Page 2 of The War and Deceit Series omnibus

“It’s true and you know it! He’ll probably only be attending for a chance to be chosen to join the magicians. Not that anyone has been chosen for years.” Mary is trying to defend herself, but her voice is quieter, as if she knows she has stepped out of line.

The two maids are quiet for a while, continuing to arrange the flowers in the awkward silence caused by Mary’s rash words. Shuffling forward, I feel my heart sink as I see the footsteps the servants have trodden onto my clean floor. My knees ache underneath the thin shift that covers my body, and my hands cramp from gripping the brush for so long, my fingers wrinkled and bleeding from the labour. I struggle as I stand, my whole body screaming in pain and my muscles cramping from being hunched over for hours. But I ignore it, reaching for the bucket of dirty water. Head down, I shuffle to the small room attached to the back of the hall, the clink of the chains around my ankles the only sound, echoing around the arched ceilings. Mercifully, they have running water in this part of the castle, so I don’t have to walk to the well in the courtyard like I know many of the slaves in the older parts of the castle have to. Emptying the bucket, I fill it with fresh water and begin my slow walk back to where I had been working. Whispers follow me as I trudge forward, the heavy bucket and hours of labour making me slower than usual.

“Is that the slave they were talking about?” one whispers to the other, causing my heart to stutter. I’m used to being ignored, and attention is never a good thing for a slave.

“I think so, she’s older than the others. And that long dark hair and pale skin...she’s different from the others. It must be her.”

I’m used to sticking out due to my appearance. The people of Arhaven are blessed with tanned, bronze skin and golden hair thanks to the strength of the sun that beats down on the land. My black hair, green eyes, and pale skin would have made me stick out whether I was a slave or not. No matter how long I work under the sun, I never tan. I don’t remember my past, so I have no idea where I originally came from, but I’ve heard whispers from the other slaves about the people from the mountains who share my characteristics.

“I hear she’ll be terminated tomorrow.”

I nearly stumble at her words, shock coursing through my body. I hurry as fast as I can to my corner and drop to my knees, straining my ears to hear what they have to say. Perhaps they have the wrong slave...

“Why, what has she done?”

“She turns twenty tomorrow. They cull the slaves at that age.”

“Why do they cull them?”

“You know that all citizens are required to attend the ceremony in order to be blessed, but slaves aren't allowed. Without a blessing from the Great Mother, your soul is lost. Those with lost souls are killed before they can become a danger to society,” Mary explains, but I tune out the rest of the conversation, my blood turning cold in my veins.

I knew I was one of the older slaves, but I didn’t realise I was the eldest. It’s true that many don’t make it past childhood, and I’ve never seen an elderly slave... Dread lines my stomach andnausea rolls through me. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and try to calm my racing heart.

Keep calm, it’s probably just a rumour.

“I’ve never heard of slaves being killed when they turn twenty!” the quieter servant exclaims to Mary. At this point, though, I’m not really paying attention, since Mary’s previous words are ringing in my ears.

“That’s because they hardly ever live until that age.” I can feel the weight of their stares on my back. “Shame, she’s a pretty little thing. I wonder what she did to get sold into slavery,” Mary comments, before I hear two sets of footsteps walking away from me.

It’s only at this point that I let the scrubbing brush fall from my abused hands and I wrap my arms around my torso.

I’m to be executed tomorrow.

The rest of the day drags, my brain reeling from what I’ve learned. I barely see the hall I’m cleaning, my thoughts spinning and tumbling in my head. They can’t be right, I haven’t done anything wrong, why would they kill me? Sure, they kill slaves on a daily basis for the smallest of offenses, revelling in handing out punishments. So why am I so surprised? Did I truly believe, deep down, that they would let me take part in the ceremony? And if what they said is true, that slaves can’t receive the blessing at the ceremony, then the only other option would be death.

As part of our religion, we worship the Great Mother and are taught through readings. Everyone has to attend these readings, even the slaves get a short reading once a week. These readings teach us about the Mother and the blessings she bestows upon us. Priest Rodrick is the one to deliver our readings. He’s a harsh, weaselly man who obviously feels only disdain towards the slaves. Our readings are always about repenting, about how lucky we are the Great Mother chooses to give us another purpose. They say we can hope to redeem ourselves in hereyes by serving our royal family. But occasionally, he will give a reading on the choosing ceremony. Everyone knows what happens to those who aren’t blessed. Without the Great Mother in our lives, we have no soul, it’s ripped from our bodies, so even if I were to escape, what kind of life could I lead without my soul?

The clocktower chimes, informing me it’s the seventh hour past noon and time for me to head back to the slave quarters. Although, to be honest, the grumbling of my stomach is more regular than any clock. Fighting against the nausea that’s swimming through me, I push to my feet and collect my brush and bucket, shuffling over to the storage room, my weary limbs making me sluggish. I step into the room and set down the equipment with a tired sigh. Knowing I'm alone in the chamber, I take a moment to stand up straight, stretching out my exhausted limbs. A flash of movement catches my attention, and before I can stop myself, I look up. I don’t know what makes me do it, I’ve been a slave long enough to know to keep out of the way and be invisible, but something inside me fights against my instincts.

A woman is staring at me, looking shocked at seeing me here, her dark eyes wide. She doesn’t say anything as we stare at each other, and I can’t help but open my mouth. To say what? I don’t know, but I instantly stop as she opens her mouth to speak, fear flooding through my veins. Fear that quickly turns to stupidity as I realise what I’m seeing. A mirror.

Slaves are forbidden to use mirrors. We’re taught that using them is vain and vanity is of no use to us. So seeing myself now is a surprise and I flinch away from what I perceive. Of course I’ve seen my reflection in the water troughs, but it’s not the same, and only for a second, so I don’t catch the attention of the guards.

I have no idea where the mirror came from, it’s never been here before. Perhaps one of the servants moved it into this roomto get it out of the way for the ceremony? Glancing around to see if anyone is watching, I bite down on my lip with indecision. My first instinct is to bow my head and walk away, pretend I never saw it and be thankful to the Mother that no one was here to witness me finding it. If I’m caught looking in the mirror I’ll get punished, and I might even earn a fourth brand for it. Is looking at my reflection really something I’m willing to risk being sent to the camps for?

Something twists within me.

If the maids were right, you’re going to be killed anyway. Look at the mirror, take back your identity,a dark voice encourages, and I realise it’s right. Hands shaking, I take a step forward, the jingle of my chains a constant reminder of what I am. But as I raise my chin to look in the mirror, I see I’m more than that.

I have pale skin, partially from years of being kept in the dark, and my cheek is red and swollen from where the guard hit me, but otherwise it’s unblemished. The rest of my body hasn’t been so lucky, I’m covered in scars. My long, black hair falls against my face, and I raise my hand to push it back behind my ear. My pale pink lips quirk up into a semblance of a smile. How did I ever mistake myself as anything other than a slave? My skin is marked with dirt and my filthy shift hangs from my body. Looking back up at myself, I see the tension around my eyes, but something that also looks like determination.

Disturbed, I turn away from the mirror and start the walk back through the castle. Eyes downcast, I try to be invisible, but the chains announce our presence and our status, so everybody knows what we are. Nothing, criminals of the kingdom. The other slaves don’t talk about their lives before, so I don’t know what they did to deserve this. Perhaps they’re like me and don’t know what their crime was.

As I reach the courtyard, I’m shocked to see that it’s full. My hair falls from behind my ear and covers my face as I instinctively bow my head, giving me a veil to hide my frown as I try to gauge what’s happening. Guards line the walls of the courtyard and, as one, they step across to block the entrances, leaving me with no way out. Looking around, I see mostly servants and slaves, but the odd visiting lord and lady dot the space, one of the only times all of us would be together.

“Citizens of Arhaven,” a booming voice calls, instantly catching our attention as the courtyard falls silent. His rich red clothing and the symbol of the Mother embellished in gold thread on his coat instantly identifies him as a priest. “We have a traitor in our midst.”

A sick feeling washes over me and before I can stop it, my body instinctively takes a step back. A couple of people eye me suspiciously before turning to the speaker. Thinking back over what the maids had been whispering about, my mind starts to play tricks on me. Maybe this is how they would do it?

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