Chapter 2
The soft breeze slithering across her cheek woke her to the darkness. She didn’t move at first, breath held within her as her eyes searched in vain for something familiar in the stone wall that faced her. She only saw a pile of straw, a leaking bucket, a tattered cloth thrown haphazardly to the floor. The air slowly slid out of her lungs as she pushed herself from the cold floor, looking over her shoulder as a sharp crash startled her. She cursed as she saw the door with a slim window guarded by slats, providing a meager bit of light to her tired eyes. The reality of her imprisonment made her shoulders shudder and her throat tighten. A part of her had hoped the attack on the tribe had been another one of those terrible dreams, but the rest of her knew this time the dream had been too vivid to be a false vision. She had been abducted. And kept alive.
She greedily grasped for the bowl near the door, finding a thin stew filled with indiscernible salty ingredients. Her painful hunger had no qualms as she devoured it like a deep quaff of warmed wine. As satisfied as she could be, she sat on the thin mat and let the reality set a little deeper in her mind, closing her eyes, breathing. The sounds that clamored in from beyond the door suggested some exhausting work being done, like the sounds of the blacksmith cradled within the twisting arms of her tribe’s cave. The memories of her shrouded transport after the attack began to surface, chained to a metal pole in the darkness of a hooded wagon, melodically shifting from side to side as it traveled along the tundra’s uneven ground. It seemed to her that she'd been captured by some kind of slave trade. There must have been others there with her. Others must have been taken, must have survived. Must have.
When the guards suddenly opened the door she could not see their faces under the gray cloth they draped across their noses. They grabbed her arms and bodily forced her from the cell, ignoring her pleas for explanation in both her native tongue and the words of the bards. What could only be described as candles encased in glass produced a flickering light against the tunnel’s walls, occasionally illuminating the snaking crevices of glittering, multicolored veins within the rock face. She didn’t struggle after a while, even when she felt their strong fingers dig deeper into her aching flesh. They pressed her to her knees with a hefty shove beside another hunched figure, thrust a cold chisel into her shaking hands and backed away without a word. They proceed to stand by, silently watching. A cold stare was sent in return. She refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing her falter under their glowering gaze. Refused to let them see the despair that suddenly welled up within her, thinking of the rest of her tribe that had either burned to death or had been driven into similar servitude.
Her watering eyes slowly gathered an understanding of the guard’s unspoken demands. The person beside her did not chance to look at her, but methodically hammered away at a vein of the gleaming mineral she had seen in the light. Dirty hands collected the splintered pieces that fell away from the wall and placed them in a small clay vessel. Her hands trembled after the first strike, a small yelp erupting from her throat and a clatter ringing from the chisel she had dropped. As she massaged her sore hands she heard the shuffle of feet behind her, and felt the fire course across her back from the first lashing. It wasn’t the last beating of the day either. By the time they lifted her to her feet she had many bleeding wounds across her back, and the small cup full of glittering shards was yanked from her trembling fingertips.
She immediately toppled to her side after she was pushed back into her cell, biting her lip and holding in her whimpering. Closing her eyes she inhaled deeply, willing the pain away. Each breath calming and healing. It was a tactic the Healers had taught her before her first Hunt. Breath is the source of all functions within the body, and so every practice of healing must first begin with it. In and out, the pain becoming palpable, tangible. She could feel it, force it aside. The stinging sensation along her skin flowed away gradually.
“You’re awfully quiet for someone who’s just seen their first day of slavery.”
The wilted voice drew her from the meditative state. Her eyes were reluctant to open, but in the dim light she could see an elderly man in the cell with her. His frame was thin and covered by the dirty rags of threadbare clothes. His large eyes half open, as if it were a struggle to control them, and a scraggly white beard rested against his emaciated chest. She was so startled at his unknown presence that she didn’t respond immediately.
A harsh wet cough tumbled out of his chest, and he spat something on the floor of the cell before letting his head fall back against the wall. “You, you’ve been lashed quite a bit there, lass. Most would be in tears after a beating like that.”
“Believe me, I would like nothing better,” she said, delicately pulling herself into a better-seated position to face him. “But I know I wouldn’t benefit from that.”
A grisly chuckle briefly lit up his face. “Aren’t you wise for such a young thing. Tell me, what is your name?”
“Tala,” she said simply.
“Caleb.”
She nodded, the unusual name reminding her of an accent she had heard from a bard that once visited the Shelter. After a thought she spoke again, “You know my language. Are you one from the tundra’s northern lands?”
She saw him nod. “Aye, I once lived there. It’s been many, many years since I’ve seen that frozen land.” He sighed as he thought, eyes distant. He shook his head and looked at her steadily again, then squinted his eyes. “Your hair—”
Her fingers reached into the mass of tangled and grubby tresses that fell from her scalp. “Yes, it’s exactly what you think. And I was born this way.”
“And your eyes,” he started, leaning closer. “The way they shine—”
“Also the way I was born,” she said hastily, getting the curiosity out of the way. It was a point of interest that many found alluring, but her tribe had often found haunting.
“I’m sorry, it’s just…unusual,” Caleb muttered, sheepish at her abrupt response. After an uncertain silence passed, he changed the topic, “I suppose this is the first time your tribe has been struck by the Wrath.”
“The Wrath.” She spoke slowly, feeling the word on her tongue. It felt fitting for the emotions she felt against her captors. “So that is who did this to my people.” The questions rolled about in her head for a few brief moments before she spoke again. “Have they been abducting people from other tribes? Why would they?”
“Aye, from the few times I’ve risked to speak, the others in the mine were stolen from their homes. Occasionally I stumble upon another from my own tribe, but hardly ever do we see one another a second time. As for why, I have no clear idea, Tala. This stone must be of some use to them. It must be important to justify stealing so many slaves from so many different tribes.” He paused for a moment. “I suppose we were easy targets.”
The thought of flames and the memory of motionless bodies made her stomach churn. All that death for slaves? It seemed contradictory. “Did they kill most of your tribe?”
“Only those that resisted. Most did not. They caught us unaware, in the dead of night.”
Tala nodded, feeling a similar recollection. The sight of her mother struck down when she had fallen to her knees in defeat, her small brother’s unconscious body left to the mercy of the heartless flames, the images rose to her mind and heated her thoughts.
“Then why did they kill so many of my tribe when all they wanted was slaves?”
A pregnant silence fell between them for a lasting time. He spoke softly. “Maybe slaves aren’t what they want anymore.”
A fit of coughing overpowered any other words he meant to speak. He seemed to collapse into himself with the effort. She cautiously leaned forward and crawled to his side, placing a hand on his exposed chest, feeling the tremors as he continued to cough and hack up whatever was inside him.
“Caleb, how long have you had this?” she asked once he had calmed himself.
“Most of my life,” he said, wiping a bit of spittle from his lips. It seemed as though he wanted to move away from her touch, but had no motivation to. “I’ve been hoping it would take my life before the Wrath could, but I haven’t been so lucky yet.” He paused and looked down at her hand still on his chest. “Are you a healer?”
She nodded, then briskly leaned her head up to his chest, listening to his breathing. Whether he shuddered at the sudden closeness or the sight of her torn back, she couldn’t tell. But she could hear the thing inside his lungs, knew it had laid anchor deep within and would be difficult to eliminate, if it were even possible. Drawing back she sighed, “There’s not much I can do for you though.”
He brusquely drew the remains of clothing over himself, as if he had been violated by her examination. His eyes were stony and offended. Looking away she felt a blush rise to her cheeks and she apologized, moving back to the other side of the room. Caleb’s eyes refused to meet her own for a time, staring unwaveringly at the shaft of light that hardly lit the floor, his demeanor suddenly cold. Tala slowly laid on her stomach, feeling suddenly awkward. The Hunters would never have been so quick to dismiss her in a time of need. She had always been a competent Healer, always able to discern any ailment, knew every treatment without any doubt.
“What was it you were doing before, when you returned from the mines?” he asked as the silence was about to become unbearable. “You looked like you weren’t even feeling any pain. Like you could overcome it.”
“It’s a tactic my tribe knows. Use your breathing as a gateway for the mind, to let it overcome any evil or pain. Let it flow out.”
“So it’s just a mental technique.”
She hummed in thought. “No, not exactly. It can be used to heal a physical wound. I’ve seen it. The Hunters heal faster when they breathe away their pain. It’s difficult to explain, it’s something that every person in our tribe knows.”
“Would you, could you teach it? To me?” Caleb asked, looking less despondent at the idea. Tala watched him for a moment, thinking. She believed it slightly absurd that he had no understanding of the power within his own body, but as she dwelled on it more she wondered if his ailment had always hindered such knowledge. Maybe if he better understood it, his malady would deteriorate within him.
“Close your eyes,” she instructed.
Her guiding words were soft and lucid, and sometimes were not even words at all. The Healers had always been clear that every person has their own way to breathe, and the unlocking of the curative technique was a personal discovery. She tried leading him down every path she could think of, counting, holding, exhaling. Yet always the cough would break his concentration. She sighed after feeling a significant amount of time pass without any improvement. “Anything?”
His gravely voice responded in the negative, and he looked defeated. “I suppose it’s not something I can use." He sighed. "How unfortunate.”
Tala shook her head. “It’s just something you need to figure out for yourself.”
The door shrieked open unexpectedly and the large body of a guard blocked the light from corridor beyond. His low voice asked for the old man to stand and follow him out. Caleb obliged, and before they left, another bowl of meager food was placed on the floor for Tala along with a bucket of water.
Her nose did not find the meal appetizing, but her howling stomach didn’t care. The bucket of water looked clean enough to her, and she gently cupped some of the liquid in her hand and poured it over her back, grimacing and wincing as it touched her wounds. They would heal harshly, she knew. But she wasn’t a stranger to scars, a long gash down her forearm calling back the memory of a savage wolf standing over her when she was away from the Hunt. And of the dagger she had buried deep in its throat.
Her mother had always disapproved of Tala’s sudden disappearances from the travelling group, and was skeptical of her daughter’s protested amnesia of such events. The wolf’s mark was yet another reason to protest Tala’s duty in the Hunt, but the others in the tribe paid it no mind. She was always there when someone needed healing, and did it promptly and with great skill. When she wandered off they had always returned safely without her. It made the tribe believe she could foresee things others could not, and when she was gone they took it as a sign of protection. The tribe’s gift to her was to mark her assumed power, tattooing the symbol of clairvoyance beside her right eye. Three dots just at the corner. A Healer would never abandon her post unless she knew there was no threat nearby. In time, Tala herself began to believe the same, and never feared the dark periods where she could remember nothing.
But she had not foreseen this attack that sabotaged her tribe, and it was a sobering thought. She felt guilty. Just before the flames had begun to devour the structures outside of the cave, she had wondered what would happen if her seemingly supernatural sense of protection failed. The answer was quickly drawn with the blood of her kinsmen seeping into the frosted grass that ill-fated night.
She felt nauseous and wished she hadn’t forced the dissatisfying bowl of gruel into her stomach
She greedily grasped for the bowl near the door, finding a thin stew filled with indiscernible salty ingredients. Her painful hunger had no qualms as she devoured it like a deep quaff of warmed wine. As satisfied as she could be, she sat on the thin mat and let the reality set a little deeper in her mind, closing her eyes, breathing. The sounds that clamored in from beyond the door suggested some exhausting work being done, like the sounds of the blacksmith cradled within the twisting arms of her tribe’s cave. The memories of her shrouded transport after the attack began to surface, chained to a metal pole in the darkness of a hooded wagon, melodically shifting from side to side as it traveled along the tundra’s uneven ground. It seemed to her that she'd been captured by some kind of slave trade. There must have been others there with her. Others must have been taken, must have survived. Must have.
When the guards suddenly opened the door she could not see their faces under the gray cloth they draped across their noses. They grabbed her arms and bodily forced her from the cell, ignoring her pleas for explanation in both her native tongue and the words of the bards. What could only be described as candles encased in glass produced a flickering light against the tunnel’s walls, occasionally illuminating the snaking crevices of glittering, multicolored veins within the rock face. She didn’t struggle after a while, even when she felt their strong fingers dig deeper into her aching flesh. They pressed her to her knees with a hefty shove beside another hunched figure, thrust a cold chisel into her shaking hands and backed away without a word. They proceed to stand by, silently watching. A cold stare was sent in return. She refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing her falter under their glowering gaze. Refused to let them see the despair that suddenly welled up within her, thinking of the rest of her tribe that had either burned to death or had been driven into similar servitude.
Her watering eyes slowly gathered an understanding of the guard’s unspoken demands. The person beside her did not chance to look at her, but methodically hammered away at a vein of the gleaming mineral she had seen in the light. Dirty hands collected the splintered pieces that fell away from the wall and placed them in a small clay vessel. Her hands trembled after the first strike, a small yelp erupting from her throat and a clatter ringing from the chisel she had dropped. As she massaged her sore hands she heard the shuffle of feet behind her, and felt the fire course across her back from the first lashing. It wasn’t the last beating of the day either. By the time they lifted her to her feet she had many bleeding wounds across her back, and the small cup full of glittering shards was yanked from her trembling fingertips.
She immediately toppled to her side after she was pushed back into her cell, biting her lip and holding in her whimpering. Closing her eyes she inhaled deeply, willing the pain away. Each breath calming and healing. It was a tactic the Healers had taught her before her first Hunt. Breath is the source of all functions within the body, and so every practice of healing must first begin with it. In and out, the pain becoming palpable, tangible. She could feel it, force it aside. The stinging sensation along her skin flowed away gradually.
“You’re awfully quiet for someone who’s just seen their first day of slavery.”
The wilted voice drew her from the meditative state. Her eyes were reluctant to open, but in the dim light she could see an elderly man in the cell with her. His frame was thin and covered by the dirty rags of threadbare clothes. His large eyes half open, as if it were a struggle to control them, and a scraggly white beard rested against his emaciated chest. She was so startled at his unknown presence that she didn’t respond immediately.
A harsh wet cough tumbled out of his chest, and he spat something on the floor of the cell before letting his head fall back against the wall. “You, you’ve been lashed quite a bit there, lass. Most would be in tears after a beating like that.”
“Believe me, I would like nothing better,” she said, delicately pulling herself into a better-seated position to face him. “But I know I wouldn’t benefit from that.”
A grisly chuckle briefly lit up his face. “Aren’t you wise for such a young thing. Tell me, what is your name?”
“Tala,” she said simply.
“Caleb.”
She nodded, the unusual name reminding her of an accent she had heard from a bard that once visited the Shelter. After a thought she spoke again, “You know my language. Are you one from the tundra’s northern lands?”
She saw him nod. “Aye, I once lived there. It’s been many, many years since I’ve seen that frozen land.” He sighed as he thought, eyes distant. He shook his head and looked at her steadily again, then squinted his eyes. “Your hair—”
Her fingers reached into the mass of tangled and grubby tresses that fell from her scalp. “Yes, it’s exactly what you think. And I was born this way.”
“And your eyes,” he started, leaning closer. “The way they shine—”
“Also the way I was born,” she said hastily, getting the curiosity out of the way. It was a point of interest that many found alluring, but her tribe had often found haunting.
“I’m sorry, it’s just…unusual,” Caleb muttered, sheepish at her abrupt response. After an uncertain silence passed, he changed the topic, “I suppose this is the first time your tribe has been struck by the Wrath.”
“The Wrath.” She spoke slowly, feeling the word on her tongue. It felt fitting for the emotions she felt against her captors. “So that is who did this to my people.” The questions rolled about in her head for a few brief moments before she spoke again. “Have they been abducting people from other tribes? Why would they?”
“Aye, from the few times I’ve risked to speak, the others in the mine were stolen from their homes. Occasionally I stumble upon another from my own tribe, but hardly ever do we see one another a second time. As for why, I have no clear idea, Tala. This stone must be of some use to them. It must be important to justify stealing so many slaves from so many different tribes.” He paused for a moment. “I suppose we were easy targets.”
The thought of flames and the memory of motionless bodies made her stomach churn. All that death for slaves? It seemed contradictory. “Did they kill most of your tribe?”
“Only those that resisted. Most did not. They caught us unaware, in the dead of night.”
Tala nodded, feeling a similar recollection. The sight of her mother struck down when she had fallen to her knees in defeat, her small brother’s unconscious body left to the mercy of the heartless flames, the images rose to her mind and heated her thoughts.
“Then why did they kill so many of my tribe when all they wanted was slaves?”
A pregnant silence fell between them for a lasting time. He spoke softly. “Maybe slaves aren’t what they want anymore.”
A fit of coughing overpowered any other words he meant to speak. He seemed to collapse into himself with the effort. She cautiously leaned forward and crawled to his side, placing a hand on his exposed chest, feeling the tremors as he continued to cough and hack up whatever was inside him.
“Caleb, how long have you had this?” she asked once he had calmed himself.
“Most of my life,” he said, wiping a bit of spittle from his lips. It seemed as though he wanted to move away from her touch, but had no motivation to. “I’ve been hoping it would take my life before the Wrath could, but I haven’t been so lucky yet.” He paused and looked down at her hand still on his chest. “Are you a healer?”
She nodded, then briskly leaned her head up to his chest, listening to his breathing. Whether he shuddered at the sudden closeness or the sight of her torn back, she couldn’t tell. But she could hear the thing inside his lungs, knew it had laid anchor deep within and would be difficult to eliminate, if it were even possible. Drawing back she sighed, “There’s not much I can do for you though.”
He brusquely drew the remains of clothing over himself, as if he had been violated by her examination. His eyes were stony and offended. Looking away she felt a blush rise to her cheeks and she apologized, moving back to the other side of the room. Caleb’s eyes refused to meet her own for a time, staring unwaveringly at the shaft of light that hardly lit the floor, his demeanor suddenly cold. Tala slowly laid on her stomach, feeling suddenly awkward. The Hunters would never have been so quick to dismiss her in a time of need. She had always been a competent Healer, always able to discern any ailment, knew every treatment without any doubt.
“What was it you were doing before, when you returned from the mines?” he asked as the silence was about to become unbearable. “You looked like you weren’t even feeling any pain. Like you could overcome it.”
“It’s a tactic my tribe knows. Use your breathing as a gateway for the mind, to let it overcome any evil or pain. Let it flow out.”
“So it’s just a mental technique.”
She hummed in thought. “No, not exactly. It can be used to heal a physical wound. I’ve seen it. The Hunters heal faster when they breathe away their pain. It’s difficult to explain, it’s something that every person in our tribe knows.”
“Would you, could you teach it? To me?” Caleb asked, looking less despondent at the idea. Tala watched him for a moment, thinking. She believed it slightly absurd that he had no understanding of the power within his own body, but as she dwelled on it more she wondered if his ailment had always hindered such knowledge. Maybe if he better understood it, his malady would deteriorate within him.
“Close your eyes,” she instructed.
Her guiding words were soft and lucid, and sometimes were not even words at all. The Healers had always been clear that every person has their own way to breathe, and the unlocking of the curative technique was a personal discovery. She tried leading him down every path she could think of, counting, holding, exhaling. Yet always the cough would break his concentration. She sighed after feeling a significant amount of time pass without any improvement. “Anything?”
His gravely voice responded in the negative, and he looked defeated. “I suppose it’s not something I can use." He sighed. "How unfortunate.”
Tala shook her head. “It’s just something you need to figure out for yourself.”
The door shrieked open unexpectedly and the large body of a guard blocked the light from corridor beyond. His low voice asked for the old man to stand and follow him out. Caleb obliged, and before they left, another bowl of meager food was placed on the floor for Tala along with a bucket of water.
Her nose did not find the meal appetizing, but her howling stomach didn’t care. The bucket of water looked clean enough to her, and she gently cupped some of the liquid in her hand and poured it over her back, grimacing and wincing as it touched her wounds. They would heal harshly, she knew. But she wasn’t a stranger to scars, a long gash down her forearm calling back the memory of a savage wolf standing over her when she was away from the Hunt. And of the dagger she had buried deep in its throat.
Her mother had always disapproved of Tala’s sudden disappearances from the travelling group, and was skeptical of her daughter’s protested amnesia of such events. The wolf’s mark was yet another reason to protest Tala’s duty in the Hunt, but the others in the tribe paid it no mind. She was always there when someone needed healing, and did it promptly and with great skill. When she wandered off they had always returned safely without her. It made the tribe believe she could foresee things others could not, and when she was gone they took it as a sign of protection. The tribe’s gift to her was to mark her assumed power, tattooing the symbol of clairvoyance beside her right eye. Three dots just at the corner. A Healer would never abandon her post unless she knew there was no threat nearby. In time, Tala herself began to believe the same, and never feared the dark periods where she could remember nothing.
But she had not foreseen this attack that sabotaged her tribe, and it was a sobering thought. She felt guilty. Just before the flames had begun to devour the structures outside of the cave, she had wondered what would happen if her seemingly supernatural sense of protection failed. The answer was quickly drawn with the blood of her kinsmen seeping into the frosted grass that ill-fated night.
She felt nauseous and wished she hadn’t forced the dissatisfying bowl of gruel into her stomach
* * *
She gripped her shoulder where it ached from the guard’s harsh grasp as he had led her back to the cell. Gingerly, she leaned over the bucket and cupped some water in her hands, letting its temperature cool her palms before she placed them on the sore muscle. New lines of blood dribbled down her back. She gritted her teeth and used her breath to control the pain, though it tore through her like a windstorm.
“They’re unusually hard on you.” Caleb announced after watching her suffering for a bit. The scars ran across her back like a spider’s web. “I never seen someone under the whip as much as you.”
Tala gulped a mouthful of water, letting out a small gasp after the liquid had flowed down her dry throat. “They’re trying to break me. I don’t know why. I hammer away at whatever this is just as well as the people I see, but that whip only seems to find my back.” She turned to face Caleb. She had been in the mines for weeks or months, she wasn’t sure. Yet knowing Caleb would be back in their shared cell had been one of the comforting thoughts that made the day a little less hopeless. Something about his demeanor made her believe he was there to help. “Have they done this to you?”
“Break me?” Caleb said with a laugh that turned into a barrage of deep hacking. “Oh no, you mean have they whipped me. Yes, you could say they have.” He again made a harsh coughing noise as if he were about to be overcome by his sickness, but managed to suppress it. Looking up he caught Tala’s eye watching him. He sighed. “This place is doing nothing good for me. Or for you, lass. You just look, well, drained. And hopeless. Like you’ve walked through Hell.”
She looked at him quizzically, “Hell?”
“Oh, of course. Your tribe doesn’t think of the world that way.” He paused while considering the concept. “Hell is the most miserable place you can think of. It’s where sins are repaid in terrible ways.”
She shook her head. “We don’t have that in our tribe. We only think about what we’re doing now.” She softly massaged her shoulder. “But no, this isn’t how I imagine Hell as you call it. Of course it’s terrible, but this isn’t the kind of evil I would expect from something like Hell.”
Her words seemed to kindle his interest. “Then what would Hell be like? To you?”
She sat back with a deep breath, eyes wandering across the floor as she thought. “It would be somewhere where you couldn’t trust words,” she said placidly. “Whatever is said can’t be understood. Everything is a lie.”
He made a sound of consideration, taking in her words. “So to you, lying is the worst sin.”
“Oh no, that’s not exactly what I meant,” she said brushing her hair out of her eyes. “Lying has its place. But to have the truth hidden, where no matter what you ask you cannot get to the heart of the word, that is Hell. Every conversation would be poison, you wouldn’t know what to trust, it would lead you to madness.”
“Is that what it was like, at your home, how people treated you with your…” He tapped the top of his head where his white hair rested.
“No, my appearance didn’t matter really. Of course everyone was a bit edgy when they talked about it, but they didn’t hide what they thought. Honesty runs deep in our blood.” She played with the scrappy ends of her skirt. “What about you?”
“Me?”
“Yes, what’s your Hell?”
Caleb seemed taken aback at the query, and also stared at the floor for a moment. “I suppose, seeing something you need and not being able to have it.”
Tala was silent for a time. She leaned back, considering the older man in front of her. He made it clear that he loathed the Wrath and wished he could flee from their forced slavery, yet after all these years he had not given up hope that it could be achieved. “Is there something you need here that you cannot get?”
His eyes met her own in the dim light. “Of course. Isn’t there something you want as well?”
Her thoughts were swirling. Some things she had noticed during her time of servitude made certain suspicions arise. Suspicions of Caleb’s true intentions. “Caleb, I’ve been meaning to ask you something, but…” Her voice trailed off as she motioned with a jerk of her head towards the guards that stood outside the cell. She could never be sure how attentive their ears were.
“What is it, lass?” Caleb asked quietly, motioning with a withered hand for her to draw closer.
She positioned herself on the floor beside him, leaning in. “Has anyone ever escaped from here?”
“Not that I know of,” he said simply, although he looked a bit bemused by her question.
“Well, have you heard of people planning to, or who want to?” she asked, shifting her weight to get a better look at him.
“Not that you know of,” he said. The look on his face made Tala wonder what meaning was hiding behind such sparse words. His face was almost amused at her inquisition, as if he knew something greater than he let on. She cocked her head as if the spur him to elaborate, but he put a quivering finger to his lips and winked.
After the small gesture Tala found her thoughts rushing from possibility to possibility, trying to understand the intentions of Caleb’s responses. She believed he was attempting to convey something to her that could not be said outright. Something that should not be overheard. She had no idea what knowledge Caleb had that could be of interest to their captors, but the fact that he held it away from her made her think he had some dangerous ideas of escape.
Once she had gotten used to the daily routine in the mines, she became aware of slight discrepancies in Caleb’s treatment compared to the rest of the slaves. She had noticed the amount of guards outside in the hall increased whenever Caleb resided in the cell with her. They had to have been there to keep him in the cell, to protect him from escaping. But what threat could an old man provide? She had pondered the idea while mining, in between the lashings. Having been imprisoned in the mine for so many years, it was likely that Caleb knew more about the stronghold’s potential weaknesses, or perhaps the captives’ hushed sentiments and plots. Perhaps there was silent movement for escape, an underground force slowly germinating under the Wrath’s watch, and somehow Caleb had ties to it. But they were ties that kept his words at bay. He could only hint at such ideas, with a wink at the right moment or a raised brow at a certain question. His words were locked away by those that could overhear, those who were always present around him.
It was such slight expressions that made her wonder where exactly the guards brought him when he was called away. The way they refused to lay their hands on him, the way they spoke calmly and without force, the way he never seemed concerned when they whisked him away. It all perplexed her. The situation’s denouement always danced in her head, wondering who this old man could be. And the secrets boiled in her blood until she could no retain her curiosity.
“Why are there so many guards at the door?” she asked sternly one day.
He stared at her for a moment, caught unaware as the cell door swung shut behind him. His mouth began to form words that never fell past his lips, like a fish floundering for water. “That’s…complicated. It’s not something you should concern yourself with, lass.”
Tala scoffed at the comment. “I want to know,” she hissed, her sense of consternation fighting with her sense of caution. She saw the shadow of a guard near the door and quieted her words. “Why is it that the door to this cell has two guards standing watch while the others have none? I’ve seen it when they lead me underground, no other cell is as protected as this one is.” His eyes turned stony as she waited for an answer. She crossed her arms and sat back as she waited, but he seemed unable to find the words. After a time, she spoke instead. “Could they be here for you?”
“For me?” he said slowly. He paused before continuing on. “The Proctors do watch me, this is true.”
“Why would they want to do that?” She asked quickly, but she caught his glance toward the door, where the silhouettes of the guards moved against the pale light.
“Tala,” he started in a soft, almost paternal tone. “It isn’t something you should get involved in.” He stopped for a moment, considering his words while she continued to glare. “I have a place within the Wrath. I have…knowledge they need.”
She watched him for a moment, then leaned closer and spoke as softly as she could. “Just tell me. Are you planning…something? With others in here?”
His words caught in his throat as a fit of coughing overtook him. But in that moment, through his sickness, he caught her eyes with a fierce stare. He seemed to be judging her fortitude, and she refused to break the gaze between them. Once the coughing subsided, he drew the back of his wrist to his mouth and a dedicated motion, nodded his head.
She gripped her shoulder where it ached from the guard’s harsh grasp as he had led her back to the cell. Gingerly, she leaned over the bucket and cupped some water in her hands, letting its temperature cool her palms before she placed them on the sore muscle. New lines of blood dribbled down her back. She gritted her teeth and used her breath to control the pain, though it tore through her like a windstorm.
“They’re unusually hard on you.” Caleb announced after watching her suffering for a bit. The scars ran across her back like a spider’s web. “I never seen someone under the whip as much as you.”
Tala gulped a mouthful of water, letting out a small gasp after the liquid had flowed down her dry throat. “They’re trying to break me. I don’t know why. I hammer away at whatever this is just as well as the people I see, but that whip only seems to find my back.” She turned to face Caleb. She had been in the mines for weeks or months, she wasn’t sure. Yet knowing Caleb would be back in their shared cell had been one of the comforting thoughts that made the day a little less hopeless. Something about his demeanor made her believe he was there to help. “Have they done this to you?”
“Break me?” Caleb said with a laugh that turned into a barrage of deep hacking. “Oh no, you mean have they whipped me. Yes, you could say they have.” He again made a harsh coughing noise as if he were about to be overcome by his sickness, but managed to suppress it. Looking up he caught Tala’s eye watching him. He sighed. “This place is doing nothing good for me. Or for you, lass. You just look, well, drained. And hopeless. Like you’ve walked through Hell.”
She looked at him quizzically, “Hell?”
“Oh, of course. Your tribe doesn’t think of the world that way.” He paused while considering the concept. “Hell is the most miserable place you can think of. It’s where sins are repaid in terrible ways.”
She shook her head. “We don’t have that in our tribe. We only think about what we’re doing now.” She softly massaged her shoulder. “But no, this isn’t how I imagine Hell as you call it. Of course it’s terrible, but this isn’t the kind of evil I would expect from something like Hell.”
Her words seemed to kindle his interest. “Then what would Hell be like? To you?”
She sat back with a deep breath, eyes wandering across the floor as she thought. “It would be somewhere where you couldn’t trust words,” she said placidly. “Whatever is said can’t be understood. Everything is a lie.”
He made a sound of consideration, taking in her words. “So to you, lying is the worst sin.”
“Oh no, that’s not exactly what I meant,” she said brushing her hair out of her eyes. “Lying has its place. But to have the truth hidden, where no matter what you ask you cannot get to the heart of the word, that is Hell. Every conversation would be poison, you wouldn’t know what to trust, it would lead you to madness.”
“Is that what it was like, at your home, how people treated you with your…” He tapped the top of his head where his white hair rested.
“No, my appearance didn’t matter really. Of course everyone was a bit edgy when they talked about it, but they didn’t hide what they thought. Honesty runs deep in our blood.” She played with the scrappy ends of her skirt. “What about you?”
“Me?”
“Yes, what’s your Hell?”
Caleb seemed taken aback at the query, and also stared at the floor for a moment. “I suppose, seeing something you need and not being able to have it.”
Tala was silent for a time. She leaned back, considering the older man in front of her. He made it clear that he loathed the Wrath and wished he could flee from their forced slavery, yet after all these years he had not given up hope that it could be achieved. “Is there something you need here that you cannot get?”
His eyes met her own in the dim light. “Of course. Isn’t there something you want as well?”
Her thoughts were swirling. Some things she had noticed during her time of servitude made certain suspicions arise. Suspicions of Caleb’s true intentions. “Caleb, I’ve been meaning to ask you something, but…” Her voice trailed off as she motioned with a jerk of her head towards the guards that stood outside the cell. She could never be sure how attentive their ears were.
“What is it, lass?” Caleb asked quietly, motioning with a withered hand for her to draw closer.
She positioned herself on the floor beside him, leaning in. “Has anyone ever escaped from here?”
“Not that I know of,” he said simply, although he looked a bit bemused by her question.
“Well, have you heard of people planning to, or who want to?” she asked, shifting her weight to get a better look at him.
“Not that you know of,” he said. The look on his face made Tala wonder what meaning was hiding behind such sparse words. His face was almost amused at her inquisition, as if he knew something greater than he let on. She cocked her head as if the spur him to elaborate, but he put a quivering finger to his lips and winked.
After the small gesture Tala found her thoughts rushing from possibility to possibility, trying to understand the intentions of Caleb’s responses. She believed he was attempting to convey something to her that could not be said outright. Something that should not be overheard. She had no idea what knowledge Caleb had that could be of interest to their captors, but the fact that he held it away from her made her think he had some dangerous ideas of escape.
Once she had gotten used to the daily routine in the mines, she became aware of slight discrepancies in Caleb’s treatment compared to the rest of the slaves. She had noticed the amount of guards outside in the hall increased whenever Caleb resided in the cell with her. They had to have been there to keep him in the cell, to protect him from escaping. But what threat could an old man provide? She had pondered the idea while mining, in between the lashings. Having been imprisoned in the mine for so many years, it was likely that Caleb knew more about the stronghold’s potential weaknesses, or perhaps the captives’ hushed sentiments and plots. Perhaps there was silent movement for escape, an underground force slowly germinating under the Wrath’s watch, and somehow Caleb had ties to it. But they were ties that kept his words at bay. He could only hint at such ideas, with a wink at the right moment or a raised brow at a certain question. His words were locked away by those that could overhear, those who were always present around him.
It was such slight expressions that made her wonder where exactly the guards brought him when he was called away. The way they refused to lay their hands on him, the way they spoke calmly and without force, the way he never seemed concerned when they whisked him away. It all perplexed her. The situation’s denouement always danced in her head, wondering who this old man could be. And the secrets boiled in her blood until she could no retain her curiosity.
“Why are there so many guards at the door?” she asked sternly one day.
He stared at her for a moment, caught unaware as the cell door swung shut behind him. His mouth began to form words that never fell past his lips, like a fish floundering for water. “That’s…complicated. It’s not something you should concern yourself with, lass.”
Tala scoffed at the comment. “I want to know,” she hissed, her sense of consternation fighting with her sense of caution. She saw the shadow of a guard near the door and quieted her words. “Why is it that the door to this cell has two guards standing watch while the others have none? I’ve seen it when they lead me underground, no other cell is as protected as this one is.” His eyes turned stony as she waited for an answer. She crossed her arms and sat back as she waited, but he seemed unable to find the words. After a time, she spoke instead. “Could they be here for you?”
“For me?” he said slowly. He paused before continuing on. “The Proctors do watch me, this is true.”
“Why would they want to do that?” She asked quickly, but she caught his glance toward the door, where the silhouettes of the guards moved against the pale light.
“Tala,” he started in a soft, almost paternal tone. “It isn’t something you should get involved in.” He stopped for a moment, considering his words while she continued to glare. “I have a place within the Wrath. I have…knowledge they need.”
She watched him for a moment, then leaned closer and spoke as softly as she could. “Just tell me. Are you planning…something? With others in here?”
His words caught in his throat as a fit of coughing overtook him. But in that moment, through his sickness, he caught her eyes with a fierce stare. He seemed to be judging her fortitude, and she refused to break the gaze between them. Once the coughing subsided, he drew the back of his wrist to his mouth and a dedicated motion, nodded his head.
