But what of Rukiya? Was she slain among the carnage that was the Winged Saqur’s great assault? Was she burned where she was tied on the whipping cross in the courtyard? When the Slavemaster dropped his lash and ran, was she left to die?

No, dearest beloved, for the slaves who watched her punishment did not leave her side. They released her bonds and together they ran to the only shelter they knew, the slave-quarters in the depths of Terras Bastion. The battle raged about them as they ran, and they hid with their fellow slaves until the slaughter was over. They cowered in the darkness until the door was opened by a Herathian solder, who ordered them to leave and line up in the courtyard to be counted.

For it was the way of Tarras Bastion that the spoils of war were great. The great King of Madrain, had sponsored privateers and pirates to plunder the trade-lanes of the cloud-sea for years, and his coffers were bounteous. There were few in the whole of the cloud-sea who were richer than he.

But amidst the chaos and slaughter, what should happen? Kerrom opened his eyes. In the darkness he stood, as he felt the earth around him shake. High above him, noise, glorious noise, rained down like diamonds from above.

Now Kerrom knew the sounds of battle, and while he did not know of the Winged Saqurs nor of Teschemar’s rage, he knew no soldier would join him in the darkness. He knew he was safe from their swords and rifles.

But Kerrom did not wait. His first thoughts were of Rukiya, and how he needed to protect her.

Now hush! Listen! Hear the silence of the night, that fateful night, when Rukiya slipped through the slave-door and crept out towards Kerrom’s pit.

Close your eyes. Tightly now! See the darkness that filled the corners of Tarras Bastion, the long and deep shadows that hid her from the Madrainian’s watchful eyes.

Brave and clever Rukiya, she knew how to be still as the tree, silent as the rock. She moved as silently as a quayla, and like a river-rabbit she hid in the shadows until she was certain there were no predators around.

At last she reached the Pit. She pulled back the wooden door and whispered into the darkness, barely loud enough to be heard, like this. “Kerrom?”

But what of Ala, once called Rukiya? Did she live the rest of her days a slave to the Madrainian King? Did she succumb to the despair and madness that claimed so many slaves? You know she did not, for else how could she midwife the Wailing Hour?

But it was many days before she found herself again, before hope once more curled in her breast.

That day, The harsh voice of the Slavemaster broke over Ala’s head like a whip, calling her to him. She ran to his side and knelt down, bowing her head in fearful reverence.

He had but one command to give her: “Fetch Bread and Water and take it to the Pit.”

But praise Atamato Cintona, the shackled boy, for he found his courage and feared neither Master Gentamo nor his own foolishness. So bright burned the hope in his chest that he left the Great Library and marched to the poor districts of the Free City.

There he acquired, with what little coin he had along with the promise of more to come, a tiny room above a food-shop, barely big enough for even a street-laborer. The roof leaked, and the street outside was full of mud and raucous noise. The smell of stewed seaweed below the floorboards made him sick, and his bed was almost as threadbare as his cap.

It was here that he began his many foolish experiments to find the truth of things. He dreamed such madness as to make the scholars and professors of the Academy blush. He hung a giant pendulum in the middle of the room, and marked its rotation to see if the cloud-sea itself turned as the islands did. He climbed onto the roof on the clearest nights to catch glimpses of the glittering ice crystals, to see if they moved or remained still. He drew diagrams, wrote formulas, and poured himself so deeply into his experiments that he often forgot to eat, which was fortunate, considering his empty purse.

Now what of Atamato Cintiona? The Prezon’s Navigator did not remain with the ship when it reached port. So shaken was the poor boy by his experiences that he purchased passage home, to the Free City of Imbari. It is here that the boy who would soon be shackled found himself. Such was the fortune of the privileged navigator, that with but a promise of service did even the meanest merchant provide passage to wherever he wished.

When Atamato was young, he thought the streets of Imbari claustrophobic, filled to the brim with citizens going about their daily lives, talking and shouting and calling to each other. How he had hated the streets then; there was never any time to be alone. Now, the crowded streets of Imbari felt welcoming. It was here he had studied for eight years, learning about the systems and numbers that guided the islands on their path. Levers and springs, gears and slopes, brand new maths and sciences were constantly being discovered in the Free City. Great thinkers and philosophers created their own academies, spreading the gospel of science and math.

How many seasons passed? It is not my place to say. Only Rukiya, now called Ala, knew how long it truly was, for she felt every second as sharply as a bluecrow’s beak.

Every day, Ala stood up from her straw mat in the slaves quarters and followed the line of young girls out into the small stone hallway to the brush-house. Here, the girls all took large brushes of short and course boar-hair, and scraped their skin raw. Then they took double-handfuls of dried flower-pedals, and rubbed them over their faces and arms, so their odor did not offend. They dressed themselves in un-dyed cloth and belts of rope. It was the only fitting clothing for slaves.

They grabbed brooms or brushs, and swept the fortress clean of dust, leaves, and dirt. They ran to the wood-stores, carrying logs and kindling to prepare the fires for lighting. They moved quickly because Terras Bastion was larger than any palace, and there was only so much time before the King would wake. Ala soon learned the trick of it, and before long she no longer felt the sting of the Slavemaster’s paw for being too slow.

Now, at long last, Rukiya’s hands were unbound.

Instantly, the numbing pain that had ached in her extremities, that had become familiar and finally easy to ignore, flooded back into her fingertips, bringing a burning pain that stung like a firestorm. She cradled her hands against her chest, like this, so ashamed was she of her pain. She had cried and wept as she had been dragged off, not silent as Kerrom.

The man who freed her, if he can be called a man, spoke in oman, his w’s swirling around his mouth before the hard sounds popped out like bubbles: “You are now a slave-girl of King Rakhnagat. I am the King’s Slavemaster. You will call me master, and will obey me as you will obey him. If you do not, then you will be punished as befits a slave. If you still do not obey, you will be killed, and your body thrown to the boars.”

Days passed as the Madrainian Pirates marched Rukiya and Kerrom through the jungle towards the center of the island, dodging overhanging vines and sharp nettled bushes. They stopped to rest only at night. They ate only twice each day. When they passed around a small skin of water, Rukiya got the last few drops. Kerom didn’t get any.

So hot was the jungle, so humid the swamps, that Rukiya’s strength was lost to her. The air weighed on her shoulders worse than any rope or binding. Unfamiliar as she was with the foreign land, she stumbled many times, and each time she was roughly hoisted back on her feet and shoved forward.

At last, when Rukiya was certain she could go no longer, the jungle parted as the beaten dirt path became a thin stone road. The going became easier for Rukiya after this; the stones were small and pressed into the earth, providing a stable ground for her unsteady feet.

Now, what was occurring in the Herathian Empire as they marched? The Steward of the Roads continued his spying of Teschemar, desperate to learn something of his schemes. Now it is important for you to understand that it was Herathian law that any citizen of the Empire could travel from one end of Greater Norrholt to the other without fear of beast or bandit. It was these very roads that were watched over by the Steward of the Roads. It was a duty that he took most seriously and studiously, and so ensured his many spies were fed, paid, and loyal.

But even the Steward’s eyes and ears could not be everywhere at once, and there were roads and paths that were rarely traveled. The main roads of Herathia were paved with soft stone pressed deep into the earth. The side roads, and lesser traveled roads were made of logs and planks laid on end. Only the least traveled roads at the edges of the Empire’s reach were little more than dirt and gravel, and it was these roads which escaped the worst of the Steward of the Roads’ attention.