by Richard Nell
Zaya only recognized one of them—Ya-cat, the man who had rescued her on the street. As ever his sharp eyes seemed to scan the room, settling on Zaya with something like a frown. At his side the younger man smiled, the older surveying the room much like Yacat, but utterly without concern—like everything and everyone he saw belonged to him. Zaya understood then this was their king.
"Good morning, slave," Zaya understood Yacat to say. She had learned that at some point in nearly every exchange these people referred to each other as what they were—whether wife, brother, slave, or friend. It was not meant as honor or offense, but marked their strict belief in hierarchy and class. It was to Zaya a constant reminder of the order of things, and what they thought of her. Yacat spoke more words after this, but much too quickly and in any case Zaya understood almost nothing.
The king grunted. He addressed Yacat as 'son', and spoke harsh words that seemed rebuke or command. Yacat gestured in what Zaya had decided was a kind of military salute, then both the king and the other young man turned to leave. The guards went with them, and soon Yacat and Zaya were alone in the courtyard.
"Follow. Now. Understand?"
Zaya nodded, and put her instrument on the chair. She followed the soft clicks of Yacat's sandals from the beautiful women's quarters to unfurnished corridors of rough stone. The slaves, and even the warriors they passed, seemed to sense a dark mood in their leader. They saluted or withdrew from Yacat with considerable haste, and Zaya's heart began to pound. This dangerous warrior-prince seemed to Zaya a tempestuous man, capable of violence or melancholy, moving from one to the other at a moment's notice. When she had first seem him in the prison he seemed a defeated creature. She would not have thought much of him had she not seen him at the temple, where he transformed into a killer and dominator of men. He seemed now to her capable of anything, for good or ill, and in a way, reminded her of the shaman.
"Where go?" she tried asking when she could stand it no longer. Yacat didn't so much as grunt in response. He took her down, ever lower, until the dreary dark of the prison she'd first arrived in became familiar. The slaves disappeared, replaced by warriors guarding every open portal, until Yacat entered one and guards Zaya hadn't seen blocked the hall until she followed.
Ruka sat inside at a stone table. His hands were bound in rope, but he looked otherwise comfortably rested. He sat tall and straight, like a great chief, undaunted by his imprisonment. He smiled as Zaya entered.
Yacat spoke, but Zaya caught only maybe 'punish', and 'slave'. Ruka nodded as if he understood.
"I am being given this one moment to explain. I am to translate his words to you exactly. If he suspects I do otherwise, we will both be tortured. Make your answers brief and easy to translate. I do not speak all their words yet."
Zaya took a deep breath, her heart still racing. "I will try. It's good to see you, shaman."
Ruka said nothing, and Yacat barked harsh words for several moments before they were translated. "Yacat, prince of House Mar, asks where you come from."
"The same land as Ruka," Zaya answered, giving herself a moment to think. Would the shaman have told them accurately? She didn't see why not. "The Ascom," she continued. "A land far to the East, across the ocean."
Ruka translated, then answered almost at the same time as the prince: "There is no land across the ocean." The speed of the translation seemed to surprise the prince as much as Zaya, but not enough to stop him from carrying on. "Are all your men like this one?"
Zaya withheld the foolish smile that threatened her lips. Still, she couldn't help herself. "What do you mean, 'like this one'?"
She watched Yacat's eyes just slightly narrow and refrained from laughing in his face.
"So large," Ruka translated the other's words without expression. "So monstrous and cunning. So quick to learn."
"No," Zaya said, with a brief smile for Ruka. "He is exceptional. Most of our men are much like yours."
The prince seemed to take some comfort in that. He leaned in his chair. "The men you came with—the ones who fled to the sea. Are they responsible for the rebellions?"
Here Yacat watched her very carefully, and she must have made a face because he seemed annoyed. "No. They don't speak your language. Like us they don't even know where they are, or anything about you or your people. They wish only to go home. Like us, they're no threat to you."
Yacat watched her eyes, then took a breath, seeming to believe her. He stood and spoke to the guards, and after a brief exchange, Zaya heard the sounds of their sandals as they walked away. Yacat waited before he returned to the table, his face now reverted to the sad warrior she had first met. He took a deep breath as if resigning himself before he spoke. The translated words were strange to hear in Ruka's voice.
"No one is ever a threat until they are. You are to be given to me as concubine. One of many gifts from my father. You will live comfortably in the palace with my wife and children, and live a life of luxury few of my people will ever know." Here he paused, and took another breath. "Ruka was to be sacrificed to Centnaz at the festival of stars, as you were to be sacrificed on a holy day of duality. I have asked for his life. His presence here…unnerves my family, so he will serve me as a slave on the battlefield."
If Ruka felt anything about these pronouncements he hid it well, his deformed face as expressionless as his tone. Zaya had no understanding of why she was to be sacrificed and didn't expect to. She understood 'concubine' vaguely from her time with the women—it meant a wife with less honor.
"Women of my culture choose the men they lie with," Zaya managed to say without emotion. "I will not be your concubine willingly."
Ruka paused for the first time before he translated. When he did, Yacat merely shrugged without any sign of emotion save for his perpetual gloom. "It makes no difference. Here you are a slave, and like the rest of us, you will do what is required."
Zaya felt heat rise to her face. The guards were far away, and both she and Ruka were unbound. Though Yacat was armed, she had little doubt they could seize and kill him before he could use his weapons.
"You are a brave man," she said with the growing menace she felt. "I have killed men in battle. And they were ready with knives, not lying in a bed, with only their own meager flesh in their hands."
When Ruka translated, Yacat smiled, though it faded quickly as he rose. "Bravery requires fear of death. I'm going to leave you now. Speak, if you wish, but be brief, for the men outside will come for you soon." Here he paused at the door, and before the translation, his tone to Zaya did not seem at all to relish the words, merely to state them. "You will not see each other for some time. Perhaps ever again."
With that he left Zaya alone with the shaman, and she found she wasn't sure what to say. This was not her destiny—that much she knew. The gods had not led her here to be a bed slave for a foreign prince, just as they had not led the Godtongue to die on some nameless battlefield. She wanted to encourage him, but even the notion felt silly. Mostly she wanted him to know she was not afraid.
"I have made you a book of words."
She almost jumped as the shaman removed a leather satchel from beneath the table. Where exactly he'd been keeping such a thing, or indeed how he'd created it, Zaya had no idea. But then with the shaman anything was possible. "It is a rough translation of as many as their words as I have deciphered, along with some few conjugated verbs, all written in the island alphabet." He shrugged. "It is likely I will escape or die, for I will not be made to kill, for this man or any other. You must learn their language, and…"
"Then let us escape together," Zaya interrupted. "There are few guards here, and many ways from the palace. Perhaps we could take Yacat prisoner, and bargain our way free."
The shaman shook his head. "To try here would mean more death."
"They have enslaved us." Zaya shifted in her chair. "As they do many others. They are not worthy of your mercy, shaman."
He shrugged as if it didn't matter, and Zaya tried to meet his
eyes. "Surely, the gods would not have spared you through all your deeds, just to watch you die without at least trying to fight, to..."
"You saw me on that ship." His voice darkened, his face contorting with anger that she now realized was barely suppressed. His golden eyes were rimmed with dark bruise, the whites a spiderweb of vein. He took two long, deep breaths. "There is something wrong, Zaya. A darkness claws at my mind, something I found in the isles…" his eyes drifted as if he looked far away. "I thought I'd killed it. Perhaps it cannot die." He tapped his temple, staring off into nothing. "I am a cup filled to the brim with black waters, Zaya, each new sin a drop that must spill to the earth. I cannot kill. I must not."
For the first time, Zaya saw a thing in the shaman's eyes she had not expected—a familiar thing, common and unsurprising in normal men, but something she had hardly believed him capable of. The Godtongue was afraid.
She nodded, and took the book. "Then I will endure. When the time is right, we'll escape, and unravel this mystery together. That is my vow."
Ruka sat back and smiled faintly, his eyes regaining some focus before he spoke. "Your parents too were very strong. Yacat will give you a room, and privacy. Hide the book, and learn quickly. I'll try and get you a message. I don't know why, but I think we have little time."
With that they stood, and Zaya strode to the greatest living hero of her people, and held out her arm. He took it, and squeezed. "Until the gods bring us together again, Ruka, son of Beyla."
He nodded. And perhaps it was only her imagination—a desperate wish from a childhood hero, but she thought perhaps as he answered, she saw a hint of pride.
Chapter 19
The guards no longer touched Zaya at all. They led her back to the women's quarters with something approaching deference, eyes downcast and gesturing her on more like the men of her homeland. It seemed 'royal concubine' was something rather more complicated and useful than 'slave', but this brought her little comfort.
The other women welcomed her with words she didn't understand. They perfumed her with incense and offered her a sweet alcohol much like the islander's rum. The kindness and pageantry surprised her, but their smiles were different than before. When Zaya had been just a slave singing for their amusement, they had laughed and embraced her without reservation. Their smiles were full and unguarded, their joy in her singing much like that of the children. Now, though, their eyes were cautious. One in particular stayed at the edge of the gathering, and the others quieted when she finally approached.
"Sister," she said, leaning forward so close their cheeks touched. When she withdrew, Zaya bowed and repeated it as best she could, and the woman turned and walked away without another word. The others followed, and Zaya was left alone as if she had gained some disease that might spread to any too close, her mere presence a corruption to their beautiful home. She understood then that she had just met Yacat's wife.
The servants settled her into her own room, complete with a wardrobe of mostly too-small clothes, a copper tub for washing, several instruments with strings or tubes, a plush raised bed draped with sheets and blankets, and many boxes filled with jewelry and fabrics. She was given her own personal servant, and understood she could roam the palace more or less freely—with an armed escort, of course.
As soon as she was able, she dismissed her servant, hid her book of words beneath her bed, and knelt with her head down.
"Hear my vow," she whispered to Edda, Goddess of words, her hands at her lips, "I will be free of this place. I will make the name Zaya, daughter of Juchi, worthy of remembrance, or I will burn in the mountain forever." She prayed too to the Mother, to watch over her parents and siblings in the Ascom, and over Chang and the crew of the Prince; she prayed to Nanot, Goddess of law, to bring her justice for the misdeeds against her. And before she rose, with a final thought to the god of the mountain, the god of chaos and sire to men like the shaman, in case all else failed, she prayed to Noss.
When she was finished she opened the book, and practiced. Ruka had spelled the words as they sounded with the islander's alphabet, because their own people used symbols, or runes, to represent words, and it was almost useless just for sounds. She had learned the island tongue as a girl and knew it well, so she whispered the sounds over and over, trying to learn most of the words in basic questions or answers she expected to need. When the sun had risen high enough she knew the afternoon meal would be served, she again hid her book.
She went out and ate with the women, who at first were awkward but soon ignored her and returned to their talk and laughter. She listened carefully, trying to pick out individual words she knew and which words came before or after. She realized she needed some kind of ink to add to the shaman's book, which no doubt had many missing words. When she felt enough time had passed she rose and returned to her room, allowing her servant to brush her hair, bathe her in the tub, oil, perfume, trim, massage, and finally help settle her into her bed.
"What is name?" she asked as evening came, and the girl jerked as if she'd slapped.
"Temolata, honored concubine," she answered, or close enough.
"Thank you, Temolata. Please. Zaya." She gestured to herself.
The girl shrugged or maybe nodded, mumbling something about 'being ready', or 'prepared' in several different ways before giving up and leaving the room as swiftly as she was able. When Zaya felt it was safe she again took her book of words and practiced, knowing if the shaman thought it important, than almost nothing else mattered.
She lay in her fine bed of cotton blankets, staring up at a darkened ceiling covered in painted scenes of gods and men, marveling at life and fate and all the twists that had brought her here. Her belly was full, at least, her body warm and comfortable from Temolata's attentions. And though she was a slave and things could change again in an instant, she decided, the day had not been so bad.
* * *
Yacat finished his long day of marching in another pool of blood. His feet were as cracked as his lips, and the violence of a few moments of deadly work still tingled in his limbs.
"Is it more rebellion, lord? I thought the Acolca had been pacified."
Mictlan, one of his senior officers, panted and scanned the trees with wary eyes. Between them they had killed two scouts and chased away a third before Yacat's red-faced bodyguard and attendants caught up.
Yacat almost snorted, but hid his expression. Pacified. Rebellion. Such fine words men used for ugly things. No people were truly pacified unless you killed all their men and enslaved their children. And was it rebellion to resist a foreign boot on your neck?
"It's just boys playing warriors," he said without emotion, "a few fools hoping for glory."
Yacat kept the concern from his face, and inspected the corpses of the young men at his feet. They were dressed like his lesser wolf-warriors, with markings that meant at least one kill or capture to their name. On closer examination, though, he could see the ruse. Their weapons were shoddy, their bodies too lean and without the refined muscle of his well-trained army. He had been walking ahead with Mictlan when they attacked.
When the young men approached he had assumed them new recruits sent to find him with a message. Then they had cried out and drawn flint blades, nearly killing him without a fight. But old instincts died hard. Yacat had caught the first and opened his throat with his own knife, while Mictlan tackled the second. Tahana, Yacat thought, the great and legendary warrior-prince, nearly dead at the hands of a boy.
He felt only mild disappointment they hadn't succeeded.
With a glance towards his warriors, he saw the lesser officers and noblemen standing nearby pretending not to watch him. The Acolca tribe of the West forest were considered both loyal and cowardly, and not in any way expected to cause trouble. Yet here they were, two of their sons dead at Yacat's feet. It was possible the would-be assassins had just been ambitious youth, as he said. Perhaps they didn't even know who he was, and simply attacked what looked like a high-ranking warrior. But he
didn't think so.
"We'll go West," he told Mictlan, and anyone else listening. "Bring the corpses. I'll give them to their chief."
The men smirked at that, and Yacat readied to move on as if equally amused. His gaze swept his thousand troops, catching on the tall, unnatural appearance of the new, foreign slave, standing erect and proud like a wild oak amongst the lesser rabble of the warslaves. He had been armed with nothing more than a wooden club, but seemed unconcerned and unashamed. His golden eyes were locked on Yacat.
"Lord?" Mictlan waited at Yacat's side, accustomed to an official order.
"Standard march, commander. North-West to the Acolca."
Mictlan nodded and gestured to his standard bearer, who waved the image of a bloody fox to signal caution and possible battle ahead.
They walked in relative silence save for the sound of sandaled feet on sandy rock. Yacat began to notice there were no fishermen on the banks of the great lake. He saw no travelers on the road to Copanoch, nor heard any villagers gathering wood or fruits in the nearby woods. By the time they arrived at the outskirts of the Acolca, he was not surprised to find the town abandoned.
Mictlan eyed him with a questioning glance, but Yacat did not stop to explore. Instead he walked on, past several locked barns that made no sound, past the large temple to Awonotza, god of the sun, and the twenty odd fine houses of the tribal leaders. He walked right to the high cliffs that overlooked the lake, rising steeply to several mountains beyond in a beautiful, if perilous path. He knew that is where the chief and his warriors would be, because that too is how Yacat would defend this town. He looked to Mictlan, who just now seemed to understand. Like a wave the same understanding swept the officers and then the warriors in a mixture of rage and anxiousness.
"They will all die," hissed Mictlan. "Chief Tomoa would still be a slave if we hadn't given him his title. I'll tear out his heart and feed it to his children."
Yacat waved a hand for calm. He pinched the narrow bone of his nose and walked closer to the cliffs, then called up in a loud voice.
