Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Trilogy) Page 6

  “The Protectorate have outgrown Lianthre. The Hierarchy know this. They must know this.”

  “This does not just involve my people, but your kind, and other peoples, as yet ignorant of the power of the Hierarchy…no, I should begin with no illusions…the power of the Protectorate. There is some design there that I do not know of. The things you have done in my name have not been for my whim, Roth. Everything I asked of you, everything, was designed by me to find the truth and confirm suspicions raised by my father long ago. Yes, I realise my motivations, revenge, and many other ugly words, began my journey. What I thought would be the journey’s end is only the beginning. It may even mean the fall of Lianthre itself. We must leave on another journey. One I fear we may not come back from.”

  “My kind are known to roam. I have no home but with you,” Roth told her.

  “I hope you will still feel that way when I am done.” She leaned forward. “Our masters have looked after us long and well. The Hierarchy have seen to it that the Lianthrian nation has prospered and grown over time, but as it grew, it became as all great creatures. Hindered by its own bulk it is unable to look at itself, but peers over the horizon, looking to expand and all the while it has ignored the canker growing inside. It is eating itself, and it doesn’t even know.”

  “The Protectorate?”

  “Yes, the Protectorate is a parasite. Magic is banned. Those with peculiar talents are taken in the night. Who is left to challenge them, Roth? The Hierarchs and Protocrats, consanguineous though they may be – could the Hierarchs challenge their own enforcers? The Hierarch have long grown fat on the toil of Lianthre’s citizens, the Protectorate leaner. Once, perhaps, they did protect our lands, from war, from unsanctioned murder, thievery. But you must see it. No longer does it protect, it merely feeds on us. It eats away at Lianthre. I do not know what damage it has already done to foreign lands. The parasite, I hear, has infected them too. The Protectorate is manoeuvring to become autonomous. I have heard the rumours. The Protectorate is not protecting our people but herding them to some distant future – one I fear will not be pleasant. The Hierarchy presume to treat us as possessions and lead us with lies…but the Hierarchy was never about conquest, seemingly content to find its own amusements. The Protectorate, Roth, they are all about control, conquest, power; the things that normal people do not concern themselves with. Why do you think magic is banned? During our lives we take for granted our comforts and our education – all that will fall. There will be war (If there is not already, she mused) and our world will crumble. It will affect the whole of Rythe and there is no thinking or unthinking being that will not feel the shockwave when the Hierarchy falls…imagine our future should the Protectorate rise from the carcass unchecked. And there would be no magic left to oppose it…”

  Roth pondered the image of the land’s own protectors eating it alive. “You paint a grim picture.”

  “Not without reason.”

  “How is it that you know this?”

  “From everything we have seen and done, from the might of the Kuh’taenium (the human council’s stronghold and seat of government), once the equal of the Hierarchy in power, shrivelling before our very eyes, to the unseen history I have been told. Magic was not always hidden. Once it was a force for good, the balance between good and evil.” She cracked her spine and stretched. “There is so much that I do not understand, as I am sure you do not. Everything we are taught here, by our parents, our friends, the Hierarchy teaches…no?…but that knowledge...do you think that is all there is?”

  Roth slowly shook its head. Its eyes were guarded. “No, it is certain there is much behind the veil, but how do you know that the Hierarchy knows any more on this than we do?"

  “That is close to my point (and what exactly is my point? she thought) but not quite. There are truths that only now have come to light – there are truths that the Hierarchy, the Protectorate, hold secret. I have heard of an island archive, the history of all our peoples, hidden away. It is rumoured in council that the Protectorate hold the island archive, but elect to keep this information to themselves, perhaps for their own benefit, perhaps for some purpose of which I am unaware. This not the natural order, Roth. Think of yourself; how would you feel were your magic stripped from you? Is your power evil? I do not think so. Your magic is different, yet they say magic is the cause of evil. We know differently. Magics are different. Imagine the diversity if, as I suspect, there is a different magic for each of us? I know of those who use magic for good, like you.” Roth inclined its head. “Why do we need to ban it? And yet the Protectorate are using magic everyday.”

  “Then you only plan to free people to use magic? To what purpose?”

  “No, this is not all I wish – I wish to see all people free, true, but I must find out more about the Protectorate, and the Hierarchy, should they be linked – for they are both surely of the same race – but because there are people who have magic in them.” She calmed herself. Sometimes passion clouded plain issues. “I concede that there are grey areas, and not for one minute do I believe the actions I have asked of you were just – I have justified the murder you committed with the good that has come from it.”

  “As have I.”

  Tirielle nodded agreement. “But still, there is no justification. Those you killed were evil, Roth, yet those that worked for them? Those that got in the way? Were they evil? I do not think so.”

  Roth thought a moment. “The papers I took?”

  “Did you not read them?”

  “Alas, my kind cannot read.”

  Tirielle raised her eyebrows. “I will tell you what it says…” she tried to remember as much of the documents as possible, “The document contained a map, showing a continent unlike any other I have seen, of a land far across the sea, to the west of Lianthre. The land was titled ‘Sturma’, although only on one half – the other title for the western part of the continent…Sturma was in the east…was Draymar. To the north lay a land called Teryithyr.” She paused for more detail to come to mind. Roth waited.

  “There was a letter together with the document, addressed to ‘March Chief, Protectorate’. All it said was ‘Our actions continue as planned. Support to arrive shortly. Training completed on Schedule.’ I can only assume the Protectorate is invading this new land – the Kuh’taenium and the Hierarchy have heard nothing of it.”

  “You think the Protectorate goes to war?”

  “Yes and no. I have heard other information, for other sources, and I believe in the existence of this land. I believe that the Protectorate works through subterfuge rather than outright hostility, though. My guess is that they will cause the fall of Sturma and Draymar without shedding their own blood if at all possible. To what end I do not know...”

  “And these sources?”

  “History, the time we spent in Beheth…a seer.”

  “A seer?”

  “Yes, I have known her for some time. She is still young, though, Roth. She does not know the future yet. We must go to her when we leave here. She has been a great help in my endeavours for sometime. She, like so many others, has been hurt by our society. The poor girl has not been outside since she was born. The Protectorate would have taken her away, so at birth her parents took her straight to the Illi’uit Mission, where she was raised in secrecy as a Sister of Illi’uit, our last coenobitical order. Her parents were killed when the midwife reported their child for a reward – forty gold at the time, I think.” Her disdain was evident. “Thankfully, even under the torture her parents must have suffered, they did not reveal her hiding place. She is still so young, but her powers are growing. Soon they will find her scent, her signature, and she will be killed.”

  “All this from one woman? Do you trust her?”

  “When you meet her you will see there is no guile.”

  “Very well – is this the danger we are expecting? The rescue of a minor?”

  She nodded sadly. “I hope it will be this simple, Roth. I truly do.”


  “Then after? Were would we go? The Protectorate’s arm is long and we will do little good in the wilderness with no contacts.”

  “I will try to find support in the southern outposts and perhaps settle for a while. From there I plan to send out hired readers to find some information for me on other lands. I cannot afford to be seen should they be searching for me – in Beheth I would be known, in the south perhaps I can be anonymous for a while. I may not be able to journey to the Library of Beheth myself, but there is no reason someone else cannot do my reading for me. Discovering the truth will no doubt take time.”

  “Then we should leave.” Night was already intruding.

  “Yes. I have made my preparations. The captain of my guard, Gurt, will escort us as far as the mission. He has been told only that I wish to make prayers – today is the anniversary of my father’s death. It seems a fitting beginning.” Or end, she thought. “Will you come with me?”

  Roth placed both immense hands on the table, fixing Tirielle with a serious look, and said, “I believe I have already answered.”

  Tirielle openly sighed her relief. “Then let us go. Follow me to the stables, I need to get Wey. My bags are already packed,” she spoke as she rose and moved toward the door, “we travel light. I cannot afford to give any observer even a hint that we will not return.”

  “Then we begin.”

  As they were leaving the hall, Tirielle asked, “Why do you let everyone call you master?”

  “Because it is a title people have chosen for me. It would be rude to refuse it.” Roth replied, shrugging.

  Tirielle shook her head to herself. Rahkens were strange indeed.

  On the way to the stables Tirielle motioned to Roth to wait for her and walked down the stone hall to the servants chambers. She would say goodbye to Haraman, at least, and let him know not to wait up for her.

  “Haraman? It is Tirielle.” She spoke through the door after no reply to her knocks came. She pushed on the panelled door to his quarters. The curved door swung, opening into a living area, with his sleeping area off to the side. A quilted wide stuffed chair sat in the centre of the room. An unlit candle on a dull metal plate threw no light but the moon outside showed her Haraman was not there. She scribbled a note for him.

  Returning back to where Roth waited, they resumed their course toward the stable, where Wey was saddled and waiting for her. She mounted, pulling herself up by the mane, her split skirts hanging over her legs either side. With a pat on the side of his head, Wey trotted out. Roth, Wey and Tirielle set out toward the gates where the Captain Gurt was waiting.

  Gurt turned as he heard the two approaching. If he felt any surprise at seeing his lady’s immense companion, none showed.

  “Good evening, my Lady, Master Rahken.”

  “Good evening, Captain.”

  The Captain, stocky, unlike many of his compatriots in the guard who ran to lithe, thanks to the nature of their training, took the reins and strode alongside the horse. His pace was brisk, despite the metal coverings he wore and the steel shield on his right arm. He was an old man who had served her father before his death. He served her now, and although she never knew it, he had played games and held her like an uncle when she had been a child. Some things she did not need to know.

  He never knew either, but Tirielle held more affection for him than most warriors she had met. Gurt’s soul was clean. There were no demons in his eyes. How lucky, she thought, that there are still people like Gurt in the world.

  Dark cloud reflections raced across the pond beside the gate. Tirielle, cloaked against the night, was taller than Roth now she was mounted. The vast outline of Roth moved against the bright night as they left the estate behind and began the two-mile walk to the southern outskirts of town where the mission was housed.

  As they passed the boundary, Haraman, returning from the kitchens where he had been preparing an unasked for supper for his mistress and her companion, saw them leave. He thought it an odd time to leave on a journey, but dismissed it as none of his business and decided to go to bed.

  *

  Chapter Ten

  The Speculate, when it was in session, sat in the central hall of the Arram complex. The hall was only used for meetings of its twenty-one members. Today there would be a new member.

  The hall had an open roof, protected from the elements by a simple incantation (a ritual carried out as the vaunted leaders of each of the Protectorate’s twenty-one divisions entered the hall). Twenty spoke the incantation. Klan Mard held his tongue and looked around the open air hall at the inner heart of the Protectorate. Most of their eyes were still the mottled grey of the Hierarchy, but two were blatantly red. It was coming. The blight was growing. He could feel it growing in him. Soon, now, his transformation would be complete.

  Dark outside now, but a flick from a Haran Irulius’ finger, of Trials and Appeals (Klan snorted in his head. ‘Appeal’ was so far from the truth it was ridiculous – like most of the titles in here, he thought) and all fifteen fires were lit. The fires ignited one by one as the tiny mote of fire Haran had summoned bounced merrily from one holed-out monolith to the next, and the next, until all were burning brightly. The mote withered and died. Klan shivered with pleasure just watching it. Destruction on such a tiny scale but still beautiful.

  Jek Yrie, head of the Speculate, the smallest of divisions (at one member) and ruler of the Protectorate, began. All eyes fixed on him. He was considerably taller than everyone else and already an ascendant to the red (he had been the first. Klan would come third. This was why one not of the blood was allowed to the meeting. Destruction sped the process and those who had ascended already were those who spent the most time meting out punishment. The more pain, the quicker the transition. The more that ascend, the more pain…yes, now it has started, thought Klan, it will take this world like a tidal wave). Klan stepped forward into the centre of the waiting circle and supplicated himself before his master.

  Jek’s broad shoulders cracked as he stretched himself and began speaking. He rested both hands on an ancient cane.

  “You have done well. Rise, and look upon my eyes as Brother.” A shocked cry was silenced with a glare from Jek. “In merely days time he will be the third to ascend. The red will bow to no one. We are ascended.” To Klan he said, “Rise and look out of proud eyes, child of the sun.”

  Klan Mard rose and met his master’s gaze. He stuck his chin out. He could smell fear and hatred pouring of his grey-eyed compatriots. They would be all the more eager to ascend now. He saw their distaste – an outsider called brother by Jek! The members all had their eyes on him and his bare neck bristled under the scrutiny.

  “Tell us of your mission.”

  “Yes (he tried it out in his head), Brother.”

  Jek smiled slightly for him to continue – Oril Poulgian, the head of tours, actually blanched with distaste.

  “The mercenary was in camp. I did as instructed and used Nabren’s greed against him. Nabren asked for the blade in return for his assistance, and Shorn will not live out the night without his blade to defeat my fiends. They are invulnerable to him now. Actually, I don’t think the blade would affect them, but I did not have the opportunity to try it…”

  “This is good news. Thank you for your report.”

  Klan moved to back out of the circle.

  The second of the reds called him back, “Where are you going, brother? You are one of us now. Join the circle where you belong.” Stunned into immobility for a second, Klan moved to take his new place. The members grudgingly shuffled further apart and Klan congratulated himself – to his knowledge, he was the first impure Protocrat to be elevated to this lofty position. He was favoured.

  There were growing murmurs, whispered hatreds aimed at the man now standing next to them.

  “Do not tease him, Tun, tell him the truth,” said Jek.

  “Very well.” Tun’s eyes were pure blood, his black hair uncharacteristically short for a Protocrat, and had huge hands that loo
ked incongruous on such slender bones. Tun of the Protectorate’s Search Division spoke in a silken voice.

  “You are summoned here in person today to join our ranks as the first outsider. Our rules dictate that both parents must be protocrats for a protocrat to become a member of the Speculate. While your mother was never a Protocrat, your eyes are all the blood you need here…already I see they are turning. It strays outside our rules but your eyes do not lie. Welcome.”

  “He is not of the blood!” cried one among the gathering.

  “Silence!” Tun’s voice cowered the murmurs. “Ascension is all the proof he needs – none not of the blood can ascend. Do you deny this?!” Tun looked around the hall…nobody else seemed inclined to dissent.

  “There will be no argument here today. Mard’s elevation does not signal a decrement of our blood, but our growth. You earn the right, because of your service, your ascension – which none but myself and the Speculate have achieved here –“ at this he looked around the hall, “ – and the untimely death of one of our number, Lord Fridel. This leaves an opening, Klan, if you will serve.”

  Klan looked to Tun and Jek, studiedly ignoring hateful stares all around him, Jek standing at the head of a circle where no head should be. The most powerful of all of us, he thought. Free of the trappings of power, the huge command that bogged the others down in bureaucracy. True power comes not from those you command but from the freedom to move. The thought came to him but he knew it was not his own.

  March Division generally took on small excursions, small jobs, but important ones none the less. The offer was not insulting. Yet, he thought, at ten thousand it was still unwieldy.

  A flicker of understanding passed between Jek and Klan. Control the head utterly and the body does not matter. The assembly waited.

  “So? What is your answer?” Tun asked.

  “I have decided. Lord Fridel was March Chief, was he not?”