The Captive
Chapter Thirty-one

Be careful what you ask for, daughter, lest you get it.
Her mother's words rang in Ashlynnes mind as she was pushed into a small gray cell. She had longed to go home again, but not like this. Her hair had been cut short, and she had been issued a pair of black breeches, a coarse shirt, and a pair of thick-soled boots.
She lifted a hand to her hair, her eyes burning with tears. Of all the things she had endured, standing with her hands and feet bound while a slave with dirty hands and fetid breath cut her hair was the worst. She had closed her eyes, remembering the touch of Falkon's hand moving in her hair, the way her hair had looked brushing against his chest when they made love, shining silver against dark bronze, and cried harder.
They were going to be slaves in the mine. She stood at the door, staring out into the darkness, remembering the look on Darfs face when Drade came to take the baby, the long anguished wail that had risen in Chaney's throat as her child was wrested from her arms. Darf and Chaney were also here, locked in adjoining cells. And Falkon... where was Falkon? She stood at the door for what seemed like hours, her hands and feet feeling heavy from the unfamiliar weight of the shackles she wore. She was aware of the collar at her throat every time she swallowed. It made her feel as if she was going to choke to death. How had Falkon endured it for so long? Falkon, where are you? He wouldn't be able to save her now. She placed her hand over her belly, a terrible pain engulfing her as she glanced over her shoulder at the grim surroundings. She would give birth to her child in this awful place, and then they would take it from her, as they had taken Chaney's child, and she would never see it again.
Sinking down on the hard, narrow cot that was her bed, she closed her eyes and prayed that she would die in childbirth.
It was still dark outside when she was roused from a troubled sleep. A man thrust a bowl and a cup into her hand. She looked at it in horror. She couldn't eat the food, knew she would be violently ill if she tried.
"You'd best eat it," the guard said gruffly. "You won't get nothing else until midday."
She stared at the dull brownish meal made of ground Horth grubs and triticale and shook her head. "I can't."
"Suit yourself," he said, and turned away, muttering under his breath about the sheer lunacy of having women working in the mine.
She put the bowl on the floor, sipped the lukewarm bitter tea.
A quarter of an hour later, the door to her cell swung open and she was ordered outside. She saw Darf and Chancy a short distance ahead, but when she started to go to them, a guard stopped her.
"Keep your place in line," he growled.
She stared at the entrance to the mine, and then the line began to move.
She followed the man in front of her, ducking her head as she entered the
mine's black maw. A guard thrust a pulse axe into her hands, showed her how to use it, and told her to get to work. The axe was bulky and heavy. She was paired with a man who had a drill, and for the next six hours, they worked side by side, loosening the dirt while a third slave carefully pried the black crystals from Tierde's tenacious earth.
By midday, the palms of her hands were blistered, her shoulders ached, her back ached, her head ached, and she was thirsty, so thirsty. And hungry.
A slave came by a short time later, passing out bowls of gruel and cups of tea. Closing her eyes, Ashlynne tried not to think of what was in the bowl as she forced herself to eat, but all she could see were dozens of fat brown grubs. It was all she could do to make herself swallow the thick, lumpy gruel.
She ate it quickly, washed it down with the tea, only to have it all come up again.
Fifteen minutes later, they were ordered back to work.
The man working at her side patted her shoulder in an awkward gesture of support.
"Welcome to hell," he whispered, and thrust the drill into the hard, unyielding ground.