Stormcallers: Chapter 22
Now, at long last, Rukiya’s hands were unbound.
Instantly, the numbing pain that had ached in her extremities, that had become familiar and finally easy to ignore, flooded back into her fingertips, bringing a burning pain that stung like a firestorm. She cradled her hands against her chest, like this, so ashamed was she of her pain. She had cried and wept as she had been dragged off, not silent as Kerrom.
The man who freed her, if he can be called a man, spoke in oman, his w’s swirling around his mouth before the hard sounds popped out like bubbles: “You are now a slave-girl of King Rakhnagat. I am the King’s Slavemaster. You will call me master, and will obey me as you will obey him. If you do not, then you will be punished as befits a slave. If you still do not obey, you will be killed, and your body thrown to the boars.”
She wanted to spit at him. She wanted to kick and bite and scream at him, but he was taller than her, and thicker, and had eaten more than scraps for days. He did not look tired, nor did his muscles appear to ache with fatigue.
Poor Rukiya, what could she do? She said: “I understand.”
Alas, this infuriated the Slavemaster, and his hand caught her about the head. “I did not tell you to speak, slave, I told you to nod. You will not speak unless I order it. You will not eat unless I allow it. You will not sleep, nor rest unless I permit it. Your name is now Ala, and you will answer to no other name, because now you belong to the King.” The man’s cold eyes glared down at Rukiya, embers of hate glittering in their depths. “You will sleep now, and begin work tomorrow. This is a kindness, so you will be grateful.” With that, the Slavemaster turned on his heel and left.
Alone at last, Rukiya sank to the floor and began to cry. Her tears fell like morning dew from her eyes, falling through the scar on her cheek, dropping on the scar on her arm.
Almost three seasons had passed since brave Rukiya had left her village to travel across the cloud-sea. Though the way had been hard and painful, she had never once cried. She had not cried when the land of Lergos had vanished into the clouds as the Prezon flew away. She had not cried when the raging icestorm had attacked the Prezon, and in her panic she had broken the stach-side fin. She hadn’t even cried when Captain Festan tried to kill her.
Now she sobbed like a child on the cold stone floor of the tiny bedchamber where the slaves slept. There were no hammocks, only straw mats on the floor, barely big enough for a single girl to sleep on. There were no chests or boxes to put her things, though it seemed of little importance, as she had no things to put anywhere.
When she could breathe properly again, Rukiya crawled to the closest mat and curled up to try and sleep.
Her hands hurt. Her legs hurt. Her lungs ached. Her skin burned. Atamato was gone. Kerrom was gone. Goduu was gone. She didn’t move for hours.
As the light faded from the skies, the small door opened and the sound of bare feet on stone trickled into the room. The slaves made no sound, as they had long since learned the punishment for crying out.
Food came in a metal pot with wooden bowls. The faint smell of warm oats hit Rukiya’s nostrils, and her stomach ached along with the rest of her, but she couldn’t bear to move. The slaves ate without a word, each poor soul alone in their own private agonies.
Then, Rukiya heard the sound of approaching feet. She didn’t move, fearing new and uninvited pains.
But it was not pain that came, but the soft sound of a wooden bowl half full of gruel being set on the cold stone floor next to her. And lo! In an instant the world which had been so filled with hate and fear and torments unimaginable, was filled too with a gift of incomparable value. With a single bowl of food, though Rukiya was still alone, there was someone else who was alone with her.
So powerful was this simple act of compassion and kindness, that Rukiya began to sob again.
Poor Ada, once called Rukiya, then Phalamili; she did not know how her tears mingled with those shed by Ysalla Aloni, Pure of Heart. She too wept in the darkness, though her tears were not for compassion, but for heartbreak.
In the legends and tales shared among the people of Wendsha, nighttime was a time of ill-omens. To be awake when the light did not touch the land was to court ill-luck, to attract the eye of things best avoided. The people of Wendsha were a humble people, who knew that nothing good came of drawing the attention of things greater and more powerful than them.
That night, Ysalla couldn’t sleep. Friar Henrik had called it insomnia. To the people of Wendsha, it was called Ni orguin osht; to be looked upon. It was the sign that something evil was coming, something powerful, something that could not be avoided.
If Ysalla had not vowed to take on the mantle of the Fellowship, she would have run to her family’s shrine out behind their farm and poured fresh water over its stones. She would have cut a lock of her hair and seasoned it with oil. She would have burned a piece of bread or salted meat to summon her ancestors to become a bulwark against the coming evil.
But she had sworn herself to the Fellowship, a religion of generosity and patience. She slept now in her room in the Chapel, near the Friar’s room. Friar Henrik’s old farmhouse lay empty, as did the barn and field. The Friar had no need to farm for his food, it was provided by the townsfolk in taxes. No longer could she speak out as she had before, lest the Imperial Proxy, a cold man with dark eyes and many soldiers, punish the Friar for his inability to train her properly.
The Proxy attended the Friar’s sermons every week, and Ysalla could see him noting who attended and who did not. Often he spoke with Friar Henrik afterwards, in hushed and tense tones.
The Friar’s sermons were never as kind as the first he gave in the new Chapel. With every meeting with the Proxy, his sermons sounded more and more Orghasan. He spoke of the growing evil of the storms, and how they were the lost and mournful souls of the dead who had not been cleansed of their sins. He cautioned vigilance, and respect to ones superiors. He told the people of Jarhaan to be watchful. Watch your neighbors with suspicion. Watch your superiors with adoration. Watch your children with care. Watch for strangers with fear.
But Ysalla knew Friar Henrik, and she could see how it hurt him. There was no fire in his heart for these words, and he wept to speak them.
Then, one night, there was a knock on the door of the chapel. So quiet it was that Ysalla might not have heard it if she were not awake. She dressed quickly and crept out into the chapel to see who needed her help at such a late hour. She opened the door, and saw the twin forms of Mother Basugi and her husband.
Before Ysalla could open her mouth, Mother Basugi spoke: “Father Henrik has said the chapel is a sanctuary.”
At hearing these words, Ysalla stepped aside and allowed the Basugis to enter. Once the door was shut behind them, She set them down on the chapel benches before going to wake the Friar.
When he opened his door, Ysalla said only this: “The Basugis are here.”
Friar Henrik knew what this meant, for Ysalla and the Friar had spoken of it often. They were not blind to the changes in the world, and knew that someday the Basugis would need their help. Once the Friar had dressed himself in his holy robes, he gathered blankets to warm their bodies, and told Ysalla to brew tea to warm their stomachs.
They were only the first. Before the night was done, seven different families sat huddled in the chapel, each respected followers of the ancient ways. Parents and children, old and young, all sat in silence, fear in their eyes.
“You cannot stay here,” Friar Henrik told them when they were all warmed and fed. “The Chapel is a place of the Empire, and the Proxy will not restrain himself in his wrath. We must find a place for you to hide until you can escape.”
Mother Basugi shook her head. “Escape to where? All of Wendsha is of the Empire, now. They will not let us leave. They burn our fields, destroy our shrines, bury our homes under ash and dust. They will kill us if they see us, and they will hunt us if we leave. ‘Those who live apart are parasites who feed off the fellowship of others.’ This is what your book says, Friar Henrik.”
Ysalla knew what lay at the heart of those words, and she knew that was not the truth of it. To live apart was not to follow different traditions, but to ignore the humanity of others. To live apart was to see another and say ’they are not like me, I shall not share with them.’ To even suggest the Fellowship encouraged such things was a dagger to her heart.
So too was it a dagger to the Friar, and his eyes glittered in the darkness as he spoke. “I don’t care what the book says. Fellowship means helping those in need. You shall stay, I shall keep you all in my old barn. I shall bring you food and water, and anything you ask for. I will keep you hidden and safe until we find a way to keep you safe. Eventually, a sympathetic merchant may pass through our town, and they may take you and your familes”
It warmed Ysalla’s heart to hear her Friar speak in such firm tones. She had always known Friar Henrik was strong and true of heart, and it felt good to have her faith in him rewarded so. She asked of the seven families, “Is there anything we can bring you from your homes?”
“There is nothing left,” was the answer. “Everything has been burned or stolen or spoiled. So determined were they to ruin us, that they took everything we had.”
The Friar spoke again: “Who? Who did this to you all?”
Mother Basugi shook her head, and answered thus: “The light above, the depths below.” It is an old Wendshan saying, meaning that as the light shone above the land, and the dark depths boiled beneath, so too was the answer as natural as could be. An answer any child could guess.
But in such a bitter answer lay a sadder truth; that Ysalla and Friar Henrik couldn’t guess. Not anymore. There were too many people in the village, people Ysalla had thought she had known, who now shot withering glances at their former friends. Not a year ago, Ysalla couldn’t have imagined any of the villagers doing anything so cruel as to burn another’s home.
Friar Henrik stood from where he had sat, and gathered the seven about him. “Come, it is still dark. We must move swiftly and silently, and I will protect you.” He took them through the Chapel and out into the night, careful to avoid the searching gaze of the night-watch.
When they were safely tucked away in the barn, Ysalla asked of the seven “please tell us if there is anything else we can do.”
“You have done more than our neighbors,” Father Basugi said, his tone flat.
If you are not of Wendshan born, it is impossible to say how these words affected Ysalla. To know the language of a Jarhaan heart is to know what a neighbor is, what a neighbor does, and to do more is to be greater than family.
These words were what caused Ysalla’s tears to fall that night, as she clutched her blanket to her face. Not that they honored her and the Friar so highly, but that the citizens of Jarhaan had fallen so short. Seven families lay hidden in the barn, fearful of their lives. How had the Empire done this to them? What strange magics had they used to turn the people against themselves?
Poor Ysalla, she did not know, and it frightened her.