Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Trilogy) Page 26

  Fenore patted her gently on the shoulder. “Now girl, Roth has told me much about you – he said you were a Lady in your world.”

  “Yes…”

  “Well, if that’s the case, you should know a lady never discusses her age.”

  “Forgive me if I have offended you…”

  “Not at all, not at all.”

  They walked through one of the main passageways to where the unintentional dissidents were training. The Sard were eager to move on. They insisted they did not know how long Tirielle had to reach Teryithyr, but the former lady A’m Dralorn refused to leave while there remained a possibility of a cure for the seer. She did not tell them the other reason; that she was loath to enter the cat and mouse game with the Protectorate while she could avoid it. She knew she could not put off her quest forever, but she had time now. She was sure of it. It felt so safe here, with creatures that welcomed the travellers with open arms.

  The freed prisoners had begun their training in the magical arts. It was too dangerous, the rahkens held, to allow untutored minds to practise magic.

  A few of the dissidents had left that first day, willing to risk recapture by the Protectorate or death by the numerous dangers within the forest, but there were still some fledgling mages listening raptly to Roth’s father in the centre of the great training hall.

  She could see the difference now between the rahken young and old – the young had less hair. She wondered if they ever entertained the thought of getting a hair cut. She hadn’t mentioned it to Roth’s mother though. And despite her best efforts, it was the only difference she could see – she had looked for organs, but given up when the rahkens had looked back at hers. Fenore caught her looking south once and laughed heartily for an age.

  Aftter a week in the tunnels Tirielle could see where Roth’s statesmanship came from – his mother was a master. She twisted Tirielle in knots each time she approached a thorny subject and moved her artfully to some softer, safer conversation. No matter how she tried she had been unable to pry anything from Fenore that Fenore had not volunteered.

  Fenore told Tirielle that she had something important to say to them all before they left, but would not say more until that time. She did admit that time was short. Tirielle resolved to make the most of the respite from the rigours of her new life on the run from the Protectorate. The rahkens’ home seemed safe enough.

  As Tirielle approached Roth and his father, Ludec, looked up from their lecture and smiled their alien smiles to her. She waved back across the hall.

  The pictures on the ceiling above told stories.

  All of the caves were topped with staggering pictures, high on the domed ceilings, far beyond the reach of even the tallest of the rahkens. Some of the caves were obviously natural; while they had been decorated and smoothed, they were still uneven.

  This one, in the great hall, had been made with tools.

  The stories were displayed in each mural with outstanding craft. The main relief depicted the two suns framing two figures on the horizon. Others showed wizards battling, but each time the picture was flat, vague. She wondered what they hid. The history that must be contained here…she wondered at it.

  Other pictures showed other parts of history, some recent, some ancient. She did not know enough to know what they meant, but she saw men in armour featured often – men like the Sard.

  In the great hall, though, there was a truly magnificent painting. It showed in different stages what must have been a snap shot of a planet pulling a moon into itself through millennia. It showed one man standing against the tide of enemies, side by side with the rahkens. It was the only one that she liked. The only one with life.

  The rahkens, for the most part entirely able to live without the air of gimmicks like the human races, were surprisingly adept at all manner of scientific skill. To create such grandeur out of rock with tools and brawn itself was impressive but the sheer detail of the roof mural was stunning. The scene depicted above was obviously of great import to the rahkens. They had no worship but revered history. They had elevated its study to an art, but without the aid of writing (none of the rahkens could read or write, which was strange, given their erudite nature). Instead they created magnificent scenes in detail that belied (or shed new light on? Tirielle wondered) their nature. Tirielle could hardly believe that such huge clawed hands, so readily turned to rending enemies’ flesh, could also contain such art, such exquisite detail. It took Tirielle’s breath away.

  Fenore had explained that the rahkens saw things differently to humans, too, and that additional detail in the colours of the materials created further images for them. Fenore regretted that Tirielle could not appreciate it like the rahkens could, but Tirielle knew the pictures were not designed for human eyes. She asked what the other, secret, colours depicted, but Fenore would not say, except to explain that the pictures were concealed for a reason.

  Tirielle could feel the secrecy on her skin. She wondered if the others could too.

  She had so many questions it was frustrating to have to leave half of them unanswered. She wished she could share some of her wonder and curiosity with j’ark. He looked like he wanted to talk with her, but each time they were in each other’s company some frustrating duty or interruption spoiled it every time.

  His face always lit up when he saw her. As did hers.

  It did now as she saw him deep in conversation with Garner. Garner was turning out to be quite gifted. They had crafted swords out of wood and had been sparring every day for the best part of a week now. Garner sported a few bumps, while j’ark did not, but watching them practise made Tirielle think that would soon change. Garner moved more slowly, but there was something about him. A grace and uncanny speed that she had only ever seen in j’ark. The Sard’s ambassador obviously saw it, too. She could tell he was impressed by his smile.

  Garner was not the only former prisoner with amazing talents, though. The change that had overcome them all was remarkable.

  Fenore chuckled in bass. She nudged Tirielle’s shoulder with a surprisingly soft elbow. “Fine looking man, that one, is he not?”

  Tirielle caught herself staring at j’ark’s back as he showed Garner a lunge. His feet stayed parallel to the rock underfoot. She looked to Fenore and back again. She allowed herself a smile.

  “He certainly is,” she said. “Fenore, would you mind if I asked you something?”

  “Not at all, child.”

  “Well, Roth has aided me for such a long time and, well, I don’t really understand why. Why will nobody tell me?”

  “Perhaps we choose not to, Tirielle.” Seeing Tirielle’s scowl, she added, “There is a treaty, of sorts, with the Hierarchy – the Protectorate do no harm to us and us none to them. There are incidents, but the wider picture is that is why we do not fight them. In our way we serve the balance. Try to look at it like that.”

  It was, Tirielle realised, no answer at all.

  We keep so many secrets nobody will even realise the world has ended, Tirielle thought sadly.

  “And if I come up against a rahken in Golem armour – or a Golem, for that matter?”

  “You would die,” replied Quintal, as he walked across the floor. He, as did all the other Sard, wore his silvery armour still. Roth and Ludec stood at the front of the class. Others were learning their own skills. Those gathered here were of the peaceful path. Some wore looks of boredom – the speaker was one, a man from Ekles' Orn in the south. They had known bad times. The people were harsh of mind because nothing had ever given them hope in all their years. The speaker was clearly of the peaceful field – Quintal had explained much of this to Tirielle in private earlier – his eyes were green, the colour of the earth, but a golden streak ran horizontal through each eye, giving them the look of wood grove sunsets.

  “Well then, what use is this power if I can still not defend myself!”

  Ludec stopped Quintal and took over, “Golems live deeper down in the caves. You would never be able to live at
their depth to meet them. We co-exist with them. We do so because we are by nature both peaceful creatures. We are born of the earth – see?” Ludec opened his eyes wide. Both were a pure brown. There was peace in there. He closed his eyes and blinked. When he opened them colour seeped out. The students all gasped, even the doubtful man.

  “You see,” Ludec continued as the brown widened and grew to cover the room, “Once in a few hundred years the golems shed their outer layers and donate this as armour to the rahkens. Such armour is rare. Rarer still are those that can use it. The armour is a gift. Our colours are a gift. We have one gift…or some, like you – “ Ludec pointed to the man “ – Morhock, have more.” The students, Turpy among them, turned to look at the man from Ekles’ Orn.

  Ludec waited for a beat. “A gift, Morhock Tur (Ludec used the honourific), that can be used for many purposes, as each colour has many shades.” The brown light thickened and turned to a syrupy mass over the students. Ludec blinked. The cloud stood out alone.

  “Something we should not seek to rule, but live in harmony with, as the golems and the rahkens do.”

  The cloud shifted until it looked wooden. A door above their heads formed. Morhock reached up and tapped it.

  The door opened. The door poured through itself and turned into a spear, which rested its tip on Morhock’s forehead.

  “So, while your example is flawed, Morhock Tur, the point is valid. I believe you understand the answer?”

  Morhock made to nod and thought better. He whispered, “Yes.”

  “Good!” Ludec noticed each of them were watching the spear still. He walked over to Morhock and laid a hand on his shoulder. “There is more to this power than speech.” The spear shifted shape, began sliding, then rolling, then flapping under Ludec’s red haired forearm. A helting mir hung there for a moment, then disappeared.

  “A true gift, friends, does not cost anything but care. You were lost and we took you in. This is the way the rahkens live. It bears its own logic. Look to heal. Destruction only feeds itself.”

  Tirielle listened to Ludec half-heartedly as she worried about the seer. She worried at a lip and had drawn blood with her pointed tooth, plucking at the skin with each repetition.

  Quintal had been observing, assessing her ever since they first met. She was strong, resilient, and a fast healer. She still wore rags she had taken that first night – washed since, but falling apart none the less. She had not asked for anything, only given. It did not seem to bother her in the slightest that she had fallen from wealth and power – in fact, she looked ready. She was as fit of mind and body as any of the others, and watching her rapt face as she in turn watched Roth’s mighty father introducing them to their gift. She was ready. The dissidents were settled. The seer was in safe hands. They could afford to daly no longer. They must make for Beheth, where their best chance of finding the red wizard’s final resting place lay. To stay still for too long was to invite disaster.

  Just at the moment Quintal decided, Typraille came dashing up the tunnel. When he finally arrived everyone had stopped and was looking at him – he was beaming.

  “She has spoken!”

  A gladden murmur arose all across the hall. Everyone here knew the girl’s story and felt for her. Tirielle’s face lit up and she stood. “Forgive me, Ludec, would you excuse me? I would like her to see a familiar face as soon as possible.”

  “Of course, Tirielle, spend all the time with her you will.”

  “Thank you.” She said and ran out after Typraille. Quintal excused himself and followed them.

  They pushed the woven hanging back from the door and made their way into the room. The seer lay on the bed, sitting up, which Tirielle hadn’t seen her do since forever. Her eyes, shifting with a whirlpool of colour, stared ahead, unseeing.

  “Seer! Can you see me? Hear me?” Tirielle sat on the edge of a bed the rahkens had made especially for her, and touched the seer’s hand, tendons rigid against the starved skin. There was no indication of response.

  “What is wrong with her? Typraille? I thought you said she was awake?”

  Typraille tished. “Well, she was when I left. Yurin? What happened?”

  An unusually thin rahken, kneeling by the girl’s head, spoke.

  “I do not know. I think it may be some time before she is lucid again. She comes and goes. I’m sorry, Tirielle, the girl is far beyond my skills. Perhaps you will find help in Beheth,” she said solemnly.

  “My skills could find this though.” Yurin placed a small spiked seed into Tirielle’s hand, who looked down at the tiny seed as if surprised to see her hand open before her.

  “This was put inside her. It is the cratyach seed. It grows in the broken rocks, the harshest climates on this world. Its barbs are so strong it breaks into the very rock. It will grow anywhere – they put it in this poor girl’s stomach.”

  “Why?” Typraille asked, horrified.

  Yurin shrugged. “Most likely to further their dark works, perhaps because crushed the dust of the seed heightens the senses – I do not know. I don’t know what to do. I have not been able to free her soul from the torment. I have stopped it fleeing though, but even now it is only tethered in orbit around the child to her pain. It may be some time before she is able to speak to us again.”

  Quintal was about to say something when the girl’s eyes flew open and she straightened. Her popping spine made Tirielle jump and drop the seed she had been holding carefully.

  Kaleidoscopic and insane, her eyes’ colours transformed the room instantly into a bedlam carnival. Typraille backed away, one hand guiding Tirielle to the door, should the seer prove a threat. Tirielle looked at the restraining hand irritably and told Typraille, “For goodness sake, Typraille, she’s not going to explode!”

  She shrugged his hand off and watched as the colour blew the dust from the ceiling and danced between the fibres of the tiny girl’s sickbed sheets. Yurin waited transfixed by the cascade racing into the air from the girl’s irises, unlike any magic she had ever seen. At least they were no longer pure red.

  Colours and shades that did not exist on Rythe bonded with other colours to make entirely new ones. Tirielle caught Yurin’s expression, and Quintal and Typraille both looked equally amazed. This was something that just did not happen.

  She understood. The Sard were so wary of the seer because she was something they did not understand. How alien she must seem to them.

  Tirielle approached the seer and touched her arm gently as she made soothing noises. The instant they touched, the seer sucked in the colours, swirling and disappearing into her mouth, yawning wide. Her teeth looked like madly stained glass until finally the last colour was sucked from the room and all turned a dismal shade of grey. The room spun for a second and was righted afterward with a tremendous clap. She blinked. The girl moaned in private agony as her spine curved and righted itself, now quiet on the bed.

  Her eyes snapped open.

  The seer looked at the hand on her arm, then up to its owner. She looked inquisitively to Tirielle, not seeing the others in the room, and said, “Tirielle! The crossroad people, are they here yet?”

  Tirielle looked around the room. She had no idea what the girl was talking about, and was still too shocked at the sudden, long awaited, words to think. Her confusion was wasted on the seer. The girl saw nothing but that which was in front of her. She looked up at her closest visitor, clear eyed, then to the ceiling above.

  The seer put a finger to her lips. With her other hand she pointed up.

  “Shh…” she said, pulled the blanket over her head like a giant eyelid and hid.

  *

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  The day felt considerably brighter for all three travellers as they headed north west on Sturma, even though drizzle had snuck out of the clear air and surrounded them. The surface of the river to their right looked like black sand, roughened by the soft rain and dark and fast current below. They had yet to find a means to cross the river that didn’t i
nvolve going back to Naeth, now hours behind them.

  Drun’s dray seemed quite happy underneath him as the three trotted along. Drun was sitting proud in the saddle, a full two feet shorter than Shorn and Renir. He was explaining the nature of magic to Renir, who was curious as always. They were heading up river to find a place away from the city to cross, then on to the foot of the northern pass. From there they would make north east for Pulhuth, and hopefully, after that, their final destination, Teryithyr. Should all go well on Lianthre, they would meet the first of the three there. Drun, however, had not been in contact with any of his order for some time and did not know how they fared. All he knew, from senses honed throughout the years, was that Tirielle still lived.

  “They can’t find me because my magic is different to theirs. They have a hold though, and would find one such as me if they got close enough. Magic, after all, is just colour.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, on Lianthre, across the sea, magic is banned. Magic, like mine, is the gravest of offence. The colour of the oppressor’s magic is red and black and grey. Some humankind have magic too – their colours are more diverse. Mine is yellow.” Drun picked at a tick on his donkey’s back. “The magic could save us, Renir, all our people. It is for the people that we work, and against evil wherever we go. “

  “And you are always here?”

  “Yes. When we fall others take our place. The Caretaker watches over us and finds a replacement. There was always a replacement, but perhaps we will be the last, now that the end of our age is here. We have always worked to remember the past and protect mankind along the way. There is no magic there. I am not immortal.”

  “Is it hard, remembering the past?” asked Renir.

  Drun laughed. “I do not remember the history of the world, Renir. Tablets written in stone are kept under the watchful eye of the caretaker. They are shown to each member when they arrive at our temple. We watch, protect and wait for this moment. Some terrible future awaits us – this much is evident. The Protectorate seek that future, of that I am sure. It has been so since the first dark winter, and ever since. Battles have been fought through the ages to save the world, for this coming, for this age. But, the future cannot be written in stone, only the past. I can’t know everything,” Drun added reasonably.