“When was she first sold?” This question is for Brea, but I feel his bristly glove squeeze my skin as if he expects me to alert him if she’s dishonest.
“Age six. Her parents died when she was five and then she lived a short time with a midwife who had no use for her.” She says this last part with a slice of disgust in her voice that’s directed at me. And as much as I try to force it down, the hateful shame swells up to eat holes in my chest. She’s got me on that one. Two parents, one midwife, and fourteen owners I’ve ruined, the latest being Brea’s own husband. And it doesn’t matter that I tried to warn every single one of them.
The merchant’s eyes constrict. “There somethin’ else wrong with her yer not tellin’ me?”
“Nothing’s wrong with her. She’s perfectly fine. Just give me three draghts and she’s yours.”
“Three draghts?” I murmur. “How generous.”
Either she doesn’t hear or chooses to ignore me as the merchant rubs his huge, stubbled jowls and considers the offer. Although I can already sense he’ll take it. Three is cheap. Beyond cheap. It’s pathetic. I consider feeling insulted.
The minstrel limps by, practically giddy as he continues his fabulously bad recount of the Monster and the Sea. “’Twas the night compassion forsooooook us.” He’s singing, referring to the night an agreement was struck between Faelen’s past king and the great, flesh-eating Draewulf. The price of which had been Faelen’s children. “And the big sea, she roared and spit up her foam at the shape-shifter’s trickery and our foooooolish king.”
I swallow and feel my amusement over how much he’s enjoying himself catch in my throat at what I know comes next.
“The ocean, she’s begging for our salvation. Begging for blood that will set our children free.”
And for a moment I swear I can feel the sea waves calling, begging my blood to set us all free.
Except just as with the Draewulf, my blood comes at a price.
“Blast the crippled croaker! Would someone put him out of his misery?” the merchant shouts.
A louder shout and then a cheer interrupt the inharmonious tune. Someone’s just been bought for a higher amount than expected. The merchant looks at the stage behind us and smiles. Then, without glancing at me, he says, “Done,” and fishes into his hip bag to drop three draghts into Brea’s open palm.
Congratulations, Nym. You’re officially the cheapest slave sold in Faelen history.
Brea hands the reins of my collar to the merchant and turns from him, but not so quickly as to confirm his suspicion that there’s something else amiss with me. Just before she leaves, she leans into me again, and her black hair brushes against my cheek.
“Pity you weren’t born a boy,” she whispers. “They would’ve just killed you outright. Saved us all from what you are.” And then she’s gone.
And I won’t even pretend I’m sorry.
The merchant yanks my leather straps like he’s bridling a goat and leads me behind him to the side of the selling platform where twelve other slaves wait, tethered to a lengthy stretch of chain. Before he bends down to tie me in line, he pulls a thin knife from his right bootie and puts it against my chin. “Try to escape, little imp, and this blade’ll find you faster than a bolcrane goin’ for a baby.” He breathes an extra puff of foul air up my nostrils and grins when I squirm in revulsion.
So, of course, I do what any self-respecting, uncooperative person would do. I spit into his annoying face.
“You little . . .” His knife is as fast as his fury, and before I can move he’s cut into my skin just beneath my jaw.
I cry out, and then bite my tongue because he doesn’t deserve to see my pain.
“I’ll sell you off in pieces if I have to,” he says, growling.
“Try,” I mutter.
Obviously the heat’s gotten to me because I’m smiling a bit crazy in spite of the sting—until his arm rises. I barely have time to brace before the back of his hand finds my mouth with a force that nearly knocks me over. Warm blood gushes from my lip to join the trickle on my neck, and suddenly I’m blinking to keep the whirling world in focus. Curse him.
He yells at someone I can’t see, “Get her up front and be rid of her. Now!”
The assistant pushes me to the low base of the stand. Hands shove me onto the stage as a small girl with red hair, who can scarcely be older than five, is being led off the other side. My stomach twists at her frightened expression, at the terror-filled memory of my first selling—the brief image of coming home to the midwife after my curse had wiped out her entire herd of sheep. Within hours I was sold to a man who gave a whole new meaning to the word monster.