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  Lucy was a ward of the Sisters of Euphemia, Reverence of passion. For those who have been to such a temple – there is no need to say more.

  For those few liars who claim to have no desire to visit but would secretly delight in a salacious story, they remain, alas, un-satiated. Euphemia is Reverence of passion - not base appetite. The practice of intimate absolution is a gift beyond estimation, said without hyperbole.

  A soldier returns from war having regretted every death he dealt. Nightmares keeping him from his life and family. Killing was necessary to save his family from the hands of tyranny. Such a wounded one will find in the arms of the Sisters of Euphemia total and pure forgiveness.

  Rest and comfort even for the family of the slain.

  However, the soldier who glories in war and seeks another victim of his will shall find absolution of another sort. Absolute erasure of his person and comfort to his enemies. These are they who meet the non gendered Sisters; passionless, empty, a pit of despair. Only in death could relieve be found after a Sister's judgment.

  Soldier was the common example. The same held true for politicians, innkeepers, farmers, any damaged and desperate could find solace and passion once more in Euphemia's bosom.

  It was Lucy's task , along with the other wards to maintain the temple. Tidy whatever the Sister's might leave behind..

  Not a difficult task. A bit of sweeping. Sand, sigh. Meal preparation. Moving shoes back out onto the street.

  Shoes got left behind a lot. If the visit was positive, people often left in a daze. If the visit was not positive, you didn't need shoes anymore.

  Somehow the temple never seemed to remove shoes. It kept itself clean for the most part. There was never ever any laundry. Ever. Even the wards clothing was always clean fresh and new.

  There was of course lots of linen. The temple was really just three walls and a roof. Two walls bordering other buildings and a back wall. The entire front wall of more than 15 meters was open to the street.

  The interior was a veritable maze of white linnen drapes that lightly wafted in the lightest breeze or the heaviest hurricane. They were never dirty or ragged.

  When you entered seeking the Sisters, you would find exactly the person you needed in exactly the right “space”. Female, male or eupharin. Sister's always chose their own form. Reading what the next supplicant might require, comfort or confession, Sisters would welcome the guest. Linen's weaving privacy.

  Lucy was no fool. She knew the temple. It's rituals. Not ever was Lucy uncomfortable. She swept, made food. Moved shoes. This was all of her activities in the temple. Euphemia she knew as a vain, kind, and deeply passionate Reverence.

  The term 'Sisters' was an homage to the femininity of Euphemia. Decidedly female. 'Called' as all Priests are. Watched by Reverences, some would be chosen for a conversation. An offer might be proffered. Taken, the candidate became an initiate.

  So it was with all the Reverences, watch and invite canditates. Save Neith, Reverence of Fate. She alone had never offered a priesthood.

  >>Still Haven't. Technically Speaking.<<

  The Sisters, as Priests, also reflect Euphemia's aspect of love. They readily took in wards who were lucky enough to be surrounded in great deals of pure Reverential love.

  Smiles, soft words and laughter. That was how the wards saw the Sisters. It was very easy to return those emotions. Lucy was loved, honoured and admired by the Sisters of Euphemia at Santan and she knew it everyday.

  And so it was with some great shock when Lucy approached Sister Morgan speaking with Sister Jan and, when they turned to greet her, said, >> I want you to take me to the slave auction tomorrow and sell me.<<”

  Odd that, thought Lucy, but really, it sounded like a marvellous idea.

  The Sisters gasped in confusion. Lucy's eyes had not glazed over. How on ... and then their eyes glazed over briefly.

  Euphemia was speaking to them. She had seen it happen many many times. Euphemia was a chatty god.

  “Alright, tomorrow. Go and gather your things, young daughter.”, said one of the Sisters and they moved on.

  Ecstatic now, Lucy went to tell the other wards. They did not take the news as well as the Sisters had.

  She would become a slave, they said. She would be beat, they said.

  They cried. They wailed.

  The Sisters came, and spoke with the wards and it was ok again.

  The rest of the day was quite joyous. Cakes and drinks came, there was music and merriment and more goodbyes than Lucy thought could fit in the temple. For the rest of that day, not a moment was spent on concern for her future.

  Reverence's of love are not know for their ability to see the future.

  How to sleep? Close your eyes and imagine. But everything is so new and bright and inviting, sleep is just wasting time.

  Who can afford to spend time living in dreams when they could wake and seek those very dreams in reality. There was a goal to chase. A purpose. A point. And there was a win and lose. There was no destiny, no fate.

  >>HAH! YOU SLAY ME!<<

  Nothing that made you chose one path over another. Freedom was always there. Freedom to chose even if only between two horrible choices.

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  You just had to find the best choice.

  That path of right choices would lead to the goal. Even a few bad choices might only slow you down. How to decide? What was the value?

  Much to exciting to sleep.

  Morning came as it always does early spring. Bright in the clarity, searing in the eye if you looked to the horizon. The sun glowing orange red against the sandstone walls of the city.

  Lucy had slept some, the Sisters had taken care of that. A final kindness and care for a loved one.

  Now she sprung from the bed with such life – such joy – you would think she was on her way already.

  The Sisters as well were active early and after a few goodbyes, Sister Morgan at her side, Lucy left the temple for the last time.

  *****

  Havard stopped short and his second, Clain, walked into him. Barely inside and it hit him. The scent. You never forget the scent once you have it. Fear sweat.

  Death sat in these stands. Every salve knew it in their faces. Shoulders down, slightly bent backs. A submissive posture. Merchandising. It nearly made Havard vomit.

  Most slaves stood, shackled with their ankles touching. A too short chain ran up to the handcuffs that pinched wrist together. Ankles together – submissive. Short chain made them bend – submissive. Pinched wrist made shoulders droop – submissive. Merchandising. The seller was saying – here is a good strong one – who won't be any trouble.

  This was Havard's world. Merchants merchandising. To see it used in such a base – sadistic way. Havard jerked his head with a look of anger toward Clain.

  Clain pursed his lips and nodded.

  All they could see of the girl was the left edge of her dress. Three lots back. Havard and Clain moved along the stands till they felt tehy were central enough to bee seen well and turned to sit.

  They decided to remain on their feet. They had no desire to encounter whatever this green-brown sludge was that covered most of the stands. How do you get sludge in a desert? It didn't even look gritty. They moved back to an aisle.

  There was a dismaying large number of buyers. Havard did a quick count of thirty five give or take. Standard types. Merchants all looked the same. Generally speaking. Oh – there were the ones who had stores and one who made goods, bakers and such, and there were travelling merchants. Caravans.

  They all looked the same though. Hopeful. Like everyone they met was about to buy something from them. Every one Havard had met. Hopeful.

  The merchants here, they might be buying hogs, or lumber, or herbs for all the different they looked. Hopeful. Get your product cheap, sell it at a profit. It was all the same. Financially.

  These were people. People were not a commodity. People will not be a commodity.

  Echoing his thoughts as he always did, Clain said, “People aren't a commodity.”

  Havard smiled at his second. They were good together.

  He turned to look over his his competition. Other than the merchants, who were likely just like him, monetarily restricted, there were two standouts.

  A tall think man in red and black, velvet? He was strange. Tall men were often thin but the red velvet man was just too much of each. Too thin to be that tall and too tall to be that thin. He also seemed to have a pet. Some small black animal that ran around his shoulders. Too far away to make it out. A mouse? He too, was standing.

  The other. Major surprise. A female Priest of Daeth. She was wearing golden brown vestments but the huge blue stone around her neck and three blue stripes on her cuffs left no doubt.

  A Priest of Daeth. Reverence of Skies. At a slave auction.

  A thought shook Havard. Maybe Daeth had heard his cursing? It bore being careful. Reverences could be real jerks sometimes.

  Havard said, “How much do we have?”

  Clain said, “We should be good? Four fifty. I have another ten. If we need.”

  Havard said, “Can't be that much? A horse is one-fifty. I have fifteen. So, four seventy five. Yeah. We're fine. Rope is gonna be maybe two hundred? Yeah, we're good. Are we going to cap it?”

  The Auctioneer called the next lot to the block. Two late teen boys. They shook uncontrollably. The smaller one had vomit on him. Clain teared up.

  Havard said, “Look at me. Are we going to put a cap on how much we can spend?”

  Clain said, “No! How can you ask?”

  Havard said, “I know. Ferrul? Kledric? Justin? No ropes – no caravan. What do they do? How much is she worth? All of them?”

  Clain huffed. He flapped his arms and turned in a circle.

  “Yes.” But not loudly.

  Havard smiled and regretted the smell getting on his teeth. “Good. Me too.”

  The Auctioneer called, “Sold! 100 shekels to our good Priestess of Daeth. Come on, you fellows, you going to let our fine Priestess buy the whole stock?” Daeth's Priest flinched not at all at the diminutive. Or... Ahhh! Are we all waiting four our young, ripe prize? One more to go. Let's drain Daeth's coffers on this one boys, so you can all get a fair shot at, “ he shouted, “EUPHEMIA'S TEMPLE GIRL”.

  'Barking'. Havard sank further into despair with the dehumanizing of his noble craft.

  Barkers used vocal techniques to attract customers. Shouting was the simplest. Come see what I have! Rapid fire repetition of superlatives was common way of working an audience. A noble craft – learned of long periods of trial and error. Lovingly honed as a skill.

  Here – a cheap trick to draw more shekels. It was heartbreaking to watch.

  Worst, it was working. Heads and feet were poking into the ick.

  The Auctioneer said, “Now, gentlemen, and others. Before we get to our big surprise lot, A RIPE, YOUNG TEMPLE GIRL, we present what was to be out main attraction! I present Duuuuu-AWL! He's not one, he's not two, he's three men in one. A mountain of muscle that would have made Rhine hide himself behind Lace's skirts.”

  Havard would have run after the auctioneer if Clain hadn't held him.

  Havard leaned close and said, “He's 'Tayka-Mon!' Timp!”

  Clain said, “Isn't here. We need to focus. Don't waste effort trying to fight every bigot who hates people due to their choice of lovers. They are at sixty on this guy already. Are we gonna try for him too?”

  Havard drooped. “I don't know. What if we don't have enough after? SEVENTY! - what do you think?”

  Clain said, “I think you just bid.”

  Havard said, “I was buying time.”

  Clain said, “You might be buying a slave.”

  Havard started as a look of panic crept over his face.

  Daeth Cleric called, “Eighty.”

  Havard spun toward the auctioneer, “Ninety!”

  The priest turned to Havard and said, “One twenty.”

  Clain said, “Stop. Let the Priest have him. Save the money for the girl.”

  Havard almost went into hysterical laughter. The situation he was in.

  Let a man be sold into slavery. Just let him go. Make no further effort.

  Because you have decided the girl was worth more than the man.

  Havard was a bad as any of these other merchants. Pricing flesh just as keenly.

  “Better Daeth, than these others.”

  Havard nodded.

  More people were coming in. There might be a hundred now.

  The Auctioneer called, “Sold! One twenty to the lady of blue! Every lot today to our esteemed member of Daeth's esteemed club! Best lock your collection casks, my lady, now we all know they are so full.” he played out to the audience, receiving a few small laughs.

  Thieves weren't likely to draw attention by laughing.

  “And now. Gentlemen. I can hardly contain my excitement.

  Once in a lifetime an opportunity comes to a humble merchant. I thank our good Mistress Euphemia!

  She has gifted our stage with one - of her very own.

  I'm told her name is Lucy!

  Gentlemen and... Gentlemen. Let's give a big round of applause in thanks to Euphemia's own personal Temple servant – I give you – LUUUUCCCCYYYYYYYY!”

  Huge applause rose. Was this the first time the ick had encountered a cheer?

  Lucy stepped lightly to the centre of the stage. Gave a small giggle, shrugged her shoulders and waved, like she had spotted a friend in the crowd.

  Dead silence. This was not how a girl walked onto a slave block.

  Havard was stunned for a different reason. He was certain.

  The girl had waved at him.