Tamara left the Tower of Parth just before sunrise, well provisioned and rested. Her sleep the evening before went undisturbed, and she was much calmer than even she anticipated. At first, when it was determined that she would be the one to make the journey to Oleander and Liam, she was terribly confused. It never occurred to her that she would participate in any significant way in the events that were unfolding all around the sisters. She always felt a part of the circle, but never before did she feel to be an important part. Once she was chosen though, it felt right. She did not protest as everyone expected her to. Neither did she fuss and fret as the others assumed she would as well. Of course, she did talk a lot about it, and regarding that conjecture, everyone was correct.
As she rode, she replayed over and over in her mind the words Bethany spoke regarding her abilities. She was the one who brought the passage in the Tomes to light after all. And she believed in what she said as well. She joyously accepted the strict vows of the Sisterhood of Parth so many years ago and she never regretted leaving her former life.
After all, she thought now, as she traveled the path toward the woods through which she needed to pass in order to reach Oleander, what did I really give up anyway? I am no raving beauty and I never was. I was always a bit chubby. But, I like to eat. Who can fault me for that? It causes no one any harm. I guess that I could have been a cook. I know that I would have made a superb pastry chef. Mmmmmm…
Tamara was always sneaking into the kitchens at the tower and making suggestions, sticking her fingers into the pots and stirring whatever it was that was on the stoves cooking at the time. She was a jovial woman, but she was also stern when need required it. Many people assumed the wrong things about her, and they inevitably regretted it if they pushed her too far. She never hesitated to make her principles known, and she did not shy away from defending her point of view. Tamara was not a rash woman, and when she came to a conclusion about someone or something, it was one to which she was committed and remained so unless and until there was ample reason to rethink her original position.
Hector trotted down the path at a steady pace now, seeming to enjoy the journey a bit more than he had at the onset. It was not too hot and the weather was quite good for traveling. Tamara noticed that the sky was not as clear as it had been the day before. As the sun rose, she could see that heavy clouds were streaming in from the west. They rode on at a good pace for at least three hours before she fully realized just how thick and threatening the clouds had become.
“I had hoped to avoid the rain today, Hector,” she said aloud. “It looks as if we may get wet after all.” She pulled her cape tigher around her shoulders.
The pony shook his head as if in recognition of her words and kept right on ahead.
“If we move quickly, perhaps we can reach the cover of the forest before the storms reach us. At least we will be partially sheltered then,” she continued. Oleander and Liam lived on the other side of the wide swath of trees, the Balinwood it was called, and if she and her pony could enter the dense hedge that formed the tree line to the west before the heavens opened up, they could continue on without too much difficulty. Once inside of it, the branches overhead would be thick enough to keep them dry for the most part.
Tamara had not left the vicinity of the tower for a long, long time before she set out on this journey. She knew the local neighborhood well, but she was quite unfamiliar with the surrounding countryside. It never interested her to be a world traveler. Her worth and comfort lay in being useful and productive, and she found that the gardens on the Tower grounds provided her with a constant challenge. Tamara learned to grow the most delectable vegetables and the sweetest squashes in the worst of soils, and she prided herself in her ability to cultivate a lush and prolific garden in what others considered to be barren ground.
Emmeline always told her that she had a gift and that the earth responded well to her overtures. Tamara inwardly rejoiced in that assessment. She always believed that she did have a more substantial relationship with the forces beneath the surface of the earth than she had with the creatures above it. She could just about coax the vegetables to grow, and they always seemed to respond to her urging. It was not a coincidence that she constantly won the contests when it came to the largest potato or the roundest, most beautiful tomato. She could almost feel them growing, and she knew precisely when to provide water and what to mix in the soil to achieve the best results.
You are an artist, she could hear Emmeline saying. And the soil is your canvas. Your creations are no less beautiful than those of the masters in Cosacteris. Just because we eat them, rather than place them in frames on our walls, does not negate their perfection.’’
Tamara always blushed when she was praised and her red lips grew all the redder, but she relished the comments despite the embarrassment they caused her. It was not conceit or pride that generated her enthusiasm. Rather, it was the recognition that she served life in her own unique manner. She knew that she would never be a warrior, and she never ever expected to be a Chosen. But, she did know that she could feel the earth and understand it, allow the soil to slip through her fingers and intuit its need and ultimately communicate in her own inarticulate manner with whatever lived therein.
The stout woman again adjusted her grey cloak on her broad shoulders, making sure that the sigil of Parth stood out clearly upon the lapel this time. Tamara was proud of her role as a Sister and she never felt the need to disguise her affiliation. As the hours drifted by, she deliberated deeply about what she would ask Oleander and Liam.
What am I looking for from them?
It occurred to her that whatever answer she brought back with her to the tower would ultimately determine the course of action that the sisters took, and she could not allow herself to be mistaken or misled by her own hopes and desires.
As guardians of the map, the ancient scroll kept locked and protected in the tower, the maids were entrusted with a task that always had the potential to alter the weave. If they failed in their roles as guardians and relinquished the map into the wrong hands, they would be endangering the very fabric of existence. Yet, the books did not say to whom the scroll was to be entrusted. All that was clear was that the maids were to ensure its safety and security. That had always been the dilemma that the Sisters faced. How would they know when and to whom they should bestow the map upon, if to anyone ever?
Tamara felt the changes all about her. Daily she despaired as she realized that the soil was less fruitful, that the trees were less lush and that the heat of summer continued long into the fall and withered the plants before the chill could send them into dormancy. She knew that something was wrong. She sensed it in the earth. When the trees began to die she went to Emmeline, and together they discussed the consequences of those recent occurrences. She remembered how wise and kind the Sister had been even under the most trying of circumstances. But she had almost forgotten until now Emmeline’s lack of surprise at the fact that it was Tamara, and no other maid, who had detected the initial changes that were transpiring all around the land.
You have the sight, Emmeline had said.
Her mind wandered backward and forward as she traveled the path to Oleander’s realm. Nothing interfered with her progress, and Hector’s broad back was comfortable enough that she did not need to dismount and rest until sometime after the sun was well past its summit in the clouded sky. By that time, they had passed through the thick bushes that framed Balinwood.
She slid from the saddle onto the soft, mossy earth of the forest and removed the bit from Hector’s mouth. Then she loosened the girth around his bulbous belly. She had no concern that he would stray far from her presence, so she allowed him to graze wherever he could find something that appealed to his taste. She, herself, laid out a woven straw mat before the expansive trunk of a massive tree, sat anxiously upon it and stretched her legs straight out in front of her. With her hands upon the surface soil on either side of her ample torso, she allowed the sensations t
o permeate her body and mind.
There was much “chatter” in the soil, for lack of a better description of the rumblings that she heard and felt. The calm that she expected to retrieve by her proximity to the earth was nowhere to be found. Rather, it seemed to her as if she could sense agitation and discomfort. These feelings never became defined, but as she closed her eyes and relaxed more deeply, she realized that something was seriously wrong. On the edge of her awareness a darkness arose, menacing, threatening. A shiver ran down her spine.
Whatever it was that she was able to discern seemed to suggest things to her. No words were spoken and no directives were ever actually given, but the sensations she absorbed elicited thoughts of her own. Tamara rose quietly, as she was convinced now without a doubt that she needed to tread lightly and to keep herself concealed until she determined the nature of the threat. She rolled the mat carefully and stowed it behind the tree trunk along with Hector’s bridle. She took a branch that lay upon the ground and swept the area free of her footprints and markings.
Tamara could see Hector lazily eating from a patch of new grass shoots just ahead, and she moved toward him stealthily, her own bulk belying her agility. Once at his side, she urged him behind a hillock and then she secured him to a low hanging branch with a cord that hung from her saddle.
He will be safe here, she reasoned.
The feeling of agitation was increasing by the second, and she grew very uncomfortable and uneasy, searching from left to right for an explanation for her concern.
Perhaps I am wrong, and it is just that I am alone and in a foreign place, she considered.
But, that explanation did not satisfy her even as she thought the thoughts. Hector lifted his head and opened his grey eyes wide. He too sensed something.
The ground began to tremble slightly and the vibration grew steadily as she sought out its source. It was coming from the east, of that she was sure, and it was not emanating from beneath the earth, but from atop it.
“Riders,” she gasped. “A large party on the march and they are definitely headed this way,” she said to Hector, as he stamped his front hooves nervously on the soft ground. “We must conceal ourselves until we know who they are and what side they serve,” Tamara related to the nervous pony.
She carefully covered Hector with some loose branches and spoke soothing words into his floppy ears.
“Move as little as you can, Hector. Now is not the time to seek to satisfy your curiosity, or your hunger.”
She was confident that he understood her directives and that he would not betray their location to anyone. With a gentle pat upon his bony head, she carefully walked in the direction she believed the riders would approach from.
Tamara laid down atop the bed of soft and fragrant leaves and branches that had formed underneath a giant Perridon tree near the path she and Hector had just walked down. Her cursory observation of the pass through the woods led her to believe that if a substantial number of riders were to travel through these woods, they would need to pass by right in front of her. The trees were wide enough apart here and the branches were high enough for them to get by.
The trembling grew in intensity and the Sister knew that soon she would gain visible evidence of the visitors, in addition to all the other signs that were assaulting her senses now. She waited with quiet anticipation, wondering all the while where they could be headed, as the only location anyone ever visited west of these woods was the Tower of Parth itself. What would a party of riders from the east want with the Sisters of Parth?
Individuals visited often, small groups made pilgrimages at certain times, wayfarers and vagabonds sought food and shelter sporadically, but never in her memory did a substantial body of outsiders advance upon the small fortress.
As the riders approached, Tamara was able to discern words and commands being spoken. She was relieved to recognize a Talamaran accent among the sounds, as the people of Talamar often came to the Sisters to sell them their polong oil for the lamps and stoves of Parth. It occurred to her that in these difficult and dangerous times, perhaps they may simply have organized a larger group of traders for the sake of safety. But as the sounds grew nearer, other accents reached her ears that were not encouraging at all; southern inflections and deep voices, gruff and guttural and unappealing. A woman’s voice rose above the growing din, and it became clear to her that the leader was a female, as the commands that issued from her mouth seemed to indicate.
“Stay together. Do not stray from the group. The woods may be hostile. We know not whether these trees be sentient or dumb,” she commanded in a stern voice.
Dumb? Tamara thought. That’’s offensive.
She had never heard anyone refer to a tree as dumb before and it bothered her to hear it now. Clearly, the riders were from another part of the land, or they would know that a great Lalas resided not far from where they rode.
Are they seeking the tree or seeking to avoid it? she deliberated. Why would anyone try to avoid one of the trees? she wondered, her concern growing by the minute.
“The sooner we escape from these wretched confines, the better I will feel,” the strange woman said aloud, quite near now to where Tamara lay hidden.
The Sister could clearly see the riders by this time, and she could not help but gasp under her breath at the scene before her. Among the group was an enormous troll, fat and ugly. Of course she would not hold his looks against him, but his weaponry alone indicated that he was not on a ride for the pleasure of it. He sat atop a huge, black steed, who spit and frothed at the mouth as the troll yanked upon his reins fiercely. He was flanked by perhaps thirty men, all clothed in tunics of green emblazoned with the image of a tree upon the fronts. They were most definitely from Talamar, but they did not bear the colors of that Dukedom. She tried to see what was upon the banners that they carried, but the wind was still, and the pennants lay too close to the poles to distinguish anything.
Bringing up the rear and marching on foot, were another fifty or so orcs, short, squat and hairless, chanting something unintelligible as they ran to keep up with the mounted soldiers before them. Each one carried a sharpened spear, the tips of which glinted black in the darkening sky.
The woman commanding the group was imposing upon her dapple grey mount, clad in green too, but with no image across her chest. Rather, she wore a breastplate of black metal that was unpolished and formidable looking. At her side, she carried a thin shaft of black metal as well, it too was dull and not burnished in any way and the hilt of it sat upon a small platform that extended outward from the tip of her right boot. Her black hair was braided and tied off behind her and it hung down upon a cape of crimson that also lay folded and flat against her back.
Tamara shrunk deeper and deeper into the bed of leaves upon which she lay observing, and it seemed to her that they welcomed her and sought themselves to shelter her and conceal her bulk from the intruders. Much to her chagrin, the woman commander chose that very spot to dismount and to order her small army to rest. She sniffed the air like an animal would and then looked around slowly and carefully.
“These woods are rife with all manner of creature,” she concluded, though unconcerned. “Rest the beasts, but not for too long. I wish to arrive at the accursed tower before the sun has completely set,” she continued.
The giant troll, obviously her second in command replied, though Tamara perceived a slight bit of arrogance in his guttural tone, as if he resented the woman’s leadership somewhat.
“As you wish, Lady Margot.”
Lady Margot? the Sister repeated to herself silently. Now, where did I hear that name before? she tried desperately to recall.
As she restated the name over and over to herself, the memory revealed itself quickly.
Now I know. Gretchen had made a comment at supper the other week about the new Duchess of Talamar and how she had totally captivated the minds of the population there, as well as the heart of Kettin, her new husband, she remembered vividly. So, this is
the woman who came from nowhere to assume the power so easily. If I recall, Gretchen was skeptical even then of her sudden rise. Emmeline too. I wonder what she wants with the Sisters of Parth now? Tamara deliberated.
The dark haired woman was now directly in front of the concealed Sister, when a loud clamor arose from the rear of her troops. The Lady Margot turned abruptly in a sweeping motion and her cape flew out behind her, billowing widely as she pivoted. Tamara was aghast at what she saw then. A blazing sun on a stark black background revealed itself from within the folds. She sucked in her breath with a gasping sound and then quickly covered her mouth with both her hands.
The Evil One! She is a disciple of Colton’s. May the First help us all, she thought, astonished. And they are heading for the tower. What could they possibly want with the Sisters, unless they know what it is we protect? she speculated. I must warn the others.
Just as she was cogitating on exactly how she could get a message to the tower before this contingent arrived at the gates, she felt two fleshy hands grasp her shoulders tightly.
“What have we here?” a scratchy, foul smelling voice hissed at her neck. “No, do not turn around. Stay as you are,” it ordered. “My Lady,” the voice shouted. “I have uncovered a spy in our midst. Here, hiding in the leaves,” he continued, and he raised one arm high and signaled his whereabouts to the group.
Lady Margot walked determinedly to the tree under which Tamara lay and stared down upon the Sister whose face was barely all that was visible in the dense pile of leaves.
“Release your grip, soldier. Let her stand.”
The Awakening Page 15