Stormcallers: Chapter 19
When the Sexton had adjusted his robes about himself, and left the Queen’s meeting chamber, Queen Ceinneret reached out to pluck a tiny silver bell from its surface.
This bell was her lifeline; the one constancy in her life that went beyond ceremony and duty. Her fingers brushed the curving sides for only a moment before she gripped the handle and waved the bell back and forth under her hand, gently, like this.
The sound was softer than the patter of rain on a roof. It tinkled so lightly through the air, that she scarce believed that it could be heard beyond the thick wooden door. But heard it was, and the door to the chamber opened as her queensmaid Melora stepped into view.
She gave a deep curtsy, like this, and her Queen spoke: “Prepare the tincture.”
Melora curtseyed again before moving to her queen’s dresser, opening the top drawer and pulling out a leather satchel. Neither of them spoke while Melora drew out small vials, a mortar and pestle, and a handful of dried herbs. For a moment, the only sound was the click of the pestle against the side of the mortar.
But Melora knew her mistress well, and so remained quiet until her mistress said: “I desire amusement, Melora. What tales do you gossips in the servants’ quarters tell?”
Now Melora was no mere servant, and she knew that her mistress was not asking for gossip. She heard many secrets from her maiden agents, and knew much about the Queen’s Cast that was hidden even from the royal spymaster.
“The peasantry of Cast is worried, your Highest,” Melora answered her queen as she emptied the ground leaves into a small bowl and mixed them with water. “They fear famine as keenly as the nobility, perhaps more so, as they have less to lose.”
“And what else?” Queen Ceinneret asked.
Melora measured out a pinch of rhinflower seed into the mortar, and continued to grind. “There are rumors of war, as there always are, and fears of lost husbands and sons. There is discontent, but also loyalty to the crown.”
“And what else?” Queen Ceinneret asked.
When the seeds were powder, Melora poured them into the water, and drew out a lemon from her apron, along with a thin knife — thinner and sharper than any knife a maid should carry. “There is a rumor that the Baron Treave will refuse your levy. He will insist that your dead father is still the only rightful King of Cast, and no child of his could rightfully rule until the three Casts become one.”
Queen Ceinneret knew of Baron Treave; a cruel lord who had been a thorn in her side for years. He craved power and wealth, always skirting the line of disrespect to the crown. Of course, she knew how her father would have handled such dissent, but such options were not available for a Queen.
Instead of dwelling on her failings, Queen Ceinneret asked: “Is the tincture ready?”
Her queensmaid answered: “almost, my lady.” She sliced the lemon in half, and measured out the proper depth of juice into a vial. Pouring it into the mortar, she mixed the fluid together into a viscous mass. “If my lady will spread her legs?”
Ceinneret sighed as she hoisted her dress up, allowing her maid access. She stared out of the window as Melora poured the tincture into a small leather bag with a stiff nozzle. To distract her mistress, Melora asked playfully: “Was your meeting satisfactory, my lady?” When Ceinneret did not answer, she continued: “The Sexton has always struck me as a most attentive and generous man.”
At this, Ceinneret turned from the window and said, “Hold your tongue, lady Melora.”
“I beg my lady’s pardon,” said the queensmaid as she crawled under her queen’s dress and positioning the nozzle in her mistress. “Please prepare yourself, my lady.” Then she squeezed the leather bag.
The liquid burned like fire, as it always did. Queen Ceinneret grit her teeth as the pain spread deep inside her, and sat like a glowing coal in her stomach.
But poor Queen Ceinneret, yes, I say poor Queen, she relished the pain. It was a punishment she could not escape. It was a burning away of her weakness that hindered her queenly duties.
As the fires burned in her loins, she looked out at the distant lights of the city. On the cobbled streets, merchants and peasants were going about their evenings, preparing meals and returning home from their daily work. What did they see when they looked up at the massive castle that held their Queen? Did they look quickly, hoping that she might not be looking down and catch them in the act? Did they gaze longingly, or perhaps gratefully? Were they caught in awe or fear?
The pain between Ceinneret’s hips had faded. It still burned, but the pain was now familiar, and therefore tolerable. The purging fire blossomed through her body as she sat, hating herself, her body, and who she was.
Kind Melora, she knew her mistress, and so she said: “There is another rumor I just now remember, your Highest. One from the marketplaces of Cast and beyond. The Erwind Trade Conglomerate grows in size, but with a wide net comes loose weave. There are rumors of other merchant organizations, companies of laborers and brokers who seek to undermine and perhaps overtake Erwind’s strength.”
The words of clever Melora shook Ceinneret from her misery, and drew her attention once more to her queensmaid. “What organizations are these? Tell me quickly, and how we might use them to our advantage.”
Melora knelt to place a wide wooden bowl in front of her queen as she spoke. “The first is the Riverfall Trading Company. Smugglers and thieves, all, but shrewd. They are already known among the ports and docks of the cloud-sea. They sail under false flags with counterfeit papers. They hold no allegiance but to coin.”
This did not suit Ceinneret, as she knew not to trust those who did not trust in kind. She stood from her chair, lifting her dress slightly as she stepped over the wooden bowl, gripping it between her heels. “Who else resists the Erwind monopoly?”
Melora thought but a moment before saying, “There is one other, your Highest, who resists in a strange manner. They are merchants, yes, but crave not coin. Instead, they swear loyalty to a code, like our Knights, or the Aylin warriors of old. I know not their title, as they are more secret and hidden than even the Riverfall company. I know only one name: Dunwell.”
Ceinneret pondered this name for a moment before lifting her dress and stepping away from the now full bowl. “Tell me, Melora, what would you do? When the ancient laws that my father obeyed forbid smuggling and thievery, proclaimed treason as a crime worth no better than the ax. Whom would you punish? Whom would you reward? How would you find a Kingdom worth saving among the dust?”
But wise Melora knew that she was not a Queen, and so she smiled gently and curtsied. “I say that the tincture has done its work, my lady. You will bleed soon.”
This gave the Queen some comfort, and so she prepared for sleep with a steady heart and calm breath. Her only fears, as she lay down on her large bed, were for what nightmares might assail her in the darkness.
But the Queen was not the only one who slept uneasily. Across Norrholt in the land of Wendsha, Ysalla Aloni’s dreams were filled with uncertain and fearful images.
But blessed Ysalla, she was not beset by horrors during the day. Indeed, how great and wonderful her waking hours had become! Twenty laborers toiled to build for the Friar a new chapel, a place befitting the Fellowship of the Light. Where once the people of Jarhaan passed the Friar with nary a glance, now they bowed and greeted both Friar Henrik and Ysalla with great warmth and gratitude. The Friar’s stores were always full, and they needed to pay no taxes.
In return for such blessings, Ysalla needed only to wear a special garment, a uniform of sorts that marked her as a maiden in the Fellowship. She kept to her chores, practiced her graces, and prayed to the Light instead of her ancestors, though in her heart she prayed to them both.
Nevertheless, beloved, you must know that even among such fortune, Ysalla was not blinded. The changes that beset Jarhaan were many, and not all were blessings. Those who did not greet Frair Henrik with warmth stepped aside out of fear. Soldiers wearing red cloth strode down the streets of Jarhaan with the calm confidence of a man in his own house.
She had not the words to explain it, but she could see the village shifting, becoming not a unified people, but a people divided. Where once there were only the citizens of Jarhaan, now neighbors looked at each other with new eyes, seeing their differences in a new light.
But she knew whence these changes came. She heard the words Friar Henrik spoke during his sermons, and how changed they were from what the Friar had said when he first came to their humble village. The New Book was full of the language of Orghasa, misleading the people of Wendsha as to the true purpose of the Fellowship.
Poor Friar Henrik, he fought to keep the true lessons in the peoples’ souls, but he could not break free from the language of the New Book’s heart. So too was he but a single man, and the lessons taught by laws, soldiers, and taxes were difficult to resist.
It broke Ysalla’s heart, but it did not frighten her until one day, not a week after she paid Mother Basugi’s taxes.
On this day, Frair Henrik and Ysalla were walking among the houses and cottages of the village, meeting and speaking with all its people, as they had for many seasons. They brought food and comfort, a kind ear and a warm smile, and so they built the fellowship of Jarhaan.
But today, when they knocked on the door of Mother Basugi, there was no answer. “Perhaps they are ministering to their shrines,” Ysalla explained, as Mother Basugi was a Seer of Copal Naon, and so had many shrines to tend to.
The Creed of Cephes Dal was a common tradition of Wendsha, and so the people of Wendsha had many different shrines. Every family of the Creed had a house shrine, humble and easily cleaned, and it was here every family prayed for good fortune and respected their long dead. So too did the larger towns have a shrine where the people could pray and honor together.
Mother Basugi, so called because she was old and wise in her ways, was a Seer of Copal Naon, as her ancestors had been for many generations before her. To the Mothers of Copal Naon, there were more spirits in the world than merely ancestors. Trees had spirits, as did rocks and birds. Roads had spirits, of a sort, as did villages and even the shrines themselves.
As a Mother, she maintained the wayside shrines, large pavilion structures that dotted the long roads of Wendsha. Copal priests and priestesses traveled the roads in long pilgramages, maintaining the shrines and collecting the offerings. Mother Basugi was too old to do this, however, and so she stayed near Jarhaan, cleaning and anointing the many shrines of the forest, the nearby road, the town, and the hills.
It was at the Shrine to the Hills that Ysalla and the Friar found Mother Basugi.
Father Basugi, so called out of respect because he was her husband, was there too, tears falling from his eyes as he picked up fragments of wood where they lay, shattered beneath the stones. Mother Basugi’s eyes were dry, but this was not because she was strong.
Kind Friar Henrik, his heart drove him to foolishness. “Could it have been the storms?” He asked with hope in his tone. Ysalla respected him for that, as we all should, to keep such hope alive in the face of such despair.
It was not the storms that destroyed the Shrine to the Hills, and Ysalla knew it as well as Mother Basugi. Father Basugi explained to the Friar the strength of their charms how the storms never reached the hills. Friar Henrik did not argue, for while he did not believe in the power of the Basugi’s strips of paper covered in runes, neither did he dispute the Basugi’s honesty.
Their hearts were heavy as Ysalla and the Friar helped the Basgui’s pick up the shattered shrine, and clean the scattered offerings.
When at last the wreckage was cleaned, Ysalla asked of Mother Basugi: “Where is young Jivan?” This was the name of Mother Basugi’s grandson, who was usually never far from his beloved grandmother.
“In the town,” Mother Basugi muttered, exhaustion in her tone. “Watching the soldiers. The young boys wearing the Red Saqur.”
Saqur in Herathian, Seker in Wendshan. The tall falcon was well known to the people of Norrholt as the strongest and fastest bird-of-prey on the island. “There is much to entice a young man in the armies of Herathia,” Ysalla tried to soothe the old woman’s fears. “They are given good food and warm beds. The women will love them when they return.”
Mother Basugi smiled a sad smile, and said, “This is what my grandson thinks. There is little at his age more alluring than the sudden unfamiliarity of women. He does not think of what may happen when he wears the Red Saqur. He does not fear he may never return.”
Friar Henrik, who had heard what was said, spoke thus: “There have been no wars for years. There is little threat they will die on the end of another warrior’s sword.”
But Ysalla knew the language of Mother Basugi’s heart, and she heart the words unsaid. “He fears for you,” she answered, “and thinks he can protect you. No one would dare hurt the family of a Herathian soldier.”
Mother Basugi shook her head. “Foolish boy. Can we ever be the family of a Herathian soldier? I am not so old that I cannot hear the children of the village. I hear them say such strange things. There is a word, I do not know what it means, but they say it often.”
Friar Henrik spoke in the tone of one sympathetic, “I know many languages. If you tell me the word, I can explain what it means.”
Wise Mother Basugi shook her head at him. “You do not need to explain. They say ‘Beldam,’ and though I do not know the word, I hear their voices when they say it. It is not a kind word. And there are other words, words that I do understand. I have heard these words before. We are practicioners of Copal Noan, and you know we have never been beloved…but now I am hearing them more often. I hear passion in their voices. They said these words before, but now they throw them. They say the shrines call down the storms. They say the storms hear our prayers and come for us, to destroy our minds and our bodies. They think we are calling to them, to bring misfortune on the land.”
Ysalla knew this was no idle fear. The Seers of Copal Noan were known for their blessings and their curses. They could bring justice to those who sought it in many forms. “They fear your hexes,” Ysalla said.
Mother Basugi raised a finger, like this. “No, it is not fear. We once feared the tigers and the hill-wolves of Wendsha, yet we did not hunt them. You avoid what you fear. You destroy what you hate.”
Poor Father Henrik, he could not stand to stay silent. He reached out to Mother Basugi, resting a kind hand on her shoulder. “Hate is but the fear of something weaker than yourself.”
Mother Basugi smiled a sad smile. “You hurt me thus, to call me weak? But I am weak. When I was young I would have called down the spirits on whomever despoiled my sacred shrines. I would have cast many a curse.”
Ysalla had learned her lessons well, and said: “It is never a weakness to show mercy. Compassion is one of the four holy virtues.”
But Mother Basugi was not of the Fellowship, and said: “Mercy is a weakness when you do not forgive. I do not forgive this, I will not forget this, and yet I must show mercy.”
These words struck Friar Henrik in a way no other words had. Ysalla knew why: Intemperance was a great vice of the Fellowship, which gave birth to the sin of wrath. She knew then what the good Friar would do. She knew as she knew the rumbling skies promised rain, or the call of the tree-sparrow promised the morning.
When the chapel was finally finished, Friar Henrik gave his first sermon in the new building. With Ysalla’s help, he spoke in the language not of Orghasa or Wendsha, but of Jarhaan’s heart. He spoke of unity, of fellowship, of love and respect, of honor and peace. He cautioned against finding importance in differences, instead of celebrating that which was the same. It was, to Ysalla, the most beautiful prayer he had ever given.
But poor Ysalla, poor Friar Henrik, the Empire of Herathia was stronger than both of them. More and more people heard only the language of Herathia, and so the heart of Friar Henrik’s words went unheard.
At last the pirates released Rukiya from her bonds, and forced her off the ship. She could see they were docked at a town almost as large as Clashwind. The houses were wooden, built from logs and mud roofs. The people were dark skinned, like Kerrom, and their shirts had short sleeves that barely covered their biceps. Their hems dropped past their stomach, and were tied together with rope belts.
The image of Goduu’s knot flashed in her mind. Around, over, under, through and through…
A rough hand shoved Rukiya off of the dock and she was tied to a standing post like a dog. Her captors didn’t even look at her while they pulled crates and supplies from the ship, tossing them onto the docks with ease. Among them she saw the single crate of metal black as night and shiny as ice.
The air was hot and moist, burning her lungs as she breathed. Her skin felt oily and a sour smell permeated the jungle, a mixture of wet plant-life and mud. A constant buzzing filled her ears as tiny insects spun through the air, inspecting the warm fleshy newcomers to their arboreal domain. Rukiya tried to toss her hair and scatter the swarms, but her hair hung limp and stuck to her skin. Her clothing followed suit, and Rukiya was instantly miserable.
Then she saw Kerrom.
He was bent double, his hands clasped in front of him, tied so tightly that his wrists were pale. Dried blood caked his brown face, matting his beard together. One eye was swollen shut. He staggered as he was marched down the plank, and fell to the ground when the man behind him kicked him in the back.
Held in place by her binding, Rukiya could only watch as Kerrom slowly staggered back to his feet.
She remained still while the cargo was loaded into carts, and a makeshift caravan was assembled. Large animals that looked like thin bison with long necks and scoop-like horns were harnessed and saddled. Before long, the entire crew was marching along the streets, dragging Rukiya along.
They traveled for many days across the land of Madrain, through jungles and swamps teeming with the humid life of tepid mist and stagnant pools. The trees were heavy and sagged low to the ground, covered with thin creeper-vines. Strange clicking and hooting sounds echoed from deep in the forest, and where Rukiya walked her feet sank in the soaked earth.
Green slime filled shallow puddles and thin reptiles crawled over every tree. Birdsong that Rukiya had never heard before echoed through the air, reminding the poor girl that she was the foreigner here, an interloper out of her rightful place.
All save once. As they marched under the hot noonday, a harsh cry startled her from overhead. Looking up, she saw perched on the edge of a branch, a bluecrow.
Of the few birds found on every island, the bluecrows are rare on Lergos, though every Lergosian knows their cry. Their iridescent wings shimmer in the daylight, catching the eye as their feathers shift from deep blue to dark gold.
To the people of Lergos, the beautiful bluecrows are ill omens. To Rukiya, the signs were clear. A familiar bird in a strange land, a foreigner among unfamiliar trees and earth.
This is what she saw in the bluecrow; that she should never have left Lergos, she should have let Old Wana die. She was still a child, had always been a child, and was not ready to take her place in the wide world.
But this is the truth of omens, that one may see very different things when viewed from the side. Poor Rukiya, she was too tired, too frightened, too alone to see the omen for what it truly was; that even in the dark jungles of Madrain the familiar could be found. Had Rukiya seen this, perhaps she could have been spared much pain.