The slaver’s arms shielded his face—already marred with rotted handprint wounds from my touch—mouth flapping in gummy pleas. “Please, please, don’t—Please—” My people had begged, too. I stood over him, feet on either side of his hips, Il’Sahaj in my hands. “Do you remember me?” “Please, please . . .” His face lolled, pressing against the floor, eyes squeezing shut.
