Stormcallers: Chapter 23
How many seasons passed? It is not my place to say. Only Rukiya, now called Ala, knew how long it truly was, for she felt every second as sharply as a bluecrow’s beak.
Every day, Ala stood up from her straw mat in the slaves quarters and followed the line of young girls out into the small stone hallway to the brush-house. Here, the girls all took large brushes of short and course boar-hair, and scraped their skin raw. Then they took double-handfuls of dried flower-pedals, and rubbed them over their faces and arms, so their odor did not offend. They dressed themselves in un-dyed cloth and belts of rope. It was the only fitting clothing for slaves.
They grabbed brooms or brushs, and swept the fortress clean of dust, leaves, and dirt. They ran to the wood-stores, carrying logs and kindling to prepare the fires for lighting. They moved quickly because Terras Bastion was larger than any palace, and there was only so much time before the King would wake. Ala soon learned the trick of it, and before long she no longer felt the sting of the Slavemaster’s paw for being too slow.
They gathered the morning meal of cold fruits and nuts from the kitchens, carrying the silver plates throughout the fortress and placing them in their proper places. If they were fortunate, they were given small pieces of ancient crust to fend off the pangs of hunger.
They gathered foul smelling clothing and dragged them to the cleaning-house, where they were rubbed with chopped roots, washed, and beaten against porous slabs of stone. The roots frothed under the water and Ala felt her hands sting and peel as she laid the clothing out to dry.
The slaves did not speak, save for almost inaudible whispers inside their bedchamber. If one was ever heard to open her mouth, the Slavemaster soon heard of it. In truth, Ala did not know for whom she slaved for, whether king or servant, knight or sage; she worked only to avoid the Slavemaster’s fist. It was his favored punishment, though the lash hung lightly on his belt.
It was rare when the Slavemaster freed the whip from his side, and with its brandishing came a new host of horrors. Ala had never seen a slave whipped, but the whimpering and cowering from those nearby told her all she needed to know. When she saw the other slaves cower like frightened hares, she found herself cowering too. The slave-master never once threatened Ala with the whip. Her fellow slaves did the work for him, as they did everyone’s work.
But while no voice nor whisper passed their lips, they did communicate with each other. Ala could read their faces, and saw in their eyes more than words could ever convey. Through silent gestures and turns of the head, the slaves told each other what to do, where to go, what had been remembered or forgotten, and how to spare themselves the wrath of their master and his whip. Ala knew the language of the body, and so learned quickly.
If Ala was lucky, or feeling particularly brave, she would meet eyes with another slave-girl, named Hara. She liked Hara, and Hara liked her. It was Hara who gave her a bowl of oats that first horrible night, and they shared looks whenever they could.
When light began to fade, more meals were carried across Tarras Bastion. More cleaning and washing was done. Fires were lit. Hard back-breaking labor was done. Many of the older girls were taken aside by young nobles, and did not return until evening. Ala was never taken, and as far as she was able to be grateful of anything in her new life, she was grateful of that.
Finally, when the King had gone to bed and the last of the fires were lit, the slaves undressed and poured cold water over their heads and hair. Then they walked back to their tiny room with their tiny mats. A pot of oats supplied their meal, which they ate without comment before curling up and desperately trying to sleep away the pain.
It was in this brief moment, the transition between slavery and sleep, between pain and peace, that Ala was no longer Ala.
In truth, she was never Ala; she knew this as she knew her own breath. She was Rukiya, and would always be Rukiya, no matter what anyone else demanded of her. Ala was no more than a heavy chain laid about her neck by the Slavemaster, yet another tool to keep her from herself. Like a true Orenda warrior, daughter of a shaman who knew the secret charms, she fought to remain true to herself.
It was not easy. The cracking whip of the Slavemaster, his heavy fists, his rough boots, the gnawing hunger and exhaustion…she could feel it worming its way into her mind.
But before she slept, she remembered Old Wana. She remembered Atamato, and Kerrom, and Goduu. She remembered the Prezon, her father, and hunting the quayla on the twin islands of Oleni and Orem. She remembered the festivals, the cloud-sea, visiting Clashwind, even the storms that burst and rumbled from the depths. She took all of it, all of her memories, and put them in a single word.
Reaching out, she drew her finger along in the dust next to her straw mat. For all the cleaning the slaves did in the fortress, there was no one to clean the slave’s quarters, and so she wrote her name in the dust, in the language of the Free City of Imbari that Atamato had taught her.
When she was finished, she curled up on her mat and fell asleep.
In the morning, she looked at her name again, burning the letters into her mind for another day before brushing the dust away, and getting up to scrub herself with the boar-hair brushes and flowers. In this way, she was able to remain Rukiya for many months.
But it was not the magic of the Imbarian letters alone that kept her safe, but too was it Goduu’s charm that she tied in her belt every day. Around, over, under, through and through she tied her belt, and every day she watched and waited for a sign that the magic was working, the fortune or blessing that would save her from the Slavemaster’s wrath.
Days passed, and she wondered if a single charm were not enough. One night, Rukiya crept to Hara’s side, and showed her how to tie the knot with a few strands of her hair. Around, over, under, through and through.
In a whisper that did not carry beyond her ear, Hara asked what it was.
“A magic charm,” Rukiya whispered back, “to keep us safe. Tie the knot in your belt tomorrow, and every day after.”
“This is just village-magic,” Hara shook her head. “Not real magic. Even magic cannot save us. This knot is nothing more than blowing against the wind.”
But Rukiya did not listen to Hara’s sadness. She pressed her mouth together and shook her head. “Perhaps alone, but if both of us wear the charm, something may come of it. Promise me you will tie the knot.”
Faced with the force of Rukiya’s gaze, Hara could do nothing but nod, and so the next day, the two of them wore the charm together. In this manner, through writing her name and wearing her charm, she remained Rukiya.
Alas, poor child, she did not remain Rukiya forever. She never learned what she had done wrong, because she had done nothing wrong; but the Slavemaster knew many secrets of men, and he knew that his new slave had not yet felt his lash. He knew she must learn the cost of disobedience, else she might think herself free, so one day he shouted her slave-name, Ala, and dragged her by the hair.
She did not cry out as she was dragged into the morning daylight. She did not struggle as she found herself hoisted into the air by two guardsmen, who then tied her legs to the large wooden cross. She forced herself to breathe calmly. She had felt pain before. The storms had cut her with ice, and she was no stranger to a punishing kick.
She almost cried out when the soldiers grabbed her dress and lifted it over her head. She struggled only briefly as they left her naked, her arms tied above her. Her skin burned in the hot humid air.
Behind her, the long leather whip uncoiled and slapped against the stone courtyard. “Five lashes,” the Slavemaster spat. Poor Rukiya, she was not ready for the pain.
“Jik!”
She did not cry out when the first lash struck her back, the shock was too great for her. She gasped instead as the pain flashed across her skin like flame, burning deep into her flesh and bone. So great was the pain she could not even scream.
“Do!”
The second lash burned sharper than the first, scouring her back and filling her with agony. Tears leapt to her eyes, yet again she could not cry. She could not breathe. Her eyes rolled as her body spasmed from the pain. Her eyes sought upwards, into the sky. The clouds were white and clean, free from the dank shadows of the depths. They were clear and bright, the home of the quayla, who darted between the islands so freely.
“Tni!”
The third blow came with the snap of the lash as it carved another piece of her back free. So great was the shock and pain that she had not yet heard the crack. In her fevered mind, she wondered if the whip had already carved through to her bones, and the snap was her ribs breaking.
“Caan!”
At last, a cry moan escaped her lips, though it came not from her heart. No, the cry came from the depths of her being, deep and bestial. She could not stop it escaping her body to flee the pain that coursed through her limbs.
“Hac!”
Her head rolled against the wooden cross, and she saw for the first time that three slaves had entered the courtyard to clean, or perhaps to bring food. They were watching her with eyes dark and dead. She hung for a moment longer before the guards released her arms. She staggered away from the cross, tears stinging her eyes, drops of blood stinging her back. Her legs were about to collapse, when the rough grip of the Slavemaster forced her upright again. She was dragged back to the slave-quarters and thrown to the floor.
In her memory, Goduu’s whispers tickled her ear: “They say the storms come to the Beldam in times of great need and suffering, and promise great power in return for their heart and soul.” In her weakness and shame, she would have gladly paid the price. What good was a heart or a soul in this place?
She stood through the pain, cleaned herself, and returned to work. Pain would always be forthcoming. What use was fighting it? She had known who she was; an archer of no small skill, a seeker of magic, a sailor, Orenda, woman, friend of Goduu, Atamato, Kerrom…
But they weren’t here. What good were skills of archery when you were a slave? There was no room for magics nor sailing. Everything that was valuable about her was worth nothing to the Madrainians. Everything that had made her herself had been stripped away.
The Slavemaster was skilled with the lash: Rukiya’s back did not scar, but neither did the pain vanish. For days it lingered, first in her bones, then in her memory.
She tried to do her work, but her hands began to shake whenever she saw the Slavemaster walking down the hallways, or hear his boots thudding against the stone floors. His harsh voice set her heart racing in fear, and even when he was nowhere to be seen, she could feel his hot breath on the back of her neck.
One night, she didn’t write her name in the dust. It was an old name, and not worth keeping.
Poor girl, let us leave her to her sorrows for the moment, and see now what happens deep in the misty Empire of Herathia. Here, in the ancient factories and foundries of the Imperial Shipwrights, massive vessels began to take shape.
The Erwind Trade Conglomerate had been true to their word; they had sent supplies and engineers. They had brought caravans of wood, cloth, leather, and metal. Most important of all, the vast amount of lift-gas that would carry more ships than any other kingdom on the cloud-sea. With their support, the Herathian Armada would blossom further still.
The Commander of Horses had joined with Teschemar’s men as well. Already a full Talon of elite soldiers now stood ready, trained in the strange black armor they would wear, and the sharp black weapons they would wield.
The supplies were prepared, the army ready, all that remained was the strategy, the mind behind it all, and it was this that Teschemar devoted himself to with reckless abandon. Now he sat in his council room, surrounded by strategists and scholars, and stared at the map of Madrain.
The island of Madrain was long thought unconquerable, its capital surrounded by miles of impenetrable jungle, and thick stone walls that had resisted every siege and assault for over a hundred years.
But times had changed. He had an armada held aloft with Erosean lift-gas. He had a full Wing of soldiers armored in impenetrable cloud-steel. With these tools came new strategies, new maneuvers, new tactics that would ensure victory against the backwards savages of the Madrainian Jungles.
Now Teschemar knew the strength of a Herathan soldier, and he knew his army would stand strong. What he did not know was the strength of his Normans. His immediate subordinates served him faithfully for many years, but a soft bed and warm meal could be alluring to the weak. His Normans had been tried in war, but never in peace.
To each Norman he spoke, and challenged their devotion. He scorned their manhood and urged them to return to their families, to set aside their weapons and play with their children. Though not a single Norman relented, each professing undying service, Teschemar saw the flame die in some of their eyes. These men he dismissed, stripped of their rank and shamed for their divided loyalties.
They would soon be replaced from the ranks below, by some Wailish who served their Norman with greater fire than their superior dared hold in their gut.
Thus did Teschemar purge what he saw as weakness. Thus did he ensure he was served by hungry and bloodthirsy men, who cared only for strength of arm instead of strength of heart.
When at last he was satisfied, Teschemar bid his Normans to leave and prepare their men. He hoped for a moment of quiet with which to prepare himself, but a wheedling voice he had come to loathe broke his concentration.
The Steward of Roads, named Nirsuchin, had entered Teschemar’s war room. “Honored Cloud Commander, I wish to speak with you about a matter of grave importance.” His voice, to Teschemar, stood on the precipice of insolence and foolishness. As cruel and clever as the man was, he sounded no better than a child.
“Forgive my intrusion, but there is word among the Empire of a secret war to be waged on the people of Madrain. I have come to see if you know anything about such rumors?”
Now of course the Steward of Roads knew that Teschemar was responsible for this secret war, but such was his duplicity that he could not confront Teschemar outright. He could not help but whimper and moue. Teschemar hated the Steward of Roads, as he could think of fewer men more unworthy of his place as Commander.
“Speak quickly then,” Teschemar snapped at his fellow, “for I have much to do and little time to waste with words.”
The Steward of Roads smirked at this, and said: “yes, I understand you are to go to the Shipwrights to observe the construction of a new air-ship. I do not remember the last time I heard of this. Nostalgia perhaps? Or mistrust of your subordinates?”
Teschemar did not rise to the bait. He did not ask the Steward where he heard of Teschemar’s plans, as the Steward learned many things from his many spies. Neither did he spit upon the Steward for suggesting that Teschemar would mistrust those beneath him.
The Steward continued: “I have heard strange things indeed, about this new ship; such that it shall be flat-bottomed. Very treacherous in high winds, and susceptible to the storms. Not very fast, either, with such a flat front.”
Now Teschemar spoke: “I did not know you took such an interest in the craft of my ships, to know such things.”
The Steward of Roads nodded once. “I find it useful to know a little about a lot. I have heard too the balloon is quite large. Whatever the ship will carry, it will be quite heavy. A transport ship, perhaps, designed for travel across the island, instead of the sea? Such a simple design would be of limited use for anything else, no? But that would be a waste of time and resources. Carts and caravans are far simpler and cheaper, and very safe when taken along my well-watched roads. Why, the only benefit to flying over Herathia might be that such commerce would fall under your own jurisdiction rather than my own.”
“I have no desire to involve myself with your petty duties,” Teschemar answered the charge. “I am no tax-taker.”
Now while Teschemar hated the Steward of Roads and thought him weak, the Steward was very clever indeed. He had spent many hours studying Teschemar in counsel, and knew how the Cloud Commander thought. He knew Teschemar despised weaknesses such as compromise and collaboration; but too he knew he was loyal to Herathia. The Steward had his own loyalties, and so thought he saw how to manipulate Teschemar for his own ends. So he said: “No, you are not. I have heard too that buried deep in your warehouses lie some thousand barrels of lift-gas. Enough to sail the entire Armada of Herathia for fifty years, if you wished. Even Aylin is not beyond your reach, now.”
At this, Teschemar turned angry. Though he knew the Steward was baiting him, he could not stop the rush of blood to his face at hearing the name of Aylin, the Verdant Island, Golden Hill and Silver River.
Why was he so angry?
Because it was many years ago, during a mighty battle against the people of Aylin, that Teschemar’s throat gained its scar. He had never been so ashamed as when he returned to Herathia, head bowed, sword broken. It had scarred both his throat and his heart, so that now Aylin was both his greatest fear and his greatest hate.
But clever Steward of Roads, Nirsuchin raised a pacifying hand, like this, and said, “Your passion to the Empire is to be commended, Cloud Commander. Your sailors and soldiers will soon march on foreign lands to uphold the Law, as it should be. Soon it shall be a Golden Age of Herathia.”
Teschemar was not a fool, and he knew the Steward was clever, so he was not calmed. “Speak plain, Lord Nirsuchin, and I shall answer your questions. Else leave me be to prepare.”
Now the Steward knew how truth could be a weapon, so he rose to Teschemar’s challenge: “I know of your alliance with the Erwind Trade Conglomerate, and yet neither I, nor our honored Commander of the Maps were consulted. The Commander of Pikes was livid that he was not asked to provide an assortment of soldiers to behave as inspectors, as were my own Normans. I looked to see what could be worth insulting the very Commanders that you share a table with. What could be so important as to spit on your fellow soldiers? And what do I find? Erosean paper with Erosean ink that spells out Erosean ideas. What am I supposed to think?”
If there was any respect that Teschemar gave to the Steward of Roads, it was that he too cared for keeping the Empire Herathian. He said: “You think whatever your twisted mind tells you to think, Nirsuchin. I will use whatever tools I require to bring the Law of Herathia across the cloud-sea to the heathen lands. The Herathian people will once more be tempered in war, and we will once more be proud to hold our heads high and call ourselves men.”
Nirsuchin didn’t move. His smile did not vanish, and his eyes did not move away from the map that lay upon the table. After a moment, he said: “The Madrainian pirates hold Tarras Bastion, a fortress unconquered for generations. Our honored Commander of Maps has said many times the walls of Tarras Bastion are unbreachable, and the Madrainian warriors fierce and uncompromising. Now of course, nothing in the cloud-sea is fiercer than a Herathian standing side by side with his fellows. Together, the might of Herathia is unbreakable. Apart…” He let the word hang in the air before shrugging. “I hope only that you have a plan beyond crashing against foreign shores like raindrops on a stone.”
For Teschemar, such platitudes were for the weak. A single soldier stood with his fellows, and became as strong as an army. A single Commander needed only five fellows, and they kept to their own responsibilities.
Teschemar’s plans were none of Nirsuchin’s business, but he would find out anyway. The Steward of the Roads had ways of finding out anything he wished to know. He knew how many taxes were owed, and which crimes were being committed. Even the Commander of Pikes was not as well versed in the criminal activity occurring across the Empire, beyond the firm grip of Zuolbal Oratz.
When the Steward left at last, Teschemar breathed deep of the stagnant air. To his nose, it was the scent of a world finally shifting to his will. It was the scent of simplicity itself.