Quiet. Blessed quiet surrounded Yaakke. Darkness soothed his eyes. He’d transported himself to some unknown sanctuary. Yet still he heard the echoes of thoughts and saw flashes of light.
The sound of dripping water penetrated his exhausted mind and body. His hands hurt, burned by the fire-blasted stones of the monastery. He opened his eyes to seek the source of water to soothe the burns. The light flashes continued to blind him.
Footsteps upon stone. Flickering light from lanterns. The harsh smell of lamp oil and stale air.
More voices. Real this time.
“Gimme the whip! Here’s another one broken his chain.
See how his hand is burned from the barracks fire? Have to make an example of malcontent slaves.” A harsh voice spoke, made deeper by malice. “We’ll have this mine up and running again in no time once we punish the leaders of this little rebellion.”
“There are no slaves in Coronnan!” Yaakke croaked.
“Yeah, so you said ’afore you killed three guards. Tell that t’ the army what sends us prisoners and t’ judges what sends us criminals.” The man laughed.
Yaakke looked up, a long way up into a craggy face and ugly harelip. An evil, malicious grin added another broken seam to the filthy face. This man enjoyed inflicting pain.
Frantically, Yaakke sought a spell, any spell to protect himself. Armor. Transport. Another firebomb. He had to be free to help Shayla!
His mind went blank and his magic died with the first bite of the whip across his chest.
Chapter 13
Time dragged forward. The man called Muaynwor—the dark mute—marked the passage of days in the number of breaths he could take during the one-hour sun break each noon. He measured days in strokes of the sledgehammer. He counted the stars as he marched with his fellow slaves in iron chains from mine adit to barracks.
Each day and each night he counted and wondered why. He’d stopped wondering who he was or how he had come to be a slave in the mines when slavery had been outlawed a millennium ago. Counting seemed safer than speaking or remembering. Remembering brought the lash across his back. A word to his chain partner for the day earned them both the sweat box.
Heft the hammer, breathe. Slam the hammer down, breathe. He found solace in the rhythm. Heft, breathe. Slam, breathe. One stroke, two and three, shift the spike. One, two, three. Four, five, six.
The familiarity of the count brought a tingle of awareness to his mind. Breathe in one, two, three, as he raised the hammer. Hold one, two, three, as he gathered his strength. Breathe out one, two, three, as he lowered the hammer. Hold one, two, three. Raise the hammer one, two, three . . .
He swung downward with the hammer. The force of his blow sent shock waves from the hammer head up the shaft and into his hands. His arms ached and his head threatened to split open with the backlash of pain.
Numbly he lifted the hammer again. One, two, three. Breathe one, two, three. Something wasn’t quite right. The hammer was too light. He stopped his movement, midstroke, unsure how to proceed.
A guard patrolled the length of the cleared shaft to enforce the no talking rule. Muaynwor continued to stare straight ahead. What was wrong?
“Stupid slave,” the guard grunted. “Broke your hammer and don’t even know it.” The guard bent and retrieved a different tool from the pile. He thrust a shovel into Muaynwor’s hands.
The dark mute continued to stare. The new tool wasn’t right either.
“You’ll probably break that one as well. Get yerself a new handle. That one’s too worn. You know how to do it.” The guard pushed Muaynwor toward a pile of wood in various shapes and sizes.
Muaynwor hobbled the last few steps, anxious to avoid the guard’s touch. The manacle on his right ankle dragged his chain partner with him. The partner seemed familiar, safe, unlike the guard whose touch sometimes brought pain.
He reached for a new handle. The first piece of wood was too thick and short, meant for a sledgehammer. The second piece was wrong, too. He discarded them both and reached deeper.
His hand curled around something smooth and straight. A long straight piece of wood. Power pulsed up his arms. He looked at the handle more closely.
A tree branch cut to the length of a walking stick, smoothed and polished. Good, solid oak. The grain was obscured by a thick layer of dirt. Warmth caressed his tired hand. The wood seemed to glow and pulsate with unnatural blue sparks.
Light. A glowing warmth just out of reach beckoned. Something huge and shinning and winged at the core.
“Ja . . . Jack . . .” he croaked at the urging of the shimmering presence in his mind.
“Hold your tongue, slave!” The guard flicked his wrist. The lash bit deep into Muaynwor’s cheek. “Ain’t spoke in nigh on three year. Don’t need to start now.”
Three years? Three years of counting hammer strokes and breaths. The oak staff shot a flame of awareness to his mind.
Jack, he thought. My name is . . . Not Jack, almost . . .
Jack closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened them again, the glow in the staff intensified. The tingling warmth spread up his hand to his arm and tight shoulder muscles. The peculiar warmth invaded his toes and soothed his aching arches caused by the ill-fitting boots.
“Git back to work, y’ worthless slaves. Fix the shovel, and start clearin’ the debris around that s’murghing boulder.”
The guard shoved Jack and his chain partner toward the rubble.
When the guard moved on around a bend in the passage, Jack examined the staff. Knowledge and memory jolted through his mind.
He’d taken innocent lives. He hadn’t even stopped to offer healing magic to the victims. Shame and disgust for some unknown action washed over him.
“What do you remember?” his partner whispered, barely audible.
“Too much and not enough,” Jack replied, still staring at the staff. A magician’s staff. His tool and focus for spells. He didn’t know if he had any magic left within him.
He and the staff had been separated for three years. His magic had been dead an equal amount of time. “Is it too late to find the power again?” he asked the staff.
Katrina sat before the rough factory pillow, an alien in the only world she knew. Her neat single plait gathered from the crown of her head to the nape of her neck, her plain dark skirt, and her meticulously clean hands and nails, showed how different she was from every other lacemaker in the cold and dark factory.
She was a slave and could never leave the building without permission. She had to wear the clothes provided for her by her owner and had no salary to spend on the cheap, gaudy jewelry the other lacemakers delighted in. The only similarity was her single plait. Unlike the other women, Katrina kept hers neat, tight, and clean. Most of the others merely clubbed their dirty hair together at the nape of their necks and braided it loosely.
Her owner, Neeles Brunix never ceased to remind her that her slavery was his revenge for the way Tattia Kaantille had insulted him that day three years ago when he refused to buy her patterns.
Katrina shifted in her straight chair, willing her bladder to hold out a little longer. Another hour to the noon sun break. Three years she had been a slave in the factory, and she still hadn’t learned to adjust her body to the daily routine. Another wiggle eased her back, a little.
She tried to dismiss the whispers and covert glances from the other lacemakers. Constant, disquieting murmurs filled the workroom on the third floor of the largest factory in Queen’s City. Each exchange between two lacemakers was followed by a pointed look over a shoulder or across the room toward the coveted window position occupied by Katrina. She fought the urge to shift her back and ease the pressure on her bladder.
No work song lightened the long and tedious day. Katrina’s soul cried out for music.
Alone in the world and in the factory, Katrina bent her head to her work. The heavy bobbins didn’t fly through the pattern as her lighter, more slender bobbins had. Rhythm was difficult to maintain
without music.
In defiance of factory rules, Katrina hummed an ancient work tune to aid her as she worked her pattern.
Meet together, crossing paths.
Work together, twisting threads.
Sing a little, friends are fast.
The snickering whispers and slightly turned shoulders told her more than words how unwelcome any contribution from her would be. They would never be her friends.
Katrina flipped her right-hand pair of bobbins in a triple twist. The outside thread caught on the imperfections in the pillow cover, throwing her timing and tension off. The pin-hole in the pattern was out of alignment as well. The song died in her heart as the flow of work was interrupted.
“Ooooh! Not again,” Maari, the newest lacemaker in the darkest corner of the Brunix factory, whined.
Katrina put down her bobbins with a sigh and crossed the large workroom to the new girl’s pillow. Owner Brunix had given Katrina extra food and new blankets for her bed in return for helping the beginners keep their work straight and error free. After three years she had proved her skills above and beyond any of the free workers.
Somehow, someday she’d find a way out of this miserable factory and back to her rightful place in society where she could wear two plaits again. Becoming the best lacemaker ever was the key to her survival and eventual freedom.
Brunix had offered many times to change her slave status to employee if she willingly shared his bed. That course was no more than another form of slavery.
“This pattern is too hard,” Maari protested.
She sounded so much like Hilza before her last illness, Katrina had to restrain the urge to hug the girl to her breast. She hadn’t allowed that wound to heal. The reminder of the deprivations inflicted upon her family by King Simeon kept her angry. Made her strong enough to survive and to resist Owner Brunix’s sexual offers.
Allowing any man to take liberties with her body was too close to King Simeon’s ugly demands for Katrina to agree to her owner’s lewd suggestions. Why didn’t he just rape her? He had the right. He owned her body.
She’d never give up her soul.
“There is nothing new in this pattern, Maari,” Katrina explained brusquely. “I’ve added two extra pairs of bobbins to the fan and reversed the rose ground with the half-stitch diamond.”
“But it looks different. And the half stitch is always tangled.” Maari’s lower lip stuck out. Hilza had pouted the same way. In a moment the girl would cry. Big fat tears that garnered sympathy but did nothing to mar her clear skin and sweet blue eyes.
Katrina hardened her heart lest she shatter three years of reserve and give in to Maari’s sulks. Fixing the problem for her wouldn’t help the girl overcome her lack of proper training. Nor would it give her the skills to survive in the fierce competition of factory life.
“Half stitch always looks tangled until you get four or five rows into it. Look.” Katrina extracted a long pin with a costly amber bead on the head from the thickest part of her single plait. She was supposed to use this expensive gift from Owner Brunix to separate her growing clumps of bobbins into sections. It was more useful as a pointer. The tiny insect trapped in the amber was a constant reminder of the prison she had made for herself in accepting slavery in the factory over King Simeon’s coven.
She laid the length of the pin along one thread running through the questioned part of the pattern. The mistake jumped into view.
Maari nodded, eyes wandering around her pillow.
“Watch the threads, not the bobbins.”
Maari’s eyes jerkily followed the path of the pin along the threads.
“Oh!” Maari breathed. “I twisted twice instead of once.” Hastily she reached for her bobbins to unweave the lopsided diamond.
Katrina halted Maari’s hasty movements with a touch of the pin. “And never throw the bobbins! Lay them down neatly, in order. That is your true problem, Maari. You do not respect your bobbins or your work. You led a pampered life, and your teachers always rescued you. Now you have to take care of yourself and fix your own mistakes.”
Maari had come from a wealthy mercantile family brought to ruin by the war and changing times, just as Katrina had. No one had helped Katrina during those early days in the factory as she struggled to keep up with more experienced lacemakers. No one had protected her from their cruel insults and sneaky tricks. Jealous rivals within the factory sometimes stole a bobbin from a pillow—usually from a place that required extensive reworking to add a replacement thread.
She jerked her head around to view her own pillow to make sure no one did that now. Taalia, one of the senior employees, stood halfway between her own work stand and Katrina’s. She scuttled back to her chair at Katrina’s fierce glare.
Katrina returned her attention to her pupil. “Tomorrow, I expect to see every half-stitch diamond worked correctly. I also expect to see your hands scrubbed and your fingernails clean.” She retreated toward her own work.
“Did you give Owner Brunix the new design?” Taalia asked as Katrina passed by. Her tone was as breezy as ever, not acknowledging her previous attempt at trickery.
“Not yet.”
“Afraid he’ll notice there’s more to you than lacemaker’s hands and sharp eyes? I’ll take him the pattern and claim it as my own. Maybe he’ll offer me the same bonus he wants to give you.” Taalia shifted in her chair, thrusting her bosom forward and wiggling her hips provocatively.
“I’ll deliver the pattern when it is ready.” Katrina bit her lip. Neeles Brunix’s sexual innuendoes were getting harder to turn aside or ignore.
She wondered yet again why the owner hadn’t forced her into his bed. He seemed to prefer his women willing—just like Simeon, who needed a willing virgin.
The most recent increase in privileges could be a bribe, or perhaps merely a reminder that Neeles Brunix controlled every aspect of her life. Why shouldn’t she take a step toward earning her freedom by granting the owner a few favors?
Because the touch of his hand on hers reminded her over and over of the filthy suggestions made by King Simeon. She’d never give herself to any man without marriage, without respect. She didn’t dare hope to find love.
“I’ll give him the pattern during the sun break. He won’t make lewd suggestions with all of the others around,” Katrina said to herself.
“Don’t underestimate him, Katey.” Iza came up behind her. Iza no longer made lace. She was nearly blind and hunchbacked from a lifetime of working her pillow in dim light. She wound bobbins or straightened pins and did other useful, time-consuming chores. Working in the factory had deprived her of a life and family of her own. She was now too old and her skin too yellow, from the enforced restrictions on trips to the necessary during work hours, to catch Brunix’s lustful eye. Iza had no other place to go.
“Brunix wants you, not just for your body. He wants to use your talents to gain the respect of the other owners. If he can flaunt a fair-haired woman with palace training as his mistress, then he believes the other owners will accept his dark eyes and dusky skin. Hold out for marriage.” Iza urged Katrina back to her work.
“I don’t want to marry Owner Brunix. Marriage to an outlander won’t earn me two plaits. I’ve been betrayed by dark-eyed men before. I’ll never let it happen again.” A magician boy with dark eyes had betrayed her father’s ship and ruined her entire family.
Katrina had never met the apprentice responsible for stopping her father’s ship full of Tambootie seedlings, yet her hatred and mistrust of him grew with each year of separation from her old, comfortable, and stable way of life with a family she loved.
“Design is your entrance to the palace and out of this rat’s maze,” Iza reminded her. “Show him the design today at the sun break. I’ll stand behind you.”
“At the sun break,” Katrina affirmed with trembling hands and quaking heart.
“Are you sure the queen is pregnant? So soon after her last miscarriage?” Jaylor asked the flickering image in th
e glass.
A slight tickle in his mind told him that Brevelan listened to his conversation with the Commune’s informer.
Three years ago, on the night of Darville’s coronation, he and Brevelan had been anxious to leave the capital before the Council discovered them. But he’d taken the time to recruit the spy. He needed information to keep his Commune safe. He couldn’t risk talking directly to Darville or Mikka.
Though Margit had confirmed that Darville had not been with the army that attacked the monastery three years ago, Jaylor and his best friend had agreed to end all association and communication until prejudice against magic subsided throughout Coronnan. That couldn’t happen until the dragons returned. Bringing control back to the magicians.
“I overheard her tell the king. She isn’t well, Master Jaylor. She’s as likely to lose this baby as all the others,” the spy said. Her voice was clearer than her face.
Was it her lack of control of this spell or something else that interfered with the summons? Jaylor had only had time to teach her the basics of a summons and extending her listening senses when he recruited her.
Yaakke had noticed her carefully hidden talent without recognizing her as the source. After three years, her powers hadn’t increased. She’d never qualify as an apprentice. She made a very good spy, however, despite her chafing at the confines of her work as a maid in Rossemikka’s household. Her need to be away from people and buildings had prompted her to dress as a boy and follow the king on a wild tusker hunt the day he appeared to be outside the old monastery. Her unauthorized actions had given Darville a welcome alibi.
“Do the king and queen plan to announce this pregnancy?” Jaylor pushed a little of his own magic into the spell, though the girl had initiated it. Her image remained dim and flickered in and out of focus.
“Not for a while. She’s miscarried so often, they’re afraid of offering false hope of an heir.” The girl paused. Swirls of gray and blue clouded Jaylor’s glass. “I’ve got to go. The queen is calling for me. I wish you would allow me to find other employment in the palace. I hate being indoors all the time as much as I hate cats.”
Dragon Novels: Volume I, The Page 77