*-Year 7335, Slave Market of Varzyus — Derylini Forest-*
The silence between the two cells lasted hours. Or perhaps minutes. Time here is measured by the stench and the flickering of the single oil lamp hanging in the corridor.
The man in the cell next to mine keeps staring at me. Thin, unkempt grey beard, brown eyes that are dead. Not sad. Dead. Like ashes after a fire.
"Do you have a name?" he asks. His voice is hoarse. He hasn't spoken to anyone in weeks, I can tell.
I don't answer. I keep my back against the wall, my eyes on the ceiling.
"You could at least tell me your name. Since we'll be sharing this stench for the next few days."
Silence.
He sighs. Gives up. Looks back at the dirt floor.
"Zirinos," I say, finally. My voice is low, but firm. "My name is Zirinos."
He looks up.
"Zirinos. Where are you from? You don't look like you're from Endomyar."
"I'm not."
"Where are you from, then?"
"Far away."
I fall silent. My eyes return to the ceiling. I don't want to talk. I want to think.
---
I think about Zerane. My sister. The sweet one. The kind one. What happened to her after I signed the contract? The masked man said he would protect her if I accepted the mission. But liars lie. I know the species well.
I think about Ziring. The torn-off arm. The single eye shining with tears I never saw fall. The cyclops is tougher than he looks. Perhaps he is still alive. Perhaps not.
I think about Zequila. Dead. Killed by my own hand. The throat cut open. The warm blood flowing between my fingers.
I clench my fists. My nails dig into my palms.
"Aren't you going to say anything?" the man asks, breaking the silence. "You're brooding. I can see it in your eyes."
"What do you know about my eyes?"
"I know they're the same as mine. Eyes of someone who lost everything."
I turn my head. I look at him for the first time.
"What did you lose?" I ask.
"Everything. Family. Title. Name." He shrugs. "But that was fifteen years ago. It doesn't hurt anymore. It just... exists."
"Fifteen years?"
"Fifteen years. Since the day the king killed my father and Deur Derylini stole our land."
I frown.
"Tell me."
He hesitates. Then he tells me.
He tells of the Erréndias, the richest house in Endomyar. Of his father, Arthur, a good man but naive. Of his sister, Martha, rebellious and easily fooled. Of the Graylors, their fishing business, their bankruptcy. Of Irina — the small smile, the false ice, the marriage accepted with a gesture no one understood. Of Andy Decatry, the silver-blue-haired friend, the magnificent sword, the duel lost with honour.
He tells of the king's arrival. Of the false letter. Of the nobles' silence. Of the trial by combat. Of his father falling. Of the blood. Of the lost title. Of the peninsula handed to Derylini.
He tells of fifteen years of slavery. Of the cells. Of the whippings. Of the nights when he wanted to die but lacked the courage.
I listen in silence. I don't interrupt. I don't ask questions. I just listen.
When he finishes, the silence returns. Different, now. Less heavy.
"My story is similar," I say, finally. "But worse."
"Worse?"
"My father was also killed. In front of me. By a man in a beige mask. But I didn't stand idly by. I cut my wrist. I summoned the arcanum. I asked for justice."
He raises an eyebrow.
"And he gave it to you?"
"No. The arcanum said my father deserved to die. That it was equivalence. The masked man was avenging something my father did to him."
"And you believed him?"
"No. But I had no choice."
I tell him my story. Of the kingdom of Z, of the twenty-seven galaxies, of my father Zickony, of the stolen throne. Of the falling ship. Of Ziring's arm. Of Zequila's death. Of the contract with the masked man. Of the mission: destroy Endomyar. Of this cell.
"Destroy Endomyar?" He almost smiles. "You're in a slave cell, boy. You can't even destroy this rotten wooden door."
"Not yet."
My gaze changes. The emptiness gives way to something hotter. Rage.
He recognizes that. He had it once. Fifteen years ago.
---
The conversation drifts to other topics. Swords — I speak of the black blade with red veins that Duke Decatry gave me before throwing me into the portal. He recognizes the description.
"Andy Decatry?" he asks.
"Yes. Andy. He said the sword belonged to a dead friend."
He falls silent. The dead friend is him. Or rather, what he was before becoming a slave. The sword Andy made for his fifteenth birthday. The same one he never got to use.
"What name did you give it?" he asks.
"None yet."
"Give it one. Swords without names have no soul."
We speak of food. I describe the banquets of Z, the wines imported from T, the meats roasted in gold leaf. He describes the rye bread his mother used to make, long ago, before she died.
We speak of siblings. I speak of Zerane, the sweet one, the kind one, who cried at everything. I speak of Ziring, the studious cyclops, who lost an arm and felt no pain. He speaks of Martha, the rebel, who hated him for trying to protect her. He speaks of how she looked at Lirius Remadís on the day of the trial — and how he smiled back.
"My sister will die because of that prince," he says, without emotion. "Or she's already dead. I don't know. I've heard nothing of her in fifteen years."
"My sister is still alive," I say. "The masked man swore to protect her. Probably a lie. But it's all I have."
---
"I need to get out of here," I say, my voice lower. "I have a mission."
He laughs. A dry laugh, without humour.
"Do you think I haven't tried? For fifteen years, I've tried everything. Digging. Bribing. Killing. Nothing works. The only way out of here is to be sold."
"Then let them sell me."
"You don't choose the buyer, boy. They could sell you to the mines. To the fields. For the pleasure of some deformed noble."
I don't answer. My eyes gleam in the dark.
"What would you do if you got out?" he asks. "If they released you right now?"
"I would kill the masked man. Reclaim my galaxy. Become king again."
"And you would destroy Endomyar?"
"If necessary."
He looks at me. There is something in my eyes — a certainty, a fury — that he hasn't seen in anyone for a long time.
"If you get out of here," he says slowly, "and if you ever meet Andy Decatry... tell him that Arth Erréndias doesn't blame him. For anything."
I am about to answer. The words are on the tip of my tongue. But the sound of footsteps in the corridor interrupts me.
Gates opening. Keys jingling. A gruff voice, from a large man:
"Get up. Both of you. Auction in an hour."
The guard opens his cell first. Then mine. He pushes us down the corridor, down stone stairs, through creaking iron doors.
We reach a large room, lit by torches. A wooden stage in the centre. Empty chairs around. No buyers yet.
We are placed side by side on the stage, on our knees. Chains on our wrists. Iron rings on our ankles.
I look at the empty room. Then at him.
"We're going to be sold," I say.
"We are."
"And then?"
"Then... it depends on the buyer."
Silence settles. The room door creaks. Someone is entering.
The auction is about to begin.