our success.”
Chapter 9
Chosi’le
THE PENTE WHO COMES for me, hours later, is short, with features similar
enough to Henri that I suspect they are brothers. He was here earlier, when
Henri first came and explained things, and eyes me now dispassionately.. “Come
on,” he says, turning without waiting to see if I will follow. I almost
don’t—curiosity and hunger make me move. The hallway is dimly lit, and the
enclosed walls feel suffocating. I hate being enclosed. Small rooms with bad
lighting have always been Juhan’s area. I bite my tongue, and the pain
pushes my brother from my mind.
With so many Eleyi around, and one clearly loyal to Henri, I will have
to guard the memories of my brother. I smile bitterly—mental defense was always
Juhan’s forte. I tend to defend with my fists more than my mind.
He leads me into a large room, where the scent of herbs and baked fish
fills the air and my mouth waters, ravenous despite my grief and fear. My
escort points to a long table, the seats filled with the bewildered faces of
what I can only assume are slaves. Do I look like that, so broken and lost? My
lip curls and I bare my teeth and the escort gives me a sharp shake. “Sit down
and eat. Keep your head down and listen to the rules.”
I hiss and he slaps me, a quick tap. I can feel the strength that he
held back. I touch my cheek, and he stands there, waiting. My face burning, I
go to one of the seats he indicated. A plate of fish and pebbly rice, heavily
seasoned and spicy, is waiting. A small round of flat bread, an empty cup and a
steel pitcher, sweating with cold, sits with it.
I glance around, but my table mates seem unsure, unwilling to eat. Most
are human, or humanoid. A few Eleyi, a few scattered Others. None of them will
look at me. Idly, I tear a tiny piece of bread and nibble it.
It earns me more worried glances from my table mates. I shrug—they
wouldn’t have fed us if we weren’t meant to eat. And if it is a test of
some kind, at least I’ll face it with a bit of food in my stomach.
When Henri stands, though, my appetite disappears and I straighten,
looking up at the man who holds my future in his hands.
He’s attractive, in a Pente way. Skin browned from days outside, golden
hair that is cut severely, close to the scalp. And eyes blue as the sky.
Mother used to say that the eyes could tell more about a man than his
words, as much as his aura. Henri’s are blank, cold. As cold and unfeeling as
his mind. And that is terrifying. As he surveys the room, the slaves quiet,
waiting.
“You belong now to the Argot jakta. We will leave for Pente within the
next few days, where you will be trained and assigned tasks based on your
performance. Some of you want to be here—sold yourself for a chance at glory in
the arena and a few creds for your families. Some of you”—he glances at the
Eleyi, and I shift—“are less happy to be here. But it doesn’t change that you
are. And there are rules that will be followed in my jakta.”
“My brother will assign all new slaves to a mentor. You will bunk with,
eat with, and train with your mentor. How you do reflects on them.” Across from
us, at a separate table, a group shift and Argot looks to them, “Likewise, you
will be penalized for how badly your trainee does. Take this seriously.”
He reaches for a cup of water but he doesn’t drink. “Nutrition and hydration
are important on Pente, especially for the gladiators. When food is put in
front of you, eat it. Every time.” He pauses, watching, and I snatch up the
bread. It’s not as warm now, but it’s still delicious and my action seems to
loosen some of the others, because they begin to eat, cautiously.
Henri’s eyes flick over me, and I meet them, stubbornly refusing to look
away. “When we reach Pente, we will go directly to my jakta. There you will all
be put into training for two sevendays. This will determine your strengths, and
how you can best serve
Chapter 9
Chosi’le
THE PENTE WHO COMES for me, hours later, is short, with features similar
enough to Henri that I suspect they are brothers. He was here earlier, when
Henri first came and explained things, and eyes me now dispassionately.. “Come
on,” he says, turning without waiting to see if I will follow. I almost
don’t—curiosity and hunger make me move. The hallway is dimly lit, and the
enclosed walls feel suffocating. I hate being enclosed. Small rooms with bad
lighting have always been Juhan’s area. I bite my tongue, and the pain
pushes my brother from my mind.
With so many Eleyi around, and one clearly loyal to Henri, I will have
to guard the memories of my brother. I smile bitterly—mental defense was always
Juhan’s forte. I tend to defend with my fists more than my mind.
He leads me into a large room, where the scent of herbs and baked fish
fills the air and my mouth waters, ravenous despite my grief and fear. My
escort points to a long table, the seats filled with the bewildered faces of
what I can only assume are slaves. Do I look like that, so broken and lost? My
lip curls and I bare my teeth and the escort gives me a sharp shake. “Sit down
and eat. Keep your head down and listen to the rules.”
I hiss and he slaps me, a quick tap. I can feel the strength that he
held back. I touch my cheek, and he stands there, waiting. My face burning, I
go to one of the seats he indicated. A plate of fish and pebbly rice, heavily
seasoned and spicy, is waiting. A small round of flat bread, an empty cup and a
steel pitcher, sweating with cold, sits with it.
I glance around, but my table mates seem unsure, unwilling to eat. Most
are human, or humanoid. A few Eleyi, a few scattered Others. None of them will
look at me. Idly, I tear a tiny piece of bread and nibble it.
It earns me more worried glances from my table mates. I shrug—they
wouldn’t have fed us if we weren’t meant to eat. And if it is a test of
some kind, at least I’ll face it with a bit of food in my stomach.
When Henri stands, though, my appetite disappears and I straighten,
looking up at the man who holds my future in his hands.
He’s attractive, in a Pente way. Skin browned from days outside, golden
hair that is cut severely, close to the scalp. And eyes blue as the sky.
Mother used to say that the eyes could tell more about a man than his
words, as much as his aura. Henri’s are blank, cold. As cold and unfeeling as
his mind. And that is terrifying. As he surveys the room, the slaves quiet,
waiting.
“You belong now to the Argot jakta. We will leave for Pente within the
next few days, where you will be trained and assigned tasks based on your
performance. Some of you want to be here—sold yourself for a chance at glory in
the arena and a few creds for your families. Some of you”—he glances at the
Eleyi, and I shift—“are less happy to be here. But it doesn’t change that you
are. And there are rules that will be followed in my jakta.”
“My brother will assign all new slaves to a mentor. You will bunk with,
eat with, and train with your mentor. How you do reflects on them.” Across from
us, at a separate table, a group shift and Argot looks to them, “Likewise, you
will be penalized for how badly your trainee does. Take this seriously.”
He reaches for a cup of water but he doesn’t drink. “Nutrition and hydration
are important on Pente, especially for the gladiators. When food is put in
front of you, eat it. Every time.” He pauses, watching, and I snatch up the
bread. It’s not as warm now, but it’s still delicious and my action seems to
loosen some of the others, because they begin to eat, cautiously.
Henri’s eyes flick over me, and I meet them, stubbornly refusing to look
away. “When we reach Pente, we will go directly to my jakta. There you will all
be put into training for two sevendays. This will determine your strengths, and
how you can best serve
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