Slave of Sondelle: The Eleven Kingdoms

by Bevan McGuiness

  ‘I think that perhaps you need some time in Contemplation,’ he said finally.

  Myrrhini’s head rose sharply at his words. ‘You cannot mean —’ she started.

  ‘Do not presume to question me!’ he snapped. ‘Your disobedience is becoming tiresome, Eye, and your insolence only proves my decision.’ He waved his right hand in dismissal. ‘You will spend two days in Contemplation.’ His left hand gave the traditional gesture again — fingers spread covering his face with both eyes peering through gapsbetween the fingers. They glittered with malevolent pleasure at Myrrhini’s coming ordeal. ‘You may leave, Myrrhini.’

  Myrrhini rose stiffly to her feet and bowed. ‘My thanks, Joukahainen. I will contemplate my future,’ she said.

  ‘And yours,’ she added as she walked away.

  ‘Contemplation’ meant spending time alone in the Mertian village located within the Place of the Acolytes. It lay between two of the radial arms that led out from Joukahainen’s personal quarters to the rim that housed the Arms of Varuun.

  The Eye of Varuun traditionally spent time ‘contemplating’ her role, her life and her actions within the confines of the village, and in accordance with the same traditions, she ‘chose’ to do so in the same primitive conditions as the ancient Mertians would have ‘enjoyed'. Such privations were seen as healthy, an opportunity to clear her mind of distractions and focus on the nobility of her role as Eye.

  The truth was different: the village was a prison cell just as her personal quarters were, only without the comforts of food, warmth or companionship. Not that Myrrhini would miss the latter or, in truth, recognise it.

  She made her way back to her rooms and sat at her desk. Onaven knocked, but Myrrhini ignored her. She pulled out a sheet of paper and picked up a charcoal stick. Already, she had sketched a simple outline of the Eleven Kingdoms from her recollection of Unger’s History. She knew she had a long way to go, but it was a start.

  What she was doing now was more difficult — she was trying to transcribe the ancient Mertian manuscript. The six runes on the front page were burned into her memory, but she was unable to recall anything beyond them.

  Myrrhini wrote them again on a sheet of paper and stared at them. What did they mean? How could she ever read them? Enigmatic and impenetrable, they seemed to taunt her. She had given them names that spoke to her of what they looked like: the archer, the tall man, the gate, the julle, the wheel and the bird.

  Onaven knocked again. It was time for Myrrhini to start her two-day Contemplation. She rose and tucked the sheets of paper and charcoal sticks under her robe.

  ‘Coming, Onaven,’ she said as she picked up the small sack allowed her by tradition. Inside was a full water bottle, a small blanket, a flint and stone and a small loaf of bread — enough for two days according to Varuun tradition.

  Myrrhini opened her door and presented herself for inspection to her Bane. Onaven regarded Myrrhini with a critical eye. When her inspection was done, she stepped aside. Myrrhini took a deep breath and made her way along the corridor.

  The door that led out to the village was near the entrance to the library. Onaven pushed it open and ushered Myrrhini outside. She stepped forwards into the grey light of a cloudy morning and Onaven closed the door behind her.

  This was a cold day to start her contemplative punishment. A chill wind stirred the guar trees, causing the snow to fall in clumps. She stood still, savouring the fresh air, the scent of the trees, the feel of the breeze on her cheeks. The slate-grey sky looked soft but promised a hard night. Myrrhini shivered and hurried to the nearest hut. Inside was a simple bed made of wood and woven hide. With her robe wrapped around her, she would be comfortable enough in this hut of sticks and leather.

  It, like all the others, was kept stocked with tinder and firewood. Myrrhini dropped her sack and sat cross-legged on the ground. She made a pile of tinder and collected twigs before setting to with her flint. Once a spark was struck and a flame coaxed into life, Myrrhini carefully built a fire that would last the night. Her small blanket would provide little useful warmth, but the hut would warm up if the fire kept burning. She needed as much wood as she could gather, so she left the hut and went out into the others, gathering all the wood.

  Myrrhini had spent several days in Contemplation in the village previously and knew how to survive nights in the open. She had also spent time without food as a result of various punishments Joukahainen had meted out, so two days with a loaf of bread was not a problem. Far from the harsh punishment it was supposed to be, two days of Contemplation was almost a relief. She sighed, her breath steaming, as she leaned back against the wall of the hut.

  With a fire sorted and a bed for the night, Myrrhini was free to start thinking, trying to workout what she should do. Her eyes drifted up over the wall, taking in the simple drawings of the nomadic lives of the original Mertians.

  Done in charcoal, ochre and other colours derived from minerals ground into pastes, the drawings covered the inside of the hut. Many of them were detailed while others were little more than stick figures.

  Why draw them differently?

  She stood and crossed the floor to look more closely. Something about the stick figures made her mind uncomfortable. What was it?

  The stick figures were not randomly interspersed among the detailed drawings, they were grouped together. And more, there were repeated patterns: certain sets of figures reappeared. A thought, simultaneously troubling and exciting, came to her mind and would not leave.

  The more she looked, the more she became convinced. The stick figures were not drawings, they were pictograms. Myrrhini amused herself to name some of them. This one looked like a hunter, that one was a tree while that one was …

  ‘An archer,’ Myrrhini whispered. She reached her hand up to touch the drawing that looked so much like the rune on the sheet of paper tucked inside her robe. Myrrhini scraped at the image and sniffed her fingernail. ‘Daven ink.’

  She stepped back and looked around at the wall, covered in this mixture of pictograms and pictures. Was this the clue to the lost language of her people? What story did the hut tell? Were the stories in the other huts the same?

  Little more than a cursory glance at the walls of the other huts was sufficient. Although they all used the same pictures and pictograms, each hut was noticeably different. At the last hut, Myrrhini paused as a new thought occurred to her. Not only were the pictograms the same, the pictures themselves were so similar as to be stylised.

  Could it be …?

  Myrrhini spent the two days copying as much of the story on the wall of her hut as she could fit onto her pages. When they were filled, she sat staring at the rest, trying desperately to commit the groupings of pictograms and the images that went with the stick figures to memory. She worked feverishly, forgoing sleep as long as she could, working by torchlight until her eyes betrayed her and sleep snatched her will away.

  Late on the second night, as she surrendered to the demands of her weakened body, Myrrhini lay back on her bed and stared up at the hide roof above her. The flames from her fire danced and flickered, sending wild orange light writhing across the scene. The drawings seemed to come alive, shifting, moving, travelling like the nomads they used to be. What must such a life have been like? To build a simple hut, stay while the hunting was good, and then take down your home and shift, following the migratory herds. Sleep loomed over her, threatening and predatory, snatching away a jarring thought before it could take form, leaving behind only a disquiet. Something in her subconscious stirred, troubled, but before it could form fully she yielded and slept.

  The disquieting thought was gone when she awoke, leaving no trace but a vague irritation. Myrrhini knew she had only until the sun peered over the roof of the Place and sent its weak rays into the village before Onaven would return to take her away, back to comfort, back to warmth, back to the Key Wielder. She swung her legs out of the bed and sat up. Her fire was low and the chill was sharp. With so little time lef
t, she did not bother restoring the flame. A little cold would not hurt. Hunger gnawed at her, so she drained the last of her water and chewed the remnant of her loaf of bread. Something about the hut nagged at her, something significant.

  The intense focus of the previous days had taken its toll. She was not robust at the best of times and two days with almost no food or water, coupled with the cold and such concentration had left her weak. Perhaps Onaven was right, maybe she should eat more and ‘put some meat on her bones'. Her eyes swam and her head ached. As if taunting her, the figures seemed to dance and swirl before her, shifting out of the carefully memorised patterns, leaving her mind awash with conflicting memories. Would she be able to remember what she had spent so much time with? With a groan, she allowed herself to sag back onto the bed. What had been so significant last night? What was she missing?

  She had passed out by the time Onaven finally ventured out of the warmth to seek her. The Bane gathered her Eye up in her strong arms and carriedher inside. Myrrhini barely stirred as she was carried back through the Place to her own rooms and gently laid out in her large soft bed.

  Onaven sat by the bedside, listening to the low grunting and incoherent sounds the Eye of Varuun uttered, occasionally covering her ears as particularly disturbing sounds escaped the gentle girl’s tortured lips.

  Koslea came to visit. He stood watching and listening for a while before stalking out, looking troubled. Onaven held Myrrhini’s hand for much of the day, feeling the warmth slowly — so very slowly — return. By the end of the day, some colour had tentatively taken hold in Myrrhini’s face, but her breathing remained shallow and uneven. All day, her rest was uneasy, often interrupted by grunts and low growls; sometimes Myrrhini’s eyes would snap open and stare unseeingly. She slept better during the night and Onaven left her side just after Yatil set.

  When the sun’s first rays brushed the tops of the guar trees, Myrrhini stirred and awoke. At first she was disoriented, but her surroundings quickly became familiar. Disappointment warred with hunger as she sat up. Looking down she saw that she was still wearing the same clothes as during her Contemplation. She sniffed and wrinkled her nose at her own odour.

  ‘A wash and a change of clothes,’ she declared to her empty room. ‘Then food.’

  Myrrhini rose and threw off her clothes. Warm water had been prepared for her, left in the large copper bowl by the mirror. She regarded herself asshe washed. The recent hardships — the extended ritual followed by the Contemplation — had left her looking almost emaciated. Her ribs were clearly visible, her hip bones seemed to protrude and her legs looked weak. Normally, she gave little regard to her slender frame but suddenly it bothered her.

  ‘You need more meat on you, girl,’ she whispered to her reflection. She frowned at herself, wondering for a moment why she would be bothered now, then it came to her. ‘You’re leaving here, heading into the wild,’ she told the skinny woman in the mirror, ‘and you barely survived two days sitting in a hut. How can you hope to survive walking south to …’ Her voice dropped into silence as the truth crashed down on her again. ‘To where?’

  The thought of what she was planning to do made her think again of the work ahead to prepare herself. She looked around her room and, with a sigh of relief, saw her small bag. Tucked inside were her sheets of paper covered with her drawings.

  ‘Time to get back to work.’

  Onaven was waiting outside in the corridor. The look on her plain face was one of apparent pleasure when Myrrhini emerged.

  ‘Myrri,’ the Bane exclaimed. ‘It is so good to see you up and about.’

  ‘Thank you, Onaven. I am hungry.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, Myrri.’ She looked Myrrhini up and down. ‘And freezing cold too, I would guess. Let me get you a coat.’

  Myrrhini shook her head. ‘No, I am fine. Just hungry.’

  Onaven looked uncertain, but let it pass. ‘Come on, then. We’ll get you to the kitchen and feed you up a bit.’

  They walked in silence along the curving corridor to the kitchen and dining area. Myrrhini ignored the stares of the rest of the Belly as usual and sat alone at the long table while the cook brought a plate of steaming porridge. Onaven stood behind her while she ate.

  When she was done, she sat back and pushed the bowl away. Normally, she would stop at this stage, but the memory of her bony frame in the mirror made her pause.

  ‘Could I have some bread and jam please?’ she asked Onaven.

  ‘Of course, Myrri.’

  ‘And a mug of greenberry tea.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘With sugar.’

  18

  True to Aesla’s assessment, Slave learned fast. Once he had been shown the basics — the stance, the grip, the anchor point, the release, aiming — it became a matter of practice.

  Each day, Slave spent hours in the morning perfecting his technique, then in the afternoon he worked with other instructors on the numerous weapons Slaaj required. It was immediately clear to everyone that he was faster and more skilled than the instructors. Most sessions ended up in a brutal sparring match between Slave and his instructor, often resulting in the instructor being injured and yielding. The first few such events only concluded when the guards around the training ground fired arrows that thudded warningly into the earth at Slave’s feet.

  The fact that none of the arrows ever struck him enforced Slaaj’s statement that he did not want to kill, or even harm, Slave. And each time, Slave’s rage increased. Slaaj, for all he kept talking about work and freedom, was little more than a slave owner protecting a valuable asset. That Slave was beingprotected was clear, as already several new recruits had been seriously wounded or killed in accidents.

  Slave paid attention to those who watched the training sessions. After a few days, he concluded there were about thirty bowmen to go with the fifteen instructors and ten guards who tended to the movement of the recruits.

  Every night, Slave was led back to the same dungeon and chained to the wall. At first, the guards were wary of him — the story of his killing the first guard was well known — but they quickly realised his anger was not directed at them. Food was brought to him and he ate well. A bed was provided, and his dungeon was lit, although he always extinguished the light. He was more comfortable in the dark.

  At night, he wondered about Ileki. Slave had seen the soft, scholarly sorcerer trying to learn fighting skills Slaaj demanded, but without much improvement. He had fallen often, wounded and bloodied, on the sand to the laughter of those around him, but always he had risen to his feet to take more punishment.

  What drove the man?

  Their eyes had met several times across the training ground, but it was Slave who had always broken contact to focus again on his training.

  Aesla was the first to comment. She was standing behind Slave as he shot, commenting on his technique. After he had released an arrow, she stepped up to stand beside him.

  ‘You never talk to anyone,’ she said quietly. ‘Why is that?’

  Slave lowered his bow and stared at her. As his silver eye met her gaze, she flinched.

  ‘That’s your answer,’ Slave said.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ she disagreed. ‘Your eye is disconcerting, true, but it shouldn’t stop you talking with others.’

  Slave lowered his gaze, not in defeat or concession, but to select another arrow. He raised the bow and drew the string back.

  ‘Lower your bow, Slave,’ Aesla instructed.

  Slave did so and stared again at Aesla.

  ‘You are going to be working with others,’ she said. ‘You will be facing opponents who will attack you as a team, a pack, and you will not be able to deal with them all alone. You will have to trust the other members of your team or you will die. No matter how strange you look, you must make an effort.’

  ‘Can I shoot now?’ Slave asked.

  Aesla sighed and gestured for him to continue.

  Slave raised the bow again and took a bead on th
e target. He was about to release when an eruption of noise distracted him from his shot. Without lowering his bow, Slave swivelled around to look. On the far side of the training ground, a large, bare-chested man was beating down Ileki with a sword.

  Ileki was lying on his back, holding up his own sword to defend himself, but his wrist was weakening. It was clear that after only one or two more blows, his defence would fail and the swinging sword would strike home.

  Slave’s mind flicked back through the people he had killed without good reason since escaping his master. He would not watch it happen to Ileki. He released his hold on the string and the bow thrummed as the arrow leaped forwards.

  It flew straight and true to embed itself high in the large man’s right shoulder. With a strangled scream, he dropped his sword and fell to the ground. Ileki rolled out of the way and scrambled to his feet to look down at the wounded man. He then raised his head to stare at Slave. Their eyes locked and Slave nodded once, slowly, before switching his attention back to his target.

  He had only managed to loose three arrows before a hand landed heavily on his shoulder. Slave lowered his bow and turned to face a man he had not seen before.

  ‘Come with me.’ His voice was low and rumbling, which contrasted oddly with his lithe, athletic build.

  Slave dropped his bow onto the sand, ignoring Aesla’s glare, and followed the man off the training ground. He watched out of the corner of his eye as another man collected Ileki and led him in the same direction.

  They walked side by side in silence along a cool corridor until their escorts stopped them in front of a door. Slave’s escort rapped sharply on it and stepped back.

  The door opened to reveal Slaaj.

  ‘Come in,’ he said.

  Inside, Slave looked around at the room. It was large and light, with a window that opened outonto a lush garden. Underfoot was a mosaic showing a battle scene that covered the whole floor. Slaaj sat behind a wide desk strewn with papers.