Fate Defied: The Silent Tempest, Book 3

by E. J. Godwin

  “I’ll send out a few riders first thing in the morning. But what do the Hodyn want with Caleb Stenger’s ship?”

  “I’ll tell you shortly. I would gladly offer my life to take back what happened here last night.”

  Soren plunged into a full account of all that had occurred since Udan. Telai only spoke when her part of the story came in. She observed Tenlar from the start, wondering how long his doubt would last. When Soren finally ended at Warren’s abduction, Tenlar’s face paled, his grim stare lifted to the splintered ends of rafters dangling from the walls.

  “I think I never really accepted until now that Yrsten had come to pass,” he murmured. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Soren, not if my judgment means anything. But this man,” he said, nodding toward the mattress. “Isn’t the Lor’yentré powerful enough without his strange weapons to add to it? What good will swords be against such an advantage?”

  “What do you know about it?” Telai snapped. “Or what his father had to go through to save his child? Keep your opinions to yourself!”

  “That’s enough!” Soren shot. “The Master Raén of Spierel is free to voice his opinions. In fact, it is his duty. As Loremaster you are obliged to obey the law that separates civilian and military authority!”

  A tense quiet followed. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled at last, face burning.

  “It was only my fear speaking, Telai,” said Tenlar. “I’m sure he’s an honorable man.”

  She nodded, the heat of her wrath dissipating. “We’ve discovered something that might help.” She lit a small oil lamp, using a glowing brand drawn from the stove, and placed it on a stool near her feet. “A strange presence appeared to us earlier today, a comrade of Rennor’s. He seemed to offer a way out of this, and knew of your arrival in advance.”

  Tenlar leaned forward, the tiny flame amplifying his shadow on the canvas behind. “What help?”

  “Who knows?” Soren replied. “I didn’t want to hear any more of his promises until the first one was put to the test.”

  “When will he reappear?”

  “He only told us to summon him,” Telai said, “though I wish I’d asked how.”

  “If he is trustworthy, he will come,” said Soren.

  Telai sat squarely in preparation, but there was no need. Tenlar gasped and sprang to his feet, and she spun in her chair. A pearly light hovered beyond the narrow doorway of their enclosure, much more vivid now in the darkened room. It reminded her of the érdru’rai, the rare and beautiful lights she had seen dancing like ghostly flames among the stars far to the north.

  Soren pulled the canvas to one side, widening the view. The visitor was a blurred yet a fully discernible human shape now, his words echoing audibly instead of only in the mind. Hail, Master Raén of Spierel, he said, bowing. I am Ksoreda. Tenlar nodded and slowly lowered himself to his chair again.

  “You’ve proven yourself in small matters,” Soren said. “Now let us see how you fare in larger ones. Tell us—using plain speech, mind you, and not any of your riddles—your plan to right the evil your people have done.”

  The luminous shape swelled, as if from pain or irritation. You must travel northwest—back to the place you call Tnestiri. I’m not allowed to appear in bodily form outside its borders, or even as you see me now except at the utmost need. Only deep within the forest’s heart can I help you.

  “Tnestiri? Why there? Tell us what we need to do here, now!”

  Impossible. It requires a tool, one which I must give you in person. Otherwise there is no hope for you. Housed in the body and mind of a remarkably intelligent boy, the spirit of Heradnora has achieved great cunning. To enact her revenge, she will use the Hodyn with cruel efficiency. Simple weapons will no longer help you. Only greater power.

  Telai stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  You must come to Tnestiri for that answer—and before Heradnora finds you.

  “Again, more mysteries, more excuses!” cried Soren.

  A burst of anger swept through Telai’s mind like ripples in a pond. The phantom brightened and took on more detail, and they caught a glimpse of a bald-headed man with a kind face, save for the eyes, which flashed dangerously.

  You have no choice! Go to Tnestiri! Or not! The aura faded and lost some of its features, and the others relaxed. I’ll suppress the barrier of fear surrounding the forest, but not before you arrive. If Heradnora detects my presence and tries to wrest the secret from me, the laws of my people will force me to leave this world and take away your last hope. It is the only way.

  His vague form shifted slightly, as if regarding each of them in turn. Take counsel with your people if you must. But do not delay too long.

  The pearly light began to fade. “Wait!” Telai cried out, springing from her chair. The image brightened again, and she asked, “How could Heradnora return after all these years?”

  Heradnora is Rennor’s daughter, Ksoreda echoed. Her mind was damaged many ages ago, when she was only a child. How that came about, and how she came here in the first place, is a story too long to tell. But when she died her twisted and malevolent spirit was condemned to live throughout eternity trapped within the Lor’yentré. We can only guess what Rennor’s plans were. Yet by allowing her spirit to remain in your world, he has committed a terrible crime against your people—and ours.

  The light dimmed, and he vanished.

  The Grand Loremaster of Ada groped blindly for her chair. Her blood ran like ice. Deep in her mind, as vividly as if she had witnessed it herself, appeared the dust-covered bones lying near the obelisk at Graxmoar. Those men and women of the Raéni had not sacrificed themselves in vain. Their courage and instinct for evil had kept Heradnora’s spirit from reaching beyond the foot of that lonely hill. Now she had returned in the body of a young boy, regaining what Grondolos had taken from her so long ago: the power of the Lor’yentré. Someone needed to challenge that power, and the child who wielded it.

  Telai’s blurring vision strayed to where Caleb lay sleeping. Her mother’s voice spoke to her now as clearly as it did on that chilly autumn morning in Gerentesk.

  You may be forced to choose between one betrayal and another.

  2

  Bringer of Strength

  Our fears and desires are so often fueled by illusion.

  - from Etre Obald’aseli

  FERGUEN, LORD OF the Hodyn, glared at the servant as he walked through the open doors at the far end of the chamber.

  The young man carried a wooden tray in his trembling arms. Narrow windows to his left cast dust-specked beams of sunlight over his cautious footsteps; firelight flickered in a long hearth on the opposite wall. He stopped at the table where Ferguen sat and carefully lowered the tray to the polished surface.

  Ferguen’s dark, heavy brows contracted as he scrutinized the cloth concealing the food. He sniffed, snatched the cloth away, and the young man stiffened.

  A tall man standing in the shadows behind his chair stirred restlessly. “What’s wrong, my lord?”

  “Unsatisfactory!” he bellowed. “Tell that new cook to get his ears examined.”

  The servant bowed curtly, then hesitated with the tray in his hands. “Sir—what shall I do with this?”

  Ferguen waved an arm. “Give it to the first person you see in the street.”

  The man behind Ferguen stepped partway into the sunlight, his face still in shadow, as the servant scurried from the room. “What was it? Stew?”

  “Yes—beef stew!”

  “Hardly a gourmet dish.”

  “Compared to what, Gendor? You forget what it was like before my father promoted you to High Commander.”

  “I’m still grateful, sir.”

  “Damn you, I’m not looking for gratitude,” Ferguen snapped. “Most folk in this city would pay half a week’s wages for a plate of food like this—assuming they have wages, of course. Beef is a luxury, a stolen luxury. It’s bad enough to have my meals served, but to let people work harder to feed me than for their own ch
ildren, and risk their lives in the process? Intolerable!”

  “May I remind your eminence—”

  “Yes, yes, I have as much obligation to maintain my own health as well as theirs.” He moved his chair back and spread his arms wide, revealing his girth. “And this is my answer.”

  Gendor stepped into the full sunshine, which accentuated his wiry frame, a rarity among the short, sturdily-built Hodyn. His sharp-eyed, rawboned countenance seldom engendered trust in a subordinate. Even Ferguen, the only man he answered to, was wise enough to keep him on a short leash. Yet when it came to secrecy and subterfuge he had no equal.

  “Of course,” he replied. “Shall we speak, then, of the invasion?”

  Ferguen scowled. “What invasion? It failed. What more is there to discuss?”

  “We must respond to this slaughter, my lord. Five hundred of our best soldiers killed—and for nothing!”

  The Hodyn leader rose from his chair and hoisted himself onto the edge of the table. “Respond? With what? What would you do so differently this time that wouldn’t end in another disaster?”

  Gendor folded his arms. “I don’t know, sir. But I’ve already suggested that the Falling Man’s weapons are the fulfillment of Yrsten, not Kseleksten. They’re a far more immediate threat than some ancient talisman.”

  “That they’re a more immediate threat I can’t argue with,” said Ferguen. “But don’t be too ready to dismiss those old Prophets. Besides, if you’re incapable of devising a better plan to steal those weapons, there’s not much we can do but wait for another opportunity.”

  “Or perhaps make our own,” a voice echoed.

  Ferguen rose. “What is this? Who let you in without announcement?”

  A Hodyn soldier strode across the room. His soiled clothes and haggard face bespoke long days with little sleep or shelter; yet as he halted at the other side of the table a dark, penetrating glance belied his weariness.

  “Pardon, sir. My name is Begora. I felt I could not delay bringing this to you. My captain was, shall I say, reluctant to take advantage of this sudden stroke of fortune.”

  Gendor shuffled his feet. “Laivan.”

  “Who?” asked Ferguen.

  “Laivan,” he repeated louder. “A pacifist. We’ve considered demoting him for his views.”

  “Postpone that. We’re short of captains right now.” He faced Begora again. “Speak.”

  “An Adan child, sir. We found him on the banks of the Winding River last evening.”

  “A child? An Adan child?” He glanced at Gendor to confirm what he heard. “How is that possible?”

  “I don’t know. He claims to be the Falling Man’s son.”

  A silence fell, until Ferguen leaned closer with his hands upon the table. “There’s got to be some mistake here. Repeat what he said to you, word for word.”

  “I’ll try, sir.” The soldier licked his lips, ill at ease. “My name is Warren, fool! The son of Caleb Stenger. Or are your people so ignorant you cannot grasp the significance of that?”

  “A boy spoke those words? How old is he?”

  “Nine or ten, I’d say, sir, perhaps older. He’s a bit of a runt.”

  “This is a waste of time,” Gendor muttered.

  “Perhaps,” said Ferguen, suddenly thoughtful. “Is he close by?”

  Begora nodded.

  “Get him. Bring him in.”

  Gendor’s brows raised as the soldier left the room. “You actually think he’s the son of the Falling Man?”

  Ferguen did not answer at once, but turned toward the nearest window of his third-story chamber. Beyond the ragged outskirts of Lagornan, the capitol of the Hodyn nation, a wide, snow-covered valley stretched on until it ended at the inner sea Larsus; tiny waves at the edge of sight glittered in the sun. “Hardly,” he answered, turning back. “But something about this bothers me—and yes, Gendor, enough for me to waste a few minutes of my time.”

  He resumed his seat. After a short wait Begora returned, preceded by a guard, and by the flush in his cheeks someone had crisply reminded him about protocol. The guard stood to one side as Begora stopped again at the table. Yet Ferguen’s attention fixed upon the boy, who stood at Begora’s right, calm and unafraid. He seemed innocent enough, an endearing picture of blue eyes and sand-colored hair; but the Hodyn leader shuddered a little, unnerved by a premonition of danger, or even malice.

  “Speak,” he commanded in the Adan tongue. “Who are you?”

  The boy smiled faintly. “You may call me Warren, for now.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Gendor snapped.

  “I’ll ask the questions, Gendor.” He studied the child. “Why are you here?”

  He shrugged. “I was lost.”

  Ferguen slammed his fist on the table. “Don’t give me your evasive fodder, boy! Lost, over a hundred miles inside Grimoa? Keep insulting my intelligence and you’ll take your secrets to the grave. I ask again, who are you, and why are you here?”

  The boy clasped his hands behind his back, unruffled by Ferguen’s threat. “One response will answer both questions. I am what your people have been waiting for.”

  A pause of astonishment followed. Gendor burst out laughing, only to be silenced by another of Ferguen’s evil stares.

  “Oh, I’m not so foolish as to expect immediate belief,” the boy continued. “I may be demanding, but not unrealistic. Proof is what you seek, I presume—once you’ve recovered from your idiotic expressions of shock—and proof is what I can give.”

  Ferguen wrinkled his brow at the boy’s disturbingly adult sarcasm. “Not so fast. First I must repeat the second part of my question, which you foolishly think you’ve answered: Why are you here?”

  “Simple. We share the same enemy.”

  Gendor snorted in derision. “Forgive me, sir, but this is outrageous. An Adan boy, and a scrawny one at that, saying his own people are his enemies? A traitor I can accept, maybe. But it should at least be an adult, even this pitiful Falling Man who keeps eluding us.”

  Ferguen listened patiently this time. “Well spoken. What’s your answer?”

  “It’s simply the form I have chosen,” the boy said. “But if you wish for theatrics … ”

  There was a brief flash of light, and the others sprang back. A monstrous beast towered above them. Fangs gleamed, and the narrow slits of its eyes shone emerald green; sharp talons like daggers reached forward, while a spiked tail rose behind, glittering in the sun. Then the creature vanished, the child restored, with only a curl of smoke in the air above his head in memory of the red, fuming throat from which it had escaped.

  The child twisted his lips with a smirk. “A glimpse from the legends of a country very far from here—made into reality.”

  The shocked guard had drawn his sword. Ferguen breathed deeply and approached. “Trickery. Illusion!”

  Small hands gripped the table. “I offer the Bringer of Strength. Accept or refuse!”

  “At last, plain words. But I won’t consider your offer until I see positive proof.”

  “Use your eyes! Or are you so suspicious and ignorant that you wouldn’t consider anything as proof?”

  Ferguen growled. “Gendor’s right, you’re nothing but an arrogant brat.” He faced Begora. “Take him back to the river. Drown him, for all I care.”

  The soldier bowed and stepped forward to lay a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder. The child relaxed, and made no protest or show of anger as Begora led him away. Gendor opened his mouth to speak, but Ferguen raised his hand to stop him. Not until the head of tawny hair disappeared down the hallway did he lower his arm.

  “For a minute there I was ready to believe him,” Ferguen said. “But if he had any real power he would have saved himself.”

  “At least it wasn’t a waste of your time,” Gendor conceded. “You discovered he was a fake. He could have fooled a lot of desperate people with his tricks.”

  “I don’t know. He might have been some use to us.”

  “N
ot much. The Falling Man’s weapons remain in the hands of the Adaiani. If we’re to survive, we must find a way to balance that power.”

  Indistinct sounds, like those of a quarrel or wild celebration, drifted through the sunlit glass. “Perhaps simple thievery would be more useful than diversionary tactics,” Gendor said. “Our greatest strength has always been in stealth and secrecy. Why not use the same advantage now?”

  Ferguen resumed his casual position on the table. “Where is that blasted servant with my meal?” he muttered. “Those skills seldom gain us any real advantage, Gendor. We come so close, then fail because we don’t have the proper strength.”

  “The people need hope, sir, especially now. As leaders we must find a way to provide it.”

  “Yes, yes—even if we have none ourselves. But what’s going on outside? It sounds like a blasted riot.”

  Ferguen walked to the window again and swung it open, letting in the bitter breeze. The sounds sharpened, grew in intensity and frequency: shouts and scuffling feet, slamming doors.

  “I don’t like this. Find out what’s happening.”

  Ferguen closed the window as Gendor hurried from the room. Peering closely through the frosted pane into the street below, he soon realized with growing alarm that the people were running not in fear but in joy, shouting and laughing hysterically. Many tottered about with their arms full, or sped down the street brandishing objects in the air, but in the confusion it was difficult to make out what they were carrying.

  Minutes passed as he tried to make sense of this spectacle. Then footsteps clamored in the hallway, and Gendor burst into the room with a pair of guards close behind, their faces pale with shock.

  Ferguen returned to the table. “What in Hendra’s name is going on?”

  “Sir, you will not believe—”

  “Thank you, sir!” a voice wheezed. An old man dressed in rags staggered into the chamber, and fell to his knees at the leader’s feet.

  “Who in thunder are you?” Ferguen demanded.

  The stranger fought to calm himself, suddenly conscious of his manners. “Egeran, your greatness. I come on behalf of my family to express our thanks.”