The Fade

39

We'd never seen such wonders in all of our ten-year-old lives. I clutched at my best friend Aila and we stared and stared from the back of our wagon, dazzled by the dream we had stumbled into. Our master Chorik was indulgent, laughing and joking about the simplicity of our kind and how it did his heart good to see us lost in admiration at their great land. It proved how much more beautiful it was than the one we had been taken from.

They called it the Silverlight Caves, but the name lost something in the translation. It was a region which, I later learned, was situated just backspin of the Borderlands, a place long treasured by the Gurta until the war swallowed it. The Silverlight Caves had a steep and savage beauty unrivalled by anything I have seen since, but then the bombs and Blackwings and shard-cannons came. Now it only exists in my memory.

The train of wagons was crawling along a bridge of natural stone, a tentacle of scabrock that stretched impossibly across a massive chasm. The bridge was thick with luminous crystal formations, geometric prisms that burst in sprays like flowers. The walls of the cavern were striped with thick veins of some mineral, that reflected light like a silver mirror. Vines of multicoloured lichens hung from the cliffs, and fungi of varieties we had never imagined thrived here. At the bottom of the chasm a river of perfect blue churned and rushed, and giant insects ribboned through the air far below, paddling a dozen wings or more.

The light was white and blinding, and we feared we might lose our sight, but we had to look anyway. Besides, we trusted our masters. The Gurta were wise and they would protect us, their inferiors, like a man might protect his pet. We took comfort in that.

~ Did you ever think we should see something like this? ~ Aila asked, breathless. ~ Ever in our lives? ~

I shook my head. ~ Truly, I am grateful to our masters, for allowing us to behold such magnificence ~

~ Their kindness towards our lowly selves is beyond measure ~

I didn't remember how to speak Eskaran. My life before slavery was a vague and distant place, and I had no desire to return there. My thoughts and words were formed in ritualised Gurtan, shaped by years of harsh and painful teaching. But I accepted that I was ignorant, being of a lowly race, and so I thanked my tutors for their perseverance and apologised for my stupidity and promised to try harder. Languages were a weak point, but I took to their brainwashing like filings to a magnet.

We had been travelling for three turns now. The purpose of our journey had not been explained to us, but rumour among the slaves was that Chorik and several other important Administrators had been summoned by an Elder to help with a thorny supply problem in Dak, one of the mighty frontier cities of the Gurta.

Naturally, Aila and I were thrilled by the prospect. The idea that we would be allowed to meet an Elder was beyond comprehension and we dared not even hope for it. The sight of another great Gurta city would be enough for us. Our masters had a flair for architecture that overwhelmed us, and we were at the age when every new place was an adventure. Every city was wildly unique, further evidence of their superiority. It brought us comfort to know we were in the hands of such a people.

~ We will be stopping soon ~ said our master, from behind us. ~ Make ready ~

We turned back to where Chorik lounged amid the plush interior of the wagon. It was covered with patterned fabric stretched over an elaborate frame, carpeted in fur and strewn with cushions. He and two of his friends, whose professions were unclear but who entertained our master greatly, were lounging on settees laid against the sides of the wagon, drinking wine. We made sure the men's goblets were full before we set about our tasks of preparing evening clothes and perfumes.

Chorik gave me an indulgent swat on the arse as I glided past. I didn't really understand it, but there had been talk of 'duties' I would have to perform when I was older. Chorik had 'appetites'. At first I thought they were talking about cooking, but even at ten I sensed that there was more to it than that. Aila told me not to worry. Whatever it was, it was sure to be for my own good. Didn't I trust our masters?

Of course I did. Unquestioningly. We came to an inn not long afterward. It stood just off the road, commanding a breathtaking view of the chasm, with a roaring waterfall nearby that plunged to the river below. The inn was built of cordwood, stone and ivory from gorth herds. It was circular in shape, all curves and points. A gazebo sat on the cliff edge, amid a small grove which shone eerily with its own luminescence. Bats fluttered between the dwarf mycora and lichen-trees, catching insects that were drawn to the light.

Aila and I scampered off with the other slaves to prepare our masters' rooms while the Gurta men drank and gossiped, and their masked women waited in a cluster nearby, silent. In public, they would not speak unless their husbands spoke to them. I thought them very elegant and dignified.

We made a game of it, as we always did, dividing up the tasks and racing each other to complete them first. Our strict training and our honest desire to please our masters prevented us from cutting corners, but I usually beat her by picking the least time-intensive jobs.

When we were done, the Gurta and their Entwined went to their rooms while we cleaned the interiors of the wagons, swiftly gobbled some food and then fed the chila. Even though I hated the smell of the bad-tempered beasts, we were eager workers, because we knew that soon there would be music, and music was our joy. When we were done, we asked our zaze for permission to get our instruments, and after she had checked our duties were complete we were allowed to take them and scamper to the gazebo.

The gazebo was built around a pool of water, which had to be heated from beneath with coals in the absence of a natural hot spring. Other slaves had already begun the process when we arrived. We picked a spot at the edge of the gazebo that gave us a good view down into the chasm, knelt down and began tuning and plucking our instruments. I played the zhuk, a nine-stringed instrument with a metal fingerboard and a trebly, cooing timbre. Aila played oza, a cube-shaped skin drum. I had been assured that it took many years of practice to truly learn the subtleties of oza, but secretly I thought it was a rather simple instrument.

I loved to play. With every note, I thanked my masters for allowing me that grace. Without them, I would never have been introduced to the art of music, would never even have laid my hands on a zhuk. But I had shown an aptitude while very young and they had recognised it and tutored me. I loved to play because I was better than anyone else at it, except the older slaves who had had more practice. But my tutor told me I would surpass them if I kept studying. He said he had never had such a talented pupil of such a young age.

The other two musicians turned up shortly after, and began tuning up their own instruments while Aila and I rehearsed. We knew many songs, from traditional Gurta lays to wild, rousing battle songs and mournful ballads. The Gurta music pierced me with its passion, stirred my blood and made me shiver. I thought what wonderful people these were to have made such music. I remembered snatches of tunes from my life before, verses of lullabies and a rowdy song my father used to sing with his friends. But they were rough and simple melodies, nothing like the counterpoint and harmony of Gurta compositions.

Our masters came to the gazebo in twos and threes. The other slaves served them food and wine while we played. Some of them stripped and lounged in the pool, because the women were being attended to elsewhere.

The conversation of the Gurta surrounded me, but I didn't understand much of what they were talking about and I concentrated on playing instead. They were powerful men, speaking of things beyond the knowledge of an Eskaran girl. Instead, I took private delight in my skill, marvelling at every trill and flourish, pleased that I was pleasing my masters.

And please them I did. After one particular ballad in which the zhuk took the lead – a favourite of mine – Chorik approached me with another man, whom I knew as one of the Administrators. He was broad and stocky for a Gurta, with small, sharp eyes and a knotted braid of a beard, even though he was still young. The musicians stood and we drew the Form Of Abject Subservience.

~ Didn't I tell you? ~ my master said to his companion. ~ She plays with such emotion for one so young ~

I positively glowed on the inside, but my pride was quickly snuffed.

~ An animal can imitate emotion ~ said the other man. ~ It is merely a matter of vibrato, tempo, volume. It can be faked ~

~ Oh, come now! You must admit that she has talent ~

~ I admit that much. But to suggest that these… people think and feel as we do? Ridiculous. Their emotions are as basic and rudimentary as the species we hunt for sport ~

Chorik laughed, but in his eyes was disappointment. His attempt to impress had failed. I felt terrible for having been the cause of that, and I bowed my head in shame.

~ You're right, of course ~ he said. ~ Foolish of me. To call them civilised when they're not even beholden to the Laws ~

~ Slavery is too good for these people ~ my master's companion said.

~ Belek Aspa, you're a man of impressive conviction ~ Chorik declared, leading him away. ~ Let us talk more on the subject ~

If there was anything more to be said, Chorik never had the chance to say it, because at that instant an arrow punched into his back and thrust its bloody tip through the centre of his chest.

Nobody reacted for a moment. There was only shock. Chorik had a surprised look on his face, and while he held it the rest of us were frozen, as if waiting to see what he would do next. Then he burped, and blood flowed over his lips. He tipped forward into the pool, and as he fell the shrieking began and the men panicked. Another Gurta, one of Chorik's friends from the wagon, was shot through the forehead as he clambered out of the water.

Then people were running everywhere. I was knocked aside, my zhuk falling to the floor with a discordant jangle of protest. As I gathered it up I heard the whip of more arrows, and one thudded into the rail of the balcony, close to my face. I screamed and recoiled, crashing into Aila who, like me, was caught between running away and trying to protect her instrument.

She clutched at me for safety as we heard our masters swear and curse and howl in fear, their voices high and raw. Our whole lives we had never seen a Gurta terrified. We had seen them in wild anger and deep despair; we saw them argue and bicker often. But to see them afraid? It cracked the foundations of our world.

~ Get up! ~ I said, scrambling to my feet and bringing Aila with me. ~ Run! ~

The men were scattering, heading for the inn or the wagons. The gazebo they left behind was defiled with corpses, the waters red. Several Gurta and one of the elder slaves lay impaled by arrows, their blood flowing steadily into the gaps between the floorboards.

We were the last to leave. The other slaves had been quicker, fleeing at the first signs of the attack. But as we went in pursuit of our masters, not knowing where else to go, we saw a dozen riders on crayl-back come racing out from behind the inn. Eskaran riders. The Gurta fled in all directions, shielding their heads with their hands, but they were easily outpaced.

We stumbled to a halt a half-dozen spans from the gazebo as they cut our masters down with swords. I felt my knees go weak. Some of the slaves were trying to put themselves between their kinfolk and the Gurta, making shields of their bodies. The soldiers pulled them aside and then slaughtered those they were protecting.

I tugged on Aila's arm, turning her away from that awful sight. As I did, I glimpsed a white face looking out at us from the undergrowth that surrounded the gazebo. It was the one who had criticised my playing. There was no other direction to go, so I ran towards him, and Aila came with me. He saw us coming, scowled and disappeared.

We ran into the undergrowth, searching for him. I didn't know what else to do. Our master was dead, and I couldn't think straight. I still saw his face, the surprise in his pale blue eyes, the arrow jutting from his chest. Someone had to look after us, protect us, keep us safe. Only the master he called Belek Aspa could do that now.

I dodged recklessly through the stems and branches and giant puffballs, panting, tugging Aila behind me. The Administrator was not where I thought he'd be, but I assumed it was my mistake. Why wouldn't he wait for us? He knew we were in trouble.

I saw movement to my left, and pushed through a tangle of vines in pursuit. But it was not a Gurta face that looked back at me.

He had his sword drawn, scrambling to a halt at the bottom of a small slope. His armour was hide and metal, alien and unfamiliar. He was thickset and stocky, features wide, black-bearded. An Eskaran soldier.

We stared at him, half-hidden in the vines, paralysed by the sight.

He relaxed. Sheathed his sword and knelt down.

'Just little girls,' he said, his voice deep and burred. 'Come on. Don't be afraid.'

The words made no sense to me, but his tone was reassuring. I was wary, not ready to trust him; and yet there was something about him that made me feel strangely secure. His hulking presence, the cadence of the words. An echo of the past.

Aila tugged at me, but I didn't go.

'Come on,' he said again, reaching his hand out. He wasn't approaching us, concerned that we would shy away and run. 'I'm a friend. You want to come home, hmm? Want to go home?'

Aila tugged again, but I just kept staring at him. Then I let go of Aila's hand, and I stepped out of the cover of the vines, and walked over to the soldier.

I didn't know why at the time, but I understood later. It was because he looked like my father. I've wondered since whether I would have done the same if it had been a clean-shaven, slender man who'd found us. I've wondered what my life would have been like if I hadn't gone to him.

'That's a good girl,' he said, gathering me gently within the circle of one big arm. I pressed myself into the crook of his shoulder, pushing my hands and cheek against his chest. The smell of sweat and hide and man. Gurta didn't smell that way; they were always perfumed and scrubbed. But I breathed it in, and it awakened memories, hazy sensations of comfort and sanctuary.

I looked back at Aila, who was still hovering where I left her. The soldier reached his other arm to her. She turned tail and fled. I cried out, and moved to run after her; but the soldier's arm tightened, and I couldn't go anywhere.

'Oh no,' he said, but it was with the benevolent strictness of a parent. 'I'm not letting go of you.'

I struggled and wept but he just held me, surrounding me with his arms, and it wasn't long before I was still. I sobbed and he held onto me and I knew I'd made a choice, but I didn't yet grasp the consequences. They were too much for a little girl to think about. He made me feel safe. That was enough.

He covered my eyes as he led me back. I knew what was beyond the hot dark of his hand. Blood. Death. The end of the slim, pale masters. What lay in the future, I wasn't sure. But I surrendered myself to it. I was powerless, as I had always been.

They captured eleven Eskaran slaves, all young like me. There were no Gurta. The men were all dead and I saw no sign of the women, but I knew what had become of them. They drank their poison vials rather than let the Eskarans take them. Elegant and dignified to the end.

Aila was not among the slaves. I hoped that she had found the Administrator who had been unimpressed by my music. He would protect her, I told myself. At least, that was what I believed then.

Maybe she did, maybe she didn't. I never saw her again.