farther below, and the main road curved down to the right toward the shore. A pretty, narrow path headed in roughly the same direction, and Gaia took that instead, winding past a dozen small, tidy, welcoming cabins, where children played in the yards and pumped on swings that hung from the trees.
A voice was singing, and a man was pinning laundry on a line. The matina bell sounded, and everyone paused wherever they were, even the children, touching their hands to their hearts. Their contentment was almost palpable, and Gaia waited politely, motionless herself until they resumed their activities. Even though the homes and lush terrain were vastly different from those in Wharfton, the neighborhood reminded her of home. Her parents, she knew, would have liked it here.
The path dipped, leaving the cabins behind, and the rich, mottled greens of the woods enveloped her. She ran her fingers through a bed of tall, delicate ferns and peered ahead to where the blue and green of the marsh beckoned between the tree trunks. Newly careworn about Peony, Gaia felt how easy it would be to slide into loneliness for her parents and her sister and Leon, but she focused on the gentle, powerful beauty of the forest, and she breathed deeply, filling the tiny, empty pockets of her lungs with the fragrant smell of pines and shade. Itâs possible, just possible , she thought, that I could grow to love it here .
A moment later, the path took a last turn and opened onto a ledge that overlooked the prison. To the left, farther below, fishermen were working and canoes were pulled up on the long, curving beach. Beyond, in the marsh, a wind rippled through the fluid expanse of the black rice slue, bending back each individual stem in a fleeting wave. The first island rose out of the flatness like a very small, green-topped hat. Hope lifted within her.
âMaya,â she said. âIâm coming.â
A clanking noise drew her gaze to the prison. Just below her, in a dirt yard surrounded by a tall, spiked fence, gray-clad men waited in line for bowls of steaming food. A hint of smoke from the fire below the big cook pot drifted to where she stood,
and she sneezed. There were seventy or eighty crims, many chained by their ankles in pairs. Two men worked the ladles, and she was near enough to hear voices as they passed bowls and spoke a word or two to each man. Black-sashed guards armed with short cudgels and swords occupied a station near the gate, and other guards stood by the entrance to the barracks.
The path to the beach sloped nearer to the prison fence. Uncomfortable, feeling oddly exposed, she put on her hat again, crossed her arms and tried to pass at a normal, unhurried pace that wouldnât draw attention.
âMalachai! You want to finish the pot?â called one of the cooks.
A few laughs rose from the prison yard, and then several shouts of Malachaiâs name. On the far side of the yard, a black-bearded giant of a man stood beside a row of seated crims, and he turned to say something that Gaia couldnât hear. More men laughed this time, and when the tall man, Malachai, shifted his weight, she saw he was chained to a smaller man who sat on the bench. The implication was obvious: Malachai couldnât get seconds because his chainmate wouldnât move. Or couldnât. Malachai crossed his massive arms and leaned his shoulders back against the fence.
Malachaiâs chainmate was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his forehead on one fist, his other hand holding a bowl. He straightened and sat back, passing his bowl to Malachai, and then he leaned his head back against the fence and closed his eyes.
Gaia came to a stop, staring at him, at his black beard and the distinct lines of his nose and eyebrows, disbelieving. It canât be.
âHey, girly!â A jolly shout came from one of the crims.
Gaia hardly heard it. She took a step nearer. A mix of hope and horror was rising in her.
âHey!
A voice was singing, and a man was pinning laundry on a line. The matina bell sounded, and everyone paused wherever they were, even the children, touching their hands to their hearts. Their contentment was almost palpable, and Gaia waited politely, motionless herself until they resumed their activities. Even though the homes and lush terrain were vastly different from those in Wharfton, the neighborhood reminded her of home. Her parents, she knew, would have liked it here.
The path dipped, leaving the cabins behind, and the rich, mottled greens of the woods enveloped her. She ran her fingers through a bed of tall, delicate ferns and peered ahead to where the blue and green of the marsh beckoned between the tree trunks. Newly careworn about Peony, Gaia felt how easy it would be to slide into loneliness for her parents and her sister and Leon, but she focused on the gentle, powerful beauty of the forest, and she breathed deeply, filling the tiny, empty pockets of her lungs with the fragrant smell of pines and shade. Itâs possible, just possible , she thought, that I could grow to love it here .
A moment later, the path took a last turn and opened onto a ledge that overlooked the prison. To the left, farther below, fishermen were working and canoes were pulled up on the long, curving beach. Beyond, in the marsh, a wind rippled through the fluid expanse of the black rice slue, bending back each individual stem in a fleeting wave. The first island rose out of the flatness like a very small, green-topped hat. Hope lifted within her.
âMaya,â she said. âIâm coming.â
A clanking noise drew her gaze to the prison. Just below her, in a dirt yard surrounded by a tall, spiked fence, gray-clad men waited in line for bowls of steaming food. A hint of smoke from the fire below the big cook pot drifted to where she stood,
and she sneezed. There were seventy or eighty crims, many chained by their ankles in pairs. Two men worked the ladles, and she was near enough to hear voices as they passed bowls and spoke a word or two to each man. Black-sashed guards armed with short cudgels and swords occupied a station near the gate, and other guards stood by the entrance to the barracks.
The path to the beach sloped nearer to the prison fence. Uncomfortable, feeling oddly exposed, she put on her hat again, crossed her arms and tried to pass at a normal, unhurried pace that wouldnât draw attention.
âMalachai! You want to finish the pot?â called one of the cooks.
A few laughs rose from the prison yard, and then several shouts of Malachaiâs name. On the far side of the yard, a black-bearded giant of a man stood beside a row of seated crims, and he turned to say something that Gaia couldnât hear. More men laughed this time, and when the tall man, Malachai, shifted his weight, she saw he was chained to a smaller man who sat on the bench. The implication was obvious: Malachai couldnât get seconds because his chainmate wouldnât move. Or couldnât. Malachai crossed his massive arms and leaned his shoulders back against the fence.
Malachaiâs chainmate was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his forehead on one fist, his other hand holding a bowl. He straightened and sat back, passing his bowl to Malachai, and then he leaned his head back against the fence and closed his eyes.
Gaia came to a stop, staring at him, at his black beard and the distinct lines of his nose and eyebrows, disbelieving. It canât be.
âHey, girly!â A jolly shout came from one of the crims.
Gaia hardly heard it. She took a step nearer. A mix of hope and horror was rising in her.
âHey!
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