Into the Raging Mountains
Page 53
My sisters who listen to me with an open heart: Audrey, Maren, Marne, Barrie, Tressen, and Courtney. My mother who always wishes me well and wise. Brian, Peter, and Wade, who are the rocks of my family. Lee, for laughter and attitude. Sage advice and kindness from Cathy and Jackie, a shoulder to cry on and mirth without end. And my children: Love blossoms into more love. And Lathe, my beloved. I would walk though the heart of the mountain to be with you.
Coming Winter 2013
Fire in the Mountain
Book Two of the Tears of Bira Tre
The chill of evenfall cooled the land. After so many days of captivity the exhausted girl had learned to gather sleep when she could. Drowsy already, she was unprepared for the intruding hands to come again. Three times in the same day! She was certain as the sun that she had counted correctly, her drifting mind filled with so many thoughts of the next bit of food. The unexpected hands were just as rough as usual.
Me? Is it my time? They walked her bound first to the relieving area and then out of the confines of the sheltered prison.
Dread filled her stomach with the sharpness of acid. Outside?
Queasy and lightheaded, she knew without being told that she walked to her death.
Some great torture lay ahead, with very little chance of escape.
Laylada prayed as she fought down the sloshing soup that threatened to rise out of her throat. She spoke without words, pleading to her beloved goddesses. The young woman spoke to her dear ancestors knowing that each step forward was one of her bitter last.
How can death claim me so early in life? How could this nightmare be such a sharp and painful reality? Is this not a waking dream? What wouldn’t she have given to fly home, far away from the rubble and pain of her current life.
Helpless though not quite hopeless, the girl was dragged on into the great unknown darkness. The one pleasure she had was the playful wind which whipped her loose hair and tickled the sides of her neck. It was a such a small thing to be grateful for, yet the freshness of simply walking outside was not entirely lost on the bound and gagged girl.
The sun was fading in the farthest skies as she traveled on her brief sojourn. The dim light slightly warmed her cold skin. Without grand powers or resources to rescue her, to somehow intervene in this last march, Laylada lifted each foot forward, counting down in her heart. Her own death waited at the end of the steps. Torture beyond bearing loomed closer with every forced stride.
The girl’s captors were strong men, and she was weak from confinement and poor diet. Resistance would not bring release. Instead of fighting, clawing, and spitting her short path to life’s abrupt ending Laylada chose to walk to her tragic end as a proud queen would pass through an adoring court. In her mind’s eye, she imagined the rope that trailed behind her bound arms a vast crimson cloak that whispered her passage.
All those timeless long-ago nightfalls that she had held a wobbly baby in her arms while her aunt Sansha had read childhood stories to her eager ears, all those brave, powerful, and smart women of ancient tales still paraded through her dreams. Stubborn to a fault, Laylada decided that she would do no less: a Queen walking to her appointed doom.
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