Slaves of the Mastery by William Nicholson Page A

and more. The Master looked on, his broad benign face beaming as if all these
weary strangers had come to do him homage of their own accord. Bowman, following behind his father, looked up at the red pavilion just before passing into the tunnel, and for the briefest of
moments he met the Master’s eyes. The bearded fatherly face was smiling, but the eyes were not. In this half-second, Bowman caught the flash of an implacable will, and a chilling indifference
to the human traffic on whom he smiled. The impression made on him formed rapidly into a single realisation: this man has no need of love. Then the arched tunnel exit cut him off, and he was
following his father into the underground service chambers of the arena.
    As they passed through this shadowy stone-vaulted space, they saw the manacs who had fought earlier, now lying on benches to have their wounds dressed and their muscles massaged. Mumpo trailed
more slowly than the rest, his eyes lingering on those scarred gleaming bodies with longing. They also passed the corpse of the dead manac, lying covered on a bench. Then they came out into the
open once more, and followed the long column down the slope to a series of marshalling yards.
    Ortiz stayed motionless on his horse until the last of the slaves had left the arena. Then he bowed low to the Master, and raising his head, looking up into the face he knew and loved, called
out in a loud clear voice:
    ‘Master! All that I have done, I have done for you!’
    The Master slowly inclined his head.
    ‘You have done well,’ he said, in his deep soft voice. ‘You have pleased me.’
    Ortiz flushed with pleasure. It was more, far more, than he had dared hope for. A nod, a smile perhaps, would have been enough. But the Master had actually said, in public, that he was pleased!
Surely soon now he would send for him and speak the word he so longed to hear: the word that would make him his son.
    His heart glad, his tiredness long forgotten, Ortiz spurred his horse off the mound and out of the arena.
    The new slaves were already being quartered in the series of inter-connecting courtyards built for the purpose. Here beneath the open-fronted barns that walled each courtyard
they were drinking mugs of hot thick soup, and washing themselves in the long troughs, and lining up for the latrines. Tonight they would sleep on the ground for the last time. Tomorrow they would
be allocated their rooms, and put to work.
    The Hath family lay down in their clothes with the rest. Hanno and Ira slept side by side, their hands clasped, as was their habit. Pinto curled up against her mother’s other side, Bowman
beside his father. Too weary even for a wish-huddle, they felt each other’s closeness, shut their eyes, and were soon asleep.
    All but Bowman. He lay with his eyes closed, and saw again the Master’s smiling bearded face, and felt the power of his limitless will.
    Come quickly, Kess. I can’t do this without you.
    He was missing his sister more intensely than he wanted his family to know. It was at night, when the distractions of the day fell away, that the pain returned at its keenest. He had never been
parted from her for more than a few hours from the day they had been born. He was so accustomed to the wild tumble of her thoughts and the violence of her desires, that this silence in which he now
lived was almost unbearable. Without Kestrel, he was half-alive: less than half, since she had always been the more vital part of his being. He pined for her keen and restless spirit.
    Where are you, Kess? Come back to me, I can’t live without you.
    He poured his longing out into the silent night, reaching as far as his strength allowed. But wherever she was, she was farther away yet, and there came no answering voice.

 
Second Interval:
The hermit
    T he great yew tree stands alone, near the top of a ridge of land that shelters it from the prevailing north-west winds. It has stood here longer
than anyone knows, certainly for