They were going to meet the Hayne family after the morning church service. Mara couldn't wait to meet Riffolk in person. His gentle voice came on the teleradio at least once a day, and she turned the volume up and listened intently every time. He sounded as handsome as he looked; his voice stirred something deep in her belly, an odd tingling, flushed feeling that raised her heartbeat and tightened her lungs.
Meeting him in person was going to be as difficult as it was exciting. She just hoped she could keep her composure and remain ladylike. It was very important for ladies to be poised and dignified at all times, especially in front of suitors and future husbands. Future husband! The thought had crept into her mind before the meaning properly formed, but suddenly the words filled her head as though the teleradio in the cart had been switched back on and turned to full volume. Riffolk Hayne is my future husband! her mind screamed, I am his future wife!
Her friends, Millicent, Abigale and Audrey, still didn't know. It wouldn't be official until after today, when the initial contracts would be signed by Riffolk, his father and her father. Mara didn't know anything about that, as it wasn't a woman's place, but she knew that once the signatures were done she would be able to tell her friends and anyone else who would listen: Riffolk Hayne is to be my husband!
She especially couldn't wait to tell Millicent. Millicent was a year older than Mara, and already married to Governor Jothan Salwey. None of her other friends were yet married, and Mara, along with all of their friends, was intensely jealous of the now Governess. Whenever Mara asked her what it was like to be married, she adopted a demure smile and replied "you're too young to understand, but you'll see." It was infuriating, but now Mara was not only to be married, she would be married to the most dashing and wealthy man in all of Ermoor! That would certainly wipe the smile off of Millicent's smug face.
The morning church service was much the same as it always was, not that Mara would ever dare to complain out loud. Or even quietly, she thought to herself. After all, God would surely hear her complaints and she would be punished immediately. She sat humbly in the uncomfortable pew next to her parents as the priest talked of the evils of the world.
"... live in trees and eat their own young. They are cruel and savage, and worst of all, they are Godless! If left unchecked, they will bring God's wrath down upon the world, and even the faithful will be punished for their wickedness!"
The priest spoke fervently, passionately. He walked up and down the stage, from side to side, his wide eyes seeking out and locking with every individual in the pews. The words she'd heard a thousand times before. The passion she saw every day. But today, it felt different. She felt uncomfortable, and not just physically; she had grown used to the hard wooden pews. Today, the intensity of the service pushed at her in an acutely unpleasant way. There was always a little fear of course; what sane person wouldn't fear God? Especially with faithless monsters living in their Godless countries dooming Ermoor to an eternal hell.
But today, it felt different. Her heart was beating hard and uneven, her breath ragged, her cheeks flushed. She was sweating, her silk gown sticking to her back and legs and growing cold. She was suddenly terrified of meeting Riffolk Hayne; what if he didn't like her? What if his first reaction to seeing her was disappointment? Disgust? Outrage? Even worse; what if he laughed?
And now she'd ruined her dress! It clung to her, cold and wet, and she felt like everyone was staring at her. Her make-up, the delicate pale powder, dark mascara and pink lipstick, suddenly felt gaudy and cheap, and she was terrified it was running from her sweat.
Mara had fussed over her make-up, hair and dress for hours before they left the house, interrupting her maids to put things the way she wanted. She'd completely undone her hair after they'd spent half an hour on it, and put it up herself. She wiped the bright red lipstick off before they'd finished and selected a much more subtle pink which paired with the blue of her dress. They applied the powder well enough, and the mascara, although she had peered closely at it in the mirror before nodding her approval. Finally, she had stood, turning and staring at herself from every angle, satisfied that Riffolk would be happy with her.
But now? Now she must have looked like a half-drowned rat pulled out of the harbour. Riffolk would think it was a prank, a horribly tasteless joke her father was playing; dress a rat up in silk and make-up and pass it off as Mara Watson, only daughter of Hannibal and Victoria Watson. She started panicking then, and the priest's intense cries of "they must be struck down wherever they are seen! Destroyed! For the good of all!" only served to feed her panic. When the crowd responded "for the good of all!" as they were supposed to, she couldn't add her voice to the rest.
Pera
Orange light flickered against the stone corridors, coming to a cold stop several feet from Pera's face as the darkness took over. Candles only shone so far in Tyra. Light was precious, and simply walking from one place to another wasn't important enough to warrant more than a small candle. She was tired to the bone, just like every time she was done with her work. Now that she'd grown old enough to work, she was perpetually exhausted; there was no time to explore the way she did when she was young. Trudging mindlessly through the tunnels of Tyra didn't help, of course, but she'd be in her bed soon enough.
Shuffling sounds approached her as Eudos, Anios and Lymia went to replace the workers who'd finished their shift. She shook her head; they could be so careless sometimes.
"Better hurry up, you three," she said, her angry voice echoing down the tunnel, "a bunch of us already finished our shifts."
The other two she'd worked with who finished their shifts, Odas and Allas, had turned down a separate corridor. They lived on the other side of the city.
"Oh, shit!" the voice of Anios echoed back, "run, go!"
They bolted past her, the candles in their hands stuttering, almost blowing out. She sped up a little; she didn't want to be anywhere near if they were late. She knew what happened when the wheels stopped turning in Tyra. Everyone did.
Pera lived in Hall 38, on the outer edge of the city. The wide tunnel which served as Tyra's border was adjacent to Hall 38. She shared the living quarters with fifty other workers. A hundred halls the same size as hers were spread around Tyra, some holding up to a hundred workers; Pera was lucky to have what little space and privacy she had.
The bumps and lines on the tunnel wall announcing the entrance to Hall 38 slid under her fingers as she walked, and she turned into the corridor towards her bunk room. Her candle was extinguished; her supply was running low and the candlemakers wouldn't do their rounds for another few sleeps yet. Most Tyrans didn't bother with candles unless they had a real reason; the light was simply too precious.
Pera was different. She was fascinated by fire and by the things she could see when the world around her was illuminated. Everyone else in Tyra seemed content with pushing the wheels, going to sleep, then pushing the wheels again; but Pera wanted more. Her parents had told her that when she was young she'd caused a lot of trouble. She had stuck her hand in a fire to see what it felt like; tried to convince the workers to stop turning one of the wheels because she wanted to see what would happen for herself; and when she was a toddler she had eaten pretty much everything she could get her hands on. Her hand was still horribly scarred, and she had been poisoned near death several times until she finally learned to listen to the Foragers when they told her what could and couldn't be eaten.
She hadn't seen the consequences of the wheels stopping then though, not that young. She saw it much later, and was still haunted by the sheer horror of what she'd seen. It was still recent enough that the memory made her heart stop briefly. Monsters, she thought as she stepped lightly through the corridor to her bunk room, that's what they were. Monsters. She crept into the bunk room, counting the double bunks until she reached the eleventh bunk on the left. She tugged off her clothes, crawled into the bottom bunk, and stumbled into a deep but troubled sleep.
She was nudged awake by a f
orager, who handed her a bowl full of mushrooms to break her fast. It was a mix today; buttons, flat-tops and split-tops. The latest harvest had obviously been good. She envied the foragers. Easier work, plus they grew glowpods and lightleaf, which glowed in the dark; they could work with light and didn't have to worry about running out of candles. Although they did have to deal with the smell; the mushrooms grown by the foragers only grew so well due to the fertiliser. Fertiliser provided by the people of Tyra. Pera tried not to think about it, but there was no way around it; if they wanted to eat, they had to eat mushrooms grown from faeces. The dirt in Tyra simply could not grow anything without proper fertiliser.
After her waking meal, she dressed and checked her belongings by touch as she did every time she woke. Her small supply of candles, a chunk of dried digger meat, a spare set of clothing, her water skin, and a quarter skin of mushroom spirits. The spirits were distilled from deathcap mushrooms, and then diluted with water until the poison wasn't strong enough to kill. It was dangerous, but one of the only ways a Tyran could take her mind off things. It wasn't made often, however, so Pera barely drank unless she'd had a particularly rough day or a slew of nightmares. It tasted awful, and headaches plagued the drinker once the pleasant effects wore off, but almost all of the adults in Tyra drank it on occasion.
Satisfied all of her belongings were safe and accounted for, she stood and dressed. The life of a Worker was simple, but brutal. They had but one purpose; keep the wheels of life turning. Ten gigantic metal wheels sat sideways in ten equally massive rooms spread evenly around Tyra. Turning them was backbreaking work, but it had to be done, or the things appeared. The monsters. Pera walked back down the corridor towards Wheel 6, the closest wheel to Hall 38. She didn't bother with candles. Her stash was too small, and her eyes were always much clearer immediately after sleep. The wheel rooms were usually lit by a few small torches and bunches of glowcaps. As she approached, the low grating sound of the wheel turning floated down the corridor, accompanied by the footfalls of the workers.
It took one hundred workers to keep one wheel turning. The workers swapped constantly to avoid injury, and the wheel rooms were always lined with workers resting against the walls. Once a worker had turned five hundred full rotations of the wheel, they were free to sleep until they were needed again the next waketime.
Pera entered the wheel room, and immediately saw Eudos and Lymia resting nearby. Anios must have still been turning. She waved to them and approached the wheel. An exhausted worker saw her approach, gave a loud sigh, and muttered "your turn" as she slid away. Ignoring the old joke, Pera took up her position and matched pace with the wheel's turning.
Mara
The church her father took her to every Sunday and Wednesday was in Dawnton, almost an hour's cart ride from the Hayne mansion in Ironhaven. It was the longest hour of Mara's life. She had calmed down significantly, but a sliver of anxiety remained in her stomach like a tiny twisting eel. Her father had pulled her aside immediately after the service and gripped her shoulders roughly.
"I didn't hear you say 'for the good of all'," he'd said flatly. "You will pray tonight that God doesn't punish you too harshly." She nodded silently, her eyes glued to the pretty cobblestoned pathway at the church's entrance. She was already praying.
All the way to Ironhaven, Mara was terrified. Her father hadn't mentioned her appearance, so hopefully her make-up still looked okay. And her sweat was dry now. She prayed as the cart glided softly along the streets, holding her hands together, her head lowered. It was selfish to pray that she looked pretty enough for Riffolk Hayne. But she was also praying that she would please her father and her husband-to-be, and make her family proud, and surely that wasn't selfish?
By the time they reached Ironhaven, Mara was in the midst of another panic attack. Her father got out of the cart and opened the door next to her. He looked at her in the flat, emotionless way he did when he was expecting disappointment.
"You will make a good impression, Mara," he grumbled, "or so help me God, you won't be eating for a week."
She stared at the back of the seat her father had sat in, nodding her head eagerly and trying not to cry. The cart rested at the entrance to the Hayne mansion. It was the most beautiful and elegant building Mara had ever seen. This was the most important moment of her life. All she needed to do was hold her composure and act like the perfect lady for Riffolk; impress him, show him that she would be the perfect wife. All her life she'd been taught how to be a lady. How to be a wife. It pleased God when a woman knew her place; everyone knew that. The priest said so at every service. She was determined to please God, and Riffolk, and her father.
A servant waited at the giant wooden doors, immaculately dressed and standing perfectly straight. He wore a crisp red jacket, perfectly tailored, black trousers with a yellow stripe down the sides, black gloves, and black shoes so polished that Mara could see the cloudy Ermoori sky reflected in them. His eyes were locked at a point directly in front of him until Mara and her father were almost all the way up the stairs to the front doors. Then he cleared his throat and looked down at them with the arrogance normally reserved for nobility.
"Mr Hannibal and Ms Mara Watson, I presume?" he asked. His voice was just as arrogant as his expression, and Mara found herself immediately sick of this servant.
"That's correct," her father said. He spoke coldly, and Mara had to fight to keep a humble expression on her face as the servant's mouth opened in mild outrage.
"Well," he blustered, "Overseer Hayne is waiting within. Please wait in the lobby for the guide to take you further."
Her father said nothing in response. The massive doors opened seemingly of their own volition, and Mara followed her father inside.
The Hayne's property took up almost a third of Ironhaven, including the gardens and grounds. The mansion itself was absolutely massive. Even the lobby was intimidating in its size. Where the lobby of the Watson's home was barely even a room, the lobby in the Hayne mansion was huge enough that Mara wouldn't have been able to hear someone talking if they were standing on the opposite side.
As the servant at the door had said, shortly after they entered another servant appeared to take them further into the mansion. The second servant was dressed exactly the same as the first, down to the arrogant expression. Mara followed the servant and her father through endless corridors, twisting and turning until she was completely lost. Eventually, they reached a giant pair of exquisitely decorated wooden doors at the end of a long hallway. This is it, she thought, Riffolk Hayne is behind these doors.
Riffolk Hayne stood at the far end of the library, hands behind his back, motionless. He watched them enter, standing motionless as they crossed the massive room. He was tall, slim and elegant. High cheekbones framed his handsome face, and his bright blue eyes shone with an intimidating intelligence. Dark, thin hair sat neatly combed atop his head. He wore an expression of quiet certainty, a confidence which bordered on arrogance but was tempered with experience. He was beautiful. Mara's breath caught in her throat, and she almost stumbled as she approached her husband-to-be.
Her father noticed and quietly cleared his throat, a subtle reminder of the punishment that would follow were she to make a fool of herself or him. She lowered her eyes and concentrated on walking; One foot in front of the other, please don't fall, she told herself. You can do this. You will do this. Riffolk simply watched, his face a beautiful but unreadable mask. An energy came off him, even from the other side of the library, that spoke of immense talent and limitless intelligence. He somehow seemed... more than human. The thought brought an uncomfortable feeling to her skin, a cold flush that made her a little scared of him.
Finally, they reached the opposite side of the room, and Riffolk took his hands out from behind his back to greet them properly.
"Mr Hannibal Watson," he said quietly, "it is a pleasure to meet you." he took her father's hand in his own, staring intently into his eyes as their hands moved smoothly up and down.
"I am Overseer Riffolk Hayne. I apologise for the formalities; purely for my father's satisfaction, I'm sure you understand."
Her father was speechless. It was the first time Mara had ever seen him so. He was usually the type who walked into a room and commanded the attention of everyone in it, and who intimidated others into silence. But Riffolk's quiet confidence and casual dismissal of the 'formalities' had apparently taken him aback. Mara felt a blossom of genuine love for her future husband in that moment. Then his eyes flicked to hers and an electricity she never knew existed sparked between them. His eyes widened and she gasped. Both their lips parted slightly at the same time.
"Mara..." he breathed her name, and she melted. "My, you are beautiful. Your father didn't mention... but of course he wouldn't. It's an honour to meet you, my dear." He swept her hand into his own, bowing as he brought it to his lips. Her heart thumped painfully, so loud she was afraid he would hear it. He kissed her hand tenderly, almost lovingly, and her love for him grew. He straightened and let go of her hand, his grip lingering long enough to hold her fingers in an unmistakably erotic embrace. His eyes were locked on hers. She realised he was waiting for her to speak, but she couldn't find any words. Her father cleared his throat again, and she stammered for something to say.
"I – you're – I mean... umm."
Her cheeks flushed so hot she feared she would start a fire, and she felt another panic attack grip her throat. And then Riffolk smiled, gentle, kind and loving, and her throat eased back to normal. She took a breath, ignoring her father's repeated "ahem" sound, and returning Riffolk's intense but lovely stare.
Daughter of War Page 3