Darkness Rising 1: Chained

by Ross Kitson

  ***

  The wind that drove over the Cloudtip Mountains from the Plains of Meltor often marked the decline of autumn. It chilled like none other, infiltrating any gap in the yarkel hair cloaks that the servants had as their only protection.

  Emelia and Abila awaited the emergence of Mother Gresham and Sandila into the cobbled square that was located in front of the Keep and its gatehouse. The ubiquitous mists had cleared rapidly that morning with the wind.

  Although their origins in the frigid northern islands had conferred them some degree of resilience to the cold, the two girls still stomped and slapped themselves, trying to reclaim some of the lost warmth of the kitchens.

  Emelia’s attention was fixed on the upper city’s walls. They ran from either side of the Keep flush with the edge of the plateau on which the city sat.

  “It makes you wonder what sort of threat made them build walls that high around a city half way up a mountain,” Emelia said.

  “Are you going to be dreamy all day?” Abila asked. “I suppose it’s better than the mood you have been in this last week.”

  “Oh, you noticed! Well you’d be in a mood too if you found out you were going to live with the Air-mages as an object of curiosity.”

  “They might turn you into a frog and then you could hop away.”

  Emelia glared at her friend. “I just feel so trapped in this place, with its high walls and its sombre stones. It’s like we’re in a giant rock pool.”

  “That’s a curious phrase. I’ve heard you say it before. Where’s it from?”

  Emelia sat back against the edge of a rickshaw. Tears pricked her eyes.

  “Do you remember much before you came here? Much about your family?”

  Abila shook her head. “I was only five, I think. My mother died in childbirth and my father, well he was a sailor and you know how they drink. When he was offered the money for my servitude I’m certain he leapt at the chance. I’ve probably a better life here.”

  “Well I’m not sure I can say the same. Before you tell me off, it’s not the melancholia. I’ve being thinking about it for a while.

  “I was at the markets with Mother about three months ago and whilst she was arguing with a vendor about some cabbage I smelt this old man’s pipe smoke. It was sweet, like the steam from cook’s puddings.

  “Well then I got a sudden feeling that I’d smelt it before and into my head popped this image, this scene, like a dream but whilst I was awake.”

  Abila sat besides Emelia, hugging herself for warmth.

  “What was it an image of?”

  “It was on an island, before the famine. I was on a beach. No, that’s not strictly true. I was atop some rock pools next to the beach. With me there was another girl and I think it was perhaps my sister. She wore a shell pendant just like mine.”

  Emelia pulled loose the pendant and Abila nodded.

  “Down on the sands there were two adults, a man and a woman, and they were repairing a net. I’d found a large crab. It was a real beauty! It had speckled brown on its shell, as if it couldn’t decide what colour to be when it had been born. Every time I tried to lift up this crab from its rock pool it scuttled back into the water. My sister was laughing but I kept trying to tease it out. Each time it broke free and returned to the pool.”

  Abila rested her head on Emelia’s shoulder as she continued.

  “Well even I got bored of this game and I was really sore from the wind, salt and sun. So my sister and I came down the rocks. I can still feel the rough surface scraping our bare feet. The man, and I think it was perhaps my father, was sat with my mother by a small boat.

  “I can recall my mother was young and pretty, and I wonder if it was my father’s second wife. I think his first wife had died and the son by that union had left the island years before. My mother had borne my sister and me.”

  “I can understand the rock pool bit now. What’s the pipe smoke got to do with it?”

  “Give me a minute! Well I went to sit by my father. I can remember his arms—they were knotted with muscle like the ropes he used in his fishing boat. His eyes were a deep kind blue. He smoked a long wooden pipe. It had been that smell, that rich scent of pipe weed which stayed with me.

  “So I asked him why the crab kept scuttling away when I just wanted to bring it down and show it where I lived. He laughed and said to me, ‘That is all it knows. The pool is its world and it cannot see beyond that.’ He said that I was different, that my eyes would see beyond wherever I stood but, as far as I could see at any time there’d still be more. He… he said Asha had given me eyes from the stars.”

  Tears rolled down Emelia’s cheeks, stinging in the bitter wind. Her friend smiled and touched her arm.

  “That’s a lovely memory to treasure. But this is our life now. Here, the Keep, in servitude. You’ll get ill if you carry on dreaming of the Islands.”

  “Then sick I shall have to be. When does a memory become a dream? It’s as hard to grasp as that pipe smoke. But I’ll dream of a better life every day and come my twenty-first year I shall make it back to the Islands… I swear.”

  The serving girl looked concerned and uncomfortable. Over her shoulder Emelia saw the huge silhouette of Mother Gresham waddling out of the keep with Sandila. She wiped the tears away.

  “Back to where?” Abila asked. “There are a thousand islands, Emelia—you’ll never get back to your own. You’d be far better staying on in service… if not with the Ebon-Farrs or the Air-mages then with some other fine household.”

  “There are records… they keep records, I can remember them saying.”

  “Oh come on, Emelia,” Abila said, shaking her head. “Perhaps a record of the transaction or the contract, so they can wave it around and sell it on. But the specific little island you come from? The Corinthians get lost in the Islands when they sail there and they’ve laid claim to them for hundreds of years. You’d be much happier if you just accept your life and stop these silly dreams.”

  Gresham stomped past the girls and tossed two large cloth bags to them, each containing a long list of provisions. Emelia sighed—evidently there was going to be little room on the rickshaw for carrying the purchases from the lower city.

  “So what do you think is wrong with Sandila?” Abila asked in a low voice.

  “Well she’s been sick every day for a fortnight,” Emelia said. “According to the others ‘Turnip worm’ is the favourite, followed closely by ‘Housemaid’s grype.’ I also heard Gedre whispering she thought it is a curse from Torik brought on by Sandila kissing too many boys in the Keep.”

  Abila laughed, her eyes wide.

  “Well that earned her a thump around her ear from Annre. So I’d say ‘worms’ has returned as the favourite. Mind you, I think that there were a few praying with extra vigour that night.”

  The broad figure of Torm followed the pair out of the Keep. Abila saw the lad and nudged Emelia.

  “Look, Emelia, your sweetheart’s coming too.”

  Emelia blushed and poked Abila back. She had seen Torm only once since Uthor’s advance and he had avoided her gaze.

  “Hello Torm. Is the jackal letting you out today?” Abila asked, glancing sideways at Emelia.

  “Oh, hullo Abila, hullo Emelia. Freezing isn’t it?”

  “You haven’t felt cold until you’ve lived through a Coonorian winter, Torm,” Emelia said. “Why are you coming down to the lower city with us?”

  “Master Uthor had his new doublet repaired at Herstin and Jotts but there was a problem with it. He needs it tonight for some outing in the city and wants me to take it there and then back.”

  “All that way for a bit of gold trim?” Emelia asked.

  “Ah well it gets me out from the Keep and I can see the lower city on the way down, in case I get errands in the future.”

  “Emelia can show you some interesting bits,” Abila said.

  Emelia shot Abila a deathly glance. “You all right, Torm? You knocked your face?”
>
  Torm covered his bruised cheek and looked down.

  “Err, not exactly.”

  Emelia cringed at her stupidity. Uthor was notoriously volatile.

  “Oh. Well, we’re taking Sandy down to the wise woman in the lower city,” Emelia said.

  “Yes, only the masters use the Guild of Healers,” Abila said. “Mother prefers the lay-healers for us, rather than the apothecaries and quacks.”

  Torm nodded, still avoiding Emelia’s eye line.

  The rickshaw creaked ominously as Mother Gresham squeezed into its seat. The two drivers were looking in abject horror at her. Sandila clambered next to Gresham. She winked and pulled a face as she slipped into what little space remained. Emelia bit her knuckle to stop laughing.

  “This is cosy, Mother,” Sandila said.

  “More than you deserve. You three make sure you keep up with us. The Festival of Ni-Faris will be damn busy and I don’t want you getting lost,” Gresham said.

  They all nodded, but as the rickshaw moved off like a snail they could see that keeping pace wouldn’t be an issue.