Hidden Current

by Sharon Hinck

  Where had His love been for me?

  I drew the pouch from around my neck and dropped it to the floor. The stone walls of the small room seemed to close in. One tiny window allowed a feeble hint of cloud-shrouded light. No furnishings interrupted the stark gray surroundings of this inner room, but a trapdoor set in the floor hinted that the rumors of a well might be true. How many had disappeared from this room over the years?

  Pulling my gaze upward, I leaned more weight onto the staff.

  “You promised to be with me,” I whispered to the Maker, throat burning from holding back screams. “Look at me now.”

  A low rumble from the dying storm echoed.

  “Please speak to me again. Show me how to go on.” My voice broke, my heart raw and exposed. The colors of anger faded into an aching plea. I hopped one painful stride so I could lean a hand against the wall near the window. “You told me to bring Your letter to the Order, but I can’t.”

  Memories glided across my vision like the rain drawing patterns on the window. The Maker calling me to come to Him across the water. Ridiculous. Yet He made it possible. The Maker asking me to read the letter to the villages. Implausible. Yet He gave me Brantley as a guide, and allies and eager ears in each town.

  But presenting to the saltars was even more impossible. The letter was beautiful and truthful, but with a representative as scorned and pathetic as me, no one in the Order would have reason to listen. I eased to the floor and pulled out the bound parchment. The words swam as I tried to read. The pain was too insistent. I couldn’t focus, couldn’t concentrate. Each sharp pang through my leg made me groan, “No!” Each time I glanced at the bandage with blood already seeping through, I gasped, “No!” As the drums pulsed through my stolen hopes of dancing again, I whispered, “No!”

  Accepting His purpose was impossible. Yet wrestling against Him was torment. “Help me. Make me willing.” In my heart, I called out to the Maker until I had no words left.

  Slowly, my soul stopped thrashing and allowed warm arms of love to hold me, although He remained silent. I rested my head on my arms, sprawled on the floor, empty of my confusion, my doubt, my resistance. “Yes,” I said quietly, even though I wasn’t sure He was listening. “If this is what it will take to free our world, I’m Yours.”

  Shadows stretched across the small cold cell as the primary sun set. The insistent drums had slowed, and the wind and pouring rain dwindled. Dancers couldn’t maintain the violent storm patterns forever. The rhythm that pulsed through the building now was a slow, circular pattern, simply holding the world in place.

  I touched the bandage around my ankle. Our poor island was as hobbled as me.

  I propped against a wall, rubbed away my tears, and tried to plan a compelling speech to make before the saltars of the Order. I’d lost my home, my friends, my purpose, and now my ability to dance. If my effort to share the Maker’s words failed, all that sacrifice would be for nothing.

  When even the subsun sank low, I wondered if Tiarel had gone back on her word. Classes were over for the day. She should have summoned me to the hearing before now. Using the staff, I hoisted to my feet and stretched up on my good leg to peer out the window. Fires and smoke flickered down in Middlemost. More than I ever remembered seeing at dusk. And nearer than they should appear.

  I squeezed my gritty eyes and looked out again. The flames were close. Those weren’t campfires of travelers in the town square or puffs of smoke from hearths. In the deepening gloom, I made out the figures of men and women, many holding torches. They advanced from the ring of the town.

  Brantley’s rebellion?

  Remembering him brought a stab as sharp as my wounded tendon. What had he thought when I hadn’t joined him at the inn? The last he knew, I was planning to find Star at the tender’s. Had he worried when I never returned? Perhaps he’d guessed that I’d made my way to the Order. Maybe he even believed I’d returned to them freely, still bound by loyalty and a lifetime of service. If I disappeared, he’d never know the truth. And he’d never know how much he meant to me.

  Sounds rang from the outer saltars’ office and approached. Scuffling and raised voices lifted from the High Saltar’s inner room. I limped from the window and pressed my ear against the door, trying to make out what was happening. Through the thick wood, Tiarel’s voice carried, ordering prefects to defensive positions. Saltar Kemp spoke with a querulous high tone. I couldn’t make out the words, but recognized Saltar River’s shrill voice interrupting her.

  The door flew open, and I hopped back an awkward step.

  Two prefects grabbed my arms and yanked me into Tiarel’s office. I kept a grip on my staff and struggled to keep my good foot under me. The jarring movement caused new fire to shoot through my wound, and I bit my lip to hold back a gasp.

  Tiarel was waving away several saltars. “Of course I prepared for this. I’ve had soldiers gathering knowledge in every village. Do you think the Order hasn’t faced opposition before? But we control the dancers, so we control our world. Disgruntled peasants can’t change that.”

  Saltar Kemp shot a glance my way, then pressed her lips together, the warmth of regret flaring in her eyes. Saltar River’s eyes cut to the bloodstained bandage on my ankle before she sniffed and turned away.

  Tiarel drew herself up to her full, imposing height and pointed at me. “For those who doubt the wisdom of your High Saltar, look upon this answer.”

  I wouldn’t let Tiarel use me as a prop in her schemes. “I was promised a hearing. It’s not too late. I have important—”

  “Bring her.” Tiarel flicked her hand as if brushing aside an insect, and strode toward the hall.

  The soldiers dragged me along.

  I gasped in a breath, struggling to hop without sending jarring shards through my severed tendon. A flurry of saltars surrounded us as Tiarel led the strange procession out the tower doors, through the garden, and to the primary archway. Beyond the courtyard, soldiers and prefects took up positions to stem the approaching tide.

  Poised, regal, displaying no hint of fear, Tiarel confronted the threatening horde. Prefects with torches formed a semicircle around her, creating a pool of light, her white robe stark against the backdrop of armored men. “Send forward Brantley of Windswell.”

  Silence descended over the crowd like flowing water extinguishing a flame.

  Her chest rose. “Oh, yes. We know who has stirred up this harmful opposition. Step forward if you dare.”

  The advance halted, leaving the distance of a dining hall’s length separating us from the villagers. Although the High Saltar’s words had commanded attention, they didn’t seem to intimidate any of the rimmers. Muscular herders and farmers held torches high. Long knives gleamed from the belts of some. Others brandished scythes or hoes. They waited in stillness like an adamant wall. If the wrong word were spoken now, that wall of brave men would close in and crush everyone in the Order. Or Tiarel’s soldiers would tear into that bastion and destroy it person by person.

  Over the persistent and distant pulse of the drums inside, a rustle announced a man’s approach. The villagers stepped aside and Brantley emerged. He’d taken time to clean up from our weeks in the wild. Shaven, in a clean tunic, his sword catching reflections of flame, he was no humble herder, but a leader of men.

  He didn’t let Tiarel continue to direct the conversation. “We demand the release of our villages’ daughters. The Order no longer serves our world.” Confidence and a current of anger rang through his voice, in spite of facing armed soldiers with only a ragtag group of villagers.

  “The Order alone has saved the world.” The High Saltar’s high pitch would have seemed a feeble response if not for the army behind her.

  Brantley firmed his stance and set his jaw. “By demanding that everyone in this world serve the Order? You’ve bled our lands dry and broken our families. You’ve chosen our world’s path without any consent of her people. That ends tonight.”

  “Your ill-advised rebellion is the
only thing that will end tonight.” Tiarel sneered and turned her gaze to the villagers before her. “Are you rash enough to think you’ve surprised us? Those loyal to the Order have kept us informed of this rimmer’s attempt to stir up trouble. We know all about Brantley of Windswell. This man you follow is a coward and a fool. He cares nothing for your villages or the damage he is causing. His mind has been clouded by a desire for revenge, ever since his unhinged brother threw himself in front of a soldier’s spear. He wants us to return the novitiates to their villages, but they don’t want to go. They embrace the high honor of protecting Meriel, of learning to serve her.”

  Brantley’s bearing held strong, but some of the men shifted. Uneasy murmurs welled and spread. I could guess their thoughts. Was it true that Brantley’s motives had nothing to do with protecting the villages? Would the girls they had come to free refuse to leave? And if Tiarel knew about the opposition leaders, what retribution had she sent to their villages already? How would their families suffer? Could they still retreat? Sideways glances reflected the paranoia that the High Saltar had planted. The armed villagers measured each other, wondering who among them had given reports to Tiarel’s soldiers.

  The High Saltar took advantage of the brewing uncertainty. She flicked a finger, and the soldiers pulled me forward. Ignoring the crowd, she focused on Brantley. “Withdraw now, or she dies.”

  His gaze met mine for a precious eternity. Desperation and frustration swam in his eyes. I was ruining his plans and giving Tiarel leverage against him. But beneath the surface, I read something deeper in his face: a yearning, a promise, a silent “trust me.”

  I tugged against the guards, but couldn’t break their grip.

  Brantley’s focus widened. He took in my crooked stance and the bandaged leg. He turned toward Tiarel, rage flickering across his face with the torchlight. If he hadn’t been tethered by her threat to kill me, Brantley would have run her through.

  Even worse, when he turned back to me, pity shaded his eyes. I’d become an object of wretchedness to him. I twisted away, unable to see him look at me that way. Straining against my captors, I focused on the other saltars. “You are all witnesses. She promised me a hearing.” A powerful reminder. A High Saltar’s promise had to be trustworthy or her entire leadership was thrown into question.

  A few of the saltars drew back from Tiarel. Furrowed brows and wringing hands proclaimed their confusion. Uncertainty hovered in the air over both groups now, a better flavor than relentless division. There was still time to sway the others of the Order, as well as the rebels.

  A man beside Brantley stepped forward. “The only thing they’ll listen to is the sound of our weapons tearing this place down stone by stone.”

  Brantley clamped a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Peace. Let the dancer speak.”

  The weight of dozens of pairs of eyes—furious, skeptical, hopeful, impatient—all rested on me. I couldn’t bear the heaviness.

  Maker, help me!

  Brantley’s eyes narrowed. His terse nod prompted me to speak before the moment was lost. I cleared my throat. “The Maker’s letter has been found. Some of you have heard its truth. Before you destroy each other, let me read it.”

  The tenuous mood of the crowds softened, like a wave pulling back from the shoreline. Could it be this easy? Could this be the moment for which the Maker had called me to speak truth?

  “Impossible.” Tiarel’s shrill word wiped away any conciliation. “We will never allow her to deceive more people with these myths.”

  “If they are myths, why are you so afraid of them?” Brantley asked calmly.

  Tiarel’s chin lifted and she smiled like a mother correcting a disappointing child. “Despite the suffering it costs us, the Order will ever protect Meriel from lies. Yet this is how you reward us.”

  Among the rebels, several heads dipped. By sheer reflex, the power of her role and what I’d been taught all my life sent shame coursing through me. How dared I oppose her? But oppose her, I must.

  I pulled myself to my full height. “You are the one speaking lies! The dance was never meant to be contained in the center ground. It was never meant for only a select few. And it wasn’t meant to hold our world in bondage.”

  Tiarel drew her dagger and handed it to one of the soldiers. “Kill her.”

  Brantley drew his sword, but he’d never reach me in time. The crowd held its breath while the gleaming blade hovered in the soldier’s hand.

  You are a dancer. The quiet and beloved voice whispered to my heart.

  “Wait! I can prove it.” I gasped the words out, but they carried with surprising volume.

  The soldier paused. Brantley stood down, watched and waited.

  I drew myself as tall on my good leg as I could, gripping the staff and confronting Tiarel. “Look at me. Cripple, outcast. Yet I will dance and invite the Maker’s gifts on the land. You’ll see Him work. If He does not, the rebels will return to their villages, and you may take my life.”

  Several saltars gasped, and Tiarel laughed.

  “No.” Brantley ground out his words. “Don’t do this.”

  Threads entangled and tightened around my heart, but I squared my shoulders. “Surely that’s a fair challenge. If I’m proven right, you’ll grant me the hearing to read the Maker’s letter to everyone in the Order.”

  The High Saltar stepped toward me and removed her dagger from the soldier’s grip. The constricting cords in my chest loosened and I drew a deep breath. Until I saw Tiarel’s expression.

  A predatory smirk bloomed across her face. “You’re right. A challenge will put your heresy to rest once and for all.” She raised her voice. “You’ve all witnessed her terms.”

  “Indeed, High Saltar,” the saltars and prefects recited in unison.

  Grumbles of assent returned from the villagers close enough to hear our discussion.

  “Agreed.” Tiarel flicked her hands in a graceful dismissal. “We must wait for the light of our suns so that all can bear witness. You are invited to gather in the Order’s outer courtyard tomorrow as the subsun rises.”

  Serene in her control of every situation, she whirled and walked away, and even though no wind blew across the field, her robes billowed and rippled, as if she strode in a perpetual breeze, conjured at her whim.

  I leaned toward Brantley, wishing I could touch him across the void between us. “Trust me. I—”

  Soldiers dragged me back toward the Order before I could say more. As the villagers withdrew, the torchlight left heavy darkness behind, revealing only the rough image of Brantley’s form as he stood alone, shaking his head.

  Once inside the Order again, Tiarel’s benevolent-mother façade dropped away. “Get her out of my sight.” Her demand was punctuated by a crisp flick of her hand and a sneer.

  The other saltars huddled together and followed Tiarel toward the offices. Prefects hurried to their assigned posts. No novitiates dared peek down from the stairway in spite of the uproar and strange events that had occurred outside. In moments, I was alone in the entry hall with two soldiers. One of them scratched his beard, and the other shrugged. They were clearly at a loss about what to do with me.

  Ginerva emerged from the shadows. “May I be of help? I have a room prepared for her.”

  I longed to run into her arms, but instead took a small step forward, looking to the soldiers for permission.

  One of the men puffed out his chest. “We’ll have to stand guard. The High Saltar would disappear us if she escaped.”

  “Of course. This way.” Ginerva’s nonthreatening demeanor convinced them, and my guards and I followed her into the dancers’ wing. The guards should have known that an outcast would never be allowed within, but in a day of so many strange events, they seemed eager to tuck me out of the way.

  Ginerva followed me into the small room. The guards stomped around the space, even pulling up the ticking to be sure no weapons lurked beneath. Then they withdrew.

  As soon as the door closed, I sank
to the mattress and allowed a tremor to roll through my weary frame.

  “Do you plan to flee?” Ginerva whispered, even as she pulled items from her pockets.

  “No. I made a challenge and I will honor it.” I forced false confidence into my tone.

  Ginerva’s soft hands were already unwrapping the bandage. I leaned back on my elbows and hissed in a tight breath, but then surrendered to her ministrations. She applied fresh ointment and bandages, gently rotating my ankle. “Do this each day. Don’t let the joint stiffen as you heal.”

  “Will that really make a difference?”

  She lifted her troubled eyes to mine. “I watched from an alcove. The High Saltar is much too pleased with herself.”

  “But everyone witnessed the bargain. She can’t back out.”

  Her white hair bobbed as she nodded. “Perhaps she assumes you are too crippled to stand, much less dance. But . . .”

  “You think she has something else planned?” I would drive myself mad trying to unravel Tiarel’s intentions.

  “And that’s not your only problem.” Ginerva tucked her bandages and poultices into a basket. “How long can you hold back the tide of anger against the Order?”

  “Especially when I want to swim in that current myself.” I flexed my foot a few times. Even without bearing weight, it shrieked at the small movements. “The anger the villagers feel is well-earned. Yet the Maker hasn’t called for the Order to be destroyed but to fulfill its proper purpose.”

  Ginerva sniffed. “Leaving neither side happy.”

  I shrugged wearily. “One step at a time. First I earn the right to read the letter to all the saltars. I’ll leave it to the Maker to change hearts.”

  Her hand rested softly on my arm. “That would be wonderful.” But resignation and doubt shaded her voice. Years of waiting for change and watching the abuses of the Order made hope a fragile thread for her.

  I hugged her. “Take heart. The story isn’t finished yet.”

  After Ginerva left, I closed my eyes and exhaled, exhausted from holding myself together. Subtle tremors rolled up and down my spine, reminding me of the way the waves teased the ground when I had traveled at the rim. My time of riding across the wide and unpredictable ocean felt lifetimes away. A newly emerging part of my soul missed those open currents.