It took a long while for me to wake up all the way when I did wake up, and by the time I was fully awake, I wished I was not - my head hurt. I tell you that it really, really hurt, it felt like it was ready to explode. Every heartbeat made it a little bit worse as long as that pulse lasted. My eyes were the worst, I was certain they both would break apart. The rest of me was extremely sore, but it seemed minor compared to how badly my head hurt. I could only remember some of when I had first woke up, but now I began to doubt if I really had died. I hurt too much to be dead. I hadn't been re- captured, the smell was completely wrong for that - where was I? My vision had cleared, when I finally decided to crack open my eyes and looked around as best I could in the near-blinding level of light. I certainly had not died. Which was a small pity, because it would have been easier than what was to soon happen. It reeked like the Dry Lander man had, only stronger, but without the smell of blood. Oil and steel, machines and chemicals, and staleness. Barely a trace of salt in it, the air was extremely dry, and there was no longer any sense of movement. I was no longer on a vessel. I was the only one there, in that tiny little space, and I was in great pain but was unchained. I could see the marks on my skin where the shackles had pinched, the area clear because it had not had room to grow properly - the rest of my arms and legs were thicker. The discoloration of flaking brown showed a serious skin infection that had been hiding under the gold, and the scars from the welding were clear to eyes and fingers both. I could feel the scars on my throat, where the burns had marked the skin as well. But I was not wearing any restraints. A long, thin, white cloth had been wrapped in layers around one of my hands, most of the back and palm of it were covered by the snug wrapping. I did not know why. There was another bit of the same cloth, a square stuck on by its edges, held in place over where the Dry Lander's tool had sliced my arm. The only other thing on me was a soft blanket and recent traces of spit oil from while I'd still been asleep. The medallion had been taken before I had first woke up, but it had not been returned. Was I still a prisoner, but to another Warlord? Who? And where - the dryness and lack of air seemed to show I was held by a Dry Land power, but was I considered a guest or a prisoner? The man I had helped had not known who, or even *what* I was - perhaps these people did not understand, either. I hoped they would be kind, whoever they were. I did not know where the High guard had been taken, or the stranger, or even if he had survived his injuries. Moving, even slowly, made the pain worse, but I closed my eyes to the bright glare and let my fingers explore around me. The blanket was not the same one it had been before, and the padding underneath did not seem nearly as soft as the previous one, although I suppose the fact that they had let the drugs wear off had more do to with the feeling than any difference in mattresses. I could feel a jagged line crossing through my hair, with tiny stitches holding the wound closed. Where it had been hit, probably. My hair ached slightly along where it was being pinched. One section - call it a braid if you wish - stung miserably, and feeling down it I discovered that a length had been cut off near the end, the missing chunk would have been longer than a finger. The ends had sticky, damp beads stuck to each strand - the plasma had time to dry, but not heal over. When had that been cut? Was it on purpose? I did not know. I could think clearly, however, and I was warm and unbound. Even with how sore I was, I still decided where I was now was better than where I had been. Then I wondered where exactly 'here' was, and reopened one eye just a little bit. The light was becoming more tolerable, but I could not see very far. There was not much far to see - I could reach out and touch the border of the space around me - it was rounded and long, and I did not have room to even sit up straight. It was a rather barren place - There was a dark patch above me, cool and smooth to my fingers and half the length of the space, a small mesh on the flat end of the cylinder nearest my head with a faint flow of air and an incredibly bright light pouring from a small, clear device above it, and a single smooth end near my feet. Then I began to worry again - I could not see any way to get out. It was sealed tightly, and the air was thinner than I would have liked. It was probably much thicker than surface air, but it was far, far less than what was at the intense depths I had become accustomed to, if I'd had to spit oil - it was the only way to keep the pain at bay. Why had they put me in this tiny cell? I had helped one of theirs, that demanded better treatment, even if they did not know what I was - no one treated a Sep'ath'nai this way, no one ever had until the Master - had the world changed so much in the time I was chained? But, even afraid and hurting, I reminded myself of my promise - I would not be a prisoner again. I would not cower, no matter what they did, I would not grovel or submit. I was still Sep'ath'nai born, and that was enough. If they did not know what I was, I would find some way to teach them. They could not be allowed to treat me as a lesser being, I assured myself. But what if the stranger had died? They might blame me in some way. Or if I had not been found by his companions, but by some army that he was fighting with - I had no idea who had put me in that tiny cell, but I knew the cruelty possible of Dry Landers was unmatched by anyone. Even split into parts as they were, with uncountable languages and faces, any of them were to be feared. Dry Landers fought each other not even half as much as the city-states in the holy realms fought, but the intensity was more than doubled, with the surroundings usually devastated and many, many non-soldiers killed. I did not know if the one I had met had lived through our great swim upwards, but he had withstood a great deal until that point. I did not wish to anger an entire fortress - or city, or nation - of Dry Landers. Beyond that simple want, I had no others beside the obvious: to get out of that tiny cell. I had no way to see what was outside, and I could not see or hear or sense or smell anything past the barrier. I had no idea where the door was, either. The stranger had known that his own vessel was near, when we fled, but what if it was not the one that had found us? Was that why I had been struck on the head? That worried me further, as I felt and pressed on the walls searching for an exit, if I had helped one they called enemy. I did not want to be caught between two warring armies, I had seen enough of that in the years before to know that nothing good ever happened to anyone stuck in the middle. The memories that surfaced made me shiver even in the great warmth of the cell. Fear had begun to chew on my insides, and I tried to ignore the pain I felt, exploring every surface in an effort to get out. The small mesh at the end could not be moved, the small curved oval that poured light was too hot to touch and too strong to break, and far too small for me to put more than my arm through anyway. The surface under the padding was solid; and the large dark area above me, though it felt different to my fingers than the metal that was the rest of the cell's wall, felt too sturdy to break and could not be pushed out of the bolted frame that held the thick opaque thing in place. I was trapped there. There had to be a way out - I just had to figure how they had gotten me inside. The barrier was very thick, the sound - even distorted by the absence of air - was enough to tell that. One end of the cylinder, however - the smooth end - had a faint echo. It was not as thick, I guessed, and soon was pressing on the edges where it joined. There was a tiny crack, all around, much too small to fit anything in, but enough to provide hope that it might not be welded shut as the other end was. I do not know long I tried to escape, but it seemed a very long time before I collasped, gasping for air in the thinness. I had gotten used to the high amount of light and the pain in my head, but there was no water to drink, and they had left no food, and the fear that I was sealed away to die was becoming a great tearing agony inside of me. Though it was very slight, so slight that I was not even sure I could feel it, I was certain that the air pressure was gradually becoming less; and I did not know why, or how, because I could not feel any movement - if we were in a great vessel that was rising towards the surface, it had ways to move that even the great whales would envy. That was how terribly still it seemed to be, as I curled up in fright, still pressed against the wall. Then I noticed something, even slighter, in the dark area above my head. I wasn't even sure I'd seen it, but I watched intently for a few more moments, and it repeated - against the darkness, a slighter darker patch passed by. The area was not opaque, as I first thought, as it was very slightly translucent, but very darkly so, and it must have been rather dark on the other side to keep what little light there might have been outside from entering. But someone - or something - had moved in front of it, and the difference caused by their shadow was just enough for me to make out. There might have been enough light inside for whoever was outside to see me, even, but I was not sure. Taking hold of the hope that the person - if indeed it was a person - was friendly, I carefully shifted upwards (not having room to sit upright), managed to balance with one arm down, raised the other uncooperative limb, and tapped on the dark area. There was no response, and I could not see any change in the darkness. I let my arms fall back into their accustomed togetherness, then raised them as hard as I could to hit the area, several times. It echoed quite loud, and I was sure that someone on the other side would have heard, but I saw nothing. At first. Then I shifted closer, peering at the edge of the darkness, where the thick metal rim held it in place, with many flat bolts, each as wide as a finger joint. There was a faint line that ran out from under the rim, not even as long as one of my fingers were wide, but it did not seem to belong there. Carefully, I ran the tips of my fingers along it, trying to sense what I could. It was a crack. A small one, and not deep enough to pass completely through the barrier, but it was a weak point. 'I will not bow down,' I signed to myself, then set to hitting the cracked part as hard and as often as I could. I soon grew tired, but I kept hitting, and the crack had grown just a little longer, a darker mark on the dim surface almost as long as my finger. It might have been an hour's work, it might have been several, I have never asked them and they have never told me. I became very sore - my arms hurt too much to move after a while, but I kept hitting. I kept hitting even when I felt I would die of thirst, but the crack had by then become longer than my hand was and smaller lines branched off of it - a second crack, then a third, and by then the first crack was easier for my fingers to feel when I paused to check, gasping for air. There soon was a definate effect to the outside, as well. A few minutes after I shifted so that my back was against the floor, to strike at it with my feet, the entire darkness suddenly lightened, the vague outline of shadows becoming evident. My efforts had alerted the people - that there was people outside, I was now certain - I could see some of them moving, but could hear nothing but the echoes of my feet striking the weakened place - not stopping the strikes even as the blurred outline of a hand and arm briefly reached out to touch the growing crack on the other side of the barrier, before it vanished into dimness. The crack now grew a little longer with every blow I gave. They made no move to help, as I could see, and I had decided that they were enemies. I had no intention of remaining that tiny cell until I died, I preferred to stop living at the end of a knife or spear than to starve. I continued to hit until there was a horrific CRUNCH sound: a tremendous pain bit into my feet and caused me to collapse. I had broken some bones, I had hit so hard. My left foot was suddenly bent at an angle it was not supposed to be at, and both were already swollen and bruised by the impacts. I could not use them anymore, not until it healed, and that would take weeks that I did not have. Further angered by this, I turned over, leaning on my arms to keep my head upright, and stared at my hands dizzily. They were just as bruised, black and swollen, useless as well. The snug white wrapping had long since fallen off to reveal a small, pierced hole that oozed clear plasma and red blood. I looked at the crack. It was now longer than my arm, spread out with several fractures that criss-crossed each other. Chips had fallen out, revealing paler bits where light came in, but the barrier was not broken yet. I was still trapped and in great pain. The pain I could deal with - I had known greater when the guards had beaten me, and I had survived that, but I could not let myself give up now. I wanted to be free, and if this attempt killed me, it would at least mean that I was not a prisoner anymore. I thought about the cracks for a few moments, then looked back down at my arms. My hands could not hit . . . my elbows and shoulders, however, were not so badly damaged. Turning over so that my weight was on my hips and I was facing forward, I brought my arms up and struck at a small peice that was completely surrounded by cracks, hoping to dislodge it. The impact made me scream in my head, from the pain that shook my hands, but the piece had not yet been broken out. I quickly realised I could not try that again, because if I passed out my efforts would stop. So I lifted myself up on my knees and hit it with my shoulder, tears streaming as my head hit as much as my shoulder, and I felt my hair writhe from the pain as I pulled back to look again. The crack was clearly defined, and the piece - not much larger than the palm of my hand - was tilted out, just a little. It was almost broken. I hit it again, not realising what would happen when the hole in the decompression chamber (for that was what I was in, even if I had no idea what it was at that time) let the pressure equalize in an instant. Oops. I cannot describe the sound, I do not know any words for it. But it was loud, and several pieces of the dark barrier went flying outward with the impact I brought, and suddenly my head wanted to explode and I was doubled over on the mattress, coughing and spitting oil in an attempt to make the pressure inside me closer to what was suddenly outside me. There was noise - I could recognise an alarm sound that poured in from beyond the cell, lights too bright to see anything, and voices yelling but I could not make sense of the words and I smelled a great deal of my own blood. They thought, so I learned later, that the pressure change would be enough to kill me - it would have killed one of them, several times over. And while it certainly hurt, it did not kill me. I was too weakened to move when the end I leaned against swung open, but I still made an effort to struggle away from the hands that had reached through a shorted chamber behind the door, from the greater space outside of it. The same thing that kept the pressure from killing me helped again: the oil glands that line my throat and lungs, which absorb the excess Nitrogen at great depths so it can be safely spit out at lesser depths and not remain in the blood to cause harm. I had been coughing the poison-laden oil out for over an hour, and without water or even a layer of clothing in the way as I writhed, it had made my body extremely slippery. The surprised guards - healers, some, but they were still soldiers - dropped me. A desperate kick with my right leg, and the one nearest was knocked over. He had a knife that came partly out of its sheath when he landed, and I was fast enough to grab it before I, too, fell, but I fell away from them and scrambled backwards, away from them until my back hit a barrier, holding the knife out in what I hoped was a defensive way. The noise had dropped down to only a few voices and the loud chuffing of machines and pipes, then the voiced stopped as the fallen guard pushed back from where I was and got to his feet. We all had several times to count our heartbeats (my own was pounding fast) and look at each other. They were seven, I was one. And they were soldiers, savage Dry Land soldiers, and I was a young Sep'ath'nai who'd never held a knife before in her life. They had to be soldiers. I'd never seen anyone as large as they were, ever. Even the smallest had to be at least a head taller than I was, and those that were not covered by long sleeves had muscles large as my head on each arm. They all had faces without expressions, stood like soldiers on duty, and the Dry Lander smell was overwhelming. One of the sleeved ones, wearing pure white with a few darker marks on his shoulders, near the back of the others, said something I remember but could not then understand. "We wait for her to collapse and we get her back inside a chamber. She can't be allowed to die - tie her up when she falls, if she fights again." I could tell it was an order, but none of them did anything, and I stayed half- standing, defiant but terrified and in great pain. I watched them right back, trying to stay on my feet though I wished I could scream from pain and tried to hold onto the knife even though I could feel it slowly slipping from my swollen fingers. Why did they not attack? They obviously had more weapons, were not injured, were stronger than I was and greatly outnumbered me. I was closer to fainting the longer I waited, and my vision was getting very blurry. "Sir," the man I had knocked down said slowly, "I don't think she's going to fall - not from the depressurization." There was a moment's pause, then the first one said, "I don't either. Back away, everyone. Peterson, see if she'll surrender the knife so we can approach her. The Admiral does not want this fubar'd, let's just advance the schedule." I had no idea what he'd said, but the five who had not said anything slowly moved back. Three of them turned and disappeared behind a wall, leaving the two who had spoken and two others. The one I'd knocked down took a few careful steps towards me, his hands out to show he did not have a weapon in them. He did not need a weapon, I suspected, because his hands alone looked strong enough to kill me. He was all muscles, and was two heads taller than I was - I had no idea how I'd managed to knock him down at all, unless he really had not been expecting me to, but that was still unlikely. He stopped, too far away for him to reach me, and held out one hand with the palm empty and up. He wanted the knife back, that I could understand. I was too frightened to use it anyway, the man was a huge mass of muscle that was well-shown by his simple, snug uniform - then I stopped breathing for a moment in surprise. He was wearing another of the same dark-blue uniform that the strangers had been wearing, even the small symbol on his chest was the same elaborate design. "It's okay, kid. I'm not going to hurt you." The words I also recognised from the first stranger having used them, even without the mind connection that was now missing. I hadn't ended up among an enemy, and they hadn't attacked me yet because they weren't going to - at all, so I hoped. I had brought the stranger back to his own kind. I held out the knife, my hand open so that he could take it. I did not know why they had put me in that cell, but had by then guessed it was to protect me from the fast depressurization that I had caused. The air had been slowly reducing to match - I had to trust that they did not intend for me to have stayed in the cell. He took the knife back, and put it away. I waited nervously, my hands too injured to say anything in childspeak to them and unable to walk even a single pace. They still did not attack, but the man near me held out his arm again. I had surrendered the knife, I had nothing else, what did he want? He looked like he was offering something - but his hand was empty. He wanted me to come to him. I would have, but I was too afraid to, and I would have fallen over if I had moved; the pain was too great. I let my hands down to my side, and let him come to me. A moment later he had picked up a blanket and wrapped it around my shaking body, whispering words in his absurd language that I did not know, but the tone was reassuring. He picked me up without an effort, looking at the injuries I'd given myself with a worried expression. He carried me to a nearby table, and continued to hold me gently while the two others in long sleeves quickly looked at my wounds and brought more pieces of white cloth, and things that smelled of antiseptic, and other things too. They washed my hands and feet - with the antiseptic then a clear jelly that began to numb the pain almost instantly - and dried them. They stitched closed the wounds on my arm and shoulder, and wrapped my hands and right foot in a layers of a long, thin, light brown bandage. All of the remaining oil, on my face and body both, they wiped up with the same little white cloths, but each one was sealed into a clear bag which were all removed to a cuboard when they were done. The man who had first spoken stayed a few paces back from the table, watching. I assumed it was he who was the leader - from his behaviour and his slightly-more-elaborate costume - of the healers and guards, perhaps more, but I had to wait to ask. None of them said anything to me - they said things, in quiet voices to each other, but I understood none of it and they did not seem to be talking to me. I looked around the room while they worked. It was large and filled with many things, all unfamiliar, and I saw two more little cells besides the damaged one they had pulled me from, but the ends of the cells were open and I could not see anyone inside of them. It was very brightly lit - I could not tell from where besides from the ceiling - making it hard to see most things clearly. There was no stone I could see, most of the walls and objects were white, and the metal they did have was either colored over or very shiny. I was noticing my thirst again, as the pain eased, but then it was very difficult to communicate from my hands being wrapped up and unusable, and because they seemed to have no idea what I wanted. One of the healers finally realised that I was asking for a drink, but not before I became very frustated and had started to wonder if they were ignoring me on purpose. Two cups were brought, and while both had cold water, one smelled fresh. I ignored it and drank the other gratefully, to a one-eye-half-shut expression of revulsion on the face of the healer who had brought it. Not sure if I could entirely trust them yet, I did my best to sign my thanks rather than show it how I wanted to. They saw, but did not say anything in return. None of them had used any childspeak - I was almost sure by then that the Dry Landers did not know any of it. How was I to talk with them, if they did not know that? I could not sense any of them, which was both a relief and a concern, and I did not know what to expect from them, or what they expected from me. My pain had been eased, however, and that was enough to trust them further. I did my best to not panic, even when they touched the broken bones in my remaining foot, but I cried when they set the bones back into place, because it hurt very much. They then wrapped sticky, drippy white layers around my broken foot, binding it up with thin metal bars and more layers of white. By the time they had finished, the wrapping was too stiff for me to move my foot. They intended for it to heal properly, it seemed, and I gave them a small smile, all I could spare. One of the healers returned the smile, and that made me feel a little bit safer. When my hands and feet were all wrapped up snugly, the leader nodded at them and they left, turning behind the same wall the others had left behind, and the man holding me went to another part of the room breifly. He returned carrying a small, neat pile of gray cloth. It was an outfit, I saw a moment later, and he helped put on the slightly-too-large shirt, a soft thing with long sleeves and no markings, and then held me so that I did not fall when we put the long coverings on my legs, awkward from the fresh weight of the binding on the one foot - less than my chains had been, to be sure, but troublesome all the same. My legs would not hold me upright to stand yet, but after a moment the man gently picked me up in his arms again, and carried me - he held me so that I could see where we went, though I cannot remember the path - out through another doorway I had not noticed before. The first man walked in front, and we soon were in another room, then a series, in places that I could have stared at for hours, filled with strange things and strange people and they all had uniforms on, though some were two kinds of blue instead of the one blue or white - I saw no servants and no slaves, and I was not sure if that was cheering or frightening. They all were looking at me, I was sure, but not all of them turned their heads from what they were doing to so do. I saw many things, but I did not see the stranger that I had helped, or the High guard. I did not see even a trace of armor, nor any swords or spears, and the lack of weapons being displayed made me quite happy (although I did not recognise the numerous gun holsters that were being worn). There were colors everywhere, bright colors, and voices that did not sound the least bit afraid, blinding lights from circles in the ceiling that shone too white to be normal, shiny bright metal everywhere that I could not understand how they kept it all from rusting, many smells that I did not yet know, and, faintly but becoming stronger, the salt of the ocean. I was close to it, even if we were no longer in it. It made me much more courageous to think that I had not been taken too far away. Very soon - too soon, because I had wanted to see more, we stopped in a smallish room, very decorated and full of people in white uniforms. Most were men. It looked and smelled strongly of wood and chemicals, and most of the light was not from the ceiling, but from large areas of the walls, not white but a pale yellow - the room was lit by the burning circle, the Sun: sheilded from being seen, but there. I was now sure I was on the Dry Lands. The other people there, all in the same crisp white clothing, were standing near a huge, glossy smooth table, and they all stopped silent to look when we entered. I felt the man carrying me tense up, and he carefully set me down on wobbly legs (I was keeping my weight off the broken foot) and stood back a step. One of the men there muttered something that sounded like a swearword, but the rest were silent, staring. It made me very uncomfortable. Even with my hands wrapped up, I knew I had to say something - not all words in childspeak need fingers to be shaped, and 'hello' was one of those. They didn't respond. I tried to say a few other words, but was not done when they suddenly all straighted up, standing at what anyone could recognise as attention. Then another man came in from a door on the far side; several more men. They all looked older than the others in the room, and were much older than I was. The older men sat at the table, and the others sat down right afterwards - all but the man in white who had led me here, and the man in blues who stood behind me. There were no seats left, but I could guess by the way they stood that they had not been expecting to sit with the rest. I was in the presense of some very, very important people. They all moved like soldiers, they all seemed to be aware of everything around them even if they did not look at it all, and they all seemed completely sure of their own importance. I began to notice a few details on their uniforms that were different, the marks on their shoulders, different symbols in different places, but I did not know the signifigance of any of it - except - they all, every one, deferred to the oldest man, who sat the top of the table. He was the only one who looked at me, and he was neither angry nor afraid to show this. He was holding something in his hand, a flat, black thing. More of the same black things sat on the table in front of each of them. The man in white who stood placed his hand on my shoulder, and guided me forward the few paces to stand beside him, as the important man's chair turned to look at me eye level to eye. I returned his gaze levelly. 'Hello', I signed to him as the others watched. His too-small, frill-edged eyes were very sad, and very wise. I stopped my childspeak to wonder if my father's eyes were the same as this man's, and could not start signing again. "You, little girl, have set this place on its ear," he said carefully. He saw that I did not understand his words, but he kept speaking. "I wonder how long we can keep you a secret. Or even if we should, because there are some here who think you to be of great importance." His last two words were pronounced very carefully. "We have many decisions ahead of us, and they all look to be very difficult ones. May I?" He held his hand out a little, and I did not know what he wanted, but I did not pull backwards. He slowly reached out and placed his hand on my neck, then carefully used his fingers to lift the skin at the top, pulling open my gills, to the collective intake of breath from everyone else in the room. Then he let go, sitting back wearily into his chair, but not a bit relaxed. "It is quite true, gentlemen, ladies. The details gathered so far are in front of you. Thank you, Lieutenant, you may take her now." The man who stood again put his hand on my shoulder, turning me towards the door we had come in, but he stopped when the important man suddenly said, "Wait." I was turned back. The man got to his feet, but signalled that the others, about to rise, should remain seated. He took a step forward, and I turned my head upwards to keep looking at him. He held one of his hands out, turned to the side with the fingers towards me. I was unsure what I was supposed to do, so I mimicked him, only to have him smile and take my hand in his, then move it up and down slightly before letting go. A greeting of some sort. I gave back a nervous smile of my own, feeling honored in some way. "Welcome to Canada," he said kindly. Then I was allowed to hobble off, as he sat back down and turned his attention to the others. I went back out through the doors, and entered the next part of my life.
(end of first book)