The two of them shook hands, and Darq mounted his dragon. The other cretes followed suit. Talas grinned down at Kyrin and Kaden from Storm’s back.
“It was nice to meet you. Perhaps we shall meet again soon.”
“I hope so,” Kaden replied.
He and Kyrin stepped back and, at the command of the captain, all four cretes and their dragons took to the air. Kyrin and Kaden watched until they were out of sight, and then Kaden shook his head and looked at her.
“Someday, I’m going to get one.”
Kyrin chuckled softly. “I believe it.”
Once all signs of their surprise visitors had gone, Kyrin’s curiosity kicked in again. She and the rest of camp gathered around their leaders, their eyes filled with questions.
“Captain Darq was sent here by one of the elders of their city,” Trask explained. “Years ago, his eldest son, Josan Silvar, felt called to leave Dorland and study the words of Elôm written in the King’s Scrolls. His father was against it, and they parted on unfriendly terms. To complicate matters, Josan’s younger brother, Torin, followed him. Their father has since realized his error and wishes to see his sons, since he is advanced in years and isn’t sure how much time he has left. Contact was never maintained between them so, for the past months, the cretes have been attempting to locate the sons.”
Kyrin shared a look with Jace, who quietly appeared at her side. It seemed an odd thing for the cretes to involve them, but she didn’t let her thoughts wander too far from Trask’s explanation.
“The cretes have discovered that the two men are somewhere in the Graylin Valley, though they don’t know where exactly. For years, Josan has been teaching people there about Elôm through letters that circulate from town to town. He also began making copies of the King’s Scrolls and is in possession of what may be Arcacia’s last complete collection of the Scrolls, since the last few kings have slowly destroyed them.”
Kyrin remembered Sam mentioning this tragedy to her and Kaden back at Tarvin Hall when he’d taught them verses from memory. At the time, he wasn’t sure if any copies survived.
“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how important it is that the Scrolls remain out of the emperor’s hands,” Trask continued. “The problem is that Daican knows just about as much as we do. He’s sent men to the Valley to search for Josan and the Scrolls. Fortunately, like us, they don’t know Josan’s exact whereabouts.
“That’s where we come in. The cretes aren’t able to visit the villages without drawing suspicion. Captain Darq has asked me to put together a team to join them in the search. The goal is to find Josan and Torin and the Scrolls before Daican does. This is of utmost importance. As Arcacia slowly falls to the worship of idols, we must protect those with great knowledge of Elôm so that they may pass that knowledge on. The emperor will do everything he can to suppress it, but we must never let it die.”
Murmurs of assent were whispered through the group.
“Our one advantage is that the emperor is searching for a man named Taan. That’s the name Josan uses to sign his letters. It’s the crete word for hawk, his clan. Now, it may not be long before Daican realizes this, but for now, it buys us a little time.
“I’ll continue discussing this with Warin, Rayad, and Tane, and decide who will be part of the team. As soon as we make our decision, we’ll let you know. In the meantime, I ask you all to pray. Not only will it be a dangerous mission, but time is against us. The emperor’s men will soon arrive in the Valley. We must find Josan before they do.”
A few silver and copper coins clinked into Timothy’s callused hand—a little more than half of what he usually earned for a day’s work. He frowned and raised questioning eyes to his employer, who almost towered over him. Harold shifted, balking, before he said gruffly, “You’re too small to do everything that needs doing around here.”
The words stung Timothy’s dignity. Sure, he was a bit shorter than the average man, but he was just as strong and hardworking. He’d slaved for Harold for years. With an effort to swallow down any trace of bitterness, he responded quietly and evenly, “Sir, I do everything you ask of me.”
Harold mumbled under his breath before coming out with something intelligible. “Well, it isn’t enough.”
Timothy held the large man’s hard, immoveable gaze. This had nothing to do with his abilities or work ethic. This was something else—something he had no power to change.
Harold’s eyes narrowed. “You’re just gonna have to accept the pay or . . . look for work elsewhere.”
Timothy closed his fingers around the coins. How easy it would be to walk out and not return—to leave the stress and grueling days that were enough to break a man’s will. Temptation called him to do just that, but he knew better. He turned for the door.
“I’ll be in tomorrow,” he said over his shoulder.
A heavy sigh rose from his chest as he sensed the smug look that followed him. Grabbing his bag, he walked out of the mining supply warehouse and faced the bleak view of the dingy buildings and crowded streets of Dunlow—one of Graylin Valley’s hundreds of mining towns. And, like most, it was dirty and gray—all rock and not a speck of green in sight. Timothy had never set eyes on a full-grown tree. Any that might have taken root had been felled long ago for mine shoring.
Just across the street from the warehouse, the gathering of homes and shops looked as though they’d slid down from the mountain slopes, settling in cramped, haphazard rows along the narrow valley floor. A perpetual cloud of smoke from the constant burning of the ore smelters shadowed the town and coated everything, from the buildings to the inhabitants’ lungs, in thick grime. Timothy longed for the cool, pristine air higher in the mountains.
He turned south, away from the smokiest, busiest northern area of town, and quickened his pace. The sun had already descended behind the mountain peaks, as late afternoon gave way to evening. It didn’t leave him much time. He took familiar shortcuts through the alleys, having to turn sideways to navigate most. Even then, stone or rough wood siding scraped at his clothes.
Timothy glanced up at the mountains towering high over the town on both the east and the west, like silent, imposing guardians. When he dropped his eyes, he caught a glimpse of one of Dunlow’s seven working mines—the four largest belonging to Gary Tolman and Terrance Riggs. Their mines faced each other on opposite slopes like two opposing forces ready to clash, with the town as their battlefield. Indeed, the two bitter rivals had town loyalties almost split in two. Timothy shook his head to rid his mind of mine politics. He heard of little else at work.
At the far end of town, he took a rocky, but worn, path up a slope. He winced as pain burned along the strained muscles in his legs and lower back. Rising well before dawn and working all day always left him dead tired, but that was just the way of life these last seven years. Few in the Graylin Valley could claim better. One just had to accept it if he wanted to make the best of it. It wasn’t as if he had any other choice.
In a few moments, he reached a small plateau. Here, by some miracle, a scattering of grass grew in stubborn clumps, and the air was not quite so thick. He breathed deeply. A stiff, cold breeze swept across the valley, blowing his dark hair into his eyes. He brushed it away and shivered. Soon, snow would fall and make it too cold to come here. He would have to start searching for a new meeting place; perhaps one of the livery stables, like last winter. At least the animals would provide warmth.
With only a few minutes to himself, he sat down on a large rock and propped his elbows on his knees. Clasping his hands, he bowed his head and rested his forehead against them. He did not speak, but his heart opened in prayers to Elôm. As always, he began with prayers of gratitude, expressing his thankfulness for his job despite its unpleasantness, for Elôm’s promises to guide and provide for the needs of His children, and for His blessings. He asked for strength and alertness, as well as for wisdom in the next couple of hours.
These prayers continued, encompassing many areas of hi
s life and the people in it, until the crunch and scraping of feet on rock drew his attention. He raised his head. A ragtag line of people made their way up to the plateau toward him—eight children between the ages of six and twelve, along with five women. Their clothes were all patched and worn, not unlike his own, but they wore smiles on their faces. A young boy with unruly copper hair and a face full of freckles rushed up the remaining distance when he spotted Timothy.
“Mister Carliss!”
Timothy felt far too young for the title of Mister—he was only twenty—but the children’s mothers expected them to use good manners, so he did not discourage them.
“Hello, Danny,” he greeted the exuberant nine-year-old.
“I studied by myself last night,” the boy puffed out his chest, “just like you told me.”
“Excellent. Soon you’ll be able to read anything you want. Then you can help your sisters learn.”
Danny’s nose wrinkled. “I s’pose so.”
Timothy just smiled and moved on to greet the rest of his students, trading kind words with the women, most of whom weren’t much shorter than him. This was one of the larger groups he’d had the privilege to teach over the years. Some in town resented him for it, believing he considered himself above them, but he merely loved knowledge. He certainly wasn’t anyone of any consequence, and hardly a real teacher, but it seemed only right to share what he learned with those who thirsted for it. His brother always said he should have been born to a talcrin family. He used to dream of attending one of their grand universities, but daydreams weren’t a luxury many could afford in the Valley. He’d had to let them go, lest they lead to discontentment.
In comfortable familiarity, the women and children arranged themselves on the ground in front of him. He loved their eagerness despite the fact that most of them worked as long and hard as he did. With little time to spare, he got right to work, dictating a simple sentence for them to copy. Their heads bent studiously, some using broken slates they’d managed to scrounge up, while most just traced their words into the dirt.
A few moments later, Danny’s head shot up. “Mister Carliss, did I spell ‘em all right?”
Timothy pushed away from his rock and knelt next to Danny to study the boy’s work.
“Yes, you did. Very good.”
The little boy beamed, and Timothy gave him a grin as he moved on to check the rest of his students. They progressed rapidly, even the youngest ones. At every session, Timothy prayed this knowledge would someday help them attain better lives than they knew now. More than half of the town’s inhabitants never received such learning.
For the next half hour, he helped them work through more sentences and reading. It was most important to him that they read well. Through reading, they could learn any number of other subjects. A whole world of knowledge opened up to them this way.
While helping one of the girls with a tricky set of words, Danny called Timothy’s name again. He looked up to gently remind the boy to wait his turn, but Danny pointed toward town. Timothy’s gaze shifted. Someone ran up the path to the plateau. He rose for a better look and recognized a teenage boy who sometimes made it to class when he wasn’t too busy working.
When the youth reached them, he stumbled to a halt, panting.
“There’s . . . been . . . a cave-in,” he gasped out, bracing his hands on his knees.
A chill gripped Timothy. The town always waited in dread for the next inevitable disaster at the mines. Each one left behind widows and fatherless children—something he knew firsthand. Behind him, the women gasped and murmured in fear, reminding him he wasn’t the only one present.
“Which mine?” he asked and held his breath.
“Tolman’s north mine.”
It was as if someone punched the air right out of Timothy’s lungs. His gaze flew to the farthest mine. Not that one. The urge to run as fast as he could to the mine almost overwhelmed him, but he halted the spiral of his fear-driven emotions. He wasn’t the only one with a loved one there. Two of the women he taught had husbands who worked for Tolman, and one had a son.
He formed his expression to project calm and confidence, and turned to meet their fearful eyes. After dismissing the other students, Timothy joined the two remaining women in gathering up their children. With the youngest in his arms, Timothy led the way down the slope. His heart hammered a deep, painful rhythm into his breastbone as terrible what ifs lurked in his mind. What would they find at the mine? The little girl he held clung to his neck. Would she ever get to do the same to her father again? The ache of uncertainty throbbed in his chest, and he turned to the only thing that could help.
“Elôm, we pray right now on behalf of the men at the mine, that there are no casualties and that all are safe. If anyone is trapped, I pray for rescue, and for any injured, healing. I also ask for strength for the families.” He paused to swallow hard. “If there’s any loss, give comfort and guidance to those of us who are left behind to mourn.”
He glanced at the women. Tears pooled in their eyes, and their lips moved in their own pleas to Elôm.
Rushing through the twisted streets, they finally arrived near the mine. Hundreds of women and other family members had already gathered. They pushed on as far as they could, but were unable to see through the crowd. After straining for any glimpse of activity, Timothy turned to the women.
“I’ll try to get closer and find out what’s going on.”
“Please, find our husbands,” one of them begged, her lips trembling.
“And my son,” the other added as Timothy handed her daughter over.
“I’ll try.”
With a prayer that he could fulfill the promise, Timothy worked his way through the crowd. Progress was slow, but eventually he made it to the barricades the mine officials had erected around the mouth of the mine. Men rushed about, many plastered in gray dust. Some had blood glaring through the grime. Timothy’s eyes darted from man to man. Please, Elôm. He gripped the barricade, digging his fingernails into the wood as the sights and sounds brought memories rushing back.
“Help me accept Your will, Lord,” he whispered as he fought the despair that always descended when this happened.
The words had barely left his mouth when his gaze locked onto a man just emerging from the dark mine. Thick, gray dust coated him from head to toe, but Timothy recognized him instantly. His heart leapt. He moved along the barricade. “Aaron!”
After his fourth call, the other man turned and spotted him in the crowd. He hurried across the distance.
“Tim,” he rasped, and then doubled over, coughing.
Timothy ducked under the barricade and gripped his older brother’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”
Aaron nodded and cleared his throat. “Yeah.”
“What happened?”
His voice still rough, Aaron answered, “Most of the lower south section came down.” He shook his head, sending a rain of dust from his short hair, his eyes pained and intense. “I was just heading down there. I don’t know how many made it out.”
Timothy worked his throat. “Jim Reddin, and Mark and Willie Barnell, were they down there?”
Aaron let out a long breath. “I think so.”
Timothy closed his eyes. “Please, Lord, let them have made it out.”
“Carliss!” a voice boomed.
Aaron turned as the mine foreman strode toward them, barking orders.
“Get back inside and climb down that rubble. See if you can find anyone else down there.”
“Yes, sir.” Aaron turned back to Timothy for a moment. “I’ve got to go.”
Timothy moved with him. “I can help.” He was as good a climber as his brother, if not better.
But Aaron held him back. “No, it’s too dangerous. The rest of that section could come down at any time.”
Timothy was about to argue that he might need an extra hand if he found someone trapped, but Aaron cut him off. “Listen, Tim, I really don’t think I’m going to find a
nyone down there. Right now, it’s the wounded who need help, and the families. You’re good at that.”
Timothy grimaced. Aaron shouldn’t have to go alone, and what if the rest of the section did collapse? He bit down hard and nodded. “All right.”
Aaron clapped him on the shoulder and turned back to the mine.
“Be careful,” Timothy called after him.
“Always,” Aaron threw back over his shoulder.
Timothy watched until he disappeared into the mine and sent prayers after him. Only Elôm knew if he would come back out. The weight of it pressed down on Timothy, and he struggled with the intense pull to follow his brother.
“Get back behind the barricade!”
Timothy flinched, and his attention snapped to the angry foreman. “Sir, I can help with the wounded.”
The man narrowed his eyes. “Are you a physician?”
“No, but I can clean wounds and assist in any way needed.”
The foreman glowered, but jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “All right; they’re being treated over there.”
Timothy gave a quick nod and hurried on before the man could change his mind.
Though he had witnessed mine injuries before, Timothy’s stomach recoiled when he approached the triage area. Men lay moaning on the ground or on wooden planks used as makeshift stretchers. After a preliminary glance around, he found all four of Dunlow’s physicians. He drew a fortifying breath and made his way toward one he knew well and considered a friend. Along the way, he scanned the men, but didn’t recognize anyone.
“Whit,” he said as he came near.
The aging physician squinted up at him through a pair of old, slightly bent spectacles. “Timothy.”
Timothy knelt next to the miner he was working on. The man’s face was set in a tight grimace, and his chest rose and fell in an uneven rhythm.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
Whit nodded with relief and gratitude showing through his grim expression. “This one has some busted ribs. You can help me get him tended and comfortable so we can move on to the next.”
The King's Scrolls Page 3