Snow Fall: part one
Sep. 12th, 2010 05:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pegunicentThis will be in many parts, as it began with Nanowrimo, ventured off with one of my friend's AU fics for a while, then meandered into plot hole central.
He kneels next to his master’s chair, legs long numb from the position. He’s used to the pain and muscle cramps that make his legs constantly ache and his knees throb. It’s a chain of bondage, the way he can’t stand up or walk without aid for a time after he is allowed to leave. But it is a chain he prefers to the heavy iron that he first wore.
The chalice in his hands is warm from his skin. The water inside never ripples, he’s so absolutely still that the surface could be reflective glass. Even holding it for hours, with arms unsupported, he never lets himself tremble with the stain. It’s not that he cares about his duty, but sinking inside himself far enough to hold the balance of the cup perfectly means that he can’t do or be anything else. It’s a relief. His only escape. His only form of freedom.
His master has him clothed in white, sheer silk trousers and a long tunic, with a heavy hooded cloak to hide his form. It’s a color he despises and his master uses it as yet another marking of ownership. His master cares only for his utter and absolute obedience, his perfection in his art. He gives his master that. He serves with total devotion.
But inside, deep inside where he remembers the taste of summer wind and the feel of rain drops on his skin, he hates his master. Loathes him. And he hates himself for this display, for not being strong enough to fight back against the man who stole his happiness and childhood, for not being strong enough to take his own life, or his masters, when the chance presented itself.
He would, and probably will, die for his lord. But he lives for the time when he kneels and looses himself inside in the darkness. His own little scrap of freedom.
He’s a fortune teller, with a natural gift of listening to the wind and water. His mother had the gift, and his grandmother, and every female for generations. But his mother was denied having a daughter, and so passed her gift to her only living child. It’s the cruelest thing she could have ever done.
The story goes that once their innocence is gone, so are their gifts, shed with maiden blood.
He can never shed that blood. He’s never been a maiden. And the pain of loosing innocence has never granted him freedom from the gift that marked him fit for slavery.
When he was younger, he fought. Now, he doesn’t bother. But the chains and implements first introduced when he was a child are still used on him today. His master requires nothing less than absolute control.
A meeting had been called. Not just a meeting, but an actual gathering. Rarely did the clans meet except for the sacred feast days. Never in such numbers as were gathering now. His master was chieftain of a large tribe comprised of three intermarried clans. He had gained such esteem and privilege, largely from the predictions the slave gave. As a gifted weather seer, he gave accurate predictions about rainfall, crop growth, planting time, snowfall and the ebb and flow of the rivers.
As the slave of his master, he also foretold of sickness, disease, attacks from rivals, deaths and poor hunting. He foretold the individual fortunes for any person who offered his master a set sum. He foretold of child births and still births, of infidelity and a new brides virtue.
His gift gave his master great respect and power throughout their parcel of territory. In this meeting, he would be put on display, his powers and gifts taxed to their utmost. It would take every ounce of skill and ability to hide that his predictions on anything not related to wind and water, were mere guesses.
In a tribe, even a large tribe, rumors ran rampant. From the talk of his master and the people he could gather enough facts to make logical guesses about things. He was a good observer of body language and could tell the person what they wanted to hear, most of the time. It helped that by its very nature foretelling the future was a vague and tricky thing.
He had been the meetings before during the feasts. The feasts were a good time and place for the tribe, and his master in particular, to make money. But such a large gathering gave him reasons to dream terrors at night. His white cloak was threaded with blue trim. His white silks traded for light blue. Though the iron chain lay in its chest still, he was fitted with a brass collar denoting his station as an owned one.
Around his wrists were brass cuffs, to hide the scars and markings. His feet were bound in soft boots that laced and tied beneath the knee. They made travel easier, though he could only walk for short periods without aid from another.
Two days before the journey to the meeting grounds, his master hired a manservant. The servant was a tall blond, heavy in the shoulders and long in the leg, with muscles hardened from years of work. Sileaf carried a blade and spoke little, though his blue eyes were constantly laughing at someone. It became Sileaf's duty to watch over him and protect him from any would be assassins, as well as to carry him when his legs no longer supported him.
"So what's your name Princess?"
"......."
"I have to call you something."
He had no name. His master had stripped him of that as surely as he'd stripped the slave of any family or freedoms. It was just another mark of control.
"The people... I heard an old woman talk about your mother. Her name was Sky right? Well Princess, guess I'll call you Snow then. Princess only works around that lump of lard you call a lord."
It was a measure of kindness he'd never known. No other slave treated him as equal because of his position to his master. No freeman ever looked on a slave as anything but an object. To be talked to so callously, to be treated with almost jovial indifference, was something he would treasure for the rest of his life.
"You speak less than I do, unless you have that stupid cup in your hands. Come on Princess lighten up a little, I've got to carry you to the ass end of the badlands for a week solid."
Sileaf was unlike anyone he'd ever met. He never yelled, or was scornful of him. He didn't try and play malicious tricks to find out the slaves weaknesses or gain a free prediction. He didn't seem to care about rank at all. Though he gave the Chieftain a few dirty looks now and then, and made bad jokes and lewd comments at the man.
It wasn't so bad, being carried, when he could smell the scent of hay and sweat and sunshine, and feel the warmth of the man sinking through the clothes they wore. It felt safe. It felt peaceful.
During the day he hid his face with his cloak and hair. At night, when the party stopped and after a brief display of predictions and talk among the leaders, he slept in a small tent, surrouIleafeifer stood guard at night. And if the manservant slept holding him, it only made the feeling of security stronger. For a week, he lived in as close to paradise as he ever dreamed.
"Look Princess, there it is. All those tents, and you'll be right in the middle of it."
And then he went from heaven to hell.
His master was a busy man so during the daylight hours of the gathering, his master was constantly moving around and speaking to other important people. The slave was turned over to the care of the other slaves and the protection of Sileaf. A small tent had been put up for him, with a chair for his master and another for whatever person came for a reading, while the slave himself knelt on a small pillow placed over the hard ground.
Though his master’s chair remained empty most of the time, the slave met with many people, freemen and women mostly, who wished to hear his predictions or ask about specific concerns. Some brought their slaves or servants to have readings done on them. ‘Will she bear strong sons?’ ‘Will his sickness spread to others?’ “Does this one speak truth to me?’
Only in his master’s presence did he foretell for the higher classed. The chieftains and clan leaders would never dare to speak to a slave alone. The simple bronze cup never wavered, and at the end of each trying day, it was polished and wrapped in linen, packed away as if it were gold. He could have made the same predictions with a wooden bowl or a still pond, but the cup was as much a symbol of his gifts as the collar was his class.
Sileaf left the tent only when his master was in residence, and returned after the man had left. His master spoke little of the manservant, but there was an underlying tension between them. Sileaf made plain he thought the slave deserved better treatment. One thing was becoming clear with each day that passed, the two were going to come to blows eventually.
Deep inside himself, in the darkness that was his sanctuary, the slave watched and foretold and waited. There was something building in the wind, something strong and fast and cold. The water sang of a storm on the ocean. A storm reaching for land. He told his master and the petitioners not to bother planting, but to instead, gather what they could and flee. Flee to the mountains, to the high ground, to the hills of hard stone. The marshes of the lands and valley plains would be inundated by the sea. The rivers were coursing with fresh runoff and the heavy rains would swell them into monsters.
There was no safety to be had in the lowlands.
His master took this news with dark, malicious eyes. Many were shaken. He was not alone in his warnings, other seers and earth witches were saying the same thing. Any crops would be washed away, the game animals were already moving away. Such news was the reason so many had gathered. Each tribe could feel the impending disaster that was coming. Where would they go though? Who would lead them? Would there be anything to return to once the waters receded?
His master wanted to be the one made into the chief of chiefs. Eight chieftains and three clan elders were vying for the position during the month long gathering. Each night his master came and demanded that he foretell who would be leader of the exodus. Each night he was beaten for not knowing. ‘It is a chief, one of great charisma, but I can not see his face, he uses magic to hide it from me’.
If the slave proclaimed a leader through his visions, that man would die. It was no great feat to see the hunger and greed within each man. All that prevented bloodshed was the simple fact that so many were present. One death would lead to hundreds, maybe thousands, slaughtered in a blood feud that would break the tribes even further apart.
Tai’s pen scratched over the parchment quickly, forming the runes precisely. The code was simple, easy to learn, and as of yet, totally indecipherable because the message wasn’t in the words themselves but the sounds and only three people knew it. Himself, his lord, and his lord’s gemstone Amethyst.
My lord, the situation here in the Outlands is growing more volatile. The wealth of natural talent held within the indigenous people is enough to justify some form of alliance, and with the foreshadowed catastrophe upon them, a form of governing is taking place. Of course, to prevent a war in seeking shelter from this calamity they will be forced to seek treaty with Acadia, and thusly, you.
A few of the talents here have proven remarkably useful. I would not be surprised if one was infact a prophet in disguise. If so, he will fall into place as the spiritual and governmental leader, in all but title. Such a prophet would be the spokesperson sent to your court to hammer out such a treaty.
I hope to return to the court within the year. Sincerely, Tai.
There. Just enough of a maybe that when it happened, he couldn’t be directly said to have orchestrated the whole thing without permission. Rolling the letter into a tiny scroll, he sealed it with his personal seal and tied it to the hawk.
With a smile to chill the blood he sent the bird winging towards the palace.
He’d been giving predictions for nearly thirty hours straight, trying to get through the many paying farmers and such, but his words were almost always the same. Seek higher ground, run for the hills, the fields will be fallow, they will flood, there isn’t time.
The water in his chalice had been emptied three times, and carefully refilled. Each time the contents had resembled blood being spilt to the ground while the fresh was sweetened with sugar. Though he drank none, and it did not waver in his grasp, it changed none the less as he poured forth all his meager power and focused every fiber of his soul through it.
Sileaf was growing more and more disturbed in his corner of the tent as each hour passed and he neither ate nor slept. His master had retired at sunset but petitioners still came and he turned none of them away. He was a slave, he had no right to.
Finally as dawn approached the last man entered. Sileaf drew the flaps closed and took the chalice from him, the blood inside almost black. With a disgusted growl he went to wash the bronze carefully and bid the man wait a moment. As the petitioner stood patiently the, slave carefully drew on the last of his reserves to study him. Well dressed, quiet, and staring at the slave with calculation in dark eyes.
When offered the now clear water he took a breath and sank into the darkness, probing the man before him. His lungs were clear, the air in his body clean and fresh. His blood and sweat flowed fine, the water untainted. There was something else though, an excess of water around the mind… blood… water and blood were the same…
“I’ve come to know the outcome of the storm about to hit the Outlands, and who will seek the petition of Acadia.”
Lies. Even if Sileaf’s sudden stillness beside him was not an indication of falsity, the air fowled at his words. The wind could not lie to him.
“That is not what you want Sorcerer. What you want is to know the out come of your machinations here. You are not alone in trying to maneuver the ways of the Outlanders. You are not the last.” The slave could feel the water turning red already, his limits pushed to the last, but he did not rise from the darkness. This was what he’d been waiting for many years. A chance to manipulate instead of being the manipulated. A chance for revenge. Even a tool, useless and broken, could dream of that much.
Gray eyes locked with shuttered black as he read the winds.
“My master will not live to see the mountains of Acadia, neither will Torneth, Keilin or Chaock. Already blood flows from two who fought to lead. The wheels you have set in motion will not save the Outlanders, but they will survive nonetheless, lead by a foreign lord. The winds over Acadia bear the scent of treachery and violence from afar. Poisoned honeyed words will seek admittance to *your* master, Sorcerer, and you waste time here with a fortune teller.”
The blood rippled as his hands began to tremble, the chalice dirtied far sooner than he’d anticipated. A dot bearing brow was creased and frowning, trying to follow his gasped words, slurred with the accent of the coastal traders. Sileaf reached to steady him but nothing could stop this. The wind circled the world, never stopping. Eventually all things came full circle. Nothing could hide from what gave life and took it.
“You waste time Sorcerer spy. The storm that falls upon the people of the Outlands is nothing to the storm that falls upon your King. And your Prince.”
He coughed, silver eyes closing in pain as he slumped forward, breath gone. Sileaf rushed to him, forcing him to lay back, agony shooting through his legs. The blond tossed the cup aside, black ichor staining the dirt floor. The darkness fled from him and he sat coughing blood for many moments, the Sorcerer sweeping from the tent in a wake of enraged cold, killing intent.
His master would die tonight. By whose hand he did not know, but he knew it would be so. He had guessed at the Sorcerer being a spy, but not at his origins. And the wind did reek of violence to come. The stench of smelting fires and ozone from magic had filled the air for some time. It did not take a fortune teller to know war was coming, but to know from where… only the wind could say.
“Princess, you okay? Damn it, you look like you’re on death’s door way.”
“………..” His only reply was a tired smile. The first in more years than he could recall.
He had expected a half rate card flipper like the rest. Not an actual reader. Even if his predictions were only half true it was too close to truth to be comfortable. Everyone could tell him about the storm, but a war?
He didn’t have time to set things up smoothly now. Even if he did, he needed to see Rubard, needed to know the blond was still safe, and that couldn’t be confirmed in any letter. No, his lord, his *true* lord needed him, and if the seer could guess that then he was a more useful pawn in the capitol than here in the backwoods of nowhere.
Finding the tent of Hill-Walker he cast a simple concealment/silence charm and slipped inside. Sileaf was right that the man was scum but he was scum that had served a purpose until now. Now he was scum in the way. The man slept soundly and Tai raised one gloved hand, unheard, unseen, and cast another small charm to create a bubble of water surrounding Hill-Walker’s head.
The man woke, gasping and choking. It took several minutes for him to collapse and die. The water turned pink like the first few minutes in the seer’s tent, bringing to mind the bronze chalice that he’d never heard of a seer using.
Afterwards, he called the water back leaving the bedding dry as a bone and Hill-Walker’s lungs clear. The man seemed to have drowned on nothing.
Leaving the tent while still concealed, he went to his own and scribbled out a hasty letter to the king. The situation has changed and I will be returning in haste with a gift. The Outlanders have united under a bastard son of Kuthain’s, Sileaf Markess of Acadia and he seeks safety for his people. With all devotion, your servant Tai. That would set off enough warning bells to tighten the guard around the people he cared about. The man he cared about.
Day was breaking. He had to get these miscreants to assemble and pledge allegiance to a wandering Freeman by noon so they could head out to the capital before dusk. Not an easy task. But with all the men fighting to be high Chieftain dead, well, it made it a little easier. And with Glamour, the promise of an easy life in the shelter of the mountains, and complete autonomy from the foreigner, he would have the ignorant masses flocking soon enough.
He had hoped that gathering the people together and announcing the deaths of the primary chieftains would lead to a cowing of the clans. Obviously he had not counted on the fact that the chiefs were only nominally in charge of clan affairs. They decided to have a challenge to settle the matter of a new High Chieftain, even though Sileaf was an obvious choice to send to a land none wanted to enter. He was a bastard from a foreign nation with noble blood. By all accounting he was perfect. But only if he could defeat every clan warrior representative before sundown in armed combat.
Tai thought he felt a blood vessel explode.
Beyond that the deaths of the chieftains had to be confirmed and the seer cleared of treachery against the very dead Hill-Walker. Then there was a feast planned for the victor of the combat competition and the matter of wills and other legal matters to sort through before the seer slave could be considered for sale or gifting.
As if that wasn’t enough to set his teeth on edge, they wanted to make the little prophet a messiah.
Making a seer a prophet was filled with enough bureaucracy to choke an army, he’d planned for that and hoped to have a month to settle things with the local priests and magistrates. But making a slave seer a messiah was practically unheard of. The majority of the clans had been seeking the seer’s guidance for years. His family for generations before enslavement had guided the coastal traders and seamen.
He managed to keep the talk of such religious nonsense to a minimum the first day after Hill-Walker was found dead. Then the idiot bastard blond had to allow for another reading, a public one, and all his careful planning went to hell.
“The storm that comes to wreck the land will not break the people. Gathered here today are those who will walk far, to the shadows of the mountains, and there seek shelter until the sea recedes. When the new spring comes to the Outlands the land will be replenished, the harvest great, the sailing fair. This trial set before us by Hyn will forge a new beginning with Acadia. The wind has seen the ways of the world and the waters have run over every inch of the land. The one to seek out the Silver King’s mercy will be the one cast out by birth from the golden court.”
He had listened as raptly as the rest of the throng and cursed. The kneeling slave was a good orator, voice loud but husky, throat still raw, and he held three thousand enthralled. Wrapped in heavy robes and holding that shining cup, it was hard to get a good look at the figure whose voice spoke such prophesies but the image of white benevolence on a raised dais was burned into every retina.
The fact that the slave ended up spilling the bloodied water at the end just added to the drama.
It was common knowledge apparently, that the seer used water. That the water turned to blood was something new and apparently holy. Another sign that a slave should be raised to the level of savior. And there was no way a religious savior could be simply handed over life and limb to the king of a distant nation, no matter how powerful.
It was enough to give him ulcers if he didn’t know every potion to counteract such illness.
So while the blond Freeman battled and bested fighter after fighter, Tai talked to the clan leaders and quietly, cunningly, arranged things to work in his favor as much as possible. The elders of most of the clans agreed that there was no way a nameless slave, no matter his origins, could be made a priest. There was no time to train him, initiate him or even test him for magic ability. There was no other suitable gift the Outlands possessed that equaled the seer, and since he *was* a slave there were no laws saying that he couldn’t be given away by Hill-Walker’s clansmen now that he was dead.
But the common people would be outraged to lose a holy figure with such prominence to the ‘Silver King’. The Outlanders as a nation held little love for anyone not of their own tribal clans. Even seeking aid from their neighbors Acadia from catastrophe was something to debate till the end of days. There had to be a compromise between the elders and the commoners.
Until it could be found the seer was confined to his fortune telling tent, tended to by a trio of Tai’s personal servants and two slaves from Hill-Walker’s sister’s house. Sileaf was most unhappy with him. It bordered on pure hatred really, but the blond wasn’t too stupid to see what was going on. He was just stupid enough to fall for a slave who belonged to someone else.
On the second night Tai went to check on the reader who had caused him such trouble.
“You can see so much but you couldn’t tell me that this fiasco tournament would take place?” he addressed the form laying prone on bundled furs and covered in layers of blankets. He dismissed the caretakers with a flick of his hand.
“…………”
Gray eyes watched him wearily and he sighed. “Go ahead and speak freely. You’ll have to watch your tongue for the rest of your life in the capital.”
Pale lips twitched and eventually a whispery voice sounded in the barren tent. “Anyone could tell you that. One would think you would have studied our ways before trying to arrange our destinies, Sorcerer.”
He huffed. “So you do have a mind and personality in there. Good. The King doesn’t tend to care for soulless shells. You’ll do well to keep that backbone and keep it hidden, or I might get called in to remove it for you.”
The slave didn’t seem perturbed, merely resigned.
As a child from Wuling, Tai had grown up with the formality of ancestral respect and tradition. As a mage he could travel and seek his fortunes in any court, fulfilling contracts to his employers for hefty sums. He turned few contracts down in his early years, he wasn’t ashamed of having blood on his hands. Acadia had been the turning point. There he had found someone to devote himself to, he’d found the reason for loyalty beyond the price of a job well done.
Sileaf was reluctant for many reasons to take the journey west. As a Freeman and soon to be nominal Lord of the barbarous Outlands, he would have a heavy load of responsibility placed upon him, where before he’d merely had to worry about finding work each season.
“Did you want a reading, Sorcerer? Or does the wind bend to your will and whisper to your ear?”
Oh yes. Quite the backbone. He may yet regret giving the creature leave to speak its mind. On the other hand, few ever dared to play such games of words with him anymore.
“I came for answers that have naught to do with what will be but what is. Hill-Walker left no will. What were his instructions to you should you by chance outlive him?”
Lank and dirty hair fell into pale eyes as the slave frowned in memory. “I don’t remember him ever giving anything as clear as instructions. There were threats of punishment and promises of a swift end for failure to warn him. Beyond that, he made no preparations, trusting I would know his time of passing long before it came.” There was no hint of remorse or guilt in those words, no terror or sadness, nothing at all. Not even pride for a scheme well executed.
“And yet you knew not because you’d been foretelling for others at the time. And when you became aware, you did not warn him? Such deceit could mean the death of you little slave.”
Still no feeling passed through those eyes. Were it not for the steady rise and fall of the blankets it would seem a corpse were laying there. “I warned who I could when the vision came, but could not myself attend him, weak with visions and unable to move. I warned you, Sorcerer, and Sileaf your chosen pawn. I will not be alone when the time for hanging comes.”
Tai knew when he had been used. But to be played in such a way, by such a man could earn only his respect. He would be wary of this cunning deceiver for a long time, and give warning to his King as well.
“I doubt you’ll be in court long, slave. But just in case, be warned. What ever you see in the weave of time, do not think to try such games there. Much more than your life will be at stake.”
There were things a priest could do that would mark a soul long after the grave. And the King suffered no threats to his gems or himself.
“Sorcerer,” the voice was curious, colored with pain and abuse and he paused before leaving the tent.
“Yes?”
“A prophet is given a name usually. I’ve heard the servants whispering. I’m an Outland slave, and I will die as such one day. Do you suppose… I could have an Outland name?”
It was a bold question. Had it been a request he’d have turned and beaten the creature, infirm or not for such offense, but as an idle question it was merely skating the bounds of acceptability. After all, he had told him to speak freely.
Glaring at the fabric of the tent wall he pondered the question and its implications. The final answer would lie with the King of course. While Sileaf would have possession of the slave until they reached the capital, the King would have say over whether to name the slave or not. Officially without a name, the Outland Church of Hyn would record him as the Prophet Son of Sky. Sileaf called him something else but Tai had never bothered to find out what.
“It will depend on the King’s mood and his willingness to indulge, I suppose. There will be pressure I’m sure, to have your name recorded for the Church, and Sileaf may petition on their account to have it be an Outland name. Regardless it depends. You may not get one at all, holy status or not you’re still a slave.” The matter of a name was purely political, and slaves were to have nothing to do with politics.
Too bad being the *cause* of politics wasn’t enough to be considered a crime.
He left the tent with an uneasy feeling lodged in his chest. It felt like trouble coming, and he wanted to get the next few days over with as quickly as possible. He realized when he sat to talk to yet another clan elder, that he’d been given the answer to a question he’d never even asked.
The slave called himself a prophet. Not a messiah. Not a savior, but a messenger. A messiah was required to deliver a miracle, but a prophet only had to deliver a message.
Smiling inside Tai set about playing the strings of subtlety with a new angle in mind.
He knows that Sileaf is angry with him and with the Sorcerer, and quite possibly, with life itself as a whole. He knows that the Sorcerer is wary of him. He knows that the people he has served think he is something he probably isn’t but just might be. He knows that he has committed a crime as surely as if he’d slit his masters throat himself. He knows that he may never see his homeland again, just as he’s never seen the ocean after his mother’s slaughter. He knows that when they get to the capital he may come under trial and be sentenced to execution, or worse.
He doesn’t dwell on these things. They are facts and he can do nothing about them. He can not tell the wind where to blow, only listen to its tales. He doesn’t mind. How can he? He is a slave, he has no right to an opinion, to free thought, to desires or actions or beliefs.
As a child he fought. He was beaten and raped and eventually broken to the yoke through pain and humiliation and the weary toll of time. Now he waits. He accepts. He has, through the one act that no slave should ever dream of, given himself wholly to his reality.
He has given his mother vengeance. He has soothed in his own mind, the pain and terror her spirit could not escape with the blood of the man who killed her. Nothing else matters. Not his fate, not the fate of the Outlanders, and not the discomfort and anger of the men around him.
He served his master. He lived for his mother. Now, he exists. For no reason or purpose except that no one has ordered him dead yet. The darkness has spread from inside to cradle him in its gentle numbness. He has no name. Without a name even the Church must admit he has no claim to a soul, and can die with the peace of fading into non-existence. He can not be sentenced to hell for his deeds because he is not accountable. He is a thing. People go to hell. People fear the Church. People care about the next life.
Slaves hold no such worries. After all, what does Hyn care about the thousands of humans in servitude who live and die in misery? Why would Hyn care any more about them than about the rats in the sewers of cities or the fleas on dogs? Nameless, soulless, he finds a dark and morbid humor in knowing more about the ways of the Church and the paths of the future than a man born to nobility with a name and title and the greatest gift of all. Freedom.
This, he thinks, is the greatest freedom a slave can have. To be nameless. Because for the nameless, the grave is the end.
The Silver King will decide if he remains nameless. He doesn’t know anything about the king, only rumors about his looks and favoritism to certain slave gifts. If the king accepts him as a gift he may well turn around and give him to another noble in his court. Or gift him back to Sileaf. Or kill him.
Or give him a name. He doesn’t want a name, but he doesn’t not want one either. He has no right to feel one way or another about the matter and so in his darkness he simply accepts that it may occur and leaves it at that. If he gets a name, he will loose the numbness and have to live again. If he doesn’t, it doesn’t matter.
He thinks, if he were asked, he would have to say that he would like an Outland name. Not because he is an Outlander, or because Outland names are more lyrical, but because the woman for whom he gave himself to this living death was an Outlander with an Outland name and it would honor her beyond anything the Church could do.
Gray eyes watch the hills pass by in a blur as the rhaknar beneath him gallops west, Sileaf’s arm a bar of steel around his waist to make sure he doesn’t fall, unable to grip the male with more than hands in its feathers. The future is coming. Finally, he can let go of the past.
He kneels next to his master’s chair, legs long numb from the position. He’s used to the pain and muscle cramps that make his legs constantly ache and his knees throb. It’s a chain of bondage, the way he can’t stand up or walk without aid for a time after he is allowed to leave. But it is a chain he prefers to the heavy iron that he first wore.
The chalice in his hands is warm from his skin. The water inside never ripples, he’s so absolutely still that the surface could be reflective glass. Even holding it for hours, with arms unsupported, he never lets himself tremble with the stain. It’s not that he cares about his duty, but sinking inside himself far enough to hold the balance of the cup perfectly means that he can’t do or be anything else. It’s a relief. His only escape. His only form of freedom.
His master has him clothed in white, sheer silk trousers and a long tunic, with a heavy hooded cloak to hide his form. It’s a color he despises and his master uses it as yet another marking of ownership. His master cares only for his utter and absolute obedience, his perfection in his art. He gives his master that. He serves with total devotion.
But inside, deep inside where he remembers the taste of summer wind and the feel of rain drops on his skin, he hates his master. Loathes him. And he hates himself for this display, for not being strong enough to fight back against the man who stole his happiness and childhood, for not being strong enough to take his own life, or his masters, when the chance presented itself.
He would, and probably will, die for his lord. But he lives for the time when he kneels and looses himself inside in the darkness. His own little scrap of freedom.
He’s a fortune teller, with a natural gift of listening to the wind and water. His mother had the gift, and his grandmother, and every female for generations. But his mother was denied having a daughter, and so passed her gift to her only living child. It’s the cruelest thing she could have ever done.
The story goes that once their innocence is gone, so are their gifts, shed with maiden blood.
He can never shed that blood. He’s never been a maiden. And the pain of loosing innocence has never granted him freedom from the gift that marked him fit for slavery.
When he was younger, he fought. Now, he doesn’t bother. But the chains and implements first introduced when he was a child are still used on him today. His master requires nothing less than absolute control.
A meeting had been called. Not just a meeting, but an actual gathering. Rarely did the clans meet except for the sacred feast days. Never in such numbers as were gathering now. His master was chieftain of a large tribe comprised of three intermarried clans. He had gained such esteem and privilege, largely from the predictions the slave gave. As a gifted weather seer, he gave accurate predictions about rainfall, crop growth, planting time, snowfall and the ebb and flow of the rivers.
As the slave of his master, he also foretold of sickness, disease, attacks from rivals, deaths and poor hunting. He foretold the individual fortunes for any person who offered his master a set sum. He foretold of child births and still births, of infidelity and a new brides virtue.
His gift gave his master great respect and power throughout their parcel of territory. In this meeting, he would be put on display, his powers and gifts taxed to their utmost. It would take every ounce of skill and ability to hide that his predictions on anything not related to wind and water, were mere guesses.
In a tribe, even a large tribe, rumors ran rampant. From the talk of his master and the people he could gather enough facts to make logical guesses about things. He was a good observer of body language and could tell the person what they wanted to hear, most of the time. It helped that by its very nature foretelling the future was a vague and tricky thing.
He had been the meetings before during the feasts. The feasts were a good time and place for the tribe, and his master in particular, to make money. But such a large gathering gave him reasons to dream terrors at night. His white cloak was threaded with blue trim. His white silks traded for light blue. Though the iron chain lay in its chest still, he was fitted with a brass collar denoting his station as an owned one.
Around his wrists were brass cuffs, to hide the scars and markings. His feet were bound in soft boots that laced and tied beneath the knee. They made travel easier, though he could only walk for short periods without aid from another.
Two days before the journey to the meeting grounds, his master hired a manservant. The servant was a tall blond, heavy in the shoulders and long in the leg, with muscles hardened from years of work. Sileaf carried a blade and spoke little, though his blue eyes were constantly laughing at someone. It became Sileaf's duty to watch over him and protect him from any would be assassins, as well as to carry him when his legs no longer supported him.
"So what's your name Princess?"
"......."
"I have to call you something."
He had no name. His master had stripped him of that as surely as he'd stripped the slave of any family or freedoms. It was just another mark of control.
"The people... I heard an old woman talk about your mother. Her name was Sky right? Well Princess, guess I'll call you Snow then. Princess only works around that lump of lard you call a lord."
It was a measure of kindness he'd never known. No other slave treated him as equal because of his position to his master. No freeman ever looked on a slave as anything but an object. To be talked to so callously, to be treated with almost jovial indifference, was something he would treasure for the rest of his life.
"You speak less than I do, unless you have that stupid cup in your hands. Come on Princess lighten up a little, I've got to carry you to the ass end of the badlands for a week solid."
Sileaf was unlike anyone he'd ever met. He never yelled, or was scornful of him. He didn't try and play malicious tricks to find out the slaves weaknesses or gain a free prediction. He didn't seem to care about rank at all. Though he gave the Chieftain a few dirty looks now and then, and made bad jokes and lewd comments at the man.
It wasn't so bad, being carried, when he could smell the scent of hay and sweat and sunshine, and feel the warmth of the man sinking through the clothes they wore. It felt safe. It felt peaceful.
During the day he hid his face with his cloak and hair. At night, when the party stopped and after a brief display of predictions and talk among the leaders, he slept in a small tent, surrouIleafeifer stood guard at night. And if the manservant slept holding him, it only made the feeling of security stronger. For a week, he lived in as close to paradise as he ever dreamed.
"Look Princess, there it is. All those tents, and you'll be right in the middle of it."
And then he went from heaven to hell.
His master was a busy man so during the daylight hours of the gathering, his master was constantly moving around and speaking to other important people. The slave was turned over to the care of the other slaves and the protection of Sileaf. A small tent had been put up for him, with a chair for his master and another for whatever person came for a reading, while the slave himself knelt on a small pillow placed over the hard ground.
Though his master’s chair remained empty most of the time, the slave met with many people, freemen and women mostly, who wished to hear his predictions or ask about specific concerns. Some brought their slaves or servants to have readings done on them. ‘Will she bear strong sons?’ ‘Will his sickness spread to others?’ “Does this one speak truth to me?’
Only in his master’s presence did he foretell for the higher classed. The chieftains and clan leaders would never dare to speak to a slave alone. The simple bronze cup never wavered, and at the end of each trying day, it was polished and wrapped in linen, packed away as if it were gold. He could have made the same predictions with a wooden bowl or a still pond, but the cup was as much a symbol of his gifts as the collar was his class.
Sileaf left the tent only when his master was in residence, and returned after the man had left. His master spoke little of the manservant, but there was an underlying tension between them. Sileaf made plain he thought the slave deserved better treatment. One thing was becoming clear with each day that passed, the two were going to come to blows eventually.
Deep inside himself, in the darkness that was his sanctuary, the slave watched and foretold and waited. There was something building in the wind, something strong and fast and cold. The water sang of a storm on the ocean. A storm reaching for land. He told his master and the petitioners not to bother planting, but to instead, gather what they could and flee. Flee to the mountains, to the high ground, to the hills of hard stone. The marshes of the lands and valley plains would be inundated by the sea. The rivers were coursing with fresh runoff and the heavy rains would swell them into monsters.
There was no safety to be had in the lowlands.
His master took this news with dark, malicious eyes. Many were shaken. He was not alone in his warnings, other seers and earth witches were saying the same thing. Any crops would be washed away, the game animals were already moving away. Such news was the reason so many had gathered. Each tribe could feel the impending disaster that was coming. Where would they go though? Who would lead them? Would there be anything to return to once the waters receded?
His master wanted to be the one made into the chief of chiefs. Eight chieftains and three clan elders were vying for the position during the month long gathering. Each night his master came and demanded that he foretell who would be leader of the exodus. Each night he was beaten for not knowing. ‘It is a chief, one of great charisma, but I can not see his face, he uses magic to hide it from me’.
If the slave proclaimed a leader through his visions, that man would die. It was no great feat to see the hunger and greed within each man. All that prevented bloodshed was the simple fact that so many were present. One death would lead to hundreds, maybe thousands, slaughtered in a blood feud that would break the tribes even further apart.
Tai’s pen scratched over the parchment quickly, forming the runes precisely. The code was simple, easy to learn, and as of yet, totally indecipherable because the message wasn’t in the words themselves but the sounds and only three people knew it. Himself, his lord, and his lord’s gemstone Amethyst.
My lord, the situation here in the Outlands is growing more volatile. The wealth of natural talent held within the indigenous people is enough to justify some form of alliance, and with the foreshadowed catastrophe upon them, a form of governing is taking place. Of course, to prevent a war in seeking shelter from this calamity they will be forced to seek treaty with Acadia, and thusly, you.
A few of the talents here have proven remarkably useful. I would not be surprised if one was infact a prophet in disguise. If so, he will fall into place as the spiritual and governmental leader, in all but title. Such a prophet would be the spokesperson sent to your court to hammer out such a treaty.
I hope to return to the court within the year. Sincerely, Tai.
There. Just enough of a maybe that when it happened, he couldn’t be directly said to have orchestrated the whole thing without permission. Rolling the letter into a tiny scroll, he sealed it with his personal seal and tied it to the hawk.
With a smile to chill the blood he sent the bird winging towards the palace.
He’d been giving predictions for nearly thirty hours straight, trying to get through the many paying farmers and such, but his words were almost always the same. Seek higher ground, run for the hills, the fields will be fallow, they will flood, there isn’t time.
The water in his chalice had been emptied three times, and carefully refilled. Each time the contents had resembled blood being spilt to the ground while the fresh was sweetened with sugar. Though he drank none, and it did not waver in his grasp, it changed none the less as he poured forth all his meager power and focused every fiber of his soul through it.
Sileaf was growing more and more disturbed in his corner of the tent as each hour passed and he neither ate nor slept. His master had retired at sunset but petitioners still came and he turned none of them away. He was a slave, he had no right to.
Finally as dawn approached the last man entered. Sileaf drew the flaps closed and took the chalice from him, the blood inside almost black. With a disgusted growl he went to wash the bronze carefully and bid the man wait a moment. As the petitioner stood patiently the, slave carefully drew on the last of his reserves to study him. Well dressed, quiet, and staring at the slave with calculation in dark eyes.
When offered the now clear water he took a breath and sank into the darkness, probing the man before him. His lungs were clear, the air in his body clean and fresh. His blood and sweat flowed fine, the water untainted. There was something else though, an excess of water around the mind… blood… water and blood were the same…
“I’ve come to know the outcome of the storm about to hit the Outlands, and who will seek the petition of Acadia.”
Lies. Even if Sileaf’s sudden stillness beside him was not an indication of falsity, the air fowled at his words. The wind could not lie to him.
“That is not what you want Sorcerer. What you want is to know the out come of your machinations here. You are not alone in trying to maneuver the ways of the Outlanders. You are not the last.” The slave could feel the water turning red already, his limits pushed to the last, but he did not rise from the darkness. This was what he’d been waiting for many years. A chance to manipulate instead of being the manipulated. A chance for revenge. Even a tool, useless and broken, could dream of that much.
Gray eyes locked with shuttered black as he read the winds.
“My master will not live to see the mountains of Acadia, neither will Torneth, Keilin or Chaock. Already blood flows from two who fought to lead. The wheels you have set in motion will not save the Outlanders, but they will survive nonetheless, lead by a foreign lord. The winds over Acadia bear the scent of treachery and violence from afar. Poisoned honeyed words will seek admittance to *your* master, Sorcerer, and you waste time here with a fortune teller.”
The blood rippled as his hands began to tremble, the chalice dirtied far sooner than he’d anticipated. A dot bearing brow was creased and frowning, trying to follow his gasped words, slurred with the accent of the coastal traders. Sileaf reached to steady him but nothing could stop this. The wind circled the world, never stopping. Eventually all things came full circle. Nothing could hide from what gave life and took it.
“You waste time Sorcerer spy. The storm that falls upon the people of the Outlands is nothing to the storm that falls upon your King. And your Prince.”
He coughed, silver eyes closing in pain as he slumped forward, breath gone. Sileaf rushed to him, forcing him to lay back, agony shooting through his legs. The blond tossed the cup aside, black ichor staining the dirt floor. The darkness fled from him and he sat coughing blood for many moments, the Sorcerer sweeping from the tent in a wake of enraged cold, killing intent.
His master would die tonight. By whose hand he did not know, but he knew it would be so. He had guessed at the Sorcerer being a spy, but not at his origins. And the wind did reek of violence to come. The stench of smelting fires and ozone from magic had filled the air for some time. It did not take a fortune teller to know war was coming, but to know from where… only the wind could say.
“Princess, you okay? Damn it, you look like you’re on death’s door way.”
“………..” His only reply was a tired smile. The first in more years than he could recall.
He had expected a half rate card flipper like the rest. Not an actual reader. Even if his predictions were only half true it was too close to truth to be comfortable. Everyone could tell him about the storm, but a war?
He didn’t have time to set things up smoothly now. Even if he did, he needed to see Rubard, needed to know the blond was still safe, and that couldn’t be confirmed in any letter. No, his lord, his *true* lord needed him, and if the seer could guess that then he was a more useful pawn in the capitol than here in the backwoods of nowhere.
Finding the tent of Hill-Walker he cast a simple concealment/silence charm and slipped inside. Sileaf was right that the man was scum but he was scum that had served a purpose until now. Now he was scum in the way. The man slept soundly and Tai raised one gloved hand, unheard, unseen, and cast another small charm to create a bubble of water surrounding Hill-Walker’s head.
The man woke, gasping and choking. It took several minutes for him to collapse and die. The water turned pink like the first few minutes in the seer’s tent, bringing to mind the bronze chalice that he’d never heard of a seer using.
Afterwards, he called the water back leaving the bedding dry as a bone and Hill-Walker’s lungs clear. The man seemed to have drowned on nothing.
Leaving the tent while still concealed, he went to his own and scribbled out a hasty letter to the king. The situation has changed and I will be returning in haste with a gift. The Outlanders have united under a bastard son of Kuthain’s, Sileaf Markess of Acadia and he seeks safety for his people. With all devotion, your servant Tai. That would set off enough warning bells to tighten the guard around the people he cared about. The man he cared about.
Day was breaking. He had to get these miscreants to assemble and pledge allegiance to a wandering Freeman by noon so they could head out to the capital before dusk. Not an easy task. But with all the men fighting to be high Chieftain dead, well, it made it a little easier. And with Glamour, the promise of an easy life in the shelter of the mountains, and complete autonomy from the foreigner, he would have the ignorant masses flocking soon enough.
He had hoped that gathering the people together and announcing the deaths of the primary chieftains would lead to a cowing of the clans. Obviously he had not counted on the fact that the chiefs were only nominally in charge of clan affairs. They decided to have a challenge to settle the matter of a new High Chieftain, even though Sileaf was an obvious choice to send to a land none wanted to enter. He was a bastard from a foreign nation with noble blood. By all accounting he was perfect. But only if he could defeat every clan warrior representative before sundown in armed combat.
Tai thought he felt a blood vessel explode.
Beyond that the deaths of the chieftains had to be confirmed and the seer cleared of treachery against the very dead Hill-Walker. Then there was a feast planned for the victor of the combat competition and the matter of wills and other legal matters to sort through before the seer slave could be considered for sale or gifting.
As if that wasn’t enough to set his teeth on edge, they wanted to make the little prophet a messiah.
Making a seer a prophet was filled with enough bureaucracy to choke an army, he’d planned for that and hoped to have a month to settle things with the local priests and magistrates. But making a slave seer a messiah was practically unheard of. The majority of the clans had been seeking the seer’s guidance for years. His family for generations before enslavement had guided the coastal traders and seamen.
He managed to keep the talk of such religious nonsense to a minimum the first day after Hill-Walker was found dead. Then the idiot bastard blond had to allow for another reading, a public one, and all his careful planning went to hell.
“The storm that comes to wreck the land will not break the people. Gathered here today are those who will walk far, to the shadows of the mountains, and there seek shelter until the sea recedes. When the new spring comes to the Outlands the land will be replenished, the harvest great, the sailing fair. This trial set before us by Hyn will forge a new beginning with Acadia. The wind has seen the ways of the world and the waters have run over every inch of the land. The one to seek out the Silver King’s mercy will be the one cast out by birth from the golden court.”
He had listened as raptly as the rest of the throng and cursed. The kneeling slave was a good orator, voice loud but husky, throat still raw, and he held three thousand enthralled. Wrapped in heavy robes and holding that shining cup, it was hard to get a good look at the figure whose voice spoke such prophesies but the image of white benevolence on a raised dais was burned into every retina.
The fact that the slave ended up spilling the bloodied water at the end just added to the drama.
It was common knowledge apparently, that the seer used water. That the water turned to blood was something new and apparently holy. Another sign that a slave should be raised to the level of savior. And there was no way a religious savior could be simply handed over life and limb to the king of a distant nation, no matter how powerful.
It was enough to give him ulcers if he didn’t know every potion to counteract such illness.
So while the blond Freeman battled and bested fighter after fighter, Tai talked to the clan leaders and quietly, cunningly, arranged things to work in his favor as much as possible. The elders of most of the clans agreed that there was no way a nameless slave, no matter his origins, could be made a priest. There was no time to train him, initiate him or even test him for magic ability. There was no other suitable gift the Outlands possessed that equaled the seer, and since he *was* a slave there were no laws saying that he couldn’t be given away by Hill-Walker’s clansmen now that he was dead.
But the common people would be outraged to lose a holy figure with such prominence to the ‘Silver King’. The Outlanders as a nation held little love for anyone not of their own tribal clans. Even seeking aid from their neighbors Acadia from catastrophe was something to debate till the end of days. There had to be a compromise between the elders and the commoners.
Until it could be found the seer was confined to his fortune telling tent, tended to by a trio of Tai’s personal servants and two slaves from Hill-Walker’s sister’s house. Sileaf was most unhappy with him. It bordered on pure hatred really, but the blond wasn’t too stupid to see what was going on. He was just stupid enough to fall for a slave who belonged to someone else.
On the second night Tai went to check on the reader who had caused him such trouble.
“You can see so much but you couldn’t tell me that this fiasco tournament would take place?” he addressed the form laying prone on bundled furs and covered in layers of blankets. He dismissed the caretakers with a flick of his hand.
“…………”
Gray eyes watched him wearily and he sighed. “Go ahead and speak freely. You’ll have to watch your tongue for the rest of your life in the capital.”
Pale lips twitched and eventually a whispery voice sounded in the barren tent. “Anyone could tell you that. One would think you would have studied our ways before trying to arrange our destinies, Sorcerer.”
He huffed. “So you do have a mind and personality in there. Good. The King doesn’t tend to care for soulless shells. You’ll do well to keep that backbone and keep it hidden, or I might get called in to remove it for you.”
The slave didn’t seem perturbed, merely resigned.
As a child from Wuling, Tai had grown up with the formality of ancestral respect and tradition. As a mage he could travel and seek his fortunes in any court, fulfilling contracts to his employers for hefty sums. He turned few contracts down in his early years, he wasn’t ashamed of having blood on his hands. Acadia had been the turning point. There he had found someone to devote himself to, he’d found the reason for loyalty beyond the price of a job well done.
Sileaf was reluctant for many reasons to take the journey west. As a Freeman and soon to be nominal Lord of the barbarous Outlands, he would have a heavy load of responsibility placed upon him, where before he’d merely had to worry about finding work each season.
“Did you want a reading, Sorcerer? Or does the wind bend to your will and whisper to your ear?”
Oh yes. Quite the backbone. He may yet regret giving the creature leave to speak its mind. On the other hand, few ever dared to play such games of words with him anymore.
“I came for answers that have naught to do with what will be but what is. Hill-Walker left no will. What were his instructions to you should you by chance outlive him?”
Lank and dirty hair fell into pale eyes as the slave frowned in memory. “I don’t remember him ever giving anything as clear as instructions. There were threats of punishment and promises of a swift end for failure to warn him. Beyond that, he made no preparations, trusting I would know his time of passing long before it came.” There was no hint of remorse or guilt in those words, no terror or sadness, nothing at all. Not even pride for a scheme well executed.
“And yet you knew not because you’d been foretelling for others at the time. And when you became aware, you did not warn him? Such deceit could mean the death of you little slave.”
Still no feeling passed through those eyes. Were it not for the steady rise and fall of the blankets it would seem a corpse were laying there. “I warned who I could when the vision came, but could not myself attend him, weak with visions and unable to move. I warned you, Sorcerer, and Sileaf your chosen pawn. I will not be alone when the time for hanging comes.”
Tai knew when he had been used. But to be played in such a way, by such a man could earn only his respect. He would be wary of this cunning deceiver for a long time, and give warning to his King as well.
“I doubt you’ll be in court long, slave. But just in case, be warned. What ever you see in the weave of time, do not think to try such games there. Much more than your life will be at stake.”
There were things a priest could do that would mark a soul long after the grave. And the King suffered no threats to his gems or himself.
“Sorcerer,” the voice was curious, colored with pain and abuse and he paused before leaving the tent.
“Yes?”
“A prophet is given a name usually. I’ve heard the servants whispering. I’m an Outland slave, and I will die as such one day. Do you suppose… I could have an Outland name?”
It was a bold question. Had it been a request he’d have turned and beaten the creature, infirm or not for such offense, but as an idle question it was merely skating the bounds of acceptability. After all, he had told him to speak freely.
Glaring at the fabric of the tent wall he pondered the question and its implications. The final answer would lie with the King of course. While Sileaf would have possession of the slave until they reached the capital, the King would have say over whether to name the slave or not. Officially without a name, the Outland Church of Hyn would record him as the Prophet Son of Sky. Sileaf called him something else but Tai had never bothered to find out what.
“It will depend on the King’s mood and his willingness to indulge, I suppose. There will be pressure I’m sure, to have your name recorded for the Church, and Sileaf may petition on their account to have it be an Outland name. Regardless it depends. You may not get one at all, holy status or not you’re still a slave.” The matter of a name was purely political, and slaves were to have nothing to do with politics.
Too bad being the *cause* of politics wasn’t enough to be considered a crime.
He left the tent with an uneasy feeling lodged in his chest. It felt like trouble coming, and he wanted to get the next few days over with as quickly as possible. He realized when he sat to talk to yet another clan elder, that he’d been given the answer to a question he’d never even asked.
The slave called himself a prophet. Not a messiah. Not a savior, but a messenger. A messiah was required to deliver a miracle, but a prophet only had to deliver a message.
Smiling inside Tai set about playing the strings of subtlety with a new angle in mind.
He knows that Sileaf is angry with him and with the Sorcerer, and quite possibly, with life itself as a whole. He knows that the Sorcerer is wary of him. He knows that the people he has served think he is something he probably isn’t but just might be. He knows that he has committed a crime as surely as if he’d slit his masters throat himself. He knows that he may never see his homeland again, just as he’s never seen the ocean after his mother’s slaughter. He knows that when they get to the capital he may come under trial and be sentenced to execution, or worse.
He doesn’t dwell on these things. They are facts and he can do nothing about them. He can not tell the wind where to blow, only listen to its tales. He doesn’t mind. How can he? He is a slave, he has no right to an opinion, to free thought, to desires or actions or beliefs.
As a child he fought. He was beaten and raped and eventually broken to the yoke through pain and humiliation and the weary toll of time. Now he waits. He accepts. He has, through the one act that no slave should ever dream of, given himself wholly to his reality.
He has given his mother vengeance. He has soothed in his own mind, the pain and terror her spirit could not escape with the blood of the man who killed her. Nothing else matters. Not his fate, not the fate of the Outlanders, and not the discomfort and anger of the men around him.
He served his master. He lived for his mother. Now, he exists. For no reason or purpose except that no one has ordered him dead yet. The darkness has spread from inside to cradle him in its gentle numbness. He has no name. Without a name even the Church must admit he has no claim to a soul, and can die with the peace of fading into non-existence. He can not be sentenced to hell for his deeds because he is not accountable. He is a thing. People go to hell. People fear the Church. People care about the next life.
Slaves hold no such worries. After all, what does Hyn care about the thousands of humans in servitude who live and die in misery? Why would Hyn care any more about them than about the rats in the sewers of cities or the fleas on dogs? Nameless, soulless, he finds a dark and morbid humor in knowing more about the ways of the Church and the paths of the future than a man born to nobility with a name and title and the greatest gift of all. Freedom.
This, he thinks, is the greatest freedom a slave can have. To be nameless. Because for the nameless, the grave is the end.
The Silver King will decide if he remains nameless. He doesn’t know anything about the king, only rumors about his looks and favoritism to certain slave gifts. If the king accepts him as a gift he may well turn around and give him to another noble in his court. Or gift him back to Sileaf. Or kill him.
Or give him a name. He doesn’t want a name, but he doesn’t not want one either. He has no right to feel one way or another about the matter and so in his darkness he simply accepts that it may occur and leaves it at that. If he gets a name, he will loose the numbness and have to live again. If he doesn’t, it doesn’t matter.
He thinks, if he were asked, he would have to say that he would like an Outland name. Not because he is an Outlander, or because Outland names are more lyrical, but because the woman for whom he gave himself to this living death was an Outlander with an Outland name and it would honor her beyond anything the Church could do.
Gray eyes watch the hills pass by in a blur as the rhaknar beneath him gallops west, Sileaf’s arm a bar of steel around his waist to make sure he doesn’t fall, unable to grip the male with more than hands in its feathers. The future is coming. Finally, he can let go of the past.
