Storm's Clouds, page 29
part #2 of Stormfall Chronicles Series
Onacona made his way to the center of the garden, to the great, ancient tree which dominated its landscape. Its gnarled bark and vast branches were largely bare of leaves, but for a small bit of growth which had somehow managed to survive across the many seasons.
“And what of the business I came to speak with you about earlier master? My own matter?” Atsadi asked, already inscribing the names of the tribal leaders onto the parchment. “My mother sent another message today. I don’t know how to answer.”
“I am truly sorry about your brother,” Onacona replied. The old man ran his fingers across the branches of the ancient tree, branches long rendered bare by age. “Sometimes, a solution has a way of presenting itself.”
“Master?”
“Change is inevitable, my young student. But not all change is bad.” Onacona ran his fingers delicately across the one, remaining branch of the tree which still bore leaves. A final remnant, still clinging to life. “Always remember my young pupil, while there is life, there is always hope.”
* * *
Waya was watching the ripples in the brook, the patterns they made as they cascaded over the stones, and the little fish which swam by. What did he really want? Did he even know? Or was he like the fish, swimming aimlessly, unable to perceive the wider world beyond their little patch of water? He knew how he felt. He knew how he felt about Adsila. He knew he wasn’t like the girls he grew up with in his village. But did that make him a boy?
Intently watching the patterns in the water as he pondered, Waya hadn’t noticed the change in the air. How the breeze had turned cooler, or how the sun had gone behind a bank of clouds. He hadn’t noticed, until Garth’s voice brought him out of his reverie. “Waya? Have you decided?”
Waya looked up, startled. Garth was still sitting on the rock at the edge of the brook, his legs crossed – but his eyes were open now: glowing like stars from the heavens. They were both still sitting at the edge of the little brook – but the landscape had changed, as if their little corner of the world had been transformed. A stiff wind circulated around them, flattening the grass. Clouds had covered the sun, their surfaces churning low overhead, like a boiled pot. Waya looked at Garth and was afraid – even more than he had been when the assassin had pinned him against the stable wall.
“You could really change me? My body I mean? From a girl to a boy?”
“I could,” Garth replied. “But I have not yet decided if I should. What is it you want? Do you know? And why?” Garth paused, waiting to see how Waya would respond. The boy seemed rooted in place: uncertain, fearful. “Why do you want to be a boy?”
“Because I want to be with Adsila.”
“That is not enough. You can be together, as both friends and more, without changing your form. I ask again, why do you want to be a boy?”
“Because boys are respected. Because I don’t want to be weak. To be afraid. Too weak to fight back.”
“That is not enough. You have already proven your bravery in the face of a trained assassin no less. You did not need to be a boy to be brave. Again, why do you want to be a boy?”
“I don’t know.”
“Waya, I cannot change you.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’s nothing wrong with you.”
The glow faded from Garth’s eyes, and the clouds overhead ceased their swirling motion.
“Life hurts sometimes,” Garth continued. “It’s how it has always been. Compassion does not make you weak. It makes you worthy of being human. Nor does being born as a girl make your feelings for Adsila any less real.”
The clouds overhead dissipated, breaking up, revealing the blue sky beyond. The wind had died down, and the grasses were waving gently.
“I want and need my family to accept me, to accept us,” Waya replied. “But I’m not sure if transforming myself would change that. I don’t even know if it would seem real to me, even if it was real to everyone else. It doesn’t make sense, does it?”
Garth smiled sadly. “It does. Maybe your difficulty is in trying to describe what you’re feeling in words too narrow to contain them. Boy or girl. Man or woman. The common tongue has room for only two such possibilities. But there have always been others. It’s okay for a girl to like other girls. Just as it is possible to be born a girl, but to feel more comfortable as a boy. Those are two different things. And they are not the only two which the common tongue struggles to convey. You need to give yourself time to grow, to find your own space, your own identity. For the both of you.”
“But Adsila and I need each other.” Waya’s tone was pleading. He knew what he felt but not how to express it. “We belong together.”
“And you can be together. But you don’t have to live by someone else’s definition for how you live your lives. It’s a future which is your own to define, not someone else’s.”
Garth arose, walking over to his horse, replacing the bridle, placing the bit in its mouth. Waya realized for the first time how, despite the wind and apparent storm overhead, the horses had been at ease throughout the ordeal.
Garth tightened the girth on his saddle. “We should be on our way. We still have a three-day journey before we reach the great hall of Tsien.”
“My home village is in the north, not the great hall.”
“Yes, but your business and mine is in the temple.” Garth swung himself up and onto his saddle. “I’ll offer you this: when all of this is over, and if both of us live to see that day, I will return seven years hence. If you have decided you want to change yourself at that time, I will do so then.”
* * *
“The Council of the Arche-Fae shall now come to order.” The meetings had become daily, ever since the crisis had begun. With King Elyan ill and Princess Elise a fugitive, all of the daily decision making had fallen upon the Fae Council. “Is there a motion to accept the minutes from yesterday’s meeting?”
“I move to accept the minutes from yesterday’s meeting,” said Lord Heddwyn.
“I second the motion,” said Lord Lestin.
“All in favor of the motion to accept the minutes from yesterday’s meeting, say ‘Aye.’” Lord Terrwyn had the process down to a routine by now. “All opposed say ‘Nay.’ The motion passes.”
Lord Heddwyn leaned forward in his chair. “I have heard disturbing rumors. An army from Ikzhan has been sighted on our northeastern frontier, near Amsford.”
“I have heard this same news,” Lord Arwel added.
Lord Bleddyn arose from his chair. How had word spread so quickly? Was one of General Arthus’ soldiers leaking reports? He must remember to have a discussion with Arthus on the matter. “I can confirm these reports. General Arthus provided me with much the same information this morning.”
“What is to be done about it?” demanded Lord Heddwyn. “We can’t just have an army of five thousand hostile soldiers, on the very doorstep to the Feyfell.”
“I concur,” said Lord Arwel. “How did the Emperor Batukhan even know the concealment spell would fail? His army arrived within a day of King Elyan falling ill.”
“An unfortunate coincidence, to be sure,” Lord Bleddyn replied. “Which is why the Fae Kingdom needs our constant vigilance. As we all know, I have been charged as the Council’s point of contact with the Fae Council Garrison. I have spoken with General Arthus, and he assures me all is in order. In his judgement, it is likely the army from Ikzhan was intended to threaten the neighboring Kingdom of Lotaria, and only coincidentally threatens the Feyfell. As a precaution, however, he has asked for permission to transfer the majority of the Fae Council Garrison to Amsford, to deter or repulse this foreign army if it should dare to cross the fords.”
“How much of the Garrison are we talking about?” asked Lord Heddwyn. “How many would be left behind to patrol our other frontiers?”
“All but a hundred members from the Garrison would be transferred to Amsford,” Lord Bleddyn replied, “to ensure we have the maximum means at our disposal to counter any threat.”
“All but a hundred?” repeated Lord Arwel. “How could we hope to patrol our capital city, and the Feygate, and every other potential frontier? The spell of concealment is failing everywhere, not just at Amsford. A hundred soldiers could barely cover any one of those.”
“That’s right,” replied Lord Lestin. “The spell of concealment has been failing everywhere. What news on King Elyan’s health?”
“The king lives,” replied Lord Heddwyn, “but is slowly failing. The healers can prolong his life but cannot bring him out of the deep slumber into which he has fallen. If the king cannot recover on his own, his life will slowly ebb away, until he dies. A month, two months – they cannot say.”
“Truly regrettable,” replied Lord Bleddyn. “We are all deeply moved by the king’s plight. But we must take action to protect the kingdom. I move to authorize the transfer of all but a hundred members of the Fae Council Garrison to redeploy immediately to Amsford.”
“We haven’t answered the question of how to maintain watch across all of the other border areas,” said Lord Arwel. “The only armed force with the means to cover all those areas is the Royal Guard. As we all know, Fairhall, the capital of Lotaria, is directly across the river from us.”
“Yes, and unfortunately,” Lord Bleddyn replied, “with the king on his deathbed, the Royal Guard has intransigently refused to be redeployed from their positions surrounding the Royal Estate. I’m afraid we’ll have to make do without them. The other border regions will need to be patrolled as necessary by our own, personal armed guards. And to further alleviate the strain placed on the Fae Council Garrison, I would propose we declare the Feygate closed to all commerce until the end of the current emergency.”
“I second the motion to authorize the transfer of all but one hundred members of the Fae Council Garrison to Amsford. This is our most immediate threat,” said Lord Lestin.
“All in favor of the motion to transfer all but one hundred members of the Garrison of the Arche-Fae Council to Amsford, say ‘Aye.’” Lord Terrwyn surveyed the room, realizing that neither Lord Arwel nor Lord Heddwyn were voting in favor of the measure. “All those opposed, say ‘Nay.’”
“Nay,” said Lord Heddwyn.
“All those abstaining?” Lord Terrwyn noted Lord Arwel’s response. “The motion passes.”
* * *
“That obstructionist Lord Heddwyn!” said Bleddyn. “He will spoil everything if given the chance.”
“He’s only one lord on the council,” Bowen replied.
“He’s creating doubt in everyone’s minds. He always did have a soft spot for the king. And for the princess. It would have been so much simpler if the two of them had just died, like they were supposed to.” Bleddyn paced across his study, its every painting, every furnishing, the epitome of elegance. Gold leaf embellished the frames of each wall hanging. Scenes of smartly dressed noblefae, posing for portraits, adorned each corner of the room.
“Stick to the plan,” Bowen said. “It would attract too much attention to eliminate Heddwyn now. Once we follow through, you will be crowned as the victor. The one who saved the Fae Kingdom.”
“Are you sure everything will go as planned?” Bleddyn had halted his pacing, looking to Bowen for reassurance.
“I promise you. Our mistress has placed everything into motion. The army from Ikzhan will disperse at first contact with the Fae Garrison, exactly as planned. Their generals have agreed in advance. Their presumed retreat will be hailed as the greatest fae victory of our time. And you, Lord Bleddyn, will be there when it happens.”
“Yes,” Lord Bleddyn nodded. “Restoring fae honor.”
“When I tell you the time is right, you will join General Arthus at Amsford, and after the victory, the Fae Council will have no alternative than to elect you as the next king.”
* * *
Eirlon pulled his cap off to wipe the sweat from his brow. The loose-fitting grey cap was little more than a rag, but it helped to keep the dust from his eyes. He glanced down the corridor to where Togi was talking to a human overseer. The human slave masters generally carried a club and dagger at their waist, and occasionally a whip as well. There was no practical way to overpower them, Eirlon had concluded. At least not without a plan for what to do next.
Togi was usually the only one who spoke directly with the overseers. He relayed their commands and divided up the work. Everyone else was expected to follow as ordered, without question.
The human and Togi disappeared down an adjacent corridor. Eirlon could almost feel the other gnomes in the mine shaft breathe a little easier. Their picks may have continued to hammer away at the rock, but without the intensity they had moments before. All the gnomes were, like Eirlon, garbed in clothing that amounted to little more than rags: ill-fitting brown or grey trousers and worn and faded tunics. Some of them looked like they had been cobbled together from cast-off human clothes.
The mine shafts were lit by dirty oil lamps, their rocky walls laced with metal ores which the gnomes hammered away to retrieve. The pale metal veins were pried from the rocks and loaded into ore carts to be melted down and separated in the furnaces above. Silver and lead were apparently their most plentiful product, although smaller amounts of copper and gold were also retrieved in the smelting operation. Other carts were used to haul away waste rocks for disposal at the surface.
“You’re new here, aren’t you?” said one of the other gnomes, as he hammered away at the rock. “To slavery, I mean.” The gnome had a full, dark beard which was covered in dust, blending in with his grey, loose-fitting tunic.
“I was abducted,” Eirlon replied. “I was a merchant.”
“I’m Symon,” said the gnome, as he continued to hammer away with his pickaxe. “That’s my brother, Jehan, over there. We’ve been here four years now. We were free once also. In the mines, no one asks for paperwork. Free or slave-born makes no difference.”
Eirlon grunted. “Anyone ever escape?”
Symon glanced back up the mine shaft, as if the human might pop out of the darkness without warning. “Successfully? No.”
Eirlon continued to hammer at the ore vein. He would be the first.
“There have been other attempts. All failed,” Symon said in a low voice. “They do things to punish us when someone tries to escape. I’ve seen things.” There was a pained look that briefly flashed through Symon’s eyes, evident even in the dim light. “Things I wish I had never seen.”
Eirlon nodded. “How many gnomes work the mines?”
“Over forty, not including the females and children who prepare food in the upper halls. The upper halls are where we have our living quarters, as well as storage rooms for wagons and tools.”
“Where do the humans live?”
“Outside the entrance. There is only one point of entry, in or out from these mines.” Symon stopped to inspect the rock he had been pounding, brushing it with his fingers. “Occasionally, we’ll discover a deposit of gemstones in the rock – usually obsidian glass.” Symon discarded the stone and went back to pounding at the rock-covered metal vein. “Gnomes who turn-in raw gems are rewarded with an extra crust of bread and an extra serving of stew in the evening.”
Eirlon paused to wipe away the dust from his brow, then put his cap back on and continued hammering at the layers of rock. An older gnome piled waste rock into a cart. A separate cart had been designated for metal ores or possible gems. The passageway they were in was only dimly lit by a lone, bent and smudged lantern. Distinguishing between the ore and waste rock was not always an easy process.
Eirlon struck again with his pickaxe, noticing what appeared to be a fissure in the rock ahead. Was that cool air he felt? Or gas vented from below? He felt a hand on his arm. “Not that way,” Symon said. “They’ll beat us if they think we’re trying to open a way out.”
“It leads outside?”
“Yes, but it’s too narrow for any of us to fit. We sent one of the boys up once to investigate. It leads outside.”
Eirlon’s mind whirled through the possibilities. He had no intention of remaining a prisoner forever – but he couldn’t very well escape and leave everyone else to endure the retribution of the slave masters. He needed a way he could get all of them out. He didn’t know how, but he would make the slave masters rue the day they had ever paid for his shriveled old body.
In the dim yellow light of the lantern, Eirlon caught sight of something moving, something small. Was he imagining it? Perhaps it just a trick of the shadows and the flickering light. It appeared to be moving from the fissure ahead of him. There! It moved again. He saw it more clearly as it slithered around a rock. A snake!
Eirlon snapped his fingers. “Leika!”
A spark jumped from his fingertips in the direction of the snake, flaring brightly before it went out – its tiny, sparkling light magnified by the surrounding darkness. The startled snake slithered back. Eirlon smiled grimly. No, he couldn’t do much without the powders or other items he relied on to magnify his simple charms – but he wasn’t completely powerless either. If only he could get the raw ingredients he needed.
“You’re a caster?” Eirlon turned to see the other three gnomes staring at him. They had seen his little parlor trick. Eirlon smiled again. Yes, he was going to get out of here.
“I know something of the craft.” Eirlon looked between his fellow prisoners. No, they had not yet completely lost the spark in their eyes. “But I would need something more to work with, if we want to cause more damage.”
“What do you need?” said Symon.
“Symon! You know what will happen if they catch us!” said Jehan.
“I know, little brother. But I’m not spending my life wasting away in this pit.”
