Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Trilogy) Read online

  He looked warily at the towel on the floor and dried his face on his shirt.

  *

  Chapter Six

  “I had the strangest dream this afternoon.”

  “What are you doing dreaming in the afternoon, Renir? Old enough for an afternoon nap now, are you?” Delvin took another swig of his ale and looked at Renir. Nope, not an old looking man. He looked ordinary, a kindly face with light mousy hair framing a clean-shaven face. And always an interesting companion for a beer.

  “No, it was most strange. An old man spoke to me. He had a huge beard and the longest hair I've ever seen on a man. Silver hair, shot with black. Eyes were strange, yellow, like… (he tried to remember, pausing)…butter, if I remember correctly. All butter – no milk.” He sucked his breath in and cocked his head. “And, erm, he was, ah...naked...”

  Delvin spluttered beer back into his glass, spraying the table. “Ha! A hairy naked man, eh? We should get you to a seer quick and see what that means!"

  Renir sighed, “I know, not exactly the kind of dreams I'd wish for. My fault for going to bed in the afternoon, I suppose. I think I'm cursed for my lazy ways.” He took a hearty gulp on his beer, and let out a ‘haaaa’ of pleasure.

  Delvin looked at him. “Ha ha! Naked man!”

  Renir sighed again and shook his head. I should've stayed asleep...no! He shuddered at the thought of the man's brazen nudity...

  ”Ale?” he said quickly.

  It was fully dark outside. The two men sat at a round wooden table, already a few beers to the good. Sharma’s was quiet. The locals, loath to venture out in the cold, were nursing one form of drink or another, most warm. A few outsiders stuck because of the snow huddled across the other side of the inn, talking quietly, as outsiders in strange places often do. Magret, the Landlord's wife, shuffled about behind the bar.

  Renir came back with another two ale jugs. “It was strange though. I don't remember much of the conversation but he knew me. A more vivid dream I've never had.”

  “Back to that, eh? Perhaps it's a portent. You're to get wed to an old man of the woods, kind of thing?”

  “Thanks Delvin, I knew I could confide in you.”

  Delvin smirked and said, "Fine, tell me more."

  “He said I should go meet a man named ‘Shorn’ in the Culthorn Pass. He said he was in danger, from beasts...what if it's true?”

  Delvin held his beer to mask his smile. “Did that brandy affect your head?”

  Renir shrugged, “Maybe.”

  “Sounds like a bad dream to me, Renir. Maybe you should get some more sleep. It's getting late anyway.”

  “I think you're right at that. Let's have another and we'll retire for the night.”

  “No more bad dreams, eh?”

  Renir stood to go to the bar, downing his ale. “It wasn't a bad dream; the old man seemed kindly enough.”

  As Renir walked to the bar with his mug in hand, Delvin shouted to him, "I'm sure he did, why else would he come to your bed naked?!”

  Some of the other patrons looked at Renir and he flushed, throwing Delvin a finger. Delvin grinned wickedly in return.

  Three more mugs later and Renir was sound asleep in his bed. The room had been spinning a little when he got there but was thankfully stable in his sleep.

  He snored lightly. Then:

  WHAM!

  Inside his head bright with daylight in an instant, his dreaming self seemingly slammed out of his body. He reeled in the shock of it.

  The old man appeared in front of him, this time with his hair flying out behind him, nudity bold and eyes glowing. His eyes were fixed on Renir.

  “You must go now.” The voice growling and scraping like iron dragged on stone. “There is no more time for your disbelief. Awake now. You will find under your bed a flower of yellow, growing from the floorboards. Suspend your disbelief Renir, for a man's life depends on your actions tonight. Be the man you are.” The apparition grew and became more solid. “The world has need of such as you. Awake and see the flower. Then you will believe. If you do not a man will die and the world will die with him. I cannot stay to explain…but you must go to him. Take warm clothes and leave now. Pass my message: only purity will banish the beasts.

  Go!

  “...gogogo.”

  Renir's dream awareness made his body bounce up on the bed as he slammed back into himself.

  “If you are not a dream and not a ghost, and you're telling true, you are still asking me to go out into the snow in the night, into the hills where beasts live, to find a man I have never met, somewhere I've never been, and save his life!”

  He wondered why he was looking up and talking to nothing. “Damn you! Stay out of my head!” Stupid, he was going crazy. He would have to cut down on the drink. He set his reservations aside for long enough to think, ‘But what if it is true?’

  Steeling himself, he peaked under the bed.

  There, growing between the planks, was a golden shining flower, chasing out the dark.

  *

  Chapter Seven

  Across the mountains that sheltered Turnmarket, a wizard took a deep breath. Nabren tried his patience and Draymar was not where he wanted to be.

  “Is he dead yet?” Nabren asked with no preamble.

  “Not yet, my Lord.” Klan Mard bowed obsequiously, his hands folded into his dark, indeterminably coloured robe to show his employer no threat. His hair fell forward across his face and hid his expression.

  “You promised me this would work!” Nabren thumped his fist into the table. A goblet of wine jumped and spilled its contents onto the maps of Draymar and Sturma it held down.

  “And it will my Lord, I beseech you. Just a little more patience.”

  Nabren drew his stolen sword. It sang out a garbled, insistent tune, as if mirroring pain in a song. It was chaos.

  “Its song is painful to your ears, is it not, wizard?" Nabren pointed the ornately etched hollow blade at the wizard.

  Klan Mard was a protocrat. He did not take threats lightly, especially from a mere mortal. He was a wizard without peer, sent by the Protectorate on a mission of utmost importance. He knew it was important because his superiors had told him so, although he only knew that he was to secure the death of a man called Shorn. He did not know why the man warranted such specialist attention, but he would find out. He would not question directly. Questions were dangerous.

  Klan Mard looked up from the fattened tip of the sword to the eyes of the maniac holding it. His outburst aside, there was no anger in the eyes. Perhaps I have misjudged, thought the wizard. He seems not such a challenge. Giving the sword to Nabren had been payment for his services but now Nabren held the sword Klan Mard saw triumph in his eyes. Nabren had begun to let his guard down, not thinking of all eventualities. Thinking he had won.

  Klan could wait, although the awful singing of the hollow blade – the centrepiece of the sword was removed and the tip widened before tapering – was beginning to annoy him. “A few more hours, my Lord Nabren, and Shorn will be ravaged. My beasts do not give up.”

  “Hear me, wizard. If Shorn is not dead tonight, he will return. The men I send across the mountains will not complete their task and you will die by my hand. I will not relinquish this blade now it is mine!”

  “He will die and the coast will run with blood in mere weeks. We will have our war, my Lord.” This last Klan nearly hissed – it did not hurt to show true face sometimes. “Shorn's body will be carrion for the mountain cats before tonight is through. Your price is fair, Nabren. The death of the town for Shorn and his sword. I will deliver my part of the bargain."

  “You'd better. You assured me Shorn would be dead yesterday and yet he still lives. It is unwise to cross me, Klan Mard.”

  “I understand. Payment will be delivered tonight.”

  The Protectorate, from their hallowed halls across the sea on Lianthre, had sent their best. Klan entertained no thoughts of failure.

  He left the tent, bowing to Nabren. The bo
w was just one of many lies.

  The guards outside shivered as he passed. Tonight, he would finish his task. Klan’s masters would be pleased.

  War would rise on Sturma once again.

  *

  Chapter Eight

  Alone again on the roof of her estate house, looking out over gardens full of vibrantly coloured flowers and tall, plump trees, Tirielle sighed.

  How I long for counsel, she thought. Such decisions to make alone. And then, If only my father were still alive, he would have the answers. But no, in her heart she knew hopes and wishes held no sway over her. Her decision, she understood, must come soon. The Protectorate may already know my mind.

  The Hierarchy (such lofty terms they use to mask their nature…inhuman and sadistic) still governed the country, but their enforcers, the Protectorate, were becoming supremely powerful. Those that had power joined the Protectorate and bred and only married other Protocrats. They sought out the magically gifted among their own race. The Hierarchy’s strength waned as the gifted among them became gradually fewer. A deliberate act? Tirielle wondered.

  No matter how guarded her thoughts and actions were in private someone would know. The Protectorate would act. The danger she had put herself in was real. Already she had heard rumblings among her servants; 'Tirielle seems drawn tonight,' and, 'Did you hear? Lord Fridel murdered in his chambers!' The latest, 'Honestly? Tenthers walk the streets!?'

  No, false hope could send her to her death now. The time for action was long past and Tirielle knew the longer she spent dreaming of an easier life and putting off her choice, the more she put her whole house in peril. Herself in danger of disgrace and her servants in danger of examination, with all the horrors it entailed. The Protectorate were not known for their gentle nature. A heavy hand, a heavy mind.

  Her father had warned her not to get involved.

  Perhaps he had been right. Still, it was far too late for regrets.

  She brushed her hand through her long black hair, straight and usually full of shine, a black mirror reflecting the sun's joy back at it on a good day. Today it seems to absorb all light. Her heavy eyes, obsidian in the dusky light, stared out over the vista before her, unseeing and lifeless. An unconscious response, she introverted when in thought. She was a thousand miles inside.

  As her father taught her, she let her mind filter out any minor issues and focused on what she knew. The matters of direct import to the problem. To dwell on the unknown causes indecision, he had told her. Never let the Council see indecision. They will sense your weakness and they will pounce. Time.

  The basics. Yes, the basics.

  Taking a deep breath she let her mind work its wonders without the hindrance of her thought.

  Well, I cannot do all of this alone. That much is given. I can trust it. No one else. (Of all my companions, the only one I can honestly say I trust is inhuman and the only one I have never had a real conversation with).

  Can I trust it with my life?

  I already have.

  How simple. Her eyes came back into focus. Then, another oddity.

  Blinking, startled, the echo remained in her ears. She dismissed it and rose from her reverie. Walking to the knee-high wall that surrounded the rooftop she waited for a servant to look up. Haraman, one of her oldest retainers, did.

  "Haraman, call on the rahken. Let it know it will be my pleasure to receive it in the stone hall."

  “Lady.” Haraman bowed his head to raised hands and put down his trowel. She watched him walk away, huddled and broken.

  The sense of urgency grew in her as once more the orphaned thought sang out, the same as when she came back to herself:

  ‘gogogo...’

  She swept her dress tails up and hurriedly moved below. For the first time the voice in her head was not her own.

  Tirielle had not long to wait. There were many benefits of station and being unaccustomed to waiting for visitors was just one. For that, she was thankful, as while she waited the strange, insistent voice (her own thoughts invaded) plagued her.

  A question for another day, certainly, but one that would not leave her. She turned her thoughts to her visitor and welcomed it with a smile, inclining her head to indicate that it should sit.

  “Good evening, Lady.”

  “Good evening, Master Rahken. I believe it is time we became…acquainted. I have been remiss and shown poor manners in not being forthcoming sooner,” a lowering of the head here, “I hope you will not hold it against me.”

  The warrior inclined its head, brushing off the apology, and said, “I have taken no slight.”

  She and her warrior sat at opposite ends of the stone table in the great hall. The warrior lounged nearer the door, giving the impression it was at rest. But closer inspection showed that, even now in the safety of Tirielle’s lands, it was on edge. It was always on edge.

  The rahkens were an aloof race, usually keeping themselves above the petty machinations of humans, heirarchs and protocrats. Tirielle still did not understand why the rahken would choose to serve her.

  Shutters outside of the windows kept the room cool in the summer and warm in the winter – a fire burned this day to keep the unseasonal chill out. Carious, the larger of the two suns, needed to be higher in its cycle for the shadows to retain any heat. Tirielle kept warm by wearing a fine robe tied at the neck. The warrior was unaffected by the season.

  The brutish-looking rahken sat at the edge of its seat, its girth full between the arms of the stone chair. Tirielle lounged back in hers, seeming diminutive from the other end of the table, especially compared to the rahken. A thoughtful look crossed her face and she spoke.

  “Since you came to me last high summer, now six years past, I have with my plots and your power risen far beyond my expectations. My standing in Council is unparalleled by my peers and you have brought me nothing but prosperity.” She paused a moment and looked to the warrior for some reaction, trying to gauge the tact she should now take. The warrior’s face was as unreadable as the stone slab under her shaking hands – approach this wrong and she could sign her own death warrant.

  “I need to trust you with my life.”

  There. No other way. Her warrior moved its gaze from the tabletop and met Tirielle’s stare across the room. The giant tilted its head to one side, granting acceptance? It was obviously as much as she was going to get without further probing.

  “Perhaps we are just acquaintances?” She put a smile in her voice to mask her disquiet – never show uncertainty. “Too many times to count, you have been stalwart in your support of my house. Almost solely, my ascendancy is due to your efforts on my behalf. Yet I do not know your name.” The rahken now watched her with interest, giving nothing away. Tirielle resisted the urge to sigh in frustration and pushed on.

  “I call you friend, because until now it has suited me to do so. I must tell you, however, that if we are to continue working together I can no longer afford the luxury of my illusions. I tell you this not just for my peace of mind, but for your own safety…I would ask your name and your allegiance now, for if I involve you further in my plans without implicit trust not only do I risk myself, but your life could be forfeit too.” As she spoke in a rush Tirielle watched for signs of comprehension. She was entirely used to the rahken’s taciturn nature, but this time she needed consent. And perhaps a believer.

  “So, I ask you this now, for I hold affection for you and would not see you killed.” She strove for gravity in her words and although she did not expect a gasped intake of breath some reaction would have been gratifying. She had, after all, only spent the whole of yesterday evening alone in her room, rehearsing these words.

  “I ask you: do you count me as a friend?”

  She sat back in her chair, raising her eyebrows in question, although not sure if the rahken would be able to see facial expressions from across the table.

  The rahken rose, the very stone of the chair creaking in relief. Its bare feet padded across the slate-tiled floor as
it strode toward its Lady. It stood and looked down at her, towering over the seated woman.

  “If we are being blunt tonight... are you playing political games or asking in honesty?” The voice was deep and came through a cavernous mouth, the words split around the teeth like echoes in a crystal mine.

  This wasn’t going to plan at all. Slightly taken aback, she replied, “I am asking in honesty, you must see that.”

  The rahken showed its gums as it smiled. “Yes, I already know. I just needed to hear you say it.”

  “Ah...”

  “Lady... you ask more than you understand.” It paused momentarily, obviously considering the words to come.

  Tirielle interrupted, “I ask for selfish reasons but please understand there is more to my request than sheer vanity – to unveil the Protectorate I must understand your motivations, and to ask the sacrifices ahead I must know you. I have sacrificed my vengeance for a larger cause. I have asked of you something I should not. The death of Lord Fridel was mine to bear alone, but what I ask of you now will mean even more than you can imagine.”

  It surprised her by replying, “Lady, I understand more than you might imagine. But you have shown no need to know me until now. I have risked all for you already, and now you ask for my friendship, thinking you ask much of me.” Tirielle nodded for it to continue. “If I give you my friendship, and be assured this is my wish, you know nothing of me still. For us to become as friends I must also reveal myself to you.” Tirielle looked perplexed for a moment, the rahken continued: “I have secrets too.” It waited for an answer (Tirielle thought how eloquently it speaks). “Is my meaning clear?”