Rathma
Rathma sat huddled in the corner of the huge stone cell, convinced that his life could not get any worse. He gagged again at the overwhelming stench of human waste and turned to Yozna, one of the other captives, and asked through the thin cloth of his shemagh, “How can you stand the smell?”
The underground prison they had been transported to was dark and cold, and filled to capacity. There must have been at least fifty other people—all set to be sold at auction. Men in their position cared nothing for hygiene.
“You get used to it,” the thin G’henni said with a shrug.
That’s how I’ll know I’ve hit rock bottom, Rathma thought. When the smell of shit doesn’t make me sick anymore.
Yozna had been the only one to acknowledge him when Rathma had been thrown in, and by now the two had managed to trade life stories. The big G’henni had been a well-to-do farmer once, before his youngest daughter fell gravely ill. To pay for her treatment, and for an escort for her into Ellenos, he was forced to start selling off his land. When the debtors came around, though, he found the expenses to be much greater than he had anticipated. He began selling off more and more land to satisfy the debtors, but gradually found himself with no more land to sell. And, with no land to farm for money or food, he had nowhere else to turn; he found himself in chains before the last of his crops were even harvested. Yet he was satisfied in the knowledge that his two daughters were safe, and that his youngest daughter survived.
Rathma admired the man—but he still stank.
They were crammed into a cell with a dozen other men, chains around their wrists, and had simply been told to wait. Wait for what, Rathma knew, but wait for how long was another matter.
“Alef has been in here for a week,” Yozna said, nodding to an older man with lighter skin, who looked like he was from up north. “He says he is used to the smell.”
Rathma frowned. “I hope it never comes to that.” Thinking aloud, he added, “This is the first time in my life I’ve been held somewhere and not been able to get out. I don’t like it.”
Yozna laughed, a booming guffaw that shook the walls. “No one does,” he said. He leaned nonchalantly against the solid stone of the prison wall, looking less like a slave and more like a man waiting for a drink order. “Do you think we picked this life?”
Rathma looked around the cell to the faces of the other men. They were old, young, dark skinned, light skinned, and somewhere in between. The one thing each of them shared, though—the one thing they all had in common—was the look of defeat on their faces. It couldn’t be wiped off, no matter how strong the cloth or how fervent the effort.
“That’s not what I meant,” Rathma grumbled. He stood up and shook out his shemagh, greatly missing the cloak that Evram had taken. “I just meant that I’ve always had options before. Always been free to . . .” He waved his hands around vaguely. “. . . go where I want.”
Yozna looked down his nose and raised an eyebrow. “Then perhaps you should not have gotten yourself caught,” he said.
Rathma glared at the G’henni out of the corner of his eye. “For the last time,” he rumbled, “I didn’t see them coming.”
Yozna chuckled and put his hand on Rathma’s shoulder. “Do not be angry at the past,” he said. “It is too late to change it. The future is far more worthwhile. There is still time to fix that.”
The unmistakable sound of boots on stone, accompanied by a ringing chorus of chains, made Rathma think that he would need to focus on the future sooner than he’d anticipated. He leaned out and peered past the thick iron bars of the cell, down the long corridor that had been suddenly flooded with torchlight. He squinted at the two distant figures. Knowing that nothing good was going to come from that direction, Rathma sank a little when they got closer.
A big Théan man with a ring of keys walked in front of the magistrate. There were five cells, each at capacity, and Rathma wondered just how two men were going to keep all the other slaves under control.
“I am Luzo,” the Théan said, “your commander. And you belong to me.” There was a low murmur from the slaves, and Luzo glared at them through squinted eyes, daring someone to challenge him; his strong jaw and thickly stubbled face suggested that he was more than capable of backing up any threat he made. “But that’s not the reason that you should fear me.”
The low chatter from the slaves came to a stop when a man in light-colored robes stepped forward.
“This is Caelus,” Luzo said to the silence. “An Athrani.” He looked around the cells, as if the word should’ve had some meaning to all those who heard it. “Do all of you know what an Athrani is?”
There were many nods, but no one said a word.
Rathma, puzzled as to what would make everyone fall so deathly quiet, said, “I don’t.”
Luzo looked in Rathma’s direction, snorted, then looked back to Caelus. “Show him,” he said, and he took several steps away from the Athrani.
If Rathma hadn’t seen it with his own two eyes, he would have thought that it was another of his grandfather’s stories. But right there, in the depths of the near-lightless prison, he saw a man pull fire out of thin air.
Caelus the Athrani held his hands out in front of him, palms facing the ceiling. With a stirring motion, he reached out to grab something; and, as if it were listening, the air grabbed back, catching fire with twin flames that sparked to life from the darkness. Rathma jumped as he watched the flames follow direction, floating above Caelus’s hands as he moved them through the air, two tame birds of impossibly bright plumage. Around and around they swirled in a dance of light and heat, showing no signs of dimming or dying, floating like phantom embers in a light-soaked prison. They flared up and shrank down a few times, seeming to grow with every cycle, until the last flare brought them together as a single conflagration. Then Caelus clapped his hands together. The explosion of flame filled the prison in a sudden, scorching surge.
Then it was gone.
The men in the prison remained silent, and Rathma was sure that his gaping was audible.
“That,” Luzo said, “is an Athrani, and that is what they can do. So if you value your life or simply dislike having your flesh burnt off, I suggest you do what we say. And that is why you should fear me.” He rattled a length of chain and glared up and down the corridor of the prison. “Any questions?”
The profound silence matched Rathma’s confusion. How could he do that? he wondered. That shouldn’t be possible. Those flames were real! With someone like him on our side, we might stand a chance against Yelto . . .
His cell door swung open.
Luzo looked inside and yelled, “Now get moving! There’s money to be made!”