by Allan Cole
Many days passed before I discovered the first glimmer of a plan. In the meantime I was nothing more than another hunk of unwilling meat to be fed into the gristmills of the mines.
We were whipped from one dangerous, mind-and-soul-numbing task to the next. We staggered back to our cells each night, bowed down by exhaustion. It took tremendous effort to keep my mind on track and my goal in clear view. All I desired was to collapse into sleep. Sometimes I was so weary that self-pity would strike and tears would unaccountably well up.
I came to appreciate just how great Zalia's will had been during those long months while she nursemaided me. This didn't mean I trusted her fully. Despite all she said, she could still be Novari's spy. I had to accept that I was taking a dangerous chance with her. Once I'd done so, however, there was no holding back natural emotion—and growing admiration was one of those feelings. My main problem was keeping those emotions in check so I didn't reveal too much to a woman who was still a stranger to me.
Regardless, it was immediately apparent that Zalia's will was as strong and stubborn as her squat powerful body.
I saw her save a woman's life one day when we were working in the smelting chamber. Somehow a stack of heavy gold rods toppled onto the woman, pinning and crushing her. Several burly slaves tugged at that mass to free the screaming woman, but to no avail. Zalia rushed over, swept them aside, and lifted the bars off—joints popping and crackling loudly at the effort. Unfortunately, the woman was so badly injured she was of no further use to our masters, and the guards hauled her away some days later to be disposed of like a broken-down cart animal.
When we worked as miners, Zalia could crack ore-bearing rock with a single blow, exposing new veins of gold as thick as her meaty wrists. When we lugged the ore carts up steep underground inclines, it was Zalia who muscled us safely to the top and then acted as an anchor to get us down again. I lost count of the times when someone stumbled, letting go of the ropes, and Zalia saved us all from following that hapless one into the disposal pits.
She could also be remarkably tender. Like when she bathed my wound each night, softly dabbing away any grime that got under the bandage and cleansing the eye socket with a touch so light I barely felt it. More importantly, she gave no indication of the horrors my wounds must have presented. She went about the task as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Once, I wanted to examine the extent of the wound for myself and hunted for a mirrored surface to study the injury. Few reflective objects existed in the mines—everything but the gold was scored and pitted.
Gold itself is a poor surface. It absorbs all images and gives only shadows back. That ought to be warning enough for all seekers of gold and what they dream it offers. It is only the luster that beguiles them, not the substance.
One day I found a large shiny spoon and tried to peer at myself in its bowl, sweeping off the bandage as I looked. But Zalia intervened, gently plucking the spoon from my hand and tucking the bandage back into place.
"You don't want to do that now," she said.
"Am I so ugly?" I asked. My voice trembled, which surprised me.
"I'm the only ugly woman in this cell, Rali," she said. "Just wait a while longer. Until you've healed more."
She put the spoon in our hiding place behind the loose stone. "We'll get it out later," she promised, "when the proper time comes."
I was comforted ... and relieved. I'd wanted to look at my ravaged face, but a fearful child lurked beneath that desire. I was too frightened to look—and equally as frightened not to. Zalia wrested that decision from me and put it away for another time when I might be braver.
That day came soon enough.
She finished bathing my wounds one night and said, 'This is coming along nicely, Rali. You should see. You really should."
My heart lurched when she said that. But before I could stutter a response, she threw the rag bandage away. She went to our hiding place and pulled out the spoon along with a tiny bundle. She returned, unwrapping the bundle and holding out its contents for me to see.
It was a golden eyepatch hanging from a golden thong.
She draped it over my head and adjusted the patch until it was comfortable. It felt light and soft as the finest silk, and it seemed to form itself naturally over the socket. Soon as it was in place, the throbbing and empty feeling vanished and I felt oddly whole again.
Zalia polished the spoon with her tunic sleeve and held it up so I could look into it. I broke out in a cold sweat. My heart fluttered like a hummingbird's wings.
But I looked.
My face was unfamiliar at first. I was thinner than I remembered, much more careworn, and my hair was a ragged mop like Zalia's. Then I recognized the long features and fair skin and the single blue eye staring back at me. It had the intent stare that marks all Anteros.
I shifted my gaze and saw the golden patch covering the place where the other eye had been. Just beneath the patch was a small crooked scar where the surgeon's knife must've slipped.
"You look kind of piratical," Zalia said, voice light. I gave her a nervous smile then looked again. It wasn't nearly as bad as I'd imagined. "Very dashing. And romantic," Zalia said, still trying to bolster me.
Actually, I thought as I peered for a last time into the bowl of the spoon, she was right. With the hair swept so on one side, tight breeches, loose floppy shirt, and a wide sash, I could cut quite a dashing figure.
I was too timid to admit it right off. "I don't know," I said. And then I tried to make a joke of it. "I look scary enough to send half the maids in Orissa screaming hysterically into the streets."
Zalia laughed. "And the other half," she said, "and the most interesting half at that, will want to linger for a while. To see if your bed is as thrilling as your looks."
"Sure they will," I said. "And if you believe that, I have a mine I want to sell you in Koronos."
Secretly I was relieved. I even went so far as to embrace her and thank her for the gift. It was an awkward moment for both of us, and we broke the embrace quickly.
I touched the eyepatch, marveling at its effect on me.
"Wherever did you find this?" I asked.
"I made it," she said. "During the time you were bumping into walls. I was only waiting for your ... face to heal ... before I gave it to you."
"Made it?" I said. I fingered the material. "How? And what's it made of? It looks like gold. It feels like silk, but of a quality I've never seen before. My family has been trading in silk for years. So I've seen every kind there is."
"It's made from the gold we're mining," Zalia said.
I was astounded. "Gold? This doesn't feel like gold!"
"But that's what it is," Zalia said. "You told me you saw King Magon's golden ship before you were captured, right?"
"Yes," I said. "I wondered at the time how it could bear up under its own weight. I also wondered mightily about his golden sails."
ZaUa pointed at the eyepatch. "That's exactly the same material," she said. "One of these days you'll see for yourself how they make it." She shuddered. "It's the worst detail in the mines. Our turn will come soon enough."
Then she said, "From what I've been able to gather, the process used to make the material dates back to the age of the original Ice Bear King. It was lost when his kingdom was destroyed."
"Just sitting there all those centuries," I murmured, "for Novari to come along and rediscover it."
Zalia nodded. "She found it when King Magon reopened the mines to mount his campaigns and to pay allies and mercenary armies to fly his banner. But the magical process to create the material proved much more valuable than mere gold. Now all the gold we dig from these mountains goes into the ancient machines Novari brought back to life."
She leaned forward "And it takes many ore carts heaped with pure gold to make just one ounce of that stuff."
"That'd require a tremendous amount of power," I pointed out. "I don't know of a wizard in the world who could do it."
> "Not alone," Zalia said.
"Ah, yes," I said, recalling Novari's kidnapping raids that'd swept up my own Evocators.
"The things they make from this material," Zalia said, "are as close to miraculous as you can get in the real world. Weapons that never shatter or become dull. Shields that are impervious to any blow. Huge ships as light as if they were made of pine veneer but are actually as indestructible as steel.
"From the quantities we're turning out here, Novari must be preparing to equip the greatest army in history. And she's got an empty-headed man toy to lead it."
I felt like a fool when I recalled my brave words to Novari. I'd dared her to attack Orissa and suffer the wrath of my people—who, I'd believed, had such superior forces that no mere ice barbarian like Magon would stand a chance.
As if she were reading my mind, Zalia said, "Both our homelands are in grave danger, Rali. That's why I came here."
"Why you were sent, you mean?" I said.
She hesitated, then said, "Yes. That's why... my queen... commanded me to undertake this mission."
"Isn't it about time," I said, "you told me about your kingdom? I don't even know where it is. Or know your queen's name or her looks or her desires. Or any other details about your homeland, such as why your people worship Maranonia.
"She's a war goddess. And war is only popular in its beginning stages. When the blood flows, only a soldier, and a special kind, at that, has stomach enough to praise Maranonia."
"I'll have to disappoint you," Zalia said. "And I'm not sorry for it. I'll tell you nothing until the day comes when you swear you trust me."
"You have the word of the Goddess Maranonia Herself," I said, "to swear to my honesty. According to you, She appeared in a vision and said to seek me out."
Zalia sneered. "First off," she replied, "you know very well I can tell you nothing more about the vision than what I've already said. You also know I'm forbidden to tell you whether She said to trust you or merely to make certain I met up with you and to speak a certain phrase. The silver ship,' Maranonia said. 'When you meet Rali, mention the silver ship. She'll know what I mean.' "
"You're begging the point like a royal politician," I said. "It's this. It's that. It's whatever it pleases you to believe at any given moment. Maranonia's visit to you clearly implies that you are commanded by Her to trust me."
Zalia curled a scoffing Up. "You're the one who sounds like a politician," she said. "You brandish the word 'trust' too easily when it applies to you, and not easily enough when it applies to me.
"You can't have it both ways, Rali. The trust has to be mutual. Otherwise I could place my queen and kingdom in peril on what could prove to be your slippery word.
"No, I think I'll rely on a captive soldier's pose. You know all about that so you shouldn't object. It's name and rank you'll get from me and that's it. Novari got nothing more. You'll get the same. In the meantime I'll tell you what I choose you to know and when I think it's best advised you know it.
"And that, my dubious friend, is that."
I fingered the eyepatch and decided to slip past the quarrel if I could, for the sake of the gift. "Thank you for this, anyway," I said.
I started to take it off and hand it back. "And you can be sure that when I put it on every night, I'll thank you for it again."
"Leave it," she said, surprised at my action. "Why use it only at night? I made it for more than cosmetic reasons. It's mostly to promote healing and keep dirt and infection out. You'll notice it has magical properties that make it shed dust and grime and all other sorts of nasty things. That's why I went to so much trouble and no little danger to steal the material for it."
"But the guards will notice the eyepatch immediately," I protested. "Not even a dunce could miss it. It's gold, after all. And magical gold at that!"
"It's only the color you have to worry about," she said. "And that can be fixed easily. All you have to do is think a particular hue, hold the thought for a moment—and the patch will become that color. Think black and it'll be black. Red, and it'll shift to red.
"It's the nature of the material. And since it was produced here, using Novari's sorcerous machines, even the most sensitive wizard will miss it. No power was stolen, but only ... borrowed ... and then returned in a different guise."
I was intrigued. "Any color I like?" I asked.
'Try it," she said.
I peeled the eyepatch off and dangled it in front of me. I pictured it black and instantly it shimmered from gold to black. I tried red and green and the other pure colors, and each time it shifted to those hues the instant the color came to mind. I turned it back to black—a rather grimy black, to match the conditions of the mine—and put it on again.
It felt smoother and even more comfortable than before. And I no longer felt the urge to let my head flop to my shoulder to study things with my good eye.
"I always wanted to be a pirate," I said. "Now at least I can look like one."
Zalia looked me over, measuring. "What you really need," she finally said, "is a pair of earrings. A stud on one side and a big loopy one on the other. That'd really set the eyepatch off.
"It's what only the most discerning pirate would wear."
THE EYEPATCH CHANGED more than my image. As the days went on I noticed that objects seemed clearer and possessed more depth. I no longer suffered a dizzy feeling when I looked at a thing too quickly.
Although I only had one eye, the missing one—thanks to the eyepatch—seemed to serve some ghostly purpose. As if it were peering into the ethers to help my remaining eye focus on the physical world and give me two-eyed perspective.
Then one day I realized I could also "see" more clearly in the Otherworlds.
It was at night, just after my rat stew meal, and I was cleaning grime from my metal hand while Zalia slept. I got dust in my eye and winked a few times to try and clear away the irritating speck.
When I shut the eye, however, a strange image floated up— seemingly from nowhere.
I opened my eye and the image vanished. Was it only my imagination?
I shut my good eye again and up floated that faded image. I could make out a vague outline, a skeleton really, of fingers and a thumb. I wriggled my artificial hand and saw the ghostly image wriggle in return.
I opened my eye and saw only the metal hand—the slave hand. But now I could definitely feel the shadow of the real one—the part of me that'd been lopped off for Novari's magical stew pot.
I shut the eye once more, turning my head this way and that. All kinds of glittering things seemed to be fluttering about I realized I could see into the ethers with almost no effort I only had to shut my eye and shift my view, and the sorcerous world made itself plain.
"Zalia," I said. "Wake up!"
She bolted up from her stone bed. "What's wrong?" she said, alarmed.
"Nothing's wrong," I replied. "I have to talk to you."
Zalia groaned, weary from breaking rock all day. "Can't it wait?" she said.
"Not a single moment," I replied.
"What do you want?" she asked, yawning but resigned.
'Tell me how you made the eyepatch again," I said. "Every detail. Leave nothing out And while you're at it, I want you to think very hard."
"About what?"
I fingered the eyepatch. "How we can get onto the right work detail and steal more of this stuff."
IT TOOK FEARFULLY little time for Zalia to do what I'd asked.
The two slaves we approached eagerly grabbed the small bribe she offered. They readily agreed to switch places with us. They swore they'd not whisper a word and would assist in every way to cover up the small bargain we'd made. They were so fervent in their assurances, I had no doubt they'd keep their word. I growled a few appropriate threats about what'd happen if they betrayed us, but it wasn't really necessary. They were two very happy slaves.
This was my first sign that Zalia hadn't exaggerated when she'd said it was the worst work detail in the mine.
/> Confirmation came a day later when a guard poked his head into our warren and shouted: 'Two for Hellspoint! Antero! Zalia! Get yer arses out here."
We stumbled from our cells and I shot Zalia a look, whispering, "Hellspoint?"
She grimaced. "It was your idea," she whispered back. "And don't forget it!"
I didn't
Her whisper hung over me like a demon jester, mocking me, as we were pummeled into line with another sorry group of slaves. As each chain was linked to each belt, I heard the sound of the locks snap shut with unnatural clarity.
Whips cracked and we shambled forward. Slaves in other details looked at us as we passed and shook their heads in pity or grinned at our misery.
We were marched for about an hour, winding through a series of tunnels and corridors and going up and down several lifts. Finally, a gate clattered open and we staggered out of the mines into the shock of sudden sunlight.
For the first time in months I was not enclosed by tons of hollowed-out rock. The air was crisp and cold and my muscles twitched uncontrollably at the elusive scent of freedom on the wind.
I heard other slaves mutter curses and nearly snarled myself, but bit my Up when Zalia gave my arm a warning squeeze.
The guards roared and charged the ones who'd cursed, quickly beating them into submission. They did it with such practiced ease, I knew that the incident was a routine occurrence on the way to Hellspoint.
It was only a sip of what was in store for us.
We were herded through a large yard, which was cut into the face of a mountain that rose above us for as far as I could see without craning my neck and earning a lash from a watchful guard. The yard was hatch-patterned by wooden rails, and carts were being lugged up and down the rails by slaves. Our route took us through the yard to a rubble-strewn road that wound down the face of the mountain.
When we came to it, I caught a glimpse of the Bear Temple in the distance, saw the docks jutting out into the frozen lake and ships with billowing sails skimming freely across the lake. Overhead the sky was a shocking blue.