The Gates of Golorath

by R. M Garino

  “Isn’t it bad form to look closely?” Trenton teased. Hammer shrugged the comment away. “And it’s not there now, is it?”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  Trenton regarded him a moment. “I am not sure,” he confided. “We could be witnessing the birth of a True Soul. Or, we could have uncovered a clandestine indiscretion on the part of young lovers. However, they have had no interaction that I know of since arriving at the Gates. They are from two different parts of the Patresilen, she from the Vaults, and he from Reven Marthal, and they are allied to two disparate Houses. This might be something else entirely, something I’m not seeing. I have no way of knowing. Not yet at least.”

  Silence descended and hung between them. Both were lost in their private thoughts, studying the tactical aspects of the problem before them. Trenton did not like admitting his ignorance to anyone, but the truth was the best course with another Mala’kar.

  “Keep this quiet, Hammer,” Trenton said. “We have a Conclave approaching. I will discuss the matter with her family then. Send the boy to bed, or better yet the infirmary. He looks about to fall over.”

  “His squad completed four pyramid passes today, before the affair with the Fifth, the first manifestation of Satyagraha, the beating I gave him, and the Caul,” Hammer said. He was trying to explain the reason for the boy’s exhaustion, but he could not keep his pride from entering his voice as he mentioned the accomplishments.

  “Four passes?” Trenton said. Hammer’s smile was a bit too approving to be indifferent. “That is impressive. I guess I’ll have to reappraise my assumptions about the Third. Finlay’s boy is in command?”

  “Aye,” Hammer said. “He’s still rough around the edges, but he’s showing signs of coming into his own. We’ll make a leader of him yet.”

  “Good. Where is he tonight?”

  “Brodhi took him to tea with the Elc’atar.”

  Trenton snorted. “Very good. Noble brats often need to be humbled. I believe Cavallo took young Gwendolyn there as well.”

  “Finlay has an iron set of balls,” Trenton said. “Kal’Parev will need a strong pair to lead it.”

  “You know, we could inquire,” Hammer said, wary of the comment. “The Fiftanu may be an asset here.”

  “I’d sooner lay with a fecking shrulk than trust a thing those creatures had to say.”

  “So what do we do?”

  Trenton paused and examined the stars. A thin veil of clouds obscured the celestial congregation, withholding their counsel.

  “Keep an eye on the boy,” Trenton said. “Keep him close to you. Do all but declare him your apprentice. Tell him he needs to have extra training for his own safety, maybe.”

  “What?” Hammer was stunned by the suggestion, and took a step back from the Master.

  Trenton quirked his left eyebrow to question the reaction.

  “That is a bad idea,” Hammer said, waving the suggestion away. “You know as well as I that I have no luck with apprentices. Besides, the lad is not ready to try for Yearling yet. He hasn’t even run the Gauntlet, and we have no idea if the lo’el will accept him.”

  “So don’t think of him as an apprentice,” Trenton said. “Your Yearling died in the Sur, Hammer. Most of that cohort did. You cannot hold yourself to blame for Brigit’s death. It was not to be.”

  “I would rather not kill the boy,” Hammer said. He crossed his arms over his chest.

  “You are a Mala’kar, one of only four currently at the Gates,” Trenton reminded him. “And you are a Kal’Parev, a hero of your House. The boy worships you, as they all do. He will respond better to you than to an outsider.”

  “And the girl?”

  “I will take over Arielle’s training,” Trenton said.

  “You?” Hammer said, the incredulity thick in his voice. “The Master of the Gates taking an apprentice? That’s worse than me taking one.”

  Trenton regarded him with a cool expression. “You think I can’t train a graduate, and turn them into a Yearling?”

  “That’s not the issue,” Hammer said. “You are in command of the Gates. You do not have the time to take an apprentice under your wing. Besides, she’s a Rhen’val, not a Le’Manon.”

  “True,” he said, “but as you pointed out, I am the Master of the Gates. It seems a rather fitting Master for Sui Rhen’val’s descendant, don’t you think?”

  “You didn’t take Shane, and he’s closer in succession than Arielle. That story won’t hold.”

  “I don’t give a damn if it holds!” Trenton roared. He stepped closer to Hammer. “And I don’t give a damn for your fecking excuses. You are Master of Cadets. Act like it. Neither of them is old enough, so that alone will cause controversy. But after what both of them did tonight in front of the entire assemblage, it will be seen as a safety precaution. They will remain with their squads for now, but each will receive individual training with us. Both of us. There will be no public announcement. Extra duties, we will call it, for their transgressions tonight. Send the boy to me tomorrow. I need to beat some sense into him. I will send Arielle to you. Teach her your fabled honor. Dismissed.”

  Hammer saluted, knowing that further argument was futile.

  Off in the distance, the girl was standing before the boy, her hands on his face. Apparently he would not need the infirmary after all. Where in the seven hells had she learned to heal like that?

  “And Hammer,” Trenton called after a moment, pointing at the pair and waving toward them. “Keep the boy busy. I want the two of them separated for as long as possible.”

  Hammer saluted again and continued on his way back to Angus.

  We are all about to bear witness to a miracle, or a profound tragedy, Trenton thought. Why then did he feel as if this was going to be a little of each?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Blossoms on the Wind

  There was an echo of a memory, far back in the early days of her youth, that resonated with what Arielle now felt. It was distant, elusive, and tied to the scent of apple blossoms. She clung to the scent, pulling it from the past and enfolding it around her. Her breathing slowed, and her gaze shifted inward. The lecture hall, the Gates themselves, fell away as she slid back into her memory, letting her consciousness reawaken in her younger self.

  The world was larger then, not just in scope, but also in size. She, of course, was smaller. It took a moment to orient her mind to the shift in her senses and experience the world as a child once more. There were things she knew, things she brought with her from her more adult world, but they were gossamer fragments that could not be reassembled in the mind of a child. So they hung there, an inchoate and elusive “it” that dwelt just beyond the periphery.

  Arielle stood at the edge of her grandfather’s orchard, her orchard as she considered it then. The day was still far off when she would come to understand that Thoreau tended these trees, and they were under his protection, that it was work, and not preference of play that granted ownership. Her cheeks were wet with tears. Her lungs burned with the exertion of running from the heights, and her throat clenched with the uncomfortable tightness only tears could bring. She had stopped running when she’d reached the road, her head swiveling in both directions searching for any sign of movement. It was not too late, she told herself. Not too late. She had not missed them. Please, please, please, don’t let her have missed them. They were not supposed to have acted like this. They were not supposed to be angry. Maybe a little angry, but not such a great angry like they had been. They had blamed him, they had yelled at him and dragged him away as if what they did was wrong. If it was wrong, how could it be? He had asked them that, demanded an answer. Arielle had remained quiet, afraid of the great adult anger that pounded out of her father and made his lights purple. She wanted to tell them it was her fault too; she was just as much to blame. But she didn’t. She couldn’t find her voice with the great anger all about her. He found his, though, and made it seem like he was to blame. They were all too eager to
believe him. Please, let it not be too late.

  The wind blew off the heights, carrying the scent of the blossoms as it rustled through the orchard. They did not let her say goodbye. They had not even told her. She’d found out when she went to play at his house, eager to see him, eager for the day’s adventures. The neighbors told her. They were gone, back to Reven Marthal. No, they did not know when they’d return. So she ran, desperate to reach the road before they passed.

  The sun crawled by overhead and the road remained still.

  Please, please, please, please, please, please.

  The sun slid toward the horizon, and still she waited lest she miss them. Her tummy twisted and squirmed, cross that she had not eaten that day. Her skin stung from standing for so long in the sun, but he would not see her if she stood in the shade. The road remained empty, and it only made her tears come faster.

  “Shortberry?” Her brother Shane’s voice called through the trees. Arielle did not answer as she scanned the road.

  His touch on her shoulder was light, testing, as if he was afraid she would run. Arielle threw herself against him, letting go the sobs she was trying so hard to hold back. Shane held her, stroking her hair, making soothing sounds.

  “They’re gone,” she said when her cries subsided. Her voice was muffled against the fabric of his shirt, but Shane had no trouble understanding her.

  “I know,” he said. “I saw them off this morning.”

  Arielle pulled back, shocked by his words. “You knew?”

  Shane nodded, slow and definite.

  “YOU KNEW!”

  She pelted him with her small fists, repeating her screech of “You knew! You knew!”

  Shane blocked her blows, but he did not stop her. In moments, her punches became less frequent, her rage burned away. The tears burned her eyes again, threatening to force their way out.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she said, her voice breaking at the end of her wail.

  “Father’s orders,” Shane said. Arielle stopped flailing, and Shane held her by the shoulder. “Father thought it would be best for you this way, Shortberry.”

  Arielle sniffled, drawing the back of her hand across her nose to dry it. Father’s orders, Shane had said. Father gave lots of orders, and none of them could be disobeyed.

  “He could have told me,” Arielle said, her voice very small. “It’s not right. He was my friend.”

  “Was he?” Shane said, his head tilted in that way he had. “Was he really your friend?”

  Arielle bobbed her head with quick, vigorous movements. “He was my best friend. My very best friend.”

  “And were you his friend as well?”

  She nodded again with as much vigor as before. “Yes,” she said, her voice full of confidence. “Yes I was.”

  “So what has changed?”

  Arielle was silent. Shane sat back, propped against the bole of an apple tree. The question was so simple; the answer was so simple, that it was stupid. Except, Shane did not ask stupid questions. Arielle might not always understand him, but she knew how smart he was. Everyone told her all the time how smart Shane was.

  So what had changed?

  “He’s not here anymore,” she finally said.

  “No, he’s not.” Shane sat her on his lap facing him. “But does that change the fact that he’s your friend? Or that you’re his?”

  Did it? There was a part of her that wanted to say yes, which wanted to explain that it was different now because everything felt different. The light was dimmer now, the colors not so bright, the scents on the wind not so poignant, and Arielle felt so very, very small. But she was only a little girl, as her father so often reminded her, and she could not verbalize what it was she knew. Part of her did not want her friend to be gone, did not want her life to change. It was this part she chose to hold onto.

  “No,” she said, the defiance notable in her voice. “I am still his friend. He is still my friend.”

  Shane deliberated on her statement, his silver hair moving in the wind that smelled of apple blossoms.

  “Exactly,” he said. He placed a finger on her chest, just above her heart. “He will always be here.” He placed a finger then on her forehead. “And here. So long as you remember him, he will still be your friend. So long as you remember him, you will always be his friend. If you concentrate very hard, you’ll be able to hear him, as if he was here with you. If you pay attention, you’ll feel what he is feeling. He’s not here, but that doesn’t mean he’s gone.”

  “Do you talk to a friend when you concentrate in the gardens?” she said.

  “No,” Shane said with a smile. “I do not have a friend like that yet. Maybe someday I will, but right now, all I hear is me.”

  “Will you teach me how to concentrate?”

  “Meditate,” he corrected.

  “Meditate. Will you teach me?”

  “Of course, Shortberry.”

  Arielle squared her shoulders the way Father instructed. She would remember him, she swore. She would not forget him, and she would learn to meditate to speak to him. The world would not be so dull then, and nothing would be missing. The older Arielle that watched through the child’s eyes knew very well what it was that was missing.

  Arielle returned to the present, to the cold lecture hall.

  She had forgotten him. She had learned to meditate, and even heard him on occasion. She had dreamed of him often, especially when he was sad or hurt, or when she was. But Father had begun preparing her for the Areth’kon, and the world had intruded. She had to make Mother and Father proud, just as Shane had. She had to become Sui Rhen’val’s descendant in her every action, although she was not sure what that entailed. She knew what everyone else thought it entailed, and she targeted all of her might on embodying those beliefs.

  And then, of course, there was Logan. At the time, she believed each step in their relationship was necessary, each step so small and insignificant. And yet, with each step he had faded into the distance. With each step, the world around her dimmed a little bit more, until the shroud that covered her memory matched the gloaming of the world.

  But he was here now!

  She clung to the thought, her stomach a twisting flutter of nervous excitement. The silver cord had been behind her, outside the hall. She stared a moment at the doorway. She could feel the yearning, feel it reaching out beyond the opening. She was running before she decided to move, latching onto the doorframe to stop from slowing as she vaulted into the hall. A figure stood in the darkness outside. She made herself run faster. She knew who it was, and her sin’del exploded and contracted as she ran. Outside, she saw Angus respond in kind as he stumbled in her direction.

  Her vision blurred as she penetrated the entryway and rushed to throw her arms around him. He danced back several steps as she slammed into him, his arms encircling her shoulders as she wrapped her own around his middle.

  “You’re here,” she said, chattering into his filthy shirt. “I remember. I forgot. Shane told me to remember, but I forgot. I’m sorry I forgot. I didn’t mean to . . .”

  Angus soothed her, running his fingers over her hair and undoing her ponytail as her sobs overtook her.

  He sagged against her, his knees buckling beneath him. Arielle held him up, but just barely. He fought to retain consciousness. Arielle enfolded her sin’del around him, separating it the way she had watched Trenton do with Leah. He responded at once, and she felt her power flow into him. He stood, and got his feet under him. Arielle placed her hands on either side of his face, staring into his eyes and wondering how she could have forgotten him.

  “Sorry,” he said weakly. “Long day.”

  His voice made her heartbeat quicken, and she felt the tingle of sensation race across her.

  “Come, boy,” she heard a gruff voice say behind them. Arielle identified Hammer without turning her head.

  Angus did not move, but stood staring at her, his energy pulsing in the night to match her own. She could feel his e
xhaustion despite her healing. It was a fatigue beyond what she felt, and yet still he smiled at her.

  Angus had come back. He had come back to her.

  “Move, boy!” Hammer roared. His bark made them both jump. “When I tell you to come, you bloody well jump or I’ll chop your fecking legs off at the knees!”

  Angus stumbled toward Hammer. As the Mala'kar led him away, Angus walked backward beside him, watching Arielle.

  She sought his mind and found it the moment she thought to try for it. She was amazed with the ease of the contact.

  Come see me, she sent.

  His sin’del blazed, and his slumped shoulders straightened. When?

  As soon as you can, she sent, slowly raising her fingers to pinch her nose. And please take a bath.

  His laughter echoed in her mind even as he followed Hammer into the shadows.

  She watched until they entered the barracks. Only then did she allow herself to turn. Angus had come back to her. It was, unfortunately, not the scent of apple blossoms that carried her through the bright night back to her own barracks.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  To Tea

  “A pity,” Cavallo said. He sat behind a large, ostentatious desk, all scrollwork and gilding. It was vulgar even by Fel’Mekrin standards. The lights in the corners of the room flickered as if in imitation of candlelight. He wore his straight black hair hanging over one shoulder. It was washed and combed within the last hour, glowing with an almost bluish sheen. His shirt was a perfect, pristine white, laced to the collar. A vest hung from a peg behind the desk, the elaborate gold embellishments speaking of his family lineage and personal rank. All told, he was dressed as if he were going to a very formal affair.

  Gwen stood before him, a fine layer of dust and grime covering her training uniform. Her own hair, usually luxurious, was coming loose from its braid, and was oily from the sweat that clung to her. The disparity in their appearances annoyed her, as it established the true gulf between their positions. As expected, he did not offer her a seat. It was a time-honored family rule that subordinates did not sit in the presence of their betters.