She's long existed in my mind as a cautionary tale (as most Solars do in my opinion) against the danger of attaining power and becoming too focused on what she views as noble causes. These early chapters are the stage setting for what really drives her later on in life when she tries to forge herself into being everything she wasn't before.
The Plot Spine exercise also made me realize I'm going to have to diverge from the story of the campaign that inspired her, but more about that later. Without further ado, on to the chapter!
RATING: PG-13
- Suggestive content.
Reading Alternatives:
- Comment on Google Drive instead. You can save this chapter in an ebook file format for any ereader at the link. Click File>Download As to download in your favorite format.
- Access the entire Google Drive version of Beta chapters here.
He’s alive. He’s alive! Happy tears were still drying on her face when they finally ducked into a crevice, Djali bidding her to be careful as they made their way into a barely perceptible crag that led upwards into a cleverly hidden passageway rimmed with stalactites. Djali removed a straight piece of glass from his pocket, peering through it to reveal a glowing vein of some unknown mineral that marked the entrance she never would have noticed.
“And here we are!” He guided Kalara through the entryway so she wouldn’t hit her head on the low arc of it.
She stood agape at the cavern that opened up before her after that tight entry. He’d made a home for himself here out of an air pocket that had formed a small self-contained lava tube. This might’ve been prime real estate if it wasn’t so far from the main tubes! She watched in awe as he moved about the cave, lighting a hearth in the middle with a small Firestone and humming as he set up a little pot to make tea. The light from the stone illuminated woven carpets and a bed of straw strewn with quilts and fine pillows.
One by one, he lit metal lanterns with small glowstones pulled from his satchel, finally turning to her and setting his hands on his waist, nodding as he let her take in the sight of his little abode. It was the same proud pose he’d taken the first day she’d arrived in the mining barracks a scared little girl confused by how proud he was of their sorry little bunks.
Kalara perused the dwelling, mouth still agape. How could a slave have all of this? She turned to him, Djali still beaming. “I see you look well…” She started slowly. “…and you’ve gotten…bigger.” She poked his belly, laughing as he swatted at her hand, feigning offense.
“Hey! So have you!” He grinned, plucking a blade of hair from her face and running it between his fingers so it stood straight up from her head like the rest of her fiery feathers of henna red hair. “You’ve gotten…taller!”
They both stood for a few moments, regarding one another, too scared to ask questions about the years that had passed and noticing, too, the things about the both of them that had changed. He was no longer a child, but a young man, lithely muscular, skin darkened several more shades from exposure to the sun, no doubt from his trials among the water bearers. He had fresh scars on the back of his hands as well, no doubt from discipline.
Kalara had changed too. She was taller, more feminine, finally losing some of her boyishness to the blessings of maturity and developing in ways he'd always made fun of her for being lacking in. She still had the same serious glare that would temper his antics, even as she took part in them against her better judgement. She used to wear her hair shorter, but now it had grown long and wild, the longest strands bound at the nape of her neck bound with leather and beads in a braid.
There were so many things she wanted to ask him, but she couldn’t manage any of them. She stammered wordlessly, instead just stepping forward and catching him in a tight embrace, the floodgates of emotion finally coming down now that she had a chance to begin processing them.
“I’m so sorry…it’s…it’s my fault you were taken!” She smothered the snotty words into his chest.
The sudden onslaught took him by surprise for a moment and he grinned sadly to himself, gently returning her embrace. “Heh…come on now. Did you really think someone as charming as me would be claimed by barbarians? I’ve returned after becoming their king to let our glorious Despot, Kolar, know of my greatness!”
At that, Kalara looked up from sobbing into his chest and gave him a perturbed glare. How could he still be so damned cheery after what happened? The glare slid off him like oil. Unphased, he moved to retrieve the little teapot from above the firestone-powered hearth and poured the water over a spherical sieve filled with leaves. The smell of mint and chamomile tempted her from her bad mood. She accepted the cup and sank back into one of the big pillows with a sigh. Tea made everything better.
“You still like sweets?” He produced a confection from a box. Kalara knew the smell of sugared dates anywhere. Candy made everything better, too. She sat enjoying these luxuries quietly for a few moments, happy to put off the tough conversation for a bit longer and accept his surprisingly decadent hospitality.
Djali sat across from her in a wicker seat with a cushion, a woven throne for the supposed new king of the barbarians, and chewed his own candied delights with a carefree hum. He was the one to break the awkward silence first.
“So you’re not with Sahlak after all?” Despite his carefree demeanor, Djali phrased the question with care. “I’m glad. That place wasn’t for you. I bet she was a total yeddim after all. I’ve heard stories that she shapeshifts her ugly old face.” He drew his face downward with his fingers, pulling on his cheeks to imitate the way she probably looked in an effort to cut the tension.
“-look.” Kalara set her tea down forcefully, cutting him off. “I’m so happy to see you. I really am...” The glare was back. “…but of the two of us, I thought you were dead and I’d really like to know what happened to you first. Please? I thought…I thought you were dead and it was all my fault…but now you’re here and…what is all of this??” Her fingers tensed around the cup and she stared up at him with an angry, pleading gesture.
He sat silently sipping for a few moments, his usual expression falling into an introspective mask, his gaze lost in the past as he considered what to say.
“I got shipped off to the waterbearers. I’m sure they told you…” He started carefully, speaking with a nonchalant tone. “..but you have to understand that was my choice. I wanted you to be safe and you were.” He took another sip of tea and sucked his teeth at the memories. “It was grueling work. We carried the water by yeddim from the basin to the city every day. But oh you should have seen the surface, Kallie! If you ignore the hot as death part, the storms are amazing when they come. All wind and sand and excitement!”
Despite her guilt at having a part in his suffering, Kalara couldn’t help but listen with rapt attention. She’d always wanted to see the surface. She had almost forgotten her amateur scribbles of the sun on the wall of her bunk.
“I managed for …three Calibrations, I think? Hmph…they didn’t appreciate my sense of humor, though.” Djali held up one hand, pulling back his sleeve and showing off the lashes that went from the back of his hand up his forearm. This pattern repeated up his other arm as well. “The foreman was a humorless man, but I soon learned many useful things about him. I have big ears, after all, and I overheard many things. He had friends among the raiders, you see? He’d swap goods with them sometimes in exchange for leaving our particular route alone. He’d tell them little tidbits about guard rotations.”
Kalara’s mouth began to fall open without her realizing it. “The raid! He was helping them?”
“Helping is a strong word.” Djali shrugged his shoulders. “He knew the Ashen Guard would squash them soon enough. There’s always another headstrong tribe ready to replace the ones foolish enough to lay siege who are content to live off of the city’s leavings.”
She was shocked silent again. Kalara absently drank her tea while he continued.
“The foreman is also a very bitter man. His family had been banished to the duty of waterbearer for generations since Rankar’s reign. He has no love of Kolar and so, as humorless as he is, he was not so foolish as to not find a use for someone such as myself with intimate knowledge of Iblan deposits. It only took a little test to show him that I could deliver what I promised.” At that statement, he took an inconspicuous bag from his waist and set it on the table, undoing the drawstrings and allowing the contents to scatter across the little rug between them.
Unmarked raw gems spread between them, some glowing, some emerald, some giving off a slight heat, others glimmering with the promise of the dreams that waited to be held within them. They were all small finds, but all still worth a lot in large quantities, or to tribesman who wanted firestones for long trips and cold nights in the desert or to trade for goods elsewhere.
The sight of these stolen gems hit her like a hot poker directly to the brain and she dropped her cup, choking on her tea at the sudden intake of breath. When she could finally breathe again, her eyes full of tears, disbelief, and anger all at once, she brought her hands to her temples and yelled at him.
“You’re stealing gems from the Despot? By every small god, dragon, and the Holy Rankar…I can’t even!” She couldn’t sit. This revelation required furious pacing.
“Are you crazy? No wonder you have all of this! Don’t you realize you could be executed for this you monumental idiot?” By the end of it, she was literally shaking him by his shirt while he held up his hands in the air and laughed.
“Crazy! You have to be crazy. Did the sun bake your brain? I can’t.” She pressed a finger to her temple at the pain of realizing she was going to lose her best friend all over again because he was a stupid, greedy idiot. “I’m leaving!” With that, she huffed and turned away, marching to the doorway. Only the sound of his uncharacteristically serious voice stopped her.
“Wait! I promise. It’s not as foolish as it seems! Kallie, please! Please wait!”
She could feel his pleading gaze and didn’t want to turn around to meet it for fear looking at him might weaken her resolve.
“Come meet me midday at the fried goat stall Old Lady Tehsun runs at midday tomorrow and I’ll show you everything. I’ll show you the sun!”
Intrigued as she was by the strange promise, she wouldn’t justify his stupidity by turning to face him or by replying. She had to get home soon. There was dinner to be made and medicine to prepare. She left him without a word. She was too angry and stubborn to ask for his help finding her way back and eventually she found her way through the winding cavern to the dim light of the outer market on her own.
*
Kalara was fully prepared to drown her frustrations in the usual monotony of Farook’s routine, but when she arrived, something was different. She found a visitor seated in the parlor, his hawk-like gaze trained on her as soon as she entered. This sudden interruption in the routine stopped her in her tracks.
“Eh…you’re the slave, yes?” He nodded in her direction, seemingly annoyed at her timing. “My father is sleeping after the festivities. Do you have enough for a guest?” He motioned at the supplies in her arms.
“Y-yes, of course!” Kalara fumbled for a moment realizing their guest was none other than the estranged son she’d heard so many rants about. She quickly moved into the kitchen to prepare a meal, the son’s dark eyes following her as she moved. She’d heard no word to expect his visit, but perhaps Farook had summoned him? His health had been ailing more often lately. Maybe he had gotten sentimental?
She didn’t have more time to ponder to herself when she realized she had an audience. The son, Ragol, if she recalled his name correctly, had infiltrated the kitchen, swiping some bread from the counter and tearing off a chunk from the small loaf with his mouth. He observed her silently while she prepared the food. His attentive gaze unnerved her more than usual. Farook never came into the kitchen, the old man preferring to leave her to her duties, which she was thankful for.
“My father has been good to you, yes?” Ragol spoke with a half-stuffed mouth, casually wiping away some crumbs. He was a tall man, well-groomed, well-dressed in tunic and scarf, but he had a cold, no-nonsense way of speaking and carrying himself that chilled her with its directness.
She simply nodded, but that response displeased him. His hand whipped out and caught her wrist firmly, pulling her slightly to face him. Surprised by the sudden movement, Kalara’s eyes shot upwards, immediately fixing on his dark gaze.
“You will speak clearly to me, slave.”
“Y-yes. He has been good to me, m’lord.” The grip caught her off guard. The fingers around the knife she was using to cut bread and cheese tightened instinctively but soon loosened as his grip did. She was beginning to understand why Farook didn’t like him. He had not a lick of his father’s sardonic ease.
His eyes observed briefly the slight white knuckles on her hand holding the knife, his gaze moving to her face again. Then, he laughed, letting go of her in the same motion and returning to casually leaning against the counter.
“Hahaha you have spirit, girl! You must in order to put up with my father.” He plucked a fig from a basket on the counter and started eating it as if nothing had happened at all. “I heard he won you in a game of cards. The old bastard would still spend more money on gambling than helping his own kin.”
Or maybe he didn’t want to fuel your Dream Opal habit. Kalara thought to herself. She’d heard the other side of his rant, but she kept those thoughts to herself. She continued prepping while Ragol regarded her with lingering stares, his lips smacking loudly as he tore through the purple flesh of the fig and licked the juice from his lips.
“Not a bad looking slave either…” He continued, her flesh crawling as his eyes inched over her figure. “I bet you keep his dusty wick oiled, eh? No wonder he’s sweet on you…”
Once again, he was in her space, using the far-off bowl of figs on the other side of her as an excuse to reach over, cornering her against the counter with his body. She could feel the smile against the back of her neck and smell his sickeningly sweet breath.
She froze immediately, her shoulders clenching instinctively at the threat of his presence. She set her palms flat on the counter along with the knife, her breath sticking in her lungs. Farook had never laid a finger on her. He’d never seemed interested. When she first arrived, she was still a child, but several cycles had passed since then. Her softness had faded to the curves and loveliness of a young woman, a blossom primed for marriage, if she were a free woman, or legally acceptable as a concubine, not that anyone adhered strictly to age proclamations behind closed doors.
Kalara had always wondered when she wouldn’t be a child anymore in her master’s eyes and imagined the ways that she would bear it. The path to the perfection of the Dragons called for conviction. She could tolerate his affections as long as it kept her from worse. At night, she still dreamed sometimes of Asha’s eyes pleading with her in the brothel while a demon rearranged her insides in strange and terrible and pleasurable ways.
But this man owned no part of her.
She whirled to face him, pressing her back against the counter, her gaze meeting his.
“My master will be awake soon. I’ll be summoning him to dinner now.” It wasn’t a direct challenge, but enough of one to remind him he was not the lord of this household yet. His pleased sneer disappeared and anger flashed in his eyes. It seemed for a moment that he might disregard her veiled warning, his dark gaze still mere inches from hers, but he finally relented, chuckling facetiously and shrugging as he backed off.
“When my father dies, I’m going to be most pleased to inherit your contract. You’ll make a fine concubine.” He popped the rest of the fig in his mouth and sucked the juices from his fingers loudly before making his way back into the parlor.
Kalara made sure he was well out of sight and earshot before she let the breath she had been holding out, stifling a shaky sob with a hand.
They passed the night as if nothing happened, Kalara listening from the next room over as she knelt on call to serve them wine while Farook talked of his retirement. A dutiful Ragol plied him with apologies and gratitudes for accepting him back into his life so that he could be a loving and proper son once more. Kalara’s gaze stared past the window and the glowstones beyond, seeing the threads of her future coming together.
Sensing his father’s failing health, the estranged son returns under the pretenses of love and renewed loyalty, circling like a raiton until Farook passed, perhaps even quickening the pace a little if he could get away with it. Then, with nothing left to stop him, he claims his father’s fortune and property…and his slave. The imaginings only grew sharper as the household went to sleep and she found herself wide awake in her quarters staring at the ceiling, haunted by that smile on her neck and wishing she could scrub it off somehow.
Every new master was a roll of Plentimon’s die and the next roll would be loaded.
No comments:
Post a Comment