Hope Betrayed: The Silent Tempest, Book 2

by E. J. Godwin

  Fighting a surge of disappointment she strode up the frozen path to the door and let herself in. The foyer was dark except for the street lanterns gleaming through the narrow windows. “Who’s there?” came the inevitable challenge from the study, and Yoté bounded into the foyer ready to defend his mistress’s belongings. Garda quickly lowered her cowl to assuage his fears.

  He seemed more shocked at seeing the Overseer instead of a burglar. She laughed. “I would demand what it is you’re doing here, but that would make a hypocrite of me, I think.”

  He blinked at her. “You are the Overseer.”

  “Not tonight, my good man. Only Telai’s mother. I thought I would wander around here and try to draw some sense out of a muddled head.”

  “My lady?”

  She waved the matter off. “I don’t really know why I’m here, Yoté. A foolish impulse, I suppose—one that confounds Derré as much as it does you. Apologies.”

  “No need. In fact, I’m used to impulsive folk.” His eyes widened suddenly, and he stiffened. “Forgive me!”

  “Yoté, will you stop that! Treat me like a friend for once.” He lowered his gaze, and she added, “I certainly consider you one. Not least because you’ve served my daughter faithfully for years.”

  He lifted his head quickly, and she wondered if she had offended him. Then he turned away, scratching his scalp in affected nonchalance.

  “Yoté? What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

  “No, of course not,” he said, turning back. He shrugged. “At least nothing catastrophic.”

  Garda studied him a moment. “Something tells me I’m not going to like this.”

  Yoté smiled a little, a feeble attempt to lighten the mood. At Garda’s suggestion they entered the study, which lay to the right past the dining room at the end of a short hall. The lamp gleamed off the polished desk there, save where a number of documents and odd belongings lay in disarray, apparently where Yoté had set them; Eké usually visited the house on a daily basis while Telai was away, and she would have straightened any mess her mistress left behind.

  He stood there in some sort of etiquette-induced impasse until she gestured impatiently toward a high-backed, cushioned bench against the left-hand wall. Garda perched half-seated on the desk corner nearest him, the line of her sight above his. She grinned at herself. Despite her claim to have shed the role of Overseer for the evening, part of her still refused to give up even this small posture of authority.

  After a pause he spoke, as if on command. “I’m here at Mistress Telai’s request, my lady.”

  Silence. “Then you’ve seen her,” she said at last. Still he hesitated, and she pressed, “Yoté? Where is she? And why didn’t you come directly to me with this news?”

  “I’ve only just arrived—from Enilií. I have no idea where she is now.”

  She left the desk and seated herself beside him, the last trace of Overseer gone. “Tell me everything, Yoté. To begin with, what prompted you to go after her?”

  “I was worried about her, that’s all.”

  Garda knew that her daughter had inherited her aversion to coddling. How this overprotective man had maintained such an equable relationship with Telai for so many years was a genuine mystery. “I can just picture her reaction.”

  Yoté’s eyebrows lifted. “Yes. I assumed she would head for Enilií, the same direction Soren and the Falling Man were last seen heading. But I had to ride hard to catch up to her. If she hadn’t stopped at Onayonlé for a few days, I never would have managed it.”

  “Anidrin,” Garda said. “That old man understands her as well as anyone, I think.”

  “Perhaps. But he told me she didn’t stay long. She was too determined to find the Falling Man. And when I tried to persuade her to come back to Ekendoré … um … let’s just say it wasn’t the friendliest conversation we’ve ever had.”

  “Well, there’s one woman in Ada grateful for your efforts, Yoté. But why are you here now? I can’t imagine her angry enough to send you away.”

  “She didn’t—not immediately, at least. She allowed me to accompany her on the condition I stop badgering her, as she worded it. I was rather persistent about it. But once she was certain she could find the others, she insisted I return to Ekendoré.”

  “Our gift of laroné doesn’t work across long distances like that, Yoté. How could she possibly know where to find them?”

  In answer he reached over, grabbed a small leather pouch from the desk, and placed it in her hand. “With this.”

  The bag rested neatly in Garda’s palm. After a moment a shiver of premonition traveled down her spine.

  “There’s nothing to fear, my lady.”

  With jaw set she loosened the drawstrings, and emptied its contents into her hand. She almost laughed at herself. It was only a large coin, apparently made of steel. The side facing her had no markings, no features of any kind, not even a rim along its edge. She turned it over, and her brow wrinkled in puzzlement. An engraved eye stared up at her, taking up the entire breadth of the coin; etched within the pupil, a tiny figure of a woman was curled into a fetal position as if hiding from imminent danger.

  “Like the Medallion, yet unlike,” Yoté replied. “She found it in Enilií.”

  “What, in a curio shop?”

  “Hardly. A stranger approached her at the inn she was staying at—this was before I arrived—and gave her that disc. He gave no explanation of what it was, or even his own name. He simply dropped it in her hand and left. She didn’t even tell me about it until after we left Enilií.”

  She searched his expression; his voice seemed to carry a hint of foreboding, yet inadvertently, as if he were only a conduit for Telai’s gifts of insight.

  “Didn’t she follow him?”

  “Of course. But no matter where she searched or who she talked to, she found no trace of him.”

  “I assume she doesn’t know what these symbols represent.”

  “No.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t like this. And why did she send it to me? Ressolc would be more appropriate for this sort of thing.”

  “She was convinced of its importance, and that it should be kept safe. She could think of no better place than Wsaytchen, in your keeping.” He gestured at her hand. “Focus on the coin, my lady. You’ll see.”

  After a brief hesitation, Garda concentrated on the coin as Yoté had requested. But before long she gave it up, shaking her head.

  “I’m sorry, Yoté, but there’s nothing. What is it I’m supposed to see?”

  The man squirmed. “Forgive me, my lady. You must use your gifts.”

  Garda sighed, tempted to remark that he might have mentioned it earlier, then bent her head again. Seconds later, she gasped and dropped the coin to the floor.

  Yoté retrieved it, and asked, “You saw the boy? You saw Caleb Stenger’s son?”

  She nodded slowly. “You could have warned me, my dramatic friend,” she said, and Yoté’s smug expression vanished. “The picture was a little vague, but it was dark,” she continued, “which suggests a present vision at nighttime, and not something from the past or future.”

  “That was Telai’s assumption.”

  “I don’t understand. If it’s so attuned to the boy, why did she send it here?”

  “She woke me up early one morning and told me she saw the boy in a waking vision—and without the help of this,” he said, gesturing at the coin. “Apparently she’s developed some sort of bond with him.”

  “She saw him in a vision? What day was it?”

  Yoté’s brow furrowed. “The eighteenth—no, the nineteenth. Seven days ago this morning. We were camped south of Crooked Pass, near to where Gegré-Enilií splits off from the North Road. Why do you ask?”

  “I woke up that same morning from a strange dream about Caleb Stenger’s son. He was gripping something in his hands.”

  “Are you saying there’s some connection?”

  “No,” she muttered, growing im
patient with all this mystery. “I need facts, not signs and portents. I still don’t understand its importance to Ada. Did she offer any explanation?”

  “She mentioned hearing a voice in her dream: Only the past shall undo it.”

  It took her a moment to digest this. “That’s straight out of Besir Orand’iteé.”

  “I know.”

  Garda trembled. For an instant the house and everything around her winked out of sight, leaving only the lamp shining on the table, a beacon in an endless void.

  “That’s not much to go on,” she said, voice quavering. “Is there anything else about the stranger you can tell me?”

  “No. He was only there for a few seconds.”

  “Did she say what he looked like?”

  “Dark hair, I think. I’m sorry, my lady. I didn’t give it much heed.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’m sure it’s no one we’d recognize.”

  Silence fell. The Overseer diverted her attention to the window, where the frost-mantled panes scintillated the yellow street lamps beyond. The city’s custodians usually lit them only once per evening; now they were starting to burn low, and it cast a pall of sorrow over her heart. It was as if they represented the lives of Ada, fading one by one into a night that would see no morning.

  Garda shook these thoughts from her head and rose from her seat. She walked to the window, confronting her fears as she always did, then faced Yoté again. “I have my own task for you now, my good man. One that in time may prove to be as important as Telai’s.”

  “Of course,” he said softly.

  “You must take this medallion south, to First Underseer Homim.”

  “To Spierel? Shouldn’t it be kept here, in your care?”

  “When it comes to matters of lore, or prescience of things unseen, I trust my daughter’s instincts as well as you do. But when it comes to strategy, or better yet pragmatism, she does not always see as clearly. Pride might dictate we keep it in hallowed Wsaytchen or Gerentesk, but I tend to be cautious about the influence of tradition. Spierel is our strongest fortress, and the one most removed from the Hodyn.”

  “You predict such a disaster?”

  “Hardly. But it’s a little late to decide to send the thing away to safety in the midst of battle. And by Adan law the First Underseer of Spierel would take command in my absence, should it come to that.”

  Yoté swallowed visibly, apparently understanding what the Overseer meant by absence. “My duty is to serve.”

  She smiled warmly. “Mine as well, Yoté. Come,” she said, approaching the hallway. “Gather what you need here, and accompany me to the palace. You should rest there tonight in comfort, while I arrange for a few trusted Raéni to guard you on your journey.”

  He rose to his feet. “Trusted Raéni, my lady?” Then he blushed at his effrontery.

  She laughed this time at his courtesy, or rather at his need to restore it. For all his frustration over Telai’s impulsiveness, he was anything but the epitome of restraint. “Yes, trusted, my perceptive friend. Another triumph of pragmatism over tradition. But my mouth runs on tonight. And of course I can trust you to keep quiet about this.”

  “On my life, Overseer.”

  Yoté still had a few more duties to complete, so she sat in the foyer to wait. At last they shut the front door behind them; most of the street lights had gone out by now, and in a fit of good nature Garda allowed her companion to lead the way down the darkened streets.

  The feeling didn’t last. As Garda reached the first corner she paused to glance back at her daughter’s house: with its bare trees and windows dark as ink it looked as if it had been abandoned for years, and she quickly turned from the sight, a chill settling into her bones again.

  6

  Escape and Rescue

  Fear is the first step of the brave.

  - Tenlar, Master Raén of Spierel

  A GROWING TREMOR of churning waters in Caleb Stenger’s ears triggered all manner of imagined disasters in his head. Yet it also promised his freedom.

  Two entire days—at least what Géihtser said was two days—seemed to have vanished from his memory. Only vague impressions remained, of endless monotony, and the suffocating weight of stone, which magnified every cautious word to a traveling whisper. Wide, rugged caverns accentuated the long tunnels, with narrow, deep crevasses echoing with the sound of dripping water. But even with these variations the passage of night and day had lost all meaning.

  They stopped at a rocky ledge overhanging a swift, subterranean river. Géihtser lit a torch and jammed it into a crevice in the wall; the low roof flickered with the reflected light, and magnified the sound of the turbulent waters to deafening proportions.

  Wedged among the rocks above a wide landing lay an upturned skiff large enough to hold three or four adults. It had no oars of any kind, and Caleb suddenly realized this would be very different from his little cruise with Telai in Ekendoré.

  Géihtser stepped close, shouting above the tumult. “You’re near the end of your journey. From here you must go on alone.”

  Any reply was not worth the effort, so they helped him set the boat upright near the river’s edge. At Géihtser’s direction they placed a few select items into an empty water skin to keep them safe and dry, and secured it to Caleb’s pack.

  Géihtser pointed downstream to where the river turned a bend and faded into darkness. “About three miles down you’ll come to a ledge that drops close to the water,” he said, speaking directly into their ears as Caleb and Soren stood close. “There you must end the journey as you began it, by diving. The river is running high, so I don’t know if there will be any space to breathe. But don’t worry. If you keep your wits you’ll soon see daylight. Try to stay near the center of the current, and make sure your packs are on tight.”

  Caleb did his best to keep a growing panic in check. If the current downstream was anything like this, an eleven-year-old was no match for it. How could he possibly swim while holding his son? Caleb gripped his son’s shoulder as he translated the situation, hoping to reassure him, yet the tremble in his hand did nothing to allay the growing fear in Warren’s eyes.

  They lowered the boat into the water, and Géihtser braced himself with the rope held tight in his hands as the others stepped in. Soren took the bow, Géihtser’s flaring torch in one hand. Warren jumped nimbly between the thwarts, while his father sat at the stern, his stomach threatening to eject his latest meal.

  “Fate or no fate, it is my sincerest wish that you find happiness,” the Prophet cried. Soren raised a hand in silent thanks, and Géihtser threw the rope into the boat.

  The craft accelerated like a shot. Seconds later, the tiny flame of the Prophet’s lamp dwindled and vanished around the bend.

  Caleb seized the gunwales, trembling. The swift current rose and fell precipitously, and the chill blast of damp air stung his eyes. Had it been only a short way he might have endured it. But in time the endless twists, dips, turns and hairbreadth misses began eating at his nerves. At times the boat grazed the moisture-laden walls with a jarring thud, and each harrowing turn convinced him it would smash full force into the stone and disintegrate into flotsam.

  Soren crouched, his back to the wind in an attempt to keep the fluttering torch alive. Caleb served as the lookout. But he could see only a short distance ahead, because of the unavoidable shadow Soren cast; time and again he emptied his lungs in a shout, and they all doubled up into the belly of the boat to avoid the threat of hanging stone zooming into the light.

  A stab of brightness appeared, closing fast, and Caleb shouted in triumph. Then a narrow ray of sunlight slanted down through a freak opening directly into the boat. It was over in a split-second, but it blinded them, and the torchlight was suddenly useless.

  “Keep your heads down!” Soren bellowed, and the other two quickly obeyed. Though Caleb heard nothing but the rush of water and wind, felt nothing but the sway and lunge of the boat, he could vividly imagine j
agged rocks hurtling by mere inches above their spines.

  After a while his sight returned. Both the river and the stone overhead smoothed out, and the current slowed a little. But the roof dropped so close that they had to spend most of their time bent double, their heads between their knees. The gunwales scraped and jarred against hanging sections of stone, and they flew forward in the boat with each impact. Soren’s torch flickered on the verge of going out.

  At last the boat slowed, until it stopped altogether, jammed sideways against a ledge descending right to the surface. The water foamed and boiled as it passed underneath, and threatened to capsize the boat as it churned against it.

  They all sat recovering, bent over with their hands braced on the smooth stone near their faces. There was barely enough space above the boat to climb over and enter the water. The rocky ledge spanned the entire river, and there was no gap anywhere, no room for any kind of torch, or even for breathing. They would have to swim in utter darkness, submerged in the rushing current.

  The flames of Soren’s torch licked the ceiling near his head. “Keep Warren close to you,” he shouted. “Never let him leave your grasp.”

  Caleb did not answer. He stared transfixed at the swirling water, knuckles white from his fierce grip on the edge of the boat.

  “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

  He shook his head wildly. “The water!”

  The Master Raén’s lips tightened. “Is that supposed to impress me? Or do you think you’re the only one less than delighted about this? I’ll go first, if you like. You and Warren can follow.”

  Caleb shut his eyes. Tears oozed from the corners, and his chest beat like a drum.

  “You have no choice,” Soren yelled. “I can’t hold you both, and I won’t be able to return to help. You must swim alone, or with the boy.”

  That snapped him out of his paralysis. “Take Warren.”