The Parting Gift

children?

  III

  Later that day, as DiligentServant’s chariot sped away from the farm, DarkGlad turned to Certamen. “Tell the Purpure’s chief handler, Mogrid, I wish to speak to him.”

  Certamen nodded and turned to go.

  “As soon as possible,” PiousNight added.

  Certamen broke into a trot. The wooden tablet hanging from his neck that identified him as DarkGlad’s property slapped against his chest to the rhythm of his stride.

  The Purpure’s minders were engrossed in playful banter as the creature dragged the plow ahead of them. Over half the field had already been tilled.

  Certamen waved as he raced up to them. “DarkGlad and PiousNight want to see you immediately, Mogrid,” he panted.

  The handlers’ merriment ceased. They halted the Purpure. Mogrid, the swarthiest of the three, glanced uneasily at his two frowning companions. He removed his egg-shaped hat and rubbed a hand through his wiry, dark hair. “Keep an eye on the brute and make sure the furrows stay straight.”

  Mogrid puffed beside Certamen as they hurried back to the Sables.

  “You wouldn’t know what this is about?” Mogrid struggled out between gasps.

  The Mixy’s question was as gratifying as it was unusual. If only Certamen had an answer…

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” he admitted.

  The Mixy’s grunt was followed by a hostile silence.

  The Sables waited for them outside the hall. DarkGlad’s foot tapped impatiently. “What kept you?” she demanded.

  “Sorry, mistress.” Mogrid gasped. He bowed as much to catch his breath as to show respect. Strange. The Mixy had never struck Certamen as being so unfit.

  DarkGlad crossed her arms. “The Purpure is to be deprived of its food tonight.”

  Mogrid’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, mistress.”

  “Certamen, I understand one of the children was unwell last night. Seek the mother and learn all you can about its symptoms. Then report back to me.”

  DarkGlad dismissed the two slaves with a wave of her hand. As the slaves’ quarters and the field lay in the same direction, Certamen was forced to be Mogrid’s companion a little longer.

  “Starve the Purpure,” the Mixy murmured. “No reason given. No mention of last night’s ruckus, so it can’t be for that. The Purpure’s been well behaved all day. Not a squeak out of it. I don’t like it. Our masters are up to something.”

  Certamen bit his lip. Mogrid’s confidence intoxicated him. Should he mention DiligentServant’s visit? “I—”

  “I wasn’t talking to you, Goldilocks,” Mogrid snarled, changing direction in apparent attempt to lose his unwanted associate.

  That night, as the whimpering Purpure was chained to the floor, phantom manacles closed around Certamen’s wrists.

  “Certamen, you will sleep here tonight and keep an eye on the Purpure,” DarkGlad said, handing him a whip. “Give it a taste of that if it starts howling.” She slammed the door behind her. A bolt made a scraping sound as it slid into place.

  IV

  Certamen squeezed the whip as his eyes sifted the gloom for somewhere to sleep. He approached a small gap among the prostrate bodies. As he stepped over one lying Mixy and then another, he tensed, ready to lash out at anyone who dared to attack him. He lay down on the hard wooden floor. His neighbors shuffled about. He sat up and raised the whip, but the Mixies were shifting farther away. Being hated sometimes had unexpected benefits. He lay back down and tried to relax.

  He shut his eyes, though his grip on the whip never loosened. He flinched at every sound, no matter how innocent. The wooden tablet hanging from his neck pressed down on his chest, adding to his discomfort.

  Thankfully, the Purpure did nothing to disturb the Sables’ slumber. The creature just lay quietly snoring where it was fettered, too exhausted by its labors to protest its starvation.

  A wild scheme teased Certamen. Imagine if he and the other slaves rose up against their overlords. Or, Mixy, and even Purpure could rule Elysion, and the Sables could serve them, harvest their fields, tend their livestock until the former slaves chose to release their chastened masters. The five races could prosper together as equals, and the Lights would rule them as equals, and Elysion would be a paradise for all the races, not just for the Sables. The peace on Elysion would no longer be enforced by the whip, by fear.

  Even the Sables must be afraid. In many places they were a minority, outnumbered by their slaves, and this pestilence spreading through their settlements and farms would exaggerate this disparity further. Yes, the Sables were afraid. Fearful enough to contemplate the Purpures’ extermination.

  By his inaction, Certamen was complicit in this impending atrocity. He could loosen the Purpure’s bonds. The bolt on the door wouldn’t prevent it from escaping.

  No, it was too dangerous. The creature was likely to react to such generosity with violence. Certamen could not endanger himself and the other slaves. If he had food, he could have snuck the creature a few morsels to relieve its hunger pangs, but food lay beyond the bolted door.

  A yell announced the morning. Certamen startled awake. He must have fallen asleep at some point during the night. At least he still had the whip. Drying sweat made the handle tacky.

  “Everyone outside!” the cry repeated. It was DarkGlad’s voice.

  As Certamen queued with the Mixies to leave the cabin, he glanced back at the Purpure. The Sables are going to kill it. They are going murder it while it is chained to the ground and unable to defend itself.

  Outside, lines of Sables in black armor formed a cordon around the slaves. It was evident from the fearful bewilderment stamped on the Mixies’ faces that they, too, realized something sinister was happening. The spears closed around them, hemming them in on all sides. Beyond the Sables, several dozen Cavals watched attentively for trouble.

  “Certamen!” PiousNight shouted. He was part of the cordon, unrecognizable in his armor. He reached out a hand.

  Certamen smiled with relief. He strode over to his master.

  “Give me the whip,” PiousNight said.

  Surprise and habit made Certamen obey. The gap in the line of Sables where PiousNight had stood closed in an instant.

  Three Sables entered the slave house. The Purpure whined pitiably, then fell silent. Chains rattled. The creature stumbled awkwardly through the doorway. Its new handlers, unused to their task, randomly prodded it forward and tugged its choke chain. The Purpure was forced inside the cordon with the rest of the slaves.

  DarkGlad stood outside the ring of Sable warriors, elevated above the crowd by her chariot. She waved her arms to demand the slaves’ attention.

  “You are leaving the farm,” she said. “Behave, and no harm will come to you on the journey.”

  She made a signal with one hand. The Sables’ spears drove the slaves forward. The farm and its comforting certainties were soon distant, and Certamen found himself traversing wild countryside as hostile as it was unfamiliar. Slumped in thought, he took little interest in his surroundings. The destination, not the route, was his principle worry. He had feared the Purpure was to be murdered, its race expunged. Now it was apparent the other slaves would share the Purpure’s fate.

  Escape was impossible. The slaves were unarmed and outnumbered by their guards. Even if Certamen managed to alert the others of the impending massacre, even if they somehow overcame their reflexive aversion to him and heeded his warning, the Mixies were too lethargic to act. They defied their owners with countless small exasperations, but open rebellion was too great a leap for their timid imaginations. Fettered by their docility, Certamen had no choice but to trudge on and pray to the Lights that he was wrong.

  A glinting notion relieved a little of his foreboding. If the Sables’ intention was simple murder, why did they not dispatch the slaves back at the farm and save themselves all this laborious herding? It was such an obvious question. Why had he not thought of it sooner?

  And then, as quickly as
hope ignited, it died. If the slaves were killed on the farm, the Sables would have had to remove the corpses from the property. Execution and burial at the same location was more convenient.

  DarkGlad’s terse speech provided little comfort. She had guaranteed the slaves’ safety during the march, but she had mentioned nothing about what awaited them at its end.

  The Sables will probably make us dig our own graves.

  He seethed at the thought. Could his life have such little value?

  Rage pushed him to the front of the column. Warning glances from the lead Sables were all that prevented him from charging ahead. The sooner this journey ended, the better. At least he might be troubled no more by these morbid speculations.

  V

  Through the morning and hungry afternoon they marched, pausing briefly only once at a rivulet to slake their thirst. As the exhausted slaves arrived at a palisade, evening bled across the sky. Outside, two Purpures whined plaintively as they wriggled against the chains fastening them to posts. DarkGlad’s Purpure was prodded over to where a third post was being erected while the rest of the slaves were herded inside to join the multitude of Mixies within. Not one Or stood among them. Certamen was alone.

  The pen stank of stale urine. A large trough of sour water sated the newcomers’ thirst, but their guards fed them only promises. In the morning, the slaves would have plenty of food. All they had to do was be patient. Some slaves moaned halfheartedly, but most were too weary to protest.

  Morning came too fast for tired bodies. The Sables’ whips organized the weary slaves into rows. DiligentServant scrutinized each slave in turn, picking out the lame or otherwise enfeebled. He passed Certamen without a glance. At the end of the inspection, those deemed unfit to walk were taken away.

  “Where are you taking them?” Certamen demanded. Fear and impatience got the better of prudence.

  DiligentServant strode over to him and eyed him intently. “They will travel in carts. As you are so concerned about their welfare, you can join them.”

  Two Sables seized Certamen’s arms, dragged him from the pen, and forced him into a wheeled cage. The enclosure was already so packed that he had to stand, while the low ceiling forced him to hunch. His companions were heavily pregnant women, recent mothers and their newborns, the crippled, and the sick. The driver ensconced on the roof whipped the two Purpures harnessed to the vehicle, and the cart jolted forward.

  A little wriggle room remained in the cage, and the Mixies took turns propping themselves against the lattice of bars to imbibe fresh air through the gaps. Certamen neither asked for, nor was offered, a chance to be part of this informal rotation. He twisted around and breathed through a gap in the ceiling until the awkwardness of his posture became unbearable, forcing him back to stooping. It was impossible to lose himself in his thoughts—the ache creeping up his legs and back, the dew of his companions’ breath prickling his skin, the reek of their stale sweat, their bodies jostling and pressing against him.

  At noon the cart halted, and the driver fed the prisoners. Pats of cold gruel were spooned through the bars into their outstretched palms. Determined not to be bullied out of his share, Certamen pushed and shoved and squeezed his hand through the curtain of clinging prisoners to snatch half a handful of precious sustenance. It was sour and hard to swallow, but it satisfied his growling stomach a little. He greedily licked his fingers.

  The vehicle moved off again, then halted suddenly. The door groaned open. Mixies disappeared through it, until a path cleared between Certamen and the Sables outside.

  “You get out!” one of them roared.

  Who was he talking to? Certamen stayed still in hopes that the order was directed at someone else.

  Red hands reached inside and seized him. He wriggled against them as they dragged him toward the open door, but he could not break their hold.

  “Mind what you’re doing!” a male prisoner roared as Certamen kicked in rage.

  Hands pressed against his back and shoved him out. A Sable fist eclipsed the sun before it struck his cheek. He spiraled as he fell and landed facedown in the dirt.

  A whip cracked, followed by the desperate shuffle of feet. The door rasped and banged as it swung shut.

  “That’ll teach you to jump when I give orders,” a Sable declared.

  “You’ve tasted PureHeart’s fist. You’d better get up before you taste his foot,” one of the Sable’s comrades said.

  Certamen stood, his hands brushing at the dirt on his tunic. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Master,” he added, a grudging afterthought. His cheek hurt, but he dared not touch it. Showing weakness might invite greater violence. He wistfully watched the cart trundle away.

  “Look at me!” PureHeart demanded.

  Reluctantly, Certamen obeyed. The Sable’s black eyes glared at him.

  “Now I have your attention,” PureHeart said. “One of your kind has taken shelter in a place we cannot go. You’re going to convince him to leave it. He can’t escape. If he stays there, he’ll starve to death. Don’t get any ideas about joining him, either. Even if we cannot reach you, our arrows can. Do you understand?”

  Certamen nodded.

  PureHeart turned and stomped away. “Take him to the pit.”

  Hands pushed against Certamen’s back, shunting him forward. “Walk straight ahead until I tell you otherwise,” one of the Sables ordered.

  He obeyed, turning left or right as he was told. The Sables remained stubbornly behind him. He risked a quick glance.

  A fist punched his back. “Keep your eyes on where you’re walking.”

  What was the reason for this secrecy?

  “Stop!” a voice roared. A sour-faced, female Sable emerged from the thicket. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “We brought this Or to talk some sense into the one hiding in the pit,” one of Certamen’s guards said.

  The female Sable scrunched her nose. “This is a waste of time. We should bury the pit and him with it.”

  “PureHeart’s orders.”

  The female Sable grunted. She beckoned Certamen with her hand. He hesitated.

  “Hurry up!” she snapped.

  He approached warily.

  Her gauntlet’s metal fingers dug into his shoulder. She pointed to the thicket behind her. “It’s in there. Follow the cat tracks.”

  She released her grip. Certamen rubbed his shoulder as he pushed through the dense wall of young trees. Wheel ruts cut a path through the brush. At the end, a huge depression yawned. A fly tickled his cheek. Others hummed around him. He tensed at the stench of putrefaction. He forced a reluctant step forward and then another. What awaited him in the pit?

  The buzzing grew louder, the flies more brazen. He shielded his mouth and nose, took a deep breath, and strode onward.

  Each step nearer the lip revealed more of the far side of the pit. Certamen shuddered at the realization that the purple flowers peeping from the midst of the black bed were actually hands and faces. Standing on the pit’s edge confirmed the bottom was covered with Sable corpses at various stages of decomposition. The depth of the layer of bodies was anyone’s guess.

  Crouched on an island in this sea of carrion was an Or.

  “Hello!” Certamen yelled.

  The Or shielded his eyes and looked up. “Who are you?”

  “Certamen of the Eleventh Legion.”

  The Or saluted with an open hand. “Defensor of the Fourth. How did you end up here?”

  “The Sables sent me,” Certamen said. “They hope I can convince you to leave.”

  The Or looked about. “Come on down. You see that flat, dark green rock over there? There’s a collection of stepping stones over to here.”

  Certamen descended the crumbling bank and followed Defensor’s instructions. The stink was unbearable. It was as if he were swimming through flies as he stepped and hopped from one stone to the next. One rock wobbled beneath his foot, threatening to tip him onto the rotting cadav
ers, but somehow he kept his balance. Everywhere, dead eyes stared at him.

  Finally, he took Defensor’s hand and leapt onto his little island.

  “They’re terrified they’ll catch the plague if they come near the pit,” Defensor said.

  “How did you end up here?” Certamen asked.

  “I overheard my masters discussing the removal of the slaves from their farm, so I fled.”

  “Do you know what they intend to do with us?”

  “I’m sorry to say I don’t,” Defensor said. “I didn’t wait to find out. I got all the way here from Bysea, and then I blundered into some Sable hunters. They nearly caught me, but fortunately, I stumbled upon this sanctuary.” His opened his arms wide.

  “You can’t stay here.” Certamen spat a fly from his mouth. “This place is a slow death at best.”

  Defensor grinned. “I couldn’t leave, but now you’re here… Come closer. They may be watching.”

  As Certamen leaned nearer, Defensor stuffed something into his hands. Wrapped in rags was something hard—a knife of some sort.

  “Be careful,” Defensor hissed. “That thing is sharp. It’ll slice through you in an instant if you’re careless.”

  “It’s a knife?” Certamen asked. Were they being watched? He scanned the pit’s rim. If anyone was up there, they were well hidden.

  Defensor grinned. “It more than a knife. It’s a relic from the Light War. A parting gift from my master.”

  “Impossible,” Certamen said. “It was forbidden to bring such weapons to Elysion.”

  “My master kept his as a trophy,” Defensor said. “He smuggled it to Elysion. I took it from its hiding place. He may not even know I’ve taken it. Even if he does, he can’t openly search for it. The penalty of possessing such a weapon would be stoning or worse. This knife might be our people’s last hope, depending on what the Sables have in store for them. You must protect it with your life.”

  Certamen nodded.

  Defensor looked unimpressed. “Promise me in our Bright Lord’s name that, no matter what happens to me when we leave here, you’ll guard this weapon.”

  “By Aurelian, I promise,” Certamen said. As if his word wasn’t enough.

  Defensor sprang onto the first stepping stone. “Let’s go.”

  As he bounded to the other side, Certamen tucked the knife beneath his tunic and cautiously followed. The stones were less steady this time, or perhaps it was a trick of his imagination.

  Movement in the midst of the cadavers caught his eye. An arm shifted, a plea for help. Someone was alive. The shock nearly toppled him into the mess of bodies. As he steadied himself, he pointed to the arm. “Look!”

  A rat peeped out from under it.

  “There’s a lot of those about,” Defensor said. “I’m surprised there aren’t more.”

  Growing nausea hastened Certamen across the stones. Standing beside Defensor, he leaned over and retched. He waited for his empty stomach to stop clenching. Every spasm hurt.

  “Lucky those stones were there,” he said.

  “It wasn’t luck. It was me,” Defensor said. “I didn’t feel safe here. Whatever chance of Sables sneaking