by Carol Berg
Gerick missed an easy opening, and the Zhid stepped out and stopped the match, castigating Gerick thoroughly. While the warrior made Gerick repeat the required move ten times over, the slave boy walked over to a water barrel by the wall and scooped out a drink, holding his wounded arm tightly. The swordmaster completed his instruction, then stepped back and raised his hand. The boys took their positions, and when the Zhid lowered his hand, they went at it again.
As I watched them close and strike out at each other again, I decided I’d been wrong to judge this combat mere practice. In truth, it was war, both boys the casualties. When the opening came again, Gerick did not miss. His sword caught the slave youth just below the ribs, and a red stain blossomed on the youth’s gray tunic. Gerick stepped back, sword raised. The slave was bent over, his sword arm clasped over his middle.
Yield, I begged silently. Someone end this.
The youth, not more than fifteen or sixteen, straightened, and lifted his sword. He was pale. The two engaged once more, and after only a few moments, Gerick knocked his opponent’s sword away. The slave sank to his knees on the red dirt. Gerick touched the point of his sword to the boy’s neck, then sheathed his weapon and turned his back. He walked over to the water barrel, scooped a dipper of water, and drank deep. The swordmaster talked to Gerick for a while, demonstrating another movement and making him practice it ten or fifteen times. Then the two of them moved off toward a shadowed doorway. The gasping slave knelt in the broiling sun, trying to keep his life from leaking away into the red dirt.
Voices from the lower level of the house set me moving again. I could think of nothing to do for the youth. Any deviation from my orders would see us both dead. Certainly my tears could do nothing for him or others like him, nor could they open Gerick’s eyes to see what lessons his masters were teaching.
Quickly I slipped back onto the landing and hurried up the stairs to the second level of the Gray House. A sideways glance told me that the lights I had seen above the main gate were indeed from another guardroom. Next to it was the storage room where I was to find one Sefaro, the person who ran the household. To my astonishment, Sefaro was a slave.
“You’re the chamberlain?” I asked the slight middle-aged man who appeared to be taking inventory of the pottery, linens, and myriad other items on the shelves that lined the large, windowless storage room.
The slave nodded and gestured to himself, then raised his open palms in inquiry. How were we to do our business if he could not speak?
“I am Eda, a sewing woman. Her Worship Kargetha sent me.”
A smile blossomed on his face, the first I’d seen on any face in Zhev’Na. Setting down his pen and paper, he gestured me to follow. Up another winding stair and through a doorway, we came to an immense set of apartments that covered the entire third level.
The sleeping and sitting areas each opened directly onto a balcony that ran the entire length and width of the house. Filmy beige draperies, hung across the south windows of the sitting room, were showing signs of sun rot. Sefaro brought in tall stools and helped me take them down. When the load of fabric made me wobble, he gave me a hand down from my stool and bowed cheerfully at my thanks.
“I was told to find out how soon we must have them done,” I said.
He considered carefully, then raised three fingers.
“Three days?”
He nodded, and opened his hands as if asking if that was reasonable.
“Three days should be fine,” I said.
He smiled again so kindly that I decided to take a great risk. In a much quieter voice than before, I said, “Are you really in charge of this house?”
He cocked his head, surprised at the question.
“I’m new here,” I said. “Don’t know the ways. Nobody told me that such as you… a slave, that is… could be in charge of anything.”
He chuckled and waved his hand about the room, then settled it on his shoulder as if it weighed like stone. Then his fingers touched his collar, and he shook his head with a rueful smile.
“You bear the responsibilities of the house, but, being a slave, you’ve little power to see them done.”
He agreed readily, his eyes appreciative.
I knelt and began to roll up the rotting draperies, motioning him to kneel beside me. He did so, and began to smooth the wide fabric. With my head bent over the folds, I whispered, “Do your responsibilities include checking on the fencing yard, just in case there is anything that needs to be seen to there-something left that might be damaged?”
He paused for a moment, staring at me, and then ducked his head.
“Then, I think I can finish this task alone and find my way out.”
He laid a hand gently on mine, and then he bolted from the room.
At the same time that I finished rolling the fabric, voices sounded on the stair. Heart racing, I patted the red scarf to make sure it covered all my hair and bowed my head as would be expected.
“I told Calador that I wanted better partners.” It was Gerick. “The younger boys don’t last long enough any more.”
“And what did he say to your request?” Curse the devil forevermore… Darzid.
“That he’d see to it.”
The two walked slowly into the apartment. Weapons clanked and rattled as Gerick tossed his sword belt onto a low bench.
“I’m happy to see how you’re improving. Your enemies will not expect such prowess from one of your age. Don’t concern yourself with slaves. Their lives are to serve you.” Raging inside, appalled as I considered the lasting effects of such vile mentoring on a child, I hefted the unwieldy rolls on my shoulder, dipped my knee, and moved slowly toward the stair. Neither of them gave me a second glance. I could not get back to the servants’ compound fast enough. Six more hours of sewing, then to bed. Another thread in my little bundle under the pallet. Six more days, and we’d have Gerick out of this wretched place.
CHAPTER 29
As the end of my sojourn in Zhev’Na approached, I believed fortune had smiled on our venture. I had watched the Gray House through three more nights and seen no variation in the guard schedule. I had taken note of the lights on the third level-Gerick’s apartments-and had seen that all of the windows were dark well before the hour I called midnight. Only one small lamp on the corner of the balcony flickered throughout the night.
I hoped to get sent back to the Gray House with the repaired draperies and even dawdled about my work so perhaps Zoe might get annoyed with me again, but Dia was sent instead. No matter how I prompted her, Dia could tell me nothing about her errand. She had seen no one, noticed nothing interesting. I considered a midnight exploration of the Gray House, but as the deadline approached, I decided not to jeopardize my good luck-not until I knew what help was available.
And so came the fourteenth day. It began at dawn just as any other day. Dia made the trip to the cistern for the pail of wash water we all had to share, and I was fortunate to be second in line, so it was still reasonably clean. I had learned to be happy to get the dirt out from under my fingernails on occasion, saving anything more for the day I would be back in my own life.
Hours passed. For once, I didn’t notice my aching feet or punctured fingers. Terrified that I might miss the signal, I studied every face, jumped at every voice. Every sense remained alert, while in the back of my head I counted so as to be sure of the time. We stitched until two hours after sunset. Night… of course, night would be better. We retired, as usual, to the dormitory. When my eyes grew heavy in the airless heat, I decided to sit on the steps and let the cold night air keep me awake. But one of the women stirred restlessly, belching and moaning as if she were sick. I dared not move. The next thing I knew, it was dawn.
I buried my disappointment in an even higher state of alertness. We washed and shuffled across the courtyard to the sewing room, ate our morning cup of gruel after two hours of work, and the day proceeded, no different from any other day. Another night passed. Perhaps I had miscounted the da
ys. Perhaps Gar’Dena had not meant fourteen days exactly, but only that fourteen, more or less, should see it done. No plan dependent on so many mysterious elements could be so precise.
On the twenty-first day, I soothed my rising panic with Gar’Dena’s assurances. They’ll not forget me. If they decide the plan has failed, I’ll be transferred back to the military encampment and sent back through the portal, just as Gar’Dena said. But my cynical self taunted me. The Preceptors wouldn’t have just sent you here to rot, would they? All these Dar’Nethi are so honorable…
I put such thoughts out of my mind. I had to trust someone.
But as more days passed, my doubts grew right alongside the calluses on my fingers. What had gone wrong? Why was there no attempt to retrieve me?
At the four-week mark, numb and terrified, I was sent to the Gray House once again, to deliver five gray tunics for the household slaves. Sefaro was in his storeroom, writing in a journal of some kind. His face brightened when he saw me.
“I’ve brought five tunics as ordered,” I said.
He nodded and inspected them carefully, then folded them and put them on one of his shelves.
“I’m also instructed by Kargetha to ask if it is time for the new banners to be made with the young Lord’s device? She has received no instructions.” I gave Sefaro the wooden token from Kargetha that would permit him to answer my questions.
“We’ve no need for the banners at present,” he said, after clearing his throat. His voice was rich and mellow. “The young Lord is no longer in residence.”
The slave reached out for my arm. “Are you quite all right, Eda?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Pressing my fingers to my lips, I fought back tears and terror until I could speak again. “I was just so surprised… that Kargetha didn’t know. She’ll want to know where he’s gone. And for how long.” Everything depended on Gerick being in Zhev’Na.
“Five days ago the young Lord rode off with a Zhid officer. I was not told when or if to expect him back.” His gaze held mine. “Tell Kargetha that I will be here taking care of matters as I have done these past weeks: the house, the kitchen, the fencing yard…” He smiled and raised his eyebrows, as if asking me whether I understood. Gerick’s wounded young sparring partner… I smiled weakly. I could not rejoice in anything.
For my first weeks in Zhev’Na, I had considered my true life as something apart and my existence as Eda the sewing Drudge only a moment’s aberration. But now this soul-deadening monotony encompassed my entire existence. The sewing women had lived this way for so long that I could find no tinder in them to answer what spark remained in me. They were uninterested in ideas or stories and called my attempts at conversation odd. When I suggested that we take a few moments before sleeping to clean the dormitory, so that perhaps the mice might find it less hospitable, I got only the blank stares and shrugs that might have followed an invitation to take wing and fly across the desert.
One afternoon, after I had tried to interest the sewing women in a simple game that might enliven the hours while we stitched, Zoe mentioned to Kargetha that I was distracting the others with my foolishness. The Zhid woman touched the tag on my ear and commanded me to cease my useless conversation. I had to do so, of course, as surely as if the compulsion had actually been attached to the tag. In the days of silence that followed her command, I speculated on whether the compulsions had really been put there after all. However would I know, when I dared not disobey?
After I had gone five days without a single word, Zoe mentioned to Kargetha that perhaps her command had been too effective. She had no objection to reasonable speech in the workroom, and I had made some useful suggestions about the work in the past. Kargetha was feeling indulgent that day and reworded her command. “I release you from my bond, Eda. Perhaps you are too stupid to know what is useless and what is not. Speak as you wish, unless two of your fellows tell you to be silent.”
“Thank you, your Worship,” I said, dipping my knee, but I didn’t resume my attempts. Two months had passed, and Gerick was gone, and I didn’t have anything to say any more. The prospect of living out the rest of my days in such a fashion was abhorrent. By comparison my years of poverty in Dunfarrie seemed endlessly stimulating. They had encompassed growth and change, the acquisition of new skills, the cycle of the seasons to mark the days… the height of the garden… the flight of birds… such beauty and variety. That I had considered life in Dunfarrie as near death as I could imagine pointed out a singular lack of imagination on my part. But then, who could ever have imagined the life of Zhev’Na?
CHAPTER 30
Gerick
One morning, after I had been in Zhev’Na for several months, I went down to the fencing yard ready to begin the day. I had been working with a new sword, not a rapier, but an edged blade, a war sword. It was fine-a one-handed blade with a deep fuller to keep it light, a sharpened, tapered tip, and a length that was exactly right for my height. With so many new things to learn-cutting and slashing movements, different kinds of thrusting, appropriate stances, footwork, and defenses-I made sure to arrive at the fencing yard early every day and stayed at least an hour longer than usual. Though Calador never admitted it, I knew I was making good progress.
Someone new stood waiting with Calador that morning. Like Calador he was a Zhid-one of the warriors of Zhev’Na with the strange eyes. He was very tall, and his thin red hair was combed straight back from a high forehead. His whole face was long and pointed, especially his nose. If he hadn’t been talking to Calador, I might have thought he had no mouth at all.
Calador bowed to me and to the tall man. “My lord Prince, may I introduce Kovrack, a gensei of the Lords’ armies-our highest military rank. Gensei Kovrack has been charged with the next phase of your training, that of military command. You are to live with the gensei in the war camp of Elihad Ru, and he will teach you how to lead your soldiers. I have been honored to be your swordmaster.”
“But wait…” I was just getting used to Calador and Harres and Murn, just beginning to improve so that maybe they would think I was worth something. I liked my house and my servants and my horses. I didn’t want to change things.
It is necessary, my young Lord, said Parven, inside me. You are to be the ruler of two worlds. You agreed to let us guide you in the accomplishment of your purposes, and we warned you that there were hard lessons to be learned. Your destiny is not to be comfortable. That will make you weak. Weakness-fear of true power-was the downfall of Avonar and the line of D’Arnath. Have we not made you more than the sniveling child you were?
Of course, he was right. They had made me better, harder, more like what I should be. I could run for an hour across the desert and still come back and win a fight. I could pin an opponent that outweighed me by half again and break his arm to boot. It didn’t make my stomach hurt any more when I cut a sparring partner’s legs so they wouldn’t hold him up, and I could seal the slave collar on a new captive without even hearing his screams or feeling anything but relief that there was one more of the Dar‘Nethi unable to kill kind old women. Even if Prince D’Natheil was dead, I would have my revenge on him. I had sworn my oath. “Of course, I’ll do whatever is necessary.”
We left the fortress immediately, without even returning to my house. All that I needed would be supplied, Kovrack told me as we rode into the desert.
Two leagues from the fortress was the heart of a Zhid encampment that stretched as far as I could see into the brown dust haze that was the horizon. I had been into the Zhid war camps only twice: once to see a new lot of horses delivered from the breeding farms, and once to watch the execution of a Zhid who had spared a captive Dar’Nethi from a punishment. The warrior’s commanders had staked him out on the ground and given him only enough water to keep him alive while he baked in the days and froze in the nights. Every day they would lash him until his flesh was shredded, and the wind blew sand into the wounds until you couldn’t tell he was a man. Every night they worked some sorcery that
made him whole again. He was out there for days. By the time he died, he was mad.
We spent my first day in Elihad Ru touring the ranks of tents, the supply huts, and the training grounds, stopping occasionally to watch a mock battle or other exercise. At sunset, we rode to the top of a small rise where several larger tents were pitched. The gensei assigned me a tent next to his own and told me we would share a fire. A slave was kneeling in front of my tent. “The slave will keep you supplied with water, wine, and food, cook for you, and clean your clothes,” Kovrack said. “You’ll have no other luxuries in a war camp.”
The slave looked a few years older than me. No one told me his name. Luckily he seemed to know what to do, because I didn’t know what to tell him. After taking my weapons, brushing off my clothes, and putting out the light, he curled up to sleep on the sand outside the door of my tent.
On the next morning before sunrise, when the light was still dull and red, I heard Gensei Kovrack up and about. My slave was kneeling at the doorway of the tent waiting for me. I dressed quickly, had him buckle my sword belt around my waist, and stepped out of the tent. Kovrack was stretching and flexing his arm and shoulder muscles. I didn’t say anything, because it looked like he was concentrating. My slave brought me a cup filled with cavet-the thick, strong tea the Zhid drank-and Kovrack flicked his fingers at his own slave as if he wanted some, too. Kovrack’s slave filled a cup, but just as he offered it to his master, he stumbled over a tent stake and spilled the cavet in the sand. Scarcely interrupting his exercise, the gensei reached over to the post where his scabbard hung, drew his sword, and ran the slave through. My slave fell to his knees and pressed his head to the sand. I almost dropped my cup.
Kovrack snapped his fingers. While two slaves dragged the body away, and a third cleaned his sword, he resumed his exercise. He lunged forward in a half squat and brought his arms over his head, holding the position for longer than I could hold a breath. “You think me harsh?” he said.
