by Sharon Shinn
The very affluent had found ways to show off their wealth even under these restrictions. Mary’s dress was made of the finest blue silk, covered with tiny flowers embroidered in matching thread. It had taken nearly a year to make. She had been allowed a single clip to hold her hair back from her face, and this was a silver and sapphire barrette made by the master craftsmen of Luminaux. She wore white gloves on her small hands, each glove encrusted with pearls from fingertip to palm, making it clear that this hand was made to do no labor even as strenuous as lifting a goblet to her mouth.
While she dressed the girl and made up her face, Rachel told her stories of Edori Gatherings to distract Mary from her growing nervousness. “At day’s end, the clans would gather before the fire, and singers from every tribe would come forward to praise Yovah.”
“Were there angels at these Gatherings, then?”
Rachel laughed. “No.”
“But I thought you could only sing to Jovah at a Gloria, or when an angel came to lead you.”
“That is what the angels tell you, perhaps, but the Edori have always felt their songs went straight to Yovah’s heart, whether or not an angel was there to guide the notes. Do you want to hear the story or not?”
“Oh, yes, yes—I’m sorry, go on.”
“Everyone was invited to sing—solos, duets, whatever. There was a woman from my clan, Naomi, who had gone to live with a man in another clan. We had been very close; we had sung together for years. At every Gathering we saw each other again, and she would teach me a new song she had written while we were traveling apart. And every time we sang together, the Edori cheered.”
“Are you a singer, then?”
Rachel was silent a moment. “I used to be,” she said. “I do not feel much like singing in Lord Jethro’s house.”
Mary’s eyes lifted to Rachel’s. Once again they were working before the mirror, Rachel brushing out Mary’s long hair and preparing to confine a few tendrils in the clip. “I wish you were not a slave,” the lady said.
Rachel almost laughed. “So do I wish it,” she said.
“Because then, when my new house is completed, I could offer you a scandalous wage and you could come work for me instead of for Lord Jethro.”
Rachel gave her a mocking curtsey. “And I would come.”
“And together we could figure out everything about pigs and candles.” Mary sighed. “And you could do my hair, and I would have one friend in the house.”
“Well, you will be here another year. I can be your friend that long.”
But something had occurred to Mary. She bounced in her chair, clapping her small hands together. “I had the best idea!” she exclaimed. “Daniel asked me just the other day, and I had no answer!”
“What?” Rachel said, amused.
“What I wanted from him for a wedding gift! I will request you!”
Rachel merely stared at her in the looking glass. Mary waved her hands impatiently.
“You. I will say I want him to buy you for me. And then you will be my slave, and I will set you free! And then you can come work for me when I have my own house, and I can pay you as much as I want.”
Rachel found her hands were trembling. She carefully set down the hairbrush and the barrette. “But if I was your slave,” she said, “I would come to your new house anyway, and you would not have to pay me anything.”
Mary looked shocked. “But I don’t want slaves,” she said. “I would not want anyone in my house who hates me. All my father’s slaves hate him, I know it. I would rather pay someone and know she was there of her own free will.” She twisted around to face Rachel. “You would come, of your own free will, wouldn’t you?” she asked wistfully. “I would pay you whatever you asked.”
“You would not have to pay me very much,” Rachel said, very low. “I would come gladly—if you would make me free.”
The rest of Mary’s wedding day passed, for Rachel, in something of a blur. Once she escorted the trembling girl down to the chapel, she had to hurry back to the kitchens, for there was so much to be done that additional workers had been borrowed from the homes of Jethro’s powerful friends. Not for a moment did Rachel stop slicing, chopping, stirring, cleaning and running.
But whatever her task, her mind was far from it. She tried to crush down her rising excitement, but Mary’s artless offer had given her a fierce hope such as she had not indulged in for five years. It was stupid—she knew it was stupid—to believe Mary had the power, or the will, to effect the sale merely because she wanted it; clearly, this was not a woman used to getting her own way. But if Lady Clara did not object—and why should she?— and if Daniel was agreeable—and why should he not be, new-married bridegroom that he was?—it was just possible that Rachel was about to step onto the long road to freedom. At last, at last.
But it was foolish to believe it really would happen.
But it could. It could.
Only once during that endless, harried day did Rachel break stride in her work or wrench her mind away from that delicious, terrifying vision. Shortly after the chapel bells tolled high noon, music washed over the house from above—multiharmonic vocal music so exquisite that Rachel felt her hands falter on the chopping block.
“What is that?” she whispered to Anna.
“The angels,” the woman whispered back. “Singing to Jovah to ask him to bless young Lord Daniel and the lady Mary.”
“Where are they?”
“Above the house. On the wing. Is it not the most beautiful sound you have ever heard?”
Indeed it was, and Rachel had heard fine singing before. The bright brilliance of the soprano line was warmed by the rich alto voice; the tenor notes wove through them like metallic thread, and the basses flowed beneath them all like a dark river. Rachel closed her eyes, remembering music. Her hands continued laboring of their own volition.
And then she stopped moving altogether. A single male voice broke through the choral murmuring and painted the air with color. The lyric line was one of happiness and hope, but Rachel felt her heart twist as if the man sang of tragedy; that was how elegant his voice was. When the chorus responded with its carefully measured intervals, she actually gasped. The soloist’s voice disappeared into harmony and she felt her breath spiral away from her, felt her head grow light. For a split second, as his voice ceased, she felt her own pulse hammer to a halt.
“Jovah will certainly grant happiness to the young ones now,” Anna leaned over to murmur. “How could he not, after such a concert?”
But Rachel scarcely heard her. Opening her eyes, she was shocked beyond measure to find herself in the cellar kitchen of a Semorrah house, dressed in rags, bound by a chain and working like a slave. She had, for a few moments, literally forgotten where she was.
Between the wedding, the luncheon banquet, the afternoon reception, the dinner and the grand dress ball, the guests did not have much of a respite either. An hour or so before midnight, when the chatelaine told Rachel that Lady Mary needed her services to undress for the night, the slave dried her hands, tied her hair back and ran up the three flights to the suite reserved for Daniel and his bride. She half-expected to find Mary sobbing and exhausted, for it had been a day to try the most robust woman, which Mary was not; but it was a calm and hopeful young bride who awaited Rachel in the large and dimly lit chamber.
“How did you fare today?” Rachel asked, coming in and closing the door.
Mary laughed and briefly shut her eyes. “I thought it would never end! But everyone was very nice to me, telling me how well I looked, and my father gave me this silver ring—see—and told me I was a good girl. So I thought it went very well.”
“Come. Let’s get you ready for bed.”
Obediently, Mary let Rachel disrobe her, bathe her and rub her body with scented creams. She donned a white lawn nightdress (possibly as expensive as the wedding gown, Rachel thought cynically), and then the slave combed out the bride’s long hair again.
“You look pretty,” Rac
hel told her. “Do you remember everything I told you?”
“Yes. Oh yes, I think so. But Daniel was kind to me today, too—he kissed my hand and then he kissed me on the lips, and he smiled at me, so I think perhaps it will go well in any case,” Mary said optimistically.
Rachel smiled. “I’m sure it will. Is this fire hot enough to suit you? Is there anything else you need?”
“Yes—no—I think— I’m ready, I suppose.”
Rachel gave a small curtsey and stepped back toward the door. “It will be fine,” she said. “I’ll try to come by in the morning to help you dress. You can tell me about it then.”
“Oh yes, that would be good. Tomorrow morning and then I can— Rachel, I forgot!”
Hand on the doorknob, Rachel turned back to face her. “What?”
The young face was glowing. “He said yes!”
“Who said yes?”
“Daniel. He said, yes, I could have you for my wedding gift. And his father agreed! Isn’t that splendid?”
For a moment, Rachel was so dizzy that only her grip on the door kept her upright. “Splendid,” she said faintly, shaking her head to clear it. “Lady Mary—I can’t tell you how splendid,” she stammered. “You can’t know— You—this means so much—”
Mary laughed with childlike delight. “Well, good! It is the first time in my life I have been able to make someone else happy. Already I like being a married woman!”
“Thank you,” Rachel whispered, then bowed again and went out.
Free, free, free. She returned to the kitchen and finished her chores, and the whole time her mind was chanting: Free, free, free. She lay on her pallet and let exultation drown her; she pressed her fingers to her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Free. She was tired, but she did not want to sleep. She wanted to revel. That a useless young gentrywoman could give her the most precious gift struck her as highly ironical, but even that thought could not taint her elation. Free.
It was late before Rachel slept and early when she woke, but she was energized by a secret euphoria. The clank of the chain between her shackles sounded almost musical this morning; soon the iron bands would be sawed from her wrists, and she would be released. She took extra pains with her appearance this morning, knowing she would see Mary within a few hours, wanting to look her best for her new mistress so that Mary would not change her mind. She scrubbed her face three times, washed her thick curly hair and braided it back, still wet. She put on her best gown, clean and newly mended.
But there were things to do before she could tend to Mary. Again, she had to build fires in the guest rooms—although, of the angelic contingents, only those from Monteverde and the Eyrie were still in the house. As before, most of the guests slept through her visit, but the angel Gabriel was awake when she entered his room.
Standing in the dawnlight at the long, high window, he looked clean and sculpted as a marble statue. Rachel checked on the threshold, since she had not expected him to be awake, and he gave her one quick, blue, indifferent glance. Keeping her eyes down, she hurried across to the fireplace and quickly built the fire. Or tried to—some malice was in the coals that they did not want to light. Even the matches were troublesome, requiring two or three strikes to catch. She imagined the angel’s lapis lazuli eyes fixed on her from across the room, and her hands became even clumsier.
At last the blaze was built and looked hearty enough to last. Rachel stumbled to her feet and edged toward the door—but he was there before her, blocking the exit, staring at her with those incredible jewel-colored eyes.
“Lord?” she asked hesitantly and bobbed a graceless curtsey.
He did not move out of her way. His eyes traveled over her face, her hair, the threadbare gown, the shackles and chain. “Unbelievable,” he said, and even his speaking voice was melodic enough to make her absentminded. “Rachel, daughter of Seth and Elizabeth.”
CHAPTER THREE
Gabriel had had an extraordinarily trying three weeks. He had spent a few days in the general vicinity of the ruined village, hoping to find information about the vanished community. He had no luck. The few hardy families he found on independent farms a few miles distant were either suspicious and misanthropic, or recent arrivals who could shed no light on events more than ten years past. He flew east to the Jansai trading city of Breven to see if he could find out what traveling bands went through that portion of Jordana, but the few who would talk to him at all unanimously disclaimed any knowledge. He had expected some wariness—after all, what Jansai would admit to an angel that he had participated in the destruction of a farm village?—but he was frustrated nonetheless.
“I am not trying to find a war band just to level accusations,” he said to one nomad chieftain. “I am looking for someone who once lived there—”
The man had laughed in his face. He was big, deeply tanned, completely bald and draped with a fortune in gold. “And I am trying to tell you, there is nothing for the Jansai in the wretched farmlands of northern Jordana,” he said. He counted on his fingers. “No gold—no commerce—nothing to trade for. Jansai only travel the routes of profit, my friend.”
“Someone came through that village.”
“Ask the Edori,” the chieftain advised. “They travel all through Samaria, for curiosity’s sake. Some Edori, at some time, has strayed into that village circle, I swear to you by Jovah’s wrath.”
“But which Edori? And why?”
The chieftain laughed again. He had very large teeth. “Who can tell one Edori from another?” he said. “And who knows why they do anything? Ask them and see what they will tell you.”
So Gabriel had left Breven and begun an exhausting search through all of Samaria for an Edori tribesman who could tell him what happened in a nameless Jordana village ten years ago. Like most of the angels, Gabriel had little experience with the Edori, so he was awkward and unsure around them. The city merchants, the farmers, even the Jansai, felt respect and a certain fear for the angels; they believed that only the good will of the angels protected them from divine wrath. But the Edori were not so certain of this most basic principles of theology. When they cared to appeal to Jovah, they did so themselves, holding unstructured firelit Glorias at their Gatherings. They also sang to the god to celebrate a birth, a death or some other important event, and many of the Edori singers whom Gabriel had heard had exceptional voices.
But they did not believe that a baby had to be dedicated to Jovah at birth; they did not believe that only an angel’s voice would find its way to Jovah’s ear; and, most shocking of all, they did not believe that Jovah was the one true god, the only god, the source of all good and the potential source of total annihilation. Instead, they believed in a god more powerful than Jovah, who directed Jovah and to whom Jovah was answerable—or so Gabriel understood, though he could hardly credit it. It was contrary to the basic principles of his existence.
He flew, low and with no particular direction, a day and a half from Breven before he came to an Edori tribe camped at the far southeastern border of Jordana. He had always found the Edori willing to welcome strangers, and this time it was no different. The women greeted him with hot wine and offers of warm cloaks (for, as usual, he was wearing only his flying leathers, and to mortals these did not look warm), and the children ran around him in a frenzied circle, chanting out a verse. The men came forward more slowly, as befitted creatures of more dignity, and they nodded to the angel and waited for him to state his case.
“I am looking for information on the whereabouts of a young woman,” Gabriel said, speaking slowly, looking from face to impassive face. “She once lived in a small village in Jordana, not far from Windy Point. The village is gone, she is gone. I thought perhaps Edori, who go everywhere, might know what happened to the people who lived there, and this girl in particular.”
It was, as he had anticipated, a tortuous, tedious process. He was invited to stay for a meal while the most observant men and women of the tribe were called together to consider what
he had to say. Could he describe exactly where the village had been? Did he know the names of any who had lived there? When had it been destroyed? What had destroyed it? His ignorance on most of these questions embarrassed Gabriel, but the Edori did not mock him or show irritation. Instead, with their help, he was able to sketch out a tolerably accurate map of the area—and, again with their prompting, he came up with clues that led to a more precise idea of when the destruction had taken place. For they asked him to name the grasses and the lichens he had seen on the boulders of the ruined houses: Was the mold brown with black spots or was it red with brown spots? Was the grass as high as his waist or only as high as his ankle and bearing seeds of a yellowish-green? With this information they deduced with certainty how long the site had been abandoned.
“Eighteen years,” one of the middle-aged men had pronounced, and all the others in the group murmured agreement. “What tribe was traveling near the Caitana hills eighteen summers ago? Was it the Logollas?”
“No, they were in the Gaza foothills that summer,” a woman said. “The Chievens, perhaps.”
“They were with the Logollas.”
“The Pandas?”
“Not the Pandas.”
“The Manderras, then.”
“The Manderras.”
“Yes, the Manderras.”
Gabriel felt a stirring of hope. “And where might I find the Manderras?” he asked.
The middle-aged man shook his head. He might have looked sad, but it was hard to tell; Gabriel found it impossible to read expression on any of the bronze faces. “The Manderras are gone,” he said.
“Gone where?”
“Scattered. Dead.”
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. “Attacked by Jansai?” he asked sharply.
Several of the Edori nodded. The others remained inscrutable.
“Are they all dead?” Gabriel persisted. “All of them?”
“Or enslaved,” a woman said dryly. “And if you can find them after the Jansai have dispersed them, you will have no trouble finding one lost girl.”
