In that moment he understood. His time was not yet at hand. The soul sword would not free him for years to come, and his work in the castle outside of time was not yet done. But even in his captivity, he knew that a grave future could come to pass should the king’s line die.
There were many futures; in some the Hierarchy achieved their plans, and the old ones returned, in some the seas of Rythe boiled and left nothing but a dusty, barren world, in others still the suns themselves imploded.
In all these futures there was no king.
He knew of battles yet to fight, but the battles to come would be a raging blaze. He could not put them out alone. He needed allies when the time came. Without the line of kings, he might as well give up and spend the rest of eternity within this cocoon, a chrysalis shielded from time, and cares, and hope.
Caeus failed the test, but his mind already moved to events unfolding in the world. It saddened him greatly that the witch Tulathia still thought he needed dark offerings for his favour, but then once he had been the scourge of a planet, the bane of his people.
Was it truly so strange that the rumour of his passing amplified, like an echo in a black cavern?
His eyes lit up for but an instant before the timeless sleep, and his will was free. With a thought, and a word, he did the only thing he could, and for another it would have taken all their power. For Caeus, it was achieved in the blink of an eye, before the sword struck and plunged through his chest, taking him to darkness.
A mere word and the line of kings gone from seers’ sight. They would be protected until the time came.
Until the time of the return.
Kilarion looked at the motionless being before him, and wondered what had just happened. Something passed from this world between worlds, from eternity into the stream of time.
*
Chapter Forty-Three
Tarn opened his heavy eyes and became aware of two things; the thick smell of burnt wood from the night before, and a soft arm draped across his chest. He turned his head and saw Rena curled up next to him. He breathed in the sweet smell of her hair, the heady aroma of last night’s fire mixed with spring water and the blue capiums that she bathed in.
He smiled for a moment, until all too soon the remembrance of the horrors of the night crept in. He sat up slowly, laying Rena’s arm upon the pallet she slept on, and crossed the room to the door.
Tulathia had already risen, and waited for him. His blades, and the long package from Gard, were on the floor beside the old witch. She granted him a cursory smile in greeting, and bade him sit next to her. He folded his legs, sat opposite her, and took the proffered juice from her gnarled hands.
She said nothing for a moment, and Tarn played out the nightmare that tormented him before he finally fell into sleep. His mother and father were dead. He had nowhere to hide, and he must leave behind all who loved him, his future wife included.
‘Tell me old mother,’ he said, ‘Why did you not warn me this would come to pass?’
She frowned. ‘Stay your anger, young Tarn. I see many futures, and I did warn you not all of them are rosy.’
Tarn stared at the ashes of the fire in the hearth, picturing his flower there. Anger and fear gnawed at him. They ripped his calm from him, and without it he knew he could not think straight.
He did not want to leave. That was why he was angry. Because without his family, he would be stripped bare. The flower calmed him, although part of him wanted to revel in the fury inside, let it build until he tore down the forest in his pain.
But no, he would not let himself be ruled by anger, frustration and loss. He would bide his time. One day, he would be free, and the souls of those murdered in the Thane of Naeth’s name would be avenged.
It was not the old woman’s fault, though he thought she knew more than she told him. No doubt more than she told Rena and Mia, too. But what could he do? He had long known her power. If she did not wish to tell him all she knew, he could not force her. He reminded himself yet again that there was no evil in her.
‘I must leave soon, old mother. I pray you will keep Rena safe. She may be a witch, but I doubt she understands much of evil. I sense that you have seen it in all its guises before.’
‘You are right, Tarn, that I have. I will protect her, and keep her from despair. She loves you, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘One day you could return.’
‘If I kill the Thane.’
‘Yes.’
‘And how would I do that?’
‘I do not know, Tarn. But I see you in many futures. In some, the Thane does not live. I can only say that it is not impossible for you to return to a life of peace.’
‘And when I do? Rena? Will she be waiting for me?’
‘You need to ask me? She will wait for you forever and a day. She would wait beyond the gates for you.’
Tarn sat silently. Tulathia watched him. Before the old mother could speak Mia returned from outside with an armful of wood for the fire.
‘Good morning, Tarn. Will you break your fast with us?’
‘No, Mia, although I am sad that I must leave so soon. Danger, it seems, follows me wherever I go. I would lead it from your door.’
Mia merely nodded and stepped across the room to knock on Rena’s door.
‘Rena, come now.’
Before Rena could emerge from her room, Mia passed the wrapped package to Tarn.
‘Will you not see what Gard has left you?’
‘I will.’
Tarn slowly unwrapped the package, laying the leather aside gently. It was light, whatever it was.
Within lay a glinting bow of some silver metal. As long as a man’s arm, and half as long again. Deeply curved, it looked like a longer version of a hunting bow. Beside it, covered with the leather, were twenty arrows of the same silver, unbelievably light, and coiled around one arm of the bow was a fine filament of wire, the string for the bow. A beautiful weapon, the likes of which Tarn had never seen.
‘It is a great gift,’ said Tulathia. ‘I trust you will use it well.’
‘I will, and I will remember Gard each time I shoot it.’
It was a hunting bow, but it could be used just as well upon a man. Perhaps, before he met his end, he would get to use it.
Rena emerged and Tarn turned his head to drink in the sight. Every moment with her felt like the last. No matter how much he longed to return free of his burden and live with her on the farm, he could not be free of his fate.
He smiled at her to mask his despair.
‘I slept well last night in your arms. One day we will do so again.’
‘I know, Tarn. I will be here for you when you come back.’ Tears were brimming in her eyes, and Tarn could see that she tried to be strong for him. He would not prolong her agony. He knew how she must feel, because he felt it too.
‘I must go. I cannot tarry any longer. Already I may have put you in danger.’
‘It was worth the risk, Tarn, for a night with you.’
Tarn nodded and rose. He did not trust himself to speak. Tulathia’s voice halted him. ‘Remember your honour, Tarn. There are many traps in your future. Stay true.’
‘I will, old mother. Farewell. Farewell, Mia, and thank you.’
‘Farewell, Tarn,’ said Mia.
He took up his pack and wrapped the bow. Without further word he stepped outside, Rena following him with her hand upon his shoulder. He turned and took her in his arms, kissing her gently on the lips. Eventually he pulled away, his heart pounding.
‘Come back for me, Tarn, when you are free, or meet me beyond the gates. For one day, in this realm or the next, you will be my man.’
‘I already am, my love. We will be together. You will see.’
Rena held him for a moment longer.
‘If any man can beat his fate, it is you, Tarn. You have a vein of steel that runs through you.’
‘I know what I want, Rena, but fate pulls me… I promise you this, I will r
eturn to take your hand.’
‘I know you well, Tarn, and I believe you. I do.’ Her voice broke, and she let him go.
It saddened her heart to see it, but Tarn’s eyes were already cold. She wished his heart were with her this moment, but she saw murder in his eyes. This would end in death. This was not fortelling. It was plain to see in Tarn’s icy gaze.
‘This Thane, your enemy…I think his days are numbered.’
Tarn smiled as best he could, and embraced Rena again. He breathed in the smell of her, placed the feel of her in his arms safely away in his memory. He would return, but his road would be long and lonely.
When he let her go his heart cried out to him. It went against his wishes, but not his nature. His sinews knew the blade, his heart knew love. He vowed to remember this moment, this love, even should his road bring blood. It was Rena he would fight for, to be in her arms again.
If he had to walk the hawk’s path to return to his love, then he would hunt.
He would kill.
He slung the bow in its leather holder over his shoulder with his pack, tied his cloak, and pulled his swords on.
Feeling heavier than he thought possible, the young king turned without a further word and set out under many burdens on the long path to whichever fate awaited him – victory, failure, or the endless hunt.
‘Goodbye,’ he said under his breath, and did not look back once.
Rena sobbed softly, so that Tarn would not hear, and stayed outside the hut until she could no longer hear his footfalls.
*
Chapter Forty-Four
The Hierophant passed a sordid minute with the Guryon, which refused the price. The reek of failure and the stench of death still hung around it.
He sent for Jenin to test the veracity of the Guryon’s claims, that the man it sought, and the line of kings, could no longer be scryed by magical means.
He had never heard of the Guryon refusing to accept the price. The line of kings was hidden from it by some means even the Guryon did not understand. He understood the Guryon’s words, but sometimes even the soulless had plans of their own. He could not rule out the possibility that the Guryon wanted the Hierarchy exterminated, and so let their doom live. The realms of possibility when dealing with the Guryon were endless.
The Hierophant waited, staring at the clouds moving outside his window, until the suns set and evening’s glow rose, unappreciated by his eyes, to spread across the sky. Still Jenin did not come.
*
Chapter Forty-Five
Jenin took a long pull on the pipe, allowing his gaze to waver from the glowing embers in the bowl. The thick smoke burned his eyes – it still made his eyes water, even after all these years.
The smoke was sweet. It hung around his face. He breathed it in through his nose and his mouth then turned his red-rimmed, mottled grey eyes to the tallow candle burning before him. He tipped the still-burning weed from the pipe bowl and focused on the candle, until he could no longer see the candle, just the orange haze around it. While he stared, light turned to darkness.
The darkness grew, and he fell.
He tumbled through the planes, through worlds and the hearts of creatures that lived in the space among the stars. He could see the lives and deaths of cosmos played out against the blackness, and then he was through, below the worlds and the gloom upon which they sat. Underneath him, the lines of all life in every universe swam like eels in a sea made of time.
Jenin’s soul form swam to join them, seeking one path from the infinite. He found what he knew of the form from previous visits to the sea of life, and after an age (to Jenin’s body it would be a matter of hours – time within time was a strange concept that defied all attempts at quantification) found the line. He followed it, expecting it to still flow, but as he sought the line’s end, something outside his experience occurred. Before his eyes the line that had been black but for those that intersected it exploded with all the force of a sun, and where one line flowed there were now thousands of every hue – millions – running throughout time, far into the distant future, like an endless rainbow chasing the rain.
To a seer, the lines of fate appear as a random, insane sketch, life lines pencilled crazily upon the fabric of time. But fate was always fickle, and many lines joined and swirled around each other as mortals came and went and loved and met and changed on a whim. Some lines were thicker than others. Those lines necessarily touched more lives, and those touching lives were altered, their courses veering off into the future at strange angles, sometimes becoming longer, or thicker, or shorter themselves.
One line stood thick above all others, and split many futures.
It seemed as though the line died and that those around it became thicker instead. The line disappeared, but some could see that it lived on in the others it touched. Where it touched on other lives, those lives became somehow more substantial, and they continued for many years. Those lines affected branched into other lines, and sometimes, they converged again, only to spread and meet through the ages.
No one could tell time while entangled within the web of fate, but these lines went on far into the futures.
Jenin blinked and found the candle sputtering before it died.
The line was endless, as if the king had died and been reincarnated in every soul in Sturma.
The line would live forever. To kill the line, the Hierarchy would have to exterminate everyone living in Sturma, or find the line hidden within theirs. Even the Hierarchy could not do such a thing.
*
III.
The Bandit King
Chapter Forty-Six
The weeks after Tarn left passed slowly for Rena. A new feeling, an ache she was unaccustomed to, never left her, even when she curled on her bed, trying to seek the solace of sleep.
Each day, she begged and pleaded with her mother and Tulathia. Seek him, she cried, bring him back, or keep him safe. Tulathia told her that she would not be able to see the boy, but Rena stubbornly refused to believe it. She was still a child in many respects. She would not believe it because she wanted so badly to know he lived. She did not know this feeling, this crumbling reason, because she had never been heartbroken before.
But this day, Tulathia relented. Rena watched carefully while the old witch sought out the owner of her heart with her mind’s eye.
Tulathia opened her eyes and smiled at Rena. On the old witch’s face the smile warped, her cheeks sunken where she missed her teeth, but Rena knew her intentions were good.
‘The soldiers are gone, girl. Tarn will be long away by now, and they will not find trace of you or him. We are free from worry, for now.’
‘I will never be free of worry. Not until he comes back to me. Did you see him?’
‘Peace, girl. I cannot see that which is not there. Accept that which is given freely with good grace. He is gone, and that is the best I can do.’
Rena took a deep breath, shaking her head.
‘I am sorry, old mother. I just…’
‘I know. But there is no trail and Tarn is a child of the forest. He is safe.’
‘Thank you for what you have done.’
Finally, she felt calmness descend over her, with its warm arms and soft touch. She wondered if the old witch had something to do with the feeling, but the old witch merely watched her. She shook off her suspicions.
‘Where is Tarn now?’
‘I cannot see such things. I don’t think anyone can. Still, perhaps you can. One day. You have a closer tie than me.’
‘I would see the future as you have seen it.’
‘You don’t want much, do you?’
‘Well, can I see Tarn’s future?’
‘Of course. If you close your eyes, rub very hard and then open your eyes and stare directly at the sun while smoking seer’s grass, you could see – a pale reflection of the patterns that make up fate’s great mosaic. To know the future is impossible, child, perhaps even for a god. The children of many a god have died
and been forgotten since the last cataclysm, and a million more before that. No, Rena, there is no way to discern the future, just to see the ghost of futures that could be, floating in space like spirits before the gates.’
Rena huffed and pushed herself up from the floor. ‘I am going to help mother with the washing.’
‘Perhaps one day you will not be rebuffed so easily,’ laughed the old witch. She tutted as the girl walked out. It’s not her fault, thought Tulathia. She is but a child herself.
A child, in love with another child. She spared a thought for Tarn. Whatever the girl was going through would be nothing compared to Tarn’s trials. Winter would come soon enough, even though now it was less than a memory, hiding in the frozen north, sleeping and gaining strength. She knew well enough that there would be no warm embrace for the young warrior for many years to come.
But, she mused, creaking as she pushed herself off the floor, at least he’s got young bones.
She opened the front door to her home, as she had come to think of it. She sniffed the air and poked her tongue out. Winter would be hard, of that she was sure. She could feel it in the wind, smell it in the trees.
‘Take what warmth you can, young man,’ she told the wind.
She huffed and closed the door behind her, returning to the fire.
*
Chapter Forty-Seven
Survival was a trick, a set of the mind, nothing more. If you had the knowledge of where to look, and did not mind being unkempt, or eating bugs, you could live in most climes. Survival in the forest, for one with a childhood such as Tarn’s, was no great feat, just a matter for the mind. The body would follow.
No matter how much he longed for a stew, or a pasty, or even unsweetened porridge, game would suffice. Wherever there was a lack of meat on the hoof, or wing, Tarn foraged and scraped at bark for the grubs that lived there. He ate well most nights, and walked throughout the day. He put many miles between himself and the home of his heart. Home was a luxury he could no longer afford. He would take the memory of it only on his long journey, and even that was burden enough to bear. He travelled hard every day, and made a cold bed every night, never risking a fire while people were nearby. He skirted villages, even though he longed for hot food, ate raw meat, and slowly, stubbornly, made his way north.
The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Page 12
