She walked slowly, as if tired already, looking over the crowded streets, hoping to see her friend. The only places she could think to look for Tom were in some of the taverns where he might have had several mugs of ale, and become too drunk to find his way back. She hated to consider someone might have hurt him, but that too was a possibility.
The first tavern she visited had been emptied of drinkers until such time as a woman could sweep the floor and mop vomit from the previous night’s drunken festivities. Breanna asked if anyone had seen an older, short fellow with brownish-gray hair, balding in the center, good-sized ears, and a terribly friendly smile. None had seen such a man, as they remembered.
The next tavern was still busy, feeding breakfast to some who had drunk too much the night before and needed sobering to get back to work. Breanna spoke to the man behind the dirty table and asked if he had seen Tom.
“You say he’s a short fellow, wears a green hat?”
“Yes, his name is Tom Simpkin, a court jester.”
“Aye, woman, he was here, but ’twas early, two days ago; guzzled two or three pints and left. Said he had some business at the Ships End. Place around the corner.”
“Thank you, but I’ll be on me way.”
“Why hurry? Have a pint. Clean your face a little and you might not be bad looking.”
“No, I must go,” she said, hurrying out the door, avoiding a man with a patch on his eye, lying on the floor near the bar, snoring.
The third place was the Ships End, a tavern built with the serving area in the shape of a boat, its bar and chairs resembling seats with oarlocks. Long oars were nailed to the walls, giving it the air of a fisherman’s lair, where the tavern’s patrons could come from the docked boats and sit, drinking ale and mash from tall pints. One of those tables was set up for games of chance played with stones, and in one of the chairs sat Tom Simpkin, drunk as the man Breanna had recently seen lying on the floor.
Her heart sank with seeing him in such a state. The stones were in front of him, and it appeared as though he had passed out while playing. The other three men seemed soberer.
“Please, I’ve come for my poppa. I must get him home. The crops are waiting for him,” she said, easing her arm under Tom’s. “He seems sickly, and maybe he is—was a powerful plague over to the west when we was there. Does he have a fever? Aye, he does,” she said, touching his forehead. “I hope he lasts until I get him home. Me mam would like that.”
“Plague, you say? He has it?”
“I don’t know, mer. Me poppa is a frightfully hale man most times and can hold his ale with the best. He must be sick to look this bad. If he owes coin for the ale, I can get it from his pocket,” Breanna said, reaching toward the “plague-infected” britches.
“Nay, hold off, no need for tainted coin, girl. Take him out of here. Quick now,” the tavern owner grumbled.
“Aye, mer, it’s off we are. He’s burning up. I’d best hurry.”
The streets parted as Breanna kept her arm under Tom’s, helping him walk the cobblestones toward the wagon. Finally, the people thinned out, until they were sharing the road with only one or two others, and then Tom straightened his head, removed Breanna’s arm, and sighed.
“Thank you, lass. Didn’t seem I was able to get out of there myself, and coin was needed to pay for the ale. You’re a quick one, you are. Those three at the table wouldn’t let me go, for we had long been at the game of chance, and they hoped I would stay on, if you get my meaning.”
“Tom, we were sick with worry over you. If you had said you were going to go drink for three days, I would have left you alone.” She glared at him for a moment, very disturbed by his behavior. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“Aye, lass, I had a few pints, but my reasons were not only for ale-guzzling, they were for winning. Old Tom is the best at the game of chance with stones,” he said soberly, while reaching into his pocket and pulling out coin after coin, some copper, some silver, and even one made of gold. “You see why them three didn’t want to let me leave?”
“Tom, oh, I’m sorry for distrusting you, but I was very concerned,” Breanna said, her head lowered.
“Aye, and so was I,” Sean said as they neared the oxen cart.
“’Tis another concern now; we must find the captain of the Mede Truheart and book passage before they leave us behind. I asked around, and the captain ’tis a fair man who travels the Qadra ’thout cheating any. Poor Sam and Paddy will need a new home as well as the cart, so with what we get for them, ’tis possible we can pay our passage.”
Breanna and Sean looked at one another with hopeful expressions. Maybe they would reach Elida in time to save her from Yahmara’s clutches.
“Tom, what will you do if we cross the sea and, when you return, your friends’ new masters won’t sell them back to you?” She was feeling the pain of leaving Sam and Paddy behind.
“A problem, lass, not for me, but for those two faithful who have pulled me cart across this country, time and again. Getting old, they are, and the next ones to care for ’em might see them as best on the table. A sad thought, but the deed must be done. Hurry now, pack up the camp and climb on the cart. We are bound for crossing the Qadra Sea.”
16.
I saw her today—she is free, and so are her friends. The king is furious, but without means to take revenge, for his army of monsters is at the bottom of the River Tribon. There is much strength to this girl, and she seems to have a good and kind heart. For all that, she did not look to elves, but can trace her compassion for others to the family of men.
Eliandor grieves, his heart wearied by this plight. Our granddaughter Ulura passed into Starnight because of him, the duty done as he saw necessary. And now Mathena is on the road to danger, so out of touch with her abilities that she is near helpless to perform. We are all holding our breath, waiting to see what young Breanna will do. Eliandor will fly to her, I have no doubt, but will it be in time?
New dangers grow closer every day. In the east, great windstorms are blowing and none are safe. Black skies carry the ashes from faraway fires as the bits of char in the wind choke the breath from small ones and old ones. Yahmara’s stirrings have created havoc, destroying the farmlands. There is little food to be had, and the people are dying of starvation. The plague has been felt in the innermost cities, taking lives every day, and the source of it all is witch-work.
Eliandor will leave soon, and I will be bereft without him. I fear for my sweet mate. He is weary and may become careless. I would not want to lose him, for he is my life. The days are beginning to lengthen with the onset of summer. I fear the heat, for it bears ill tidings, and brings back memories of old fires.
Illene studied her journal, the words she had written concerning her more as she saw them on papyrus. The world she knew was changing rapidly, bringing her family into dire situations. Were it not for her faith, she would have been devastated.
17.
Three dark spells attacked them, one from the south, one from the north, and one that came up from the dirt. The third was the worst—not that Miralda couldn’t control it, but it created such a mess with their clothing and food supplies that they lost an entire day cleaning. The Farqells, such good-natured beasts, grew angry with the wind as it swirled in great funnels, stirring the crust deep within the world, lifting long-dead skeletons to mix and mingle with other debris. Many ground creatures were displaced from their homes as layer after layer of the road was caught up in the swirling winds. With Winona’s assistance, Miralda caught the demon wind and discharged it into the heavens, its swirling tail spinning as it departed.
“Ah, for one of us to be gifted with mess removal,” Mara had said, her face blackened by the chaotic wind. Willow glanced her way and broke into hysterical laughter, pointing to her sister’s face. Within a moment, all were pointing at each other, falling to the ground, laughing with great merriment. Even the Farqells in their stoic stance hawed a few times before all was done.
<
br /> “Yahmara would not have intended mirth by her actions. Perhaps we have doubly offended her,” Mara said with a twinkle in her eye.
The other two spells were meant to slow them by putting debris in their paths, and frightening the Farqells. One spell had tendrils that wrapped around the carts and pulled the sides away from its base. Barrels of water were dumped, and a wheel went spinning off into the vastness of the open land so far away that Miralda had to search for a bit to find it and draw it back. Because it was enchanted, it came at her call.
Lastly, a spoken spell evoked a minor demon that tried to frighten them by standing in the cart’s path, but Miralda blew it to bits with only a few words.
“Do you suppose she’s saving the worst for later, or is this the best she can do?” Sheela asked.
Mathena replied, “She is capable of so much worse, and I am concerned, for her inaction means she does not fear us and, therefore, has no great wish to scare us away. I suspect it is for me she withholds the worst of her wrath. She requires vengeance.”
“Dear one, we are with you. Whatever she does to one, she will do to seven. Keep heart, love; we will find our baby girl.” Anola could always be counted on for a cheering word; her mastery of languages included those of the heart. She knew what Mathena was suffering.
“The road to Pentara Wood is ahead. We shall see our parents’ old home soon,” Mathena replied, changing the subject quickly. “My grandfather will not be surprised by the visit, but he may surprise us with his response to our request. We are a half-fortnight away. Take cheer as I do at our nearness.”
18.
They gave her a pet, a kitten, one that would eat the mice in the cellar. She had made friends with one of the rodents, and hoped it could stay out of the kitten’s path. Once she would have wondered what the purpose was in giving her a pet, but as time passed and she accepted imprisonment more and more, Elida was grateful for whatever the Not-So-Bad Ones gave her. A book would have been better, for it would have kept her mind sharper.
The walls closed in after the great light ebbed and night filled the dank cellar with softness. She didn’t fear the darkness anymore, for all her world was without light. Her bedding consisted of two ragged blankets and a small mat between her body and the damp ground. Elida knew the shelter where they kept her must be close to a pond, or creek bed, for moisture seeped through the walls. Her feet were no longer tied, for one of the w——es said she believed Elida would not try to run, but they kept her leather sandals Willum had made, and her feet stayed cold most of the time.
The first day without chains seemed strange, for she felt unsafe without the tether. Her thin legs were almost too weak to support her body, or she would have circled around and inspected her prison. By the third day she was more alert, and took a few steps as she peered into cracks and crannies, trying to find the source of the water. Her legs tired easily, but she remembered Bree saying she should exercise a broken bone as it healed, to make it stronger. Each morning after the third day she lay flat and lifted her skinny legs from the floor, hoping to make them thicker, more able to carry her weight when Bree came to get her. They thought she had forgotten her home, her people, and she almost had before the not-so-bad w—— unchained her. But it came back, the memory of her family, how they had died, and then how Bree and her brother protected her.
The Bad One still came sometimes, asking her questions. Most recently she had tried to entice with a different kind of fear.
“Elida, they don’t want you anymore, but we love you, child. Come and be one of us. We have roasted rabbit and turnips for you.”
She stared at the Bad One, unable to make conversation anymore. Her insides quivered, as always when the Bad One looked into her eyes, doubting her, yet convinced the girl had no wits about her. Elida knew her smartest move was to appear stupid as a rock. No one wanted a stupid rock. Besides, she hated turnips.
Finally, the Bad One left the cellar, and the others brought the kitten, and its soft, furry face nuzzled hers. Oh no, they will take him from me, to punish me. I can’t love him, she thought. Elida had learned the ways of w———, the measures of cruelty they used to get compliance. If only they let me live until Bree comes.
Her legs quickly grew stronger and she was able to run around the cellar, chasing Fluffy, the kitten. Her hunger had shrunk until she needed only a small amount to get by for the day, so there was enough to share with him. Each time they came to empty the chamber pot, they asked her if she wanted to talk, to tell them about her family, about the girl Breanna. But the stare she gave them said she didn’t even know who the Bad Ones were, so how could she know some other person who lived in another world where bright light shone around, and children laughed with each other? How could she know such people?
They came to take Fluffy, took him mewing for her, and held him aloft by his tail, their intentions clear. He was expendable. His presence in the cellar had been to further break her, but it didn’t work. She was already broken.
19.
The Mede Truheart was in port at Lutz being loaded with cloth and barrels of dried fruit, cases of ale, and rolls of woolen carpets. The loaders were shirtless, their tattooed muscles bulging with each movement, causing Sean to stare with envy. Breanna admired them also, but for other reasons. She had never seen a young man without cover, for her previous exposure to the naked male chest had been Willum at the end of the day, and Sean running bare in the summer except for small clothes. Tom was very circumspect, and had never let her see his torso unless he was fully dressed. Her curiosity was piqued by the workingmen, whose bare chests made her cheeks flame.
The captain’s office was in the wheelhouse, a small room hidden under the sign she had seen from the road. Behind the old desk, a young man sat, his dark hair tied back with a piece of red cloth. Green eyes focused on the sheets before him as he frowned over some figures in the account book. He raised his head and stared at the three strangers, his mouth set in an unsmiling line. His handsome face showed a day’s growth of beard and a disgusted expression. Dark eyebrows matching his hair and attitude rose in arches as he watched the three with a questioning look. Impatience sat just under the coolness of his greeting.
“Aye, and what do you three want? Mer, are these your children? If they are, you’ll make them behave properly while they’re on my ship.” It wasn’t a question. It was an order from a man accustomed to others obeying his words.
Tom spoke for them all: “Well, captain, I need passage on your ship for the three of us to cross the Qadra. We’ll get off at your first stop after you reach ’tother side. There’s a place we look for, but at present we don’t know where it is. What would be your fair passage?”
“We’re all full up. No bunks for any of you. Sorry,” the captain grumbled, looking back at his work.
“But captain,” Tom said, “we have come a long way and need to get across the sea in a hurry.”
The captain, no longer listening, was immersed in the figures on the sheet before him.
“Ye gods,” the young man exclaimed, “these blessed numbers run together, and I am sorely ready to throw it all in the fire!”
“Your numbers are not lined up properly. ’Tis your problem, mer,” Tom said with authority. “And the red line is meant to be a dividing line for the pluses, not the minuses. You’re terrible mixed up, there.”
“Wait, you understand the keeping of books?” the captain asked eagerly.
“Aye, some, enough to know when I see a mess of figures don’t match up.”
“Can you fix them?” the captain asked, sounding desperate.
“Aye, and maybe I could if you was to look again and see if you have some room for me family.”
“You get these straight, and you have part passage to Vadar across the sea. The rest you can pay. You and your two sons can stay in one cabin.”
Tom looked askance at Breanna, and she nodded.
“’Tis a fine bargain, my captain. Now move it over and let old Tom wor
k some magic.”
“Remember now, only if you can fix the book.”
“Aye,” Tom said, already deep in the figures staring back at him.
“You young ’uns wait a minute on your poppa, and then we’ll get us a cabin,” Tom said to his charges.
“You seem sure of yourself, Mer… What was your name?” the captain asked.
“Tom Simpkin, and these young ones are Sean, the lad, and Breanna, the lass.”
“Girl? No, wait, I can’t have a girl on this ship,” the captain said, waving his arms frantically.
“Then, mer, you can fix your own books. Me lass goes where I go.” Tom moved to get up, to leave the ship.
“No, don’t go. I need the help. But you have to keep yourself covered. A’right?” he asked, speaking to Breanna. She was blushing, and she felt he could see it under the char on her cheeks. Part of her wanted to say something mean and unkind to the captain for his words, but another part could only turn redder.
“A’right,” she agreed. “I will keep me covers on.” Her gift from Anola with language made her accent match Tom’s, a necessity if the ship’s crew and passengers were to believe he was her poppa. She also had no reason to trust the captain, for his manner was no different from any of the other folk they had met on the road. Breanna wondered why so many of the souls looked at the way she was dressed and made the decision she was not worthy of a second look. She would be sixteen summers soon, but she felt old beyond those years. The captain was young, she could tell, for he wore his body as though not accustomed to the height of his head or the breadth of shoulders, more like he was not much older than her. He was a fair-looking man, accustomed to being regarded well and looked at seriously.
The Gantlet Page 14