Stormcallers: Chapter 26
But what of Ala, once called Rukiya? Did she live the rest of her days a slave to the Madrainian King? Did she succumb to the despair and madness that claimed so many slaves? You know she did not, for else how could she midwife the Wailing Hour?
But it was many days before she found herself again, before hope once more curled in her breast.
That day, The harsh voice of the Slavemaster broke over Ala’s head like a whip, calling her to him. She ran to his side and knelt down, bowing her head in fearful reverence.
He had but one command to give her: “Fetch Bread and Water and take it to the Pit.”
Ala had never heard of the Pit, but there were fewer things more dangerous than admitting ignorance to the Slavemaster, so she bowed low, touching her forehead to the stone, before standing and running towards the kitchens.
As she left, she shot a quick look at Hara, who was nearby. In the silent language of the salves, Hara jerked her eyes quickly to the left, then down. A turn of the head and a tilt of the wrist was all the rest that Ala needed, and she ran to the kitchens.
After telling the kitchen-slaves — a higher class of servant who were fit for handling the food of nobles — what she needed, they supplied her with a wooden plate and cup of bread-scraps and water.
The Pit was in one of the many bright and airy courtyards of Tarras Bastion, in front of the prison cells. A thick well covered by a wooden lid was guarded by a single soldier, his curved pike leaning against his shoulder as he yawned. When Ala approached, he grinned viciously. “Ah! Food and water for the pit-thing. At last.” The guard snatched the water from Ala’s hand, and sloshed it over his mouth and beard, drinking deeply. Turning to the well, he opened a small latch in the wooden lid before hoisting up his tunic and pissing into the tiny hole.
When he was finished, the guard snatched a scrap and chewed it for a moment before coughing it back into his hand, and throwing it into the hole. “That was not fit for a man. Perhaps this is?” he grabbed another scrap of bread from Ala’s plate, and then two. Each he chewed, spat out, and threw into the well. One he blew on with his nose. “Good enough for the Sephehar.” With a vicious sound, he drew bile up from his throat and spat a thick wad of yellow into the hole before slamming the latch shut.
Turning back to Ala, he grinned an evil smile and waved his fingers, sending Ala on her way.
She walked as quickly as she could, her mind swirling with the secret she had learned. The pit-thing was Kerrom. He had been her friend so long ago, on the Prezon. He had saved her life, and spared her the Captain’s knife. Now he sat at the bottom of a well, feasting on piss and bile.
How her heart twisted at this! How sharper were the pains in her stomach! She wanted to cry and scream, but she could not lest the Slavemaster’s Lash cut her skin once more. That night, Ala lay awake on her straw mat, staring up at the black stone ceiling of the slave-quarters. She was exhausted, as she had been ever since she had become one of the king’s slaves, but she could not sleep.
It was not hope that kept her awake, dearest beloved. No, not hope that brought her finger to the dust beside her mat to write her true name once more. Hope was a luxury had long since been taken from her and her fellow slaves. It was something greater than hope, greater than fear, greater than the storms that raged in the cloud-sea, descending on the land.
She was Rukiya, and in the memories of Rukiya was Kerrom. She had a responsibility to her friend who even now lay at the bottom of a pit, starving and thirsty for more sustenance than piss and bile. He was suffering perhaps even worse than she, and she could not allow herself to be helpless.
But what could she do? She knew she was a helpless slave, powerless under the thumb not only of the Slavemaster, but every Madrainian noble who saw her as nothing more than a slave, who would return her to the Slavemaster’s grip if she ever broke free. Even the jungle itself stood in opposition to her freedom, filled as it was with raging boar and poisonous insect.
Her every instinct cried out to her to take action and save Kerrom; steal a bow and arrows, a knife perhaps, and slay the guards who kept them apart. Let none of them dare think that Kerrom was a beast fit only for piss and spat-up bread. Wrack fitting vengeance on their heads. But she could not slay an entire fortress of guards. Even with Kerrom at her side, they would soon tire and the guards would kill them both.
Perhaps death would be better than this life of chains, to prove to the Madrainians once and for all that their lives as well as their deaths, had always been their own.
No, it was not hope nor despair, not vengeance nor pity that kept Rukiya awake. She had learned, without a teacher, one of the most ancient secrets of women.
What was the secret? I shall tell you. Think now of a stone. A tiny stone.
Around the stone? Darkness. Silence. There is the ground, of course, and the muddy walls slick with slime and mold. Too slick to climb.
There is light too. A tiny pinprick of light far above. Too high to reach. Too small to do anything but make the shadows darker than night. Imagine falling from the light, and to the sounds of jeering and mocking laughter, see the opening eaten by the wooden lid. The world vanishes.
How long had it been? Months? Years? Seconds? He had no way of knowing. Everything that he had been was taken from him. He had been strong, he remembered, but what was strength when the walls slipped through his fingers? He had been calm, but what was calm compared to the dark silence of the pit? He had been honorable, but there was no such thing as honor when you are all alone.
Was he a man? What made a man? His strength was not enough. His warrior spirit, his passion, his self-control, his duty…none of it meant anything in the pit. Bit by bit, he could feel himself drift away, to be replaced with nothingness. The pit was empty, it was only right that he should join it.
As the silence continued, he had felt his mind begin to fray. Whispers and sounds and visions danced about him, laughing and playing like children. Free from the bonds of the world, they pointed and jeered at him, at how tightly he held to the stone.
A single stone. A tiny stone.
Where had the stone come from? He had struck the wall in fury, in his anger he had cut his hand on the hard surface. Blessed pain had shot through his arm like a lance. He collapsed to the ground and clutched the pain to his chest, a lighthouse that pierced the dark emptiness of the pit. He lived! Praise to the King, he did exist.
The rough stone that bit into his fingertips, that rattled when he tapped it on the ground, it too existed. It was here with him. It was real. He gripped the stone tighter.
Daylight filtered through the slats of the lid. Barely anything, but enough to see it was there. Distant and mocking, a promise that there was an existence, a world out there with people in it, but none of it belonged to him. He was alone. Dead. Dying. Nothing.
Shh! Listen. Do you hear? Whispers from the past, or perhaps a scream. “Kerrom?” What nonsense word is this? He ignores it, and grips the stone tighter.
The sound of wood on wood, a scraping sound. He has heard this sound many times before, a promise of vile poison falling from the sky and foul sick dropping on his head. Hate given material form that he was forced to ingest, lest the pain in his stomach grow stronger. He lived because of this hate, this bile, this venom. He hated it. He craved it. He curled up tighter around the tiny stone, protecting it from the world above.
Listen! Another whisper. “Kerrom are you there?” Louder now, the whisper took shape in his mind. A young girl who saw the pale men around them and chose him instead. A girl who was not frightened of him. No, perhaps still frightened, but eager to look beyond the pain and see him on the inside.
Another whisper. “Are you awake?” Is he awake? Is he dreaming? Perhaps he had never slept, nor never awoken. The pain came all the same, the darkness, the emptiness still was there, no matter whether his eyes were open or closed. Kerrom. He knew that word.
“I brought you water. It’s good and clean. Please drink.”
From the world above, a trickle of rain. It did not burn with a human’s heat, but cooled like spring water. A moment of caution and fear before he twisted about, his tongue lapping like a dog at the thin stream of fresh water being slowly poured from above. It was sweet as honey, clear and fresh, glittering like gold in the dim darkness. He swallowed as much as he could, scarcely able to breathe.
“There’s bread too.”
Soft and gentle as a cloud, the tiny crust landed near his feet. He grabbed it up and shoved it in his mouth. There was no taste of foul earth or slime. He could feel his stomach expanding with each swallow, swelling like a balloon.
“Kerrom, don’t give up.”
Ha! Kerrom! The whisper spoke the truth! He once had been a man, with a name! He had laughed when she had tapped her chin, surprised by the tiny girl’s spirit. He had protected her from the hate of the sailors, their fear driving them to find malice in a harmless child. He had protected her, and now she protected him, his very self.
He knew her name. Rukiya. That was her name. Rukiya!
“Don’t give up hope, Kerrom. I’ll find some way of getting you out of there. I promise.”
How could she be so strong, to find a person where there was naught but a thing in a pit? To find its name and give it back to him? Water. Bread. Hope. Life. These things were of the world above, a place that a debased and foul thing like himself dare not go. He knew he was not worthy of it anymore.
Do you hear the final whisper? “I won’t forget you. I’ll come again.” The wooden slat closed over the lid once more, and the jet black darkness reigned again.
This was the secret Rukiya had learned: the lid did not only bring hate. There was love there too. And now he knew it as he knew there was a stone in his hand. Rukiya had not forsaken him. When his people had stripped him of his name, his family, his honor, and at last his very self, she had not turned away. His shame was not her shame. Was he not worthy of the world above? She did not think so.
He knew now his name was Kerrom. Sobs echoed around him, he knew not from where, as he gripped the tiny stone in his hands, and whispered in ragged gasps to it: “Kerrom. Rukiya. Goduu. The Prezon. Captain Festan. Mister Leig…”
Now, it was not long after Ala began to bring food and water to Kerrom, that she found herself called to the Slavemaster’s side once more.
She ran swiftly to kneel beside him, not in front of him, for he was speaking to a tall and stately noblewoman. At least, she thought so at first, for she saw in the woman a powerful bearing, a posture of strength and confidence that she had only seen in the nobility of the palace. But this woman was dressed in the humble cloth of a queensmaid, the highest rank of servant.
This is the language of the body, for it betrayed the woman’s disguise. Her name was Vishala Welana, she of Dancing Hands, Caller of Flame, and Breaker of Chains. Though she served as a queensmaid, this was not all she did, nor all she was, and so Ala knew at once she should not trust this woman too easily.
The Slavemaster frowned at Ala before kicking her upright. “This queensmaid has paid for your service. Do as she orders you, or I will see you on the whipping cross again.”
Ala bowed lower as the woman turned away. “Follow me,” she said. They walked through the stone passages, to places Rukiya had not yet seen, were low-slaves were not allowed lest the King or Queen lay eyes upon their base forms.
This was the royal chambers, where the only people fit for servitude were nobility themselves, third and fourth-born children from nearby provinces or honored warriors. This queensmaid was likely daughter to a lord who might have graced the kings own dinner table. Perhaps one who had seen Rukiya presented to the king, that first day in Tarras Bastion.
The hallways, instead of merely being swept, had been washed as well. A faint gossamer shine tickled the stones as they walked past hung tapestries and draped silks. Dressed in clean and finer clothes than any slave, the servants went about their business, sparing only a glance at the queensmaid and her strange companion.
Finally, the woman turned and stepped into a small bedchamber. A simple cot lay in the corner, covered with threadbare pillows. A dresser and chest sat nearby, and a stool and chair stood along the near wall. “Your skin is not the same as ours,” the woman cocked her head as she stepped into her room. “You are not Madrainian. Where are you from?”
Ala did not look up when she replied: “The Lergos Archipelago, my lady.”
The woman smiled at her own private joke: “I hope you are the girl I want. I may develop a reputation.” The woman sat in her chair, and pulled her tunic over her head. Bare-chested, she gestured to Ala. “On my dresser is a bottle of oil. Come rub it into my shoulders.”
As Ala did so, the woman let her head rock forward ever so slightly. After a moment, she spoke in a quiet voice: “Who taught you how to tie your belt?”
Poor Ala, she was not prepared for such a question, and so her hand released her mistress’s neck to grasp at her belt, where it was tied in a simple knot. Ever since she had been whipped by the Slavemaster, she had forgotten to tie Goduu’s charm again.
“No one, my lady,” she said.
But Vishala was a clever woman, and she knew Ala had not behaved as one confused, but as one discovered. “Come now, no lies,” she said in a soothing voice, her head still hanging to her chest. “I have brought six slaves to my chamber, and each has told me who taught them. The last girl named you, and of all the girls I have spoken to, you are the only one who taught the knot without wearing it yourself. Which of the slave-girls taught you how to tie the knot?”
Ala could not bear to tell this woman the truth, this queensmaid who did not sit nor walk like a servant. “I do not know what knot you speak of, my lady.”
The woman brushed Ala’s hands aside, her sharp gaze striking Ala full in the face. “If you do not tell me who taught you the knot, I will scream for the guards and you will be beaten.”
Ala stepped away from the woman, but it was Rukiya who spoke, unbidden. “I have been beaten before.”
Now Vishala had known many slaves, having lived in the palace of Madrain for many years, and she knew how to read their fearful faces. This girl who stood before her was something different, she knew, and so it was she knew that it was no slave-girl that had taught Ala the knot. After a moment, she spoke again: “What is your name? And do not ask me to believe your Lergosian parents gave you a Madrainian name.”
Her voice still held the cool strength from before, but now instead of wielded like a club, it was firm and gentle, like a mother’s guiding hand. “Rukiya,” she said. “My name is Rukiya.”
“A much more fitting name,” the woman nodded. “Pretty, too. My name is Vishala Welana. I was born in Darris, though I don’t suppose that means anything to you. It is a small village near the edge of Madrain. Now I think the time for games is over. Tell me, Rukiya, the name of the woman who told you how to tie the knot you taught Hara?”
“I will not tell you,” Rukiya said.
Now you must know that while Vishala was clever, she was also confused, as she had never met someone like Rukiya before, who would resist such a simple question when the punishment could be so severe. She wondered if, perhaps, that this girl belonged to the same people that Vishala belonged to. So, to test this, she asked Rukiya a single question: “Have you heard the storms?”
But Rukiya did not recognize this question for the test that it was, so she gave an answer that was her own, and not that of the Callers. And so Vishala knew that Rukiya was not one of theirs.
But someone had taught Rukiya the knot, and it was important for Vishala to know if another Caller was in trouble, so she asked: “Just tell me this; did she teach you before or after you were taken as a slave?”
But Rukiya was obstinate: “I do not know what you mean, my lady.”
This frustrated Vishala, and she said: “I am not your enemy, child. Someone cared about you very much to teach you that knot, and out of respect for this woman, I would like to help you, and perhaps her, but you have to trust me. Please.”
Trust was not plentiful among the slaves of Tarras Bastion. They trusted the lash, and the pain, and the work, and there was little left for anything else; but neither were there requests or pleas. In the months of slavery Rukiya had endured, not once had she been allowed to entertain the idea of having a will of her own, much less one that would be respected. So in the end, she said at last: “Her name was Goduu.”
“Goduu?” the woman’s eyes crinkled in a Madrainian smile before she leaned forward. “Old Gemstone Ear, I might have guessed.”
Rukiya was surprised that Vishala recognized the name. “You know her?”
“We’re practically sisters,” Vishala’s eyes wrinkled again. “And she taught you the knot, did she? Well then. Do you know what the knot means?”
Rukiya nodded. “It is a charm of protection in ill times.”
Now this was not what Vishala expected to hear, but she nodded all the same, and said: “I suppose in a way it is, though its greatest power is not magic, but in its secrecy. I know you slave girls have a secret language all your own, spoken through eyes and hands instead of voices. Do not worry, I will not tell anyone. I only know because I pay attention. This knot is a similar language. Only a few people know how to tie it, or even to look for it. It has a very special meaning. It means you are in danger, and you need someone like me to help you.”
You must know, dearest beloved, that this confused Rukiya terribly. Why had Goduu told her the knot was a magic charm, if there was no magic in it? Then again, if it meant this woman she had never met was willing to help free her from the bonds of the Slavemaster, was there perhaps some magic in that?
But Rukiya was beginning to learn there were things more powerful than magic, and so she felt these words flow out of her throat like water: “You must help free the other slaves as well. And Kerrom. He is trapped in the pit, and we need to free him.”
“Steady, child,” Vishala raised her hands. “Yes, there is much to be done, but it cannot be done quickly or carelessly. You must be patient while the rest of the world catches up to you. Plans are already in motion, and now I must speak with my friends about you, and we must decide what is to be done. Go now, back to your duties, and be silent on what we have spoken here. I will speak with you again. If the Slavemaster asks, tell him only I asked you to massage my back with oils.”
Rukyia nodded, and stood from the chair to leave. At the door, she turned back. “Why are you helping me? Were you once a slave?”
At hearing this, Vishala’s heart almost broke, for though Rukiya was still young, she had not yet learned one of the greatest secrets of women: “Some day, someone will look at you and I, and decide that in spite of our differences we are not so very different. They shall think we should be treated the same. Am I no better than a slave? Am I no better than a slavemaster? I can not count myself free while any human lives unfree; even if your shackles look different from mine.”
Attend, dearest beloved, to the wisdom of She of Dancing Hands, for this is a truth all must learn, in the many languages of the heart: In the icy hills of Erosea, they say “A chill wind blows all alike.” In the jungles of Madrain, they say “A poisoned well spares no lips.” The mists of Herathia say “No viper’s friend escapes their venom.” In mountainous Cast: “He who angrily swings the ax strikes all who bleed.” In verdant Aylin: “No hand acts alone.” So too do we say: “A word ill said is said by all.”
The evil of the lash and shackle are plain to see, and should any take them up as tools for their will, they poison not only their own hearts, but the hearts of all who live free of their bite. Such was Vishala’s lesson to Rukiya, that it was not the Slavemaster alone who bound her.