Emmy

  Dawn rose in a pink wash from the horizon. Emmy perched on a makeshift bench outside the healer’s building, where she had been sitting for hours. The sky had been black and spotted with twinkling constellations. The Rising Prago, the Twins, the Charging Vaemar... Even the elusive Goddess’s Throne was visible. The sun swept all that away, bringing light and the low hum of insects.

  Several days had passed since Emmy’s arrival at the Hutukeshu Encampment but it felt like a lifetime. Most of the Metakalans who were very old, and those with professions, had moved on. The rest had assimilated into military training, right there in the camp. As a healer, Emmy didn’t know if she was lucky or not.

  Each day, she worked in a cloud of sickness. She tended the ill—and Zecha’s wounded body—and gave what comfort she could, hoping the spread of the Lurking Death would cease. Some of her charges grew well under her care. Others withered and died. As each body was removed, another fell into its shadow. More Metakalans, a handful of Belfoni, and many Selamans, their land destroyed by the Masvams, their hearts bereft. The Althemerians took all manner of folk from the seas—now mostly acquired from the Masvams—but none were free.

  ‘Folk from all places bleed for Althemer,’ Rel had said. ‘The queen doesn’t care. She needs to keep her borders, but why sacrifice your own when you can sacrifice others?’ She laughed, though the sound was hollow. ‘That’s why they call it shipbait. It doesn’t matter who you are or where you are from,’ she added, dipping her head. ‘Althemer is the great equalizer.’

  Shipbait? Emmy thought. Even that isn’t strong enough. We’re slaves.

  She hunched her shoulders and stared across the compound. An Althemerian female appeared from one of the barracks, clutching a strange brass horn in her hands, ready to wake the troops.

  As always, Emmy’s mind turned to Charo. She was somewhere in the camp’s sprawl, but Emmy hadn’t seen horn nor tail of her since their separation on the plinth. Every morning before work began—when she hadn’t been working all night, at least— Emmy waited in the growing chill, hoping for a glimpse of her friend. If she closed her eyes, she could almost feel Charo’s breath, a steady in and out, in and out.

  Yet she saw nothing. No glimpses, no signs.

  Nothing.

  The Althemerian horn-blower sounded the start of the day and slowly morning opened. Captured soldiers—soldier-slaves, Emmy corrected—emerged from the long wooden barracks. The sun rose but a chill remained in the air. Emmy scanned each face that appeared in the compound, but none was the face she sought.

  A creak cracked behind her. Emmy turned. The healer Rel gently closed the door, then clasped her hands behind her back.

  ‘Good morning, Emmy,’ she said.

  Emmy nodded in return.

  ‘Morning greetings.’

  ‘I hope you have foregone breakfast,’ Rel said.

  Emmy rose from the bench. Her brow furrowed.

  ‘Why?’

  Rel’s eyeridges rose in part-sympathy, part-apology.

  ‘I have to take you for the brand this morning,’ she said. ‘It’s best to do it on an empty stomach.’

  Fear rose in Emmy like a dark fog. Her hand went instinctively to her arm as she imagined the sizzle and smoke.

  ‘I’ve put it off for long enough,’ Rel said, ‘but it has to be done.’

  Emmy said nothing, her hand still on her arm. Rel gestured for her to follow.

  They walked through the wakening camp, through the crisp air, as everything came to life. They passed squads of soldier-slaves under the watchful eye of their squad leaders, being marched to receive their morning food. They passed patrolling guards on vaemar, their watchful eyes and intimidating presence ensuring there was no unrest.

  Through it all, Emmy scanned the knots of faces, desperate for one glance of Charo. She saw many Metakalans and a considerable sprinkling of Linvarrans among them, but Charo was still elusive.

  ‘You still look for your friend?’ Rel asked as they took a right turn, away from the mess area.

  ‘Yes,’ Emmy replied, craning her neck to catch one last look.

  They walked across the dusty ground, between low-slung wooden structures, and the sound of hammering and ringing grew louder.

  ‘What will you do if she is no longer here?’ Rel asked.

  Emmy’s steps faltered. What would she do? What could she do? If Charo had been taken from the camp, off to be a maid or a road-digger, there was no way Emmy could find her. She was stuck in the camp, a slave to illness and injury. I could escape, Emmy thought, with Zecha, once he’s better. The three friends belonged together. They had to find one another again.

  Of course, Emmy couldn’t say any of that. So instead she shrugged one shoulder.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Rel’s look was one of mild distrust. Emmy looked away.

  As they walked, her destination became apparent. Emmy’s stomach filled with boulders and her steps grew slower. The blacksmith’s hut loomed just ahead and the sound of metal on metal grew louder. The day for the soldiers had just begun, but for the blacksmiths it had never ended. Their hammering became the beat of her walk, but it was nowhere near as fast as the beat of her heart.

  Rel walked ahead, catching the attention of a thick-armed Linvarran blacksmith who toiled over something—a weapon, Emmy thought. What else would it be? Emmy trailed along behind, half-hearing the conversation between Rel and the male.

  As he stopped his work to speak to Rel, the other blacksmiths continued their labor. They stoked fires, heated metal, and toiled in the great heat. Sweat poured from them, even in the cool morning.

  When Emmy caught up, the blacksmith was collecting a series of long metal rods with different ends, though she couldn’t make out what they were.

  ‘Shoulda been here yesterday, or the day before, Medicine-Rel,’ the blacksmith said as he gathered what he needed. ‘That’s the rules, as you know. An’ that’s when we did the latest batch. Shouldn’t have to do another one now.’

  Holding up her hands, Rel gave him a mild smile.

  ‘I know,’ she said, ‘but we are in the grips of another bout of the Lurking Death and there simply hasn’t been time.’

  The blacksmith turned and glared at the two healers with narrowed eyes. A grimace played about his lips.

  ‘Lurking Death again, eh? Well it better not lurk its way here. We got a lot of work to do, too.’

  The other blacksmiths turned from their work to grumble their agreement.

  Rel nodded and lowered her hands.

  ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘We’ll take as little as your time as we can.’

  The first blacksmith looked from Rel to Emmy and back again. The long poles rattled against one another in his hand.

  ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Come and sit over here.’

  He gestured to a chunk of log, huge and round. Emmy hesitated and looked to Rel, who nodded. Emmy crossed to the log, her back stiff and straight, and sat slowly. The blacksmith arranged the poles in a long metal holder. Closer, Emmy could almost see what they were.

  The biggest, set in the top of the holder, was a circle. Below were smaller figures, numbers perhaps, and realization bloomed like a bloodstain. The circle showed the Althemerian serpent gods. The numbers showed the date she had been taken, just like Rel had shown her. Emmy swallowed hard as her head spun.

  The blacksmith thrust the holder deep into one of the fires that burned in a stone forge. As it heated, he rummaged on a nearby table. The item he picked up, he thrust into Emmy’s hand. It was a metal bit, old and well-used.

  ‘Bite down on it when the time comes,’ he said. ‘Screams are distracting and we don’t got time for that.’

  Emmy watched with wide eyes as the blacksmith extracted the red-hot branding iron. Fear rose in her throat and she gripped the bit tight in her hands.

  ‘In the mouth,’ the blacksmith said.

  Emmy looked to Rel, who nodded.

  ‘It will be over soon.’

  Emmy looked at the bit, then at the snarling redness of the brand. She placed the bit between her teeth, her chest constricting.

  The brand edged towards her, bright and deadly. She couldn’t help the whimper that escaped her lips, though she cursed herself for it. Don’t show weakness. Be brave.

  ‘Lift your sleeve,’ the blacksmith said.

  Emmy pushed her short sleeve up with a trembling hand and squeezed her eyes shut. The heat of the brand came towards her, so slowly. Eventually it touched.

  The smell of burning flesh hit her before the pain. It was strangely sweet. Then came the bite of the heat. Excruciating pain clamped its jaws around her as she clenched her teeth on the bit, the noise escaping from her mouth like that of a dying animal. The brand pressed into her, marking her as property of the Althemerians. Tears streamed from her eyes and she keened, wounded and terrified.

  Then it was over. The blacksmith turned and plunged the branding iron into a deep stone ewer, the water hissing and spitting as the brand cooled. Emmy’s mouth ached, her head swam, and her arm was still alight with red-hot pain. The bit fell from her mouth and clattered on the floor. When she opened her eyes, the blacksmith was already back to his previous work, as if nothing had happened. Rel reached for her uninjured arm, still half-sympathetic and half-apologetic.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said, ‘and I’ll give you something for the pain.’

  Emmy barely listened and found herself propelled back through the encampment, past rows of soldier-slaves receiving orders from their leaders. Everything was a blur until they were back in the healer’s building, in a canvas-curtained enclave, and Rel’s hand was upon her wound.

  A coldness as stark as the burning brand shook Emmy from her fugue. She winced as the new pain dove into her arm, but within a moment it was gone. Rel removed her hand and spread a musty scented unguent over the wound. Emmy blinked several times and shook her head. The coldness. It was real.

  In her shock from the brand, boldness took her. She shot out one hand. It clamped around Rel’s wrist and Emmy caught her eyes. They were dark and green and clear, but something lingered within them. Something strange and powerful.

  ‘Who…who are you?’ Emmy asked.

  Rel gently released Emmy’s talons from her wrist and returned to applying the healing paste to the fresh brand.

  ‘What a strange question to ask when you already know the answer,’ she said. ‘My name is Rel and I am head of the tsimi. Once I held a life-debt to the Althemerians like you, but now I am free.’

  Emmy shook her head. That wasn’t what she meant. She knew those things. What she didn’t know was what the strange coldness was and why it blossomed when Rel touched her. She didn’t know why the same coldness had flowed through her when she held Zecha, broken and wounded on the boat. She didn’t know what the word Uloni meant and why Rel had asked her about an attack when they first met.

  ‘That’s not what I meant—’ she began.

  Rel’s voice cut across Emmy like a blade.

  ‘It’s time for work now.’

  Emmy’s shock deepened. Rel stood and walked a few paces away. She clamped the tiny pot of unguent hard in her claws.

  ‘Your pain won’t return. Now get back to work. We have much to do.’

  Rel pulled the curtain aside and disappeared from the enclave. Emmy stared as the curtain settled again. Her stomach churned more than it had during the branding.

  There was something more to this. The coldness was real. She had done something on the boat, and now Rel had done something to her. Emmy shuddered at the thought of what of could be. Magic? But magic wasn’t real. It was impossible.

  Emmy stared at her hands, then at the cooled site of her brand. She snorted and turned her face from the brand. Until now she’d thought a lot of things were impossible. She’d never believed she would get away from Krodge. She’d never believed she would be taken as a slave. And yet both had happened.

  She shook her head.

  ‘I need to get out of here.’

  Emmy looked at her brand again. Beneath the greasy unguent, the two twined serpents stared, their burnt eyes dark.