White: Emala's Story (Ragoru Beginnings Book 1) Page 3

  “Sounds like a fine plan, Miss,” Mari replied as she entered the room behind Emala.

  As expected, Mari peeled off to the side to open a narrow, hidden compartment that was filled with cleaning supplies. Emala watched her from the corner of her eye until she arrived in front of the long bookshelves that lined the walls. Running her fingers over aged, barely legible spines, she skimmed the shelves, her eyes taking note of her target on a far wall. She wandered by it and then wrinkled her nose in distaste at the grimy books lining the shelf. The shelf looked like it hadn’t been properly cleaned in ages. She sincerely hoped that there were no spiders hidden among the volumes. Winter drove the creatures inside en masse, and the dark shelf seemed like an inviting place for them to hide.

  Passing the bookcase, she wandered down the lines until she found a bookshelf full of light reading. Although the manufacturing was nothing like the methods of old, the newer books captured her imagination as they were meant to in their tales of the before times.

  Clutching the book in her hands, she walked over the settee and settled on it, tucking her heels beneath her bottom as she curled up comfortably. She kept her attention on Mari, glancing at her every few minutes as she pretended to read. The young woman met her eye briefly before approaching the mirror. Emala was certain she sat there for nearly an hour, flipping the pages in her book as she pretended to be engrossed in it.

  At long last, Mari stepped up on a tall stool in front of the mirror, her arm reaching high to the top of the metal frame, her chest pressing against the surface as she wiped it in slow, long strokes. With her free hand behind her back, she gestured at Emala to go.

  Wasting no time, Emala slipped from the settee and darted for the shelf. Holding her breath, she slipped her fingers among the books and felt the bottom of the shelf, searching for the promised lever. The bar was so grimy that she almost missed it, but then she slid her hand back and reexamined the space. Finding the dip behind the bar, she pulled it forward. The shelf opened with a loud pop, startling Mari, who nearly lost her footing on the stool. The young woman shot her a concerned look but Emala waved back her concern. She only prayed that the door would not squeak as loudly as she feared.

  As if anticipating her concern, Mari began to sing a hymn to the Mother. It wasn’t terribly loud, but she figured it would be louder through the mirror and thus able to disguise the sound of the door. Emala didn’t dare to even whisper a thank you. She pulled the door open, wincing at the squeal of the hinges, and stared into the abyss that faced her. After a second’s hesitation, she plunged into the depths, pulling the door to the passage shut behind her until it clicked into place.

  Her blood froze in her veins at the total darkness that enveloped her. Extending her arms out to either side of her, she flattened her hands against the corridor walls, her elbows bending enough to nearly touch her sides. The space was tight! Breathing through her fear, she took one excruciating step after another, her pace slowly picking up as she became aware of one pressing need: to hurry up and leave the tunnels. She bit her lip to keep from crying out in panic. Although she had a fire starter in her supplies, she didn’t dare risk it in the tunnels. She had no idea if it would somehow alert Erik that she was in there. The tunnel seemed to be linear, so she should be fine without any danger of getting lost until she emerged outside, far away from the manor.

  The walk seemed endless, even at her hurried pace, and with the darkness she had no concept of passing distance or time. Her mind raced as she shut out her surroundings in a move of self-preservation. She concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other and the small sound of rolling pebbles when her foot kicked them aside. Part of her wondered if Mari was yet in the tunnels herself. It was probable. Her mother’s suicide and the news of her absence wouldn’t take long to be noticed, even if Erik was spending a typical day overseeing the activities of the Order or in his office at the city hall. It was all a matter of time.

  She imagined Erik killing Mari and racing down the tunnels after her, and this spurred on her own wild pace. Emala’s body shook with terror by the time she ran into the barrier. Her fingers scrambled against the sealed exit frantically as she looked for any catch or lever that would allow her out of the infernal darkness.

  She couldn’t feel anything!

  A whimper escaped her as her movements became more panicked. There had to be something there! Mari had been certain that it led to safety. She wouldn’t have sent her through the tunnel if there wasn’t an exit!

  Unable to find any sort of handhold on the surface in front of her, she beat against the wall of rock with her palms, ignoring the sharp, stinging cuts she collected with each slap of her hands against the stones. Her breath pulsed in and out of her body so quickly that her head began to swim. She had to get out! She had to!

  Her hand made contact with a smooth stone near her hip and she jumped as a grinding sound filled her ears. The rock wall slipped into a hidden compartment at one side, gradually revealing the late afternoon sun on the other side.

  Emala didn’t even wait for it to finish opening. She ran outside and threw out her arms as she took large gulps of air, her eyes closed as she allowed herself a moment to enjoy the feel of the sun on her face. A small giggle at her side interrupted her silent delight. Emala’s eyes snapped open. A young girl leaned against a broken wall outside of her simple house, her face streaked with dirt. Emala slowly looked around. Behind her, she could make out the high walls of the Wayfairer citadel. She was somewhere in the outer province, where small villages were spaced out through the fertile growing valley. This village was the closest to the Citadel walls, but there were no fewer than a dozen others that provided fresh food for the inhabitants of the Citadel and their own villages.

  Swallowing, Emala gave the farm girl, roughly twelve years old from all appearances, a feeble smile. “Hello there. Are your parents home?”

  The girl laughed. “Miss, you must be from the city. Most women in the farmlands don’t have husbands. Some few are lucky enough, I’m guessing, but mostly there are just them breeding men who live in the village center. They do some work in the fields, but they’re able to get days off from the fieldmaster if they’re attempting to breed with a local woman. More babies grow up to be more laborers, you know? Doesn’t seem rightly fair to me. My brother is only four years older than me and he’s able to legally qualify as a breeder. I have to work three times harder than him,” she grumbled.

  “It is allowed for a boy that young?” Emala gasped, distracted from her own plight.

  “Hmm? Oh yes, Miss. Us girls don’t get recognized as women until we are twenty—it keeps us in line, as my mother says—but boys are recognized as grown male citizens as soon as they are sixteen. They start them young so they can get the best breedings out of them while their sexual stamina is high.”

  “You seem to know a lot of the subject for such a young girl,” Emala observed.

  The girl shrugged. “That’s how life is out here. We know about breeding livestock, and our lives aren’t much different. We aren’t told any tales otherwise. There aren’t any surprises about what our lives will be like. But to answer your question—my mother is out in the field. This is my day of rest, so you are welcome to wait in the house with me for a bit. I finished my chores, so I was just about to head inside. She shouldn’t be long, not with the evening coming up on soon.”

  Emala bit her lip, uncertain if she should accept the offer or continue on her way. She needed to put distance between herself and the Citadel.

  “Do you think your mother might have a horse or a mule that I may purchase?” Emala asked as she followed the girl into the dark cottage. The scent of stew and the faint odor of straw perfumed the air.

  She watched as the girl fed the fire in the hearth with a knot of straw and nodded. “My mother has a few horses that she’s raised for working the field. We can always use a bit of extra coin. I am sure she’ll sell you one for a fair price.” The girl arched an eyebrow, her e
yes doubtlessly taking in Emala’s finer clothing. “If you’re hungry, I am willing to offer you a bit of stew and bread for a few copper coins.”

  Emala sat on a small stool closer to the fire and smiled gratefully. “Yes, that would be most welcome—and quite a fair price at that.”

  When the girl turned her attention back to the fire, Emala took the opportunity to slide her hand into the ties of her skirt and release the fabric looped around her hips so that her sack dropped gracelessly to the floor with a muffled thump. The farm girl whirled around and regarded the stuffed pillowcase with a look of surprise.

  “On the run, are you?” she asked.

  “Just getting away from a very bad man,” Emala stated quietly.

  The girl looked at her speculatively but nodded as she brought over the bowl and a generous chunk of bread to set them on the table just a foot or two from the stool. Emala fished out the promised coins and a silver one in addition and handed them over. The adolescent’s eyes widened at the flash of silver and a smile broke over her face before she pocketed the money.

  “We know enough of bad men out here that I’m certain Mama will be happy to help you. Not from the breeders, mind you—they are a pretty inoffensive lot. The worst problem we’ve ever had with them is when one of them insists on breeding rights. No, it is occasionally from some of the men who come from the city who serve as guards and overseers. Every now and then, we get one who likes to treat the field women as if they exist for his personal pleasure. Then there are the huntsmen, who enjoy carousing through the village every so often. Mama is hoping to get us transferred to another farming village further from the Citadel within the next year where we can mostly be left to our own devices,” she confided. “The closer you get to the mountains, the safer you are.”

  “Sali, what’s all this talk of safety by the mountains? You know the Citadel is safety,” a weather-beaten woman spoke sharply as she entered the house. Her face was lined with strain and tanned from the sun. Even from beneath the straw cap that shielded her head, Emala could make out the brown strands of hair streaked gray at her temples. She pulled her rounded cap off and glared at Emala as she continued to speak to Sali. “You don’t know who this woman is. Do not spin foolish tales in her presence.”

  “She has a sack from a ridiculous pillowcase and is dressed fine, Mama. Hardly the sensible garb of a woman intent on spying,” Sali said. “Besides, she claims to be escaping a bad man. Not a plausible story designed to lure us. The whole thing is too silly to be a falsehood.”

  Emala blushed and picked at the expensive fabric of her dress. She’d worn dresses like these all her life. It never occurred to her that she would look silly or out of place in them. She grimaced and met the woman’s stern regard. “I don’t want any trouble. In truth, I need to be on my way as soon as possible. I only stopped for a moment to inquire if I might purchase a horse to put as much distance between me and the Citadel as possible before nightfall.”

  The woman pinched her lips together and gave her a once-over. “Do you know how to ride? I won’t be responsible for a foolish city girl leaving my house only to break her neck.”

  Despite her sheltered upbringing, that was one thing that Emala knew how to do well. She and her mother had spent hours every day riding a matching pair of horses around the large courtyard of the manor. Emala may have been plump from a lavish lifestyle few others could afford, but beneath her curves she possessed the strength of an equestrian. “Yes. Until recently, I spent much time riding and am quite experienced at it.”

  “It will cost.”

  Emala inclined her head. “I expect nothing else.”

  “Very well.” Her reluctant hostess sighed. “No doubt you have some provisions in that bag, but I will set you up with some furs that will keep you warm in the mountain passes, jerked meat, dry fruit, and my most reliable mare. In exchange, I ask for that necklace you wear. I can melt down the precious metals and distribute the stone and metal to traders who come through here. They ask no questions. The profits it will bring me will more than make up for the goods you will leave with.”

  Emala had no doubt that it would do that and net additional profits on top of that, but she wasn’t of a mind to argue. She had no interest in keeping the pendant, anyway. Emala reached behind her neck and unfastened the gold chain and held it out. The woman’s eyes lit up and she snatched the necklace from Emala’s fingertips.

  “Well, then, I suspect we should get you out of all that silk and put something more sensible on you. I have some larger dresses from when I last was pregnant before they retired me from the breeding program. No great loss. I always was a terrible breeding woman for them. Lost more babes than I carried to term. In any case, I no longer have any use for them.”

  Emala smiled as she followed the enterprising hostess into another room that contained a single bed and an upper bunk level reachable by a ladder, which held another pair of beds. Only one of the beds boasted bedding and a small night table at its side containing a single lamp. The home was humble, without even the basic comforts of the Citadel. Emala had no doubt that the woman would be happy to turn a profit on the silk dresses as well. She didn’t begrudge her that. Though she spent most of her life in luxury, she knew that the world was hard for many, especially those in the villages and beyond the woods on the other side of the mountains. She shivered in apprehension. She didn’t even try to hide her nerves.

  Pulling open a drawer, the woman pulled out two dresses, one rust-colored and the other brown, and set them on the bed. “You may have both of these. I will give you some privacy so that you may change into one. The other you may store in your pack. Just leave the silk dresses. They won’t do you any good beyond the mountains, other than making you a target of brigands and unscrupulous merchants.”

  “Thank you... uh...”

  “Esmi.”

  “Thank you, Esmi. I’m...”

  Esmi sighed and shook her head, regret clear on her face. “Do not misunderstand, but... I don’t want to know your name. I don’t want to know who you are or who you are running from. Nothing that can bring trouble on my family, you hear? It is best if you are nothing but a stranger to me and my daughter and leave it at that.”

  Emala ducked her head. She understood. She felt a twinge of guilt that her presence could bring danger upon this family. A soft touch on her hand surprised her and she glanced up. Esmi smiled at her kindly.

  “You do what you need to do. Get far away and make your own future. The Citadel has fallen since the days of peace and prosperity under the Oracle’s line. Find a place where no one knows you, and then, just maybe you will be safe. There hasn’t yet been more than a dusting on the mountains and, by all accounts, the weather should hold for a few more days. I’d suggest you not tarry along the way, however.”

  Her hand dropped away and Emala swallowed and nodded once again. She would take Esmi’s advice to heart as she traveled beyond the edges of the mountains and into the unknown were only the intrepid colonists, merchants, and huntsmen dared to travel.

  “Thank you, Esmi,” she said again.

  “Think nothing of it, child. The day may come when I too will see it better to send my daughter over the mountains if the outer villages fall prey to the same dangers we face here. We will see. I will have some furs ready for you when you come out.” With those parting words, Esmi left Emala to change.

  Half an hour later, Emala left the tiny village astride a dappled gray mare. Winter was her name and Emala couldn’t think of a more suitable one for a horse of such a pale hue with a snowy white mane and tail. Emala looked almost as pale with her white and gray fur coat closed tightly around her, the high collar closing around her lower face for added warmth. The pale hood was pulled lower over her head. Though she was a bit warm, especially with the leather riding pants beneath her dress, Emala was grateful for the insulation. The temperature dropped quickly at night, and she knew that it would be even colder as she climbed into the higher passes of the m
ountain.

  Her eyes trained on the gray silhouette of the rising mountain in the distance. Squeezing her thighs sharply around the barrel of her mare’s torso, she flew at a steady clip toward those shadows, never once glancing back at the Citadel and the ghost of her mother she left behind there. A single bitter tear slipped down her cheek with the knowledge that by now her mother would have long passed from the world.

  She hated the world of men that wore her mother down until she was nothing more than a spirit caught in a shell.

  She would never return to the Citadel.

  Chapter 4

  Mishar inhaled, savoring the bite in the air that signaled the rapid approach of the snows. Just ahead he could see the slopes of the mountain, already white with snow. He enjoyed hunting in the winter. He blended into the landscape seamlessly with his white coat and, for a moment, he could pretend that he was one with the world around him rather than an intruder in an ever-changing world not native to his species. Although, from the stories of his fathers, he doubted if the ancestors of his home world would recognize what his species had become.

  Their kind was supposedly altered by the star sailors who brought them to this world so that they may be compatible. To what end his fathers had seemed unclear on other than the fact that they were taught the speech of the people they were set amongst in the far corners of the world. These were the things carried down and taught among their kind through the generations. The story of how they came to be, and the sharing of the language of the enemy people—the hunters of the Ragoru.

  “Mishar!” Vordri called. Mishar turned and watched his brother trot up the incline of the hill, the wind ruffling his long mane and fur. All golden, he was a sharp contrast to Mishar’s pure white fur. He always claimed to hate the winter when his hunts suffered the worst. His brother’s four yellow eyes squinted against the breeze before turning on him curiously. “You have gone far today... Do you plan on returning to the den tonight or do you have your mind set on a longer hunt?”