Young Writers Society

Chapter One: A Dawn like No Other

“I swe’r to Jamed - Praise ‘im- , the miss’r’ll tan ye’r hide f’er sure thisin time, Lania.” The cook was a red-faced woman, with ruddy apple cheeks and a rather oddly shaped bulbous nose. She was generally cheery, but she had reason to be frustrated with me this time, as I was far later than I should have been. I could hardly blame myself though, as I dashed in through the door to receive a hardy boxing of the ears by the blustering cook. I’d only meant to go and draw the water, but I’d met such a stupid, friendly, lovely little bird there, and he was telling me all about his journey from the great southern barbarian lands. I tried to explain this too Cook, and got another sound telling off.

“None of y’er ‘orrible ‘eathen practices now, missy! Yer knowin I holds fast by mah beliefs, and if the good l’rd Jamed - Praise ‘im- wanted for them there animals to be talkin’ to folks like us, ‘ed’ve made it ‘appen before, and none of yer witchcraftin’ would be involved. I d’unno where yer pickin’ up yer ‘eathen ways Lania, but it ain’t gonna ‘appen ‘ere in my kitchen!” And boxed my ears again.

I couldn’t help it really, I could never understand why the others around me couldn’t hear the animals chattering as they were. The birds sang, and their words were as clear as Alrinain could be to me. The dogs spoke to me of their hungers and illnesses. They were my friends, but because they seemed to speak to me alone, the others called me witch, or mad. I think they probably considered it more likely that I was mad, because no one had arranged a Jamed priest to have me burned at the stake yet.

My bare feet tripped and slipped on the cobblestone flags of the kitchen floor as I struggled with the massive water pail. My nails were ragged and black under the edges, dirty from working long hours every day. I could feel my shoulders tense and bent with the weight that I carried, both physically and mentally. I was exhausted, but I maintained the smile that I could. The cook was a little religious, but I know that she meant well.

They were gossiping, of course, about the wedding. The king, who had been away at war, had brought back the heads and wives of his enemy, and a beautiful blue-eyed queen. Few had seen her yet, but those who had spoke in breathless whispers about her goddess-like beauty, murmuring that Alora had returned to sit again at Jamed’s side. I had a personal reason I longed to see her. In Alrinain, there were no people with blue eyes, not at all, not ever.

Each and every mother, father and child were brown eyed, with dark skin and dark hair. Except the queen, and me. People sometimes started as I passed them in the streets, grabbing me by the shoulders and halting me to stare into my eyes, muttering that I must be of mixed blood somehow. Yes, I was a slave, but only (as I have been told, because I have no memory of the situation) because my father could not afford to pay his debts, and had sold his tiny daughter to those who could perhaps use her skills in other ways.

I try not to be angry with him, I try to count my blessings as I pass the brothel and thank the gods I am not there, but my life is generally miserable, and I curse him often when I think back. I did not know my mother. If she was alive, she never tried to meet me. Not that she would be able to find me in a place like this, but it mattered little to me anymore.

I was strong and independent. True, I could not read or write, but I could learn. I memorized the Prayers of Alora in a mere three days, and repeated them back to the astonished priest who ran the small church-group our masters attended. I wanted to learn as badly as I wanted to breathe, but I didn’t have the time.

As I got older, my life got more difficult, more frightening. Now I was working as hard as I could in the kitchens, too afraid to serve the masters tables anymore. Frightened after the way he’d run his hands along me and murmured that I’d be ready so soon. I’d begged cook to let me scullery maid the kitchens. Anything to keep from returning to the dining room.

I wanted to see the new queen because I wanted to meet someone, anyone, who could be even the slightest bit like me. I held a foolish hope in my heart that she would run to me as a long-lost sister, or something equally impractical. It kept my mind occupied as I scrubbed cast-iron pans until my hands bled and cracked from the rough wool and lye. The others looked at me, whispering and gossiping. To them, I was a novelty. To them, I was a madwoman.

Tonight was the first night I was going to be serving at the table since what I had mentioned before. I actually tried to be on the roster tonight, because my master would be entertaining the king, and his new queen. I wanted to see them, whatever the cost.

The kitchen was an uproar of commotion and preparation for dinner. There were birds and pigs to roast, onions to chop, potatoes to boil, and a plethora of other meals to prepare and design for the delight of the king and his bride-to-be. In good time, I finished scrubbing the pots and dragged the bucket back to the square to draw more water from the well.

The bucket was heavy empty, and I knew it was going to take me time to get it back to the house, but I did my best. I lowered the bucket down into the cool water, the rope chafing at my hands as I dipped it in and started to heave out the pail. I groaned and strained against the weight of the rope, pulling as hard as I could, but it didn’t do me any good. My bare foot slipped in the mud, and I cried out as the bucket got away from me and splashed down into the well. Tears sprang to my eyes as I lay where the force of the yank had dropped me- in the mud. I could hear people laughing. Why shouldn’t they laugh? I was a laughing stock. I was a fool for thinking, even in my wildest dreams, that the queen would have the remotest interest in me. I stumbled to my feet and reached for the rope, my hands slippery. My knees burned with scrapes from the rough cobblestone road.

I was surprised to find pulling the rope was much, much easier. I turned my head behind me and saw two dogs, mangy animals, gripping the rope and pulling as hard as they could with their teeth. I grinned and the three of us managed to heave the bucket of water back to the top of the well and onto the cobbles besides me. I petted the animals softly, cupping my hands full of the cool liquid and letting them drink, than petting them and scratching behind their ears.

“We couldn’t leave you ma’am.” One of them said, smiling as a dog does, with his ears laid flat as I petted his head. The other barked in agreement.

“Thank you very much,” I murmured kindly to them, not wanting the villagers around to hear me say it. It wouldn’t really help me to have them thinking of me that way. The dogs trailed after me as I lugged the bucket as best I could back towards the house. They tried to help me, but a dog has a much easier time pulling a rope than tugging a pail.

“I could help with that.”

I started, hearing a male, a human, speaking to me. No one usually addressed me, a random slave girl in the street, one of many. The strong hand took the bucket easily from me, lifting it and giving my arms the sweetest sensation of freedom. Instantly frightened that this man would see my eyes, call me a witch and force me to carry the bucket again, I murmured a shy and grateful thank you, keeping my eyes on the ground, and leading the way back towards the kitchens. His shoes were all I could see, and while they seemed sturdy compared to my lack of shoes entirely, they did not seem to be any more impressive than any other man of the middle or lower class.

We arrived on the doorstep of the house and I thanked him, brushing my hair from my face and nervously tucking it behind my ear, keeping my eyes on the ground. The man’s strong hand set down my bucket on the doorstep and asked the question I dreaded.

“Why won’t you look at me?”

“I... I’m sorry sir, it’nd be impolite.” I mumbled as best I could, thinking of a quick excuse.

“Impolite, eh? That’s what they’re saying to the slaves these days?” I nodded quickly. My mind instantly took in that he had the cultivated and unaccented speech of the nobles or the educated, the speech I strove to copy as best I could from what I learned of the clear words of the animals.

He curiously touched my shoulder, walking around me and looking up and down. This I’d grown accustomed to, though I -stupidly- had not expected it from him. I was properly, the way that a sheep, cow or statue would be, and he had the right to check over me should he be planning to make an offer to my master.

Instead, he did something quite different, taking my chin, tilting it up, and staring me straight in the eyes. Mine widened softly. He was tall, with a handsome face and the custom dark hair and dark eyes of our people. He was soft and kind, and did not seem dirty as many of the other people did. He held my gaze, without fear, staring into my eyes. His fingers brushed along my cheek.

“Your eyes are blue.” He murmured. I was lost in staring up at him. He may have been the most handsome man I’d ever seen, and here he was, his body close to mine, though not touching, mind you, and his hand cupping my chin. Something like butterflies stirred and flitted in my stomach as I struggled to come up with a reply to his statement.

“Y-yes sir.”

“Did your father have these eyes?”

“I don’t know, sir. I’m sorry.” I closed them instantly, mentally bracing myself for a slap. None came.

“Your mother, perhaps?”

“I don’t know that either, sir, I’m terribly sorry...”

He nodded and let go of my chin, before breaking into the widest, most amazing smile I’d ever seen. My heart leapt in my chest just to see it. He touched his lips to my dirty forehead as if I was something special, something no one had ever done to me before, and then turned and walked away. I wanted to call out after him, to ask his name and tell him mine, but I was mutely rooted to the spot. The dogs stared up at me with worry, as I stood, staring at the spot where the kind, handsome man had been. It was cook, the darling woman, who raised me out of my stupor.

“Whaat yer doin s’tandin’ ‘here girl! Getcha inside! Took yer long ‘enuff!” And she shuffled me back into the heated kitchen, steeped in the smell of delicious and off-limits food.