by Farah Cook
“Indeed!” says Vance. “Or it would have been my head on a silver plate. The Emperor is as merciless as the barbarians.”
“But why bury them alive?” she says. “Why not—”
“Because they carry imperial blood, every single one of them. The Emperor wants no one to find out he has daughters. It will create an outrage. What if the Rebels find out?” He pauses, sucking in the air. “Should anyone find the girls they’d be as tempted as we were to keep them alive. They were not just newborns, they were angels. Beautiful souls. No one can kill such divine splendor. Burying them alive was the only choice.”
“How long will the Emperor go on for?”
“Until he gets what he wants—a male heir. The Emperor killed his defiant milk-brother with his bare hands. For that he became Emperor of this holy land, and it is the only thing he cares about. Getting four daughters buried while there is still breath in their lungs is nothing to him.” Vance sighs, his shoulders slump.
“A male heir is not written in the stars for the Emperor. When will he realize that this madness must end? The Rebels will not stop until he does.”
“We must forget this ever happened.” Vance looks up. “How’s the slave girl?” he whispers. “Did you feed her anything? I don’t want her to die.”
“No, we’ve let the savage be. She scares me.” Her eyes widen. “I never saw a slave possess what she does. She—”
“Speak woman, why?”
“We cleaned her, as we could. She refused to remove all of her clothes. Instead, we braided her wild hair and saw something raised in black ink on her back, something strange, mythical.” There’s a long pause. “It moved beneath her skin like a lost animal carefully snaking its way through her body.”
“What are you talking about? Are you hallucinating again? Did you smoke—”
The woman nudges her elbow at him “Obscene man! What are you accusing me for? I clean your home, look after the slaves you bring, tolerate your mistresses.”
He catches his breath, and coughs out pockets of air. He straightens and stands pouring himself a glass of water from the ceramic jug. “No need to get angry, woman.”
“Whatever that girl is, get rid of her!”
“Tomorrow, I will bring her to the assassins. They will decide her fate.”
“That may be,” says the woman. “I was surprised when you wanted to keep her in the house and not in the stables with the other slaves. I fear she’s strong for a girl her age; strong enough to cut loose and slit our throats in our sleep. I see murder in her eyes. She’s lethal, Vance, maybe even evil. She could be a witch. She looks nothing like us. Have you thought about it?”
“Don’t overact, woman. She’s is no sorceress or witch. The girl is special,” he answers hastily. “I sense something in her. I believe the assassins will take a liking to her.”
“That thing moved across her back like a snake. It was alive. I’m telling you the girl is a witch or cursed. Evil is lurking inside her, and it wants out.”
“Petra, listen to me! The girl is branded slave. She’s been in the desert. She’s frail, broken, and starved. She couldn’t even kill a desert deathstalker if she wanted to; that’s how weak she is.” He pauses. “She might eat it instead. When this girl is fed and strong, that’s when I’d start to be afraid. I see determination in her eyes, and if I see it, the barbarians will too. They’ll pay me any price I demand.”
“Easy for you to say. You see her with dinars in mind. I see her as the devils do.”
“After tomorrow we don’t have to worry about her any more. She’ll be gone.”
He blows out the candle, and they leave the room. I close my eyes and try to remember what it is about the word assassin that calls to me. But my memories are empty. Then I recall the blue-eyed boy from the market this morning. Why did he look at me like he knows me? I have to find out. He can’t be far from the other side of the market. If I get loose, I could track him easily with my heightened senses. He carries a sweet smell of vanilla and cinnamon.
At the back of the chair, my hands are tied but not very well. They underestimated me and speak in hushed voices as if I wasn’t even here. Peasants. I may look a little pale and frail after surviving the desert, but I am still determined to get out of here and find out who that boy was. He must know something, the way he looked at me. He knows me. He has to. Is he the one that accompanied me on my journey? But if that’s the truth, why didn’t he come for me?
I continue to wiggle my hands. The rope burns against my wrists in the damp and clammy room. After a while, I feel the rope soften as the dripping sweat from my wrists loosens the knots. After several attempts, I untie the rope and pull my arms out from behind the chair and rise slowly without making a sound. I rub my burning mauve wrists. I notice a strange tattoo and plastic device plastered on my inner arm. It glows red and shows a message, which fades just as I look at it. What is this thing? It looks complicated.
The tattoo appears to be a symbol. I examine the shape and color. I am sure it’s meaningful. A large eagle is marked on my arm. It’s beautiful, powerful. I see the image of the woman who placed the plastic device on my wrist. The memory is weak. But I recall her sharp voice. The look in her eyes was unusual. Purple. There’s something else. Inside my wrist a sharp metal is poking out. I received it from a dying woman. The image in my head appears and disappears so suddenly. No names and no clear faces. Not even a single clue what it all means. What tribe do I belong to? At least I know now I am no slave. I came here with someone. I need to get to the assassins.
I can’t believe they were just going to leave me here in this small dark hole tied to a chair all night. I thought Titus said Vance was kind to his slaves. Doesn’t seem a kind thing to do. He is also a child murderer. He just buried four babies in the desert. Maybe that’s what is considered kind in this place.
Quickly, I slide against the wall and effortlessly carry my body across the red dusty ground in the room where Vance and the woman sit having their disturbing conversation. As I move, I realize I have done this before. I am good at this. A feeling inside me tells me to use the weapon I carry to slit Vance’s throat and escape. But if I did that, where would I go? I have no purpose. I have to seek some answers, and I am sure the boy from the market can help me.
The Emperor of this kingdom sounds insane, murdering his own children just to get a male heir. And Vance did the dirty job for him. What a coward. How can he be an Emperor? I’d like to cut off his head. Bastard. If only I could. I believe Vance will show me no mercy if he’s asked to do the same to me. I have to get out of here fast. Vance is a greedy bastard, but his wife, Petra, is smart and senses things. Not smart enough though. She left me in the room, loosely tied. But she picked up on the thing I’ve been feeling on my back, raising and burning. What is it?
I touch my shoulder blade. I feel something sticking out of my back. Could it be the branches of a tree making those creaking sounds? Twigs and a trunk. Is my body intertwined with a… living, breathing tree? What am I? What is that damned thing growing on me, and why has it latched itself to me? I have to find out.
I push the main door open, thinking it can’t be this easy. There’s nothing to hold me back from escaping, although I can’t see myself getting far. The port that leads back out to the desert is a death wish and impossible to cross as it is filled with guards holding spears and arrows. Inside these walls, I can’t hide or survive for long before they find me, a branded slave with silver hair. Still, I make my way out and realize I have to be fast and stay out of trouble and be wise enough to return before dawn.
The streets are empty and the market silent. I am in some strange quarter of the city. I walk, crossing a sandy road that leads me opposite the house in which I was kept. I wander from alley to alley. I have no idea where I am going. I follow my senses. In front of me, I see an empty building hidden behind some crumbling clay houses stacked up at the front of the dirt path. The air is cool and tainted with a spicy smell and other unfamiliar herbs. I
try not to sneeze. I look up, holding my breath in the dead of the night. Not a single soul is visible except one. It is silent like a catacomb.
I see the shadow of a small creature move. Her large black eyes poke me, as if saying, “Follow me. This way.” She’s tiny and looks peculiar, nothing like the natives. I follow her up a rundown stairwell that never seems to end. Her breath is loud and her steps clumsy. The dust falls from above like glitter. That’s when I sneeze out loud. She stops and peeks through the many broken walls to find my eyes.
“Wait!” I say. “Who are you?” She runs up, stomping her feet. I don’t move. This could be a trap. What do I know about this place? I recall nothing except that I may belong to a tribe. I once met a woman with purple eyes. A dying woman gave me a weapon. I was traveling with a boy and a girl. I don’t even know my own name. Eagerly, I climb the stairs, believing this girl may have the answers to what I seek or just any answer.
Inside the crumbling wall, I see a small opening, a hiding place. It is raven black and eerie. But I force myself to climb in. I believe the girl went in there, though I cannot hear her steps anymore. The night is silent again.
I see nothing as I navigate my way further in. I feel the sword’s blade tied against my thigh. It is illuminating. It touches my cold skin and feels sharp. I stretch out my hand, and the sword spins into my palm where it stays firmly. The sword knows me. It reacts to my calling. I clutch my fingers around the pommel. I remember holding this sword. I’ve killed someone with it and still smell the blood that washed its steel.
A shadow lies ahead of me. I step toward it and place the tip of my sword on the pulsing neck of a man. I can’t see too well, and I draw the tip closer to his throat. When he turns, I recognize those blue eyes.
“If you move, I’ll cut through the pulse in your throat,” I say. He doesn’t move at first and holds his breath. “Who are you?” There is excitement in his eyes. At first I can’t figure it out. Is he not afraid of dying? I know him from somewhere. He looks familiar. Among all the faces I’ve seen his feels different. I’ve touched him, felt the heat if his body, the kiss drawn from his lips.
“I knew you would come,” he says. “Don’t you remember? It’s me, your brother, William.” The sword drops from my hand and clacks to the floor. I see his features clearly now, resembling my own: a mop of blond hair, striking blue eyes, soft milky skin. In the dim room, I notice the tattoo on his wrist. It is like mine. A memory inside my head surfaces. I remember him, but his name is not William. He cannot be my brother. He is more than that to me.
“Don’t lie to me,” I say. “Tell me the truth, or I will not hesitate to kill you.” I pick up my weapon and place it an inch from his face.
He stands up, the sharp blade pointing at him. “Do it!” he dares me. “Kill me, your own flesh and blood.” I press the sword against his throat, drawing a thicker line.
“You are not my flesh and blood,” I say. The sword sits tight in my hand, urging me to strike it against his beautiful throat, and just as I am about to, I hear a soft voice behind me speak.
“Please, no kill.” It’s the little creature I followed here. “Frederick…”
That’s his name, Frederick. I remember it, although the memory is distant. Why don’t I remember him clearly? I stare at the creature. Maybe she’s that girl that came with me? She is also familiar. Could they be the two travelers that were with me? They must be or else I would have been dead.
“Frederick?” I say. “Is that your name?”
“Nora, I’ll tell you everything,” he says and leans in close. I lower my sword and peer at him.
“What did you call me?”
“Nora. That’s your name.” he says.
A part of me wants to fall into the shadows of the room and disappear for I am dreading what he is about to say next. When I hear him say my name I know he’s right
“I hope you will remember what I am about to tell you.”
After I leave the dwelling, I sneak back into Vance’s home. My mind buzzes with everything that was said. I must to be a fool to believe what he told me: the assassin weapons, the death of Robert, two Viking clans hunting us. We’ve travelled five hundred years back in time? My mind can’t even begin to conceive that.
Somewhere deep inside myself, I know he speaks the truth. I have no choice but to believe him. How else do I explain the plastic chip on my wrist, the sword clinging to my side, and the symbols on both of our wrists. Then there is the raised tattoo on my back. It is alive and moves across my spine spreading like a disease through my body.
He explains that I am the carrier of the map of the nine Viking worlds, and that I will receive the runes that unlock these realms. He knows so much. It can’t be a story he’s spinning. I admit some of the things he said, were familiar. But something is missing. He’s not my brother. I don’t see him in my memory that way. He is someone else. He is Frederick.
I swing my arm back to touch my back. I still feel whatever that woman Petra saw. It is still snaking around. It scared her. I scared her. She believes I am evil, a witch. Am I? Is that why Vance decided to bring me to the assassins? Xavi, Titus’s Master saw something in me. He knew I was not a good fit for the brothels and whorehouses.
I feel trapped between events happening around me. Most of all I’m afraid of that growing tree on my back getting heavier. I’m carrying it for a reason. Or is it carrying me? I tiptoe back to the room in which I was kept. The rope lies on the floor where I left it. I tie it back on my hands, using my mouth to pull the twine tight together. I don’t think they will suspect anything. As I sit on the chair, I get a feeling I’ve been in far more dangerous situations. I wish I could remember them.
I don’t get any sleep. At dawn Vance comes to get me. He unties my hands and pulls me up. He hands me a glass of water. I thank him and show no resistance. He looks surprised but says nothing. Before we leave he ties my hands again. We pass the morning stillness of the markets, still sound asleep. We stride up a steep road and reach a large open space behind the walls with trees, wells, fountains, and green flower gardens. It’s hard to imagine how this city, hidden behind castle walls, exists and flourishes in the middle of a desert.
All the things my assumed brother, William, said to me still flicker through my mind like an eternal burning candle. I play along hoping the answers I seek will come. Hoping the assassins will recognize something in me. I know I shouldn’t expect much. So far I’ve not been terribly ill treated, except for the mark on my neck that’s branded me a slave. When I touch my neck, the wound is no longer there. It has vanished, as if the branding never happened. Something strange is happening to me. I feel the knot in my stomach tighten. Should I be grateful for my situation? Could matters have been worse? I might have been sold to a whorehouse.
Slave. The word sounds so unfamiliar, and yet I feel as if it has relevance to how I used to feel about myself. I was no slave; William confirmed that. What he told me didn’t surprise me much. I do carry a sword that has powers; it did light up the dark room where he was hiding with the little creature, Mina. She’s not from this place. Everyone here is tall, dark skinned, dark haired. I am not. Nor is the boy that claims to be my flesh and blood. Could we be from that strange place called Triangle?
Vance brings me to a large and solid brick house. It is apart from the other narrow clay houses. He speaks to the guard in silver armor holding a spear. He scans me suspiciously and lets us enter, and just as we do, a guard crosses the courtyard walking briskly in our direction. He’s clearly been expecting us. He carries fury and anger. His mantle moves lightly in the wind blowing in from the desert.
He stops when he sees me. There’s a dangerous rage about this man that makes me feel that each breath I take I owe to him. Ember glows in his bright eyes. His skin is ashen like smoldered pieces of bark. I control my emotions and show no feelings. I keep my posture straight, holding my head up high. I dare not to speak unless spoken to. He holds so much contempt that I think if I w
ere to speak, he’d just slaughter me on the spot.
“What filth have you brought me, Vance?” he says arrogantly and continues to eye me while I keep my gaze straight. His presence is like a cobra ready to attack.
“Commander,” he says his voice low and pitiful. “You’re looking for legionnaires in your court. This girl seems to possess the stamina of a fighter. She is strong, my lord.”
“Is that so?” he says and moves in closer, examining me like I was a prize. “Let us see, shall we?” He cackles, his voice deep and dire.
I dare to look at his face. Gaunt bones poke out from his high cheeks. Deep wrinkles carve around his eyes, and darker blotches cover his skin, stretching tightly across his face like dry leather. He places the tip of his sword on my tight braided crown. He pulls out a silver strand and holds onto it.
“The hair of a virgin,” he says coldly. “You are still one, are you not?”
I say nothing. I smother my breath briefly. Then release the air, which flows through my lungs like a wire.
“Speak, slave girl,” he barks into my face. I keep my eyes wide open. He does not scare me. In my mind, I begin to imagine how good I’ll feel if I cut off his head with my sword.
“Yes, commander,” I say, mimicking Vance. My gaze remains straight, the air in my lungs tighter. I hold back from saying anything that I know would not interest this beast of a man.
“Don’t take me for a fool, girl.” he whispers like the devil in my ear. “If you are one, you may no longer be, especially with that hair.”
He motions for two large men. They walk briskly toward us. That’s when I know it was a mistake to come here. I should never have trusted those strangers. I release the air from my lungs. Before I get a word out, the commander says, “Cut off her hair—all of it!”
11
FREDERICK
SHE IS OBLIVIOUS of who she is of who I am. Nora doesn’t remember me. The murder in her eyes is vile, uncertain. It reminds me of when she first learned about herself in the West, just like now the irony of time is spinning her into a moment where she has to discover herself all over again. I tell her in a calm voice I am her brother. I use a simplified lie to convince her, as everything else is complicated. There’s no easy way of telling her who I am. She looks at me in disbelief. Her mind is raging; I can tell. She is not prepared for this.