The Parting Gift

been?” PiousNight growled. “Dawdling about the farm instead of being ready to attend your mistress!” He snatched the whip from Certamen’s hands and raised it over his head.

  “A chariot is coming!” Certamen pleaded. He raised a trembling hand over his face. The act was certain to further provoke PiousNight, but Certamen could not help it.

  The whip wavered. Certamen bowed his head.

  “It must be DiligentServant,” DarkGlad said.

  Certamen glanced up. The whip was cradled in the arms of its bearer.

  PiousNight turned toward his wife. “And it must be of grave import for him to travel during the Dark Light’s time.”

  The chariot halted outside.

  DiligentServant leapt down from the car. “Galea, unharness the Cavals and see to their needs.”

  As he strode over to DarkGlad and embraced her, PiousNight’s face twisted.

  “How have you been, DarkGlad?” DiligentServant asked. He glanced at PiousNight. “How have you both been?”

  “I’m expecting,” DarkGlad said, her lips curving into a smile.

  PiousNight grinned.

  “Congratulations to you both,” DiligentServant said warmly. He shook hands with DarkGlad and then PiousNight.

  Certamen woke from his daze. It wasn’t a slave’s place to stand there as if somehow part of the conversation. He stoked the fire and plumped the cushions, then prepared some refreshments for the Sables, all the while glancing at them and listening.

  “And the farm?” DiligentServant asked.

  DarkGlad shrugged. “With the slaves, it is easy.”

  DiligentServant’s voice quieted. “You’re not nervous out here in this wilderness all by yourselves?” he asked.

  “We’re not alone,” PiousNight said. “We have the Cavals.”

  “You came by yourself,” DarkGlad observed.

  “I can drive that vehicle as well as any charioteer,” DiligentServant said. He flicked a nervous glance at PiousNight. “In peacetime, obviously. I wouldn’t have your husband’s skills.”

  PiousNight nodded. A tight smile stretched across his face.

  They sat down on cushions, while Certamen poured wine for each.

  DiligentServant took a sip, then frowned. “I have something to discuss with you in private.”

  “Certamen, you can leave us for now,” DarkGlad said.

  Certamen bowed and left. The dismissal was peculiar. The Sables had always ignored his presence in the past.

  He found DiligentServant’s Or, Galea, waiting outside. It was strange to see another member of his race after so long. The flaxen face beneath the golden curls hadn’t aged in the slightest. Galea’s orange eyes sparkled. Looking about nervously, he opened one hand, displaying its symmetrical dual thumbs. With some reticence, Certamen reciprocated. If they were caught making the sign of their god, their owners would give them a severe thrashing.

  “It must be three years since we last met,” Galea said.

  “Have you met any other Ors recently?”

  “I met Malleolus, Nitor, and Cor on other farms,” Galea said. “I saw Consilium, Auctor, Peritus, and Fulgur when DiligentServant took me to the Champion’s palace, but I did not get an opportunity to talk to any of them. I hear the Champion, being ruler of the Sables, retains ten Ors in his retinue. And you? Have you news of any others?”

  Certamen sighed. “Where would I meet them? My masters never bring me anywhere. Not even to the neighboring farms. I am stuck here, surrounded by Mixies, and they make sullen company. They hardly speak to me.”

  “Your companions are friendlier than mine then,” Galea said. “My first day on DiligentServant’s farm, my bedding and other possessions were stolen. I searched the slave house but found no trace of them. They were dumped or destroyed. Spite, not greed, was the reason for their theft. I complained to DiligentServant, but he has no interest in the squabbles of slaves. I nearly got a whipping for my troubles.”

  He shook his head ruefully. “Now I keep what little I have with me, or if I cannot, I hide my belongings in the forest where the Mixies would have to work hard to find them. You know how lazy they are. They often spit at me. I have had to wash their disgusting phlegm from my hair so many times. The dirty beasts laugh about it. They think it is funny. They also hit me when they think they can get away with it.”

  “I had similar problems here when I first arrived,” Certamen said. “Then one night, two Mixies seized me while I slept and gave me a severe beating.” With a grimace, he revealed his teeth. “See, they knocked out a tooth. They broke my nose too.”

  “I noticed your nose was crooked,” Galea said.

  Certamen blushed. “When DarkGlad and PiousNight saw me the next morning, bruised and bloody, they were furious. I knew who had beaten me, but for some reason, I shied from identifying them. I claimed I could not see their faces in the dark. DarkGlad whipped Mixies at random until the culprits revealed themselves, and you can imagine the punishment they received for damaging a gift from the Champion. One of them still walks with a limp. Since then, the Mixies here have given me little trouble.”

  “You were lucky,” Galea said. “Well, you were unlucky to be beaten, but the incident was something your owners couldn’t ignore. My Mixies are too clever to make that mistake. They do enough to make my life miserable but not enough for DiligentServant to bother to take an interest. I hate Mixies. I can hardly suffer being in the same hut as them, inhaling their stinking breath, listening to their self-aggrandizing lies. They are so sly and deceitful.” He shivered. “They sicken me. They maintain such a docile manner around Sables, but behind their backs, Mixies mock their masters with the voraciousness of wolves tearing apart a carcass.”

  “I don’t think Sables are beguiled by their act,” Certamen said. “At least, not my masters. DarkGlad often says that Mixies are uninspired workers, easily distracted, prone to slack when unsupervised, and not to be trusted. She says they promise a lot but deliver little.”

  Galea pursed his lips. “If DiligentServant is aware of their falsehood, he never speaks of it. If he knows, he certainly does not care.”

  “I’ve often thought the most damning indictment against the Mixies comes from their own lips,” Certamen said. “Their haste to accuse their own kind of deceit is astounding.”

  Galea chuckled grimly. “But what would you expect from two races so quick to disavow their Lights? The Sables never asked them to renounce their gods. Yet they discarded their allegiance to their white or blue lord as if it was something they had used to wipe their bottoms.”

  “Their strange antics at night astonish me,” Certamen admitted. “Some whisper gibberish while kneeling, squatting, or standing. Some strike their backs with cords as though their master’s whip was not enough. Others occasionally creep into the forest, tie braids of their hair to tree branches, or daub rocks with blood. One Mixy even serenades a star when it is visible in the sky.”

  Galea nodded. “I, too, have witnessed such odd behavior on DiligentServant’s farm. Several Mixies sing to a star as you describe. Others stand motionless with their arms raised above their heads like tree limbs. Such ridiculous nonsense!”

  “I would be happy to trade masters if it were possible,” Certamen confided. “I am envious of your good fortune to serve DiligentServant. I would be content to bear the cruelty of his Mixies if I could travel like you through Elysion.”

  “Its beauty makes me sad at times,” Galea said. “Had we won the Light War, this land would not be so unkempt.”

  Certamen nodded. “What news of the world beyond this farm?”

  “Only bad news,” Galea replied. “A sickness is spreading through the land. It has killed many Sables.”

  “Have many Ors died?” Certamen asked.

  “No,” Galea said, bowing as he kicked the ground. “Ors and Mixies and Purpures appear to be immune. It infects only Sables and Cavals. Our masters are scared. They blame the Purple Light. The victims’ skin takes on a purple cast.” r />
  He glanced around and said softly, “There is a lot of wild talk.” He paused a moment and then whispered, “Some Sables want to kill all the Purpures.”

  Certamen gasped. Surely such barbarity was consigned to the past, to Gules. The Sables would not sully their hard-won paradise with such a depraved act. “The Purple Light, all the Lights, would punish them,” he protested.

  Galea shrugged. “The Dark Light gave us to the Sables to treat as they please. If the Sables decide to kill the Purpures or the Mixies or us, no Light will stop them.”

  “You are certain they intend to do this?” Certamen asked.

  Galea opened his hands as he shrugged. “I overheard some Sables discussing it.”

  “Could be just talk,” Certamen suggested, rubbing his chin.

  “Could be,” Galea admitted. “I am not privy to the mind of the Champion, so how can I be certain?”

  Arguing with Galea was pointless. Once his view had fixed, it was impossible to alter.

  But Certamen wasn’t persuaded.

  The Sables must be devising a cure for this sickness. Perhaps they planned some grand sacrifice to appease the Lights. The possibility that knowledge of the disease might embolden the Sables’ slaves to rebel was sufficient reason for secrecy. Galea might have overheard some guest at one of his master’s feasts—befuddled by drink, no doubt—mutter about killing the Purpures, but the sober majority of Sables would not entertain mass murder as a cure for the Purple Light’s plague. How would the Purple Light be appeased by murdering his