Rift in the Deep

by Janelle Garrett

  There Shia went, taking the fall for her. She always had Graissa’s back. The sooner she got out of this stifling environment the better.

  “Childish,” Mother replied with a sniff. “No one would believe you two are more than twenty winters. Come girls, breakfast will get cold.” She turned on her heel and swept away. Graissa looked at Shia with relief.

  “I owe you.” She turned back to the mirror, frowned, shrugged and turned back to Shia.

  “I’ll collect on that.” Shia grinned as they left the room and swept down the stairs.

  Graissa’s father was already at the table as they entered the dining room, his legs crossed, sipping from a small cup of tea. He raised an eyebrow when he saw them, but said nothing. He rarely had much to say, unless he was making a crack about his wife behind her back, or secretly saying something nice to a Mool. Graissa wasn’t the only one who felt bad for them, but where Graissa was more vocal about it, Father kept to the status quo when others were watching. He should use his influence for the betterment of those under him.

  “Breakfast is ready,” the cook Mool said, keeping his eyes down as he entered.

  “Serve it,” Mother ordered, taking her seat graciously, not even looking at the servant. The Mool scuttled away while Graissa sat beside Shia. The table Mool filled their drinks. Graissa moved hers closer when her mother wasn’t looking before Friana could scold her.

  “What do you have going on today?” Mother asked. “Hervale invited us over for tea.”

  Graissa nearly coughed, instead looking at Shia whose face was painted with dismay. Her sister had a harder time hiding her emotions.

  “Don’t look so appalled,” Mother chided as the table Mool filled her drink. “Hervale is only trying to help you both.”

  “Help us by marrying one of us off to her son? How altruistic.” Shia’s dry tone was not lost on anyone.

  “She only means to be friendly.” Mother’s sharp glance didn’t keep Shia from snorting into her drink. “How unladylike!” Mother said, but no emotion betrayed whether she was upset or not. It had become so commonplace for Shia to express what she thought that Graissa figured Mother corrected her by habit.

  “Leave them alone, Friana,” Father muttered around sips of tea.

  “Don’t go taking their side again, Kole,” Mother snapped, eyes lighting with fire.

  “We already have plans,” Graissa hastened to inform her. “The Chaplains needed volunteers to feed the peasants outside of Vale.” She elbowed Shia.

  “Wha...oh yes. Chaplains. Vale, exactly.” Shia looked at Graissa from the corner of her eye.

  “Why on earth would you do that in the middle of the week?” Mother asked, appearing nonplussed.

  “Let the girls do a good deed,” Father spoke up. Since he so rarely did, Mother usually listened to him.

  “Well, I guess—”

  “We will be back before nightfall.” Best to answer before anyone could argue. “And Branson will accompany us.” It was an afterthought and got the exact reaction she had come to expect.

  “Branson?” her father asked, looking up from his food. “You aren’t still seeing him, are you?”

  “If by ‘seeing’ you mean are we still friends? Yes.” She tried to stifle the annoyance that rose within her at his reaction. “He is bringing his coach by midmorning.”

  Father grunted and continued with his meal. Mother looked at Graissa speculatively but kept her peace. Branson was a childhood sweetheart, and he and Graissa had planned on getting married one day. Her father had put a stop to it, since Branson wasn’t as wealthy as they were and therefore had nothing to offer her. Still, after the dramatic tears and pleadings from Graissa, they allowed her to be cordial with him. Over the years as they had grown older, their relationship had turned to friendship.

  Last week at the Holy Chaplain’s Fundraiser for the Underprivileged of Vale, Branson had suggested that they volunteer. Graissa had been surprised enough to agree but had forgotten to tell Shia about it. She had thought the days of volunteering were long past as Branson focused on taking over his father’s estates, but apparently she was wrong.

  The meal was finished in silence. And much to her relief, Branson showed up right on time to pick them up. His boyish face was wreathed in a smile as he descended the carriage and helped Graissa and Natashia inside. He still looked only fifteen winters, his sandy blonde hair and blue eyes giving him the appearance of a much younger man.

  “Ready to feed the poor?” He regarded them with sparkling eyes. “Chaplain Rivers was pleased to hear we would be helping him today.”

  “I would much rather be doing this than what Mother had planned.” Shia grunted as the horses jerked the carriage forward. Graissa just smiled in response and looked out the window as the green hills rolled by. Her father’s estate was vast, encompassing most of the southern lands outside the city. Vale was situated four miles from their house. The ride was beautiful.

  She looked out the window at the workers already busy in the wheat and barley fields, a combination of Mools and indentured servants. The harvest would be bigger this year than last. Kole del’Blyth’s estate encompassed not just crops, but ore mining as well. The bounty of her family’s wealth secured their place as one of the most affluent families of Vale, not including Father’s seat on the Council.

  “What was on your Mother’s agenda?” Branson broke the silence, turning to Graissa.

  “Hervale del’Nigh.” She barely raised her voice past a whisper, noting the tired way in which the landworkers toiled for a family not even their own. The taskmaster was a blur as they went by. Was that a wineskin he tilted back to drink?

  Branson chuckled. “Joseph del’Nigh must want to marry one of you. You up for the challenge, Shia?” He laughed, his chest rumbling.

  The sound of Shia and Branson’s teasing drifted into the background as the memories of last night’s dream wandered through her mind. It was hard not to wonder at the strangeness of it. After all, who was this Priva Car’abel? Since he appeared to be at least fifteen winters older than her, as well as a different nationality, how were they connected? And since the Watcher had approached her, and she had seen them in her dreams of Priva, were they somehow the connection?

  “What’s on your mind, Little Girl?” Branson’s pet name for her jerked her from her thoughts. She didn’t want to tell them, especially since she had no explanation for it.

  “The Mools,” she responded instead, hoping the lie wasn’t written plain across her face.

  “As usual,” Branson said, tone serious. “If you feel so strongly about their mistreatment, you should act on it.”

  “I’ve felt this way for as long as I can remember.” She turned to them from the window. “Yet every time I’ve ever said anything, I’ve been reprimanded or punished. Or worse, ignored.”

  “You’re a grown woman,” Branson retorted, and Shia nodded in agreement. “Don’t let others opinions keep you from doing what you believe is right.”

  “What would you do?” Graissa crossed her arms, frowning. “You don’t think they are mistreated.”

  “I’ve never said that. It is unfortunate that they are necessary.” He shrugged a shoulder. “But tell me, what would they do if they had their freedom? They are given roofs over their heads, food in their bellies, and coin in their pockets to spend as they wish.”

  “So they should be grateful for the opportunity that the rich give them?” Exasperation bubbled forth in her tone like a spring. “How wonderful we all must be, not even giving them names, but at least we feed them!” Her heart raced, her face starting to heat.

  “That’s not what I was saying.” Branson leaned away. “Why do you care so much, anyway?”

  Graissa hesitated. It was the dark underbelly of their culture, yet to speak against it was tantamount to denying one’s heritage. But what she saw bothered her. “I was six when I slipped away from our governess to explore outside. I made my way to the creek and was tossing stones when I sli
pped and fell under.” She paused, the memory playing out vividly in her mind. The fear that had coursed through her as the water had sucked her away. “I didn’t know how to swim and was swept away, fighting for my life. The laundry Mool had been sent to clean our clothes and happened to arrive just as I fell in. He...” her throat closed, sorrow and gratefulness mingled. “He leaped in after me and saved my life. Dragging me against the current, the Mool held me above the water but was kept under since both its arms were used to support my weight. I was able to grab onto a branch and pull myself out but the Mool got swept away. We never found his body.” A tear slipped from her eye, and the silence in the carriage was deafening. She glanced at their faces, both full of compassion.

  “Why did you never tell us?” Shia’s voice was low, soft.

  “I told Mother. She chastised me for wandering, spanked me for getting wet, and didn’t say a word about the heroism of the Mool.” Graissa grit her teeth against rising anger. Desperation gripped her to change the subject, so she continued, “And what about the peasants? They are given the privilege of working our land, giving us half of what they earn. But at least we throw charity events for them and make food for them in the chapel’s kitchens?”

  “Easy, Little Girl. I’m sorry.” Branson’s tone was soothing.

  “Forget it,” Graissa snapped, leaning back in her seat with a huff.

  “What is wrong with you?” Shia asked, liquid eyes gentle. “You’ve been strange all day.”

  Graissa didn’t want to answer. That day was best forgotten, except to remember the Mool’s heroism. How had they gotten on to this topic, anyway?

  Something flashed outside her window, her heart speeding up as she sat straighter. Half standing from her seat, Graissa shouted, “STOP!” to the driver, who pulled the horses to a halt in the middle of the road.

  “What is it?” Branson asked as she yanked open the door and leapt from the carriage. The Watcher stood beside the road, yellow eyes fixated on her. Heart racing, Graissa stood rooted. Now that she was out of the carriage, she didn’t know what to do. As soon as Branson descended, it dashed off, but not before he had seen it. “What in the Creator’s bosom is that?” he breathed. “Why was it staring at you?”

  Graissa re-entered the carriage, not looking either of her companions in the face. Shia gripped her arm. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” Graissa sighed, heart returning to a steady cadence.

  “What was that?” Branson leaned over her to see outside the window.

  “His name is Swift-in-the-Trees. He is a Watcher in the Dreadwood... and he wants me to save his kind.”

  The expression on her companion’s faces was almost comical.

  “His mouth was sewn shut,” Branson finally said. “How did he speak to you?”

  “Well... I think I read his mind.”

  Chapter Three

  Brate Hightower

  BRATE SQUINTED AS THE light pierced through his closed eyelids. He moaned and rolled over onto his side, seeking more rest. It seemed like two minutes ago he had fallen asleep, hands chipped and bleeding from the shovel that had buried his grandmother.

  The hut was silent. The stirrings that he would have usually heard from her, making the morning meal even though she was blind, made the silence in the hut eerie and strange. It was as if he was awakening in someone else’s home.

  The bleating of the sheep outside in the pen was what made him haul his tired body from bed, their insistence breaking the silence. Brate stretched and ran his fingers through his dark hair. Dirt flew to dust his shoulders. Groaning, he looked at his bed, now a shade darker than it had been yesterday. He had been so tired he forgot to bathe in the river after the burial.

  The sheep grew more insistent, and Fin barked outside in irritation. The sheep cried even louder when Brate walked out of his hut and into the bright light of the eastern sun. He blinked back more dirt that fell into his eyelashes and brushed his hands through his hair again. Grime floated to the ground.

  Sighing, he proceeded about his chores, feeding the chickens, watering the cows, and letting the sheep out of the pen. Fin leapt to his feet when Brate returned with a slab of meat from the slaughterhouse. He tossed it to the herder, and the dog ate it in three quick gulps, licking his chops and looking at Brate for more.

  “Take what you can get,” Brate muttered. His stomach grumbled, fairly begging for nourishment. However, he had no desire to eat, for what was the point? He was alone. All he had were the animals, and even they couldn’t lift the shroud of despair that had covered him since the day his father had disappeared over the horizon, telling Brate he would be back before winter.

  Now three summers later, Brate was nineteen winters and had lost hope that Father would ever return. Why would he have left in the first place? They were shepherds and farmers, not soldiers. Still, his father had enlisted in the militia as soon as the call came to take up arms against an invading people. The skirmish had not lasted long, for the western coast was easily defended. News had come of the smaller invading forces being pushed back into the sea, but still his father had not returned, and no news had been brought of his death.

  Brate had never felt more abandoned than he did at this moment. His grandmother, who he used to affectionately call Ma, now rested beside his mother, their graves marked with two large stones. More than likely, his father had wanted to forget his mother, and that was why he had decided to join the King’s Army. Father had never visited Mother’s grave, preferring to pretend she never existed in the first place.

  Brate’s memories of his mother were of a towering woman of ample girth, wielding a broom and swatting anything that came in reach of the bristles. He had learned from a young age to mind her, and he figured his father had as well. But recollections were a funny thing. One minute, he swore that his mother’s temper had driven his father to insanity. Yet he also had memories of fond smiles passed between them, or gentle caresses when they thought Brate wasn’t watching. As a child who didn’t know much of friendship or love, the sight of their affection soothed him when fears of their anger threatened to terrify him. This dichotomy of callousness and love, fear and security, created a void of uncertainty in his soul. It was precisely this reason why he wanted to leave this place and find his fortune in the Forest City.

  He made his way to the cows and found Fenny, the milker. She was more than happy to let him squeeze the frothing liquid from her udders, lowing with contentment and chewing the hay he set before her. When he was finished, he carried the bucket to the hut and poured himself a cup. Fin eyed him in excitement, and Brate filled a bowl of the warm milk and set it on the ground. The dog lapped it up.

  There was bread on the counter, the last loaf Ma had made. She was a wonder. Brate’s recollection of her when he was a child was filled with jam and butter, warm hugs, and candies made of maple hidden in her pockets. Her hooded eyes had been vacant yet intelligent, unable to see the sphere. Yet she had never fallen or stumbled that Brate had ever seen, and could clean, cook, and knit as if she could see with perfect clarity. With Brate's mother dead and his father being silent and sullen with no plans of raising a child, Ma had taken the duty on herself. Father had been Ma’s one son, although Brate never knew who his grandfather was. Ma had steadfastly supported Brate, to the point that Father took advantage of her good graces and left him solely up to her tutelage.

  She had taught Brate how to cook, how to mend his own socks. How to know when it would rain or snow, how to add or subtract numbers, how to read, and how to sing. Her voice was what he had always thought the seraphs would sound like, clear as glass and high as the mountain peaks. Brate spent most of his free time singing to the sheep and playing his stringed instrument Ma had given him on his tenth winter celebration. How she had scraped the money to buy it he still didn’t know, and often she would say, “You are bound for the King’s court with your playing and singing, Brate. You are too good for the sheep and cows.”

  He had shrugged it off
at first, yet wherever he went, he was asked to sing and play. Soon the whole village employed him for their parties and dances, or for when the winter celebrations were combined into the Winter Fest, a party like no other. Three days of drinking, singing, and celebrating the birth day of the village children, until their fifteenth when they became too old for such things. Still, Brate got to attend every year, filling his pockets with fracs and even some frills, if he was lucky and if any of the Lord’s household were present. His friends thought he was the richest person they knew. Which was probably true. He spent none of it, instead burying it under the woodshed for safekeeping. One day he would make his way to the King’s court.

  Fin barked, shaking Brate from his thoughts. He stood to his feet, stuffing the bread’s crust in his mouth and washing it down with the last remnants of milk. Fin dashed down the road at someone coming toward them, and there was no mistaking the Lord of Meadow Grove, Carlton Conway. Why he walked instead of rode was a mystery. His horse must be lame, stuck somewhere down the road, or perhaps bolted. The road itself led to the village, and Brate’s farm was the farthest south.

  Lord Conway kicked at the dog, who scuttled out of the way before barking even louder. Brate had half a mind to let the dog continue harassing the Lord. No one liked him, and his pompous air and unfair dealings made him unpopular amongst the landworkers. Perhaps unpopular was being too generous. Either way, Brate had already paid him the taxes on the land, so there was no reason for the Lord to visit him. Brate raised his fingers to his lips and whistled, the piercing shrill causing Fin to abandon his pestering and come dashing back to Brate’s side.

  Lord Conway huffed toward Brate, standing before him and putting his hands on his knees, wheezing. His red face was round and framed by curls of dark hair, his upper lip frantically trying to grow a mustache. His hat was askew and the socks up to his knees were no longer white but now covered in dirt.