Sample Chapters

I am caught in this moment, poised on the threshold of making a decision that will change my life forever. No, that’s not quite right, is it? I have already made the decision. I made it so long ago I can’t even remember now. What I have struggled with is the transition from thought to action. I have let this impulse bubble away inside me for far too long, and now it simply has to get out.

From the outside, no one would ever suspect anything was different about me. I have always conformed to what was expected of me. I have always lived here with my parents, which is precisely what is expected of a woman in Tarnath, and indeed throughout the whole Lysic League. We’re not meant to live on our own. It isn’t strictly forbidden, but it is something that would equal social death. The only way that I could have legitimately left this house is through marriage and that’s not something I could agree to.

Some of this is a function of our class, I suppose. If I was poor, perhaps I would have been granted more freedom. My father is a wealthy merchant, though I am not sure how much buying and selling he does nowadays. He has enough people working for him that, unless he wants to, he doesn’t have to lift a finger. His name is the currency of the business and that is all that matters. That is why it is so vital to him that I play my role, too.

Besides which, since I grew up, they essentially have given me my own space. Yes the building has only one front door, but I have a separate suite of rooms. I can even reach the outside from it, though my mother always frowns upon it. She says I look like a slave sneaking out of the side entrance when I use it. Given what I am about to do, the irony is almost physical. These rooms have always felt like a gilded cage and not the entertaining kind. My parents have even assigned me my own slaves to tend to them, though I don’t ultimately own them.

My parents always knock before entering. If I wanted to, I could dally with a man or even a woman for that matter. In Tarnath, relationships between those of the same sex are officially banned, but I’m not sure that prevents them from happening. In any case, I’ve never been interested as such a relationship would be one of equals. That’s not what I am after. I want to belong to someone completely.

Ever since I was little, I have made my slaves uncomfortable. I have always had girls as slaves, never men. I understand that in some households that is not the case. Many young women of my age are bought male slaves by their parents. It’s even sometimes encouraged that they get their first experiences of sex with them. Slaves don’t matter - they can’t spread gossip on pain of death. It saves the complications that would ensue if the young women in question were to fall in love with the first person she bedded. That would never do as then they might refuse to marry the person their parents had in mind for them.

My parents never took that view, being rather old-fashioned. They believed that a girl should be a virgin until marriage. They would have turned a blind eye, I think, if I’d had an affair, but I always knew their views about such things. I guess they thought that is why I never indulged but they were wrong.

What I wanted from a very young age was to be like the slave girls they owned. I was fascinated by them intensely and they never knew how to handle my obsessive interest in them. I wanted to know the details of their lives. Where and how they slept, what it was like to be beaten. How it felt to have the blessed release of no control over your own life forever.

Some answered my questions more fully than others. Even then, I suspected they were merely providing the answers they thought I wanted to hear. I always wanted more detail than they gave. For example, one told me that she was chained at night, and I found myself wanting to know more. How thick was the iron? What was its weight? Most importantly, how did it feel to know you were confined by it and there was no hope of escape? Her replies remained vague, sanitised, I suspect, for what she perceived as my sensibilities. This made me all the more determined to find out the whole truth.

I also asked her once what it was like to be had as a slave. She wouldn’t say anything about that. Just went red, stammered something about not being allowed to answer such questions. I thought about this a lot, trying to analyse her reaction. Was she ashamed of being used as a slave? I didn’t think so. Her reaction seemed more fearful than ashamed. Perhaps she thought this was some kind of test and that she would be in trouble if she answered me honestly. I believe she must have told my mother some version of this conversation, because shortly after she was moved to other duties.

I never made that mistake again, though my curiosity continued to unsettle the other slaves assigned to me. I was well aware that serving me was a duty none of them accepted gladly. They often jumped at the chance to leave and serve in another part of the household. It wasn’t my fault or theirs. I wanted to share their status, yet I did not and so my manner towards them was always slightly askew.

I knew there was a path I could take – the very path I intend to take today, in fact. Why it took me so long to reach this point, I can’t entirely say. A fear of change, perhaps. Or the weight of knowing how final this decision will be once it is made. There will be no turning back, and I simply wasn’t prepared for that in the past. I’m not entirely sure that I am even now. Yet, there seems to be no other choice left to me.

I have reached the age of twenty-four you see and that is when I am required to marry. My parents would have preferred I had done so years ago, but until I reached this somehow magical age, they wouldn’t force me. The First Prophet, Vorath, proclaimed, somewhat arbitrarily in my view, that anyone who wasn’t married by the age of twenty-five would be damned to The Chain Below for eternity.

I remember being so excited the first time I heard this. The idea of a massive chain was something that appealed to me, no matter how many times people tried to put me off. I wondered how long it was, how much it would confine me. My father tried to emphasise to me that it wasn’t an actual chain but a metaphorical one. The Chain Below was merely an eternal prison that one could never escape. That, if anything, made it seem more intriguing.

He never responded to my questions about what torments would take place there. He just assured me that it wasn’t somewhere I would care to end up. Gradually, through many mistakes I learned to keep my questions to myself.

I suspect my father simply thought me silly. I don’t think he ever realised my true nature or the real reason for my asking. Surely, though, he would have been used to submissive females? He had certainly owned enough slaves. My mother had always been quite bitter about the amount of time he spent with slave girls. I suppose it must have been difficult for him to recognise these same traits in me though, simply because I was his daughter.

It didn’t stop me wondering and dreaming about such a place, however. I fantasised that I would refuse to marry, refusing to conform simply to see what would happen. Perhaps my parents would even kill me, speeding my descent into that hell. I didn’t really think that they would, but the idea was appealing. The reality, I knew, was that I would have simply had to live with their disappointment. I don’t think they would even have thrown me out.

I couldn’t do it to them though, not for the longest time. I couldn’t bear to see their disappointed faces each day, knowing that I was the cause of their shame. I tried to carry on with life as best as I could. I put the idea of marriage to the back of my mind, always hoping that somehow it wouldn’t come to that. Until the day they told me they had found me a suitor. I knew then that I would have to let them down. Coward that I am, I intend to do it in a way that ensures I won’t have to see them again. I look at the door weighing the question it poses. Am I finally going to go through with this, or shall I take what is supposed to be the easier road? Even as I pretend to consider this, I know the answer.

I take one last long look around the room before I depart. The room contains everything I could ever want and more, materially speaking at least. I can see the pretty trinkets on my dressing room table, trying to tempt me back with all their sparkle. The golden chains, tidily arranged by the slaves. Mostly simple, but shiny, although there are single gemstones hanging from some of them. My taste has always been for the simple things. If truth be told, I’ve selected things that are as collar-like as possible without drawing unwanted attention.

One of my few genuine pleasures in this life has been to fasten them, feeling how they enhance my attractiveness. If I go through with this, it might be a long time before I can even touch such pretty things again. If I ever do. There is a certain wistfulness about bidding them farewell, but it is a necessary minor sacrifice. I am going to a life where the chains have less outward allure but are ten thousand times more precious to me because they lock.

There is nothing else to do but leave. I fear if I linger any longer I might never get going. I can feel my nerve slipping even as I move towards the door. A thousand thoughts run through my head. Would it be that bad to be married? I have met Jason after all, and he doesn’t strike me as a difficult man. He doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would want much from me, even. Perhaps that is the problem. While there are no certainties if I follow through with this current plan, at least I can expect whoever will own me to demand a lot.

I watch my hand reach for the handle. I press down, hearing the metallic groan as it starts to give way. There seems to be more resistance there than usual. I don’t think it is the mechanism itself is the cause of the trouble. The doubt remains in my mind, heavy enough to make each movement a struggle. Subconsciously, I think I am slowing myself down. I must move soon, or risk discovery. My parents are out for the morning, but they will be back. While I’m not forbidden from leaving, they would certainly question where I intended to go.

With that thought, I step decisively into the street, using the “wrong” exit for what I hope is the final time. Carefully, I pull the door shut behind me. There is nobody there to hear me, but instinctively I do so gently, cautious of making even the slightest sound. I have left the keys inside so that I can’t be tempted to go back once I am out. They’re hidden in a drawer, though, so they won’t easily be discovered. I don’t want anyone to realise that I have gone for good until it is far too late. That is also why I haven’t left a note. I’m not sure how long this process will take, but I don’t want anyone to find me, to rescue me before I have said the words that will make this irrevocable.

I feel a massive weight of guilt at the pain this will cause my parents, but I don’t see a way to avoid it. If things go to plan, it is unlikely they will ever know for sure what has happened to me. I suspect that once I have surrendered, I’ll be transported far out of the city quickly to avoid complications. I love that word “transported” – it speaks of moving an animal from one place to another.

I want to be moved as soon as possible. Although I will legally be property as soon as the words are out of my mouth, there are always workarounds for those with enough money. I imagine my parents could easily pay off the magistrates to ensure that nobody ever knew I had been a slave. Would Jason agree to marry me still then though? I doubt it, not if I had already been branded. What would become of me? My parents would likely keep me at home, and my life would be even more restricted than it is now. I must avoid that at all costs.

Although I am distracted by my racing thoughts, I still notice every detail as I walk down the street. I will probably never be here again and certainly never as a free woman, and I think that is what makes me absorb it all. It’s a brisk, cold day and I feel it even though I am currently wrapped up very warmly. I’m all too aware that, from now on, I will not be allowed clothes as a matter of course, if at all. I hear the excited shrieks of children playing in the streets. Soon, even they will be higher in status than me, despite their youth. I will have to defer to them as much as any other free person.

More than anything, I notice the friendly, familiar atmosphere of the city. It feels like home, though thank goodness I don’t see anyone that I know. I don’t know how I would manage to make polite conversation at the moment if I did. I hasten my step at the thought, wanting to get further away from the world I am about to leave behind.

Although I have never been to the magistrates’ offices before, I know where they are. I have passed nearby many times. It’s near the shopping district, you see, and I have spent many pleasant hours there. The magistrates’ offices are usually regarded as places you visit for ostensibly less pleasant reasons. You come here to be tried for minor crimes or to pay fines. There are slightly more exciting reasons for visits, such as registering a child’s birth, I suppose, though that prospect has certainly never thrilled me.

The reason I have come, though, is because it is here that I can proclaim myself slave and be taken into custody. Or so I have been told. I really hope that’s true, or I don’t know what I will do. The only other option seems to be to walk the streets and surrender to the first man who looks like he could own me.