Selah of the Summit--Selah has always been a slave. Nothing ever changes as she crosses the desert every day to fetch water from a murky well and stare with longing at the distant mountains. Then, one evening, her Master Regan calls a meeting of The Craft--the secret sect that controls the desert. Selah is summoned to wait on the great table. A hooded guest named Micah speaks to her as she pours water into his goblet: "weeping may last for a night, but joy comes in the morning." That night, Selah follows Micah out a secret door of the Keep and begins a journey to the Summit. Along the way she discovers trees, lakes, rain, music, and friendship--and the Maker of all the living creatures. Regan, obsessed with enslaving Selah again, pursues her on the journey. Micah teaches her to read the Scroll and become a warrior, but she knows she must face Regan alone and step through the star-filled Arch on the Summit. In doing so, Selah discovers that sacrifice is the truest form of love and that the mountains must be shared. Published by www.greatunpublished.com. 166 pages. ISBN 1588986985.

The rider of the red horse takes the lead. Many follow him, on white and sorrel horses, through myrtle trees. They enter the plain and cross it, climbing hills, high meadows, and slopes until they stop at the Gate.

"Who are these?" a voice calls from the Gatehouse.

"We are the riders sent to patrol the land," the red horseman replies.

"Come, give your report," the Gatekeeper commands.

Selah sweated under the intrusive sun. It hung over the valley, straight up, a huge ball of yellow that seemed to grow larger until it swallowed up the pale sky.

"Summer Solstice," she said bitterly, rebalancing the water pot she struggled to carry. "The longest day of the year."

She squinted at the small village ahead: clay houses with flat roofs white in the glare. Shadows in open doorways invited her to hurry.

But the shadows were deceptive, for heat lurked inside the houses too. The only relief would come later--after dark, when the wind brought cool air down from the distant mountains.

At noon, even the Summit's shadow did not reach the valley. Selah shaded her eyes and stared at the peak, white with snow above its blue-green slopes. Some people said the sky was dark blue up there even though the Summit was closer to the sun. It was cool there, too--high above the simmering, hazy valley. Lakes of cold water reflected silver at night and blue by day. Tall, living creatures called evergreen trees shaded the lake shores with their wide, lacy green fingers.

Some people said that one could stand on the peak and see forever through a clear sky. At night, stars hung large and close around the quiet mountains, and sometimes they shot across the zenith in a trail of silver . . .

Selah stumbled on a rock, and tepid water from the pot jostled onto her dusty arm. She stared at the water level remaining, a good fingerspan from the top, and debated whether she should return to the well.

"The Master will not like this," she whispered to herself. "Perhaps I should go back and refill."

But the thought of backtracking through sand and rocks in a land with no shade made Selah's head ache. "No, I must return to The Keep and take my chances," she declared. "I cannot stay out in this sun much longer."

The village loomed before her. Her long, colorless skirt swept over dust as she trod through narrow lanes to the high-walled fortress in the center. At sight of her, the gatekeeper swung open the iron-studded gates. She crossed the tiled courtyard. Another gatekeeper let her into the inner atrium, and she stepped past gardens of herbs and vegetables. The sweet smell of mint hovered in the musty air.

Selah headed for the back entrance, but the doorkeeper called her to the front.

"The Master told me to let you through this door today," he said as he held it open for her.

A stranger traveling through the valley might envy Selah's entrance through a door three times her height. Its borders were covered with beaten gold, and rubies outlined its single window. But a stranger might not know that Selah was a slave of The Master's Keep, and when she entered that door, she entered sorrow.

Dimly lit halls intersected one another in The Keep. Selah followed the one with emeralds along its walls, noticing how they glittered green in the torchlight. She felt moisture on her arm again and returned her gaze to the water pot, trying not to spill any more of its precious contents.

By the time she got to the kitchen, she had spilled a few more drops.

"You are late," Frieden, the Head Cook, said as she entered the doorway. He was unusually alone in the large, cluttered room, his back turned to her as he stirred a cauldron of soup in the cooking fireplace. "Put the water pot on the table."

"How do you always know when I walk into the room, even when your back is turned to me?" Selah asked as she followed Frieden's instructions.

The old man turned around and wiped his greasy hands on his apron.

"I can tell by the sound of your footsteps," he replied with a grin.

Frieden did not have all of his teeth and his chin was covered with gray stubble, but Selah always enjoyed seeing him.

"That is a lot of soup," she commented as Frieden added spices to it.

"The Master is having a meeting," he explained.

Selah knew what that meant--extra food and cleanup, strange guests wearing hoods over their heads, and the presence of The Craft like a plume of smoke permeating The Keep.

Despite the warmth of the fireplace, she shuddered. Frieden noticed, raising one eyebrow as Selah sat down at the wooden table.

"You can feel the essence of The Craft, can't you?" he asked as he poured a bowl of soup and handed it to her.

"It gets stronger every day," she replied, "like an unseen hand reaching out for me."

Frieden said nothing, but his eyebrows frowned together as he thought about her words.

Selah did not touch her spoon. She stared at bits of carrots floating in chicken broth as if they were a pungent concoction of The Craft. Wrinkling her nose, she set the bowl on the table. Frieden handed her a silver goblet full of clear, cold water.

"Silver, for me?" she asked.

"Yes, for you, today," he answered. "Silver is the metal of purity and healing, lovely as a star."

"I never knew that you recited poetry," she said, trying to laugh but heaving up a sob instead.

Selah took a sip and held the cold cup in both hands, steadying it. Its smooth shape comforted her hot skin, and its shiny curves cradled its transparent liquid filled with light. The cup became a mirror. But instead of her green eyes and flushed cheeks, Selah saw the years of slavery in its depths.

"I cannot remember my mother's face," she whispered. "Or my father's hand upon me."

"You were brought to your first Keep very young," Frieden stated.

"Yes, I have known many Masters."

Selah kept staring into the silver cup as if called--but not by The Craft. It was as if someone beloved spoke to her through the water--and someone else stood between.

"Regan is the worst of them. He can be beautiful and kind, but always he cycles back to cruel, and always he controls. Last night he came to the slavequarters and stood by my bed, late, when the other girls slept. He handed me a key made of solid gold, shaped with a serpent entwined at one end. He didn't speak a word. I thought I was dreaming. But then he reached and touched my cheek with his finger, like a caress. I do not trust his affections."

"Well you should not!" Frieden exclaimed, his faded eyes darkening with righteous anger. "Have you ever entered the Octagon Room?"

"I know that every Keep has one," she observed, "where the records and the Old Things and the evil books are kept. But it is in the Master's private quarters. Why would I dare to go in there?"

"You know much for a little slavegirl. The Octagon Room hides the history of this valley, the ruins of an ancient culture and vast cities. It also contains vile mixtures of once-wholesome flowers and herbs that were not meant for such uses. I am glad you have the sense to stay away, as I always thought you did. But many slavegirls have been lured by The Craft--even against their will--to serve the purposes of the Masters. Why do you think Regan gave you the key?"

"To torture me with doors that never open," she said bitterly. "After he touched my cheek, I laid the key on the table by my bed. It glittered hotly in the torchlight Regan carried. I did not touch it again, and he became enraged. He picked it up and threw it at me, then walked out of the room without a word. I remember the sound of it hitting the stone wall behind my head." Selah's hands trembled at the memory, and the silver cup moved, jostling the mirror into liquid again. She took another sip, marveling that the water tasted sweet. How could it have come from a desert well? She was about to ask Frieden when a slaveboy ran into the room.

"You are wanted at the Great Hall," he announced breathlessly.

"I must wash and change," Selah protested.

"No time. You must come now. The Master told me to fetch you fast."

She handed the silver goblet back to Frieden, stood up, and followed the boy down the hallway.
"Be careful!" Frieden called out after her.

As she approached the Great Hall, Selah heard voices and the clanging of metal against crystal. The boy, satisfied that Selah had obeyed the summons, slipped away down the hall. Selah stepped slowly toward the doorway and peeked in. Already the long table held a hundred guests, each on a chair studded with sapphires. Gold-plated serving dishes lined the sideboard, and scarlet-embroidered tapestries covered the stone walls. Torchlight danced in the high corners and distant ceiling.

There were no windows. And though it was midday, the thick stone walls made the room unnaturally cold.

A lone slavegirl stood by the door. With both hands, she held a large golden pitcher. She was tall and thin with reddish curls peeking out from under her gray cap--and a fresh scar across her cheek.

"Hurry," she whispered to Selah, bending down toward the smaller girl. "The Master wants you to serve him tonight."

"But Lillith, you always serve him," Selah protested, touching the girl's cheek. "Did he strike you again?"

Lillith nodded. "I spilled some of the soup," she explained, blushing as if the scar were her fault.

Selah was small for her age and usually shy, but with Frieden and Lillith she could speak freely.

"Regan is a cruel man. You have been his slave all of your life, but I have had many Masters at many Keeps across the valley. Some Masters are openly evil, always yelling and mean and violent. Slaves know what to expect from them. Other Masters seem kind and beautiful and good. Some of them are even women. They hide their service to The Craft. Perhaps they are the most dangerous because they pretend to be what they are not. But a Master like Regan is the worst. One moment he can say kind things and offer you presents, and the next he will yell at you, his words cutting into you like a knife. One moment he can touch you gently, and the next he strikes. You never know what to expect."

Well, you can expect a beating if you don't go in there now," Lillith warned. "And you should be careful what you say. Someone could be listening."

"I don't care," Selah replied, more tired than angry.

"Here, put my apron over your dusty skirt," Lillith insisted. She set the pitcher down on the sideboard and untied her apron.

Selah frowned as she tied on the apron and picked up the pitcher.

"Get some rest," she told Lillith. "And take care of that little girl of yours. She must be waiting for you."

"I will," Lillith smiled at the thought of her daughter. But her smile turned to a frown as she bent to whisper, "And you be careful tonight." With a corner of her skirt, she wiped a swath of dirt off Selah's cheek. Then she turned and hurried down the hallway.

That was Selah's second warning in less than an hour. She knew that the words were not idle, that she had better watch out for more than spilling the Master's soup.

I am so tired already, she thought to herself. How can I possibly serve at The Master's table?

She sighed and picked up the golden pitcher, trying hard to balance the delicately monogrammed container as she stepped into the dim, noisy room.

"You look like you've been too long under the sun again," the Master commented as Selah cautiously approached his place at the head of the table.

Selah stopped still at the words, amazed that the Master would speak to her in front of his guests. She shyly looked up at him. He shone in the torchlight, a slender man, still young, with a handsome face of smooth, pale skin and gray eyes. His hair was long and silvery, and he wore no beard. A heavy neckchain of white-gold triangles set with moonstones shone above his white silk tunic.

"Come here, girl," he said, staring at her.

With great concentration, Selah forced her feet to move across the painted tile floor. With each step, she felt those eyes upon her.

She stopped a pace away from him. He reached out and touched her reddish arm, just above her bronze armband that glistened below her short sleeves. His hand felt hot on her arm, and she flinched, hoping he would not notice.

"Your skin is lovely when not scorched by the sun or covered with a layer of dust. Perhaps we can keep you from having to go outside again. Perhaps we can exchange this bronze armband for a golden one. Tomorrow, come to my Suite. I'll give you a hot bath and some salve that will fade your sunburn."

Selah blushed under the Master's eyes and the eyes of his guests.

The Master laughed at her discomfort. "Don't just stand there. Serve my spiced wine," he commanded.

She started pouring the red liquid into his crystal goblet. Her hands shook, and she spilled a drop of red on the Master's white sleeve.

"Clumsy girl!" he yelled, lifting his arm to strike her.

"Now, Regan," a calm voice said beside him. "The girl is not used to this work. Give her time to learn."

Selah looked up at the source of those words. Who would dare give advice to the Master?

A stranger sat at the Master's right hand. He wore a dark green cloak with a hood over his head so that all Selah could see were blue eyes and a red beard.

"Yes, you are right. She is used to the sun, not the torchlight. I must be patient with her," the Master relented, lowering his arm. "Now, what do you all think of my plans for the valley?" he asked his general audience of guests, forgetting Selah for the moment. Selah stepped back against a tapestry and wished she could hide behind it.

The Master saw her from the corner of his eye and said, "Serve my guests, girl. When you are done here, you may retire to the private room I have reserved for you at the end of the hall."

Selah opened her eyes wider, and the color left her face. Why would the Master take her out of the slavegirl quarters and give her a private room?

She served the stranger who had defended her, careful not to spill wine on his verdant sleeve. He watched as she served him, and she thought that his eyes were the brightest blue she had ever seen--like the sky above the mountains.

"Weeping may last for a night," he whispered to her while the Master loudly spoke to his guests, "but joy comes in the morning."

Selah looked up at the stranger's cloaked face. Had she imagined the words? Why would a guest of the Master speak to a slavegirl? If the words were real, what could they mean? As if in answer to her unspoken questions, he smiled.

Hope entered her long-dormant heart, surprisingly, like a cat pounces at a bird from behind a bush. Slavegirls did not dare to hope. Selah gasped at the feeling as if breathing for the first time in cold mountain air. She stepped back, almost giggled, and looked for the stranger's face. He had turned toward another guest, and it was hidden under the hood of his cloak again.

With a lighter step, Selah continued serving the long line of guests. She had to refill the pitcher several times. The guests talked and planned while she stood ready, waiting to refill empty goblets.

As the afternoon turned to evening and the evening to the night, Selah could barely stand on her sore feet. Her head began to ache again. The day had started early, and three times she had fetched water from the well. Just when she thought her strength would fail and she would fall unconscious on the floor in front of everyone, Regan called her to his side again.

"I have another job for you," he said in his relentless tone. "Go fetch the cauldron from the sideboard and bring it to me."

Selah lowered her head and forced herself to walk to the far end of the Great Hall. There, in the center of the serving table stood a huge iron pot filled with hot water used for boiling herbs. She picked it up with both hands, groaning as she felt its weight against her arms. To keep from spilling it, she held it tight against her chest. Step by step, she managed to bring it to Regan without spilling a drop. He waved her away, and she retreated to the waiting wall again.

She hoped they would not practice The Craft yet. She had seen signs of it: pointed symbols embroidered on tunics, cryptic words whispered under velvet hoods, pouches of herbs hidden among cloakfolds. But the guests would not likely practice The Craft openly, for it was usually done in a room so private that even slavegirls could not see.

As if reading her thoughts, the Master looked up and dismissed Selah from the Great Hall.

"Go, get some rest in your new room," he ordered. "In the morning, you will find suitable clothes on your table. See that you bring them with you when you come to my Suite."

He smiled at her, a twisted smile--nothing like the one the stranger had given her.

Selah walked toward the slavegirl quarters where the walls were not covered with tapestries or gems. She meant to go obediently past to her new private room at the end of the hall, but her feet pulled her into the dormitory which had been her home for the past year. She walked toward her bed, a narrow mattress next to a bare table. Nearby, Lillith slept next to a little girl about four years old. Selah picked up the single burning candle that illumined the room and watched her friend cuddle with her daughter.

I was about your age when I was taken from my parents and sent to my first Master, Selah thought as she watched the girl breathe in her sleep. The girl wore a small armband like her mother's, and she clung to her mother's hand as she slept.

Selah didn't know what had happened to the girl's father. Lillith never spoke of him.

Why must slavery be passed from mother to daughter? Selah wondered. How can the circle--like an armband--be broken?

"Selah," a voice said at the door behind her. She jumped, nearly dropping the candle on the stone floor. She turned around to find Frieden watching her.

"I was just about to go to my new room," she explained, trembling.

"You look exhausted, girl," the old man said, walking toward her. "Have you had anything to eat since I sent you to the well this afternoon? You did not touch your soup, remember?"

"No, I haven't," Selah admitted, putting a hand to her head. "They did not offer me anything at the Great Hall."

"When the Master asked you to serve him, he did not even give you one small drink?"

"No. He was more anxious for me to serve him and his guests than for me to be refreshed."

"It's a wonder you didn't faint right in front of them," Frieden said, shaking his head. "You have dark circles under your eyes, above your sunburned cheeks."

"I know," Selah sighed, putting a shaking hand to her face. "I see these circles every time I bend over the well to draw water. It seems, lately, that I barely lay my head down to sleep when it's time to get up and work again."

"Come with me to the kitchen," Frieden said gently, "and I'll give you something to revive you."

"But I must go to my new room, then to the Master's Suite in the morning," Selah protested.

"If you want, you may come with me," Frieden invited, holding out his hand. For the first time, Selah realized that his robe was actually a color--pale green like spring leaves. The hem of his robe brushed the floor as he kept his arm held toward her. Selah hesitated, wishing with all her heart to go with him. She took one step toward him, and he caught her hand and led her past the slavegirl quarters and to the kitchen.

She sat down on a wooden chair near the fireplace.

"Have some nectar," Frieden offered. He picked up a stone pot and poured some sweet-smelling liquid into a metal cup.
Selah's hands shook as she drank from the cup.

"The Master does not care for you or any of his slaves," Frieden said sadly, shaking his balding head. "It is not good that he has offered you a private room, new clothes, and an invitation to his Suite."

Selah shivered at that thought, despite the heat of the fireplace.

"I know it is not good," she said in a wavering voice. "Sometimes he stands at the kitchen door, and his gray eyes watch me as I work. I see the desire in them. He is trying to weave his power around me, using The Craft. Last week he gave me a small bag of strange-smelling herbs and told me to mix them with water and drink them. I hid the bag under my cot. Tonight, in front of his guests, he spoke to me and . . . touched my arm again. He has been doing that lately, touching the spot right above my armband. His touch is gentle, nothing like hitting. Each time he touches me, his power over me grows stronger. I am afraid."

She was silent for a moment, aware of the worried look in Frieden's eyes. "Why does the Master pursue me?" she asked.

"You are small but beautiful, Selah. Even though your long, golden hair is hidden by that cap and your bright green eyes are often looking downward, Regan has noticed them. He desires your beauty. He also knows that you could be far more than a slave. He has seen the way you look up at the mountains, and the way you care about the other slaves. Regan is drawn by your kind heart. He wants to break it," Frieden replied.

"What are you doing here, slavegirl?" a voice bellowed from the hallway.

Selah dropped the half-filled metal cup she had been holding. It rang like music against the stone floor. She watched its precious liquid seep between the floorstones, and tears came to her eyes.

The Master did not wait for a reply. He strode into the room. Selah could not bear to look at his compelling face, so she stared at the floor. The Master followed her gaze and saw the spilled nectar. He strode over and inspected the stone pot from which it came.

Selah wished she could cover her ears to keep out the loud, harsh sound of Regan's voice. It pierced her head like a sword, and she wished with all her heart that she had a quiet refuge from it.

"Slavegirls are not allowed to taste nectar!" he roared, for some reason aiming all his anger at Selah instead of Frieden who had given her the drink.

"Yes, Master," she replied, offering no excuse.

Quickly, like a snake, the Master struck Selah on her forehead. She reeled backwards in the chair and landed on the floor.

"Go to your new room, as I have commanded," he said. "I have honored you by letting you serve me at the table and by giving you private quarters, yet still you resist me. You have not taken the herbs I gave you. Don't you realize that I am doing this for your benefit? Perhaps physical force is the only power to control you. I will deal with you in the morning, little water bearer, when I return from important business," he said, his voice calming as determination entered his unblinking gray eyes.

Over the years, Selah had learned not to cry in front of a Master, especially when he hit her. Crying only made a Master more angry and abt to beat her again. But despite her resolve not to show any emotion in front of the Master, Selah felt hot tears forming in her eyes.

"Are you crying?" Regan demanded, touching her cheek as she knelt before him.

Selah felt like Regan was beginning to break her heart. She tried to stop crying but could not. Her tears flowed, and her shoulders shook with the sobbing that broke free from her lips.

This will make Regan really mad, she thought. She winced, expecting another blow. Instead, Regan tilted her face toward him and caressed it.

"Your tears show weakness," he stated in a low voice. "You have been in my Keep for a year now, and always you have resisted me. I think these tears are a sign that you will not be able to resist me much longer."

Regan caught one of her tears between his fingers. He stared at the single drop of salty liquid for a moment, then turned and strode out of the room, his silver cloak puffing behind him like owl's wings.

Frieden bent down on one arthritic knee, groaning as he helped Selah sit on a stool. He had lived in The Keep for many years, and each time he felt like crying himself when Regan hurt one of the slaves. Often he felt like hitting Regan back. But he stayed, patient, in the background, waiting for his time to act.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, examining the bruise beginning to appear above her left eyebrow. Despite the bruise, dirt, and sunburn, her face was still lovely; small and oval, the features perfectly symmetrical. Her eyebrows were fine, slanting upward on the outside edges. Her dark lashes fluttered above her startling green eyes, and her lips were rose-colored and full. The only unusual thing was a birthmark on her left cheek. Dark pink, it was shaped like a small hand--as if, before she had been born, she was touched there.

"I hit the back of my head," Selah moaned, reaching back to feel a lump.

Frieden took a cloth from his robe and wet it in the pot of nectar. He placed the cloth on Selah's forehead and held a fresh cup of nectar to her lips.

Selah took a few sips of the liquid and dried her eyes on the hem of her skirt. She looked at Frieden and said, in a flat and hopeless voice,

"He is sucking the life out of me. I will never escape him. I am destined to die a slave."

"On the contrary, Little One," the old man stated, "you have a choice for life or for death. You do not have to be in his power any longer. I can help you."

"But Frieden," she protested, sitting up and arranging her colorless skirt. "You should not take a risk for me. The Master could have you whipped or . . . "

"Do not worry about me," he interrupted. "I know that the Master is on his way to important business of The Craft. He will, as he said, not be back until morning."

"But what will happen when he returns?"

"Tonight, you must leave this place."

"Leave? In the darkness? I have never been outside the gates after sunset. I am . . . afraid."

"I know that change is difficult, even change from a bad thing to a good. Not all slaves want change, as the old way is easier. But the door is open for you. Micah, my nephew, is the Gatekeeper tonight. He will let you pass unquestioned."

Selah stared at the old man's faded eyes. Perhaps they were once dark blue, like the sky above the Summit. She took the cup of nectar from his blotched hand and noticed the scars along his wrist.

"Why would you do such a thing for me?" she asked, holding the half-full cup between herself and Frieden. She stared at the unanswering man, took a drink, and added, "I have been in this place for only a short time. You know I have been caravanned from village to village across the valley. I hardly remember my parents, never had a brother or sister. I don't have time to make friends--except for you and Lillith. I have been a slave from birth, sold to the highest bidder. Few people have bothered even to offer me a cup of water, yet you risk your very life for me."

Frieden smiled, showing his missing teeth. Selah thought he looked beautiful in that moment, the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes laughing silently--a kind of joy unbound to circumstance, a joy she did not understand.

"I have done this kind of thing before. The Maker can protect me. And you can trust my nephew. As for why I help you . . . " He reached over and pulled the cap off of Selah's hair. It spilled about her shoulders like sunset striking the Summit.

"You remind me of my daughter, for whose sake I should have risked more than I did. Now go to your room and rest. Listen, the bell has sounded, and the Master is gone. I will awaken you when it's time for your journey to begin."

Selah's eyes widened. Frieden noticed they were green like the leaves of trees he remembered.

"You speak like I'm going on a long journey--one from which I will not return."

"You are perceptive, child. You have reached a place where there is no returning."

"But where will I go?"

"To the Summit. Seek the mountains. Never stop. Though they seem far away, though the mist or darkness hides them, though the climb is hard as cut stone beneath your hands, seek the mountains. They will be there, always, waiting for you. You will not be alone on your journey."

"To the Summit," she repeated. "All my life I have been told where to go and what to do. Now you are sending me to a place I have lifted my eyes to since I can remember, wishing I could be there."

"In this journey, Selah, you have a choice," Frieden reminded.

"You know my choice! Just a few hours ago, as I carried the water pot back from the well, I looked up at the mountains and wished I could find them."

"You have chosen well, as you were chosen. Now go. Rest. I will call you at the time."

Selah reached over and kissed the man's leathery cheek. He put a finger to the place and smiled again. Then she got to her wobbly feet, holding her head with her hands as darkness started to spin around her.

"Here," Frieden said, draping an object over her head. When her eyes cleared, Selah looked down at a silver pendant on a fine silver chain. She held it up to the lamplight and marveled at its shining.

"What shape is this?" she asked, tracing the pattern with one finger--loops intertwining, forming a cross shape together when turned one way, and a cross shape in the empty spaces between them when turned another.

"The Maker's Seal. If anyone challenges you on your journey, show him this."

"The Maker's Seal!" she exclaimed, starting to take the pendant off and hand it back to Frieden. "Even a water bearer knows about the Maker. I am not worthy to wear His Seal."

"The Seal is never earned," Frieden replied, pushing the necklace back to her. "It is a gift--one you may receive, if you will."

Selah stared at the Seal for a long time and then clasped it around her neck.

"You have chosen well," Frieden repeated. "Now go, rest. Your journey begins soon."

The new room that Regan had given Selah was small and windowless, with a single wooden table next to the bed. Tired as she was, she sat on the cot and stared at the four stone walls for awhile, wishing she were in the dormitory with Lillith and the other slavegirls. After awhile, she dozed restlessly, tossing, turning, and throwing off her covers though the desert night was cold. Toward midnight, she finally settled into sleep and dreamed.

She stood on the lower slopes of a mountain, looking upward. Cool air lifted her hair from her shoulders. A stream cascaded down between boulders marbled with pink quartz. The white-foamed water sprayed her face in icy drops. She tried to see the Summit above her, but it was hidden in clouds and mist. An unseen voice spoke to her like wind in her ears:

"Arise, follow me to the top . . ."

"But I cannot see the top," she replied.

"Arise, Selah. Follow me. Selah. Selah . . . " the voice called.

"Selah!"

Selah opened her eyes and sat up. Frieden tugged at her arm and spoke her name.

"Time to go?" she asked.

"Yes. Hurry. I just received word that The Master may be returning sooner than we anticipated."

Selah rubbed her eyes and thought about what he had said. The Master is returning early! I must get away . . .

Sleep slowly left her like the remembrance of a dream.

Frieden helped her off the cot and handed her a velvet bag with a strap for slinging over her shoulder--and a homespun cloak.

"Thank you," she said, taking the bag. Her hand touched the wool cloak and withdrew.

"I don't think I want that," she said. "It is too heavy."

"You will find need for it," Frieden said, fastening it around her shoulders. "You will not always journey in the heat."

Selah nodded.

"What's in the bag?" she asked.

"Supplies. Now hurry. I see you still wear the necklace I gave you."

She looked down at the silver pendant and chain gleaming against her beige blouse.

"I have never worn such a wondrous thing. I will never take it off."

"Good. Now follow me."

Frieden walked through the doorway. Selah padded silently after him, down the long hallway lit by torches, and to a door faintly etched by torchlight against the stones.

"There's a door hidden here," she whispered, amazed. How many times had she passed this place and never seen it?
Frieden placed his finger over his lips to silence her.

She held perfectly still as he knocked three times on the door. It opened immediately, and Selah followed Frieden into the dark outer courtyard.

A cloaked figure stood in front of them. He motioned for them to follow, and they crept along the high wall. The shadowy Gatekeeper then opened another door, a small one barely noticeable even in daylight, hidden behind ivy leaves. He waited for Selah and Frieden to pass and then climbed through himself, stooping under the low arch.

The three traveled in a single line through the quiet village streets. At the edge of the village, Selah looked up at stars like dust glowing above them.

"It's late," she stated, turning questioning eyes to Frieden.

"Yes. We had to wait. That is why we must now hurry." Frieden took something off his shoulder and handed it to her.

"A water bag," Selah observed, feeling cool liquid beneath the leather.

"Do not drink it all at once."

The cloaked figure who had led them to the village edge beckoned with his hand. He stood a little way ahead of them, his face still covered by a hood.

"Who is that?" Selah asked.

"My nephew Micah. No time for a formal introduction. You must follow him and not look back."

Even as Selah took her first step toward Micah, she heard the sound of horses' hooves on stone, far behind them in the town streets.

"The Master has found out about my escape!" she cried, filled with terror at the thought of him pursuing her on horseback. She was almost more afraid of horses than the Master himself. Once she had been trampled by one of the tall, heavy beasts with sharp hooves that cut her legs . . .

She turned and grabbed Frieden's arm. He did not seem surprised at the sound behind them. In the pale starlight, his face was calm, resolved.

"How did he find out?" she demanded. "We disturbed no guards."

"He is using The Craft," Frieden replied. "But do not be afraid. There is greater power here."

Frieden lifted Selah's pendant from beneath her cloak. It glowed with a silver light as if reflecting the stars above them.

"Go now!" he urged her, giving her a gentle push toward the waiting Micah. Then he turned and ran toward the approaching noise.

For a moment Selah almost followed him. But a firm hand tugged at her arm, and she found herself running across the valley with Micah. All she could see of him was the back of his long, dark cloak. He held her arm, and she ran and ran through the night, stumbling sometimes on rocks but never falling. Micah, who was much taller than she, lifted her up when she slipped. Ruthlessly he urged her forward. She heard voices and shouts, and a sound like thunder behind her. But, as Frieden had warned, she never looked back.

Through the night they ran. Exhausted though she had been the day before, she found new strength as she clutched her pendant in one hand. Its reflected starlight faintly illumined the path at her feet. The cool early morning air filled her with joy as she put miles between herself and The Keep.

Hours passed. The stars had tilted above them, growing dimmer in dawn's approaching light. Surely they had crossed the valley by now. All noise from the village lay far behind them. Selah's feet ached in their leather sandals, and her legs felt like they could not take another step.

"Please," she spoke, startled at the sound of her own voice after so much silence. "May we rest for awhile?"

"Yes," the hooded man replied, not turning his head toward her. "We may rest for awhile. Shortly after dawn we must continue."

Selah did not dare ask for more time. She sank down on the sand, put the velvet bag under her head, and fell asleep.

This time she did not dream.

"Wake up," a voice called. Selah opened her eyes and saw a face looming over her. The face was framed by red hair and a matching red beard. The eyes were dark blue with large black pupils. Bushy brown eyebrows slanted above the eyes, and somewhere in the beard the mouth frowned slightly.

Selah screamed and jumped up. She stared around her like an animal ready to flee.

"Relax. I am Micah, Frieden's nephew and the Gatekeeper. Remember? We must eat and then continue our journey," the man said, handing her the water bottle that had slipped off her shoulder.

Selah took it from his large, outstretched hand.

"Drink," he suggested.

She sat down on a nearby rock and continued to watch him. He was a grown man but not much older than she. He drank water from his own bottle then reached into a large, green bag for some bread and dried dates. Selah reached into her own bag and found bread and dates, too. She ate them quickly, then took a long drink from her water bottle.

"Remember, don't drink it all at once," Micah said with a chuckle.

Selah's eyes widened. She hardly ever heard someone laugh.

"I won't hurt you," he promised. "You may sit closer if you like."

Selah stayed on her rock.

Micah smiled and continued eating. His smile seemed familiar somehow. Selah bowed her head, blushing. Men had never given her much kindness. Mouse-like, she had always hung in the background of their world, serving water at the long dining table, her yellow curls covered by a gray cap, her eyes looking obediently downward, her slender figure padded by skirts and shawls. She had gone outside only to fetch more water and was not allowed to speak to the gatekeepers or guards. Frieden had been the only man to show her friendship.

Suddenly Selah remembered where she had seen that smile before.

"You are the cloaked stranger who sat at the Master's right hand last night!" she exclaimed.

"Yes," Micah admitted. He offered no further explanation. Selah watched him as he ate.

"Thank you. The words you spoke . . . and your smile . . . brought me . . . hope," she said in a voice as low as a whisper. "I had forgotten all about hope."

"You will also discover joy," Micah replied, smiling again. He finished his meal and slung his bag over his shoulder.
Selah put her last scrap of bread back into her velvet bag. The bag was a deep shade of blue like the sky just after sunset. Inside it, her fingers felt unfamiliar shapes. She wanted to pull each object out and examine it.

"Time to go," Micah said, standing. Selah closed the bag with its two silken drawstrings and followed him again--this time in the growing light of morning that promised another hot day.

They were on the far side of the valley, miles from The Keep. The land around them was brown and flat, studded only by gray rocks of various sizes. A summer haze had settled in the air, yet far ahead Selah could see hills and behind them the lower mountain slopes rising out of the haze like a half-remembered dream. Though she was tired from her flight across the valley, she gained new strength just from looking ahead.

"Are the mountains really there?" she asked Micah at noontime when they paused by a giant boulder.

"Yes," he replied. "Always, they are there, calling us onward."

Selah had taken off her cloak and tied it around her waist. Her hair hung about her, tangled yet shining in the light. She reached down and loosened one tattered sandal to find her foot bruised and cut by the rocks she had run over last night. Dried blood caked her heel, and she winced as she touched it.

"Here, let me help," Micah offered, bending toward her. She backed away instinctively. He looked up at her, surprised. Then he poured water over a cloth and offered it to her. She did not take it. Instead, she stared at his long arm, bare beneath short sleeves.

"You do not wear an armlet!" she exclaimed, leaning toward him curiously. "You are not a slave."

"I am free," he acknowledged as if that were an ordinary thing.

Well, of course you are, Selah thought to herself. You could not have sat at the Master's table if you were a slave.

She sat down on a rock and touched the metal circle of her own armband. She tugged at it as she had done many times, but it would not release.

She was trying so hard to remove her armband that she did not notice that Micah had kneeled before her. He took her left foot in his hands and started washing away the dust and blood. His touch was gentle, so she did not try to get away.

"You are too used to beatings," Micah observed sadly. He reached in his bag, took out an alabaster vial, and poured salve into her wounds. Then he wrapped her foot in a clean cloth and started on the other one.

The look on Selah's face confirmed his statement, but she said nothing.

"Were all your Masters cruel?" he asked.

"Yes. But this last Master was the worst. He is a leader in The Craft."

Micah finished wrapping her second foot and looked at her. "I know. Why do you think he paid such special attention to you?"

"He has . . . plans for me," Selah answered, shaking her head. "Perhaps he chose to pursue me because I stared too much at the faraway mountains."

"That is why you were called on this journey," Micah declared.

"Who called me? Frieden?"

"No, not Frieden. Not me. You will see," Micah replied as if reciting a riddle.

"Thank you for healing my feet," Selah said, lowering her eyes in the usual manner.

Micah reached up and touched the bruise above her eyebrow. "The outward healing is easy. The inner healing takes time. Did Regan deal you this bruise?"

"Yes. I did not go straight to my new room as he commanded."

A shadow crossed Micah's eyes for a moment, a sorrow that Selah had felt when she watched Lillith sleep next to her child. The sorrow of slavery.

"I met you before last night, little water bearer, but you probably don't remember me. A year ago you served me at the Great Hall."

"You were often a guest at the Master's table?" Selah probed.

"Yes. Regan is high in The Craft, but he knows nothing about humility. He measures his life by the power he wields over others. He pretends to share his power, which has nothing to do with the Light, though he would make us believe otherwise. He destroys the ones who serve him--eventually. But still I have a place at his table. In some things, even Regan has no choice."

Micah smiled again--that familiar smile--and Selah remembered.

"I served you when I first came to The Master's Keep, when I took Lillith's place because she was sick with a fever. I spilled water on your arm, but you did not strike me. Instead, you spoke to me. I do not remember the words."

"You were so surprised when I spoke that you actually looked up at me, and I saw--for a moment--your green eyes half hidden by your cap."

Selah blushed, and the words he had spoken to her a year ago returned.

" 'Do not be afraid,' you told me when I first served you. Last night, you said 'joy comes in the morning.'"

Selah knit her eyebrows together, trying to understand the puzzle.

"But I thought you were Frieden's nephew, one of the gatekeepers."

"I am Frieden's nephew. But I was Gatekeeper only last night."

"Then who, what--" Selah started to ask. Micah silenced her by rising to his feet.

"We have rested a long time. We must continue our journey before dark."

Selah looked down at the sandals she had removed. They were tough leather and beginning to fall apart. She could not bear to put them back on her bandaged feet.

"Here," Micah said, pulling something out of his bag. He handed her a pair of soft, white boots with strong soles. She took them quickly, examining the material they were made of, material she had never seen or felt before. She tried them on, laced them up, and stood. She walked a few steps. The pain in her feet faded.

"They fit!" she announced, twirling around in a circle as if ready to dance.

Why have so many painful things happened to me all my life--until now? she wondered. "What other amazing things do you carry in your traveling bag?"

"Nothing so amazing as what you'll find in the mountains," Micah replied. He took her hand and led her toward distant hills.