“Temper your wrath, Myron. None here are content with this outcome but the word of the law is inviolate. I understand Tirielle A’m Dralorn holds a special place in all our hearts. We took her in after her expulsion. When they said she was possessed of magic, we looked after her estate. While she was gone, we mourned for her father, favourite among us. But perhaps we wanted her to turn out like her father so much that we overlooked her evil.” Even as she said it she did not believe it. Appearance was paramount now.
“Bah! You expect us to believe Tirielle a murderer?” Someone mumbled to a colleague, the words gathering pace and shooting around the room as soon as they were free.
“Yes, I expect you to believe," the Protectorate’s representative spoke for the first time, "not because my word is the law, but because it is the will of the Kuh’taenium. Never forget, though; we protect you. Thanks to us this land has known a thousand years of peace! Each time the council rises against us in anger, each time your fears are laid low, and each time we forgive your race. A thousand years ago came the revolution and governance was passed into your own hands, but by edict you are forbidden to rise against us. In turn we keep to ourselves and you govern yourselves. The Protectorate shield you all from the harsh realities of a world with rogue magic, keep your streets safe and protect the innocent and yet still you bite the hand that feeds you. Have you no shame?!” The Protocrat sputtered in mock fury.
More mumbles roamed the room, but few dissenters were rash enough to speak out further. But there is always one whose mouth runs too freely.
“And perhaps we should petition the Protectorate for their brutality! Not two days ago I saw a man beheaded in front of my very eyes!”
Oh, Guy, thought Reih. You have just signed your own death warrant. She could see it, but Guy was wrong. To accuse the Protectorate would mean death, even if they could not kill a Councillor in the street like a wild wizard, they could still kill. The Protectorate were growing bold. She looked at the creature dressed in all its finery, but for all that still a thug by any other name. Such proud, noble features he had. When would all the others realise the threat they posed? Harsh words were allowed – such accusations were too far. It wasn’t written but they all knew it, even Guy. She could see the unconscious slump of his shoulder as he realised what he just done.
Reih sighed and rubbed her eyes. She knew there was some duplicity here – she would protect the law with all her might, but Tirielle a murderer? The charge smacked of politics more than crime. The boundaries were clearly demarked still, yet she felt the lines become involute. The Kuh’taenium seemed stretched and blurred in her eyes. The lines were fading. Her link with the law was tainted, and there was nothing she could do about it. It was bred into her bones, a link formed at birth, and now it felt diseased. As Imperator of the Conclave, she and the Kuh’taenium were symbiotic. They shared thoughts, saw each others dreams, gave each other strength. Some would think it unnatural that a building should have a soul, but not Reih. She accepted without question.
She needed the Kuh’taenium’s power more than ever now. Some kind of revolution was coming. She hoped it was all in her mind, but if it was in her mind, it was in the Kuh’taenium’s, too.
She could feel a headache coming on. Knowing there was nothing more she could achieve among the Conclave, she called it to a close, cutting off the Protocrat before he could reply to Guy’s foolish accusation. She needed to rest. The Kuh’taenium was sickened by the betrayal it had been forced to witness, and she felt its sadness in her bones.
As the sun came up, the members filed out through various exits (some above ground, some below – the shell itself sat half submerged in the earth).
His work done, albeit not swiftly, the Protocrat left last. Tirielle was disbarred and the arguments in her favour had held no sway. The Kuh’taenium had decided – Tirielle was on her own, and no rights afforded to a member of the Conclave would be granted upon her capture. Not that such considerations had hampered the Protectorates efforts to capture her until now, but it was the appearance of the thing that mattered.
The Protocrat stretched, spine cracking loudly, and made his way to his superior, who waited under the shade of one of the trees that lined the twelve approaches to the Conclave’s heart.
Reih passed slowly through the outer cells of the Kuh’taenium, ascending gradually to her living rooms at the apex of the giant sphere. The journey took some time as she wound her way higher, looking out through the sheltered windows onto the grounds and the city beyond.
There, under the canopy of growth that fluttered lightly on the day’s breeze, the Protocrat spoke animatedly with someone. Another Protocrat, his face hidden. The two were concealed on the curving paths that ran through the gardens, unseen from below. She stood back from the light watching the two in discussion until she could see who would walk away.
The man left, and Reih let out her breath. His size alone gave him away, but the Kuh’taenium confirmed her suspicions, its sight and senses greater than any mortal. She saw through its myriad eyes. There was no doubt.
Tun, the head of the Protectorate’s Search Division.
So it had all been set up. They had just been waiting for license to hunt Tirielle like an animal. Stripped of the benefits granted to the Conclave, Reih had no doubt that should Tirielle be captured, she would be tortured and killed.
But what could she do? What was she really, but a glorified politician?
What was one human, against the might of their rulers?
She sat on her bed, thoughts whirling dangerously, until the Kuh’taenium began speaking. They talked long, until Dow rose. Finally, she fell into her bed and slept a shallow sleep that did little to refresh her.
She woke to a new day half fled. As Carious slid below the horizon, she began to write.
‘Dear Gurt…’
*
Chapter Three
Further south, unaware of the machinations of the Interpellate within the Kuh’taenium, a caravan travelled, wavering in the blistering heat. Nine outriders shimmered more than most. A man could be forgiven for thinking the sight was simply a product of the heat haze, but it was not – it was the sun reflected brightly on armour that would shimmer no matter the weather. The nine warriors, on steeds black as night, were as glorious as the sun. They were the paladins of the Order of Sard, the suns’ warriors, Tirielle A’m Dralorn’s honour guard and enemy of the Protectorate. Already they had found blood on their long journey. Before it was over they would find more.
The suns baked the earth. The horses’ hooves raised no dust. Within the caravan, Tirielle A’m Dralorn watched the land roll on before her as she was gently rocked by the road. Sweat beaded her upper lip, and moistened her temples, but her dress was light, and here, within the wagon, she was sheltered from the painful brightness of the twin suns. She flicked her tongue over her lip, tasting the salty sweat and feeling her broken tooth. Lately, she found, when she was in thought she worried at the shard of tooth with her tongue.
It was three weeks since she had been forced to flee the sanctuary of her friend Roth’s home, and the memory of the coolness of the caverns and the friendship she had found there sustained her on the endless plains. She had been travelling ever since the first battle on Lianthre in a thousand years. The battle had been fierce, and together with their rahken allies she had survived. She did not know how the Protectorate had discovered her sanctuary with the rahkens, the massive beasts that had until now existed unharmed and untamed in enclaves across the continent. She only wished her fate had not drawn the Rahken Nation into the battle. She wondered how her allies fared, now that their treaty with the continent’s rulers was broken. There would be no pretence of friendship between Roth's kin and the Protectorate now.
It was some unknown magic that had found her, but they had travelled unhindered since. She was beginning to think the magic her enemies had used then could be used no longer, for surely they would have found her on the road. She was far from inc
onspicuous from prying eyes.
For now, she was safe under the protection of the Sard and Roth.
She had survived the first battle in what would surely become a war to end an age. Now, her companions were guarding her from harm on her path to Beheth. The Order of the Sard’s powers granted her invisibility from the Protectorate’s scrying eyes.
Her flight had been long, and the path treacherous. And yet, the end was far from sight. Her friend and former assassin, Roth, a massive rahken warrior, had exacted her vengeance on her father’s killer, and for that she had been sentenced to death long before she knew her fate. Her father’s murderer had been Protectorate. She had made a powerful enemy. She had discovered since, thanks to the paladins of the Sard, that she was destined to meet another two enemies of the Protectorate. She was the first of three mortals destined to change the world, and in some ways she felt comforted to know that she was not alone, blown upon fate’s fickle winds.
If they lived, only the three could awaken a mythical wizard, an ancient being with (she hoped) the power to withstand the behemoth that ruled over her continent.
It had better be worth it, she thought to herself. Too many had died already. She was under no illusions. She knew more deaths were still to come.
Tirielle found herself getting hotter as she wondered where her path would lead, come the end. Even the breeze did nothing to cool her. She tried to empty her mind. It was not easy to avoid deep thoughts on the journey to Beheth. There was little in the way of distraction, just blasted plains. Even clouds became interesting after a while.
Instead of studying the landscape, or worrying about finding some wizard who might or might not exist, she studied her companions.
Cenphalph H’y Casdiem, one of the nine Sard, rode at the head of the column, armoured and cloaked. He did not seem to be affected by the heat at all. His blonde hair shone healthily in the sun and he rode easily, eyes fixed in the distance, one hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword, one holding the reins of his steed almost absent-mindedly.
Tirielle squinted against the brightness of Dow, now directly ahead of her, looking for just a glimpse of j’ark. She found him to her left, and she stole the sight as would a thief, and held it in her mind for later. She was not yet in love with him – after all, what would be the point? - but she found herself breathless sometimes when she thought of him, or when they spoke long into the evening. She knew she was making the paladin uncomfortable. He had taken his vows many years ago, and would not break them for her, or any woman. Perhaps that was why she was drawn to him. She had her own reasons for being afraid to let herself feel. She had lost too much to be carefree in love or life.
As if sensing the weight of her gaze on his back, j’ark glanced at the caravan, and saw Tirielle looking at him. She did not look away. She was not some coquettish maiden, flushed by a man’s eyes. She smiled warmly at him. He returned the sentiment, but she thought she saw the sadness, the sense of longing unfulfilled in his eyes that she too felt.
But then, who could read a man’s heart in a smile?
He looked away, and she returned to her thoughts. There was little else worthy of distraction.
Since leaving the fleeting haven of Roth’s home, she had seen more of her continent than she ever imagined it contained. Much to her dismay, she hadn’t found it as interesting as she would have liked. Even had she not been running for her life, she would not have stopped to take in the scenery. It was, by and large, dull and endless. And still, she had travelled just a fraction of the distance to her journey’s end. It would yet take her to the library at Beheth, far to the south of the capital city of Lianthre, and if her guard were to be believed, further still, into a frozen waste she knew only as Teryithyr, across the vast expanse of the ocean, unmapped and forbidding.
But she would return, with or without the wizard. She would destroy the Protectorate, even if it meant the death of her. She was committed. She would even sacrifice the nation for the freedom she thought the people deserved. No longer would her people be cattle.
She moped at her brow with a handkerchief, and pulled her eyes away from the road. Her thick, dark hair stuck to her face. She pushed it aside, noting the grime under her broken fingernails. She examined her hands – in some respects more interesting than the landscape. She rubbed at them, then withdrew one of her fine bone handled blades from where they hid in sheaths inside her forearms. She began paring and trimming her nails. The blades were too fine for such work, but she was becoming used to much that she would not have dreamed of doing in her former life as a member of the Conclave.
In some ways, a life on the run was invigorating. She had her friends, as she had come to think of them. She even had Roth, and for that she was grateful. It was running ahead of the caravan, lost to sight in the distance, scouting the road ahead. Without Roth, she would have been dead many times over. She missed the creature when it was not present. She wondered how it was faring in the summer heat. She noted with interest that it had shed some of its thick fur. Perhaps, should it get any hotter, her friend would become bald. She did not think it would like that. After all, we all have our modesty, she thought. But then, without organs to be shy about, why would it worry? Maybe she would ask it. It might make for some amusement in the evening’s camp.
We all have our secrets, she thought. Roth more than most. One day she would find them out. It wasn’t like she didn’t have time. That was all she had on the road. But the Sard insisted time was growing short. The return was drawing near, the end of days were in sight.
Tirielle had a part to play. They called her the Sacrifice, the first of the three prophesised to awaken the wizard. She dreaded to think what that meant. But without playing out the prophesy that concerned her, and her two soul brothers, the Saviour and the Watcher, she would never find a way to stop the return, and so thwart the Protectorate’s designs. There was nothing she would rather do, but she had a duty to fulfil first.
Quintal and Cenphalph made an effort to explain about the first and the second, the key they spoke of, but she was none the wiser. Apparently the first born would be the Sacrifice, the second would be the Saviour. The Sard didn’t seem to understand what their roles were, or even if there was a point to the names. The idea of being labelled ‘sacrifice’ could only mean one thing to her.
Tirielle set the thought to one side, as her father had shown her. All in good time, her father would have said. That thought drew a smile from her, one tinged with sadness. He would have approved of her path, and that knowledge brought her peace on the days she doubted herself.
And still, the end was far from sight.
Miles and miles they had roamed, Roth leading the way. The horses were much faster but Roth’s sense were the keener.
Along the way they had avoided the great cities, avoided anywhere larger than a hamlet, or the occasional lone tavern or trading station, where they bought only supplies and moved on, ever onwards, south into the heat. As they rode, and camped, they had become closer. Tirielle almost wished she were a brother, so that she could share everything that the men shared. Perhaps then j’ark would take her into his confidence, and even though he might not give her love, she might get to know him.
But wishes were butterflies. Friendships lasted more than a day. Once, when they had first met, she had doubted the Sard. Now she trusted them with her life, and more than once they had saved her from death. She knew they were stronger together. They were an army. An army of ravens, caught up in a storm.
Ravens did not wish. They flew, and they fought for their territory, they protected each other. Together, they were stronger.
Once, it had been her and Roth. Now they were greater. They had a chance, tiny though it was. A chance to live, to change. To win?
She laughed. Butterfly, raven, what did it matter? Both were subject to the blowing of the wind.
The Sard rode on, the suns shone, and sweat poured. She looked around again, taking in the paladin’s faces, those
that she could see. Briskle was masked, in his helm as he always was. She knew even were she to call him he would be silent, for all he could do was speak to animals. Cruelly, the talent did not extend to humans.
Quintal, their leader, was not in sight.
She was surrounded by the Sard, all of whom were like the giant Carth in so many respects. Carth was taciturn in the extreme, admittedly. At first she had likened them to the silent Briskle, but after a short time with no other distractions – the first opportunity she had to be around him and actually observe – she realised that he talked more than any other among the group. His hands were in almost constant motion.
Typraille was the second most companionable of the group, after j’ark, and in Typraille there was none of the thorny tension that was often present when she spoke with j’ark long into the evening.
Typraille was gifted with a certain kindness, in a fatherly way. It was refreshing among so many warriors.
Disper and Yuthran were out of sight, as was Unthor Ren Un Gor. It did not matter that she could not see them. She knew they were there, like shining sentinels, protecting her from harm.
Would that she knew her companions better.
A soft cry came from behind her, and she turned her attention to the last of her companions, the sad figure laid out in the back of the wagon.
She was just a girl. It was for her that Tirielle travelled to Beheth.
The girl’s eyes were covered in cloth. Tirielle knew from experience not to remove the binding. The girl’s eyes saw more than Tirielle wished to know. Infected by some strange disease that the Sard had called the blight, her eyes, usually of myriad colours, were blooded and stained red to the pupil.
Sometimes, words were placed in Tirielle’s head, and she knew the girl’s suffering. She was locked in a cage by the strange malady inflicted on her during her time as a captive of the Protectorate.
Fate was well and good, but Tirielle had vowed to cure the Seer first.
Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy) Page 2
