Chapter 1

Jenny

I step back into the shadows just before my father turns around. I know this route by hand and know exactly where I need to hide as I sneak behind him to Haftar's mansion. Dad has worked there for as long as I can remember. When I was younger, he used to bring me with him, but once I was old enough to take care of myself, he figured I could better entertain myself than he could while he went about his work as the gardener.

It’s never a good idea to take a young human woman out where the Elves will see her. It’s been drilled into me from as early as I can remember. 

If they come to touch you, close your eyes and pray to whatever gods have forsaken us that the moment will pass. 

If they do anything more, then don’t struggle. The Elves like it when humans struggle. They like seeing us squirm, like animals. But if we struggle too much and hurt them in the process, they’ll find Dad and Mom and anyone I know and kill them. They’ll make my father watch as they ruin all the women in his house. 

Just for struggling. 

Dad’s always warned me that humans don’t belong on this world. We do what we can to survive, but we’re not from Protheka. We came here through the Great Rift and who knows if we’ll ever go back. But the other races on this planet - we need to remember they’re not human. 

They don’t have compassion. They don’t have mercy.

It was always safer if I stay at home.  

But what he didn't know was that I'd much rather be with him than home alone, especially now that my brother has a job of his own. Maybe not so much with my dad as in Haftar's house. It's more of a mansion, really.

My mother works in another dark elf's house as a maid. I went with my father when I was younger because Haftar's place was always safer. I never asked my mother what made her employer's house not safe, but as I grew older, I realized I didn't want to know the details. I've heard the things dark elves do to their human servants.

That's perhaps why my parents refused to let me work for one. It hasn't left me with many options for work or much else to do.

My dad would probably die if he knew I was sneaking into Haftar's place, but I can't help it. I need the music.

Haftar is a chivdouyu, the caste of dark elves that are the artisans, and he plays the most beautiful music. Even on the bad days, it always made me feel better. And there were a lot of bad days.

For humans, life on Protheka is hard. I've heard the stories about how we used to be from some other planet called Earth until generations ago when The Great Rift dropped millions of us here, and we were left to the not so tender mercies of our new dark elf masters.

But Haftar is different. He's never been cruel. I know about other dark elf masters who delight in tormenting humans. Haftar mostly keeps to himself and just makes his beautiful music. He was gone a lot, though.

When my father reaches the mansion, he nods at the guards, Arshodo and Anophna. The two dark elf twin sisters were both hired by Haftar to keep his mansion safe before I was even born. Like their boss, they aren't cruel to humans if they don't have to be. But I've seen what they can do if someone dares to threaten the sanctity of this place.

When my father is far enough ahead, I follow behind and just nod at the sisters. They're used to me being here, and I think they assume I just work with my father now since I've always been here.

Or maybe they don't think I'm a threat.

If they ever find out I'm not supposed to be there, I'm not sure what they'll do to me, but I have to risk it. I need the music.

"Good morning, ladies," I say.

"Good morning, Jenny," Anophna replies in her sweet voice.

Arshodo, only nods and says in her more somber baritone, "Ms. Jones."

Their voices are the only way I can ever tell the two of them apart.

A sound of chains jangling draws my attention. 

Three human men, naked, with their legs chained walks past us. Their Naga slavedriver prods them along. They carry jars of milk and honey. 

Human slaves from Nagaland have been providing milk and honey service to Dark Elf homes for as long as I can remember. I think back to stories my father used to tell me about - how prior to the Great Rift humans were not just slaves and servants. 

It seems inconceivable. 

I turn back to the main attraction. The house. 

The house's routine hasn't changed since I was still crawling, so with twenty-four years' worth of confidence, I wait until I'm sure the maids have moved to the other side of the mansion before I sneak into Haftar's music room, just off the dining room.

If no one is on this end, I can play without fear of being heard. I can imagine they don't want to disturb anyone sleeping in since this half of the house is also where most of the bedrooms are.

When Haftar came out here to play, I loved to listen. There's a statue tucked into an alcove just by the door. I can comfortably hide behind there and listen to Haftar's music. At least on the days when he's home. But on days like today, when he's away, it's a relatively safe place for me to practice without anyone in the house hearing.

I don't know if it's because I've always been surrounded by it, but I have an affinity for music. I have no formal training, but I've managed to teach myself how to play most of the instruments here. It's meant memorizing Haftar's schedule and knowing when he's in and out of the house, but I've managed to learn a lot.

After using his washroom to clean my hands, I pick up Haftar's ilya, and tuck the body of it under my chin, before I pick up the bow and draw it across the strings. From what I can gather from the books I've read, Earth had similar instruments. There must only be so many ways to arrange strings and wood to make music. But the dark elves don't take kindly to their craftsmanship being compared to human inventions.

So, while, as I understand it, the ilya is like a violin, calling it that would likely end very poorly for whatever human decided to drudge up the old name from a forgotten world.

I start to play but thinking about the ancestral home of my people must have distracted me because, after only a few moments, the strings scream out a shrill and sour note. There are some limitations to being self-taught. I always have trouble getting that note right.

I set the ilya and the bow back on their stand. It's not my favorite instrument, really, but I keep trying. My favorite is the homre, which is like an ilya but much larger and is played by standing it upright. The nostalgia for a place I've never been stirs up the word cello.

I sit in the chair with one of the homre between my knees and draw out a deep, resonating note from the strings.

"Much better," I say.

Then I launch into playing my song. When I started doing this, all I did was copy Haftar's tunes and sing his songs. But over the past few years, I've started experimenting with my own. I have quite a few, all stored in my head. I wouldn't even know how to write down the notes. But of all of them, this one is my favorite. Even though I completed it years ago, I still haven't picked a title I like yet. What do you name a song about music?

I play it out, letting the music flow through me. I used to think the only way I could find happiness was by listening to Haftar's music. But he wasn't always here. And so that was why I had to learn to play. It's not quite the same, but close. I get a different sort of happiness from making my own music, even if many of my songs are sad.

It's the best way to get my emotions out. The bow of my borrowed homre draws out the notes as I start to sing. I pour all my longing into it. I want to be part of the music. I'd love to be able to share it with others, but there's no chance. I have these songs in me, and no one I can sing them to. My family doesn't know because I'd have to explain how I learned it, and I don't have a lot of friends beyond them. Most of the kids I grew up with have been conscripted to work for some dark elf doing the Thirteen knows what.

But I love it so much. I will write my songs in secret and sing them in silence if I must because the music is the only thing that keeps me alive most days.

It feels good to be singing and playing the homre. I never want to stop. I know I have to keep an eye on the time and be out of here before any of the house staff is anywhere near this room. Just a few more minutes. Just one more song. One more song couldn't hurt, right?