by E. J. Godwin
“What are you talking about?”
“Something Mistress Telai discovered a few years ago. Perhaps she spoke to you of this?” They only sat gazing at him, and he shrugged. “Late last year she sent me a letter describing an old, faded document she had found. Apparently a small group of early Adan colonizers wanted to settle some place less contested by the Hodyn. They left for lands far to the north past Lrana. But other than this document, she found no further mention of them.”
“I don’t see how this helps,” Caleb said.
“Even if there’s any truth to it,” Soren added.
“Please, hear me out. She asked me to look into it. I had just completed the mission when I lost my horse and met you. Though I often go on long journeys, it’s rare to find something this significant.” He shifted into a more comfortable position. “They call themselves the Kerlans. It’s a tough climate so far north of Ada, as you can imagine, so they only live in a half dozen villages scattered around the northern end of the lake. But they’re well aware of their association with Adan history.”
“Ridiculous,” said Soren. “We would have heard about this by now. Miners have scouted almost the entire length of the Irenseni, and they’ve never met anyone other than a few lone trappers or hunters.”
A rush of blood darkened Rennor’s face. “Believe me or not as you like, Soren. If you want, I can stop right here and leave you to guess what I discovered!”
The Master Raén returned his stare but said nothing, and Rennor paused to let his anger cool. “It took me a while to gain their trust, but eventually I learned something of their folklore, preserved by the elders from their first wanderings. Their own beginnings are quite different from Ada’s. Their hair is much darker, for one thing, like the Treth. They’re descendants of a race who lived near Urmanaya, so long ago they’ve forgotten most of their history. Yet they still remember Grondolos.”
“What could they possibly know about him, especially after all this time?” Soren asked.
“In total, far less than you do. But there’s an old story they tell their children about a sorcerer king named Grondolos, and how he came here long ago to prepare the land, to make it beautiful and more plentiful. Apparently this sorcerer discovered the root of all the sorrow and famine in the land, and trapped it inside a magical shield.”
“Gur’alyreiv?”
“I presumed as much.”
“Interesting tale,” Caleb said. “There might even be some truth to it. But I still don’t see how it helps.”
“There’s one more thing,” said Rennor. “The story ends with a promise. Three people from different races will break through the shield one day and remove the last remnant of evil from the world.”
“I suppose you think that’s us.” Soren replied. “You forget that the last remnant of evil is Kseleksten, the First Lor’yentré, not the Second—the broken one.”
“Don’t ask me to make sense of it. I just thought you should hear it, now I know where you’re headed.”
Soren peered at him for a moment. “You’re coming with us.”
“Good,” he said, then drew back in surprise. “I am?”
“Yes. You know too much. You may be found and questioned by these errant Raéni, or whoever they are.”
“What are you suggesting, Soren?” said Rennor. “That I’d betray you?”
“Not of your own will, perhaps.”
A chill settled into Caleb’s gut. He changed the subject, hoping his instincts were wrong. “What are we going to do about the horses?” he asked Soren. “We won’t have enough to carry all those supplies with Rennor riding one.”
“If I’m generous, I think I can find a horse the innkeeper won’t mind parting with.”
“Do you believe his story?”
“Frankly, I don’t know. It sounds too clever by half. But I’d be shirking my duty to the Oath if I didn’t give it a chance—or if I left him here to blab about us.”
“I’d be shirking my own duty,” Rennor said. At Caleb’s questioning look he added, “Throw away a chance to find the greatest artifact in a thousand years? She’d never forgive me!”
“Hold on,” Soren said, raising his hand. “I didn’t say anything about accompanying us all the way to Graxmoar. Civilians aren’t allowed there, except for Loremasters.”
Rennor looked crestfallen, and Caleb said, “Um, Soren—I think that law refers to the Lor’yentré itself, not Graxmoar. Besides, we need all the help we can get, no matter how small.”
“Strange how you remember that law so precisely, yet you misread Orand’s prophecy. But I don’t see how having one more mouth to feed helps us.”
“Don’t worry, Soren, I’m a light eater,” said Rennor, brightening. “And I’m sure the innkeeper is willing to sell us a few extra supplies along with the horse.”
Caleb smiled. “Excellent idea.”
“Yes, excellent,” Soren remarked, “when you don’t have to pay the bill.”
♦
Later that afternoon they bargained with the innkeeper to augment their supplies and to purchase an old but sturdy bay mare as a packhorse. Tedium ruled the balance of the day. Soren would not allow anyone to leave the room save for bodily necessities or to tend the horses, and they spent the hours twitching at every loud voice or slamming door.
At last the light through the window faded to dusk. A lingering weariness overcame their fears, and they slept soundly—until a few hours past midnight.
A harsh pounding at the door roused them all from their beds. Caleb sat up and blinked like an owl, while Rennor mumbled and tossed. Soren was already on his feet, tense and alert.
The pounding continued. “Open up!” came a faint demand through the door.
Caleb groaned. “Who’s there?”
“Open up, I say. We know you’re in there, Soren!”
“This way,” the Master Raén hissed, drawing the curtains aside. “Wake that slouch, and hurry!”
But Rennor was already waking, and once he understood the urgency he shook off his grogginess soon enough. Warren fought with his trousers. Suddenly they heard someone struggling with the door latch, and the demands grew louder and more threatening.
“Stall them,” Soren whispered. The window was open, and he waited impatiently for the others to dress.
“You’ve got the wrong room,” Caleb shouted.
“Open the door, or we’ll bust it down!”
“All right, all right—give me a chance to get dressed. You don’t have to wake the whole inn!”
A brief spell of quiet passed, but they had barely dressed and made their way to the window when the pounding resumed. In a few moments they were all outside. Watchful and silent, they headed for the stables, creeping down an alley black as ink beneath a moonless sky. Warren clutched his father’s hand.
After a sharp corner and a dozen yards or so they stopped at a wooden gate leading into the stable yard. Soren tried the handle, but the gate was locked.
“What now?” Caleb whispered.
“Go back the other way,” Rennor suggested.
“We can’t leave without our horses,” Soren said. “We’ll have to climb the fence.”
Caleb gripped his arm. “But the main gate is locked, too. How will we get the horses out? Besides, they’re probably just outside, waiting for us.”
In the faint light, Caleb could barely make out the Master Raén’s expression as he realized this. “By Hendra!” Soren muttered. “I never once dreamed I’d be running from my own soldiers.”
“If they are your soldiers.”
“Hush!” Rennor whispered. “I thought I heard something.”
They all dropped to a crouch to listen. Footfalls scraped faintly in the straw-covered dirt beyond the fence. A horse nickered from across the yard.
A few seconds later they heard the murmuring voice of the innkeeper. “Hold on—I’ll get you out. But you’ll need to wait here until they’re gone.”
“But they won’t leave when they find an empty
room,” Soren argued.
“I’ve taken care of it. Sit tight, and I’ll be back with your horses all saddled and ready.”
Her footsteps faded. As they waited in growing anxiety they heard folk pounding on the walls of the inn and shouting complaints. Of course this only awakened more lodgers, and soon they were all shouting at each other rather than the intruders. Soren, normally a man of action, fidgeted. Caleb, despite the innkeeper’s words, feared some sort of treachery. The uproar went on for several minutes, then gradually subsided to the last few grumbles and slamming doors.
They heard a faint creak of hinges, and the unmistakable sound of slow horse steps. Keys jingled, a lock snapped open, and they all stepped through into the yard.
The innkeeper and one of her servants stood in the dim light of the stars, holding the reins of their horses. “You’d best stick to the alleys,” she said softly. “The intruders are gone, but I can’t stop them from watching the street from a dark corner.”
Soren took the reins from her hands. “I don’t understand. Why did they leave the inn when they knew we were in the room?”
“They knew someone was. My father bears a faint resemblance to you. He climbed in through the window you left open. When the soldiers eventually burst the door down they found an old man, but no Master Raén.”
Caleb caught a twinkle in her eyes. “There’s more to this story.”
“A little. When they searched the room they uncovered an attractive pair of young ladies hiding under the blankets—and in rather compromising positions, you might say.” She shrugged. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen a grown man blush.”
Soren tried to erase a sudden grin. “I never asked you your name.”
She smiled like a bashful schoolgirl. “Janáa.”
17
Escape and Revelations
The full light of knowledge is uglier than ignorance;
for nothing can hide in it.
- Garda, 18th and 20th Overseer of Ada
THEY LED their horses back down the alley, Soren in front. A short distance from the street at the other end, they turned down another passage branching to the right. It took much time and stealth and guesswork, but they managed to head for the west end of town and still keep mostly to the alleys. The few streets they crossed were dark and empty.
Once beyond the edge of the city they mounted. They rode through the chill air between rows of orchards and vineyards, hoping the innkeeper had bought them enough time. Slowly the miles passed, until the pale dawn glow silhouetted the mountains behind. The fields lay more open now, and Soren abruptly changed course, heading south towards the distant hills and peaks of the Iéndrai.
Within a few hours the fields ended at a long line of cedars: the beginning of a large swamp bordering the highlands along the south shore of Lrana. Though the morning had bloomed full, the swamp lay dim and dreary beneath the dense foliage. Soren led the way carefully, never once losing his head when the confusing maze of fallen logs and sprawling roots forced them to backtrack. He knew as well as Caleb did that a misstep by one of their horses would likely ruin their chances of evading pursuit. Yet the way became easier as he slowly turned west, until at last they climbed a high bank and reached drier ground.
By nightfall they had ridden deep into the highlands, a wide expanse of steep ridges and waterfalls, with ravines shadowed by leaning trees and precipitous rock. It was slow, excruciating work, and by the end of the second day in this broken country Caleb began to wonder if all this furtive wandering was worth it. But their stay at Enilií had convinced Soren of the Raéni’s—or someone’s—determination to find them.
At last, in the afternoon of the third day of their escape, the travelers rode out of the hills to gaze upon the deep blue waters of Lrana. Only the faint smudge of an island broke the distant line of the horizon. Few folk lived this far west, so they camped early, and the lonely sigh of waves soon lulled each member of the exhausted party to sleep.
♦
The next morning greeted them with a raw wet wind blowing off the lake. Caleb shivered in his coat as he followed Soren along the rocky shore, taking care riding amongst the stream-fed pools or crevasses of gurgling water opening suddenly at his feet. The lake soon bent to the north, and by evening they reached the mouth of a wide river barring their way: Erthair.
Much of Lrana emptied into this river, and fording its swirling waters in the gathering dusk was a dangerous prospect. But Soren, still mindful of the pursuit, was determined to cross before making camp. They scouted down the bank westward until they found a shallower section of the river. They rode slowly at first, then with more confidence as the current rose only to the horses’ flanks, and eventually reached the opposite bank in safety.
They set up camp in a tall stand of wind-shorn beeches, whose bare limbs offered little shelter yet provided an ample supply of fuel. To the south the massive peaks of the Iéndrai rose into the clear night sky, their spreading crowns as cold as the stars which brightened them. It was a lonely land, far from the smallest village or the lowliest shack. Caleb could not shake off a strange longing to see his ship again, a homesickness that felt like a stranger’s now instead of his own.
Sleep eluded them, and they sat near the fire in brooding silence. A dark cloud had settled over the little company. Warren huddled against his father, a look of mild bewilderment in his face. The only one who seemed immune was Rennor, who kept asking Caleb about the “place in the sky” he had come from.
“It’s called Earth,” Caleb mumbled, in no mood to dwell on the subject.
“Was it a better place than this? Do you wish to return?”
“I couldn’t if I wanted to.”
“Of course. But what was it like? Was it more peaceful than this one?”
Caleb raised his head to see an uncharacteristic intensity in those steel gray eyes. Odd how he had picked this moment to ask about his home world. “I’m sorry, Rennor. I just don’t have the heart for questions right now. Maybe later.”
“You feel the distant threat of Gur’alyreiv,” Soren murmured. “You must guard your mind, distract your thoughts.”
Caleb nodded, and forced himself to answer. “It wasn’t more peaceful, just the opposite. Even Tnestiri seems better, in a way. At least it’s a more obvious threat.”
“We’re not that close yet,” Soren said. “And don’t forget—the First Lor’yentré still lies in our future.”
“Oh, well, Kseleksten. In itself it might be worse—assuming it’s not broken like the other one. But I’m not talking about wars or weapons. Our knowledge had gotten to the point where only a few could understand it or control it. It defined our way of life so much, there was no place to get away from it, even for a little while. And the worst part is, nobody really wanted to.”
Soren studied him for a moment, then turned his attention back to the fire.
Rennor shrugged, a somehow irreverent gesture. “Knowledge breeds power, and power breeds temptation—be it Kseleksten or an old book of proverbs. That doesn’t make the knowledge itself evil. And your awareness of such things will help keep Ada and other lands from falling into the same trap.”
Caleb, reminded uncomfortably of his laser, raised his eyebrows. “I don’t have that kind of influence right now, I’m afraid. Anyway, the people of Ada aren’t the problem, according to prophecy. It’s one person—whoever found the Medallion.”
Rennor glanced at the boy, who noticed and returned a hesitant smile. Caleb frowned: he hadn’t told him of Soren’s suspicions about Warren being the Bringer of Evil.
“That innkeeper made more sense to me than any prophecy,” Rennor replied. “You won’t find what you need in a book centuries out of date. You have to keep digging for the answer in many places, perhaps for a lifetime.”
Soren was staring at him by now. “It’s hard enough to tolerate disrespect from strangers or foreigners. But from someone who shares my food, and sleeps only a few feet away from me every night? That�
�s something else altogether!”
“Soren, he meant no offense,” Caleb said.
“No offense? You’ve stood in Gerentesk—surrounded by the works of Orand and many others. Knowledge spanning hundreds of years!” He pointed at Rennor. “He speaks as if every scribe and Loremaster who’s labored to find those answers is an ignorant child, yet you say he has committed no offense.”
Palms out, Rennor said, “Soren, I have nothing but admiration for those who have dedicated their lives to Ada, and to the library you’ve built. As Telai’s assistant, how could I not? But knowledge just can’t sit on a shelf and gather dust. It needs to be improved upon, added to. Even Orand’s.”
“What in great thundering Hendra do you think we’ve been doing all these years?”
“It’s true, Rennor,” said Caleb, anxious to absolve himself with Soren. “Telai’s always following some lead that might increase her knowledge. I would think you would know that as well as anyone.”
Rennor lowered his gaze, and Soren nodded. “Yes, indeed you should. And the Treth are simple folk who speak in simple words, like that innkeeper. I’ve never known any of them to be as interested in lore as you are.”
“I’ve had good teachers, so to speak.”
“Enough! Enough of your lies! I’ve never fully believed you to be a servant of the Grand Loremaster, but with each passing day and with each word you utter I believe it less and less. Whether your intentions are good is one thing, but it is as plain as Gur’alyreiv that you’ve been deceiving us.”
Soren jumped up and drew his weapon, which never left his side even in sleep, and held the point near Rennor’s nose. “Speak! Who are you, and what is your real purpose with us?”
Caleb sat gaping. “What are you going to do, kill him if he denies your accusation?” he blurted at last. “I’ll admit there’s something mysterious about him, but he’s not some kind of threat. Put that damned sword away!”
The old soldier kept his steely glare on Rennor. “Not until he reveals his true identity. Or he can pack up and leave. It’s his decision.”
Rennor was looking at Caleb. “You don’t believe me, either?”
