The Oathbreaker, Pt VIII

The moon was full, and its light made my strange chamber even stranger, turning the gold straw silver, and etching out shadows that confused my sense of depth.  I squeezed my eyes tight against the unearthliness of it all.

“Why does it cry?”

The voice was scratchy as the straw, as distorted as the moonlight shadows.  I sucked in a breath of surprise and opened my eyes- but saw nothing.

“What help does it want?” asked the voice.  “One can help.  One can do many things.  Yes, many things.”

The voice seemed to come from off to my left, and I ran my eyes more carefully over the piles, heart in my throat.  That voice did not belong to any mortal creature.

There.

What I’d thought just another shadow rose up from its pile, and a pair of eyes caught the moonlight like a cat’s.  The shape stepped forward and revealed itself to be- nothing I’d ever encountered.

The creature was small: no more than thigh-high to me, and I have never been more than middling height.  It stooped slightly, spine curving as though it might move faster on all four of its limbs than just the two it stood on.  The hands were nimble and twitching with a repressed energy- they ended in hooked claws.  The creature tilted its head and peered more closely at me- a narrow tongue darted out, perhaps tasting the air.  The head was a cross between a cat and a snake, but the ears were long as a rabbit’s, and the teeth were something from a nightmare.

“Why does it cry?” it asked again, extending a finger as though to touch my tears.  I shifted away uncomfortably, and the wide mouth broke into a dog-like grin that would have been friendlier if not for those terrifying teeth.

“Is it afraid?” it asked, sounding surprised.  “Don’t be afraid of one.  One can help.  Help, help!” its ears laid back in what I assume was supposed to be a reassuring manner, and it tucked itself into a seated position, wrapping a long tail neatly around its haunches.  “One is so helpful.  It did ask for help,” the creature added, almost reproachfully.

“I- I guess I did,” I said, slowly.

The creature nodded with satisfaction.  “Yes.  It asked for help.  It cries.  It cries because it needs help, yes?”  Again the head-tilt.

“Yes,” I said.  “The king has commanded that I spin all of this straw into gold by morning, or he’ll behead me and my father, and burn my village to the ground.”

The creature made a tsking noise.  “Not so nice.  Not so nice at all.  But one can help!”

I gave a watery little laugh.  “How?  Even if you help me escape, he’ll hunt me down- and even if you help me escape so that he can’t find me, he’ll burn my village for spite.  I cannot keep myself safe at their expense!”

Again the creature gave me a reproachful look.  “It speaks nonsense.  It does not need to escape: it needs staw-spun gold.  Yes?”

“Well, yes,” I said, “But that’s impossible!”

The creature threw back its head and laughed, a strange cross between a cough and a yip.  “Not for one!  One can do this.  See how skillful one’s hands are?” It held them out, and I tried not to flinch from the claws.  The grin widened.  “Yes, yes, one has lovely, skillful hands, but more,” it winked at me, “One has the old magics.  One can do this for you.”

I eyed it warily.  “Why would you do this for me?  How does it benefit you?”

It looked pleased.  “Yes, good.  It understands: nothing without price.  Yes?”

“What is your price?”

It narrowed its eyes and looked around the room.  “Much straw, yes?  Means much gold, when one has finished.  Humans value gold, yes?  Bright bright gold, soft and shiny, so yellow like the sun.  A roomful will be worth so very much, one thinks.”  The eyes shifted to me, crafty.  “But then- not so much as its life, the lives of its tribe, yes?  Something precious must be traded.  What has it to trade?”

“Nothing worth a roomful of gold,” I admitted, “Let alone a village’s worth of lives.”

“Let one decide the worth.  What has it to trade?”

I looked down at myself: all I wore was my work-dress, worn and stained from days of travel; my sturdy leather shoes, re-soled at least twice; and there, shining in the moonlight like a glint of hope, my mother’s wedding band.  I glanced up: the creature was eyeing it with avarice.

“I have... my mother’s ring,” I whispered.  “It- it would pain me to lose it, but not so much as it would pain  me to lose my father, or my village.”

“Done,” hissed the creature.  “A room of straw-spun gold for a ring.  Yes, yes, a bargain shall be struck!”  It held out one trembling hand and I, trying not to cry harder, worked my mother’s ring off my finger.  I dropped it into that waiting paw, which closed quickly and drew it back to the creature’s chest.  It inhaled deeply.

“Yes,” it crooned.  “Yes, the pain for the magic, yes.”  Then it slipped the ring onto its middle finger and sat up straight, tail twitching like a hunting cat’s.  “Now one begins!"

The Oathbreaker Pt VII

The door shut behind him, and the sound of the lock sliding home felt like a physical blow to the gut.  I did not run to try it, as I wanted.  What would be the point?  Even if it opened, there was no escape for me.  And even if there was, there was no escape for my village.  For my father.

Tear burned in my eyes, and I tilted my head back.  I would not cry.  Tears would afford me nothing.  Instead I blinked rapidly, then looked around the room to see if I’d missed anything in my initial assessment.  There was the blasted straw, and a small, three-legged stool for me to sit upon.  Next the stool sat a smooth spindle made of honey-colored wood.  I walked over to it, picked it up, felt its weight it in my hands.  Normally I’d have been thrilled to work with such an exquisitely crafted tool, but… well, I wouldn’t be working with it, would I.

Part of me wanted to dash it against the wall in rage in despair, but in the end I placed it carefully back upon the ground.  It wasn’t the spindle’s fault I was in this mess, and I couldn’t bring myself to destroy such a beautiful piece of craft.  I hoped the next woman to use it would fare better than myself.

I drifted over to one of the tall, narrow windows.  As I’d thought, the view was spectacular- but try as I might, I couldn’t make out my village.  Perhaps I was facing the wrong direction.  I moved to the next window, and the next- there were six in total, circling the room, but none of them showed me my village- although I could see the same mountains that were visible from the top of my favorite climbing tree.  They were closer, here, but still so very distant.  The world was, indeed, larger than I ever could have dreamed.

I sighed and sat down upon the humble stool, picked up a few handfuls of straw, and began to idly twist them into a braid, thinking all the while.  The sun was at its zenith, and I knew it would be a long, long time before it set.  Would they bring me lanterns when it did?  Or torches?  There were hooks set in the wall to hold either.  If they brought me flame, could I bring myself to set the piles afire, making it look like a tragic accident?  Only the thought that the king might still punish my father kept me from pursuing that line of thinking any further.

My stomach let out an irritable rumble.  I’d neither eaten nor drank since we’d broken our fast at the final inn, and the protest of my innards was bringing it to the forefront of my mind.  Dare I ask for food or water?

I went over to the door and knocked- there was no answer.  I tried the latch,knowing it would not open.  It did not.  I knocked again, louder.  Still nothing.  So I called out- and did not hear even a whisper of movement.

“Wonderful,” I muttered, realizing the king must have heard me, after all, when I’d told him the process didn’t work if anyone was around to witness it.  I kicked around in the straw a bit, to see if he’d thought to leave me anything.  He hadn’t- I wasn’t shocked- but I found that someone, at least, had had the foresight to provide a lidded bucket.

“Probably didn’t want to sully the merchandise,” I said bitterly, and for a moment I was tempted to do just that.  But I knew it would make no difference whatsoever to this mad king, whereas I had no desire whatsoever to befoul my sleeping place.

I spent the next few hours thinking and praying- I tried calling my mother’s true name, but she didn’t respond.  I didn’t expect her to- I knew she was tied to her grave- but I couldn’t help but hope.  I tried calling the names of all the small nature spirits she had taught me- but they, too, were tied to their homes far from here.  I didn’t even know what one of them would do, if they’d appeared.  As the sun sank, so did my hope, until I curled up in the corner, unable to hold back the tears any longer.  As the moon rose I rocked back and forth, whispering, “Help me, please help me.  Please, please, please help me."

The Oathbreaker, Pt VI

The three day ride to the capital did nothing to settle my nerves; I was not given time to get my affairs in order, merely loaded into a carriage and sent on my way.  Neither the lady designated to escort me, nor her handmaiden, made conversation with me- not in the carriage, nor in the inns where we passed the night.  They were not rude, per se- they just didn’t encourage conversation.  I think they were uncertain of my status- prisoner or honored guest- and were afraid of either lowering themselves or else offending a woman of great power.  To be honest, I wasn’t certain of my status, myself- although I felt like a prisoner, and the fact that I had nothing of my own but the clothes on my back reinforced this feel.  Prisoner or not, I was more worried about those left behind than I was myself.  More than anything I wished I might have consulted my mother before going.  Alas, it was not an option: I would have to rely on what she had taught me, just as every woman before me has.  I moved my thumb absently over her wedding band, and thought longingly of my small flock, now abandoned.

When we arrived at the castle at noon the next day, I was not given time to collect myself- the king himself opened the door of our carriage, and helped me down the steps.  I tried not to shrink at his touch, but instead keep my expression calm and unreadable.

“I sent ahead to prepare your room,” said the king, tucking my arm into his own.  I eyed him warily- was I perhaps to be treated well, after all?  The king led me down hallway after hallway, and up one flight of stairs and then another, which in turn led to a spiral staircase into a tower.  I wondered, briefly, what the view would be from such a room- would the entire kingdom stretch out below me in impossible miniature?  Is that what led these people to feel they could treat ordinary people like insects?

“Ah, here we are,” said the king, and pushed open the door at the top of the stairs.  Rather than the bedroom I was expecting, I found a small, bare chamber.  Well, bare save for piles and piles of hay on the floor.  I looked up at him, confused.

“You will spin all of this to gold by the morning,” he said cheerfully, “Or I’ll have your head.  And your father’s.  And I’ll burn the village for good measure.  Can’t be encouraging liars in my kingdom.”

I tried not to whimper- I must, somehow, turn his punishment to me alone- but I could not think how.

The Oathbreaker, Pt V

My tongue felt heavy as lead- and I was weighed down by it, trapped like a rabbit in a snare.  But my mind whirled, casting about for an escape, much as the rabbit’s hind legs might scrabble in the dirt.  Wise woman- my mother raised me to be a wise woman.  What could I do?  How could I save my father, save the village?

Only by sacrificing myself.

“Of course my father would never lie to his kind,” the words felt thick and stiff in my mouth.  “Nor would the other villagers.  If your highness believes I can spin straw into gold, who am I to contradict you?”

My father’s eyes flew to my face, wide and panicked, but I forced myself to ignore him as I kept my eyes locked with the king’s.  A smile spread across the king’s face, and he straightened.  “That’s better!” he said, then looked about the square, beaming.  “I would be deeply honored if you’d be willing to accompany me back to the castle and demonstrate your most unusual skills!  I would, of course, reward you- and your father- most handsomely.”

“I’m sure we need no reward beyond the honor of knowing I am in service to the king,” I said quickly, hoping against hope he might forget about them as soon as we were out of sight of the village.

“Still,” said the king, helping me to my feet.  My skin crawled at his touch, and I was fully cognizant of the fact that he left my father kneeling.  “Such beauty, such industry- you will be rewarded.  Unless, of course,” he added absently, “You are lying.  And then I shall behead you and raze your village of liars to the ground.”

I swayed, clenching my jaw and willing myself not to faint.

“It would be pure foolishness for me to lie to my king,” I said.  “As for my father and the villagers, they have only my word to go on- they’ve never seen me work. No one has.  It doesn’t work if others watch.”

“Oh?” said the king, but I could tell he was only half listening.  “How interesting.  Come here!” he gestured imperiously at one of the women.  She curtseyed and came forward.  “The miller’s daughter will ride back to the capital with you."

The Oathbreaker, Pt IV

“Aye, that man,” she said, amusement in her voice, “But don’t let any of them hear that tone of voice in regards to their noble personages.  Whimsical lot, nobles.  Got a thing for whipping people to ‘set an example’, or removing their heads entirely if the mood suits.”

“They wouldn’t,” I said, appalled, but the baker’s face turned grim.

“Aye, they would.  They have.  I’ve seen it in the capital-.  Brutal punishments for the tiniest offenses- sometimes no offense at all, just spite or boredom.  So watch your tone and watch your manners and do your best to avoid them entirely.”

“But- but they can’t,” I protested, now more carefully examining the faces of the men and women arrayed before us.  “They’re- they’re nobles!  They’re supposed to protect the common people!”

She shook his head, plastering a fake, insipid smile on his face as one of the elegant women- with a brittle look around the eyes- happened to glance our way.

“And who’s to stop them?” she said through clenched teeth.  “As far as they’re concerned, nobility means the wealth and power to do what they want- and they’re right.  Whoever has the most wealth has the most power, and is therefore the most noble, by grace of God above.  And no one is more noble than the king- who is probably the worst of the lot, from what I’ve heard.”

As we’d been talking, my father had continued to kneel before the young king- at first he had seemed to laugh at something, but then he grew very pale indeed, and began to tremble.

“Something’s wrong,” I said, and moved towards him.  The baker grabbed my arm.

“Don’t be a fool, girl.  Better to stay back out of their reach.”

I shook off the restraining hand.  “Not when they have my father.”

I ran up to my father, remembered to curtsy deeply to the nobles, then dropped to my knees to support him.  Before I could ask what ailed him, the king said,

“And is this the young lady in question?”

My head snapped up to meet a gaze ice cold and pale as green frost on the riverbanks.  Beside me, my father blanched.

“Answer your king, peasant!” snapped one of the other nobles, this one dressed in a dashing russet that offset his sable hair.  Air wheezed and out of my father’s chest, and he looked at me with panic, but he seemed unable to frame words.

“My father is ill, my lord,” I said.  “But I will gladly answer what questions I can.”

“Ah, so you are the fabled miller’s daughter,” smiled the king, and in that moment he was quite handsome.  Or might have been, if I hadn’t already decided I loathed him for terrorizing my father.

“His one and only, my lord.”

“And you can spin straw into gold,” he continued, as casually as if he was talking about the weather.

“I- I’m sorry, my lord?”

“Now now, my dear- no need to be overawed in the presence of your king, I know all about your special gift.  I’ve come to see it for myself.”

For a moment I had no idea what he was talking about- but then my conversation with the smith came rushing back, and it was my turn to blanche.

“Spinning straw into... gold, my lord?”

His smile tightened.  “Yes, as I have said- straw into gold.  So your father bragged in the royal presence.”

“But… no one can spin straw into gold, my lord,” I said, and hated myself for the tremble in my voice.

His smile disappeared entirely, and he said in a voice that promised pain,  “Are you saying your father lied to his king?  That all the villagers in that tavern, who supported his claim, lied to their king?”

I felt dizzy, and understood my father’s trembling.

“Not- not lied my lord-” I whispered.

“Because lying to one’s king is punishable by death,” he said, loudly.  “Which leaves us in a predicament.  Because either your father- and everyone else in this village- lied to me about your ability to spin gold, or else he is lying now, when he says you cannot.  Of course,” his voice gentled, and that was perhaps even more frightening, “I understand a father’s desire to protect his daughter from exploit- and a man’s desire to protect his income.  I could forgive such a lie, if you were to tell the truth now.  Come, fair maiden- be honest with your king.  I have no wish to punish all these people- and I will not exploit you.  I merely wish to see your skills put to use in the service of your kingdom!"

The Oathbreaker, Pt III

That was the first and last time anyone in our village was captivated by the idea of “spinning straw to gold”, and life went on as it had before.  Slightly better than it had before, for whatever curse had been plaguing our countryside seemed to have abated, and the spring planting went smoothly.

It was the early days of summer when the stranger returned to the village, but this time he came in far greater raiment than he had worn before.  His presence- and that of his ridiculous entourage, numbering well over twenty splendidly-clad individuals- drew such attention in the square that he might have saved himself the trouble of asking for the miller, since such a spectacle was slowly but surely drawing the interest of every last person within three miles.  But ask for the miller he did, and an enterprising young lad offered to fetch the man in question.

My father was, unsurprisingly for a miller, working his mill.  I was out in the fields, tending to my new flock of (non-magical) goats, but the sight of the tanner’s youngest running hell-bent for leather up the lane caught my attention, and I wandered back towards the house just in time to see my father fetch up his hat and hurry out the door with the air of a person who dares not delay.

“Curious,” I said to Bezyl, the coal-gray kid who was lipping nervously at my apron.  “What sort of emergency requires the presence of a miller?”  Determined to find out, I followed at a brisk pace of my own.

Words cannot do justice to the scene I witnessed upon arriving at the square- the contrast of these noble strangers to our plain villagers was much like a flock of parrots having landed among sparrows, and come off the worse for the comparison.  There is nothing quite like standing about in dust and dirt to make gaudy clothes look superfluous.  My father was kneeling before the gaudiest of all the gentlemen, one who- to my horror- had a thin circlet on his brow.

“So that’s our new king,” grunted the baker, whom I had drawn up next to.

“That man?” I asked.

The Oathbreaker Pt II

NaNo had begun!  And as I mentioned, my goal for this year is (a minimum of) ten minutes of fiction-writing per day, which I plan on sharing here on the blog, raw and uncut.  I'm kicking it off by continuing The Oathbreaker- which I had already been continuing, so today's update will be extra-long.  Aren't you lucky?

***

It had been a bad year, in general- there were even whispers of curses, perhaps an angered witch.  The harvest was not yielding as much as it should have, and no one would have a surplus at the end of it.  A terrible hacking cough had swept through the village, weakening the  men and women who should have been working the fields, and killing the very old and the very young.  Various illnesses plagued the livestock, and many cows and goats had gone dry.  As for my father and myself, we had enough money set aside that we could afford to replace the millstone- but said replacement could not be had until spring.  By the time the first snow fell we had eaten through our reserves, and there was no extra food to be begged or borrowed in the village; I began to realize we might well starve before the new millstone came.

This, I knew, was indeed an hour of great need, and so when the sun was at its zenith I took myself to my mother’s grave, clutched the necklace she had given me, and began to pray.

And then I spoke her name.

“Yes, my daughter?”

She looked as she had in life- but not.  She had the same translucent quality of the good spirits she had taught me to call, and my heart squeezed to see her thus.  More than anything in the world I wanted to throw myself into her arms, but I knew they could not hold me.  She smiled at me wistfully, and I knew it would alright.

After I had explained my troubles, she nodded, and her eyes grew distant, as though she was looking through me.  A moment later there came a rustling in the bushes behind her grave, followed by a small, lovely she-goat emerging into the light.

“This is Rowan,” said my mother’s spirit, her hand hovering above the goat’s glossy black shoulder.  “Her sisters are Hazel and Yew.”  As she spoke their names, two more goats appeared.  Hazel was the red of a banked fire, and Yew such a pure white that the snow seemed suddenly dull.  They glanced at my mother, then came obediently to my side, lipping softly at my fingertips.

“Their hair- I could make wool soft as silk from this!” I exclaimed- then bit my lip.  “But mother… I have nothing to feed them!  They’ll die if they come with me”

“Give them golden straw to eat,” said my mother.  “And sing sweetly to them as you comb their hair, and they will give you everything you need to get through the winter.”

I thanked her, and she smiled again.  “Remember daughter, I can only counsel you twice more in this manner.  But I will love you past forever.”  And she faded from sight.

Rowan, Hazel, and Yew followed me as though I’d raised them from kids, occasionally butting me gently behind the knees.  I stopped at every house between the woods and the stream, and asked the wives for what straw they could spare.  They gave it, gladly, for people cannot eat straw, and most animals will not thrive on it.  Every day for a week I fed my goats, and sung their names to them as I combed their hair, and every day they gave me more wool than should have been possible.  Every evening I spun the wool into the finest yarn I’d ever seen, fat spools of black and red and white piling up beside me.  It was a fortune’s worth, to be certain- but no one in the village had any

money to spare, however much they may have wanted the thread for their own.  But then, one week from the day I’d visited my mother, the Tinker rolled into town.

The Tinker was much beloved in our village- for he brought the exotic goods we could not produce ourselves: pungent spices, silk ribbons, sweet dried fruit that glowed like jewels in the sunlight.  This year, however, such small luxuries were not on display.  Instead he showcased humble flour and smoked meats, cured furs and seed corn, and other things our village was sore in need of.  Those who had no gold to spare for fine wool thread could scrape together enough to buy a few necessities from the Tinker.

I approached him with my bag of spools.

“What have you there, miller’s daughter?” he asked.  “I’ve no need of flour this year.”

I shook my head.  “It’s us who need flour, Tinker.  And although I’ve no money, I thought you might be willing to barter for something… a little more rare.”

The man grinned, showing a hint of a gold tooth in the back of his jaw.  “I love a good barter more than soft gold, child.  Show me your wares.”

I opened my bag and let him look inside.  His eyebrows shot up.

“May I?” he asked, reaching towards the spools.

“Are your hands clean?” I asked, my voice schooled to Housewife firm.  He laughed.

“Of course, Mistress.”

I nodded, and he pulled out a spool of shining white thread.  He sucked air in through the gap in his front teeth, then pulled out a spool of black, and set the pair on the sill in front of him.  He looked curiously at me and I nodded, inviting him to pull out a third spool.  Out came the red, glowing like banked embers.

“This comes from no ordinary wool, Mistress.”  There was respect in his voice now, and perhaps even a touch of awe.  “The three alone, in the hands of the right buyer, would pay for your new millstone twice over.”

“I thought as much,” I nodded.  “Which is why you will be getting such a deal in spite of the fact that you will trade supplies and gold to me.”

His eyes sharpened.  “Is that the way it is, Miller’s daughter?”

I smile and shake the bag, once.  “You will have the only supply in the entire kingdom.  Probably the world.”

The bargaining began in earnest after that.

***

My father and I did not starve that winter- although Rowan, Hazel, and Yew never again gave such great quantities of wool as they did that first week, and disappeared with the first warm day.  I used the yarn to knit my father a sweater, and myself a lovely shawl.  It was too fine, really, for a mere miller’s daughter, but it made me very happy, indeed, and whenever I fell asleep wearing it, I dreamed of happy times with my mother.

The new millstone was delivered before the snow has fully melted, and my father celebrated by going down to the tavern with a spring in his step and pocketful of gold coins, determined to share his good mood with the world.  He was gone for many hours, and in fact did not return under his own power.  The blacksmith knocked on my door near midnight, my father’s limp form slung casually over one powerful shoulder.

“Lass,” he said, looking a touch chagrined.  I sighed and opened the door further, gesturing them in.

“Your father had a drink too many,” said the smith.

“I’d say he had more than one too many,” I said, with narrowed eyes.  “Lay him on his bed, please, and do help me with his boots.”

“He was the soul of generosity tonight,” said the smith, complying with my request.  “Buying drinks for everyone.  Proud as a peacock of you, my dear.  Stood up on a table to brag to the entire village how you’d taken their cast-off straw and spun it all into gold.”

I shook my head.  “Silly,” I said, but the smith could hear my hidden smile, and he grinned back, pulling a boot off with practiced ease.

“And can you believe it?  There was some stranger in the bar- skinny looking fellow, didn’t look like he knows a thing about an honest living- and this fellow must have been drunk, too, because he looks at your da and says in this nasally accent, ‘Excuse me dear man, did I hear you correctly?  Your daughter spun gold... from straw?’  Well you can imagine how that set the rest of us off, laughing and snickering because who would take a thing like that for truth?”  He pulled off the other boot.  “But your da gets this twinkle in his eye and bellows out, ‘That she did!  How else do you suppose a humble miller like myself could afford buy a drink for every one of his friends?’ and we all cheered in support of that last statement, as you might imagine.”

“Mmm,” I said, and gently nudged the giant man towards the door.  “Sounds like a lot of silliness to me, but I’m glad you all had a good evening- I just hope my father doesn’t regret it in the morning, when the mill is back open for business.”

The smith left, and I tucked a blanket around my father’s now-snoring form.  “Straw into gold, indeed,” I said, and bent to kiss his graying head.  “What rot."