The screaming was what always made her skin crawl. All night, every night, it never stopped. Since arriving in Ceya-Tar, it had been the children's screams that would keep her awake. The weak children were always taken for sport, but here it was different. One of the others had told her that the children here were lit ablaze with tar and strung up amongst the tigers. It wasn't a shock to her, torture was an art form to the che. Flesh statues, gardens of intestines; the che treated them as disposable goods. If there seemed to be less-than-optimal utility, it was as good as a sentence for death. She hoped that day would never come for her.
It had been weeks since they left Sard, her home. For three decades she had called it home, but that word was a farce through and through. She wasn't sure if her people even knew what the word "home" really meant. The che called their dwelling places "math," though this was not the same as "home." Math felt harsh and sharp, painful and empty. Home sounded warmer, softer, like it belonged to someone. Calling Sard "home" was nothing more than a trick she played on herself to forget the feeling that math gave her.
Tonight the screams were much louder than before; she assumed that the children were older than they had been the night before, they had more to burn than the younger ones. It sickened her to think of that, but she could not deny the possible truth. The drinking cavorts of the che echoed through the halls of Ceya-Tar, pierced by the cries of the children. It was a cacophony of horror to her, for she knew the words of the songs the che sang, and she knew that they were ones of joy and prosperity. A verse would end, and there would be a scream, followed by laughter and the clack of goblets.
Sometimes she wished she didn't know any of the che's tongue, but had she not learned it her back would be thrice-over marred with scars from their whips. She understood it well by ear, but her mouth hated to form the words. She preferred to stay silent, or speak in whispers with her people once the che had gone to sleep. The che punished those who spoke out of turn, and so most of her people stayed silent. At night, though, she and the other women would comfort one another, or tend to the men so they wouldn't be weak come the rise of the sun, or feed the children that had survived the day so they would live to see the end of the next. It was fortunate that she was a handmaiden, or her late nights would jeopardize her work. The kothri women, like Jaan, had to work the gardens. She always told Jaan to rest, but the silver-skinned woman would simply smile and reply, "If we all do not work as one, we shall break. When we are free, then shall I rest." Some nights Jaan's back would bleed through the rags she clothed herself with.
Free. It was such a salted word. Bitter in the mind, and taunting on the lips. There was no chance to be free, not that she could see, at least. But she wanted it so badly, her people wanted it so badly. Not just her people, but the kothri, and the al-hared, and the keptu as well. They all wanted to be free. They all wanted to be free of the che, the torture, the work, and the whips. But how? They had no magicka like the che, or at least none that they had learned to use. Her people did not know how to fight, as the che had never let them see their swordplay and live to tell of it. They were scattered in tribe and skin, and it was only by fortune that one might share a tongue with another. But they all wanted freedom, and by that they endured. Like Jaan said, unless they worked as one, they would break. When they were free, they would rest. But now they worked, and they were together. And that was what was important.
She dabbed her rag gently into the basin of coagulated liquid at her side, hoping that some water still remained amongst the blood and grime for Iorchac, the man-of-'kreath who had been whipped for his part in the unsatisfactory construction of the new grain silo above ground. He was a thankful man, always blessing her and the other women for their care. His back was oozing as she daubed the rag into the wounds, and she heard him wince softly. She paused in her care. "Be thou well, Iorchac?" Her whisper was tentative. "Is mine cleaning too strong for thee?"
He shook his head, smiling. "Nay, lady," he replied, "thy cleaning be appreciated and nothing more, I promise." He adjusted the way his chin was resting on his arms and turned his charcoal-black eyes to look at her. "I cannot thank thee enough for thine care. Thou hast the touch of Mara if I could claim to know it."
She shook her head. "Thou do flatter," she sighed, "but were I Mara there would be no need for this touch I give thee."
Iorchac winced again as she re-applied the cloth. "Aye. I suppose 'tis fair to say." He dropped his face to his forearms, pressing his eyes down and wiggling his fingers to massage them with the muscles beneath his skin. "The day this touch leaves me I shall weep, both in joy and in sadness." He lifted his head to smirk. "For freedom comes at the price of losing thine care, and it is through that care I find strength for the day. I thank thee, lady."
She returned the rag to her bowl, laying a hand on Iorchac's shoulder as she stood up from his side. "Rest thee now, man," she said, "the night wanes and thou must work come daybreak." The man-of-'kreath grunted before settling down and closing his eyes to rest. She sighed and stepped gently around the sleeping masses. It was all they ever spoke of any more; freedom. It hurt her to think of it because of how much she wanted it, and how little she believed it would come to her.
She poured out the blooded water into the waste hole, the smell of feces and urine hazing up from it as the liquid splashed over the contents within. This was no way to live; a living, breathing, reasoning creature, stewing in its own excrement at the beck and call of another? The animals could not reason, they needed guidance. The hogs and the stock didn't know that the che feasted and laughed every night only to collapse drunk and full in warm, dry beds. But she knew that, she was no pig. The pigs needed no more than their pen, their world was where they wallowed. But she had been above ground, seen that there was a world outside that was vast and expansive. Why was that denied to her, to her people? They looked like the che; tan skinned and dark haired. They were not as tall, nor thin, nor angled, but they had faces all the same, showed the same emotions, spoke as the che did. It was pure evil, unjust. But what could they do? They had no power against the whips and the magicka; they were trapped.
She found her way to the children, where the other women had begun to congregate. She stepped past a sleeping man to a spot on the floor that was unoccupied. As she sat down, a little boy stirred beside her. She laid a hand on him as he began to sit up, and smiled softly. "Prithee rest, young one; thou must be strong come dawn."
The boy rubbed his eyes defiantly. "Art thou the one who Iorchac says prays for us each night?"
She pet his head slowly. "Indeed I am, child; what causes thee to ask that man of prayers?"
"I wish to pray with thee." The boy sat up on his knees and crawled into her lap. She wrapped her arms around him and held him close, and he folded his hands together. "I wish to bless my mother and father so their work may help our people."
She smiled, leaning back and falling slowly to the ground. "Then let us pray, young one." She curled up to sleep, cradling the boy in her arms. She too folded her hands together, as the child had, and began to pray, as she had each night since coming of age:
"Dragon of Ages, we call to thee. Hear our voice as we speak to thine heavens, through the tears of our brothers and sisters. Grant us strength like thine to endure these days, and heart like thine to hold that strength within. We trust thee, that thou art with us. We trust thee, that thou has heard us. We trust thee, that thou will save us. Send us a sign that our future will be free."
She opened her eyes, looking down at the boy that lay in her embrace. He was peeking at her through one eye, and when their gaze met, he quickly acted as though his eyes had been closed all along. She couldn't help but let a laugh wisp from her chest. "We are done, child," she said, "dost thou need add words to it?"
The child took a deep breath and spoke. "And help mine mother and father work hard come dawn, and help that I may not be hungry come dusk." He nodded firmly and unclasped his hands, looking up into her eyes and smiling. "Was that a good prayer?"
She bit her lip and laughed again. "Very good, young one, very good indeed." She brushed his tattered hair from his forehead. "Now sleep; dawn is fast approaching." The boy nodded and wriggled in her arms, turning onto his side and snuggling against her breast. She sighed, closing her eyes as well. She quickly thought a silent prayer, that she may one day finally take by a man and have a child of her own; but not before she was free. She could not bring a child into this world, not when it may be taken from her for sport.
But her personal happiness needed to wait. All that mattered to her now was that her people soon become free. Hopefully the gods would see fit to answer her prayers; she would arrive in Sancre Tor soon, and the men around her often said that those who go to Sancre Tor rarely lasted past the turn of the season.