Midnight Tides
Her people seemed particularly well suited to surrender. Freedom was an altar supplicants struggled to reach all their lives, clawing the smooth floor until blood spattered the gleaming, flawless stone, yet the truth was it remained for ever beyond the grasp of mortals. Even as any sacrifice was justified in its gloried name. For all that, she knew that blasphemy was a hollow crime. Freedom was no god, and if it was, and if it had a face turned upon its worshippers, its expression was mocking. A slave’s chains stole something he or she had never owned.
The Letherii slaves in this village owed no debt. They served recognizable needs, and were paid in food and shelter. They could marry. Produce children who would not inherit the debts of their parents. The portions of their day allotted their tasks did not progress, did not devour ever more time from their lives. In all, the loss of freedom was shown to be almost meaningless to these kin of hers.
A child named Feather Witch. As if a witch from the distant past, awkwardly dressed, stiff and mannered as all outdated things appear to be, had stepped out from the histories. Womb-chosen caster of the tiles, who practised her arts of divination for the service of her community, rather than for the coins in a leather pouch. Perhaps the name had lost its meaning among these slaves. Perhaps there were no old tiles to be found, no solemn nights when fates gathered into a smudged, crack-laced path, the dread mosaic of destiny set out before one and all – with a hood-eyed woman-child overseeing the frightful ritual.
She heard the crunch of stones from near the river mouth and turned to see a male slave crouching down at the waterline. He thrust his hands into the cold, fresh water as if seeking absolution, or ice-numbing escape.
Curious, Seren Pedac walked over.
The glance he cast at her was guarded, diffident. ‘Acquitor,’ he said, ‘these are fraught hours among the Edur. Words are best left unspoken.’
‘We are not Edur, however,’ she replied, ‘are we?’
He withdrew his hands, and she saw that they were red and swollen. ‘Emurlahn bleeds from the ground in these lands, Acquitor.’
‘None the less, we are Letherii.’
His grin was wry. ‘Acquitor, I am a slave.’
‘I have been thinking on that. Slavery. And freedom from debt. How do you weigh the exchange?’
He settled back on his haunches, water dripping from his hands, and seemed to study the clear water swirling past. The rain had fallen off and mist was edging out from the forest. ‘The debt remains, Acquitor. It governs every Letherii slave among the Edur, yet it is a debt that can never be repaid.’
She stared down at him, shocked. ‘But that is madness!’
He smiled once more. ‘By such things we are all measured. Why did you imagine that mere slavery would change it?’
Seren was silent for a time, studying the man crouched at the edge of the flowing water. Not at all unhandsome, yet, now that she knew, she could see his indebtedness, the sure burden upon him, and the truth that, for him, for every child he might sire, there would be no absolving the stigma. It was brutal. It was… Letherii. ‘There is a slave,’ she said, ‘who is named Feather Witch.’
He seemed to wince. ‘Yes, our resident caster of the tiles.’
‘Ah. I had wondered. How many generations has that woman’s family dwelt as a slave among the Edur?’
‘A score, perhaps.’
‘Yet the talent persisted? Within this world of Kurald Emurlahn? That is extraordinary.’
‘Is it?’ He shrugged and rose. ‘When you and your companions are guest to Hannan Mosag this night, Feather Witch will cast.’
Sudden chill rippled through Seren Pedac. She drew a deep breath and released it slow and heavy. ‘There is… risk, doing such a thing.’
‘That is known, Acquitor.’
‘Yes, I see now that it would be.’
‘I must return to my tasks,’ he said, not meeting her eyes.
‘Of course. I hope my delaying you does not yield grief.’
He smiled yet again, but said nothing.
She watched him walk up the strand.
Buruk the Pale stood wrapped in his rain cape before the Nerek fire. Hull Beddict was nearby, positioned slightly behind the merchant, hooded and withdrawn.
Seren walked to Buruk’s side, studied the struggling flames from which smoke rose to hang smeared, stretched and motionless above them. The night’s chill had seeped into the Acquitor’s bones and the muscles of her neck had tightened in response. A headache was building behind her eyes.
‘Seren Pedac,’ Buruk sighed. ‘I am unwell.’