Moongather (19 page)

THE CHILD: 7

Seven days passed, slow and painful days for Serroi. She sat in the center of her bed staring at the walls until she could stand looking at them no longer, went out of her cell into the court, wandered aimlessly about, touching the bars of the empty cages, staring into the sky, going round and round, looking for something, she didn't know what, empty and aching. She touched the door to the court, stroked her fingers over the cold metal surface. She wanted … she wanted … she wanted the magic mirror and her book scrolls. She wanted to sit with the Noris and feel his hands caressing her hair. Yet—if he touched her, she would knock his hand away and run from him, she knew that. She wanted things to be the way they were—and they could never again be the way they were.

The hands came back on the morning after the battle, bringing hot food to her cell. She felt no hunger, sat staring at the steaming food. After a while she forced the first mouthful down. Hunger returned; she ate everything they brought.

Except for bringing her food, they left her alone those seven days. On the eighth day, they came back, hustled her to the cell, cleaned her hair—not with the bucket, cold water, harsh soap, but with a scented cream they worked into her hair then rubbed gently out with soft white towels, working with infinite patience until her hair was falling about her shoulders, bright and clean, coiling into masses of fleecy curls with red sparks in the brown. They brushed her hair until it gleamed and coiled in soft curls about her scowling face. She let them work because there was no way to stop them, though she sat staring at the floor unhappy and angry. There was only one reason they would bother so with her. “I won't go to him,” she whispered. “I won't.” Tears in her eyes, she tried to pull away from the hands, but they wouldn't let her go.

When the hands were gone, she ran out into the court. She would have bathed in mud but the battle fire had burned the courtyard clean. Yelling in anger, she ran about the court, found handfuls of ash where straw had been laid down in the cages. She rubbed the ash into her shining hair, feeling a flare of triumph, a flare that quickly faded into her former restless unhappiness.

On the ninth day her boots were gone when she woke. In their place were dainty silk slippers. She caught them up and threw them across the room. They bounced unharmed from the wall and fell to the floor with soft plops. She banged the door open, kicked the slippers out into the court, ran out after them and stood glaring up at the tower. “I won't,” she screamed. After trying to pull a slipper apart with her hands, she hung it on the door's latch. Hanging onto the slipper, she lifted her feet and swung about until the silk ripped. She fell, bruising herself, fell again until the shoes were tattered fragments. She gathered them up and threw them into the center of the court. “I won't,” she shouted. Later, the hands came, collected the fragments and cleaned her hair again.

On the tenth day her clothing was gone, even though she'd bundled trousers, tunic and belt under her and slept on them. On the hook where she usually hung her clothing was a white robe made of a soft clinging wool finer than anything she'd seen before. She crawled out of bed, touched it, hated it, reluctantly loved it. A cold emptiness inside her, she used the latchhook to shred the soft fabric. When she was finished she sat naked and defiant on the bed, her hands closed into fists on her skinny thighs. “I won't go to him. I don't want to go to him. I don't. Maiden help me, I don't.”

The hands came, took the tatters away, brought food, then began working on her body. They rubbed creams into the rough spots and bruises, washed her, cleaned her, polished her as they would a badly used piece of fine furniture. They brushed her hair, brought another robe, more slippers from her feet, forced her to let herself be dressed. As soon as they were gone, she tore the clothing off, carried it into the center of the court, brought handfuls of ash and turned the water on full force. She rubbed the ash into the wet soft material and left the sopping mess by the tap and went back to sit naked and filthy on her bed.

On the eleventh day the hands washed her and creamed her skin, dressed her again. When she tried to rip off the robe, they slapped her hands away, held her wrists when she struggled. All morning she sat in the middle of her neatly made bed, glowering at nothing. When the hands brought her midday meal, she managed to upset the cha pot over herself. The hot liquid scalded her but she ignored the pain.

There was a pause in the activity of the hands as if they sighed impatiently. Then they cleared up the debris, brushed her rather roughly and left. She kicked off the dainty slippers so violently that they bounced off the wall. Ignoring the cling of the soggy robe, she ran out into the court, made a face at the keep, then climbed up the cages, swung over the protruding roof, scrambling frantically for a moment on the splintery shingles, then sat in the middle of the gentle slope to catch her breath. The Nor-battle had damaged the shingles and the supporting beams so the roof creaked under her slight weight whenever she moved.

She looked at the scattered pieces of dead wood she'd hauled up here almost a year ago. When the roof shifted slightly with a shift of her weight, she realized she could not build her pyramids again. She frowned over her shoulder at the wall, the brown-black stone glistening in the sunlight, shivered, turned to glare at the tower.
If I give in even a little, he'll swallow me. I won't let him … won't
… She tugged her robe over her knees.
Something to hook over the wall … rope? Wall cap is too smooth? What?

Underneath her attempts to think out an escape, the refrain went on and on. I can't. I can't. I dare not. I can't. Like a blood-drum the beat went on. I can't. I can't.

A rope
…
something to catch … that bit of branch
. She crawled about the pile of debris. A branch like a fishhook as big as she was shoved up against the wall; she tugged at it, trying to break it. To her satisfaction she found the seasoned wood almost as tough as the stone in the walls. She glanced back at the tower. “I'll beat you yet, Ser Noris. You wait.”

For three days after that, the hands didn't come; Serroi wondered if she was being left to starve or simply being punished. She didn't allow herself to think about him, just concentrated on her preparations for escape. She tore sheets into strips and braided them into a rope, working new strips in until she had twenty feet of line. When she tied off the end, she pulled and twisted the rope, testing the length for weak spots. As soon as she was satisfied with it, she coiled it over her shoulder and stepped out into the court, rubbing at aching eyes. The shadow was deep in the courtyard, the sun floating just above the western wall. She drank from the tap, stretched and groaned, then walked to the cages.

Once on the roof she dragged the branch along the creaking shingles to the corner where the roof seemed to be in the best condition. She knotted the rope about her waist then to the long section of the branch. Bracing herself, feet wide apart, she swung the limb back and forth then heaved it as high as she could.

The branch bumped against the stone then fell back, almost knocking her from the roof. She dropped carefully to her knees, her heart bumping painfully. Three days without food had weakened her more than she'd realized. Head swimming, trembling all over, she tried again, a desperate expenditure of all the effort she could gather. This time the branch went over the wall, though with less than an inch to spare. She heard the dull clunk of the wood as it banged against the outside of the wall, felt the tug of the cord at her waist, saw the taut white line running from her middle to the wall and over. She tried to feel triumphant but inside there was only grief. Hands shaking, she began pulling at the line, hauling her improvised grapnel back up.
It has to catch, has to
.… The end came up over the wall, hesitated, then flattened out as the side branch that formed the hook caught and held.

She edged up to the wall and tugged at the rope. It held. She threw her weight on it. It held. After she untied the end from her waist, she reached up as high as she could and began climbing. About two feet off the shingles she felt a sickening lurch and stopped climbing. When she looked up, she saw that the branch had slipped a little. She hung a moment, teeth clamped on her lower lip, then she snorted in a deep breath and pulled herself higher. The branch held. She drew her feet up, reached again.

The branch came flying away from the wall, dropping her heavily onto the roof. The shingles cracked under the sudden weight and she went through to her hips. Slowly, painfully, she pulled herself from the hole, splinters forced into her flesh by her efforts. She lay out flat, close to the edge. Below, on the flags she could see the broken branch and the white coils of braided rope. She couldn't cry; she was too exhausted, hungry and discouraged to cry. She started at the stone paving twenty feet below, wondering dimly if she should simply let herself fall, but even at the depths she didn't seriously consider this, it would be the admission of defeat more profound than she was willing to admit. As long as the Noris lived, she'd fight him. She had to.

As the sky darkened, she sat up. She ripped off the stained robe, got recklessly to her feet, not caring much what happened, balled the robe into a damp compact bundle and threw it at the top of the wall with all the strength in her small arms. Caught by a rising thermal it sailed over the top and disappeared. She stood with her hands on her hips and laughed until the breath caught in her throat, then she swung over the edge of the roof, kicked about until her legs wrapped around a cage bar. She climbed down and wandered, about the court, drank at the tap, the cold water making her empty belly ache, splashed water over her face and body, mounted the stairs and beat on the door, took a last kick using the heel of her foot to make the door boom. Finally she went to lie down in the slowly evaporating pool of water by the tap, staring at the night sky with its dusting of stars and string of many-sized moons, willing a bird to fly past, anything alive. Anything at all to break her solitude.

On the fifteenth day, the hands came back. They fed her, washed her, dressed her, manicured hands and feet, brushed her hair to a high gloss, then stayed near her, watching—if invisible hands could be said to watch—to make sure that this time she found no way to spoil their work.

About midmorning they took hold of her arms and urged her out of the cell. She resisted, refusing to walk, lifting her feet from the ground, struggling against the grip on her arms, flinging her body about. “I won't go to him,” she screamed.

They lifted her clear of the floor and carried her through the door and across the court. The slab of bronze in the tower wall opened smoothly ahead of them and they carried her inside, all the way into the great bright room she'd seen on her first day in the tower. A table had been placed against one wall with several chairs tucked under it. The hands pulled out a chair and dumped her in it, forcing her back when she tried to scramble out. She kept them busy trying to restrain her until the Noris entered the room.

He came quietly around the table and stood beside her. “Be quiet, Serroi.”

Frightened and confused by the music of his voice, something she'd forced herself to forget, she clung to her determination to resist without let-up. Tears in her eyes, she spat up at his face.

He jerked his head back then stretched out a hand. One of the invisible servants floated a handkerchief to him. He wiped his face and dropped the kerchief to the floor. The servant picked it up and whisked it out of sight. The Noris caught her face in one long-fingered hand, forcing her to meet his eyes. Black and shiny, they grew and grew until she could see nothing else. Her arms fell limp into her lap. Her legs hung down without moving. She slumped in the chair, passive as a rag doll. He turned a chair around and sat facing her, frowning a little.

She stared hate at him and nearly wept when he looked troubled. “I don't understand you,” he said. “Why do you keep fighting me, Serroi?” He rose with the controlled grace that pleased her without her willing it. “I thought we shared a common goal. It's not logical, the way you're acting. You can't hope to win.” His face went hard. He glared at her, but at that same moment his hand reached out and pulled gently at one of her curls.

She tried to slide away but her body was taken from her control. She was helpless. Tears gathered in her eyes. “No,” she breathed. “I won't give in. Never. Not ever.” She sat, glowering at him.

The Noris stood over her, a black column against the pearly light. Five pale fingers swam in front of her blurring eyes. His voice came from a vast distance, whispered music. “Your hand, child.”

For a moment the words echoed in her head making no sense to her; when they did, she refused to move, then cried out with frustration as her hand moved on its own, reaching up to meet his. He knew her too well, had learned too much from her—and she was fighting her own needs as furiously as she fought him. His hand closed over hers. She wanted that touch so much and feared it so deeply that her stomach convulsed, flooding her mouth with sour yellow fluid which burst from her lips and spilled onto her robe.

The Noris jerked away with an exclamation of disgust. He stepped back and stood brooding down at her while the hands brought fresh clothing and cleaned her up. When he took her hand again, he spoke a WORD that crackled through the pearly light and shivered it into darkness. Abruptly they hung side by side in a blue-green glow.

Water. They were deep under the surface. She panicked, but her body was clamped in place. After a moment she calmed as she found herself breathing without pain, floating like a fish in the water. The Noris's hand left hers and she was drifting about as his WORD shook the water about her. She dived and flew through the water like a strange fish, the Noris forgotten behind her. She curved her body and swooped in a grand spiral, silent laughter bubbling out of her, filling the blue water with silver bubbles that tickled her when she swam through them. A long blue-grey fish with a white belly swam out of the blue and arched with her in her joyous flight. The large dark eyes sitting forward in its head were warm and friendly. As it swam under her, she caught hold of the fin in the middle of its back and rode astride as the fish danced with her, taking her down and down, then up to the surface, bursting through the barrier film for a golden moment that piercing agony in her lungs; then they were back again in cool blueness.