his feet when he sank with despair.
Weak slaves met with no mercy. The whip saw to the slow ones; the knife to the feeble. The
slavers were in a hurry to make it to the market in Tigral by the turn of the month so kept up a
punishing pace.
Yelena had been separated from the men and now rode with the other female slaves in the
wagon. The slavers were keen that the women arrived looking presentable, as premiums were
paid for healthy house girls.
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Appearance for the men was less important as most were destined for the mines. A few whip
strokes would make no difference in price. Strength was the main quality prized and the slavers
had high hopes for the big man they had captured, sure he would break all records this year
when put to auction.
They reached Tigral at the end of the second nightmarish week. Ramil barely stirred himself to
look up at the walled garden city rising out of the coastal plain. The Inland Sea curled around the
rose-colored stone of the walls, ships at anchor in the ports. Fergox's palace stood in the center
on the top of an artificial mound, the work of previous generations of slaves. It was painted gold
and twinkled in the sunlight--a palace built primarily for pleasure rather than defense. His wives
lodged here, each with her own pavilion and garden. Lemon and orange trees shaded the broad
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avenues of the rich men's houses. Cherry trees bloomed exuberantly in the courts of the Great
Temple, white petals falling in drifts, covering the bloody gutters that trickled in constant
sacrifice to Holin.
The slaves only glimpsed this other world before they were ushered to the holding pens down
by the port. The women were escorted to a shed but the men were held in the open. The cages
were already full of captives and space was bitterly contested but somehow no one saw fit to
challenge Gordoc for his corner, allowing Ramil and Melletin to sit unmolested at his side. The
pen smelt of unwashed bodies and human waste. Those who had already been here a week
scratched blank-eyed at their scabbed knees, only rousing when the food was poured into the
trough at the entrance. Flies buzzed, settling in clouds on mouths and eyelids.
No longer able to bear his thoughts about Tashi, Ramil turned his mind to his father. Lagan
would weep to see his son here. But Ramil knew that many more Gerfalians would be joining
him in the pens very soon now that their mission to bring the Blue Crescent navy into the war
had ended in disaster.
I've failed them, he thought. My father trusted me to do what was in the best interests of my
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people, but I failed.
And what has my life been about really? Ramil wondered. I've reacted to events, never initiated
any action I can be proud of -- except the escape.
He thought about what he had told Tashi when she had been at her lowest ebb. He had said to
her that
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maybe the Goddess had put her there because She wanted her to follow a strange path. They
had been glib words from someone who had not known her depth of suffering. Ramil knew that
his own faith was a sorry affair compared to Tashi's--a lazy belief in some benign Father God, a
creator who had always been on excel ent terms with the ac Burinholts like a jol y old patron.
There was little for him to hold on to now that he had reached his own nadir.
So do I give up? he asked himself. Not listen to my own advice to trust that there is a plan?
If there is a God behind all this, it looks like a pretty rubbish plan to me, his cynical side chipped in.
But what would Tashi want me to do?
No sooner had he framed the question than he knew the answer. She would want him to trust
his God; she would expect him to do his duty. He could not honor her by dying here in the filth
with a whimper.
If this is where I am supposed to be right now, Ramil thought, then I have to find a way to serve
the interests of my people. I don't stop being a prince just because I'm in chains.
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Ramil sat up, the light of battle re-ignited in his eyes.
"Right, Gordoc, Melletin," he said, "we've got work to do."
The river washed Tashi up on a sandbank two miles down from where she had jumped. She was
barely
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alive, her spirit wandering between this world and the Peaceful Gardens of the Mother. But it
appeared the Goddess did not want her company just yet: She sent Tashi back so that the girl
returned to consciousness, coughing and vomiting river water as she lay on her side.
Tashi stayed where she was for a long time, hearing the water chatter by over the stones, and
the night chorus of crickets squeak in the long grass.
She didn't want to think because thinking meant admitting that she'd lost Ramil and her other
friends. She'd left them with the slavers and there was nothing she could do for them--nothing
she could do for herself.
To punish her body for being alive, she sat upright. Her hair hung over her face in pale threads,
the dye washed from it after her dousing in the river.
It's stringy, she thought, and burst into tears. She hugged her body, missing the warmth of Ramil
who had held her to him only hours ago. She touched her lips, trying to recall the feel of his
mouth on hers, but she was cold and bruised, her face swelling out of all recognition since her
passage through the rapids.
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Long slow minutes of darkness passed. Then a horse neighed from the bank. Tashi looked up
and saw Thunder standing there, clearly wondering what she was doing sitting in the wet. She
thought for one wild moment of hope that he might have Ramil on his back, but he was alone,
the picket rope trailing from his bridle. Even so, she was relieved to see a friendly face, if not a
human one. Tashi crawled out of the shallows
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and pulled herself onto the bank. Teeth gently pulled her up by the back of her tattered tunic.
"Thunder!" she said, falling against him when she reached the top. "Thank you."
Her shaking hands explored his back. She touched a saddle and bags, then a bedding roll. Ramil
had not taken them off, which was unexpected because he usually saw to the horse before
himself. She then remembered that he had promised he'd have her supper waiting for her when
she returned from her wash. He must have rushed to start cooking, for once leaving the horse
till later. She took off the blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders, then opened the bags.
They were full of Ramil's gear. The familiar smell of his shirts was heart-rending and wonderful
at the same time.
She slipped out of her own wet things and dressed herself in his spare clothes, closing her eyes
and trying to imagine that he was with her.
"Well, boy, what next?" she asked the horse.
Thunder nudged her with his soft nose, inviting her to mount.
"I'm not as good a rider as Ramil. You'll have to do all the work," she said wearily, hauling herself into the saddle. The slaver had said the river would mash her and he had been right. Every limb
cried out with pain as she moved.
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Thunder trotted smoothly back up the road.
"Which way?" she wondered.
Thunder made up her mind for her. He headed south, smelling the horse pastures on the