by Bryan Davis
“Come,” she hissed. “My master, Hyborn, is occupied, but I do not know for how long.”
Scott dashed ahead and waited at the cave’s yawning entrance. When Marcelle and Shellinda caught up, he whispered, “I will leave you in Daphne’s care.” With that, he sneaked away into the night.
Daphne grabbed Marcelle’s arm and croaked in a low, gravelly tone. “If you will have pity on a poor widow, you will not say a word until I speak again.”
Marcelle gazed into her sad eyes, glistening in the light of the moons. Deep lines etched her face with grief. Her husband had perished only the night before, yet she was willing to take a risk for the sake of strangers. Marcelle nodded and touched her own lips, then Shellinda’s, signaling their silence.
Curling her finger, Daphne ducked into the cave. Marcelle took Shellinda’s hand and followed. Inside, a high and wide tunnel with a rocky, uneven floor led past a series of wall-mounted torches. Undulating light cast a trio of hunched-over shadows on both walls, making it seem as if six trembling ghosts mimicked their stealthy march.
The sounds of emptiness filled Marcelle’s ears, like air whisking through the expanse. She took in a quiet breath through her nose. Unlike other caves, this one lacked any hint of mold or must. With the scent of cooked meat and something spicy in the air, it smelled more like dinnertime at Grandmother’s house than an empty hole in the side of a mountain.
Marcelle glanced at Shellinda. The smell of food seemed to have no effect. Maybe months of stale bread and fish had desensitized her. She probably didn’t remember what real food smelled like. Still, she needed to eat and drink. The long run had been enough to wear anyone out.
They breezed by a dark room on the right with a door big enough to accommodate a dragon. A loud rumbling sound came from within, like troubled breathing. It bounced off the opposite wall and sent tiny tremors across the floor.
Daphne seemed unconcerned. She just marched on.
Marcelle looked back. Could Daphne’s master be in there, asleep and snoring? No wonder she wanted complete silence.
As Daphne led them further in, the rows of lanterns ended, leaving them in darkness. A hand grasped Marcelle’s, strong and cold. She followed its pull to the left. The snoring diminished, as did the buzz of emptiness. This corridor was likely narrower with a lower ceiling, explaining the muffled sounds.
After a few seconds and a turn to the right, the pull eased, and the hand let go. A scratching sound interrupted the silence. Sparks flew, and a wick sprang to life. Daphne turned a lantern’s wheel, heightening the flame. The glow spread throughout the room. Three mats lay side by side, their combined widths taking up nearly all the floor space, save for a desk and chair at the foot of the rightmost mat. A girl, perhaps Shellinda’s age, rested cross-legged on the mat. Wearing a thin nightshirt that covered her body to halfway down her thighs, she leaned against a wall that curved into an arched ceiling. She blinked at the sudden light. In contrast to the cattle child, this girl’s shoulder-length hair, light brown and shiny, was clean, as was her rosy face. Although somewhat thin, her cheeks showed none of the hollowness that Shellinda’s and her workmates’ displayed.
Across the room on the left side, another girl lay on her mat with a gray sheet covering her from the waist down. Likely about twelve years old, she, too, blinked.
Marcelle eyed the second girl. With darker and shorter hair, her expression seemed pensive. She tightened and loosened her grip on the edge of the sheet and kept her gaze averted from the visitors.
“Now,” Daphne said, her voice again low and rasping, “we can converse in safety.” She sat down cross-legged on the center mat and gathered her long skirt into her lap.
Marcelle and Shellinda joined her at the foot of her mat. “Thank you for your time,” Marcelle said. “I am sorry about your tragic loss.”
Daphne sniffed. “Lattimer was a good man. Although we disagreed on everything from dragons to dreams, he was a very good man. We were lucky. The dragons allowed us to share our final months together. He was dying. He knew it. We all knew it. So Arxad requested that the Separators put us together. Still, no one knows why Lattimer aggravated Maximus enough to provoke his wrath. Maybe he wanted to end his life before the suffering stage became worse. Since the dragons won’t tell me, I will likely never know.”
“Again,” Marcelle said, “I am sorry. I can’t imagine the pain.”
“Life is suffering. That much is sure. But this tragedy teaches us once again that we are better off submitting to the authorities over us. Resisting them is futile and foolish.” A weak smile appeared, and Daphne let out a mechanical laugh. “Scott was so excited about the arrival of strangers, he babbled a stream of nonsense about travelers from another world. So I’m looking forward to hearing your story to see what reality he twisted into a fable. Boys that age tend to have wild imaginations, you know.”
Marcelle forced a smile. Daphne’s little speech about submission pricked her sense of wariness. “Yes, boys are like that.” She nodded at Shellinda. “Before I begin my story, may I request food and water for my traveling companion? She is in great need of nourishment.”
“Yes, of course. I should have offered, but my mind was fixed on getting you safely inside.” Daphne touched the older girl’s hand. “Penelope, please fetch a dish for each of our guests. I restocked our cache while Hyborn was away, including some dried lamb strips. Let us hope he doesn’t sniff them out.”
“Yessim.” Penelope pushed away the sheet and rose slowly, keeping her eyes on Daphne. She traversed the gap to the desk in two steps, picked up a wax taper from the desktop, and returned to the mats. Bending over, she pushed the short wick into the lantern’s flame.
While Penelope waited for the candle to light, Marcelle scanned the girl’s legs. She wore a nightshirt that fell to midcalf. Red stripes ran from that point to her ankles, clearly the marks of a whip, fairly recent wounds.
“You poor girl.” Marcelle touched the hem and lifted it, revealing the bottom cuff of short trousers underneath.
Penelope quickly batted her hand away. “They don’t hurt,” she said as she pulled the skirt back into place.
After dipping her knee toward Daphne, Penelope padded out of the room in silence.
Marcelle stared after her. She was hiding something, but what? The short trousers? If so, why?
“Don’t be troubled by her curtness,” Daphne said. “She is a good girl, and I never have any trouble with her, but she’s disappointed about exam scores she recently received. You see, she is rather slow. Try as she might, she is always far behind in her studies.”
Marcelle looked at the desk. Three books lay in a stack, a thick tome on top opened to somewhere near the middle.
“Vanna, on the other hand …” Daphne nodded at the other girl. “Vanna is a bright child. She will be a scholar.”
Marcelle imagined the little girl combing through the pages of the huge book. “The dragons allow you to become scholars?”
“Oh, they insist that we study from cradle to grave.” Daphne cocked her head and gave Marcelle a curious stare. “You really must be from another land. How far have you traveled?”
“I’m not sure. Very far, I think. I couldn’t keep track of the distance.”
Daphne looked at Shellinda. “This girl isn’t a traveler. I’m sure I have seen her before.”
“Shellinda,” Marcelle said, touching the girl’s shoulder. “And my name is Marcelle. She didn’t come from my land, but she is traveling with me now.”
“Have others visited here from your land?” Daphne asked.
Marcelle’s heart pounded. This was a great opening. “In fact, yes. A man named Frederick journeyed here some months ago and never returned. I would very much like to find him.”
Daphne formed Frederick’s name on her lips three times before replying. “The name is familiar, but I can’t place it.” She turned to Vanna. “Do you know of a man named Frederick?”
“Broderick sounds a little l
ike it,” Vanna said. “He is a miner at number two, but I don’t know any Frederick.”
“And Broderick is certainly not from another land,” Daphne added with a laugh. “We played cactus tag together as children.”
Once again padding softly, Penelope returned and set a pottery plate in front of them along with two clay mugs. Strips of dried meat lay across the plate as well as a small loaf of fresh bread and two oblong objects that looked like some kind of fruit.
Marcelle imagined a hidden door in a cave wall that housed the clandestine collection of food. In spite of Daphne’s sermonette about submission, she seemed ready to slide through convenient loopholes, including hiding secretive travelers.
When Penelope sat again on her mat, Shellinda looked at the food hopefully. “May I?” she asked.
“Of course,” Daphne said. “Help yourself.”
Shellinda grabbed the loaf, tore it in half, and began stuffing it into her mouth, chewing as fast as she could.
Daphne leaned forward and touched Shellinda’s oily hair. Her eyebrows lifted. “A cattle child?”
“I need someone who knows your land and your ways,” Marcelle said. “And she seems quite adept.”
“Our ways?” Daphne’s brow tightened. “Your words continually remind me that you are not one of us. From where exactly do you hail?”
Marcelle studied the woman’s probing stare. Telling her everything at once could be too much of a shock. “Before I answer that, do you mind if I ask you a few more questions?”
Daphne spread out her arms. “I am the hostess, and you are my guest. Who am I to interfere with your business before you are ready to reveal it?”
“I will reveal it soon.” Marcelle glanced at Shellinda. She had already wolfed down half the bread and one of the fruits and now guzzled from her mug.
Marcelle took a drink from her own mug. It tasted like water with a hint of something sweet. Honey, maybe? Apparently these slaves enjoyed many more benefits than did the cattle children, yet, Penelope’s stripes proved that life here included brutal discipline.
“We received word,” Marcelle said as she set down her mug, “that Frederick might be hiding in a refuge in the wilderness. Do you know of such a place?”
Penelope coughed. Covering her mouth as her cheeks flushed, she coughed several more times.
“Did you get something to eat as well?” Daphne asked as she patted Penelope on her back. “Stolen food carries the bite of a rat.”
Marcelle cast a wary glance at Penelope. What had brought about that reaction? Frederick’s name? The mention of a wilderness refuge? Should she ask Penelope directly or rather probe for other information first? With Daphne’s apparent loyalty to the dragons, albeit a duplicitous one, later would probably be better. Maybe they would have a chance to speak about the refuge in private. “I found Scott’s fable interesting,” Marcelle said. “What is this tale about travelers from another world?”
“Myths. Ghost stories concocted to give hope to the hopeless. Supposedly, we humans came to Starlight from a planet called Darksphere only a hundred years ago, transported through space by Magnar himself. Utter nonsense, of course. It’s not enough that the simpletons believe that a dragon could fly that far; they even reject hard evidence.”
“Hard evidence?” Marcelle asked.
“Well … the prophecy of the black egg, for example, is hundreds of years old.”
Penelope slid back against the wall, her eyes wide. Vanna lay down and pulled a thin pillow over her face.
Marcelle took note of their frightened postures. Sheer terror. “So this prophecy is dark and foreboding?”
“Indeed it is. The dragons have a bard named Tamminy, and whenever he sings the prophecy, we jest about it, but our nervous laughter is merely a sign that we fear the truth behind it. In fact, starting at the change of seasons, rumors began buzzing that the egg has already been laid and is now incubating. Lattimer chided such pessimistic chatter, but I think the gossip shook even his confidence.”
“Perhaps you should tell me this prophecy so I can understand your fear.”
“It is in the dragon language,” Daphne said with a strange tongue click, “so I cannot sing it. Lattimer translated and memorized the human language version, but I know only a bare summary. You see, the dragons are awaiting a new ruler who will hatch from a black egg. At first, he will be weak and perhaps crippled, but he will grow into the most powerful dragon of all. Because of a unique gift, he will be able to find all the pheterone the dragons need, and then the dragons will kill all the slaves. Why keep them around if they are no longer needed?”
Marcelle drummed her fingers on her thigh. This was getting more interesting all the time. “So the main reason you are enslaved is to get pheterone for the dragons.”
“Of course, but an entire slave industry has blossomed. Many dragons find us useful as house slaves and menial laborers, and they buy and sell us like common trinkets. If not for the Separators making the final decisions about where we should go and what price should be set, the slave trading could easily get out of hand. We could be bartered and traded every day if they had the mind.” Daphne shook her head. “A terrible prospect, I think.”
“Okay,” Marcelle said, “now I understand the talk about the other world, but why was Scott so enthralled with the idea that I had come from there?”
“The believers in that myth, and they are small in number, mind you, expect that warriors will eventually find their way here to rescue us and take us home.” Daphne chuckled. “Imagine that. No one living now was even alive back then, neither in this world, nor on the mythical planet, and yet some fools believe in something ridiculous that no one has ever seen. Their whippings have led them to conjure hope-filled dreams that will never come true.”
“I believe they will come,” Vanna whispered, her head now poking out from beneath her pillow. When she noticed everyone looking at her, she quickly hid herself again.
“Oh, here is Miss Know-it-all giving us her well-informed opinion.” Daphne reached over and jerked the pillow away. “Pray tell, O intelligent one, why would anyone on Darksphere come here when every witness of this mythical transport is long dead? Who told them about us, and how would they still be alive?”
Vanna hid her face with her hands but peeked between her fingers. “Uriel Blackstone went back and told them. They’re trying to come here, or maybe their grandchildren are trying. They just haven’t figured out how yet.”
Marcelle looked at Vanna. She knew about Uriel Blackstone’s escape. Apparently the slaves passed that story down through the generations, most likely considering it another hopeful myth now.
“You and your fanciful imagination.” Daphne tossed the pillow at her. “If you keep your head in the clouds, you’ll never get a promotion.”
Vanna buried her head under the pillow again. “I don’t want to be promoted.”
“You see?” Daphne said, gesturing toward Vanna. “You see what I put up with? One girl works as hard as she can and still can’t pass her exams, and the other sings through her studies like a songbird, receives the best scores, and still is unable to tell a dragon from a dream. At least Penelope is smart enough to want a Promotion.”
Penelope spoke up with a mousy voice. “I got one.”
“Got one?” Daphne said. “Got what?”
“A Promotion.” Penelope’s eyes glistened in the lantern light. “Your late husband, bless his soul, told me after exams. A Separator was there, and he chose Natalla and me.”
“Natalla?” Daphne turned the wick, heightening the flame. “Her scores are barely better than yours.”
“I know. We had the lowest scores again.”
Daphne reached out and caressed Penelope’s knuckles. “It stands to reason, child. You and Natalla are hatched from the black egg. The Separator knows this and expects you to grow into an elegant lady who will serve the King of the North with beauty and grace.”
“The King of the North?” Marcelle repeated.<
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“The promoted slaves go to the Northlands to serve the dragon king there.” Daphne leaned over and whispered in Marcelle’s ear. “A few of the foolish say that the King of the North is the myth and that the dragons eat the promoted slaves. That’s why they choose the ones of weaker mind, to ‘cull the herd,’ as some phrase it.”
“I heard you,” Penelope said. “Natalla thinks the same way, and she’s scared. So now I’m scared, too.”
Daphne clucked her tongue. “Foolish fears beget needless tears. Reject the lies and be known as wise.” She rose to her feet, picked up the open book on the desk, and brought it back to the mat. After sitting once again, she flipped the pages to the front of the book and withdrew a folded parchment. “I do this for the sake of our guest,” she said as she opened the parchment and showed it to Marcelle. “Or perhaps also for Penelope, since she seems to have lost every vestige of common sense.”
Marcelle took the page and scanned it. It appeared to be a letter written in hastily scrawled script. “What is it?”
“It is a letter from my sister when she was promoted more than fifty years ago. She wrote it from the Northlands and sent it to me, proving that she is there with the dragon king.”
“And this is her handwriting?” Marcelle asked.
“Indeed, it is. Rondi’s penmanship was never very legible. She was twelve when she left, plenty old enough to know what she was doing.”
“The dragons made her write it,” Penelope said. “Then they ate her. That’s why you never got any other letters.”
“Why you continue chittering that nonsense is beyond me. Rondi’s letter said this would be her only communication. Servants of the king have no time to dwell on relationships of the past.”
“Or they are unable to,” Marcelle added.
“Unable to?” Daphne narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I have been to the Northlands, and I have been inside the dragon king’s castle and seen one of the servants there.”
