The Waiting King (2018 reissue)

by Deborah Hale

  Maura could not listen to the rest for fear she would say something dangerous. “We are not Han.”

  Surely that could not be taken for openly rebellious talk. Yet, in a way, that simple statement was revolutionary.

  They were not Han. They could never be Han, and they should not try to be. They were different. With a different language and beliefs they must not abandon. Or they would be nothing.

  The woman seemed to understand. The tension in her pale, haggard face eased. She held the baby out to Maura, a gesture of trust that touched Maura’s heart. “He’s a-wasting, poor mite. Food goes through him, but does him no good. I have lost three other babes to the wasting.”

  As Maura cradled the frail, starveling child, pity for its mother subdued a bubble of eagerness. “I have a tonic that will help, if you can boil me some water.”

  “That I can!” The woman headed for the house, almost tripping over her skirts in her haste. “Come and welcome. Pardon our rude greeting. Some travelers that come from out of the hills are not the kind we want to linger. While you are tending the little one, Velsa has the worms and Young Blen has a sore swelling on his neck.”

  “I will do what I can.” Maura followed the woman into the house. Before they departed, she vowed she would leave this family in better health than she had found them. And she would teach the mother as many of the most common remedies as she could, with a promise to pass them on to her neighbors.

  Perhaps the infant sensed Maura’s intention to help, for it quieted in her arms. With a gentle touch of her finger, she caressed its tiny cheek.

  Behind her, Rath called, “Do you mind if we stay here a few days? Blen says if we help him bring in his hay crop, we can ride with him all the way to Venard when he takes it to market. He says he would be glad of my help to guard it.”

  “I would not mind at all.” Maura turned back toward him, the sick baby cradled in her arms. “It sounds as though we can all do each other a good turn.”

  Even from a distance, she could not mistake the softening of his features as he gazed at the child. “A lucky chance we happened on this place.”

  A breeze stirred the cooling embers of her faith and purpose. A ride for them both in the kind of vehicle that would never rouse Hanish suspicions?

  “This is not chance, Rath. Nor is it luck.”

  Once again, it seemed the Giver had smiled on them.

  Chapter Six

  RATH BIT BACK a grin as Blen Maynold’s well-laden hay wagon trundled along the high road to Venard. They had passed several toll posts already. At each one, Hanish officers had waved them through with scarcely a glance.

  He knew Maura considered this a boon from the Giver. Much as he wanted to scoff, the solution was so elegantly tailored to their need, Rath was tempted to credit something other than chance.

  Glancing around to make certain there was no one within earshot, he leaned back toward the towering load of hay. “How are you faring, Maura? Can you breathe in there?”

  He did not envy her, having to sit on the wagon pallet, covered with hay. But there had been no help for it. The driver’s bench had only room for two, and Blen claimed it would look odd for a woman to be seen travelling with them. Apart from the discomfort of her hiding place, Rath was not sorry to have Maura out of sight for their journey.

  Since their brush with the Han at Raynor’s Rift and the past several days helping out on Blen and Tesha’s small farm, her well-being had come to occupy more and more of his thoughts. Even in sleep, he could not escape. She ran through his nightmares pursued by lecherous Han and murderous Xenoth, and he was always powerless to protect her.

  Three nights ago, he had stirred from one such evil dream to find her lying nearby, safely caressed by moonlight, wrapped in the relaxed, innocent beauty of sleep. Overpowered by relief, he had lain awake keeping watch over her. His arms had tingled with a phantom pain he had heard men suffered after losing a limb.

  Now, the hay rustled behind him, and Maura’s voice seemed to drift from out of nowhere. “It is hot, and the straw makes my neck itch, but I can breathe well enough.”

  “We shall have to stop soon.” Blen looked around as if reckoning how far they’d come and how much farther they must go.

  “Old Patchel needs to graze and drink.” He nodded toward the big, raw-boned gelding that pulled the wagon. “I’ll keep an eye for a quiet spot where you can safely slip out and cool yourself, mistress.”

  Rath thanked the farmer. “How many more days before we reach Venard?”

  He and Maura meant to part company with Blen before he entered the city to peddle his hay crop. Would they be lucky or blessed enough to find another ride to bear them farther north?

  “No more than three, I should say.” Blen directed a grim stare at a bank of clouds gathering on the western horizon. “If the weather holds.”

  The two men fell to talking about the weather and about Blen’s struggle to make his small farm support his family and the high taxes levied by the Han.

  “If it wasn’t for the hay crop, I do not know how we’d manage.” Blen’s shoulders seemed to sag under a huge, invisible weight. “Ours and our neighbors ripens sooner than any in Westborne and it fetches a good price in Venard since there is so little grazing land around the city. I do not suppose you would come back south with me, afterwards? Last year, my supplies from the market in Venard got pilfered on my way home. It has been a hungry winter. No wonder the wee ones are all ailing.”

  “I wish we could.” Rath meant it.

  He had worked hard during their short stay on Blen’s farm. Though he had told himself it was only a fair exchange for the favor of a ride north, the sense that he was helping Blen, Tesha and their children brought him a glow of pride and satisfaction. It had warmed him further to watch Maura work her healing magic on the children. There had been more to it than herb teas and pungent balms. Her smile, her laughter and her stories had kindled the beginnings of a sunny cheer in the children that seemed fitting somehow. Whenever Rath had caught a glimpse of her gently tending Blen and Tesha’s baby, a spasm of renegade tenderness had taken him by the throat.

  With all his heart, he wished the two of them could return south with Blen and forget all about the Waiting King.

  “We are... expected,” he added by way of explanation, “up north, in a fortnight.”

  That reminder of how swiftly his time was running out gouged a deep pit inside Rath. Strange, that he found it so hard to believe in the Waiting King who would free Embria from Hanish tyranny. But the Waiting King who would claim Maura and take her away from him loomed all too real.

  Suddenly a small crowd of ragged children burst from the bushes beside the road. Rath recognized their kind. After Ganny’s death, he had run with a similar gang of young beggars and petty thieves.

  A pair of Hanish soldiers came chasing after the children.

  Blen’s old gelding gave a shrill, frightened whinny and reared. One of the soldiers, who just missed being struck by a great flailing hoof, bellowed a foul curse in his own tongue. Rath was glad Maura would not understand it.

  “What was all that commotion?” she demanded in an urgent whisper.

  “Just a couple of Han after some young scoundrels,” muttered Rath. “We will be past them soon.”

  The hay rustled. “What can we do to help them?”

  “Nothing.” Much as he admired her for wanting to help, Rath bristled with impatience. “Young whelps like those are cunning enough to take care of themselves. The ones unwitting enough to get caught...”

  “‘None should mourn the weak who perish?’” Maura quoted from the hated Hanish maxim.

  “That was not what I meant.” Perhaps it had been... a little. “We cannot afford to attract notice from the Han. And we owe it to Blen’s family not to draw notice to him, either.”

  “I suppose...” Maura did not sound convinced.

  “That sort spend half their lives getting chased by the Han. They are plenty clever at dodg
ing and hiding. Do not fret yourself about them.” The whole thing stirred up memories Rath thought he had successfully purged.

  He wanted to swat Blen’s old horse on the rump to make it move faster. He wanted to flee the harsh memories those children provoked as fast as they fled from the Han.

  The hay rustled again.

  “Maura, what are you doing? Don’t be daft now!”

  “It was not me,” she insisted.

  A moment later, a squeak of dismayed surprise sounded from the back of the wagon.

  Before Rath or Blen could ask what was going on, Maura spoke again. “It seems we have an extra passenger.”

  Her words were followed by a boy’s voice, pleading softly, but desperately, in Comtung.

  “Let me stay here, just a little while, worthy one! I hurt my foot on a sharp stone and cannot run fast. If I do not hide here, the Han will take me.” That was what Rath thought he heard in the desperate gabble.

  When Maura did not answer right away, the boy added, “If you make me leave and the Han catch me, I will tell them you are hiding here.”

  “Why you young...” Rath growled under his breath, quelling the traitorous notion that, under these circumstances, he might have made the same threat when he was the boy’s age.

  He twisted around in his seat, ready to thrust his hand into the pile of hay in search of a scrawny neck to throttle.

  Maura’s voice stopped him. Though they had mostly spoken Embrian with Blen and Tesha, she must have picked up more Comtung, perhaps from the children.

  “I will heed a plea faster than a threat, boy.” A little garbled with a heavy Norest accent, but understandable. Then her voice softened. “When we stop, I will tend to your foot.”

  “Blen?” Rath nodded toward the pile of hay behind them. “Will it be all right? Just until we stop to water the horse?”

  The farmer’s sharp features clenched in a worried frown as he pondered Rath’s request. Clearly the young scoundrel’s threat carried more weight with him than any plea.

  “I... reckon he can stay,” Blen said at last in a grudging tone. “Only keep him quiet. And if you are found out, I will swear I do not know either of you... not that it will help me much.”

  “You heed that, you little musk-pig,” Rath growled in Comtung at the unseen beggar boy. “If any harm comes to the lady on your account, I will make you sorry the Han did not get you!”

  Even though no one could see her, Maura rolled her eyes and shook her head. Rath’s excessive protectiveness could be almost as vexing as it was... touching.

  How she wished she could touch him. Just lean her head against his shoulder for a moment, or slip her hand into his. She did not mind the minor discomforts of hiding in the hay for this part of their journey, but she did miss the chance to keep company with Rath—now that their time together was running out.

  She wanted to know even more about him than she had already learned. Since that was impossible at the moment, perhaps she could do the next best thing, by learning about the boy who reminded her so much of Rath as he had been when they first met.

  “Are you hungry?” she whispered in Comtung.

  “I guess.” Hay rustled as the boy crawled toward the back of the wagon. “Why? You got food?”

  “A little.” Maura groped in the hay beside her for her pack. “A roll and a bit of cheese. Would you like some?”

  “How much?”

  “Not a lot.” Maura’s hand closed over the food. “But you are welcome to it.”

  “Not how much food.” The boy spoke in a scornful murmur. “How much do you want for it?”

  “Your pardon.” Maura chuckled. “My Comtung is poor.”

  “What did you speak before?” asked the boy, his tone suddenly wary, “Hanish?”

  Maura smothered a hoot of laughter. How long had it been since she’d laughed? “Not Hanish. Embrian. The true language of our people.”

  At least it had been before the Han had stolen it from so many.

  “Never heard of it.”

  “I ask no payment for the food,” she told him. Then remembering how Rath had once been suspicious of aid freely given, she added, “But to help me practice my Comtung.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, the boy asked, “Are you twarith?”

  “Twarith?” Maura knew what it meant, but hearing that word on the lips of a child who knew no Embrian took her aback.

  “That is what they call themselves,” said the boy. “They speak a queer tongue. They tell queer stories. They give folks things and help folks.”

  He sounded as though he found their generosity as unfathomable as their language and their stories.

  “I reckon I am twarith.” The word meant “believer” and she had believed enough to journey clear across the kingdom. “But I belong to no group. I would like to meet these other twarith. Where can I find them?”

  “Give me the food and I will tell you.”

  “Here.” Maura thrust the roll and the cheese into the hay and felt them snatched from her hands. “I give it whether you tell me or not.”

  “Good.” The boy spoke while he chewed. “Because I don’t know.”

  “Mind your mouth, whelp!” snapped Rath, whom Maura had forgotten must be listening. “The lady is treating you better than you deserve.”

  Twarith. Maura savored the name and the idea while she listened to the boy eat with muted gusto. So there were Embrians here in the most oppressed province of the kingdom, keeping alive the old language and following the precepts of the Giver?

  She wished she had time to find them and talk with them. Give them hope that the Waiting King would soon come to their aid and reward them for their faithfulness during these dark days.

  “Have you a name, boy?” she asked, when he had finished eating.

  “Snake,” he declared in a defiant tone, as if daring her to question or ridicule it.

  In her mind, Maura heard an echo of Rath’s words from many weeks ago. No one gave it to me. Like everything else I have ever wanted in life, I took it.

  “Snakes are quick and cunning,” said Maura. “Sometimes dangerous.”

  The boy made vague noises of agreement.

  “I know a story about a very cunning snake. The Three-headed Serpent of White Rock. Would you like to hear it?”

  “I guess.” The boy made an effort to sound indifferent, but Maura heard an edge of hunger in his voice. Hunger of the spirit that could only be sated with the stories, songs and beliefs of which he had been starved.

  “Once,” Maura began, “in the shadow of White Rock, there hatched a tiny snake with three heads.”

  “Keep the story for later,” Rath called back. “We are coming to a village. I do not want anyone to hear you and get suspicious.”

  “Is this village your home?” Maura asked the boy. “Would you like us to let you off here?”

  “Got no home. We move about.”

  With that young Snake fell silent, robbing Maura of any distraction from the sounds that had become distressingly familiar to her on their journey north. Ailing infants crying. Women scolding older children in shrill voices of hostile desperation. Hanish soldiers bellowing orders and harassing folks. The sounds of blows and cries of pain. Now and then the flat, listless voice of a slaggie seeking a temporary escape from it all at a perilous cost.

  Part of her wanted to cover her ears and block it out, too. But another part insisted she must hear the sounds and see the sights of Hanish oppression, to fuel her resolve. That did not make it easier to sit and listen, unable to help.

  Gradually a quieter sound joined the others. It took Maura a moment to realize the boy had fallen asleep, lapsing into a soft snore.

  She had done something to help, after all. Befriending a single boy might not seem like much, but it was a place to start.

  The noises of the village began to fade until Maura could only hear the subtle, soothing music of the countryside—birds twittering, the drone of bees, and the whisper of wind throu
gh the leaves. It comforted and encouraged her to be reminded there were some things even the mighty empire of Dun Derhan could not subdue.

  After a short while, the hay wagon slowed and veered off the road. Maura heard the nearby gurgle of flowing water as the rhythmic clop of the horse’s hooves slowed and the wagon rolled to a stop. Next came the familiar sounds of Blen and Rath climbing down from their seat.

  “There is no one about,” said Rath. “You can come out... both of you.”

  Maura wriggled out of the piled hay, careful not to knock too much of Blen’s precious cargo onto the ground.

  “There is only me.” She pulled back the hood that protected her hair from chaff, relishing the cool tickle of the breeze on her flushed face. “The boy fell asleep.”

  She looked from Rath to Blen. “Can we not leave him be and fetch him along with us a little farther? The more distance he puts between himself and the Han who were chasing him, the better for us all, don’t you think?”

  Rath scowled. “I would sooner you slipped the young rascal a little dreamweed and we leave him here. That way if he takes it into his ungrateful young head to tell someone about us, we will be long gone.”

  “Do you believe he truly meant that threat?” Maura strode toward the narrow brook that beckoned her with its promise of refreshment. “The child was using the only weapon he could command to sway us. Would you have done any different at his age?”

  Rath ignored her question.

  “Snake,” he grunted as he stooped to refill his water pouch. “An apt name for a young viper. Mark me, you let him close he will poison us all.”

  “Please, Blen?” Maura turned to the farmer. “This boy can be no older than yours. I doubt he is running from the Han for amusement’s sake.”

  “Aye, well...” Blen knelt by the edge of the brook and splashed water in his face. “I reckon it will not hurt for us to fetch him a bit farther. He cannot cause a commotion if he is asleep, can he?”

  “Thank you.” Maura rewarded the farmer with her warmest smile. “You honor the Giver with your kindness.”

  Rath and the farmer exchanged a look.