by Jean Winter
“But, sir!”
“Do no' worry. You will probably be allowed occasional visiting rights … under supervision.” A smirk appeared at his full lips.
“Fine,” Lyra huffed. “May I go now?”
“You are released.”
Stiffly, Lyra bent her knee one more time and marched outside into the darkness.
Her stride through the camp however quickly deliquesced to one of bemusement. Was she really developing friendships in this place? Did she want to? Target practice would be fun. It was several weeks ago the last time she and Jon— Jon. She missed him so much. She missed her children. Was her sister giving Iyalyn kisses every night before bed? Were they crying for her? For Jon and the other lost friends? Surely by now the massacre had been discovered and, perhaps, a search party was even organized for her. Obviously it had not yet been successful. Everyone probably assumed the worst.
Lyra's arms ached to wrap around her son and two daughters. Hug them close. Feel their living warmth. But all they could do now was clutch at the gnawing emptiness and heartache she held inside. Even now as she walked through the camp, she was aware that they'd automatically folded across her middle, as if she literally needed holding together. Recent habit.
A few escaped tears descended the sides of Lyra's nose. She neared the meal canopy and slowed to get a handle on her emotions before facing Maehan. Snivelee was scraping out pans. Mr. Shorn sat nearby, helping himself to a large meal, part of which was getting lost in his heavy whiskers.
The caravan manager was short and very round, an older gentleman with more gray than color in his hair, and the little that Lyra had seen of him reminded her of a brittle, steaming teapot about ready to explode. (“By the zeth's claw! Which deity did I offend to end up in this dung hole o' a job?” and “Keeper Maehan, will you please inform the girls again that they are to get three days out o' one frock before tossing it into the laundry hamper? Our bill from the last stop was astronomical!”)
A play-by-play version of the evening's drama was being relayed to Shorn, courtesy of an enthusiastic Snivelee, and Lyra heard part of Shorn's response just before she stepped out of earshot.
“Blast that Mr. Hundt, making us a man short three days before auction! You can bet I am going to get an earful from the others about being paid for overtime …”
Maehan was still mending when Lyra entered their tent and handed over the documents, explaining to the Keeper what had happened—minus her own part. No need to excite the woman anymore. Maehan just shook her head and clucked sympathetically at the young man's fate. She had already heard bits and pieces.
While Maehan made her notes, Lyra took over the mending. “How was Cindry when you left her?” she inquired after a few minutes.
“Pouting. But eventually she will be fine.”
“Do you think she will be healthy in time?”
“I have my doubts. Mr. Shorn is no' going to like having to keep her for another three months until the Vorstovehr auction, but I will wait until the morning o' to make my decision.”
Lyra remembered she had more questions about the auction, khari'na, her new duties, but she bit her tongue. Maehan needed to concentrate.
By the time the Keeper was finished, Lyra was yawning. She had gotten sleepy sitting there so comfortably with her work. Then she noticed Maehan staring at her.
“What?”
“I know you have been in mourning, Little Tiger, but I must insist now that you stop wearing that necklet.”
CHAPTER 5
A protective hand flew overtop her simple, silver chain. “But—”
But what?
A necklet signified a commitment to a living spouse. Among her own people she could have worn it the rest of her life, or until she was ready to court again. But she wasn't among her own people.
“You are an unjoined khar,” Maehan reminded. “That necklet is only rousing more suspicion about you. It needs to go.”
“Okay,” she mumbled.
It shouldn't have been, but taking off her wedding necklet for the first time was hard. Very hard. It was as though she were throwing off the last vestiges of everything in her old life—a ritual acknowledgment of her widowhood and slavery.
Carefully coiling the chain up in her palm, Lyra could almost hear the lament of each individual link as it came to rest. Jon. Rorn. Verise. Iyalyn.
Gone.
Family. Friends. Freedom.
Gone.
Gone.
Gone.
Her fist abruptly closed over the chain. Lyra grabbed the forms and left the tent nearly at a run, weeping her way across the quieted camp. Great gorebugs! When would she be able to get through a day again without crying?
The evening darkness was much appreciated as she approached Mr. Hundt, back on watch. He stood comfortably, feet shoulder width apart, hands crossed behind his back, like he could remain in that position all night. He had changed his shirt.
Lyra swiftly dammed up her emotions. “Sir.” Her tear-stained face bowed lower than necessary as she passed off the documents to brawny but clean hands. Hundt folded the pages twice and slid them into a breast pocket. Lyra bent a knee very quickly. “Good moonrise, sir.” She turned, looking forward to melding with the night.
“'Na Lyra, is something wrong?”
Her feet stopped. Wrong?
Wrong!
Should she list for him all the things that were terribly wrong in her life right now? Lyra threw her silent frustration up to the cold stars above—as if they could console her—and her fist clenched even tighter around her necklet.
“I see Mae finally made you take off your wedding chain. You have much to grieve for. My condolences on your loss … Mrs. Woodrose.”
Lyra spun to face him. Her name. Her real name!
A floodgate opened and before she could even think about stopping it, she completely disintegrated before the caravan's head of security. She couldn't see. She couldn't talk. She could barely breathe through the racking sobs. Instead, Lyra just opened her palm, recklessly baring her heart and soul in exposing her cherished necklet to a man she still hardly knew.
He came closer and picked up the chain. The aged silver sparkled in the soft moonlight.
“Give me your foot.”
“Wh-what?” Lyra stepped back in surprise.
Hundt squatted, patting one of his knees. “Give me your foot, right here.”
“What for?”
With a resonant sigh he said, “Once in a triple eclipse I am grateful for sisters and knowing more about a woman's uses for jewelry than I ever wanted.” His hand beckoned. “Come on.”
Tentatively, Lyra complied and Hundt unlaced her boot just enough to loosen the top. He wound her necklet around her ankle a couple times and, after only a little fumbling with thick fingers, was able to reattach the two ends together.
“You canno' wear it round your neck anymore, but you should be able to get away with hiding it here most o' the time.”
In awe Lyra watched him retie her laces. “That's perfect,” she croaked after a loud, rather unfeminine sniff. That one small act of kindness made her feel so much better. “Remind me to thank your sisters someday—if I ever get the chance to meet them.”
“Humph,” he grunted, but when he stood Lyra could definitely make out a smile hiding behind those strong features.
“Good moonrise to you, Mr. Hundt.”
“Good moonrise.” Hundt nodded and went back to resuming his watch.
The latest tears were dried with a bit of her skirt as Lyra returned to her tent, musing over the head of security. He had surprised her again.
Snivelee's clanking around in his kitchen area made her look up and she saw Mr. Shorn, still sitting there … watching her. Lyra sucked in a breath and dove into her tent. How long had he been staring? Had he observed her whole exchange with Hundt? What might he have been able to make out from that distance?
Maehan was working over a blue stocking as Lyra sat heavily on her hamm
ock, suddenly quite tired. Her necklet pressed against her skin in her boot and it comforted her.
I am still your wife, my love.
Their earlier discussion finally resumed. First, preparation packages for the khari'na needed to be assembled while on the road tomorrow: lotions, soaps, dental supplies, feminine products, general medication, all the basics for auction preparation as well as getting through the first week in a new home (should it be less than adequately prepared for receiving a mistress). Second, nine more girls awaited pickup at the Bansool khari'na station, needing only their final physical exams and some last minute education from Maehan before they were deemed auction worthy. Third, once in the capital, the caravan would be off to the dress shop for auction gown selection and fittings.
“All at one time?” Lyra exclaimed. “That will be like …” she did a quick estimate in her head, “… almost fifty women!”
The Keeper of the Women's hearty chortle was infectious. “Do no' worry. The store owner and I have been doing this for a long time.”
“So, am I to just shadow you the whole time?”
“No' necessarily. I think I will make use o' those young legs o' yours and send you on a shopping trip tomorrow in Bansool. I think we are going to come up short in kit supplies.”
“Okay.” A big yawn overcame Lyra and she apologized.
The Keeper just grinned. “Enough talk for tonight.”
The nightmares that made Lyra's sleep a fitful wreck continued.
After reliving Jon's murder, Lyra once again found herself standing in that bright, empty space before the strange curtain. Once again, she recognized Jon's silhouette just on the other side, and once again, he was totally unresponsive to her shouts and pounding.
But even worse than the actual nightmare was waking each morning and remembering that it was true—that Jon was not lying next to her anymore. She endured a daily trickle of tears down her cheeks for the first few minutes, missing the feel of his lips on her skin, his warm breath at the side of her face, sensitive fingers roaming across her frame.
This morning she was able to roll out of bed a little faster, if not feeling better, at least resolved. She greeted the emerging light of dawn head-on as she briskly brushed the tangles from her long, unruly tresses. “Well, time to get on with your new life.”
Oh, she would still keep her eyes open for a possible escape, but until that opportunity presented itself, she knew she had better just make the best of what she had. This wasn't so bad really. She had kind people watching out for her, and perhaps the constant ache in her heart would, in time, fade.
Please fade.
After breakfast, Maehan left to check on Cindry and take care of other business while Lyra packed up their belongings onto a barge. When she was done she looked around for something more she could do. Other khari'na who had already finished their own packing lazed about, chatting, watching the men do the heavy work. Some carried morose expressions—gloominess left over from last night's violence—but Hundt was right, it was already a passing memory.
The “heavy work” entailed collapsing caravan tents and placing them in the equipment barge. Lyra was sure the laborers could use an extra pair of hands until a replacement could be hired; she decided to take her and Maehan's tent down herself.
It was an unexpectedly pleasurable thing, using her muscles again after spending so many days in lethargic inactivity, and Lyra attacked her tent with gusto. Pulling it down proved to be easy. The hard part was hefting the old, thick canvas and iron poles wrapped in the fly tarp into the air. Straining and puffing, a great heave got it into her arms and over one shoulder.
Oof!
It was twenty-five yards to the tent storage barge and, putting one foot in front of the other, Lyra coaxed herself along until eventually, she let the weight drop to the floor inside the open bay door. Phew! She sucked in a long breath and turned.
Across the campsite, eight pairs of male eyes were turned on her. Most of them did not look happy.
“Back to work!” Hundt's voice reverberated over the heads as he made his way over. “Good morrow,” he greeted Lyra, tossing an even larger tent next to hers. The certain set of his mouth made her feel like she had missed an important joke.
“What?” she demanded.
Hundt sat on the lip of the storage bay and gazed across the meadow. “They were making bets on whether or no' you could carry that tent the whole way.”
Lyra's cheeks colored. “And how did the betting turn out?”
His grin was the broadest one she had seen so far.
“I won.”
She giggled. “They don't know I'm accustomed to hauling hay bales and wrestling runaway calves. So shall I start on another one?”
Hundt hopped into the barge and began piling the rolled tents against the back wall. “If you want to keep collapsing tents, you may, but let me carry them. I need my men concentrating on their jobs if we are going to get out o' here on time.”
“Yes, sir.”
It was another hour and a half before the packing and loading up was finished, at the end of which time, Lyra managed to get some smiles and appreciative nods. She even felt a little lighter as she met up with Maehan again. More at ease.
They entered the barge that stored the toiletries and medicine supplies and, to the clucking and whistles of the barge drivers to their churung, the women went to work assembling the auction preparation kits.
In the three hours it took to get to Bansool, they discovered that they were indeed short on some supplies. Maehan made a shopping list and drew a crude map of one of the city's market districts for Lyra. It seemed that not only was Bansool much larger than Flantilly, it was also only fifteen miles from Caldreen City—the Capital of Caldreen the nation. She was definitely entering “hostile” territory.
The outskirts of the city eventually slid by and Lyra watched Bansool's buildings get taller and taller the closer they came to city center. Some of them, erected with metal beams and a cement compound, rising thirty stories or so, looked as though they could scrape the sky. But more marvelous were the fashionable pedestrians below, ornamenting the ground like brightly variegated leaves at the base of an architectural forest. She had never seen such bold, tailored clothing or shiny high-heeled shoes before. Unusually shaped hats decorated in cascading feathers seemed to be the rage for the women. The men's styles, only slightly more muted.
Smaller public and private transportation vehicles crowded the streets, the newer ones sharing the network of tracks with the caravan (which had been outfitted with runners itself just two years before). All vehicles, wheeled and runnered, were pulled by smaller beasts of burden—ponies, woolly threshers, and even large dogs. Suddenly, Lyra was looking forward to her shopping trip. She wanted to soak in this interesting cacophony of new sights, sounds, and smells.
She disembarked with the other passengers when they arrived at the Bansool khari'na holding station and everyone was herded into a comfortable commons room filled with plush settees and lounges. A kitchenette area offered trays of interesting assorted breads, vegetables, soup, and pastries. Maehan and Lyra left the other khari'na to the filling of their mouths and luxury of flopping onto soft furniture, and continued on to the next room—a smaller version of the first. Here, Lyra came face to face with nine young women.
The new recruits.
An abundance of red hair seemed to have sprung from the southern, high plains. Red or auburn hair and very dark, tanned skin was the common denominator, and in the initial roll call and get-to-know-you minutes, Lyra found out why.
Six of the nine girls were related: twins, two sisters who were cousins of the twins, and two young women who were cousins to each other and the other four. Apparently the collective family business had recently gone bankrupt and suddenly it was in everyone's best interest to get the girls connected to wealthy families the “easy” way. Not that anyone had actually asked the opinion of the young women involved.
Lyra helped Maehan
with the physical check-ups, checking things off or making notes as Maehan dictated.
“Heart—good.”
“Lungs—good.”
“Eyes—clear.”
“Respiratory—clear.”
“Make a note about this skin rash. An allergy to grass. …”
It was during interviews for auction introduction material that Lyra got a dose of Caldreen'n cultural reality. At twenty-five, the oldest of the nine could read, dance, and play the lute. Of the others in general, six knew how to cook, four had some childcare experience, and only three could read. That was it. They sat like pretty princesses awaiting their gilded crowns. The theme of their reign: to be attractive decor, useful appliances. Lyra swallowed her indignation and reminded herself to maintain a looser grip on her quill. Her fingers were cramping.
When she was released to go clean herself up before the shopping, Lyra stole a quick moment at the kitchenette for a few cut veggies and a thick slice of sweet bread studded with dried fruit. Yum! Evidently her appetite was returning.
Outside, dark storm clouds greeted her with a brisk breeze that chilled her exposed extremities. The caravan had descended into a wetter, breezier environment and the climate change was evident. Lyra decided she had better find herself a cloak.
Maehan's black one that she used before was folded neatly on top in the trunk, but Lyra chose Maehan's older purple, velvet one instead. The solid black on the gaily colored streets of Bansool would only bring a lot of curious stares.
Fresh clothing in arm, Lyra found her way to the station's communal washroom where most of the other women were already enjoying their first shower in nearly a week. Lyra shared their enthusiasm. It had been even longer for her.
Since her first morning with the caravan when Maehan had made her bathe, Lyra had expended little effort for personal hygiene beyond some tooth and hair brushing and an occasional quick wash of her underwear. Now she was grudgingly ready to reenter the world of the living … and the clean and fresh.
She undressed, wrapped herself in a towel, and caught a glance of herself in a mirror on her way to the showers. Oh. My. Goodness. Her thick, dark hair, normally shining and free, had become plastered in grimy, kinky waves against her skull, and her longs locks, separated into heavy greasy vines, had accumulated enough oil and travel dust to probably double its weight.
