Her reward would be possession of the man she had conquered, if she didn't kill him, and full citizenship.
It was no secret that many girls were killed in these rites of passage. That was as the Mazonites preferred; there was no place in Mazonia for weaklings. Every woman must be prepared to protect herself, for there would be no one who would protect her, ever, unless and until she grew wealthy enough to buy bodyguards. A weak woman was a liability- even a danger-to the nation.
The fewer women there were who made the passage from girlhood to womanhood, the fewer there were to share the power and the privilege of citizenship. And the fewer to challenge the Queen to trial-by-conjuration for the right to lead.
Xylina tore her eyes away from the slave's by force of will. Xantippe was watching her with a sardonic smile on her face. Xylina tried not to show how shaken she was, but her stomach fluttered and her knees trembled.
"Like that brute, do you?" the slave-keeper said, with heavy irony. "Sound of wind and limb, I can tell you that much for sure. Would you believe his mistress had him trained as ascribe ?"
Xylina blinked in surprise, thrown off-guard by the revelation, but said nothing. Xantippe took that as an invitation to continue.
She tapped the bars of the man's cell with the end of her whip; the man inside didn't flinch, or even appear to notice. "Little Faro here used to belong to Euterpe until a few months ago. She had him educated; he was supposed to be her scribe and private secretary." Xantippe grinned maliciously. "She sent him off to the training center. Then he had the poor taste to start growing, and pretty soon he was getting a little too big for his desk. The scribe-teacher got the wind up and sent for her. Euterpe got one look at him, and just about dropped a litter of cats. She called the auctioneers, and they agreed to take him."
She laughed. "Then he got wind of the news that she was going to sell him off, as a common laborer."
She tapped the bars again, sharply this time, to get Faro's attention. He transferred his glare briefly to her.
"Poor Faro. Didn't like the notion of getting those pretty hands all calloused up in the fields, did you? Didn't care for the idea that you weren't going to that soft life after all?"
His lips writhed in a silent snarl, but he said nothing. Xantippe crowed with laughter.
"That was when he went crazy-broke up some furniture and a few heads. Euterpe couldn't get rid of him fast enough." She chuckled and shook her head. "I pity the wench who has to facehim . A rabbit would have about as much chance against a wolverine, even an experienced arena-fighter."
Xylina felt a moment of pity for the man-small wonder he hated the Mazonites! As a scribe, he would have known that eventually he would probably win his freedom. It was the custom among the Mazonites to free one slave every seven years, and the ones freed were usually those of the artisan ranks. Faro would have been able to sell his services to those who could not afford their own scribe-slaves, to his fellow freed men, and to the demons who traded with the Mazonites and the freedmen impartially, and who conducted most of the trade that passed the borders of Mazonia.
And there was no reason-other than Euterpe's fear-to demote him from such a position purely on the basis of his size. In fact, before Marcus' illness left him wasted and racked with coughing and pain, he had been as heavily muscled as any arena slave, and he had served Xylina's mother well as scribe and steward. This Faro had been deprived at a single woman's whim of a life of interest and relative ease, and assigned to a much shorter life of back-breaking labor with no prospect for eventual freedom, and all for no fault of his own.
Poor man-she thought, fleetingly. She would hate Mazonites too.
"Well, girl, time is wasting," Xantippe said, interrupting her thoughts. "Which one of these beauties are you going to pick?"
Her sardonic smile said it all-she didn't expect to Xylina to survive against any of these slaves. In fact, she expected Xylina to beg for an extension until after Midsummer, when there might be better choices.
Or she expected Xylina to prove herself to be the coward that everyone thought her, and choose exile over the trial. Xantippe had been no friend of Xylina's mother; she would be equally happy to see the daughter go down to either disgrace or death.
If the choice was no choice-
Then Xylina would make it in style, and confound everyone who had branded her a coward. Live or die, it didn't matter. She would show that she was her mother's true daughter, and as brave as any Mazonite alive.
"Him," she said, pointing, and doing her best to keep her hand from trembling. "The one you call 'Faro.'"
And with that, lest she lose control over herself, she turned and left.
She walked back to her tiny home in something of a daze, but as soon as she crossed the threshold, she collapsed across her bed, trembling. Why had she done that? she wondered. Why? The lamps burned out in the outer room, leaving her in darkness. The revelry on the other side of the wall had finally given way to exhaustion-either that, or someone with more power than she had sent someone to deal with it. That left her alone in the darkness, with her thoughts, which were as dark and heavy as the night air. As alone and forsaken as if she were the only inhabitant in the city. But then, she had been alone and forsaken for three years. Now there was no one who cared if she lived, and several who would be just as pleased to see that she died.
First her mother-Xylina hadn't been more than six when her mother died, but she remembered Elibet distinctly. A woman who laughed a great deal, with lovely flaxen hair, and whose ability at conjuring was second to no one's but the Queen s. But more than that, a loving presence when darkness brought nightmares, a steadying hand at the right moment. Readier with a smile than a frown, and with a kiss of reward than with a whipping. A golden light that colored every day, and drove away the shadows at night.
Then, all in one horrid day, when the earth itself trembled and shook, all that brightness was gone, forever. Then Marcus-
He had promised he'd help her train, when her powers came, she remembered bleakly. He had promised he'd make sure she was the best in the arena-that her trial would be the talk of Mazonia. But he left her too. Everyone left her. She killed everything she cared for. Perhaps that was the reason why she had chosen Faro- because she was better off dead.
What did she have to look forward to, anyway? The last of her money was gone. She'd spent it today, in the bazaar. She might persuade some woman to hire her as a companion and teacher for her daughters, but that would be a meager living at best. Other than that, she had no abilities that a well-trained slave could not duplicate.
So why bother to go on? Wouldn't it be better to die? At least-
At least if she were dead, she wouldn't be lonely any more.
She'd thought about killing herself any number of times before this, and for the most part, it had been only accident that had stopped her. There were no bodies of water in the city that were large enough to drown herself in that were not terribly public-which meant she would likely be stopped. There was nothing tall enough to leap from except the towers of the Queen's hall. The idea of hanging herself gave her the horrors; it must be a quick death, and not a slow one.
Not like Marcus, strangling slowly, fighting for each breath...
She had no money to purchase poison, and didn't think she knew enough about poison to try conjuring it. She could have conjured a knife-and had, a dozen times-but someone always came along before she could use it. In fact, it was as if the same curse that took everyone she loved had conspired to keep her alive against her will.