Standing there, trembling, I brought my hands up to sign with quite 
a noticeable effort. I gave every outward indication of being ready 
to faint as I shook, then with a deep breath, I began to childspeak 
to them. 

'Great Master order me make new display. Need new cleaned and food and 
clothed. Great Master order new must look display. Me ask help from warrior.' 

I hoped the stammering, crude signs would work. I had to keep them 
thinking I was stupid and broken. 

A pitying laugh, then a guard across the room said in middle-dialect, 
"The poor thing can't even use childspeak properly! Tell her that the 
great Master will be obeyed. Put her back in like we were ordered, 
and tell her the items will be brought." 

I hid my relief. I wasn't suppost to understand any dialect other than 
low, or my halting signs that every child learned. 

The guard next to me said slowly in low, "Go in, little green girl. We will 
bring the items so you can obey the Great Master. Do you understand?"

I made a show of struggling to comprehend, then signed, 'me obey,' 
and slowly turned back to face the cell. Shuddering, I nervously edged 
back in, as slowly as I could, the stranger's eyes never having left 
me. The delay gave me enough time to hear the others talking. 

"Pitiful creature." 

"Which one?" Several laughs. 

"Her. She's so beaten that even a Dry Lander is humbled, but she can't 
understand that - look how afraid she is!" 

"Don't laugh. The Master has ordered her dead soon." This was spoken 
by the High Guard, whose boots I could hear entering the room behind me as I 
edged into the cell's doorway.  

Shocked silence, then a sudden buzz of voices, hushed by the Highest's 
continuing. "The Master intends to use the Dry Lander as a symbol just 
like she is - only greater, as you can imagine. He plans to obtain 
his choice of a 'better' member of her family for the gold chains, 
and has told her that her head will be poled. He plans to rule all 
the Realms. ALL of them."

Faint murmurs of disbelief, shock, and other sounds were all that I heard 
as the door was again sealed behind me. That the Master, even as raging 
insane and cruel as he was, should have plans to deliberately hunt 
down a Sep'ath'nai . . . plans to conquer everything . . . it even 
frightened the thick-brained guards. Then I caught myself. I was pretending 
the fool, why wouldn't some of them be doing the same? I had to be careful, 
very careful still. 

The stranger muttered something, shaking his head from side to side. 
He had started to ignore the guards, limbs withdrawing. Trying to keep 
warm, no doubt. The Master did not spare the fuel to keep any part 
of the fortress I had been in comfortably warm, and the cell block 
was probably the worst for chill, especially without the thick robe 
I was wrapped in. The guards had several layers on, plus gloves and 
boots. They did not seem to notice the cold, especially with the steaming 
mugs they drank from. I did my best to not shiver, it would only make 
the Dry Lander feel worse. It might be days before he was allowed clothing. 
Or food. It had not taken them long to make me stop resisting. Then 
they had shaved my head (It hurt! The 'hair' of my kind is not 
dead, as it is with other races, and it hurt so much!), set my broken 
bones, and then afterwards, finally, allowed me food and a robe. When 
I first tried to escape, they had brought me down to the same cell 
as before, and done the same procedure. It was all the more horrible 
for knowing what was coming. 

I had only tried once more, a long while afterwards. Then, I did not 
fight on the way back, only begged and begged for mercy that was not 
granted. They beat Eliea, too, that time. Because she had not tried 
hard enough to stop me, they said, then they beat her crippled while they 
made me watch. I hadn't raised my head to see the face of another since then. 

This time, this place, with this stranger, I looked at his small frill-edged 
eyes and tried over and over to show him that he needed to be humble. Don't 
fight. Don't resist. Don't have any strength left, they won't hurt you so 
much if you are broken. 

He continued to sit, eyes wary and defiant. He watched every move, 
but made no sound or even hinted he understood. Without the link, I did 
not know what he intended to do anymore, and it frightened me. I was 
becoming frantic when the door sounded, forcing my retreat to the farthest 
corner. 

The stranger, apparently, was not a complete fool. He also lowered 
himself to the floor, albeit a great deal slower than I had, his breathing 
becoming even more labored from his movement. The sound of the guard stopped 
just inside the cell, but neither of us moved. Apparently appeased - 
for now - he called out, and the stones shivered under the heavy tread 
of more guards. More now, and different - I didn't recognise the scent 
of any of them, but I didn't know many of the soldiers anyway. 

Risking a discreet glance, I did recognise the blade one of them held. 
The ritual shaming was about to become personal.  

Two soldiers held the stranger's arms, pulling him up until he was 
kneeling. He kept his face down, thanks be to the Holy Ones. The third 
guard used a spear to hold his wrist-shackle down to the stones, and a fourth 
held the blade. The stranger did not flinch, even when the blade nicked 
his scalp and it bled again. 

When the Dry Lander's head was covered only by the shortest of stubble 
and the smear of blood, the blade was wiped clean and sheathed again. 
Then they pulled him to his feet and lead him to another area of the 
fortress that I remembered. 

In my nightmares.

The scrub, in the forges. It wasn't even half as clean as the one in the 
second room, but it was here that the 'important' slaves were first 
rubbed raw with sponge-corpses, while the forgers fitted the specially-made 
manacles and chains that would be worn until the dead corpse rotted 
away from inside them.  

I still had the scars from the hot metal being sealed. If the forger 
had not been careful - I still do not know if he was under orders or simply 
trying to be kind - I would have lost the use of my gills. As I am now, the 
scars line the front of my neck, from under my chin to the crease of my 
collarbones. The manacle covered most of it, before I replaced it with silken 
scarves from the Dry Lands.

My hand goes faster than my story. The manacle was encasing my neck, 
still, during the time I tell about, and the stranger was getting a final 
dunking to complete his cleaning. I had huddled down alongside a wall, 
hoping that if they didn't notice me, they wouldn't make me leave. 
I was warm for the first time in memory, and I didn't want to leave 
the stranger alone. I remembered being alone and terrified during my 
shamings, and I wished to spare him as much as I could, even if his 
continuing presence meant I would die soon. Or maybe it was because 
of that - I had little wish to stay a slave, and death was the only 
other choice. 

I stayed for the entire time. He noticed me, once, but I do not know 
if it helped or not - he had been screaming from the pain and the blood 
was spraying terribly - I had been crying, and he saw my tears. I remembered 
that part with severe clarity, and so would he. The hiss of steam first, 
a sting, then the water was gone and the now-dry rags burned away on the 
skin, the sudden, expected stench of urine and feces and blood all 
together, then the feel of the forger's tools and the metal - half-cooled 
by then, had it been molten it would have been fatal - searing in, 
destroying skin and flesh as it set and hardened, a permanent reminder 
that you were now a mere bit of property, like a cup or a floor tile. 

Most, by then, were quite unconscious, and could not feel the repeats 
performed on both wrists and ankles. The stranger's agony lasted through the 
second iron shackle being hammered off and replaced with gold before he 
went limp and the horrible connection between us sparked out again. The 
metal was the only difference - his hands were still kept welded together, 
just as mine were, with just enough links binding his feet together 
for a very short step. Running would be impossible. 
   
The only different between mine and his was the number of links in 
the chains from his neck. His front chain was just enough for his hands 
to reach his mouth to eat, but not to reach anything else. He would 
have to be handed his food and water, just as it was for every new 
slave. It would gradually be lengthened, until his hands could rest 
on his lap as he knelt - my own was like that, after a long time of 
total obedience. The back chain - the part used as a leash - was only 
half a pace long, just enough to let him kneel without choking when it was 
anchored to the stones for his display. When the guards decided he was too 
broken to attempt to hang himself - if such a thing were possible with his 
kind, there were a few who could not die that way - it would be extended 
to almost two paces in length, as mine was. I could stand or even lie 
down when on display, but I would be a fool seeking punishment if I did 
so in the Master's presence, or in the presence of anyone deemed important. 

Without the stranger's being awake, I could pay more attention to the guards 
when they began to talk. Middle Dialect again, I was careful to not 
show I understood. But I listened intently. They were still impressed, 
but no longer in awe of the stranger. He was physically quite strong, 
but they didn't know if his submission was temporary and from his injuries, 
or from one of the thousands of varying - often opposing - forms of Honor; 
was he admitting defeat and would not struggle again? The third cause 
they argued about was that seeing 'the little Sep'ath'nai chained' 
had broken his spirit.

"Even Dry Landers have to know of them," one guard pointed out. "The young 
princess has shattered nations by wearing her chains, why would this 
one be any different from the rest?" 

"Where is-!" The High guard suddenly snapped to attention, hand on spear 
while looking around quickly. He changed his dialect to low and ordered, 
"Be seen, child!" 

Sudden, total silence as the other guards suddenly realised that none 
of them had been watching me. Only the bellows and fires sounded. 

'Uh-oh' would be the closest translation for my thoughts during that heartbeat. 

I looked up - to his knees, no higher - and shook a chain. Most of the 
room glanced at me, and they all relaxed as quickly as they had tensed. 

"She has not moved at all since she came in, sir," the Forger told 
him, "this is her first - visit - since she came here. The memory must 
be very clear still."

"What memory?" An unseen voice said. "She's a fool now, her mind has rotted." 

"You don't need a mind in you to know pain," the High reprimanded. 
"Do not mock the child - she is still Sep'ath'nai born, chains or not. And 
the Master would not let her be injured or killed until he manages 
to obtain a true Sep'ath'nai, if ever. I look at her and see only fear 
and confusion - she would not even know an insult, so save your words 
for a worthier opponent. Wash the Dry Lander again. She can dress him. 
I have no wish to touch that so-called Myth, only the Holy Ones know 
how many diseases he carries." The half-dozen others all suddenly recoiled 
from the limp stranger at that moment, but the High did not pause in his 
orders. "The Master will want him in good condition, and as soon as 
possible. So start!" 

I have to admit, the stranger did have his uses. I was rarely in a place 
where talking was done openly and honestly - and never when I was part 
of the topic. I mulled over the High's words while I waited for the 
guards to dunk the stranger again, then got up when they ordered me to. 

"Make look for display," the command came with a bundle of new, warm 
robes. The Dry Lander was limp, and wasn't as easy to move as before. 
The new chains were heavier and the seams still warm enough to hurt my hands, 
and he wasn't awake to help in any way. Wondering why the guards, who were so 
strong, had such difficulty with him, I made a show of trying to turn him 
over - if he'd fought as hard as they said, they would be angry at me if I 
didn't struggle worse. But why was the effort not really needed? 

I was still trying to solve that latest of many riddles when the High 
took my leash again, and told the lower guards to bring him up to the 
second room until he woke up. "Keep him secured there, alone - perhaps he will 
talk, perhaps not - yet. Either way, he should be ready to bow before the Master, 
while witnessed doing so. News will be sent quickly, afterwards. The Master is 
not patient in such matters." We watched as several of them picked up the 
stranger and carried the limp body away. When they were gone, he 
continued. "This one needs cleaned. If she is not there for the court to see, 
we will all be whipped, or worse. Take her, and go." 

Despite a steady - if not exceptionally fast - pace, it still took 
some time to reach the secondary room. Or perhaps it just seemed that way, 
since this was my first chance to look around calmly on the route. 
Food smells meant the kitchens were down that corridor, somewhere. 
A brief pause while an opened door was blocking the way - I peeked in, curious and 
using a learning opportunity to keep my mind from truly rotting. A portal 
room, interesting. With a troupe of guards, still dripping, 
they had come from the sea a moment before, making rounds to inspect 
the gilled soldiers, probably. I could see the mess laying around as they 
removed their sodden clothing and dried off, then the doorway was passed 
and the view was lost. Still, I enjoyed seeing them at their weakest: 
naked and shivering. A few hadn't even put away their breathers yet. 
The walk continued, past serving slaves, doors to places that were 
totally unknown to me, corridors that led off to places I'd never see, 
and suddenly we were back in the chamber that made up a small part 
of my existence. The main part was the throne room. The secondary room 
and the corridor to it completed the rest. A small world, for a small girl. 

Waiting for the guard to unlock to door, I sighed and glanced around, 
wondering just how long I'd been here, how many times I'd passed through 
the doorway in front of me. The first time had been terrifying, as 
everything was at first. The guards were twice my size, some more than 
that, the chains were heavy, and I was among strangers who either wanted 
to beat me or who had long since stopped noticing anything around them 
but their shackles. Eliea had reached a hand over to me, later that 
night, and held my fingers in hers, softly humming a lullaby that would 
be a staple comfort every night I was next to her afterwards. 

I suddenly realised I'd never hear her again. She was dead, and that 
horrible stranger was the cause. A sharp wave of tears and fury struck 
my face, and I looked for the one I now hated so much. Instead of the 
stranger, I saw the back of the guard's helmet.

And so received a shock even greater than any I'd had that day.  No words, 
just the concept, in my head, blasting everything else away.

The guard wasn't twice as big as I was. He was only a slight bit taller, 
if much wider in his armour. But it couldn't be! He wasn't half the 
size of the other guards, he was - 

No. 

I was the one who had changed. They first knew me as a child. They 
had not bothered to truly look at me since, to see that I wasn't one 
any longer. 

I had grown up.

I was almost as big as he was!

My mind racing as fast as it could, I thought about the revelation. 
Was that why I could move the stranger so easily? Because I was not a 
child anymore, and so had more than a child's strength? But the guards 
had trouble - the weight - 

Their weight. Their armor. It had to weigh less than my chains did, 
it was meant to be used when running, fighting, killing. Chains were 
to slow someone down, they were thicker, heavier. And I wore mine constantly. 
A soldier would be allowed to take his armor off to sleep, to rest, 
to play - they were not as used to the weight it, at least not as used to 
it as I was to my chains. I never even felt them anymore, they were 
so much a part of me. 

Could it be that I was actually stronger than one of the Master's soldiers? 

A sharp point at my side brought my mind back to where it should have 
never left. "Wash. Eat." The soldier ordered, and poked me with his 
spear again.

As fast I could, given my shaking hands, I pulled off my robe and stepped 
into the shower, standing under the cold water, drinking in it's sweet, 
holy water. I rubbed off the last bits of blood, may Eliea rest warm 
and peacefully forever, and dried as fast as I could. The smell of food 
on a tray nearby wasn't nearly as distracting as usual, which wasn't 
very much. The simple - and few - things we were given to eat never 
compared to the fine dining of the Master, or the ranking members of 
court. Even the guards ate better, if not the serving slaves. But the 
guards, at least, would sometimes sneak us a bit of meat, or a sweet, 
if they knew they were not being watched. The kinder guards did, anyway. 
The female Wharyyl, displayed several down from me, got many treats, 
from many guards. She let them mate with her, at night, when only the 
displays and a few guards were left in the throne room. She would scream 
if they didn't let her eat first, but she let them do all kinds of 
degrading things to her body if she wasn't hungry. She was the only 
display who was fat. 

She was also the only one who needed a healer brought in on a regular 
basis, to treat the symptoms of the diseases the guards had given her 
during mating. And to kill the child who kept trying to enter her - but 
I did not believe that part of the whispers. I thought that no soul 
would want to be born desperately enough to enter a display-slave. 
The children of serving-slaves were few and sickly, and always killed 
when born - the Master's orders. He obtained plenty of new slaves in his 
raids and wars and in tribute payments from those conquered, he had no 
need to raise them from infants. 

Before I had been brought to this place, I hadn't even known slaves 
existed. Servants, yes, but they were paid wages, and were better treated, 
and they had the choice to leave at any time. There were no servants 
in the fortress. If there had been, the Master had chained them long 
before I was brought here. 

I tried not to think about such things, eating as quickly as I could 
to avoid tasting the food, to avoid looking at the stranger as he lay unconcious 
and chained to a wall nearby. Gulping down the horrid tasting herbs 
they forced into me every morning to keep my appearance green and free 
from skinrot, I concentrated on how long I might live, instead. I wasn't 
dead, yet. And the High guard was clever - it had to be true that the 
Master would still need me for display. At least until he had captured 
and forced into obedience a 'better' member of my family. 

Scholars and Performers were considered by him to be good stock for 
display, I had learned, but Leaders - military ones especially - were 
what he preferred. Sep'ath'nai have no military, no weapons apart from 
our wits and our links with all in the Twelve Holy Realms. We are watchers, 
listeners, historians, teachers, Healers. For many thousands of years, 
it had been more than enough, for we have no lies when we communicate 
our way. It is pure thought, pure concept, pure honesty. It is this gift, 
this curse, this all-important thing that gives us our name. It is also 
our title, our description, our pride. 

It would be our downfall, I thought gloomily. The Master would want 
the best of us. That meant my Father, if he still lived. Whichever 
sibling survived to be called Eldest, if not, since all the others 
I had known which were able to lead the city were not interested in doing 
so. They had academic interests, instead. It was preferred to create, 
to save, to learn rather than to do, but without the 'do', there is 
nothing to save or learn. A neat circle. All children were taught it. 
Most of my siblings were well into 'do', any of them would be a good 
leader. I was sad at the thought of any of my family in chains, even 
if their faces and names had faded from my memory. Perhaps it wouldn't 
be someone I had known - there might be others, by this time, who would 
have gained the experience, knowledge and honor needed to lead our 
city. Whoever it was that the Master would display - that he would 
succeed in doing so, I had no doubts - I was likely related to them 
anyway, as my family can trace ancestors back to before the founding, 
and we have kept records of all our kin. 

I only knew it would not be my mother or the sister who had once been 
eldest, because they had died in an accident long before I was captured. 
Their faces, along with a brother who died before he walked or I was 
even born, are the only ones I remember anymore, because I spent many 
days looking at their portraits when I was still home, and I clung 
to the memories during my imprisonment. 

Dressing as quickly as I could because I was late, I wondered if the 
stranger's family would ever learn of his capture. Dry Landers avoided 
the depths for the most part, preferring to toss wastes down at us 
instead. It was known they had no proof of any of our Holy Peoples, 
but enough evidence dropped to show they suspected someone lived as we 
do. So we - even the Master, until then - kept quiet, and we hid our 
cities from them. Dry Landers were long known to be aggressive, taking 
up wars of such violence that, until my Father's generation, we had 
thought them to be just wild stories. Then they harnessed - if you 
could call the uncontrolled events that - the energy inside the smallest 
parts of existence. This energy is what makes the burning circle burn, 
and there is a weaker version - the one they seemed to prefer - it 
makes all living things sick until they die if they get too close to it's 
remains. The Holy version - the one that powers my home, and many other 
cities - was pure, needing only a part of water, leaving only strange 
bubbles of not-air that made vocal species sound very funny when they 
breathed it in and talked it out. 

When the Dry Landers learned to make that kind of energy, even the 
warlords stopped raiding them. It was just too dangerous to drop their 
vessels from the surface to obtain the cargo and crew, if an energy 
bomb was with the bounty - it only took one time for everyone to learn 
the lesson. Almost two hundred thousand died in that one time, however, 
and the Sep'ath'nai are careful to mourn every soul, and remind all 
that such mistakes are not to be repeated.

But this . . . the Master had begun ranting about ruling them, about 
conquering places that were so unholy that there was no water at all, 
how could life live in such places - that it did live, even thrive, 
baffled scholars - the Master wanted it all to kneel before him. 

He was insane. He had to be! And there wasn't a being alive or dead 
that could stop him, now that there was a Dry Lander in the Master's 
chains. Agitated whispers swirled around, I could hear three - no, 
four - different languages being spoken and in twice that many dialects, 
all about the stranger and if he was really here, if he was real, and - 
Holy Ones please have mercy - what would, could or even might happen 
if it was true. 

The throne room hadn't been this active since . . . I could not remember 
when. I wasn't paying much attention when I was first here, so long 
before, but I was sure that it was at least as busy as when I had been 
first displayed. 

At least then I had been given room, even if it was a space created 
by horror and the desire to be as far away as possible from such a thing 
as a Sep'ath'nai in chains. It was taking much longer than usual for 
the guard to take me through the many people, even with his spear poking 
those in the way. We hadn't even reached the room itself - just the 
doorway. It was packed solid, every noble and ranking member had been 
summoned, it seemed. And I knew more would appear as the order to Come, 
See, Bow before the might of the Master, spread further through the 
places he had conquered. Muttering a rather vulgar curse, the guard reluctantly 
decided to try moving the long way around the crowd. He turned me to one side 
and lead me along the trophy wall, where none of those present would willingly step 
near - there were as many body parts, and bodies, mounted as there were symbols 
and tools and seized weapons. The courtiers were thickest near the Master's 
Dias, listening to his every word as he bragged. I think he was bragging. I 
couldn't hear, there were too many people in the way. But they acted like they 
would whenever he bragged. And from what I could see through the mass with only 
a quick glance, he was fully dressed in glittering decorations and polished 
armor. He gleamed in the mass of light provided by more than double the usual 
number of lamps. 

This was not good. The stranger was even more trouble than I had thought - 
before, I had only worried about my own death, but now, I feared for 
every living thing on the Sphere. It had been bad before the stranger 
had arrived, yes, but this was - I had to stop suddenly, the guard 
had paused to look for an easier route. He wanted out of this mob, 
I could tell, because when people are this thick, knives are easy to use, 
and he didn't want to be on the bad end of one. Such deaths are not uncommon, 
and are a frequent means of promotion. He pushed me back against 
the wall, holding me still while the crowd suddenly yelled approval. 
The stranger had woken up. They would bring him in soon, and everyone 
there (the serving-slaves had fled by then, many of them injured and trampled) 
wanted to look. That was what the Master wanted, of course, and they all 
knew to obey his whims or they'd die. Then they would all bow before 
him, and the Master's powers would increase even more.  

Something was digging into my back, and it hurt - carefully turning 
around, I saw it was a new piece, one of the stranger's tools. It was 
oddly shaped - the handle I knew, but the top seemed to have no use - 
then I suddenly remembered. It was a small, pointed blade - sheathed! 
The stranger had been thinking of it, when the link had been alive 
between us. The sheath fit so well you could not tell it was a tool. 
A rock hammer. That was the name. And the stranger wanted it because 
he knew the titanium - what was titanium? - would break the iron chains. 

Break iron? What nonsense it that? It can't be - yes it can, the forger's 
tools! One was like this! But no-one else knew, because the shape was 
hidden by the sheath around the head. 

I glanced around, quickly, carefully. The guard was distracted. No one 
else was looking at me. No one could even see me. Fear sprang up, and 
a bewildering excitement. I had promised to help the stranger leave, 
in the hope that I'd likely die to gain his freedom - I had 
thought it would take years, when he was humble, and then try to run, 
when they might not pay attention at every moment. Even if it had meant 
the world would be destroyed in the wait.

The world has shifted, Eliea told us all. And, a moment later, as the 
guard was joined several others to push a path to where my display place 
was, so too had the trophy wall we walked away from. 

But I hoped with all my might that the rock hammer, hidden under a fold 
of my robe and secured next to my skin, wasn't as noticeable as the 
muse's touch had been. 

I had begun my escape. And this time, I would drive my own heart into a 
spear before they took me back, or I would be free. All I required 
was the moment, and the stranger's help once we got to his metal underwater 
ship. 

It would be a much longer wait then I had been hoping for. Much, much longer. 

Chapter Four