Book 1: The Ghost Woman

Memory 1

Iron and mud. Horse. Sweat and leather. Swift's senses rang dizzily beneath the overpowering will of scent. Somewhere, far away it seemed to her, someone screamed. It could have been her. Perhaps not. Her blade soldiered on. A man fell beneath her hand. She could hear his children crying. Two more valiantly pushed through their comrades to face her. They died bravely.

Atlen: A bronze coin widely circulated in the kingdom of Plowshares. It is the most widely used coin in the modern world, having a value of five iron olns. Five atlens are worth one platinum angma.

Carriage wheels.

Acadian detested carriage wheels.

For a solid week the clatter and creak of wooden spokes had been his bedfellows. In motion or at rest their din rarely ceased, even for a moment, as at any given time a handful of millennial hopefuls rode their own horse cart in the opposite direction. He did his best to withhold judgment upon them, but sometimes the knowledge that his beloved holy city, Toqua, was slowly being overrun by fanatics sharpened the edge of his feelings towards them. It could not be helped.

The pleasant old caravan master called a surreptitious halt to the driver in a tongue Kade did not recognize. Were it not for the master’s exceptional volume with each utterance of that command, Kade would not have known the meaning of it any more than he did the chatter of the slaves about the night fire. “This is your road.” A muscular man as foreign as the rest thrust Acadian’s single bag into his arms, his bronze face smiling a bright, toothy smile. “We continue, it is goodbye.”

“Farewell then. I suppose I won’t be seeing you fellows again, but your master seems a kind master and so-“

The slave cut in with an enthusiastic nod of his bald, and evocatively tattooed, head. “Yes, yes, a very good master. Easy with the whip.”

Acadian wondered at the man’s surgical insertion of agreement, particularly at the quickness of it. Such swift praise, based upon tireless hours of observing his monastery brothers, meant one of three things: the praise embodied genuine approval or admiration, accidentally inferred romantic interest, or had been taught by the back of someone’s hand. “Then allow me to call upon your master again, the next time he passes. My name is Acadian, son of Min.”

A shadow fell across the slave’s pointed features. Without answering Kade’s kindness he turned and called out in the gibberish tongue of the Heathen North, saying much that meant little. After a brief conversation that passed from slave to slave to master and back, the tattooed man smiled again his cavernous smile. “Son of Min, then, this is not your road,” he explained to Kade’s instant concern. “The woman Min and her family are a different road today. The master says the old home went up to god in smoke,” his dirty fingers pressed to his lips, mimicking a kiss blown to the sky, “like that. But, by the grace of your gods only things of the world went with it. The new house of Min is the last stop on this road. Then we go home.”

Acadian could not believe his tired ears. “Slave, what is your name?” The inquiry, despite the term, wore nothing but the trappings of politeness.

“It is not Slave,” the bald man replied with a wink. “That is the name for prisoners of war. In my home, I am Gun, and from the name, your mother is a Heathen also.”

“Was. She was a Heathen, but yes, that is right.” Kade slipped an oln into Gun’s open, yet unexpecting, left hand, marveling at the slave’s bright-eyed acceptance of the coin. “For your wit, and your name. But now I have questions, and I will buy your honest answers with an atlen, if you care to talk?”

“For an atlen, I will talk until my tongue is dry. But come, we must go. The master wishes to deliver to the house of Min with speed.” Gun accepted Acadian’s bag, making a momentary stop to return it to the wagon’s baggage compartment before climbing in to sit alongside it. Kade wriggled into what little space remained and bid the master to continue on. He made a point of assuring him that an extra oln would be his for the inconvenience and the caravan was underway.

Acadian settled in as best he could manage against a heavy wine barrel and a rack of pauldrons, collected en route. “So, Gun. Why did no one mention to me that my ancestral home had burned? Surely it was pertinent information, that my destination no longer stands.”

Gun fingered his newly attained oln with a pie-stealing grin. “We did not know your name, Son of Min. You did not tell us before, only that you are of Jasque.”

“And may I ask what sort of delivery you have for my home, that would occupy such a wagon?” At this Kade pointed to the second to lead wagon, upon which rode six armed slave men of grizzly beard and cumbersome hair. Its very makings indicated a prize of wealth, for its sides bore bright purple curtains over its tiny, easily defensible windows. Otherwise, it seemed a normal, everyday caravan wagon. Kade had seen them used to transport important church officials from time to time, though he could not personally vouch for what might lie inside.

“It seems the lady of Min had need of a lady slave. She is quiet, the girl inside. I do not see why she is such a good slave, because she is thin and weak, and sad.” Gun thought about that for a second. “But her tongue is slow and thick with fear. She does not speak, so that is good for a slave, but I think her price is a special one. Her hair is like night, and turns on itself. And her eyes are like tree leaves.”

Kade turned his attention again to the secure wagon. “Then she is a foreigner, as well? But the men of the Heathen North - please do not think me insulting, Gun - are blonde like the men of Plowshares. From where does this foreign woman hail?”

Gun shrugged his massive shoulders. “I think the master does not even know. The other men and I spoke to her, and tried to learn why such a sad little thing is a good slave, but she would not speak to us. We asked where was her home and then she tried to hide from us. Magule, the one with the tall shield, thinks that her last master was not a good master.”

“Ah. That does shed a better light on the matter of her personality. I do have one last question for you, noble Gun, but in fairness it is better posed to your good master. For now, I owe you this.” Another coin, this one minted from dim silver, fell into Kade’s outstretched hand from within his sleeve. “An atlen, as promised.”

For another half hour the caravan plodded across warm speckles of uneven sand. Patches of hardy grass waved at the dozen slaves and free men on occasion, standing tall against the west wind’s dusty assault. Kade saw them in a most sympathetic light. So proud the grasses stood in their close clusters, like brothers united against the harsh dictatorship of these arid lands. Much unlike his countrymen, as of late.

It was in the middle of this line of thought that the caravan ground to a reluctant halt. Acadian recognized their destination as Iglion at a glance, the smallest offshoot of Jasque’s various suburbs. His mother Min had spoken often of immigrating to this place, where the hubbub of the city stayed gloriously distant and the price of things hovered along a more reasonable line.

Gun hopped obediently from the wagon without waiting to be ordered. “This is your road. We walk from here, the camels do not go inside. Iglion keeps clean streets.” He laughed the merry laugh of one who knows where his next meal comes from. “The others will pull the cart with the girl. It has been a long journey for her.”

“Thank you, my friend,” said Kade as he took his baggage from the tattooed Gun, and he meant it. “I would trouble your master for a word, though, before we go.” He spun a platinum angma upon his finger for the sheer delight of seeing the slaves’ faces light up. He knew as well as they that their joy was for the trick and not the coin. The master’s interest was for the coin. “I would purchase this fellow Gun from you, good master. I have need of a strong fellow for my travels.”

The caravan master eyed the coin for a moment. “You’d pay that for a Heathen, in this city?” Acadian chuckled to himself as the man’s business sense physically grappled with surprise. “In Grul I can get three for a man like that.”

Kade smiled brightly. “Fair enough. Though I see the sparkle in your eye, I am not in the mood to haggle today. I will send him back with the others-“

The driver interrupted him in short order. “Wait, now.” Kade held the coin aloft once again. “I need your word that he’ll be well treated. My slaves work out of loyalty and I keep them off the whip. If you can give me that, then I can sell him to you for an angma.”

“You have it.” A flick of Acadian’s wrist sent the coin spinning towards the slaver’s waiting hands. “Tell me your name, that I might call on your caravan again.”

“It’s Voriss,” came the answer. “Gun, this man Acadian is your master now. Make me proud in his service, eh?”

Gun nodded, again enthusiastically, and snatched Acadian’s bag to bear for him once again. “To be in the same household with that slave woman is truly a joy. This way, master. The house of Min is this way.”

Chapter 2: The Girl in Black

Astera: A female slave kept in noble Plowshares estates for her appearance and charm rather than her ability to work. More often than not an astera will end up as a mistress, if not the wife, of her owner.

Such an occasion had not been seen in the house of Min since the birth of Acadian’s youngest brother Melosian. The lady of the house nearly tripped over her finely stitched tunic in her rush to embrace her returning son, while familiar faces beamed at him from all sides. His father Emlien greeted him by clasping his wrist, a custom observed in Plowshares only by men.

“Welcome home, Acadian. And praise the gods for the day of your birth!” Emlien, an older mirror of Acadian, let his admiration for the man standing before him show plainly in his cleanly shaven face. Min wept, but as was also typical of Plowshares households, she remained silent while her husband spoke. “How does it feel to be home?”

Kade chuckled quietly. In his laughter he observed the archaic décor looming over every corner of the new house, how it seemed so rustic in comparison to the monastery at Toqua. “Father, I only learned this afternoon that this place would be home. It is true then, that the old manor burned to the ground?”

“Yes, yes, it is. But let’s speak of other matters, such as your birthday. You’ve turned thirty-two today, have you not?” Emlien set his hand upon his son’s shoulder, leading him towards one of several agreeable cushions where the family slaves had arranged pillows for his convenience. “And in twenty-two years you have had nothing to signify the passing of a year?”

“Quite, father, though I have never wanted for anything.” In some abstract corner of his mind Acadian wondered where his father planned to take this line of questioning. A glass of water found its way into his hand, from which he sipped most gratefully.

Emlien patted his son upon the shoulder. "Not even for the company of a woman?"

Gun's eyes sparkled in their knowing way. Immediately Acadian understood, thinking of the covered wagon he and his new slave had discussed on the trail home. The somber girl was to be his astera? He wondered at the fortune of it, for good or ill.

"Not really, father. My studies kept me company."

"Yes, so I've heard. But your mother and I thought that all those years of books and robes and chastity might have worn on you a bit. Tet," here the master of the house called to one of the family slaves, an aging fellow whose close-cropped hair had long since gone gray, "please bring Acadian's birthday gift to him."

Over the course of a quarter hour Acadian renewed old bonds with the few slaves remaining from his childhood, each content with their lot and generally pleased with the way he had managed to turn out. When Emlien excused himself to see about preparations for a feast, Min descended upon her son like a raptor upon a field mouse and practically smothered him with twenty-two years of pent-up affection. She said little, though it seemed she ached to excercise her vocal cords, which bothered Acadian a bit. Time eventually sent the slaves to their tasks, one by one, leaving the man of the hour to rest in the cool shade of the house courtyard.

"You are a lucky man," Gun observed once the rabble had cleared. "Beloved of mother and father is rare when a son prepares to surpass them."

Acadian shook his head. "I have no desire to surpass my father, Gun. You speak as though you are familiar with that path, though, my friend." He passed a cup of juice to his slave, who partook gratefully. "Is it so?"

"Oh, yes. My father was a bowman - like all north men - and the chief's finest hunter. It was he who taught me the way of the arrow, but with his teaching I became so skilled that our chief sought to give me his place as first hunter. For that my father has not forgiven me."

"Tell me more a little later, Gun. I hear steps, and while my father is present it would be best if you did not speak." Acadian took back the empty juice glass, that no one would see his slave with it. "Father is not a harsh master, but he does hold to old customs concerning his servants."

Gun nodded, a low bob of his head. Acadian grinned at the reaction; Gun's obedience mixed well with his apparent intelligence. He would make a fine compatriot on the road back to Toqua.

In the meantime the steps he had overheard proved to be those of his parents, as he had suspected. Behind them marched a low figure veiled in black, standing a full two heads shorter than Emlien. Only her hands showed against the folds of her outfit. Acadian had never seen skin so white in his entire life.

"Son," Emlien hailed, prompting Kade to rise from the borrowed cushion, "my Min and I searched three long years to find a proper astera for you. We wanted someone unique for our boy, someone special. I wanted a Heathen for you, as your mother was for me." At this Min gently nudged her husband. "But every one we entertained for you fell short of our hopes, and believe me, there were many. This woman, though... I daresay that there are none like her in the whole of Plowshares."

Acadian instantly wondered at the drawn-out introduction. Though his father served as a sermonizing priest in the great church, outside of the gathering hall Acadian always remembered him as a man of precious few words.

Emlien allowed Min to whisk the veil away from the slave girl's head. Raven locks spilled over shoulders as pale as her hands, the clouds of night surrounding a heart-shaped moon atop her naked neck. Her lips were the swellings of ripe peaches - supple and wanton in the same intriguing image that, like her gleaming eyes, wept.

"Acadian," Emlien laughed at his son's agape reaction, "this is Rosamina. And she is yours."

Chapter 3: Rosamina

Days came, and days went. As the general chaos of the returning son faded into the humdrum of every other day Acadian poured himself again into his studies. Come month's end he would take up the road to Toqua to honor an appointment with the head of Jasque's church, at which time he would display his mastery of the Three Vows and each of the various texts associated with his faith. Pleasing the Jasque Sovereign meant immediate ascension to the rank of house brother. Failure meant another year at monastery.

And so Kade devoted himself to study.

Gun, of course, was immediately accepted into the ranks of the house slaves. He worked as hard as any other, harder when he felt the need, even though his labor came voluntarily; as Acadian's manservant Gun stood under no obligation to work for the house of Min, but his natural energy forbid him from resting on his laurels while others put their shoulders to the wheel. This trait earned Acadian a great deal of praise, for no traditional master in Plowshares would praise the slave of another man directly, to be passed on in kind.

Then there was the matter of Rosamina. A typical astera spent her childhood training in the graceful arts: singing, dancing, music, and letters filled her formative years while other little girls played at skipping or hiding games. Generally these children rose from humble origins, stinking of poverty, representing the final desperate hope for their ramshackle families. A girl child in Plowshares was little more than a liability to most people, for she could never hope to work for a substantial wage, and removing her from the home - while simultaneously offering her as a future wife to a more wealthy party - benefitted both the family and the child. For this reason an astera-to-be often studied courtship arts even more ardently than the graceful ones, more often than not against her will at the behest of a father or brother. Since a typical astera also ended up as her master's mistress, proficiency in the arts of charm and lovemaking could represent a trump card for an otherwise untalented girl. Even in a nation governed by religion, such skills alone could take an attractive woman beyond her standing.

On the other hand, Rosamina seemed unwilling to do any of those things. She refused to sing, Quietly claimed that she could not dance, refused to smile, and generally carried herself as if the end of the universe could not come quickly enough for her. Though Acadian felt sorely tempted at times, he never inquired into her interest in bedroom activities. As an astera it seemed the enticing, exotic little creature failed in just about every facet of the occupation.

Finally, one night after Emlien had sworn to sell her back to the camel trader he had found her with, Acadian bid Rosamina to visit his quarters after the sun fell into the western valley. He arranged his possessions neatly, ran a moist cloth along the furniture and walls to clear the light pate of dust, and generally busied himself with cleaning for her arrival. He dressed in his best tunic for, though the trend of Plowshares men was to go about their daily lives in the nude, he could not convince himself that allowing Rosamina to see how her chilling eyes affected his manhood would assist the situation. He found himself shaking, though he could not say why, when her characteristically unenenthusiastic knock came at his door.

"Come in... right." The door eased open before his affirmation left his lips. Rosamina crossed the floor of Acadian's quarters in no particular rush, without greeting as usual, until she stood only a few feet from him. "You can sit, if you like," Acadian offered, nodding towards any one of three wooden chairs sitting against the door's wall.

Rosamina crossed her milk-white hands over her belly. Her feet remained firmly planted in place.

"Alright, you don't have to sit. You look fantastic tonight-"

"If you intend to use me, then spare me the lies."

The nearly barked command from the exotic woman's lips shocked Acadian into stunned silence. "I-I beg pardon?"

Her mournful eyes caught fire at his hesitation. "Is that not why you've summoned me? I cannot entertain you, and your father hates me. So your last test is to have me service you." Her jaw remained loose, her cheeks pale, despite her apparent fury.

Acadian leaned back in his seat, nodding in understanding. "What else would you like me to do with you? It is true that as an astera you've proven ill equipped. Your grace is that of a lizard heavy with eggs. Your voice is the splendid tune of whispering mice, but your body, your body is fabulous. Your hills swell like the blooming of tulips, your blossoms sing while your voice cannot, and your valleys are the dew-glistening fields in which every man in Plowshares would risk life and limb to sow his seed, Rosamina, a night with you would be the culmination of an entire life well spent. And your face," he rose, stepping close to her to lift his fingertips to her pallid cheek, "such a face, such lips that beg to be kissed and conquered, such eyes that freeze the blood in a man's veins. Such a face..." Here their eyes met. "... such a face is a mask of lies, and I would rather kiss a goldfish. I don't suppose you are a goldfish?"

The astera's perfect facade dropped away. "Beg your pardon?"

Acadian chuckled, and returned to his seat with a graceless plop. "You heard me, you country whelp. There is fire in your eyes, Rosamina. You shoulders stand too firmly, your tongue is too sharp. I can practically smell your pride. You are no more an astera than I. I'll wager that you are a jilted wife out of a home. Or the wife of the camel trader. Either way, you were exiled from whatever home you enjoyed before and have come here as an astera to live in some degree of comfort." Kade threaded his fingertips together. "How close am I?"

Rosamina's obvious fury faded away. He had called her bluff, to a point, and they both knew it. "You are right, and wrong, master. I am an astera, a poor one, not by my own will. That is as far as you know."

Kade leaned forward in his chair. "Whether you're lying to me right now or not, at least you're talking. Please, sit, and tell me more."

Reluctantly the pallid slave settled herself. Silence owned the air while she gathered her thoughts, but Acadian did not contest it. He preferred her this way, actually. Quiet and reserve brought out the soul in her eyes. He was certain that, if he could coax her into smiling, she might break his heart at a glance.

"You know from my appearance that I am not from here, or from the North country, or the West." She began quietly, as though her transparency wounded the pride she had unintentionally displayed before. Acadian nodded.

"Rosamina," he tersely interrupted, drawing a soft 'hm?' from her lips. "Please stay on topic, dear. Who are you?"

A bit of irritation colored at last the winter snow upon her cheeks.

"That..." She hesitated. In a rush she stood, nearly bolting for the door before apparently remembering her place. "I am no one. Please, if you have any mercy in your heart, do not ask me such questions again."

The door slammed behind her before Acadian could protest. Unshaken, he returned to his studies without giving her a further thought. He had no time to wonder about her, or to argue with her. Time would soften her crystalline exterior far better than could words.

Over the next several days Acadian made a point of warmly greeting Rosamina whenever the two met. His kind words seemed only to confound her for the most part, once going as far to send her in tears to her room with a simple compliment of her eye makeup. In the morning of the following day he had a gift of water lilies set inside her quarters; by the next night they had vanished, turning up in a planter outside the house. In response Acadian purchased a locket that, while unimpressive around the bronze neck of a typical Plowshares woman, would look splendid pouring down the ivory flesh of Rosamina's. Within a week Min's maidservant displayed it for him, explaining that his astera had given it to her for no apparent reason.

"I did not want it," the maidservant, Tirun, explained in her thick Heathen accent, "but she wept when I refused. She is like the last ice of winter, master. She falls into dust so easily."

At the very least this continued showering of affection earned Rosamina a permanent place in the household. Emlien changed his mind about selling her entirely, citing his son's interest in her as reason enough to have paid such a hefty price. Acadian learned, through a bit of snooping, that the price paid for Rosamina could have bought him twenty men such as Gun in the right markets and as such carried himself a bit more humbly around his parents. To think that such a great deal of money had gone for his birthday gift moved him beyond description.

As the days crept on Rosamina seemed only to withdraw further into her carapace. Never again did Acadian bear witness to her tears, and yet only shadows seemed to flicker in those icy eyes. Her only words were words of submission, a quiet 'as you wish' or 'if it pleases you' between herself and some master of the household, while her actions ranged from antipathic to downright terrified on a daily basis.

"Rosamina," Acadian asked of her one day as he aided her in washing his tunics, "what might I do to see you smile? If only for a second?" Her response was naught but the scrubbing of cloth against cloth. Her downcast eyes stared dejectedly into the wash basin, never moving, never blinking. "Please say something. Say anything!"

At last her painted lids descended over her eyes. A soft breath parted her lips, though her gaze remained fixed.

In the softest, sweetest of tones Rosamina coolly formed her response. "I hate you, Acadian. I hate all of you." Acadian was agog, so much that the tunic fell from his hands to splash into their shared basin.

"Rosamina... can you really mean that?" His breath drew dense in his lungs. At once the chirping of birds and chittering of crickets fled his hearing, his entire being tuned in on her response. He did not bother to question himself as to why.

The astera shrugged her narrow shoulders. "No. It is clear to me that you wish only to know tangible things, not that which is behind them. My empty smile for your sake. Words spoken only to placate. So I said something meaningless." Her work-roughened hands returned to their task, picking at a stubborn wine stain upon the front of his formal tunic.

Acadian sat back upon his heels as the sounds of the world eased back into recognition. He pondered her reaction deliberately until she withdrew the clean garment, a delay of some time. "Whatever has been done to make you so cold, I am not sorry. It wasn't my doing, nor the doing of my house, and I will not take responsibility for it, but I wouldn't mind sharing in the burden of making it go away."

"This is clean," the astera immediately noted. "Excuse me, master. I have other chores to perform, by your leave."

The young master of the house felt his teeth grinding in the back of his mouth. "Fine," he hissed through a tight scowl, "but be abed early tonight. Tomorrow I must make final preparations for my return to Toqua, and you will attend. I..." Acadian watched her swish away as his words died upon his tongue. With visions of strangling sense into his aloof astera slicing through his meticulously prepared wall of clerical innocence he slapped the surface of the basin water, growling at the filth spraying against his clean tunic. "Myrrhal," he whispered, dropping into the even tone of prayer, "give me the strength to resist selling her to the bottom of the sea. Or at least make her appear ugly to me, so her beauty will not soften the blow of her personality."

Chapter Four: The Three Vows

"The three vows of the Toqua Church of Plowshares are the loosely binding principles upon which every single clergy and state member builds his life. Other principles apply to specific sects, but these three are the one by which all must abide."

"The Vow of Fidelity represents utter loyalty to the Toqua faith and Church. This is simply common sense. The Vow of Tolerance requires respect for other faiths and their culture. In Plowshares, that simply limits officials from discriminating against the Heathens for religious reasons."

"The most intriguing is the Vow of Purity. Its guidelines simply state 'To maintain a fit body, mind, and lifestyle' which has been debated and discussed without end. Generally, this vow boils down physical fitness, relative morality in lifestyle, avoiding deviant acts, and so forth. As it is not widely enforced, many officials have retained their positions."

"I know, Gun. Trust me, my friend, it is for the best. Rosamina must be taught that I am her owner now and I absolutely do not wish to use pedestrian means to convince her. If I strike her, or if I punish her, I am doing both of us a disservice along with breaking one of my vows. Do you understand?"

Acadian pushed his change purse firmly into his manservant's reluctant hand. For the better part of an hour the two had discussed Kade's inscrutable astera while preparing for the impending journey, though such served primarily as a method of passing the time more pleasantly. Gun, whose knowledge of Rosamina's ways superceded Kade's in many ways, explained that the girl's aloof nature only served to conceal a very fragile young heart. As far as he could tell, it was her way of protecting herself.

"I should accompany you to the gymnasium, master, and the woman should be the one sent to market. If you expose her eyes to other men in such a place, she might seek to desert you." He accepted the bag at last, though his expression cried out in dismay at being given a woman's customary task.

Acadian laughed out loud. "Gun, if she left, I think my heart would beat ten years longer. I am as fond of her as I loathe her. She is as hard on my nerves as she is easy on my eyes."

Together, master and servant gathered a handful of household slaves and loaded two handcarts with tough sacks of burlap. The twenty-fifth day of a given month marked the house of Min's monthly venture to Jasque's marketplace, when the slaves would purchase in bulk the various and sundry articles required for running such a sizable estate. Spices such as pepper, fine soaps, olive and rubbing oils, and a dozen other categories could be found upon their shopping list, along with a unique addition sent along with Gun alone. The journey back to Toqua demanded new weapons for the both of them, in case some caravan bandits decided they looked rich enough to risk an attack, and he would know far better than any of the household slaves the difference between a good weapon and a fabrication.

"Make sure to get something reliable, Gun. I am not a great warrior, so I will rely on your strength should something happen. Rosamina is so small that I doubt she could even pick up a useful blade." Between the two of them the job had rolled swiftly to conclusion, leaving only the farewell to be conducted before the slaves could depart.

Gun fingered the change purse thoughtfully. He asked, "Are you not worried to entrust a barbarian with a weapon, my friend?" Acadian shook his head, letting his lengthening blonde hair swish over his eyes.

"Should I be?"

Gun smiled broadly his gleaming smile. "I think not."

"Good. Now keep your eye on the slaves while you're out there, eh? They are all good people, but some of them have too much love for material things." Acadian shrugged a bit. "Don't we all."

Just as she reacted to the bulk of her waking existence, Rosamina seemed nothing if not indifferent towards Acadian's request that she accompany him to Jasque's gymnasium.

"You'll be the only woman there," he had warned her as the two strolled along the city's main street, "and most of the men will be naked. Expect some eyes to be on you, and try not to-"

"-care in the least."

Her interruption set his brow to twitching, as usual. Instead of allowing it to defile his good humor Acadian turned his attention to Jasque itself. How the city had changed since his departure years ago! Most of the street vendors of his childhood gone, replaced by the smiling faces of Heathens sent to work by their lazy masters. Canopies rolled outwards from adobe building faces in dozens of colors ranging largely between yellow, green, and blue. Pastels seemed the favorite of that particular area, though Acadian knew that this was attributed largely to the cheapness of producing only lightly dyed cloths.

Acadian quickly abandoned his notion of never speaking to her again as boredom set in. None of his old friends strolled the streets anymore. The city front had grown commercial, with amicable shopkeepers giving way to penny-pinching servants whose only purpose was to make master money. Kade knew, in that moment, a taste of the loneliness a successful person endures every day. "Have you ever been to a Plowshares gymnasium before?"

The astera walked along in silence.

"Rosamina?"

"Hm?"

"Have you ever been to a Plowshares gymnasium?"

"Oh, many times."

This answer relaxed Acadian's nerves somewhat. At last, he thought, he might draw a reasonable conversation from between those hundred-angma lips. "Then you are familiar with their layout and customs, I trust?"

Again, Rosamina strutted along as if his words reflected from some sound barrier encircling her head. Her eerie, unblinking stare faced front, and only front. Of the dozens of passing men who put their eyes to her, all but a few turned away from those chilling eyes.

"Rosamina?"

"Hm? Oh, no, master. I have never been to one."

Acadian bit down upon his lip. As he would do thrice more before reaching his destination, he renewed his vow to never speak with her again.

As typical as every other gymnasium in Plowshares, the Jasque gymnasium stretched out in the general shape of a clover equidistant from both the city seat and grand church. Though such could hardly be deduced from within the city, the three buildings and their corresponding roads formed an equilateral triangle whose tip, at the grand church, point in the general direction of Toquacarry. In the modern age the gymnasium rose from the ground in a parade of the cheapest building materials one could procure, but Acadian could clearly recall the days when its hurdles, benches, spires, and even its walkways glittered with marble and platinum. Wood and gravel seemed to serve the purpose well enough.

Acadian led his reluctant charge beyond the grand entrance stairway and through a series of hallways, each lined with private stalls for changing clothes and storing valuables. He selected a room towards the arena proper for his own, as usual. "I brought a change of clothes," he assured her, "as I am certain you have no interest in seeing me as the gods made me. Did you bring anything with you that might want to put away?"

Rosamina shook her head, but offered no elaboration. Acadian decided it best to refrain from asking her if she wished to excercise. As neatly as her hair and makeup had been styled by Min's maidservant, he was certain that she had no interest in dirtying herself in any way.

"Then do you mind stepping outside while I change?"

"Would Gun, had he come instead?"

"... well, no, but..."

"Then change." Rosamina nonchalantly pushed the stall door until she could slide its bolt into place, her manner still as cold as ever.

Acadian was aghast. "I couldn't do that..." She glared him into silence. "Alright..." He had not felt so nervous about baring himself before someone else since his first trip to this very gymnasium during his childhood. As a man he swiftly learned that public nudity lay within the boundaries of acceptable behavior, but to display himself privately before this woman was to expose his every vulnerability to her. His hands shook, and he took every opportunity to look into her eyes and gauge her reactions, but Rosamina's expression simply stank of indifference all the while. He failed to detect even the slightest twitch in her adamantine mask, even when the last scrap of his outfit fell to the floor. "How can you be so austere about this," he at last demanded of her, slightly insulted that his manhood had not aroused a larger reaction from her. "Coming to places like this assures me that I am one of the better specimens of man you might ever meet, Rosamina. What have I done so wrong?"

The astera averted her eyes at last. "Nothing," she admitted, "everything you do is right."

Confusion spilled into Acadian's expression like the overturning of a watering pail. "Then why..."

"Change," she quietly interrupted. "Please do not continue these questions, Acadian. They make us both uncomfortable. I will no sooner give myself to you than to a wild pig and you know it."

For a moment the clergyman-to-be fought against an urge to shout at her, to strike her, to do whatever it might take to punish her for her insolence. The moment passed into a storm of mentally rehearsed vows, though, allowing Kade to dress without even a word of anger. His resolve to break through her wall of ice only strengthened, though he did not know as much at the time.

Inside the arena proper Acadian stretched langoriously, taking a great deal of time with each movement so as to limber his lean, though far from sculpted, muscles. His interest laid in conditioning over anything else, for one could never tell when the road might leave a priest bereft of camel or horse. The ability to walk home from the middle of a dry grassland found far more favor with him than a toned body.

True to his warnings, dozens of naked men traversed their paces on the hurdles, medicine weights, and so forth in plain sight of any onlooker who happened to step inside. Acadian smirked a victorious smirk but Rosamina seemed perfectly at ease among them. A few glanced at her, talking excitedly to their fellows, but her cold stare turned most away.

It was during his paces on the mats that Acadian received the most intriguing shock of his day. Part of his self-defense courses at the monastery had emphasized tumbling, learning how to fall so that being thrown or shoved would mean less for an enemy. He had never quite mastered it, and this day would leave him with an aching shoulder as well as any other.

"Relax when you roll, idiot." Rosamina's voice snatched his attention as does a raptor an egg from a nest. Acadian stared at her briefly, ignoring the playing cards she had spread before her. "The Donove underhand left stance is wrong for falling anyway..." she paused, catching herself, and returned to her game.

Acadian found his feet and ceased his tumbling despite her cessation of instruction. "Rosamina, what was that just now?"

The astera ignored him. She played another card.

"Rosamina, I will not suffer this attitude of yours over this. What you said just now," he knelt next to her. "Are you familiar with Malange?"

"Not at all."

Acadian sighed a quiet, defeated sigh. Malange was one of two self-defense arts in which Plowshares men were permitted to engage, a style emphasizing mass-shifting, throws, and grappling over striking. Acadian knew that its origins lay outside of his continent. Rosamina's nationality certainly did as well. "Look. All of this stupidity aside. I am sure that you can tell I lack polish in the art. If you know anything about it, I would be willing to compensate you well for some..." he paused, waving off the eyes of a few men who had stopped their workouts to listen in. "... tutelage."

"Malange is fruit, is it not?" Rosamina dealt another card, sealing up her loss at the game. Unmoved, she gathered the cards to deal again.

One of the other men, naked as the day of his birth, made his way to Acadian's side. Well built, and younger than Acadian, he seemed more inquisitive than scornful when he ventured, "Is that Rosamina?"

Bewildered, Acadian turned to look, shut his eyes, and changed his perspective a bit before opening them again. "Yes, but how did you know that?" He failed to recognize the man, which only raised further questions as to how his slave's name came up first.

"My father bid on her at a slave auction a while back. Said she was like a songbird in an alabaster shell," the fellow nodded, earning identical nods from the several men standing in close proximity. "Is she as disobedient as gossip would claim?"

Acadian glanced at Rosamina. Not a trace of ire showed upon that plaster-mask face. "No, not really," he truthfully answered. "She is simply a frustratingly aloof person. She seems to wish nothing more than to maintain distance from her masters."

"A taste of the whip will change her tune, you know."

Acadian shook his head. "Never." Rosamina's eyes closed, and he smiled. At last, signs of life!

The younger man tilted his head a little bit. "Well, then, I hope she works out for you. She is far too pretty to waste with a nasty disposition. Excuse me." With that he, and his clique, went back to the hurdles to continue their training for the day. Acadian watched them go, eyes as hard as steel for a second. Vultures, the lot of them.

"So." When he looked back to her, it was with a generous smile. "Are you sure you know nothing of malange?"

"Are you finished?" Rosamina gathered her cards into a neat stack. "I want to leave if you are."

Acadian just stared. Obviously, winning against this woman's will would constitute an honest-to-gods miracle. "I am ready. Just get my things and meet me outside." Without a further word Acadian stormed from the gymnasium, leaving the stall key lying at Rosamina's sandaled feet. The nerve of that woman ground away at his inner goodness, of that he was certain. He wondered, idly, if her reputation had diminished her value on an open market.

After a moment Rosamina gathered herself to follow, perfectly conscious of the eyes trailing her every step. None of her admirers, however, could read from their angle the silent words forming upon her lips, and for that Rosamina felt blessed.

"I am sorry, Acadian..."

Chapter 5: A Broken Home

"Many of Plowshares's denizens consider it a holy empire, a paradise of order in a world of uncertainty. Outsiders, especially those across the seas, tend a lower opinion. Its worst detractors call Plowshares a dictatorial tenement of hatred and bigotry. As with most things the truth lies between perspectives. While education rates, equality, and quality of life tend to approach their respective high water marks there, there can never be made an argument against the staggering power held by rogue factions; the most popular being the classic 'band of thieves."

Acadian returned home earlier than Rosamina by a span of hours. Though his parents questioned her absence their son only responded with scorn and spittle. She had at last succeeded in defeating him, murdering the last shred of his interest in her. He would sell her off again, perhaps to those whipmongers from the gym.

"Let someone else show her pain," he scoffed to his bewildered mother, "I doubt she has ever known a day of hurt with an attitude like that."

Min, whose good humor extended far beyond rational thought at times, wrung her bronzed hands in despair. "Son," she spoke soothingly, "calm yourself. Rosamina's mind is so quick, and her beauty so exotic... she will make a fabulous astera for you once she learns to trust you."

"Mother," Acadian bit his tongue to hold his shouts at bay, "I want her to trust me, but this woman, this witch, is driving me to madness with her apathy. If she cares about anything at all I haven't seen it."

The lady of the house bent at the knee to sit upon her favored cushion, a yellowed fur lying perpendicular to the cut of the family chambers' north wall. Like every other piece of furniture to feel her decorating hand, it meshed with the stone foudations as did a clam in deep sand; comfortably. "Kade. I know that she interests you," she observed with a maternal smile, "else she would not madden you so. But take heart. Even amongst the other slaves she tends to quiet, self-oriented actions. Her words see the light of day as do the wolves of my country. Rarely, and only when necessary."

Acadian's sour mood deflated a bit at that. He had always known his mother to be a woman of poetry and scholarship, a weaver of words. Few within his monastery barracks had failed to tease him kindly about her, for though Min of Jasque had honed her wit to a razor's edge she remained an unattractive woman. Emlien, as the story went, fell in love with her brilliance long before catching even a glimpse of her face. When he did, and spied the vicious scars running diagonally from her left temple to the base of her jaw, he had offered to deface himself in the same manner if it would mean earning her hand. To this day, his face remained unmarred, and their marriage had been a happy one.

Despite the pertinence of his mother's history, Acadian shook his head to her earnest counsel. "Thank you, mother, but... I believe my mind is made up. I would see her sold again."

"Give it a week," Min offered, "and then I will permit it. Until then, suffer her attitude as best you can."

Acadian's eyebrow rose a touch. "Mother, why do you defend her?"

"She reminds me of the women in the north," Min proudly replied. "Deep in her lies the same kind of fire. I see it sometimes when she believes no one to be looking, how her shoulders stand proudly and her head hangs high." Afterwards the discussion degenerated into the formalities of any relationship, speaking of trivial things and generally enjoying time spent well. Acadian held his mother's words to heart, knowing how deep her powers of perception ran, and pondered them still as the sun clothed itself in its red gold robe to sleep behind the western mountains.

Rosamina arrived just as the last lines of pink bid farewell to the world below. She wore the same weary gaze as ever when she tossed Acadian's bag at his feet and flowed down the servant's entrance stairs, her lips sealed as though pinned together with thread. Acadian let his eyes roam her hills and valleys as she left, but not a word did he venture to impede her process. In the morning he would offer amends to her. For the time being, his studies required attention.

Night followed day. To Acadian the house of Min seemed painfully empty without its host of slaves, like a grounded beehive empty of its honied host. He especially wanted for the company of Gun, who earned every measure of trust by simply being a strong man without problematic idiosyncracies; in essence, by being the opposite of Rosamina, who Kade neither saw nor wished to see throughout the night.

To pass the time the young student arranged cushions in the house foyer and set about tackling one of his more daunting reading assignments. He settled himself against one of four load bearing pillars supporting the house's caldera roof and cracked the cover of Alphren's Spirit In. Hundreds of pages stared back at him, taunting him with their subtle commentaries on the modern church and society in general, but Acadian had faced harsher masters than Alphren and looked forward to the task. A gentle rain strummed a tune against the walls after a while, soothing his nerves enough that sleep nearly claimed him a dozen separate times.

He had only reached the quartermark when the house bells sang out, reaching for his attention like cat claws reach for string. Shadows flickered across the inner walls, cast by oil lamps set just outside the door. For a moment Acadian hesitated, his fingers set upon the heavy door's bolt. "Gun," he called through the window slits, "you should have roomed in Jasque. This rain will ruin the spices." His ear pressed to the door, Acadian awaited a response that never came. An ear-shredding scream rising from the servants' quarters slit gashes into the soothing rain. Like shards of broken ice splintering glass another wail hissed from his parents' bedchamber. Acadian himself had but a moment to move before the foyer door's hinges fell to pieces, undone from the outside.

"Get everything you can conceal," a man's voice roared above the storm. Shapes flowed through the fallen door, no less than four, followed a moment later by a more meticulous, appraising entrant. Acadian pressed himself into the crevice between a cluster of pillars and the wall.

"Great mothers, father, don't let them see me..."

Fifteen minutes passed like twelve years. Acadian held himself firmly in his hiding place, hardly daring to breathe. His heart threatened to leap from his chest. He knew that he ought to try to stop them, these faceless brigands, but terror rooted his feet to the floor. Unarmed and hardly trained, he stood no chance against a single able thief let alone half a dozen.

By the time the screaming stopped, though, his conscience at last triumphed over his innate cowardice. Breathing at a measured pace to slow his racing heart, Kade slunk from his den of fear. At the moment only one man wandered the foyer, belching and muttering. A drunk. Surely Acadian could handle a single drunk. Summoning every fiber of courage he knew the student leapt from the shadows. His target turned quickly enough to absorb most of Acadian's awkward shove with his meaty shoulder, but adrenaline and the element of surprise were to Kade's advantage. The brigand stumbled over a cushion with a grunt that ended only when his head bounced from the stone floor. A rush of power flowed through Acadian's veins, a feeling of accomplishment, and he bent to retrieve his enemy's dagger.

"Clever boy."

Acadian would remember those words, if nothing else, afterwards. He spun to face his anonymous adversary but met only knuckles, the white light of a single ruthless blow. White faded into red, into black, and Acadian knew nothing more.

The rain had yet to abate by the time Acadian found his mind. A pulsing ache dominated his thoughts, but within a moment he recovered enough of his faculties to push himself from the ground. His head felt as though it would burst into dust, his stomach swam, and only scant bits of how he came to be in such a way remained in his mind. Still... he lived.

A glance about the foyer brought back the night's events. Bookshelves lay overturned atop their spilled contents. Urns, vases, boxes of every kind had been looted to emptiness. Even the walls lay bare of art and decoration. The brigands had been indescribably thorough.

"Acadian." Emlien called to him from a connecting hallway between quarters. He wore a bruise beneath his eye and a scab across his nose, but otherwise seemed no worse for his part of the experience. "Are you all right, son?"

Kade nodded slowly, patting himself down for dust. "Is mother alright?"

Emlien averted his eyes, into the darkness of the servants' quarters. Acadian's heart skipped a beat. Hesitation could only mean ill tidings, of this he was certain. "They beat her pretty badly before we caught them, but she'll live." A small smile came to his lips, though irony tainted it dark. "It could have been worse. They came for your astera, Acadian."

"Rosamina..." Acadian fought down a lump in his throat. "... is she here?" He dreaded the answer, perhaps more than he had dreaded asking about his mother. Emlien spat unceremoniously upon the floor.

"She's in her room, and-"

Acadian did not hear the last of whatever his father had to say. On wobbly legs he ran, skirting debris in his rush to get to his astera's room. His heart quivered for the worst, his conscience again assaulted him in waves. What if she had been abused? Abducted? Murdered, even? His last words to her had been harsh, painful stones thrown in haste. Though he could not have known how this day would end his guilt ran like the magmatic rivers of hell and would flood eternally, unchecked, if he could not make his amends.

The door to Rosamina's private room lay prostrate on the floor, its hinges dismantled as had been those of the front door. Flecks of drying blood dotted the floor, driving Acadian's terror like a wedge into his spine until he felt he could run no further.

"Rosamina," he urgently cried, "are you..."

Inside the astera's chamber all seemed painted in shades of chaos. Things of a hundred varieties lay smashed or cracked in the floor. Shelves again lay overturned. Blood ran wet across the stone. Acadian had already stepped inside, minding his bare feet when his words caught unformed.

Rosamina sat silently upon the floor beside a pair of fallen brigands, each as cold as autumn's aging days. Her hair hung down for the first time since her arrival, and gazing at it told Acadian exactly how she had managed to defend herself from her assailants. Lying across her desk, stained with blood, the long pins she used to bind her ebon locks lay parallel to one another.

Acadian approached her, eyes locked upon hers. His heart wept for that look, a drowning pool set into the utopia that was her seraph's face.

Rosamina spat, "Stay back."

Acadian held his ground, proceeding no further. "It's me, Acadian. Look, Rosamina, it's me. Are you-"

"I know who it is," she cut rudely in. "A few of them got away. This one is the ringleader." Her bare toe nudged the corpse to her left. "I took his things. You do not mind. You can have the rings on the other one."

Acadian could scarcely believe his ears. "You really did this?" He turned his eyes from the horrible sight upon the floor. The reality of it sunk his heart into his bowels.

"Killed them. Yes, I did." Her lips quivered but for a moment, though long enough for Acadian to notice. "What of it?"

"I did not think-"

"- that a doll could do this? Idiot." The astera gingerly rose from her chair, her lengthy tunic falling over her legs to display a ragged rip in the material. Blood seeped beneath its frayed threads.

Acadian bit his lip. As furious as she seemed determined to make him, still, he could not turn his back upon her injury. "At least let me dress that wound. I can do that."

"No. Get away from me."

He had had enough. As she passed Acadian snapped his hand out to grasp her arm, to hold her in place long enough to talk sense into her impossible mind. She let out a pained yelp that lasted no longer than she needed to wrench Acadian's arm behind his back. "What is wrong with you? Do you not speak your own ugly language?" She shoved him stiffly away. "Idiot."

"Stop calling me that." Acadian spun, rubbing his wrist, and would have shouted at her had his hands not come away from her arm red. His gaze fell to her shoulder and the deep laceration staring back at him. "Rosamina, I will leave you alone if you let me help you. You're hurt. I apologize for treating you like an object and for posturing at the gymnasium, alright? Let me dress those wounds."

Rosamina slowed to a stop just outside of the quarters. Her head tilted enough to let her unbound hair fall over the wounded arm. "Do you even know how to dress a wound?"

Acadian opened his mouth. Closed it. "Sort of."

A sigh parted Rosamina's lips. "Come on, idiot. I will walk you through it."

Chapter Six: Acadian's Journal

Rosamina, part 22

I have never seen anything like it. Thieves, criminals... in Toqua they felt so distant. Rather like word of mouth spreading rumors of a disaster nations away, actually. I knew that such things existed, but not in my sphere of existence. Not in Plowshares, and certainly not in Jasque. Tonight I learned anew how near the darkness is to all of us.