Her matron, round about the waist and thick-cheeked, was pulling baked cockleseed bread from the brick oven when Sayri arrived in the kitchen. She motioned at a wooden tray on the table, which Sayri brought over. Wolna slid the bread off its peel and onto the tray where it steamed and bubbled, releasing a delicious sweet and rich scent.
“It smells wonderful, Wolna,” Sayri said. Her mouth was indeed watering as she held it.
“Oh, you always say that, child,” Wolna answering, chuckling. “Don’t they have cockleseed bread when you come from?”
Sayri had tried to disguise her accent, but Wolna had an excellent ear, being able to identify a patron’s homeland within a few seconds, however far he hailed from. She had distinguished Sayri’s origin in the Lower Valley while interviewing her. That had caused some panic from Sayri, though she had already changed her hair, but Wolna had fortunately mistaken it for embarrassment (why, Sayri didn’t quite understand), and promised not to share her secret.
“You’ve asked me that so many times, mistress, and my answer remains no,” Sayri replied with a mischievous smile.
Wolna chuckled again, a tight belly laugh, then turned Sayri around and slapped her bottom in the direction of the common room. “Off you go, lazy girl! Take that to the warders who just came in, the window corner. Oh,” she added as Sayri darted out from the kitchen alcove, “I have some more of that briar-root cream for your skin, this time I’ll show you how to apply it properly! And no complaining about the smell! Silly girl.”
“I’m not silly, just perceptive,” Sayri laughed over her shoulder at her.
She was just turning back when someone plowed into her from the front. Sayri slipped and fell, somehow catching the bread as it launched off the wood platter, which clattered to the ground. The bread was still very hot, and Sayri tossed it quickly from hand to hand trying not to burn her hands, all the while lying on her back on the floor amid laughter from nearby patrons.
“Here!” a voice said, and Sayri saw a girl crouch down beside her, extending her apron out flat with both hands as she did so.
Understanding her idea quickly, Sayri flipped the bread into the apron, where it landed safely and the girl straightened up, holding it securely in front of her.
“Many thanks,” Sayri said, rising and dusting off her own apron, then picking up the platter. Laughter slowly died down from the people around them, as they went back to their drinks shaking their heads.
“Sayri?” the girl said.
Shocked, Sayri involuntarily glanced up at her. Oh, no. It was Lacie, a girl from the next village over. Sayri recognized her immediately; she had been the only girl with bright orange hair in the Lower Valley, and was also quite tall. She was the daughter of a merchant who often traveled to the city; no doubt she came along to help gather supplies for farm folk still struggling to recover from the winter. For moment, Sayri was nearly overcome with an urge to take her aside and ask her about the Lower Valley; since hearing the news of the many deaths suffered there, she had been desperate to know if her family had made it through the season safely. If there was a chance to speak with her privately—but not now, not with warders only a few feet away.
“No, my pardons, young lady,” Sayri said quickly, pulling her hair forward on the side facing where the warders were sitting. “My name is Jasenth. You’ve mistook me,” she added, doing her best Benn’s Harbour accent.
“Don’t be ridiculous, I’d know you anywhere, Sayri,” the girl said, still holding the bread in her apron. “I’m so happy to see you! After what happened in the village, we all thought you’d been taken away by the warders!”
Sayri felt panic rising. Her eyes flicked in the directly of the warders, saw one of them rising. “No, you be mistaken, young lady. I don’t know this Keri,” she said, aware that her accent was slipping. “I have to get back to work, if you please.” She grabbed the hot bread with her hand and turned back to the kitchen. The warder was crossing the floor in her direction.
“Sayri, it’s me,” Lacie said. Then the huge warder was pushing her aside, and Sayri fled into the kitchen alcove, looking around desperately. There was no back door.
“What is it, child?” Wolna asked from where she stood at the frying plate. “You look positively aghast! Did you—”
Sayri spun, and the warder was standing behind her. She dropped the hot bread and grabbed at her knife, but he was close, and rested a hand casually on her wrist, stopping the motion. He shook his head, looking at her with huge sad eyes, framed in dark circles.
“Please,” Sayri said, tears filling her eyes. “Please, let me go. She was mistaken, I am Jasenth.”
“And so you ran?” The man looked over at Wolna. “How long has this one served here?” he asked her.
“About a year, warder,” Wolna answered, concern etched on her face. “Her name is Jasenth.”
“I’d say, exactly a year,” he corrected, turning back to Sayri. And her name isn’t Jasenth. It’s Sayri.” The warder sighed, shaking his head. “You had one more day, did you not, Sayri? There’s been talk of it for tendays now at the barracks. If not for your friend out there,” he motioned behind him, where Sayri saw Lacie standing at the entrance to the kitchen, her eyes wide, “you’d have been the first to manage a year and a day in Benn’s Harbour—in nearly thirty years.”
“Please,” Sayri pleaded, her eyes locked on his, while she attempted vainly to twist herself free of his massive grip. “It’s just one day. Just . . . forget you saw me. I beg you,” she gasped. Despite herself, she felt hot tears on her cheeks.
“Sorry, girl. You almost paid for your freedom, but not quite. Now,” he finished, leaning in closer to her, as if sharing a secret, “it’s time to pay for your crime.”
・
They hadn’t touched her, at least. The Right-Guardsman—if Sayri had heard his rank correctly—had been very clear about that when his men took her. She was only a child, he had said—but it was the second statement, that Lord Perrile would want her unspoiled to decide himself what would be done with her, that probably kept her safe, for the time being at least.
She was in a “holding cell”, now. Sayri didn’t know what that meant, but it was very small, barely large enough to turn around in. A sleeping pallet took up half the cell, running completely along one wall from end to end, and leaving only a few hands-breadths to walk along its side. The door, an ancient, heavy, iron-bound affair fit for a dungeon, took up half the opposite wall, so there was barely room for Sayri to stand when the door was opened, even though it opened out.
Light wasn’t a problem, though there wasn’t a lamp in her cell. A large window on the wall beside the pallet, opposite the door, looked out on the courtyard of the barracks. There was a huge oil lamp hanging from a pole in the centre of the courtyard, under which the warders were occasionally called out to march seemingly at random in the night. The first few days she had woken up every time they started; lately she just dreamt of warders, when they marched and when they didn’t. Those were the good dreams. The others were old dreams that had started up again; the same dreams she had seen after that night in the barn. Thoughts of what might lay in store for her had reignited the fear, and the dreams with them.
The food was good, at least; prisoners were rarely held in the barracks, so they ordered food from a local tavern for her. Sayri had heard warders outside her window complaining about the food, so she thought that they must have ordered special for her. Perhaps the Right-Guardsman had some compassion for her . . . that comforted her a bit, though it wouldn’t help when she faced Lord Perrile’s court.
It was a few days after her capture that the Proselyte visited her, though at the time she didn’t know what that was. She heard a knocking on the door, and froze. Why would guards knock? When it didn’t open, she nervously called out a greeting.
The door opened, and a man came in wearing a brown stole. It was a very simple outfit, made of coarse, heavy cloth with no ornamentation, and was essentially a square
with a hole cut in it and pulled over the head. His belt was a strip of the same brown cloth tied at the waist. His head was shaved completely bald, which aged him, but Sayri guessed he had seen about thirty summers. He had no beard.
The door closed behind the man, and Sayri heard it lock. Her heart skipped, and she backed into the corner of the cell; it only put her two paces from him, but the extra distance felt a bit safer. Not that it would matter if he planned—
“Peaceful eve, young lady,” the man said. He had a strangely soft and calm voice, as though he was half asleep.
Sayri gulped. “Peaceful eve, young man,” she replied, curtseying.
“Please sit,” he said. “And address by my rank; I am a Proselyte.”
“What is that, young ma—Proselyte?” she asked tentatively, sitting on the pallet at his gesture to do so. He sat beside her as he talked, but not close enough to make her uncomfortable.
He frowned. “Where were you raised, young lady?”
“The Lower Valley, Proselyte. On a farm.” Feeling a moment of sadness for her home, Sayri went to smooth her hair back, only to remember that it was cropped short.
“You have never been visited by a Proselyte in the Lower Valley?”
“No,” Sayri said. “I’ve never heard of it. Heard of a visit, or even of one of your . . . group, Proselyte.”
“My order,” the Proselyte said absently, stroking his chin. That shall have to be corrected. But here, I have come to speak with you of the spirit. There may not be a chance, later.”
Sayri stared at him blankly. “The spirit?”
“Yes, young lady. It is the quest of my order to seek enlightenment of the spirit, and help others to do so.” The man spoke with such passion as he explained this, that Sayri felt compelled to listen intently. Nevertheless, his words seemed meaningless.
“Enlightenment?” she asked.
“Yes, young lady. Through enlightenment of the spirit, we find connection to the voice of the world around us,” the Proselyte said.
“Connection?” Sayri said, knowing full well that she was stringing together single word replies. She was utterly at a loss to understand what the man wanted.
“Just so,” the strange man said. “In our last days it is particularly important to seek enlightenment. We will be passed beyond the material, and must prepare our spirit for what comes next.” He smiled at her gently, folding his hands across in front of him. “Discover the silent purity of your internal spirit, and you will discover happiness.”
But Sayri had heard something that distracted her from the remainder of his words. “What do you mean, last days? What have you heard? Are they going to execute me now?” The panic was rising again. It seemed that she had been living in a world of it, lately . . . the last few days had been of dull, torturous waiting, and at some times she had longed to move forward, to face what the future held, if anything; but now that she heard the Proselyte say the words, desperation began to well up inside her again, and tears flooded her eyes. “I am going to die?” she asked him again, stumbling to her feet in dismay, her shoulder slamming against the wall painfully in the tiny cell. She wanted to grab him and shake him, to get the truth out of him, but instead she stood erect, her hands spread with fingers pointing down and her feet spread, as if to keep her balance through the turmoil rushing all around her.
“I know not the particulars of your case, your lady—stop now, be calm,” he was saying, but Sayri didn’t hear his words. Her heart was pounding in her head, panic surging, desperation flooding through her. She heard her breath starting to wheeze, and the Proselyte’s face was twisted to panic himself, his hands reaching out almost beseechingly, as if he clearly realized that she was losing control, and knew there was nothing he could do.
This is an important moment, Sayri, she thought. You need to remain calm, and be patient. You will not die this way.
The Proselyte was looking at her, no longer pleading, but with a puzzled expression. “Are you . . . um . . . young lady?”
“Yes, Proselyte,” she said. Clearly the man imagined she had gone mad when her face shifted almost instantly from anguish to distraction, and then to calm.
He was watching her uncertainly, as he might have a poisonous lizard, to be prepared if it should unexpectedly lunge at him. “Ah, you are . . . you feel well now? As I said, my purpose for coming here was in no way due to any information I have on your situation. But you are young,” he added hurriedly, “so I have little doubt they will be lenient and considerate of your situation.”
“It is well, Proselyte,” Sayri said numbly. Somehow, the voice inside her head had appealed to her immediately. It felt as if the Voice knew her in entirety, and she naturally trusted it—absolutely. If she was mad and hearing voices, then so be it. If not, then in some magical way she had an edge; a way of knowing what would come. Either way, it comforted her. “Tell me more about this spirit. How can I become enlightened, so that I shall hear the voice around me whenever I need?”
9 GALLORD-SMIT
The sun had just set and the courtyard was bathed in a ruddy glow that hung in the sky above the distant sea. Gallord-Smit released the clasps on his vest, closed the shutters and drew the curtains. The unadorned black canvas curtains drew comments from any visitors to his quarters, but he preferred his room very dark at night, and in any case often needed to sleep during the daylight. In the dim evening light his room was plunged into near darkness; he closed his eyes, soaking in the humid summer sea air as it cooled.
Gallord-Smit allowed himself to enjoy the benefits of his rank in a few ways only; one had been selection of quarters at the highest floor in the barracks, facing west. He had been raised in Promontory, as far west as one could go without crossing the great river, the opposite bank of which was close enough to inaccessible that no one chose to live there. To be sure, crossing to the other side in a boat was easy enough, weather permitting, but the terrain on the far bank was drastically different from the Lords Lands, covered in rocky cliffs and craggy boulders, such that the only people to ever go ashore were hunters and adventurers who simply wanted to brag of their exploits in the local taverns. Gallord-Smit had been one of them, in his youth; he had organized a hunting to party to seek out the legendary dragons said to dwell in the rocky hills beyond the great river. The expedition had ultimately been a failure—they never saw a great lizard, and Gallord-Smit was of the opinion that they were myth and nothing more—but mapping a fair swath of the rugged country had brought him fame that extended all the way to Benn’s Harbour, and had ultimately been a factor in achieving his command. Gallord-Smit was a Front-Captain, with room to grow if any of the Right-Commanders chose to step down (he watched with interest the career of Deminis Drithe, who was far enough along in years that surely his wife was pressing him to retire soon). Still, he liked his rank and the freedom it afforded him; Right-Commanders, like their only superiors in the army, the Rear-Commander Generals (though there was currently only one), were really only active in times of war, since they led such massive armies of men that it was unfeasible to have them do so in times of peace. One couldn’t have thousands of men grouped together without a very good reason, considering the drain on local resources and the impact on the lands where they camped. Being a Front-Captain meant commanding a few hundred men at best, a number far more viable for practicing maneuvers and dealing with non-wartime issues such as banditry and minor uprisings.
He had just nearly faded into a restful sleep when a firm rapping sounded on the door.
Gallord-Smit knew it was the Right-Guardsman assigned to the hall; only he could disturb the Front-Captain, excepting of course his superiors, who never visited him (they called for him to attend them, instead).
“Peace,” he said, a traditional welcome greeting used by soldiers from Lords Lands to Somria and beyond.
The Right-Guardsman opened the door without stepping in. “Front-Captain, we’ve just received word from his aide that Lord Perrile has arrived at his apartme
nts. He intends to visit the barracks tomorrow, but wishes to meet with you this evening to discuss the Somrian athlete.”
Gallord-Smit sighed. Lord Perrile had departed for Benn’s Harbour immediately upon receiving word that the Lower Valley girl had been caught a day before achieving her freedom, and before the message from Gallord-Smit could arrive informing him of Arad’s refusal. That meant he would have to deliver the bad news in person, never a pleasant prospect when dealing with a lord. Though the Lordsguard technically served the entire council and not any one individual lord, Lord Perrile still held authority over Gallord-Smit, and the latter preferred not to invoke the lord’s ire.
At least the girl was safely tucked away in a cell, awaiting the lord’s arrival, so his trip would not be wasted. Her story had become infamous in Benn’s Harbour and beyond and was, in Lord Perrile’s eyes, a huge embarrassment and challenge to his authority. Finding her a day before the Year and a Day law came into effect was a wonderful stroke of fortune (though he had increased the search tenfold in the tenday leading up to her capture), and was sure to ease the lord’s disappointment.
Gallord-Smit personally felt the law to be foolish, and Lord Perrile shared his opinion; however, despite countless attempts to remove it over several centuries, it had always ultimately been retained. No doubt the lords themselves wanted it to remain to aid in dealing with their own delinquent children; if a lord’s son (or daughter, however less likely) committed a crime, it often resulted in house arrest in the free city until the year and a day had passed. Warders could not demand to search a lord’s home, or interrogate the lord himself, so the result was typically dropped charges. To Gallord-Smit this was all the more reason to repeal the law, but Lord’s Law was written by lords, not officers.
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 10