Distress showed clearly on the old officer’s face. “Is there no one? Surely someone could carry word to your family for you? Or—someone else you would like to . . . inform?”
Her family would wonder forever what had happened to her. They would never learn the truth, and after the year was up, perhaps they would come looking. Markel will never give up, she thought sadly. She had to get word to them somehow, so they could at least let her go.
“Yes . . . Thank you, Front-Captain,” she said. “Yes, there is someone.”
・ ・
The stadium was resonating with activity; autumn tournament was coming, and the athletes were focusing all their energies on practice. Arad’s responsibilities had expanded considerably in the previous few moons, from that of star athlete to part-time instructor. He now was not only coaching sons of wealthy merchants but also ranking professionals as well, including some that were nearing the highest level of competition. Arad wryly anticipated facing some of the students that he himself had taught, a prospect he didn’t look forward to, since he was teaching them some of his most effective counter-moves. There was, however, still no one in the stadium that was close to challenging him; even using basic techniques, Arad could better any of them.
“Rayley,” he said, wrapping a damp towel around his neck to cool it against the hot summer sun as he interrupted a pair of students. The man to whom he spoke was from a mining town on the plateau, called “Red Rock”, of all improbable names. The man was tall and gangly, hardly an optimal frame for wrestling, but he had quick feet and a strong, flexible back that allowed him to squirm free of many holds.
Arad’s practice opponent was Olivar, a Benn’s Harbour native with thick arms and a hunched posture. The man had excellent upper body strength, but poor balance; Arad speculated that Rast might have turned him over to Arad for training because he possessed no attributes to mark him as a potential champion. He did make a good training partner, though, so Arad did his best to cultivate what skills in the man he could.
Arad tapped Olivar on his head, short brown hair prickling his hand as he did so, looking at Rayley. “If he lunges with his head down, don’t meet him; just splay your feet and push his head into the ground. And you,” he added, turning to Olivar, “keep your head up when you lunge! If you can’t see your opponent, you can’t attack him.”
The two men bowed and said, “Yes, Champion,” in unison to Arad. It wasn’t false respect; all the men had seen Arad take down Rast many times in practice, not to mention a multitude of talented opponents on the stage, and they were eager to learn what he offered. Arad had picked up on a rumor among the students that he was holding back a few game-breaking moves to make sure that he could beat them in a tournament; it wasn’t true, but he chose not to comment on the rumor. It did, after all, lend him an air of mystery, which he found helped when teaching—the students were always watching his every move, trying to pick up on what the “secrets” might be. To them, it seemed that he had taken on an almost mystical status, which made instructing easy.
Arad stepped to the edge of the stage. On a clear day he preferred to teach on the grassy field behind the stadium. Today however, with the tournament approaching, he wanted the students to feel the pliable cloth of the stage under their feet, so it wouldn’t feel strange during competition.
Movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention, and Arad saw Rast emerge from the stadium offices. The former champion had spent most of his waking moments there of late, preparing the stadium’s staff for the coming event. Today, however, there was a soldier with him, and he waved Arad over.
It was Gallord-Smit, wearing the same uniform that he had when Arad met him just over a tenday before. Or at least it looked like the same one; for all Arad knew, he might have a dozen like it.
Rast introduced the Front-Captain with a bow; then, to the soldier: “This is Arad of Somria, the man you seek, Front-Captain.”
“Peaceful day, Champion. May we speak in private?” Gallord-Smit said, dispensing with additional formalities.
“My answer hasn’t changed, Front-Captain,” Arad said. Rast’s eyebrows raised in surprise.
Gallord-Smit sighed, nodding. “It is understood, Champion. This concerns another, unrelated matter.”
Arad nodded, though he wondered what other business the old officer could possibly have with him. He turned to Rast. “Might we make use of your office, good friend?”
“Of course,” Rast answered quickly. “I will take your students.”
“You have my gratitude,” Arad said with a short bow; more formality than required toward a man who had become a close friend since Horth died, but Arad wished to show proper respect in front of the officer.
He led the old soldier down the narrow hallway to Rast’s office in the base of the stadium (formerly Horth’s), opening the door for him. The office was small but completely filled with trophies, awards, letters of recognition from lords, and advertising plaques for major competitions, some depicting Arad’s face, some Rast’s. Rast had left the room relatively unchanged since occupying it, leaving it sparsely decorated with a simple wooden table and benches on either side.
“Would you sit, Front-Captain?” Arad asked.
“Old soldiers are accustomed to standing for days comfortably,” Gallord-Smit answered. “If you wish.”
Arad remained standing. “What business then, young man, if not the previous?”
Gallord-Smit smiled lightly at Arad’s haste. “Clearly my preceding visit discomfited you somewhat. Do not be concerned, Champion; I come at another’s request. There is a prisoner at the barracks who is to be sold into slavery on the morrow, and wishes to meet you as a last request. A fan, perhaps,” he surmised.
Arad raised an eyebrow. “A criminal wants to meet me? I trust he isn’t dangerous?”
“She,” the Front-Captain corrected. “No, certainly not. Well, she is to be punished for murder, but as I understand it there were . . . circumstances. If it hadn’t been a lordsman, it would have been discounted as self-defense.”
For a moment Sayri flashed through Arad’s mind. No, she’s no murderer, he thought; it can’t be her. “Well, if you say so, Front-Captain. When would you have me come?”
“Now, if you could, Champion. She’ll be sold in the morning.”
“As you say,” Arad bowed. “A moment to inform my employer,” he added.
“I’ll await you on the street,” Gallord-Smit agreed.
・ ・
The army headquarters was an impressively large building, nearly a castle. Arad was surprised he had never seen it during his year in the city, but it was surrounded by barracks housing hundreds of men and many other squat, blockish buildings devoted to equipping and arming the soldiers. The headquarters building was several stories tall, made of large blocks of stone, with a number of huge balconies encircling the highest level. Arad imagined the view from the upper offices—apartments?—would be quite striking.
“This way,” Gallord-Smit said, leading him into the base of the building, where they entered a large gallery decorated with an assortment of historical military pieces. Arad recognized most of them through his childhood studies of military history: a ranger’s kit from the Free Provinces before the Lords’ Lands amalgamated; a Somrian charger’s armour and lance, from the city-state era; an Avakian raider’s garb, from the time of the Swarm Wars. All were in good order and properly assembled; Arad was impressed.
There were warders standing at both ends of the gallery guarding the doors, but they merely snapped erect when he and the Front-Captain approached, allowing them to pass without a word. Arad was led to an impressively heavy door at the opposite end of the gallery. He imagined a battering ram would take some time to break it; if this was the entrance to the dungeons, no prisoner would ever escape from its depths.
The door led to a descending stairway, but the long hallway at its base was on the ground floor, and much brighter than he would have expected of a dungeon, boas
ting many windows. Indeed, the hallway was very clean and decorated with banners as well, making it appear as though it led to the officer’s quarters. There was a myriad of heavy doors along it’s length.
Gallord-Smit stopped at a door guarded by a warder, and nodded to the man, who pulled a key from his belt and unlocked the bolt sealing the door, another heavily metal-bound affair. It eased open without a squeak, however, dashing another expectation Arad held from childhood tales of dank, pitiless dungeons and the pathetic and rotting prisoners interred therein.
The cell was extremely small, with barely enough room for the small sleeping pallet it contained. Nonetheless it was bright, with a large barred window on the opposite wall, through which Arad could hear officers calling out orders to soldiers performing maneuvers in the courtyard.
The girl was young, and about Sayri’s size. She had short, dark hair, oily and combed back, displaying a face marked with some sort of skin disease. She turned and saw Arad, and her face lit up with joy.
It was Sayri!
She ran to him, tears in her great green eyes, and threw herself into his chest. In shock, Arad wrapped his arms around her, then pulled her face to his and examined her. “Sayri?” he asked, disbelieving.
“Arad,” she said, tears glistening on the skin of her dry, cracked cheeks. “I knew you’d come.”
“You . . . know this girl?” Gallord-Smit asked from behind him.
“Yes,” Arad breathed, hugging her face to his. Sayri pressed her cheek against him, sighing, and rough as it was, he felt his eyes moisten. “Yes,” he repeated.
It was Sayri! Arad could hardly believe it. He had only seen her the one time, a year before, but somehow she had lived in his mind and heart every day since, and he felt as if he had known her forever. “Sayri,” he repeated. “I can’t believe you’re actually here.”
“I know,” she said, tears flowing now. She raised her fingers to his face, gazing into his eyes. She was smiling.
“Champion, I’m sorry,” Gallord-Smit was saying. “I didn’t know that she . . . that you . . .”
“It’s all right, Front-Captain,” Arad said, looking back at him as Sayri head sagged into his chest. “It’s all right.”
“No,” Sayri said, pulling his face back to hers. “You don’t understand, Arad. It’s not all right. That’s why I had them bring you to me.” She was sad now, her eyes pulling at him, twisting his heart in their grip.
Arad shook his head. “This is all some misunderstanding, Sayri. It’ll be okay.” He pushed a lock of hair that was dangling in her eyes back behind her ear.
“Arad.” She released him, reluctantly, taking a step away. “I killed a lordsman, Arad. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” Tears filled her eyes, but she didn’t look away. “He . . . attacked me, and I killed him. Now they’re going to sell me, Arad.” She moved closer to him again, not quite in touching distance, but raised a hand as if to touch his face. “I know you want to save me, Arad, but you can’t, not this time. I just wanted to say . . . goodbye.”
“No,” Arad said, hoarsely. “No, Sayri.”
“Also, I need someone to take word to my family, to tell them . . .” She choked for a moment, struggling to go on, her face contorting with the effort to maintain control. Arad started to move to her again, to hold her, but she held out a hand to stop him. “. . . to tell them that I love them, and that I’m going on a boat, to a far away land. Where I’ll be happy.”
She smiled at that, a brave, tearful smile, and Arad’s heart leapt into his throat with admiration for her courage. “You will do that for me, won’t you Arad?” she asked finally.
“No,” Arad said, finally advancing to take her hand in his, and then, as her face changed again to display bewilderment and distress, took her head in his hands and tilted it to him, so he could lightly kiss her forehead. Then with more conviction, he said, “Everything will be all right, Sayri.”
Arad turned to Gallord-Smit, still holding Sayri tightly to his chest. “Front-Captain,” he said, hearing his voice break slightly with emotion. He cleared it, and began again more confidently. “Front-Captain, please inform Lord Perrile that I have reconsidered his request. I am prepared to offer my services as an advisor in all his dealings with my father, and with the nation of Somria for the foreseeable future. On one condition, not subject to negotiation,” he added, turning back to Sayri, who was looking up at him, her eyes perplexed.
He kissed her then, and as his lips pressed against hers, Gallord-Smit threw his head back a laughed, a great, loud, booming laugh that echoed through the cell, and into the courtyard beyond the window.
・ ・
The Lord’s Destrier charged through the waves in a manner fitting to her namesake, throwing spray high in the air to shower down upon the men working her foredecks. The waves were tall and the wind whipping at her three mammoth square sails, but the huge galley easily absorbed the stress, carving a deep channel through the sea as she sluiced forward.
Sea birds called greeting as they circled overhead, their cries familiar to Arad as he gazed lightly beyond them at the arid mountains in the distance ahead. Sayri was looking, too; and laughing as one of the birds tried to land on a forward sail and was batted aside by the thrashing cloth, only to flap away looking disgruntled. Her hair, though still short, was yellow again—the amazing honey colour Arad had marveled at, on that strange day more than a year before, when the Voice had led him to her. His arms around her, holding her firmly against the rail, he kissed her cheek, also rejuvenated to its natural smoothness after the effects of her disguise wore off. She laughed again, this time at him, then together they turned to look forward at the mountains of Somria, the mountains of his home.
And Arad wondered what lay waiting for them, there.
11 JODHRIK
The girl listened intently to the Proselyte’s teachings, and he was pleased. Near as she might be to death, as she could find solace in the Great Link, so the better she would pass beyond the end of her physical form to free her spirit.
One of the most effective of the Proselyte’s instruction aids was the pendulum. He produced it now, and began to slowly swing it before the girl’s eyes. “Gather your spirit, from all time and place where it may be, focus it to a pinpoint, and imagine it to press on the pendulum,” he said.
It was an excellent focusing exercise, and one that Apprentices took years to master; the Proselyte himself had only in recent years emptied his mind sufficiently to retain focus for a hundred breaths. With a layman, the best he could hope would that she might hold her concentration for a ten-breath or so.
Never, in all his years as a Proselyte, had he seen the pendulum stop.
“Great Master, I tell you, this girl is unique among all I have seen,” Jodhrik said, his voice rising unintentionally. He had been excited enough with the discovery, and practically bursting as he made his way back to the Sanctuary, to then sit impatiently awaiting the Great Master’s pleasure. Now the excitement was finally granted release, and maintaining the proper dignity before his superior was increasingly hard.
Jodhrik was standing in the library of the Great Master of his order, Dharil, the fourth of his name, within the Sanctuary of the Spirit. Though far from the city limits of Benn’s Harbour, it’s influence extended over that city and all of the villages surrounding, and even some on the plateaus nearby. The outer elegance of the Sanctuary, though not visible from within, was not missed in the Great Master’s library; it was made entirely of exotic woods, intricately carved throughout, including wonderfully detailed sitting chairs and ornate hexagonal screens.
The Great Master himself sat in the Cat’s Pose on a sleeping platform elevated in the back of the room, a feature added about one decade previous, as the room’s occupant aged beyond the comfort of sitting in a chair all day. The desk was pushed up against the sleeping platform; before it sat two of the exquisite chairs. Jodhrik stood between them.
“Many an acolyte has sought enlightenment in these ha
lls, Jodhrik. Many a talented spirit,” the Great Master droned. “Why, you yourself were considered a prodigy, in your time. If she can be saved, then it will be good, and we will welcome her. But if she cannot be saved, then her spirit will mingle with the Great Link.” The old Proselyte, bald and sagging with more age spots than clear skin visible, rustled his orange robes as he adjusted his sitting position. A Great Master spent more time sitting than doing anything else, a welcome reprieve after years of sanctuary service, but of late he had developed sore joints from too much sitting and it had transformed the necessary receiving duties into an agonizing trial.
“Great Master, it is more than just her focus.” Jodhrik shuffled his feet impatiently; a nervous habit. He had suffered from it since being forced to endure endless political meetings as the sanctuary’s emissary to the lords of Benn’s Harbour; the habit was amplified by his current anxiety.
The Great Master, however, merely raised an eyebrow in skepticism. “Proselyte, do not doubt that I have seen as much talent as this girl holds, and more, in my time. You must learn to accept and release these opportunities; all will find balance in the Great Link.”
Jodhrik’s eyes widened in distress. “Great Master, I beg you to hear me. This girl does not just easily achieve empty mind and the focus. She actually channels it.”
The Great Master frowned. “What do you mean, Jodhrik?”
“Great Master,” he paused, uncertain of his mentor’s response, “she can influence with her focus. Physically.”
“What are you saying?” The Great Master cleaned his ear with a finger, then leaned forward. “Repeat that.”
“She can affect objects with her focus, Great Master. I witnessed it; she stopped my pendulum’s swing with only her mind. It is not all,” he continued, “she, with further encouragement from me, was able to sense with her focus. Sense what she could not see or hear.”
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 12
