Ariella

iii. Liberator

"They're in excellent condition, lady. No pox or fleas, and strong as two bulls. Pretty, enough, too, to serve as lady's maids or even-" the glib slave trader winks. "companions for your guards."

"Hmm." Ariella eyes them skeptically. They are both beauties, that much is true. The shorter, golden-haired one is buxom, with piercing blue eyes and a pretty, narrow face, while the taller, black-haired one has a rounder face with rich dark eyes. "I will not be requiring companions for my guards. I would never provide my guards with a service they can get on the streets."

"Apologies." The trader dips his head nervously. "I meant no offense, only some lords-"

"I am no lord." The man falls silent. In the past weeks, the rumors of Ariella's temper have circulated throughout the city. She doesn't care. Let them fear me; it makes them easier to bargain with. "The girls. What are their names?"

The golden-haired girl looks around fearfully, but the black-haired one speaks up. "My name is Hell-"

"Shut up." the trader snaps, and slaps the girl with such force, she stumbles and nearly falls. Her companion has to catch her, lest she stumble onto the cobblestones of the crowded market square. The girl's cheek is red now, a fresh bruise already forming. "Apologies, milady. The girl's freshly caught. Doesn't know her place yet-none of these islanders do. Has some ridiculous islander name she wants to be called by. I put a stop to that, I did. Name's Nan now. But you know-a few beatings and she'll be proper good. Then you'll have none of this business of names and naming."

"I do not intend to beat her." Ariella says, fixing the man with a gaze that makes him squirm. "And I would hear her name from her own lips, rather than through those of an intermediary. Your name, girl?"

"My name is-" the girl struggles with herself for a while. "'my name is Hellaina, madam."

"How dare you-" The trader raised his whip, but Ariella catches his wrist with her hand. "Stop! If she wants to be called Hellaina, than Hellaina she shall be. What business is it of ours?"

"But-"

"I'll take both of the girls. Fifty silvers each." She throws him a pouch filled with money, which he nearly drops in his shock. "Fifty silver-"

"A kindness. See to it that you don't presume to change any more names, and perhaps more shall follow. Come, girls."

Silently, the two slaves follow Ariella to the carriage that would take them back to the slopes of Lyria.

--

Once the girls had been outfitted in saffron-yellow servants' robes and had been fed (a mug of spiced milk apiece and a small country loaf), Ariella sits them down across from her in the homely, but clean room that would serve as their quarters. Resting her elbows on the dented table, she says, "Now tell me about yourself. Where you are from, how you ended up in that man's possession, all of it. Spare no detail."

The girls glanced at each other. Clearly this was not the first duty of most slave girls. No one spoke. "Hellaina." Ariella demanded. "Tell me."

Hellaina jumps. In the dim light of the candle, she seems smaller than she really is, the bruise on her pale cheek illuminated, her lips burnished red. Her robe curls around her body awkwardly, her slender figure not quite fitting the coarse cloth. Yet her eyes, the exact hue of ink, have a sort of quiet dignity. Again, Ariella is reminded of her contradiction of the slave trader. This one is strong. "Me, milady?"

"You."

The girl shifts awkwardly. "There's not much to tell."