Rath and Storm

by Peter Archer (ed) (retail) (epub)

  Something thudded on the deck beside her, and her eyes jerked open. Tahngarth stood there, panting but calmly watching as the now riderless ornithopter spun in an ever-tightening spiral downward toward the far edge of the Garden. A flash of yellow and orange flame marked where it struck, igniting the vegetation around it.

  Tahngarth turned and looked at Hanna. “Time to go home,” he said.

  * * *

  —

  The Thran crystal at the heart of Weatherlight hummed softly.

  Here ends the Tale of Weatherlight

  The boy was frowning, one foot scuffing at the papers heaped before him. He made no pretense of trying to sort through them.

  “Master, so many things are unclear. What happened to Volrath? Did Gerrard kill him? And what about Crovax—what was happening to him? Was Starke blind? And did Mirri get better?”

  “Oh, is that all you want to know?”

  “Well, no, not exactly.” The boy shuffled his feet again. “I guess I want to know if Gerrard is really a hero.”

  “Well, the answer’s complicated. But it’s bound up with what happened next.

  “Many things had befallen Gerrard and Starke since Tahngarth and Karn left them, bearing the bodies of Mirri and Crovax. Following Starke’s advice, the two sought a passage to the Dream Halls through a twisted garden. But as they traversed its dark paths, they found shelter beneath a tree and Gerrard, looking at it closely, made a startling discovery: it was a Dominarian tree, ripped from Llanowar. Gerrard puzzled over what a tree from Dominaria might be doing on this plane. The conclusion he drew was not a comforting one.

  “What was that, Master?”

  “It was that Rath was actually absorbing parts of Dominaria, slowly insinuating itself into Gerrard’s home plane. Now the map they had found earlier made more sense, and Gerrard began dimly to understand the shape of Volrath’s ultimate plan.”

  The old man opened a drawer in a large cabinet and ran an experienced eye over the contents. Then he took the paper he’d been studying and inserted it into the drawer. Closing it and wiping his forehead with a wispy handkerchief that he drew from the folds of his robe, he resumed.

  “Even as Gerrard made this discovery, he and Starke were attacked by spikes—sluglike creatures that fell from the trees to prey on them. The two retreated, finally finding their way back into the maze of corridors that led to the Dream Halls.

  “At last they found the place they were seeking. But oddly, the tower that Starke claimed held the Dream Halls had no entrance. The only apparent way of egress was through the balconies that towered high overhead. Gerrard, his sword bound at his side, slowly began to climb.

  “After struggling against the ever-changing flowstone, he reached the top. Pausing only to catch his breath, he entered and was blinded by an array of visions.

  “All his early life came back to him. Gerrard saw he and Vuel sporting together as boys. He saw Vuel’s rite of passage and his own struggle to save his blood brother’s life. He saw Vuel’s hatred of him growing, and the sidar’s son’s theft of the Legacy. The death of his stepfather at his own son’s hands rose up before Gerrard. Once again he was at Multani’s caves with Mirri and Rofellos. Then he saw Vuel, now surrounded by dark shapes, horned monstrosities that slowly divide and recombine into one terrifying creature, bestowing powers upon Vuel that transformed and corrupted the young man. All this Gerrard beheld with horror, and with sadness for the fate of his former friend and blood brother.”

  Ilcaster sat silent at his master’s feet as the old man, a hand on the boy’s head, spoke in a kind of chant, the sound of his voice rising and falling against the walls of the room.

  “Gerrard also saw visions of the future—the future as Volrath wanted it: armies sweeping across Dominaria, Gerrard bound and cringing at the evincar’s feet. Then, to Gerrard’s amazement, these images began to speak to him in Volrath’s own voice. The shape of the ruler of Rath appeared before Gerrard, standing, mocking him.

  “Starke appeared suddenly behind Volrath and plunged a dagger into the evincar’s back. But it had no effect whatsoever; Volrath plucked it forth, casually swatting Starke aside as his flesh closed over the wound.

  “ ‘The warclan was my future from the moment I first opened my eyes,’ declared Volrath. ‘You took it all away when you saved me during my rite of passage. I never coveted your Legacy, even though your destiny became my father’s primary passion in life. His service to your Legacy cost me a family, and you cost me a clan.’

  “Gerrard could stand no more. He hurled himself forward at Volrath, his sword raised. The image retreated before him, and now two other figures came at him: a red-haired woman, sword raised, and Sisay.”

  “But was it Sisay, Master? Or was it just another shapeshifter?”

  “No, it was Sisay, right enough, but now she was under Volrath’s control. Gerrard fought desperately against she and Takara—for the red-haired woman was Starke’s daughter—while trying to avoid hurting them. Starke cried out and lifted his arms to Takara, but she, unrealizing, slashed him across the face, blinding him.

  “At last, after several moments of bitter conflict, Gerrard succeeded in disarming Takara and knocking out Sisay. Chasing after Volrath, who fled the chamber, he cornered the evincar just as Tahngarth, roaring in rage, burst into the room. Together the two friends slashed at Volrath, and Gerrard drove home the killing blow.”

  “So Volrath was dead.” The boy breathed a final sigh of relief that seemed to go through his entire body.

  The librarian looked at him apologetically. “Well, no. Just as the body fell to the floor, it shapeshifted into one of Volrath’s experiments. The evincar had escaped Gerrard once again. In a rage Gerrard hacked at the corpse. ‘Should I have let you die back then, Vuel?’ he shouted. ‘Would that have satisfied you?’ But the minotaur pulled him away from the shapeshifter’s body and brought him back to reason.”

  The boy shook his head in resignation. “Well, but at least they had Sisay.”

  “Yes,” agreed the librarian. “They had Sisay and Takara, and with them they began the long journey to the Gardens where, they hoped, Hanna and Weatherlight awaited them.”

  The boy nodded. “I see. But you still haven’t answered my question, Master.”

  “Bless me, boy, I’ve answered more questions tonight than I have in a decade. What question?”

  “If Gerrard is a hero.”

  “Ah. A good question. I’m glad you’ve been listening, Ilcaster. There may be hope for you yet.”

  “So if there’s hope for me, master, will you answer my question about Gerrard?”

  The old man looked at him thoughtfully. “I don’t know if I can answer you, Ilcaster. Being a hero, it seems to me, is not something you are; it is something you become. Gerrard was not born a hero—but he might become one if he passed the challenges that fate put in his way.”

  Ilcaster wrinkled his brow. “Do you mean, Master, that a hero needs challenges?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Then wasn’t Volrath really doing Gerrard a favor? Didn’t Gerrard need the experience of fighting Volrath to become a hero?”

  The master looked at the boy for a moment, a smile half-formed on his lips. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, that’s it. A hero needs enemies, needs monsters to slay, foes to outwit, mountains to climb.”

  “Or,” said Ilcaster, “in this case, to enter.”

  The old man grunted. “Yes. Yes indeed. But the challenge is not enough; the hero must give up something.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The master sat down on a box and put his chin in his hand. The boy moved closer, as the dim candlelight drove back the shadows around them. Far above, in the windows, the flashing light seemed to be slowing, and there were the first hints of true light, beneath which might be glimpsed roiling clouds laced with rain. But neither figu
re paid any attention.

  “I must tell you, Ilcaster, that I am not entirely sure of this proposition myself. But it seems to me that a true hero is made not merely by the accretion of heroic deeds but by the shedding of part of his old self. Think of a snake in the spring, when the season turns and the new year is blossoming.”

  The boy nodded. “It sheds its skin.”

  “Exactly. And it emerges, clad in shining new armor, reborn into a new year. It has left behind something of itself, something it has grown beyond. Now, in my opinion, a hero goes through a similar process. He leaves behind something of himself at each stage of his growth. Gerrard had already done this. He’d lost his parents, his teacher Multani, his friend Rofellos, and his home in Benalia.”

  “I think I see.” The boy tapped his fingers together in imitation of his tutor. “But what else was there to leave behind?”

  “Something that capsulized his old life. Something that summed up all that he had been up to that point. Something that represented a choice he had to make, a fork in the road, so to speak.”

  Ilcaster thought again, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, Master, but I still don’t see—”

  “Of course you don’t!” Something of the acerbity of his former tone had returned to the librarian’s voice. “You have to be still and listen.”

  “Remember that Crovax and Mirri had been taken below when Tahngarth brought them aboard the ship? Well….”

  The darkness was moving.

  Mirri stared at the door that led from her cabin out into the crew quarters. Despite her pain-dulled senses, she was intensely aware of the pitching and yawing of Weatherlight beneath her, of the rasp of her breath in her throat, of the muted sounds of shouts above. It wasn’t right. Her friends needed her. They needed her sword at their sides. Was it her imagination, or could she hear the sounds of battle? She had tried to tell them she was well enough to fight, but they hadn’t listened. Rest, Sisay had said. Get well, Gerrard had said. We will need you well, for what is to come. And so they had put her here, in the darkness, like an Elder waiting to die.

  And now this.

  The shadows, moving. Her hands curled reflexively, body tensed, sending little shockwaves of pain through her from the wound.

  Probably one of the others, come to see how she was. Sisay, perhaps. Or Gerrard. She brightened at the thought, but she couldn’t relax. Something smelled wrong.

  The scent was tantalisingly familiar, yet she couldn’t place it. Enemy, she thought. That was stupid. The pain wouldn’t let her think properly. Animals smelled. People smelled. You could say someone smelled like an enemy you already knew. But animosity and evil had no stink of their own.

  And yet whoever was watching her smelled like an enemy.

  If she were wrong, best to find out now, and have one less thing to disturb her rest. If she were right…well, enemies were to be dispatched or neutralised, and injured or not she would do so.

  “Show yourself,” she called.

  The darkness moved. A shadow detached itself from the deeper darkness behind it.

  “It’s just me—Crovax,” said a voice. It sounded like him: weary perhaps, but certainly him. Yet there was that smell…“I was worried about you. The way Selenia cut you—”

  “They’re fighting up top,” Mirri said. “You should be with them.”

  It was intolerable. She should be with them. Standing with Gerrard. Standing at Gerrard’s back, in the only place where her life made sense.

  Crovax shook his head. “There’s no fighting, Mirri. You’re imagining things. There’s a lull—”

  “I can hear them,” Mirri said.

  Crovax moved forward. He was swathed from head to foot in a silken robe of midnight blue, completely hiding his usual foppish clothes. Mirri struggled to sit up.

  “Don’t,” he said. “Really, there’s nothing wrong—nothing you can do to help.” He was by her bed now, looking down at her. For a moment his eyes looked golden in the candlelight, like a wolf’s in the darkness.

  She stared at him. The stench, the enemy stench, came off him like sweat. Coppery, it was, like blood.

  “Stand back from me,” she said. She felt the claws in the tips of her fingers extend, felt every muscle tense and her fur bristle.

  “Mirri, what’s the matter?” His voice was thick, his words slurred. His eyes. She couldn’t stop herself from staring into his eyes. Golden eyes…

  …and suddenly she saw Gerrard, his bright sword flashing as he stood on the foredeck of Weatherlight, though whether it was dream or memory or vision she could not have said. His face and arms were laced with blood—his or his enemies, Mirri could not tell. Three of Volrath’s servants circled him, warily, keeping out of range of his blade. Circled like wolves, but he would tire, and they would close on him. They would bring him down like the dogs they were. There would be no help from the others: they had their own battles to fight, and besides, they did not…did not care for him as she did. They were not so loyal.

  “He needs me,” she murmured and began to rise.

  Crovax’s hand clamped over her wrist. “He does not. There is no battle, and it is his wish that you rest.”

  Mirri stared at Crovax. Something wrong with that statement, she thought. Gerrard was—Gerrard was…it was too complicated. Surely if he hadn’t actually said she should rest, he would if only he thought of it.

  But he had gone. Yes, she thought, and started to sit up. He wasn’t on Weatherlight. Hadn’t been. What was Crovax doing to her? She saw her cutlass on the shelf by her cot. She started to reach for it, but Crovax was somehow in the way. She stared at him for a moment. At those eyes, dark as night. She could not break away.

  His hand caressed her arm. She sank back against the bed. It was easier. She felt a warm lassitude creep through her. “Should rest,” she said. It was what he wanted. What Gerrard wanted.

  “Yes,” Crovax whispered. “Good Mirri. Gerrard knows you would go to him if you could.” He stroked her face with the back of his hand. It opened old scratches. They stung, but it was nothing. She was doing what Gerrard wanted.

  She saw him again, then. Saw him thrust and parry and feint and slice. Saw his enemies watching him…

  There had been another time when she had watched him so. The yellow moon had stood full against the indigo sky, and he had fought for her. For himself, too, but for her.

  He had won. He had saved her, but he had killed her too. Killed the heart as it beat within her.

  A foolish child she had been. And he so beautiful, with his dark eyes and darker hair and smooth human skin.

  They had been students together, learning magic from the maro-sorcerer, Multani. She had never spoken of her feelings for him. How could she—outcast that she was, what did she have to offer him? And then Multani had asked them to take a message into the Deep Country for him.

  Cat people. He had not told them that his message was for a tribe of the cat people, only that he had thought Mirri would be best suited to the task.

  Child that she was, she had leapt at it. To be of use to someone, to repay her debts. To have a place in the world that she had earned. And when Gerrard had offered to go with her—to stand at her back—her joy had redoubled. Alone with him, she had thought she would surely find the courage to speak of her feelings.

  But she had not. They came at last to the border markings of the Chitr’in, and her shock had been intense. How their scent filled her senses—a scent she had not smelled since she was a kit, before she had been abandoned by her tribe.

  “Be easy, Mirri,” Gerrard said. “Don’t let them see you afraid—”

  “I’m not afraid,” she snarled.

  “Of course not.” He patted her arm. “Angry, then. Upset. Diplomacy is like magic. As Multani would say, magic is best approached with a cool heart and fast thinking.”

  She nodded.
The Chitr’in…she could not remember ever having heard of them, though that meant little. Her memories of her time with her tribe were scattered and sparse, a montage of playing in the dirt at catch-claw and sneakshot; and of drowsing by the campfires while the Elders discussed policy and hunting tactics, and the shamans drummed to bring the prey-beasts closer.

  Soon her memories were irrelevant. The Chitr’in came, appearing as silently as smoke from between the trees. Warriors at the back, magnificent in dyed and painted hunting leathers, their arms and torsos scarified with kill tattoos and crisscrossed with weapons belts. And at the front, three elders.

  “You violate our lands,” said the middle one, in Trader-tongue.

  “Speak,” said the one on the right, who was dressed in robes and furs, rather than fighting leathers.

  “Or begone,” said the one on the left, when Mirri did not answer and Gerrard would not, because it was her place.

  “We come in peace,” Mirri said, and cursed herself. They would think they were dealing with puling weaklings. “To negotiate terms on behalf of our master, the sorcerer Multani, who would trade with you.”

  “I am the shaman of this tribe,” said the robed elder on the right. “We know nothing of outland sorcery. We wish to know nothing.”

  “You are a person, girl,” said the middle Elder, using the Catling word for person, which excluded humans and others from consideration. Mirri felt her ears go back, and fought to stop it. They must not know they discomfited her. “Are you a slave, to call another master?”