Atno 3523, Early Summer
The westering sun illuminated the yard and its perfectly trimmed trees, bushes, and lawn, decorated to celebrate the joining of one of the village’s daughters, one who had left a decade ago to study at the kailu school in Shigmar, a day’s ride to the south and founded by the village’s most famous son. The lilacs around the yard were in full bloom, perfuming the already pine-scented air; garlands of wildflowers hung from the lower branches of all the trees and adorned the white cloths draped over the many trestle tables that had been set up around the yard. The day had been perfect, warm without becoming too hot, clear, with a gentle breeze moving among the guests and cooling them. The entire village attended, as the bride and her family were well-known and well-loved, but they were nearly overwhelmed and overawed by those who attended from the kailu school, since several of the masters had come, including Headmaster Myron and Master Healer Avril, for the groom and bride were apprenticed to these two masters. There was a move by the bride’s family and the villagers, when the masters arrived, to give them special treatment, but the masters would have nothing to do with it, reminding all that only two would receive special treatment on this day, which was the reason all had gathered.
The village council had declared the day a holiday, and so after the morning had passed in frantic preparations, the afternoon passed more pleasantly, eating the food brought by all while the meat was turned on spits over great open pits, dancing to music played by all who brought instruments and could play, or just sitting and enjoying each other’s’ company. The bride and groom, and their attendants, spent the first hour at the entrance, greeting all who came, accepting gifts, and listening to their advice, some of which was quite blunt. At times, the groom, and his twin brother, although they did not look alike, were embarrassed by the talk, their faces bright red; the bride’s eyes kept darting to her new husband, a wicked grin playing at the corners of her mouth, which caused the advice-giver to laugh out loud. Once most of the guests had arrived, the bride and groom began to move among their guests, and if they ever loitered too long in one place, the bride’s mother would shoo them onward, and so the afternoon passed pleasantly.
“Where’s he gone?” Klare asked, noticing that her brother-in-law, who should have been with her husband, was missing. She adjusted her hair before she and her bridesmaid moved on.
Sutugno looked around. “I think he keeps trying to catch her alone,” she said with a hint of bitterness, re-adjusting Klare’s hair and the flower wreath she wore.
Klare made a clicking sound with her tongue. “Foolish boy!” Klare noted under her breath. “I’ve tried to talk to him; Klaybear’s tried; I even had father try, but he won’t listen.”
Sutugno was only half-listening; she was watching the seklesa as she continued to flirt with one of the young wethem of the village. “He is foolish if he cannot see,” she whispered to herself, then realized Klare had spoken to her. “Sorry,” she said.
Klare looked at her for a moment, then turned to look at the seklesa with blue-black hair; she was flirting outrageously with Kleetor, and there was Rokwolf, watching her. Klare shook her head. “I feel about her the way I feel about you,” she noted.
Sutugno looked at Klare. “That’s an odd thing to say: what do you mean?” she asked.
Klare’s eyes narrowed. “You know I’ve always felt like you were a long lost sister,” she replied, turning and smiling at Sutugno.
Sutugno returned the smile. “I know, and I agree,” she added.
Klare turned back the direction they had been looking. “I’ve felt the same way about her,” she went on, “since I met her, but I do not understand how that could be, since my husband,” she paused, and looked at Klaybear, who looked uncomfortable speaking with a pair of village elders, then she looked at Sutugno, “how strange that word sounds in my own mouth.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Sutugno laughed. “You were saying?”
“I was?” Klare said, sounding distracted. “Oh, yes, I was saying since my husband has only one brother, and there are two of you: he cannot be joined to both, and she treats him as I do, as a brother.”
“And he doesn’t want me,” Sutugno said bitterly.
Klare looked at her, face concerned. “I’m not so sure that is true,” she said. “There is something odd about his desire for her, something unnatural about it, almost as if . . . ,” but her voice trailed off, and what she thought, she did not say.
Sutugno sniffed once and opened her mouth to speak again, but was cut off by another voice.
“Klarissa!” Klare’s mother snapped. “What are you two doing, standing here, staring and whispering to each other? You are supposed to be speaking to your guests!”
“Mother!” Klare jumped. “We were just wondering where Rokwolf had slipped off to, and we were just moving on.”
Leukila smiled at her daughter, but there was a tightness around her eyes that Klare noticed.
Klare touched Sutugno’s arm. “Better go rescue Klaybear,” she noted in a low voice, “and see if the two of you can find his missing twin.”
Sutugno looked at Klare a moment then nodded and left Klare and Leukila.
“Mother,” Klare said, taking Leukila’s arm, “I haven’t had anything to eat or drink in a long while, and you look famished.”
Leukila’s eyes narrowed as she looked at her daughter. After a moment, she replied, “I am a little thirsty.”
Mother and bride moved together to one of the serving tables, where one of their neighbors was currently taking a turn serving; she filled them cups and congratulated Klare, then turned to help others. Klare and her mother moved to one side.
“Mother,” Klare began without preamble, “something is troubling you.”
Leukila looked shocked. “What a thing to say,” she replied, “on this day, of all days!”
“Mother, I can see there is something bothering you.”
Leukila shook her head. “No, I am fine.”
“Mother, don’t force me to use my powers,” Klare threatened, “to delve into your mind and discover what is troubling you.”
“Klarissa! How dare you speak to your mother that way!” Leukila replied. “You stop this at once, or I will call your father, and he will put you over his knee and smack some sense into you!”
Klare laughed. “Here? At my age? Really, mother, you should confine your threats to ones that are actually possible. Besides, I do not think Daddy would paddle me today: he might give Klaybear instructions. . . .”
“Klarissa! You keep a civil tongue!” Leukila exclaimed. “At least in front of our guests,” she added and laughed.
Klare smiled sheepishly. “Now will you tell me what is bothering you?” she asked.
Leukila looked at her daughter closely. “I have to keep reminding myself that you are no longer a little girl,” she noted with a hint of sadness, “since you spent most of the last ten years away from home,” she idly straightened the garland crowning Klare’s head, “which is where my trouble began.”
Klare frowned. “You didn’t want me to study at Shigmar?” she asked.
“No, that’s not it,” Leukila replied, “but we realized then that this day would come, the day when you would be joined to another kailu, and we would not . . . ,” but she stopped and turned away from her daughter. “It does not matter.”
Klare suddenly realized what was upsetting her mother. “Mother, I am so sorry,” she said, “I never realized . . . ,” she went on, but Leukila cut her off.
“Let it go, Klarissa,” Leukila said, “it does not matter; what matters is that you have done the right thing, and you have kept the vows you made to your order. That means more to me than . . . ,” she paused, “well, than anything else.”
“Tears already?” a new voice, the voice of Klare’s father, asked. “You promised, my dear, that there would be no tears until the celebration was over.”
Leukila pointed at Klare. “It is her fault, Blekan,” she sai
d, “she extorted them out of me. I think you should put her over your knee!”
Blekan coughed. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “I think she’s too old for that, my dear, but if she wants me to, I could speak to her husband about it . . . ,” he left it hanging, exchanging a knowing grin with his wife.
Klare frowned at them both. “You both need to leave him alone,” she said firmly, “it is not his fault that his mother died when he and Rokwolf were born, and his father was injured and unwell after that, and so never got around to teaching him those things.” She looked to where Klaybear stood talking with Sutugno, Rokwolf, and several villagers, and a wicked grin crept across her face. “I’ll handle the rest of it,” she whispered to herself.
Both her parents were laughing at her; she looked at them, a surprised look replacing the grin she had been wearing. “What is so funny?” she asked.
Her parents looked at each other; her father spoke first. “I really think this falls into your realm, my dear.” He smiled.
“Thank you, my love,” Leukila replied, “I think this one does.” She smiled the exact same smile that Blekan wore. “There is a huge difference between knowledge and experience,” she said.
Klare’s look of incomprehension caused both her parents to laugh. “What are you saying?” Klare asked.
“Think about it,” Leukila said, and she kissed Klare on one cheek.
At the same time, her father kissed her other cheek. “It will come to you,” Blekan said, and they turned away from her to rejoin the celebration, “sooner or later,” he added as they walked away.
Klare thought about it while her parents walked away, then decided that she needed some more experience, so she took a drink from her cup and put it on the table, then flew into her husband’s arms, kissing him until she felt her knees growing weak, and the cheers and clapping of their guests filled her ears. Even before she opened her eyes, she could feel her husband’s face pulsing with embarrassment; she grinned up at him mischievously, then turned and looked for her parents. Both were smiling, and her father nodded to her.
“Klare,” Klaybear hissed, “what are you doing . . . in front of all these people?”
Klare looked back into his deep, brown eyes, ran her fingers through his curly brown hair, and spoke. “This is only the beginning,” she said softly.
Atno 3523, Fall
The drum beat endlessly, pounding out the rhythm, stroke by stroke, of the constant misery of existence, of sweat and stench, of continual rotation: two hours at the benches, two hours chained in the hold to rest; but no rest was ever possible for the drum beat, heard through the cracks in the planking overhead, felt through the soles of the feet as it vibrated through the entire ship, monotonous, never changing, ever present, ready to call one back to the benches and the torture. The cruel masters thrived on inflicting pain upon their slaves, and they cared not for any who fell, nor for those who sickened and died: these were unceremoniously tossed overboard, only to be replaced by a seemingly endless supply of new ‘recruits,’ torn from their families, dragged from their villages, to keep their masters’ ships moving on the seas, whether the wind blew or not. Few survived longer than six months; even fewer lasted a year; only one had ever survived for multiple years: a young wethi, strong, tall, with long dirty blonde hair, who rarely spoke, but when he did, spoke well, and he would help the others when he could. Rumors said that he had once been a cabin boy, grown up serving a captain but had fallen out of favor and had been consigned to die on the benches. Somehow, he survived.
A storm lashed the ship; this tall, young wethi had been kept at the benches without a break all day and well into the night, and eighteen hours of rowing in a storm were beginning to take their toll on him. He was not the only one: only one-third of the oars were currently manned, and most of the pirates were in their hammocks, too ill to work their stations. An hour before, the pirate captain had finally admitted defeat and had turned the ship toward a safe harbor where they could weather the storm. A shout, followed by the sounds of the anchor, and the drum beat stopped; those few still at the oars slid off their benches, gasping for breath. The slave master moved forward to unchain the slaves from their benches and move them back into the hold. As he moved down the port side, the captain came in and whispered something to the slave master, after which both looked to where the young wethi had slumped over his oar, the dirty rags he wore soaked with sweat, spray, and rain, his dirty hair hanging over his face and dripping onto his feet, the chains, and the deck. The captain stalked away; the slave master moved on, down the port side, skipping over the young wethi, then back up the starboard side, and without a backward glance, led the line of exhausted slaves down the stairs and into the hold. A few of the slaves kept glancing back at the young wethi, but none of them mentioned him, knowing that to do so would evoke sharp retribution from their masters. The young wethi was too tired to do more than glance at his fellows as they were led away before he slid onto the floor.
Two hours before dawn, the storm had only lessened slightly; one of the younger pirates was aloft in the crow’s nest scanning the horizon for signs of pursuit. Below, the bosun lay on the deck in a swoon, supposedly on watch but overcome by the rum he had drunk to give him courage to stand watch and face the storm. The one slave chained to his oar still slept, his breath wheezing, and he constantly twitched, as if his dreams were unsettling; his hands were raw and covered with dried blood, his ribs visible, and his lips were dry and cracked; his cheeks were hollow, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes. The space beside him shimmered, and a figure, half of shadow, half of light, formed in the air beside the young, unconscious slave, a figure so insubstantial that one could see the other oars and benches through the figure. A single point of light shot from the ghostly figure up to the crow’s nest, circled the pirate twice, then winked out, and when this point went dark, the pirate above slumped, instantly asleep. The ghostly figure lowered his hood and looked up, making sure the pirate above him had gone to sleep; the face revealed resembled the young slave who lay sleeping on the deck, although the figure was not as tall as the living wethi.
“My son, wake up,” the ghostly figure said in a voice that was barely more than a whisper, but seemed to penetrate the sleeper, who stirred and rolled from his side onto his back. “If you continue in this stupor much longer,” the figure whispered, “you will die. Wake!” the figure commanded, and the young wethi moved again, pushing himself painfully into a sitting position, leaning heavily against his rowing bench.
“Wh-huh?” he croaked, struggling to open his eyes and focus them on the figure floating in the air before him.
“You must wake up, or you will die,” the figure repeated. “It is not your time to die; there is too much for you to do.”
The eyes opened wide. “Father?” he asked. “Is that you? But you are dead: I dreamed that you died.”
The figure smiled pleasantly. “Yes,” he replied, “I have died, and I was your father in life, but do not be frightened by me now: I have not come to torment you, but to give you hope. You have to hold on a little longer, and if you do, you will become greater than you can possibly imagine, the greatest of anyone in our family, you and your twin brothers.”
“But Father,” the young slave interrupted, “I cannot hold on any longer; I know you have seen how badly I am treated: I will not survive, I have already survived longer than anyone ever has. It is only a matter of time before . . . ,” he hesitated, and in that moment the ghostly figure spoke again.
“Only you control your destiny,” the figure said, “no one controls it for you.”
The young wethi laughed, which started him coughing; it was several minutes before he could speak. “I am a slave,” he croaked, “my life, my being, my destiny, as you put it, is controlled by my masters.”
“No!” the figure denied. “Have you learned nothing from your experiences?” he asked. “I did not raise you to give in, to give up; I did not raise you to be a slave
to someone else.”
The young wethi was angered by these words; he held up his manacled and chained wrists and shook them at the figure. “Look at these!” he shouted. “These are the chains of a slave! I have no choice in this.”
“Iron chains do not make a slave,” the figure replied in the same soft, whisper, and he pointed to the young wethi’s forehead. “The chains are in here; you always have a choice, my son: you are still in control of your destiny,” and with those words, the ghostly figure shimmered and vanished.
The young wethi was so angered by the words that he roared out loud, waking both the bosun and the pirate in the crow’s nest.
“What is it?” the bosun shouted.
“I don’t know,” the pirate above replied but stopped, “wait, I see something.” He lifted the spy glass to his eye and pointed it in the direction he had been looking when he woke. After a moment, he saw what they feared: a ship bearing the banner of the Fereghen, coming toward them. “Another ship!” he shouted. “A ship of the Fereghen, in pursuit,” and the bosun rang the alarm that sounded below. Shouts were followed by running feet, then the clinking of chains, as pirates ran up from below, and a line of slaves was hurried into place from the hold. The young wethi was taken back to the hold and finally fed and given water, which he hardly tasted as he ate, his thoughts filled with the last words he had heard, and the words caused a great anger inside, an anger that did not find a release until two hours later, when it was his turn to be led again to the benches. Each stroke, each beat of the drum, reinforced the words: Iron chains do not make a slave; the chains are in your mind; you always have a choice; you choose your destiny. Again, and again, with every pull of the oar, with every thud of the drum, the words burned through his mind, feeding his anger and powering his every stroke. His father did not know, could not know, what it was like to be a slave! How could he understand the misery, the endless days, the constant torment of the lash, the monotonous thump of the drum that haunted every moment, whether awake or asleep, of every day of his life? The drum beat on, and with every pull of every oar, and every lash of the slave master’s whip, he moved farther and farther away from the ship of the Fereghen that symbolized freedom. The chains were in his mind? The sting of the whip brought him again back to reality, his reality, and he thrust the words back into a dark corner of his mind, but the anger drove him on.
The Redemption, Volume 1 Page 31