The Thrice Born Read online

  “Quiet,” the other taller workman said to him, watching the overseer berate another pair of slaves. “Do not question her.”

  Astara flinched mentally at the fear in the taller humanoid. “I’ve refused to sanction the use of you earth creatures for hard labor.” She saw the taller man look to her, his gaze both fearful and guilty. “It is common knowledge, even among your people, I’m sure.”

  “She is the one whispered about,” the taller man said. He pushed the cart still bearing its burden of stones. “Come. We have work.”

  The first man didn’t move, still watching Astara. “We were bred for this work. Is that not true, mistress? We owe the colonists our lives.”

  She shook her head at him, her attention going to the thinner worker. “The only one you owe your life to is the One whose life force pulses through all things.” She looked to the taller man. “We all do.”

  “And who is that, mistress?” asked the first man, eager despite the chance he took to speak out of turn, even to her.

  “You take our lives in your hands,” the taller man grumbled, picking up both of the cart’s handles. “Come with me.”

  He moved away with the load of rubble, his head lowered as an overseer neared but did not look their way.

  The shorter man remained with Astara, his attention unwavering as the second man left.

  “Have you not heard of the Creator?” she asked him.

  This time his face brightened with recognition. “Ah, you mean Lord Samyaza!”

  She frowned. “Is he now Lord, worker?”

  “He is indeed.”

  “Well, the Lord I speak of has dominion over more than this,” she said, casting a quick look around the jungle clearing, “this place of shadows.”

  The prospect of there being someone greater than Samyaza made the slave listen with interest. “Where can I find this Great Master?”

  She realized the futility of hope for the man doomed to a life of slavery and mines. “Within yourself,” she told him, hoping to lighten his outlook, if nothing else. “All you need is a soul and the wish to truly know.”

  Disappointment washed over him, but it was a thin veil of despair. “You sound like Jacinto,” he said, his voice dropping as his fears returned. “He also speaks of a strange power. It does not go over well with the overseers.”

  Astara let herself smile at the mention of the name. “Ah, Jacinto, the stonecutter? That’s why I’m here. Where can I find him?”

  He looked to where the taller slave had taken the cart and was now dumping it at a much larger mound of broken rock. “Come with me,” he said, turning back to Astara. “Please be careful where you step, mistress.”

  She followed him through into the cavernous stone hill cut where sounds of men working and the clanking of tools could be heard. The smell of smoke and dust was everywhere, and after Astara’s eyes adjusted to the dim, torch lit passages she saw clumps of exhausted men picking at deposits of Vidral veins running through the stone walls. These outer layers were sparse of the gold lacing the granite walls, but as she followed the worker, heavier bands became apparent under the torchlight.

  Here the men were clustered in larger teams, chained to the walls with heavy metal shackles while free slaves carted away the debris and smaller buckets of gold chips.

  Ahead of them a commotion rang out, an overseer’s brash tone the loudest as he ordered one of the slaves back to work.

  The man before Astara trembled slightly, his steps slowing as he looked to her. “We must take turns for our meals,” he explained. “But there are rules even then. Must you insist on seeing Jacinto now?”

  She frowned, sensing reluctance in the man’s words. “Yes. Now.” She looked ahead of them down the dim passage where the overseer’s orders cried out. “Show me.”

  He nodded and led on.

  They wove their way to the back of the cave as the sounds of the overseer’s irate shouts were now accompanied by the unmistakable lashes of his whip.

  Astara’s resentment for the conditions of the workers rose to fury as she realized what the sounds were. She wondered where Maya was; surely the former commander would not allow such treatment unless there had been a revolt.

  She stopped behind the worker leading the way as they turned the passage corner and the cave opened into a larger chamber. There a dozen slaves had gathered around the overseer as he mercilessly beat the back of a man,

  “Go back to your stations!” the overseer cried, unaware of Astara’s appearance behind him. He turned back to the slave before him as the man dropped to his knees. He raised the whip again, bringing it down in a rage of force.

  A few of the workers moved, but no one went back to their stations. Astara nearly gasped as she saw the target of the overseer’s wrath. Jacinto was on his knees, his back opened and bloody, long lashes cut into his flesh from the leather whip the overseer welded with a practiced hand.

  “Back to work!” shrieked the overseer.

  A few slaves let their tools fall, a couple murmurs rippling through the men, but no one went back to work.

  Jacinto turned his head as his hands balled into fists in the thick mine floor dust, looking back at the overseer. “I’ve a right to –”

  “I decide your rights!” The overseer unleashed another lash. The whip cut deep into Jacinto’s already ripped back. “You’re a slave. You have no rights here!”

  No one raised a voice in opposition to the overseer, but Astara saw a few of the slaves glower at him, a promissory threat in their eyes. She pushed past the worker who’d shown her the passage in and stood before the overseer.

  “You can stop now, overseer!” She let one hand rest at the sword blaster at her side.

  He saw the movement and lowered the whip, trading defiance for her interruption. “This man is a bad example. He must be disciplined.”

  She gave Jacinto a quick glance, forcing herself to remain controlled despite the impulses shooting through her. She took a step closer to the overseer. “Do you know who I am?”

  He nodded, coiling his whip. “A colonist expelled from the Garden.” It was another few seconds that he recalled her previous association with Samyaza. He attached the whip to his belt, letting his hand rest on the communicator there. “You’ve no authority here.”

  “I’m here at the request of Samyaza,” she said deliberately, seeing his expression weaken. “You and your workers leave us!”

  For a moment the overseer was at a loss, glancing from Jacinto’s kneeling form to the female before him who seemed more than willing to call down his clout.

  She saw his indecision, and drew her weapon to help him make a choice.

  The overseer stepped back, as did the rest of the workers. “He’s a rebellious one, Levandra,” he said, preserving what he could of his undermined command. “He is –”

  “He is injured,” she reminded, “and I am armed. Now leave.”

  The overseer turned to look at the other workers who’s witnessed the intrusion. “Back to work! All of you!”

  Astara waited until the slaves and overseer had left before looking back to Jacinto still kneeling in the dust now spotted with his blood.

  She didn’t fear for her safety, not from this slave, even as a wounded animal. She stepped back to see him better in the flickering torchlight as he turned to look at her. “Why were you being manhandled?”

  He swallowed down the last wince of pain from the stinging wounds crossing his back. “They don’t like when I commune with the Power within.” He let his gaze follow her form, her beauty seeming to mock the harshness of the mines. “You shouldn’t be here unescorted, mistress.”

  She dismissed his concerns, eager to hear more of his daring admission. “You are speaking of the Creator? He whose kingdom is within you?”

  He turned on one heel, resting his arm across his other bent knee to look her full in the face despite the pain racking his back and any breach of conduct he committed. “I am, mistress.”

  “T
hen you make them jealous for they know no such power.” She holstered her weapon, feeling no danger from the wounded man before her. “My name is Astara. I was sent here to bring you to our new archives building currently under construction.”

  For a moment Jacinto forgot his pain, smiling broadly as a faint pink touched her cheeks. “Astara,” he ventured to say, watching the color tint her face brighter. He slowly stood, grimacing against the pain arching through his back. “Astara.”

  She nodded, denying the quickening of her pulse as he repeated her name.

  He picked up his tools where he’d laid them at the cave wall and followed her down the passage and into the outside sunlight.

  Jacinto would have gladly suffered through several more bouts of beatings if he’d known it would bring him closer to the delicate beauty of the being called Astara those next weeks. The archives building was finished in that time and work began on the interior. It was to be murals in slabs of granite bas relief Jacinto would cut, with smaller panels dividing the rooms. The exterior of the building’s front would be completed first, but a few of the smaller panels had already been started.

  In that first week Jacinto was given modest quarters in the basement of the archive building and clean clothes and sandals. He cleaned up in that time, receiving minimal medical attention from a colonist who attended the open wounds on his back.

  “I’ll not have him bleeding on my floor,” were Samyaza’s instructions.

  Jacinto didn’t care the reason; any chance to be closer to Astara was cause enough for him.

  She often watched as he worked, silent as he cut into the granite figures and stories of the mining, of the creation of the biogenerators that resembled the great angelic statues, and of the toil that the workers endured to bring about the processes.

  It was a true rendering, and beneath Jacinto’s skilled hands the forms of taskmasters and whips, beaten slaves and misery took on life.

  Within a few weeks the preliminary work was done and he set about fleshing out the scenes with color. Astara watched, nearing in her observation as he worked, until sometimes she stood directly behind him only a few feet as he smoothed the stones shapes with fine grit sand paper. He could feel her body heat despite the short distance she kept between them, and a few times the soft ruffle of her feathers brushed his arm as she moved to his side at the exterior wall, her eyes raised to the artwork taking form on the southern entry.

  Samyaza was absent much of the time, but Haziel and Kuyana occasionally inspected the work. They said little, but their displeasure showed in their silence.

  Astara was only too relieved that Samyaza’s pursuit of new mines kept him at other parts of the island during Jacinto’s work. There had been few words between her and the advanced humanoid, a cautious measure they both understood, but she could feel the kindred spirit in him. Something that needed no words; something shared on another level.

  She also knew some of his work was controversial, if accurate.

  She was pleasantly surprised he would undertake the painting of the exterior relief himself. The smaller panels that were to be used inside the building were already done, awaiting painting, but the rainy season was due soon, and the exterior coloration was pressing.

  It was a dry afternoon as she stood watching Jacinto paint. She stood further back than most days, watching the toned muscles of his strong back as he lifted the brush to his eyelevel at the granite façade. Her eyes followed the movements, watching his arm extend, the delicate balance he used to apply the color.

  She stepped closer, smiling at the painting seeming to come to life as the colors added depth to the stone surface.

  “Ah, so you’re a painter, too.” She nodded, the brushstrokes inviting her closer.

  “The lighting here is better than inside the mines.”

  She put her hand on the back of his as he drew the brush down a raised stone figure, her fingers barely touching his, covering little of his much larger hand.

  Jacinto looked to her, seeing her eyes rest on the brush tips.

  “Don’t mind me,” she said. “I’ve never been an artist, but I’ve always envied them. Such fine skill from a hand capable of such force.” She pulled her hand away, realizing she’d been too candid, too familiar.

  “Don’t.” He slowed his movements, watching her face as her gaze dropped, the small smile start at her coral lips. “I like the way it feels. Your skin is as soft as your wings.”

  In response she pulled her wings closer, a giddy shudder running through her that rustled her feathers. Her eyes rose to his, smiling more at the beginning of a grin that ventured on his face. She put her hand back on his, liking the strength beneath her fingers. A blush rose over her cheeks, doubling as he leaned closer, not quite touching her.

  Her fingers lifted slightly from his hand. “I shouldn’t, my love,” she said without thinking the words through.

  He dared not make further contact, summoning a restraint he didn’t think he possessed. “From the first moment I saw you –”

  “Not here,” she said sotto voce. She let her hand slide to the back of his wrist, and then turned and put her fingers over his lips, eyes watching his words still, and then rose to his. “Some things should not be said.”

  He enjoyed the touch of her fingers on his lips, wishing for more, but then looked to the relief. “Such as this?”

  Astara followed his gaze to the relief. It was an accurate scene, the workers in chains, straining under the back-breaking labor of moving heavy gold, the taskmaster’s whip cracking overhead, some workers trodden under mining cars and a few entombed in collapsed caves and passages.

  “Perhaps,” she said, looking suddenly past him to the edge of the trees lining the yard surrounding the archive building. There was a disturbance in the thick green foliage and she saw a figure move away.

  She looked back to Jacinto. “Perhaps.”

  That light touch of Astara’s hand cost Jacinto. Samyaza had had his suspicions for a while about Astara and the stonecutter, but seeing them, even for that fleeting moment as the humanoid paused in his painting at the exterior wall that afternoon, was enough to rile Samyaza’s anger.

  He was above a ruthless beating, the commander thought of himself; nothing as crass or base as that. Something else, he decided. Something that he knew would eat at Jacinto’s soul and poison his dreams. Deprivation of desire was like that. Samyaza knew that from personal experience.

  He waited in the headquarters rear room that was generally used for meeting with the colonists and his staff, but also served as his recluse from the pressing needs of his office. Out the wide window he could see the archives building. It was complete, but he interior was still being assembled and arranged to best showcase their journey from the Ascender and the outer regions of the heavens to the small island.

  The exterior was to be covered with painted granite bas relief, while the inside walls would show some of the same scenes but on a smaller scale and in more detail. It was those details that brought Samyaza’s attention to Jacinto’s work.

  The room in which he stood was simple, with a high table and enough chairs for the officers he typically called to meetings, but on the table now was a segment of the relief tiles to be used as decoration in the archives interior. It was not flattering, the scene painted in cloisonné greens, reds, and blue with gold outlines. It was the startling use of deep red enamel on the piece that bothered him the most.

  He looked to the doorway as two colonist guardsmen appeared there. Between them was Jacinto, shackled hand and foot with heavy gold chains. The guards threw him before Samyaza.

  Jacinto braced one hand on the floor, the chains making his movements slow, and looked up from his knees to Samyaza.

  “I’m concerned with your depiction of your lives in the colony,” the commander said deliberately, keeping the enameled tile in his hand, tempted to break it before the kneeling stonecutter. “Anyone looking at this would think that we had made you into slaves.”<
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  Jacinto didn’t nod. “Slavery is servitude by force, where men are bought and sold in markets.”

  “Very interesting.” Samyaza held up the small relief, seeing the other man’s eyes go to it. “How did you arrive at that definition?”

  Jacinto didn’t think Samyaza would bother to truly understand. Rumors drifted through the workers and colonists alike, and somewhere, in the back of the knowledge fed into him during his evolution, there were other memories for which he could not account. “I’ve heard of the Seven Galaxies and the rules of civilization.” He didn’t mention names of those who had whispered the statutes governing the Angelos’ expansion. “I can’t read, Samyaza. But I can remember.”

  Samyaza’s eyes narrowed on him. “You dare be so cordial to me?”

  “Men weren’t made to be enslaved.”

  “Weak always serve the stronger.” Samyaza stepped on a length of the chain to the shackles, pulling Jacinto’s cuff closer to the floor in a forcible bow. “Obviously, fresh air and sunshine aren’t good for you. More time in the mines will improve your capacity for respect.” He eased his foot, the few inches of laxness allowing the slave to lift his head to the commander’s knee. “You should be grateful to us. We’ve given you life.”

  Jacinto didn’t speak, eyes lowered as he awaited the commander’s whim.

  “I’ll not make you a martyr,” Samyaza promised lowly, “but I will make you think, stonecutter.”

  Minutes later Jacinto found himself taken from the village and fed into one of the roughly hewn caves reserved for the disorderly slaves. The guards tossed him into the stone vault, and then bolted his shackles to the rings in the floor.

  He put up no fight, knowing the futility of this battle, and waited for the guards to leave. They did, giving him no indication as to the length of his stay, and Jacinto took a moment to survey his new surroundings. It was a small cave with a sloping stone floor that led to a pool of water where condensation had settled. It was granite, but without a streak of Vidral running through its walls. To one side was a cot with a well-worn blanket, barely within reach of his shackles, he learned, going there to sit down.