A shiver passes through me, gooseflesh rising on my arms, but the shouting desire settles, a sullen and unsatisfied thing that growls at me even as I ignore it.
Why am I here?That question rises to fill the hole open in my mind, waiting for me to fall into it.I cling the lip instead, and the words.
I’m a different kind of slave, not to the medicine anymore—not ever again.No, but I am still a captive, if to a slightly lesser evil.
Strangers hold me in their control.We’ll see how long that lasts now that I’m myself again.
Where am I going?The final question in my first round of distractions I can’t answer, or even deduce, though I do have a guess.There are no portholes in this place, no view of the water or land—if there even is land to be seen where we sail—and though it’s clearly day in the world above from the sparks of light that make it through the cracks in the ceiling overhead, barely three feet above me, without access to the deck, I’m left to surmise.
Slavery isn’t common in the Overkingdom, though not unheard of.There are different kinds of slaves, of course, from forced concubines to peasants eking out their livings under the thumb of nobles.The slave trade, on the other hand, is far more prevalent in the southern kingdom, at least from what my mother told me.
Her father’s people came from the south, my grandfather’s early death in battle a tragedy she rarely spoke of.Or Vivenne’s father, for that matter, Queen Thera’s second husband, who perished in the same manner shortly after my aunt was born.That’s why, I think, I believed so readily that my own father had died when I was a baby.
Death runs a deep, masculine fissure through the heart of my family.
Or does it?I inhale some of the nasty, heated air, but refuse to cough when it burns my throat and lungs, swallowing it instead.Is everything Mother told me a lie?
I can’t answer that question, so I instead return to the ones at the top of mind.If we are heading south, that explains my memories of not understanding the language of the men who attacked us.And could explain the humidity I’m now realizing makes me sticky and increases my difficulty drawing air.I don’t know how much time I’ve lost, but it was early fall when I rode for Winderose, barely weeks later when I escaped the cells beneath the Citadel.The heat that smothers my inhalations feels far too much like summer for the Overkingdom.
Unless… has a year passed?No, I won’t accept that.South, then.Which meant Vivenne had sailed us far from the Overkingdom herself before we were intercepted.
But who was she meeting and why?
Again, there’s no information, not yet, and wondering increases my tension instead of easing it.I take a moment, count heads.There are about a dozen others, only one pale-skinned through his filth, typical of many of the northernmost countries, which means he’s also from the Overkingdom or shares that heritage, at least.The rest, however, are dark-eyed with matching hair, features similar to my own, high brows and cheekbones, narrow noses and deep-set gazes familiar to me, if only from my reflection.
I’ve always resembled my mother more than my aunt, the bloodline of my grandfather dominant, many of the armies of Heald darker-skinned from our comingling with the people of the southern kingdom.While Sarn lies closer to the border than our land does, it’s rare any of their people choose the same.Another reason Mother always despised Sarnians, and their arrogant judgment of those not of the same kingdom.
Whatever the case, this is just another piece of the puzzle that I’ve assembled to suggest we are indeed heading where I think we are.
“I won’t hurt you,” I say.It’s a rumbling growl, but I do think I’m decipherable.“I’m sorry if I did before.I was unwell.”
None of them respond, though their fear seems to ease a little, some exchanging looks.The light-skinned man shakes his head at me and says something in that same language I don’t know.
Not from the Overkingdom, then.Whether that confirms my guess or not, I can’t say, and I’m about to speak again when I think better of it.
It’s just too much effort to try, and I need to save my strength.
Sleep comes despite my need to protect myself, if only because I firmly remind my instincts that I’ve already spent far too long down here completely out of my mind, and I’m still alive.When I wake again, I’m feeling better, stronger, at least relatively so.I’m a far throw from swinging a sword.
I have a chance to get back to it, though.
When I look up, I note that the light no longer shines through the cracks above my head.Night has fallen, then.
There’s a rattle of metal, a chain being handled, then a thud and the flash of a lantern as the hatch is thrown wide ten feet or so from me.I watch carefully as a sailor, barefoot and grimacing, grunts his way toward us with a small cask under one arm.He drops it inches from my toes, glancing at me as I stare up at him.
I don’t flinch.But he does.
He turns and runs back the way he came, climbing the three steps up to the deck, then returning with a bag of something that he again dumps, this time on the surface of the cask.When he retreats, he slams the hatch closed again, the chain again clanking, ending in an abrupt click.
No one moves or speaks, but the tension vibrates through the air toward me from the others.It takes a moment for my dark vision to return, to adapt to the lack of light now that the lantern is gone.It’s the scent of something that catches my attention, that cuts through the vile smells seeping into my very pores.
“Water,” I croak out loud.“It’s water, isn’t it?”
They still hold back while I crawl forward, feeling the cask.It’s warm, but wet, and though I barely have the strength to crack the top open, my thirst suddenly doesn’t care that I’m weak.
It’s selfish, but the moment the thin, wooden lid is lifted, I plunge my face into the water and suck a large mouthful, the warm, sour stuff a bounty, better than the finest wine, the richest mead.I surface, gasping for air, and take another long drink, slower this time, before I fall back, belly stuffed with fluid, collapsing against the curve of the ship’s hull to wait and see if my body rejects what I just so greedily ingested.
They move then, slowly, creeping forward, taking their own turns at the cask.I can feel their eyes on me, watching as they drink, like forest creatures anticipating the attack of a predator, but I’m far too busy listening to my shrunken stomach gurgle, fighting the urge to throw up the precious water I will not lose.
