by Geno Allen
“Two years ago, while returning from tournament, we came upon a farmer whose cart had lost a wheel. He was stopped there in the road. Tantus had lost the tournament, and he had no patience for peasants on his best days. He demanded the farmer move aside his cart. When the farmer said he could not, Tantus demanded a sword be given to the farmer and challenged him.
“The farmer did not wish to fight with the lord’s son, but Tantus struck, and the farmer blocked. A battle ensued, and the farmer was a greater swordsman than Tantus anticipated. In the end, Tantus fell to the farmer's blade. Several soldiers advanced on the farmer, but I, as his second in command, forbade it. I commanded the men to quickly bring Tantus to his lord father. I’d heard rumor of a healer in his house.
“When Tantus lay near death on his father’s bed, they brought the healer in. It was Raine. She tried, but she could not heal Tantus. He died moments later and Lord Neereth struck her—nearly killed her—for it.” Corben shuddered at the memory.
“I had seen the truth, that Tantus’ own actions had brought his injury and death. I did not think she should be slain for his folly, but Lord Neereth would never have tolerated such an argument. So as he drew his sword to strike her down, I asked the Lord....” Corben’s eyes began to tear. “I asked the lord if it was not more fitting that she be taken to the slave market....” His speech began to quiver. “Where she would face a more lengthy punishment than death.” Corben couldn’t look at Zam. “Lord Neereth was gratified by the suggestion. He demanded that I see to her sale.” His voice rose as he looked at Zam. “I did it to save her life…!” He choked, those words hanging in the air.
Zam went numb. He could not find words.
Corben regained himself. “She befriended me. In the months that it took to travel to the slave market... she befriended me.” A tear ran down his cheek. “Zam, it has been nearly two years since she was sold. I tried to find some other way, but she was purchased by a Coriaeran.”
A look of shock and horror crossed Zam’s face and he could not speak.
“With Tantus’ death, and for my faithful service, I was sent to serve the lord’s daughter, and that is how I came to be here. I feared that somehow your friend was Raine when you spoke her mother’s name. And I fear, Zam, that she will not be there when you arrive.”
Zam was suddenly numb then dread began to claw at him. Tears started to well. The two men stood in the near freezing cold with eyes locked. The first hint of rainfall from the storm began and Corben added, “As we traveled she told me of her family and of this Elyon who has directed you here. I had not heard of him before, but if what she spoke of him was true, I do have some hope that you will find her... though I fear in what condition you may find her.”
Corben’s words were like a deathblow to Zam. He thought of all he had been through to get here: battling the dragon Crimthorn, surviving Tangleweave’s Shadow Vermin, facing the Seritheen on the bridge, and Seven Mirrors. The mirrors! In the reflection where the other me chose to purchase the harlot instead of Raine, Raine was there! Zam had tangibly known it, the same way he had know they were nearing the end of the underground river, and how he had known the history of the School of Trees.
Elyon has sent me on this quest. Fear drained from him and strength found its footing again. Raine was there, or would be when he arrived. “Corben, keep hope, and let go your fear. Raine is in the market, and I am going there to free her.” He placed his hand on the guardian's shoulder. “And no matter what condition I find her in, you have saved her life. For that, I and her family will be forever grateful.” He clasped Corben’s arm in a friend's embrace.
Corben returned the gesture. “I will look after your friend Griss while you are gone. The market is nearly a day’s march down that southern road. Fare you well, Zam.”
“Fare you well, Guardian Corben.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: RAINE
Zam set off down the road as the rains began to pour. The wind howled and lightning flashed, illuminating the path ahead and the land around. He had that same terrible sense that he was being watched. Being alone made him particularly uncomfortable. He had grown so used to having companions along the road, that walking so dark and dreary a path without Griss, Raim Sabbar, or even Corcle held no joy. He found himself wishing he had demanded that Griss be allowed to come with him, but he'd been in no position to demand, and though both he and Griss were skilled with the sword, fighting the entire regiment of guardians would not have won Raine’s freedom.
Raine’s freedom.... Zam chose to believe that Elyon truly had directed him to the market, and despite what Corben had done two years earlier, he would somehow find her not just for sale, but unspoiled. He still did not understand all he wished he could about this Elyon. How does he know all he seems to know? How could he have guessed which path I would take? And know where to send the Argolen to arrive in my moments of peril?
He also wondered why beings like Argolen had sworn such strict allegiance to him. It was a mystery he would have to wait to fully understand. For now, he chose to believe Elyon had led him here, and there was yet a task to be completed. He walked on through the night, and Corben's cloak did a splendid job of keeping the elements from wearying him. The rain washed over him, but it did not penetrate to his skin, a fact for which he was most grateful.
The road grew muddy rather quickly, making travel more difficult as the hours passed. It was the dead of night and he longed for sleep, but when he recalled his travels through Darlandis and the peril he’d walked in for three days without sleep, it spurred him on. “I’m tired. But not that sort of tired,” He mused. “But, some companionship would make the journey lighter.”
The road turned east for a while, wrapping around a large hill before it bent southward again. Zam could see little in the distance through the haze of rain. The darkness began to feel as if it would consume him. It was not as it had been in Darlandis, where the darkness seemed to overwhelm the land and his heart as well. It was more akin to knowing one marches toward danger while unsure of how great it may be.
A soft whisper, which seemed less a voice and more a thought, wove itself into his consciousness. Light... a bit of light would do. Zam had been using his staff for stability as he traversed the slippery path, but it had not entered his mind to attempt to light it. “Well I have to wonder how one brings light from a–” A soft glow began to extend outward from the staff. Zam smiled. He thought of how he might quench the light, and in that moment he stood in pitch dark again. Another thought and light flared up from the staff, illuminating the road many feet in front and behind. “Thank you, Graffeon… and thank you, Elyon, wherever you are, for letting him cut so fine a staff from one of your trees.”
He traveled many more hours, walking in the sphere of light cast by his staff. As dawn broke in the distance, the end of the thick storm cloud came into view. So stark was its edge that one could imagine a great sword had simply slashed at the darkness, severing one end, dropping it into oblivion and freeing the brilliant blue sky from its gray bondage.
In the next few hours the storm passed westward, allowing sunlight to warm both his heart and the air. The sun was nearly overhead when Zam crested a hill and saw the slave market in the distance. It was precisely as he had seen it in the mirrors. But in reality, if one didn’t know what they were looking at, it would be easily lost in the city which sprang up beyond it. Slavetowne: a wretched place with ignoble intent, yet decidedly beautiful to behold. Its size was such that Rivertowne now seemed to Zam a very little place. He shook his head in amazement. I thought Rivertowne was large….
At his current pace, Zam would arrive in an hour or two. He quickened his pace.
A while later a voice called out from somewhere to the right of the road, startling Zam. “Hello! Hello there! You! Hello! Help me out here! You! Help me out!”
About thirty yards from the path, a lanky man, probably in his late twenties, with ragged, dark hair, was hanging upside down by one foot from a large tree. �
��You! Yes, you’ve seen me! You must help me! Please!”
Zam couldn’t place the tone in the man’s voice. It seemed less like fear and more like cynicism; an expectation that Zam would simply pass by. As Zam approached, the stranger began thanking him, even before Zam had done a single thing. A sword was thrust into the soft earth just beyond the man’s reach. A simple dagger lay close by as well, also maddeningly beyond his grasp. Directly below him were the remnants of a campfire.
“How did you get up there?”
“Bandits.”
The reply came too quickly. Zam eyed the man cautiously, then eyed the ground about the campsite as Griss had taught him in the Lost Hills. Here and there were the hoofprints of several horses. There were also depressions in the soft earth where Zam surmised others had recently slept. In one area, the muddied ground showed signs of a struggle, and Zam somehow doubted this man was so much the victim.
The man’s voice turned harsh. “Are you going to get me down, or not?” he looked at Zam with eyes that held unpleasant secrets. “Or do you intend to rob me as well?”
That moment Zam saw something that changed his mind about the dangling man. For hanging from his belt was a small, leather-bound book, in every way similar to Zam’s. “Of course I’ll get you down, and I have no intention of robbing you, Sir.”
The man craned his neck to meet Zam eye to eye and his tone softened. “Orland Wick's the name. And if you loosen the knot about that branch you might be able to lower me. Though please do so carefully. I do not wish to split my skull.”
“I’m Zam Windwater, and I will be careful.” In short order he’d rescued his new acquaintance.
Orland gathered his weapons and sat on a nearby log, rubbing life back into his foot. “You can’t possibly know how infuriating it is to be so helpless, to know that you could cut yourself down if only your arms were a bit longer. Blasted– uh… bandits.” He sighed heavily and looked at Zam. There it was again, something ill-favored in his look: a secret or perhaps malicious intent.
Zam remained on guard as he sat with the stranger. “How long have you hung there?”
Orland stood and tested his footing. “Felt like days, but it was less. The sun never came out yesterday, so it had to be sometime after sunset on the day before.”
His ease on his feet left Zam doubting the truthfulness of his statement.
Orland took a few steps and drew his sword, swinging wildly this way and that, recounting his battle with the bandits. “There were four of them on horses. Their captain leapt down, trying to take me unawares, but I was too quick for him.”
Orland was fighting invisible foes, putting on quite a show of how wide the battle had ranged.
Zam could tell from the ground all about the campsite that the tale was untrue, and he wanted to get to the truth. “Did Graffeon give you that book?”
Orland froze where he stood. “What book?”
Zam chuckled. “The book tied to your belt. Was it from Graffeon? Has Elyon set you upon a quest as well?”
Orland eyed him with distrust.
Zam pulled his own book from his satchel. “I was given mine a few months ago. How long have you had yours?”
Orland covered his book with his hand as if to protect it from Zam’s gaze. “Longer... and I wouldn’t suffer anyone’s taking it from me. It was a gift from Gra– well, that fellow.”
“Graffeon?”
“Yes... I... still struggle with his name.”
Something about the man felt wrong. Zam thought of Seven Mirrors and imagined Orland was one who had made the wrong choice when faced with his moment in the mirror. “I’d never thought to wear my book upon my belt as you do. I suppose I’ve been too concerned that I might ruin it.”
Orland seemed to grow more and more agitated. “I do not wish to discuss my book. It is most valuable to me.” His tone grew sharp. “Thank you for my rescue. I will be on my way.” He turned to go, then spun back with his sword aimed for Zam’s throat.
A clang resounded in the morning air, as Zam blocked the blow with his sword and spun out of Orland’s way. “What has you so incensed, Sir?”
Orland said nothing, but continued striking.
Zam saw in him one of the possibilities of himself. “This cannot be what you are intended for, Orland,” Zam was trying to bring out the good man he believed must be inside the stranger somewhere—for him to have been entrusted with one of Graffeon's books. “This cannot be part of your quest.”
Still no reply, just narrowed eyes and a more violent onslaught as their battle ranged farther and wider than the supposed battle with the bandits. Strike. Block. Lunge. Parry. Strike. Orland was strong, but sloppy.
In a move reminiscent of Galwen disarming Mort, Zam lunged at Orland, spun his blade against his foe’s, and swiped it clean from his hand. It tumbled through the air until Zam caught it by the hilt, a little amazed at himself, and extended both blades toward his opponent.
Orland dropped to his knees. “Kill me already,” he said with malice as he closed his eyes.
Zam stared at him, confused by the man's bitterness.
A split second later a dagger flew from Orland's hand, only to be struck aside by one swift move of Zam’s sword. This time real panic crossed Orland’s face as he imagined his life truly at an end. He stared at Zam in wide-eyed anticipation, knowing how he would handle such a situation, and expecting that Zam would do the same.
Zam looked hard at him, trying to make sense of the man, trying to find the good, but looking into his eyes was akin to looking into Guardian Daze’s eyes. He couldn’t find a shred of what he believed would lead Graffeon to part with a treasured book. He sighed. “I have no intention of killing you,” he touched the point of one sword under Orland’s chin. “But, I want to see you follow that road away from the market, and never come near me again.”
Orland seemed confused that Zam would even think of letting him go. “But I tried to kill you….”
“Yes. But I have no wish to end your life. Now, I will return your blade to you, if you swear to turn northward along this path and leave in peace.”
This sort of kindness was so foreign to Orland that he could do nothing but agree. “I... do swear.”
Zam handed him the sword. “Go from here in peace, Orland Wick, and if it can yet be done, return to your quest. If not, at least leave your scoundrel days behind. Few would be this forgiving.”
Orland was speechless. He sheathed his sword, walked warily to retrieve his dagger then turned toward the northern road. Looking back he said, “I do not understand you, Zam Windwater… but I do thank you… and you do have my word.”
That was the first genuine utterance Zam had heard from the man. He nodded and motioned with his sword for Orland to start his march. The two parted ways and Zam did so cautiously, not once letting down his guard nor ceasing to scan the road behind him and all of his surroundings.
Within an hour he'd reached a crossroads where he found other travelers making their way to the slave market. Men, both old and young, high ranking and lowly, filled this last stretch, as did a handful of noblewomen on their way to purchase new servants. The women looked with disdain upon all of the men traveling here, especially those of lower rank. Zam kept to himself.
A half-hour more and he arrived. The road continued on up a hill and wound its way around to Slavetowne, but here a wall built from hundreds of large logs, standing on end and honed to lance points, fenced in the market. One could only gain entry through a gate that was guarded by four armor-clad men, two of whom seemed they might be a fair match for Griss if a moment for battle arose.
An unwholesome energy filled the air and made Zam tense. The guards at the gate sneered at him as he passed through. Were it not for the guardian’s cloak given him by Corben these men may have had little compunction with throttling him simply to pass the time. Another young man about Zam’s age—but of seemingly lower rank—was harassed and struck several times before he was allowed to pass.
Here and there men passed between slave peddlers and drinking establishments, moving on to slave lenders where the purchase was less final and the carousing need not await the journey home. As Zam pushed his way through the crowd, numerous ale-drenched men staggered past with equally drunken women clinging to them as close as clothing. All about him people sought to find the prizes for which they'd come: for some, a new farm hand; for others, a wife; for most, though, either a new bedding maid or a wench with whom to pass a few hours of their otherwise tedious day. There was no sign of Raine.
Directly to Zam’s left, a man shouted, “Gentleman, look here. If it is strength you seek, this young lad is a strapping find. He’ll serve you well in whatever labors you require. Look at those muscles! What’ll I hear for him?” The slave master struck the boy. “And see… he's well behaved! Won’t fight back! Now, what’ll I hear for him?”
People began shouting out the amounts they'd be willing to pay for this young man’s life. All around there were similar calls, some more unsavory than that, and every place Zam looked was one more peddler selling the lives of men and women, girls and boys. It made him heartsick.
Without knowing where to find Raine and with not a single Coriaeran in sight, Zam’s hope started to falter. He looked around and sorrow rose up in him for all the slaves he was not there to rescue. Coupled with that was an aching fear that he would not find Raine. Have I missed her? Another fear followed. If she was there, would he do the right thing? Or would his reflection prove true? The horrid weight of this place was pulling on him, and the desire to master another was in fact rising up in him as it had in the mirror. It fought against the man he desired to be.