(16) Does Not Work

Tara sipped the milk and almost choked. It was cold! She glanced around, the bridge they stood on aglow with the orange light cast by the magma far below. How was it possible to have cold drinks in the center of a volcano?

She felt her strength returning, miraculously. She gulped the milk like she was dehydrated, and the mana coursing through her body made her lightheaded. It was as good as any potion she had ever had, which was not many, admittedly.

Stumbling slightly as her vision danced, she glanced at the fruit on the ground where she had dropped it, then at the glass in her manacled hands. With a grimace, she bent down, trying to place the empty glass down gently so she could pick the fruit up, her chained hands too close together to do much with.

Clang!

Suddenly, her manacles were rent, splitting into shards and splinters on the ground. Tara stared at her freed hands, dumbfounded. The fraught floated off the ground over to her, hovering between her hands. She stared, first at it, then her left hand, her right hand, and back at it.

Bump.

“Ow,” she grumbled as the fraught suddenly ran into her head.

Tara took the fruit with both hands, looking over toward Nephthys, who stood—floated—with her arms crossed, staring blankly at Tara, seemingly uncaring, or perhaps even unaware, of how uncomfortable her gaze was.

Tara bit the fruit—so juicy! The few times she had been fortunate enough to have fruit, it was a withered, pathetic thing. She had suspected that fruit hardy enough to grow in the Strip was simply not appetizing, but this was unbelievably juicy.

It reminded her of those few moments where she was not enslaved, hunting for herself. She always savored the eyeballs of prey, and the explosion of juice that, while not tasty, was a welcome drink to accompany her meal. This juice was delicious, sweet beyond compare. She had thought Theron’s story about the fruit’s namesake a joke, but now she was not so sure.

Juice ran down her chin as she dug into the scrumptious fruit, both desiring to eat it as quickly as possible and savor it slowly. She was not sure she had ever eaten anything as tasty. This fruit truly was more valuable than all the starmetal she had ever seen.

Curiously, juice was somehow dripping from her eyes as well. Yes. That must be it.

A man in some sort of expensive black garb approached Nephthys, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture straight and proper. He was the picture of professionalism, and his neatly combed hair and manicured goatee further sold that impression.

“My lady,” he greeted with a small bow.

“Ramose,” Nephthys replied with a small nod.

Tara sidled closer, hoping to eavesdrop.

“How does it look?” Nephthys asked.

“Now that the vault has been opened, we have enough for perhaps a few weeks. Granted, that is a few weeks of these folks eating well. If we rationed, perhaps a month or more,” Ramose replied, gesturing to all the slaves.

“That seems low. I recall a great deal more food in the vault’s storage,” Nephthys replied.

“Indeed, there is a large quantity of edibles, enough that, in the unlikely event of a siege, our members could survive for years. However, the issue is—” Ramose started.

“The food is too high level,” Tara said around a mouthful of fraught.

She instantly froze, her whole body tense. What had she done? Why did she speak? All her fourteen years of almost constant strife and suffering, and she slips up at the first hint of kindness? Had she learned nothing?

Ramose merely glanced at her and nodded before continuing his report.

“That is correct. My lady, it is understandable that you would not know, being a Djinn. My understanding is that Djinn can eat almost anything without issue. However, most beings that require sustenance have a range of mana that their bodies can accept.

“The fraughts are the lowest level fruit we have, and they are already near the upper limit of what most of these people’s bodies can tolerate. If you look closely, you will notice people swaying on their feet, dilated pupils, and sudden lethargy. Their bodies are struggling to cope with the amount of mana each fraught possesses.

“And, again, this is the upper limit, but still within acceptability. Ten levels higher, and we are looking at potential organ failure, in severe cases. The most extreme reactions would involve bodies failing to capture all the mana released during digestion, which would then rage within them. That would be…even less pleasant than organ failure, I imagine,” Ramose explained, his tone grave.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Nephthys surveyed the bridge before the gate, inspecting all the slaves as they ate, Theron as he examined each person, probably making good on his threat to force-feed, if needed, and eventually settling on Tara, who withered under her gaze.

“Sounds like we need information,” she finally said, looking back toward Ramose.

Ramose turned around and seemed to follow the same inspection that Nephthys had just performed.

“I see. Yes, indeed. This could do nicely,” he said, tapping a finger against his chin. “May I have everyone’s attention, please!”

Ramose’s booming voice echoed across the bridge, immediately drawing everyone’s attention and making more than a few flinch.

“Could everyone please gather around? We will make introductions!” he called.