Gilene nodded, reaching up to pat his hand. “We’ll be waiting for you in the usual spot,” he said in low tones meant for only her to hear. Her eldest brother, Nylan, squeezed her shoulder.
This wasn’t their first parting, and for good or ill, it wouldn’t be their last. Each had embraced her, dry-eyed and grim-faced. She had already exchanged farewells with her mother and siblings. The slavers of the Empire guided the line, shoving their cargo forward with harsh commands and the occasional warning crack of a whip. She waited beside her mother, sister, and brothers as the caravan of shackled women plodded down Beroe’s market street toward the town square. For Gilene, spring was the season neither of rain nor of planting, but of suffering.
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