Chapter 21

The door. The window. The door. The window again. Each as it had been before, neither moving nor changing. The square, blocky frame. The rough hewn sill. And a deep rut worn in the white sand floor between the two.

Kristin Gholla traced her path across the room once more, glancing out of the open doorway on the South side, then dragging her feet back to the East facing window. It was the hundredth time she had completed her desperate cycle in the past hour, and the weak shadows cast in the sand from far above the waves had drawn their own path across the coral wall. She clenched and unclenched her hands, palms tight and fingers stiff. A finger strayed to her drawn face to grind the redness further into her eyes. She held back a sniff, suppressed a shuddering sigh, wrung her hands and clasped them again at her waist, and spun on her heels to trace her path again.

The door, the window. There was nothing else to do.

As a girl, Kristin had gone with her mother and father to see the Banames in the large Namitan city square. The traveling entertainers had on display fire eaters, exotic dancing girls, jugglers, and flying acrobats, to the delight of all. Also with them were any number of fantastic animals brought from above the waves, in all manner of colors, shapes, and sizes: tropical birds and sleek jungle cats, majestic horses and unicorns, playful satsi and whiri, and even a baby yellow dragon. The young Kristin had been thrilled beyond imagination at the wonders she had seen; yet, one night while the Banames performers were laughing and dining with the rest of the city folk, she had crept away for another look at the animals.

Most of the circus animals slept as the girls watched, comfortable in their cages. The jungle cats were indifferent, the unicorns were too noble and proud to show concern, the satsi too stupid to realize they were captive. But the baby dragon had struggled against its cage. Its skin was just turning from pale green to yellow - it would molt one, perhaps two more times before reaching maturity - and the resonating horn on the back of its head was beginning to hollow, its voice changing from the throaty squeal of youth to the deep, echoing cry of an adult dragon. The creature had folded and unfolded its already massive wingspan, untested in its captivity. The linius and pituary glands inside its nostrils would not be able to produce fire for another year, and its slender forearms were of no use against the heavy wooden bars. So, with no other recourse, the creature had moved from one side of the cage to the other, tracing and retracing its steps until it dropped at last from exhaustion.

The door. The window. The door again.

Kristin and her husband had taken their daughter Kaly to see the Banames many years later. Kaly had been amazed by the performances and delighted by the marvelous animals; there had been a new baby dragon that year. And afterward, the memories of a little girl floated to the surface, and Kristin found herself standing once more in front of a caged dragon searching for its freedom. Unable to watch the torment any longer, and overcome by an unquenchable desire to help, she cut the lock from the cage and cried tears of happiness as the creature fled its captivity. It was only later that night when she heard the news: a dragon had escaped from its cage, found its way to one of the city doors, and drowned in the open sea. She had never spoken of the incident to anyone; not even her own husband knew that it was she who had caused the creature's death.

The square frame. The rough sill. Both of them the same.

As the grown woman paced her floor, she remembered the pacing dragon. Her husband gone to war, she felt the confines of her own cage press in upon her. She turned upon her heels, pressing the sand out into a narrow swath as she searched for a way to escape her confinement. But there could be no escape. She moved from the door to the window, looking for a way out, knowing the same fate that had befallen the dragon waited for her as well. No way to escape the bars, nowhere to flee; so she turned again and walked from the door to the window.

The worst part was not the war. In times of war, all brave men go to fight. Kristin had pleaded with her husband, had already shed her tears knowing that he might not return. There was a war, and Daran was a brave man: she had known from the beginning that he had to go, that he would not be the man she loved if he had chosen to stay behind. He had to go, and so he had gone. And Kristin had not left her house since, unable even for a moment to keep the trembling out of her every breath; she cried to the night and hid her face from her daughter. It was true that she might become a widow, but even worse was the possibility that Daran would return only to leave her.

Kristin had seen all the signs since that day in Namitan; she knew what they meant. She had seen other marriages fail, women and men alike, devastated by the loss of a spouse. Even in her own family, a cousin lost her husband several years before when he left for the South with a girl half his age. She had always convinced herself that she was different, that her marriage was stronger, that her own husband would never drift away. But that day in Namitan, he had found someone else. She had known at once; had seen it in his eyes, had heard it in his voice, had felt it when she made love to him that night. Her heart was empty. He was gone, and she died a little more with each passing day.

She had always been a good wife: what more could she have done? What more could she still do to keep him? With each turn of the floor, Kristin became more and more certain that her husband would leave her for another. Then what? Would he run away to the South? The house was his before their marriage: would he demand that she be the one to leave? And what of Kaly? Kristin knew her daughter had found someone as well, on the very same day. Though she had not spoken of it - could not bear to speak of it - she only held hope that the young girl's heart would not someday be crushed as had her own.

The door. The window. Stop. Kaly would soon return home from the reef.

Kristin could not face the girl. Her pacing finally ended, she looked down at the path worn into the floor. It was the same path as the day before, and the day before that; the same path would be there when the sun rose again the next day. The tired woman crossed the room, turned down a hallway, and shut the door to the sleeping chamber she was so used to sharing. As she stared blankly at the wall, the battle in her mind raged as fiercely as ever. The day was not yet ended - evening had not yet given over to dusk, but she resigned herself to another night alone. The chamber was too big, too empty, the bed too wide.

She removed her sandals, but was still otherwise clothed as she stretched herself out above the bed sheets. Her mind continued to pace as she struggled to find comfort. Her eyes would not close against the deepening twilight. She twisted her body, pulling the sheets and her own clothing into a hopeless tangled mess. The woman growled and fought, pulling the braided hjaba free from around her neck, trying to smooth the wrinkles from beneath the bare skin of her back: any battle was better than winless one she had been waging against herself since Daran left. Comfort would not come, and the helpless flailings of her arms and legs pushed her only further into aggravation. The skirt had bunched between her legs; she pulled at it, rolled once, twice; the bed sheets came loose at the corners. She forced the waistband passed her hips, rolled again. She fell, her face pushed into the white sand floor, knees bound together by twisted fabric. She choked back a sob.

A hand moved beneath Kristin's downturned body, slid between the sand and her smooth stomach.

"Daran..." she moaned into the floor. "Daran, why?"

The fingers found their target, began their simple motions, felt the wetness and the heat. Kristin shed her tears, coating her dampened eyelids with sand, biting down on the sand with her teeth, as she found the only emotional outlet left to her.

"Daran... God, Daran..."

Her moans shook not only with heartache, but also with passion. Of course she loved the man: he was her whole world, her whole life. And he had found another; he would return only to leave her. Perhaps it would be better if he did not return - if he were killed during the fighting. A great sob escaped her sand-caked lips as she silently cursed herself. Perhaps she should be the one to die: her life was about to end anyway. She bit down on the sand harder as her fingers moved faster.

"Why?"

Kristin's shaking breath turned to deep, quick draughts. Small granules of white sand and dust flew into her lungs as she panted into the floor. Her thighs struggled to separate against the binding skirt at her knees, and she penetrated herself with her fingers. Still trying to choke back her cries, she probed her own depths, cursing her heart for its continued beating. She longed for the ache to stop; she longed for the touch of her husband. In the empty room, she pleased and tortured herself as the sun sank out of sight and plunged the world into darkness.

"Daran... Why... Oh, Daran... Oh, oh..."

Despite her anguish, passion overcame her, and she loathed herself for it. The orgasm took her, shaking her body as she screamed into the sand. She choked, nearly swallowing a mouthful of the grainy chamber floor, her fingers driving her to exhaustion. She felt the wetness in the floor beneath her, smelled the scent of her own pheromones, thick in the air. Without stirring, without moving from her uncomfortable position, Kristin surrendered at last to sleep. And though she did not wake through the night, her dreams were fitful and unkind. And she could not help but wonder how many days of life she had left.

Many leagues to the North and West, a weary Bela Dain sagged against the heavy cuffs which bound her wrists. She stared at the blank wall of the dungeon, cut deep beneath the Levinigh palace, willing the rough blocks of stone to throw themselves apart and allow her exit. But she was the only creature that moved within the heavy stone walls. Every time she shifted her weight, the bone links in the chains would rattle and echo hollowly off the cold stone. Every time she coughed in the musty air, the sound would fold back on her at a lower pitch, as if the dungeon could suck happiness itself from the air. The only light came from high above, in a pale arc that did not reach the floor, and only during the day; in the blackness of night, even the tip of her own nose was all but invisible. Bela knew the small window was level with the ground outside - she knew because water and mud poured down on her every time it rained. That she could tell how far below ground she lay only served to further depress her spirit.

Bela coughed, and the walls coughed back at her, almost mocking.

She had not seen her sons in days - or was it weeks? - and her last memory of their blank faces had been from beneath the sweaty guard who raped her in front of them. In fact, the only human contact she had since her capture had been in the form of a daily raping. If the indignity of the forced penetrations had not been enough, she had been denied her contraceptive thorine extract for the term of her captivity as well. There was little doubt in her mind that half a year later she would give birth to the child of one of those guards; even less was her doubt about exactly how long that child would live. For all of this, she had long finished her weeping. Still, she longed to know what had become of her beloved Illian. He would not hold it against her, but she knew she would not be able to bear the pain in his eyes as he was forced to watch the spawn grow inside her womb.

From beyond the heavy door, the echoing sound of footsteps filled the room. Bela barely raised her eyes; she knew what was to come. Only one of the guards had forced himself upon her that day - normally it was three. The footsteps grew closer, and the sound of rattling bone came as a key fitted the lock. Her body prepared itself, protected itself, by producing lubrication between her legs; though Bela would have preferred to deny the hairy men any pleasure they would have from her, she was yet grateful at the end of each day that she was not left bleeding. She almost considered rolling onto her back and spreading her legs apart - anything to make the experience end as quickly as possible - but in the end, she remained motionless. Only her tired eyes lifted as the door swung noisily on its hinges. She sat upright and her heart skipped a beat.

"Illian!" she cried out in disbelief. At once, she was overcome, and tears streamed down her face. "Illian, my darling. But how? Oh, nevermind how. Just come here."

The silhouette of Illian Dain stood alone in the doorway, holding a bucket and a bundle of fabric. He did not move immediately.

"Come to me, my darling! I'd get up, but my hands are chained." Bela looked at her husband in confusion, her tears of joy choked back in waiting. "I'm chained to the wall. Do you have a key for these also?"

"Yes," came a voice. The voice had come from Illian's mouth, but it was not his voice. It was flat, strained.

"Oh, I'm so happy to see you! I love you so much! Why don't you come to me? Why do you just stand there?"

A moment of silence passed. "Why..." Bela breathed again.

"I have to wash you," said the voice. The face behind the voice was familiar, but the eyes were foreign.

"I know I'm not very clean... but can't that wait? Can't we get out of here first? Can't we go find the boys and get out of this place?"

"The boys are fine."

"Then why are we waiting here?"

Again, the silence. At last, the voice said, "I have to wash you." Illian walked forward, his sandals echoing off the stone floor. As the voice he used was not his own, neither was the blank expression on his face. The soldier-senator had been a man full of life, ready to laugh, quick to anger, quicker to forgive. So the void of expression he wore, pale and drawn in the cold stone depths, was as foreign to the man as the man was to the Levinigh dungeon itself; yet he wore it without blinking or flinching, without so much as betraying even a whisper of his former self.

Bela crawled backward along the wall, such as her chains would allow. The clanking echo of her halting movement mingled with the slosh of water that her husband bore upon her. She became suddenly aware of her nakedness.