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Her mother had told her not to go, but she wanted to see it.
Saffla, a common farmers’ daughter of House Tricklewater, Goodworks Farming District Precinct VII of Sadelnon Province — which once, eons ago, had been the city-state of Kurm before the magicians of Charn invaded it, ransacked it, and razed it to the ground — pattered through the fields between hillocks of freshly planted rice. The sky rumbled, signaling a storm to come. The air was close and humid, the red-orange sun tinting the clouds. Every morning Saffla’s mother and father prayed together to ensure the sun’s continued life. Hundreds of centuries ago, they said, the sun had been bright yellow, giving off a pure, clear light. But with time even good things decayed, like unharvested crops, and only the earnest faith of the common people kept the sun in good health.
The Royal House of Charn said otherwise. They said their magic was what kept the sun from dying. Their enemies claimed the Royal House’s magic was, in fact, responsible for the sun’s decay, draining the sun’s fire and vitality through its profligate use. Saffla kept no opinion on the matter. All she knew were the green fields, the seasons of planting and harvest, and the high wall of dull stone that enclosed her, and them.
Outside the wall was Charn. The city was everywhere, in every direction: north, south, east and west, climbing the hills and mountains like sunrise, nosing into the valleys like a hound. There was no point in Saffla contemplating a life away from the rice paddies. Everywhere was the same.
Other farmer’s children, like her, were hurrying to see the spectacle. It was the first time in a generation a Gifting was to pass by Precinct VII on its way to Charn-the-Center. (Everywhere was Charn, and thus nowhere; so the term was used to refer to the palace and temple complexes of its dense, rotten heart. Saffla, a true being of her world, did not think of it as such, having nothing more wholesome to compare it to. Like the red-gold sun, it simply was.) She should have nodded at them to be friendly, but to do so would call attention to herself. One of them might tell her mother how she had stolen away from her work.
She finally reached the end of the paddies and hopped the short fence that separated them from drier land. A boulder was nearby where she sat to put on her shoes, which had been tied together by the laces and banging around her neck as she ran. On her small, plump legs she wore leather greaves for protection from the cold water and its leeches, and over them, one of her favorite tunics embroidered with blue flax flowers. The sun peered out from the clouds and a fire rainbow formed, transcending the gold and ivory mansions, the tall palms and cycads, that staircased up the hills, places she would never go to unless she got lucky and married into a household there.
But she was no great beauty. She was completely ordinary and likely as not to die where she has been born, here, in these fields.
Which was why she would see the Gifting procession, just this once.
The rainbow was a lucky sign, so she stuck her tongue out and rolled her eyes up, giving blessings to Lillit, chief patroness of Charn, and hurried through the field gate to the city.
Charn began immediately in all its glory, squalor, and noise. Vendors leaned against the outer field wall, calling to sell, and beggars crouched. But everyone else, it seemed, was on his or her way to the boulevard that passed by Lake Pessroma and joined later with the Great River that led to Charn-the-Center.
Saffla had been outside the farm walls before to the marketplace but never on her own like this. The slaves who labored at their duties gave her only the merest of glances. She didn’t look back. For all free people of Charn, to look at a stranger’s slave was to sully their soul, to invite bad fortune. If their eyes should meet even once, the slave’s misery would suck her in, mark her with some invisible glyph (so they said) so that the next time her District had to supply Charn-the-Center with slaves, she might be picked, as one of her grandmother’s cousins had been, years ago. It was Saffla’s questions about that, questions that had gone unanswered, that caused her, in part, to be running through the fields now.
The ancient road was cobbled and she was happy for her wooden shoes. Street urchins ran about, one step away from being slaves themselves. A growing crowd of citizens began to line the main boulevard that followed the south side of the lake. The finest shops were here, the district’s temples, the bathhouses and gambling dens.
In the distance came the sound of a horn, a deep, loud blaat. The Gifting procession was coming.
Shutters banged open above Saffla’s head, those in the flats above leaning out to look, hands clenched to the windowsills. The boulevard cleared, traffic ducking down side streets or joining the crowds at either side. A veiled litter stopped and its occupant parted the curtains with a jeweled hand, the bearers waiting stoically. The horn sounded again, closer. Now there came music, too, the pounding of drums.
Chatter travelled down the street in a silvery wave. The boulevard curved so it wasn’t possible to see anything yet, but the citizens arranged, and rearranged, themselves anyway. The urchins giggled and pushed. Saffla pushed as well, squirming her way to the front past velvet trousers and a transparent dotted overskirt. Giftings were considered civic lessons for Charnian youngsters so no one pulled her back.
“It comes, it comes!”
Saffla drew her breath as a huge tuskbeast, the ivory spears of its mouth inlaid with jewels and silver, rounded the curve. It raised its trunk and bellowed; there had been no horn, only animal throat and maw. Designs were shaved into its short reddish hair and on its sides were draped tapestries depicting the royal seal of Charn. On its back was a small wooden structure like a castle in which the Emperor’s officials sat, swaying side to side with the creature’s lumbering walk. Behind them came the drums, huge ones like the kettles for brewing rice-wine, smaller ones that rattled crisply, cymbals and chimes and tambourines, all played by a stone-faced corps in the Royal House’s colors of deep red and sapphire blue. The music made Saffla want to move, to dance in rhythmic patterns.
As the music passed and faded an armor-clad crier appeared, mounted not on another tuskbeast but a lively and spirited horse. He rode back and forth to either side of the street, giving a continuous, glittering address: “Citizens of Precinct VII, behold the Gifts brought from Mydn Province, Therydo Province, and beyond. Behold their sad and piteous state, yet their noble cast and destiny, and know for whom they are intended: The Most High Emperor Jallanchan XVIII, King of Charn and ruler of all known world. Look upon these Gifts as they pass through your province today, as tomorrow others will pass through other places, down the roads, the canals, the rivers bound for the very heart of Charn, to join in its crowning glory. Behold, and make ware, or make aspirations; no such finer fate decreed by our Gods exists, Great Lillit be willing.”
Saffla rose on the tips of her hard wooden shoes. Through the dust engendered by the procession — for Charn was moving into the dry season — came the first of the Gifts.
Men and women, now collared, nameless slaves, marched along in a formation of twelve across and twelve down. Saffla did quick math and calculated there were 144. They were naked, their bodies shaved and oiled, and their arms were chained behind their backs. Yet even so bound they were not trusted to keep that formation of their own volition. The slaves were connected in rows by a long, stiff bamboo pole chained to his or her collar at the back of their neck, drawn up under their armpits. These rows were in turn connected in columns by more bamboo poles, two of them for each line, which were connected to the slaves’ ankles so they all walked with the same stride. One might faint or even die, and yet still be carried along with the others. Of necessity their march was slow yet it had a stately dreamlike quality.
The humans treated thus were not wholly obliterated, however. Some looked around in rage or an expression of helplessness, seemingly begging the crowd for rescue; others stared blankly straight ahead, or at the ground in shame or weariness. None spoke or even tried to speak. The only sound was the swish-swish of the long bamboo poles at their ankles.
As they passed a shiver ran through the crowd. Some began to weep, others cast muttered charms, turning aside the dreadful power of the slaves’ eyes. Others shouted curses. Objects were flung through the crowd at the slaves: fish heads, fruit peelings and cores, other offal. The Imperial guards on their horses noted this, but did nothing to stop it, though they gestured threateningly at the crowd if a piece of flying garbage landed too close to them. Up and down they rode beside the phalanx of slaves, vigilant for nothing as it was clear the slaves couldn’t escape.
Saffla gaped. She had heard of Giftings before from her parents and friends; Charn-the-Center, and the Royal family, always needed slaves. For what and why she did not know. The priests simply said they served, others that they farmed or worked in the mines. But no one knew, really.
After the first game-board (so she thought of it) of slaves came another, equally vilified and drawing reaction from the crowd, and another, and another; after that came a line of Imperial war chariots, and a unit of spearmen, and then more and more slaves until Saffla lost count. Then to the thrill of crowd came a real dragon, more elaborately trapped out and bejeweled than even the tuskbeast was. On its back was another howdah of the same sort but larger, given the dragon’s greater size. It too was of carved and gilded wood with white linen curtains fluttering in the breeze. Small bells rang prettily from its eaves and inside was a hint of bright silk cushions.
Voices came from the crowd behind Saffla. “So the Emperor sends some of his children.”
“That’s unusual, in’it?”
“Not these days. They serve as the envoys of their father, his Imperial presence.”
“Magicians aren’t they?”
“They all are.”
From the dragon-howdah two faces peered out, one a young boy with curly yellow hair, the other an older girl, also with blonde hair. “Prince Rhasket and his sister Sindma,” one of the voices said, helpfully, for Saffla’s benefit.
They were too far away for Saffla to see their expressions. She wondered what the two thought, if they were tired by now of looking at the arses of the rigidly marching slaves.
On the ground, riding the horned white horses of the Charnian nobility, were the other offspring. Unlike those in the howdah their skin was darker, their hair black and long. They were also older, in their late teens perhaps. “Look, Princesses Sadija and Jadis.”
Sadija wore brown and blue, Jadis dark red. Among common Charnians it was permitted to them to look upon their rulers, for that meant good luck, not bad, but few in the crowd met Jadis’ gaze. It was just too intense. She rode back and forth alongside the dragon, surveying the crowd, her mouth downturned, her eyes piercing. The other sister, Sadija, was more animated; she cantered up and down the columns of the slaves slashing at them with a silver whip if they dared look up or cry out. By her expression she was enjoying it.
They are so different, Saffla thought. It was Jadis who drew her the most. Lacking an adult’s caution, she watched the tall, proud princess ride, the lightweight ornaments in her hair bouncing with her motions as did the trailing ribbons of her skirt and bodice. Then their eyes met.
Saffla for a second saw nothing but those eyes. She felt herself lose control of her body. Without her command she felt her legs move forward one step, then two.
A strong hand jerked her back. “What are you doing? Are you crazy?”
She looked behind her. Anthen, one of her older brother’s friends. He was frowning. Saffla snapped back into herself from both the look on his face and the strength of his fingers on her shoulder.
Roughly he said, “Do you want to be like them?”
Like them.
Out in the crowd a phenomena began. Here and there, people were moving out of the crowd, walking as if in a trance, casting off their clothes and whatever they were holding. Naked, they walked to the dragon, arms before them, outstretched. The Imperial guards chained those who came forward, so they walked, in a line, after the slowly moving creature.
“They have given themselves up,” Anthen said. “They are Charn’s now, to be dealt with as She wishes.”
By how he spoke, Saffla knew he didn’t mean the Royal Family, Charn-the-Center, or even the Goddess Lillit, but something greater, unspoken, and by the fear in his voice, indescribably evil.
“Come,” Anthen said, taking her arm and leading her out of the crowd. “The rest is just more of the same. It’s best if you don’t witness it.”
There is more, Saffla thought numbly. More slaves, more creatures, more chariots and drummers and cruelties. She hadn’t realized before how keyed up she was. Anthen steered her down a deserted side street.
Every door and window had been shuttered. Was it to avoid the slaves' siren call?
“Did Princess Jadis really make them give themselves up?” Saffla stammered.
“Perhaps,” Anthen said matter-of-factly. “But all of the Royal Family have that power. Sometimes they like to use it. They are cruel and capricious. Never forget that.”
Saffla swallowed.
“They are not entirely human either. On one side, they have Jinn blood, on the other, the Nevilim. We ordinary humans are nothing to them." He paused, took a breath. "But, it may be that the princesses had to nothing to do with it. A spectacle like that affects people in strange ways. Some who already have that tendency to abandon themselves, give up their lives.”
Saffla didn’t like being lumped in with the latter. They went down another street where, thankfully, there was an open shop, the owner wanting to take advantage of the crowd’s thirst when it dispersed. Anthen bought for Saffla a shaved ice drink sweetened with fruit juices. “Your brother would kill me if I hadn’t taken care of you.”
“He knew?” Saffla said between slurps.
“I followed you,” Anthen said. “And yes, he saw you leave your chores.”
They sat for a while at the small bistro table, Saffla’s legs dangling from the chair. “What will happen to all those people who got up and followed the dragon?”
“It’s best you don’t know.”
“Anthen! Tell me.”
“Drink your ice.”
The same spirit that made Saffla skip her chores and go to the boulevard made her insist now. “I want to know. How can I stay away from another Gifting if I don’t know why?”
Anthen sighed. “Look, I shouldn’t be telling you this. This is a thing for your parents to say. They are responsible for your civic and moral education. But since you ask, I will. Please do not say I did so, or anything else I will say. My attitude is not the one a proper Charnian should have, or a subject of the Empire, or Son of Lillit. If I spoke against any of them, I will be in danger. Not may, will. There are others who feel as I do and they, too, will be endangered.”
He looked at Saffla very seriously then so she shuddered, and not from the cold ice of her drink. “Do you understand me, Saffla?”
“Yes,” she said, and to emphasize it, nodded fiercely. She liked Anthen. She wouldn’t betray him
“Then let me tell you.
“Those who came from the crowd, even that wealthy woman from the litter, this will be the last their families see of them. At Lillit’s Temple, down the street, they will be consecrated, shaved and oiled, and made up into a new phalanx joined fore and aft, left to right, just like you saw. The Gifting will continue, down the boulevard to the Great River, where a slave barge awaits them, to take them to Charn-the-Center.
“You have never seen it and I hope you never will. A place glorious and terrible, with massive towers piercing the sky, the streets full of luxuries, merchants, magic. The nobles ply the sky on dragons or enchanted carpets or giant birds, and on the ground, great tuskbeasts and other creatures the likes of which you have never seen. The tallest of the buildings is the palace of the Royal family on the Hill of Araat, which has stood for thousands of years. Downwind from the palace, closer to the river, is the great temple complex of Lillit. Day and night its fires burn, sending up black smoke, the blood of sacrifice, the stink of it in the wind which blows away from the heart of the city, down the river where the barrios of the poor lay.
“What causes that stink, you ask?”
It was a rhetorical question and one Saffla was not expected to answer. But she had a horrifying idea of what it was.
“Human bodies. Human blood. Those slaves from the barges which arrive from all over the Empire, arriving day and night, who are unloaded and marched to the temples groaning in their chains.
“The Great Temple of Lillit rivals even the palace and is as old. Inside, there is a giant vertical wheel carved from one block of stone, so huge you cannot imagine it. It might be the height of that hill. They call it the Wheel of Anh. This wheel has gears that fit smoothly and precisely into slots on the table below, which is its twin in size. In each slot, a slave is placed, the table turns, and they are ground as corn into blood and scraps of flesh by the blunt teeth of the gears, and thus pass through a grate in the bottom into a mixed sluice of charnel that is poured into the temple’s furnaces, which burn day and night with great logs of wood, whole trees consumed each day, sending them up in smoke.
“Under this great Wheel there are many dozens of slots.
“And why do the slaves just lay in each slot, for the Wheel to pass? They are the ones chained to mechanism that turns the wheel, hundreds of them whipped to march and turn, until they collapse and are placed thus. Hopefully, they die first before being crushed.
“In the process, in the terrible suffering and sacrifice, a magic is created, called the Pact of Lillit. From it, the Royal Family gains their power.”
Saffla stared at Anthen’s face as he spoke, forgetting about her drink which had become distasteful. She trembled thinking about the fate she avoided, about the fates of the others, and yet, she still felt a yearning, one that she would never speak ever to anyone, to witness for herself such a thing. Even if she had to give herself up as a Gift to do it.
“You want to see it, no?” Anthen said, guessing her thought. “Don’t think that’s entirely magic. It is human nature, the nature of us, we common folk of Charn. We are born and bred to it on this accursed world.
“And should,” Anthen continued, “and I have this on good knowledge, the Great Wheel of Anh ever stop its carnage, even for a second, the Royal Family loses their power and their magic. They will never say it or speak it of course. That is why the Wheel ever thirsts for blood, and so do they.”
With her hand Saffla knocked the paper cup of ice away, scattering it on the hot ground. The terrible pictures danced in her head. “Can it stopped?” she said in a small voice. “Ever?”
Anthen looked about him warily. His voice went to a whisper. “There are some of us who are trying. Say no more of this please.”
Saffla nodded. Small tears came to her eyes. “I want to go home.”
“I will take you.”
She was too big to be picked up and carried anymore, yet she dearly wished it was so. Anthen held her hand, steady as a rock as she began to sob. Somewhere, the procession continued, or had passed; she didn’t care. She, Saffla, might be still be a child in form, but in innocence she was not.
“You suffered from heatstroke,” Anthen said as they came to the walls of the farm. “Dazed, you wandered out into the city without knowing what you were doing. I happened to find you and brought you back. Agreed?”
Saffla nodded through hiccups brought on by her sobs. “Thank you, Anthen.”
He let her go.
She wiped her eyes, stumbling across the stables and slave’s quarters on her way back to her family’s hut. Her skin felt tender and hot, and she was likely quite red, giving credence to her story. She thought of all the lives that would be snuffed out that day, and the following days, hundreds, thousands of slaves. Did the Royal Family really need all that blood to keep the sun from going out? She squinted at the reddish globe. Perhaps that was a lie, too, like the one about the slaves’ fate.
She knew should be angry at the Royal Family, but that too was useless, she was to them as an ant on the ground was to her. The small had no influence on the large. One lazy move by the human, and the ant would be wiped out forever.
All that burned within her, creating a furnace like that of Lillit’s great temple.
One of the passing slaves dropped a load of bundled grass intended for the goats. Without thinking of what she was doing, Saffla picked up a stone and threw it at him. It bounced off his shoulder and he yelped.
“Stupid slave,” she said, and averted her eyes.
END