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Ursuline was as persistent as she was patient. “Let me ask one boon of you, then, my lord.”
He was tired of bargaining. He was tired of the sight of mewling, whimpering, dirty slaves, who were of less use to him than the scrawniest of his goats and cattle because their flesh was too sour to eat. He cut off her words with a sharp gesture. Turning, he lifted a foot to walk away—
Confined within white walls, it pushes restlessly against its prison, but it is too weak to do more than nudge up against its prison wall before the bath of warm liquid in which it floats soothes it back into lassitude. Awareness flickers dimly. Hunger smolders. Shapes, or thoughts, spin and twirl in its mind before dissolving. It remembers ancient fire, and a great burning. Is it not the child of flame, that all creatures fear? Voices whisper, but it cannot understand the meaning behind such sounds, and within moments it has forgotten what a voice is. Memory dies. The waters of forgetfulness rock beneath it. It sleeps.
Stronghand’s foot hit the ground, jolting him back to himself.
He had to blink, because the weak autumn sun seemed so strong that his eyes could not adjust. Stark terror flooded him, surging like a tide through his body. In the spawning pools of every tribe, the nests of the RockChildren ripened. Once he, too, had been a mindless embryo bathed in the waters of forgetfulness, seeking nothing more than his next meal. In the nesting pools, those hatchlings lived who devoured their nest brothers rather than being devoured themselves. Those that ate matured into men, and those that simply survived instead of being eaten remained dogs.
Yet before Alain freed him from Lavastine’s cage, he had been, like his brothers, a slave to the single-minded lust for killing and war and plunder that still afflicted most of his kind. How close had he come to being a dog instead of a thinking man? How close was any creature to unthinking savagery, forgetting what it was?
With effort, he forced the fear back. He had not bathed too long in those waters. He had clawed his way free. Alain had freed him from his cage, and he meant to remain the way he was. He would not let memory sleep, and instinct rule.
Slowly, the world came clear around him and he could see again. He tightened his grip on his staff. Deacon Ursuline and Papa Otto had averted their eyes, careful not to be seen noticing his weakness. But even so, they looked startled, utterly amazed.
Let them not believe he had changed, or faltered.
“This is my decision. It is true that these half-wits are your family just as the dogs who swarm around our halls are my brothers. If you can take care of these half-wits, and if it does not interfere with your labors, then I will not touch them. But I lay the same obligations on you that I did when we agreed to the bargain over your god’s house. As long as their presence among you does not interfere with the tasks set for you by your masters, then you may deal with them as you see fit. If I am dissatisfied, then I will act swiftly.”
“We cannot ask for more than that,” said Deacon Ursuline, quick to seal the bargain.
“No”, he agreed, “you cannot.”
Before he could make any more rash bargains, he walked away, still shaken. Yet because of his keen hearing, he heard them as they spoke to each other in low voices.
“These slaves served the Eika for many years in such tasks as cleaning out the privies. We ought not to waste the labor of those who are clever on that kind of mindless work when they could be doing other things like tanning or building. Surely we can find a place for each person to do some task, even the ones who act little better than dogs.”
Deacon Ursuline did not reply right away. He heard her suck in her breath, as at a blow to the stomach. Where the path knifed into the forest, he paused to listen. Her words drifted to him as faintly as a sigh.
“I served a lord in Saony who was less just than this one.”
Papa Otto made no reply.
Silently, Stronghand followed the path into the forest. There was wisdom in what Papa Otto said, of course. By releasing the strong from tasks that could be as easily done by the weak, all would prosper.
He had acted too hastily in this matter of the half-witted slaves. A wise leader gives enough rope to those clever enough to use it well, as he would need to pay out rope to Tenth Son. Do not keep the loyal ones lashed up too tightly; their obedience is bought by trust, not by fear.
His slaves had not failed him yet, even if they thought, now and again, of rebellion and of freedom. He had no need to say more, or to act other than he had just done. They knew what the consequences would be if they failed him, and they knew what would happen to them if his rule over Rikin Fjord ended.
It was in their interest to keep him strong.
2
“IT’S uncanny, it is,” said Ingo that night at the campfire in the tone of a man who has said the same thing the day before and expects to repeat himself tomorrow. “Rain behind but never before. At least my feet are dry.”
“It’s that weather witch,” said Folquin impulsively. “She’s making it rain on the Quman army and not on us.” His comrades shushed him violently, glancing around as though they feared the wind itself might carry their words to the powerful woman about whom he spoke.
Hanna cupped her hands around a mug in a desperate attempt to keep them warm, for although it was dry, the wind out of the northwest stung like ice. “Have a care, Folquin. Prince Bayan’s mother has an eye for good-looking young men to be her slave bearers, and she might take a liking to you if you come to her attention.”
Ingo, Leo, and Stephen laughed at her jest, but perhaps because Folquin wasn’t the kind of young man girls flocked around, her words stung him. “The way Prince Bayan has an eye for you, Eagle?”
“Hush, now, lad,” scolded Ingo. “It isn’t any fault of Hanna’s that the Ungrians think her light hair a sign of good luck.”
“No matter,” said Hanna quickly as Folquin seemed ready to fall all over himself apologizing for his wretched tongue. “Mind you, Prince Bayan’s a good man—”
“And no doubt would be a better one if he could only keep his hands to himself,” said Folquin with an appeasing grin.
“If a roving eye is the worst of his faults, then God know, he’s better than the rest of us,” replied Ingo. “I’ve no complaints about his leadership in battle. We’d all be heads dangling from Quman belts if it weren’t for his steely nerves at the old high mound last month.”
