Page 84 of Elvenbred

Now, granted, the now-lone guard never ever looked at Rock when he left the food, and sometimes talked with her for a little, but she suspected this was only because he was utterly incurious about everything that wasn’t involved with sleeping, eating, and doing his job. And his job was nothing to do with Rock, it was to do with guarding her. In what now seemed like another lifetime, she’d had human slaves like that. They did exactly the minimum required, and no more. It was a small miracle that he exerted himself enough to bring her two bowls of gruel instead of one every day. Maybe somewhere in that unhappy head of his he felt sorry for her.

Maybe it was because she was relatively nice to him and listened to him. She did get the sense that no one ever listened to a word he said that was outside of his job. And someone as low-status as he was wouldn’t have a wife. If she wasn’t asleep when he brought the bowls, he did like to talk to her—and she didn’t mind listening as long as she could shovel at the same time. What he told her gave her the only clues she had about how things were going outside this “monster stable,” and apparently things were going badly indeed. Families were now supposed to make their own rations instead of drawing ration bars, permission to have children had been completely withdrawn, school and trade lessons had been suspended to free the children up to take whatever adult jobs they could manage and create rations for their families, and all work that was not directly related to food production and fighting the monsters was forbidden. “People are scared,” he had told her today, leaning against the wall and watching as she mounded up the ash on the second bucket. “They’ve been afraid before, when we heard that other cities had fallen, but not like this. Everyone is working as hard as you and me now! Would you believe it?” He had shaken his head. “They’ve got the littlest children sweeping up around the city for dust and debris to feed their algae vats, that’s how bad it is.”

He had paused, which was always his way of waiting to see if she said anything. “I can’t imagine there’s anything to sweep up at this point,” she had said.

“Oh, every night there’s a big wind just after sunset and lots of stuff comes in over the walls. The shields only keep out live stuff. Anything that’s dead goes right through them. We used to think it was a nuisance, dead leaves and dirt, even whole branches—sometimes even a tree!—all having to be cleaned up every morning. The smart people think that’s why the Predators don’t fly—they’d just get smashed to the ground all the time by the wind. That’s certainly why the Skydancers don’t fly at night.”

She’d prodded him for more information about what was outside the walls—did that wind blow all the time, or just at night?—but he didn’t know much more than that, and finally said he needed to get back before he was missed.

“Well, my friend,” she said, looking up at Rock. “At some point, he’s going to look up and notice the rods are missing, or someone is going to pay us a visit and will see straight away. And then we will most certainly have some explaining to do. Well, I’ll have some explaining to do, on account of your shyness.” She counted out a hundred heartbeats, in case he came back. “I think he’s gone with us for today, so let’s be about getting the next one out, shall we?”

Rock had seemed to understand the gist of what she was doing once the second rod had been removed. He stood still now while she worked, and did what he could to be … if not exactly helpful … then at least not an impediment. The third rod had gone more quickly than the second after she’d learned a better way to tie the rod to the shovel handle and got more leverage. The remnants of the blanket were now all but shredded, and she had taken to lacing the scraps together to make a crude rope that she soaked and twisted to tie the lever to the remaining rods. But she didn’t need the blanket to keep warm while she slept anymore. When she was exhausted, all she had to do was pat Rock’s side three times, after which he somehow lumped up his carapace to make a sort of crude set of climbing handles to his top, then he dished out a spot for her to curl up in that was shockingly comfortable, cozy and warm.

Perfect for sleep. Less than perfect if the guard wandered in off-cycle. She was usually too tired to worry much about it.

She had noticed that as the rods came out that Rock had become more … aware? More helpful, for lack of a better word. She’d begun with the presumption that the controls served the same purpose for him as the collar did to her … to block magic and provide an inducement to do what he was told. Now, though, she was beginning to wonder if they did more than that. Did they act like a mind-numbing drug? Or did the pain itself serve that purpose?

Whatever their purpose, the effects of the rods on him seemed to lessen with each rod she removed. She gathered her tools and tapped his flank. He obliged her with a set of pearlescent stairs that she could ascend. She went to work the moment she reached Rock’s summit, tying the two control rods together to make a longer lever. She worked out a better way to tie the shovel in place, making a better fulcrum. The leverage provided by the second rod made the difference, and she accomplished in marks what it had taken days to achieve before. The work remained exhausting, but by the end of the day, she removed the third control rod. Two to go.

She quickly concealed her tools and turned to feeding Rock and shoveling ash. Her shoulders ached from the effort, and she felt bone-tired. Still, she felt warm with success. Once past her evening meal, and after what was becoming her daily chat with the guard, she stripped off her sweaty clothes for her nightly rinse under the water sluice.

She released the valve and turned, feeling the lukewarm water wash over her and carry away the day’s sweat, grime, and manure. She sputtered a bit as she washed her hair, careful to finger comb out the tangles, as best she could. Once done, she fluffed her hair out to air dry. Her arms felt sore from the work and lifting. She hadn’t really paid them much attention, but as she bent them to slick the water out of her wet hair, she noticed her biceps had grown. She flexed her arm, as she had seen the gladiators do, and was more than a bit pleased to see the definition there.

She looked the rest of herself over as well. Her belly had flattened under the hard work, and admittedly short rations, while her legs showed definition where muscle had built. She smiled. Elven lord girls back home would never, ever be caught lifting anything heavier than a teacup or flutter-fan, and as for actual muscles, her mother would have fainted dead away at the sight of her daughter flexing like a gladiator.

Triana dressed quickly. It wasn’t all that warm in this cell away from Rock. Once done, she straightened her arm, pleased at the way the forearm swelled as it rose towards the elbow. She tipped her wrist back, and ran her finger along the taut skin. Muscle there too. How had she not noticed?

Well, exhaustion for one, and the guard isn’t the only one to miss things changing under his nose. You’re shoveling for half a day’s worth of marks, at least before each sleep. That work has to be doing something. She picked up the first rod that she had removed from Rock’s back, and carried it over to the manure bin. She hefted its weight, then took a couple of running steps and hurled the rod at the bin. It wobbled in flight, but went further than she had expected, and a great deal further than she would have thrown it when they had first brought her here. The rod disappeared into the manure. She let it be, and got the other two, practicing throws into the manure with them as well.

She had watched her gladiators train enough to know that her efforts appeared puny compared to theirs. Still, she had gotten stronger, and could get stronger yet. The bronze rods did have a sharp-ish end, and enough weight to do damage if hurled with strength and accuracy.

Her arms were sore from levering the rod out of Rock’s back, from shoveling enough manure for two buckets of ash, and from her impromptu spear practice. Her back ached and her stomach twinged from the strains of shoveling and lifting, and her legs felt leaden from pressing down and pulling up on the lever. Still, she would heal. And grow stronger.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a cracking great yawn. Rock had already settled on the side of the cage furthest from the rods. She felt sleepy then, and went over to where he … did whatever he did while she slept. She rapped on his side, and he obliged her with a knobbly set of steps and a nook for her to rest in. She settled in, warm, fed, and comfortable. She felt drowsy, but not quite ready for sleep.

She looked at her right hand, tracing the fingers of the left over the calluses that replaced the blisters she’d gained when she’d begun shoveling. Her nails, torn and ragged, and the cuticles were an absolute mess. The nail on the middle finger blackened where Rock had shifted just as she had jumped down on the lever and it snapped up, smashing her hand.

She thought back to her time … before. Her joy at being an elven lord, a ruler of her own estate, her very existence a thumb in the eye of those who thought women capable of no more than being brood-mares for heirs. The strain and constant worry of whether she was rising or falling, the nagging feeling of something left undone, some weakness a male elven lord could use to deprive her of her estate … the property that made her who she was, Triana.

She took that idea out and examined it for a bit. The guard had kept her appraised of the time she’d been locked down here, and she had a decent estimate of how long she had been Haldeen’s “guest.” She considered whether Haldeen had lied about the difference in time, then concluded he had taken too much joy in dropping that particular cowflop in her soup for it to be a lie.

She did a quick calculation on her fingers. By Haldeen’s count, she had already been away from her home for years. Her estate had long since passed to another; either her human slaves had joined the revolt, or one of the Young Lords had snatched it up before someone else realized it was no longer in her control. All things considered, it was probably in the hands of the humans, since her cousin Kyrtian was with them. She had strongly suspected that he had somehow been kept apprised of what she was up to.

Still, she was not dead. The loss of her estate had not in fact killed her. Her life here, literally shoveling shit, had been a long, long fall from what she had been, but was certainly a step up from the food-making room. “No offense, old boy,” she said aloud, and squirmed a bit, taking the weight off of sore back muscles. “As nice as this is, I’d still trade it for a good feather bed. I really need to start thinking about how to get out of here.”

She fell asleep instead.

The dream felt strange, strange in perspective and focus. She knew she dreamt, even telling herself it was an odd sort of dream, but where she also could not will herself to awaken. It wasn’t like the nightmares she’d had while wearing the collar, either where she had not dreamt dreams, but been dragged through them. This was something different yet, not fully hers, but drawn from her. The part that was awake inside the dream understood she had a choice here. To choose to follow, or to choose to awaken.

She chose to follow. She crossed from the old stable building, where her brothers had taunted her, and where she now kept her best steeds. Down past the new barn, and along the wall where the first barracks had been damaged by the winds. She could see the stakes marking out where the new gladiator hall would be, along with the visually decorative and highly effective wall that would keep her male property where it belonged.

She stopped and turned, perplexed. The details were oddly specific in places, in others barely sketched or suggested. She wondered what would happen if she suddenly turned and headed towards the distant woods. Would they remain a hazy gray-green, or solidify into the trees as she walked towards them?

She shook her head …. Tromlier’s ass-wit son had brought dried mushrooms that he’d slid into the first course, and the resulting hallucinations had bordered this dream in strangeness and intensity. She felt more observer than participant in this one. She looked around again then saw herself emerging from the barn, wearing a light sundress and hat to shade her face, and carrying a riding crop. She paused to test her control. She felt the edges shimmer. She could still leave if she chose.

My first culling, the day I started breeding gladiators, not just training and showing them. What … the … hell? She drifted along behind as the younger her stopped to address a pair of guards, then proceeded into the first barracks. There, she watched as she had the human males strip. She inspected them, using the riding crop to turn heads to one side, or lift chins to better inspect a face. She was of a height with most, and examined each carefully, looking for blemishes or other marks, imperfections in skin or scars. Flick left … the man went to sale. Flick right, and to the training hall to perfect his craft for her profit and pleasure.

One she kept standing for a long moment, a borderline fighter with good bones and stamina, but slighter of build than the others. Triana remembered her indecision, and remembered her internal debate. Watching her younger self study the gladiator and seeing her expression … you fancied him, didn’t you? Even now, in truth, she saw now what she saw then, if through older eyes. He was still beautiful.