My mother kept her word.

That morning, when the faya from Amaria came to see his new addition, my mother was already kneeling in front of the koliba. In quiet words, she told faya that a boy had been born with extensive deformities on his body, including his face and sex, so he would not be able to have children. She must have been afraid. I can't even imagine how much she must have been shaking as she told the biggest lie of her life. After all, she was lying to the faya himself! Still, she managed to sound persuasive and gave him no reason to doubt.

My father just smirked and spat in front of my mother. Not only he didn’t look under the fabric which covered me, he didn’t look at me at all. He did not verify the truth of his mother's statement. After all, he had no reason to because my mother had bequeathed me to an early death.

"So he'll go to the mines," he snapped in disgust, half turned away. He was holding an embroidered handkerchief under his nose and his face was flushed with lack of air as he tried to avoid the stench of the ghetto.

"Yes, sir," mother agreed with mock humility. Everyone in our ghetto knew how much she hated him. "I'm sure he'll be happy to do that for you."

That was all, the two people who had a child together, said to each other. Just a few sentences. I wasn't worth more. Immediately after that, my father left and did not visit my mother or call her to his palatul for several years. The Amarian regent was never a father to me. I always thought of him as just a faya, an intruder and a tyrant.

The law in the sclenite cities allowed a faya to take up to ten wives, and my mother was the very tenth. Yet we lived in poverty and starved.

The faya's first wife came from a good family in the lowlands. The children they produced together had the right to inherit from the faya and claim the title of Amarian regent. This woman enjoyed all the privileges that her primacy granted her. She was the mistress of the largest and most luxurious palatul in Amaria. In the faya's absence, the title of regent and all powers devolved to her. And the Lady of Amaria ruled with a ruthless hand. She hated the glaziers as much as one could hate. When the faya left, the senseless executions of glaziers increased. Rumor has it that she would wipe us out if she had the chance. That’s how much she hated us. Fortunately, the faya didn't leave Amaria very often.

The second and third wives had less rights. They were subordinate to the first woman and took orders from her. However, the faya hated discord among his wives, so they all tried to get along with each other. The sons of the second and third wives could join the army and be commanders. Their daughters had a good chance of a good marriage. If they were really beautiful, they could even become the first wife of another faya. A second and third wife could accompany their man into company and stand by his side.

The fourth, fifth, and sixth women managed the operation of the entire palatul. They supervised the servants, made sure everything was clean, beds made, a rich dinner on time, and in case the faya had a visitor, they made sure they were comfortable. These women fired and hired servants and paid them. Their sons could also join the army but could not command anyone, and their daughters hardly married into better families.

The faya's seventh wife was in charge of the population of the glaziers in our ghetto. Every month she checked how many babies were born and in what condition. In order to please the regent, she carefully wrote down everything. If the faya was not satisfied with the situation, the executions followed. To force us to increase the number of glaziers, he killed the oldest ones. The children of the faya's seventh wife had the same options as the children of the previous three.

The eighth and ninth wives shared the work of the house with the servants, and their children held the work as well.

The tenth woman could only see the faya occasionally. Most of the time, it was a woman from a very low social strata who attracted his attention with her striking beauty. Such a woman had no access to the palatul. She could not address the faya in public. When her beauty faded and the faya lost interest, she usually ended up poor and helpless. Her children had to work hard. In reality, this woman couldn't even be called the faya's wife. But never before has a glazier become the tenth woman.

Heda, my mother, was born pure and fertile. Over the years, she hasn't developed any of the glazier's diseases. She was perfectly healthy and perfect. And beautiful to top it off. She had long, light brown hair, fair skin, a beautiful figure, and eyes as gray as the sky before a storm, which gave her face a determined look. She had been observed for years. The faya of Amaria noticed her when they were about to take her to one of the burrows. She was only fifteen years old at the time and almost a child. However, the faya, who liked to tame other beings including humans, became so intrigued that he broke all accepted rules and married her. After all, he was the faya of the largest sclenite-making city! He could do anything. He wanted to know what would happen when someone as perfect as him, someone who regularly took lutomine, fathered a child with a glazier. And his curiosity was soon to be satisfied.

After nine months, the mother gave birth to a healthy boy whom she named Odon. He also showed no defects over the following years. Even though the mother was the faya’s woman, she was still a glazier, so she continued to live in the ghetto in one of the many kolibas. But she didn't have to wear a mantle, a voal or a blue ribbon. She got at least one privilege with her marriage.

In five years, Odon was taken from her. The guards took him to the palatul and handed him over to strangers to be raised. It was a comfort to his mother that he could drink clean water, get food three times a day and meat at least twice a week. His mother had the opportunity to see him once a month. It was on the same day that the faya called her to the palatul to fulfill her marital duties. No one cared how much she suffered every time she passed Odon back into other people's hands. No one showed mercy when Odon called after her, refusing to leave her side. But the worst day for the mother came when he stopped fighting back. The next time he even refused her visit. Mother stood at the back door all day in vain. It wasn't long before Odon disappeared from her life completely. He rejected the glaziers, joined the army, wore the blue ribbon, and fought for the people of the lowlands. It was an insurmountable pain for the mother. Even though she knew he was doing well and enjoying good health, she couldn't forgive him for being ashamed of his origins.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Although the mother had received a larger ration of food since Odon's birth, she grew to hate the faya more and more. After Odon came other sons. First it was Fedor and three years later Gedeon. Unfortunately, neither of them were nearly as perfect as their mother's firstborn. Fedor's face was scarred from birth and his hair never grew. The deformities on his body were extensive. Neither of them could have children. The faya was furious. He callously let the seventh wife perform her duty and write the names of my brothers in her great book, sealing their fate.

"They treat us like we're not even human," mother often swore, spitting in the direction of the palatul when she made sure no one could see her.

Fedor was fifteen years older than me. He went to work in the mines at the age of ten, without his mother being able to intervene in any way. Gedeon met the same fate. The mother could only watch as she sent her own children to their deaths.

I was born by accident when faya got drunk and remembered his mother in a drunken state. My mother never told me about that shameful moment, but the important thing was that I was born in a few months. I was healthy and my mother was better prepared after the harsh experience.

She named me Ilan.

As the fourth son of the tenth wife of the faya from Amaria, I had no privileges and my life was directed towards working in the mines. Everything was pre-planned. The seventh woman took note of me like any other glazier child in the ghetto, she carefully wrote down all my defects that my mother had listed to her and assigned me to the munts, I would work in the mines from the age of ten. Just like my two brothers. Only a few insiders, including my aunt Arleta, knew the truth. But the mother was sure of their silence.

And so I started wearing a mantle and a voal.

As a child I hated them and tried to pull the voal off every time my mother wasn't looking. I hated the hard leather mask I had to pull over my head every day. I got angry every time I had to lift the little flap covering my mouth. When I tried to shove some food into the small hole under it, half of the meager food fell out. I tripped over the suit, and on hot days I couldn't breathe in it, so I kept trying to wriggle out of it. Everyone watched me all the more anxiously.

As I grew up, my mother looked for some gift that I was supposed to have. She refused to accept the idea that I was born healthy just by accident. She was following me. Every night she would rub my body with an extract of terelia leaves, which grew abundantly in the ghettos. She examined me carefully and kept asking about my feelings.

Her questions gradually started to bother me. I even retorted grumpily at times. In the end, however, the gift did manifest. Unfortunately, this happy and much-anticipated news was overshadowed by a sad event.

That day, Fedor returned from the mines supported by Gedeon, three years younger. He was so exhausted he could barely move his legs. He fell into his mother's arms between the doors. She dragged him to the bed with her younger son and cried out in horror as she removed his robe. His emaciated body was full of bloody sores. Finally, she brought a bowl of water, poured terelia leaves into it, and began to wash my brother's wounds. She did it like this for both of her sons every day to relieve their pain at least a little. That evening, however, she paid extra attention to my brother. Her movements were slow. She barely touched Fedor. Mother's face that evening looked more ashen and my brother's body more miserable than I had ever seen. I stood over them, afraid to breathe.

Even though Fedor was only twenty years old, he did not last as long as the others. He was born too weak. He never really grew up. I sat by his head and applied cold compresses to his hot forehead. Fedor was hallucinating and whispering, but I didn't understand a single word. He held my hand and looked at me occasionally.

"It will be fine, my dear. It'll be over soon," whispered my mother in a trembling voice.

I whimpered but didn't cry. Mother didn't wish for it.

In the morning, my mother couldn't take it anymore. Fedor was dying and it was necessary to decide how he would leave this world. Either in pain or in peace. And despite the difficulty of the choice, the mother made the decision.

"Get the pasarela," she ordered Gedeon sternly.

I noticed how my brother winced. Pasarelas were among the gifted glazers. But such a gift rarely appeared. They were healers, though today their gift was used for those who had lost their battle for life. In the original language it meant footbridge. Pasarelas transported the dying and relieved their pain. But I've never seen one before. We've never needed her before.

When I realized what my mother had in mind, I started to cry.

"Maybe he'll recover!" Gedeon argued. "Give him a little more time!"

"Gedeon," Mother sighed exhaustedly. “Do you think I would do that if I believed there was hope? Do you think I would let my own son die? Do you really think that?'

She and Gideon looked into each other's eyes for a long time, then the brother lowered his head and went to look for the pasarela.

I gritted my teeth and tried to hold back sobs. Fedor no longer noticed. His body wracked with pain and glistened with sweat. Dark blood poured from his wounds and the smell of pus filled the room.

The pasarela placed an oval clear stone on Fedor's body. My mother stood over her while I pressed myself against her feet. Gedeon was sitting on the ground with his face resting on his forearm. He let out an occasional sob and shivered too, but he tried not to distract the healer as she worked. He himself finally admitted that there was no other option.

The pasarela's hands wrapped around the strange stone and hot air filled the koliba. In a moment, the blood from the wounds stopped flowing, the tension in Fedor's face eased, and his breathing calmed.

"He's healed," I whispered excitedly. Unfortunately, the pasarela quickly robbed me of my enthusiasm:

"He's not healed, Ilan," she croaked. "Even I can't do this. This is a viata,” she pointed to the stone resting on her brother's chest. "It's a clear sclenite. None of those monsters know we have it. Otherwise they would have taken it from us. It is a perfect stone. Through the viata, I can remove the pain from the body caused by the sclenite. I can heal something too. But not such big injuries. I cannot stop the dying, on the contrary, I will speed it up. But at least the dying person has a chance to say goodbye.”

"How long?" asked the mother in a trembling voice.

The healer shrugged. "Few hours. He will die in the morning. Before noon at the latest. He won't last any longer.”

She took one last look at the one she had condemned to death, turned and left us alone. We all huddled around Fedor and waited. After a while his eyes opened and he smiled slightly.

"It'll be better this way," he whispered. He knew he was dying. He knew there was a pasarela and that she took the pain away along with the few hours of his life. That's when I realized how much I hate mines. How I hate faya and this whole town. And that most of all I hate the lowlanders who did this to us.

My brother and I huddled together and I fell asleep for a while on his warm shoulder. I wanted to at least feel his warmth before he left me forever.

It was just dawn when I was awakened by a strange sound. Like a woman singing in a high voice and not needing to breathe. A lengthened note floated through the air, invisible and elusive, and then it grew louder. I jerked up and met my mother's gaze. Her eyes were red and glassy. She held Fedor's hand, pressed it to her cheek, and kissed the tips of his undeveloped fingers.

"Do you hear it?" I whispered into the gloom.

"What?" asked the mother listlessly.

"Singing," I replied, looking around hoping to see whose voice it was. "Beautiful singing."

At that moment, the morning calm was broken by the sharp sound of curpulas. Long whistles hung on the ramparts announced that the glass shield had been breached and that the damaged turnul had to be replaced immediately.

"She can hear it, mother," a faint voice reached me. "She can hear the retea!"

I looked down to see my brother smiling. He looked so happy. My eyes found my mother’s, but she wasn't looking at me. She was looking at her son, tears streaming down her gaunt cheeks. Those words cost Fedor his last breath. A faint smile still played on his chapped lips.

Only a single moan came out of my mother's mouth, but it was so loud that I shuddered. She put all her pain from losing her son into one single cry. The son she couldn't protect and didn't give a better life to. The son she loved.