Rathma
The three of them were marched, single file, into a spacious and well-decorated room, the likes of which Rathma had only seen in Djozen Yelto’s stronghold in Khadje Kholam. If his bearings were right, they were still underground, and the lack of windows certainly seemed to reinforce that notion.
At the center of the empty room, standing waist-high, was a platform of marble, with eight thin pillars spaced evenly about its circumference. Ten men could comfortably stand shoulder to shoulder across its diameter, and Rathma figured it to be the platform on which they would be displayed. Better than the prison cell, he thought dourly.
Alongside Rathma stood two other men who had been set aside during the initial gathering of prisoners. One of them had been in the cell that Rathma had been kept in: Habrak the Stoneborn, whose people were as reclusive as they were powerful. Rathma had never heard of them, but the whispers of the other men in the cell told him that the Stoneborn were revered as mighty warriors, with none being their equal. The other one Rathma didn’t know, but if he and Habrak were any indication, he was probably not to be trifled with. A glance at the heavy wrist and ankle manacles was enough to confirm his suspicion.
“Alright,” said Luzo. “Listen up, you maggots. This is where you prove your worth. For one reason or another, you’ve been selected above the others to have some sort of . . . intrinsic value. And that value translates to more coin for us.” He paused, grinning. “And we like coin.”
There was a rumbling of laughter from the guards behind him.
“So that means, be on your best behavior. Or”—he glanced back to Caelus the Athrani—“you’ll have to answer to him.”
Rathma didn’t know exactly how he would have to answer, but he didn’t want to find out.
Just then, from a corridor off to the side, echoed the voice of the man called Ghaja Rus. “. . . are sure that you’ll be pleased at the selection we have for you. My men have combed the lands, far and wide, to find the best and most valuable individuals for your approval.”
His voice was coming closer, and it sounded like he was being followed by at least a half dozen people, if the echoes of their footfalls were to be trusted.
Ghaja Rus, the man who was more snake than human, had apparently found some people willing to pay a little extra for the most dangerous of beasts—man.
But, as the footsteps came closer and their owners trickled into the room, Rathma’s heart nearly stopped in his chest when he saw what stepped in.
“In here?” a female voice asked. “I was not expecting something so extravagant.”
The rest of the world faded from view as a tall, dark-haired woman with skin of deep chestnut and lips of scarlet wandered in, eyes hiding behind thick lashes that looked too long to be real. The dress she wore, snow white and formfitting, kept no secrets about what was hidden beneath.
Cold embrace of the Holder, Rathma swore. She’s amazing. He was certain that the rest of the room could hear his heart thudding against his chest.
“The lady has fine taste,” Rus crooned.
I bet she does, Rathma thought. He was barely conscious of anyone else in the room when the low growling of Luzo snapped him back.
“Remember what I told you,” the Théan rumbled, pressing the wood of his cudgel into the small of Rathma’s back. His voice was barely above a whisper, but somehow it still shook Rathma like the growl of a desert wolf. He could feel the man’s breath on the back of his neck.
Ghaja Rus continued to direct them inside. “Right this way,” he said with a smile and a bow as the last of the patrons filed into the room. There were only a handful of them, but each was dressed like he or she could buy the city of Théas and still have gold to spare. Most of them looked old enough to be one of Rathma’s grandparents, including an olive-skinned woman near the back whose silver hair matched her low-cut dress. If she hadn’t been so elegantly dressed, Rathma would have thought that she had also come from beyond the Wastes. She had a sharp air of indignation that suggested that she was too good for the room and was losing money just by standing in it.
“I expect this lot to be better than the last pile of garbage you tried to peddle to us, Rus,” she said in a confident lilt—and, Rathma noted, a hint of a Khôl accent.
“Yes of course, Lady Elana,” Rus answered with a bow. “I assure you that you will be pleased.”
By now the three slaves had been isolated on the circular stage, with Luzo lurking behind them. Rathma felt the eyes of the room fall upon him.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Rus belted out with bravado, “I present to you the auction to end all auctions. The finest spoils that Derenar and Gal’dorok have to offer—and beyond.”
A hush fell over the well-dressed patrons as they did their best to not look impressed. Rathma’s eyes were still on the dark-haired woman near the back, who looked as surprised as if she’d just seen a ghost.
“Our first item,” Rus continued, “was brought to us from the fields of Dal’amir. A Stoneborn, whose people are as unbreakable as the rocks from which they take their name. Luzo, show them,” he said as he nodded to the Théan.
From behind him, Rathma heard the sound of steel hissing against leather—a sword coming free—and he looked to his right, where Habrak was standing. As Luzo swung the well-sharpened blade right for Habrak’s neck, Rathma let out a shout of warning; but by the time the yell left his lips, the blade had found its mark. The blow was strong enough to slice his head clean off, biting through bone and flying through flesh like a breeze in an orchard.
Or at least it should have been. The blade caught in Habrak’s neck like an ax in a tree stump, and Rathma had to blink his eyes a few times to make sure he wasn’t seeing things.
“The Stoneborn,” Rus said loudly, “make excellent soldiers due to their . . . unique physiology.”
Habrak reached up and pulled the sword out of his neck as if he were picking off a hangnail.
“They do not bleed like we do, and their tolerance for pain is unparalleled.”
Rathma stared, jaw agape, at a man who looked perfectly human, save for his gray eyes. “What are you?” he whispered.
Habrak merely grinned.
“Five silver pieces,” came the first bid. It was Lady Elana, standing rigid and proud.
“Six,” came an immediate counter from an older man standing next to her, streaks of black in his graying hair and beard.
Ghaja Rus smiled as the two of them went back and forth, squabbling over the seemingly unkillable soldier standing before them.
A third man chimed in, gaunt but refined, and raised the price by a staggering amount. Each of them topped the others until the man with the black and gray hair finally won out, a smug smile gracing his face.
“Habrak the Stoneborn goes to Connus for two gold pieces,” Rus announced. “And I’m sure he will use him well.”
Knowing laughter spread among the patrons, as well as from Luzo. Rathma shifted in his chains uncomfortably.
“Next up,” Rus continued, “is a specimen from Ellenos.”
When hushed murmurs of excitement permeated the air, Rathma looked over to the man he didn’t recognize, wearing night-black robes, and watched as he stepped forward.
“No doubt many of you are familiar with the power of the Athrani,” Rus went on. “This one is a half-eye: born of an Athrani father and a human mother, with all the power of the Athrani”—he turned to address the crowd—“and all the stubbornness of a human.”
There was reserved laughter from the patrons at this joke, though Rathma did not grasp the humor.
“May we examine him?” Lady Elana asked.
“Yes, of course,” said Rus, stepping out of the way with a flourish.
A number of them approached the marble circle, eyes fixed on the one they called “half-eye.”
It’s like they’re looking at a piece of meat, Rathma though incredulously. They poked and prodded, taking his chin in their hands and squeezing, looking at his teeth and his muscle tone, his hair and his eyes.
“So he can Shape?” asked one of the men.
“He can,” Rus replied.
“And we are supposed to just take your word for it?” Lady Elana quipped, much to the delight of the other patrons.
“My word is worth more than the Stoneborn and the half-eye combined,” Rus retorted. Apparently Lady Elana had ruffled his feathers. “But for you, my lady, and for the sake of the man you represent, I shall offer proof.”
With a nod to Luzo, Rus had the shackles removed from the half-eye. The black-robed Athrani stood there looking confused for a moment before Rus said, “Go on then, show them a little something.”
Before Rathma could blink, the Athrani had turned the marble pillars around them into liquid water with no more effort than it took to exhale. The splash from the spontaneous waterfalls drenched everyone as it fell, loud and heavy, and made its way off the platform. Gasps filled the room as Luzo scrambled to clamp the shackles on the half-eye again, but the performance had its intended effect.
“Ten silver pieces,” said Connus, dripping wet.
“Twelve,” countered Elana, who was wringing out her hair.
“Sixteen,” came a silky voice from behind them. Rathma’s eyes immediately went to the young, dark-haired woman who was tying her hair back, and he found himself unsurprised that such a lovely voice had come from so entrancing a source. He tried to control his gaze when he noticed her wet dress.
“Eighteen,” said Connus, who was promptly elbowed in the ribs by the lovely young newcomer.
“Two gold pieces,” she said, and stared defiantly at Connus.
“Four,” said Lady Elana.
Rathma could see that the young woman was thinking about it. She looked down at her purse.
“Whatever you have in there,” Lady Elana said, “I assure you that I have more.”
The young woman’s shoulders sagged in apparent defeat. She looked up to the half-eye and back to her purse—and then, inexplicably, at Rathma. He could feel the red in his cheeks as they burned with embarrassment. He quickly looked at the floor.
Rus waited a few beats before awarding the Athrani to Lady Elana.
She nodded her approval to the young woman. “A wise decision,” she said under her breath. Turning to the Athrani, she smiled and said, “Have my men escort him out and ready a horse. He’ll do just fine.”
“And now,” Rus boomed, “our final item for the day. A treasure from beyond the Wastes, an ancient legend come to life. Some say that they are descended from the Traveler himself, imbued with the power to walk in and out of the Otherworld at will. A being so elusive that, rumor has it, they can only be killed by one of their own. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you . . . a Farstepper.”
Rathma had been prepared for many things, but silence was not among them. He was suddenly very conscious of his red eyes, and felt the flush on his cheeks that no doubt matched his hair. But it would not last long, as he was suddenly pulled back to the present by the demanding voice of Lady Elana.
“Horseshit,” she said, to the amusement of everyone around her. “The Athrani was one thing, Rus, but I will not accept this man as a Farstepper just based on your word.” She stepped forward, close enough to look Rathma right in the eye. “If this one has the blood of the Traveler in him, I would see it for myself.”
For the first time since he’d come to Théas, Rathma saw both Luzo and Ghaja Rus looking uncomfortable.
“Ah, well, you see,” stammered Rus. “He . . .”
“The iron on his wrists is the only thing keeping him here,” Luzo said sternly from behind Rathma.
“Well, I’m not paying so much as a silver until I see what he’s worth,” said Elana.
Luzo looked haltingly at Ghaja Rus, who gulped audibly.
“I suppose there’s no harm in letting him loose. He can’t go far.” Rus glanced around the room, which was encased entirely in brick. There were no windows, and nowhere for Rathma to escape to even if he could—which Rus didn’t know was a possibility. But as Rathma felt the iron shackles drop from his wrists, their sudden lightness was in stark contrast to the heaviness of the absence of his power. No matter how hard he wanted it, how hard he tried, he couldn’t move through the air as he’d done since he was a boy. He was stuck fast to this wet marble platform, next to a man called “half-eye”—a man who had been openly mocked and derided by the very people who had just paid an exorbitant fee to own him.
Rathma trembled with rage and impotence. He did everything but move.
“Show them,” Luzo growled. “Use your power.”
The blow to his back from the Théan barely even registered.
Through his teeth, Rathma protested. “I can’t,” he seethed.
Luzo’s cudgel struck him on the back of the head, forcing him to his knees.
“I said show them!” he shouted.
Rathma ground his teeth sharply as he wanted nothing more than to blink away, instantly envisioning jumping behind Luzo and slitting his throat.
But nothing came. Nothing but the blunt end of Luzo’s cudgel again and tears of frustration.
“I, uh, assure you,” Rus stammered, “that he is a Farstepper. He was procured from a most reliable source.”
Murmurs of discontent spread throughout the small crowd of patrons, who started to disperse after the lack of an impressive display that they no doubt had expected.
“I don’t know how you did the eyes, Rus,” Lady Elana scoffed as she turned to leave. “But let me know when you get a real Farstepper.”
Connus, along with the rest of the bidders, seemed equally disappointed, and he and the others made their way to the corridor and out of sight.
Everyone, that is, except for the black-haired woman.
“I’ll take him off your hands at cost,” she said. Her words were confident, as though she was doing them a favor.
Rus looked at Rathma with a mixture of rage and disappointment. For a moment, Rathma tensed as he thought the G’henni was going to take Luzo’s cudgel and beat him to death. But when the beating did not come, Rathma relaxed.
“Very well,” Rus replied. “Two gold pieces for the Farstepper.” His words were empty, as was his smile.
“He is worth half that,” she countered, “and you know it. One gold piece and I will remove this shame from your sight.”
It worked.
“For one as lovely as you,” Rus replied, “it is almost too rich a price.” He waved his hand dismissively at the Théan. “Luzo, give the lady her winnings.”
With a nod, Luzo loosened the shackles on Rathma, handing them over, along with the keys, to the black-haired woman.
“Thank you, Luzo,” she said, grabbing Rathma’s arm. “Come with me.”
***
When the light of the Théan moon finally found its way to their faces, Rathma and his new owner had left Ghaja Rus and Luzo far behind.
So it came as nothing short of surprise to Rathma when the black-haired woman said, “You are mine now, Farstepper. My name is Alysana, and we have much to discuss.”
Rathma blinked, mouth agape.
“Now,” she went on. “What can you tell me of Do’baradai?”