The Magic Mines of Asharim

by Pauline M. Ross

  The next day was miserable, with cloud all round and a stinging, sleety rain hurled against us by the wind. We huddled wretchedly in our cloaks, hoods up, as the mules plodded steadily on, following a line of marker poles through the wilderness, winding up and down and around interminably. The rain bothered them not at all. Then another night in a cave, this one smaller and man made, the marks of the picks clear to see on the stone walls. And another dreary morning of rain, steadier and more drenching. But by noon the clouds had lifted and we could see at last.

  We were in the arms of the mountains, with forbidding peaks and knife-sharp ridges all around us, everything rain-darkened broken stone and steep slopes to narrow valleys far below. The path zig-zagged its way up a shoulder of one mountain, then jinked around a ridge towards another. Above us towered a pillar of rock wind-blasted to an odd shape – the twisted rock that gave the mine its name, I guessed. And as we rounded the ridge, there it was ahead of us. The mulers shouted with glee and urged the tired beasts onwards.

  Whatever I’d expected of a mine in the Sky Mountains, this wasn’t it. I’d seen mines before – for stone or gold or gemstones – all of them dank, echoing holes in the ground. Squatting outside them, dusty collections of functional buildings, nothing pleasant about them at all.

  But this – it was beautiful. The outer wall swept out from the mountain on one side, swinging round in a perfect circle to meet the mountain again, with towers and roofs peeping above the parapet, and all in some golden yellow stone that, to my rain-battered eyes, appeared to glow. It looked like an oasis in the desert, a haven of tranquillity, not a working mine, and even though I knew that this was no ordinary mine, it still seemed incongruously charming. My spirits rose. Only a single crane perched on the wall betrayed its business-like nature.

  The path wound downwards and then up again, so that we approached the mine from below. The towers were hidden now, and the nearer we came to the wall, the higher and more impenetrable it became. I looked for the entrance, but could see none. It was smooth and unblemished, not a mark on it, and I was right, it was glowing.

  In front of the wall was a wide, flat area and here we circled the mules and dismounted.

  From far above, a voice floated down to us. “Hoy, there! Welcome to Twisted Rock!”

  3: Twisted Rock Mine

  I still could see no way through or round the wall, but the mulers began unloading so I guessed some way would be found. A metallic clanking sound far above made me look up towards the crane, and there, slowly spinning as it descended, was a wooden contraption, a combination of chair and cage. Oh. So that was how we were to get beyond the wall.

  The two girls were clutching each other fearfully, and Rufin chewed his lip, brow furrowed. One of the mulers steadied the spinning chair as it neared the ground, opened the cage door, then looked expectantly at the four of us. Well, I’d taken far greater risks over the last few moons. I stepped forward and cautiously sat in the chair. It rested on the ground so it was quite firm. The muler shut the door and fixed a pin to hold it closed, then shouted, “Away!”

  I won’t say it was the most comfortable ride I’ve ever taken, but the crane operators were gentle and I rose smoothly into the air, swaying and rotating as the wind caught me. Fortunately I was too far from the wall to be in danger of being dashed to pieces. Below me, the mules and their attendants became as tiny as ants, the mulers scuttling round busily. Just when I was sure I was as high as the ridge opposite, the cage spun round again and I saw I was above the parapet of the wall. The cage swung inwards and hands grabbed the bars as I was lowered with barely a bump to the ground. The door was opened for me and I stepped out onto the wide ledge along the top of the wall.

  On the outside, a high parapet blocked my view of all but the highest peaks. On the inside, the wall was low and there below me lay my new home. This was no ramshackle mining village. I couldn’t even see the opening to the mine for the splendid buildings surrounding it. Towers and tall houses in rows, with broad streets and narrow alleys, courtyards and fountains, walled gardens with fruit trees and fish ponds. You could have lifted the whole of it, and set it down in the middle of Caxangur, and it wouldn’t have looked out of place. It was more regular, perhaps, and certainly more elegant than Caxangur, which was a monstrously ugly place.

  Or perhaps, since the town below me was mostly yellow stone, it would fit better into Mesanthia, although that great city was more graceful, with its domes and spires and slender bridges and walls of glass. But you would never have found an open space large enough to set down Twisted Rock Mine; it was a veritable town.

  I suppose my mouth was hanging open in astonishment, because a woman standing nearby laughed with a harsh honking sound. “It is breathtaking, isn’t it, m’dear?” She was middle-aged, an angular woman with a face made sharper by her severe, pulled-back hair. The brooch at her throat betrayed her rank.

  “Yes. I had no idea.”

  She honked again. “Good. Better to stay secret, wouldn’t you say? You must be the companion-servant.”

  “Yes. I’m Allandra.”

  Another bark of laughter. “I’m Chendria, Mistress here. Ah, this must be… the other companion-servant.”

  Rufin went through the same process of astonishment, and then the two girls after him. Chendria laughed equally at all of us, although she must have seen this reaction many times, and you would think the amusement would fall flat after the first two or three times. Not for Chendria, it seemed.

  “Good, good! Here we all are, so let’s go down below and get you settled in while the supplies are brought over. This way, this way, m’dears!”

  She led us along the wall to the nearest steps. Along the way, we had to pass a neat pile of metal boxes, each engraved with the familiar warning symbols. The other three passed them by without a glance – I wasn’t even sure if they recognised them – but I did. They were quiet now, the creatures within, but still malevolent. I crept past as far from the boxes as possible.

  On the wall we’d been exposed to the wind, but as soon as we descended a little way, the air felt mild, almost balmy after the bitter weather of the last few days. I threw back my cloak, revelling in the pleasant afternoon sun.

  “Oh yes,” Chendria said. “You won’t need that here. There! Down we go.”

  Clustered around the bottom of the steps was another surprise – half a dozen children. Surely this remote mountain was no place to raise children? Yet here they were, staring silently at us, then running away as soon as anyone spoke to them.

  “Take no notice,” Chendria said. “They always get excited when the supplies come in. Not far now. This is the Main House over here, where we have our meals and so on. Dilla, Janna, you’ll be in the Spider House across the square for now. Easy to recognise – it has a spider carved on the wall. Rufin will be just next door in the Palm House. Allandra, your house is a bit further away. Here we are. Come along inside, m’dears.”

  My house? I supposed she meant the Master’s House. I imagined I’d have to share with him, although a house of my own would be – no. I quickly suppressed the thought. Better not get too excited. But at least, being further away from the others would be good.

  The Main House was just a part of a long line of houses, each one different but with an overall symmetry that was very pleasing to the eye. The lower floor held a number of interconnected rooms with marble floors, and exquisitely carved wooden furniture made of – I wasn’t sure. A mixture of pale and dark woods, but none I recognised. I was usually good with such details but these were new to me. There were hangings on the walls depicting heroic events with dragons flying, archers on their backs, and men with swords below. Rugs spattered the floor with vibrant colours. Eventually we came to a large square room, one side a steaming, bubbling kitchen filled with the aroma of freshly baked cakes, the other side containing a single huge table.

  “This is where we eat,” Chendria said, rather unnecessarily. “There are fifty-eight of us here now,
with you four, and everyone takes meals together. It’s much easier that way. Now, these are Lazzlia and Lilyana, who help me in the kitchen.” A pair of toothless old women, who grinned at us through clouds of steam. “And some of our extractors…” She rattled off a list of names, and an array of indistinguishable women smiled and nodded. I supposed I’d work them all out in time. “The carriers are all busy on the wall just now, so you’ll meet them later – or tomorrow, perhaps. Lazzlia, some tennel and cakes for our newest friends.”

  Then, almost as an afterthought, “Oh, and this is Petreon, the Master here.”

  He’d been hiding in a corner, almost hidden by a painted screen. A middle-aged man with harsh features, dark haired, dark eyed. Hard to tell beyond that. It could have been worse, I suppose. Besides, appearance had never affected me.

  The old women produced pots of tennel and plates of cakes warm from the oven, and everyone gathered round the table to eat and drink. The extractors scooped up Dilla and Janna, and, for different reasons, Rufin, and they were soon chattering away like old friends. I’d never worked out the trick of it, that light way of talking about nothing at all, just being sociable. Give me a treaty to analyse, and I could talk all day, but chattering away about nothing was beyond me. Chendria took it upon herself to talk to me, seeing me left out of things, and presumably feeling sorry for me. I rather wished she’d leave me alone.

  Petreon slid out of his corner to join us at the table. He was tall and gangly, but slightly stooped, and in his ill-fitting brown uniform, he looked rather like a spider. His brooch was larger, more ornate. He sat opposite me, and every time I looked at him he was staring at me. Caught out, he looked down at his mug. But a few moments later, he’d be staring at me again.

  It was understandable. I’d be warming his bed, he was bound to be wondering whether he’d be getting a cold fish or a passionate firefly. Well, he wouldn’t be able to tell by looking at me, that was for sure, any more than I could tell about him from looks alone. He said nothing, but now that he was close, I could feel the desire pouring off him like water. It must be a while since he’d had a woman. Well, it was a while since I’d had a man, and I didn’t have to resist any longer.

  When Chendria pushed her mug away and said, “Well, Allandra, I’ll show you to your house,” I didn’t hesitate.

  “Perhaps Petreon would like to show me where I’ll be staying?”

  Surprise registered on both their faces, but he was up and half way to the door before she’d formulated the words to refuse.

  “Oh. Oh well, I daresay… perhaps… yes, why not?”

  I rose smoothly and followed him, picking up his growing excitement. By the One, at last!

  He led me in silence through a different door into a wide square with a fountain in the centre, the rhythmic splash of water not calming him in the slightest. I could feel my own excitement rising to match his. Across the square, through an archway into a smaller square lined with hedges, across that and down a narrow roadway between buildings that looked like shops, all closed up. Then across another, broader road and through a gate into a walled courtyard fronting a trio of houses.

  Two of the doors sat side by side. He pointed to one door. “Mine.” Then the other. “Yours.”

  He opened the door to my house – I really did get my own house! And although it was right next door to his, it was still separate, my private space, and well away from everyone else.

  Inside, there were two small rooms downstairs, one fitted out as a sitting room and the other a study or office, one wall lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves, all empty. My heart ached to fill them, but that was impossible here. Behind was a tiny kitchen. Upstairs a bathing room, a small store room and a single large bedroom. He showed me all this without a word, throwing open doors and then moving on. We ended up in the bedroom and finally he stopped, turning to look at me, his expression neutral, but I wasn’t fooled. He was as still as a statue, but inside he was boiling with desire.

  I had no intention of playing games. With one movement I swept off my tunic and under vest, and began to unfasten my trousers. His eyes widened, and with a low growl in his throat, he caught hold of me and pushed my trousers down, scrabbling at his own.

  And then he was inside me, hard and urgent, his hands pulling on my buttocks, making little grunting sounds with every thrust. Nothing could have pleased me better. After so many moons with desire swirling around me and having to fight the temptation, I was as desperate as he obviously was. Hail and glory, but it was unbelievably good! I closed my eyes, and surrendered to his desire, letting it wash over me and sweep me away, drowning in it.

  Afterwards, we stood motionless for a while, both of us panting like winded horses. Then he tidied himself up, and with a grunted “Thank you” he left me alone. A man of few words indeed.

  ~~~~~

  I was contented that evening as I hadn’t been since leaving Caxangur. Even the lust emanating from Rufin and some of the women didn’t bother me, because now I had a way to deal with it. It had no power to overwhelm me, or make me disgrace myself. So long as Petreon came to me regularly, I would be able to resist.

  The meal was surprisingly good. There was the roast meat and soup and several pies I expected, easy, filling cottage food. But there were also light savouries with creamy sauce, a delicate salad and fresh fish. There was even shellfish, and the One only knows how they got hold of it, for we were hundreds of marks from the nearest source.

  After the meal, Rufin and the other two male companion-servants took off in a cloud of giggling women, and I didn’t have to guess what they had in mind. I wondered how they would choose who had the new man first, and whether the other two would feel slighted by all the attention he was getting. Then I wondered about Chendria, who showed no interest but was still of an age to have needs. But perhaps she preferred women.

  Some of the older women stayed behind, and the conversation became more sensible. Being the only new arrival left, I was inevitably the focus of their interest, but their questions weren’t searching. When I gave them the lie about coming from Hurk Hranda, those who knew it were more interested in finding out if I knew their kin who lived there, or particular landmarks they recalled. But since none of them had lived there recently, I was able to get away with it.

  The only strange moment was when one of the women commented on my colouring. “You don’t look like you come from the hill tribes, or anywhere in Two Rivers, Allandra. Are you Trannatta?”

  “No, not at all!” I was shocked at the idea. I looked nothing like the Tre’annatha.

  “But you must be from the far north,” one of the others said. “Beyond the desert.”

  “She’s Akk’ashara.” It was the first thing Petreon had said all evening, apart from “Pass the pie” and “Is there any more gravy?” He even had the pronunciation correct, which surprised me.

  There was a silence, and they all looked at me appraisingly, some shocked, some fearful.

  I shrugged. “S’pose so. Somewhere in the family.”

  “She doesn’t talk high,” someone said dubiously.

  Petreon grunted, not looking at me, but saying nothing else.

  I hadn’t expected to be pinned down quite so quickly. In most low company, I could pass myself off as one of the hill tribe people or wave my hands and talk vaguely about the coast. There were plenty of people with skin as dark as mine, and many with ear tattoos. As a child, I’d spent more time with the servants than my father, so my natural speech was servant class. But to anyone who’d travelled a bit, my origins were obvious, and Petreon was clearly more educated than I’d given him credit for.

  Eventually the party broke up as everyone headed for their beds, Chendria and the two cooks to their rooms above the kitchen, the women and children to the row of nearby houses where they all lived, and Petreon and I to our adjoining houses several squares away. The moon was still bathing us in full light, and on the wall the crane had finally fallen silent.

  A
s we reached our neighbouring doors, he hesitated. He didn’t have to speak a word, for I knew exactly what he wanted. He was no doubt wondering whether I was going to protest: I was too tired, it had been a long day, I needed my sleep, come back tomorrow.

  I turned to face him, resting one hand on his chest, feeling his agitation rising as I did so. “Petreon, I want you to understand that you can come to me whenever you want. You can stay the night if you like, or go back to your own bed, whichever you prefer. You don’t need to ask, all right? This is what I’m here for.” And it’s what I’ve been waiting for, needing.

  He nodded. I entered my house, and silently he followed me in.

  “I found some kind of a sweet alcoholic drink in the sitting room. Would you like a drink and a chat first, or shall we go straight upstairs?”

  “Upstairs.”

  We both undressed fully this time, and lay down on the bed. He played with my breasts for a while, and then without a word rolled on top of me, pushing roughly inside. I sighed with pleasure.

  I’ve heard many women complain that their men are too rough or too quick, and don’t take the time to gentle them to readiness. I pity them, and perhaps it is a great gift to be able to respond instantly, as I do, to reach the peaks of pleasure every time.

  Yet it seems to me more like a curse, to feel another person’s emotions roiling through me. Everything they feel, I feel too, with no way to shut it out or escape it. All the way from Caxangur, on the river, on the canals, on the road into the mountains, my mind was assaulted by every emotion swirling through the head of every person I met.

  With small groups it is bearable. Some emotions I can run away from, like fear or sorrow or hatred, and some are wonderful, like love and joy, but desire, overwhelming unmet desire, has nearly been my ruin. More than once I’ve found myself screwing like a street cat, just to relieve the terrible need.

  This is the only way I’ve found to deal with it, by giving myself wholly to a man. By assuaging his desire, I am also assuaging my own. It isn’t love, and I don’t even ask for friendship. But better this way, bringing some happiness to a lonely man, than roaming the streets on dark nights in desperation.