Return to my Nest

Eliea the foreteller was who was displayed on the other side of me 
- the Master had ordered my place to be the closest to his throne, 
so that I would always be seen: his prize, his glory, his broken-souled 
doll - Eliea was next to me, but not on the dias as I was. She was 
also a slave, a remnant taken into chains when the Master had completed 
assassinating his way up to his current leadership. She was old then, 
respected and noble, splendidly tall and strong in spirit, covered 
in jewels and fine gowns that were tokens of the many who came to 
kiss her hands and ask an audience with her and her connection to 
the Muse of fate. She was renowned in all the twelve Holy realms for 
her kindness, and her amazing skills in her craft. I had known of her 
reputation before I had been brought there. I did not know who she was 
when I saw her. 

Now, she was ancient and crippled, her head shaved and her neck shackled, 
another trophy whose nervously whispered advice on being silent and 
still was only heeded after the first few beatings had broken some 
of my bones. Her spirit had been bled away a long time before I was 
captured. Probably a long time before I had even been born, for I 
was so young then. But that day, I was to be proved wrong by her. 

That day. Night, perhaps, as we do not count such things as you do. 
It was past the main time for events, and sleep was protecting those 
who could and would seek it's cool comfort. So I will call it night. 
Eliea had long practice in her craft, and long dull hours each day in which 
the Muse of fate might choose to visit, but Eliea didn't have so much 
as a dream to foretell what was going to happen. None did, it seemed. 
If anyone had, the Master might have prepared (though he'd likely 
have laughed, then declared Eliea senile and ordered her execution) 
- or maybe it was she did know, and kept silent. Either way, I wish 
peace on her soul, and I will always remember her name with kindness, 
for she kept me company through many long and sad times. 

As I have said, it was a surprise when the border alarm was sent in - 
that in itself was no surprise, many have fought against the Master, 
but until then all who tried were killed or chained. This time, it 
was not the What, but the messenger's claim as to the Who. The guards called 
everyone to wake and come, it was that important. The members 
of the court barely had time to assemble, whispering among themselves, 
and the guards hitting the serving-slaves who were slow to move, the soft 
rattle of manacle chains quickly obliterated by the Master's angry 
roar, demanding to know the cause of the disturbance. 

He wasn't fully dressed, with splatters of dry blood showing - pity 
the poor creature who'd caught his eye earlier that night - and he 
was very, very snarly. I was almost sad of the fact that I was already 
awake before he'd entered (Eliea is a light sleeper, she woke me before 
a fist could) because I saw what happened when a serving-slave, not 
fully alert, did not move aside fast enough. His head hit the stones 
before the rest of his body, smashed aside by the Master's ever-ready 
blade, the blood smattering the serving-slaves who had moved in time. 

Can a girl still say she has a soul when she has seen death beyond 
numbering them anymore, death beyond feeling the pain at killings? 
I had often prayed to the Holy Ones it was not so, even as I prayed 
for them to take my soul away from my body so that it would never 
again know of anything, especially pain. Life is conflict, as all 
know now and forever. 

Few were the times I'd been almost-glad to be a display-slave, too 
valuable to kill or even mark where it would show. That time was one 
such. It also happened to be the last. 

The higher-trusted (Hah! The Master trusted no one, not even himself. 
He kept the 'trust' of the inner circle by being the only one who 
could provide the antidotes needed to keep the poisons at bay that 
he fed to everyone not chained to the stones) soldiers were close 
around the Master, voices angry, accusing, and - very unusual - confused. 
That anyone who even suspected he was anywhere near the Master would 
show confusion was a very, very bad sign. Many of the serving-slaves 
were doing all the could to avoid that group, and I would have run 
as fast and as far had I been able.  

"Enough!" He finally yelled out, scattering all the others to the 
far edges of the throne room. I, along with every other display-slave 
there, cringed back as far as the chains allowed, wishing and hoping 
we would not be noticed by him. 

By the luck of All Things Considered Holy, we were not. At least for 
a while. "Bring in these living myths," the Master bellowed. 
"Let them kneel before my strength! I will place their 'mighty' weapons 
on my walls and their heads on poles so that all the realms, Holy 
and Un, shall know of my Power!" 

I did not know what he was shouting about, but his agitation and delight 
was enough to make most others near me whimper, and the empty ache 
that was my body opened up into a dull, gray fear. Something new had 
begun to happen.

I was curious. The very novelty of feeling an emotion sparked another 
- a calm humor that made me risk bringing my face up off the stones 
to look at what the guards were attempting to drag in. Loudly. Surprise
 and disbelief rippled through the crowd as the heard the fuss being 
put up, and how - by who? The phrase does not matter - how it was spoken. 

The How was in a Dry Lander language, that odd assortment of squeaks 
and grunts which they send through all things, able to be heard only 
when one of their special machines was found or raided intact, and 
then only for a short time. 

The Master had several such machines, one of which still lived. It 
would infrequently glow on one side, casting blurry blue images out 
along with sounds that were often not made by mouth or instrument. 
I'd heard and seen this 'marvel' (Several which worked much better 
had resided in the Universities at home, eagerly studied by those 
interested in Above People) several times, when the Master had his 
chained-thinkers come in and tell knowledge they had obtained. The Master 
could even speak and understand some of the odd sounds, albeit badly (a 
fact I had no intention of ever letting on that I knew). 

He didn't know, but I understood them as well. More than he did, but 
certainly it wasn't as much as a Dry Lander would have. As I am now, 
knowing so much more, I know there is still much to learn. But I distract 
myself. The story. On the day I met 'the Monster' - such a horrible 
beast, I had been told, that would destroy and kill all it came across, 
oh how all the others trembled - I knew what some of the strangers 
were saying, and I knew the meaning of every phrase and syllable the 
Master's chained-thinkers would utter as they tried to pry information 
and submission out of the strangers. 

The guards dragged in their prisoners, one of the three already dead, 
one almost dead and gurgling blood as he gasped for air, and one very 
much alive and resisting, and threw them down in the center circle, 
spears pricking blood where it already ran thick and dark. 

That was when I first saw Joseph, struggling and swearing, his uniform (which 
I also recognised as a Dry Lander 'water soldier' type, until then 
a laughable idea) torn and stained, and even from paces away, I could 
smell him and the others. Phew. None of these were the biggest surprise, 
however. Oh no, the worst is yet to be told. 

I could sense him.

I could feel his disbelief, his rage, and his laughter-at-irony he 
held inside. I had not felt another in the way Sep'ath'nai can learn 
to feel since the morning I had crept away from home in a child's 
heedless desire to play, since I had left the borders of our city. 

I had been a child then. Innocent. Never having known true pain, true 
fear, or anything even close to hatred or loathing. Then, at that 
moment as I faced him, I knew what that prisoner was feeling. He wanted 
to kill everyone in that room. Everyone. 

With what would have been a whimper in a vocal species was turned 
into a shudder as I hunched down and tried to shrink into the stones, 
the vaguest memory of a lesson in which a sister - which one? I cannot 
recall anymore, the names are long gone - had taught me that not looking 
at the other meant not feeling the other. 

It worked, and with a series of nervous trembles I managed to untense 
slightly, just to the point where I wouldn't mess my gown. 

That was when Eliea gasped, the bright crackling of a Muse's touch 
flashing in an intense aura. That was also the same instant the Master 
had laughed, loudly. That was the focal point which spun my life in 
a new direction, though I only realized it much later. That 
. . . is when everyone saw the flash and stopped as if turned into 
a stone themselves. Even the Master froze with surprise, even the 
stranger, everyone but Eliea. Eliea wailed softly, tears flowing, 
face in rapture. 

A time for new things, indeed. 

"Keep the Prisoners silent!" Master ordered, and he signaled a guard 
with a finger to bring Eliea before him. "What did you see, old one?" 
he demanded. "Only the greatest events can be seen by all people 
- what did you see?!" 

Eliea wasn't able to walk the few paces to kneel before him, instead 
she was dragged, and I could not understand why she chose - or how 
she was able - to look at his face. "The link," she whispered in her 
own language, and the Master's face became a mask of anger at not 
knowing her words. Louder, she spoke again, happily (of all things!), 
"the link is made the link is made the realms will be one the link is made-"

The Master had stopped her ramble with the flat of his blade. 
"Speak as you should, old one! What did she say? I demand to know 
the event, the trigger! Tell me, slave!" 

Eliea, suddenly very calm, and not the least bit afraid, said in 
the Master's language, "You laughed. Now, all the world has shifted, 
and will never be as it was." She smiled, wide, toothless, joyfully. 
Knowingly. 

Then she flung herself forward, before the Master could even react, 
and only stopped when her body struck the hilt. The Master's blade 
jutted out her back to the length of a full pace, crimson. 

Even the fighting stranger was silent, as shocked as the rest of us. 
The only sound was the bubbly gurgle of his fellow soldier as he continued 
to drown in his own blood, his insides crushed by the very depths around him. 
Slowly, the Master stood, lifting the hilt to that Eliea the wise, the old, 
the greatest foreteller in seventeen generations, slid dead onto the floor, 
blood pooling thickly under her. She still had her smile on. 

Not a body even dared to breathe. Such a thing was beyond unheard 
of, it was beyond concept. I was too shocked to even want to scream, yet. 
The Master was the first to move. 

"The Prisoners. Take them to a cell. A strong one. Strip them, remove 
everything, then leave them. I will consider the old one's words before 
I choose the best use for them - no. A moment," and he considered the slowing 
gasps of the most-injured with a dark expression. "First, bring the injured 
one before me. And that - yes, that. That thing from the wall. It is one 
of their own weapons. Faster!"

He meant to shame them, and I turned my head so that I would not have to see. 

It was loud. Louder than a groundquake, louder than when air strikes 
air above the waves, louder than the glowing 'marvel' the Master owned 
had suggested it would be.  

I fearfully peeked, after it was over, unable to scream as the other 
slaves could, at what had been a man, albeit a strange and mythical 
one. Most of his head was gone. No. Most of his head had been shattered, 
and lay in a vast dotted spread across much of the floor and those surrounding 
the body as it slumped downwards. 

"A Gun, they call it. Yes. I like this," the Master said, then without 
warning, three of the serving-slaves, too scared to run the moment 
before, also made large messes of red. 

He placed the weapon in his belt, grinning with delight. "Take all 
of those, and have the preservers work on them. They will make excellent 
displays for my wall. The live one you can put in a cell, I will use 
him for a while yet. He must know a great deal about such fine toys. 
Chain him well, and close his wounds. He cannot spill secrets if he 
spills his soul first. Go." 

When no one moved, he again grew angry. "Go! Take them all away! I 
want everyone, EVERYONE to leave! I have contemplating to do! NOW!" 
His fury drove all present to scurry, running or hobbling as fast 
as they could for the doorways. None were fool enough to tempt the 
Warlord's wrath. He had killed his way to power, and Death stood by 
his side stronger than ever then. He glared darkly at the foreteller's 
corpse, his lap stained with a large red patch of Eliea's lost life, as the 
scramble went on and various guards ran to collect us displays. The Vishol was 
screaming, and could not be silenced. They removed him first, right after 
dragging off the shocked-silent prisoner.   

There was a secondary room some ways down the corridor, with a toilet 
and place to wash, where the displays such as myself were sent to be 
fed and cleaned, or in rare cases, put out of sight. It was in this 
direction, just behind the others, that I was being thrust, the Highest among 
the guards holding the back of my neck-manacle, already trotted halfway across 
the throne room when he stopped us both short from a curt "Bring that one 
here!" by the Master. 

From that moment how I remember the taste of fear, being yanked around 
by my neck and shoved forward, a living puppet ready to pee in her 
robes from fright, shoved to the stones at his feet. Face down and 
fully prostrate, the wet feel of my robe soaking up foreteller blood, 
the scent of blood and anger and terror, all etched against salt and 
stone and gold, is a scene that has often and forever will rip 
into my dreams every night I attempted sleep afterwards. 

"All . . . the world . . . has shifted." His own language, the highest 
dialect that I should not and would not let show I had learned to 
understand. It was the Master's voice.  

Considering. But talking directly at me.  

"And will never be as it was." 

I mustn't move I mustn't move I mustn't move or I'll be beaten I mustn't 
move . . . Eliea's blood stung my eyes, my nose. Beside me, her body 
twitched as her soul wiggled free of the flesh, as always happens 
when a soul is freed from mortal realms. 

Then he spoke in the lowest dialect, the one he thought I understood -
 and barely, at that. "So, Mediator. My little doll. Frightened little 
broken girl - what did the old one mean, her words? You don't know, 
*silent* *sep'ath'nai*!" He spat as he uttered the curse at me. 
"Silly silent fool child. I laughed, so the world shifts? Will that 
be all I need to rule over all things, all realms?"

He must have given another gesture, for the guard suddenly hauled 
me up, hands on my head to make my face look, his webless fingers 
forcing my eyes open to the sting and the sight of the same small, 
plotting smile that I had first seen upon being hauled out of the 
raider's crate, bound and drugged and totally helpless. It was a look 
of cunning evil I had quickly learned to dread. 

"It was *you* I laughed at," he continued, "You, quivering in fear 
at the sight of that Dry Lander. Little fool princess, too stupid 
to learn anything - when news of you being here, my ugly little decoration, 
spread, all the twelve Holy realms shook with fear at my might. And if 
*you* fear *his* presence, there is not a living creature, under or over 
water, that will not fear me, *HE* who controls *Everything*, He who 
can keep on display a trinket such as *that* *one*! Yes. Everything 
will be under my power soon." He laughed for a moment before his gaze 
intensified, his leer so close to my face I could feel his breath. 
"I will grant your wish, little gill-child, and let your blood leave 
your arms until your pitiful soul follows after, and do you know why? 
Because I will have such a better prize from your family to display. 
And your head will be placed on a pole, as a demonstration of what 
happens to cowering infants when I tire of their presence."

I began to cry.

The Master turned away, dismissing us with a snarled, "toss her in 
the same cell as the stranger. Perhaps a good lesson on his future 
will break his spirit faster. I want him obedient, do you hear! And 
toss the old one's body out with the common dead - she needs no honoring. 
My glory shall outshine all others! Now *Go!*"  

After the first few paces I fell, and the guard did not even slow 
his march while dragging me sobbing beside the remains of one of the 
few friends I had known, both limp at the bad end of a chain. My existence 
was about to change, I knew that, but nothing else. Grief consumed 
the rest. 

I had thought my life was ending. 

Now I know I was wrong. 

Chapter Two