Chapter 2
Chapter Two
The two carriages, the small elegant one holding Verna, the larger barred one for the prisoners, began their passage through Castine.
The capital of the Empire was a city of contrasts, from the slums in the lower quarter to the affluent villas on the northern hills. And in the centre of the hills was the massive palace of the emperor, Borgine the Third.
The streets surrounding the slave market were little more than pressed earth and mismatched stone.
They were lined with sun-bleached shanties jammed together beneath patched roofs.
Children darted barefoot through the alleys, and laundry hung overhead in long lines that crisscrossed the narrow lanes like festival bunting.
Women stirred pots over open braziers, men patched nets outside doorways, and fishermen filleted the fish while young folk packeted the dried dates for the markets across the sea.
People looked with knowing glances as the iron-barred carriage passed by, then they eyed the crest on Verna’s smaller carriage with interest.
Gradually the slums gave way to the working districts, where houses of timber lined wider streets, their shutters painted olive green and terracotta. Lemon trees grew in clay pots, herbs in window boxes, and neat cobblestones formed the streets.
Shrines to household gods, decorated with fresh flowers, stood in street corners.
The road climbed into the city’s heart where tradespeople sold their wares at the markets.
The central district was filled with colour and noise: stalls overflowed under striped awnings; fishmongers shouted over the cries of fruit sellers; and bakers slid flatbreads from brick ovens.
A shepherd unloaded wheels of goat cheese; a potter spun clay on a wheel beside his stall; and a musician played a quick tune on a flute near the fountain shaped like a lion’s head.
It was the beating heart of the capital.
As Verna’s carriages passed through the piazza, the majestic palace of the emperor rose in the distance, visible between the tiled roofs and chimneys.
Castine’s crown jewel, seat of the Purple Throne.
Set on a high plateau, the palace spread in a sweeping arc of white marble, its terraces cascading downward like steps of a colossal amphitheatre.
Columns of polished stone supported broad, shaded porticos.
Ornate banners in imperial blue fluttered from high towers.
Sunlight flashed off the great dome at its centre, which was plated in hammered gold that could be seen from every district of the city.
The palace was not merely a residence; it was a symbol of the Empire’s power.
From there, emperors had ruled for centuries, decrees echoing down into the street of Castine and out across every province of the land.
As the carriages approached, the market crowd fell into a hush, instinctively respectful.
They entered the wealthier districts next, where the streets widened and the paving stones grew smoother.
Limestone villas with red-tiled roofs lined the roads.
Wrought-iron balconies draped in jasmine looked down onto sunlit courtyards where fountains bubbled softly.
Olive trees shaded the walkways, and servants swept steps clean while noblewomen in bright linen robes strolled with baskets of figs.
Here, prosperity was deeply rooted.
Five miles out from the centre of Castine, the stone streets curved like ribbons through sun-washed plazas as the carriages reached the eastern gate.
It was under an elegant arch carved with the symbols of the Empire, guarded by soldiers in polished armour.
They saluted at Verna’s crest as she passed out of the city.
Beyond the walls, the noise of Castine faded behind them, replaced by open sky, rolling hills, and the first long rows of vineyards.
Gradually, the capital faded into the distance as they trundled over the long road.
After travelling for an hour, they climbed for the last two miles along a ridge above the sea.
As soon as they passed between rows of silver-leafed trees that Verna's grandmother had planted, the walls of her estate came into view.
The trees were called whisperers, because when the wind moved through them it sounded like voices echoing in the air.
At dusk, they turned the colour of hammered copper.
Verna looked out through the carriage window over the cliff face.
Below, the Meridian Sea was deep blue, and she could just make out the faint smudge of islands on the horizon.
Above it, all three moons were already visible in the late afternoon sky: Lira, pale and fat near the tree line; Senne, a thin crescent scratched against the blue; and far above them both, Orath was nearly black, hanging at the edge of sight.
Sailors read the weather by Orath, farmers the time to harvest, and the witches used it to read other things. Darker things.
The carriage slowed as it reached the gates of the outer wall.
They were iron, twice the height of a man, with wrought interlocking curves that might have been vines or waves.
They were set into walls of pale limestone that stretched fifty yards in either direction before turning inward toward the cliff's edge.
The wall was thick enough that two guards could walk abreast along its top, which they did, day and night.
Four of them stood at the gate now. They pulled it open without a word as the carriages approached. The estate unfolded beyond, and Verna felt her body relax as she passed through those gates of her home. The tension of the city, its noise and stench and cruelty, sloughed away like unwanted skin.
The grounds were wide and tiered, cut into the hillside in broad terraces that descended toward a sheer drop above the sea.
On the upper terrace, the main house sat long and low, with a deep portico running its full length, its columns carved from the red stone that was quarried in the eastern hills.
The stone held heat and gave it back slowly in the evenings, and it glowed a warm amber in the late light.
Vines climbed the walls in great cascades of green and gold, a contrast to the orange roof tiles.
Below the house, the terraces stepped down through gardens, workshops, olive groves and orchards of the fat-fruited trees.
The fruit was yellow and tasted of honey and smoke, and in the second month, when they ripened, the scent carried all the way up to the sleeping rooms. The rest of the estate was planted with grape vines, her main source of income.
On the lowest terrace was the bathhouse.
It was built by Verna's great-grandmother in a time when a woman’s wealth was transferred to her husband after the wedding ceremony.
Verna had not bothered with the frowns from society when she hadn’t taken a husband; she had simply built the wall, planted the whispering trees, and lived how she wanted.
There were no men here. The guards were women, as well as the kitchen staff, the field workers, the healers, and the teachers.
Over the years, Verna had made it a haven for lost and abused women and girls.
As soon as the carriages drew up in the wide courtyard before the house, stable girls came out to take the horses, moving quietly and not lingering. They knew when Verna returned from the Castine auctions she would be in no mood for pleasant conversation.
She stepped down from the carriage and turned to the iron-barred wagon pulled up on the flagstones.
The girls she had purchased sat still, wide-eyed and trembling as they nervously watched the guards approach.
The youngest had fallen asleep leaning against the oldest, and only woke when a soldier ordered them to come out.
The warrior woman was last to climb down.
She unfolded herself like a cat through the low door, chains still on her wrists, and stood in the courtyard and gazed over the estate.
She turned slowly, scanning the walls, the guards on the parapet, and the layout of the buildings.
Verna guessed she was probably calculating the distance to the gate, the number of guards on the wall, and the fastest route to escape.
Verna had seen that look too many times before to be worried. It wouldn’t be long before the woman figured out that it was much safer here than in the outside world.
"Dara," she called, and when a stout woman with a grey braid came down the portico steps, Verna eyed her fondly. She was the head of her household and her most trusted adviser.
"Lady." Dara swept her eyes at the new arrivals, then blinked in surprise at the warrior woman.
"Get the four young ones to the east wing," she said, then nodded in the warrior’s direction. "My guards will handle this one."
Dara nodded. She went to the group huddled together and began to murmur soothingly to them. When she led them away, they followed without resistance.
The warrior woman watched them go without changing her expression. "Where am I being taken?"
Her voice was the same as it had been at the auction, hoarse from what Verna suspected were many days of shouting. The tag around her neck read: Northern border. Soldier. Dangerous. Lot 14.
Verna regarded her closely. She was taller than any of her guards, lean in a superbly fit way rather than from half-starving.
Her facial features were hard to make out: her dark hair was matted and her face covered in dirt.
One eye was swollen, surrounded by an ugly bruise.
Her arms were covered in dried blood and her knuckles were split.
But for all this, she had the proud bearing of a woman who was used to giving orders.
"What is your name?" Verna asked when she finished her scrutiny.
The woman cast her a look of dislike. "You own me. You give me one." It was said without heat, just a flat statement.