Free The Third Scroll by Dana Marton

to punish.
    I expected her to order me to the latrines or to the creek to wash the entrails of the animals slaughtered for the previous night’s feast. The kitchen servants had saved them to be made into strings for the warriors’ bows.
    But Kumra issued no order. Instead she waited, and soon five slave women hurried into our hall, each old enough to be my mother.
    “Lie down.”
    Cold filled my chest as I looked from woman to woman, but I did as Kumra ordered.
    They descended on me then, one holding each limb, my legs and arms spread as I struggled against them. “What are you doing to me?”
    “Quiet.” Kumra bent and snatched away the blanket I had wrapped around my body for a makeshift covering, since my clothes had been torn beyond repair.
    The fifth slave woman settled between my legs, and I panicked then and fought as hard as I could, but their bony hands bit into my wrists and ankles, still sore from the day before. They were stronger than me, toughened by their labors, hardened by their fear of Kumra.
    The woman between my legs slapped my thigh hard to still me, but my fear grew too great to do anything but thrash against my restrainers, like a wild animal against the snare. I no longer cared for what punishment Kumra would mete out for refusing to follow her orders. I cared about nothing but escaping from my bonds and the unknown violence I sensed coming.
    I felt the woman’s fingers on me, then a quick jab, and she was searching my opening. I howled like a rabbit in the snare.
    She withdrew almost immediately. “Untouched,” she said, and the others released me.
    I curled up on the floor and pulled the blanket to cover my body as humiliation washed over me. Hatred, like diseased marrow, filled my bones. I knew my mother would not approve, but still I shook with it.
    Kumra stood over me for a few more moments before she turned to leave.
    The women followed her out to the courtyard, but one came back a while later with clothes. I put on the worn Kadar garments, a long linen under-tunic and a straight wool dress that fell to my ankles, both roughly woven and scratchy. They were warmer than my Shahala thudi and tunic had been, so I set my dislike aside. I would need warm clothes for my escape.
    I kept the torn pieces of my own ruined clothes, stuffed under my cot, grateful when the servant did not demand them. I planned to salvage enough of the thudi to wear under the Kadar clothes, as I did not think I could ever grow comfortable with their custom of being naked underneath.
    The woman sent me to work in Tahar’s Hall, and I hurried on, for I feared Kumra might change her mind about me and devise yet some other kind of torture.
    At the Great Hall, I found Lenya transforming two old storage rooms into suitable quarters for Gilrem, the High Lord’s brother. He had slept in Warrior Hall with his guards the night before, but hospitality called for better accommodations for a guest of such high honor.
    The smaller storeroom in the back would be his, while his guards would sleep in the larger antechamber. The servants had already cleaned both chambers and brought in suitable furniture. Lenya and I had to arrange everything and lay the pelts on the bed.
    I worked as fast as I ever had, even though Lenya told me Gilrem and the Palace Guard were inspecting the harbor that day. Still, every time I heard a noise I jumped, scared that the men had returned to find us in their quarters. I prayed they would be gone from the House of Tahar soon, as far as their legs could carry them.
    The spirits took pity on me and answered my prayers, not by granting my wish but by saving me in their own way as they often did. The following day, the last of Tahar’s warriors arrived home from the distant battlefield: the wounded and the dead, and those who carried them home.
    By Tahar’s special allowance, I moved to Warrior Hall to care for the sick and stayed there for many days, sleeping what little I could between the cots for those