Light of Eidon (Legends of the Guardian-King, Book 1) (18 page)

From there it was a simple step back to the Codices of Life, so deeply
ingrained after eight years’ study they often sprang unbidden to his brain. He
considered all the men he had known, all the precepts he’d been given, and
finally, almost in spite of himself, he came back to them, at least in part.

Did Saeral’s evil condemn the whole Mataio and all the men in it? Eldrin
was only a Novice Initiate. There was much he did not know. Perhaps there
was an explanation that reconciled the presence of a rhu’ema in the heart of
the Keep that was supposed to ward it. Eidon’s ways were many and mysterious, after all. No man could know them all.

As for Eldrin’s present predicament, had he not been taught that suffering
was good for the soul? That it served no purpose to question? That men must
accept what they’ve been appointed, knowing that in the end Eidon would
make all things right?

Perhaps it was illogical, perhaps it was foolish and even weak, but he had
nothing else to hold to. And now he knew himself to be a very weak man. So
he allowed himself to consider the scenario he had concocted, allowed himself the tenuous hope that events might yet unfold in his favor and his faith
might yet be restored.

The official inspection period lasted until midmorning, when the slaves
were gathered together by their various owners and herded toward the auction area at one end of the beach. There, under the looming presence of the
city’s dingy white walls, they were watered and portioned out into a series of
stock pens. Rickety, palm-thatched shelters provided some shade, though not
nearly enough for a group of people newly emerged from weeks of lightless
existence.

Everywhere he looked, Eldrin saw bright red skin. He would himself be
blistered by the end of this day and was already feeling sick from the heat.
He could not, however, bring himself to stand in the shade when there were
others who would have to endure the sun in his stead, so he sat along the
outer fence, head down between his hands, trying to not think about anything
at all. It was cause for mild rejoicing when the auctioneer’s voice rang across
the sand and stone and the business of buying and selling human flesh at last
got under way.

He was not selected for auction until midafternoon, by which time the
clouds had thickened enough to temper the sun’s fire and even spat intermittent rain sprinkles. As he was prodded from the pen with the five other slaves
to whom he was chained at the neck, he recognized Meridon, bearded and
filthy, as one of another five moving down the aisle past them toward the
auction block.

They had not been together in the hold, apparently filling holes vacated by deceased cargo, so he had not seen the man except for a brief, watery
glimpse earlier when they were disembarking from the three longboats that
had ferried them ashore.

Unlike Eldrin, Meridon still looked strong and fit, his gold shieldmark
gleaming in the gray light. As he shuffled past, his eye snagged on Eldrin,
recognition flickering through the dead expression on his face. His glance
dropped to Eldrin’s chest, then away with a bitter twist of the lips. No more
than that and he was past, obscured by the men in his wake and the traders
who sidled past them in the opposite direction.

Eldrin glanced down at the object of Meridon’s attention, feeling a twinge
of guilt. He still wore the gray stone Meridon had given him in the Keep to
protect him from command. Though his captors had taken all else, they had
left that, almost as if they had not noticed it. That he still wore it was as
strong a measure as anything of the spiritual uncertainties in his soul.

Saeral had feared Raynen had given him something during their meeting
in the palace, and Eldrin suspected this was the object of that fear. He would
never forget the feeling of his own body doing the bidding of someone else,
and he never wanted to experience it again. Perhaps this stone was a manifestation of evil-perhaps not. Perhaps Eidon found it offensive, but it had
saved him where Eidon had not.

The stock pens framed a semicircular yard presided over by a raised
wooden platform at the far end. Here stood the auctioneer with the current
object of bidding. The auction was proceeding slowly, interest at a low ebb.
Indeed, as Eldrin watched from his place in the wings, most of the offerings
generated few bids. Several brawny barbarians sparked the crowd’s interestmost of whom were Gamers-but it was only momentary, the bidders busy
eating and talking among themselves.

Then Meridon mounted the block, and a buzz swept the crowd. The auctioneer had not even finished his introductory utterance before someone
shouted out an offer and the bidding erupted. From the first it was intense,
almost frantic, men trying to outshout each other, goaded on by the rising
bids.

Renowned for their savagery and spectacle, the Esurhite Games pitted
men against men and animal. It was said rhu’ema sponsored them and that
dark magic was much a part of them. Few competitors survived for long, and Meridon, fit and athletic as he was, with that gold shield of magic glittering
on his chest, was a perfect candidate.

The bidding continued for some time before a sale resolved and Meridon
was led away. The furor died at once, and by the time Eldrin stepped onto
the block, the crowd had thinned considerably. He spotted his Thilosian prospect off to the right, surrounded by his entourage, looking more bored and
resigned than ever.

The auctioneer went through his introductory spiel, grabbing Eldrin’s
hand and pointing to the scribing callus and then to his hair and eyes before
falling into his repetitive request for bids. None came. Eldrin’s heart sank. He
hadn’t considered the possibility no one would buy him. What would the
slavers do then? Make a sailor of him? Sell him to the Qarkeshan government? To the mines?

The auctioneer droned on, entering the cycle of intonation Eldrin had
come to associate with the end of a bidding session. At the very last moment
a harsh voice arose from left of the platform, stopping the flood tide of syllables. Eldrin, who had been watching the Thilosian in expectation, now
turned in wary surprise. His knees almost deserted him when he saw who
had bid-the hatchet-faced Esurhite Gamer who had earlier shown interest
in him for his Kalladorne looks.

The auctioneer started in with the new bid, while heads swiveled all
across the gathering toward the bidder. The Esurhite’s two companions stared
at him as if he were mad. The auctioneer cycled again into his ending, and
now the Thilosian whom Eldrin had expected to bid in the first place called
out an answer. Again the auctioneer cycled through his request for a higher
bid. Again, at the very end, the Esurhite accommodated.

His son spoke to him forcefully, frowning darkly. All around, the few
Garners that remained now looked at Eldrin more closely, some laughing outright, others conferring hastily with their assistants before offering bids of
their own. Looking annoyed, the Thilosian topped them all.

By then the Esurhite’s companions, both afire with indignation, seemed
to have convinced the man to desist, for though he was smiling with amusement, he did not outbid the merchant. The auctioneer rattled on, and the bid
finally closed in the Thilosian’s favor.

From what Eldrin could figure, he’d sold for less than a tenth of what
Meridon had brought. He told himself it was insane to feel disappointment over that observation, but he did all the same. Even as a slave, it seemed, he
was worthless.

He was dragged off the block, freed of his collar, and given over to a burly,
heavy-featured man he recognized as one of the Thilosian’s retainers. The
man gripped his upper arm tightly, steering him alongside the crowd to the
back where other men in the same uniform stood guard over a group of naked
male slaves. All of them were dull-eyed barbarians, considerably haler and
brawnier than Eldrin and probably meant for hard labor somewhere.

It dawned on him then that things had worked out exactly as he’d anticipated. The Thilosian had bought him. Would he shortly be on the way to
Thilos and his aunt Ana?

No. To his bitter disappointment his new master’s retainers hustled him
and the others into a cart and headed not toward the waterfront but up a
long, switchbacking lane to the front gate of a hilltop villa overlooking the
town.

Only Eldrin and the tall Thilosian were let off, the latter immediately
consigning him to one of the servants waiting at the gate. As the Thilosian
disappeared into the villa, Eldrin was taken around to the back and handed
off to a fat, sour-faced man in a linen tunic. Clearly displeased with his assignment, the man brought him to a small yard behind the kitchen and there, in
full view of the workers going in and out, scrubbed him down like a pig for
slaughter, taking no care whatever for his burned and tender skin. Still damp,
he was given a short-sleeved tunic and belt to wear, then compelled under
strict supervision to shave the stubbly beard from his jaw. A stout, granitefaced woman came out to trim his raggedly shorn hair into the neat bowlshaped style the others wore, and finally he was led into the villa itself to
meet his new master.

The Princess Carissa stood on the quarterdeck of her Thilosian merchantman, Windbird, straining for another glimpse of the departing shore party
through the glut of vessels teeming in the Bay of Salama. The launch carrying
Captain Kinlock and his twenty-five men had just vanished around the bow
of a tubby Draesian fishing hulk, leaving her well and truly trapped on
Windbird. At least until their return.

The bitter frustration of it-to have come all this way and not be able to
go ashore-boiled up in her again. Even if the decision to stay behind had
been her own. Even if she knew full well it was for the best. As Kinlock had
so patiently pointed out, she would be more hindrance than help-she didn’t
speak the languages, her presence would discomfit the men he meant to see,
and she was bound to draw unwanted attention both to herself and to
Abramm, wherever he was. Furthermore, needing to protect her ashore, Kinlock would be unable to disperse his men, significantly reducing their search
power.

All were eminently reasonable objections … but she hated it anyway. A
new burst of exasperation made her pound the railing with a fist and curse
being born female.

“Ever been to Qarkeshan before, milady?” First Mate Danarin came
clumping up the companionway to join her, blinding in a lime green vest,
yellow sash, and violet britches. The captain had left Windbird in the handsome Thilosian’s hands while he went ashore, another aspect of the situation
that rankled. She neither liked nor trusted Danarin-he wore way too much jewelry, for one thing-and she found it especially irksome that her icy manner never fazed him. Even now the brown eyes met hers boldly and white
teeth flashed in a confident grin.

She returned her gaze to the harbor, scanning more intently than ever.
“Never,” she said.

They’d dropped anchor in the bay’s less populous northern half, cut off
from the main spread of the city by a short finger of land looming off the
starboard bow. Rocky quays and wooden piers jutted from its length, cluttered with moored vessels and bustling with activity. Large white buildings
with red-tiled roofs reared beyond them-the many warehouses and shipping
company offices that lined the waterfront. Where the stubby peninsula joined
the mainland stood the tall gray walls that had once bounded Old Qarkeshan,
long since outgrown. More white-and-red buildings interspersed with clumps
of greenery swirled around them, then swept upward toward the high ridge
that paralleled the bay.

“See that dome there?” Danarin said, gesturing past her to the massive
gold-and-blue structure rising at the upper edge of the old section. “Used to
be the Temple of Aggos. When the Thilosians invaded they converted it to
their seat of government.”

“The Sorvaissani’s palace?”

“So they call it, but he doesn’t live there. Mostly it’s offices and archives,
though that dome houses a huge stateroom. They’ve got business records that
date back to the Cataclysm. That’s where we’ll find Prince Abramm, I wager.”

She pointed her spyglass at the gleaming dome and its subordinate buildings, heart pounding in her throat.

“Unfortunately that’ll make it harder to get him back. Qarkeshanian
bureaucrats delight in twitting royalty. Makes ‘em feel important. Better if
some waterfront warehouse merchant bought him. They don’t use as many
slaves, but if the prince can do figures as well as write and speak Thilosian …”

“He is good at figures,” Carissa said, sweeping the glass up the hills overlooking the bay to the villas perched atop them amidst buffers of greenery.
Those white marble enclaves, every bit as grand as the Sorvaissani’s palace,
would be other likely places to find a newly purchased slave.

From the villas she scanned down to the beach left of the peninsula, site
of Qarkeshan’s infamous and highly lucrative slave trade. Just now a good hundred or more bearded, naked men stood in ragged lines on the dirty sand,
prospective buyers passing slowly among them. But after only a moment’s
inspection, she lowered the telescope with shaking hands, her stomach suddenly churning. Abramm might have stood on that beach as recently as two
days ago, stripped and chained like all the rest. The thought of her proper,
sensitive, easily embarrassed little brother exposed and inspected like a common ox made her writhe with empathetic humiliation.