by Mark E Lacy
Visylon paddled hard with no effect. The current threw him toward the canyon wall. He brought one end of his paddle up just in time to fend off a crash, but the blade snapped. The paddle was torn from his grip. The khayan leapt through rapids, riding the crests of waves, gliding through turns. Without his paddle, Visylon could only grip the sides of the craft, grateful for the canvas decking that kept the khayan from filling with water.
He rounded a turn in the Esolasha and saw the Rivertree.
The giant red cedar stood like a guardian of the canyon, its base and enormous roots spanning the chasm from one side to the other, its crown towering far above the canyon rim. Below the rim, most of the cedar's spindly branches were bare or broken off. Above the canyon, the tree was draped with green needles, but the branches stopped short of the crown where lightning had left an ancient scar.
A gaping darkness at the base revealed the river’s course through the roots of the Rivertree. Somewhere in that darkness was Visylon’s access to the Codex Indrelfis.
Visylon tugged at the straps and freed the Sword of Helsinlae from the decking. At that moment, the khayan hit a rock, and the sword slipped from his hands. He caught the blade before it fell in the water and scrambled to secure it over his back as the boat bounced beneath him. He had only a moment to tuck his knees up before the tunnel swallowed him. The boat shot through the passage, the roar of the river amplified by the tunnel walls. He couldn't see the vines the boatwright had told him about till one came close to lashing him in the face. He made a grab for it and missed. As he recovered his balance, another struck the boat and disappeared. Not far ahead, a patch of misty daylight was coming closer. Soon, it would be too late.
Another vine flew at him, and he grabbed it with a furious yell. As the vine took up the slack, he emerged from the end of the tunnel. When the vine reached its full extension, the Saerani took a hard jolt through his shoulders, but he hung on. The water kicked at the khayan as he tried to pull his legs free. Visylon kicked back until the boat released him, and he plunged into the river. The khayan raced on and disappeared as the Saerani warrior floundered, trying to haul himself out of the water for a breath. The Esolasha tugged at him till his arms felt like they would be ripped from their sockets. The Sword pulled him down like a dead weight.
His worst enemies now were fatigue and the cold. Visylon struggled to move hand over hand up the vine. The river was trying hard to best him. After a few minutes, the Saerani's strength was failing rapidly. He strained to reach the edge of the passage. With each passing minute, he moved a little farther out of the main current. Once he reached the side of the tunnel, he paused, gasping. Then, gathering his strength and with several strong pulls, he climbed out of the water and onto a rocky ledge.
On his hands and knees, Visylon shivered, trying to catch his breath, a puddle growing beneath him. He stood with a groan and looked behind him. Fifteen feet away, the tunnel ended. The edge of the falls was so close the river seemed to disappear.
He turned back and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The ledge he stood on was damp with moisture and followed a sinuous course along the bare wall of the twisting tunnel. He began following the ledge, watching his footing with care, as one slip could send him back in the river and over the falls. But soon, it was too dark to see his footing. Knowing the danger he faced was not over, Visylon drew his blade.
The Sword of Helsinlae blazed with green fire. Visylon almost dropped it in surprise. This was the first time the sword had done this since Visylon had cut down the tree growing from the grave of Helsinlae. Why now? Does it sense something? While the sword was bright, he could see no more than several feet ahead. At least he could avoid stumbling.
Every step through the tunnel made him more anxious about not finding a way into the tree. He continued along the ledge until a soft glow told him he was nearing the tunnel’s entrance. As he looked back up the canyon he had descended, he shuddered, amazed he was able to survive the trip down the river. And then, as he neared the end of the ledge at the beginning of the tunnel, he found a narrow gap in the wall. There were no markings, no signs, no door. He had to turn sideways to slide into the gap and a somewhat larger passageway beyond.
Visylon used the luminescent sword to cut through massive cobwebs, noting that no one had come this way in a very long time. Almost immediately, he discovered steps cut into the heartwood of the tree. As he began to ascend a spiraling staircase, he left the tunnel dampness behind. In the air was a hint of smoke in addition to the fragrance of the cedar.
He had been climbing for several minutes in the dark when the spiral grew tighter and the steps became higher. By now, he figured he was in the core of the tree. The walls were the distinct reddish-brown of the cedar's heartwood, and the smell of smoke increased.
As Visylon ascended the dark core of the Rivertree, hoping to find the fragment of the Codex Indrelfis, he marshaled his thoughts and steered them away from hunger, and thirst, and rest. The need to understand his destiny and the pattern of events that involved him was much more pressing. The Codex Indrelfis had to be found.
After climbing hundreds of steps, Visylon was long past the point of feeling spent. When he set foot on the final step, he stumbled into a room about twelve feet square. He waved the glowing sword from one side to the other, taking in a floor littered with the remains of those who had come this far and no further. Opposite him, a skeleton in rags lay in a jumble before a large door that hung askew. He took small steps across the floor, crunching bones underfoot as motes of body dust swirled up.
With the tip of his sword, Visylon flicked a skull away from the door. He hooked the ribcage and flung it aside. By the light of his blade, he examined the doorway. The door was covered with runes. Soot and scorch marks showed where the door had been blasted open. He pushed on the door, and it wouldn't move. It hung by only one hinge, so he took the door and twisted it, breaking the other hinge. The door fell with a crash. Visylon covered his nose and mouth as dead dust swirled.
At his feet lay a corpse. He knelt beside it, noticed the burns, the charred flesh. There was no smell but that of smoke, of burnt wood, so this death was not recent. He swiped a fingertip across the floor, and it came up black. Visylon stepped over the corpse into a circular room about twenty feet across.
The walls looked like charcoal. Ashes littered the floor. There was no exit from the room. This was the end of his climb.
The room was empty. The Codex Indrelfis was gone.
Chapter 48
The undulating hills separating Apracia from the Esolasha River were covered with a layer of coarse scrub and small trees like dried wrack left behind by the tide of the Sea. The depressions among the hills formed a web-like maze. Only a few outlets from this maze could bring a rider gently down to the river. The other exits simply and abruptly ended at bluffs overlooking the river canyon.
Riders threaded this maze, a woman and two men. Longhorn led the way, following the directions Hyphos had given them. Ardemis brought up the rear, his daughter riding safely between the two of them.
It was mid-afternoon when the sinuous path they followed at last tumbled them out with a small stream onto the broad rocky banks on the south side of the river. From the west, the Esolasha rounded a bend and slowly slid downstream to the east. Because of the turn in the river, the resari and the irrilai could not see the Falls of Mist, but they could hear the distant roar of the mighty cascade. Across the river, sheer ramparts rose to the northern land.
The three riders headed upstream. The riverbank remained broad as they rounded the bend, the shoes of the horses ringing on stone as they stepped across the rocks.
The sun cast a long shadow from the escarpment over which the falls plunged. Ki'rana marveled at the play of the sunlight on droplets of mist swirling high above the penumbra, but it would be a while before the party could get a good look at the falls or the Rivertree.
They rode slowly along the riverbed as Longhorn pondered the need
for a place to set up camp. He was still dwelling on practicalities when a shout from Ki'rana snapped his attention to the rear.
“Father, look!”
A small grotto opened behind them. If the young resara had not happened to turn around, none of them would have seen it. Fifty yards into the grotto stood a squat tower with a crenellated cap.
“Tura Iaphon,” whispered Ardemis. “Tower of the Mist.”
The structure was not tall, barely reaching the lip of the grotto. The round wall was the color of sand and river rock.
“You know this place?” said Ki’rana.
“I have heard of it. I’ve seen drawings. But I never knew where it was concealed.”
“We shouldn’t be far from the ford, but it will soon be dark,” said Longhorn. “Should we seek shelter in the tower?”
“Yes,” replied Ardemis, who had not taken his eyes from the tower. “We may find more than shelter.”
Ki'rana gave her father a puzzled look and turned her horse up the grotto. They splashed through shallow pools as their horses trotted to the tower. The three reined in at the foot of the tower and dismounted. Longhorn hobbled the horses.
The travelers found the heavy wooden door to the tower no longer stout but rotted and fallen to one side. They stepped around it, entering Tura Iaphon, and paused while their eyes adjusted to the gloom. Looking up, Longhorn began discerning the tower's simple features. Like many of the old turae, a single stairway spiraled around the wall to the top. He could barely make out the tower’s loopholes, and he wondered why its builders had not added more of them for light. The top of the stairway disappeared in darkness.
The irrilai took a torch from his pack and lit it. The floor of the tower was empty. A layer of dust had not been disturbed in many years.
“I don’t understand,” said Longhorn. “A tower hidden in a grotto? A short tower? What good would that do? Signals would never be seen.”
Ardemis started up the rail-less stair, and Ki'rana caught him by the arm.
“Father, you're not going to—”
“Yes, I am,” he interrupted, “and I want you both to come with me.”
“But you are in no—”
“Silence, daughter.” Then, softer, he added, “Reach out. Don't you feel a tickling in the Weave?”
Ki'rana paused and closed her eyes. Longhorn watched the lines in her face relax as she concentrated on her inexperienced powers as a resara. “Yes,” she replied a few moments later. “What is it?”
“Come,” said her father with a grin. He took the torch from Longhorn. “I'll show you.”
Ardemis led the way and set their pace. He paused frequently to rest from the arduous climb, leaning wearily against the cold stone wall of the tower. When at last the stair brought them to the summit, the elder resara sat with his back against the crenellations while he caught his breath. He gestured with the torch.
“That is what I hoped was here.”
The top of the tower was about twenty feet across. A black column stood in the middle of the floor. Two feet in diameter, it stood almost seven feet high. Its surface appeared smooth and well-polished, but it was dull and reflected none of the day’s last sunlight.
The top of Tura Iaphon was completely empty, save for three weary people and an enigmatic black column.
Longhorn approached the column for a better look but was brought up short at Ardemis's command. “No! Don't touch it. It might harm you. There is a reason this is not guarded. It can take care of itself.”
“Father, what is it?”
Ardemis looked at his daughter, the only other resara in the world. “I believe it was called a stelara. It was said to focus the powers of the musaresari and help them read the Weave with less difficulty.”
“Can we use it to find the Gauntletbearer?” asked Ki'rana, eyebrows raised.
Her father paused before replying, looking at the column with wonder. “We shall see,” he said. “Yes, we shall see.”
Ardemis and Ki'rana stood in the center of the room, hands linked, the black column between them. Ki'rana was apprehensive, but her father sensed it and squeezed her hands reassuringly. She took a deep breath. The two of them closed their eyes and entered the Reading trance.
Longhorn leaned against the battlement and watched till their trance deepened, and he realized there was nothing to watch. He turned and placed his hands on the crenellations, lost in thought, watching the canyons fill with darkness. Far below, the horses nickered.
There was a certain unfairness to it, he thought. A warrior could express his feelings with a weapon and an improvised series of practiced movements, a sonomusara through a complex pattern of sound and rhythm. A lexisentara could lose herself in the depths of history, a musaresara in the shallows of the future. But an irrilai tribesman? All Longhorn knew was survival through an improvised sequence of action and reaction, seeking to live on the shore of the present.
From the moment he had left the irrilaii to assist a band of strangers in a mysterious quest for a man who might save the world, to the touch of a woman’s hand in friendship and sharing, there was so much to understand, so many reasons to pause in wonder, so much beyond his grasp. What am I gaining? What have I lost? What lies ahead?
Soon, it will be over, he thought. Even now, Ardemis and Ki'rana would be probing the xerad, the border of the Weave that the world was quickly approaching. Beyond that edge lay a world under the domination of Raethir Del or a future purged of only its latest flare of evil.
For a few minutes, Longhorn fantasized about what part Ki'rana might play in his own future. As he played with visions of peace and pleasure, he watched the horses below drink and nuzzle one another.
His fantasies vanished like smoke.
There should have been three horses below, one each for Longhorn, Ardemis, and Ki'rana. Instead, a fourth stood with the others, reins and saddle fringed with leather thongs.
Someone had followed them. Someone was there.
“Irrilai!”
Longhorn whirled, sword hissing from its scabbard. In the doorway stood a familiar masked form.
“Benshaer.”
The former resara was masked once again, this time by something that looked almost like armor. He drew his own sword and stepped into the room. “Yes, resari dog, irrilai bastard. We meet again.”
“I have neither the time nor the patience for you,” said Longhorn.
He glanced at the resari, fixing their positions in his mind so he could guard them without looking. Ardemis and Ki'rana were both so deep in their trance, assisted by the power of the black column, that neither was aware of their danger. Longhorn would have to defend the two of them as well as himself with his single blade.
The irrilai sprang at the masked man, taking the advantage of first attack. Longhorn brought his sword down in a vicious vertical cut. Benshaer fell back, losing his balance, but the tip of the irrilai's blade had sliced through his tunic and opened a shallow, painful cut across his abdomen.
The traitor quickly recovered his stance and pressed Longhorn back with a rain of ringing blows. The irrilai fought to keep himself between Benshaer and the resari, but it was difficult to swing his blade freely and maintain his defense while protecting the people behind him.
And Longhorn was fatigued. He’d been fatigued before the battle had even begun. Days of running and fighting, hiding and riding, with neither rest nor relief, had caught up to him.
Benshaer, noting how Longhorn worked to guard the entranced resari, decided to change his tactics. He timed his attacks and positions to keep Longhorn always on the move, fatiguing the irrilai further, fighting to get past the tribesman to murder the resari.
Longhorn's strength was failing. More and more, he found himself parrying and dodging the traitor's blade instead of carrying the battle to him. He was surprised to note a certain panic beginning to rise within him, a feeling he'd almost never experienced.
It is time, thought Longhorn, to turn the course of the battl
e.
But Benshaer had found the flaw in the irrilai's moves. With a yell, he lunged, and Longhorn, realizing he was open, went into a berserk rage. The irrilai dove under the other's blade and tackled him, both of them dropping their swords as they fell in a tangle of limbs and struggled to grasp the other. Benshaer pulled a dagger, and Longhorn caught his wrist just in time to avoid having his throat punctured. Locked hand-to-hand, they struggled to their knees. With a cry powered by unknown reserves, Longhorn bent the traitor's knife-wrist and snapped it. In the next moment, he swept his sword from the floor into his hand, brought it overhead in a reversed grip, and drove it deep into Benshaer’s chest.
No expression could be seen through the traitor's mask. He simply collapsed and died.
It could not be helped. This time, I had to kill.
Longhorn got to his feet and leaned once more against the battlement, blood dripping ever so slowly from his blade, and fought the desire to slump to the floor. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. As he looked over at the resari, they began coming out of the Reading trance.
Ki'rana was the first to see him. She took in the scene around them: the blood, the body, the bared swords.
“Longhorn!” she cried, and ran over to him, throwing her arms around his neck and holding him tight.
“I'm all right,” he whispered.
Ardemis faced the irrilai and met his gaze for a moment before looking down at the corpse that had been both traitor and resara.
