I had sworn many times that somehow I would find out how and for what purpose she had died. I swore to the spirits that someday, when I was a true healer and had enough crystals to afford the long journey, I would find her resting place and recite the Last Blessing over her grave.
After her death, many a night I had lain on my tear-soaked pillow, wishing to be a sorceress of old, so I could curse the Kadar. But as time passed, I let such thoughts drift away with the outgoing tide, for I knew they would have saddened my mother. She could not have borne to see me with hatred in my heart.
Still, forgiveness did not come easy. The Kadar made war, brought injury and misery, while the Shahala healed and lived in peace. I used to think the good spirits that sometimes rested on top of the numaba trees must have been the spirits of the Shahala who had passed on. The bad spirits that lived in the depths of Mirror Sea to grab after anyone who sailed it, I believed to be those of the anguished Kadar who had died in war, not finding peace even in death.
I was not surprised that Mirror Sea churned under the slave ship. I could almost see all those restless Kadar spirits angry because the traders no longer brought them slaves. Maybe those dark spirits were trying to pull the ship under so they would have servants once again.
When I finally slid to the ground from the lowest branch of the tree, I ran through the forest, knowing every rock, every root I had to jump over. Then I reached the edge of the woods, and bending low, I rounded some boulders, ran down the stone stairs and kept to the bushes until I reached the side entrance of our wooden house. Better to sneak in and retrieve my clothes before the men saw me. I did not want to shame Jarim or my mother’s memory.
The men made loud bragging noises as they talked in the front. I frowned at the sound. Polite people talked little and pleasantly, bringing no more attention to themselves than necessary.
To talk so loud was as if one painted a sign on one’s forehead:
Here I am, look at me
. Then everyone would have looked at him and seen him for a fool.
I hoped they did not come for healing, for I feared what people such as these would do when disappointed. I hoped they had come for medicinal herbs. Dried herbs I had aplenty.
I hurried to my room and pulled on my short tunic, regretting for a moment that not one piece of my worn clothing matched any other. We had better clothes when my mother had been alive. We had fine robes and food and laughter.
I put away the memories that seemed less than real, like legends from a golden age, and wrapped my veil around my head in the proper manner for a healer, then hurried toward the front. I pushed through the wind-torn curtain that covered the entrance.
“Apar,” I greeted Jamir—calling him father for the last time.
The traders fell silent. Their gazes poured over me like icy water.
I could scarce keep from staring back at them. Shells and small disks of metal decorated their clothes in a dizzying array of patterns I had never seen before. The richness of the materials, the sheen of the fabric, the glitter…
Jarim caught my gaze and smoothed down his thin tunic. He wore better clothes than I, but still he could have been mistaken for a servant next to the strangers.
“Everything you say is true?” the tallest man, made taller yet by his wrapped silk headpiece, asked Jarim.
I sucked in my breath at his rudeness. To question the word of a Shahala was unthinkable. Though no Shahala blood flowed in Jarim’s veins, since he’d been married to my mother, people had always extended him the same respect.
“Very good healer. Only daughter of a Tika Shahala,” Jarim boasted just as rudely, as if not at all offended.
He spoke a little of most languages used around our area. I knew them as well as my own, learned from the many visitors who had come to my mother.
I wished Jarim had not said such a thing, even if he said it only because he did not want to shame me.
The leader’s cold eyes narrowed. “Ten blue crystals.”
I stifled a gasp. Ten blue crystals were more than we had seen in a long time, many times more than my help was worth had I been willing to give it. I tugged Jarim’s sleeve.
“She is worth twice that,” Jarim insisted and hushed me when I tried to speak.
I had never seen him like that before. A healer did not bargain over healing or ask payment. The sick gave gifts according to their abilities, despite reassurances that no payment was necessary.
“Twelve.” The trader’s impatient tone signaled the end of bargaining, and he handed Jarim a worn leather bag.
To my horror, Jarim counted the crystals. Then he nodded. Perhaps he did not feel the need to show manners in front of people who had none.
When the traders started toward the ship and motioned to me, I followed obediently, if a little dazed. I stopped after a moment when my mind cleared.
“My herbs.” I turned toward our dwelling, taking mental inventory. I should probably grab a little of everything.
But the man who had bargained for my services said, “You will not need those.”
Of course.
They traveled many waters. They probably had their own herbs on the ship. Maybe I would even see something new and exotic. The thought cheered me a little.
I looked at Jarim, but he would not look at me.
“Come,” the lead trader ordered.
And I followed him.
I hoped they wanted me to heal slaves, although I was unsure whether my ministrations would be much help. But trying would have been easy, as my heart went out to the unfortunates. And I had to try now, whether master or slave languished in the sickbed—Jarim had already taken the payment.
Our shore met the sea not with a sandy beach but with boulders and rocks the waves beat against. Because of this, most ships docked in Sheharree, the nearest port, and our visitors completed the journey over land. But this time a grizzled man, wet from the spray, waited for us, holding the rope of a massive boat wedged between two scarred rocks, each as large as the boat itself.
I eased in, fear stealing into my lungs as we shoved off. The next wave could push us back and smash the boat against the rocks. But the men who handled the oars handled them well and mastered the waves.
What would they do to me if my healing failed? Would they bother to bring me back and demand their crystals? I could too easily see them tossing me overboard, into the rolling sea.
I wanted to tell them I was a fake, that I was sorry my father had taken their payment. But none of them talked, so I too remained silent. I did not want to make them angry, these people who stole others’ lives to sell.
My heart beat a hurried rhythm at the unfamiliarity of the boat ride. I squeezed my eyes shut against the fury of the sea. My mother had always forbidden me from taking to the water, a habit I had kept even after her death. The boat tossed, and I grabbed its side, trying to pretend I stood atop a numaba tree, the branches swaying under me in the wind.
A welcome calm spread through my limbs at the fantasy, until the waves sprayed water in my face. I told myself I stood atop the numaba tree, and the rain began to fall. But my mind no longer believed the tale.
After an endless time, the traders shouted, and I opened my eyes. We had reached the dark vessel, the side covered with scars, the wood smelling moldy and sad, as if the sadness of the slaves had poured out into the ship.
I looked at the traders and wondered if anyone sailing on such a ship could ever be anything but unhappy, but their faces were closed and hard as a naga shell, so I could not tell which way they felt.
I climbed the rope ladder second after the leader, the rest coming up behind me. I did not mind the short climb, the ship not nearly as tall as the trees on our hillside. But I did mind when the wind snatched my veil. The length of fabric, like a dead bird falling from the sky, tossed on the waves but for a moment before it disappeared under the churning water.
The man behind me did not give me time to worry about the loss, he growled at me to hurry.
The deck stood deserted, the boards weather-beaten, the black sails frayed. Worn ropes tied down a pile of firewood to my left, two wooden buckets secured to the pile with twine. A handful of barrels were tied to the ship’s railing on my other side.
The men shoved me down into the belly of the ship that swallowed me like a large fish that had not eaten for many days. I shivered even as my forehead beaded with sweat from the hot, stale air. I opened my mouth to ask how many were sick, but a rough hand in the middle of my back shoved me forward into a dark cabin. The door closed with a loud thud behind me.
“I will need a lamp,” I called through the door. “Or a torch.”
Nobody answered.
I turned back to the darkness and lowered my voice. “Is anyone here? Anyone sick?”
No response came, nor could I hear anyone breathing in there with me. I moved forward until I bumped into the wall, then laid my hands on a roughly-hewn wood plank and followed it.
When I reached the door, I pushed against it to no avail. I felt around for some furniture but found none. I was in an empty cabin somewhere in the middle of the ship. With nothing else to do, I sat down and waited for them to bring my patient to me.
Instead, I heard the scrape of the anchor being pulled up. Voices rang out on deck. Sails snapped somewhere above me. My heart shuddered when I finally realized there would be no sick coming.
I, Tera, daughter of Chalee, Tika Shahala, had been sold by my own father to be a slave.
CHAPTER TWO
(Onra)
The edge of a storm caught us, and the ship lurched and rolled without stop, battered by waves. Thunder clapped all around as the wind tossed us carelessly. I could think of little else but the bad spirits of the Kadar under the water, trying to pull us down into the deep.
Day stretched into miserable day. I tried to keep track of time by my meals of undercooked fish, but the men did not feed me on any regular schedule, so I could not be certain of the length of our journey.
Our long, narrow island, Dahru, was the largest of the Middle Islands, inhabited by the nine tribes of the Shahala in the south, and the warrior nation of the Kadar in the north. A desert of poisonous minerals stretched between the two countries, making sea travel necessary, which proved to be a much more dangerous endeavor than I had ever imagined.
I hated the dark, moldy room, the stale water I found to drink, the bucket in the corner and its stench. I hated being alone the most. I started to think maybe a giant fish had swallowed me, maybe I would never again see the sky, the twin moons, or the numaba trees on our hillside.
I thought maybe—despite my mother’s reassurances—the spirits had not forgiven my family for my great-grandmother’s sin, and were now punishing me for her terrible deeds.
Then as suddenly as the men had thrust me into my prison, they grabbed me from it again, dragged me roughly into the light. I squinted hard as I stumbled forward.
Even with the sun high in the sky, I shivered and wrapped my arms around me. A merciless wind whipped the strange harbor we had reached, cutting through my threadbare clothes to my trembling skin, its icy fingers reaching for my heart.
Nearly a hundred starved-looking men and women huddled on the dock, chained together in heavy iron, some holding listless children in their arms. They avoided looking at each other, as if ashamed of having given up hope.
I did not belong among them. I wanted to insist that someone had made a mistake, that I had only come to the ship to heal the sick. I looked up at the man who dragged me—the lead trader. I opened my mouth, but no words came.
As we moved forward, like the others, I looked away in shame.
Cold panic gripped me tightly. Where was I? How would I ever find my way home again?
A tall stone wall blocked the view of the city. Poles as thick as my waist made up the gate, held together by massive strips of metal. The gate stood as tall as our ship’s mast and wide enough to let four ox carts in side by side.
Kaharta Reh, I heard the traders say as we waded into the brimming stalls and shops of the port crowd. I knew that name—
a Kadar harbor.
I was still on our island. I gave thanks for that to the spirits.
Merchants offered their wares, mothers shouted at their children to keep up, shoppers argued over deals. The people were loud beyond bearing, offensively so, the city the least welcoming place I could imagine.
Sheharree, our Shahala port, had neither walls nor gate; indeed, such things would have been considered highly rude and inhospitable by my people.
As we passed into Kaharta Reh, once again I had the ominous feeling of being swallowed. I could too easily see the monstrous gates swing closed and trap me forever.
We went to the auction house first, where the men led the other slaves into a holding pen. The leader still had my arm in his grip, and he looked at me for the first time. I trembled, thinking he would now chain me to the rest.
“I am a healer, daughter of Tika Shahala. I came on board to heal the sick. Someone must have forgotten,” I said, although even I no longer believed it.
“I paid fifteen blue crystals for you.” The words slithered out of his mouth with only the slightest movement of his lips.
Twelve crystals, I wanted to tell him. “I can earn more and pay you back,” I said instead. I would have said anything to escape, too young to know that my fate had been decided beyond bargaining.
He dragged me on without a word, and I stumbled after him down narrow streets, passing people who hurried by on their daily business, paying little mind to us. In the biting cold, I looked at their strange clothes with envy. I would have been grateful for a flea-ridden horse blanket.
The men wore tight leather leggings with bulky fur tunics on top, the women the kind of one-piece robe the Shahala men wore over their thudrag. A man’s thudrag covered the legs very much like a woman’s thudi, but was not tied at the ankle. I saw neither thudrag nor thudi peeking from the women’s heavy wool robes. Under all that billowing material, they walked around naked!