The Fickle Winds of Autumn

21. An Act of Kindness

Kira slumped against the side of the wagon; her body ached from the days of constant walking and the lack of food; her exhausted frame was too weary to even sit down; and if she did manage to collapse onto the hard cobbles below, her fatigued legs lacked the strength or energy to stand her back up again - and she had seen how the slavers treated those who failed to get up and walk on their command.

No - better to remain standing and take advantage of the warming sun - perhaps it would dry her out a little and offer some comfort to her numbed, traumatised limbs.

Her legs and feet were raw and blistered and cut. The wounds had distressed her terribly and at first - the pain kept her awake through the long chill of the nights - but now she felt nothing; she shuddered, afraid that this oozing lack of sensation might be even worse.

A young man with earnest blue eyes was speaking to Pocket.

She strained to hear the conversation above the rowdy bustle of the market.

Perhaps he intended to buy one of the slaves?

He seemed to keep pointing in her direction.

Was it her he wanted?

If he bought her, would this be the end of her dreadful suffering? Or just the beginning of something far worse?

No-one had thought to pay her any heed in any of the other towns and villages she had trudged through - except for the alderman's wife back in Ghenworth, who had noticed her boots and thought that they would do nicely for her daughter.

The boots had begun to pinch anyway - but at least they offered some protection from the sharp stinging stones which littered the roads - and they had helped prevent the leg-irons from cutting into her ankles.

Her jaded mind was emptied by fatigue and loss of hope; she was too tired to move or speak as the boy approached.

He did not have the predatory look of a buyer - and his plain clothing did not indicate that he was wealthy enough.

He took some ointment from the small flask on his belt and knelt to apply it to the festering sores which wept across her purple blotched and bloodied ankles.

"Don't worry," he said in a soft, calm voice, "this will help to heal you."

The touch of his hand tingled with a subtle strangeness. Perhaps it was something in the ointment? Or perhaps it was simply the unfamiliarity of human contact and kindness after the cold cruelties of the leg irons - it was impossible to tell - she could barely sense his fingers through the blunt, insensible wounds.

He was the first person to show any sign of concern or sympathy toward her in the long days since her miserable capture.

Her shattered mind relaxed and reinvigorated - perhaps there was still goodness and charity in the world? Perhaps there was reason to hope and to strive?

She looked down at him as he worked.

He seemed kind - perhaps he would even help her escape?

But she could trust him? Could she ever trust anyone again?

But then what choice did she have, really?

She took a deep breath.

For the first time in what seemed like a terrible forever, her destiny seemed to be back in her own hands.

She must seize this opportunity or be condemned to a life of slavery.

If she ever wanted to escape from this horror and somehow get back to the safety of the convent, she would have to summon the energy and force herself to act.