“Time has come for me to agree to your mating,” Orak said. “You are old enough. You will be sixteen soon, old enough to be mated.”

Ziva sat in a comfortable chair in Orak’s study, invited here only when he had serious things to say to her. She gazed at his desk. His mahogany colored hand lay on top, in contrast to the light birch. She reached over and set her small pink hand on his.

She had been waiting for this day since she was a little girl. She had dreamed of the man Orak would give her to, hoping he would find a kind man who would love her as much as her father did.

Ziva waited for Orak to speak. As the silence extended, she began to fear. If he couldn’t bring himself to talk about it, it must be bad.

After several attempts to speak and multiple clearing of his throat, Orak finally managed to speak. “Qinten has asked that I give you to him as his mate.”

“Qinten?” she squealed. “I would rather mate with almost any other man.”

Orak gazed into her eyes. “I know, Ziva. I’d rather agree to your mating with any other man than Qinten.”

“Then, why? Why do you even consider Qinten?”

“Things have … well, things have happened.” He pulled his hands back and stared at his fingernails.

“What things have happened? What would force you to expect me to mate with that pond scum?” Ziva’s voice raised in both volume and pitch with each word. “Of all men, Qinten. Ugh.” She worked to regain control of herself.

“You remember why we went to the festival last week?”

Ziva nodded, beginning to fear for her father.

“He threatened me. If you don’t mate with him, he’ll—”

“He’ll ruin you,” she whispered. “You want me to give myself to him to protect you and your business.”

“If he ruins me, good men and women will no longer have a means to live. There are many men and women in my employment. If I lose my businesses, if I lose my place, they lose everything, as well. I have little choice.” He hung his head, staring at his desk.

“Is there no way out? Can you not argue with him? Is there no other answer?” In her anger and frustration, Ziva wept.

Orak came around the desk to lay a hand on her shoulder. “None that I have been able to find. I have been searching for a way out of this for weeks since he demanded your hand.”

“When was that?”

“After the party at Roven’s.”

“And you agreed I would be his mate?”

“No. Not yet. Yesterday, he gave me a week to decide, after I told him there was no way I would give my daughter to him as his mate.”

“Good for you, Father. Show him you have a backbone. How did he threaten you?” Ziva wiped the tears from her face.

Orak returned to his seat behind his desk. “His threat was subtle, hanging between us. If I don’t give you to him, he will destroy me.”

“Why would he want me? I am different from most women in Nod. None are as pale as me, most have beautiful dark skin. What about me entices him?”

“You are beautiful, my dear. Beautiful and exotic. Your light skin sets you apart from others in Nod. Qinten is looking for someone to help him move up, to become a high priest in his cult. He is seeking a beautiful exotic wife. You.” Orak’s eyes filled with pride, immediately followed by sorrow.

“Exotic? Me? No.” Ziva raised her hands in front of her, palms out, as though to push the thought away.

“You are an exotic beauty. I don’t want you to be his mate. I have heard he is an angry, depraved man. He will not care for you as I always have. He may be cruel. I have heard stories. But what can I do? What can we do?”

“He is a vile, wicked man. I want no part of him. Can you put him off, insist he not announce anything for at least — what? —six months, a year?”

“I can try but under what pretext? And for what purpose?”

“To discover a way to escape his trap!” Ziva wanted to shout at her father.

“We must come up with a good excuse, a good reason to ask that we postpone the announcement.”

“I am sick? I am not old enough? I desire to be wooed, charmed? There must be a way, a reason to put him off. Maybe he’ll grow tired of waiting.”

“Even if he does, you will have to mate sometime soon. I grow old. You need a man to protect you.” Though Orak shook his head, his face brightened. “I would like to bounce a grandchild on my knee before I leave this life.”

“I will agree to another man. I will love someone, but I will not mate that horrible man”

“Remember, Ziva. Most fathers are not as kind. They do not give in to their daughters, as I give in to you. They do not give their daughters a choice. It is the law in Nod. Girls mate the man chosen for them by their father. Girls have no choice.”

Ziva bowed her head, then ran around the desk to hug her father. “Thank you, Father! We can solve this problem. We can keep him away.”

“We will find a way. Orak patted her on the back. “There must be a way.”

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

~ ~ ~

A moon passed, and another seven-days. Nat spent much of his free time, and some of the time when he worked, thinking of his little sister, who wasn’t so little any more. She had grown into a poised, elegant, young woman. How old was she now?

Nat counted back the years. He had now been Qinten’s slave for a few moons more than five years, most of them in the cleaning yard, cleaning out kettles, only recently had he been promoted to Cook’s helper.

Before that, Vekt owned him. He worked hard for him, carrying leather and long lengths of trees to him. Some days he sat near Vekt as he hollowed out the tree lengths, tapping on them, and listening for the tone. During these days, Nat had become adept at transporting hot coals from the fire to the tree. More often, he stood beside Vekt with a bucket of water, waiting to douse the fire.

It had not been easy nor had he been fed well. Vekt often forgot to eat or feed Nat, and no woman lived with him to help. The lengths of trees strengthened Nat’s wiry muscles. He wouldn’t have minded staying longer with Vekt. But Vekt fell on hard times, the priests of Lorca stopped buying his drums, and the other cults followed Lorca’s lead and stopped purchasing from Vekt. Confronting overwhelming debts, Vekt had reluctantly sold Nat to the slave market not even two years after he had purchased him. Vekt had sobbed on Nat’s shoulder that day, but it could not be helped. If he was to avoid total ruin, Nat had to be sold.

That left the five years, and a little bit, he had made bricks for Hoth, as his slave. Five years with Hoth, two with Vekt, and now five more owned by Qinten. Twelve years.

Ziva had been three when they were taken from their parents. Do Mama and Papa still think of us and wonder where we are? He hoped so. He had glimpsed the necklace of beads she still wore, orange, black, and tan. He remembered rolling the clay for those beads.

His papa had told him … told him … He struggled to remember that day so long ago. Yes. That’s what Papa had said, “Remember to care for her.” He had promised he would. And she had been taken from his arms by a slaver. Silent tears rolled down his face.

“You are wanted by the Master in his apartments,” Cook growled. “What did you do?”

Nat quickly wiped the tears from his face and turned to face Cook, shrugging his shoulders. “I thought I was staying out of trouble.”

“Well, not well enough. You are wanted. Go.”

Nat left the kitchen and walked through the house. He had been to the Master’s apartments once before and hesitated to impose his dirty self on his sanctuary. He found Qinten standing near the door to his apartments, giving instructions to another slave.

Nat stood at a respectful distance, far enough to not appear to be listening in, but close enough to know when it was safe to approach.

Though he did not fear Qinten, Nat had a healthy respect for his temper. He had seen the results of others who had not been as respectful as expected. Thus, he waited until the Master signaled for him to approach.

“You desire my presence, Master?” Nat stood with a straight back and bowed head, his eyes on his feet.

“Nat, is it?” Qinten’s voice sounded gruff and scratchy. “Cook has given a good report about you. Says you work hard and are resourceful. He told me how you obtained the pomegranates for the Growing Festival.”

“Thank you, Master.” Nat started to flick his eyes up, then remembered to keep them on his feet.

“I have need of a personal servant, one who is resourceful, hardworking, and unafraid to fight for himself.”

Nat flinched. He had not fought anyone except Kenji, who had been ejected from the house almost five years ago.

“You may lift your head, Nat. Let me look into your eyes.”

Nat slowly raised his head, keeping his eyes carefully directed away from the Master. Qinten walked around him, sometimes reaching to poke or prod, lifting the brown, curling hair from his neck. After a time, he, again, stood in front of Nat, staring, apparently in deep thought.

“You are different, somehow. I cannot determine what makes you so,” he murmured. “Yes. You will do. You are my personal servant.” Qinten pulled a note from within his robe and handed it to Nat. “Go to the wardrobe for appropriate clothing. Meet me in my apartments in one span.”

Qinten turned, opened his door, and disappeared inside.

Nat felt the eyebrows on his face rise in surprise as he walked back the way he came. What had brought him to the attention of the Master? He had not wanted it and had not sought a change. He was happy in the kitchen with his friends. Would he still sleep with them? How would this affect him? Would he change and become like the Master?

Shaking his head slightly at the mystery, he made his way to the wardrobe. He silently handed the note Qinten had given him to Mott, the slave who supported the head wardrobe attendant. He had been absorbed in his worrying and had not glanced at it. He should have, it was writing, and he had not had an opportunity often to practice his reading. Now, it was too late.

“Who are you dressing today, Nat? Another new foundling kitchen slave?” Mott laughed as he took the note. The laughter died on his lips as he read. “I apologize, great one.” He bowed his head. I did not know.”

“Know what? I am still Nat. We sleep in cots near to each other. You have no need to bow to me. I am a slave, as you are.” Nat looked at his clothing. “Only dirtier.”

“You did not read this note” Mott shoved it into his hands.

Provide this slave with the gold clothing of a personal servant of the Master. Treat him with the honor of his station.

“Honor? Me?” Wonder filled his voice. “I am still Nat, slave in the kitchens. You do not need to bow to me.”

“You say this now,” Mott said, “but you will change. They all do in the presence of the Master.”

“I will not,” Nat said to Mott’s retreating back. “I will not become like him. I will honor my parents,” he whispered.

In less than a finger span, Mott returned with a pile of clothing.

“Put these on now, please. You should not be wearing the short tunic of a kitchen slave.” Mott voiced the instructions in a distant tone, no longer the friend he had been when Nat had entered the wardrobe.

Nat removed his clothing down to his small clothes, then pulled the light-weight, golden tunic over his head. The fabric was softer, thicker, with a richness to the touch. It was not as long as the Master’s, yet it hung to his knees, longer than the short tunic he wore in the kitchen.

Length of tunic was a sign of status in Nod. He had never expected to wear anything so long.

He slipped his arms through the robe of darker gold, just longer than the tunic. These colors were only worn by close servants to the Master. Now he was wearing them? Lastly, he stooped to settle slippers of the darker gold on his feet.

Nat pinched his thigh between his fingers, hoping to waken himself.

“You are awake. This is real.” Mott held the kitchen clothing in his hands.

“I hoped it was a dream. I like working in the kitchen.”

“You will never work in the kitchen again, at least not here,” Mott said.

Nat shook his head as he left the wardrobe and made his way back to the Master’s apartments, noting the softness of the fabric against his skin, the gentle bumping against his legs. It was strange to wear slippers over his calloused feet. He had not worn shoes since being taken into slavery so many years ago.

He became aware of the other slaves stopping as he passed. Each bowed as Mott had done. They had taken little thought of him in his earlier travels through these same halls, except those who stopped him to ask why a kitchen servant was wandering in this part of the house.

Now, even these bowed their heads as he passed. It made him feel strange. He wanted to shout at them, tell them he was the same Nat, the same slave who had worked for Cook in the kitchen that very morning.

Something kept him quiet. The last thing Mott said to him. Never work in the kitchen again? Would he be welcome to visit? Probably not, especially dressed like this. He had never seen others in tunics like his in the kitchen.

Nat vowed to himself he would not change. He would not become pompous as other high placed slaves had. He was still his mama’s and papa’s son. He remembered their faces, their names. He had not changed in all these years as a slave. This elevation would not change him, either.