by Deborah Hale
“Pardon me,” said Maura in Comtung.
The woman moved closer and turned an ear toward Maura. “Speak up lass, or I’ll never hear you over all the tunes and talk!”
Maura sucked in a deep breath then blurted out the words she’d been practicing. “Ban henwa chan Anreg, reg fi dimroth.”
In Old Embrian, it meant, “In the name of the Giver, let me have water.” An innocent enough request to make in a tavern. Except that dimroth, the twara word for “water” sounded a great deal like limroth, the word for “help.” To anyone who did not speak Old Embrian, it would mean nothing.
The last words were just leaving her lips when the music suddenly stopped, and most of the talk lulled at the same moment. Her strange speech seemed to hover in the silence, calling everyone’s attention.
All that kept Maura from fleeing was her certainty that the Hanish soldiers would be after her in no time. So she waited, scarcely breathing, groping for the small amount of madfern she had left, hoping it would be enough if they approached her.
Behind the bar, the woman dispensing ale seemed unaware that the mug in her hand was full and overflowing. When she finally noticed, she set the mug down and bustled out from behind the bar, laughing. “This way, lass. The kitchen is this way.”
Over her shoulder she called in Comtung to no one in particular, “Up-North girl looking for work. How queer they talk! I could hardly understand a word.”
The music started up again, louder than before. When Maura heard no obvious sounds of pursuit, she started to breathe again.
The woman propelled her down a narrow galley way talking loudly in Comtung about food preparation and waiting on tables. Abruptly, she pushed Maura into a shallow alcove that held shelves of crockery.
Switching to Embrian, she demanded in a vexed whisper, “Were you not told to come around back?”
Maura shook her head, chiding her dangerous lapse in not thinking of that herself.
The woman reached past her and gave the left-hand wall of the alcove a solid shove. The whole wall swung out like a door leading to an even narrower passageway.
“What happened to your face?” whispered the woman. “Is your man a slaggie? We see a lot of that.”
“No!” Maura’s hand flew to her bruised cheek. She remembered how anxious Rath had been that folks not believe he would harm her. “A soldier did this.”
“Well, mind your step,” the woman warned once the door had closed behind them, plunging the passage into darkness. “Or you will have more bruises to match that one. There’s stairs coming. Just feel your way down.”
Fearing she might tumble and break her neck, Maura groped her way down the tight, winding stairwell. Until about halfway, when some feeble light from below made it possible to see where she was going.
A few steps later, she emerged into a large, low ceilinged room lit by a few candles. A woman and two small children were sleeping on a pile of straw in one corner. In another corner stood a small work bench around which hung bunches of dried herbs. An old man working at the bench turned toward Maura and the barwife, beckoning.
“You go talk to Calvance,” whispered the woman. “I’d best get back up to keep the ale flowing.”
She glanced at the old man. “Can you give me a bit of muddlewort to make our customers forget they saw this lass come in?”
Clavance plucked a linen pouch from the bench and tossed it to her. “That is our last until the new crop blossoms. Make it go as far as you can.”
He turned back to Maura. “Now my dear, how can I help you?” The words had barely left his mouth before he flinched at the sight of her face. “Foolish of me to ask. I could try to apply a poultice but...”
“... they are hard to bind on to the face. I know.” Maura shrugged off her pack and sank onto a stool near the workbench. “It is not for healing that I have come. Are you the ones folk call the twarith?”
Not that she had any doubt.
“Folks call us many things.” Clavance passed a hand over the bald crown of his head in a gesture than reminded Maura of Langbard. “Fools, busybodies, dreamers... even sorcerers. We prefer to call ourselves twarith.”
He regarded her with a cautious, probing stare. “Do you know what that means?”
Maura nodded and smiled. She had never realized how comforting it could be to have contact with someone who believed as she did.
“Sholia ban Anreg marboeth.” She chanted the familiar words of the First Precept. Trust in the Giver’s Providence.
The man’s gray brows shot up. He peered closer at Maura’s sash. “Who are you, daughter?”
His hushed tone betokened fear... or awe.
“A traveler,” she replied, “with far still to go and much to do. One who needs your help.”
Clavance nodded. “Rest here and eat, then. You look weary. I will call a gathering for tonight.”
Where was Maura, now? Rath wondered as the cart carrying a new shipment of miners lurched up a winding trail into the Blood Moon Mountains.
The Great Plain of Westborne spread out below. With his gaze, Rath traced a route northward, willing Maura to follow it.
The man to his left stirred and yawned. “Didn’t we get lucky,” he muttered quietly so the Hanish guards would not overhear. “A ride all the way to the top. Before, they always marched prisoners up. Lots died on the way, I hear.”
Was it luck? Rath wondered. Or an opportunity from the Giver? Would it hurt him to pretend so, at least?
He leaned toward the man who had spoken and whispered just loud enough for a few others nearby to hear. “They are losing men faster than they can replace. They need to look after us better if they want to get their stinking ore out.”
A low buzz rippled through the cart as that news passed from man to man. Vacant eyes flickered with life, or the possibility of it. Limbs slack with despair, moved and straightened.
Those subtle signs gave Rath enough encouragement to add, “No group of prisoners coming to these mines ever had a better chance of getting out of them alive than we do.”
“Alive?” An older man gave a hollow, barky laugh, then covered it with a cough. “What kind of life is that? Slaves to the slag?”
“Where would we go if we did escape?” muttered another. “The Xenoth would only find us and fetch us back.”
“Or worse,” grunted a third fellow.
Rath could feel the slow suffocation of despair settling over them again. “What if I told you the days of the death-mages in this kingdom are numbered and fast running out?”
“I would bid you spin a story that’s easier to swallow,” the older man grumbled.
But the younger fellow sitting beside Rath asked, “What makes you say so? You seem to know a good deal.”
“I know the Waiting King is coming.”
Several of the other prisoners broke into hoarse laughter.
A whip cracked above their heads and one of the Hanish guards bellowed, “Quiet, lowlings! See how much you laugh in the bowels of the mountain!”
For a time they fell silent, as ordered. Then the young fellow beside Rath whispered, “The death mage must have made your brain rot with that cursed wand of his. The Waiting King is a tale for children and daft folk.”
“So I thought,” said Rath. “But I have seen the Destined Queen with my own eyes.”
A vivid image of Maura rose in his mind. Of that first day in the Betchwood when she had turned him invisible. Of the way she had subdued that houseful of Han in Prum and how she had found the map. Of their battle with the lank wolves and how she had braved her fear to cross Raynor’s Rift in defense of her beliefs. He remembered the stories she had told him, the spells she had taught him and the healing she had worked on him.
“I tell you—” his voice pulsed with conviction “—the lady is on her way to the Secret Glade at this very moment.”
He braced himself for the other men to laugh again, but they did not. They stared at him, their eyes and their features betraying
the inner battle waged within each man—between doubt and faith, despair and hope.
Perhaps he had no right to speak with such fervor when he still had not vanquished all his own doubts. But this was the only means he had left to serve Maura. He would not let some quibble about belief hold him back.
He watched as the others mulled over his claims. Their scowls and furrowed brows bespoke their disbelief. Yet hope quickened in the depths of their eyes in spite of their efforts to quench it. No matter what they might try to tell themselves to the contrary, they wanted something to believe in.
As he had, without ever realizing it... until now.
“Destined Queen!” the older man muttered in a tone of scorn. “Waiting King! What if that hogswill is all true? By the time they could do us any good, none of us will care about anything beyond our next sniff of slag.”
Rath wished he could deny it, but he could not. They would soon arrive at the mines to have their necks branded and their first sniff of slag forced upon them. After that, no force would be necessary. Unless Maura found some magical means to fly, she would have at least a week’s hard traveling ahead of her to reach the Secret Glade. Then...
Then, nothing, perhaps.
His gaze strayed back toward the plain, then fell on a straggly cluster of weeds that had taken stubborn root in the thin, rocky mountain soil at the edge of the road. The sight of that plant kindled a memory.
“Maur—er... the Destined Queen told me of a mountain plant that helps a body resist the slag.”
In furtive whispers, he shared the description of freewort that Maura had given him. On the slim chance it might help, he lifted a silent plea to the Giver to let them find some.
“If we can find this plant, and if it does what I claim, will that be proof enough for you? Will you follow me and rise up like men instead of cowering like slaves?”
Though he’d delivered it in a whisper, Rath still thought it a stirring speech. From the time he’d reached manhood, he had rued his dubious gift for attracting followers. Now, he hoped he had not lost the knack just when he needed it most.
But he had, it seemed. For none of the other men spoke, or would look him in the eye.
Well, he would rebel against the Han, even if he had to act alone, with no hope of success. After all...
“What have we got to lose?” muttered the older man with a shrug. “If it all comes to naught, at least we are out of our torment that much sooner.”
That should have been a discouraging thought. But Rath found it strangely liberating. The other prisoners appeared to share that feeling. A faint murmur circulated among them. Not zealous or exultant in tone, but grimly defiant and resolved.
He held out his hand, palm up to the older man. Unless he was sorely mistaken, this fellow had the makings of a fine second in command. “Rath Talward of Nonce. Some call me Wolf.”
“Hail, Wolf.” The man placed his hand on top of Rath’s. “They call me Anulf. If we can find this weed of yours and it does all you claim, then count me with you.”
Before Rath’s grin could spread too broad, Anulf warned him, “Mind, though—if can sometimes be a big word.”
“You mean to go where and do what?” The tallest of the men gathered around Maura in the cellar of “The Hawk and Hound” shook his head as if to correct his faulty hearing. “Lady, you must know that is madness! No Embrian goes up into the Blood Moon Mountains of his own accord.”
Maura had hoped the support of the twarith would shore up her resolve and perhaps show her the Giver’s will. Strangely, their opposition had tempered her determination and made her believe that small, stubborn whisper in her heart might speak for the Giver.
“This Embrian will go of her own accord,” she declared. “With or without your aid, though I would welcome it.”
A pretty young woman with large, soulful eyes spoke up. “I admire your courage, mistress, but what you ask has never been the way of the twarith. We offer help—food, shelter, healing, hiding to those in need. Thus we live our belief in the Giver’s precepts and strive to pass them on to others along with the material gifts we provide in the Giver’s name.”
Maura made the gesture of respect. “I honor your faithfulness to the Giver in these dark times. Others might have been tempted to doubt in the existence of a generous creating spirit. Or been moved to hoard what little they received for the benefit of themselves and their own.”
Though the woman acknowledged Maura’s praise, her fine mouth was set in unmistakable opposition. “Already the Han persecute us for what we do, though not as hard as they might. We have heard of Hanish women in Venard secretly appealing to the twarith for healing of their children. Our quiet, steadfast example may win them over one day.”
“True, Delith. Very true.” Several folk standing near the young woman murmured their support.
Delith lifted her hand to signify that she was not finished speaking. “The Han tolerate us because we engage in no open rebellion against them. If we take part in what you propose, they will make it their business to crush us. Then what will happen to the innocent victims of their tyranny?”
Not long ago, Maura would have been swayed by Delith’s eloquent sincerity. After all she had experienced and with Rath’s life at stake, she must not lose faith in her destiny, now.
“If the Han are driven from our borders, there will be no more tyranny. The twarith will be at liberty to continue your work. Though, with the Giver’s blessing, there may be less need... or perhaps different ones.”
“Who said anything about driving out the Han?” the tall man asked.
“I say it,” replied Maura. “The Waiting King will wait no longer. The day of his return is at hand, and when he rises, Embria must rise with him. To do otherwise would be to spurn a most generous gift.”
“The Waiting King?” cried the tall man. “And who are you? His herald?”
“In a way, perhaps.” Maura quailed before the disbelief she saw in all their eyes. Was this some sort of punishment for her own early doubts?
“You must follow the voice of the Giver as you hear it,” she turned away from them with a sigh. “And so must I.”
“Wait, mistress.” For the first time since the other twarith had gathered to hear her plea, the wizard Clavance spoke. “I am old, and perhaps would be more bother than help to you in such an enterprise. But I knew the Blood Moon Mountains before the Han ever began their cursed delving. If a guide will be of use to you, I will come.”
For a moment, Maura did not trust herself to speak, or to turn and face him. One of the heaviest burdens of this destiny was the knowledge of how grave a price good folks had paid to aid her, and how many more might before she was done.
Rath Talward had never thought the day would come when he’d be grateful for slag.
But as he lay on the hard floor of the Beastmount Mine’s third level, his voice all but drowned out by the heavy snoring of true slag-slaves, he savored the way the black dust blunted his fear and tempered any rash impulses that might have doomed him and his comrades.
It had been a welcome surprise to discover how heavily the Han relied on slag to maintain control over their prisoners. The number of miners each guard had to watch was absurd, and those working below the first level were not well-armed.
Rath had passed five of the longest days of his life in the Beastmount Mine. Five days of grinding toil, vile food, stale air, suffocating darkness and fights between irritable prisoners hungry for their next sniff.
They had also been busy days of gathering information, laying plans and a growing bond with his fellow rebels. Privately Rath wondered how much of their resistance to the slag came from chewing on freewort leaves and flowers. And how much from having a little hope and purpose.
The time had now come when any more knowledge they could gather about the operation of the mine would not be worth the delay it cost them. The longer they stayed, the deeper into the mine they would be transferred and the more likely something might go w
rong to trap them here forever. Besides all that, their precious supply of freewort was dwindling fast.
As the footsteps of the guard faded into the distance, Rath flexed his aching muscles. “It looks like our time is at hand, lads. Does everyone remember his part?”
One by one, the men around him stirred from their feigned sleep and muttered their instructions. By the time they all finished, his whole body was itching for action. So were theirs, it seemed, for they sprang to their feet, some quivering in their eagerness, others taut as drawn bowstrings ready to fire.
“Hold a moment.” Rath motioned them toward him in the close dimness. A bewildering impulse had seized him and he could not deny it.
“Come.” He thrust out his hand. “Everybody in. Before we start, let us ask the Giver’s favor on what we are about to do.”
He expected at least one of them to scoff... maybe more. Instead, they rallied to him readily, with an air of reverence that defied this unholiest of places.
He managed to string together a few words of Old Embrian, though he probably mangled them beyond the understanding of anyone but the Giver. Still, he fancied he could hear Maura whispering those words in his ear. They lit a blaze of confidence deep inside him. Rath sensed it in the others as well. It was as if the act of praying alone went some way toward answering their prayer.
Off in the distance, the guard’s footsteps began to draw closer again.
“To your places, everyone!” Rath whispered. “And wait for the right moment.”
He settled down on the floor near Anulf and commenced a pretended snore, all the while listening for the guard.
At just the right moment, Anulf began to twitch and gasp and make the queerest noises Rath had ever heard. If he had not known better, Rath would have been convinced the man was truly in the grip of a palsy fit.
Anulf did not have to keep up his performance long. The guard’s footsteps quickened.