Into the Raging Mountains Read online

  As she set about making cookies, a thought struck her. Is this the work of the searchers? Whoever is looking for Terrad/Ver? Only then did she wonder where he was. They had agreed because of his injuries and the search that appeared to be covertly ongoing for him, that he should stay put under the ordertable. He had no lack of food and a small jug of water. Where is he? Has Ver done this to the shop and fled? It was unlikely in his condition. Everyday seemed to bring yet more bizarre events into her small life.

  Softly, she called “Ver?” There was no answer. “Ver? Are you here?” Still there was nothing.

  Alizarin shook her head. People are a continual disappointment. First, her mother ran off one sunrise without leaving even a note. That had hurt. But she had stalwartly marched on, enduring and waiting, certain there would be an upcoming and reasonable explanation. Then, with her mother’s brief return and intensely painful death, Alizarin had been robbed of the opportunity to ask all those built-up questions. The disappearance of Ver, and the drama surrounding him and his injury was of small consequence in comparison, but hurtful nonetheless. Friends are hard to come by, and trust even harder.

  Looking around the shop to be certain he was gone, Alizarin shrugged her shoulders and bent to her tasks. Finding Rethendrel’s list amongst the scattered papers, she began to assemble his completed order. Ver’s disappearance still nagged at her like a pesky fly around juicy meat. They were angry thoughts she kept shooing away, determined to focus on events she could control. Finally, with the shop clean and tidy, and Rethendrel’s order ready, Alizarin sat for a few moments to refresh herself.

  Sipping from her waterpouch, she dozed lightly at the back ordercounter, both hands supporting her weary head. She daydreamed:

  Pleasant thoughts at first filled her mindseye, an image of wavy fields of golden ripe grain reaching on forever towards the horizon, the cheery sun warming the land. She sat on her saffron cloak, in the midst of growing sun, surrounded by light and monarch butterflies. It was a calm and peace-filled dream. As she sat within this land of honey and grain, a change began—a tiny change, but not a happy one.

  All the grain began dying, turning brown and sickening, bursting into flames—vast fields of fire. The light of the sun darkened, turning orange, then red, then sickeningly brown. First a stench of death filled the air, then the soot flakes of destruction began to fall in ashes on the ground, covering like snow. Everywhere she saw burnt stalks, burnt land, brown earth torn asunder.

  Rising to her feet, raising her cloak overhead as a shield, she looked for a place to escape, to hide from the piercing, focused heat. Running over fire and flame to the nearest shadow of rock, she hid as the glorious land around her burned.

  The sky behind the bitter sun had turned deep magenta, clouding the horizon, and the rushing winds howled from behind her shelter. Searching the landscape for reason, for explanation, for resolution, Alizarin remembered with relief that she was in a dream.

  Starting awake with a gasp, her eyes wet with combinations of grief, she could feel her heartbeat thundering across her torso. Choked back tears flew down her nose, wetting the ordercounter. Wallowing in her misery for a moment, she allowed her pain and disappointment and confusion to ride free. Then she took a few shuddering deep breaths, blew her nose and stood up tall.

  The worst possible dream for a baker: burnt grain. Alizarin was caught somewhere between laughter and hysteria, and chose the first. Chuckling, with deep gasps of air, rumbling into snorts and guffaws, she laughed and cried and shook her head all at the same time.

  A gruff voice called her out of her confused mirth, “Why are you laughing, Miss?”

  Alizarin turned, still smiling, wiping her eyes with her apron’s edge, and found herself across the counter from her expected patrons, Ronnit and his squat, cunning wife. Both were watching her with encouraging half-smiles on their faces, as if willing her to share the laughter and recount her joke.

  “Oh, uh, excuse me, Sir and Madam. I was quite carried away with an old schoolhouse memory. I expect you are here for your order then? I have it ready. It will be to your satisfaction I hope.”

  Surprise flashed across the woman’s face and was gone.

  “You have our wreath ready? Because we must leave at once for the wedding. We only just stopped here after clearing our bill with the Stuck Pig. Now we are off on the long road. Where is it?”

  Turning away, Alizarin briskly walked to the order basket. Withdrawing the wreath, finely wrapped in cloth and paper, she placed her work on the countertop for inspection.

  The woman peered at each section, almost seeking a flaw or shoddy work. Finally, she straightened her shoulders and, turning to Alizarin, said, “Oh, my. It’s perfect. Exactly what we needed. Cousin Ren will be so pleased. How much do we owe for the wreath?”

  “The cost is fourteen sabals, which includes the wrapping.” Feeling slightly insulted at the inspection of her bake product, Alizarin thought she needed to over-explain the cost.

  As the woman leaned down to retrieve her purse, Alizarin saw her husband Ronnit casually lean on the ordercounter and push the wreath toward the opposite edge. Grabbing at the fragile concoction from her side, she caught the weight of the dough as it began to fall.

  “Sir! Take care!” The hasty exclamation escaped her lips.

  The woman looked at Alizarin with questioning surprise and then at her husband, and back again.

  “What is the matter? What did Ronnit do?” the wife said querulously.

  Quick to recover, Alizarin was conciliatory. “Oh, Madam, it was nothing. I saved the wreath. Let me wrap it securely for you to travel.”

  The wife’s face softened and she added conspiratorially, “Well, I didn’t marry him for his dancing, if you know what I mean.”

  Alizarin blushed.

  “Here, Madam.” She presented the lovingly-wrapped gift across the counter.

  As the woman took it from her hands, she said, “Many thanks for the baking. A fine gift for our purposes.” She paused deliberately. “Did you chance to see our friend Terrad at all? We never found him and must send his wife the bad news. No doubt he will spend most of their harvest savings on pockmarked whores if she doesn’t get him out of this cursed city soon.”

  Conscience clear, Alizarin said resolutely, “I haven’t seen him. Though someone rummaged my shop thoroughly just this sunrise.” She watched their faces. There was not a flicker of surprise there, confirmation of what she already knew: these people were untrustworthy.

  “Thank you for your generous patronage and safe journey to you,” the baker concluded. Then, Alizarin turned back to the breadboard, finished with the transaction, finished with them and their hidden intentions. Terribly glad to have done with liars and thieves, Alizarin was unprepared for the large, meaty hand clamping down on her shoulder or the squeezing constriction that followed around her throat.

  Hanging like a ragdoll in the grasp of a mean little boy, Alizarin felt her eyesight rapidly begin to dim. Her hands reached for her neck to vainly attempt passage of air.

  Her limp form was forcefully turned about. Ronnit left her just barely enough breath to stay conscious. The squat woman, dropping all pretense of weddings and tales of lost Terrad, shouted at her in disgust.

  “Damnitall, baker! We know he came here last sunrise! We know none have seen him since. You bought too many supplies last noon! You know where he is and will tell us now or Ronnit will be happy to practice his finger strength on your bruised windpipe. I think you will find that plenty disagreeable. It takes a few moments to die, strangled with a crushed air passage.” After a dramatic pause, the false wife added menacingly, “If you choose to ignore my kind warning, we will be the last people you will ever see.”

  Scrutinizing Alizarin’s eyes, looking for some sign of agreement and willingness, the woman nodded to Ronnit, “Let loose a moment. Let’s see if the girl has any sense of self-preservation.”

  Struggling for breath, the whoosh of new air hitting her lun
gs like rainfall after drought, Alizarin dropped to her weakened knees, unable to stand. Remembering the wound to the back of Ver’s head, the baker knew she would not survive this encounter. They were better at fighting than she was, and now she was physically weak. She had been too close to death and maiming lately.

  Coughing heavily, almost retching, the terrified woman nodded her head twice in submission and whispered her confession. The initial damage to her voice was great and so the smallness of sound that emerged was unclear to the eager ears of her tormentors.

  “What was that, baker?” snarled vicious Ronnit, the brute bear of a man. “Tell us again!” They both leaned down to hear her reply, eager to lap up her words like feral cats at a bowl of fresh fish.

  Grabbing at her breadpaddle kept customarily under the ordertable, Alizarin stood up with the aid of the long oar, cautiously, quietly gaining her balance. “Please … ,” she started to say, “please … please.” She slowly raised her eyes submissively to meet the accosting woman’s and took a deep gulp of air. In the blink of an eye, acceptance turned to resolution.

  Defiantly, Alizarin yelled with all her stolen breath, “Damn you to the three Hellprisons of Drogos! You will never have me!”

  Swinging her breadpaddle in front of her body, ready to fight for something, for anything and for her precious life, Alizarin continued, “You will forget ever knowing my name! I defy you!” The words spilled out of her like a captured huntress’s lone battle cry, filled with fire, fierceness, and stoic acceptance of looming death.

  Blinding all of them, the length of wood in Alizarin’s hands flashed white, filling her eyesight, her ears, her wounded throat, and the darkened interior of the bakery. She saw the startled look on the face of the “wife” and Ronnit’s eyebrows gathering in anger as he started forward. Then all details were lost to the power of the pure-white burst.

  Confused and surprised, Alizarin looked down at her hands, gripped so tightly on the familiar, well-used tool. It registered differently then, within her inner awareness, that this was not her trusted work-fired breadpaddle Instead, Ver’s walking staff shone honey-white, glowing as brightly as the moon at fullness. As she gazed at it, the fierce light emanating from the intricate honeycomb carving began to fade by degrees, gradually dimming.

  When she could see again, Alizarin the Bread Baker, daughter of Trellista, looked around the room bracing to confront her two fearsome attackers, ready to die standing. She searched for the incoming, devastating and very much expected blow, but she found herself utterly alone in the darkening shop. The discarded wreath lay in its tight wrapper, forgotten on the ordercounter.

  Alone? Swinging the staff in front of her, she slid around the counter, waiting for an assault. Nothing.

  She was dumbfounded. Where is the lurking danger? That cur Ronnit is surely waiting just around the next corner? She could feel his fingers on her throat still. Searching the entire shop, Alizarin found herself truly and entirely alone. And safe and free and alive! Implausibly, there was no Ronnit and no fake wife. Alone for the fourth time in so many days, she felt gratitude fill her heart.

  A question became a guess that quickly filled her mind.

  With purpose, she locked the door as best she could, and carefully walked behind her ordertable, out of public sight. Kneeling, she lifted aside the yellow tablecloth, knowing in her heart what was there, or precisely who was there. Under her ordertable, just where they had agreed, deeply slept the familiar form of injured Ver. He had never left.

  She took a deep breath to calm herself, thinking through the situation. Alizarin took the honey-white staff and laid it carefully across his resting body. As she enclosed it in his sleeping arms, before her waiting eyes, Ver disappeared.

  The staff!

  *

  Alizarin stood outside her closed and tidied bakery, having secured the door with a great chain. Several colorful bags of baked goods were wrapped tightly with twine string at her feet. Into them, she had tucked spices and tools, a bit of flour and a sphere of dry starter carefully wrapped. Feeling good for the first time in a long while, she fingered the edging of her yellow cloak, generally content.

  She had asked Gerantha, the dairy owner across the way, to watch the vacant shop in her absence, figuring to be gone less than half a season. Birthings rarely took that long, but this was a small, well-earned vacation for Alizarin as well. She intended to do some deep thinking in her time away from her tight schedule and familiar patterns, wrestling with her life’s purpose and future motivation now that Mother had died. Caring for a difficult birth and a new mother was a tonic of service, a balm for her cares. Worrying over others’ problems and then digging in with both hands to help always had a way of neatly resolving her own.

  Right at the agreed moment of departure, Rethendrel turned the corner, with little Samton pulling an overly full cart. With a sincere smile and glad heart, Alizarin called out their standard greeting.

  “Top of the eventide to you!”

  Like a well-known song, came the reply, “And the rest of the nightfall to you as well.”

  “Greetings, helpful Alizarin. Samton and I stand ready at your service to haul all these goodies, including your fine self off to the Corded Family Farm. Gretsel and my darlin’ Theress are waiting impatiently.” Rethendrel said chuckling, with a little mock bow.

  “Ah, Rethendrel, you are so kind and so terribly gallant this setting sun,” Alizarin replied with genuine fondness. “Here is your packed order, ready to load. This small bundle is my few needed items. Fair warning, I may appear slender, but I think my addition might break poor Samton in his tack. Gladly then I will join you in walking alongside and only burden the little animal with my weight when I am footsore.”

  Tall and lanky, the good family man and superior trader in well-worn, tan homespun efficiently loaded the various packages on top of the already-burdened cart. It began to resemble a small mountain, swaying and lurching, but packed tightly. It was incredibly well balanced though, and gave Samton no trouble. The two travelers set out together in camaraderie, weaving through the day’s-end sellers offering their almost-expired wares at bargain prices.

  As they walked out of the town, Alizarin heard the famous bells of Bira Tre ring out ponderous and deep, closing the light of day into darkness. So many of the sights and smells of Dressarna had become familiar beacons to her, welcoming her each sunrise and closing out her work each sunfall. They set a pattern to her days, as the seasons and cycles continuously turned. A short visit away would no doubt increase the tiny feeling of regret at parting that Alizarin felt as the distance opened between her little home and her current direction.

  Gregarious Rethendrel kept her well entertained with ludicrous tales of country life, being something of a storytelling farmer. Not as morose or introspective as many who lived on isolated plots, he and his brothers made their living by trading and selling their own grain and other local crops on consignment. Naturally friendly, with a keen mind, he had something of a reputation for knowing the true and fair price of his products. His main farm, the Corded Family Farm was where his sister, her anxious husband and his wife Theress waited. Located a day and a half walk from Dressarna, they would travel part way with the falling sun and arrive with the new day.

  Rethendrel was a recognized seller and trader in Dressarna and had bought the Thieves Guild’s protections. Consequently, he never feared traveling at nightfall. Stiff penalties better not faced awaited highway robbers within the grasp of the Guild. Their protections were held sacrosanct in a sacrilegious land.

  Alizarin and Rethendrel walked as dusk fell, at a leisurely pace, catching up on neighbors’ antics and trading stories until they reached the travelers’ point. It was a temporary structure that was rebuilt every planting season. All travelers kept the area clean and all shared the space as required by consensus law in Tamborinton and surrounding countries. There was no need to treat public spaces as personal sties, regardless of the filth found at home. Within mom
ents of arriving at the resting place, Rethendrel had summoned a tent from somewhere inside the cart, and erected a suitable protection for both of them.

  He released Samton from the braces and tack, and the little, gray donkey munched contentedly from his grain bag, eyes half closed in weariness, fuzzy ears drooping. Alizarin begged her own enclosure for privacy and Rethendrel surrendered the tent’s space to her modesty. He settled for the stability of the general temporary structure already available, keeping the little tent in sight. Rethendrel heated a little stew to warm them before sleeping and then they parted company for the evening.

  Alizarin stood at the opening of the tent, stretching. There were no others at the wayfarer point this eventide. Taking deep breaths of country air, she felt young and exhilarated. She felt renewed, as if the future was full of possibilities she had only begun to grasp, right around the next bend in the road.

  She wondered if anyone was looking for Ronnit and his “wife.” She wondered where they were, not truly caring. The Gods keep them far away from me. She held the tent flap aloft for a moment or two, taking a last great breath of the outdoor air.

  As the baker made her way into the little tent, ready to fall into a deep slumber, she whispered softly to the empty air; “Ver? Did it work?” A soft touch on her cheek that lingered along her hair told her all she needed to know. We are free of Dressarna. Alizarin fell asleep in her blankets, and dreamed deeply for the first time since Mother left.

  *

  Used to the routine of waking early for baking, Alizarin was the first up and about the next sunrise. Taking a few supplies from her traveler’s bag, she quickly had a warming fire, piping-hot cacao and flipcakes popping bubbles in the greased pan. Still a bit cold, she rummaged in her pack for her clean clothes, wrapping her cloak against the brisk sunrise cool, its soft, yellow fabric around her body. Alizarin settled down into a crouch, pouring the hot drinks for herself and Rethendrel, quietly sipping the liquid warmth.

  Nearby, Samton munched on the meadowgrass where Rethendrel had staked him. She returned his nickering with a nicker of her own. He seemed exceptionally alert and energetic, apparently having recovered from the previous day’s labor. If she had known the location of the grooming brush, she would have rubbed the hard-working beast down.