Chapter Six:
She saw the house on the horizon long before anyone else, though that was because she was looking for it. It appeared first as a small clump, a grey and white speckled mound in the middle of the plains. It grew as they approached it, and when everyone else noticed it, it was a cause for celebration. Beside Marie, Cristaña’s expression was nothing short of thrilled, and even Mabel let out a moan of, “Oh, I hope this means we’re going to get comfortable!”
Even before she could see it clearly, Marie could appreciate just how huge the structure must be. When Rheidan sent a runner ahead to inform Lord Daenlyn of their arrival, the man had shrunk to pinprick size by the time he reached the manor’s walls. As the group approached the place, Marie could make out more details.
The manor house was a really a fortress, surrounded as it was by a tall and thick stone wall. The gate to the house was a feat of engineering in and of itself: thick and sturdy and towering above the group. Looking at it, Marie thought a two story house could easily fit through it. The entire structure was designed to be impenetrable, and in that purpose, its designer had succeeded.
Inside the wall was a small courtyard. To the right someone had erected a makeshift pen for a herd of horses, from which emanated a pleasant, grassy odor. Marie’s eyebrows shot up in surprise when Rheidan approached the pen and a horse came forward immediately. Rheidan procured a handful of grain and fed it, crooning and stroking it along the ridge of its nose.
Marie inched closer, examined the creatures more carefully, and realized they couldn’t be horses—or at the very least, not like any breed she had seen. They were too tall and too slender. Their bodies lacked the sturdiness she was accustomed to in horses; they looked delicate, as if they could be snapped in half. Their coats shimmered in the sunlight, adding to the impression.
Rheidan’s creature whinnied happily as Rheidan rubbed it. The whinny was a light and trilling sound, definitely not a normal horse noise. Nearby a few other creatures had approached the fence, whinnying and craning their heads, searching for their masters.
“Rheidan Deiämoniquen!” boomed a voice. Marie and half the company jumped.
A man was striding down a set of wide stone steps. His robe stretched tightly across his large midsection, and his chin drooped threateningly over his chest. A thick layer of black hair plastered his forehead, and a ruddy flush covered his cheeks. His eyes were a glittering blue, and when they fell on Rheidan, his face broke into a smile.
Rheidan laughed when he saw the man, and, as much to Marie’s surprise as everyone else’s, he bounded up the steps and embraced the arrival. “Gava chora nyoin…”
Marie was as confused as everyone else, but as Rheidan and the man continued talking, her attention finally slid. Her eyes wondered to the building behind them. The only way she could describe it would be to say it looked like an Italian villa made of white stone, but one as large as a palace and with windows overflowing with carnelian flowers. It was dazzling.
Barnabas must have given an order, because the sound of people moving wrenched Marie out of her daze, and she turned and glanced at Havily. “What happened?”
“We’re—”
“Nettleson!”
Marie flinched. Pamela.
“Nettleson!” Marie stood still as Pamela ploughed her way toward her.
“Yes?”
Pamela’s cold eyes swept over her. “Nettleson,” she said reluctantly, “you will be staying in the manor house with Barnabas, Darius, and Hannah Ockley.” She pursed her lips. “Stay here until someone fetches you.”
Marie opened her mouth, but Pamela shoved past her, already issuing instructions to cowering SpiritStar employees.
Marie blinked and turned to Cristaña. “What was that about?”
Cristaña opened her mouth, but Pamela’s screeching voice carried over the crowd: “Cristaña, I need you over here! Now!”
Offering Marie an apologetic look, Cristaña loped away. Marie just stood there dumbly, her arms hanging limply at her side. Why am I staying in the manor? She frowned. What is Barnabas thinking?
She didn’t stand there long. Within a few minutes, a blindfolded boy in a simple tunic approached her and hefted her bag off the ground. He held out his hand for her to grab, and eyeing him curiously, Marie took it, allowing him to lead her to the entrance of the villa.
“Ah, Marie!” exclaimed Barnabas jovially. His tone was so welcoming that Marie was at first stunned, then amused. Ignore her for days, and then pretend to best of friends? She narrowed her eyes. What did he want?
Whatever Barnabas was thinking, he gave no indication of it. Instead he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and steered her to the steps of the villa. Marie craned her head around to see the blind boy lugging off her bag. She felt a flicker of unease. Her bag was fairly heavy. She hoped it wasn’t too much for him.
“Marie!” boomed Barnabas, and Marie’s attention turned back to him. “Marie, this is Lord Daenlyn. Lord Daenlyn,” he switched to Maretzian, “May I present Miss Marie Nettleson?”
Lord Daenlyn smiled genially and bobbed his head. “It is my pleasure, Miss Nettleson. Please enjoy the hospitality of my house. One of my mleinon will show you to your room, and we will meet again at dinner this evening.”
Marie blinked. What the heck was a mleinon? Her question was answered when a blindfolded young girl approached her and offered Marie her hand. Marie clasped it. The girl’s hand felt cool and dry beneath her grasp. The girl tugged her toward the house, and Marie stumbled after her. She tried not to gawk when she saw the magnificent entry hall, with its stone columns and gilded windows. From the entryway they passed a dozen more rooms, each of incredible luxury and splendor.
“So…uh…” Marie racked her brain, trying to dredge up her Maretzian vocabulary. “When is dinner?”
The girl didn’t answer, and Marie repeated the question. When the girl remained silent, Marie gave up. She probably spoke a different dialect. At last they entered a small bedroom, and Marie’s eyes automatically fell to the bed.
A bed. She groaned with longing, her eyes devouring it for several minutes before she tore them away to glance at the rest of the room.
The room was luxurious, no doubt. A carpet with an intricate design covered the floor. It was so thick Marie’s feet sunk into it; she could practically feel its softness through her boots. In the corner stood a red dresser with an elaborate carving on its side, and across from it was a small chaise with embroidered pillows. On the far wall hung a tapestry depicting a flock of dragon-birds. But her eyes inevitably flicked back to the bed. The bed, an assortment of thick, inviting blankets, looked so wonderful Marie wanted to fall into it immediately. To sleep in a real bed again! Marie felt a rush of excitement. She stumbled forward to touch it, then stopped herself, examining her hands.
Never before had she realized quite how dirty she was. Sure, she had taken showers since arriving, but given the time limit and her thick mane of hair, she was never extremely thorough. Plus she had been marching all day today, and it was hotter than normal, so she was drenched in sweat…
In short, Marie felt disgusting. She backed away from the bed, unwilling to touch and contaminate it.
As if sensing the reason behind her hesitation, the blind girl grabbed her hand and dragged her into a connecting room, where two other blind girls waited. Marie ogled at her surroundings. She had stepped into a luxurious bathroom. What looked like a hot tub had been built into the floor, and beside it someone had set a gold pedestal with different-colored soaps. Marie could smell them from across the room; their flowery scents made her head spin.
Someone tugged at Marie’s boot, and she looked down to see one of the blind girls unlacing it.
“Oh,” said Marie. Her face turned red. “That’s okay, sweetie. I can take care of it. Really, I can wash myself...”
Marie ran a hand through her wet hair, marveling at how clean it felt. Really, the girls had done a superb job, especially considerin
g they were blind. Marie’s cheeks reddened. The girls being blind, however, had not made the bath any less awkward. Marie was simply not used to people being near her when she was naked. She had been raised by her grandmother! Modesty was a virtue in Grandmother’s household.
Marie’s eyes flicked to the mirror. She was wearing a white dress that fell down to her ankles in waves. A long blue cloth embroidered with gold thread wrapped around her shoulders and draped down her back like a cape. Dangling from Marie’s ears were blue and gold earrings so heavy her ears already hurt. The outfit was a gift from Lord Daenlyn. Exactly how Lord Daenlyn had acquired her measurements for the dress, Marie was afraid to find out.
Nevertheless, she acknowledged, it was a beautiful gift. And…if she was honest with herself…she looked good in it. The white complemented her tanned skin, and the blue cape mirrored her eyes. Even her long brown hair looked nice. One of the girls had pulled it up into a bun, but a few tendrils had escaped, somehow making her look both elegant and carefree. And she was clean. And she smelled nice. In short, Marie felt like a woman for the first time in months.
Someone knocked on the door, and Marie opened it to see Barnabas, who was wearing a long green robe similar to what Rheidan normally wore. He didn’t look anything like Rheidan, of course, but the robe somehow suited him. In it, he reminded Marie of the paintings she had seen of court magistrates. When he saw Marie, his eyes glittered. “Come along, my dear. We’re all waiting for you.”
Marie took his arm, her eyes tight, smile fake. Darius lingered behind Barnabas, dressed in a similar dark brown robe. Next to him was Hannah, a section leader, dressed in a pale pink dress similar to Marie’s.
As they made their way to dinner, Marie felt her stomach twist. This was their first encounter with Maretzian nobility—their first true diplomatic test. She glanced at the others, and they didn’t seem nearly as nervous as Marie felt. In fact, Darius and Hannah appeared excited, despite the absence of one of their cohorts. Speaking of which…
“Where is Pamela?”
Barnabas glanced at her. “She’s with the rest of the group. Lord Daenlyn’s palace isn’t large enough to fit the entire expedition, so most of us are camping outside. Someone has to be in charge.”
Ooh. Ouch. No wonder Pamela had been so sour earlier. She had to stay in a tent while Marie stayed in a palace. Marie tried to hide her smile. That thought shouldn’t have been so satisfying.
At last they reached a large set of double doors, outside which Rheidan and a few of his men waited. Rheidan’s eyes glinted as he looked at her. Marie blushed.
“Ah!” Lord Daenlyn strode into the room, his arms spread wide. “Welcome, Friends, Strangers! Come!—Enjoy my table! My cooks have been busy all day!” He turned to Barnabas. “I look forward to introducing you to Maretzian cuisine.”
Barnabas inclined his head. “We look forward to trying it.”
Dinner consisted of four courses, all of which were completely alien to Marie. The first was a strange, congealed broth with a zesty twist to it; Marie liked it, but across from her Hannah had a difficult time swallowing. Marie tried not to laugh while watching Hannah trying not to gag. The second course was a strange dark meat set on skewers. These were eaten by hand, and Marie had to be careful not to get the glaze on her fingers. She thought it was delicious: tangy and so tender it practically melted in Marie’s mouth. The third course consisted of chunks of bread dipped in spicy sauces; they were so scrumptious Marie could have eaten them for the entire meal. The final course was a fruity and leafy assortment that vaguely resembled a salad, but tasted sweeter.
While the food was fantastic, the conversation was not. Barnabas and Lord Daenlyn tried to strike up conversation several times, but their conversations inevitably fell flat after a few minutes. They knew too little about each other’s culture to converse easily, and both were too much of politicians to admit such a weakness. On the other side of the table, Darius engaged Rheidan in small talk about the animals outside.
“They’re called arattia,” Rheidan informed him. “Only members of noble households and soldiers of the imperial guard are allowed to have them.”
“And what category do you fall under?”
Rheidan smiled ferally. “Both.”
Next to Darius sat Hannah, who looked incredibly bored. A few of Rheidan’s soldiers had attempted to engage her in conversation, but Hannah wasn’t a brilliant conversationalist, nor was she fluent in Maretzian, so the dialogue only lasted a few minutes.
Marie was a bit luckier when it came to conversation. As she was seated further down the table than both Darius and Barnabas, she had no obligation to talk with Lord Daenlyn or, disappointingly, Rheidan. Instead she sat next to a horde of Rheidan’s soldiers, and Marie, who had never talked much with them before, found herself in the middle of a very intriguing debate.
“Bet he’s been defeated by now,” asserted an older man with a graying beard.
“Not a chance,” protested a younger man, about Rheidan’s age. “He was the best. Undefeated 20 rounds in a row. He won’t go down easily.”
“Two more months of success? Impossible,” scoffed the man. “He’d have to have won some 40 matches to pull it off. He’s dead.”
“He won’t be dead,” interjected a third man, a redhead with blue eyes. “The crowd adores him. They’d demand to let him live.”
“Men,” interrupted a fourth person. He leaned forward. “We’ve been gone too long to make any judgment call on the matter. Anything about the arena could have changed. For all we know, it has a new champion, someone better than Rishata.”
The redhead snorted. “I highly doubt it. Did you see him fight? I have yet to see anyone more impressive than him in the sands. I’m not sure if anyone could beat him in a fight, arena or no.”
“I don’t know,” said the older man thoughtfully. His eyes slid down the table. “I’d be willing to bet Rheidan could beat him.”
The second man rolled his eyes. “Well, obviously. Rheidan was the best swordsman in the Academy. But other than Rheidan,” he said exasperatedly, “I don’t think there’s a single person in all of Maretzia that could defeat Rishata in a fight!”
“The emperor,” murmured the redhead.
The man rolled his eyes again. “Well, again—obviously. The emperor is the emperor. He doesn’t count. Now you’re just arguing for the sake of arguing.”
“Well, if you—”
Marie leaned forward. “What is the arena?” she asked quietly. Her heart had begun to race. Her palms felt sweaty. What they were talking about sounded eerily familiar, but surely not…
The men turned to her. A stunned look crossed the older man’s face. “Why,” he exclaimed in surprise, “The arena is the combat arena! We have arenas in every major Maretzian city, but the best, biggest and most splendid is in the capital. I’m sure you’ll see it.”
Marie felt as though her heart had skipped a beat.
Misinterpreting the horrified look on her face, he elaborated, “Combat arenas are where the artatrushi fight, usually to the death. It’s a great sport! I’m sure you’ll be able to see a match or two while you’re in the capital.”
Bile rose in her throat. The world tilted around her. “People watch other people kill each other?”
“It doesn’t always end in death,” the redhead told her, watching her guardedly. He seemed to sense something was amiss. “Sometimes the crowd chooses to let the defeated live.”
“And the artatrushi,” said Marie slowly, her voice trembling, “They’re just okay with fighting to the death? Putting their life in the hands of the crowd?”
“I’m sure they would prefer another job,” snorted one man. “But they’re mleinon, aren’t they? If their master tells them to fight in the arena, they have to fight.”
And Marie suddenly understood what the word mleinon meant: slave.