Once the area was deemed clear from people walking about, Freck led them further in. His thin body leaned into the encampment. Wordlessly and without looking back at them, he raised an arm out and beckoned them to follow with flicking, curled fingers. Marin inhaled and placed his steps behind Felena.
From the shade of huts, they slowly rounded the corner. Marin wiped his brow quickly, in fear that someone would notice his profuse sweating. The trillium-induced Mysra guards were not in sight at this time of day—just as Anah had said. It was a relief. It was a sign that other details given would likely be accurate as well. It seemed that despite their having escaped, they hadn’t had this area in constant patrol. Perhaps it was due to the lack of available guards after the battle at the Great Mist? Whatever the reason, it was a mistake on Grude’s end that now the WynSprign rebels rightfully took advantage of.
Being so close to the huts, the view of their interwoven makeshift patches in itself was cause for some awareness of the present conditions. Slaves live in these? Marin realized his comrades were likely thinking the same horror-stricken thoughts. Their eyes held the same astonishment as they exchanged glances. Momentarily forgetting their expressions, they were dismayed by the conditions up close. The huts were practically sheer in parts of worn weaving, leaving the occupant little privacy. Wind, cold, rain, sun, all elements left them exposed anytime when they weren’t toiling in the mines. Lives lived in constant discomfort.
Countering the support of Anah’s accuracy, an oddity surfaced. They looked around and the slaves seemed to be not working, or toiling at anything. Not that slavery was at all acceptable, but something was off. They were still slaves, but they were aimlessly shifting, bored, joyless. The clothes that hung on them were aged rags. Their faces were gaunt, but they weren’t...working. There was no rush to get anywhere. Gish, Anah, and Treva had described things differently—that the slaves worked almost without end. Why are they freely walking about? Marin didn’t have much time to ponder this as he continued to follow Freck’s lead.
The trio wound themselves farther into the encampment, passing an occasional slave without any remarkable glances from them. Perhaps they blended in better than originally hoped.
They wove themselves farther into the maze of huts, moving deeper, trying to remember the direction that they had come from, so when they left later, they would have an easier time remembering how to get out. They had studied the map, but being dwarfed by the enormity, and not having a perched view, made for a navigational challenge.
In an unexpected whirl, Freck turned to face the two and they almost collided with him. His voice was hushed as he said, “We’ll need to remember how to get back here.” He glanced quickly at the fading treetops that waved from above and beyond, within them, their soon-to-be-King and his Knighted Treva. Any farther steps away would have them shrink completely out of sight. “Try to count the rows we pass. I think I’ve already counted us in seven rows deep.” His eyes flicked to Marin’s and Felena’s, “C’mon, I don’t want us to get lost in here.” He moved, still mindful to keep a lowered submissive gaze—just as Treva instructed.
Freck held Felena’s hand as he pulled her along. Marin stumbled closely behind the two, the odd one out. As they wove, a sound of clambering din grew. They ventured forward and ended up in the center of the encampment. A large group of slaves were spotted talking and laughing, seemingly carefree. There was a brilliant figure there, in the center of them. A woman, an extravagant-looking WynSprign woman. Whoever she was, she was drawing a crowd. She wore a brilliant shiny green dress; as emerald as Treva’s hair!
“Yes, of course I came back out for you again – for all of you! Say—do you want to hear a melody?” she shouted to the anxious crowd of WynSprign’s and a few Mysra. Marin felt his eyes darting around the dusty group, but they responded in an undulating roar. “I said…do you want to hear a melody!” She dramatically held a hand to her ear, beaming at them all, waiting for their playful, ravenous reply. And she got it. It was with thundering roars, clapping, and stomping feet that they responded, wildly. This WynSprign, whoever she was, knew exactly how to excite a crowd.
The WynSprign, Cantata, closed her eyes. She was at home—in the tavern. Her father watching her with his clever catlike eyes. She opened hers again, seeing the dirtied faces and purple-brown rags of clothing. Their ecstatic beaming faces gazing upon her. Sorry, sods, she thought. “Alright, alright! I’ll sing for you, my fans!” She breathed and licked her thin lips before belting-singing out, “For you who work for our lovely trillium. For you, my most loyal. For those that care to hear me and that are—right now—gathering near!” A wall of WynSprign people closed the space in around her. She smiled, cleared her throat, and began to dazzle her other-worldly tune.
At the lofty sound, Marin, Freck, and Felena stopped their gritty tracks. “This isn’t anything like what Mother and Anah talked about,” Marin whispered, still staring off at the swarming group. “They are not working but rather having—” he squinted, “entertainment? This can’t be right.”
Lika was hurrying back from the brook, her arms hefting a basket of dripping wet laundry. Her white hair had been pulled back beneath her bonnet. She had spent nearly the whole morning and afternoon doing chores and laundering at the brook where there was more peace and less nonsense. The ache in her hands didn’t stop her task-it never had. She was a largely built WynSprign woman, and had a spirit of vinegar. Mouth set at a constant pout, she walked with force from behind the trio and accidentally bumped into Marin’s shoulder, hard.
His body slammed forward. “Hey!” His voice was raised in surprise, more than in pain.
“Oh, sorry there young Sprign.” Although her gruff tone suggested she was not sorry one bit and she was not paying him any mind. Her basket appeared heavy and she hurried to her hut.
Marin was just about to turn his gaze from her when suddenly her wide gait slowed, in contemplation. She turned to leer back at them, processing. Her sun weathered face, though round and plain, was of wrinkles and leather – a hard demeanor evidenced behind her growing glare. The three stood, staring at her and then abruptly turning to avert their attention to the spectacle nearby. Her sight remained unfaltering and increasingly narrowed on Marin, and then on them. As she squinted, she jumbled the basket on her hip, hefting its weight. “Hey,” she finally grumped, “you three.” Her gaze raked over them, intense with observation. Like studying small squirming insects. Her face was flushed in heat or anger, or likely both.
Reeling in discomfort, they denied themselves, only barely, the urge to jolt back off into the woods beyond. Despite every quaking nerve, they remained still as deer, as to not give anything away.
Her woolly brows lifted and her small eyes widened for a second only—masking her knowledge from other eyes about her discovery. The thought that, in the brief moment, she was right—they weren’t from here. She hummed low and then said, “Follow me.” Her order came with a puffy, squinted eye upon them. “Eh—you two, be nice young Sprign lads and carry the basket for me. Just follow me to my hut.” She pointed a purple finger to the basket leaking water on the parched earth beneath it. Marin was the closest. “I know you know the way to it, but I prefer lead anyway,” she added. It was a nice cover she gave. A small hint suggesting she’d support them.
Marin and Freck took steps toward her load. Marin could tell Freck was uncertain in his movements. He was obeying, not because he wanted to, but because he needed to. He even stammered something to himself before he bent low to pick it up.
“Oof!” they both huffed. The basket was really damned heavy. Marin felt his back and bicep muscles strain at the effort. A wave of heat washed over his face. He was surprised she had been able to carry this load back and forth, but then again, she probably had made this trip countless times for many horrible years.
“Let’s go.” And she started off before them without delay.
The obedient trio started after her. It was the best way to see the l
ayout, following someone who’d lived and toiled here.
Her long brown skirt swayed as she walked briskly through the crowd. Marin wondered if Freck was still trying to pay attention to the direction that they came from and count rows, but it was dizzying, weaving in between folks, huts, and making turns that looked the same as before.
Lika finally slowed to stop in front of her hut. “Here, let’s leave that.” She pointed down to her small square that seemed a mini yard; her own small claim of property. The space seemed no larger than Greta’s long dinner table.
Marin set the basket down and felt his upper body rebound upward with the quick ease, a relief of the load.
“Thank you, young man,” she said in a way that didn’t sound grateful, but rather brash. “Alright.” She grunted. The young warriors remained silent, exchanging glances, unsure of how to proceed. Cautious. They must be cautious. “I’m going to hang these back here.” She grabbed the worn handle and dragged the heavy basket to the rear of her hut. Water trickled, making a dark line along the dirt. In her yard, large sticks and branches protruded from the ground. They resembled small dead trees that had been stuck into it deeply. Their dead, claw-like extensions thrust upward, grasping for their own escape.
She knelt down on the sparse grass and rummaged through the wet contents of the basket to produce faded articles of clothing. They had been wrung out and remained in moist twisted rolls. “Well, if you’re gonna stand there and stare, ya may as well help me.” She turned to eye them. Her face, stern. She flicked her sights to their fidgeting hands and the lack of purple there.
Without noticing where her eyes landed, the three lowered themselves to kneel on the ground. Felena reached in and copied Lika’s lead; unrolling the wadded piece of clothing and shaking it out briskly, away from her face. She then hung this over the sticks making sure the shoulders on this particular tunic were being supported by the stick’s small branches. A fair job in Lika’s silent opinion. Marin also followed along, watching Felena.
Freck was hesitant to grab the damp clothes, not as easily accustomed to blending in, or conducting the chores that they had. He was a hunter and had always been such. Freck and Marin locked glances. Freck grumbled and for the sake of blending in, plunged into the basket to retrieve wads of clothes—rags.
Lika could hear them shaking out the clothes behind her. A sly smile swept across her face while her back faced them, as she turned to grab another twisted garment from the basket. “My name is Lika,” she said low.
Freck looked up. “I’m Freck.” Felena elbowed him in the side with an angry glare. “Wha!” He looked at her with confusion. They never discussed a plan for using their names, real or otherwise.
Lika turned again and looked over her shoulder at the uncomfortable trio. She folded her arms over her ample chest. The three looked clumsy and awkward. No. They looked unsafe. “I think you three need to come into my hut.” And with that she stood from her kneel, dusted off her legs and knees, and gestured around the corner with a serious expression. The three nervously eyed each other. Abandoning the basket and its contents, they rose and rounded the corner to the front of her hut, opened the curtain, and filed in. To any onlookers, she seemed like a stern mother about to scold them for some random wrongdoing.
Once in, Lika plopped down on her bed, sighed hard, and furrowed her brow. The three stood awkwardly in silence looking down at her. The air was thick in the small hut. It smelled of straw and dust. It was dim, but light came in through the curtain door and the drafty woven walls. There weren’t any items of furniture, but she had many baskets that carried folded clothes. Lika wiped her face as she sat.
They looked around her hut, curious. She caught them looking at the heaps of piled sacks and baskets crammed in. “Those aren’t mine. I help with the laundering round here.” She looked up at them again and blasted, “Oh, for Odan’s sake—just sit down!” She waved in annoyance for them to lower. They exchanged bewildered glances and sat on a tired mat as ordered.
She was terrifying.
She leaned forward and began to whisper. Her tone and words weren’t any less abrasive though. “Now, I know everyone here—and I mean everyone and…I don’t know you. You don’t belong here.” She eyed them, knowing.
They froze—weighing the moment of action.
Noticing, anticipating, she continued, “Look. It’s alright. I won’t say anything. Hey—” she motioned to Marin, her designated helper, “close that curtain some more up there.”
Marin, like an obedient student, dutifully raised himself and closed the small opening of the curtain behind. The peek of blue sky winked closed from view. Perfect. Now everything was dark. Lika’s eyes glowed in the newfound dim. All of their eyes now did.
“It’s lucky that you ran into me, you see.” She sighed sharply and continued her thick whisper. “Well now, tell me, where you from? What are you doing here? Perhaps I can help.”
Marin decided he may as well come clean as he settled back down on his spot on the ground. It was a risk, telling her. Even though it made no sense to him, something felt trustworthy about her—maybe even familiar, but no, that was impossible. “I’m Marin—” Lika smiled slyly, a knowing look. He looked to his partners. His eyes met Freck’s—who was obviously disapproving of this segue to deeper conversation. He held his head and glanced downward angrily at the mat—fighting to keep his silence. Felena’s red cheeks, visible in the dim, indicated the same about her.
Marin shook it off and continued anyway, in a low voice, “You’re right Ms. Lika, ma’am, we’re not from here. I—we were sent here, to learn.”
Freck’s head drooped more, shaking in protest. He prodded his pocket nervously.
“Ah. I see.” Lika nodded, slicing a glance to Freck. “What do you want to know, young Marin?” She wouldn’t push. As brash as she had been, now she seemed slow, contemplative with her tone.
“Well, I didn’t think the lives of slaves would be...this way: walking around, listening to a singer...not working.” Lika tightened her lips and nodded as he spoke. “I had heard, or understood,” he corrected, “that the slaves worked long days in the mines and were under constant monitoring by guards.” He looked at a flushed Felena, but cautiously continued anyway, “But I didn’t see any guards guarding and it seems like the slaves here are, uh…” he paused considering his words, “doing well.” He realized wasn’t an acceptable thing to say—that slaves were doing well, but in the moment, he didn’t know how else to put it.
Lika’s smile was more a grimace. “Oh, how convenient this is?” Marin knew she wasn’t really asking. “Alright.” She groaned shifting on the bed. “Today, young Marin, just so happens to be one of the first days off we’ve had in the past hundred plus years.” She smiled thinking back. “You know, before recently, the last day off was when King Oetam was on the throne, Odan bless that man’s departed soul,” she said, clasping her hands and lifting her eyes to the ceiling. Marin followed her gaze halfway expecting to see something there. “I find it interesting that on all the days you came to learn about us, you chose today.” She pushed, “Now why’s that?’”
The question took him aback. A surprise accusation. “Well, we didn’t...we didn’t know that these changes were taking place,” Marin added with a shrug and he looked to his companions who remained staring at the ground.
“Yeah? Who sent you?” Lika asked, glaring. Marin felt uncomfortable. Hot. And she noticed. She didn’t try to make them feel nervous, that wasn’t her intent. Her tone softened. “I’m only asking to make sure it—Oh, never mind.” She paused thinking out loud, “Have you ever heard of Cantata?”
They shook their heads.
“What’s a Cantata?” Marin asked.
Lika grunted and said, “Well, I figure if you had and were sent by her…but why would you admit to it, anyway…” She puffed air, shrugged, and then went into an explanation about Cantata and her role in the castle, her close ties to Grude, and about her trying to spread positive
news about him. She also went on to explain what life there normally looked like. It was akin to Gish’s, Treva’s, and Anah’s recounts.
While she explained, Marin looked to Freck and Felena, gauging them, and their reactions as she spoke. They looked worried, a mirror image to his own face, no doubt. He sighed and straightened to speak the truth, “My father was—” his eyes flashed down for a moment, hesitating, “Lieutenant General Izra, and my mother was a former Odana Knight. We were sent by…” he paused, “…my mother. She was once called the Emerald Knight.” He chose to leave his adopted father, General Prince Lanico out of this – for now.
“Really!” Lika looked at Marin squarely. “Well, I don’t know I believe that, young Marin.” Her brow lowered. “I never heard of Lieutenant General Izra having a child—and by a Knight no less. Everyone would have heard news of that.” And Lika would have known, having worked in the castle. But just then something flashed behind her eyes. A memory. A realization buried beneath years of earth. Her mind turned over this single thought. He would be about the right age. She hadn’t spoke about him before, under command of General Prince Lanico himself. An emerald-haired woman laboring. Lika was only trying to deliver linens that day to Izra’s chambers, which appeared to have been hastily turned into a delivery room of sorts, but she had been ordered out by that elderly WynSprign, Greta. And there was only one female Knight…
The Legacy of Lanico: Return of the Son: Book two of the Legacy of Lanico series Page 14