Novels

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.

When the Sexton had adjusted his robes about himself, and left the Queen’s meeting chamber, Queen Ceinneret reached out to pluck a tiny silver bell from its surface.

This bell was her lifeline; the one constancy in her life that went beyond ceremony and duty. Her fingers brushed the curving sides for only a moment before she gripped the handle and waved the bell back and forth under her hand, gently, like this.

The sound was softer than the patter of rain on a roof. It tinkled so lightly through the air, that she scarce believed that it could be heard beyond the thick wooden door. But heard it was, and the door to the chamber opened as her queensmaid Melora stepped into view.

She gave a deep curtsy, like this, and her Queen spoke: “Prepare the tincture.”

What of Queen Ceinneret? She now sits on her mighty throne in the Palace of Trethewey, mighty capital of her Kingdom. See her sitting there, tall and proud, among the nobles of her court. Hear them whisper and mutter among themselves as they play their games of intrigue. Scoundrels birthed scandal while ill-planned marriages bred ill-will and poor progeny. Bitter rivalries begat feuds that spilled across the court like tossed wine. Queen Ceinneret sat and watched, her heart aching in sympathy to those hapless nobles who found themselves too far involved in dangerous or uncertain schemes. She delighted in marriages that managed to be both of circumstance and romance entwined, and yearned to challenge the boisterous and pigheaded peacocks who strutted about challenging others with their own ill-thought and poorly framed opinions.

But alas, poor Queen Ceinneret, she was a monarch of the realm, and so she locked her heart away to rule without bias or inclination. Like her father, she saw her heart as an obstacle to be overcome, as she listened impartially to every lord and lady who entered her court.

But let it not be said, beloved, that Phalamili Rukiya was now safe. Still they sailed not a full ballast above the depths of the cloud-sea. The storms continued to rise and their final crate of food was almost empty.

When Rukiya and Kerrom left the Captain’s cabin, the first-mate saw what had happened. It was no small thing they had done; A slave girl from Lergos and the mercenary swamp-knight had killed the ship’s captain, and there was no greater crime on the cloud-sea than the murder of a fellow shipmate.

But what mattered crimes on a doomed ship? Leig, once first-mate now captain, demanded Kerrom and Rukiya to be bound and tried by the crew, but the knots were not tight and the glares held no fire. They all would be dead soon enough, lost to the cloud-sea forever more, or so they thought.

What of Phalamili Rukiya? It was another day of sailing along the shrouded land before the Prezon’s lookouts spied another lighthouse. The distant light pierced through the clouds of Norrholt, guiding the Prezon to port.

When the Herathian port-city appeared, tall and dark against the mists, Phalamili was once again amazed at how similar and how different the Herathian City looked, compared to the Castian towns they had avoided only days before. Curled eves and paper lanterns framed the short buildings on narrow streets. Clean-faced men and long-haired women wore fur around their necks and heads. They were not Eroseans, nor were they like Kerrom, nor Atamato. They looked more like the old cook than anyone else Rukiya had ever seen. For not the last time, Phalamili was astounded by the number of the kinds of people who lived across the cloud-sea.