In the fighting pit of Derecho’s infamous colosseum, a beast waited for its meal.
A zebra prisoner named Celiah waited in the tunnels below. The guards had corralled her and twenty other prisoners into a single file line at the bottom of a long ramp. Hazy sunlight filtered through an iron gate and stung her eyes. A few of the other prisoners whimpered. They were the fresh meat, the lucky ones who had arrived late and only had to spend a week or two in the labyrinthian prison, waiting to be killed. Celiah had been waiting for three months.
Celiah tried to tune out the cries of the other inmates and listen to the sounds the beast made. Back in Zebrica, animals of every shape and stripe roamed the earth, living and dying in harmony with each other. Celiah had listened to them as a child and made a game of putting names to noises. A single zebra could never hope to learn all the myriad calls. But with careful observation, telltale patterns appeared.
This particular beast sounded like some kind of big cat.
Another sound filled the air. The colosseum held a second beast of sorts: forty thousand screaming Derechans. They wanted her the same way the big cat wanted her. They were hungry.
The guards at the gate shouted down to the ones handling the prisoners. The smell of panic filled the air. This was it.
Standing at the precipice, Celiah found herself oddly calm. She thought of her home in Zebrica and the life she’d never gotten to live. She’d had three months to rage at the injustice of it all. Now, all that was left to do was go.
The massive iron gate shuddered. The prisoners shuddered too, but not Celiah. She stood tall with her head high. Let her captors see her calm. Let it agonize them at night when they closed their eyes. Let it—
A guard put a burly hoof on her shoulder. “Not you.”
In the time it took for her to snap out of her death reverie, the guard removed the chain connecting her to the other prisoners and pulled her roughly out of line.
The gate shot up with a deafening clank of metal. More guards appeared, screaming at the prisoners, prodding them with spears. The lineup stumbled up the ramp. Their eyes fell on her, bitter and contemptuous. Then they disappeared, swallowed up by the light.
The sounds of the colosseum floated softly through the open window, tickling lace curtains. Girasole paused to watch them flutter. The way the curtains caught the light pleased her. The skies were clear. The house was quiet. Life was good.
She’d convinced her husband, a senator named Giesu, to buy this place to better compartmentalize his home and working lives. Their twelve daughters needed a space of their own to live without getting in the way of his political duties.
There were ulterior motives, sure, but her stated one wasn’t a lie. Their old home—a mansion on the acropolis hill just down the street from the senate chambers, a home with its own private worship area, baths, offices, and enough rooms to house a small army—simply wasn’t large enough to accommodate twelve daughters and Giesu’s ego.
This new house suited her better, anyway. It was conveniently built on the same cloud base as one of the better markets in town, frequently orbited near the financial district, and never got closer than half a mile to the entertainment district, where the streets become clogged with ponies whenever an event came to the colosseum.
The view, too, was spectacular. Certain less affluent parts of the city, the grand markets and the slums across town, were cloaked in a near-perpetual fog. Not this neighborhood. From her balcony, she could see all the way to the shifting heart of Derecho.
Her nose twitched. For a second, she was sure she could smell blood in the air. Was it her imagination? Or was she having a stroke?
A uniformed guard knocked on the front door and announced, “The new servant is here, my lady.”
“Thank you.” Her voice sounded fine. No slurring. Just her imagination, then. “Take her to the basement. I’ll bring her up to speed.”
She paused as another roar went up from the colosseum. The sound brought a faint frown to Girasole’s face. They’d been at it all morning. How much longer could they go before they ran out of things to kill?
The guard dragged Celiah through the city streets. The cries of the colosseum faded into the background. High-walled villas of densely-packed cloudstone curled over the streets like hunched elders, blocking out the sun.
The street slanted up. The walk became an uphill slog. The buildings reclined against each other, mocking her effort. Eventually, they stopped at a large but unremarkable three-story structure. Celiah was ushered through a natural stone entryway, down a flight of stairs lined with shale and fine art. She stumbled several times. She hadn’t walked on anything truly solid in three months.
A pristine pegasus with yellow fur and a gossamer-thin lilac mane arrived behind her. She made a point of eyeing Celiah up and down, searching for defects.
“Should I pirouette?” Celiah asked.
The mare frowned. “No, that won’t be necessary.” A pause. “But show me your teeth.”
After another minute of inspection, the pegasus nodded. “My name is Girasole. This is your home now. I’ll give you the tour.”
As they wound through the estate’s many rooms, Girasole said, “You came from the colosseum?”
“Yes, mistress.”
“Don’t call me that. Girasole is fine. It’s not that kind of servitude.”
“Yes, Girasole.” Celiah inflected her voice so her new master’s name sounded like what it was: a title stamped on a sharpened blade. Girasole seemed to notice this. Good, Celiah thought. Let the pastel pig squirm in her own shit.
Girasole took her to the home’s servant quarters. Dozens of mares in simple linen dresses moved through the room, working and laughing. A few folded laundry. Others cooed over foals lying in a lineup of cribs.
A sense of unease filled Celiah. Was this some sort of upscale foal farm?
“Girls,” Girasole called. The servants peeled themselves away from the foals and lined up in a neat row. “This is Celiah. She’s here to help with the foals and general housework.”
The girls bowed their heads in unison.
“She came straight from the colosseum, so she’ll need a bath and some bandages. Perhaps a meal, too.” She turned to Celiah, eyeing her with a distant but friendly smile. “Is there anything else you require?”
“No, Girasole,” she replied. “But, a question, if I may.”
“Of course.”
“How many other servants are there?”
Girasole laughed. “You’re the only one.” She saw Celiah glance at the other girls in confusion. “Oh, dear me! I’m sorry. These aren’t servants. They’re my daughters.”
In truth, Girasole had a total of thirty eight daughters. Twelve were her true biological daughters. They slept on the upper floors, took music lessons, and learned how to speak in public and act at social gatherings.
The other twenty six were her husband’s illegitimate children, born from twenty four other mares. They crowded into the servants’ quarters and assisted in labor and general household tasks. The situation was far from ideal. But they made themselves useful in a variety of unexpected ways. Girasole loved them the way a mother might love a neighbor child who frequently played with her own children.
When Giesu’s first illegitimate daughter was born sixteen years ago, he suggested they tie her up in a sack and throw her into the river. Girasole pulled a knife on him and threatened to cut off his stallionhood.
As they came, he surrendered the other twenty five without a fight. That was the other reason why they’d bought this big house so far away from his official residence.
“Mama!” cried Azzurra Scuro, one of the twenty six illegitimate daughters of Giesu. She tottled into the formal room, where Girasole and Celiah were going over grocery receipts. Celiah couldn’t read, so Girasole was trying to teach her which symbols stood for which fruit. “Mama!”
The two older mares paused to watch little Azzurra. The foal pitched forward, landed in a shadow, and fell straight through. Celiah’s fur bristled. This is fine, she forced herself to think. This is normal. She can’t go far. Just listen and watch and wait and—
Azzurra Scuro reappeared in a heap on the other side of the room. She shot back up with a big squeal of laughter.
“Hard-headed,” Girasole commented. Celiah smiled.
Azzurra scrambled across the room and latched onto Celiah’s leg. “Mama!”
Celiah picked the foal up and hoofed her over to Girasole. “Want your mama? There you go.”
As she left Celiah’s arms, Azzurra’s little face darkened. She opened her mouth wide and screamed.
One day, when returning from her daily errands, Celiah found the front door to the mansion locked. She knocked politely and waited for someone to let her in. When no one did, she called out, “It’s Celiah, I’m at the door.”
No one heard her. After several minutes of waiting, she started to grow nervous. She knocked on the door again. A few passing ponies gave her hard looks, but turned away when Celiah met their eyes.
Then a cadre of Derechan soldiers appeared at the head of the street.
“You,” the commander called, “what are you doing? This isn’t your street.”
Celiah bowed so deep she almost overturned her basket. “I’m a servant of lady Girasole. I—”
The commander slapped her hard across the face. “Leave.”
Celiah gasped. Shivers wracked her body. “This is my—”
He shoved her. Her basket overturned. Bruised, wrinkled fruit spilled into the street. The soldiers broke ranks and stuffed them into their pockets. “I didn’t say you could speak,” the commander said.
At that moment, the door flew open. Girasole emerged like a banshee, screaming obscenities and swinging a rolling pin. She landed two solid blows across the commander’s back before the troops retreated down the street.
The commander shouted a few choice words at Girasole. The patrol reformed and marched off in the direction of the colosseum.
Girasole had another key made for Celiah that same day.
Fantasies of sprouting wings and flying away filled Celiah’s thoughts. More practically, with a key to the house, she had the luxury to pick and choose the best time to slip away. If she took just a few gold coins from the safe in the basement, and maybe a modest bundle of provisions from the pantry, she could buy passage back to the surface. Call it backpay.
Celiah wandered through the market, picking up provisions at random. Her mind was elsewhere. She could go wherever she wanted, provided she first got off this cloud. She could go east, where the orange trees grew in great groves of drained marshland. Or south, to the jungles of the baboon kingdoms, where the trees shed bananas like leaves in fall, and the harvest season never ended. THe possibilities were endless. Traveling alone would be dangerous, but so was living here with all these psychotic ponies. She could start over. She could be strong. She could—
She noticed someone was staring at her.
He was a zebra, a little older than her, with a confused look in his eyes. He crouched behind a stall of bananas and pretended to shop while stealing glances in her direction. When she looked his way, he ducked out of sight.
Seeing another zebra wasn’t a big deal in and of itself. The orbit of Derecho’s neighborhoods brought a constant flow of new creatures along Celiah’s path. It wasn’t uncommon to see half a dozen different species on the walk to the market, and another dozen more while she shopped. Most of them were servants of one kind or another. They all had their jobs to do, as did she. They left each other alone.
This zebra was ignoring that unspoken rule.
She saw the same zebra again the next day, and the day after that. His hiding spots changed, but that stare stayed the same.
On the fourth day, her patience broke. She didn’t have time for this. There were thirty six young mares to take care of. If he was going to try something, better she force him to try it here, where there were witnesses and guards present.
She walked up to the orange stand where he was hiding and picked a few fruits off the top row. The zebra ducked behind the cart.
“What’s wrong?” she asked him. “Never seen a zebra?”
The zebra stallion flinched. The jig was up. “No... In fact, I’ve seen you before.”
“Yes, I know. I saw you staring yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that.”
He lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“It takes more than that to upset me. You’d better find a different market to shop in, though. If I see you out here again, I’ll call the guards on you.”
“Please don’t.” He rose to his full height and emerged from behind the cart. Celiah took a step back, conscious of the distance between them. “I’m sorry. Really. My name is Walik. We’ve met before.”
“As I said—”
“No, I mean we’ve met before this. Before the market.”
“I don’t remember you from Zebrica.”
Walik shook his head. “Not that far back.”
Not that far back? The only thing in between her past life in her home country and now was—
“Nope.” Celiah turned on her hooves and took off at a brisk trot. “Nuh-uh.”
“Wait!” she heard Walik call behind her. “Please, this is very important—”
“You must be mistaken,” Celiah said, her voice cold. “Leave me alone.”
Walik galloped in front of her and fell to his knees. “I could never mistake you. You were the only light in that prison cell.”
Celiah froze. Her legs tensed. Her ears flicked at the air. Bystanders passed harsh looks at the two zebras from the corners of their eyes. They were standing still in the middle of a busy thoroughfare. Holding up traffic.
“You’re making an ass of yourself,” she finally said, ignoring a huff of indignation from a passing donkey. “Get out of the street.” Celiah stepped to the side, where the traffic was less congested. Walik followed close behind.
“I didn’t seek you out. But when I saw you, I knew I had to speak to you. I distribute food to the prisoners. I served your meals.”
Celiah tried to think back to those painful months trapped in the colosseum tunnels. The memories were still too hot to touch. “I don’t remember you.”
“But I remember you. I thought it was a crime against creation to keep a soul so pure behind bars, but I never said anything.” He lowered his eyes. “I was a coward.”
Celiah patted her saddlebag, just to make sure her coin purse was still there. “Uh huh.”
“I wanted so badly to help you and the other prisoners. Or even just say something. But if I did, I’d never work in this city again. I’d starve. I’m trapped.”
“Not literally trapped, like if you had been chained to the walls.”
A bitter laugh escaped Walik’s lips. “To see you here, alive, fills me with so much happiness. Happiness and shame. I beg you forgive me. I’m complicit in a terrible crime, but I want to be free.” He put his head down against the ground. “I’m begging you. Forgive me. Please.”
Celiah considered the pitiful zebra before her. The silence lingered. Sweat appeared on his brow. Just when he looked ready to run away and hide his face in shame, she said, “You really want forgiveness?”
“Yes. I’ll do anything.”
She unhooked her laden saddlebags and placed them over his back. “Help me walk these home.”
Summer waned. A dry, heady autumn rolled through Derecho. The visits from Walik grew more frequent. The fighting in the colosseum waned. Celiah still found herself wracked by cold sweats and shivers when she heard the sound of the crowds. Girasole found excuses to send her away to the western markets, further away from the city’s core and the sounds of prisoners being eaten by animals.
It was on one of those occasions that Celiah stumbled on something she wasn’t supposed to see.
Bad droughts in the southern farmlands meant even less fruit at the market than usual. An hour of scouring the stalls yielded little more than a bruised sense of pride and several equally bruised bananas. She was rehearsing how she would break the news to Girasole when she noticed a stranger’s cloak hanging on a peg by the door. It was red.
Celiah froze. She heard Girasole’s voice upstairs. She was making a noise like a cornered animal being prodded by spears.
The basket of fruit hit the floor. Celiah raced to the stairs, pausing only to grab a heavy iron pot from the kitchen. Brandishing it like a broadsword, she crept up to the second floor. Her mind raced. The biological daughters were away at their lessons, and the rest would be downstairs. What was wrong with them? How could they not hear their mother was in danger?
Celiah reached the master bedroom and peered around the corner. Girasole had her hooves wrapped around a stallion. She bared her teeth and bit his neck and growled.
Celiah’s cheeks went red. She turned on a dime and raced outside.
The streets were dangerous for an unaccompanied servant, even one under Girasole’s protection. But it was still safer than home. That stallion wasn’t Giesu. He would have been wearing the purple cloak of a Derechan politician. And even then, Girasole made it clear he’d sooner bind his wings and throw himself off the edge of the city than visit the den of his bastard children.
No, red cloaks meant army generals.
The following evening, after helping prepare dinner, Girasole took Celiah aside. They walked through the open courtyard running the length of the mansion’s east side. A fountain in the corner trickled liquid rainbow across stained stones, insulating them from the noise of the city.
“I need you to take a more active role in running his house,” Girasole said.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve heard rumblings. Giesu and his allies in the senate are plotting some new political ploy. Politics means violence. Violence means long diplomatic missions away from home. Long missions means more mouths to feed.”
They reached the rear wall of the courtyard and took a seat on a stone bench. Celiah had imagined leaping onto the bench and scaling the wall a hundred times, back before she had been given a key to the front door. The bench was cool to the touch and somewhat uncomfortable to sit on.
“Anything you need me to do, I’ll do,” Celiah said. “I’m at your disposal.”
Girasole reached into her bodice and pulled out a sheathed knife.
Celiah leapt off the bench. A chill swept down her spine. The whoosh of forty thousand screaming voices filled her ears.
Girasole laughed. “I thought zebras trained their mares to fight.” She spun the knife around and beckoned for Celiah to take it.
Celiah took a moment to catch her breath. After a long, drawn-out silence, she said, “You know nothing of my tribe.” She made no move to take the knife.
“I’m the protector of this house. If anyone wants to touch my daughters—any of them—they have to get through me.” Girasole set the knife down beside her. “I believe that with this new round of politics, I’ll be spending a lot of time at the uptown mansion. Someone needs to run this house in my absence.”
“I’m just a servant. This is not—”
“Who could do it better than you?”
“Get one of your daughters to do it.”
“They don’t know this place like you do.” With a look as sharp as any knife, she said, “You know what goes on.”
Celiah’s brow furrowed. “I know what I’m supposed to know. Nothing else.”
“That’s not true. You see. And you understand. That’s what makes you invaluable.” Girasole suddenly rose from the bench. She pressed the knife into Celiah’s hooves. The tip of the blade pointed straight at Girasole’s heart. A pull to unsheath it, then a push—that was all it would take.
But Celiah wouldn’t let herself linger on the thought. She took the knife and slid it into her bodice. “Do you love them?” she asked. “All of them?”
In a motherly voice, Girasole said, “If a single one of them came to harm, I’d find whoever was responsible and bring the whole city down on top of them.”
It was a pretty sentiment. But it was a lie.
One day, without any warning, a loaf of bread flew over the courtyard wall. It landed with a splash in the rainbow fountain and almost instantly started to dissolve. Celiah and the foals gathered around to watch the water fizz. They weren’t expecting the glass bottle that fell next.
It missed one of Girasole’s biological daughters by inches and struck a bastard daughter squarely in the back. Glass went everywhere. Blood flowed down secondhoof fabric.
Celiah’s mind immediately went to rioters. “Children!” she called. All the kids, even the ones nearing adulthood, went silent at the sound of her voice. “Everyone go to the cellar. Bar the door.”
Azzurra Scuro paused to help the sister who’d been struck by a rock. “I’ll get her,” she said to her other bastard siblings. “You all go.” Then she gave her injured sister a kiss on the cheek and threw her over her back. Celiah’s heart soared with pride.
No sooner had she finished barring the windows than she heard a knock at the door.
“This is the home of senator Giesu, and his wife and children,” Celiah announced in her loudest, bravest voice. “Anyone who dares disturb us will face the wrath of—”
The lock turned with a soft click. The door swung open. Celiah came face to face with the round, red face of senator Giesu. Girasole stood behind him, undisguised rage in her eyes. Her saddlebag was open. Bruised groceries spilled out.
“Who’s wrath?” Giesu snarled.
Celiah immediately dropped into a deep bow. She felt the sheathed knife poking her belly. “Senator,” she said, her voice low and reverent. “We thought—”
Giesu stepped around her. “Where are they?” he asked Girasole.
“Gone,” Girasole replied. “I sent them away last week. You’ll never find them.” Her voice sounded strained. She motioned Celiah to follow her.
Giesu continued his rampage through the house, overturning tables and tearing embroidered patterns off the wall. When he got to the cellar, Girasole pushed her way in front of him and blocked the door.
“Move,” he growled.
“Take one more step. I dare you.” From her bodice, she produced a knife similar to the one she’d given Celiah. The pointed edge glinted in the dim light.
Giesu let out a rumbling laugh. “Do you remember when I gave you my first bastard? You threatened to cut my balls off.”
“If you take any of them, I’ll collect on that promise.”
“I’ve never been so attracted to you in my entire life.” His words had the intended effect of throwing Girasole and Celiah off balance. “You’re a tiger.”
“You’re sick.”
“I’m a slave in the arena, and I’m staring at a starving lion.”
“Shut up.”
“Devour me.”
“Shut up!”
Giesu dropped his leering smile. “Romulus needs to know we’re committed. Ears from one. Eyes from another. Tongue from a third. We can’t give him yours. We certainly can’t give him mine.”
“Take one of your own daughters.”
Giesu took a step forward.
Girasole made a wild swing with the knife. The blade flashed harmlessly in front of Giesu’s face. The near miss sent him into a blind fury. He rushed forward and slammed his hoof into her temple. She collapsed in a heap.
Giesu whirled around to face Celiah. “You. Go in there and pick one.”
Her hoof clasped at the knife, but she was paralyzed. The roar of forty thousand screaming ponies rushed in her ears.
“Use me,” she said. “I’ll say I’m your daughter.”
“You’re too old. They wouldn’t believe it.”
“I’ll put on makeup and wear their clothes.”
“It has to be one of them. I don’t care who.”
“I won’t give them up.”
“You will. Or I’ll drag you back to the colosseum and feed you to the cats myself.”
Celiah appraised her options. Giesu was spritely for his large frame, but if she turned tail and ran, he’d never be able to catch her. And if she jumped him... well, Girasole hadn’t been incorrect when she said Zebra women were trained to fight alongside the stallions.
She could pull the knife. Or run away. Or spit in his face and let him beat her to death. But his eyes pinned her to the spot like the paws of a big cat. The ghosts of the colosseum roared in her ears so loudly she couldn’t think.
The whole world was stacked in Giesu’s favor. How could she divert that much momentum? She was helpless but to obey.
Trembling, she stepped around Girasole’s prone form and put her cheek to the door.
“Children.” Her voice was lifeless. “Open the door.”
A murmuring whimper came through the cracks. Tears spilled down Celiah’s face. She felt the weight of Giesu’s gaze on her back, crushing her.
“Children,” she said again, more forcefully. “Open up.” Still, nothing. Giesu shifted impatiently. Celiah’s chest heaved, but she couldn’t draw in air. She was asphyxiating. If only she could drop dead on the spot. If only it were that easy.
“Children,” she said a third time, “come out. No one’s going to hurt you. It’s okay.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “It’s all gonna be okay.”
She heard the scrape of the bar being lifted away. They trusted her so much. She turned around and looked at Giesu and asked herself again—how could she divert such momentum? How could she stop something so monumentally powerful?
The answer was, she couldn't. The door opened. Giesu stormed inside. A chorus of terrified screams erupted from the cellar. He emerged a moment later dragging the limp body of Azzurra Scuro by her hair. Her eyes were wide with terror. Her mouth was open. She was screaming.