“Then what happened? Was the girl okay?”

“Well, not really. She had just lost her parents, you know. And these men would sell her to a rich man, who would make her work in his manor as a slave. It would be too much for any ordinary ten-year-old. But this girl was stubborn as a mule and didn’t give in so easily. She grieved, of course, but privately. And though she wished she could, she couldn’t forget the events of that day.”

***

Dana hid a yawn as she dipped the hard-bristled brush back into the soapy water. She forced herself not to think about the nightmare she’d had—the memory she’d relived—again the previous night. She touched her chest, where the talisman hung safely, tucked under her tunic. Then she glowered at the wet, soapy, smooth granite floor in front of her. They were making her scrub every hallway and entryway of the entire manor house. And the manor house was huge! Three stories tall and as wide and long as the main square back home, with dozens of rooms and corridors that Dana got lost in the first few times she’d traversed them. They were always giving her the hard work, Dana grumbled. Ever since they realized she really could lift a full bucket of water and carry it from the well out by the stables all the way to the kitchen without spilling a single drop. But, she thought, squinting in the glare from the skylight high above her, at least she didn’t have to work outside today. It was summertime and the sun was hot. It was cooler surrounded by granite walls, kneeling in puddles.

But it was still hard. Dana had been scrubbing for three hours, and that was just the main entryway. Her hands were raw and pruny, her knees hurt from kneeling on the hard stone floor. And her stomach hurt. They hadn’t given her any lunch. Again. Dana stretched her legs out, supporting her weight on her elbows, and tried to keep scrubbing. But the floor was so cool, and just a few seconds’ rest wouldn’t hurt, right? Just a few seconds…

A sharp pain in her ribs jarred her awake. “What d’ya think you’re doin’, brat, sleepin’ on the job again?”

“Huh?” Dana squinted up through half-closed eyes and lifted her head. Water dripped off her cheek. Her whole front was damp and her dark, tangled hair stuck to her face. A rough hand closed around her upper arm and yanked her to her feet.

“A good lickin’ will do ya good!”

“What? No! It won’t happen again. Don’t take me there!” Dana kicked at his shins and tried to bite his hand. He shook her, snarling in her face.

“Shut your whining, abaist,” he growled. Dana cringed at the terrible nickname. She was not a brat! “Ya do what you’re told, and that’s that. Ya don’t work, ya get punished. This was your last chance. Ya hear?” Then he dragged her toward the stairs.

“No! No!” Dana got a lucky hit on his arm and felt a vindictive sense of pleasure. He cursed at her and tossed her over his shoulder with ease.

“That’ll be one more lickin’ for you,” he sneered. “Should teach ya not to defy your betters.”

“Put me down! I can walk,” she protested, hitting his back with her fists. She swallowed the dread, forced it back hard. The taskmaster—Dana called him corach in her head, because he was so mean—didn’t respond, but she felt him chuckle meanly.

He carried her out into the burning sunlight and past the stable full of neighing horses and buzzing flies. The grass—which was virtually all Dana could see, carried upside-down like a sack of the potatoes she often skinned and chopped in the kitchen—was brown and prickly. Dana knew they’d reached the barn when the smell of unwashed animals, manure, and the slop trough of rotting food reached her nose.

On the side facing the well, the taskmaster all but threw her against the wall, though at least he flipped her upright, and shoved her face-first against the rough wood. Then he tied her hands to the rough cords hanging from the slats cut to let the light into the barn. Dana gave up protesting. She set her jaw and tried not to let her face betray her fear. She knew what was coming; she’d seen others tied here before, though she never had been. A few other slaves were gathering; Dana could hear them murmuring, and a few were jeering. Mostly the Llyr, the ones that were servants rather than slaves. Her shouts had drawn their attention. She bit her lip, trying to stop its trembling, and tried to blink away the burning in her eyes.

Dana heard the snap of a leather strap and cringed. Her arms already ached from being tied above her head. The murmurs grew louder. The whip snapped and whistled through the air again, and she flinched before it even touched her skin. Suddenly her back was burning, like fire, and she couldn’t hold back a cry of pain. The sound came again. Whistle. Crack. Dana gasped sharply and her body started to shake. Whistle. Crack. She bit her lip harder, almost drawing blood, but hot tears still burned her cheeks. She pled for it to stop, but silently. Dana refused to let another sound escape her lips. Crack. Her whole body shook and her knees threatened to give way. Crack.

“The brat won’t be makin’ any more trouble now. Right, sweetheart?” the taskmaster sneered. Dana trembled. Someone cut her free and she fell to the ground in a heap. Her legs shook too badly to hold her weight. Her vision blurred, occasionally going black. It was a licking, all right—licking flames all across her torn back, like the ones that still haunted her nightmares. Another sharp pain in her ribs from his heavy boot gave Dana just enough lucidity to spit in his face. He cursed, then snapped, “Get her outta here.”

Someone grabbed her arm and half-dragged her across the yard. A wooden door scraped open and she was tossed inside. She hit the ground hard and bit clean through her lip. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth.

“No less than ya deserve, abaist,” a male voice said gruffly. There was a scrape and a thud and Dana was left in darkness.

Shivering despite the hot, stale air inside the storage shed, she struggled to sit. Dana spat the blood out of her mouth and forced the tears to stop. She was eleven. That was too old to cry, even—no, especially—when it hurt. Blood ran down her back like hot, wet ash from the fiery lines crisscrossing her skin. She swallowed hard and lay on her stomach amidst the barrels of pickled fish and dried corn, wishing it would all go away.

Dana dozed fitfully until dark, always waking, still alone, to pain. Finally, after sunset, she slipped into an uneasy sleep.

The next morning an unpleasantly familiar voice and an even more unpleasant kick to her already-sore ribs jerked her from sleep. That was all they needed, apparently, to tell her they wanted her to work. The soft voice from the previous night was nowhere to be heard. Stumbling, aching, her stomach about given up on growling, Dana worked, grumbling and cursing under her breath, even when her vision blurred and more than once she almost fainted. Indoors and out, in the barn and stables and in the kitchens and in the manor house itself. But the whole time she was plotting. She had had enough. She wasn’t going to stick around anymore. She hated them. Hated them almost as much as she hated the soldier with the red sash that had killed Mama and Papa. She was getting out. As soon as possible, she was leaving. For good.

***

A pack—painstakingly, shoddily but securely sewn at night over the course of many months from an old blanket—was hidden behind the storage shed where they always threw her after a whipping. A bow, stolen from the training grounds, and two dozen arrows, bound together by a scrap of cloth after being stolen one by one, were concealed behind the barn door that was stuck open. A big knife from the kitchen, wrapped in cloth, was belted around her waist, under a loose-fitting tunic. It had cost Dana two lashings and a dozen new scars. And it had taken more than six months to gather it all. But it was worth it. All that was left was to wait for the hour before dawn, when everything was quiet and even the guards were drowsy and inattentive.

Dana lay as still as she could under her blankets, feigning sleep, but her heart was pounding. She was sure the other girl, a fellow slave who shared her “room” in the cellar off the kitchens, could hear it. And if she was found out...Dana shuddered at what might happen to her. She’d definitely be turned in if they caught her. The woman who slept in the corner of the cellar behind the ripped cloth that served as a curtain had pitied her at first, especially after her first whipping. Eight months ago. But not anymore. Now she, and everyone else, resented her because she kept getting into trouble, which made trouble for them. It didn’t matter that they were all slaves—the others were Llyr, and she was Shea, and no one in Llyr tolerated a Shea.

But none of that mattered. Dana didn’t care. She was getting out, and what they thought or said didn’t matter anymore. She was going to do something no one else had ever done before. One person had tried, during the two and a half years she’d been there. But he’d been caught and severely punished. She’d heard he almost died. He hadn’t tried again, though the rumors said he’d tried to escape to be with his young family. From the rumors and stories she’d heard, Dana thought he was from the Halwyn clan.

No one else had dared try to escape, either—the example they’d made of him was a powerful one. Except Dana. She’d tried several times. But they always caught her before she got far. Though, because she was young, the punishment was lessened. But Dana was daring. It didn’t matter how many lickings she got, if it got her what she wanted. And she’d learned a little more with each failed attempt. They might hurt her, but never badly enough to kill her. And she now knew who to avoid, and what to bring. Dana may not have had anywhere to go after escaping, but anywhere would be better than here. Sure, she was young. But that made it even more likely she’d succeed—because they’d never expect her to try again, not after last time. She resisted the urge to run a finger over the thick scar on her collarbone that wrapped over her shoulder and across her back.

Dana only got a few minutes’ sleep the whole night. But finally, it was time. She could feel it. She rolled over and quietly got to her feet, bundling her blanket up against her chest. It wasn’t much, but the nights would be getting colder soon. Then she opened the lock on the cellar door that was supposed to keep them from escaping. She’d learned to pick the lock with a needle stolen from the laundry ages ago and had been quite proud of herself. Then, moving with stealth retained from a childhood hunting and sneaking through the woods, Dana slipped out of the cellar, carefully closing (and locking) the door behind her.

She crept through the darkened, silent kitchens to the back door. Holding her breath, she eased it open, wincing at every tiny creak or scrape it made against the flagstones. When it was just open enough, Dana squeezed out. For once she was glad she was so skinny. Then she eased the door shut again, wincing again as it thudded back into his frame.

The night was dark; the only light came from the stars and the half moon. The air was cool, and the only sound to be heard were the night insects and the light breeze through the trees. The vast gardens, the muddy sparring field, the manor house—it was all dark and quiet. She retrieved the pack from the shed first. Then, as quickly and as quietly as she could, she retrieved the stolen bow and arrows.

Slinging the bow and bundle of arrows over her shoulder, she stole across the grounds. It went against every instinct she had to move so slowly across open ground, but she made herself do it. The outbuildings stopped only a few hundred yards from the manor, which rose dark and imposing behind her. The forest started a quarter mile from there, on the side opposite the small village. It was just like hunting, Dana told herself every time she was tempted to run. Slow, quiet. Don’t startle the prey. She tried not to think about the fact that, this time, she was the prey. Her heart pounded so hard she was positive it was audible across the yard, to the dozing taskmaster near the training ground, or the guard by the latrines. She hardly dared to breathe.

Finally, finally, she reached the tree line. Dana walked a few more steps, until she was sure the shadows of the trees and the darkness of the night would conceal her, then she broke into a jog, then a run. Then she was sprinting, her wild black hair flying behind her with the wind of her own passage. An exhilarated grin spread across her face. She barely stifled the triumphant laughter that bubbled up in her chest. She felt like she could fly. Free. She was free! It didn’t matter that her pack bounced painfully against the scabs of her most recent whipping, or that before long her lungs and her legs burned from exertion, or that her stomach was as empty as it had ever been. Dana was free.

***

That glorious freedom quickly turned into a struggle for survival. Before she knew it, Dana had eaten all the food she’d brought. She had no idea what these woods were like. They were different from the ones back home. She didn’t even know where she was. Only that she was somewhere in Llyr, and there was a river nearby. And after sinking into sticky, stinky mud up to the waist, Dana learned to avoid the suspiciously green areas that smelled like the latrines she’d had to clean too many times. And the berries were poisonous. After nearly a week lying almost helpless in the grass after eating a few handfuls of them, with horrible cramps or stiff limbs or worse, Dana stopped trying to eat them except when she was desperate.

She tried hunting, but it was only after she’d killed and skinned the rabbit and her mouth was watering that she realized she couldn’t make a fire to cook it. Papa had shown her how, by rubbing sticks together. He’d said it might be important someday to learn. When she failed, Papa chuckled and said she wasn’t patient enough. Bitterly, Dana admitted to herself that maybe he was right. She tried a hundred or even a thousand times and she couldn’t do it. Not until the wolves came.

It was two weeks after her escape, two weeks of misery and sickness and hunger. At least this close to the river she had plenty of water. But she started to give up hope. It was just after dark. Dana had the pheasant she’d killed that afternoon beside her, propped on a stick and already gutted and plucked. Another stick in her hand, a larger one on the ground in front of her. Twisting and spinning the stick between her hands until they hurt, and not a hint of smoke. Dana gritted her teeth in frustration. Then she heard a twig crack somewhere behind her. She jumped and turned and saw a pair of glowing eyes. In the dimness she saw the long muzzle, the sharp teeth. Farther back in the darkness, there were more eyes, watching her. Desperately, she resumed twisting and rubbing and scraping the sticks together with renewed fervor, praying to any god that would listen to give her fire.

Suddenly, she smelled smoke! And heard a low growl. Panicking, Dana forced herself to take a deep breath and kept rubbing the sticks together, blowing lightly on the spot the smoke was coming from. Her hands shook and it was hard to breathe evenly. Then a spark! Suddenly the stick burst into flames. With the flaming torch in one hand and the big kitchen knife in the other, Dana turned to face the wolf—only to find herself facing four. They had reached the edge of her campsite. One eyed the pheasant, then Dana—the tall, skinny girl with fire in one hand and steel in the other. The others snarled at her. But her nerves had calmed. She had fire, and if there was one thing every animal was afraid of, it was fire. She took a step closer, extended the burning stick, the firelight flickering in the first wolf’s glowing, golden eyes and on its greyish fur.

Dana met those golden eyes with defiance, and looked at each one in turn. Mine, she told them. This is mine, and you can’t have it or me. The first wolf, the pack leader, growled in warning, and the others advanced. She stepped closer. Stood firm. Stared into his eyes and dared him to take another step. He started to, then Dana jumped and shouted and waved the torch in his face. He yelped but didn’t leave. Dana shouted again, waving the torch at the others. One of them advanced toward her again. Dana waved the torch at him. He yelped and fled, his muzzle smoking. The others followed, though she was certain one of them glared at her as it left.

Dana set the fizzling torch to the pile of kindling she’d already prepared. The dry wood crackled as it went up in flames, and Dana breathed for the first time since the wolves’ appearance. Her mouth watered as the pheasant began to sizzle. She allowed herself a smile. She’d eat well tonight.

For the rest of summer and into the autumn, Dana was quite content with her lot. She didn’t go hungry anymore, and after a few more confrontations, the wild animals that wanted to eat her—instead of the other way around—were avoiding her campsite by the river. She slept beside the fire, or in trees when it rained.

Then it got cold. Four months after her grand escape in early summer, the cold winds moved in off the mountains. After a few sleepless nights spent shivering, huddled by a flickering fire, wrapped in a blanket that was nothing more than a scrap of fabric by then, Dana determined to do something. She kept the hides from her kills, and tried to stitch them together. But they were all misshapen and rough, and they were tough. She broke one of the needles she’d stolen in one of them. But finally, she managed to stitch enough scraps together that they would cover her sitting or lying flat, and that kept her warm—well, warmer.

However, the winds grew colder, and sometimes she’d wake in the morning with the makeshift blanket covered in frost, and her breath would fog in the air in little clouds that told her just how cold it was. Then the snow came. Dana tried to build a shelter, but it never stayed up longer than one night, not with the wind and the freezing rain. And animals were scarce; they’d moved someplace warmer. She was slowly freezing. And starving.

Finally, after the snow started sticking to the carpet of autumn leaves and the skeletons of summer trees, Dana realized she had to start moving again. She wouldn’t survive long in the open in the cold. Dana followed the river upstream for a week or so, watching as the banks froze overnight and during the day chunks of ice would join the current. She gnawed on a few remaining strips of smoked pheasant and tough bark to keep from starving. Finally, she stumbled into a river town, a stop for merchants on their way to the port farther east. There wasn’t much, but there was a tavern, and a few shops, and a few houses.

For a week or so Dana tried to find someone who would let her work in exchange for food and shelter. But no one wanted a half-starved vagrant girl dressed in rags anywhere near their businesses, especially not one that had wandered in from the woods with scars on her wrists and dark hair from the Shea clan. For that same period, Dana got by staying out of sight and stealing food, and sneaking into shops and occasionally the tavern after dark to keep from freezing, but her luck had nearly run out.

It had been about two weeks since she came into town, at least as far as she could tell. Dana discovered the bakery, and the heap where the bakers threw out the day-old bread that hadn’t sold. For two days she feasted on slightly stale but still delicious coriander buns and honey pastries. No one even knew she was there. Dana got careless, and hungry. She tried to slip some of the pastries before the baker had finished throwing them out. He caught her, and dragged her through the icy mud path they called the main road to the tavern. The tavern owner caught one look at Dana, fingers and face sticky with honey and crumbs on her tattered tunic, a defiant expression on her sallow face, and tossed her into the basement. Apparently it was their version of a prison.

Dana spent several miserable days in an empty, cold, damp storage room, with nothing to cover her but the rags she wore, bound hand and food, and denied food but for a few scraps every night before the tavern keeper went to bed. Being starved was nothing new, though it was entirely unpleasant after being more or less able to eat whenever she pleased, and however much she wanted. But the cold and the damp…Dana thought it had been miserable out in the woods, but at least there she knew she didn’t have a choice. From the basement she could hear the noise from the tavern, the crackling fire, and occasionally she could smell the soups and breads they served. She knew what she was missing out on, and that made it harder to bear. At least the howling winds she heard at night couldn’t reach her.

On the fourth day—at least, it was the fourth time the burly man hired to keep the peace upstairs came down to Dana’s basement cell and mocked her with the smell of his dinner—she was suddenly and unexpectedly woken from a restless sleep and dragged upstairs. Cursing and biting, she tried to fight her way free. She’d make a break for it out the door. But the man was too strong. He wrenched her arms behind her back and held them with one huge hand. His other hand gripped her hair.

“This the one?” Dana looked up and saw a hooded man. The shoulders of his cloak were damp from the snow falling in earnest out the grimy tavern window. She couldn’t see his face in the shadow of his cowl, but from the way he tilted his head, she could tell he was studying her. His companion, similarly attired, gave a harsh laugh. Dana scowled.

“This tiny wench? She ain’t good for nothin’.”

“She’s got sticky fingers and a stubborn streak a mile wide. She needs taming,” Dana’s captor retorted, giving her a shake. Dana scowled at him and tried to bite his fingers. He cursed and the two hooded men laughed.

“I like a challenge. We’ll take her,” the second man said. His companion handed over a pouch that jingled as it changed hands. Then the first man grabbed Dana’s arm and yanked her forward, and she was led out into the swirling snow and tossed into the back of a wagon. From the light it looked like it was about midmorning, though the clouds were dark and it was hard to tell. It could have been late afternoon for all she knew. Then the back of the wagon was shut tight. Dana pounded on the door a few times, but the footsteps soon receded without paying her any mind, so she gave up, and she was left in freezing cold semidarkness—not much different from the basement room she’d been in before, except the floor was wood instead of dirt. And she wasn’t alone, she realized when she heard a sharp cough. A few murmurs told her that there were at least three other occupants.

“Where are they going to take me?” Dana demanded. She directed her gaze at the biggest of them, who sat curled into a tight ball in the corner but whose dark eyes seemed to notice everything.

“Wherever they see fit, lass. Better settle in. They ain’t leavin’ until the storm blows over, and that don’t look likely for another day.”

“While they stay in the inn?” Dana huffed. “Talk about unfair,” she muttered to herself.

“You’re a slave now, lass. There ain’t no such thing as fair.”

Dana huffed again and removed the needle she’d saved by tucking it into the hem of her sleeve. “No way are they taking me again,” she muttered to herself. “I’ve gotten too far to go back.”

With her skinny arms, she reached through the slats in the wood and set to work on the lock. It took longer than she’d expected, but after several minutes she heard it click. She waited to see if anyone had heard, but when all was silent Dana allowed herself a grim smile. She disconnected the lock then slowly pushed open the door.

“Where are you goin’ to go, lass?” the first slave whispered harshly.

“Away,” she answered. “You can’t come with me, but you’re welcome to escape.” With that, Dana slipped out of the wagon. With the speed the snow was falling, her footprints would be covered in minutes. She slipped away toward the road, then broke into a run. Her footsteps blended into the muddy slush that made up the road, invisible among all the others. As she drew farther away, she heard other footsteps. At least they weren’t stupid, she thought to herself.

As she’d done when she first escaped, Dana kept running for some time. The town wasn’t especially large, but it was one of a few in the area, she’d discovered, no more than a mile or two apart. She’d find somewhere to hide and wait out the storm, then she’d get far enough away that the slavers who’d bought her (Dana sneered the word in her head—she wasn’t property to be bought and sold at will) wouldn’t find her and lay low until spring, then she’d start moving again.

Next Chapter: Rescue?