by Sharon Hinck
Her mouth opened, then she pressed her lips into as firm a line as her rounded face could create. Her eyes closed and she dropped her head forward as if deep in thought. When she raised her chin, she reached out. “May I see it? Long have I waited for this day.”
I handed the pouch to her.
She removed the letter and turned the pages, touching the words reverently. “But why would He let you bring it here? It was forgotten for a generation, but now it could be destroyed forever.”
I shook my head. “It won’t be destroyed. We’ve made copies at most of the villages where I stayed. People all over Meriel have heard the truth. They remember the Maker now. Even if she burns these pages, she can’t thwart His purposes.”
Ginerva tilted her head and offered a soft smile. “You speak like one who has walked in His steps, little one.” Then sadness puddled in her eyes. “But even if Tiarel can’t erase His words, she will certainly seek to erase you.”
I gave a tight nod. “I know. What should I do?”
Her eyes widened. “Why are you asking me? Ask the Maker. What has He told you?”
“Nothing more.” I brushed my hands over my throbbing temples, dislodging the cloak’s hood. Admitting His silence to Ginerva stirred all my fear and doubt again. “You’ve known Him longer. Why would He set me on a course, and then give me no details of how to proceed?”
Ginerva touched a finger lightly to my forehead. “Use the brain He gave you, and be willing to listen when He does speak. And take comfort in knowing He will not abandon you. Now, to gain an audience with the saltars, you’ll need to approach Tiarel . . . but not when she’s alone.”
“I know. That’s my fear. She could have me killed and never let anyone in the Order hear the message I’m bringing.”
I shifted my weight from heel to toe and back again. No closer to a plan, every second I lingered here endangered Ginerva. “I could go back to Middlemost and wait. But there’s not much time. Rimmers are gathering in town. Their solution is to destroy the Order. If I don’t share the letter soon, there may be no one left to hear it.”
Ginerva sniffed. “As if ridding Meriel of dancers will benefit anyone. We need truth, not destruction.”
“Where will Tiarel have lunch today?”
“She’s scheduled to oversee the school’s lunch.”
I pursed my lips. “And when she’s at the head table, most of the saltars are with her.”
“But you won’t find many allies among the students. They are the most desperate to please the Order.”
“I know. Yet I may have more of a chance to address the saltars there. They won’t want to expose their cruelty in front of all the forms. That may give me a small window to speak.”
Ginerva’s face puckered with worry lines. “I suppose I could get you into the kitchen. If you stay hidden until the meal is served . . .”
Could I do it? Should I? Holy Maker, guide me, please.
Ginerva tugged my hood up and forward, shielding my face as much as possible. “Well, we can’t stay here.”
“You don’t need to come with me. I know the way to the school’s kitchen.”
She crossed her pudgy arms. “You’ll fit in better if I’m with you.”
“Perhaps, but . . .” I didn’t want to draw her into this dangerous task.
“Let’s go.” She picked up an empty basket and took my arm, hustling me from the alcove and down the hall toward the school.
Two attendants strode past, but I kept my head down, and they didn’t stop us. The dining hall was still empty, although the bell for lunch gave its first chime as we scurried past tables to the kitchen.
Several serving girls brushed past us, their baskets wafting the aroma of bresh for the head table and saltcakes for everyone else. I took refuge in the kitchen, Ginerva using her bulk to block me from any curious glances. She chatted amiably with one of the cooks, offering sympathy for the bad weather. Stray rain found its way down the chimney to harass the cooking flames and spit a protest to the heat.
In the dining hall, the voices of students built, benches scraped, tables filled. I waited until everyone fell quiet, indicating the saltars had entered.
I touched Ginerva’s arm.
She stepped aside and faced me. “Are you sure?”
Truthfully, I wasn’t sure of anything. But I nodded and left the kitchen.
As expected, the head table was now full of saltars, women I had respected and learned from all my life. The attendants had served the food and were returning to the kitchen.
I walked against the current of their passing, drawing the attention of Saltar Kemp. She nudged Saltar River and pointed at me—a hooded figure daring to interrupt the flow of lunch routines.
High Saltar Tiarel had still not taken notice of me, and rose to address the room. Her mouth opened, then snapped shut as she saw me where I stopped, resolute, before the high table.
In spite of my quavering knees, I tossed back my hood and drew forth the Maker’s letter. “Greetings, saltars of the Order. I’ve been asked to bring you this letter.”
Deep within the tower, drums throbbed from the center ground. From without, rain bounced loudly against eaves and cobblestones. I was grateful for the sounds that covered the horrible silence that gripped the dining hall.
Tiarel planted her fists on the table, and she leaned forward. Her eyebrows tented in recognition. She hadn’t forgotten the fledgling dancer who had fled the Order after one shift. Schemes and counter-schemes played out behind her eyes.
“You may deliver your letter to my office after lunch.” Her voice was flat, without inflection, giving away nothing.
Going alone to her office was exactly what I needed to avoid. Desperation gave me courage to act. I turned my back on her and addressed the students’ tables. “The letter is for everyone.” I raised the pages above my head. “The Maker of Meriel—the Maker of each one of us—wrote this. It was forgotten, but it’s time to remember.”
Familiar faces stared at me. The youngest forms with their scarlet hood scarves clustered at tables farthest from the head table. They peered around each other, squirmed in their seats, unrestrained in their curiosity. Other tables reflected varied responses: uneasiness at a disruption in routine, confusion, worried whispers. Nearby, the older students in the blue form showed greater discipline. Straight, unmoving, staring ahead. I recognized Furrow Blue and a few others from my class. The bravest woman cut a quick glance toward me, then resumed her blank forward stare.
Murmurs rose behind me. Two prefects moved my direction from the side of the room. My opportunity was slipping away. I faced the head table again, trying to summon boldness from my constricted throat. “He has asked me to share His words with all of you.” The prefects drew near, and one grabbed my arm.
My stomach lurched, panic coiling upward to strangle my best intentions. Holy Maker, help me. Don’t let this opportunity be lost.
Tiarel held up her hand and the man released me. I pulled myself tall, ready to meet her tirade, her threats. Instead, she feigned a motherly smile. “Students, don’t be afraid to look on this outcast. She deserves our pity. Learn well. This is the sort of raving that is manifested by those who fail as dancers.”
Raving? No, I brought only the fact of the Maker’s love. Strength flowed through my limbs and I found the tiny kernel of courage I thought I’d lost. I ignored Tiarel and appealed to the other saltars at the table. “If the Order is founded on truth, surely you aren’t afraid to listen. Are you afraid? I request a hearing with the saltars.”
A new inhale of silence held the room in thrall. A hearing of the saltars was a rare and powerful event. Tiarel would never allow it.
A light laugh bubbled from Tiarel’s throat. “Granted.”
She’d surprised me again. The sensation was like pushing hard against a door that suddenly gave way too easily. I nearly stumbled. “Thank you.”
“The prefects will escort you to my office to wait.”
I stiffened. “How do I kn
ow you won’t just . . . chase me away?”
Gasps rose from the young dancers at the tables. Questioning the integrity of the High Saltar was treasonous. But then, so was fleeing the Order or speaking of the Maker.
Tiarel’s smile tightened a fraction, but she calmly took her seat. “You have my word among all these witnesses. You will have a hearing before the saltars today when afternoon classes are finished.”
What was Tiarel planning? She must be incredibly confident in her control over the Order to permit a hearing. I allowed myself a whisper of hope. I’d be able to share the letter with the saltars and they’d discover the true purpose of the dance. Together we’d free our world and bring peace between the Order and the villages. With the island traveling the currents again, we’d find ample fishing and weather to support our farms. This was going more smoothly than I’d ever dared dream.
Perhaps too smoothly.
Trust me.
The Maker’s whisper explained nothing, but helped my tight limbs unlock enough to walk. I followed the prefects down the aisle, pausing to dip my head at the youngest form and the girls I had briefly taught. Some gave timid waves, but then glanced nervously at the head table.
“Students.” Saltar River stood. “I realize this interruption is confusing, since you know we must not acknowledge an outcast. However, the High Saltar in her wisdom is able to make exceptions. We will leave it to her to resolve this. You must not lose focus. Eat, return to class, and dedicate yourself to perfection.”
Spoons scraped against wooden bowls and the relief in the room was palpable. The students were grateful to be told what to do, to return to the norm, to understand their place.
Part of me missed that reliable security.
I shook my head and followed the prefects from the hall. Security that eliminated all freedom was an imposter. Could I be brave enough to inspire the Order to a new way? Would the letter turn the tide?
Under the piercing glare of two prefects, I scarcely dared move as I waited in a straight-backed chair in Tiarel’s office. A closed door marked the far corner of the room, and ceremonial robes hung from pegs on the wall behind a large table. Through the open door to my right, I could see the outer area where the desks of the other saltars lined up in familiar order. As a young novitiate I’d stood before Saltar Kemp, overwhelmed at the honor of being invited to teach. How much my life had changed in the months since then!
Yet the Order remained the same. Before me, the High Saltar’s table held the same instruments I’d once glimpsed from afar: brass measures to mark the position of the stars, wind gauges, a large box of willow pens. Parchment maps splayed across the surface. From where I sat, a few village names were legible. I wanted to edge closer to decipher what the circles and marks indicated. A cold knot formed in my throat. The notes didn’t look like records of crops or taxes. They looked like battle plans.
I massaged my neck. There was still time to prevent all-out war. Tiarel had promised, and all the saltars had heard her. I had no faith in Tiarel’s word, but given in front of the entire Order, even she couldn’t revoke the promised hearing. They would let me read the letter, and that would forestall the danger scrawled across the maps.
Moving slowly so as not to aggravate my guards, I angled the chair toward the full-length window facing the center ground. While I was a novitiate, I’d envied the clear view the High Saltar had of the dancers at ground level. As a dancer, I’d feared this window where she watched, eager to spot the smallest error.
Right now, the women in the grounds were splattered with mud. Their faces were drawn and exhausted as they continued the difficult leeward storm pattern. The drums had repeated the long rhythm three full times already. Even one cycle of leeward storm could leave a dancer gasping for breath, but three times? The effort it took to coax this violent storm and then maintain its force showed in the dancers’ limbs as they grew heavy with exhaustion. My own muscles ached in sympathy.
Yet despite pelting rain and harsh movements, I still found breathtaking beauty in the sight of the women moving together, creating intricate patterns, connecting with the world—the world the Maker had designed.
I rubbed my forehead. All that misplaced effort. They were working so hard and missing the whole point. The dancers commanded the world and thought no force was higher. And although their work was rich with duty and perfection and striving, it was poor in love.
They didn’t even realize why Tiarel had chosen this pattern. Her motive wasn’t to nourish plants suffering from drought, but to repel her enemies. The dancers were suffering, the villages outside were suffering, the whole of Meriel was suffering—and it didn’t need to be this way.
I touched the pouch with the Maker’s letter. I had hours to wait before the end of the day’s classes and my hearing with the saltars. If I read the history again, perhaps the truth would give me the courage I needed. But before I drew out the pages, Tiarel entered with her precise, silent tread. I stood and tipped my head respectfully.
“Ah, I see you’ve been watching the vital work of the Order. The calling you pledged to serve.” Tiarel’s seawater-sweet voice now carried a bitter bite.
I swallowed. “I’ve found a higher calling.”
She strode to her desk. “There is no higher calling. You rejected us and all the years we invested in you.” She pulled a gleaming silver dagger from a drawer and came to stand before me. Her gaze shifted to each of the prefects, and with that subtle movement they closed in and grabbed me.
I strained against them, my eyes widening and fixing on Tiarel’s face. “You promised me a hearing.”
Her lips curled. “Of course. You’ll have your hearing. But first I have an important issue to deal with. You betrayed your vows. Outcasts aren’t allowed to leave the Order to endanger the world with their abilities intact.”
Horror bloomed across my chest as I guessed her intent. I struggled, almost wrenching one arm free. One of the men threw a beefy arm around my neck and pinned both arms painfully behind me. The other gripped my legs like manacles. Tiarel crouched.
I fought for breath. “Wait! You don’t need to—”
A searing line cut across the back of my ankle. A strangled scream rose from my throat. Pain, sharp and hot, unlike any I’d ever felt, severed me from sanity. Shock stopped my efforts to breathe and black mist clouded my vision.
The prefects released me, and my wounded leg collapsed, unable to bear my weight. I crumbled to the ground, grabbing the wound as if my hands could reknit skin and muscle and stem the blood. Jagged sobs wracked me.
Inches from my face, Tiarel still crouched. She held up her knife, wet with my blood. “I look forward to the hearing you requested.”
And she smiled.
A sharp jerk of her chin directed the prefects. “Take her within and clean up this mess.”
The men jerked me upright, each movement sending fresh torture through my tendon. They dragged me through the door. Through the haze of pain, I remembered the rumors that the inner room contained a well into the ocean. Perhaps my death awaited. The suffering was so intense I would welcome that escape.
Minutes or hours later, a soft voice broke through the roaring pain.
“Oh, little one. Would that I could have stopped this,” Ginerva said.
I turned my head slowly. I’d learned the smallest action could drive the flame in my leg to an inferno. Every beat of my heart traced lines of fire up my leg. Blood seeped through my fingers as they held the wound, as if somehow I could also hold myself together after being torn apart.
Ginerva knelt beside me, a basket over her arm. Compassion flooded her eyes and almost undid me again. I squeezed my lips together, determined to stop the groans that escaped with each breath. She pried my hands away from my ankle. The touch of air across the deep cut triggered another gasp. I buried my head in my arms to fight back a scream.
“This will help,” she soothed.
I didn’t respond, too busy surviving each beat of my pu
lse, each tight breath, each second of agony. How could a cut, even one so deep and damaging, create this fire that crept through my whole being? Did Tiarel’s blade carry poison?
From my distant place of shock, I felt Ginerva blot away blood, dab on one of her potions, and firmly wrap the wound.
“It doesn’t help,” I moaned. But the fact that I could speak proved her salve was helping, at least a small amount. I opened my eyes. “Did they summon you so I wouldn’t get more blood on Tiarel’s floor?”
Her soft arms supported my upper back and helped me sit. “No. When the High Saltar had you taken to her office, I feared the worst. I told the prefects out there that Tiarel had sent me.”
“You lied?” No, no, no! I couldn’t face having more people suffer because of me.
She shrugged. “I’m a simple-headed old woman. Easily muddled. Perhaps I misunderstood.”
Her feigned confusion almost coaxed a smile to my lips. Then my gaze dropped toward the bandage. Hobbled. Worse than my physical suffering, a deeper pain grabbed my soul. “I’ll never be able to dance again. I won’t be able to hear the Maker.”
Her arms squeezed me, rocking me gently. “Hush. Where there is life, there is hope.”
The low voices of guards mumbled from Tiarel’s office. I squeezed her arm. “She mustn’t find you here.”
Ginerva gathered her poultices and bandages and covered the basket. “Tiarel assumes you won’t have the nerve or strength for a hearing with the saltars tonight. She’s wrong. I brought you this.” My old attendant reached for a twisted staff resting against the wall and placed it in my hand. Before I could thank her, she toddled from the room.
Bracing myself with the staff, I got my good foot under me. In class we’d often practiced rising on one leg to build strength. Still, the action of standing, even without taking weight on my wounded ankle, sent new waves of flame up my leg. Nausea roiled through me, and my throat tightened.
How would I ever speak to the saltars like this? Deformed, defective, shamed and broken. Why would they listen to anything I had to say about a Maker who loved us?
