Author's
note: I wrote this for the Steelsings RPG, so the
characters will seem unfamiliar to you, but this is a chronicle
of Tortall, so there are some redeeming qualities. The main
theme is a dark look at Tortall's future.
Disclaimer: Tortall,
and the family Conte belong to Tamora Pierce. Names of
Places most likely belong to Tamora Pierce. Nael, Em, and
Marc are characters of my own creation. Rin belongs to Roz,
Fal to Ingrid, and Keiran to Mads, Ott and Yoric to Fio, Nar to
Katy errr. Goldie to Goldie and I think that's it.
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~The Future~
It is the future. Twenty-five years have passed since Queen Emily of the Rogue first ascended her throne. Many things have changed. Tortall is in ruin. The Capital city Corus is now the center of a vast empire. Chaos reigns outside the city, and forced obedience reigns within. Each fief has become a slave plantation, where workers toil constantly to produce one good or another. Life is harsh. Death is the only release. Every few years a story circulates about the better times. The times under King Jonathan. Where there was excess. The overlords do their best to quash these rumors before they reach the young one's ears. They are not successful.
Naelyn paused to wipe sweat from her brow, leaving a brown
muddy streak across her forehead. She quickly looked over her
shoulder, stealing a glance at the overlord, on the opposite side
of the field. She breathed a sigh of relief. She needed a bath, a
warm meal, and a new set of clothes, at the very least. But one
thing she didn't need today was more trouble. Trouble was bad.
Trouble meant beatings. Trouble mean deprivation from the few
pleasures she did receive.
She quickly returned to her work, digging potatoes in the
muddy soil. She was grateful to the overcast weather. The clouds
neither held rain, nor allowed the sun to penetrate through them,
and down upon the workers. Rain meant less work, and less work
meant fewer potatoes. Fewer potatoes meant more beatings. Every
punishment lead to another.
Her mind strayed. She smiled to herself. Last night she broke
one of the rules of the fief. Make that two. She would gladly do
it again. She remembered huddling beneath the threadbare blanket,
trying to conceal the light coming from her hand.
Now she didn't make the light appear for nothing. She was
going to read.
The old ones called it "The Gift," and they couldn't
possibly be closer to the truth. This gift helped her read; it
helped her escape. And it helped her heal herself when the lashes
came. The Gods themselves must be watching over her.
Naelyn had spent the night rereading a story about a woman
knight. And the overlords hadn't caught her. She was able to hide
her light as she carefully turned the pages of the warn book.
It wasn't meant to be a children's story, or even an adult's
novel. It was a history, recounted concise, yet descriptive, on
plain white (now yellowing) high-grade parchment. Across the
binding, formerly in gold lettering, proclaimed "Biography:
Sir Alanna Of Trebond and Pirate's Swoop." Naelyn cherished
the book. After all, it was the only one she had. The only thing
that bothered her was that it wasn't finished. The author had
halted his or her account in mid-sentence. Naelyn had spent hour
upon hour, finishing that sentence in her head, wishing that she
knew what the author was going to write.
Nael felt a boot at the back of her neck. She opened her eyes
quickly, cursing herself. She had fallen asleep.
"Stand up girl." A harsh voice ordered her.
She obeyed, keeping her eyes to the ground.
"We've had trouble with you before. This is what? The
fourth time this week?" He jeered at her and spit on her
face. He called over to one of his companions.
"Fell asleep while working. Sleeping on the job!
Worthless!"
Now she had really done it. They were going to kill her. Or
they were going to do even worse they would--
"Send her to 'Caynn." The newcomer laughed. "Let
the rats chewing on her ears wake her up. Or the stench from the
sewage."
"Good idea, man" The first guy said. "Sir
Overlord's sending some wretches up to Port Caynn in the morning.
I believe there's an extra spot.
The second man laughed again. "There's always a spot,
always ten more spots, it depends how tight you pack them."
"True True" The first man replied.