the impact with the dirt floor.

  Now he tried to raise his head, but even that tiny movement made his vision blur. Eregard moaned; he urgently needed to relieve himself, but he couldn’t move. I will wet myself like an infant, then lie here in it, he realized.

  Behind him, he heard the door creak, then soft footsteps.

  He managed to open his eyes and turn his head slightly. Two small bare feet were approaching, encrusted with dirt from the fields. Another slave, then.

  Someone knelt beside him, and he saw cheap, faded cal-ico spread out—a skirt. His visitor was female.

  “Eregard?” a soft voice whispered. “Can you hear me? It’s Analis. I’ve brought some willow bark salve for your back.”

  His lips moved. “Analis …” It was barely more than a breath.

  “Shhhh, this will help.”

  The first touch stung like a brand. He couldn’t hold back a whimper. But the cool salve was soothing, and after a few moments it did indeed deaden some of the pain. By the time Analis was finished with her ministrations, Eregard was able to sit up. He gestured weakly at the bucket that rested a few feet away. “Can you … can you hand me that, please?”

  Analis quickly fetched it, then considerately turned her back as Eregard, repressing a groan, managed to get up on his knees to use it.

  “Here,” she said when he was done, “drink this.” She held out a flask.

  It was water, cool and sweet, from the well. Eregard’s throat was so dry that he nearly choked on the first swallow.

  “Drink it slowly,” she cautioned. “Sip it.”

  He did as she bade. When his thirst was gone, she gave him a twist of dried herbs. “Chew on these,” she said.

  “They’ll help with the pain, and prevent fever.”

  The herbs were so sour he nearly gagged, but he managed to chew up several hanks. The pain lessened even more.

  Eregard’s head grew clearer. He glanced at the door to his cell. “They let you come in to tend me? I’m surprised.”

  She smiled, her dirty, worn face looking suddenly younger. “Perekin has been set to guard you, and he’s a friend of mine.” She patted her bulging belly. “He let me in so I could tend you.”

  “I wonder what will happen now,” Eregard said, after taking another drink from the water flask and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “I hate to imagine.”

  “You’re to be taken north and sold,” she said. “The master can’t allow keepin’ a slave here who’s laid a hand on the overseer. Even if he can read and write a fair hand.”

  Her mouth thinned. “Might give the other slaves ideas, y’know?”

  Eregard nodded. He had been expecting this. “Any idea where they’re sending me?”

  “They’re sendin’ to North Amis to buy seed and more help,” she replied. “I’d guess you’ll be sent up there. ’Tis a pretty big town, and they have slave auctions every market day.”

  Eregard nodded wearily. “Goddess help me.”

  She nodded. “I’ll pray for you, Eregard. Tell me somethin’ …”

  “Yes?”

  “You don’t seem addled in your head. Why did Barlin keep callin’ you ‘Prince’?”

  Eregard stared at her and could find nothing to say. At the moment, he scarcely believed it himself. He was one step away from being convinced that his w
hole life on Pela, his mother, his father, Adranan, Salesin—all were products of a

  fever dream. He shook his head wordlessly. “I can’t explain,” he mumbled.

  She smiled, suddenly. “You were out of your head when they carried you in here, and you kept talkin’ ’bout ‘my father the King.’ ”

  He groaned. “I did?”

  Analis nodded, and held out two oiled packets. “Listen, here’s the rest of the salve, and some of the heal-herb to chew if the pain gets too bad.”

  He nodded. “Thank you,” he managed to whisper. “I’m very grateful.”

  She nodded. “Well, just in case it is true, you can make me a countess when you get back to court, m’dear.” Her expression sobered, became serious. “Thank you for tryin’ to help with Barlin. The man is a pig-turd, plain an’ simple. Not many of the men have the balls to stand up to him.”

  Standing up, she gave him a last wave, went to the door of the gaol-crib and knocked on it. Quickly, it opened, letting in the last light of day. Eregard had been in the dark so long that the wan sunlight made him blink and hold up his hand to shield his eyes. The door closed and Analis was gone, leaving him in the dark.

  The next two days seemed to crawl by. Eregard alternated between fear and apathy. His back throbbed, but he managed, by nearly dislocating his shoulders, to smear Analis’s salve into most of the whip-weals.

  As his voice recovered, he sometimes sang to himself, old Pelanese ballads, sea chanteys, love songs …

  When he recalled his previous attempt at a love-song for Ulandra, it now seemed laughably callow and trite. Humming softly, he composed a new song in his head. When he was done, he sang it alone in the darkness, wondering if he would ever see her again.

  “Hair of sunlight kissing grain

  Eyes of deepest summer skies

  Voice of haunting pipes and strings

  Ulandra! My heart sings and cries!

  Slender as the youngling fawn

  Gentle as the nestling dove

  Hands like whitest, flying swans

  Ulandra! Oh, my secret love!

  Face and form like breaking day

  Spirit pure and bright and fine

  Fate so cruel, my dreams to slay

  Ulandra … Who can never be mine!”

  The Prince of Dung

  Talis Aloro stood in the doorway of her father’s home, watching as her brothers slung their bags into the carriage and waved a last good-bye to her and their parents. She managed to smile and wave, though inside she was seething. Her brothers were going off to school, Armon to study law, and Benno to study medicine.

  Talis glared at the back of her father’s head. And me? I get to stay here and run the double-bedamned farm.

  Last night, unable to contain her rage any longer, she had confronted her father. “Father, Armon and Benno are nice boys, but I’m smarter than either of them! I work harder around here than they do. Why can’t I go to school? I promise you I’ll do you credit! There’s an Academy for Young Ladies in Port Alvar. I could go there. They wouldn’t teach me as much as the boys would learn, but I could learn to cipher better, and study the classics. Firone went, and they taught her geometry and natural sciences!”

  Even before she finished her impassioned outburst, Gerdal Aloro was shaking his head. “Daughter, daughter, I don’t deny that you’ve got wits in that head of yours. But you can read and write, and cipher a bit, too. You’ve plenty of learning for a girl. Any more and you’ll scare off any prospective husbands. Your tongue is sharp enough as it is— we don’t need you being able to insult suitors in foreign languages!” He’d chuckled at his own wit, oblivious to her rising anger. “Which reminds me. Young Havier Carino saw you at services last week and he asked me to ask you if he could call on you. He said—”

  “Dad, stop that!” Talis shouted.

  Her father had stared at her, his eyes wide at her outburst.

  Talis glared at him, breathing hard. “Dad,” she said finally, “what is it going to take to make you understand that I don’t ever want to get married? Ever! After what your precious brother did to me, the thought of letting any man share my bed is enough to make me …” Her mouth twisted.

  “Enough to make me puke.”

  Her father shook his head, his brown eyes troubled.

  “Daughter, I thought we agreed never to speak of that. It happened long ago, and ’tis best forgotten.”

  “You may be able to forget,” Talis had said, her voice level but filled with venom, “but I can’t. It didn’t happen to you, it happened to me.”

  Then, turning away, she strode out of the room, slamming the door behind her. She’d slept in the woods that night, rolled in a blanket, rather than face anyone from her family.

  Talis didn’t want to cause her mother distress, and she was honestly worried that if her father mentioned marriage one more time, she might lose her temper and lash out with more than words.

  Now the carriage was pulling away, pulled by her father’s best team of matched chestnuts. Benno and Armon were crowded together at the window, waving. Gerdal and Evonly waved back.

  The carriage reached the end of the drive, then turned east. Seconds later it was out of sight. Talis’s shoulders slumped and she fought back tears. It’s not fair. She thought about the books Castio had smuggled to her, books and pamphlets that she kept carefully hidden. She read whenever she had a spare moment, but it was hard trying to learn it all

  without a teacher, without someone who could answer her questions.

  Gerdal came toward the doorway, his arm around Evonly, who was leaning heavily against him. Talis bit her lip as she saw how drawn and pale her mother appeared. Her father helped her mother inside, turning as he did so. “Stay a moment, Talis. I need to talk to you.”

  Talis waited while he helped her mother to their bedchamber so she could rest. Hope surged within her. Could it be that he’s thought it over, decided I can go to school, too?

  Perhaps Mama talked to him, changed his mind … after all, we just hired a new overseer. If I could go to school, learn more, I could help Castio and the Cause so much more!

  As she waited for her father, her hands were busy, tidying up the last minute clutter her brothers had left. She had nearly finished when he returned.

  He glanced around at the room, nodded. “You’re a good girl, daughter,” he said. “Even though you should be tidyin’

  a house of your own, I’m glad of your help.”

  Talis frowned. This did not sound promising. “What did you want to talk to me about, Dad?”

  “Your mother …” He hesitated. “Well, I don’t think she should be alone in the house. I’ll need you to supervise the new overseer and the slaves. I’m sorry, daughter, but you know what needs to be done, and your mother is quietest when I’m with her. You know that. With your brothers gone, she’s upset.”

  Talis knew he spoke the truth, but disappointment stabbed her, keen as a blade. “Oh,” she murmured.

  “What is it?” he said.

  “I thought … I thought you had changed your mind about sending me to school.” She bit her lip and turned away, unable to face him.

  “Daughter, Talis …” Gerdal stepped closer, until he could look down into her eyes. “I know you’d love to go to school.

  I know you’d work hard and be a credit to me. But, Talis, I need you here at Woodhaven now that your brothers are gone. And girl, they had to go. Your brothers need schooling so they can earn their living. They’ll have to support families. You won’t. They need the schooling. You don’t.”

  Talis bit her lip and counted slowly to twenty. It took that long before she could speak without losing control. “I understand, Father.” Her voice was flat.

  “Good.” Gerdal took her by the shoulders, then dropped a quick kiss on her forehead. “I’ll make it up to you, daughter.

  When you decide to marry—Goddess pray it be soon— you’ll have the finest wedding this parish has ever seen. I swear it.”
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  Talis heard the love in his words, and wanted to scream aloud. But she remained silent. There was nothing to say.

  Her father would never understand.

  “This new overseer I hired, I think he’ll be all right, but he’s going to need watching,” Gerdal said. “He thinks well of himself, almost as though he’s gentry. He seems a decent enough sort, but we need to let him know that our livestock and our slaves are to be well-treated, so long as they work hard. This fellow, Darlo Trevenio, came from farther south, and I’ve heard of farms down there where they solve everything by whippings and hangings. So you keep an eye on him.”

  “I will,” Talis said.

  “I bought two new slaves in North Amis yesterday. One of them’s an older chap, but a skilled carpenter, so we can use him. The other, well, he’s young and looks fairly strong, but he’s branded. They say he can read and write as well as cipher, so I thought he could be useful. But be careful. That brand marks him as a troublemaker.”

  Talis nodded listlessly. “Very well.”

  After she had finished preparing her mother’s medicine, Talis changed into work clothes, then went looking for Trevenio.

  The weather was getting warmer, and every available slave was out in the fields, planting seeds or seedlings that had been raised in the small greenhouse next to the barn.

  Gerdal prided himself on raising some of the best tomatoes

  in the area. Every fall, before the first frost, Talis oversaw the house slaves as they put up a winter’s worth of tomatoes, relish, and sauce. Usually they had enough extra jars to sell and make a tidy profit. With the rest of their crops, plus the sales of salted meat and hides to the King’s troops, Woodhaven was one of the most prosperous farms in the parish.

  Gerdal was planning to expand his barley crop, and earlier that spring, the logging crew had cleared a new field. As she walked down the farm road, Talis realized that Trevenio already had a crew out there, picking up the rocks, breaking up the clods, preparing the land for plowing.

  She walked around the edge of the field, answering the waves of the field hands she’d known for years, heading for the overseer, who was supervising the work while seated on his tall roan gelding. The man wore a broad-brimmed hat to shield his face from the sun. When he caught sight of her, he swept it off, bowing slightly before dismounting. “Fair morning to you! You must be Miss Aloro.”