CHAPTER 1
A story by Draikyn
     Silent. Empty. The marketplace was a void of abandoned stalls and dusty, stone-walled streets. Not a body could be seen, save the lone girl in tattered rags, long list in hand, pouch of gold tied to a broken belt.
      She was afraid and uncertain. Her master would not be pleased if she returned empty-handed. She could almost feel the whip across her back; five lashes for every item missing. Where were the merchants? Where were the customers? Street-side stalls were never abandoned - 'Thieves lurk inside the most virtuous street-trash'.
      The thought struck her: no witnesses. Who could stop her taking what she needed? She was spurred on by a memory; a memory kept in scars. Fear of the whip drove her to approach the nearest stall. She cast her eyes over its products: dried herbs, battered spoons and knives, simple undyed cloth, vegetables and fruits. Skimming down the list, she noted the things she needed, unhooked a chain of garlic bulbs from the corner-post and laid it in her cart.
      She began to turn to the next stand and hesitated. Something inside could not allow her to complete the crime. What of the merchant who had a family to support? What of the merchant who had nothing but what was laid out for sale? Carefully, she pulled at the string that bound the pouch and drew out a copper coin. She hid it behind the counter in payment, in the narrow space between the street wall and the stalls.
      She took from other stalls, leaving payment for the goods she stole, hiding the coins in the dusty ground. She could only hope the merchants would find her payment when they returned, and slowly she worked her way through the list. She worried about her judge of pricing, worried about thieves, about the empty streets - and her master's wrath. Could she find everything on the list? Had she spent too much? Would he lash her for overpaying? Would she have enough coin left to pay for things still required? She had not yet finished the list, and she could already feel the shifting weight of the pouch at her hip.
      Finally, she reached the last stall. It had little to offer and was tucked into the corner formed by the wall and a stone archway that cut the street in two. On the other side of the arch was high-class quarter, where streets were cobbled and stalls were built in houses. There, goods were of fine quality, but expensive. Brann knew she would never enter there.
      She was pleased; this bare stall offered the last item on her list: a single orange. Today, she would not be lashed. Today she would not fail. Today - she froze.
      The hairs on the back of her neck bristled, her breathing paused and her muscles tensed. She dropped the orange and turned to look down the street. A man stood there, still and silent. Staring at her. His face was hidden beneath a broad black hat that matched his cloak and suit. The material shimmered with purple, like the reflection of sun on metal. He was obviously a rich man.
      She was terrified. She could be hanged for this, hanged like a stable-boy thief. Her jaw wavered, uncertain of what to say, what to do. Should she stay and be dragged to the gallows? Should she run and confess her crimes? Could she somehow convince the man to be lenient? Would he accept the remnants of the pouch as payment for his silence, or would he want something warmer, something sweet? She shuddered at the memory.
      And still he stood, unmoving, unflinching, unspoken, his gaze burning into her.
      Unsure of what else to do, she quickly picked up the orange and placed it back on the stall, forgetting the coin she had already placed in payment. She turned back to the stranger and her heart skipped a beat. He was moving swiftly toward her, his cloak billowing out behind him, his stride long and full of purpose. She inched backwards on shuffling feet until her back met stone. Oh please, she begged, please let my by, I do mean no harm! The granite was unmoved. She crouched in the corner of the wall and the archway, squashing herself in, hiding in the cracks of the masonry.
      But still he came, quickly closing in on her. But he did not turn, did not stray from his route down the center of the street. She cringed as he came level with her, and hid her face. Time seemed to hang.
      Noise and movement erupted around her and she squeaked, unable to scream. Realizing there was no threat, she peeked out from beneath her arms. She found the marketplace suddenly full of bustling customers and merchants, babbling and yelling, pushing around each other, bargaining for a better deal.
      'Eh! What you do back 'ere? Get lost little girl.'
      She stood and ran, squeezing through the crowd, leaving the archway and the cloaked man far behind. Home she fled, home to her master.
 
     Brann sneaked through the kitchen, tiptoed quickly through the empty room. Her shoes lay in her hands - bare feet made less noise on stone floors - and the chill seeped into her toes.
      'And where d'you think you've been?' The voice was sharp and sudden, the tone controlled but Brann could sense anger below the surface.
      Brann turned, fighting to control her face. It was in vain. Fear spilled out of her every pore.
      'Returned empty-handed, I see. Pathetic, useless child. Well come on then. Hand over the master's gold. I'll go myself.'
      Brann was unable to speak. She knew the gold was almost gone. She reluctantly removed the pouch from her belt, and the maidservant snatched it from her. Immediately the crone's eyes narrowed, and she glared evilly.
      'Where's the rest of it? What did you spend it on?' Batista took a step closer, pressing her face close to Brann's. Batista's breath was rank, but Brann knew better than to wrinkle her nose, and stifled a gag reflex.
      'You'll get the whip for this. I'll see to it personally.' Batista whipped around and stalked off in search of their master.
      Brann fled the kitchen, dropping the shoes to the floor, and ran to her quarters. She threw herself on the worn-out pallet in the tiny room and cried. Despite the open doorway, the cold walls pressed in around her. But this was Brann's place. This was her home. The only place she had to call her own.
      Of course, it was not hers. It was her master's, and he could take it from her if he so wished. But he cared none for his slaves, and showed interest in them only when they needed whipping. He knew nothing of her love for her sanctuary - the windowless square room barely big enough to fit her pallet. He would not know to take it from her. But Batista might.
      Brann sobbed and pressed her face into the pillow. How could she have been so stupid as to leave the cart behind? And after she had collected everything on the list! She should have thought. She should not have been so afraid. Returning with less gold than when she left, and no purchases to show for it would result in a worse punishment than the stranger could ever have given her. She tried to guess how many lashings it would be this time. Thirty? The scars on her back throbbed in memory.
      Something hit her: her shoes.
      'Get up. The Master wants to speak with you.' Batista's face was contorted in a sinister smirk.
      Why was she always so cruel? Why did she delight in making Brann's life a living nightmare?
      ''Urry up, whore. We don't got all day.' Batista disappeared down the hall. To tell the Master Brann would be late, no doubt. Brann ignored the shoes and ran to catch up, reaching the door to the Master's chamber only seconds after Batista and interrupted the maidservant's speech. The woman glared at her and sneered, then left the chamber and closed the door.
      The Master sat at his desk, many papers spread about the place. He set his pen in an inkwell, and regarded his slave.
      'Maid tells me you stole gold this morning,' he said succinctly. There was no anger in his tone, or in his eyes.
      'No, it was the man-'
      'Are you calling me a liar?' Now anger revealed itself. Brann averted her eyes. What right had she to meet eyes with her master? Stupid!
      'No, Master, but-'
      'Silence. You steal gold, and you do not buy a single item on that list. Tell me why?' Before Brann could so much as open her mouth, he continued. 'Thirty lashes,' he said simply without emotion and turned back to his notes. Brann did not let her relief show. She had expected much worse.
      'For the theft. Thirty for failing your task, and ten for lying. That is seventy if I am not mistaken.'
      Brann almost choked. Seventy lashes! She would never survive such torture. How could the authorities allow this? Surely such a number must be breaking some law? But there were ways around laws. If money could not buy a blind eye, punishments could be divided over several days, or even weeks. And she would be feeling this for weeks to come.
      He stared at her as if he expected something. A 'thank-you' perhaps?
      'Go,' he ordered, annoyance and anger blunt in his voice. Brann slipped through the wooden door as fast as she could and pulled it closed behind her, short of breath. Batista was waiting, an evil toothless grin on her face. Brann ran. Ran from Batista's chuckling. Ran from her cruel master's words. Ran back to her room.
      Seventy lashes.
 
      Whip, 'One.'
      Whip, 'Two.'
      Whip, 'Three.'
      The leather tore at her back, cut old scars, ripped fresh wounds. Years of suffering could never bring resistance to the pain. She clenched her jaw hard on the bit, and struggled not to cry out, though she could not stop the tears.
      Whip, 'Fourteen. Fifteen.'
      The stable-laird was old and brittle, but his arm was swift and his skills with a whip were nothing short of brutal.
      Whip, 'Twenty-six.'
      He was not a cruel man, but he was bitter. Brann had pieced together from odd comments and snippets of conversations that he had been a slave his long life. He relied only on himself and was always sure to do every job right. Brann could see in his eyes that he too was hurt by the whippings.
      Whip, 'And thirty.'
      Brann barely acknowledged that it was over - or the first installment at least. The pain was intense. It ripped through her body like the thunder after lightning. She could not speak. She could not move. Her eyes could not focus and she heard as if through water.
      She scarcely noted the stable-laird removing the bit and releasing her bonds. He lifted her and helped her stumble past a gloating Batista and into her quarters.
      She woke in darkness, disoriented and unaware of ever having fallen asleep. Her back had been treated - by the stable-laird, she guessed - but it still stung violently. She carefully stood, wary of every movement, and painfully pulled on her shirt, which had been left beside her pallet.
      She entered the hallway, a single torch strung on the wall the only source of light. It must be late. Surely they would be expecting her.
      She walked as fast as her wounds would allow through the thin stone hall, the smell of food wafting from the kitchen. Dinner preparations were well underway.
      'Well it's about time,' snapped Batista as Brann entered the kitchen. ''Ere, take this.' She jabbed a plate of bread rolls into Brann's gut, causing the slave to wince.
      She knew the task, and headed for a wooden door at the opposite corner of the kitchen.
      'Don't forget the butter.'
      Brann stopped, balancing the plate on one hand, and picked up the pot of yellow paste. With her back in such a state, the simple balancing act became a complex task. Brann was cautious in her entry to the dining room, and had to put the plate down again to open the door.
      The dining room was the largest on the property, though only large enough to seat six, maybe seven. The walls were bare, hung only with iron-cast lanterns. The heavy wooden table was decorated only with a pot of half-dead flowers and the remnants of the night's meal.
      He sat along the length of the thick wood, opposite his wife, and Brann had to step behind him to place the rolls in a gap between plates. As she laid them and the butter on the table and turned to leave, he slapped her on the back.
      'Good girl,' he said dismissively. She recoiled from his touch, as much from pain as from memory, and muffled a cry. She hurried back into the kitchen.
      When the master and his wife had finished their meal, Brann collected the plates.
      'Wash these before dawn,' demanded Batista. 'And wash your shirt, too. I can see 'is hand on your back. Filthy girl.' With that, Batista retired to bed and left Brann to do all the washing alone. Late into the night Brann scrubbed, hot water chapping her fingers, tears staining her eyes, blood in the shape of a hand dried to the cloth on her back.
 
      Whip, 'Thirty-one.'
      Just days later came the second installment. Wounds from the first reopened. Wounds from the second gaped raw. This was the punishment for her failure.
      The pain began to numb, began to form part of the senses that blurred as her consciousness wavered.
      Whip, 'Thirty-seven.'
      Why did she leave the coins? Why did she not move faster?
      Whip, 'Forty-nine.'
      Why did she forget the cart? Why did she hide from the man; the man that did her no harm?
      Whip, 'Fifty-six.'
      How could she be so careless?
      Whip, 'Fifty-nine. And sixty.'
      Darkness.
 
      The roof was a strange place to be sitting, though for some reason she thought nothing of it. From her perch above her quarters she could see the entire property; her master's abode to the left, the stables and pigpen away to the right, and ahead of her the single horse-paddock fronted by a bare gravel courtyard. The wooden fence bordering the paddock not only kept the horses in, but also served as an object to which they bound Brann during her whippings.
      The carriage was outside the stable with one horse harnessed and space for another. Brann saw the stable-laird leading a black mare from a stable stall, just as the master and his wife emerged from the house on the opposite side of the courtyard. As both groups closed in on the carriage, Brann turned to her companion.
      'Do you think they've seen it?' she asked. The man, all dressed in black, purple-tinted material, said nothing.
      She was suddenly looking up at him in the distance as he sat on the roof, and she on the fence near the carriage. She ignored them and watched the young girl rushing out of the servant's entrance from the home. The slave carried with her a woven basket draped with a white cloth. A third party was on the scene.
      The fourth was hidden. None were aware of the presence of the snake, except for Brann. She followed the grey-blue serpent as it trailed into the shade underneath the large wooden wheels.
      Ernm drew alongside the carriage with the mare, leading the horse to be strapped to the holsters. The snake continued under the carriage, and the master, aside his pregnant wife, drew near.
      The horse reared and waved it hooves at the discovered snake, which coiled and revealed its red underbelly, hissing. Ernm lost his grip on the reins as the horse went into a frenzy and charged. The servant-girl dropped the basket as the mare swerved away. She had narrowly missed a beating with hooves. Instead, the panicked horse struck down the swollen wife as it galloped out the open gates and away down the road.
      Bread rolls spilled from the basket and settled in the dust.
 
      She woke at sunrise with the dream in her mind, but it was soon forgotten. Several nights spent sleeping rigidly on her stomach, arms clamped at her side, unable to move, had taken its toll on her breathing, and she had to roll on her side to gasp for a lung-full of air. The pain in her back gripped her tightly. She had not noticed until now how much the pain had subsided over the few days between lashings. At least, she thought, she would not be so careless next time. Batista had not yet trusted her to return to the markets. The crone knew she would not be punished as severely for a new crime while punishment for the first was still in progress.
      Brann did not hate the woman. Batista was bitter, and cruel, and she hated Brann with a vengeance, but Brann had no quarrel with the woman. They were both slaves. They were both afforded the same punishments, the same ill treatment. Though Batista made it her mission to victimize Brann at every opportunity.
      She did not see Batista that day. Ernm, the stable-laird, had requested the servant's aid instead. He did not speak to her much, and often would not react when Brann asked a question of him, but he was not cruel to her. He set her simple tasks: cleaning the straw in the horses' stalls; sprinkling grain in the chicken pen; emptying buckets of slop in the pigsty.
      Her back often called for a rest, and she was glad that Ernm was lenient. Or perhaps he was simply so engrossed in his own work that he did not notice Brann's pauses. The work was slow and a welcome change from the rushing of the housework.
      Brann wondered how Batista was coping without her. No doubt she would take out her frustrations on Brann the following day. But today was a holiday, and Brann was determined to enjoy it as best she could.
 
      The final installment came just three days later. Surprisingly, Batista had been no more cruel than usual, but made sure she was present to witness the last of the lashings. Only ten more. Ten lashes left to complete the seventy owed. Brann clamped her jaw hard on the bit and lent into the fence-post around which her wrists were bound. She pressed her eyelids together, waiting for the first strike.
      Whip, 'Sixty-one.'
      She flinched as the leather tore again at her tender back.
      Whip, 'Sixty-two.'
      Burning pain began to swell through her torso. Skin was peeled from flesh. Bright red blood trickled in dark beads down her scarred and swollen skin.
      Whip, 'Sixty-five.'
      Nausea set in as the halfway mark was reached. Her body trembled and threatened to give way.
      Whip, 'Sixty-nine. Seventy'
      Her heart skipped. Something was wrong, she knew. But she was too relieved that the ordeal was over to think, and her senses were fading.
      Whip.
      She was totally unprepared and he caught her off balance, a scream issuing from her lips. She fell to her knees, her weight pulling at her arms that remained fastened around the top beams of the fence. She had served her punishment; she had paid for her failings. Why would it not stop?
      The whip came down again and struck her, 'Seventy-two,' and she wept openly. It took her a moment, then, to realize something had happened. Something had swept over the area. She waited, hearing only the sound of her choked sobs, and dared to twist her neck for the view around her.
      Her vision was blurred, and she struggled to focus. She could make out the unmoving figure of Batista leaning on the wooden railing of the stables, arms folded in triumph. She twisted further around the pole and saw the stable-laird, arm raised, frozen. A blurry black line curled from his hand. The whip. Frozen in air. Frozen in time. But how could this be?
      A fence rail reverberated with an impact. Brann swung her head around to see the purple-cloaked man leaning on a knee propped up on the lower beam of the stable fence. He was only inches from her, yet still his face was in shadow.
      'You,' Brann spoke, curious but no longer afraid.
      'Yes, me,' he agreed. His tone was not quite mocking.
      Brann searched for words. 'Are you a God?' Brann asked.
      He breathed a laugh but gave no answer.
      'What have you done?'
      'I have done nothing,' he said. 'I am here to offer you a choice.'
      Brann was silent.
      'You have filled your quota. These lashes you now receive are courtesy of Batista.' He glanced at the frozen woman as he said this, then returned his attention to Brann.
      'She has afforded you another ten lashings as compensation for the cart you left behind.'
      Brann would have been shocked, if she didn't know Batista's malicious mind so well.
      'You said I had a choice?'
      'Yes. A choice,' he repeated. 'The choice is this: you may stay and endure Batista's game, or I can set you free. No, not free of slavery,' he said, reading Brann's expression. 'Free of this.' He gestured vaguely at the scene.
      Brann thought for a moment of the consequences if she somehow escaped in the middle of a whipping.
      'I can arrange it so no-one shall miss you,' the man assured.
      Brann thought still. The additional punishment was false. This was Batista's game. But it was true; she had abandoned the cart, and her master had not considered this loss as well as that of the coins. She was, indeed, at fault.
      'I must stay,' said Brann, surprising herself to hear the words. Surely she did not mean it! She must be delusional.
      No. She was responsible for her actions. She had failed, and she deserved punishment for those failings. Her master had overlooked this small detail, but Batista had not and her punishment was equally valid. She was, after all, chief-maid.
      'I must complete my sentence.'
      'Very well.'
      Whip, 'Seventy-two.'
      Brann was again caught off-balance and screamed in agony. The purple man was gone and time had returned.
      Time; her enemy. Time brought pain.
 
      Orange tongues licked and whipped around yellow forks, spikes that played and danced with flaming energy. Brann watched the dry wood slowly burn, slowly turn to black ash by the consuming fire. She wondered of the wood, wondered of it's once beautiful past in it's place in the trunk of a glorious tree. She thought of the axe that cut into the trunk and carved out the log, then left it to die, left it to drain of all that was once pure within, and then set it alight. She wondered too of the beauty of the fire. Beauty that grew from the dried husk of the dead.
      She thought of her back, now healed, now covered in scars. Nothing beautiful shall ever grow from them, she thought, unless it was a tree growing from the soil beneath which she would one day lie.
      The scars; those horrible scars. She could not see them, but she could always feel them. They pulled at her skin when she moved, they bit her when she lay on them, and screamed whenever she bent.
      Brann reached back a hand and slid it under her shirt, lightly running her fingers over the ugly lumps of flesh. She was gentle, and they did not scream. But still, moist beads formed at the corners of her eyes.
      No, she would not cry, she would not let them control her.
      She busied herself in her chores. She swept where she had already swept. She dusted where she had already dusted. She scrubbed the clothes and the dishes as if she meant to wear a hole in them. And she waited for these feeling to pass.
      They did eventually fade, but they never left. From time to time she would find herself thinking of them as she lay in bed in the cold and the dark, and she would weep.
      The thoughts did not leave, but she learned to cope. She learned to continue her life, and how to change her movements to appease the scars. Though they would still sometimes bite.
      Autumn was passing and outside the trees were golden and the ground was littered with orange, yellow and still some green. Vines of ivy were growing up the walls of the house. The master's wife, too, had grown. She had swollen to a size that would no longer allow her to claim it was all 'just a little extra weight'. She spent most of her time hiding on the property, with constant visits from the wet nurse.
      But today, they had a picnic planned. The master was taking his expectant wife to a secluded place on the banks of the Marangan River, and they would be alone.
      The slaves made preparations. They cleaned and folded blankets, they cooked fresh food and packed it into baskets, and Ernm thoroughly cleaned the small carriage and bridled the horses.
      'Is this the last of it?' Brann asked as she took the basket of bread rolls from the kitchen bench.
      'Of course it is,' snapped Batista. 'D'you see anythin' else?'
      The sound of the rear door closing heralded the exit of the master and his wife.
      ''Urry up!' cried Batista, urging Brann out the kitchen door.
      Brann hurried down the hall, past her quarters and out the slaves' door to the courtyard. The rolls shifted around in the basket as she moved, and she hurriedly straightened the square of white cloth that was draped over them.
      The wild cry of a horse startled her, and she looked up at the scene.
      Ernm stood by the rearing mare not yet fixed to the carriage. His hands slipped from the reins and the horse charged.
      Brann was suddenly struck with a feeling of familiarity, and remembered the scene she had dreamt long ago.
      With only a second's thought, she dropped the basket and fell to the ground. She willed the horse to jump over her and spare the master's wife and unborn child; and to her surprise, it did! A rush of wind and the sound of hooves on gravel behind her told Brann they were safe. The horse disappeared between the slave's quarters and the pigpen, and was gone.
      And there Brann lay, amongst scattered bread in the gravel: an acceptable sacrifice for two lives saved.
 
      The stubborn stain would not budge, no matter how hard she scrubbed. Soapy water, thick bristles and a stiff hand was no match for the black ink. Only a chisel would stand a chance, Brann thought.
      She was being punished, she knew, for ruining the wife's day out. She should have stopped the beast, they said, should have herded it back to the stables. Did they not see she was too small to match such a wild animal?
      And it had not been found. Hoof-prints left in the soil led along the side of the house, past the servant's door to the kitchen, and onto the road. But they were soon lost, and the mare was nowhere in sight. No doubt another farmer had found it and claimed the horse for his own.
      Brann wondered why she was not whipped. Why was she instead ordered to scrub every inch of the floors in the residence - including the slave's quarters?
      It was an unusual punishment, but no easy feat. The backbreaking labor was made additionally difficult by her scars. The old wounds were tight and would not allow her to bend comfortably without biting pain.
      Brann had scrubbed most rooms of the house, beginning with those occupied by the master or his wife, though she was only now allowed to scrub his study. He was absent for the day and she had been warned to make good use of her time.
      The stain was relentless. Idly, Brann wondered if he would even notice it. Perhaps she could move the desk, only an inch or two, to cover the stain? She stood and surveyed the desk, calculating its weight and maneuverability. It was then that the slip of paper caught her eye.
      The usual mess had been cleared, or thrown in a drawer. And this document seemed somehow out of place. With a cursory glance at the closed door, Brann leaned over the chair for a closer inspection.
      Her reading skills were sparse, but she was not completely unlearned. She could read Batista's simple lists, familiar words she had learned long ago. But formal speech and complete sentences were a trial. She could tell from the format that this was indeed an official document, and she struggled to make sense of the few words she could pick out. Most words passed her by, but she did recognize her name, and the name of her master. A third unfamiliar title was also noted, as well as a ridiculously high price.
      Brann was shocked. If she was right, she had been sold. Sold to a man named Labrant Wiethweis Droufer.
      And she would be leaving tomorrow.
      She worked late that night, to finish scrubbing the final stone tiles in the house. She ate none of the ugly stew Batista made for the slaves and headed promptly to her quarters, ignoring the cook's upturned nose.
      She lay in the darkness without sleep. She would finally be free of this cruel place. But she felt no happiness. Her future was now uncertain, and she knew nothing of the man who had purchased her. Would he be kind? Would he be even crueler to her than Batista and the master? And, of course, she would no longer have her hole, this room with no windows and no door, the tiny cramped storage room that made her feel safe and protected. Everything she ever knew would soon be gone. She would soon be taken away from it all. Tomorrow.