Damn this old fool.

Wait, I don't mean that. I'm just upset. Tired. I'm tired of the smell of fish and this old hut and our lone palm tree and the donkey and the old man that I call my father. Even as I stare down at my fingers that endlessly twist the frayed cords of a frayed net, I can see him out of the corner of my eye, and I turn my head immediately. I don't want to see him.

An overwhelming feeling washes over me, a dormant emotion that I rarely feel. I would learn later that it was known as pride. But for now, I know it as that aggravating prickle that dances at the base of my neck. It makes my body burn and whispers in my ear, You're meant for more than this. There's somewhere, maybe just over that hill, where you really belong. It makes me want to stand up on my own two feet and subdue this bitter, dried husk with only a look. I don't have to be like him, resorting to blows and vague poetics to crush an unwilling sprit. Something inside of me has the strength to cast my eyes upon someone and obliterate them with a mere glance. What it is and where it is, though, is still beyond my grasp for now.

My eyes sting with sand and the salt water burns my calluses and the old man's voice, dry and accompanied with a constant revolting gargle, rings in my ears. Rings louder than the hoofs of the Tarkaan's horse that is coming our way.

"Stupid boy! Kneel down! Do you want the man to hit you?"

He can't hit me much harder than you, old man. I prostrate myself, and my father does the same, in a much more servile fashion. That burning sensation settles in at the base of my neck again as I watch him literally lick the dust like a snake. I hate to watch him do this. He kisses the feet of the men that he curses in his room. It seems wrong somehow. Even if we are nothing more than dirt to these great men of the Calormen empire.

I'm in the stable now, eating dinner. Maybe I should say trying to eat dinner. The bread is so stale that I couldn't get it down without water, and naturally there's none to be had.

It wouldn't matter. Arakeesh wants to sell me. I can call him that now, because he's not my father. Oh, sure, I knew that along, but now I know. And it only makes me feel better, because as many emotions that passed through my mind when I thought of him, 'love' was never present in the assembly. 'Affection' just barely deigned to show its face.

I remember feeling affectionately towards him once in my life, when he protected me as I came running home in terror from boys my own age and size, bawling my eyes out while trying to dodge rocks. The brief gratitude had faded appropriately enough as I realized that he was merely protecting a valuable investment – me. If he let the boys beat me, he would be bereft of his slave. And not surprisingly, he simply told them to go home, and took me indoors for a good thrashing. No explanation was admitted. My pleas of innocence fell on deaf ears, as his only comment was that I must have done something deserving of such a shunning.

How could I be capable of any such thing? I hardly had enough sense to write my own name. They had thrown their childish missiles my way amidst a torrent of equally immature curses, because I dared to want to associate with them while looking so very different.

Different? Oh, yes, I'm certainly different. Every person that I've ever met in my entire life has dark skin, dark eyes and dark hair. And usually a dark expression on their face. They seem to be gloomy by birth. I'm quite pale by comparison. My hair resembles the color of the sand, my eyes are a perfect match for the ocean. And I happen to think that smiling is quite an enjoyable pastime. I stand out. In a bad way.

I try to get comfortable in the itchy straw, with no company except for this horse who keeps staring at me. I do hope he isn't rabid. We're going to be sharing some close quarters.

I've never really felt wind before. At least not like this. I've felt the storms that torment us all with their sweltering heat and their blistering rain that always follows. But this, by comparison, is delicious: cool wind that licks my closed eyelids, gentle rain that glides over my warm cheeks like fingers. I tremble with delight. I've never been quite so happy.

"I never knew someone who liked rain quite as much as you seem to, Shasta," the horse comments.

Bree's voice is puzzling. He's often sarcastic without genuine disdain, which confuses me. He's so much smarter than I am, but he often treats me as an equal, which Arakeesh would have never bothered to do. I like Bree. I somehow feel akin to him.