The Fisherman's Daughter (2 page)

“I see your fate,” the shaman says with a cracked voice. “You are meant for the fair folk. Stay with us and learn our arts. The ghost trance is the only way to safely meet them. If you go unprepared, they will take you away from the world of men.” Her skin crawls at the way his eyes try to slither around the edges of her tunic.

“Keep your poison,” she replies coolly and proceeds back to the shore where the boat waits for them.

Meiri and Pallo leave the temple behind, and the sun still has a few hours left by the time they return to their village. They dock near the town’s center, and Pallo hoists a water basket with two of the large rangerfish, leaving one behind to take home. She takes a basket with the other two, centering its weight over her shoulder. Water from the fish’s scales soaks through the top of her tunic sleeve, and the scent of fresh fish makes her stomach twitch with hunger.

Something’s different. The air feels taut, somehow. Meiri can’t put her finger on it at first but then realizes the market is unusually quiet. She hadn’t been paying attention as they walked into town, thoughts still churning over the shaman’s creeping eyes.

She sees horses. Dozens of them, maybe more, each with an armored man. The market vendors and customers alike stand by merchant stalls, silently waiting with tense curiosity.

“From Fairholm!” Pallo exclaims softly.

“What do they want?” Meiri replies, almost at a whisper. She presses her lips thinly together when she notices horse-drawn carts with empty cages behind the armored men.

“I don’t know.”

She glances back the way they came, wondering if they should just quietly slip away. She looks at her father and can tell he’s thinking the same thing.

The men dismount. Their captain points to her.

“Run!” Pallo suddenly says. “They’re slavers!”

Meiri has just put it together as well. The cages glint in day’s dying light with acute clarity. She drops her fish basket and sprints toward the shore.

An armored man appears beside her.
How did he get there?
she thinks as she runs facefirst into his outstretched arm. Her nose smacks into his bronze arm plate, and pain explodes through her skull. Her legs fly forward, and she lands hard on her tailbone before she falls back and hits her skull on the hard ground.

She blinks. The world seems to spin, and for a moment all she can see is the blue sky above. The silhouette of the man pierces her view, and then she’s being yanked to her feet and shoved forward. She’s vaguely aware that other women and children in the village are being herded into the cages.

She trips once. It’s Pallo’s bloodied arm in the way, lying across her path to the cage. He stares lifelessly up at her, with an open spear wound in his chest.

Meiri vomits and inhales to scream. She chokes on the burning fluid and devolves into coughing as she falls to her knees.

The warrior drags her up again and shoves her forward. She stumbles into the cage, unable to think as she climbs inside it. Rage burns almost as hot as her vomit-scorched throat. Her head throbs, and the world seems to spin again. Blood flows from her nose, drying in a sticky cake over lips and chin. She grasps the cage bars, trying to find her father’s body, but she can’t tell where he is. There are many bloodied men sprawling dead over the ground. Those who resisted. Those who didn’t want their wives and sons taken.

The slavers take the young and strong, and the pretty. The rest they line up and kill with quick spear-thrusts through the heart. As they leave, they set the village aflame.

She’s still gripping the metal bars of the cage when the cart rolls away. She thinks briefly of the rangerfish still caught in the basket left behind on the ground to die. This cage is her basket; she too has been fished, plucked from her world to be sold. The burning village jostles in her vision as they move over uneven ground, and then she slips away into unconsciousness. Before she completely fades, she hears the shaman’s voice:
You are meant for the fair folk.

Meiri awakens. She and the other women from her village are being tended to and cleaned by a group of stern-looking women in dark gray robes. Their faces are neither kind nor cruel, regarding her as if she were nothing more than livestock. They get her to stand, pull her stained clothing from her body to clean the remaining blood, and then dress her in a light gray tunic. It scratches, but at least it’s clean.

Meiri opens her mouth to speak, but the older woman purses her lips, shakes her head, and flicks Meiri’s broken nose, which sends an explosion of pain through her skull. Indignation fills her. She wants to respond, to punch the woman and run. How dare they treat her like this! These people—

—she remembers her father, lying on the ground. She wants to scream and fight back. Find those who killed him. Cut out their hearts.

But her body doesn’t respond. Like the other women in the room, she stands meekly and hates herself for it. She remembers the others who died in the village and acknowledges for the first time that this is bigger than her. She’s not the only one who lost someone.

The stern woman frowns as she studies Meiri’s face. “There’s no cleaning that up. They should have left the face alone. Less valuable.”

One of the other dark-robed women shrugs. “Less pretty will be better for her. I think she used to be pretty.”

The first woman shoots her companion an irritated glance. Her eyes hold no compassion. She returns her attention to Meiri and fastens copper bracelets around her wrists. She then places rings on Meiri’s second and fourth fingers, linked to the bracelets with ropelike chains. The sides of each bracelet have matching stubs that can interlock and clasp together when needed, and the tops of the metal hoops are empty sockets, designed to hold the crest of the house that will purchase her.

“It’s time,” the second woman says. “The market is opening.”

The throng of women are ushered out of the room and down a hall into open air. A crowd has gathered before a wooden platform, and they’re brought to stand in front of the buying agents of noble lords and ladies. She can see a tower in the distance, square and squat, rising above the rest of the one- and two-story brick homes.

“Fairholm!” she realizes aloud and then clamps her lips shut, hoping no one noticed. Children and young men join them on the platform, each in similar tunics of light gray.

Fairholm. Is this what the shaman meant by “fair folk”?

The agents shout to the slave traders, and the churn of market bargaining begins. Bit by bit, gray-clad slaves are walked off the stage, and their bracelet sockets are fastened with stone disks carved with house crests. Two of the prettier girls are called, and from the crowd’s chatter Meiri knows they’re going to the harem. The agent who bid on them looks at her for a long while and Meiri meets his eyes, holding her breath. He finally looks away and makes payment, leading his merchandise under armed guard.

The second gray-robed woman whispers into her ear, “Your smashed nose and eyes saved you. I don’t think a man will ever look at you, and where you’re going, that’s for the best. Just hope you don’t heal up pretty.”

Meiri, a youth, and a short woman with a pinched face and mouth that is too big for her nose are finally purchased by a plain-looking woman with a copper wire holding a gray bun in place. The buyer’s tunic is blue linen and hemmed with braided wool. She hands the stone house disks to the slave merchants, and they fasten them into the bracelets of Meiri and her companions.

When they make it to the palace—one of several in the city—they are taken to the slaves’ quarters.

“Now,” their buyer says. “My name and your names are not important. You will call me Matron, and I will call you Girl, Girl, and Boy. You may ask me questions if you’re unsure what to do. You may not speak to anyone else in the house unless you are spoken to. Do you understand?”

The short ugly woman frowns. “You can’t keep us here! We’re not slaves. We’re free folk!”

The man beside Matron lashes her hard on the back, and she falls to her knees.

“The next one will not be so gentle,” Matron snaps. “I run a fair house, but I will not tolerate back talk. Work hard and you will be well treated. Think you’re anything more than what you are and life will be misery. Do you understand?”

The three of them nod. Shame burns Meiri’s cheeks, adding to the throb of her bruises.

“Boy will apprentice with Master’s staff, and you two will tend the kitchens and serve the tables.” Matron stops for a moment and regards them thoughtfully. “Lord Keeva has an appetite for women. There’s a reason I buy ugly ones; otherwise, he takes my help and makes courtesans of them. Thankfully his tastes don’t bend towards young boys.” Her eyes narrow as she focuses on Meiri. “Now that I see you closer, I hope you don’t heal pretty, Girl. For your sake.”

Months pass and Meiri learns to serve meals at dinner tables and tend to the needs of visitors staying in the guest quarters. She spends the rest of her time scrubbing pots in the kitchen. She’s healed well enough, but she will never be considered pretty. Not like she once was. An ugly scar runs between her eyes and down the side of her broken nose.

That doesn’t stop the cook from looking at her, though. She tries to minimize her time in the kitchens when he’s there, and knows better than to trouble Matron with complaints of his leering gaze. Matron won’t care, and many have had to put up with worse than a hungry stare.

She has thought about running away many times, but she always remembers her village. Where would she go? Life is tough here, but Matron holds true to her word. Work hard and they are treated well. At least by slave standards.

If there is one good thing about her new life, it is that she knows more about the world now than she ever had before as a fisherman’s daughter. The serving slaves in their gray tunics move almost invisibly about the palace. She overhears many conversations between lords, merchants, and priests as they scheme together while she makes sure their wine goblets never empty. She hears of a far-off place called Artalon. It is said that the enigmatic gnomes had built it as a gift for humankind, to raise them above the other races. The gnomes taught the greatest of men and women the secrets of magic, and now there are wizards in Artalon.
Human
wizards. Meiri can scarcely imagine it—humans that wield the same power as the shining folk of the Sutonian Woods. When visitors from Artalon come to Fairholm and seek an audience with Lord Keeva, Meiri ensures she’s the one to serve them.

Meiri approaches the table and leans forward to pour wine in the visitors’ chalices. The black-skinned man places his hand over the glass. “Water,” he says.

His companion, a fair-skinned woman, also nods. “The same.”

Meiri returns the wine carafe to the side table and pulls the brass water jug, serving them first as the guests, and then retrieving the wine once more for Lord Keeva. He doesn’t pay attention to her in the slightest, but the two visitors’ eyes follow her movements.

She returns to stand against the wall and waits patiently should she need to refill their glasses.

“You will share this power with us?” Lord Keeva is saying.

“With you and your people,” the black-skinned man replies. “We will open a school here, under our guidance. But yes, the people of Aradheim will have magic.”

“Those with the potential,” the fair-skinned woman adds. She holds an air of confidence and curiosity as she takes in the lord and his surroundings.

“And the secret of long life?” Lord Keeva presses. His eyes gleam when he says that.

The man’s lips press thin. “Perhaps. In time.”

Keeva eyes them suspiciously. “Why would you share your power? What’s in it for Artalon?”

“Close ties with you,” the lady answers without hesitation. She presses her fingers over her companion’s wrists, as if cautioning him to let her take the lead. “The gnomes shared Artalon with us, and the secrets of their magic. We believe we should uplift all humankind.”

“And the elves grow suspicious,” her companion adds. “I fear they will not always leave us in peace. Humankind needs to unite if we are to remain strong.”

Keeva leans back in his chair. “Lord Tal Harun, my advisors say you are not a man to be trifled with. I’m told that if I don’t agree to this, you have a way of seeing your desires happen anyway. Some have advised I have you killed, although I suspect those that argue for that—”

The lady interrupts him. “Those that argue for that are shortsighted and do not understand a wizard’s power. Artalon is a city of wizards. We come in peace, but do not mistake peace for weakness.”

Keeva glances at her in irritation. “I am also told your ways are strange in Artalon. We do not wish to become as you are.” Meiri knows that having to address a woman as an equal agitates him. “I want to have your magic first,” he says. “And I get to choose which of my people can be trained.”

Tal Harun sighs. “It doesn’t work like that. You could never learn our art, but some of your people might be able to. We will build a school here and provide you wizards to advise you and train those of Aradheim who are able, whether they are noble or peasant. Bloodlines mean nothing to a wizard.”

“Then we are done here.” Lord Keeva stands. “I cannot afford such power in the hands of the rabble. Who would keep them in line?” For a fraction of an instant, his eyes flash to Meiri and she starts. She can’t recall a time ever seeing any of the house’s nobles noticing those in the gray. Tal Harun and his companion also stare at her briefly.

“Sit down!” the lady snaps, and Meiri’s eyes widen as Lord Keeva obeys.

Lord Keeva looks as surprised as Meiri at his own reaction, and he glances at the slave girl again. Meiri shrinks inside.
He saw me see him obey.
She wonders if they will beat her later… but why should they? She has done nothing wrong. Maybe they will release her from service, and she can find a way to leave the gray behind. But where is home now?

Lord Keeva sputters. “How dare you—”

But the lady opens her palm flat in front of him, and living fire springs to life. It floats over her palm, casting light over his face. He shuts his mouth, and his visage twists from indignation to power hunger as he stares at the magic fire. “You will address me as Lady Desdemona,” she tells him, “and offer me the same courtesy you offer Lord Tal Harun. Do not mistake yourself as my equal.”