Page 3 of The War and Deceit Series omnibus

But I haven’t done anything to be branded a traitor,I try to assure myself, but my thoughts keep twisting, trying to convince me that this is how I’ll die. Paranoia makes me shake, my limbs trembling.

This can’t be happening. I’m not sure I totally believed the maids, but I hadn’t ever thought they would kill me publicly.

The anger that burns within me, the feeling I work so hard to push aside, to bury deep, starts to boil up. The desire to live, to fight, rises to the surface. I’m not ready to die. Gazing around, I search for something I could use as a weapon. I’ve never fought before, but I’m strong from years of manual labour. I wouldn’t last a minute against the guards, but if I can take them by surprise, perhaps I could get away. Scanning the ground, I see only the smooth, paved ground and I curse my luck.

“Bring her in.” My head jerks up at the priest’s words as muttering fills the courtyard. Relief turns to horror as I see who’s being dragged in, her hands bound behind her back and her ankles cuffed with the same chains that bind mine.

Mary, the maid who had been talking about the royals in the hall I’d been cleaning earlier. Someone must have reported her for her slander, and now she has to pay for it. The gag doesn’t stop her muffled cries for help as she looks at the crowd—seeking aid or sympathy, I’m not sure.

“This…woman, has committed a great crime and betrayed our blessed royal family,” the priest sneers with disdain, the crowd making the appropriate sounds of disgust, their voices raising as they shout insults at Mary. “She is therefore branded as a traitor.” The whole time the priest speaks, I keep my gaze locked on the bound woman. Her eyes are wide with fear as she realises that her people have turned on her. All because she said something they didn’t believe.

“The usual punishment would be execution. However, the Great Mother has chosen to be merciful.” The priest smiles benevolently, and I hear several praises to the Mother, but I can’t help the sinking feeling that runs through me. Arhaven is not a merciful nation and I suspect this act of mercy may make Mary wish for death. The priest clears his throat, bringing everyone’s attention back to him as he turns to Mary, his face devoid of all emotion save for a sick gleam in his eye. “You shall be stripped of your name and identity and henceforth be known as Slave 1023. You shall work for the royals and try to redeem yourself to the Great Mother.” Mary’s cry of despair can be heard despite the gag in her mouth as the guards strip her of her servant’s uniform, the observing crowd muttering under their breath. Left in only her modest underwear, she shivers under the bitterly cold wind and the watchful eyes of her people.

The sizzle of hot metal can be heard as the branding prop is brought into view, causing a scream from Mary as she struggles uselessly against the guards. People shuffle around uncomfortably, realising what they are about to witness, but I stand frozen. I’ve been in her place and remember how scared I was, but I wasn’t old enough to realise what I was missing out on. Mary must be seventeen or eighteen and knows exactly what this is going to mean for her. The guards unbind her hands and hold out her arm, and no matter how much she struggles she can’t get away, her wide eyes watching in horror as the brand is lowered and pressed to her skin. Her piercing screech fills the courtyard and one of the watching ladies faints, as many servants look away, unable to watch. I can’t help but notice that all of the slaves in the area are standing stock-still like me, watching the branding of a new slave who’s about to join our ranks.

Mary sags back in the guards’ grip, sobbing now. The guards’ begin to drag her away to the slave quarters when a voice calls out.

“Wait.” The guards pause, confused frowns lining their faces, and I get the feeling this show isn’t over yet. The priest has a message to put across and he isn’t done. “Slave 1023 has a traitorous tongue. If we send her away without further punishment she will speak lies and slander to our other slaves.” Ice floods my veins as I understand what’s about to happen, and my fellow slaves obviously realise the same thing as they bow their heads, not wanting to witness the following punishment. Watching the branding, sure, we’ve all been through that, so we watched, showing our solidarity or even curiosity at having a new slave join our ranks. But if I’m right about what I suspect is coming, well, no one deserves that. Even the guards look disturbed, but they dutifully obey orders and bring Mary back, pushing her onto her knees before one of the justice pillars.

The three pillars come up to about hip height and have verses from the Scared Slates, our religious texts, that demand justice for sins committed. I’ve only ever seen them used once, and the memory is imprinted into my brain. I don’t even remember his crime, but I remember his punishment. The man was burnt alive... He often visits my dreams.

Mary is bound to the pillar, her sobs loud as they remove her gag and rest her chin on the flat surface. “Remove her traitorous tongue,” the priest orders. Many members of the audience cry out or turn away, unable to watch, but I notice that not a single one of them protests or tries to stick up for Mary. Fists clenched, I take a small step forward, to do what, I don’t know, but a hand grips my arm and I freeze in my tracks. Quickly looking down at my arm, I see a small slave at my side. She avoids my eyes but shakes her head slightly, and I know what she’s saying.

Don’t do it.

I don’t know what I was about to do, or where the urge came from—the need to dosomething, anything—but it would only get me killed or earn me a fate the same as Mary’s. The sting of tears pricks at my eyes, but I won’t let them fall and I stand tall as Mary’s tongue is held out and sliced off with one smooth movement. Her screams make me wince, but I refuse to turn away or bow my head like the others.

The priest is practically glowing, looking gleeful as his eyes skim across the horrified audience who were unable to watch. That is until he sees me and his smile quickly turns into a frown. Thankfully, the guards step aside from the exits and, as one, the slaves quickly slip away before the priest decides to start making an example of us. I escape among the mass of moving people.

That evening, I’m curled under the scrap of fabric I use as a blanket, staring into the small fire the others have managed tostart. I have no idea what they managed to find to burn, but I like watching the flickering of the flames. Images of Mary keep playing through my mind and my anger seems to move and grow with the dancing blaze. I remain separate from everyone, I always have. There’s no point in making friends when you’re a slave. Plus, there’s a hierarchy system, even amongst us, and I want nothing to do with it.

A soft mumble of voices as some of the younger slaves talk catches my attention, their words too quiet for me to make out, but as I glance over, I see their faces are serious and tense. I wonder what they are talking about. They’re young, they must be about eleven or twelve. A ghost of a smile flickers up at the corner of the younger one’s lips before she nods and lies down by the fire, the conversation over. The small action, nearly insignificant, brings up a memory.

I was once walking through the courtyard when two children of visiting nobles ran in, their laughter filling the space as they chased each other. The sound nearly caused me to stumble, so joyful and happy, it was foreign, and I wondered what it would be like to be like that. To be so carefree.

As I look at the two young slaves curled up by the fire, something burns inside me. They should be playing and laughing, they shouldn’t be down here working until they drop from exhaustion. Frowning, I push up into a sitting position and glance around me, that dark little voice slithering back into my thoughts.

None of them should be here. They’re children. What could children possibly do to deserve this fate?The thoughts take my breath away and I shake my head firmly as if I can throw them from my head.

You were a child too. What crime could you have committed?

Those words are dangerous. Priest Rodrick is always telling us that our servitude is a blessing, that we should be grateful the royals chose to keep us alive and give us that opportunity. I should be happy that the Great Mother wanted to give me a chance to redeem myself. I must have done something terrible to earn this fate, the royals wouldn’t enslave children otherwise, surely?

The sound of heavily booted feet echo around the room, bouncing off the stone walls and sending a wave of fear through us all. No good ever comes of the guards visiting the slave quarters at night. Knowing that someone is coming, we do what we do best—shrink into the shadows and blend into the background. As the footsteps come closer, I realise that they are dragging someone behind them, their body being pulled along the dirty floor. When they drop the body unceremoniously to the ground, I think for a moment the person is dead. But then a wordless moan escapes the motionless form as the guard kicks them in the ribs. The other guard looks around in disgust, his eyes briefly landing on me before he pulls a scroll from his belt. Heart pounding, I feel like every eye in the room is on me. Is this it? The decree announcing my death?

“809, come with us, you’ve been chosen by the Great Mother to serve in other ways.” Silence follows the guard’s words and I can’t help my relieved sigh. I immediately feel bad as a pretty young slave pushes to her feet, her eyes wide. Quiet praises to the Great Mother fill the room as she steps around the body that’s still unmoving. As she reaches the guards, their eyes gleam with mirth as they wrap their meaty hands around her skinny upper arms. It’s a blessing, to be chosen to serve the Great Mother in the way I suspect she will be. Serving the Mother in any capacity we possibly can is drilled into us every week by Priest Rodrick. But then why does it feel like she is walking to a fate worse than death?

As a female slave, we can be chosen to serve the Great Mother in ways the males can not—to bear the children of the barren wives of noblemen. It’s said that only those who have truly repented can be chosen to serve the Mother in this way. I’ve seen some of them walking the halls, their bellies round with child, their eyes dull and lifeless, and their bodies covered in bruises. Once they have birthed the babe, they are sent to the king’s brothel to work. No longer a slave. I wonder, is it truly freedom though? They’re still forced to work in the brothel.

The guards leave with the trembling girl and the steady moaning from the person left behind turns into a wail. People around me share nervous glances with each other, worrying that the noise will call down the guards, but no one makes a move. Usually I would keep to myself, after all, no one helped me when I was thrown in here as a small child. I had to learn to fend for myself and witnessed firsthand what happened to those who didn’t adapt. So that’s what I did, I learned how to survive. I don’t know if it’s the prospect of my impending death that makes me bold, but I push up onto aching feet and walk over as quietly as my chains will let me.

Crouching by the body, I place my hand on their shoulder, and as they shy away I recognise them. Mary. After we didn’t see her for hours, I thought she had died from her wounds like many do when they first come here.

“Mary.” My voice is rough as I reach for her, and it makes me wonder when I last spoke. Long enough ago that I have to think about it. Hisses fill the room and Slave 879 sneers at me.

“625, do you have a death wish?” she whispers, her tone full of venom as her eyes drop to the girl crying on the floor. “She’s 1023 now. Nothing else.” Turning away, she shuffles back to the group of slaves that look to her for guidance.

Guess we aren’t getting any help from her then. Not that I expected it. 879 has always disliked me. Originally, she tried torecruit me to her group, but I refused. Since then she seemed to have a personal vendetta against me, trying to trip me as we walk to our assignments or make me spill a bucket of water, anything that would get me punished.

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