I can recall those hours in the throne room as seeming to 
stretch on for lifetimes, taking thousands of slow 
heartbeats to proceed, although sometimes my mind now 
exclaims it was a mere blur, without details or substance. 

Either bias, I knew even then that my perception was not to 
be trusted. There was too much noise, too many smells, too 
many people too close to each other and to my place. 

Eliea's place. My place. 

I was no longer to kneel at the Master's side. I was no 
longer on the dais. Orders had come while I approached, and 
no longer - not ever again - would I kneel on the Master's 
platform. 

The Dry Lander was to be chained to the high, wall-mounted 
hook that had held my leash. I had been moved down, and had 
to kneel frightfully on the worn grooves that Eliea's 
battered body had worn into the stones over a great many 
years. I could not even lean back to rest, because my head 
would hit the specially placed iron hook - after her 
crippling, the forger had to be brought up to set a 
replacement, lower down. Most of the hooks were far above 
reach, requiring the display-slave to stand to give enough 
leash-length for the guard to reach with his spear and 
unhook the end. A slave could not unchain itself because of 
the height, thus preventing any nightly escapes. 

Eliea, however, had not been able to stand for a long time.
She had not even been able to sit up straight, or lay down.
Her shattered limbs had been deliberately set still 
crooked, and had half-healed into a twisted mockery of what 
used to be her body. 

Eliea's hook was low enough for the guard to simply reach 
over and lift the chain off with just their hand. They had 
enough to bother with moving Eliea for feeding and cleaning 
- Usually the High guard carried the small crippled woman in 
his arms. She never so much as wiggled to try to free 
herself. She had known how utterly futile any attempt would 
be. 

I was sure that I would be able to remove my own chain, but 
with so many around, I did not even dare to glance at the 
thing. I did not even look up from where my face was pressed 
beside my knees to the cold, smooth, hard stones. I did 
nothing to arouse even the faintest suspicion, but I'm sure 
that many in the court looked at me - reduced to a common 
display-slave, my famous place on the dais to be assumed by 
a Mythical Dry Lander. His gold chains were going to be hung 
on the hook that had held mine. 

I did not envy him in the slightest, only hoped and hoped 
that the man would be obedient. I might have been shoved 
down into Eliea's place physically, but I wasn't sure if my 
soul was strong enough to assume the emotional role of 
secret, caring friend to the most prized toy of the Warlord 
who owned us all. I didn't even bother - or wish - to hide 
my sobs as the crowd soon parted, noise having rapidly 
dropped to a hush - rustling clothes, the chink of armor and 
chains, the complete absence of vocal sounds. As my hearing focused, 
the faint padding of bare feet was audible; a brief pained 
stride that was kept short by a matching clink, clink, clink 
of the bright new chains the stranger wore. 

It had to be him. No one else I had ever met had that 
bizarre scent. And, he seemed to be properly submissive, if 
the deep snarl of laughter that followed was any guide - the 
Master seemed almost giddy with joy. The stranger had bowed before him. 

The sound of the Dry Lander's approach nearer to where I huddled 
gradually grew louder. The guards took their time, letting everyone 
present get a good view. Even we slaves, serving or display, had to 
appear impressed and afraid - most (if not all of them) 
probably were terrified.

I was afraid, don't ever believe otherwise, but it wasn't of 
the stranger. If he'd been strong enough to last so long 
under the forger's tools, he'd certainly have been strong 
enough to hurt - maybe even kill - me in the cell. But he 
had been very gentle, wishing to clear the blood from my 
face, that was a guesture known to all as kindness. He'd let 
me look at him, eyes level to eyes. He'd done nothing (on 
purpose) to threaten me. And what fragments had come 
blasting through the link . . . 

No, what scared me was the inevitable discovery that I had 
stolen one of the Master's new display-pieces from the far 
wall. 

I can still remember what he had done to the curious 
serving-slave who had been stupid enough to merely touch one 
of the pieces. Her kind did not bleed red. The clear slime's 
scent wasn't fully scrubbed out of the floor tiles for many, 
many days. The walls held the scent for even longer. Do not 
envy me a Sep'ath'nai's strong senses, they have brought me 
far more grief than understanding. 

I had a long time to kneel there, worry spreading like 
fungus does on wet stones that are never scrubbed. The Nobles and guards 
were doing just what was expected of them. The Master did what I assumed 
he would. And while all this went on, the stranger's raspy breathing a 
pace away. He sounded even worse than he had in the cell, but I was too 
busy worring to spare him more than a glance. The link flickered - he was 
plotting something, but the pain was covering over everything else. I had no 
way to help or even sign to him. Slaves were forbidden to talk, or even 
sign, to each other. I tried to think of other things, but could only 
worry. What if they found it? No, what would happen WHEN they found 
it - my heart sunk - when it was time to clean the display-slaves, I 
was sure to be among them - maybe I could find a way to not 
be there when the others were - maybe the guards would 
suddenly lose their sight but not raise the alarm or call 
for others until I was washed and dressed. 

Or, maybe the Oceans would part, the ground would rise, and 
I'd be able to hide the tool behind the burning circle. It 
was just as likely to happen.

I repeat to you, I did not bother trying to hide my sobs. 
There was no way I could hide the stranger's tool for much 
longer, and I could not toss it away from me and pretend I 
had never touched it, there were far too many others around, 
others who stared at me - further reduced in status, how could such 
a thing be possible - too many others who stared at the 
stranger and the new trophies, how long until someone 
noticed the missing tool - 

As much as I had been wishing for a distraction, what did 
happen was not what I would have predicted. 

Dry Landers have strange bodies, which do strange things 
when they are injured, some times more noticeable than other 
times. The Dry Lander's throat had swelled from being 
burned, but with the manacle in place, it could not swell 
outwards properly, or so I was later told. His wrists and 
ankles were similarly puffed, but he didn't need his wrists 
to breathe.   

The stranger was wheezing as he struggled to pass air, his 
own throat closing shut and choking him. He was - the link 
had flickered weakly back to life as I again looked at him, his 
noise was gettng thin and higher pitched - no longer afraid. He was 
determined - he knew (suspected? hoped?) that his 
injury was serious. He wanted it to be Fatal. He was also watching 
me right back, and there was pity among his pain. 

'Please don't die. Please,' I worriedly signed a plea - that 
he understood me was not as important as his eyes watching 
me - almost as strong as his determination not to be a 
slave, I could feel that he did not want to be alone. 

Slowly, not quite looking up but watching the crowd to see 
if they had seen, I edged towards him, gently enough to not 
make any noise that might have been heard in the waves of 
voices. His swollen fingers curled around my own, and I held 
him gently through the pain.

Sympathy. 

Perhaps we both felt it, as I knelt by his side, letting him 
lean wearily against my back. Touching another was forbidden 
for any slave, but the Master - sated when the stranger had 
knelt and bowed before him - paid us no heed. He was a full 
pace in front of his throne, his back to us. 

The High guard, however, stood at his usual place beside the 
throne, on the far side, to prevent a possible blade being 
thrown from the corridor. And from where he was, he could 
see us clearly. 

As I realised this, it confused me - why did he not signal
another guard to separate us? If they were all too busy, 
then why did he not do it himself? He did look at us, but 
maybe he was too busy watching over the crowd - there were 
some here, messengers or tribute-payers, who were not often 
at the fortress, and so could not be kept controlled by 
poisons and antidotes. One of those might very well want the 
Master dead, even if the outraged soldiers killed him 
afterwards for the loss of their only source of anti-toxins. 

Maybe he did see us, but did not want to order the required 
separation and beating - he had never turned his own hand or 
weapons on Eliea or myself, or even the lowest serving-
slave. 

The possibilities were many, and I thought of all that I 
could, trying to keep from being so afraid. The stranger's 
breathing was getting slower and louder, more forced than 
before. He was tiring from the pain the longer he was forced 
to kneel there, and I prayed for us both. 

The answer came moments later, as a guard of small rank 
pushed through the crowd, and knelt with one knee on the 
dais. "Great Master, Noble wielder of the blade, the feast 
you wished for is ready for when you choose to begin, mighty 
Lord." 

High dialect. And not something I would have been told of 
anyway. But as the Master told the guards to begin leading 
the nobles of the court to the feast, and the throne room 
began to empty, I briefly entertained the idea of being able 
to - hopefully - return the tool unnoticed . . . if the 
guards chose to distract themselves with the Wharyyl, or 
snuck off . . . the Master called several low guards to 
assemble all those involved in the capture. 

" . . . great tales to accompany great food! It is a time to 
celebrate my Glory!" (Or some other such overdramatic 
posturing, I am doing my best to forget what I can.) A good 
chance of returning the tool - when a feast was as large as 
this one sounded to become, it lasted all day - at least 
some of the guards would wander off to eat, it might be the 
only meal they'd have that day with all the commotion. 

Footfalls became quieter, more echoed as the throne room 
emptied. I had edged back to proper place already, before 
the Master could notice - why hadn't he left yet? He still 
stood there, speaking quietly to the High. What did he want?

As the Master stalked out a heartbeat afterwards, flanked by 
nearly every guard in the room, I began to count from the 
corners of my eyes just how many were still - the High! He 
stood right before me, and a heavy weight seemed to wrap 
around my heart. 

Then, in middle, he spoke out loud to the few other soldiers 
- all that was left apart from the displays. "Two - you and 
you - are under orders to go to the chambers of the 
thinkers. Have them all - every one, even apprentices and 
servers - gather in their main rooms. They are to review 
every scrap of Dry Land knowledge. They are not allowed to 
see or speak to anyone else, until I myself come down with 
this - ugly creature - for a very complete interrogation. 
What is learned, will be repeated to the Master - he is to 
know of it before any others, Noble or soldier or slave. The 
thinkers are to isolate themselves to prepare. Are these 
orders understood?" 

"Yes, High," they said in unison, then they bowed and left. 

The High turned to the last three remaining. "You two - 
stay. If any of the displays ask for a drink, bring it to 
them. You are not allowed to leave them alone, you are not 
allowed to leave or speak to any other about these events - 
the Master wishes to be THE FIRST to obtain Dry Lander 
wisdom - so if you even whisper about any of this, I will 
tell the Master that I saw you sneaking out of his private brothel!" 

Visibly queasy at the thought of the punishment possible, 
the pair of them agreed quickly. 

"And you - take the little child's chain. She is to 
accompany him; should he forget who it is that is the 
greatest warrior in all the realms, he will have a 
reminder." The High used his spear to prod the stranger into 
standing (it was more of an upright wobble) and unchained 
him from the wall. "We need to get him able to talk first. 
Do not disturb us!" 

In low, he told me, "Walk in front, child," and I obeyed. 

This entire set of orders was totally unwanted on my part - 
I had no wish to watch the stranger being tortured until he 
talked. He couldn't talk, he could barely breathe! Why would 
the Master -URK! 

Steps from the doorway to the secondary room, the chain to 
my neck suddenly yanked backwards, causing me to stumble and 
fall. The stranger suddenly gasped out two sounds (swearing, 
I found out later) and I couldn't help turning around to 
look. 

The guard holding my leash was dead. His throat was neatly 
slit, with only a slight trickle to show the wound. 

The High guard held a dagger red with blood, and he wiped it 
clean on the dead body's sleeve as I watched, my mouth 
dangling open in shock. Had he lost his mind?!? He stood and 
looked at me, eye to eye, then reached for his own neck. 

When he pulled away, his hand brought a delicate silvery 
chain with it, pulling out from hiding under his clothing a 
round, glittering medallion. 

Had I been able to move, I would have leapt right out of my 
skin. I knew what that thing was - the golden seal on it - 
the familiar image that was carved into the solid platinum - 
and the words engraved on the disk - 

"Il'deo Sep'ath'nai tolki," the High whispered the words 
inscribed on the front as he gently placed it into my palms, 
then said something in childspeak something I had never even 
suspected. 

'Eliea birthed my father.'

Then he turned and unlocked the door to the secondary room 
while the stranger and I stood in confusion, watching numbly 
as the High pulled in the soldier's corpse and closed the 
door. Before removing the Key, the High took his dagger 
again and broke the end of the key off, jamming the lock. 

Another strong-armed swing - with his spear this time - bent 
a link in the stranger's ankle chain. Two more broke the 
weakened spot - but also shattered the spear. The High 
glared at the broken shaft for a moment before hiding the pieces, 
then with a grunt, he shoved the stranger down the corridor, away 
from the throne room, holding puffed Dry Lander wrists and sawing 
at the welding that kept the stranger's hands confined to his 
face. 

I followed, half afraid and half excited, clutching the 
medallion close to my pounding heart as I trotted behind 
them as fast as I could, not believing in what was 
happening. 

It was a very short scurry to reach the closest portal room 
- one I hadn't known about - and we were unseen by others. 
The High had locked the door behind us from the inside, 
would it keep other soldiers out for very long if we were 
found? Was his assistance genuine or some sort of trap? I 
didn't know, but if the manacles we wore were not cut free 
soon then we had no chance of swimming to freedom - the 
links to the stranger's neck were cut from his wrists, but 
the High still had to finish separating his wrists - and I 
was still fully chained! 

If I was to have any chance at freedom, I had to get them 
off - the hammer! Instantly glad that I hadn't been able to 
get rid of it, I yanked the Dry Lander's tool out from 
hiding, jamming the medallion - Glory to the Holy Ones if it 
bore the name I thought it did - over my head so I would not 
lose it. 

Fumbling with latches not meant for webbed fingers, I 
managed to get the sheath off the hammer - the tool was 
indeed sharp, it cut through my arm like it was passing 
through water - OW!!! Grasping the handle awkwardly, I put 
the point inside an ankle link and pulled outwards with all 
my strength. 

The chain split like rotted cloth, the link neatly snapped 
in two. Flipping the hammer over, I placed it near my neck 
and severed the chain that held my hands close to me. 
Elated, I tried to sever the weld that held my wrists 
together. 

It was too close to my hands. I couldn't do more than dent 
the gold, I didn't have the leverage that I needed. 

Cursing with every foul word I'd ever heard, I looked up at 
the stranger - his wrists were still being sawed apart - and 
realised what I needed to do. I couldn't swim with my hands 
together, that was what had slowed me before. I touched the 
High's arm nervously, then had to poke him hard to get his 
attention before I could hand him the rock hammer. 

Staring in surprise for a moment at the cleanly cut chains, 
he set the dagger down and tried the new tool. The stranger, 
also surprised, grinned suddenly amidst his pain. Three hard 
pulls, and the stranger could move his arms apart. 

Muttering a strange mix of praise and obscenities, the High 
took my wrists and placed the hammer. The manacles covered 
half my forearms, each was probably four inches as Dry 
Landers measure it, but after a series of pulls there was a 
ragged tear along the length of the seam. One final, furious 
attempt broke the welding completely, and for the first time 
in a very long time, my arms were no longer forced to act as 
one. 

I would like to say that I was heroic about it, that I 
promptly kissed the hands of the High and immediately pulled 
the stranger to the water and onwards to freedom, but if I 
did so then I would have to lie. I had started to cry again, 
staring at my hands. I could not move them apart - even 
unjoined. The muscles to do so had long since atrophied.  

If there are any Dry Lander versions of the obscene phrases 
to match the ideas that my mind held, I still have not heard 
their like. So I will simply say that I was very, very 
upset. 

For about two tenths of a second. 

Then I staggered under the force of a blow that severed my 
leash from my collar, and could not recover my balance 
before I was being propelled towards the exit. A nearby 
cupboard yielded two of its breathers while providing a 
hiding place for the severed chains and the High's heavy 
armor (he kept his undergarments, belt and dagger), then we 
were climbing through the other door and down the ladder. 

The feel of water supporting, cradling my body was a most 
welcome sensation - its touch (after the surprise wore off) 
eased away the aches and swells that had come from the lack 
of pressure for so long. I didn't even mind how cold it was 
- it was *WATER*! 

I could barely swim, even without the weight of the chains, 
in a wobbly line upwards as the High pulled the stranger 
with him as I labored to stay even. I had attempted to scoot 
along the ocean's bottom on the one time I had managed to 
reach water, but I had encountered guards even before the 
lights had faded behind me - I had no clear idea of what to 
do or which direction to go but to push upwards with the 
others. I also struggled to pass water out my gills - the 
collar still restricted me, but I hadn't dared risk letting 
the hammer touch my neck in case I cut my throat open. It 
took many gulps to remember, then practice, how to press 
water along with my tongue; but I still made reasonable 
progress by using my hands as one front paddle (I was trying 
to alternate arms, but they insisted on behaving as though 
still joined), and half kicking, half climbing my way up the 
walls of the fortress, trying to get my feet to move 
properly again. They were hard to flipper after having to 
only walk for so long, but I could feel the stabs of pain as 
tendons stretched as rearranged, muscles spasming as they 
were finally being used again. 

I didn't have even the faintest idea where the guards were 
stationed, but the High did, and his zigzagged route up 
along the cliff's outcroppings did not lead us into 
anyone else. As it was, the injured stranger was hindrance 
enough - his attempts to swim were clumsy enough that any 
nearby sharks would come investigate - assuming the smell of 
residual blood wasn't already enough to attract them. The 
risk would become greater the higher we swam, and not just 
from fish hunting us. I had no idea how far up from the 
fortress guards would be waiting for intruders. When the 
chasm wall fell away and the ocean was open all around us, the 
High only sped up, increasing my fear that there would be soldiers 
lurking, though I searched as best as I could, putting more energy 
than I had in me to merely continue to move.  

All that mattered was getting far enough up that the lack of 
water pressure would keep the gilled soldiers away - My kind 
could survive at surface, I knew, and the High's kind were 
air breathers so he should be able to survive at least a 
short stay in the uncontained air (I hoped!) as I could. He only 
paused a few times, to check that I was there, but he only slowed, 
not stopped. If I fell behind I would be gone, it was clear. Getting 
the stranger away was what was important, but with how far I had 
gotten already, I did not want to stop until I had broken the 
surface. I had once been there with my siblings and cousins and 
teachers, to see the burning circle and the paler scarred 
circle and the glittering tiny stars, I had been very young 
and was carried up for the short visit - it was terribly hot 
and bright and the pressure was so scarce I was sure my body 
would explode, but the very barrier of the ocean is the most 
holy: it increases as it rises to protect us from everything 
above - and it only took a taste to remember that I was 
safe, but I still had not pried my grip from the adult who 
had held me so very long ago. 

The irony of actually *wanting* and *praying* to reach that 
strange place of uncontained air, where I had before been so 
afraid, was not lost on me as I struggled upwards beside the 
High (who was going strongly, still) and the stranger (who 
had passed out and had even stopped trembling from the cold long 
before we even left the chasm) who was more a burden than 
an ally at that point, but there was no way or how or why that he 
would be left behind. He was just too dangerous to let the Master 
have, even if his breather came loose and he drowned, because even 
his corpse had immense display value. The High must have known this 
as well as (if not better than) I did: it must not be under the 
control of such a savage person. 

So I did my best to ascend, wanting nothing more than to 
simply reach the surface, and what might happen afterwards I 
could not predict or even plan for. All that I thought of 
was my growing exhaustion, and how I had to keep swimming as 
hard as I could until we reached air, then more of the 
stranger's kind - hopefully friendly ones! 

The Fates had already decided what we were to do, but they 
neglected to warn me that I was not going to have the chance 
to swim to the surface. After what might have been an hour or five
of struggling and fearing, my mind slipping away from anything that 
was not merely a clumsy stroke upwards, a sudden impact on the top 
of my head slammed me into a dreamless sleep, one that ended my 
life as a slave. 

Chapter Five: The Hunter