Timarie's Entombment

Timarie waited patiently between the silken sheets of the bed for the groom’s wedding to be finished. From her chamber, tucked discreetly in the corner of the slaves’ wing of the house, she could make out the ringing sounds of the crystal goblets being toasted for the newlyweds.

One might imagine that a mistress would find some joy in the fact that the no whistles were being blown. The master had been staunch in his command that there would be no whistles for the guests to blow to encourage the bride and groom to kiss for their entertainment. She had heard him say, “Whole damned lot is at their pleasure. Why must we suffer more at their whim?”

Timarie didn’t know when he would come tonight, if he would at all. Usually, he would, completing his desired task with the briskness befitting a Wizard of the Guard. Timarie had found he could be a tender man when he mood dictated such. On her first night in his home, his touch had been kind and unforceful. In fact he had not fully visited her body until she had been there for two weeks, despite Timarie’s mother’s warning that she would be taken the very first night. She had been a virgin acknowledged in her womanhood only two months; such a purchase was one typically utilized with zealous haste.

Suddenly the whine of the violins and the happy clatter of the crowd exploded in volume. Timarie’s dark eyes shot up from the bed sheet corner she crumpled in her hands, her body jolting with alarm.

“Timarie,” he said.

Her shoulders slumped. Raising her eyebrows, she said, “Dialan, what in gods’ sight do you want?”

The youth shut the darkwood door, bolting it. Soon he sat beside her on the bed, his hands clutching the silks she had surrounded herself in.

He stared intently into her eyes, which she permitted until she demanded, “Speak. What is it? Master may come in here any moment.”

Dialan licked his lips. “No, he won’t. He’s not going to come in here anymore, Timarie.”

The pleasure servant squinted, shaking her head in comfortable disregard.

“I’ve seen her.”

Timarie froze. None of the servants had been able to see the woman their master was wedding until the ceremony. All the arrangements had been made with the woman’s brother, and the woman herself had only arrived in the city a few days prior. She had come from many miles away, from the wizard’s college. Her brother had deemed it appropriate, it seemed, for her to be wed once her training had finished. Some servants whispered this was because the master’s new brother-in-law may be worried his female sibling may outshine him in the Guard of the Wizards if she was not made concerned with family matters. He was a young man, new himself to the Guard. Perhaps by offering his sister for marriage to his superior he could make his path to power a little smoother.

Either way, Timarie did not worry. She was the master’s youngest and most visited pleasure servant. Even if his bride was beautiful, which wizard women rarely were, she imagined that just sampling a new woman couldn’t sour his taste for her. She couldn’t help being curious though.

“And?”

Dialan shook his head. “You know when the master on feast days casts a ball of flame into the sky, and it lights up the whole night but you know it could kill us all if he set it down on us?”

“Of course she’s dangerous. She’s a wizard, dullard. Now what does she look like?”

The stableman blinked, cleansing his mind of the poetry he did not know how to write. “She’s… she’s very pretty, Timarie.”

“What color is her hair?”

“No hair.”

“No hair?”

“She’s a wizard, dullard,” he teased.

Timarie scrunched her face in admission of her ignorance. All wizards were devoid of body hair. Whether this was a demand of magic processes or the Guard, none of the common people knew.

“Her eyes then.”

Dialan sighed, trying to refrain from the poetic licenses he indulged his otherwise uncultured mind in. “They’re blue.”

“Does she wear white?” The state woman’s chastity could give a hint if the master would visit her tonight.

“If she does,” he replied, “it’s under her robes. I guess the lady thinks she always on duty.”

“What a strange woman. Not wearing a gown on her Joining Day…”

“Wizard,” he answered. “You know they don’t do as anyone else does. Not even the women wizards.”

“No hair. No gown.” Timarie chuckled, “I’d rather stay an unwed slave than be a wizard woman.”

“Would you truly wish to be unwed? Timarie, you’re a thousandfold more lovely than her. I… I think it would be a waste if you never married. And if you did, I hope I could do it.” Dialan suddenly grasp her hands, holding them in his dusty grip. “I want to ask the master to marry you.”

She smiled tentatively. “Dialan, I couldn’t marry you.”

He released her hands, taking her head in his hands. His fingers smelt of hay and horse dung, the scent she had always known him to wear. “Why not? I can talk to the master. I’ve not asked for my grant coin all year. I’m sure if I continue to let him hold it until the next Joining Day, no doubt he might give me that boon instead of paying.”

“Do you think he’d rather sell me off than pay your tiny grant?”

He clutched her brown curls, the ringlets winding round his eager fingers. “Timarie, he has a wife now, and she is a beautiful woman. Why would he continue to lie with you when he has a wife?”

“Lots of men have women besides their wives! Remember back at home? Our old master kept five women and his wife! You know he never stopped visiting our mothers until the day he died.”

“His wife wasn’t a wizard,” he retaliated. “She could block his mind from wanting any other woman but her. She’s probably got lots of charms for keeping a man.”

“She wouldn’t dare! She’d know you can hang for trying to put charms on a Guard. She’s not dumb, and he’s not either, and he won’t sell me off anyway even if he didn’t visit me anymore.”

“Timarie,” he said calmly, “Maybe I’m dumb.”

“You’re not dumb,” she sighed.

“No, I am dumb. I’m dumb because I’d think that you’d know you’re his slave and not his love.”

Her features wrinkled again with anger. “Just because he owns me doesn’t mean he can’t have any feelings for me. If you are dumb, it’s because you’re wasting your time being jealous over something that can’t change.”

“What can’t change?”

“The way things are, Dialan.”

The crowd cheered as two wizards’ balls of fire exploded in the sky.

*~~*~~*

The master did not come for a week. When he finally did, he was making his routine check of the slaves’ wing. He smiled at her as his personal attendances searched her room for prohibited items. After they assured him she had no weapons or charm tokens, the master smoothed her curly hair back behind her ears, kissed her forehead, and silently continued on his way. She realized only after he’d left that she had been holding her breath.

After he’d left the wing, Nary, the oldest of the pleasure slaves, entered Timarie’s room to help tidy up the clutter the rummaging had caused.

“Just like the master to run through here, make his mess and leave, eh sweetie?” the old woman commented as she assisted in putting the clothes back onto the shelves.

“It’s not a real mess,” Timarie replied as she folded.

“Nope, I’m thinking we won’t have much for any real messes around her anymore.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, after Melli drops her child, I think all the birthing will be in the house an’ not out here.”

Melli was only slightly younger than Nary, both woman having seen nearly four decades of life. Everyone expected them to soon become house servants, either in this master’s house or one they would be sold to. The idea that Melli was bearing a child so late caused a few others to avoid her, thinking she must have bought a charm to gift her old body with fertility or, worse, a charm to force the master’s body to seed her.

“I’m still young. I could make many children yet.”

Nary’s wisdom inspired the older woman to shake her head. “Sweetie, I know you’re not allowed in the house, so I can’t expect you to know. That wizard woman has a hold on him and he likes it. I don’t think there’s much we can do that can top her.”

Timarie’s mouth hung open. Her eyes stared blankly. “She’s charmed him…”

The old slave snickered. “Nope, she’s just got what he wants.”

“So do we!”

“You might think you do, but I know I don’t,” she smiled, “at least not anymore.”

“Nary,” she asked, her dark eyes pleading, “he’ll come back again, won’t he?”

She took the girl’s smooth chin in her hand. “Sweetie, I can’t tell you if he will. But no doubt Dialan will be.”

Timarie wrinkled her childish face in irritation. “You know about him?”

“Even the horses want him to hush about you.” After the girl giggled, Nary added, “And you just kick him off if he keeps coming.”

“I don’t like him, Nary. He always talking about these stupid things, and when he’s not talking stupid, it’s… he says awful things about the master.”

“Don’t bother about him,” she replied. “You don’t know about young men. They’re filled with stupid words, most of all him. He don’t know that it’s just not right for you two to get together.”

“I tried to tell him on Joining Day and he wouldn’t…”

“He came and visited you on Joining Day?”

Timarie paused, realizing she had just incriminated herself. “He just came in. We didn’t do anything!”

“You know having a man visit you on Joining Day is just begging the gods to make you full of baby. And gods help you if he did.”

“He didn’t, Nary, I swear! I left the door open for the master!”

The old slave woman’s sternness left her face as she asked, “You make me three promises and I’ll be able to tell you if the master will come back.”

Timarie dropped the nightgown she was folding. “Please! What is it?”

“First, you promise me you’ll never lie with Dialan.”

The girl nodded with enthusiasm, smiling at how easy that promise was to make.

“Next that you not ever forget what old Nary has done for you.”

She hugged the older woman. If the woman who had filled the place of her mother in her heart was going to be sold to another house, Timarie wondered how life would be without her. “Of course, Nary. You know I love you.”

“I love you, too, sweetie. That’s why I’m doing this for you. I know you’re taking the master’s marriage harder than anyone. I can’t say I don’t understand. When my first master died, I was about as broken as a girl could get. It’s worse than losing your blood, having a good master leave you.” Stroking the child’s curls, Nary sighed under the weight of memory.

“So he’s really left me?”

Nary pulled away from her embrace, reaching into the folds of her visiting costume. “Not if old Nary has something to do with it. But promise me,” she intoned, “never, not ‘til the gods ask your passed on soul, tell anyone I gave you this.”

Timarie opened her hands and received the blasphemy.

*~~*~~*

“Tell me what you’ve seen today.”

Dialan put down the pair of dirty plates and spoons on the single dresser next to the door. He enjoyed being the one to bring her supper, even more when, like, now, he was able to have his own with her. They had eaten every meal together every day as children. Dialan found his food to taste better when it was paired with her company. He smiled at being withheld from returning the soiled dishes; she hasn’t asked about the city since the wedding.

“I drove the master to the Councilhouse and then to the sea.”

“How did it look today?” She began pluck absently on her lap harp.

“The sea? It looked like… the sea looked like tears, like the world’s eye was brimming with a huge tear and it was about to spill out onto the land.”

“Mmm… it was cloudy out, wasn’t it?”

“There was a gnomish man with a carriage outside the Councilhouse,” he imparted excitedly.

“Really?”

“Yes, waist high to me. I talked to him about his horses. Seems he’s for hire.”

“Who ever heard of a gnome slave anyway? Does he live in the city?”

“Yes, down past… well, near the sea, he lives with his mounts.” There seemed no sense in telling her where the gnome man lived; she couldn’t leave the slaves’ wing.

“I didn’t know they’d taken to living in human cities.”

“He said the coin was good, but he think he came for other reasons. He had some sort of branding on him, must have been in gnome writing. I think he was a criminal and got exiled.”

“What does gnomish writing look like?” she asked with a smirk. She was secretly sure that he really didn’t know the difference because he could not read his own name.

“Kind of backwards and upside down. Nothing like our letters…” The stableman sighed, “I wish I could write.”

“Well,” she smirked, “I’m sure what grant the master owes you is even to having you taught.”

“Bah,” he answered in disgust. “He wouldn’t teach me. I couldn’t give him a reason for it that he’d want to hear.”

Timarie thought for moment, her large, brown eyes blinking as she pondered. “Maybe so you can read the signs on the streets. They have their names on the corners, like you said.”

“If they stole all the signs one night, I could still make it home with a lame horse, a broken axel, and my eyes blinded. Master wouldn’t keep me otherwise.”

“I think Nary may know how to read,” she said encouragingly. “Perhaps she would do it for the coin.”

“She could read a man’s body, maybe,” he scoffed. “No thanks, I don’t need to know anything she could teach. And besides, everyone would wonder where she got all that coin.”

Timarie sat up suddenly with excitement. “Oh! Dialan, could you please listen to this? I made it up the other day. Just let me know what you think, yes?”

“Surely,” he said settling into a spot next to her on the carpeted floor.

Timarie’s fingers were like graceful, white feathers that flew along the strings of her harp as if blown by a misty wind. Her face, soft and relaxed, echoed the stillness and peace of the slow, pleading melody that swiftly enraptured him. Her curling, dark halo of hair waved with the quiet tapping of her bare foot and the swaying of her head. He wished again that he could write, to be able to share with people everywhere just how he felt, just how she made him feel. Everyone should know this tragedy, the tragedy of Timarie the caged, Timarie the kept, Timarie the possessed. He’d write it down in words the master could not silence with magic or a whip. Written words would be eternal, fitting for her beauty and the anger he felt. Damn the master and damn their confining births, he had to change it all.

“Timarie.”

She halted her song with a puzzled look on her face. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

“No, no, it’s good. It’s just that…” he paused, searching for some way to give merit to his advice. “I’ve… I’ve seen many street musicians, and they… well, no matter what their song is like, good or bad, they carry themselves so that it always looks as if their music is the most important thing you should be hearing, like when a Councilman speaks.”

The slave shook her head timidly. “It’s just a melody. I don’t even have words for it.”

“Neither do I,” he said. “It’s the most beautiful sound I’ve heard all day. Now you be proud of it. Play it like there are no walls here and the whole world can hear you.”

She laughed, “I don’t think I could play if everyone in the whole world was listening.”

“Then play like I’m the only one in the whole world. And I’ll listen like it’s the only sound I’ve heard in years.”

She gave that smirk of disregard again he had grown to treasure.

“Just start again and I’ll let you know what to do,” he answered.

The opening cords of her melody rose up again. Dialan allowed her to begin keeping the rhythm with her foot and swaying hair. He watched her in her candid majesty as the song reached its center.

“Now, keep your mind on the music,” he said. “I’m going to move you and tell you what to do, but try not to pay me any mind except to do it, yes?”

“Uh mmm…” she replied, seemingly lost in the misty, creative winds that blew her agile fingers across the strings.

His hand, cleaned for dinner but still smelling like leather, lifted her chin. “Lift up your head.”

She smiled dreamily, lost perhaps in his fantasy of an empty world. His heart wondered desperately if her dreams of that vacant place lead to the same exquisite results as his own. His vision dripped like lingering dew down the shaft of a flower’s pistil. Her sheen evening dress enveloped her curves, the same curves he had watched swell and soften over the years.

“Open your arms,” he instructed. He took her elbow in each hand, joints that reminded him of porcelain dolls he had seen in toyshop windows. Spreading her limbs wider, Dialan smoothed the folds of her dress against the skin beneath, skin he had been forbidden from touching in the way he desired.

“Open your eyes,” he said.

He leaned close, and, as she opened her bronze-colored eyes, he closed his own. His hands, still holding the cloth around her waist, clasp about her. The notes of the song died as the harp was pressed between their bodies.


To Be Continued...

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