Chapter 8

Every eye in the market place was fixed on her; she just knew it. Her feet felt like lead as the trader’s grip on her arm pulled her to the forefront of the wooden platform. She barely noticed as the he yanked the bow and quiver from her shoulder and tossed them to the side.

“Remove your cloak so’s they can get a good look acha,” Daelia shrank from his hand as he tried to remove it himself. Feeling shamed, she unfastened the clasp and pulled it from around her shoulders, exposing herself to the crowd.

The trader began his speech, as he had with every other person he had sold that day.

“Here we have young woman of—“ he paused and squinted at her.

“Twenty-three,” she answered through clenched teeth.

“Of twenty years, and she’s got work in her! Despite the manly apparel, she could do well as a house-servant or ladies maid, a cook or even a nursemaid.”

Her arms were straight and stiff at her sides with fists clenched. The trader continued his speech beside her, but her brain refused to understand most of his words. Her gaze swept the faces hoping to see a glimpse of kindness, or even sympathy.

Instead, they inspected her as if she were a piece of merchandise. Fingers pointed and critical eyes squinted in judgment, causing her to wonder what they saw when they looked at her. It was unnerving, making her feel naked and vulnerable. Duard’s eyes had always made her feel like this; as though he could see through her to her very soul.

“I’m only asking fifteen gold pieces for this girl, or the highest bid. Who’s interested?” the trader prompted when there was no response.

One woman standing near the platform said loudly, “That one looks like trouble. What woman dresses like a man? Not a maidservant.”

“How’s twelve gold pieces? Who would ask any less for such a strong girl!” The trader’s voice was sounding impatient.

Another voice stood out from the crowd, saying, “She looks strong, sure enough, but rough. There’s fire in them eyes.”

Daelia dropped her gaze. Suddenly a hand raised towards the back of the many faces. A greedy smile slowly spread across the trader’s face, and he bowed slightly towards the person who had indicated interest.

“Ah, my lord…and would you be wantin’ this girl? You have no competition thus far, so if you want her, she’s yours for only twelve gold pieces!”

Daelia looked up at the man who was trying to buy her. He was stern looking, with graying beard and embroidered tunic. He did not look at her, but nodded at the trader and pushed his way through the group to the platform.

“My master wishes for a girl to serve in his kitchen, and this one looks strong enough and comely enough to satisfy him. My offer is ten gold pieces for two years of service.”

The dealer did not look happy at the offer of only ten gold pieces, but he was ready to get rid of this woman. He turned to Daelia, “Well, girl, the contract is two years. Do you say yes?”

What other choice was there? And two years wasn’t very long. She inclined her head slightly in agreement.

The gray-bearded man tossed a small bag of coins up to the trader, and Daelia was hustled off the platform as another woman was led up to stand in her place.

Gathering up her belongings off the muddy ground, she turned to face the man who now owned her. He glanced doubtfully at the bow now secure in her hand and then motioned for her to follow him.

Her long, lithe legs easily keeping pace with his purposeful stride, Daelia followed the man through the marketplace, in the direction of a large, marble statue. As they neared the monument, he motioned for her to walk beside him.

“How long have you been in the city, girl?” he asked abruptly without looking at her or changing his pace.

“Almost eight weeks, my lord.”

“I am not your lord, Elian Vitalus is. You may call me Callian. My position is as the steward of the manor. The mistress complained of being short-staffed in the kitchen, and the master asked me to find suitable help. Have you any experience in the kitchen, girl?”

A little, but only for her family. “I can bake bread and stew, and a few other thi—“

Callian gave a loud barking laugh, “You won’t be baking rough bread or rabbit stew in the master’s household!” He looked at her, taking in her face and figure. “I suppose you could make a serving girl in time. Not right away of course, and not until you find some new garments. If the mistress sees those inside her doorstep, she’ll have me to the stocks.”

A large man hit her shoulder with his own as he passed in the other direction, “I was raised in the forests of Braedoch; I have never worn anything different than what was suitable for hunting and working,” she replied, still defensive of her appearance.

“What is your name, girl?”

“Daelia Romany.” She jumped aside as a horse-drawn cart almost ran her over. The wheels hit a deep puddle as it passed, splashing mud up the front of her clothes and over the cloak she carried over one arm.

“Don’t fear,” Callian remarked as she tried in vain to brush the sludge off her tunic, “A little mud cannot hurt them anymore.”

She determined to watch her surroundings more carefully; one could be killed by drivers like that one. Keeping one eye on Callian as not to get separated, she scanned the area around her.

Suddenly, through a brief break in the people moving swiftly through the market, she caught sight of a familiar face. A face she would have recognized anywhere.

“Wren!” she gasped then yelled more loudly, “WREN!” Her sister did not hear her above the rabble, however, and continued walking in the opposite direction. I have to get to her! Daelia started to run after her sister just as the well-known braided head disappeared amidst the sea of faces.

Callian’s large hand grasped her arm roughly, jerking her away from the spot where her sister had stood only a moment ago. “Where do you thing you’re going?” he exclaimed angrily, “You cannot just go running off, you know; you’re a servant now! Do anything like that again, girl, and you will be the one in the stocks!”

Her heart pounded and tears burned her eyes as he pulled her away, out of the market, and away from Wren. She had almost talked to her sister again! A member of her own family! It felt like a bad dream.

With Callian’s tight grip on her wrist, she had no choice but to follow. She could have escaped; could have disappeared into the crowd just as swiftly as her sister.

But you agreed to do this; running away would be breaking your word.

Why must I always worry about such details? They’re a bother.

Well, she wasn’t free to make her own choices anymore. Had she ever been free to make her own choices? Yes; but when had there been any real options? Deus never left any options. Become a servant or steal food to survive. How is it freedom to always know which of two paths you must take?

But it was still your decision.

What have you asked of me, Deus? Surely not this!

These bitter thoughts left a sour taste in her mind and heart. She walked numbly along with her captor, up winding streets, past increasingly luxurious homes and shops. Daelia, even in her sorrow, couldn’t help but stare in awe at the grandeur surrounding her. The streets that had previously been filled with filth and humanity were still muddy, but did not have the muck and debris of the market place.

They began to climb a hill, past the main group of buildings, along which a tall hedge ran on either side of a narrow path. Finally, the path turned into a wide break in the hedge at the top of the hill. Without the tall bushes to block her view, she could now see the building beyond. Set back among tall ancient trees near the edge of a wide, blue river, the castle was the most magnificent structure Daelia had ever seen.

“This is it,” were the first words Callian spoke to her since the incident in the market.

As they approached the looming stone walls, Daelia began to shake a little.

Chapter 7

The marketplace of Parsaena’s eastern district was a bustle of activity and excitement. Wealthy noblewomen in elegantly embroidered gowns strolled about the booths selling fabrics, jewelry, and perfumes, while servants bartered loudly with vendors of vegetables, breads, meat, and spices for their master’s lavish tables. Colorful tents flapped in the breeze, while minstrels, jugglers, tumblers, and magicians drew crowds of citizens eager for entertainment.

The effect was completely opposite from what Daelia had seen just over the bridge. While the western district became quiet, gray, and depressed, this district had all the appearance of a thriving economy. Could it really be the same city?

In this place, money was all that mattered; money and power. Those in possession of neither had no place, and certainly no worth.

She passed by tables, stalls, and merchant wagons, all displaying their goods for eager buyers. While admiring a cart of exotic fruits of every shape and color, Daelia accidentally bumped against a young noblewoman. She was dressed in a kirtle of yellow satin, trimmed with ermine, and was followed by several maidservants carrying paper-wrapped packages. The woman paused to turn pale eyes upon Daelia, icy gaze sweeping in obvious distain over the girl’s worn tunic, muddy boots, and red curls tumbling in disarray. “Watch where you walk, peasant,” the woman said haughtily before continuing on towards a stand selling oriental silks.

Daelia blushed, shocked at the woman’s tone, and suddenly conscious of her appearance. Looking down at her leggings, she realized that she was dressed more like a man than a woman of twenty-three. No wonder her approach was gathering stares and titters from a group of brightly dressed young girls. My clothing was always good enough for the forest. I needed nothing more, she yelled at them in her mind. All she wanted was to get out of the middle of this crowd.

As she rounded a couple of booths selling swords and tooled leather items, a noise up ahead caught her attention. Curious, she veered through the throng towards the voice whose words were beginning to become clearer.

“--men and women, all fit for immediate service! Household servants, stable hands, wet nurses, and cooks…anything ye need!”

Slowly, the owner of the voice came into view. He was an oily looking character who stood on a wooden platform while calling out to the large crowd that had gathered.

“In just a few minutes I will bring out some of the finest workers ye will see anywhere! I can guarantee to fill any position ye might need filled! Serving girls, men for your fields, cooks for your kitchen, seamstresses—“

Daelia wasn’t sure if she understood: people for sale? Skirting around the gathering, she approached a small group of ragged figures standing forlornly behind the platform. By their appearance, she guessed they must be the ones about to be sold. They weren’t chained or tied up in any way. Why didn’t they run?

She asked this of a small woman she guessed to be about her own age. The woman wore a shapeless, brown dress and her hair was loose about her shoulders; her expression was emotionless as she replied, “We’re to be indentured servants; we aren’t slaves.”

When Daelia pressed her to explain she sighed heavily, “We work for whoever buys us for a set number of years, afterwhich, we are free to go. My family can’t pay their tax, so here I am. No other way to make money ‘round here, besides the brothels.”

Dealia cringed inwardly at the thought. “So you chose to be here?”

The girl nodded, no longer looking at her, but at the oily trader who was now leading the first person for sale onto the platform.


You should do this, came an unbidden voice in the back of her mind.

Could I do it? She asked herself as, one by one, the pitiful servants were sold off. Might this be my only chance?

No. Not a servant; anything but belonging to someone else. She could never choose to be the property of another human. She would beg before selling herself as a servant, or even sell her bow!

You must. Just do it. All will be well.

She paced as she tried to shut out the voice. It was telling her to give up her freedom. She had been a prisoner under Duard for too long. How could Deus ask this of her? I cannot!

You must.

No!

Trust me.

“You, girl! Are you here to find a position?” The trader hissed at her from the top of the steps that led up to the platform, “If you are, get up here now before you waste anymore of my time!”

As he spoke, Daelia felt time stop and the trader’s voice fade away. A familiar sensation washed over her as she saw a picture in the back of her mind. The picture was not of a person or an event, but of a feeling; a sense of peace and assurance, but also of urgency and warning.

Something important was going to happen; something that hinged on the decision she was being asked to make at that very moment. Suddenly the picture changed, and she now saw a young woman, herself, wandering up and down a street that seemed never to end. After what she new to be an eternity, the young woman collapsed and lay motionless.

Never had her gift come upon her so strongly. Then as quickly as it had come, the feeling vanished, and the market noise picked up where it had left off. The trader had just finished his question and was impatiently awaiting her answer. She hesitated.

“Well?”

She was ready.

I hope you know what you’re doing, she said angrily to herself. Placing a worn boot on the bottom step, she nodded to the man. Yes, she was there to find a position.