Here you'll find

 

Dayn armallah

 

 

 

 

4. A New Morning

My very first feeling in the morning was an immense pleasure at being clean. I smiled and caressed myself idly, exploring the smooth skin and the bones that I could feel altogether too well underneath it. Granted, I had always been of the skinny sort, even back in the City when I still got enough to eat every day, but I definitely did not like the way my hipbone jutted out, nor the ease with which I could count each of my ribs.

My hand snaked up and I twined fingers in my hair – clean, washed, combed hair. When had I last had the opportunity to wash it properly? Ages ago, that I knew. The Foresters were never kind to their slaves, and that meant there was very little opportunity to indulge in such pleasures as thoroughly washing oneself. Heating water for a slave was the worst kind of waste, and washing with cold water straight from a river or brook didn't do nearly enough. I shivered at the memory, then pushed it aside and shoved both hands into my overgrown bangs, marveling at their softness.

A quiet rustle somewhere to my right forced me to open my eyes. A small woman, one of my own people, was crouched next to my bed. She smiled slightly when I tried to focus on her, and bent closer. There was a bowl of something in her hands.

"Do you think you could eat something?" she asked. I nodded eagerly and pushed myself up to sitting position, so I could put the bowl in my lap. The thick broth looked and especially smelled heavenly, and I was hard put to behave myself instead of attacking it in the most undignified manner. I emptied the bowl, wiped its sides clean with the generous piece of bread she had given me, licked my fingers for good measure. And then I nearly choked. How could I have been so engrossed in eating that I hadn't noticed somebody else had entered the cottage? Someone in front of whom the woman now bowed her head in deep reverence, and who was eyeing me with a smile on his lips. I began to scramble up.

"No, Tarisha, don't you try to get up." He crouched and put his hand on my shoulder. "You've been through a lot, I want you to rest now."

I let him push me back into bed and watched as he squatted beside me on the floor. The rustle and scent of his leather clothes enveloped me like a comforting blanket of safety, and I took a deep breath. Then he pushed his long hair over his shoulder and again I could smell something at the same time sweet and pungent.

"Incense?" It came out before I realized, and he looked at me questioningly. "You smell of incense," I clarified and saw the corner of his mouth twitch. "How's that possible?"

He looked sad and irritated and bitter, all at the same time, and for a moment his eyes gazed somewhere very far. Then he chuckled softly, mirthlessly.

"In the moment of panic, Seven, people tend to grab the thing dearest and most precious to them, to take it with them, to try and save it."

I nodded, holding my breath and fighting back nausea as the visions surged over me again.

"Perhaps they can think straight, perhaps not. If they can, they might try to reach that precious something even if it's not near – a wife at home, a child in the street. If not, they take whatever is nearest, and run. But whatever it is, it tells something of them, and their state of mind at that moment... when everything falls apart."

I nodded again, remembering how I had run across the Temple yard screaming for Blue Four, tears streaming down my face. My throat felt parched. He smiled bitterly, deep in thought, absent-mindedly stroking his right forearm with the fingers of his left hand.

"So you understand how, for a priestess running for her life from the burning Temple, a box of incense might be that special something that she's ready to risk her life for and drag along to the ends of the Earth if need be. If her main task for years has been to make sure that the Holy Mother never has to breathe anything but sweetened air, wouldn't that weigh foremost in her mind even when the place around her goes up in flames?"

The long, hardened fingers dug into his right wrist so hard that the knuckles turned white and he breathed heavily, mouth pressed into a thin line. I reached out hesitantly and touched his hand. That visibly startled him – probably he had for a moment totally forgotten that he wasn't alone. The grip loosened and he turned to look at me with those disconcerting eyes.

"What was it for you, my Lord?" I whispered. "That special something? Did you… did you manage to save it?"

For a moment his tense face dissolved into a warm smile. "Yes. I got my son out alive." Then his jaw clenched again and he looked pained. "Even though he ran from his mother's arms to me. She – she was in mindless panic, clinging to him even though they were surrounded by flames, screaming at him, telling him not to go. I couldn't get to them!" He hit the bedding with his fist, still shaking in powerless frustration. "I told them to run for it but she wouldn't let him go, and then – he tore himself free and jumped through the flames to me. His hair was a little singed, that's all, he was so quick. Then the roof began to collapse…" He took a shuddering breath and closed his eyes. "There was nothing we could do but run."

Again he was rubbing his right forearm almost furiously, as if the memory made it hurt. I looked at him and tried to imagine it all, even though I wasn't quite sure I wanted to. Being closeted inside the walls of the Temple, the supposed sanctuary, with its tall towers and balconies from where one could surely see the entire City around – see it all. See the carnage. Hear the noises. Smell the smoke. And the flames all around, closing in…

I shook my head violently. I did not want to think about it! Leather-clad arms wound around me and I pressed tight against him, my breathing ragged.

"I'm sorry, Tarisha." His voice was low and soothing. "I should not make you think about it. You probably think about it often enough anyway."

"I asked you, my Lord," I corrected. "You need not apologize. I – to be here – it's been…"

"Hush," he murmured. "You're safe now. Safe from them. They'll never have a chance to hurt you again."

Hearing that felt incredibly good, and I felt my lips curve into a smile. The best, or was it craziest, part of it was that I fully believed him. Even if he had to kill me himself, he would never let any one of the Foresters lay a hand on me again. I breathed in the scent of his clothes, and when he bowed his head closer to mine that hair cascaded like a veil around me. Then I opened my eyes, and blinked when I noticed another pair of eyes peering at me curiously from the door. The prince must have felt me catch my breath forhe turned, too, and I heard his smile even before he said anything.

"What is it, Alaish?"

"She said he's woken up, father." The voice was bright as chimes, eager as only a young boy's could. "May I come in? Please?"

He was already inside before the affirmative, squatted next to us and flashed me a broad smile. Maybe ten or twelve years old, he was lithe and beautiful, with a mane of slightly deeper honey-brown than his father's, and eyes just as enticing, except that in his boyish face they glittered like a squirrel's would. I couldn't help smiling back to him, which seemed to satisfy him no end. His hand rose to touch my tattoos.

"Red – Seven, isn't it?" he said. "I'm so glad you're here now. Father won't let anybody harm you anymore. Besides, it's good to have more men here."

"So you count me a man?" I asked, amused. Never tall for my age, at any age, I had always had the pleasure to hear the dubious compliment of not looking my years. And I was sure that the over two years I had spent as a slave in the Foresters' village had not done much to improve the situation. Granted, for all I knew my face might look a lot older, but that hardly made my nineteen-year-old abused body any more masculine.

The boy nodded gravely.

"But certainly. You're a man, and that's a good thing. There are so many things the women cannot do – or will not." His nose wrinkled slightly and he went on to explain in a very adult tone: "But that's because so many of them used to be priestesses, you see, they're not used to living like we have to live now. Or working hard… or at all."

"Alaish," his father reprimanded him gently. "You're not to say such things."

"But you've said so yourself!" the boy retorted readily. "I've heard you say more than once that they ought to do something useful, instead of wasting time on their silly ceremonies."

I gasped and felt the prince stiffen behind me. "Alaish!" It was a verbal whiplash but the boy did not quaver. Instead, he lifted his chin higher and looked his father straight in the eye.

"That's what you've said," he repeated. "And it's true, too. Why should they keep praying to the Holy Mother when she's not here to hear us?"

I held my breath, expecting the answer. That the Holy Mother would hear us, even if her statue had burned down with the City. That she would take delight in the continuation of the ceremonies in her honor and look kindly upon us. That she would help us, take care of us –

I felt the prince's soft sigh stir my hair.

"Alaish," he said quietly. "Tarisha has had it rough. He needs to rest now, to get better. He certainly doesn't need any of this conversation right now. Understood?"

The boy blushed and looked ashamed.

"I'm sorry, Tarisha," he whispered. "I didn't mean to be – well, I didn't -"

"It's all right." I took his hand in mine and we exchanged a smile. "I promise to get on my feet soon, real soon. And then I'll help your father look after everything. After all, I've learned a thing or two over these couple of years as a slave."

He clasped my hand tightly in his and looked at me, eager and grave at the same time. "It must have been terrible. But I'm so glad you're here now!"

With that the boy gave me a lightning-quick kiss on the cheek and ran out. Only then did I realize that all the while I had been sitting there, leaning against the prince, his arms embracing me protectively, and my cheeks went aflame. The only thing I could think of was to be grateful that I did not see his face at the moment – or those eyes that had filled many a strange waking dream years ago.

"Well, Tarisha, that was my son." His voice was dry, but I could hear the mixture of pride and amusement bubbling underneath. "Introductions to the rest of the village can wait until you are stronger. Right now you are to rest until you feel alive again."

"But I do already," I said hopefully. "Really, my Lord, I'm perfectly all right."

He shook his head, eyes smiling. "Why don't I quite believe that? You were absolutely exhausted last night – do you actually remember anything about our arrival here? And you're way too skinny. Even though I don't expect that to be remedied within the next couple of days, at least you are going to sleep enough and take it easy for now. So, what I want you to do is to crawl back under those blankets and close your eyes."

Of course he was right. I could recall only some very hazy images of our journey here, and even hazier ones about what had happened once we reached the village. The fires. The people. The bath. Dozing off while somebody was gently washing my hair. The few mouthfuls of food that I had managed to swallow before being completely knocked out. Obediently I nodded and tucked myself back in bed, drowsiness overwhelming my senses again as soon as my head touched the pillow. The prince laughed quietly pulling the blanket on me, and I blinked sleepily up to him.

"I thought so. You really need this. Sleep well, Tarisha, and as long as you feel like. There's nothing to worry about anymore."

Perhaps I heard him go, perhaps not, as I drifted off immediately when I allowed my eyes close. Once more I dreamed of the City, but for the first time in over two years the dreams were full of happiness and laughter.

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