The Mirror After the Cavern

by Jeffrey Quyle

  “It’s time to go pick out rooms,” Griss nudged Silas. “We get to move up to the lavender house today!”

  “You’ve been there a bunch; where’s the best place to claim a room?” Griss asked.

  “Jimes had a good room, close to the door,” Silas tried to analyze room locations on the spur of the moment. He hadn’t thought about the topic on his own; he’d only been focused on getting into the lavender house, where any room would have felt like a palace suite to him.

  “What room is closest to the girls?” Griss pressed.

  “You’re not supposed to be in the girls’ rooms,” Silas pointed out.

  “You know better than I do how to get away with it,” Griss elbowed Silas, in reference to his infamous experience in Sloeleen’s room.

  Silas was pleased that Sloeleen had also been a graduate of the academy; she and another girl had been led to the temple the morning before. He was going to have nothing to do with girls in the upcoming year – he would avoid socializing in general, and all functions and activities in particular, so that he would become invisible on campus, particularly to Botton. Silas vowed to himself that he would learn all the lessons and become a graduate of the academy within a year.

  He would become a Wind Word Speaker.

  Chapter 9

  By the beginning of the next spring, Silas knew that he had stuck to his plan as rigorously as possible. He had studied in his room and in the library for long hours, while he had avoided most of the social interactions that took place among the students. He had managed to avoid taking classes from teacher Botton, and only seen him fleetingly around the grounds of the Wind Word Guild. He had progressed academically to the point of being on schedule to graduate.

  As a spring holiday opened with a bright sunrise and a promise of a trading caravan bringing goods and entertainment for a daylong fair, Silas concluded that he could afford to take a break from the monotony of his life and go to the fair.

  He sat by his window and listened to the sounds of the traders’ caravan as it arrived in the streets of the village outside the Guild campus. The wagons and donkeys produced rhythmic sounds as they passed along the cobblestone street, headed towards the village green on the edge of the community. The rhythms were accompanied by shouts and laughter as the villagers enjoyed the spectacle of the arrival of the visitors.

  He worked on his studies until midday, then was the last student to leave the lavender dorm when he walked across campus and exited through the gate, leaving behind the campus and his studies and all the pressure he put on himself to succeed. He physically felt the weight of his school work rise off his shoulders, and he walked briskly towards the sounds of the market that had sprung up in the field.

  He soon caught up with a half dozen members of the Guild academy staff, who were walking at a more stately pace than Silas was, and he slowed down so as not to pass them too quickly, afraid of seeming too eager to reach the festive atmosphere. He edged to the side of the road and skirted past the authorities; Botton was among them, and Silas wanted to avoid calling attention to himself if he could.

  He was walking just a few steps ahead of the cluster of teachers when they all reached the edge of the festival. A cantankerous mule was balking at pulling a wagon off the roadway, narrowing the passage into the collection of sales, games, and entertainments.

  “Someone get that donkey moving!” Botton brayed loudly from the back of the congested foot traffic that jostled to get through. “Silas! Mountain boy! Get over there and help move the animal!” Botton commanded loudly. “Surely you can do that right.”

  Silas gritted his teeth. He didn’t know much about donkeys or how to handle them. The few domestic animals used on the farm fields around Brigamme had been oxen, not donkeys. Silas had little experience even with those animals, and less with the donkeys.

  Nevertheless, he knew he had to comply with Botton’s command.

  A haggard woman was feebly attempting to motivate the mule to pull the wagon into the field of grass, while the tired and distressed animal stood still, with his head down and its ears nearly flattened against its head. The woman had a shawl pulled loosely over her head, but wisps of dark hair escaped on all fronts, lending her an air of disorderly chaos.

  “Can I help push it?” Silas asked as he leaned his shoulder against the animal’s rear quarter and pressed his weight. “What’s the problem?”

  “The problem is that this animal’s handler died two days ago, and I’m trying to help manage it until we get a new handler under contract,” the woman said from near the mule’s head. “I didn’t know what to feed it and I gave it the wrong mix for breakfast. It’s been blowing all morning.”

  Silas understood what she said. The rear of the animal emitted a strong and unpleasant odor, one that nearly made the boy retch.

  “Come on mountain boy, do better than that!” Botton was edging closer to the mule as the pedestrian traffic continued to jostle forward.

  Silas placed his arms around the side of the mule and pressed forward with all his strength, hoping to achieve some movement by the unhappy animal. The mule’s hoofs shuffled slightly, but did nothing else.

  Silas suddenly felt the flesh of the mule quiver under his arms, and he heard a loud, liquid gurgling sound rumble out of the suffering animal’s stomach. The mule’s tail suddenly rose, and Silas instinctively stepped sideways and forward, moving away from whatever unpleasantry was about to occur.

  There was noise. There was odor. There was a high-pressure spray of liquid mule manure that forcefully streamed through the air and down to the ground near the mule’s rear.

  And in the central zone of the emissions was the unprepared teacher Botton.

  Silas saw the heavy spackling of brown debris suddenly coat Botton’s frock and his face. The man gave an unearthly, high scream of fright and embarrassment. His face turned bright red with mortification beneath the slimy coating he’d received, then his complexion turned white with fury.

  “You! You did this to me!” Botton swiveled to stare daggers at Silas, who stood helplessly – and cleanly – off to the side of the mule. “You insolent, good-for-nothing urchin!”

  Botton’s companions, and many, many others in the crowd were laughing loudly at the situation, at the sight of the academy teacher in refined and elegant robes, standing covered in mule manure.

  “I didn’t do it master!” Silas protested immediately. “The mule is sick – it ate the wrong mix for breakfast this morning – the lady said so. You said so, didn’t you?” he turned pleadingly to ask the handler for the animal.

  The woman was doubled over in mirth.

  “I know how that lying, cheating mind of yours works, Silas!” Botton barked out in a high-pitched, blistering tone, full of venomous anger. “You’ll be sorry you did this; you’ll be sorry you ever set foot inside the Guild campus!” he stormed, then turned and began running back towards the gate to the Wind Word property, his dignity in tatters.

  Silas stood in place stunned, as the crowd began to move once again. The mule gave a loud bray, then suddenly and unexpectedly began to plod forward, feeling more comfortable and ready to pull its load, having relieved itself of its gastric distress.

  “Thank you, youngster; I’ll take it from here,” the woman began walking forward to draw even with the head of the now-ambulatory animal.

  And Silas stood alone, scared.

  Botton would find some way to attack him, he was sure.

  He needed to start moving; he couldn’t stand in place. He no longer wanted to go to the festival and the marketplace – he felt no joy any longer. But he didn’t want to return immediately to the lavender dorm in the Guild academy grounds, where he might fall subject to the irate hostility of Botton, if the two happened to cross paths.

  Silas needed to find someplace else. He began to walk away from the festival grounds, back into the village, then randomly turned down one of the side streets, and walked for five minutes until he found himself standing
in front of a temple, the village’s small temple to Krusima, the earth god. He stepped inside the dim building, and went into a small side chapel, where he sat on the marble bench and stared vacantly at the bias-relief carved image of the god.

  Perhaps it was time for him to give up. There seemed no chance that a Guild that relied on the judgement of Botton was ever going to provide him with a chance to succeed. The boy could simply pack up and run away from Heathrin, he told himself in a moment of profound self-pity. But he wouldn’t have anywhere he could go to. There was no obvious place that would welcome him. His former home had been very kind and gentle about it, but they had tacitly sent him a message when they had collectively paid for his departure – he would not fit in among the trackers: he was not welcome there any longer.

  “Why couldn’t I have just been a tracker like everyone else in Brigamme?” he whined softly in the dim light.

  “You are meant for something more; you’re needed to do more,” a voice spoke as the relief image of the god carved on the stone in front of him magically glowed. “And you will do more, much more.”

  Silas’s eyes widened as his face paled. He looked at the stone sculpture in front of him, as he partially rose to a crouching posture, then looked around the small chapel and beyond. There was no one else visible.

  “Who said that?” he asked plaintively.

  “You’re in my temple; don’t act like a fool. You know it was me. Now, go back to the academy, and accept the things that are going to happen. They will have a purpose, and they will lead to an important chapter in your life,” the god’s voice spoke. The relief sculpture did not move, but its glow rose and ebbed as the words were enunciated.

  “Yes, my lord. I’ll go right now,” Silas was frightened and anxious to leave immediately. He rose, then bowed, then backed out of the chapel, before he turned and ran out of the temple, back into the street. He breathed heavily in a panic as he stared around wild-eyed, wishing someone had been with him to corroborate what had just happened.

  There were few passersby; most of the village was at or on the way to the festival. Silas stood alone, still breathing heavily, feeling his heart rate gradually diminish. He had heard from a god, directly, he told himself. It was an incredible concept.

  He wouldn’t run away, clearly. A god had spoken to him, and told him not to run. Something good was on the verge of happening – a god had spoken. The god had used the word ‘important’, not precisely the word ‘good’, but almost the same as, Silas reasoned.

  A young couple jostled him as they passed, their eyes on each other instead of on the street. It was time for Silas to move on.

  “Thank you my lord Krusima,” Silas muttered the words, bobbed his head at the temple, then began to walk towards the main gate to the Guild property, ready for his next chapter in life to begin.

  It would be a good life, and he spent time imaginatively speculating on what was going to happen. He was obviously going to be allowed to meet the priestesses and descend into the sacred cave after all, so that he might be exposed to the mysterious, holy airs that would imbue him with the powers of being a Wind Word Speaker. And then he would be assigned to be the Speaker for some place, some place important.

  Silas wondered where it would be. The word “important” made it seem likely to be a palace somewhere, under the command of a king or mighty leader. He’d studied geography extensively as part of his training, and he left his imagination speculatively roam around among the great cities of the continent while his legs steadily carried him back to the campus gate.

  He could go to Avaleen, the capital city of the nation that nominally surrounded Heathrin and the Wind Word center. The nobles who ran the nation did so with relative prudence and effectiveness. There were no rumors of intrigue or derring-do in Avaleen, but he’d accept the assignment there if it came. It would be boring on the surface, but Krusima seemed to promise something would be exciting.

  Or, he might be sent to Amenozume, the island nation ruled by women. Silas knew very little about the land, but it seemed like a place that would probably offer an opportunity to play a role in some event of great importance.

  Slightly farther away was Barnesnob, a country run by traders. Silas had heard his father Tella mention the hustle and bustle of business in the capital city, a harbor town with a great deal of commerce flowing through it. Barnesnob seemed to generate a disproportionate amount of the tracking business that the villagers of Brigamme provided, presumably a result of the commerce and money that flowed so freely there. Silas might find himself working with trackers under some circumstances there, he speculated.

  Silas found himself back at the gate before he had finished his daydreams, and he contentedly strolled back onto campus, sure that a positive future awaited him, thanks to the prophecy of a god.

  He walked across campus, but as he approached his dorm, a lone figure – for the grounds were deserted by the residents who had gone to the traders’ carnival – he was approached by two members of the Guild, wearing the dark solemn gowns that were normally reserved for use in solemn ceremonies.

  “Silas, we’d like for you to join us in the Hall of Judges,” one of the aged men said firmly.

  “I’m just on my way back to my room to study,” Silas protested. He probably would have studied if he got to his room – studied and daydreamed. He knew that he didn’t want to go with the men to the Hall of Judges; there were very few reasons for any resident of the campus to go there, except when charged with a serious offense.

  “This is not a criminal case,” the second senior Guild leader told Silas, trying to put him at ease.

  “I’ll,” Silas paused and stuttered, “I’ll be right with you, masters,” he conceded, then followed them across the campus to an imposing, formal building he had walked past but never entered before. Perhaps the visit to the hall was already the first step in Krusima’s plan for his career.

  They entered through a small door on the side of the building, barely noticeable in comparison to the columns and ornate frames or the great doors in the front of the Hall. Silas looked about curiously as they walked a short, dim passageway, then entered a reception area near the front of the building.

  To his right he could see through open doors, and observed an empty, elaborately decorated large hearing room. The room had a bench and railings and chairs for an audience, but he could note few of the details as his escort glided through the reception room and went to a stairwell on the far side of the building. The men escorting Silas climbed the stairs slowly, as they rose and circled an open atrium, causing Silas to pause between steps so that his faster pace wouldn’t run into the men.

  They left the steps on the second floor and went down a hall, then entered a medium-sized room. A row of ordinary windows lined the far side of the room. There was no bench, no railing, nothing formal or elaborate about the room, nothing to raise alarm. There was only a long, oval table with many chairs, and three men seated at one end of the table.

  One of the men was Botton, sitting at the table, wearing clean robes, the venerable, dark ceremonial robes that the other men wore.

  The room smelled faintly of manure; Silas unconsciously observed that one of his two escorts wrinkled his nose momentarily as they entered the room, but Silas’s attention was mostly obscured by the wave of panic that swept over him at the sight of Botton.

  “You said I wouldn’t be punished!” he reached out and tugged on the sleeve of the guild member who had deceived him.

  “I said it wasn’t a criminal case, to be specific,” the man said. “Remove your hand from me.

  “And you won’t be punished, technically; I promise. We’ll keep Botton in check,” the man seemed to have a genuine sense of fairness, though Silas took little comfort in the use of the word “technically”.

  “Have a seat,” one of the men at the table spoke, and he gestured towards the end of the table near where Silas stood, while the two escorts stepped down to the far end with the othe
r men, though they seemed to take care to sit at some distance from Botton, leaving him slightly isolated from the noses of the others.

  “We appreciate your arrival in such a timely manner,” the man who had directed Silas to sit spoke again. He seemed older than the others, bald and with a mustache, and eyes that squinted severely.

  “It’s hardly timely compared to my arrival,” Botton protested. “I’ve had to wait here several minutes with all of you while he was out frolicking at the merchant’s festivities.”

  “I believe that we’re all here because you proposed this,” the head of the group spoke in a too-mild tone of voice.

  “Silas,” he turned away from Botton, “as you know, the merchant’s convoy arrived today. The man who runs the caravan is named Prima, and he’s a very helpful ally of our Guild. He delivers many specialized items that we ask for from time to time, and he also will manage the delivery of goods from one city to another around the continent if our agents happen to ask him to – which they do from time to time.

  “So we want to stay on good terms with Prima, and if we can do a small favor for him from time to time, we try to find a way to do it,” the man’s unexpected topic put Silas slightly at ease. He waited to learn if the topic would continue to meander into this neutral area, or come back to something more relevant to him. The small council clearly hadn’t sought him out just to educate him about a caravan master, he was sure, especially not with the overly-eager Botton involved. The teacher was drumming his fingers on the table top, Silas noted, and was annoying his fellows by doing so.