Moons' Dreaming (Children of the Rock)

by Krause, Marguerite

  “I have no idea how you are ever going to convince Feather to do her duty,” Jenil continued. “I don’t even know how you’re going to get her to Raisal.”

  “Drag her by the hand,” Jeyn sniggered.

  “Hush,” Sene ordered before Jenil could respond. He took the Greenmother by the arm and led her toward the garden. “Feather is my responsibility,” he agreed. “Thank you for all your help. I’ll take over now. Where is the child?”

  “Telina. According to your guard, she started asking about it the moment they entered Sitrine. I don’t think she really believed it existed—or if it existed, that it would still be abandoned.”

  “I’ll take care of her,” Sene promised.

  “See that you do.”

  * * *

  “Wake up, laddie.”

  A warm hand gripped his shoulder. Tob squirmed away from it, yawned mightily, and opened his eyes. He had burrowed under the blanket in his sleep. Only faint daylight filtered through from the outside. He was sprawled against several bales of cloth, one leg draped over the crate of oranges his father had found back at Fairdock. The sweet, tangy scent of the fruit lent an exotic newness to the otherwise familiar smells of straw and damp wool that permeated the old wagon bed.

  Tob reached up and batted the edge of the blanket away from his face. “Right,” he mumbled, blinking against the brightness. “I’m awake, Dad.”

  “Ready to stretch your legs? We’re almost home.”

  With a grunt, Tob gathered together his ungainly limbs and pulled himself upright. His father was walking along the edge of the road, hands deep in the pockets of his loose-fitting trousers. Tob rubbed his hand over his eyes and blinked.

  The landscape was definitely familiar. They were nearly at the top of the north ridge. Behind them lay five miles of the lightly forested, rolling hills that rose gradually but steadily until they leveled out in the grasslands of the Atowa Plateau. This far from the village, the road was a hard-packed dirt track just broad enough for two wagons to pass one another without either of them tipping into the brush that straggled up to its edge. Stockings toiled steadily up the center of the road. Jordy complained that the mare had less sense than all of their friend Herri’s barnyard geese put together. As fond as Tob was of Stockings, he had to agree. She was stupid enough to walk straight into a tree if her driver didn’t guide her around it.

  Fortunately, the road was empty here and Jordy allowed her to make her own way. Tob put one hand on the side of the lurching wagon and got to his feet. It was mid-morning. They had made good time from their camp at the edge of the plateau. He sniffed experimentally.

  “Going to rain?” he asked his father.

  Jordy glanced at the eastern sky. The thin gray clouds showed no change from the overcast to which they’d wakened. “Not before sunset,” he replied. Then he tilted a half smile at Tob. “We hope.”

  Tob grinned back. They crested the top of the ridge and Jordy called a stern, “Ho,” to Stockings. After a discernible delay, the horse came to a halt, blowing hard from the long climb. This left the wagon itself comfortably perched on the short stretch of level ground before the road began its descent into the river valley.

  Tob swung over the side of the wagon and landed lightly on the ground. His father went forward to Stockings and ran a practiced hand along her harness, checking for hints of strain or slippage. Tob did the same for the wagon, paying special attention to the wheels and the lashing of the load.

  Everything was secure. As always, Tob thought smugly. His father knew his business. He couldn’t remember anyone ever claiming damaged goods from one of Jordy’s runs. Tob finished checking the right side of the wagon. Stockings flicked her ears nervously as he reached the front of the wagon, so he stepped well away from her onto a ledge of rock at the side of the road. The ground below him fell away sharply, in places almost vertical, until it met the surface of the road where it twisted back on itself on its way into the valley.

  They’d be home in time for supper. From this vantage point, Tob could see most of Broadford spread out along the north bank of the river. The inn was invisible, hidden behind the trees of an orchard, but Tob could place it accurately enough by the thread of smoke from the smithy next door. The northern edge of the ford was similarly obscured by trees, their spring foliage still pale green. Toward the center of the river, a line of ripples showed white against the gray of the water, marking the downstream limit of the ford’s shallows. On the far southern bank, the road emerged from a sandy beach and disappeared after a quarter mile into the trees of the forest.

  Jordy straightened from his inspection of Stockings’ hoofs, and beckoned to Tob. “Take the reins, son. Remember to hold her steady on the first downslope.”

  “I will.” Tob climbed eagerly onto the driver’s seat and picked up the reins. Stockings lifted her head slightly, ears laid back in resentment. Tob told himself not to take her tempers personally. Concentrating, he gave a flick to the reins just before he used his left foot to raise the brake lever. To his secret surprise, it worked. Stockings leaned into her harness as the slight slope of the road started the freed wheels rolling. He guided Stockings into the curve, then turned to look to his father for instructions.

  Jordy walked with one hand resting on the side of the wagon. “It’s a dry road, you can trot her,” he informed Tob. He allowed the wagon to move ahead of him, then caught hold of the tailboard and vaulted neatly aboard.

  Tob faced forward again. With a click of his tongue he urged Stockings to quicken her pace. The wagon rocked a little as they picked up speed, and Tob shifted slightly in his seat, bracing one knee against the side support for security. Behind him he could hear his father moving among the bundles and crates, humming under his breath. Tob smiled. It was good to be home.

  After what seemed to Tob far too short a time, Jordy ordered him to slow Stockings to a walk once more. When they reached the first sharp turn a few minutes later, Stockings tried to continue straight on. The low hedge that bordered the road apparently did not register in what passed for her brain. Tob pulled her head sharply to the right. She slowed, but resisted turning.

  Jordy came to the front of the wagon and rested his elbows on the back of the driver’s seat. His watchful eyes studied first the horse, then the boy. Tob grimly ignored the scrutiny. He was not going to let Stockings take advantage of him. Foolish beast! Foolish, but not unaware of who was driving her. She almost never tried her tricks on Jordy. Three years before, when Tob had first started traveling the summer trade route with his father, he had understood her lack of respect for him. As a twelve-year-old he’d lacked the weight and strength necessary to force his will on an obstinate horse. But he’d grown since then.

  As though reading his mind, his father said in his ear, “You’ll never impress her with your strength, lad. I’ve told you more than once, in a contest of brute strength, the horse wins every time. Don’t wrestle with her. Intimidate her. Take charge.”

  Tob took a deep breath, and unleashed his frustration. “By the Rock, I’ll come up there and twist your ears off!” he shouted. Stockings, startled, began to turn her head to look back at him. “Now, gee!” he concluded with a final sharp tug on the reins.

  It worked. Stockings danced nervously to the right, almost shying from the hedge as though it had just that moment sprung forth from the ground. They negotiated the corner with room to spare, and Tob consciously relaxed his grip on the reins. Jordy gave him a pat on the shoulder.

  “Next time, plan on outsmarting her before you reach the critical moment.”

  Stockings settled into her usual swinging walk down the center of the road. Jordy climbed up beside his son as they left the fields behind. On their right, the ridge sloped sharply upward, all rocks and scrub plants. On the left, a narrow strip of pine trees blocked any view of the valley. Only a short way before them the road seemed to end in empty space. Stockings negotiated this sharper, more difficult curve, agreeably. Tob supposed even she coul
d see the undesirability of walking off the edge of a cliff.

  The road became slightly steeper for a while, and Tob held Stockings to a cautious walk. Finally, they eased around the third curve. Beyond it, Broadford and the river were much closer, although still at a slightly lower elevation than the road.

  “I’ll take over now, Tob, lad. I’ve some errands for you. First, run home and let your mother know we’re back. But don’t stop to spin tales for your sisters.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then get you over to Kessit’s place. Tell him we’ve got his load of stonewood and we’ll need his help unloading it at the shop.”

  “Pross, too,” Tob suggested. He liked woodman Kessit’s son. Pross, in turn, though several years older than Tob, still seemed to enjoy the occasional afternoons they could steal from their responsibilities. They would wander the riverbank in search of turtles and birds nests, Pross exchanging his knowledge of current events in Broadford for Tob’s news of strange people and distant towns.

  Jordy smiled at him. “Aye. Pross will be welcome. Find out when Kessit can get away, then come directly to the inn. It may be that I’ll want your help with the rest of the load.”

  “All right, Dad. Anything else?”

  “That’ll do. Off with you.”

  Tob jumped down from the moving wagon and ran across the road, eager for the feel of soft grass beneath his feet. Once in the pasture, his strides quickly degenerated into a series of leaps and bounds, intermingled with rapid sprints and occasional breathless tumbles down some of the shorter slopes.

  He reached the bank of the stream at a familiar spot and detoured briefly to check the progress of the blackberry patch. Given enough rain the patch would provide his sisters with several weeks’ work by midsummer. He felt a twinge of nostalgia for summers he’d spent happily roaming this field, but swiftly dismissed it. No more summers at home for him. Blackberry season was also peak trading season. By then he and his father might be anywhere from the northern coast to the edge of the Great Desert, or even high in the Dherrican Mountains, where ponds formed a thin skin of ice every night, even in high summer.

  He leapt the stream and cut diagonally across the corner of the pasture. At the bottom of the gentle hill he let himself through the gate. Pepper’s pet goat bleated in surprise, bolted a few steps, turned, and lowered her horns at him. Then she flicked her tail and ambled back to her browsing, as if to say, “If I’d known it was only you, I wouldn’t have bothered.”

  Pepper was sprawled in the open door to the stable, petting one of the cats, when Tob climbed over the south gate. The cat looked up, eyes blinking sleepily, but Pepper didn’t notice him until he was on top of her, fingers reaching for her ribs. “Tobble!” she squealed, and doubled up into a ball.

  He quit tickling her at once and clamped a hand over her mouth. “Shhh,” he said. “I want to surprise Mom. Where is she?”

  She pushed his hand away. “You’re back!”

  “Where’s Mom?”

  “I don’t know. The loom, I think. She’s been working on a rug for days.” She struggled to sit up. The cat, already disturbed by her giggling, dashed away. “I didn’t hear the wagon.”

  “That’s ‘cause it’s not here yet. Dad’s taken a load to the inn.”

  “I want to see him. Can I come with?”

  “I’m not going there yet, so, no, you can’t. Besides, shouldn’t you be doing something?”

  “I am doing something. I’m staying out of the house while Matti’s sleeping.”

  Tob tickled her again, this time at the juncture of neck and shoulder. She giggled, scrunching her head to one side in defense.

  Tob ran for the house while she was still giggling. He crossed the empty living area, putting his feet down with care to avoid making any noise. The trapdoor to the attic was open. He could just hear the sound of Matti’s steady breathing. Halfway along the central wall the hearth was unoccupied, trammel hooks hanging empty. The banked embers of the breakfast fire glowed dimly behind a scattering of trivets, but not even the usual pot of cider benefited from the warmth. No reason it should be there, Tob reminded himself. Mom didn’t expect us back for two more days.

  The steady click of the loom drew him toward the doorway to the right of the hearth. He lifted the curtain soundlessly and peaked through. His mother’s hands moved steadily over the loom, the rings on her fingers reflecting a sparkle from the lamp hung over her head.

  He grinned in anticipation. “Surprise,” he said.

  His mother turned sharply sideways on her stool. For an instant her dark eyes registered only alarm, then she recognized him and visibly relaxed. She rose and stepped quickly toward him, hands outstretched. Tob accepted her quick hug, the brush of her cheek against his, and was enveloped briefly in the smells he always associated with her: hearth smoke, cooking spice, and the dust from the loom. Then she stepped back, hands dropping to her sides, and looked him in the eye.

  “We were only one day at Fairdock,” Tob explained. “And we ended up not stopping at Hillcrest after all. We have to unload at the inn, but we should be home in time for supper.”

  His mother smiled her acceptance of his words.

  Tob continued, “I’ve got to go help. I just came to tell you we’re back. I don’t suppose there’s anything to eat? I’m starving.”

  She put her hand on his shoulder and gently turned him toward the outer room. He waited by the table as she rummaged soundlessly in the cupboard. She brought a half loaf of bread, a square of white cheese, and her small, blue jam pot to the table. Before she began to slice the bread, she held up the knife until she had his attention, then pointed toward the ceiling. Tob replied by placing his fingers to his lips. Satisfied, his mother made quick work of fashioning two sandwiches for him, one of sweet grape jam, the other of cheese. He picked them up, one in each hand, and leaned across the table to plant a kiss on her cheek. She tousled his hair and then gestured him out the door.

  In the yard Pepper was lying in wait for him at the corner of the house. When she made a grab for his jam sandwich he simply held it in the air over her head, at which point she pretended she was no longer interested.

  “Was she surprised?”

  “Perfectly. I’ve got to go.”

  “Can I come? Please?”

  He started down the gentle slope of the lane that connected their yard with the road to Broadford. “No.” Tob tore a corner off his sandwich and gave it to her.

  She beamed at him. “Thanks, Tobble. Make Dad hurry. I want to see him.” She took a big bite of bread and jam.

  “Yeah. Bye.”

  Pepper, her mouth full, could make no reply. Tob waved once and ran for the Broadford road.

  Chapter 15

  Of all the inconveniences of life at Soza, Vray had hated the wind the most. It came up off the plains in great, roaring, neverending gales, full of dust in summer and snow in winter, rain in spring and autumn. There was no escaping the wind at Soza. It pushed its way in through every crack in the windows, under every door frame. It hit her in the face the moment she stepped outdoors, and drove at her back down all the cloistered walkways. Her clothes always seemed too thin to keep the needle-sharp or grit-filled swirls of air away from her skin. There wasn’t any corner in the whole House without its own backwash. Vray hid from the wind more than she did from the switches of the Brownmothers.

  But at night, locked in and alone on her pallet in the kitchen storeroom, there had been no escaping the soughing, sighing, or howling of the wind outside the thick walls of Soza. It kept her awake, or seeped into her dreams. The noise reminded her of many things. Even worse, it sometimes reminded her of nothing at all. She would lay curled up in the dark, nursing new and old bruises, in terror of falling into chaos, terror that nothing existed but her and the wind. Her past, her identity threatened to blow away on those long nights, and she feared she was going mad. The only answer was to make a conscious effort to call up memories of her former life.

&nbs
p; Her favorite reminder of who she was and why she was in exile at Soza was the exquisitely detailed vision of her brother’s smiling face as he bid her a safe journey. In the courtyard of the castle, in the exact spot where poor Emlie had died, he bent to kiss her cheek, helped her into the carriage, told her to be a good student, and wished her a safe journey. All the while, as she’d numbly gone through the motions of accepting that kiss, that helping hand, those kind words, she’d been looking into his eyes. Eyes full of predatory joy, gazing so lovingly on his little sister’s defeat.

  As the wind and the people of Soza tried to take her mind away, all she had to do was conjure the vision of Damon’s eyes, and she found herself again. It was a self she kept well-hidden, deep beneath her genuine fear and confusion, protected from the Brownmothers, the unwanted orphans, the sick who were brought to Soza to die, and the other exiles who’d annoyed Prince Damon enough to be sent to this lonesome place on the edge of nowhere. It was a hard life, without joys or triumphs or kindness.

  Another life no longer hers.

  Vray brushed a few drops of rain from the tip of her nose. No more days to be spent at Soza. She was almost ready to believe it could be true. Almost. It was so difficult. Soza had drained her of imagination, of hope, of anything beyond itself. It was easier to remember Soza than to believe in the reality of the muddy road beneath her thin boots. A road they’d been on for days. Days and miles lay between her and her last truly coherent moments

  She could remember coming awake to the sounds of a fresh gust of rain hitting against the tiny, cracked window high above the storage shelves. There were rags stuffed in the cracks to keep out the damp, but they didn’t do an effective job. In the spring there was always moisture on the thick stone walls. A trail of orange moss grew like a forest through a river valley, edging its way toward the floor. Vray kept her pallet by the door, on the driest bit of floor. In the early days, she’d frequently had to dispute her bit of territory with the storeroom rats who seemed to think they had some sort of precedence, having been there longer.