Daughter of Two Worlds: Book Three of the Aun Series

by Lee Bezotte

“I guess it’s time to go,” her new friend said sadly.

  “Okay,” Maren said through bread and jam. She then collected her bindle and walked toward the door.

  As Athas accompanied her, she asked, “Can we play tomorrow?”

  Maren shrugged her shoulders, gave her friend a quick, stiff hug, and headed out toward the road.

  “Please draw me a bath,” Maren said aloud to herself. It’s what she imagined a princess would say to one of her servants. “And bring the tea to my bedchamber,” she added.

  As she walked south along the road, she spoke to each farm animal, shrub, and cawing crow as if they were subjects in her expansive kingdom. Stopping along the path, she looked out over rolling hills and endless stacked stone walls, wondering what it would be like to have dominion over all that she saw. “Rejoice!” she called to the fields. “Her majesty is here.” Then, raising her voice to an authoritative bellow, she added, “And she is beautifully powerful!”

  “Hello there,” a voice came from the road behind Maren.

  Startled, she turned around, and all the poise and dignity she was carrying fell to the ground. Before her was a husky, bald man at the reins of a horse-drawn carriage. Both the man and the carriage looked to have accumulated many miles. “Yes?” she asked.

  “I know that you’re in the middle of a grand speech and all,” the man said with an amused smile, “But I was wondering if you could move out of the middle of the road so that I could get through.”

  Maren reached up and began to massage her ear. Looking at the man, but focusing mainly on his cleanly shorn scalp, she answered, “Okay,” and continued to stare.

  The man waited for a moment, then finally burped, “Well?”

  “Oh, yes,” she responded, and took small steps to the side of the road.

  “Thank you!” the man hollered through his bushy, white mustache as he began to prod his horses onward. After inching forward a bit, he cocked his head and looked curiously at the girl. “Say, do you live here?” he asked.

  Maren looked north, then south, and answered, “No.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Laor,” she answered.

  “That’s a long way from here,” the man said. “How did you get way out here?”

  Maren didn’t want the man to know that she was a slave, so she simply answered, “I walked.”

  The man looked confused for a moment, then kindly answered, “Well, I’m going to Redbramble. Would you like a ride?”

  She stared through the man and thought about his offer. The idea of riding in a carriage was very appealing, especially after all she had experienced. “Okay,” she answered, and began to make her way to the carriage door.

  “I’m afraid the buggy is full,” the man said before Maren could open the door. “You’ll have to ride up front with me.”

  Tentatively, Maren climbed up onto the seat of the carriage next to the man, giving herself ample space between them.

  “It’s okay, I won’t bite,” the man said. “I’m Treyvin. What’s your name?”

  “Maren,” she answered, still pinching her ear and examining the man’s head.

  The man prodded the horses forward again. Once they were rolling along, he explained, “Sorry about the carriage. I’m an abacus maker and I’m making a delivery. The old wagon is full of…what’s the plural of abacus?”

  Maren shrugged her shoulders, uncertain of the answer. “Abacuses?”

  “Abaci?” the man suggested. “No, wait, abacoocoo!”

  Maren suppressed a smile upon hearing the absurd word.

  “I sure would like some abacocoa to drink!” Treyvin continued, laughing.

  Maren couldn’t help but giggle at the driver’s humor. “Abacocoa,” she whispered to herself.

  “Look out, my horse is going abaca-ca!” the man chuckled as his face turned red.

  Maren finally let loose with a belly laugh, repeating the words and holding her side. “You’re funny!” she declared.

  “Aww, thanks,” Treyvin gushed. “But if you think I’m funny, you should meet my brother.”

  “Your brother? Where is he?”

  “He’s in the carriage sleeping underneath all of that abaca-ca,” the man joked, and bellowed with more laughter.

  Maren laughed too, but nervously, because she couldn’t discern whether he was being funny or not. As she considered if there really was a man sleeping beneath a pile of abaci, she observed his smooth head some more, studying every contour and blemish.

  “Do you like my head?” the man asked.

  “Uh huh,” she admitted as her checks turned red.

  “Do you know how I lost my hair?”

  “How?”

  “I fell asleep in a sheep’s pasture and they ate my hair!” the man said, guffawing.

  Maren began laughing again and added, “They licked it clean!”

  Treyvin slapped his knee and almost dropped the reins. “Hey, look!” he said in his best sheep’s voice. “That guy’s hair looks delicious!”

  The young girl laughed so hard she could barely speak as she listened to the man’s imitation of a hair-eating lamb. When her laughter subsided, she whispered the imitation to herself and massaged her ear.

  “Say there, I noticed that you really like to squeeze that ear,” Treyvin observed.

  Embarrassed, Maren sheepishly took her hand from her ear and placed it on her lap, curling it into a ball.

  “Don’t stop on my account,” the man said. “I was just thinking about giving it a try myself.”

  The girl pushed her forehead down, not knowing whether or not he was telling the truth. “What?”

  “Well, it looks rather comforting,” he said. “I’m going to give it a try.” He then reached up with his left hand and began massaging his ear. “Why, this is rather nice!” he exclaimed.

  Maren smiled, resumed squeezing her ear, and leaned back in the carriage seat. The two of them joked, told stories, and rubbed their ears all the way to Redbramble.

  “So, what are you going to say?” Faymia asked.

  “I suppose that I was in the area and wanted to discuss some new recruitment ideas,” Tcharron answered.

  The four of them were huddled in their previous scouting place behind the fallen tree. The air was cool and damp, and Faymia felt uneasy about their plan. “So, you’re just going to walk up to the gate, tell the guard that you’d like to speak to the old man, and waltz right in?”

  The man grinned and shook his head. “I have brought Ocmallum more fortune than any other slaver in Aun. He will be ecstatic to see me.”

  “Even so,” Dulnear interrupted, “You need to have your story clear so as not to raise suspicion.”

  “Okay,” Tcharron grunted. “I will say that I have ways to make the festivals more enticing and less expensive.”

  Faymia remembered the festival that lured her into slavery. She detested even speaking of them. “And how will you find out where Maren is?” she asked.

  As Tcharron rubbed his chin in thought, Son leaned in, waiting for the answer with great interest. “Well?” he said, hoping to hurry the answer.

  “I’ll tell him that I heard the Laor fair was very inefficient,” the man reckoned. “This should make for an easy movement into asking about your friend.”

  “Sevuss,” the boy added. “I heard the name Sevuss when I was looking for Maren.”

  The slaver smirked. “So, your friend was taken by that old piece of flotsam. I don’t know where he makes camp, but it should be easy enough to find out once I’m inside.”

  “Good,” the man from the north said. “And when you have gathered all of the information we need, you will meet us at the tavern.”

  “Yes, I’ll meet you at that wretched little pub. Then I must get back to my own,” he said.

  Knowing that the plan was about to be put in motion, Faymia’s hands began to sweat and her heart seemed to be causing her entire chest to flutter. She tried to come up with one more question that might
cause her to feel more at ease, but none came to her. “All right,” she said. “Go. And be careful.”

  Tcharron looked at his three companions and began to say something before cutting himself off. He pushed the corners of his mouth up into an uncertain grin. “See you later,” he said, and made his way through the brush toward the path leading to the castle gate.

  Faymia, Dulnear, and Son crouched, peeking over the giant tree trunk, waiting for the slaver to arrive at the portcullis. Though afraid and tense, the woman felt an excitement growing in her as she thought about reuniting with Maren.

  Suddenly, a voice barked, “Identify yourself!”

  Faymia could see that Tcharron had reached the castle, and the gate guard stationed on the wall above and to the right of the gate was calling down to him.

  “Raise the portcullis,” the slaver instructed. “It is Tcharron of Teiparmhain here to see Ocmallum.”

  “What business do you have?” the guard asked.

  “I wish to speak to him about the festivals,” the man explained. “Just tell him that I’m here. He’ll be glad to see me,” he declared with his usual cockiness.

  Just then, a voice boomed out from the northwest turret, “Tcharron! What an unexpected surprise!”

  Faymia could see that the turret had an open window and a long-haired, yet well-groomed, man leaned out of it. “That is the horrible dung of a man,” she heard Dulnear whisper in her ear.

  “Ocmallum!” Tcharron called with a great smile on his face.

  “What brings you all the way to Dorcadas?” the slaver king asked. “Do you need to borrow some money?” he added with a deep-throated laugh.

  Tcharron’s expression changed at the man’s jest and he took a small step back. “No, sir,” he said. “I was just nearby and wanted to share some new ideas that I had to procure our product at a lower cost.”

  Faymia’s stomach began to turn. She believed she had made a grievous error and all that she could do now was watch it play out, and pray.

  “Then why do you look like you were robbed on the way to my estate?” the old man asked.

  Tcharron looked away for a moment, then back up toward the man in the turret. “You’re very observant, old friend,” he began. “I was ambushed by bandits outside of town. They took everything. They beat me, took my silver, and rode off in my carriage.”

  “We should go now,” the man from the north said quietly.

  “No, wait just a moment,” the woman pleaded.

  “Why didn’t you just say so?” Ocmallum asked from the window.

  “Well, you know how I like to keep up appearances,” Tcharron answered. “I couldn’t show up here asking for a few coins to get home.”

  “Don’t be absurd!” the man shouted. “You’re my top associate. I’ll send a servant down to help you get cleaned up.”

  “Thank you, sir!” Tcharron shouted back with a smile.

  “Oh, just one thing,” Ocmallum said, gesturing.

  “What is that?”

  “Why didn’t I see you on the road?”

  Tcharron swallowed and asked, “What do you mean?”

  “It’s just that I didn’t see you coming down the road. You seemed to just appear at my gate.”

  Tcharron looked back toward the woods from which he came, and at the path that led to the gate. “I—” he began to say when an arrow pierced his chest, and then another, and another, until he fell to his knees. He looked up at the gate guard who was drawing another arrow. He then fell sideways, motionless.

  Faymia crouched, paralyzed. She was so focused on remaining silent that she hardly noticed Dulnear scoop her up and run through the forest with his shoulder down and sword drawn. The world was spinning, and it felt as if Maren was lost forever.

  Maren walked away from Redbramble, smiling. She enjoyed the company of Treyvin and whispered some of the humorous things he had said, laughing an airy, quiet laugh as she recalled him saying them.

  She walked along the right side of the road because she knew that the path to the slaver camp was there. She remembered it being well concealed, and had to take regular breaks from entertaining herself to scan the brush for an opening. It was already growing late, though, and the gray, cheerless sky was getting darker.

  “Be free!” she said in a dramatic yet hushed voice. “I’ve come to get you out of here!”

  Maren imagined approaching the slaver camp with such authority that all of the slavers trembled in dismay and released the slaves out of fear for her terrible retribution. As she stomped along in the ever-increasing darkness, she felt her right foot fall into a shallow rut and she tripped and fell to the ground.

  Starting to get back to her feet, she realized that the rut led away from the road and that it must have been the path to the slaver camp. She stood up, peered into the woods, and could see flickering light from a fire in the distance. “This is it!” she said to herself, and curled her upper lip in defiance.

  Maren silently made her way down the winding path toward the camp. With each step, she did her best to quiet her breathing and find an approach that would keep her hidden. Drawing closer, she could see that there were fewer slaves than before. Some looked to be bustling about, cleaning up after a meal. Others seemed to be reclining in their cages. Peeking in closer, she noticed a young boy roaming about with a pastry.

  “Micah,” she said to herself, and crept out into the clearing to speak to him.

  Kneeling just behind one of the cages that encircled the camp, she waited for him to walk by. The fire burned high, illuminating the clearing, and she feared that she would be discovered before catching his attention.

  Finally, as he happened to walk by, the girl whispered, “Psssst. Micah.”

  The boy looked around with a confused look on his face before taking a bite of his pastry.

  “Micah,” she said again, just a little louder.

  “Who’s there?” the boy asked with a muffled croak.

  Maren stood up straight and sidestepped from behind the cage. “It’s me, Maren,” she announced quietly.

  “Maren?” the boy said, dropping his dessert. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to get you out,” she declared, gesturing for him to come to her.

  Micah ran closer, cocked his fist back, and punched the young girl in the nose, causing her to stumble backwards as blood began to flow. While she was still stunned, he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her around to the front of the pen, throwing her in, slamming the door, and barring it shut. “You are terribly foolish!” he crowed. “I can’t believe you came here.”

  The world spun as Maren tried to understand what just happened. All of the bluster and confidence she carried with her earlier was gone. “Micah!” she cried. “Why did you do that?”

  Suddenly appearing next to the boy was Sevuss. His gray-and-ginger hair was out of place and his clothing looked hastily thrown on. Putting his arm around the boy, he said, “Well done, son. You’ve caught a runaway!”

  Micah beamed and replied, “Thank you, Father. I’m sure Mister Kugun will be glad we caught her.”

  Maren had difficulty processing what she had just seen. The feeling of betrayal was like a dagger to her back, and she struggled to speak. “Kugun is dead,” she muttered.

  “What?!” Sevuss barked. “What do you mean?”

  “He d-died,” the girl stuttered.

  The man stared stony-faced at the girl. Then, a wiry smile crept over his face. “I get to sell you again!” he declared. “That will make up for that stupid mule running off!”

  Maren shuddered at the thought of being sold again. She wrapped her arms around her knees and began to gently rock back and forth. Finally, the last part of the man’s statement dawned on her. “Mule? Do you mean Earl?”

  “Yes, Earl, you dullard!” Micah broke in. “He was supposed to be mine, but he ran away days after you signed him over to us.”

  Maren reached for her ear and began to squeeze it as she continued to rock.
Though words flew through her mind like autumn leaves on a windy day, she couldn’t speak a single one of them.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen, little girl,” Sevuss announced. “There’s a whole party of buyers coming in the morning. Before they get here, I’m going to brand you like I should have branded that donkey. If you try running from them, there’ll be nowhere to hide. No one is going to help a branded slave. You’ll wear that scar for life!”

  “Father, can I watch?” Micah asked.

  Maren couldn’t hear the man’s answer. The thoughts continued to swirl in her head and she swayed forward and back, occasionally snatching a random word or two to whisper to herself in an attempt to bring some sort of comfort from the agony that awaited her the next day.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Ocmallum

  Dulnear stared up at the courtyard wall that ran along the back side of Ocmallum’s estate. There were torches placed along the top of the wall, but the darkness seemed to crowd out the scant light they provided. “Still only three guards along the wall,” he said in a half-whisper. “I should be able to dispense with them with little effort.”

  “How will you get up there?” Faymia asked.

  The man from the north squinted and pointed toward the barely lit barrier. “I shall climb up the east wall, close to the turret. The merlons are well spaced, and it is darkest there. I noticed that the guard patrolling that place does not like to go too far into the darkness.” He then quietly marched toward the wall with Faymia and Son in tow.

  “What will you do once you’re inside?” Son asked.

  “Tcharron said that there are three doorways that provide entry into the hallway which leads to the staircase up to Ocmallum’s chamber,” Dulnear began as he recalled the slaver’s description. “I only need to make it across the courtyard and into the northwest door. Once I am there, I need only to defeat his guards and demand the location of Sevuss’s camp.”

  “But you don’t know what’s inside the courtyard,” Faymia said. “There could be an army waiting in there.”

  The man from the north took a deep breath and paused for a moment. He knew she was right, but was willing to risk much to bring Maren home. “I will be very careful,” he assured her. Half-smiling, he added, “I promise not to try to fight them all.”