ABISHAG

Abishag had always walked upon light. In rolling grasslands, in courtyards of worship, in houses of healing. She had always sought peace in labor, divinity in toil. Here across the sea, collared and branded, she found her gods in soil and vine, in grape and sunlight, in song and in memory.

The vineyard spread across the valley from sea to mountain, a day's walk from the city of Polonia south of Aelar. A handful of other slaves worked here with her, singing old songs of their homelands as they picked the grapes. As Abishag worked among them, moving between the rows of vines, she tried to think only of the grapes, the sunlight above, the crumbly soil between her toes, the song on her lips.

Yet sometimes, between songs, sudden pain flared, and she felt again the whips against her back.

Sometimes, filling her basket with grapes, she remembered filling her cart with soil and rocks, building a ramp in the desert.

Sometimes at night, as she slept in the wooden hall with the other slaves, she remembered weeks in the belly of a ship, chained and beaten, shivering and ill.

Sometimes, when she stomped on the grapes to make the wine, Abishag remembered standing in the slave market in Aelar, naked and collared, her feet white with chalk, as the auctioneer extolled her virtues.

At these times, she carefully pulled her awareness away from those memories. Gently, she returned her mind to the grapes, or to the straw bed beneath her, or simply to her slow breathing.

Let those memories fade from me, she thought. Let there be nothing but light on the vineyards, the whispering sea, and the piney mountains.

Through spring and autumn, Abishag spoke little, not socializing with the other slaves. Many labored here in the vineyard of their dominus, slaves from many lands. In the evenings, as they all sat in the big wooden house, eating fish and bread and cheese, they shared their stories. They came from around the world, captured in the endless expansion of the Empire, and they spoke varied tongues, able to communicate with one another only with a smattering of Aelarian. One man spoke of five years rowing a galley, finally sold for striking his master. A woman spoke of three years serving a cruel dominus, pouring his wine and warming his bed. Another woman, graying and weary, spoke of twenty years as a wet nurse, breastfeeding the babes of wealthy dominas in Leer; when finally her milk had dried up, they had sold her for a handful of denarii instead of finally granting her freedom. A somber child spoke of parents slain, of soldiers killing all the men in a village, capturing all the women and children.

Abishag always listened to those stories, but she could never tell her own. Whenever the slaves turned toward her, the pain seemed too great. She could bring none of it to her lips.

Winter came and the rains fell, and burlap covered the vines until spring. The slaves moved toward tasks in the villa of their dominus, building fires in the hearth, cooking, cleaning, and tending to the master's children.

One day, it began to snow, and all the slaves huddled in their house and gazed in wonder. Most had never seen snow before, and even the Aelarian masters marveled at it, for it had not snowed here by the Encircled Sea in two generations. As Abishag watched from the window, she realized that it was exactly a year to the day since she had met Maya outside Beth Eloh. That day too it had snowed, a rarity in Zohar. That day she had emerged from shadows.

And finally Abishag spoke.

But she did not speak of herself. She did not speak of a shepherd's daughter in the hills of Zohar. She did not speak of a consecrated sister worshipping in dust outside a temple of gold and marble. She did not speak of a woman chained, beaten, sold.

She spoke of an ancient city of stone and light and copper and gold.

She spoke of rams' horns and the song of lyres.

She spoke of the war of the princes, of the love between Prince Yohanan and Ishay, and of the cowardly King Shefael who had hidden within his city.

She spoke of a cruel prince sailing from the sea, of a vicious princess invading from the northern hills.

She spoke of war, bloodshed, and courage. Of brave Jerael, fighting on the walls of Gefen. Of wise Shiloh, holding her kingdom together even in its darkest hour. Of mighty Atalia, who fought with a horde of barbarians and vanquished all her enemies in the arena. Of broken, haunted Ofeer, who betrayed her homeland and family, who found light in the greatest darkness. Of Koren, who had always loved joy and laughter, forced to shed blood, saving his humanity in the face of devastation. Of Epher, last king of Zohar, who fought and died with nine hundred lions.

And she spoke of Maya.

She spoke of Maya traveling across the desert, finding sanctuary in an oasis, and healing the king of Sekadia. She spoke of Maya facing the adversary in the desert and casting back the dragons of sand. She spoke of Maya transcribing the Luminous Writ by the eastern sea and defeating the priests of Dagon.

Tears filled her eyes when she spoke of finding the Gate of Tears, of Maya returning into the city with hope, with healing. Her voice dropped to a whisper when she spoke of Maya dying on the cross, of the city falling, of light dimming.

"She is gone," Abishag whispered, tears flowing. "But I will always carry her wisdom with me."

The other slaves gathered around her, eyes damp, listening to her speak.

Abishag continued in a shaky voice. "Every light casts a shadow. But we can meet every shadow with more light. Maya taught me that the world is balanced. We can only face harm with healing. We can only face destruction with labor. We can only face hatred with love. We can only face darkness with light. It is our task, we who follow Maya, to repair a broken world. Not with swords. Not with hatred or fear or devastation. The world is broken. The world is full of evil and chaos. With love, compassion, healing, art, wisdom—we will face destruction. We will mend. And we will remember her."

It was several days later, as Abishag was picking mushrooms in the grove behind the vineyard, that her master's son approached her.

Abishag dropped her basket, spilling her mushrooms. She stood between the pines, torn between kneeling and fleeing. The master's son was a man in his twenties, his hair curly and brown. She had served him wine at his table before, and she had washed his togas and linens, but she had never spoken to him. He walked closer to her, not seeming to mind the mud that clung to his sandals and the hem of his toga.

"Your name is Abishag?" he said.

She nodded. "Yes, dominus."

He knelt in the mud—even with his costly toga—and helped her lift the fallen mushrooms. "For days now, the fellow slaves won't stop babbling. As they pour my wine, shave my face, cut my hair, serve my meals—I hear them mumbling about battling princes, about a last stand on a desert mountain, about an ancient city of light, and of a teacher who died on a cross." He tilted his head, a small smile on his lips. "You wouldn't happen to know how they heard such a story, would you?"

Abishag trembled, fearful that he would beat her. She lowered her head. "I'm sorry, dominus. Please forgive me. I told them this tale. Please punish me, not them."

His eyes softened. He returned her basket to her. "Is that what you think of me?" He sighed. "I suppose you would. I suppose that is who we are." He placed a finger under her chin and raised her head, so that she stared into his eyes. "Nobody will hurt you again, Abishag. You're safe here. And in a few years, if you work well and earn it, we will grant you your freedom. My father frees a new slave every year to motivate those who remain."

Abishag felt hope flow through her like mulled wine in winter. "If I had my freedom," she said, "I would travel the world, and I would share this tale with all who would hear."

"Then we'll need to write it down." The master's son nodded.

"I don't know how to write, dominus."

"I do. I think your time laboring in the vineyards, garden, and groves has ended. I would like you to serve in the villa. During the days, you will clean, cook, and tend to the children. And every evening, I'd like us to write another chapter in this story. Zohar is gone. Its fall will forever be a stain upon my people." He lowered his head. "I am Aelarian, and your story shames me. But if I could help you write this story . . . perhaps I can find some comfort for my soul. I cannot resurrect Zohar, but perhaps we can still tell her tale, still keep her name alive."

That evening, after Abishag's duties were done, she stepped into the chamber of the master's son. He sat at a desk, a quill in hand, blank parchment before him. Abishag placed two mugs of mulled wine on the table and sat beside him. As she spoke, he wrote the first words in a long tale.

The dog came to her from the hills.