“Let me know if you hear any further messages from the gods,” Prima said. He stood to leave the wagon, then stared ahead. “And let me know if you and your mule have any more conversations,” he added wryly, before he transferred himself from the wagon to the saddled horse alongside, and rode back towards the front of the caravan.
Silas felt a sense of rightness. Prima’s words rang true – perhaps the gods did intend for him to go on the caravan’s journey, to be on the road with Prima for some unknown amount of travel.
“Accept the things that are going to happen; they’ll lead to an important chapter in the future,” Krusima had told him as much in the temple in Heathrin. Silas had assumed that the things that would happen would happen right there in the academy, or in his role as a Speaker. Instead, they seemed to have happened along the road to Ivaric. And so, an important chapter was perhaps still ahead; Silas would find out.
Chapter 17
The next day, the caravan reached a checkpoint, a building by the road, where a squad of soldiers stopped the caravan and questioned Prima about his travels and his purpose for entering the lands of Ivaric. The wagons stood still for over an hour as Prima provided papers for the soldiers to examine, after which, the caravan was finally allowed to enter the country.
Once they were past the check point, Silas began to notice that there were other travelers on the road with them.
“The dictator of Ivaric doesn’t like for his people to mix with foreigners, so he sets a boundary and forbids his nation’s people to cross the boundary,” Ruten explained when he rode near Silas’s wagon.
“People here would be astonished to learn what the rest of the world is like, but we’re not going to be the ones to tell them,” the guard asserted. “Keep your head down and your words to yourself.”
He’d heard the warning twice now, Silas told himself as he sat on the bench and let Hron pull the wagon. The caravan was passing through a cultivated countryside, with numerous farms and ranches; it was a countryside unlike any that Silas had ever seen while growing up in his mountain village. The lives of the people seemed peaceful and idyllic, but Silas thought about his childhood adventures running through the forest and climbing the rocks of the mountains he lived in, and he pitied the children of the farms for what they were missing.
He began to reminisce about playing games with his cousin Forna, the girl who had been able to run faster than him, and Tagg, his best friend. They’d enjoyed long hours among the trees and cliffs and canyons of the mountainous terrain. The children of the farms had only rolling hills and creeks to wade in, by comparison.
The caravan rode through several small villages as well, but wasn’t allowed to stop, even though the residents of the settlements studied the caravan wagons and riders closely as they passed by the clusters of buildings. Silas carefully limited his activity and conversation to the other members of the caravan for the three days they rode through the kingdom, until they reached the walls of the capital city of Eric in the midmorning of an overcast day.
As the caravan approached the heavily-guarded gates in the wall, Ruten came riding back along the line of wagons, pausing to speak momentarily to each one.
“When we get inside the gate, there will be a statue of Derith, the dictator of Ivaric. Be sure to bow your head at the statue, and make sure the gesture is deep enough and long enough to be seen. We’ll be watched to make sure we honor their crazy dictator,” he instructed.
Silas mockingly nodded his head deeply, until Ruten smacked a hand across his crown, and they both laughed.
The caravan waited at the gate while Prima spoke to the guards and paid fees and duties, then the traders rode into the city, one wagon at a time. Silas was the last, and observed the sullen guards and the equally sullen other travelers who had been moved aside to allow the caravan to proceed. When his wagon cleared the wall and entered the interior of the city, he immediately saw the tall, grandiose statue of a man garbed in a robe, holding a sword. He immediately commenced to lower his head, while his eyes rolled to the left and right to try to make sure he was seen in his supplicant’s pose, while the wagon moved on behind Hron’s pacing legs.
The caravan traveled through the streets of the city, the largest city Silas had ever visited. It dwarfed Heathrin, with its long streets lined with tall buildings that stood touching one another in row after row after row of businesses, homes, and armories. There were numerous people in the streets, and companies of guards as well, sometimes blocking the road and delaying the passage of the caravan.
After a slow, winding trip through the city, the caravan came to a stop on an empty pier along the busy harbor front of the city. The location was chilly; the water in the harbor was cool, and the wind that blew in was just as brisk, while the pier was exposed to the elements on all sides. Silas’s wagon was drawn up next to one of the others, and he left the wagon while he led Hron to the cobblestoned square that had been designated as the corral for the animals. After securing his companion with food and water and a friendly rub on the muzzle, Silas stayed with the other caravan crew members on the pier, avoiding any interaction with the city residents, even though he desperately wanted to explore the vast urban setting that was a new universe to him.
Instead of exploring, he remained on the pier that day and night. The next morning, a group of soldiers in elaborate and bright uniforms arrived at the head of the pier and spoke with Prima, with an exchange of paperwork that the members of the caravan crew watched. Afterwards, members of the squad of guards were led by Prima, Ruten, and Minnie through the caravan, stopping at selected wagons to retrieve various items that were carried back to the guards’ waiting wagon on the dock.
When the guards arrived by the side of Silas’s wagon, he was loitering with a pair of caravan workers nearby, watching as Prima began unwrapping the coverings over the load of mirrors, while giving an animated description of the quality of the mirrors, the craftsmanship of the artisans in Renita who had made them, and then the long journey they had traversed to arrive at Ivaric.
There was an exchange of low-voiced talk as the first mirror ordered by the Ivaric palace was carefully lifted from the bed of the wagon, then carried away to the waiting carriage for its ride to its home.
“Where’s the other mirror?” the officer of the palace guard’s voice was raised for the first time.
Prima placed an arm around the man’s shoulder in a friendly fashion as he began to explain the absence of the mirror that had shattered in the wagon’s calamitous fall into the cave in the mountains.
“Uh oh,” one of the caravan’s animal handlers said in a low voice amidst the cluster of workers, including Silas, who were watching the exchange.
The officer shook Prima’s arm off his shoulder after only a few moments of explanation.
“Who’s the incompetent failure of a driver who has destroyed his Lordship’s property?” the officer asked angrily.
Silas felt a strange quivering on his hip, and looked down to see that his long knife was trembling.
“Guards,” the officer spoke again loudly, summoning a quartet of his men who were standing nearby. “Find the driver of this wagon,” he directed. The officer looked around. “Them,” he pointed at the cluster of workers where Silas was standing, “start with them.”
The uniformed men immediately began to walk towards the caravan workers.
“Spread out and form a wall; hide Silas. Silas, you go hide in the bed of Yosef’s wagon,” Hooves the animal handler instantly began to direct a defensive operation to protect Silas.
Silas felt shocked and fearful. He slid behind another man, as the rest of the group followed directions and began to spread into a formation to provide a screen that would obscure Silas’s movements.
Silas ducked his head and slunk quickly away, rounding a corner of a nearby wagon, then sprinting forward on the other side of the wagons to put distance between himself and the developing search.
He reached Yosef’s wagon,
whose bed was full of fabrics and millinery goods, and he dove into the bed, beneath the loose cloth cover. He swam to the bottom of the loose piles of cloth and curled up in a corner of the wagon bed beneath his camouflaging materials. His location was relatively comfortable, he came to realize, as the wagon sides and the cloth blocked the wind, while he lay silently and waited to discover what would come next.
The sounds from outside the wagon were muffled for minutes, then Theus heard a shout not far from his location, and the words of a loud and angry conversation suddenly penetrated to his hiding spot.
“If we can’t find the one we want, we’ll take who we want,” a loud voice spoke in a blustering tone.
“Leave me alone!” Silas recognized Sareen’s voice shrieking.
“You give us who we want and we won’t have to take her. Move her along; take her back to the castle and put her under guard in my quarters,” the officer of the Ivaric guards was commanding someone. “We’ll get some entertainment out of her if we can’t find the driver who broke his lordship’s mirror.”
Silas felt a sick feeling in his stomach, as he imagined Sareen being held hostage while he remained free, hiding from capture.
The stamp of boots and accompanying scuffling sounds drew near, and Silas surrendered to his guilt. He rose up from the bottom of the wagon and lifted his head above the cover over the bed of the wagon. He blinked in the comparatively bright light, then recognized movement, and saw that the lovely dark-haired girl was crying as she was being led away by a foursome of guards.
“Let her go,” he said loudly, as he climbed upward. “Let her go; I’m the one you want,” he faced them as he spoke directly to them.
Chapter 18
Moments after he had revealed himself, Silas found himself with his arms bound behind his back, while the guards who had cavalierly abandoned Sareen pushed him forward with hostile attitudes.
“You did a good thing, Silas,” one of the other wagon drivers spoke encouragingly as the coterie of captors passed by.
“We’ll do everything we can to settle this quickly,” Ruten promised as Silas stepped off the pier and onto the dock, alongside the head of the caravan vehicles.
“You can’t truly hold the boy responsible for this. Let him go, and we’ll refund his lordship’s money for both mirrors – the palace can keep the intact mirror as a token of our appreciation,” Prima tried to sound reasonable as he stepped in and walked alongside the guard commander and Silas’s escort.
“Oh, you’ll certainly not be paid for the failure to deliver, but there needs to be an opportunity for his Lordship to decide if anything further is needed. Now, you’ve got twenty-four hours to leave the city,” the guard master replied brusquely.
“But we can’t leave without our lad!” Prima spoke passionately.
“We’ll send him after you,” the commander answered. “Now, since you’re such a pest, let’s make your departure within twelve hours. I’ll post a guard to see that you meet that deadline,” they had reached the wagon of the guards, and Silas was unceremoniously lifted and dumped in a corner of the wagon; his tied hands prevented him from breaking his fall, and he landed face-first, bloodying his nose.
The wagon jerked into motion, and began to roll away from the pier, as many of the guards leapt onto the running boards, or walked alongside the vehicle, their heads visible to Silas as he shrugged his way to a sitting position, across the wagon from the intact mirror and other goods that had been delivered to Ivaric by Prima’s caravan.
The wagon rolled through the gray streets of the capital city, while Silas struggled to calm the rising level of panic that he felt. He hadn’t expected such an extreme reaction to the breakage of the mirror, an accident that had in no way been avoidable.
The wagon abruptly turned to the left, and entered an alley that Silas examined and realized was actually an entrance drive to a building with extremely high, windowless walls.
“Welcome to the palace,” one of the guardsmen barked with a laugh as he slipped down off the running board of the wagon, and walked alongside the slowing vehicle.
“What’s with your eyes, anyway? Was your mother a witch?” the man asked.
“No,” Silas snapped the single word, then turned his face away from the man to look forward. Several yards ahead in the alley was the guarded gate, through which the wagon and its accompanying guard were waved.
“Carry him to the cells in the basement,” the commander ordered as the wagon pulled over to the side of a walled yard where several troops were marching purposefully.
Silas found himself being manhandled as he was lifted from the wagon and slammed to his feet on the cobblestone yard, then hustled to a small, rusty side door.
“And relieve him of that knife,” the officer shouted directions. “We don’t want him to have anything like that.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong; I didn’t break the mirror – the wagon fell,” Silas found his voice to protest, as he felt a hand roughly remove the knife from his belt. The loss of contact with the blade felt like a true loss – it was a physical weakening, it seemed, with a material impact on him. He stumbled and was caught by two guards, just as they began to descend down a set of dark, stone steps inside the building.
Silas was carried more than walked down the long flight of stairs, into a dank cellar level where several halls revealed stores of foodstuffs, wine cellars, and closed doors with hidden rooms behind. Silas was placed in one such room, a dark, cramped place with a tiny slitted window up high against the ceiling and a strong iron-and-stout-wooden door that was firmly closed as soon as the boy was shoved into the room, his hands still bound behind him.
“We’ll have someone here to talk to you soon enough. Stay quiet; we’ll have guards outside the cell to watch you until the inquisitioner arrives,” one of the escorts said perfunctorily before he closed the door. When he did close it, it closed with a slam that reverberated in the chilly cell and in Silas’s frightened soul.
In a matter of just minutes, he had gone from caravan worker to prisoner in a hostile palace.
He paced around the short perimeter of his small cell, veering away from the corner that smelled like a latrine, then stopped in front of the barred window and stood on his tip toes to look up at an angle through the stony window well that let him see a small patch of gray sky. After a long look at the unachievable freedom that rose just feet above, he resumed pacing around the cell, then finally settled down and sat on the floor in fearful resignation.
He sat for what seemed like hours, until the dim light from the window faded, and he sat in complete darkness, waiting and worrying; the only sounds he heard were the muffled noises made by the guards outside his thick wooden door. He began to grow sleepy from the lack of action, until he heard a new set of noises, then voices that spoke more crisply than the guards’ voices had early. A conversation ensued in the hallway outside; though he pressed his ear against the door, Silas couldn’t make out the words.
A scratching sound surprised him when it clearly penetrated the door, and then the latch mechanism began to clatter. Silas jumped back, pressed his back against the wall, and watched with his breath held.
A line of light blossomed all around the sides of the door, then widened and brightened the room as the door swung inward. Dark figures moved in as silhouettes outlined by the lanterns that followed them into the cell.
There were five men in the cell with Silas, leaving him only a few feet further that he could shrink backwards away from the unwelcome visitors.
“This is the careless one that destroyed His Lordship’s mirror,” Silas recognized the voice of the guard officer who had arrested him on the pier.
“He’s been identified,” a tall man spoke. “We’ll take it from here. The rest of you may depart, but leave the lanterns for us.”
Two men, including the guard from the pier, scuttled away and out the door, pulling it shut behind them. Three men remained, two of them holding lanterns; the thi
rd man was the one who had excused the others to depart.
“I see now what the problem is; the caravan placed His Lordship’s valuable property in the care of a stripling dolt! Why a child like this was given the responsibility of driving the wagon carrying our goods is beyond imagination. After we’re done with you, we’ll send further punishment on the road after the leader who was so stupid as to trust you,” the leader spoke.
He moved in closer and stared at Silas. He was a tall man with a sallow complexion and dark hair, lanky hair that hung limply on either side of his face. He studied Silas, then his eyes widened. “Bring those lanterns closer,” he commanded.
“What manner of ill-conceived monster are you?” he asked rhetorically. “Look at those horrible eyes. Was your mother a sprite?” He reached out and lifted Silas’s chin with a firm grip.
The hinges on the door creaked as it was pressed open while the interrogator studied Silas’s face.
“Who dares interrupt our work?” the interrogator asked.
“I hope you don’t consider my arrival an interruption,” a young man with a nasal voice spoke in an offended tone.
“My lord Jarvis,” the interrogator spoke with fear in his voice as he wheeled away from Silas and knelt to the new entrant. “My most abject apologies.” The two men holding the lanterns instantly knelt as well.
“I accept your apology, master Shide. I merely wanted to see how you would deal with the reckless scum who broke my mirror,” the new entrant, Jarvis, the heir to the throne, spoke.
“He’s an evil mongrel, my lord. His eyes show his unnatural nature. I don’t doubt that he might be part demon or sprite or jackal,” Shide spoke to Jarvis, lifting his face to speak.
“Up on your feet,” Jarvis the heir spoke negligently as he stepped forward. “Let me see this evil you describe.” He peered at Silas as Shide rose and grabbed Silas’s face with a strong pinch of his cheek to turn the prisoner’s face towards Jarvis.
The Mirror After the Cavern Page 14