"The pool needs cleaning," Jadeleine remarked at dinner several nights later. "Ask Parah to send one of the slaves up to take care of it, will you? "As you wish, my dear," Marcus replied.
"Actually, we could use a full-time slave in the compound," Jadeleine said, her brow furrowed thoughtfully. "Otry's getting too old to do more than care for the horses, and since Fiurmin left, there's no one to trim the shrubs or weed the flower beds on a regular basis."
Marcus grunted softly. "Are you sure you want one of the slaves?" He glanced at Ashlynne. "It might be wiser to hire someone from the city."
"Why spend good money for hired help when we have slaves at our disposal?" Jadeleine countered. "I dare say slaves are easier to control at any rate."
"Without doubt," Marcus said agreeably. "I shall go down tomorrow and look them over." Ashlynne sat up in her chair, her foot tapping nervously as she listened to her parents' conversation. One of the slaves, here? She bit down on her lower lip, wondering if there was any way she could persuade her father to pick Number Four. Six weeks had passed since the incident with Dain. She wondered how Number Four had endured the long weeks of solitary confinement. Magny had told her that slaves sometimes went insane after being imprisoned in the hole for more than a week. How did anyone endure a month? Was he glad to be back in the mine? Did even his dismal cell seem welcome after four weeks of being buried alive? She glanced around the room, its opulence unmatched anywhere on Tierde, and tried to envision being trapped in a dark hole in the ground, with nothing to see but darkness, no voice to hear but her own.
"We've never had a slave in the compound," she remarked casually.
"Does the idea bother you, daughter?" Jadeleine asked, her voice holding a faint note of concern.
"No, of course not," she replied quickly. "Will you pick him out yourself, Father, or let Parah make the selection for you?"
"I don't need anyone to make my decisions for me," Marcus replied. He looked at Jadeleine. "I will, of course, take Parah's recommendation into account, since he is more familiar with the slaves than I."
Ashlynne smiled at her father. "Of course."
"I'll go tomorrow morning," Marcus decided. "I've been meaning to speak to Parah about the recent decrease in production."
Ashlynne sat forward, trying not to look too eager, too anxious. "May I ride with you?"
"To the mine?" Marcus asked, astonished. "Of course not!"
"But, I mean, I just thought how nice it would be if I could go with you. I could wait for you at the bridge, and when you're finished talking to Parah, we could take a ride along the beach." She smiled her most winning smile.
"It's been months, Father, since we've had any time alone together."
"She's right," Jadeleine said. "You haven't spent much time with Ashlynne lately. I don't think it would hurt for her to accompany you, this one time."
Ashlynne held her breath, waiting for her father's decision.
"I'll be wanting to leave immediately after first meal," he said gruffly.
Jumping up, Ashlynne threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. "I'll be ready! Thank you, Father."
Walking around the table, she bent down and hugged her mother. "Thank you," she whispered.
Ashlynne glanced at her father as they rode along the narrow tree-lined path that wound down the hillside to the mine compound. He was a handsome man. He wore his dark hair cropped close to his head. Clad in dark gray breeches, a light gray shirt, and black leather boots, he cut a dashing figure astride his favorite mount, a high-stepping black stallion. Both his horse and hers had been imported from Earth.
Her father had taught her to ride almost before she could walk. He was an excellent horseman. She knew he was proud of her, had overheard him bragging about her good seat and light hands. Her mother had been thrown when she was a child and as a result she had a deep-seated fear of horses.
Marcus had bought her a gentle gelding, but Jadeleine refused to ride, declaring she much preferred her small shuttle cart, which had no mind of its own, didn't buck and didn't smell. But Ashlynne and Marcus went riding every chance they got.
"How's the new mare working out?" Marcus asked.
"Wonderful, Father. I love her. Thank you." The chestnut mare had been her father's gift to her on her seventeenth birthday six months before.
Ashlynne ran her hand over the mare's sleek coat. Before her birthday, she'd had to ride one of the native karu-atar, which, though pleasant to ride, had none of Artemis's speed or beauty. The karu-atar roamed wild up in the north. They were horselike in appearance, with long coarse hair, clawed feet, and a whiplike tail.
"You should start making plans for the wedding," Marcus remarked. "It will be year's end before you know it. Perhaps you should redecorate the two corner suites upstairs for our guests. I've asked his parents to stay on after the ceremony. It's been a long time since I've seen Rugen and Zahara."
Ashlynne nodded. "I'll talk to Mother about it."
"I know you don't want this marriage, Ashlynne, but Rugen is my closest friend."
"I know." Rugen and her father had fought together in the last Tierdian war years ago, and had pledged their children to each other when Ashlynne was born.
"Niklaus is a fine young man, with a brilliant career ahead of him."
Ashlynne nodded again. Few girls of her class were permitted to choose their own husbands. Women were pawns, traded for land, offered in marriage to secure peace between feuding families or forge alliances between worlds; or, in her case, to fulfill her father's pledge to his best friend.
"I want you to keep silent while I examine the slaves. Most of them haven't seen a woman in quite some time."
"Yes, Father."
Parah had been advised of their imminent arrival and he hurried forward to greet them. Marcus dismounted near the bridge and handed the reins of his horse to Ashlynne. From her vantage point on her horse s back, she watched her father and Parah cross the narrow wooden bridge to the compound that housed the prisoners. The small stone cells looked like blocks set in a row.
It was Sunday, and the prisoners were all locked inside their cells. On any other Sunday, they would have been toiling in the bowels of the mine, but not today. Today her father was going to look them over.
Parah started at the far end. Unlocking each door, he ordered the occupant to step outside. As soon as the prisoners emerged from their cells, the shackles on their hands and feet were activated, rendering them immobile. They were a motley crew, she thought sadly. Eyes empty of life, of hope, they stood like so many sheep waiting for the slaughter. Dressed in coarse leather breeches and sleeveless vests, their hair long and unkempt, they all looked alike.
Except for Number Four. Ashlynne leaned forward in the saddle as the tall, dusky-skinned slave emerged from the darkness of his cell to blink against the early morning sunlight. She saw the way his jaw clenched as the bands encircling his hands and feet snapped together. They had not yet broken his spirit, she mused. Even after months of captivity and four weeks in solitary confinement, his eyes still blazed with anger and defiance.
She wished she could hear what was being said, what questions her father asked as he walked up and down the row of prisoners, what answers they gave. None of the prisoners dared to meet her fathers eyes. Even Number Four looked properly subdued when her father stopped in front of him. She watched Number Four nod curtly, once, twice. Saw her father take Parah aside for a moment, and then her father was walking back toward her, his military upbringing obvious in the square set of his shoulders, the length of his stride, the self-confidence that was so much a part of him. She had always been proud of her father, proud of his many accomplishments, of the fact that he had been decorated for bravery above and beyond the call of duty.
She handed him the stallion's reins, and he swung into the saddle effortlessly, gracefully.
"Ready for that gallop on the beach?" he asked.
"Yes, sir!" She glanced back at the compound. The prisoners had been returned to their cells. "Did you make a choice, Father?"
"We'll talk of it later," he said, and touching his heels to the stallion's flanks, he raced over the bridge and headed for the beach.
With a wild cry, Ashlynne sent her mare after the horse, delighting in the heady sense of freedom that engulfed her as they raced across the hot golden sand, reveling in the wind in her face and the scent of the sea, the thundering power of the chestnut mare.
Leaning low over the mare's neck, she drummed her heels against the mare's flanks. "Let's go, girl!" she cried, and let out a shout as the horse jumped a large piece of driftwood.
Oh, to be free! To be able to ride forever. To be able to live her life as she pleased. To pick a man of her own choosing, a man with long black hair and
eyes as turbulent as a storm-tossed sea�� Why couldn't she get that man out of her mind? "Did you find a slave that suited you, Father?"
Her father had won the race, and now they were sitting on a patch of grass near the shore while the horses rested. It was a pretty spot. She loved the sound of the ocean, could sit for hours watching the waves lap at the shore. Tiny little birds with gold-and-black wings scurried along the sand, chirping merrily.
Marcus nodded. "I believe so. Parah tells me the man has caused some trouble in the past, but he seems fit and appears to have been brought to heel." He shook his head ruefully. "Not much of a choice, really. So many of them lose the will to live after a few months in the mine."
"Does the man you've chosen know horses?"
"He claims to."
Ashlynne plucked a long blade of grass and twirled it between her thumb and forefinger. There was no way to ask if it was Number Four, not without fear of revealing that she knew more about the man than she should.
"Well, shall we go?" Marcus asked. He stood up and offered Ashlynne his hand. "Midday meal should be ready by now, and you know how your mother hates for us to be late."
With a smile, Ashlynne took her father's hand and let him pull her to her feet. She would find out soon enough who her father had chosen. Until she knew, she could hope.
And then she frowned. What if her father did pick Number Four? And what if Number Four told her father about her little adventure with Magny the other night? Her father rarely got angry with her, but she had never forgotten the few times that he had.
She told herself she was worrying needlessly. There was no reason for Number Four to mention it, no reason at all, but try as she might, she couldn't put the thought out of her mind. Her father had warned her that she wouldn't be allowed to see Magny if they got into any more mischief. And she had a feeling that her father would consider sneaking down to the mine in the middle of the night much worse than any of their other pranks.
Suddenly, she hoped he hadn't chosen Number Four at all.
