Free A Cup of Normal by Devon Monk

iron. The tunnel was damp and cold, the air so still, she thought she would choke on every breath. All the while the ceiling seemed to drop lower and lower, and she struggled not to panic, not to imagine the earth collapsing, crushing. She forced her feet to lift and lift again, her eyes on her own boots or the back of the guard before her.
    Endure .
    After an hour, they came upon an opening in the tunnel where a natural chimney exposed the glint of star and clouds. Dusty remains of fire pits scattered the small chamber, and though the light breeze did little more than stir the smell of mold and bat guano, Thera inhaled deeply, grateful for even that small reminder of the outside world. They drank from water skins and moved quickly onward, hoping to reach the opening of the slave tunnel above the border of the Harthing lands within the hour.
    “How many?” Thera asked.
    “Majesty?” Johnathon said.
    “How many slaves did we drag through this tunnel?”
    He considered his answer. “The tunnel was built in Vannel’s father’s father’s time.”
    “Hundreds?” Thera asked. “Thousands?”
    “Thousands,” Johnathon said. “Easily that.”
    “All taken from the Harthing lands?”
    “Not all. Many of the slaves were from the lands south and east of Harthing. All came through Harthing, then this passage, and up the Kilscree River to be sold in Balingsway, and from there to distant shores.”
    Thera had known of the tunnels a scarce few months before Vannel shut them down permanently. She had seen the papers he drafted to cancel the long standing contract with Harthing. But only now did she understand the deep and undoubtedly financial rift it had caused between their two kingdoms. Without the river route to the northern ports, all merchandise, even human, would have to be marched over the spine of the Riven Mountains, or sailed around the southern edge of the continent itself. Taking slaves and other goods through these tunnels, or even through the pass and upriver was only a short journey, but sailing the seas could take months.
    Thera paused and turned so that she could watch Jonathan’s expression in the light of her lantern. “Why did Vannel shut the tunnels down?”
    Johnathon’s gaze held steady, but she had known the man for enough years to know when he was telling less than the truth.
    “Vannel thought the slave trade abysmal. He would not continue his father’s trade in flesh, once his own child had been born.” Johnathon held her gaze, and she had the distinct feeling he was waiting for a reaction from her, an admission of knowledge.
    “Majesty,” one of the guards called out. “This is the opening.”
    Thera approached the guard. This door was the exact match to the iron door Johnathon had worked loose, and as before, he stepped forward and placed the same key in the rusted lock and worked it with oil until it gave way. The guards lifted the heavy bolt — a beam of timber reinforced by rods of iron — and put their shoulders to the door.
    It gave way and cool air poured into the tunnel.The guards extinguished their torches in the dirt and Thera put out the wick of her lantern. With no lights to give them away should anyone chance to look up at the mountainside, the guards stepped out, Thera and Johnathon on their heels. The moon was lowering to the west, only a few hours from the horizon line. The tunnel opened onto an outcropping of rocks that looked down over the sloped valley to the expanse of Harthing’s outermost lands, given mostly to wheat crops and sheep. Even in the uncertain light, Thera could make out the distant, glossy black towers of Harthing Keep, banners catching like strands of silver in the moonlight. But in the valley itself, Thera saw the glittering orange jewels of camp fires and the dark hulk of tents. Enough for an army readying to march the Riven Mountains to Gosbeak’s Pass, and then to her kingdom proper.
    “How many?” she asked.
    “Five thousand at least,” one