I raised my hands in surrender, chains dangling from my wrists. “No trouble.”
The Vralian nodded. “Good.” He pointed at the floor of the cart. “Today, hide.”
Forcing myself to be compliant, I lay down. They pulled the tarpaulin back in place, lashing it securely.
Hours passed, long, stifling hours filled with fear, nausea, and tedium. Every hour took me farther away from Bao, farther away from freedom, farther away from the hope that my destiny was calling me home.
What in the name of all the gods did the Vralians want with me?
Never in my life had I felt more alone, miserable, and helpless. At least in the face of the storm that had nearly killed me, I’d been too busy trying to survive to even know what I was feeling.
Although I tried not to, I wept.
My only comfort was the spark of my diadh-anam, alive and flickering inside me, a promise that the Maghuin Dhonn Herself had not forgotten me. I was Her child. These cursed chains could bind Her gifts, but they could not kill Her divine spark within me. In the suffocating darkness beneath the tarpaulin, I prayed to Her; and I prayed to Naamah and Anael, who were my D’Angeline patron gods. Although I could not sense their presence, I prayed they had not forgotten me, either.
At last, the interminable cart-ride came to an end. The Vralians unhitched their horses, hobbled them, and turned them loose to graze, then untied the tarpaulin once more. With a strange, reluctant solicitousness, they helped me clamber out of the cart.
It wasn’t easy.
In the early-evening light, I got a better look at the shackles that bound me. They were etched with sigils and inscriptions in a strange alphabet. The cuffs around my wrists were linked to the circlet around my neck by chains long enough that they didn’t restrict the movement of my arms overmuch. That wasn’t their purpose. The chain that linked the shackles around my ankles was another matter. It was short enough that I was forced to adopt a halting, mincing gait.
Clearly, running away was not an option.
In case the matter was in doubt, one of the Vralians-the one who spoke a bit of the Tatar language-produced yet another chain, looping it around the front axle of the cart, and lacing it through the chain on my left arm. Averting his gaze, he put down a pallet of furs for me, indicating that I could take shelter beneath the wagon.
“You’re too kind,” I muttered.
Deeming me safely secured, he studied me with deep-set eyes. “God wills this.”
Already, I was perishing sick of his bedamned god; but I had the sense to hold my tongue. The other fellow set about erecting a tent well beyond the reach of my tether, which I was sorry to see. They had not been overtly cruel to me thus far, but what kindness they had shown me, chaining me like a dog, I misliked.
I was scared and alone, and if they had given me the opportunity to bash in their heads with a rock while they slept, I would have taken it.
They didn’t.
Instead, they kindled a careful fire of dried dung-chips, heating a pot of water filled with strips of dried meat and root vegetables. They knelt in prayer before they ladled out servings, murmuring in sonorous tones.
The second fellow brought me a steaming bowl of stew and a spoon. Far from it though I felt, I resolved to try being pleasant.
“Thank you.” I accepted the bowl, my chains rattling as I reached for it. I took a deep sniff, miming pleasure, then smiled at him. “It smells good.”
He beat a hasty retreat, avoiding my gaze. Stone and sea, what was wrong with these men?
Whatever it was, I didn’t learn the answer that night. When dusk fell over the steppe, they extinguished their fire with care, retiring to the safety of their tent. Huddled in my cocoon of furs, I watched the moon rise and spill its silvery light over the plains, thinking and thinking, my mind restless.
I wondered if I could shift the cart.
I tried. Scuttling underneath it, I found the wooden chocks that braced the front wheels and pried them loose. When I banged them softly together in my fists, it made a very satisfying sound.
Scrambling out from beneath the cart, I got to my feet and went to the end of my short tether. Throwing my weight into the effort, I tried to drag the cart toward the tent.
I failed.
There were chocks bracing the rear wheels, too, and those I could neither reach nor dislodge, no matter how hard I strained. My tether was too short, and the cart was too heavy. I could not do it.
In the end, I gave up. I was cold and tired and heartsick, and tomorrow was another day. Sooner or later, I thought, an opportunity would present itself. When it did, I would take it and flee.
Gathering my furs, I crawled beneath the cart.
There, I curled up like a dog, and slept.
EIGHTEEN
On the morrow, my situation looked as bleak as ever.
The Vralians were careful not to give me any opportunities for escape or violence-not that I could have taken either easily, entangled in a clinking, rattling mass of chains as I was, unable to take a single full stride.
They gave me hard black bread and water to break my fast in the morning. When I explained to the older fellow that I needed to answer nature’s call, he shook his head, not comprehending. Clearly, his limited Tatar vocabulary did not extend to encompass the mortal body’s most basic requirements.
“I need to piss!” I said in frustrated Alban, using a vulgar slang term and knowing he wouldn’t understand a word of it. I pointed at his crotch, and mimed a man holding his phallus and relieving himself. “Gods! Do you people lack bladders as well as hearts?”
He flushed to the roots of his hair, his face darkening with embarrassment and disgust. But at least he unlocked the chain that tethered me to the wagon and pointed toward the outskirts of the camp.
I made my clanking, mincing way over the plain. Whatever else the Vralians were, they weren’t voyeurs. Both of them turned their backs on me as I concluded my business. And an awkward business it was, hovering in a narrow squat, trying not to let urine splash on my bare feet, my felt trousers, or the bedamned chain between my ankles.
The sheer misery of the experience nearly brought me to tears.
I breathed slowly until the moment passed, distracting myself with thoughts of flight. It was impossible, at least for now. I could barely walk, let alone run. Still, the thought of forcing them to chase me down held a certain grim satisfaction.
But there was no point in rousing my captors’ ire for the sake of a foolish whim-and my body was stiff and aching from the wagon’s jolting. So instead I hobbled back to rejoin them like an obedient dog.
For a mercy, they didn’t force me to hide beneath the tarpaulin today, but allowed me to ride atop it, pointing out a spot where I could sit atop some covered bales of wool. As such things went, it was reasonably comfortable.
We set out once more, heading due north. The younger man drove the cart, his hands firm on the reins. The older sat beside him. Their backs were rigid and upright, and they exchanged few words. There was only the sound of the breeze and the steady clopping of the cart-horses’ hooves.
I endured the silence for the better part of an hour, staring at the backs of their heads and despising them.
“May I ask why your god wills this?” I asked in the Tatar tongue, forcing myself to speak politely.
The older man turned his head in my direction without actually looking at me. “To save you.”
“To save me, yes.” I was as perishing sick of the phrase as I was of his god. “Why?”
He held up his gold medallion, which was shaped like a square cross with flared arms, and kissed it reverently. “Yeshua.”
“Yeshua,” I repeated. It wasn’t much of an answer. “Yeshua ben Yosef? Are you his priests? Did he tell you to save me? Am I to save him?”