As gentle as the rising sun, a breeze stirred the sheets that draped Arn. His eyes crept open and the ceiling came into focus—old, sagging, wooden beams. It was good to sleep beneath wood again, he thought. He rolled to one side, away from the incessant light. In his shadow, the round shoulder of Massema lay. She was a thing of beauty in her tranquility, Arn thought—a different sort of beauty than Thalla’s ferocity. Massema would not have survived on Razaad, but Arn did not care…not anymore.
The woman’s soft shape shifted. Her eyes peaked open and she smiled. “You’re always awake before me,” she whispered groggily.
Arn smiled. It had only taken them a few days after being granted quarters by Drowen Deathless for the two to put their cots together, but Arn still wondered if he would soon awaken and find this to be some deep recess of the dreamworld. He was a man of scars and savagery, his face perpetually contorted around the tear where once had existed his nose.
But as Massema pushed her way into his embrace, Arn knew it was no dream or delusion. She found solace in his brave companionship. She found intimacy in his defended security.
Besides, Arn’s madness had never rewarded him—it had only ever taken from him.
Soon enough, Arn and Massema rose, washed in the wash basin, and set out from the quarters to go about their work. Arn spent the morning under Master Vellek’s attention, then reported for labour in the work yard. Today, they had Arn stomping on grapes. It was long-winding, sweaty work, but seemed trivial compared to hammering that wretched, tainted metal as he had done a few days earlier, or training for combat as he had done under Quenden’s authority.
Massema continued to work as a scribe among the other “learned” slaves, and she had had no further issues since Drowen had doled out punishment to those who had attacked her.
The other slaves hated Arn and his protected friend, but hate had never been a problem for Arn. Hate, like some animal’s instinct, allowed Arn to predict how his foes might act, and so to plan accordingly.
Drowen, on the other hand, did not hate them. This made him far, far more dangerous than any of the embittered slaves or even the vengeful Nevo who had briefly confronted Arn.
Last he had spoken with Drowen, Arn had overheard words spoken of Tarro, Drowen’s Stone Spear or chieftain. When Arn had first killed the first commander here in Starath, he had been told that Tarro would deal with him—but Tarro had never appeared. Arn was still unclear about who exactly this leader was and why he commanded such loyalty from men in a great city over which he did not preside. It seemed—to make matters worse—that no one had seen Tarro in some time.
It concerned Arn little. He went about his chores—building up his strength as Drowen had commanded—and enjoyed his meals with a woman the likes of which he had never known.
That evening, as they relaxed by their window looking down on the city below Drowen’s stronghold, Arn asked Massema about herself. She was raised in a village in a land called Kedar. She told Arn of many lands, further emphasizing just how small Razaad was. It had been Arn’s entire world for most of his life, but it was a place lost to the Deep now.
“Are all the places built with all of this metal?” Arn asked, looking down the streets beyond Drowen’s walls. The stone roads of Starath were lined with metal grates and metal lines, shining in the sun.
“The metal?” Massema asked. “No, no. Starath is only this way because it was built because of Copper Cove.”
“Copper Cove?” Arn asked. He knew the word cove, but he supposed the first word was simply a name.
“Yes,” Massema said. She squinted, trying to discern what part of Arn’s confusion she should address. “Copper—it’s this metal.” She tapped the plate that braced the window frame.
“There are other metal—metals?—too?” Arn asked.
Massema nodded. “Faraway, they found a metal that is stronger and lasts longer—iron.”
Arn shook his head. “Does it cause the dead to walk?” he asked. The half-rotten woman, scrawling her bony fingers across a decayed table, came, unwanted, to his memory. The ruins of Scoa would always haunt him—as well as that cursed metal sword he had claimed from its depths.
“The dead to…what?” Massema asked. “No. Metal doesn’t do that.”
Arn nodded, but his eyes narrowed suspiciously.
Then, something pushed Arn to the side—or perhaps, the wall tilted toward him. Confused, Arn grabbed the windowsill to sturdy himself. Then the wall rattled once more, shaking him away from it. Massema grabbed him for balance, but both of them were knocked to the floor with the next tremor.
“What’s happening?” Arn asked, but he almost bit his tongue as the floor shifted beneath his knees.
“Earthquake,” she gasped. “It’ll pass.”
It did, after a few more shakes. “It has happened before?” Arn asked, as they righted the toppled chairs. Outside, they saw dust rising from some of the rooftops and people getting up from the hard, stone streets.
“A few years ago,” Massema said. “They think it is because of the Orrish.”
Arn raised an eyebrow. How many hours would it take for these people to make sense to him? He crossed to the door, but found it stiff to open where it had previously opened easily. It seemed one side of it now dragged on the floor.
“Where are you going?” Massema asked.
“To see how I can help,” Arn answered. He had to maintain his value to Drowen somehow, and stomping on grapes in the middle of the metal city hardly seemed to represent Arn’s true importance.