Chapter Ten
Rage is a fickle thing. It consumes and blinds and doubles your heart rate and shortens your breath and makes your head pound and your hands tremble and focuses all your strength into your limbs until you’re ten million times stronger than your usual self.
It’s blinding.
It’s dangerous.
It makes you do stupid things.
I don’t know how it all happened. How I got on Zimri’s back so fast, or where this sudden rage came from, or why my eyes are stinging. All I know is that I want to inflict the same pain on Zimri that he caused me.
He reaches up and tries to pry my arms off his neck, but I’m strong and invincible and my grip only tightens, and I realize I’m going to die soon anyway, so I better act quickly. But strong hands clutch my shoulders and rip me off Zimri’s back. I stumble, then look up to find Kalen staring at me, fear in his eyes. He seems taller, standing right beside me. Muscular without being bulky. His towering stature is intimidating; the look in his eyes makes my mouth go dry.
“What are you doing?” His voice is filled with concern. His shocked expression erases my anger, and the red haze slowly ebbs.
Zimri is still hunched over, dragging air into his lungs. The strong emotions raging through my veins are frightening and uncontrollable. I’ve never been filled with so much hatred or attempted anything so damaging. I ball my trembling hands into fists.
One of the guards stalks up and lifts his hand to strike me. I flinch, but Kalen steps forward and stops him.
“No need to put another bruise on her temple,” he says to the guard, his voice now stern and detached.
The guard lowers his hand and glares at me. “You would deliberately try to kill a Tavdorian?”
I look down.
The guard grabs my arm and shoves me toward the door.
“Gentle,” Kalen says through clenched teeth.
“You’re going to the Rebel Prison,” the guard sneers. “You’ll face the teeranies this weekend.”
I don’t know what teeranies are. Not sure I want to find out.
“Gods. Don’t send her to the teeranies.”
I look back to find Kalen standing up for me. Again.
“What the flanking fugons are you doing, Kalen?” Zimri rasps. “This rebellious xeno-scum deserves to die.”
Kalen crosses his arms and studies me. The concern in his eyes vanishes as a smile appears on his beautiful lips. He doesn’t look afraid for me anymore, just amused. He wears the same casual smile that graced his features when we faced the guards on Earth. He’s acting again. As a way to make the others back off, he puts on this facade. Hope wells in my stomach, and I try so hard to fight it, because hope is a fickle thing on this planet and it hasn’t done me any good so far. His thick brows flicker when his eyes meet mine, and I realize I’m staring. I bow my head in proper submission, wondering how he’s going to get me out of this mess.
“Her death would be a waste,” Kalen says. Despite his smile, something appears to be warring in his eyes. “She’s a native, remember? Worth twice that of a normal slave. We can’t just kill her. It’s like feeding pecarrii to the beasts. Throwing away perfectly good money.”
“Father would not approve of you selling a gods-damned murderer.” Zimri’s words are spoken through gritted teeth.
“Well, she didn’t technically murder anyone, brother.”
Brother? These two are brothers?
“But she is tenacious,” Kalen continues. I peek up at him as he paces in front of me. “And we all know how some people like tenacious.” He looks at the guard, mischief dancing in his lavender eyes. “Offer her to the tavern.”
“Which tavern, my lord?”
“The Angry Teeranie.”
A tavern. I’ve read in books what happens at taverns. They’ll turn me into a harlot. Kalen said he would send me to an easy life, but maybe he doesn’t realize that I would rather be a worked-to-the-bone field hand than a harlot. I’d rather be dead than enslaved.
He offers me an apologetic look, then walks out of the dome, leaving me with Zimri and a few guards. Kalen looked so torn, almost devastated by this whole set of events. Why work at a slave-trading Port if he’s so obviously against it? He’s clearly struggling—and trying to hide his struggle from the others.
The guard’s grip tightens on my arm, and he begins leading me out of the dome.
“Don’t send her to the tavern.” Zimri looks at me, and I think I see some sort of twisted humor dancing in his purple eyes. Fear turns my insides to ice. Not another drowning punishment. Please. “You’re the luckiest slave alive, you know that? Selling a murderer goes against all my virtues.” He nods at the bald, dark-skinned Human. “Tarik, take her to my father’s estate and assign her under my brother’s name. If Kalen truly thinks she’s attractive enough to be a harlot, perhaps we should just let him deal with this vartacian whore himself.”
The Human nods, then leads me out of the dome. Desert heat beats down on me when I step outside. Temperatures sure do fluctuate here. I was freezing last night, and now, late afternoon Tavdora feels like an oven. I follow the guard through the crowded lot to something resembling a glass bubble. He gestures for me to get in, then takes the driver’s seat. After he presses some switches, the pod lifts a few feet off the ground and hovers toward the gate. I grip the door to steady myself.
I’m finally alone with another Human. No Tavdorians around. And for the first time since leaving Earth, I can feel my muscles relax.
“Tarik. Is that your name?” I ask.
He glances at me with black eyes, then grunts and looks ahead. Not much of a welcoming, but I press on.
“Please, Tarik. Tell me what to do—how to act. I’m not a slave. I mean, I wasn’t raised as a slave.”
“You truly are a native, then. That’s rare.” His voice is deep and authoritative. “Well, native, the universal rules of slavery are simple. Obey your masters’ every command and you will most likely be okay.”
He makes it sound so incredibly easy. Like breathing.
“What if—what if they tell you to do something you can’t do?”
He shrugs but keeps his eyes ahead. “Then you’d better try your best to do what they asked.”
The hoverpod pulls out beneath the arch, then flies down a wide, crowded street. This is the first glimpse I catch of the metropolis, or any metropolis, really. Neket is so big, so clean, so crowded and busy. I’ve never seen this many people in one place. Sunlight reflects off the hundred-story buildings so they almost glow turquoise. The heart of Neket looks like a cluster of icicles shooting straight into the sky.
Tarik maneuvers the throttle, and I notice seven coin-sized tattoos on his arm, trailing from his shoulder down to his elbow.
“Are those from your previous masters?”
His jaw tenses. “Yes. The first tattoo is always placed on your shoulder, and each new master places their own marking beneath that.” I study the artwork on his arm, noticing the tattoo closest to his elbow is the same marking I got on my shoulder. So the most recent master is the lowest tattoo on the arm. According to the canvas on his arm, Tarik has had four masters.
I look back out the fish-bowl window. We travel deeper into the city until the buildings surround us in front, behind, and on either side, and I almost feel claustrophobic. Smaller oval hovercrafts and hovercycles whiz above us in an invisible lane. The stone road evolves to what looks like white glass. A median brimming with plum flowers separates the two lanes, and tall trees billow over the streets. The sidewalks are teaming with Humans, Tavdorians, and other aliens I’ve never seen before. We cross a bridge over a wide, inky river the color of deep violet, like the sky just before the stars disappear in the morning. Tarik takes a turn down a street running along the river. Merchants set up booths with food, jewelry, clothes consisting of more colors than I knew existed.
When we head up a quieter street, I know we’ve entered the wealthier part of the city. Elaborate estates, like the one the plantation owner on Earth lived in, take up their own block. High stone hedges gird each estate, with the green wires running along the top. The streets are less busy than those in the heart of the city. No vendors here. No beggars. No slaves running errands for their masters.
We reach the top of the hill, and Tarik pulls the vehicle over, gets out, and presses a brass-like button by the gate. The gate buzzes open. A short, stalky alien with graying chops is kneeling in a garden by the walkway.
“Bram,” Tarik says.
The alien looks up, then stands.
“This slave belongs to Lord Kalen,” Tarik says with as much authority as the Tavdorians themselves. “Zimri instructed she wait for him in his room.”
The dwarf-alien, Bram, glances at me with dark beady eyes. “Okay. Yes, yes. I’s take her to Vermilia.”
He gestures for me to follow and leads me through the flower garden around the mansion into a dark corridor. He walks with a slight limp and wears the traditional pants with drawstrings that I noticed most male slaves wearing, but unlike the crisp white of my tunic, his pants and shirt are stained with dirt.
He steps into a hallway with obsidian walls and a black tile floor, and I follow him through until we arrive at a courtyard in the heart of the estate. Balconies hang off the second floor, draped with exotic flowers and vines, and in the center of the courtyard is a three-tier fountain made entirely of glass. Crimson flowers overflow the courtyard, and a smell resembling honeysuckle fills the air. Mom would love the quiet peace this place provides.
“Come, come,” the dwarf-alien says. I tear my eyes off the courtyard and follow him through one of the doors into a large kitchen.
Another alien woman of the same short, stalky species arrives. They speak in their native language, then the woman looks at me.
“I’s Vermilia,” she says in Tavdorian. Her accent is thick and hard to understand, but I somehow keep up with what she’s saying. “You’s straight from Earth, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Good, good. Come.” She turns, and I’m shocked at how long her hair is, black with gray streaks, braided all the way down to her knees. She leads me through a chamber full of cots, which I can only assume are the slave quarters. All the cots are empty, save for one, where someone lies wrapped in a thin blanket, shoulder shuddering with each breath. I follow Vermilia into a community shower room. Showers line the walls, each enclosed in sandstone stalls that are open to the sky.
Vermilia presses a button, and hot water pounds onto the tile floor like a heavy rain in spring.
She gestures for me to go in. “Wash up. I’s come get you when you’re done.” Then she leaves. After undressing, I step into the shower, close the door, realize that for the first time since leaving Earth, I’m completely alone.
And I melt.
I rest my palms against the wall. The hot water soaks into my hair and pounds on my back, seeping into my pores and filling my bones. I think about everything that’s happened, while simultaneously wanting to clear my mind and think of nothing at all. How am I going to survive this? How will I ever get home? The answer forms in my head like a slap. I won’t ever get home. I can’t. There is no escape from Tavdora. I can’t just leave the estate and walk home. Not when my home is on another planet.
The familiar despair seeps into my stomach, weighing me down. I try to focus on something else. Anything else. I find the vial of oil Vermilia left for me to wash with and pour some into my hand, focusing on the simple movements and thinking of little else. The suds make my skin feel slick like fish scales when I rub it onto my arm. The scent of something resembling lavender fills the air, and I’m reminded of Mom’s goat-milk soap scented with lavender oils, of the lavender tea she used to make every night, of the lavender flowers she sent me and Rika out to gather.
Rika. Oh, Rika…
My eyes start to burn. My chest heaves. And I break. Shatter. Fall to my knees. And I don’t know if these are teardrops or water dripping down my face, but I don’t care because I’m broken. So broken. And I don’t think I can crack any more, but every drop of water crashes down on my spine, fracturing me. I weep until my body aches and my lungs are gasping for air and there are no more tears to cry. I sob into the floor of the shower, and I wish I could evaporate with the steam.
“You’s okay?” Vermilia’s voice cuts through the air. “You’s been in there a long time.”
Sniff. Swallow. Recover.
“I’m fine.”
“You’s work to do.”
Take a shaky breath. Let it out. Stand. Switch off the water. I numbly go through the motions, because now that I’m a slave, even my time isn’t my own, and I don’t have time to mourn the death of my best friend or leaving my ill mother or losing my freedom.
The time for mourning has passed.
I open the door, and Vermilia holds out a towel, glances at me. Then frowns. I must look like a case, my eyes swollen from all the tears I shed. She opens her mouth to speak, but I take the towel and drag it across my face, glad when she doesn’t say anything.
“Your’s clothes.” She speaks more gently now, handing me a midnight-blue top and skirt with gold beads dangling off the base. My stomach drops.
“It’s a lovely color, but…where are the sleeves?”
“Sleeves? Sleeves? You’s worried about sleeves?” She shakes her head and lowers the dress. “Your’s master expects you’s to dress nicely.”
My master. I have a master. And he wants me to dress nicely. They took my name. They took my freedom. Do they have to take my dignity, too?
“Ay, simling. I’s won’t force you into it. But don’t say I’s didn’t warn you’s.” She tosses me my regular cream tunic, and I pull it over my head, glad that it’s decent enough to cover my body but still light enough in this heat. I comb my fingers through my wet hair while I follow her into the kitchen. The heady scent of fresh food unfamiliar to me fills the air, and my stomach clenches. I didn’t realize how hungry I was. Three maids are scurrying around, preparing for dinner, I presume. Vermilia sets to kneading dough.
“You’s must be starving.” She nods at one of the other maids of her same race and says something in a foreign language. The other maid fills up a bowl of some kind of porridge and sets it before me. I don’t even care what’s in it. Picking up my spoon, I shove the first three bites into my mouth before Vermilia stops my fourth bite by grabbing my wrist.
“Slow down, simling, before you’s get sick.”
I nod and chew slower. The warm food settles into my stomach, easing the hunger. I watch the others as they scurry around the kitchen. One wouldn’t think these people were slaves. They laugh while they work, the sound of joy filling the air. They help each other out, one passing a pan to another; that one passing spices back. It kind of reminds me of home. Because cooking was a community event, the hour before dinner when we’d all get together and help prepare the big meal.
When I finish my food, I wash it down with water, then step up to the counter beside Vermilia.
“How can I help?” I ask.
Vermilia gives me an odd look. “You’s can’t get your’s hands dirty.”
My face burns. “I’d rather cook than do…whatever you think I came here to do.”
Vermilia laughs, the sound resembling a cackling chicken. But then she looks at me and stops laughing, because the look on my face, I’m sure, reveals everything but humor.
“Ay, simling.” Her smile is replaced with something akin to pity. “Maybe Briala can help ease your mind.” She leans out the doorway. “Briala!”
A minute later, a girl as tall and slender as the Tavdorians, with shimmering orange skin, appears. She has deep blue designs painted on her temple and arms and torso, accentuating her copper skin. She looks like a goddess.
Her full lips dip down into an annoyed frown. “What’s the problem, Vermilia?”
“Lord Kalen’s newest,” Vermilia says. “You’s know what to do.”
Briala’s frosty blue eyes travel down my tunic to my feet, then back to my face. “Why does Master Kalen want her?”
“We’s don’t question our master,” Vermilia says. “Now go tell her’s what to expect.”
“Fine. Come with me.” Briala smirks. “But I can tell you now, Human, you won’t last past the thirtieth hour.”