by E. J. Godwin
“Well? Speak your mind!”
“Heading for Tnestiri is a waste of time, Soren. We need to find a safer way out of here.”
He paused in thought. “You may be right—but it’s worth the effort. If we can force a way through as before, we’ll find it much easier than that,” he said, pointing to where the coast made a sharp turn to the right. Thirty miles beyond, their lofty heads in the clouds and snow spreading down their flanks, stood the last outliers of the Iéndrai at the very edge of the ocean, barring the way south. “And that’s assuming we won’t run into the same thing!”
“Aren’t you forgetting something? That monster nearly kicked you into the treetops. And my ribs,” he said, flexing his back, “are still sore! If I had my laser, then maybe.”
“There’s no need for your unpredictable devices, Caleb Stenger. But no matter how your weapon might have helped it is gone. No Raén has made it past Gur’alyreiv for centuries, yet somehow we succeeded. You may draw your own conclusions as to why.”
Caleb narrowed his eyes. “Rennor?” At Soren’s nod, he added, “Maybe. But even if he has some power against Gur’alyreiv, he was helpless when that rock creature attacked.”
Soren shook his head. “He was anything but helpless.”
The wheels turned, but Caleb came up empty. “You’ve lost me.”
“Use that boulder between your ears! Don’t you think it’s a little coincidental that the creature chose to attack us the exact moment you revealed your weapon?”
“That’s crazy. I don’t trust him, either, but it doesn’t mean I’m irrational.”
“So now you’re the voice of reason among us. Perhaps you can explain how we survived Tnestiri.”
“I can’t—no more than you can explain how those Raéni reached that cave without Rennor’s help.”
A growl was Soren’s response. “No wonder you misread the Yrsten Prophecy!”
“What do you mean?”
“Gur’alyreiv came after the first expedition to Graxmoar, and grew stronger with each attempt. Or did you sleep through that part of your lessons?”
Caleb glowered at him, then snorted in exasperation and steered his mount away.
“Wait!” Soren commanded. “Since you have finally deigned to speak with me, there’s something I would ask as well.”
Caleb resumed his place. “Fair enough.”
Soren glanced back at Warren and Rennor, who rode in tandem some distance behind. “I’m delighted Warren is healed. But many Adaiani have perished in the quest to find the Second Lor’yentré. Now that it has served him, it should be brought to Ekendoré by a Raén—not a child!”
“I know,” said Caleb. “I’ll talk to him about it. But what harm can it do, broken as it is?”
“Are you blind? It gave health to your son! And where in great Hendra did that tree go?”
“What? You saw that?”
“Of course. And I find it rather curious that you neglected to mention it. Rennor knows what it means, I’m sure. And I’ll have the answer out of him before he sets one foot in Ada.”
♦
Caleb fell back to ride alongside Warren. Despite the onerous task required of him, that young, thoughtful face was a constant reminder of hope restored, of a fighting chance to begin a new life.
“You handle that horse pretty well.”
Warren flicked a smile. “Almost as good as Mom.”
A mote of regret infected Caleb’s joy. He had already missed too much of his son’s childhood—spending so many months aboard interplanetary supply ships that Warren might have grown into a new pair of shoes before he saw him again. At times Caleb had struggled against a rising jealousy of the close relationship Karla enjoyed with their son. But that guileless smile and gripping hug never failed to shatter those selfish fears.
“Well, it sure comes in handy now,” Caleb said. “Riding double has to be the most uncomfortable form of transportation ever. I’m sure my horse agrees, too.”
Warren only nodded, and Caleb drew a long, deep breath. How forced and formal he must sound! Better to blurt it out and get it over with.
“I have to ask you to hand over the Lor’yentré. Soren’s ordered me to—” he began, then pressed his lips shut, angry at his own cowardice. Passing blame was not the way to regain a child’s trust.
“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Warren said. “It’s broken.”
Caleb nearly asked why keeping it was so important, but an instinctive note of warning held him back. He seemed so cold and detached compared to the affectionate boy he knew the day before. “I’m a soldier of Ada, Warren—well, at least until we get back to Ekendoré,” he added, shrugging. “And because you’re my son and my responsibility, you’re subject to the same authority. Only a Loremaster or a Raén can lay hands on a Lor’yentré, broken or otherwise.”
A long minute passed. Warren reached in his pocket, sidled over, and dropped the pieces of the Lor’yentré into his father’s outstretched hand without looking at him. Then he kicked in his heels to take up a riding position some distance ahead.
Caleb stowed the talisman away near Telai’s gift. An ache gripped his chest, as if that stone giant had him in its grasp again. He needed her. No matter how dedicated he was as a father, he knew he could never fill the chasm Karla’s death had left in his son’s heart. How he hated that dogmatic fool Joásen!—who with one rash stroke had robbed the promise of love and happiness from their lives. Caleb could still hear the old man uttering the Rite of Exile, and the clang of Joásen's broken sword as it struck the floor.
♦
The coast angled south, its tall cliffs fading into the mist. Caleb felt the first tendrils of despair crawling through his mind again: Gur’alyreiv. It grew stronger with each passing hour, until conversation dwindled to rare, halfhearted replies.
The first glimpse of the trees over a low rise magnified the sickening anxiety all at once. The horses, neighing and tossing their heads, stopped and refused to budge. Much more powerful than before, it forced its way past Caleb’s defenses, sabotaging any spark of courage or determination.
He turned to Soren. “Well?”
The Master Raén glanced at him as his horse sidled about. Before long he nodded, forced to admit defeat.
“Wait,” said Rennor. “There is a chance.”
Soren shook his head. “We’ll have nothing to do with your strange powers.”
“Powers? What are you talking about?”
“Do you think we are blind? Or did some other miracle heal the blow to your snout?”
Caleb, having had other things to distract him, finally noticed how Rennor’s nose showed no trace of swelling, no bruises or damage of any kind. “I have to agree with Soren on this one, Rennor.”
“You don’t have a choice,” he answered. “We’ll run into Gur’alyreiv no matter which way we go.”
Soren studied the forest as if to decipher some clue from the threatening trees, then turned in the saddle to point. “On one condition: if any life is forfeit today, it be yours.”
Rennor seemed more shocked by the demand than at any thought of sacrificing himself. Yet he relaxed, dismounted, and handed the reins to Soren. He passed among them, walking slowly but deliberately into the full force of the power ahead as if unaffected by the anxiety tearing at the others.
He halted only a stone’s throw from the towering trees, looking frail and small despite his mysterious gifts. For long minutes he did nothing, motionless. Soren began to stir with impatience; Warren shifted closer to his father, a reluctant curiosity in his eyes. Caleb tensed, fearing the consequences.
A minute passed. Two. Then Rennor bowed his head.
In the next instant the power of Gur’alyreiv, which Caleb thought had already reached its limits, pierced his mind like a knife. He cried out, his hands clasped to his head. The horses screamed and bucked wildly, sending all three riders flying from their saddles.
The bone-jarring impact against the cold turf was tri
vial compared to the agony threatening to destroy him. It was like a predator, seeking him out no matter where he fled. Caleb barely heard Warren’s shriek of pain. All other things lost significance and importance. Only despair and terror remained. Ordinary objects—mountains, clouds, the thin, long blades of grass—swelled in presence and threat, harboring a doom unfathomable but horribly real. He groveled, hands searching everywhere for something to end his misery: his sword, a stone, a stick to ram into an eye socket and up into his brain.
He never knew when his body went limp, when the outside world faded. The torment continued, drilling to the core of his mind, crushing his pitiful existence to the brink of oblivion.
3
The Fatalists
Knowledge is a terrifying gift.
- from Besir Orand’iteé
CALEB OPENED his eyes. Gur’alyreiv was gone. His head throbbed so violently that he could hear his pulse, and he winced at the over-strained muscles in his arms, but Gur’alyreiv was gone. The sun shone low in the sky, and the cool wind of late afternoon brushed against his skin. He shook his head, gasped at the resulting stab of pain, and with a punishing effort rose to sit in the tall grass.
Then he fell onto his hands and emptied his stomach in a violent heave.
After sitting up again and fighting off a wave of vertigo, he heard a groan behind him. It was Soren. The old man’s face was as pale as death. For a long while they sat speechless, motionless, blinking at each other like owls in the sun.
Warren!
Caleb searched all around until he caught a glimpse of his son, lying in the grass where he had fallen from his horse. Caleb shouted his name and scrambled over, forcing his aching muscles to obey.
He shook the limp form, and the boy stirred, moaning softly. “Talk to me, Warren! Are you okay?”
Warren, his face drawn and streaked with dirt, squinted against the harsh light of the sky. “I don’t remember it was this bad.”
Caleb breathed again. “It wasn’t. But looks like you’ll be all right. Just think of it as a headache from hell.”
Warren propped himself up on his elbows, grimacing. “I hope it was worth it. Did Rennor defeat that barrier thing?”
“Good question,” Caleb said. He rose on his knees to look east over the waving grass. Tnestiri was still there, of course—devoid of any threat—but Rennor was nowhere in sight. Nor were any of their horses, he noted with a sinking heart.
Soren had risen to a stand, scanning the forest edge as he sheathed his Fetra.
“Where is he?” Caleb asked as he helped Warren up.
“I don’t know,” Soren answered. “But it looks like he was successful. Maybe he went into the forest.” Without warning he started walking directly toward the trees, a noticeable limp to his stride. Caleb grinned at the man’s audacity.
Soren stopped near a small pine barely half his height. He reached down, held the position for a while, then straightened.
“What is it?” Caleb called.
“Rennor,” he shouted. “He’s dead.”
Caleb and Warren looked at each other, then broke into a stumbling run, reaching Soren in a few seconds.
There at the Master Raén’s feet lay Rennor, staring blankly at the sky, void of all expression. There were no cuts or bruises of any kind on him, nor was there any trace whatsoever of the ordeal he must have gone through. It was as if someone had turned off his life like a switch.
“I already checked,” said Soren as Caleb reached down, but he wanted to prove it for himself. There was no pulse, the pale flesh of his neck as cold as stone. He had been lying dead for hours in the cool autumn air. Warren stood apart, eyes locked in morbid fascination.
Caleb rose. “What killed him?”
“It wasn’t Gur’alyreiv,” Soren answered. “There’s no trace of it left.” He peered at the forest. “Intuition may be a fickle thing, but I sense we are not yet done with Tnestiri. And we need to find our horses.”
The search lasted some time, but eventually they found two of the horses, Tellahur and another one trailing close behind. The others were gone, including the packhorse Warren had ridden—which, unfortunately, carried the bulk of their food supply.
“We are not in the best of situations, Caleb Stenger,” said Soren as he mounted. “We’ve searched as long as time allows, but in this long grass on a windy day, and the ground as hard as it is, their trails are too easy to lose.”
“They’re probably still running,” Caleb muttered.
Soren nodded at the other one. “That was Rennor’s.”
Caleb approached Rennor’s horse, Warren following, his steps strangely reluctant. To ride the animal so soon after the man’s demise seemed mercenary.
“We can’t leave Rennor lying in the open like that, Soren. He helped us, even if we didn’t trust his motives.”
“No. The daylight’s nearly gone. We’d have to wait until morning. His sacrifice won’t mean much if we all end up like him.”
Caleb pictured scavengers circling in for a meal and shuddered. But he forced himself to accept the situation and checked the horse over, inspecting the hooves and adjusting the girth.
“Is there anything to hunt with?”
“I could rig up some snares, I suppose,” Soren answered. “But it would mean staying in one place, and we can’t afford the delay.” He gestured southeast. “We can only hope those foothills are beyond Gur’alyreiv’s reach.”
Caleb shook his head. “We need food, Soren. We can’t keep riding and riding until we fall out of the saddle.”
“We won’t. There is a way to survive—but you won’t like it.”
“I can’t imagine anything worse than starvation.” He paused with one foot in the stirrup. “What won’t I like?”
Soren only spared him a glance, keeping his attention on the mountains. “We must put as much distance behind us as we can, while we still have use of the horses.”
“No way, Soren!”
“You haven’t been in this situation before, Caleb Stenger of the Raéni,” he mocked. “Believe me, when you’re facing death from starvation, horsemeat is a feast.”
Caleb stared at the animal’s flank, visualizing a gruesome butchery. Too well he remembered the slaughter back in Dernetondé. But he shoved these thoughts aside and vaulted into the saddle. Warren did likewise, forced to ride double again.
Putting all speed into their escape they soon reached the cliffs along the shore, and turned south. By then the sun was setting in a red blaze. They rode through the twilight as long as possible before camping, increasing their distance from the forest. What food remained they saved for morning. Though they were famished, and still sore from the lingering effects of Gur’alyreiv, the experience had so drained them that they fell asleep within minutes.
♦
Caleb stood in the midst of a vast wilderness—a land so barren it was as if life had never existed. Yet his heart pounded at the sight of a familiar face, at the sound of a familiar voice. Tears streamed from her light brown gaze, while the pain of betrayal transformed her beauty into such agony that Caleb feared she would die from it.
Why did you leave me, Caleb? Why did you take Warren away?
Telai … Telai ... I had no choice. I swear I’ll never do that to you again!
Her voice hardened, and her eyes kindled like green flames. You can be sure of that. You’ll never see that pathetic little runt again!
Caleb’s limbs turned to ice. Telai stood in the midst of a poisonous illumination enveloping her entire body. A narrow hand stretched out, its long nails black as night. Her face twisted with insatiable greed. No matter which way he turned she was there, transformed into a malevolent, lustful power so far removed from the woman he loved that he cried out in despair.
“Dad, wake up! Dad!”
In an instant he was awake, sitting upright. Then he bowed his head and let out a trembling sigh.
“We must leave, Caleb Stenger—at once.”
“Damn you,
Soren! It’s still hours before dawn.”
Soren was already rolling up his blankets. “We’ll be dead by then. Hurry, while we have the chance!”
Caleb peered north into the darkness. Soon there was no doubt: Gur’alyreiv had returned, slowly regaining its strength.
“That was an order, Raén!”
“Dad?”
“Don’t worry, son,” Caleb murmured as he jumped to obey. “I’ll be all right.”
They packed quickly. With a cold harsh wind at their backs they resumed their flight south in a starless night; a heavy cloud front had crept across the sky while they slept. The threat behind grew by the minute. Caleb could not help but think of the theater play he had seen with Telai, and the green-clad woman who had leaped down in a killing fury upon Urman of Old. Why had Telai appeared to him like that? It was as if all those corpses at Graxmoar were whispering a warning impossible to decode, yet equally impossible to ignore.
In a few hours the gray skies brightened, and they followed the coast south. Caleb’s stomach ached and growled constantly as he rode. What few scraps of food he had left he gave to Warren, while he drank from his water skin to provide some level of relief.
The cliffs bent to the east, soaring ever higher and more rugged, forcing the riders to veer inland and increase their exposure to Gur’alyreiv. Yet by late afternoon the coast turned south again, and a valley opened up ahead, offering an easy ascent into the tumbled hills. Beyond, the massive flanks of the Iéndrai rose into cloud, their lofty peaks hidden from sight.
Hours passed, and Tnestiri’s influence slowly faded until it nearly vanished. Evening gathered, and the weary travelers stopped at a small, sheltered hollow on the western side of the valley. Soren went off to set a few makeshift snares while Caleb and Warren tended to the horses and prepared the campsite. They found plenty of tinder and fallen limbs nearby, and despite their hunger it was comforting to have a roaring fire to chase away the chill.
They slept as well as their aching stomachs allowed. When Soren rose early the next morning to examine his traps, he found them all empty. While the others packed he climbed to the rocky crown of a nearby hill to get his bearings, a distant speck against the somber sky.
