They had taken Arn and Gamden to a strange wooden house with a slanted roof. The place was surrounded by bare tree trunks, similar to the siege wall that surrounded the smouldering stone settlement. Between the wall of tree trunks and the wooden house was a yard as wide as the central campfire area in Razaad. A few small shacks were built here, and Arn and Gamden were given one to sleep during the nights; they found a pile of several cots inside, a small fire for light and cooking, and a single, small box for storage of their clothes. Master Quenden’s guards had passed Arn a pile of tunics and trousers upon their arrival.
Each day, Arn and Gamden were tasked with some menial job. A member of the guard gave them the orders; he was set apart from his fellows by a yellow badge which gleamed like the metal of swords or spear tips. The man was bald, bearded, and wore a perpetual scowl that reminded Arn of his older brother, Joroth. He made it clear—in his language—that their refusal to obey would be punished. Similarly, they were not permitted to leave the wooden walls.
Arn didn’t see Master Quenden himself until over a week had passed and the new Moon had begun to wax. Arn was cutting wood with an axe—under the watchful supervision of the bald guard—when Quenden arrived with two metal-armed warriors accompanying him. The guards at the opening in the wooden wall bowed at their waist to the white-haired man. It seemed to be a common recognition of rank here, so Arn held his shoulders as square as he could and looked Quenden in his brown eyes as he approached.
“Nevo. His gon may be soft, but a duii adama he has,” Quenden said to the guard. He looked Arn over, while Gamden waited patiently nearby. Quenden’s eyes settled on the axe that Arn held. Though it had a sun-shaded metal head, it was similar to stone tools Arn had used on Razaad. “He has kikalo no rusar?”
“No sir,” replied the guard, whom Arn guessed to be named Nevo.
“Good,” Quenden said. He looked at Arn again—looked him in the eyes. He spoke slowly so Arn could hear each word clearly. “Your name is Arn, yes?”
“Yes,” Arn replied.
“Put down the axe, Arn. Come and speak with me,” Quenden said. He stepped away from the woodchopping blocks and into the shade of the wooden home. Arn glanced at Gamden. He briefly considered trying to kill Quenden with the axe. If the man had bought him, perhaps that would make Arn a free man. He could likely catch Nevo by surprise, but fighting Quenden’s two other guards would draw the attention of more, no doubt.
“Just see what he wants,” Gamden said. Arn nodded and tossed the axe to Nevo. The guard started, but caught it easily enough.
Arn stepped into the shade, folding his bare arms. Scars from fights on Razaad and Scoa criss-crossed them, but at least his muscles were returning. The beige trousers they had given him concealed more—more scars and more regrowth. He still felt it would be months before he returned to his former strength. Quenden was more like Jorik the Embalmer; he had almost no brawn at all, likely due to lack of need. Arn didn’t know how to ask many questions in their language, so he waited for his master to speak.
“How long were you krenalo?” Quenden asked. Seeing that the word made no sense, he rephrased: “On the island?”
Arn shrugged.
“How many Moons?” Quenden repeated. He started raising fingers.
“I don’t know,” Arn said, reasserting. He couldn’t say, “I’ve lost count,” in their language. He didn’t know “lost,” or “count.”
“Many, then,” Quenden said. “And before that?”
Arn sighed. He did not feel like trying to tell a story in a language he barely knew.
Quenden sighed. “Fine,” he said. He crossed his arms, sliding his smooth shiny sleeves across one another. “Listen to me. You are not like other pirrivan.”
“I don’t know ‘pirrivan’,” Arn said.
“Pirrivan,” the man repeated. “Owned.” He wrapped one arm over the opposite shoulder, to pat his back. He pointed at Arn, too.
Arn didn’t have a word for an owned person. It didn’t even make sense to Arn, but he knew about what the man was speaking.
Master Quenden saw Arn’s recognition by his expression and continued to speak. “You are not like the others. We have an awukak—a thing to say—in our people: we break animals, or people. Break them so they will do what we say.
“We have a similar expression,” Arn said, using the word he had just learned cautiously.
“I don’t think I could make you do anything,” Quenden repeated, “if you karim your gon. No. Everything that I could do to you has been done already, hasn’t it?”
Arn kept his face controlled. He forced one brief nod, refusing to look away from Quenden’s light brown eyes. “I know death,” he said, quietly. It was the only way he could express what he had experienced in a single phrase.
Quenden nodded. “I will make you a naette. A trade.”
“Trade?” Arn asked. He had learned this word from Emrez and the sailors; they had traded supplies with some of the other ships they had met in the fleet. This man had made a trade to get Arn, now he offered to trade with him?
“I will give you food,” Quenden said. “All the food you want. Bed. Roof. Coins. For as many Moons as you want. Years, even.”
Arn blinked. After months of starvation on the sandy beach and a lifetime fighting to survive on Razaad, Quenden’s offer sounded like a good afterlife, not something real. “Why?” Arn asked.
“So you will do as I say, since I cannot break you—and do not want to try,” Quenden said.
Arn lifted his shoulders. “You will trade me all this for what you say? Then say it,” he commanded, with the disjointed words he had learned.
“I want you to grow strong, sharp, dangerous,” Quenden said. “I want you to kill for me.”
Arn blinked, then smirked. “You want me to kill for you.”
“Yes,” Quenden said, simply. “In big fights on the field, or in the sea, or when I tell you to find someone, kill them. I want you to be my best killer.”
“Kill people,” Arn repeated. He started to chuckle. Then he threw back his head and howled. I came across the Deep, I survived Scoa and that sand blight… to end up right where I started! He bent over on his knees, while Quenden and the guards stared in concern. He heaved and wept and guffawed until his lungs were empty and his face bright red. “Kill people!” he repeated, and whooped like a shadow gull.
“Are you well?” asked Quenden.
“Trade,” Arn said, grinning bitterly. “Trade. You give me food, home, spear… I kill people.”
“Good, good,” Quenden said. “First strength. Work. And ukar.”
Arn shrugged and nodded and stepped back toward the row of uncut logs. He realized he had forgotten about Gamden, who stood nearby and watched Arn with eyes that squinted because of sunlight and concern. Arn turned back to Quenden. “What about Gamden?” he asked.
The question seemed to catch Quenden off-guard. “I will find other work for Gamden,” the master said, smiling and stepping into the sun. “You will both be treated better than the other pirrivan.”
Arn glanced back at Gamden and shrugged. “Is that good enough for you?” he asked, and wiped his eyes with his calloused knuckles. Sorry Ratha, he thought—an internal prayer—I’m still what you hate. He picked up the wood axe and heaved it up over his head. It was good enough for him.