Sharani series Box Set

by Kevin L. Nielsen

  “Move the sheep away,” one of the women called.

  Again Taren shook his head and smiled. The hand holding the dagger flourished slightly so that the weapon flipped over and left him holding the blade by the point.

  “Worse answer yet. You band together, and you eliminate the threat. If you do not, the sandtiger gets it in its head that this is an easy source of food.

  “This is a simple way to survive. You subjugate yourself to it since it will keep coming back until the problem is gone. Not only that, you track it back to its nest and eliminate its mate, its cubs, all of them. You wipe out the threat once and for all.”

  He was facing away from the man who had spoken, but Marvi saw Taren’s body tense a moment before he spun at the torso and his arm pumped, letting the dagger fly. It was a masterful throw, one only a handful of warriors within the Oasis could make, but the dagger spun through the air end over end, glittering in the torch gleam and moonlight, before finding its mark in the man’s eye.

  He slumped to the ground with a silent, futile groan.

  The assembled clans immediately cried out in anger, shock, and surprise. Marvi tensed and clutched at her throat. What had Taren just done? The water oaths that governed the actions of all the clans within the Oasis forbade the shedding of another’s blood. They protected the clans from each other and from themselves. For three months each year, there was peace within the Oasis. Not in living memory had that been violated. It was one of the things that actually kept the clans together. Violations of the water oaths were punished by the clans as a whole, not by any one Warlord, but by all of them together. She expected one of the other Warlords to shout out in protest, but none of them spoke up. In fact, she didn’t see any of the other Warlords in the crowd. Other voices cried out in the din, asking the same questions.

  “The water oaths!”

  “Murderer!”

  “What have you done?”

  Saralhn pushed through the crowd, going to the man’s side and rolling him over. She checked his pulse as shouts assailed Taren. After a moment, she moved her hand away from his throat, dripping with blood, and shook her head.

  Taren raised his hands for silence, and the shouting slowly died away. He radiated a sense of confidence that Marvi found disconcerting. He didn’t seem even remotely concerned that he had violated every oath that the desert people held sacred. In fact, he seemed coldly delighted.

  Marvi felt a strange itch creep down her arms, and she hugged them to her chest.

  “The genesauri are coming,” he said. “All of them. They are coming here. If we do not stand united, we will be destroyed. We will be their easy source of food. Just like the sandtigers, we have to hunt them down and destroy them.”

  “Are you mad?” Someone shouted, bravely voicing what everyone else was thinking.

  Taren arched an eyebrow, his wrinkled face growing even more wrinkled at the gesture.

  “This man was an enemy of the unity. I am upholding the water oaths. I am preventing the shedding of innocent blood. Those who do not stand with me only further their own destruction. The genesauri are coming, and we will destroy them. And I will lead you in that great battle.”

  Silence reigned. But it was more than simple silence. Among the women, the silence was the silence of despair and resignation. The silence that fills a room after the death of a loved one. The loss of hope and peace in the face of devastating truth. Among many of the warriors and men that made up the lesser half of the group, the silence was of disbelief and anger, the silence of a man who simply did not know what to say or how to say it. Yet among the children the loudest silence lived. Among them was the silence of fear. Fear because they simply did not understand but felt the emotions radiate from their parents and those around them.

  Marvi looked out into this silence and found herself a participant in all three.

  After a long moment, someone finally spoke. “The Warlords will not agree to this.”

  Taren smiled and then whistled shrilly. Marvi felt a twinge in her left knee as horror welled up within her and clawed its way toward her mouth. At the edges of the crowd, shapes began to take form. Shapes of men with weapons drawn, glinting in the torchlight. The approaching men formed a ring around the crowd, weapons pointed inward. Marvi recognized the middle warrior as Alarian, Warlord of the Frierd. Three of the men stepped forward in front of the others and raised round objects into the sky. Each man held the head of one of the other Warlords.

  Taren smiled and looked down at the man who had spoken. “I really don’t think they’ll object.”

  Marvi raised a hand to her mouth, horrified. How had she let this man take charge of her clan? Looking back, she could clearly see how he’d manipulated her, pulling on her strings like some outcast puppet. He’d planned this from the beginning, hoping to take over not just the Sidena but all the clans. He’d eliminated all the competition.

  She stopped as realization hit her. She looked up at him. His gaze fell on her, and he smiled. She realized, as pain blossomed in her back and a dagger worked its way toward her heart from behind, that she’d supported the wrong man.

  * * *

  Lhaurel paused halfway through the form she had been practicing, one foot raised about a foot above the ground. She held her balance perfectly, unconsciously, as she recognized Kaiden’s approach.

  He was out in the hall still, but she had mastered isolating her ability down to a certain area or even to a particular person. Khari had helped her discover how to do it even though she didn’t fully understand how Lhaurel could feel everyone’s presence.

  Shifting out of her stance, Lhaurel lowered her sword to her waist and sheathed it before Kaiden burst into the room, sending an aevian that was preening near the door skittering away with a screech of indignation.

  His face was a storm of emotion. Lhaurel noted with concern that anger and frustration were the foremost, though it was intermingled with a smattering of resignation and, oddly, eagerness. He noticed her, and his expression slipped smoothly into one of surprise.

  “What are you doing here, Lhaurel? Weren’t you in the greatroom?”

  “I needed some fresher air.” She smiled and then noticed on the edges of her senses that others were approaching the eyrie, too. Tieran and his twin were among them. “What’s going on?”

  “Sarial thinks she found what’s driving the genesauri,” he said carefully. “Makin Qays has ordered two whole flights to investigate and destroy the place if possible. That should stop them from being driven toward the Oasis.”

  There was uncertainty in his voice, an edge of indecision.

  “What is it?” Lhaurel asked.

  “Sarial wasn’t very specific. But something big.”

  Lhaurel rolled her eyes but let his sarcasm pass. He seemed distracted.

  “Well, be safe. And watch out for Sarial.” She knew that if she were allowed to tag along, he would have mentioned it already. Yet a part of her wanted to go with him. She was only half surprised to realize that only part of it was curiosity about what was driving the genesauri. The larger part was a desire to be with Kaiden.

  “Why? Because she thinks you’re stealing me away from her?” He smiled and winked at her.

  Lhaurel felt warmth spread across her chest and color bloomed on her cheeks. So he knew Sarial had feelings for him, too. It had taken Sarial’s little show earlier for Lhaurel to realize her own feelings for Kaiden were growing into something beyond friendship. She found that odd, considering how much she’d distrusted him. A small part of her still did, but the seed was slowly starting to grow.

  He stepped forward suddenly and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Stay safe,” he said. Then he was off, hurrying to call Skree-lar as the other members of the flights entered the eyrie.

  Lhaurel watched him go, one hand on her cheek where the feeling of his lips still burned.

  Part 4: Mystic

  Chapter 17: A Lake of Tears

  “Briane. Dear, sweet Br
iane. I know the voice of the girl child screaming. What have they done to you? I cannot believe these dreams. They are illusions brought about by the enemy. I cannot believe them. I simply cannot.

  “I know the voice the of the girl child screaming. Am I the cause of those screams?”

  —From the Journals of Elyana

  Pain is the thief’s mask in the dead of night. It creeps up in the quiet moments when there is nothing else around and steals away hope and love and pride. It is the silent messenger that comes to announce that the best efforts are futile. But it is also a lie.

  Gavin trudged doggedly through the long, dark passages. The greatsword was still a cane in his hands, an extra limb to grant his aching body support. The pain in his chest had turned to a fiery inferno long since. He had thought before that maybe some of his ribs were broken. Now he was sure that at least two of them were. If he only had some numbweed or nettleberry sap to chew to dull the pain. But as long as he was wishing for what he didn’t have, he could use a torch, some water, and something to eat, preferably a juicy haunch of lamb. His mouth watered at the thought, and his stomach grumbled in protest.

  Rest stops came every time he passed through ragged patches of light that streamed down through jagged openings in the ceiling. As he rested, he studied the breaks and the rubble strewn beneath them. Invariably, the edges of the breaks were worn smooth with age, pounded by the wind and sand until they had been rounded down. None of them were fresh and none of them were in a position where they offered him any chance of escape.

  After an indeterminate time, his arms became leaden and his legs too weary to move, yet he forced himself to simply put one foot in front of the other. Left and then right. Left and then right. He repeated the words in his mind, using them like a beacon to guide him forward. It was a testament to his pure and all-consuming exhaustion that he walked right by a lit torch crackling in a sconce set into the wall without even noticing it. He kept on walking, putting one foot in front of the other and almost dragging the greatsword along behind him. The hilt was locked in his swollen grip, as if the weapon had somehow become a part of him.

  A cool breeze caressed his cheek, touching him with the strength of a falling feather and then passing on again. He blinked and stumbled in his step. The breeze came again. It washed over him with the strength of a sandstorm wave, though it was over and done within the space between two breaths. It was as if someone had infused new energy within him. His eyelids fluttered and his gaze snapped back into focus. Pain faded to the background. In a sudden burst of understanding, Gavin realized he was standing in a lit hallway.

  Torches meant people. The wooden brands had very short lives and burned up their fuel relatively quickly. They would only last for a few hours at the most. That meant that very recently, someone had been through this very passage to light the two torches.

  He straightened and adjusted his grip on the greatsword. What were people doing inside the walls of the Oasis?

  Aches and pains set aside for the moment, Gavin crept forward, gaze intent for signs of movement within the tunnels. The breeze picked up again, cool and refreshing on his bruised and sweaty face. Vestiges of exhaustion still clung on stubbornly, so it took him a moment to realize that the breeze, along with being cool, carried moisture with it. Water. His stride lengthened, and he moved with a more confident step. Need made him bold, as it does to all men. Even the lowliest churl, addicted to the euphoric effects of the nettleberry pods, became bold when need drove him to obtain more of his addictive substance. Or so Gavin’s grandmother had said.

  The passageway curved to the right and sloped downward, leading down into the wall. Gavin followed it and passed several other torches set into the wall. The walls here showed the signs of recent and frequent use, blackened walls behind and above the torches where soot had not yet been scrubbed away. A clear path in the sand and dust on the passageway floor where feet had trodden recently. From the breadth, depth, and number of tracks, Gavin guessed that anywhere from six to eight men had passed through there as recently as an hour ago. His grip on the greatsword’s hilt tightened.

  What was going on? Maybe he’d hit his head harder than he thought, or else he was so badly wounded that he was beginning to hallucinate, like a man driven to heat exhaustion by prolonged exposure to the sun.

  Several side passages branched off from the main artery, but Gavin ignored them and continued to follow the main passageway downward and to the right. His aches were beginning to return with a vengeance, and he hadn’t run across anyone else in the passage despite the signs of their passing. He had to stay vigilant. He had a strange feeling that whatever was going on here wasn’t natural. There was a sense of the ethereal to it.

  The passage ended in a cavern large enough to hold all the clans together and have room to spare, a room whose entirety was completely covered in water except for a narrow strip of grey-brown stone down the center that lead toward the opposite wall. Torchlight glittered off the surface of the vast lake. It stretched out several hundred spans, reflecting the light off its shimmering surface. A symphony of dripping water echoed off the walls.

  Without conscious thought on his part, Gavin stumbled forward, lost in the alien beauty of such vast amounts of water collected in one place. A cool mist dusted his face as he walked, his step suddenly surer at the touch. He neared the far wall and realized his own insignificance in the face of such grandeur.

  Light cast odd shadows against the base of the wall. The narrow walkway widened, creating a narrow patio along the wall. Hundreds of small cubbyholes were carved into the rock. Most of them had strange glass bottles in them that shone dully in the torchlight. The dust hung thick upon them, a grey-brown patina of age dusted with neglect. Switching the greatsword to his left hand, Gavin reached out to pull one of the glass cylinders free.

  Before his fingers closed over the bottle, a murmur of echoing voices reached his ears. His heart raced. Years of his grandmother’s constant nagging asserted themselves within his mind. Those who remain calm while others are in panic are those who can create change. They are those who can rule.

  Clutching the bottle and the greatsword to him, Gavin hurried into the shadows where two walls met, resting at the edge of the stone in a crouch. The shadows played along the wall and atop the water’s surface around him. That, coupled with the dust and grime that still covered him from his earlier fall, served as a ready shield against prying eyes.

  Presently, a handful of figures came into view from the mouth of the cavern, voices raised in heated debate. The voices echoed over one another, distorting the words and dulling them as if they had been shouted during the middle of a sandstorm. But as the figures drew closer, the meaningless words resolved into a fierce argument between two men.

  “Yes, they had to die.” The speaker’s voice was light. “When one of the goats in the herd becomes diseased, a wise shepherd kills it before it can infect the others. Only an ignorant man would let the sickness spread. Yes, the remaining goats will now look at their master in fear, but perhaps that is for the best. Fear is a great motivator of obedience.”

  “But we’re not talking about sick goats.” The other man’s voice was hard and cold. Angry.

  “Ah, but we are. These were but the first deaths. There will be more. There must be more. The herd is infected, and the sick ones have to die. You agreed to this. It is all a part of the plan. We must stand united, or we will all die.”

  The two men came close, stopping at one of the cubbyholes and taking out a glass canister. The second man kept silent as the pair turned around and headed back out the way they had come.

  Gavin let out his breath in a low hiss. What in the seven hells was going on?

  * * *

  At first Lhaurel didn’t understand what she was seeing. A small bird fluttered through the cavernous eyrie mouth and alighted on the ground near her. Smaller birds avoided the eyrie as if it were a den of snakes. The aevians would devour anything foolish enough to stray
into their territory. It wasn’t until she saw the narrow strip of parchment attached to the bird’s leg that she realized why the bird was there and why none of the aevians had so much as given it a passing glance.

  She turned to one of the worker women busy cleaning the genesauri carcasses. “Go get Khari.”

  She reached out a hand and the bird obediently hopped up onto her finger. She carefully untied the note, and the bird leapt from her hand and flew away, back toward wherever it was that Khari kept her messenger birds. Lhaurel was just about to unravel the small scroll when she sensed Khari approaching.

  Since the casts had left, everyone in the warren had been on edge. The tension had led to more than one spat with Khari during training, which generally meant that what little training there was occurred in the first few minutes of the lesson before either of them could get into the stride of an emotional outburst.

  Khari pushed open one of the doors with more force than was necessary. From the set of her shoulders and the expression on her face, it was clear that she and Makin Qays had been arguing again. Lhaurel had never heard them expressly fight, but she suspected that their arguments revolved around how to respond to the growing threat to the Rahuli.

  Lhaurel handed Khari the note. The woman snatched it out of her hands without a word of thanks.

  “It’s addressed to you,” Khari said after a moment.

  Lhaurel held out a hand for it, but Khari unraveled it herself and read the brief text. Her brow furrowed, and then suddenly she swore.

  “Damn him to the seven hells,” she said, nearly tearing the note in two. “Damn him.”

  “What?” Lhaurel asked.

  Khari turned to her and distractedly handed her the miniature scroll. It read, Lhaurel. Taren has taken over rule of the clans. Other Warlords are dead. It was not signed.

  “But how—” Lhaurel started, but Khari cut her off.

  “We’ve got to tell Makin,” she said, spinning on her heel and almost running back the way she had come. “Gather those you can to the council room.”