The Bone Harp

By Alexis Steinhauer

Six years ago, the Vaichaisin conquered Raven Almonyhr's homeland. Six years ago, he and his people surrendered and were forced into slavery. Six years ago, the dragons disappeared, and no one knows why.

In ancient times, the faeries created the soul-key, the Bone Harp, as a means to bridge their land and the land of mortals. Throughout the ages it has chosen all who would use it; and none of them have met happy endings. Now the harp has chosen Raven to be its keeper . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alexis Steinhauer
• Release date: Sep 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301368914

Alexis Steinhauer

Alexis Steinhauer is a cat-loving bookworm who likes tea, heavy metal music, dripping candles and dark stories. Her favorite place to be is in her nest of pillows with a book in one hand and either a cat or a laptop on her lap. She will laugh at just about any dad joke or cat meme you throw at her. Alexis is the author of Dragonfate: Dragon's Gold, Dragonfate: Dragon's Flight and Dragonfate: Dragon's Oath. She is also the author of The Felling. The Bone Harp Book 1. Her new series, Fabricated Men, is her current project and passion.

Book preview

The Bone Harp

Book 1 of The Felling

by

Alexis Steinhauer

This story is for the best family in the world—mine—and for Remy, who probably spends as much time on my keyboard as I do.

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Alexis Steinhauer on Smashwords

The Bone Harp:

Book 1 of The Felling

Copyright © 2012 by Alexis Steinhauer

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

Chapter Log:

Pronunciation Guide

Prologue . . . . . You Are Mine

Chapter 1 . . . . . Messenger

Chapter 2 . . . . . Faerie

Chapter 3 . . . . . Grace of the Stars

Chapter 4 . . . . . Keeper

Chapter 5 . . . . . By the Lady’s Hand

Chapter 6 . . . . . Contemplation and Execution

Chapter 7 . . . . . The Play

Chapter 8 . . . . . Nowhere to Go

Chapter 9 . . . . . The Learning

Chapter 10 . . . . . Denial

Chapter 11 . . . . . A Gamble

Chapter 12 . . . . . Familiar Shores

Chapter 13 . . . . . Reaching Out

Chapter 14 . . . . . Pressing Matters

Chapter 15 . . . . . Freedom

Chapter 16 . . . . . Reunited

Chapter 17 . . . . . A Decision

Chapter 18 . . . . . Selective Aid

Chapter 19 . . . . . The Bands of Magic

Chapter 20 . . . . . The White Harp

Chapter 21 . . . . . Cuts in the Ice

Chapter 22 . . . . . The Long Night

Chapter 23 . . . . . Invitation

Chapter 24 . . . . . Raven’s Song

Chapter 25 . . . . . Awakening

Chapter 26 . . . . . Fire

Chapter 27 . . . . . Moments of Peace

Epilogue . . . . . A Slave No Longer

Pronunciation Guide

These names might all be intensely annoying; if so, I apologize. Please remember, however, that there are a number of different cultures present in this story, each with their own languages, written runes, and accents, and every name has been translated and re-translated to a somewhat ridiculous degree. This guide is as simple as I can make it.

Almonyhr . . . . . ALL-mone-eer

Bríniael . . . . . BREE-nee-ayl

Brödin . . . . . BROE-din

Gallynde . . . . . gal-LIN-day

Láif . . . . . LIFE

Lophtheryx . . . . . LAWF-there-ix

Lyira . . . . . lie-EER-uh

Mayla . . . . . MAY-luh

Molbraeli . . . . . mole-BRAY-lee

Narye . . . . . nahr-I

Nithciale . . . . . NITH-shay-ahl

Oeyl . . . . . o-AYL

Prydine . . . . . PRIE-deen

Tëair . . . . . tie-EER

Tycrius . . . . . TIE-cree-us

Vaichaisin . . . . . vie-CHAY-sin

Vetyale . . . . . VEE-tie-ayl

Prologue

You Are Mine

Raven

Mrythka, Vaichaisi Empire

34th year of the reign of Emperor Prydine

It was uncounted thousands of years ago that the white lady, the innocent maiden Lyira, stepped into the woods with a basket on her arm, seeking a bed of bluest llyshcar berries beneath the snow. Young was she and beautiful, her rich mane of hair like dark chocolate, eyes like twinkling sapphires, her clothing unadorned but not diminishing; indeed, its commonness only made more obvious her striking face and delicate white arms.

Pain seared across my back, ripping apart the flesh of my shoulders, clawing into the muscle as if a puma scrabbled there for purchase. I clamped my teeth into my lower lip and bowed my head into the wooden post before me, the splinters where shorter, younger prisoners had torn at it prickling my sweaty forehead . . .

The woods were dark that eve, shadowed by the clouds of impending snow. The snow was deep and her boots thin, but she sang as she walked, her clear, flutelike voice soaring into the barren trees to stroke the veiled sky. Gentle deer and bright cardinals raised their heads and moved near her, following raptly, basking in her music and her beauty.

Again and again the lash cut me, until blood ran down my skin in rivulets and soaked the waistband of my leggings. My hands fisted, my teeth clamped hard on the piece of tough leather they had given me, but I refused to cry out . . .

Lyira found the berries as she had seen them ripening days before, now plump and vivid where they peeked through the disturbed snow. She knelt in the grass, her voice sinking to a contented hum, and began picking.

Voices murmured behind me, wondering who I was and what I had done to deserve this. They held disdain as they marked the ashen white-blue hue of my skin, approval as they pointed out the glistening jewels of blood that rolled around to my stomach and dribbled onto the smooth white marble floor . . .

In the airy palaces where the god Tycrius lived in boredom, a beautiful sound echoed. The god raised his head, surprised; he had given little thought in recent centuries to the lands that he had stamped across the universe to give himself footholds, or the small living creatures who had sprung up from each drop of blood that the sticks and stones of his footpath cut from the tender soles of his feet. Yet this noise, this lovely melody, drew him out of his musings and brought his eyes down to the green land called Molbrael. There he saw a thing of such beauty that it shamed even the marble arches and cloud-woven floors of his home. I must have this thing, he said to himself. An ornament of such beauty must stand before me and grace my halls forevermore. And this music . . . is this a thing of my making? I have never heard the like. And so the god flew on pearly wing through the darkening heavens, and in the form of a dove, alighted on a branch above Lyira's head.

Red. So very red, like a cardinal's feathers stark against a cloud, like garnets scattered carelessly about in a blanket of snow. The droplets glistened gold with the reflected light of the torches, dancing and winking at me as if I should not have a care in all the world . . .

Lyira tucked the last of the berries into her basket and rose to walk back to her cottage, and the god, enchanted by her loveliness and aggrieved at her silence, dropped from his tree wearing the shape of a comely young man. He soothed Lyira's alarm and asked if he might have a single berry from her basket, which she gave him gladly. She offered him more, but he raised his hands in denial and said, Nay, my dear lady, not now. But I swear, by the time I have eaten ten of your berries, you will love me as you love nothing else in your beautiful land. And he took the berry from her fingertips and put it in his mouth, savoring it. Then he turned to her with a smile, bent over her hand to bestow upon her a kiss and a blessing, and backed away into the trees until she could see him no more.

The next lash slammed my chest into the post and left my feet slipping in the blood on the floor. Someone laughed. My face burned with the agony and humiliation, but I clamped the leather still harder between my teeth and wound my wrists tighter into their bonds, fighting with all my will to remain silent . . .

For three hundred and sixty-five days, the god Tycrius watched Lyira. He listened when she sang and gazed upon her every graceful movement in growing love, knowing that each passing arc of the sun brought her one day closer to him. Lyira dismissed him from her thoughts, though she never quite forgot him, and would sit before the hearth of a cold evening and turn her mind back, recalling his face with curiosity. Then came the day when the maiden knew the llyshcar berries would be ripe again, so she took her basket and waded through the snow to reach the sprawling bed. The god left his palaces eagerly, and the dove was waiting for her when she arrived, though she paid it no heed.

How are you enjoying your stay, Molbraeli? I did not see who spoke the words, but there was acid enough embedded in them to eat away at what little of my flesh must still be clinging to my bones. I hunched my aching shoulders and tried not to listen . . .

As the maiden laid the last berry atop the pile in the basket, she realized that a familiar young man stood beside her, offering a hand. She took it gratefully, for her knees were stiff and her body was cold. The young man, seeing her discomfort, took the thick woolen cape from his own shoulders and cast it over her. May I have two of your delicious berries? he asked, and in wonder, the maiden gave them to him. He ate them with a smile, then stepped forward, bent her head down, and laid a kiss and a blessing upon her left temple. When she looked up, he had vanished.

More people were gathering behind me with every lash, and a wicked wind had picked up, whipping ice fragments into every bit of exposed skin and stinging my eyes, thus far dry despite my torture, to tears. The murmuring voices had ceased to make sense . . .

Again it was one year before Lyira set out to pick berries. Again the dove watched and listened as she sang, her slender white hands roughened by housework yet so very gentle and free in their movements. Again he lifted her to her feet, and this time requested three of her berries, which she gave him in great joy, for she had missed the sight of him. Who are you? she asked, but he shook his head and put a finger to her lips, silencing her. With a smile he sank to his knees before her, lifted her right foot, and slipping her boot free, placed a kiss and a blessing upon the fair skin. And as always, he retreated and was gone before the maiden could speak again.

One more lash, tearing at the nape of my neck, curling around the muscle in my shoulder to snap my collarbone like a nipping dragon. Then another, splitting the skin at the edge of my left shoulder blade. I was feeling dizzy, the post and the elegant walls of the courtyard swimming before my eyes, the earth bucking under my limp feet . . . no. I was no longer standing, but hanging by my bound wrists. How had that happened? I struggled to get my feet under me, but if those red blocks of flesh at the ends of my ankles were still mine, I could not feel them to move them. The chill made my bones quake, my teeth rattle in my skull until the bar of leather nearly escaped my lips. If it did, no one would fetch it back for me. No one would care . . .

The fourth time he came to her, Tycrius took four berries and swallowed them with proper reverence. That is ten, said Lyira. You have eaten ten of my berries.

The god smiled. And? he asked softly.

She ducked her head. And I do love you, very much, as you once predicted.

He lifted her chin with a finger. Do you love me enough to come with me to my home, even though it be for all eternity?

She nodded, speaking the shy promise that he wanted to hear. Well satisfied, the god held her against his breast and kissed her, and growing wings of silver gossamer and swan's feathers, carried her up into the heavens, where they were to be wed and rule the beautiful lands below in loving harmony.

Ah, sweet Lyira, have mercy, I whispered brokenly, my head snapping back in agony as another lash tore my skin open. Let this end. Let it all be over, I beg of you.

In my delirium, the white walls and arched windows, every shutter sealed against the frigid wind, blurred into a haze. I thought I saw a white figure, slight in build and stature but radiant with an angel's light, walking softly toward me with thin ghosts of snow whipping about her feet as they raced over the exposed white marble. She was cloaked in stark but beautiful rainbows, and upon her brow gleamed a stone of richest red. In her left hand was a staff of gold so brilliant it must have been woven of the sun's rays, and about her right ankle was bound a rope of flowering llyshcar. Her head was crowned with a mountain of dark curls, some few of which had tumbled loose and framed her long, elegant neck.

The figure moved to my side, shorter than I but of such beauty and presence that I could feel it shivering the air. Be still, my love, she murmured in my ear. Be silent. They shall not break you, for you are mine. Her cool fingers stroked my cheekbone, crumbling the frozen salt of my tears. Only a short while longer. Then she bent her head and kissed both of my cheeks as tenderly as any mother, and the warmth that spread through me was wonderful, heavy . . . numbing. My eyelids sagged. I fought to keep them open, to keep the beautiful vision in my sight, but I could not.

The jeers and snide questions spun away into blackness.

* * * * *

Láif

I marched back and forth across the peaked rooftops in the shape of a lithe black cat, my eyes trained on the activity in the courtyard below. I saw the woman clearly, wrapped in her cloak of gossamer rainbows, as she straightened up. The onlookers blinked for a moment as she turned a glacial glare on them; perhaps, for the brief space of a heartbeat, they felt her disgust, though they could not see her with their mortal eyes. For a breath of time, silence fell upon my ears with the weight of a leaden anvil. Then the next lash came with a sharp crack; I crouched in place, tail swishing rapidly back and forth, watching the burly dark-skinned man who held the whip. He did not know his victim was unaware of the mutilation his body was suffering.

The boy had not cried out. Had he screamed and begged and sobbed, his silence now would be revealing. Yet he had not; hence, the lashings continued. The woman stepped away from the blood dribbled over the ground, her bare feet leaving no marks, and turned her bright gaze to me. I stared back, unblinking. She was not fooled by my disguise; had I worn my natural shape, I would have nodded at her, recognizing her recognition.

She spoke with the voice of wind beneath a falcon's wings, crystal chimes under the summer sun, a flute trilling a melody so unbearably sweet that no mortal fingers could ever duplicate it. He is your charge, now, was all she said.

I felt the weight of the words like a grindstone settling on my heart; the fur on the back of my neck bristled, and I hissed sharply. This was a command I could not disobey. I turned my eyes to the boy who was chained to the post, as limp as a boneless fish. The lady had claimed him; he was special. And she had thrust him into my care. For an instant, I wished I wore the form of a wolf, though canines disagreed with me always; at least I might have thrown my head back to howl my displeasure into the heavens.

As it was, I snapped my tail and turned my head to look for the woman again. I was unsurprised to see that she had disappeared. Snorting through my slitted nostrils, I swung around and bounded away, paws flying gracefully across the knife-thin ridge of the roof's peak.

I felt the boy like a tether around my neck, tugging my awareness back to him even though I could neither see, nor hear, nor scent him. I was a Keeper, now. I would not be free again until his death.

Chapter 1

Messenger

Raven

House Ashira, Volvada, Vaichaisi Empire

40th year of the reign of Emperor Prydine

I stepped warily into the darkened den, the scent of tkirana incense stinging my nostrils, but I dared not show displeasure of any kind. A quick sweep of my eyes yielded an impression of a well-furnished space, abounding with tasseled silk cushions, deep sofas, and embroidered chairs of cherrywood frame. A number of desks, each carved elaborately, were pushed to the silk-draped walls, covered with so much clutter that I knew my new master did not allow his underlings to touch his things once he'd thrown them about. On the floor was a deep hide rug, soft and long-haired and pale, though of what animal I could not see in the molten gloom. A marble arch shielded the low-burning embers of a forgotten fire, cupping it like the lid of a wide-opened eye, casting shadows along the floor from every object that stood before it.

I had no idea what the man wanted with me at such a late hour, only that I had been tugged from my straw pallet after an exhausting first day and a mere fifteen minutes of sleep, and I was too tired to be truly afraid of him yet. I hadn't even seen him; this morning I had stood under the blistering sun in line with two dozen other unfortunates, until the slave master for House Ashira had arrived to purchase a new server. I had been his choice . . . naturally, for I was Molbraeli. What else were we good for but to display a houselord's wealth to his rivals?

Before I was even sure whether anyone else was in the room with me, I sank to my knees on the cool tile, planted my palms open upon the ground in front of my knees, and bowed my head. I spoke no word, for slaves in the Vaichaisi Empire did not give voice unprompted unless they preferred to live tongueless. Even the most tolerant of masters were too easily pushed to the limits of their patience.

Rise, said a languid voice out of the shadows. Let me see your face, slave.

I obeyed silently.

Come here.

I moved toward the sound of his voice, eyes carefully on the floor as much to be certain I wouldn't stumble over anything as to show my respect. He was sprawled across the blue sofa in the corner, one arm over the back. With my eyes lowered and the dim lighting, all I could see of him was a tangle of light hair and a pair of dark eyes that glittered red from the light of the dying fire.

An impatient hand fluttered. Don't be stupid, boy. I said I wanted to see your face. Lift it.

Swallowing, trying to ignore the shiver that tickled my spine, I raised my head. I knew what he would see: brown eyes slanted like a cat's, skin a shade of blue so light it was nearly snowy, a face defined by broad cheekbones and a knifelike jawline. A nose that was a little too narrow and short to improve my appearance, and a tail of black hair hastily bound behind my head. And of course, ears that slanted away from my skull and ended in sharp points like the tips of spearheads. I did not stir or meet his gaze, but stared rigidly past him to unravel the graceful folds of red cloth hanging from the wall.

His eyes raked my body, taking in my height, unusual for one of my kind, and my narrow shoulders and bony wrists. Six years of being half-starved had left my already delicate frame in a constant state of near collapse. I hated the way I had shrunk in on myself. No Molbraeli could match the muscular, compact bulk of Vaichaisin men, but six years ago, none of them would have been confident of success had he attempted to break me over his knee.

Mmm. Long and contemplative. Assured that he was finished with me, I bowed my head again and stood staring at the floor, trying not to sway on my feet from exhaustion. What is your name, boy, and how old are you?

Almonyhr, my Lord; I am twenty years.

How long in bonds?

I did not even blink. Six years.

Ah. He tapped his lip, frowning, studying me with a meditative cast to his eyes. Very young. My captain brought your records to me, slave. They claim some very . . . unusual things. You have never made a noise, neither cried aloud nor begged for mercy, at the whipping post. You are also fairly adept at most things, and in general you obey without hesitation or deviation. Is this true?

It would be worth a foot or a hand to lie; thankfully, I did not need to, nor did I need to disagree with the man who had had me dragged here at the end of a cutting rope. Yes, sir. After my first year of bondage, which I spent learning the painful rules of having one's life owned by another, my service had been exemplary. Such records were kept of every slave and given over to the slave trader when the slave was to be sold—unfalsified, for deceit of any kind was severely punishable in the Vaichaisi Empire. I was surprised, however, at the record of my silence at the post—who had noticed, or cared, enough to make such a notation?

Good. He sounded satisfied. Vaichaisin appreciated bravery in all its forms. He was quiet for a moment, considering me through glittering black eyes. What do you think of serving my daughter? he said to me at last.

Fear pricked like needles at the tips of my fingers. I did not dare speak. I had seen the woman earlier today, from a distance as I was set to work scrubbing the dusty tiles of the courtyard. I had seen an imperious and domineering countenance, and witnessed no fewer than four slaves who were scolded or physically punished for treading on the hem of her gown, allowing a frond of her fern bouquet to touch the ground, spilling a drop of her tea when she whirled around and startled the carrier, and fanning her too vigorously with the web of reeds he held, shaking loose a few curls to fall into her eyes.

I had no doubt that my record would not remain as unblemished as it was now, if I spent long in her company. And slaves with poor records went only to the less wealthy houses, where work was harder and the houselords more ill-tempered through envy and poverty.

Speak, boy. You have my permission.

Speak, but not speak truthfully. That always went unsaid among the Vaichaisin. I think it would be a new experience for me, my Lord, I said carefully, for truth or no, if I voiced the feelings of my heart, I would be flogged and starved to the limit of my endurance.

His dark eyes peered up at me severely, as if picking apart my soul to learn what I truly felt. But slowly, he nodded. My daughter has asked for you, he announced. She wants you to serve her at table and run messages for her. I assume you are not incapable of this?

No, sir.

He pinched the white line of his goatee and gave it a thoughtful tug. Off with you, now, he said at last. Send in my bodyslave before you go back to your quarters. You are to be cleaned and dressed and at my daughter's door in the east wing by first light. Go, go. He shooed me with a brisk gesture, his fingernails bright as chips of crystal on the ends of his chocolate-hued fingers. I bowed again and retreated, hoping that like my previous master, he would forget all about me in a matter of hours.

* * * * *

A hand on my shoulder roused me from my fitful slumber, and for an instant, as had happened every miserable morning for the past six years, my hand scrabbled for my hip in search of my dagger. I felt only the thin cloth of my tunic and the protruding bone beneath. Blearily, coming to my senses, I raised my head and focused on the slave master who leaned over me, his wine-sodden breath hot and sour in my face. Large, round cheeks that drooped toward sagging jowls, a puffy pink lower lip that jutted stubbornly, eyelids that slanted down at the outer corners as if some catch that held them up would swing loose at any moment and let them flutter down, leaving him sightless. Not a pretty face, and it was made all the more forbidding by the man's wide shoulders and corded, muscular arms. He weighed five times as much as I.

It had been hammered into my brain—I, once the storyteller, the singer, the chatterer, the boy who could never keep a word behind his lips unless it be a friend's secret—that slaves did not speak unless commanded to. So rather than asking, I cast him a quizzical look as I heaved my sore body into an upright position.

Mistress Mayla's quarters, he grunted briefly, and stabbed a finger at a basin of water, a towel, and a plate of crusts and onion peelings that sat on a table by the wall. Some slaves were already up, moving more water onto other surfaces at that end of the vast hall. It took slaves to keep the slaves working properly.

I cast an eye toward the window—diamond-shaped, as the Vaichaisin preferred to honor their single-eyed god, and unshuttered—to see that the sky was still black as a murderer's soul. There were no stars, hidden as they were behind the waves of cooking smoke and pregnant clouds. I tried not to shiver as I turned toward the table that had been arranged for me, and picked my way over and among two hundred slumbering bodies that lay between me and it.

The water was icy cold, good for drinking more than washing even in the heat of summer, so I gulped down several handfuls before I seized the towel and began washing myself. I had perfected the art of a slave's rising: use one hand to pick bits of breakfast off the plate, the other to dip the towel and scrub. I had the fortune of not needing to shave my jaw, for no one with Molbraeli blood could grow a proper beard, and I was only infrequently required to cut my hair, for my kind were enslaved for their beauty, and our masters liked our hair long, provided it remained out of our way. I shed my lengthy white tunic and took another from where it was wadded at the table's corner, pulling it on in relief. My other was still stained with smears of food and vomit from my evening spent cleaning the houselord's feasting hall.

My new tunic was russet red-brown, which I supposed was a sign of my assignment to the houselord's daughter; only the weakest dyes were used for most slave tunics, and that only to show by color what use they were for. This tunic had not been made for me; it was a little too short, barely reaching my knees, and no name was sewn into the shoulder—the names were a concession to the slaves who laundered all the cloth in the House, allowing them to cycle each slave's pair of tunics daily in time for them to be ready for use.

Finishing my meager breakfast so quickly that it dried my throat, I scraped my hair back and fastened it with the strip of ragged cotton that I had used for the purpose for years. I had made a habit of rationing my water between body, thirst, and hair, trying always to be clean enough not to draw a reprimand, so it hung in a heavy, damp black tail nearly to my waist. Once I was ready, I hurried away from the table, leaving what was left for some other slave to attend to.

For more than a year of my bondage, I had deliberately left a portion of my meals behind on every plate, hoping it would lighten someone's day to find an extra scrap to ease the ache of hunger in his belly. That had ended abruptly when I saw a slave scooping a bit of withered apple into his mouth, only to have our slave master swoop down upon him like a vulture and accuse him of stealing. I had not stayed to watch, but turned away with a heavy heart, knowing that the slave's pleas would make no difference. The next time I saw him, he was huddled in the corner of our slave-house, chained to the wall, his body curled protectively around the seared stump of his right wrist.

It was not that the slave had taken what was meant for me; it was that he had taken anything at all. Now I ate every crumb that I was given, reminded each morning of my life that I had cost a man his hand.

The houselord had directed me to the east wing, but his House was so vast that I was sure it would take me an hour or more to locate the lady's quarters. Five stories and sprawling more than a mile, it consisted of endless passageways, sunlit galleries, courtyards, chambers, rooms with a thousand uses from sculpting to tanning to reclining, it was a great, layered honeycomb of a place. I had been captured six years ago by House Murilka, but the houselord had scorned me as he did all my people, refusing to even have me present as a slave. I knew that I had escaped death by a hair's breadth that day, when a greedy servant bribed me from under the executioner's axe and dragged me to the slave market to make a profit. This was the first House that I had truly served in.

In the Vaichaisi Empire, a House was a minor kingdom. Its lord held dominion over everything that happened within it, for so long as it aligned with his Emperor's laws. The city that surrounded it, the fields of farmland, every soul who dwelt within his reach, was subject to his whims. Honored craftsmen, artists and leatherworkers and smithies, among others, might be given quarters in the House so that all other Houses would know the wealth of skill the houselord commanded—these people were not slaves, but to refuse a houselord's summons was to directly insult the Emperor who gave them their power and, thus, the gods who had crowned the Emperor himself. I had never heard tell of the man who refused a houselord's offer.

House Ashira, named for its houselord's surname, was a beautiful place of white stone and colored marble, rich in carvings and statuary and tapestries and painted canvases that gifted the halls with color. On inside and outside, the impression it gave was one of openness and light, the airy roofs and great diamond windows refusing to let even a slave feel oppressed by his surroundings. The floors were