“Freedom,” the woman sobbed, then buried her face in her hands. She felt the loss of one very close, more than a friend, most likely a blood relative. The women nearest her put their arms around her shoulders, attempting to soothe and comfort, but the woman was crying harder and harder, rapidly reaching the point of hysteria. I caught a flash of fear from the veiled woman as she glanced at the tent entrance just before adding her own whispered comments of warning; apparently the hizahh disliked having undue noise coming from the bedin tent. The others immediately began urging the crying woman to calm herself, but some grief transcends personal danger. A long set of memory-emotions rolled across the woman’s mind, telling me more clearly than words that the missing girl was the woman’s daughter, and my wavering uncertainty firmed itself into immediate resolve. The woman couldn’t help herself, but I could help her.
When I knelt in front of the crying woman and took her face in my hands, the women to either side of her drew somewhat away in startlement, undecided as to whether or not to interfere in whatever I was going to do. I ignored the other women and gave my complete attention to the one in front of me, the one who so keenly felt the torment her daughter would be forced to endure before death brought her freedom from it. I gently blended in and shared the loss with her, letting the grief tear at me the way it tore at her, tasting the sourness of helplessness with her. The woman’s sobs stopped abruptly as her eyes opened wide, her mind fearful before the peace touched her. The pain and loss were still there—as they should be—but the peace softened the colors of her grief until they were brown and gray with age—and bearable. Distance makes all pain more bearable, but attaining that distance is pain in itself. I’d shortened the distance for her and eased the pain, but not before sharing the taste of it to show her I understood. She understood too, and her arms went around my neck as she cried softly against me, gratitude filling her not so much for the peace I’d given her, as for the way in which I’d shared her grief.
Our guide and teacher didn’t understand what had gone on between the crying woman and myself, but she didn’t much care, either. She waited impatiently for the crying to ease off, then continued with our lessons. I got the impression that she was in danger of being blamed for anything we newcomers did wrong, and I later discovered I wasn’t far wrong. It wasn’t usual for anyone but the bedin concerned to be blamed for any one incident, but the thought could occur to a hizah and thereafter it would become usual. We were taught how to kneel, how to bow with our fists pressed to our foreheads, how to put our wrists behind us for binding when a hizah indicated desire for us, and how to offer ourselves in the most acceptable manner. It was a very depressing time, most especially when I remembered the instruction I’d once been given by Tammad on the very same subject. He’d been fooling around at the time and enjoying himself with a joke at my expense, but there was no fooling around or joking involved that time. If we didn’t learn how to do everything to the best of our ability, our lives might not continue on very long. One of the women made the mistake of asking our teacher’s name, and the answer made us all even more depressed. Our teacher had no name, nor did any of the other women who were bedinn. They were addressed only as bedin, forbidden to address each other by any other name, forbidden even to think of themselves in any other manner. They wore veils at all times to emphasize this lack of individuality, and the hizahh bothered telling them apart only for purposes of punishment. It made no difference to a hizah which bedin served him, as long as he was satisfied in all particulars. I was given to understand that things might be more difficult for me as I was the only dark-haired female among them, and was told I’d be wise to learn the lessons better than anyone else—just to be on the safe side. I was sure the woman was right—but I didn’t know if I could do it.
When we’d learned our lessons well enough to partially satisfy our teacher, we were given something to eat. The something was no more than the thick cereal-grain Loddar had made me eat, but we were instructed to offer our thanks as though we’d been served a feast. After having been starved by the savages for what must have been days, we were really in no shape to eat anything more substantial, but that wasn’t why we didn’t share the thick meat stew the other women ate. We would be kept on the cereal until the hizahh directed otherwise, or forever if they didn’t direct otherwise. None of the women there would dare oppose the men in the least matter, and the subject of what we ate was far from least. Blue eyes watched us from above veils with very little sympathy evident; they’d been through the same themselves and they’d survived. Whether or not we did the same was up to us.
We were drilled again after we cleaned up from our meal, then we were allowed to rest. The tent wasn’t as hot as the sun outside, but it was still hot enough to drain away the strength we’d managed to recapture. We sat down in one corner of the tent, away from the other women who occupied it, and it wasn’t until five or ten minutes had passed that I noticed how quiet it was. None of the women in the tent spoke to one another unless it was necessary, and then they said their piece as quickly and softly as possible. Their minds were like so many closed doors, locked tight to keep themselves safe within. They didn’t dare live without permission, their life-breath itself only a gift from others. It was a horrible way to exist, a matter of living only in the strictest sense of the word. Was life itself so precious that it was worth all that?
“How long do you think it’ll be before we’re found?” Findra whispered from the place she’d chosen beside me. “If that girl told you you’d have trouble because of your dark hair, III probably have the same trouble because of my dark eyes. And what happens if one of them talks to me when you’re not there to translate? If they take too long finding us, I might not be around anymore.”
I turned my head to look at her thin, pretty face, seeing the true depth of her anxiety no place but in her mind. Inwardly she was crying for Hannas, begging him to hurry, missing him desperately and greatly fearful in his absence. Her feelings weren’t something she was willing to admit out loud, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t experiencing them.
“You don’t think they wild find us,” she said, her large brown eyes examining my face. “If they don’t find us we’re as good as dead, but you won’t even let yourself hope. Do you think you’re better off here?”
“The term ‘better off’ doesn’t apply anywhere on this planet,” I answered, looking away from her again. “And you’re right—I don’t think they have the faintest chance of finding us. Do you remember all that rain while the savages had us? And how long was it before they even knew we were gone? And how far did we come across all that sand? They’d have to use magic to find us—or very sophisticated technology—and they don’t have either. Just what is it that you see worth hoping for?”
“There’s always something worth hoping for;” she muttered, turning completely away from me. “They’re not like Centran or Alderanean men, and I’m betting they find us. The hard part’ll be holding on until they do. Maybe if you look hard enough, you’ll also find something to hold onto.”
She lay down on her side and began clearing her mind for sleep, confident that if she waited long enough she’d be saved. I followed her example about lying down, but didn’t bother with the search she’d suggested. The only rescue I could find interest in hoping for was rescue by my own people, and that was even more unlikely than being found by Tammad’s group. I didn’t know what I would do in that captivity, but hoping for rescue wouldn’t be part of it.