Chapter 8: Lyralyn: Contact with Aelwyn

My fourth day of captivity begins when the first bell vibrates through the stone, low and heavy. I jolt awake on my straw mattress. My body aches everywhere ... arms, legs, back, even my fingers. But I get up. Because Aelwyn would. Because Mother would expect it. Because I cannot afford to be weak here.

I dress and go to relieve myself in the latrines down the passage. My burlap uniform scratches my skin. My hair is tangled. My eyes burn. I would love to bathe, but dwarves seem reluctant to wash themselves or their clothes.

The corridor alongside my alcove is already alive with movement. As usual servants hurry past carrying sacks of grain, bundles of firewood, and buckets of water. They barely glance at me. I am just another kitchen maid.

Thanks to the tinkling of the bell on my iron collar, Brunna spots me as soon as I enter the kitchen.

“You. Stir the stew.”

I climb onto the stool and grip the wooden paddle with both hands. The stew is thick and heavy, resisting every movement. My arms ache a little less today. The muscles in my arms are getting stronger.

A clang startles me. A pot hits the floor. A collared servant ... thin, pale, exhausted ... scrambles to pick it up. A dwarf shouts at him, but not cruelly. More ... impatiently. As if he expects competence, rather than blind obedience.

There are more collared servants here than I realized. A few are humans. Most are dwarves of defeated clans ... clan wars over mining rights are common. To my horror, more elves have arrived today ... collared and belled like me. Struggling in their new captivity like I was when I arrived. I watch them ... moving quietly, heads down, hands busy. The dwarves wear leather aprons ... the elves wear plain grey uniforms like me. The collared dwarves eyes occasionally flick toward me with a mixture of fear and curiosity. We are all captives. Just in different ways.