Chapter Seven:
She should have expected it. That was the first thing Marie realized. She should have been prepared for such cruelty. Hadn’t history taught her anything? Didn’t she remember Rome? She, who adored history, should have known better. When had men ever been kind to each other? Slavery was a very common institution across history.
But she was surprised.
And terrified.
It was like the fantasy world she had been living in had abruptly begun to crumble. Marie had never felt so stupid or naïve. What had she been thinking—that she would just go on some grand adventure and everything would be fun and fantastical, just like in a child’s fantasy book?
Maretzia wasn’t a fantasy world. It was a world like Earth, only less developed. It had the same problems Earth had. It had crime. It had cruelty. It had war and oppression. For the first time on the expedition, Marie just wanted to go home.
The rest of dinner passed in misery for Marie. She felt like her heart had dropped down to her stomach. When at last dinner ended, and the after-dinner conversation ended, and they were all ready to wander back to their rooms, Rheidan approached Marie. His eyes were bright. He looked happy and relaxed.
“May I escort you?”
Marie looked at him, and panic welled up within her. Her heart thudded painfully. Oh no—what if Rheidan owned slaves? What if he went to the arena? What if he didn’t see anything wrong with that? How could she ever see him in the same light? She didn’t know what to do! Her lips trembled. Eventually she smiled weakly and said yes.
He was excited. He spent several minutes jabbering away about how he had visited Lord Daenlyn’s manor as a child; apparently Lord Daenlyn and his father were good friends. Marie only listened with half an ear, and eventually Rheidan noticed that something was wrong. He stopped and faced her.
“Marie, what is it?” He looked concerned. “Are you feeling sick?”
Marie shook her head. “No.” Standing side by side, her eyes were level with his collarbone, and she stared at it, observing how the skin covering it flexed as he moved his shoulder. “I’m not sick.”
“Then what is wrong?”
Marie raised her eyes. She could feel her heart hammering in her chest. She didn’t want to know, but she had to ask. She couldn’t not ask. “Do you own slaves, Rheidan? Mleinon?”
He gave her a strange look. “Yes,” he said, sounding insulted. Marie’s stomach plummeted to her toes. “Every noble household owns at least a few mleinon. Why?”
Her face twisted. “And do you go to the death fights?” Her voice cracked.
Rheidan looked confused. “Yes. Occasionally.” He shrugged. “Most men do. Why do you ask?”
Marie blinked away tears, fixing her eyes on a spot past his shoulder. “Why?” Her voice wobbled.
“Why what?” Rheidan stared at her in bewilderment.
“Why—why do you go to the games?” Her voice rose, steadying. “What is so entertaining about seeing people kill each other? I don’t understand! Why would you find that amusing? How could you—why would you—” She choked on tears. “It’s wrong!”
Rheidan stared at her as if she had gone mad. She kept on ranting.
“It’s inhumane!—watching and betting on a fight to the death! How could you be so casual about it? How could death be entertainment? Someone has to die—give up their hopes, dreams, family—just so you can be entertained? It’s—”
“We don’t put just anybody in the arena!” protested Rheidan angrily.
“Oh, that’s right,” sneered Marie. “You make slaves fight, don’t you? Well, that’s okay then. They’re less than human, aren’t they?”
Rheidan’s face grew cold. Marie opened her mouth to continue, but his hand shot out to grab her shoulder. She fell quiet.
“Our slaves,” he hissed, “are either criminals or conquered peoples.” He narrowed his eyes. “You obviously come from a people that have no slaves.” He released her shoulder and stepped back. “You will understand, in time.”
Marie glowered at him. “And the games?” she practically spat. “What is your excuse for them?”
His expression twisted, amusement briefly flickering over his features. But when he stared her straight in the eye, his expression was hard. “I go to the games, Marie, because there is something thrilling about watching combat. About predicting who is the better warrior and seeing it played out in the arena. About imagining what you would do if faced with such an opponent, and then determining whether the person fighting him performed better than you would have. And perhaps most importantly, Marie, I go to the games because the amphitheatre is a place to gather. It is a place where my countrymen come together to talk with each other, bet with each other, and be with each other. It is a place where we can take our minds off our troubles.”—His voice lowered to a whisper—“Inside the arena, there is only one basic battle, one that all of us will face at one point—the battle against death. The arena is simple, primordial. It is an escape from the complicated outside world.” He ran a hand through a strand of her hair, his expression turning wistful. “If only the rest of our battles could be as basic and as simple as our battle against death.”
He dropped his hand, and his gaze hardened again. “The games are an important part of Maretzian culture, Marie. You will be hard pressed to find anyone who does not go to one occasionally. Even the emperor attends them.”
That night, despite the comfort of the bed, Marie had difficulty falling asleep. She curled up, her arms wrapped around a large pillow and her eyes fixed on the corner of her room. The large silver mirror hanging near the door concealed the hidden entrance to the slaves’ tunnels; it was from that passageway that Marie’s three helpers had emerged to help her undress. Marie had tried to talk to them, to ask them about their lives—where they had come from, why they were slaves—but they hadn’t answered.
Marie rolled onto her back. To live life as a slave…She shuddered. She couldn’t think of a worse fate.
Pamela Holbech was not in a good mood. She stormed into tent 14, glowering at the women unfortunate enough to be on her team. Seeing the expression on her face, they scampered outside, leaving Pamela alone to stew.
Pamela was not a woman to mess with. By the age of twelve she had a black belt in karate, and by fourteen she was a perfect shot with a rifle. Her brother, Darius, had once told her she was one of the most intimidating women he had ever met, and that was a point of pride for her, for Pamela enjoyed intimidation. She enjoyed being in control. After she had graduated from college, several prominent companies had tried to recruit her, but she had decided to work for SpiritStar—not because it offered the most money, but because it offered the best position, the one with the most power.
But that didn’t mean it bothered her when someone ordered her to do something, as long as it was something she wanted to do, and for most of the expedition, that hadn’t been a problem. She didn’t mind doing what Barnabas said because she probably would have done it anyway. But Barnabas seemed to have a different idea about what should be done about Marie, and that chafed Pamela to no end. Put up the girl’s food carton? Not a huge chore, but one a section leader shouldn’t be relegated to. Give her some basic training? Fine. She acknowledged Marie might start to suspect something if she didn’t receive any sort of instruction. But have her stay as a guest in Lord Daenlyn’s palace while other, more qualified team members got stuck in the tents? Outrageous.
And insulting.
Pamela glared at the tent flap. Allowing Marie to stay in the palace had made her want to cringe. For the first time, her dislike for the girl—for the sheer inconvenience she represented—morphed into something much nastier. She cursed the day Marie had been added to the expedition.
The land became more populated as the expedition traveled on, the towns growing progressively larger. The group started to see different and more exciting types of people. In Gardeen, a large town of blue stone buildings, Marie saw people of Reldin st
ock for the first time. Giants of seven and eight feet tall, they had shaggy blond hair, brown eyes, and black eyebrows. Marie later found out they were renowned metalworkers, and that their home in eastern Maretzia was known as the Land of the Smiths.
But Reldin was just one of many Maretzian ethnicities. There were the Merivians, the dark-skinned people of the Aeshin Valley, the Hajinnis, the redheaded people of the west, the Vairinock, the runners of the central plains…All of this she learned second-handedly. Ever since leaving Lord Daenlyn’s manner almost two weeks ago, Marie hadn’t talked to Rheidan. And Barnabas, as if sensing the sudden rift between the two, had stopped including Marie in what was quickly becoming known as the ‘inner circle.’ Consequently, Marie spent her nights in sleeping bags in tents instead of in comfort inside.
She didn’t mind. She still felt betrayed. She knew it was irrational—it wasn’t as though Rheidan had deliberately tried to hide anything from her! But still…it was hard for her to accept that he owned slaves and attended what were basically gladiator games. It was wrong. And yet…he wasn’t a bad person. She didn’t think so, anyways. But really, how much did she know about him? Not much, apparently. She just knew the little details: that whenever he smiled, the right side of his mouth rose a little higher than the left side; that whenever she dared to challenge him, his eyes flickered with surprised delight; that when he spoke to her, his voice lowered a few decibels; that he always managed to make her blush at least once in a conversation; that he enjoyed listening to fairytales. But did she know anything else about him? He was obviously a high-ranking officer in the emperor’s army. He came from the noble family of Deiämoniquen. That was it.
Marie always had to shake her head when she let her thoughts wonder to Rheidan. She couldn’t let herself become attached to him. She did not come to Maretzia for romance. Romance, in fact, was a bad idea. She would be leaving Maretzia in eight months, never to return. At least, that was the plan…but she had once more overheard Hamako grumbling about problems with the communication device and was no longer certain returning to Earth was a sure thing.
“Marie, smile!”
Marie’s eyes shot up, only to be blinded by a bright flash. She inwardly groaned. Raymond had recently adopted the annoying habit of snapping pictures of her at every opportunity. He claimed it was for his job, but Marie suspected an ulterior motive: She had seen him give a picture of her to Joseph, who had now begun blushing and stuttering every time the Babies ate together, much to Marie’s consternation.
“Why do you do that?”
Marie froze. She cursed her heart for leaping inside her.
Her gaze traveled slowly to her side, and sure enough, Rheidan stood there, one hand holding the reins of his arattia in one hand, the other resting on the hilt of his sword. He stared at Raymond quizzically.
Raymond turned bright red. “U-uh…” he stuttered. His Maretzian was infamously poor. Marie decided to have pity on him.
“He’s a Documenter,” she explained, avoiding looking Rheidan directly in the eyes. Why did he have to come when she was so confused about him? “The contraption he’s holding is called a camera. It makes an image of whatever it’s shot at. In other words, he can use it to create a visual record of the trip.” A blush rose in her cheeks.
Rheidan leaned forward, suddenly interested. “May I see some of these images?”
“Um…I suppose so,” muttered Raymond, looking flustered. He fumbled with the clasp of the bag he had slung around his shoulder and pulled out a sheath of developed photos. He flipped through them before handing a few to Rheidan.
Rheidan stared at them. His finger traced a figure in one photo. “This is me greeting Lord Daenlyn,” he said slowly. “I was unaware you had made this.”
Raymond flushed. “Well, yes. Sometimes the camera doesn’t flash.”
“Hmm.” Rheidan handed the photo back. He gave Raymond a hard look. “I would prefer it if you no longer made images of me.”
Raymond looked confused. “But—I—well, uh…”
“Raymond,” Marie murmured in English, “Do as he asks.” She glanced at Rheidan. “He won’t take any more pictures of you,” she promised.
Raymond shot Marie a rather resentful look, opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and stumped off.
Marie and Rheidan stood in silence for a few minutes. Marie felt color rush to her cheeks. Why was he here? What did he want? What should she say? Her thoughts whirled round and round, and at last she blurted out, “I’m sorry!” Rheidan looked startled. “I didn’t mean to judge you.” Both of them were quiet for a moment. Her heart raced. It was true, she thought. She hadn’t meant to judge him. But that didn’t mean she was okay with the whole slave-gladiator thing.
Rheidan shot her a sharp look. “Do not mention it.”
Marie wondered at his wording. Was that the Maretzian way of saying ‘you are forgiven’ or was that Rheidan’s way of saying ‘don’t mention a subject that’s going to tick me off?’
She grimaced. Life would be so much simpler if she could just be attracted to Joseph.
She could feel how tense Rheidan was despite her apology. He held his shoulders stiffly; his back was ramrod straight. At last he muttered, “We will reach the capital in three days.” When he saw her staring at him curiously, he exhaled heavily, and his tone gentled. “In the capital, you will see many things you do not like. But remember there are also some very good things about the city.”
Marie gave him an uncertain look. He smiled a little at it; Marie watched as his lips curled the way she liked. “And just so you know,” he added hurriedly, “the only mleinon my family owns are laewins. No artatrushi or anything like that. We don’t involve ourselves in the business of the arena.”
Now Marie was just confused. “What are laewins?”
He eyed her warily, and he definitely sounded hesitant as he explained, “Laewins are domestic slaves. You no doubt had some wait on you in Lord Daenlyn’s manor. Remember? They would have been blindfolded.”
Her mind flicked back to the girls who had bathed her. “I remember them,” she said shortly, “Not a very talkative bunch.”
Rheidan gave her an incredulous look, then burst into laughter. Marie stared at him, confused. Rheidan kept on laughing. She racked her brain. What had she said that was so funny?
At last Rheidan calmed down, but he sounded amused as he explained, “They didn’t talk to you because they can’t. Almost all laewins are blind deaf-mutes. It’s a matter of security in noble houses. We learned long ago the danger of our own slaves. Having slaves that cannot eavesdrop, whisper secrets, or read personal writings is essential to the security of most noble families.”
Marie was horrified. “B-but,” she stuttered, “How do they get around? How do they work?”
Rheidan stared out into the passing fields. “Each laewin is raised and trained in one household. They know that household perfectly by the time they are old enough to work—how many steps it takes to get from one door to the next, where the furniture is in a room, and so forth. Each laewin is assigned a specific duty, and they generally keep that duty their entire life. They can read lips if you want to give them specific instructions, but more often, if you have a basic instruction, like ‘bring me a glass of water,’ you can make a shape on the palm of their hand and they’ll do as instructed. I suppose,” he added fairly, “It would seem strange to those not accustomed to it, but it works. Trust me. I was practically raised by laewins.”
It was the first time Rheidan had ever mentioned his childhood, and it made Marie stare at him intently.
Uncomfortable with her stare, he added gruffly, “You should get used to the idea. You will have laewins serving you in the royal palace.”
The plains bubbled into hills the next evening. Trees dotted the landscape here and there, elegant slender things with silver leaves and magenta blossoms, with dragon-birds the size of sparrows nesting in their branches. Travelers and caravans clogged the ro
ads, but most of them quickly moved aside to let the expedition pass. When they didn’t, Rheidan sent one of his riders ahead to talk to the leader of the group, and they were suddenly much more compliant.
Travel became slower and harder, not only because of the other travelers, but because of the steep curves and turns in the roads. The rollers had a particularly tough time navigating one especially steep curve; they had to unfurl contraptions Valeria called bracers to help them down. By the end of that day, Marie wished she had a bracer of her own. She tripped and slid down that part of the road enough times to turn her body into one big bruise.
The day they arrived in Melei-Argalla, they topped a particularly large hill and looked down to see a glistening ribbon of silver.
“The Aegae-Mar,” murmured Rheidan. “The lifeblood of Maretzia. This is just one of its tributaries—a particularly large one, though. It flows right along the outer wall of the capital.” Rheidan pointed to a spot along the horizon. “Do you see it?”
Marie followed the line of his finger, and her eyes landed on something white and gleaming in the morning sun.
Rheidan placed his hand on her shoulder and said proudly, “That is Melei-Argalla, the capital of Maretzia, the City of Stone, home of the Imperial Army and its Academy and the House of Emperor Sidriel the Clever, the Powerful, and the Magnificent.”
Marie smiled up at him. “Is that home?”
Rheidan smiled. “That’s home.” He grabbed her hand. “Come.”
Marie allowed him to lead her to the front of the procession, ignoring the knowing looks Mabel and Jennifer sent her. Happiness bloomed inside her, excitement making every nerve vibrate. After weeks of traveling, they were here! After months of travel, really—because whether they had known it or not, they had always been traveling to Melei-Argalla.
Part II
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