The stench of death clung
to everything. Everything she had once known was now tainted with dirty, ugly
death.
She had known before she rounded the corner what she would find. Knowing it
didn't make the pain any better. It didn't stop the agony tearing its way
through her, nor the hollowness filling her from the inside.
Hopelessly, she shook her mother's lifeless form. "Wake up," she
moaned. "Wake up."
The corpse did not reply, would not reply, no matter how she shook it. Her
mother's eyes stared up at her, beautiful, blank, devoid of life. The girl's
mouth trembled, and she resumed her shaking, as if she could shake life back
into her. "Wake up," she pleaded desperately, wiping tears from her
eyes. "Ma, come on, wake up."
She closed her eyes, biting her lip and struggling to comprehend. "Please, Ma,"
she whispered. "Please. You can't leave me alone."
Any second, her mother would stir, she was sure of it. Awaken slowly from a
deep dream, and smile. Maybe it was a game, albeit not a funny one. Her Ma
liked to play games occasionally. She'd just have to wait, that's all. Ma was
still alive, she had to be. It would all be over soon, leaving a faded memory
in its place. And next time, she wouldn't go. Next time, she wouldn't leave Ma,
not even for a second.
She squeezed her lids shut tightly, and then opened them again. Ma still didn't
move, now and forevermore lost in an eternal sleep.
It would just take a little longer, that was all. Ma
wasn't dead, she wouldn't die. She was all she had. She wouldn't leave her
daughter with nothing at all.
The slight brunette crossed her legs, tailor-style, and waited.
And waited.
In vain.
*
A hot waterfall of
tears spilled over my cheeks as I awoke. I brushed them away hastily, but more
took their place. The agony of the young girl filled my chest, burning inside of
me, and I couldn't stop it.
"Arabella?" my companion asked hesitantly, rising from his seat. He
had been awake, of course, there was little rest for
him these days, as evident by the dark shadows under his eyes. "Is there
something wrong?"
I sniffed slightly, trying to calm myself. "No," I said quickly,
wincing at the weakness of my voice. "Nothing
whatsoever." It was a lie. Everything was wrong. This place was
wrong. I was wrong. My dreams were wrong.
Numair gave me a suspicious look, and black light streamed from his fingers to
enclose the room in its darkness. "Now what is it?"
I frowned at my hands, concentrating on them to stop the flood of tears from
erupting again. "There was a girl, a young one. I didn't recognise her. It
wasn't either of them, that's for sure. She looked
about twelve, thirteen. Brown hair."
He sighed impatiently. "Arabella, haven't you been taught to report better
than that? I don't need a physical description, I need details!" His eyes
flickered with some warning; I assumed that there must be something else in the
room, something that would pick up on my description of her.
"With a name like Arabella, it's not surprising that I don't remember what
I've been taught," I muttered sullenly. He smiled grimly at that, but made
no further comment, impatient for me to continue so he could set his mind to who the new girl was, and what her part to play in this was.
"Her mother-" I choked slightly, as grief welled up within me. I took
in a deep breath, and calmed myself. She was not my mother. I had not known
either of them. That too was a lie, of course. In that dream, I had discovered
everything about her. She was... My eyes rounded with astonishment. No, she
couldn't be. This was going to make it very difficult to tell him.
"Yes?" he prompted, irritation simmering in his tone. "Her mother what?"
I closed my eyes, but the dead body was imprinted behind my lids, so I opened
them again, staring at the wall opposite and trying to concentrate on it. "Was dead. In front of her. Bandits. Wolves. Farm dead,
everything dead. Everything but her, and her pony."
Even the bare details stirred something inside me.
He made a violent exclamation, one that made me start. "The
father, what of her father?"
I raised my brows at him, managing to compose myself somewhat. "I don't
recall mentioning a father, Master Enfell," I said promptly.
"What of the father?" he growled in reply.
I was startled into a response. "No father. There was never a father. Not
for her. Ma-" I choked slightly, correcting myself. "Her Ma never mentioned him."
He leapt up at that, knocking his chair over. "That's it. We're
leaving," he snapped, tone commanding me not to respond. "Get your
things together."
There was nothing else for me to do but obey.
*
Tortall.
Once land of the free. Once, land of
legends, heroes, bravery. Renowned throughout the
Eastern Lands.
Oh, Tortall was a fine country.
Once.
Tortall.
Now the land of the bandits, the rogues, the criminals.
Now the land of the poor, the needy, the hungry. Now the country to be avoided by all others of the Eastern Lands.
A young boy sits, rocking gently on the wall on which he is perched. This was
his country. This is what has become of it. His head reels with the unfairness
of it all.
"I'll have it back, Ozorne," he vows quietly. "All of it."
*
His vow wouldn't have mattered one bit to the regal figure reclining on his
golden chair. "Dearest, won't you have a seat?" he asked mockingly,
indicating a similar but smaller and less ornate chair on his right.
She rolled her hazel eyes towards the ceiling. "I would rather die,"
she snarled at him.
"I admire your spirit," Ozorne informed her (and reminded himself)
through gritted teeth. "But death isn't in the plans. At
least, not your death."
She let out a harsh laugh at that. Of course it wasn't. Her death would have
given her freedom. Freedom wasn't something that the former Carthaki Emperor
was accustomed to granting. "Face it. You're never going to find him. He's
too strong for you."
Ozorne leapt to his feet, shaking the woman violently. "Never say that
again!" he roared.
She tugged herself free, a thin smile playing over her lips as she wiped
spittle from her otherwise perfect face. "He's too strong for you,"
she repeated, daring him to lose control.
Perfection like no other, surely she should be the jewel to perfect his crown. But no. This temperamental fiend hid underneath the beauty.
The argument was a long repeated one. Sometimes it changed words, but the
underlying pattern was always the same.
He knew how to get back at her, though. "You know, you remind me of your
daughter. The one I killed."
Her face twisted up with fresh agony. People who formed emotional attachments
could be so easily abused by them. He had learnt that early on. "I hope Numair
kills you," she breathed spitefully. "And I hope I'm there to
watch."
A shadowy figure slammed through the door, anger burning in his expression.
"Time's up, Ozorne," he snarled. "Give her back."
It looked like she was going to get her wish, and sooner than she had hoped for.
