Read with BonusRead with Bonus

The Interrogation

Shaira’s POV

Fear paralyzed me.

I didn’t understand anything that was happening.

Where was I?

Why were they treating me like a prisoner of war or, even worse, like a slave?

What had I done to these people to deserve such treatment?

I was terrified, and apparently, my only hope lay in a stranger, the first unfamiliar man I had seen, who, from what I could tell on my way to the opranchi village, had been watching me closely after arguing with the man who had tied me up.

At least, I was grateful for the translator implanted in my head, which allowed me to understand everything being said around me.

“I will proceed with the interrogation of the prisoner, the eteri who has been claimed by Omawit as a war trophy, to determine if there is any threat to our people,” I heard the man who seemed to be the chief of these people say when we entered a large house with high beams, where it seemed the entire tribe had gathered, “If no threat is found, Omawit will be allowed to keep the prisoner as his slave.”

My heart sank in my chest.

Did he say slave?

“Do you agree with what I have said, Omawit?” asked the elderly chief to the man who had tied me up with those vines that were now reddening the skin around my wrists and neck.

“I do, great leader. I will abide by your decision,” I heard the man, named Omawit, say, though there was some nervousness in his voice. He didn’t seem entirely confident about what the elderly chief’s decision would be, which, perhaps, could offer a way out of my situation.

What if, during the interrogation, the chief determined that I was indeed a threat to his people and decided to free me from this man who, although handsome, had the eyes of a snake?

But I might also risk death, because I knew nothing of their customs, let alone the laws of this people. I couldn’t even remember where I came from or how I had ended up here.

“Very well, very well,” said the elderly chief to calm the murmuring that had begun to spread among the gathered people. “I understand that the prisoner knows how to speak our language.” The elderly man’s eyes, little more than wrinkles through which a faint glimmer of light shone, looked into mine for the first time. At least, I thought, he looked at me as if I were a person.

“I do speak it, yes. And I also understand it,” I said smoothly, once again feeling that tingling in my head as the words flowed from my lips.

“And how is that possible?” the elderly man asked without much thought, “If you are an eteri, and by the color of your skin and features, I see that you are, how is it that you can speak and understand our language as if you were raised among us?”

A general murmur shook the atmosphere around me, and the old leader had to once again call for silence. As my eyes scanned the audience surrounding me, thinking of a response while the elder managed to quiet everyone down, my gaze locked with that of the man called Angro, whose eyes were fixed on mine.

A violent shudder ran through me. There was something, an inexplicable feeling of connection, that seemed to pull me toward him. It was like a magnetic connection, something drawing me toward him while I felt that I, too, was drawing him in. Beside him, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the same beautiful girl I had seen him speaking with on my way to the village.

Could she be his girlfriend?

It didn’t seem like it. They appeared to share a relationship, but it wasn’t romantic.

“What is your answer?” asked the elderly man. His words snapped me out of that momentary pull I had felt when looking at Angro.

My lips parted slowly.

I could invent a story to explain why I spoke their language, one that might win their favor and allow me to be considered one of them, sparing me from the horrible fate looming over me: being that terrifying man’s slave who looked at me as if I were already naked.

But what if they weren’t convinced?

Could a fate worse than slavery await me?

“I speak your language because…”

“Because her parents are eteri, settlers from the village beyond the fort,” said Angro in a booming voice, interrupting me, “But she was raised by one of our tribes. She is one of us. That’s why she cannot be enslaved.”

If the murmurs had been loud before, now they were a true cacophony of exclamations, protests, and cries of all kinds. The elderly chief had to strike his staff hard against the ground to silence the gathering, which erupted into a shout at the last moment.

“That’s a lie! Look at her clothes!”

It was Omawit, my captor and, until that moment, still my owner.

“She’s wearing a soldier’s uniform,” Omawit continued, determined not to give me up. His eyes were blazing. “Look, it’s torn, yes, but it’s still recognizable.”

In an act that defied the solemnity of the interrogation, Omawit leaped toward me, reached out to what remained of my clothing, and tore it forcefully.

“Everyone, look!” he shouted, holding up the last piece of fabric that had protected my breasts from being fully exposed. “These are the enemy’s clothes! These are a soldier’s clothes!”

I brought my still-bound arms up to cover my breasts, only thinking of shielding them, so I missed the moment when Angro also approached and snatched the fabric Omawit had torn from my uniform out of his hand. I only realized what he had done when I heard his voice again, booming like thunder.

“Just because she wears an enemy soldier’s uniform doesn’t mean she is one,” said Angro, his eyes never leaving those of his rival. “Have you ever heard of an eteri soldier who speaks our language?” Omawit didn’t respond. His silence was answer enough. “As I said, she is one of us, even though her parents are settlers, hence her skin color, but she was raised as an opranchi, and she is one.”

I saw Omawit’s face twist into a sly smile, just as it seemed Angro was winning the argument.

“Is she? Then why did you try to claim her before, when you saw that I had?” Omawit’s question seemed to shake the confident expression on Angro’s face. “You said you saw her first and asked me to let you claim her. You said you were going to claim her before me, but you had already heard me swear by Taothi and make her mine, so you couldn’t do anything. If she’s truly an opranchi, why were you going to claim her before me?”

My fate was now in Angro’s cleverness, and I saw him hesitate at Omawit’s question, while my heart sank in my chest.

“Answer, Angro,” requested the elderly chief, who was listening with the same attention as everyone else, “Why does Omawit say you tried to claim this girl before him? I remind you, Angro, that lying in an interrogation overseen by the chief is a grave offense, punishable by the mark of fire. If you have lied, the iron will brand your cheek, and you will no longer be worthy of marrying my daughter.”

I felt the weight of the elder’s words fall over the crowd, and some even turned away, fearing Angro had gone too far. I also felt he had taken too big a risk. Now his rival looked at him with glee, probably already imagining Angro being branded with a mark that he could never hide, a shame he would carry for the rest of his life.

“I have not lied,” Angro insisted, his powerful voice once again resonating through the great hut. “I would not dare, great Chief Owan ‘True Arrow,’ for I know our laws and respect them.”

I noticed that Angro addressed the elder with something more than mere solemnity and respect. He had also spoken with affection, and I connected that impression with the chief’s earlier words: ‘...you will no longer be worthy of marrying my daughter.’

So, Angro was engaged to the chief’s daughter.

Could it be that beautiful young woman who, from the back of the room, had been one of the first to turn and wipe tears from her cheeks?

I looked at Angro.

I trusted that he would have an answer to Omawit’s challenge, or we were both doomed.

Previous Chapter
Next Chapter