Tides of Rythe trt-2 Read online

  “You must tell me, Roth.”

  “I am ashamed to admit, lady, that I do not know.”

  Tirielle huffed in frustration. It was impossible to tell if Roth was telling the truth. There was so much that lived under the surface when it came to her fearsome friend, and while she was not afraid of it, she did not want to press too hard.

  “Now, I must go. But remember this, Tiri; Not all sacrifices are to the death.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Roth seemed sad, but merely shook its head. Then, before she had time to question further, was a blur among the trees.

  She mounted, feeling that there was some pattern, some secret at the heart of their quest, that she must fathom, or they would all fail.

  Quintal looked at her with a question on his face.

  “I am ready,” she said briskly, and urged her horse into a fast canter. The danger of the Protectorate was ever present in her mind.

  “Where to?” she asked the leader of the paladins.

  “North, for now. The Seer tells us this is where we must go, and she is our eyes. Tonight, we will commune with Drun Sard. Perhaps he can guide us further.”

  “I hope so. I am tired of fleeing.”

  “The time will come soon when we will turn and bite back, lady. I feel this, and I always trust my feelings. The end draws near. And with it, a new beginning.”

  “One we should fear,” said Tirielle too quietly to be overheard.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Reih entered the chamber, fewer seats were occupied. Fewer councillors. It was weak. She was trying desperately to concentrate on the conversion. They were making her sick, squabbling blindly while ignoring the point. Did they even realise they were under attack? Kalea was thumping his chair and being incendiary.

  “But it’s our law! Not theirs!”

  Reih reluctantly pushed herself from her chair. “No, Councillor Kalea. It is not our law. Nor is it theirs. Until we understand the law belongs to no-one, we shouldn’t even be allowed to speak of it. The law is its own. And so should it be. It is because of our tampering, our attempts at possession, that it is sick. It is sick because of us.“

  “But Lianthre will descend into chaos without it!”

  “Nonsense. Chaos is nothing to be afraid of. It is only change. It is to good what order is to evil. One only exist because of the other — the symbiosis is evident in all life — you truly think human law itself is outside of nature’s laws, not part of it?“

  She thought about her meeting with Gurt, a builder! She wondered how many of the Councillors haranguing her were sending letters, too. She heard some of the gossip spreading (the Kuh’taenium heard far more that she ever would). If she was caught she would become part of that gossip — just like Tirielle. This was no place for idle banter. The Hierarchy could hear it — the Protectorate already had.

  She turned back to the assembly in Kuh’taenium’s great interior. She looked at them bickering while the Kuh’taenium hung in the balance and she strove to keep her grasp on hope. How long now before the sickening took its effect on her? The memories of her home were already becoming warped in place. A small change, at first, but the personality could not but suffer the ailments of the body, and the Kuh’taenium’s body was more…demonstrative…than humans, with all their frailty sickness usually killed them before sickness reached the mind. The Kuh’taenium, in all its vastness, would die insane. Because of their linking she too would experience all its terrible agony and confusion as it journeyed on to death’s hall (how big they must be to fit the Kuh’taenium!).

  Desperation makes odd bedfellows, she thought. Folly, perhaps, but, ah, desperation. To save the Kuh’taenium and herself she had just entrusted her life to some street brawler she had never met before.

  The pointless debate rolled on. All the time she was thinking about the builders. They still existed. The Kuh’taenium was right, as always. While its power might be diminished, its memory was not.

  Chapter Seventy

  Before sunset the Sard made camp. j’ark sat silently, his sword beside him, his legs crossed and eyes closed. He emptied his mind but thoughts of Unthor intruded. He could not break his concentration though. Without their ninth fellow, the communion was more difficult. He sensed the feeling of loss among the Sard, sadness welling as their feelings were knitted together in concentration.

  Thankfully, it was not long before Drun’s ethereal figure materialised before them, becoming more solid, more real with each passing second. He opened his eyes as soon as he felt the priest’s presence, and at once felt calmer. It was always surprising to him, the depth of peace that Drun Sard radiated.

  “Brothers. I feel your loss. I too, am bereft.”

  “We know loss as we knew our brother,” replied Quintal sadly. “It is our destiny to lose one another, until we are no more. But then, that is every man’s burden, and we deserve no less, no more, than any other mortal.”

  Drun bowed to each of them in turn.

  “As we lose each other, our spirits join. Join with Unthor’s spirit now, and as you knew him as a man take strength from his passing. Now, feel!”

  And suddenly strength suffused j’ark’s aching muscles, the strength of Unthor. He felt none of Unthor’s fears or failings, just his purity, his power. His blood pounded in his temples, his muscles twitched and became engorged, as though he was feeding on his friend’s blood. But he knew that was not the case. It was Unthor’s last gift to them, the gift of the fallen, to share their essence with their brothers. Each time one fell, he would do the same for his brothers. They would not pass the gates until the last of them fell. Only then would their spirits pass into eternity, and finally know rest.

  The power was amazing, even though j’ark knew it was only a portion of his brother’s spirit that had been invested in him.

  Slowly, the pounding subsided, and he felt his heart rate return to mortal levels. Drun seemed to be smiling at him, even though he had not felt what he felt, he understood. It was not for Drun, this sharing of the spirit, for he was not a warrior. The feeling would taint him.

  But he understood.

  “Now, brothers, to matters at hand.”

  “We have found the entrance to the resting place of the wizard. He is in a volcano, deep beneath the earth. There is a mountain range that splits the frozen lands, and the fire mountain is the largest.

  “The Protectorate already hunt there. It is there that you must go.”

  “How do you propose we travel?”

  “There is a portal there.”

  j’ark could feel apprehension rising.

  “And the other end of the tunnel?”

  “In Arram.”

  As Drun explained, j’ark felt his apprehension growing. He did not think it was fear, but he knew more would fall in the halls of the enemy. He would leave the planning to better men — Typraille and Cenphalph, and Quintal.

  His would be the sword that would grant them passage. He saw it in his head. He also noticed Drun looking at them all with kindness in his eyes, as he asked them to do the unthinkable. To Arram. His heart pounded once more, and he prepared himself. His finger crept to his sword. He wanted to feel its comfort, its heft, but to touch a weapon during communion would break the circle. Instead, he watched, and listened, as the Sard planned, and prayed, if his was the next death to be shared, that he would be brave.

  He wondered if Tirielle would mourn him, should he fall.

  He closed his eyes as Drun left the circle, and the last rays of sunlight drifted slowly onto his face.

  This time, he was the last to rise, the last to leave the circle, but as always, he took his sword, and felt at peace.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  The snow drifted against the side of the tent, laying thick on the canvass. Inside, four men slept deeply. In their sleep Bourninund and Wen snored mountainous, growling snores. Drun’s face was serene, as though his inner peace extended to his dream life. The worries of the last day we
re behind him. His loss, which had drawn his face long and made his eyes, usually warm and kind, seem harsh as the winter sun, bleached of warmth, bringing light but little life.

  Shorn tossed and turned in his sleep, his energy abundant even in the grip of whatever dream plagued him. His face was drawn into a snarl, lips pulled back to bare his gums, his breath coming in short gasps.

  But Renir, lost in sleep, looked puzzled. Occasionally, he spoke, as though holding one side of a conversation. More often, he held both sides of the conversation himself. To Shorn, who knew him better, perhaps, than any other, it would seem as though Renir was holding a conversation with himself.

  “Who are you?” Renir’s voice, somewhat muffled where his bedroll was bunched against his face.

  “You already know. Perhaps, yet, you are not ready to accept.” His voice was pitched slightly higher than usual, the tone, the intonation, all wrong…a woman’s tone, chiding but laced with kindness.

  “Who are you!” he shouted this time.

  Drun awoke in the middle of the conversation, and pulled himself into a sitting position, legs crossed, elbows resting on his knees.

  The warriors slept, the priest watched, and Renir slept on, talking in his sleep, sometimes answering himself, wretched face pulled tight.

  Drun would not step into the man’s dreams. Every man’s dreams were a journey, sometimes taken with friends, sometimes alone. But the destination could not be changed.

  Drun listened, though. And Renir, obliging his audience, spoke long into the night.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  His feet, knees, and hands were frozen to the ice. He leant over the ice, peering into the depths below.

  He wanted to hammer on the ice, smash it with his axe, but in these dreams he was but a passenger. A pupil. His teacher lay beneath the ice, frozen but somehow speaking. Her lips moved, and he listened, but he could not understand the lesson.

  “When you are ready, you will know me. Are you ready, Renir?”

  “You are a witch.”

  “I am. I always have been. You have come a long way. Are you ready?”

  “I don’t know! How can I know?”

  “You can’t spend your life not knowing, Renir. Do you think you chose your path?”

  “Are you saying my journey chose me? I made my own decision.”

  “Fate is a strange creature. It pulls men — and women — into its wake. Sometimes it has to drag them, sometimes they swim to the surface. Look to where you are, Renir.”

  Renir thought hard — in his dreams he was always on the surface, looking down. Was he floating? Was this fate, this dream? Every time, the same dream, the same…was it always so?

  A little light dawned on him. He found the ice melting under his feet. His hands were warmer. Water now pooled around him.

  “I am on top! I am swimming!”

  “You are…now. Are you ready to relinquish a little control? Are you ready to know?”

  “I am swimming on top of fate! It is just a sea!” he giggled to himself, not listening to her, his guardian under the sea.

  “The sea is a harsh mistress, Renir. Sometimes it pulls you under, no matter how hard you swim. It can change in an instant…listen to me!”

  The power of her voice drew Renir back from his fascination with the melting seas.

  “I am listening. I understand, now. You were swallowed by fate, you held me above its currents, pushed me from the undertow…” Understanding was dawning on Renir. He strove to push it away, but the witch pushed him harder.

  “It pulled me under, Renir. I would not have it do the same to you.”

  “Then I will pull you free. Just show me your face.”

  “It is for you to see.”

  “Very well,” he said. He felt his stomach cramp with fear — strange in a dream, perhaps, but the chill (no longer freezing) he felt from the melting ice was real, his apprehension no less chilling than the snow falling atop the frozen sea…no less frightening than the face beneath the ice.

  “Will I still be able to swim when I come below?”

  “Do you want to?”

  “Very much. I am afraid to come down there.”

  “It is just a matter of release. Men are often pulled below. Some men can make it to the surface again. I surrendered long ago, from birth. If you would, see me, know the past…understand your future.”

  His stomach gripped him with bands of iron. What was it worth? Freedom from fate, or understanding the grand design, for surely there was a purpose…he had always lacked purpose, but would he be able to surface again, to breathe sweet air, to float?

  Fear could pull a man under in the sea, he knew. It could leech strength from muscles, tighten a man’s chest.

  Would he be ruled by fear? He never had. Now he knew.

  And the sea was suddenly fluid again. He took a deep breath and plunged below.

  He took her in his arms, her face swimming in the currents. He felt the tug of the water, pulling him deeper, but he kicked out with all his strength. It tried, he could feel it. It was like hands grasping at his shins, dragging, immensely powerful. But he was waking…waking…

  And as his eyes opened, he was smiling. He had brought her smile with him, into the waking world.

  “I take it this dream was a good one?” said Drun, watchful eyes boring into Renir’s.

  “I think it was,” said Renir. “I have brought a friend back…”

  Drun smiled, and then the world shifted with a terrible crack. The ground shook wildly, and Renir plunged through the sudden rend in the ice with a scream. The tent fell away into the crevasse, tumbling down the drop of forty feet, and the other men were taken five feet away on the other side. Renir held on, over the gap. His toes sought for purchase, his fingertips gripping the sharp edge with rapidly failing strength.

  “Renir!” Drun cried, throwing himself flat on the ice, grasping Renir’s wrists.

  Drun pulled with all his strength, but he was an old man, and Renir had packed on muscle over the last few months. His hands could not hold the younger man. His fingers were slipping, as were Renir’s, their grasp on ice slipping, until he only held on by his fingertips…then Drun began to slide toward the gaping tear in the ice. Renir turned from Drun’s face, looking down at the drop. He could not survive the fall, and even if he could, he would never leave the bottom. He felt all the fear he had never felt then, in one moment. His bladder loosened, and he had a moment’s happiness at the sudden warmth it brought.

  Then he screamed again, only now noticing the shouts of alarm from the other men, as a massive, shaggy white face loomed over Drun’s shoulder, seeming to leer at him, with huge eyes and fearsome teeth.

  Drun turned and everything happened at once. His grip gave way, Renir felt the sudden lurch of gravity’s grip on his insides, and a giant clawed hand caught his wrist in an unshakeable grip, dragging — almost throwing him onto the solid surface. He landed with a thump, his teeth clacking together painfully.

  The beast reared, at least seven feet tall. Renir scrabbled back on his heels, sure he was going to be eaten. The beast merely looked at him, and then at Drun. Shorn had leapt the crevasse and stood before Renir, prepared to fight, if necessary, to the death for his friend.

  “No!” Drun shouted forcefully, holding out his hands in a gesture of peace.

  Stupid old man! Thought Renir…but the beast was making some kind of gestures, and Drun hands were shifting, too. The beast nodded its head, warily eyeing Shorn, and now Wen who had taken up a place beside his old pupil.

  “It is friendly,” called Drun. The ground shifted again and Shorn stumbled.

  The beast seemed unaffected by the grumbling ice beneath it. Renir’s relief was evident.

  “What is it?”

  Drun turned his attention from the monster, his hands moving before he did so, to Renir, and the other warriors.

  “It is a Terythyrian — it has no verbal language, but communicates with gestures. It does not underst
and us, either, but its signs are similar to a race I have encountered before. I had my suspicions, but this confirms it. Everyone — meet Icewalker.”

  “Well, thank it, I suppose…” said Renir, somewhat unsure of himself. He stood, rubbing some life back into his hands.

  Drun translated. The beast roared, making Renir jump, but he stilled himself. He trusted Drun, even if he did not trust this creature.

  Drun laughed, and his hands flew in strange shapes, while the beast watched. Then both their hands were making patterns in the air, as if deep in silent conversation.

  “They have seen our enemies,” Drun said, his voice taking on a serious tone. “Our enemies are theirs. They, too, have suffered at the hands of the Protectorate. They will help us. Gather up your things. We are leaving.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “They will show us the way, and take us there. Their warriors will accompany us…look to the horizon.”

  They looked, and there were hundreds of the shaggy white creatures, mere outlines in the snow, on the horizon.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  The Terythyrians were tireless. Renir had been bounced and jounced all the way across the land, through plains, leaping across rends in the ground and ice, across rocky escarpments and around ravines where water had once run free. He had picked up some simple hand signals from Drun, but despaired of ever learning more — the language was complex and largely incomprehensible.

  The Terythyrians knew of the wizard they hunted, too. He wondered at their history. He longed to know from where their kind hailed, what secrets they knew. From what he could gather their race was ancient, but they would not tell more. They would not say how they knew of the wizard. But if the wizard was a creature of myth, their memories must be long indeed to remember so far into the past.

  “Some things are not meant for the knowing,” the voice in his head told him sternly. It was an ever present companion. Sometimes he wished for the loneliness of his own thoughts again, but she was now warm, where once she had seemed a harridan. He was beginning to understand that there had always been a purpose.