The halls of the Citadel were always quiet late at night, it was Maevens favourite time in the Citadel the only time that it wasn't bustling with nobility and the bureaucracy that ran the colony. Instead at night the corridors and rooms were populated by silence and the flickering of quartz lamps and candles. The slow rhythmic heartbeat of the lamps filling the halls with their ethereal white light. It reminded Maevan of the description of the Eternal Palace as it was depicted in the Seramous scriptures she had grown up with. The Kerantian Empire was ostensibly a Seramounian nation just like its neighbours back on Osos, however their adherence to the commandments was selective. The Proctors descriptions of the glowing pillars and windows of the Kerantian afterlife were reflected quite intentionally in the design of this wing. According to the same Proctors this was as close to the Eternal Palace as she would ever come considering the pollution in her blood. To the native inhabitants of countries like Sarpine and Boros and those that shared their blood the gates of the glowing castle were locked to them. Instead she and any other Bantan would be cursed to wander the Ashlands, the vast plains coated in the falling ash that was the flesh and souls of those toiled for eternity in the cracked forge. It used to be common knowledge that the cracked forge was where the darker races originated and thus they were inherently evil. This belief, while formerly common, had fallen out of style with the general populace of the colony as the Proctors and theologians had come out arguing against this reasoning. Maevan loved her work in the archive and was forever grateful to men like Gallowglass that had taken her in and protected her. However she wasn't naive enough to believe that she was a common case and was well aware she was alive because of luck. Knowing this she knew that the Proctors didn't put down the rumour for the protection of the colony's Bantan citizens. No, she knew that in reality it was that the Bantan workforce was too useful a commodity to lose to superstition. From the myth several epithets had come and gone out of fashion, Asher had originally been a slur for all Bantan people but now it was used mostly to reference the Bantan agents of the Governor.. Now the only remaining memory of that story was in the slur Burner, a slur that in The Pits meant death if it was heard. In all of her life she had only ever heard the slur once and not even directed at her but at Samuel, a dark skinned old porter who was often sent to accompany Maeven outside the Citadel's walls. Samuel wasn't a true Bantan; he was from deep inland and held the black complexion of the tribes that lived there. Bantan now though had come to mean more than those native to the Tentras peninsula and surrounding area. Samuel was able to bear it, living through a time when the term could be thrown at you with impunity and violence was around every corner had hardened him. It was at Samuels small room in one of the basement levels of the citadel that Maevens nightime walks often led her, and this night was little different. Her path led her down the twisting hallways of the Citadel, deeper and deeper until she reached what were originally the dungeons of the building until the prison wing had been built. Now it was rooms for the porters of the citadel, the men and women whose job it was to serve the great building. The passages grew darker and darker until the spaces between quartz lamps grew greater and greater until finally the lamps were replaced by torches in sconces on the walls. The air was thick and smoky but not the scent wasn't entirely unpleasant and the change wasn't unwelcome. There was something about the warm light of the fire Maeven enjoyed.
It was a similar flickering light she saw coming out from under the rough wooden door to Samuels room, the light spilling out as she approached his room. Maeven walked to the door hesitating briefly before knocking as she always did then proceeding to rap her knuckles against the rough hewn wood. She could hear movement coming from inside the room and soon after she could see a shadow under the door. Samuels wizened face peeked around the door playful as a child despite his old age, his eyes twinkled with delight as they alighted on Maevan. Maeven tried to keep a straight face watching Samuels childish display but her mask broke as the edges of her mouth twitched into a small smile that grew by the second. The old man's smile grew in magnitude at seeing Maevan crack and he opened the door wide stepping to one said and producing an elaborate bow.
“My lady Maeven, keeper of the crystal library and daughter of the citadel you may enter my room.”
The old man's voice was low and crisp with only a slight hint of an accent unique to him colouring his words as he spoke. Maeven rolled her eyes at the old man's theatrics and walked into the room taking in the familiar sight of Samuels small quarters. The bed tucked into one corner of the room dominating most of the space save for a small desk pressed against the opposite wall with a candle flickering top. A simple but sturdy chair was beside the desk slightly askew and a small dresser sat against the wall next to the bed. Although the room was small the candle flickering its warm light across the walls and Samuels small collection of odd items lent the room a comfort that many of the large rooms in the Citadel lacked. Maeven moved forward and took a seat at the edge of Samuels bed facing the desk as Samuel closed the door behind her. Turning he walked to the chair and turned it to face Maeven instead of the rough desk and sat smoothly, his back straight as he looked at Maevan. Maeven was struck by the difference in the old man's posture and demeanor here compared to how he stooped and bowed while he served. This was something she noticed often and was often confused by the dissonance between the man she saw before her and the slave she saw in the halls. She had confronted him on this subject many times and his answer was always the same, he would reply in his clearly enunciated way,
“Why should I show that I am strong to them, those that see me as little more than animals, when they see a proud horse they break it. What they do not understand is I am no animal to show my nature as clearly, I am a man and I will hide my pride if I must.”
Maevens arguments against this reasoning were myriad, however she was beginning to understand that Samuel fought back in the ways he could, it was through this small act of rebellion that she had come to know him. As a lead servant he had the ability to assign the duties and he had made an effort to be assigned to duties around Maeven ever since Gallowglass had taken her into his wardship. Maeven understood now that in her Samuel had seen an opportunity. A small opportunity but no matter how small it was still an opportunity to bridge the divide between his people and hers. It was for this reason that while serving her he refused to speak Kerantian instead speaking in his tribal language. He sought to be the one influence of her people that she could have within the Citadel. Much to Samuels delight Maeven had been gifted even as a child, picking up on the languages fast. He had first taught her his language followed by Bantan and many of its dialects. Soon Maeven begged for stories and fables that came from beyond the walls of Tentras and far from the influence of Kerantas. Samuel began with the stories of his tribe first but throughout his time in Tentras he had learned the stories and myths of the hundreds of other tribes that populated the continent. As she aged Samuel taught her these languages and stories, imparting all the knowledge of their people that he had learned from his long years of life. Throughout all of this though he had always been evasive on his own past changing the topic every time she broached it. How a man as proud and intelligent as himself had ended up as a mere servant in the Citadel was beyond her. Maeven had been happy with this as a child, imagining Samuel was her grandfather or some distant relation that had come to watch over her.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
As Maeven and Samuel looked at each other, the old questions of his past began to form in her mind, where had he come from, who he had been before coming to Tentras. Who had he been before he had become the man she knew.
“Who are you?”
Samuel smiled at her and replied in Bantan
“I am Samuel”
The corners of his eyes wrinkled as he smiled at Maevens obvious frustration at his answer or really lack thereof. Maeven sighed audibly and wrinkled her brow trying to think of how to phrase the question, this was more difficult than in Kerantian as tense was almost nonexistent in Samuels language. Finally her eyes lit up as she determined how to use the language's limited past tense words to get a better answer. She leaned forward a sly look in her eye,
“Samuel, what is your story?”
Samuels' brows crinkled but he chuckled lightly, she had used the word his people had used to describe the ancient myths and legends that they told. Maeven could tell his mind was trying to work out a way to maneuver around her question but the word story could not be explained simply like the previous question. Finally Samuel relented and settled back into his chair as he did before he told a story.
“My story is the same as many” he began, eyes sparkling as he looked at Maeven, “I am a hunter for my village and my chief chooses me to be a guard for a trip to meet the white men. This is very honorable. I agree to go to the meeting with the chief, we reach the meeting many steps away and enter a huge village, Tentras. The Kerantians say that our village is too close to Tentras and that we should move, the chief says no that it is our land, our fathers farm is there and our fathers before them. The Kerantians do not seem troubled at this denial, I do not know this is something to cause fear. We walk back to the village and a moon passes and many Kerantians appear at the village and say we leave, no one speaks Bantan except to say leave.”
At this point in the story Samuel closed his eyes shaking his head, Maeven rested her hand on Samuels knee concerned at his unusual display of emotion. Samuel patted her hand on his, they were wrinkled and rough and the muscles in them were disconcertingly strong.
“The soldiers grab the women and children and begin putting them in metal chains, the chief is angry as are the men and we charge the soldiers who take their long wood and metal poles and aim that at us. Thunder rumbles so loud and the chief falls. I feel heat in my leg, and look down, blood so much blood.”
Samuel rubbed his right leg on his upper thigh as if remembering the old wound as he continued
“I see my friends, my chief around me dead or screaming, I hear a man say something, I wake up in chains, with the women and children and wounded men. Many men die from blood rot but me, I survive. They make me a slave and bring me here.”
At this Samuel gestured expansively with his arms,
“This is my story, little one, no heroes here, just death.”
Maeven nodded and gripped Samuels hand as tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, threatening to fall down the deep lines along his rough cheeks. However instead of crying he looked at Maeven and smiled and switched to the more expansive dialect of Bantan common to Tentras.
“My story is dark little one but it is not rare, the Kerantians that have taken care of you so well were slavers and they are still thieves.”
He smiled at Maeven his teeth bright against his dark skin,
“Although,” he mused, “Without them we would not have you, you are important to me and the world. I am sure you will do great things little cricket.”
Maeven smiled back at Samuel and his praise, her emotions were roiling hearing Samuels story, of course she knew intellectually that the Kerantians had done terrible things to the Bantan. To her though it had always been just that, intellectual, to her the empire had always been Gallowglass. A warm and protecting force that civilized a world that was wild, untamed, and dangerous. The image of the conquering destructive Kerantas that Samuel painted was hard to reconcile with the benevolent protectors she knew. She could feel the two ideas battling inside her head like warring armies each fighting for dominance in her consciousness. Samuel seemed to see this in her eyes as he squeezed her hand bringing her thoughts back to the present as she looked up at him.
“The world Maeven does not exist in the black and white that Kerantas paints, everything is shaded in intention and result, the Kerantians are not evil, we are not heroes. These concepts are just perceptions of the mind, scaffolding that people create to justify their wants. When I bow before Kerantian men and women and they think they have broken me, that is my rebellion. They see an animal so I hide in their sight that I am a man. This is how I will get my justice, you do not fear an animal like you would a man. One day all of us will stand with our back straight and say in one voice that we are men and the sound alone will topple them.”
There was feverish light in Samuels eyes as he said this and gripped Maevens hand, he saw in his eyes that he was still a man, still strong and vital despite his life of injustice. Maeven saw something else in his eyes that she had not ever expected to see in Samuel, she saw rebellion, the hunger for justice and the willingness to fight for it. It shook her to the core, it was this something about this glimmer and the battle being waged in her mind that made her begin to speak. She told Samuel about the odd event in the crystal library, the salt crystals forming into the one intricate and coldly beautiful crystal. As she told the story Samuel nodded and listened, his grip becoming firmer on her hand, his eyes intense as she spoke. As she finished her story he grew distant and stroked his chin thoughtfully, finally Maeven cleared her throat. At the sound Samuels eyes refocused on her and smiled but she could see the gears of his mind turning. The rest of that night's conversation was light and Samuel seemed distracted, which he claimed to be a product of his old age as he joked about how his 58th year loomed ahead. Despite this, when Maeven finally left Samuels room later that night she noticed that the candle light under his door did not go out.