Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Trilogy) Read online

  “Honestly? Not entirely, no. But friends share, this much I accept. I believe I owe you more than I have given, but what would you have me know?”

  “Lady, this is my dilemma. For you to trust me you must know something of me. Yet I cannot oblige. And yet I would have your trust, for your plans are not contrary to my own.”

  Tirielle chuckled. “You should have been a diplomat for your lack of straight answers. I am none the wiser.”

  “My apologies. I mean to say my name is mine. If I give it, this will be the only revelation I may make.” It looked slightly discomfited. “I wish I could give more.”

  “I do not need gifts…”

  “My apologies again, I express myself badly…”

  “You express yourself to perfection.”

  “Thank you. I mean my knowledge is not mine to give. All of me that I can give freely and without compulsion is my name and my service. I will give you both if you but ask it. Do not ask of me more, however, for more is not mine to dispense.”

  “Then, my friend, I am called Tirielle A’m Dralorn. Tirielle to my friends, and I seek allies against a giant foe.”

  Roth bowed its head low. “Then Tirielle A’m Dralorn, I am called Roth. By friends and enemies alike.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Roth.” Tirielle rose from her seat and placed her hand on Roth’s arm. Her head came only as high as its shoulder. Roth, kneeling, returned the gesture.

  Tirielle smiled. “Tell me, Roth, everyone calls you master and yet…well…now we are better acquainted…ah…are you male or female?”

  Roth laughed and showed its teeth. “My new friend. I am neither.”

  *

  Chapter Eight

  Anonymity was one of the many benefits of belonging to the Protectorate. The enormous complex that functioned as living quarters and training grounds for the Protectorate and its various divisions housed anywhere between ten and fifteen thousand soldiers at any one time. Situated three hundred miles to the south of Lianthre (the capital of the Lianthrian continent) the sprawling complex’s fencing enclosed a variety of buildings, the main building itself grossly spread-eagled across the compound, outstanding only in its flat enormity and the beautiful façade of the main entrance.

  ‘Arram’, the name above the entrance proclaimed boldly.

  Away from the prying eyes of the Hierarchy and the gossip of a city environment, Arram’s sponsors were largely free to come and go unobserved. All present were Hierarchs, the ruling race on Lianthre, but not all could be Protectorate. The Protectorate were almost a sub-race of Hierarchs, more magically gifted, and more practiced in the magic they possessed.

  The complex was large enough to house its own plains, some three hundred acres, policed with patrols of regular soldiers – uninvited visitors were given a terminal reception. The camp was roughly divided into quarters. The whole of the Eastern Quadrant was taken up with training ground. Not one of the soldiers that could be seen in the training ground was under the age of thirty-five.

  Here the Tenthers, the Protectorate’s elite force, train.

  Smaller buildings abounded but none outshone the main entrance in grandeur. The central enclave, where decisions were made and orders given, consisted almost entirely of men and only those born of pure-blooded Protectorate parents ever passed to the higher ranks. Many hierarchs joined the Protectorate, or worked in some capacity for it, and many hierarchs attained respectable ranks but only the pure bloods, born of both Protocrat parents, with their alien features and aloof looks, ever achieved the Protectorate’s highest accolade – acceptance into the Speculate. The Speculate, the Protectorate’s ruling council, made all decisions concerning the future.

  Each of the elite, whether warrior, wizard or other trained every morning. None of the older men had run to fat. There was no dead weight within the twenty-one Protectorate divisions, no room for dreamers. Just workers and hard, fast warriors. The thinkers, the magic users, the spies; they were all taken from within the ranks, too.

  To the west, then, the land undulated into gentle hills and valleys. Vast variations in the landscape across the complex were used to great gain for training on most terrain, and the wizards of the Protectorate could adequately simulate almost any clime. To the north, fake housing had been built, along with one half of an ancient castle, a strange site up close, but entirely convincing if viewed from the front. Beyond that, a lake. Small enough to swim across but useful for the variety of skills the divisions practised.

  Many talented hierarchs who thought they would reach the top, working their way up the ranks of the army, never made it. Humans could not join. They were there to be ruled. The Protectorate did not hold with Lianthrians doing magic, period. They used the law and had moulded it to their own ends – magic was their province and jealously guarded.

  The Hierarchy ruled Lianthre, the Protectorate enforced their law. It had always been so. Those humans who wished for political might joined the Council instead and fooled themselves into thinking they had power. The Hierarchy let them. The humans forgot the Hierarchy’s true name too long ago to care about their own standing in the world. Why would humans ever need to call the Hierarchy anything else? The strange and private Hierarchs lived their own lives, outside the human world, only interfering during portentous events and then so rarely ordinary humans thought them irrelevant. The Council, the highest echelon of human society, believed that the Hierarchy let them run the country. The Hierarchy by and large believed it, too.

  In reality, every major decision affecting the future or the past was made by the Protectorate. Even the Hierarchy were only slowly coming to realise just how much power had shifted.

  The entrance to the vast complex faced the south, leading into the visitor’s chambers and reception halls. Mutterings within the Hierarchy, among those few brave (or stupid) enough to wonder, hinted that this was so that the Protectorate would be pre-warned should any visiting dignitaries decide to drop in unannounced – the route from Lianthre meant that they must pass the Eastern Quadrant and to pass unobserved would be virtually impossible.

  In public all agreed that this was for the best. The security of the nation must be above the petty gripes of Government.

  The mutterings were not wrong...just too shallow. If the rumours had a kernel of truth, the truth itself was the husk, the stalk. The root.

  The very ground it grew from.

  In the deepest room underneath the main building air shimmered into life and the permanent damp smell abated for a short while as the room heated preternaturally. The odours became tarnished with decay as the room filled up with magic. Water constantly seeping into the underground room through walls green with moss picked up the magic and grew into blue veins. The moss drew in life and moved like flowing velvet through the dark. The aether cracked and lights outside of Rythe shone through the gaps, crying to come in.

  Finally the darkness broke to reveal a man standing where it used to be, feet firm within a design barely visible on the floor. His head was bowed and his mouth was still open from the last word of incantation. He took a breath and stepped forward into the light from a torch on the wall, a light that did little to penetrate the murk. The man wore a robe of awful colour, greys and blacks and browns, but nobody ever noticed the fashion. Just the man’s eyes, the bladed stare, and the blood vessels dancing their eternal dance where grey should be. He picked a path up treacherous stairs made slippery by the constant drip of water. Not once did his feet falter. Perhaps, an observer would think, his feet never actually touched the ground...but no, that would be ridiculous. Wouldn't it?

  A robed protocrat, his face hidden, waited at the top of the stairs.

  “Welcome home, brother. The Speculate awaits.” He said, and bowed low to his superior. As was customary among Lianthrians, the bow is a meeting of head and upraised hands. The Protocrat’s bow was a slow exaggeration of this.

  “It is good to be home, brother. I have news that will not wait.”

&
nbsp; “Then we shall go directly. Our sistren and brethren are eager for news.” Klan Mard nodded his assent and followed the man upwards to the halls and the sounds of life. Some of those who had business within the citadel’s walls received an even greater degree of privacy than usual.

  Klan Mard was one so privileged.

  *

  Chapter Nine

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. If you’re not male or female, forgive me, but, how does your race continue? I don’t consider myself an expert on intimate relations, but I’m fairly sure I understand how the whole thing works.”

  “Tirielle, must we go into this now?” The name felt comfortable passing between its jaws.

  “Well, you said you would enlighten me, you can’t back out now,” she smirked. Roth got the sense she was enjoying its discomfort.

  “A fair point,” it conceded, “very well.”

  “My race is different to yours…since the subject of my species’ procreation so obviously interests you I will oblige with that which I am able.”

  “Sometimes you have a tendency to be long-winded.”

  Roth was secretly pleased they had the opportunity to talk. There were harder times to come, and it could sense the conversation would soon enough get to heavier matters. Make the most of this chance now – it might not come around again. “I have heard from others of my kind about the fickle nature of your women folk – first you ask me to talk and then berate me.”

  “Roth, it was but a jest, do continue…” A gentle smile crossed her lips. She had not thought a rahken capable of embarrassment. But then, perhaps she was the one at fault for not asking earlier.

  “Then I shall. My race is long lived. How long I cannot say for I do not know the oldest of my kind – this is how we live. I think, perhaps, I shall try for an analogy – imagine that I am pubescent, in your terms. Perhaps this will help.”

  “So, you mean you are a not yet adult?”

  “Something like that, yes. I cannot mate – none among my kind mate until maturity.”

  “Well, I still don’t see how, if you’re neither male nor female…”

  Roth shrugged, an impressive sight. “I was hoping for an introductory lesson involving a little less embarrassment on my part. But,” it held up a conciliatory hand, “very well – if you insist.” At this Tirielle nodded eagerly, playfully. Almost like a child herself, sometimes, Roth thought.

  “We become male and female at maturity.”

  Tirielle waited for more, while Roth watched her grasp for comprehension. When more was not forthcoming, “So…you, er, ‘grow’ into one or the other, and then you are able to mate…?”

  “That is exactly what happens.”

  “And you don’t know which?” Roth shook its head. “Well, what happens if you fall in love before and…you know…”

  “Yes, I think I understand your allusion – like those of your kind who do not ‘fit’?”

  “No, no, I meant if you met someone before maturity and wanted to become intimate.”

  “Well, we don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Decide on a mate before maturity.”

  “Oh.” Roth could see Tirielle thinking. It waited.

  “Sooo…” Roth crossed its arms. “How long till you’re mature?”

  “I have no idea. I do not know how old I am.”

  “What, is there a set age?”

  “No, but we mature around a hundred, and then mate for life.”

  “Ah, so, you…what!? A hundred!?”

  “Yes, we are long-lived.”

  “How long?”

  “We do not discuss age and this is why most of your kind do not know how we age or live, for we have never told you. I know my mother was five hundred or so when I was born. I am youngest.”

  At this Tirielle flew out of her seat and raised her voice, incredulity dripping. “Five hundred! Five hundred!”

  “Calm yourself! There are, I’m sure, many older. My father, for one. Anyway, as I said, we do not mature until late. My mother was not unusual in the timing of my birth.”

  “That’s not what I’m surprised about! Five hundred is five times older than any human I know!”

  “I know – it constantly amazes me how much your people fail to achieve in such a short time…”

  A knock came at the great stone door leading to the hall.

  “Please,” called Tirielle, still looking slightly puzzled at Roth’s last statement. As she rose and walked toward the door, she spoke softly to Roth, its frame tense as if readying for action, “Be at ease,” she said, “I asked Haraman to bring us refreshments after dusk.”

  She already felt a great weight lifted from her. What a relief this was going well. Whether Roth acquiesced to her request or not, the company alone was succour enough and having someone to share even just a little of her burden had already lightened her heart.

  Haraman pushed the large doors open and entered. He stood head bowed until Tirielle spoke to him, “Haraman, thank you.” He placed the tray of cold meats and spiced vegetables in the centre of the table. Always stooped and slope-shouldered, ever since Tirielle had taken him into service, he looked like a man expecting a scalding. She wished she could take some of his burden. She never knew what his life had been like before she met him – she often wondered (how many times must I tell myself to ask!).

  Haraman looked up at Tirielle and he in turn was delighted to note a little colour had returned to his Lady's cheeks – since she had taken him under her wing, he would gladly serve her until he died. He wished for higher status so that he could express that gratitude. As it was, the two skirted around their mutual gratitude and treated each other like unspoken allies.

  Some bridges of your own making are impossible to cross, Roth thought, watching this played out in gestures and small words before it.

  Tirielle granted Haraman a smile. “Please would you make sure we are not disturbed? I will call should we require anything further.”

  “Your wish, my Lady.” As he reached the door, he turned and said, “Forgive me, Lady, Master Rahken, should I speak out of turn, but...” He paused, unable to look at what to him was a terrifying creature (not all Lianthrians were entirely comfortable with rahkens among them. After all, not all humans like to think of their own mortality, and being in the presence of a beast that could rip you apart in a blink had a tendency to drive the fact home), waiting for permission to speak. Roth saw he was almost shaking from fear – fear of a rejection perhaps. Roth nodded to Tirielle. She saw it took no slight and smiled her thanks.

  “Please, Haraman, say on.”

  "Your forgiveness, my Lady, but it is good to see you smile again.”

  Tirielle jaw almost dropped – how unexpected that when the breach of etiquette came it was one so huge! Almost immediately she changed her expression to a smile.

  What did she care for custom now, so soon to become an outcast? She had not realised until Haraman spoke – she felt lighter. Something inside was gone. Something born when her father had died.

  “No forgiveness is required, Haraman. My thanks, instead. Since you have entered my service you have been indispensable, and I thank you for this and your compliment. I ask one favour though…”

  She paused and waited. “Anything, my Lady.”

  “We are not to be disturbed. I will come to you when we are finished, for I will have need of you then.”

  “It will be as you say.”

  “You do not mind?”

  It was Haraman’s turn for shock. Was she asking an opinion? He measured his words. “Lady, I am your servant. I will always do as you ask.”

  “Then please, I would rather have a trusted friend. What I ask will not be easy (how she hated putting people in danger, even Roth, whom she knew to be more than capable) and may be dangerous. Only if you will.”

  She thought she saw his lips turn up a little before his head bowed even lower. “Your will always…” he saw her look,
“of course. I will wait up for you.” He turned, still bowed, and left.

  She stopped for a moment, until she caught a smile still on her lips.

  “No, Lady, he is right. Leave it there for a while – it does become you.” She forced the smile down. “I would like that. There is too little to smile about of late. I wish, unattractive though it would be, that I could gloat all day. For so long my quest to find my father’s killer consumed me, my vision was clouded by hatred. I – Rythe – can afford it no longer. I know, as I suspect you do, that I cannot leave this undone. Matters I must have you hear do not warrant smiles or laughter, for time is short.”

  “So then, to the point?”

  “Yes, to the point.” Roth, still in its chair, shifted its gaze to follow Tirielle, as she returned from receiving Haraman and re-seated herself.

  Tirielle took a steadying breath and then she spoke.

  “The Hierarchy take a hand in everything Lianthre. It has the power and responsibility for government, our towns, and is far in advance of any known civilisation on Rythe. Water, food and shelter are abundant, landowners’ taxation is strictly regulated and, in ignorance, the people think themselves content. The Hierarchy take care of the Lianthrians. The Protectorate take care of security. But, on a continent such as this with no outside threat since records began, idle hands have found something else to do, and it is not in line with the good of the people. Admittedly, the Hierarchy interferes rarely and seems innocuous enough. When drought strikes, the Hierarchy are held to account. When the river Tir floods the plains to the far south, it is the Hierarchy whom the landowners petition. It is a largely comfortable state of affairs which exists on this continent, unlike across the ocean where people called the Draymar and the Sturmen have been in various stages of conflict for hundreds of years.” Roth moved as if to question this, Tirielle said, “Please. I will explain.”