Troubled, Sara watched as the water in the lower tier drained away through some unseen mechanism and the chains rose up again. It was a greater work than any she’d seen in the Republic—but it didn’t fit. Not with the humble wooden buildings around it, nor the lack of piped water inside the inn. How could such a poor town have constructed such a marvel of art and engineering?
“There.”
Sara’s gaze followed Julen’s finger to a large house on the other side of the square. The maid at the inn had told Julen that all newly freed slaves went to ‘Freedom House’ and that they would recognize it by its red door.
Fruit trees lined two sides of the fountain. Well, at least most of them were fruit trees… As they walked by, Sara frowned at one tree. It had strangely shaped growths protruding from the thickest branches: thin, flat, triangular, like the dorsal fin of a fish. What—?
But Julen had already reached Freedom House and was looking back impatiently. Sara stifled her curiosity and joined him. Up close she saw that instead of being painted red, a dyed cloth had been nailed to the door. Julen’s knock produced a muffled sound.
The house next door had a gray cloth hanging from it; Sara didn’t know what either color symbolized.
A buxom blonde with a bone brand on her cheek opened the door. Her smile turned to a frown. “You’re from the Republic.”
“Yes.” Julen smiled at her. “We’re here to see—”
“She isn’t your slave anymore. She doesn’t have to see you.” The woman would have shut the door, if Julen hadn’t stuck his foot inside.
Perhaps Sara should have waited until Lance could escort her. But, despite all his talk of not being a prince, the innkeeper had been obviously pleased to see someone who “wore the Brown”—the royal family’s House color, Sara assumed—and had dragged Lance off. Sara had been too impatient to see Felicia to wait.
While Julen tried, unsuccessfully, to charm the ex-ossoelle into at least asking Felicia if she would like to talk to them—“just talk, my good woman, nothing more”—Sara paced back and forth in agitation. A small offertory bowl built into the fountain behind Loma caught her attention. Instead of coins or House tokens, the bowl contained a bundle of cloth tied with a ribbon. Curious, she untied it and saw that it was a book of sorts. Each ‘page’ of white fabric was divided into four sections by a neatly stitched line of black thread. Sewn in each section was a crude figure, sometimes a man or woman, sometimes clearly a child. There were also a number of hash marks by each and a printed name. Sometimes there would be something extra: a scrap of fabric, an embroidered flower, a button, or a lock of hair sewn to the cloth.
“It’s a record of the people who safely escaped to Kandrith. There are cloth books for every year inside.”
Sara looked up, startled. “Felicia!” She moved to hug her friend, but Felicia held the empty bucket she was carrying in front of her, as if fending off an attack. Sara’s smile faded into uncertainty.
“It’s so if a family is split up, they can tell if their husband or loved one arrived ahead of them. Or not.” Felicia’s body tensed. “You shouldn’t be touching it.”
Sara felt her face blank, trying not to show her hurt.
Felicia walked her around her and filled her bucket from the lower tier of the fountain. “What do you want?”
“I came to tell you there shouldn’t be any consequences to your family for—what happened. I told Captain Marcus you entered Kandrith on my orders. I’m sure he suspects the truth, but he won’t say anything.”
Felicia’s posture softened. “Thank you.” She paused, one hand steadying the full bucket. “Let’s talk inside.”
The doorkeeper shook her head, but took the bucket from Felicia and didn’t forbid them entry. Sara motioned for Julen to wait.
The bedroom Felicia had been given was even plainer than Sara’s room at the inn, holding only a single bed and a small chest of drawers, both in unvarnished pine.
Sara remembered the bag in her hand and held it out. “I thought you might like a change of clothes.” She refrained from mentioning what a nuisance it had been to drag the stuffed bag through the Gate.
Felicia didn’t reach for the bag. “Freedom House provides free clothing to ex-slaves. Mab says she’ll show me how to work the loom tomorrow.”
Sara felt awkward. She put the bag down on the bed, and restlessly moved over to the window. There weren’t even curtains. She looked out on a small garden. “How long do you plan to stay here?”
“Forever.”
Sara’s head snapped around. She’d actually meant Freedom House, not Kandrith, but Felicia’s answer shocked her. Did she really mean to stay here for the rest of her life? All Felicia’s family lived far away in the Republic, in Elysinia Province.
Sara had assumed that Felicia had entered Kandrith on a whim. She could well understand that some slaves, especially those subjected to hard labor like ossoes, would be willing to risk their lives for freedom, but Sara had thought Felicia’s life was reasonably pleasant.
This felt all wrong. Sara tried again. “I’d like to offer you a position—as my maid. With a salary, of course. You can see I need you.” Sara raised her eyebrows and humorously indicated her loose hair, still damp from her bath, and her wrinkled gown, but the gesture felt forced and flat.
Felicia didn’t smile. “No.”
Sara stopped on the verge of pointing out that otherwise Felicia would be stranded in a strange country with no money and no friends. Perhaps it was a matter of pride? “Please reconsider. I can hire another maid. What I really want is a companion.” Things here were so strange. She tried to make a joke. “Have pity. Don’t leave me alone with Julen.”
Anger flared in Felicia’s eyes. She crossed to the door and opened it.
Sara didn’t take the hint. “Is that it?” She felt relieved. “Are you angry that I picked Julen instead of you? You know I’d much rather have your company, but I didn’t want to offend—”
“That isn’t why.”
Sara folded her arms. “I’m not leaving until you tell me why.” She felt back on familiar ground now. The argument was reminiscent of their quarrels as little girls. She’d always been able to badger Felicia into telling her why she was upset.
“I could make you leave. If I tell Mab—” Felicia nodded down the hall to where they could faintly hear Julen asking the doorkeeper about her children, “—you’re bothering me, she’ll have you thrown out bodily.”
Sara lifted her chin. “Go ahead.”
Felicia made a sound of frustration and closed the door again. “I’m not angry at you for picking Julen over me. I’m angry at you for not picking Rochelle. She and Tulio could be here right now, safe.”
Sara blinked. “Rochelle? I left her behind because Tulio isn’t strong enough to travel.”
“The risk was small, and it should have been Rochelle’s choice to make, not yours.” Red flags burned in Felicia’s cheeks. “You treat us like children, but we’re not.”
Sara opened her mouth to protest, then stopped. Did she treat Felicia and Rochelle like children? She hadn’t asked Rochelle what she would prefer, just told her she would be going to stay with Aunt Evina. When Rochelle had protested, Sara had overruled her.
“But why would Rochelle want to take Tulio to Kandrith? He’s freeborn.”
“Yes, but Rochelle isn’t. She lives in terror that Tulio’s father will take him away.”
Sara hadn’t known that. “I would never let—”
“You’re not there,” Felicia said fiercely.
Sara felt a prick of fear. Rochelle and Tullio ought to be safe, hidden in Evina’s household, but Tulio’s father wielded great power. “Why didn’t you tell me all this?”
Now Felicia looked hostile. “Tell you that your slave wanted to be freed? You’d never have broken your word to your father.”
Sara’s throat felt tight, but she couldn’t deny it.
“You used to stand up to your father, but now you’re so de
sperate to please him you’ll do anything, use anyone,” Felicia accused. “Just look at how you treat Lance. He’s half in love with you already, but all you care about is what secrets he might betray so your father can enlarge the Republic.”
There was more at stake than pleasing her father. Sara had never told Felicia about the Favonius massacre and the threat to Sylvanus—because she hadn’t wanted Felicia to worry about her own family in Elysinia. She had treated Felicia and Rochelle like children.
Sara opened her mouth to explain, and then closed it. Because Felicia had chosen to become a citizen of Kandrith, her loyalty lay with her new country—and why shouldn’t it? What had the Republic ever done for Felicia and her family?
In two years, Felicia would be a free citizen in the Republic. In Kandrith, she could be one now.
“So no,” Felicia said harshly, “I won’t be your maid. Watching you with Lance made me realize that I’m just a tool to you, too, and all your kind words were just oil to make the tool work better.”
Sara felt a stab of hurt. “That’s not true,” she choked out through her suddenly constricted throat. “You’re my friend, my sister.”
Felicia’s face turned stony. “Then be happy I’m free, sister.”
Sara found herself outside in the hall. “You needn’t worry about me breaking Lance’s heart,” she told the closed door. Her lips felt numb. “Men don’t fall in love with me, remember? They only lust after my body.”
She’d never wanted to win Nir’s or Claude’s love, but she’d offered all her young passion to Julen, and he’d rejected her. Casually. Without a qualm. Without a second thought.
Because her only worth lay in her beauty.
* * *
Halfway back to the inn, Sara rebelled. She didn’t want to sit alone in her room. When Julen tried to pull her along, she ordered him to leave. He heaved a martyred sigh, but obeyed.
She sat down on the dark gray marble bench bordering the fountain, still reeling from how cold Felicia had been. Sara stared at the slave statues and their cruel overseer. It hadn’t been like that between her and Felicia, had it?
No. But it hadn’t been the friendship she’d thought it was either. And that was her fault.
A long, brooding time later, Sara looked up to discover the square was filling with market tables. Vendors filled woven baskets with fruit—lemons and oranges and olives—and then sat at the shady base of each fruit tree. Other tables filled the spaces in between. The goods for sale were purely practical: speckled chickens squawking in a cage, brown eggs nested in straw, green vegetables, raw wool, bolts of sturdy cloth, farm implements, plain furniture…
The most fanciful item Sara saw was a basket of carved toy animals. As she watched, the old man behind that table deftly whittled a new one—a wolf?—while his red-haired grandson played with a puppy at his feet.
Except for the fountain, Sara could discern little difference between here and market day in the small Elysinian town closest to the Remillus estate where she’d grown up. Yet somehow the whole scene seemed subtly wrong.
Getting to her feet, Sara tried to lay her finger on what bothered her. Perhaps it was the number of unfriendly stares she’d attracted. Sara caught herself hunching her shoulders, as if making herself smaller would reduce their obvious antipathy.
Instinct quickened her steps. If she’d gone straight to the inn perhaps all might have been well, but the market table selling the odd triangular blades of wood distracted her. The way they’d been cut, with a good section of thick branch attached and two smaller branches growing out at right angles like handles they looked like—
“…worth more than that,” the middle-aged man argued with his customer. “Grandfather makes good plows.”
Plows growing from trees. Magic.
And farther down, didn’t the branches on that other tree look rather like arrows?
Sara was moving to take a look when someone pushed her.
She stumbled forward, but managed to save herself from falling in the fountain. “Watch where you’re going!”
The bearded, blond man who’d pushed her stared back with hot eyes. “So sorry, most noble lady,” he said scornfully, “did I get dirt on your dress?”
Sara kept her lips clamped tight, suddenly aware of the ugly mood of the crowd. It felt like the whole town had come out to stare at her. To judge.
“Look at her dress—” one muttered.
“—flaunting herself.”
Sara’s skin crawled. People she’d never met were staring at her with hatred. Her silk dress shouted of wealth they would never have. Even the blue color set her apart.
Blue. That was it. That was the missing element, what had set her teeth on edge. Save on the Watcher’s vest, she hadn’t seen a single scrap of blue anywhere in Gatetown. The dye must be too expensive.
Obscurely relieved to have figured it out, Sara edged toward the inn, some forty feet away.
The bearded man deliberately put his foot down on Sara’s hem. Fabric ripped.
To her immense relief, Lance suddenly appeared, pushing his way through the crowd with casual strength. “There you are,” he said loudly. He held out his hand to her, and Sara glued herself to his side.
He addressed the crowd. “Sara is the Child of Peace. She passed through the Gate today and was judged fit by the Watcher.”
Most of the crowd nodded and drifted back to the market, but a few lingered, including the bearded man. “I don’t care who she is, she can’t go around dressed like that.”
And Lance, instead of giving him the set-down he deserved, nodded in agreement. “I’ll see to it that she receives a change of clothes.”
Sara seethed inwardly, but kept her mouth shut as Lance hustled her back inside the inn.
“Change your clothes, then give me the blue dress and I’ll get rid of it,” Lance said.
Sara’s cheeks burned with humiliation. “I can’t change,” she said through gritted teeth. “I only brought three dresses through the Gate. The peach one is ruined, and the other two are like the one I’m wearing.” Obviously expensive, made of thin silk and low-cut.
Lance frowned. “I thought I saw a pink one peeking out of your bag.”
“That was Felicia’s.” Both the modest ones were.
“I’ll send a seamstress. Until then, stay in your room.”
Sara’s lips thinned, but she nodded curtly and went up the stairs. Having a new wardrobe made would give her and Julen an excuse to linger in Gatetown, but being restricted to her room made her feel like a naughty child sent to bed early.
* * *
hiding in the shadows of a big room, scent of people-sweat everywhere, smell that says don’t-be-seen, but above that the enticing scent of food…so many marvelous smells…rich stew with wonderful goat meat, crushed mint peppering the air, thick clotted cream, fried bread, and best of all lovely, greasy fat…
edging forward, wanting to taste, belly empty…creeping, ready to runrunrun if people shout
rumble of voices—almost there—and then, out of nowhere, he heard his name, “Esam”.
A moment later his mind corrected what he’d heard into “Lee’s Sam,” but the mistake jolted him out of the haze he’d been living in, where all that mattered was if his belly was empty, or if he was cold or tired. He’d fallen into living like an animal, not a man, much less a Qiph warrior.
Nabeel would blister his ears for letting— Nabeel. In his memory, Esam saw his weapons master swept over the falls. Nabeel was dead, and he’d forgotten. Grief stung his throat, but he couldn’t cry. The spell prevented it.
How many days had passed since the failed attack at the waterfall? To his shame, Esam didn’t know. The sun had gone down then come up again, but it could have done so only twice or it could have been ten times.
Esam’s whole body shuddered. What if his name hadn’t jarred him out of his unthinking existence? How much time might have passed before he remembered himself?
He couldn’t let hi
mself become lost again.
But what could he do? His companions were gone. Killed. He couldn’t return to Qi on his own; the magic wouldn’t permit him. The ashes of the dead had chained him to follow the Defiled One. Without the Pathfinder and the seven others on the Path he was doomed to stay like this forever. Unless…
Esam began to pray. “O Holy Ones, reshape me so that I may be your tool and kill the Defiled One myself.”
* * *
The dressmaker feared Sara.
Sara bent over backward to be polite and friendly, but the short round matron would barely meet her eyes. She offered several choices of fabric, but would give no opinion.
Left to flounder on her own, Sara rejected both the plaid and the deerskin, choosing several different shades of dyed wool instead. She ordered two made up as blouses and skirts, and one chiton-style dress like the inn staff wore, all with split skirts.
Finally, the woman left, mumbling something about having everything ready the next day. Sara collapsed on the bed and fought the urge to cry—or scream. After only an hour, the bedroom felt like a cage. She’d never been able to bear being cooped up.
Sara could remember endless hours of sitting at her mother’s bedside as a young child. The demands to be quiet and ladylike and good had driven her into screaming tantrums, until her mother had thrown up her hands and let Sara run wild.
Was this what it would be like once they reached Kandrith’s capital? Would she be shut up, imprisoned?
She would go mad.
For the rest of the day, Sara saw no one. She paced and tried to distract herself by factoring four-digit numbers in her head while her thoughts turned in circles between Lance, Felicia and the secret of slave magic.
A knock on the door had her calling hopefully, “Lance?” But when she opened it, she saw her supper tray, steaming on the floor. Apparently, she was to eat alone, too, like a leper.
Sara came within a hair of throwing the tray against the wall, but that would only confirm their view of her as a spoiled noblewoman.
Gate to Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) Page 15