We came in our little wooden cart to a lonely hut in a barren, stony place high above the mine. The hut was low and long, and built of mountain rock. A small fire blazed outside and a man stooped over it, turning something in the flames.

I should have known – we all should have known – what was to come. We all had seen the brands on the foreheads of other Quelled, all seen our older brethren go away unmarked one day, and come back Quelled. But it was never spoken of, and no one warned us. It never occurred to us that our turn would come. So we submitted when the Chosen blindfolded us, though I was stricken with terror. And we waited while, one at a time, we were taken to the man by the fire.

I have never forgotten that agony: the shock and outrage and blinding pain. And I remember well the long walk home. I refused to be thrown on the cart. Some mad, unyielding pride made me walk. The Chosen thought it was a joke, though one of them swore at me.

I walked beside the youth with the blinded eye. His presence comforted me. Even through the throbbing haze of pain I could tell he kept his good eye on me, and several times he caught my anguished gaze, and smiled. He was strong under the chains and leather straps that bound him with the others to the cart, and there was a steadiness about him that gave me strength.

We dared not speak, not with the Chosen so close. The Chosen forbade us to speak in their presence, perhaps because they believed that by stopping our tongues they stopped our minds. But when they had gone on far ahead, the Quelled youth smiled again and said, “What name do they call you by, young lionheart?”

I tried to smile, and winced with pain. “My name is Elsha,” I said. “What name do you have?”

“Lesharo,” he replied. He walked in silence for a while, and then he said very softly, “They cannot put their stamp upon your soul, Elsha.”

We did not speak again until I was twelve years old, and we became friends; but those few words from him had more influence on my life than anything else I ever heard.

Time diminished a little the anguish of that day. There were days when I even forgot the scar, since I never clearly saw my face. But sometimes when I was lying by the fire at night I lifted my hand, pushed back my heavy yellow hair, and traced the pattern of the brand.

It seemed an inoffensive thing. I even liked the feel of the perfect circle and the shape of the flame within. But it bewildered me. I did not understand then why such a mark was necessary; there were Chosen, and there were Quelled. The Chosen owned the mines, and the Quelled laboured for firestones in the mines – and we all were kept alive by the fires we made. It was only later, when I understood injustice and the shame of slavery, that I knew why they branded us.