Tell Kerren I’m sorry—tell him I have no name.”
“Ahh.” Stev lost all words as he felt his own eyes begin to prickle. New slaves—and there were precious few—were always the worst; they were delicate, fragile, and lost. He had seen their anger and their pain, but this was as raw as it had ever been.
He knew why he had stayed. It was to lose what little heart his life had left him.
Darin’s prayers to his parents may have been heeded, but it didn’t matter; the one foot he had placed on the Bridge of the Beyond was lifted over the three weeks that he spent in bed. He ate automatically, drank a little, and regained his strength. Stev came to see him, but Darin spoke very little. He had learned the first lesson that new slaves often learn: have no friends.
As he grew stronger, he was once again ordered to the house mistress, and she put him back on cleaning duties. But he did these without the whistle or laughter of Stev to shorten the day.
Nor did he have the companionship of fellow slaves in the
evening. He spoke to the four walls of his bare room, slept with them, and occasionally cried. Only a few slaves might have tried to reach him, but it was difficult to risk the wrath of the lord and lady for one they hardly knew. Without being obvious, they shunned him.
He did not see Lord Vellen again, except occasionally from a distance. The lord became more and more involved with the politics of the Church—much to the anger of Lord Damion.
No matter; Darin still felt the high priest’s presence in all that he did.
Every quarter, for the next four years, Darin was on stone duty. He took the silver pail and ladle and blooded the grooved stone. No slavemaster stood over him as he worked at his task; no witness held the torch or saw the tears that mingled with blood and rock.
Each time the stones were blooded he heard Kerren’s screams; they never grew distant with time.
And then, near his fifth year in House Damion, he was summoned by Lord Damion himself. He felt a stir of fear as he walked down the halls, but he had learned not to show it; it would do him no good.
He entered the lord’s chambers, and there met an older man-one he did not recall seeing before.
“This is Gervin,” Lord Damion said, lines across his brow. It was obvious that the lord did not favor the free man.
Darin looked more closely at the stranger.
He was tall. Darin thought him older than the lord, but it was hard to tell; his shoulders were broad, and he bore himself without any trace of age. His nose was turned down at a slight angle, as if it had once been broken. His eyes, a green-brown, looked impassively at the slave before him.
“This is he?” he said to the lord, although he didn’t look away.
Lord Damion grunted a reply.
“Good.” Gervin gestured with one large hand. “Come, boy. Your tenure at House Damion is at an end. House Darclan claims your service now; it has already been arranged. We’ve far to travel, and we must travel it in no long time.”
Darin automatically stepped to the older man’s side. He heard the command behind the gesture, and knew enough to obey promptly.
Gervin turned and bowed—perhaps less formally than he
should have; it was hard to tell. “My lord thanks you for your service.”
These were, Darin thought, the wrong words to say. He didn’t know why, but Lord Damion did not reply at all.
Gervin shrugged and turned back to his charge. “Horses are outside.”
Darin nodded automatically.
“Can you ride? Be honest, boy.”
“N-not well.”
Gervin sighed; the roll of his eyes told Darin that he had already guessed this. “That will have to do. Come; the Lord Darclan waits and he is not a patient lord.”
Darin nodded and followed Gervin out of the open doors, into the sunlit court.
He had no belongings, nothing to call his own. He might have said good-bye to Stev, but he did not wish to ask for such a privilege when he knew so little about the temperament of his
“Ahh.” Stev lost all words as he felt his own eyes begin to prickle. New slaves—and there were precious few—were always the worst; they were delicate, fragile, and lost. He had seen their anger and their pain, but this was as raw as it had ever been.
He knew why he had stayed. It was to lose what little heart his life had left him.
Darin’s prayers to his parents may have been heeded, but it didn’t matter; the one foot he had placed on the Bridge of the Beyond was lifted over the three weeks that he spent in bed. He ate automatically, drank a little, and regained his strength. Stev came to see him, but Darin spoke very little. He had learned the first lesson that new slaves often learn: have no friends.
As he grew stronger, he was once again ordered to the house mistress, and she put him back on cleaning duties. But he did these without the whistle or laughter of Stev to shorten the day.
Nor did he have the companionship of fellow slaves in the
evening. He spoke to the four walls of his bare room, slept with them, and occasionally cried. Only a few slaves might have tried to reach him, but it was difficult to risk the wrath of the lord and lady for one they hardly knew. Without being obvious, they shunned him.
He did not see Lord Vellen again, except occasionally from a distance. The lord became more and more involved with the politics of the Church—much to the anger of Lord Damion.
No matter; Darin still felt the high priest’s presence in all that he did.
Every quarter, for the next four years, Darin was on stone duty. He took the silver pail and ladle and blooded the grooved stone. No slavemaster stood over him as he worked at his task; no witness held the torch or saw the tears that mingled with blood and rock.
Each time the stones were blooded he heard Kerren’s screams; they never grew distant with time.
And then, near his fifth year in House Damion, he was summoned by Lord Damion himself. He felt a stir of fear as he walked down the halls, but he had learned not to show it; it would do him no good.
He entered the lord’s chambers, and there met an older man-one he did not recall seeing before.
“This is Gervin,” Lord Damion said, lines across his brow. It was obvious that the lord did not favor the free man.
Darin looked more closely at the stranger.
He was tall. Darin thought him older than the lord, but it was hard to tell; his shoulders were broad, and he bore himself without any trace of age. His nose was turned down at a slight angle, as if it had once been broken. His eyes, a green-brown, looked impassively at the slave before him.
“This is he?” he said to the lord, although he didn’t look away.
Lord Damion grunted a reply.
“Good.” Gervin gestured with one large hand. “Come, boy. Your tenure at House Damion is at an end. House Darclan claims your service now; it has already been arranged. We’ve far to travel, and we must travel it in no long time.”
Darin automatically stepped to the older man’s side. He heard the command behind the gesture, and knew enough to obey promptly.
Gervin turned and bowed—perhaps less formally than he
should have; it was hard to tell. “My lord thanks you for your service.”
These were, Darin thought, the wrong words to say. He didn’t know why, but Lord Damion did not reply at all.
Gervin shrugged and turned back to his charge. “Horses are outside.”
Darin nodded automatically.
“Can you ride? Be honest, boy.”
“N-not well.”
Gervin sighed; the roll of his eyes told Darin that he had already guessed this. “That will have to do. Come; the Lord Darclan waits and he is not a patient lord.”
Darin nodded and followed Gervin out of the open doors, into the sunlit court.
He had no belongings, nothing to call his own. He might have said good-bye to Stev, but he did not wish to ask for such a privilege when he knew so little about the temperament of his
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