Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy)

by Craig Saunders

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  Chapter Forty-One

  Tirielle awoke to find the sheets tied in a sweaty bundle around her legs. The air felt heavy with moisture, but it brought no relief from the heat. Her sleep had been tortured, voices in her head unlike the dreams she often had. She could not remember what they had said, but her sleep had been fractured because of them. She had a vaguely disturbing feeling that the voices had been real. Perhaps the Seer had been dreaming. She wondered if she could hear the Seer’s dreams as she heard her voice in her mind, those wise tones so unlike a child’s. She shuddered at the thought. Her compassion for the Seer, who had been badly used all her life, was proportionate to the fear she felt at knowing what the girl knew. To see the worlds that the girl had seen, to know even a fraction of the future – it was enough to terrify even the bravest of women. Tirielle did not think she was brave. It would destroy her, she knew, to see what the Seer saw, even for a moment.

  She rose, untangling herself, and splashed her face with water from the washbowl. The water was warm, but it washed away the night sweat from her brow. She took a robe from the ornate wardrobe, pulling it around her narrow shoulders, and closing and locking the door behind her headed down the back stairs to the washrooms. A bath would sooth her, and perhaps hot water would make the sticky, ill-mannered air seem more bearable.

  There were only small patched of light on the back stairs, leading to the baths. No breeze could sneak through those slits, and the air was heavy with heat and damp and dust motes dancing in the sullen air.

  Reminded of her time in captivity, chills crept up on her. Goosebumps stood proud on her arms as she stared at the slits. Once she had been soiled, and naked, suffered indignity and sometimes almost crippling despair – and yes, she admit freely, if only to herself – fear. She wondered how the dissidents that the Sard had released from their bondage were faring in their studies with the rahkens. She hoped their sanctuary still held unbroken against the might of the Protectorate. They would always be hunted, as she was, but she hoped that one day, with the rahkens aid, that the dissidents would rise against her hated enemy. Perhaps they would know a life of freedom. If she could, she would make the land free.

  Lofty ideals, she knew, and for a fugitive perhaps impossible, but she was far from defenceless. She had powerful allies, now. Revenge against the Protectorate was still distant, but one day…one day she would see them destroyed, or she would die in the attempt.

  She remembered the fear she had felt, chained with Roth in that long forgotten prison, on her way to the inquisitors. Never again. I will die before I submit to their twisted will again.

  So much had come of that journey. At its end, she had found the Sard, and the Seer. Such power apart could only multiply now that they were together. Would that they could stay that way.

  She shook herself from her reverie, and once more her sandals, wood and straw, clacked loudly on the stairs, audible even above the midday hum of a city breathing.

  She pulled the left hand door open – the baths in this city were divided for men and women – and entered into the steamy room. To know that this heat would wash her clean was a relief. Nodding to the attendant, a young girl still in her teens, she disrobed and sank into the luxurious heat of the fresh bath the girl indicated. Coals burned underfoot, Tirielle knew from her own, long forgotten estates, in the belly of the inn, heating water that was pumped through copper pipes to the bath. She gave it no more thought, but ducked her head under the water, sluicing away the sweat of the day.

  Rising, she stilled her mind as she had been taught. She felt calmness descend on her, her doubts and fears falling away, tethered to her but drifting at a great distance. Far enough that she no longer had to think through their haze, far enough that she could think without passion and confusion.

  She finally took note of things she had not had the time to notice before. The steam, the delicious warmth of the water, so different to the warmth of the muggy air of the city. She had the baths to herself, and she intended to make full use of the fact. There was no rush, no duty. She could do nothing until evening fell. Time was precious, now that events were rushing toward their climax. There would be little time to relax in the days to come.

  Few bathed at midday, being about their business. But her business was with the night, dusty tomes to be pored over by candlelight, with no one to ask questions of them. Last night had not been a success, though. She and j’ark had spent the night, till the dawn chased them back to their beds, searching fruitlessly. The Seer assured them the knowledge was in the Library of the Secessionist, and she had to believe in her. But where?

  They had studied a mere portion of a fraction of a decade of the writings of one era. The search had been narrowed, and for that she was grateful, but how were they to find even a rumour when the world was so wide? There were treatise on the origins of the nation, in which the hand of Protocrat editors was evident and she had gleaned little knowledge she could trust, journals of politicians and travellers, one bardic tale written in the old tongue of Beheth before the Cusp had been unified with Lianthre, too many scrolls which were behind cases – special permission was required to view these documents – too many epic poems of that era, some historical in nature but too vague by far to be of any real use, a pictographic, hand-drawn account of a cataclysm rumoured at in the past, depicting mountains rising from the land and a darkening of the suns, one moon covering one sun in an eclipse, leaving only a halo of light from one sun. It seemed to be the smaller that was covered. She attached no significance to it. Eclipses were common, the last having been twenty-three years ago, when she had been born. Her father had told her of it, perhaps to make her feel special. At the time she was sure it would have worked, she had longed for his approval above all else, and he had given it, every day until his murder.

  She sighed and took the soap to her legs, lathering each in turn, then washing the suds clear in the hot water.

  None of the documents she had examined gave any mention of contact with lands other than her own. There was talk of an exodus to the west, but no discussion of how this was achieved. If she was to travel to this land, this Teryithyr, she needed means. She knew of no ship which could travel such a distance, nor hold fresh food for long enough to make such a journey. But it seemed Sia had other plans for them, anyway.

  Tonight, they would move on to weightier tomes, historical accounts from before the current age. J’ark had discovered a section of the library which predated the original construction. The stone was different, the flagstones underfoot rang with a strangely hollow thrum as booted feet strode on them. Tirielle and j’ark had spent a moment examining the floors and the walls, even the ceilings, while the readers had been in other parts of the library. They had found no secret passageways, but such could easily be disguised behind one of the worn racks of shelves which covered the walls.

  It was a gamble. Tonight they would take candles and try to gain access to the old wing while the readers were otherwise occupied in their studies. They had not been watched last night. Tirielle thought it might be possible to explore undetected. If they were detected, the worst that could happen would be expulsion – but that would be bad enough. The Seer assured her the search was in the right location. It was enough to contend with, trying to find a mention of a history before history began, without having to break into the library, too.

  She had no doubt the Tenthers would not be called in the event of a break-in, or even a theft. The librarians had no love of the Protectorate. The Protectorate were the enemies of learning. They loved schools and libraries, just as long as they could control what people took away with them.

  How much had been lost? Tirielle wondered quietly to herself as she towelled her body and hair dry. What if their search was in vain, and the Protectorate had the knowledge safe in Arram, safe from human eyes, to guard until the return, when it would be too late for the people of Rythe, when the old ones would rule once again, harsher master than the Protectorate eve
r were.

  If the Sard were to be believed – and she had no reason to suspect a lie – the return would mean slavery of a different kind, a subservience deeper than Lianthre had known for the last thousand years, pain and suffering on such a grand scale that the Protectorate would seem benevolent in comparison. What the Protectorate could gain from the return of such powerful masters, she could not comprehend. It was not for her to puzzle out. All that matter was to save the world from a deeper darkness, to keep it in the light. It was the Sard’s cause, and now it was hers. She was committed, to the end.

  To be the Sacrifice? What could it mean, but her death? But what choice did she have other than to follow her road wherever it led? Was she fated to die in the end, before she could see the Protectorate tumble from power? Not if she could help it. She would watch, and learn, and when it came time for her to Sacrifice herself, she would…what? She switched herself mentally. There was no point in denying it, even in her own thoughts. If the destruction of the Protectorate took her own death, was she brave enough to pay the price?

  She could only believe she was, for she still followed. If she was to die, she wished to do it well, and with purpose. If that was what was demanded of her, she would give it.

  She surprised herself. She hadn’t thought on it for so long, she realised she had almost accepted it and forgotten what her quest meant for her. Now she faced it in her own mind, she felt as though an invisible burden had been lifted from her own shoulders. Faced with her own death, she felt a tumult of emotions – fear, foremost, but also anger that it should come to this. It crystallised her will. She tucked the anger away. If she could not be brave, at least she could be driven by rage. It was so much easier to maintain, in the face of all she had yet to do.

  She left the bath behind feeling clean both inside and out. She was ready, for whatever might come.

  *

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Night came all too swiftly. Tirielle still felt calm on her way back to the library. Even the thick, too hot air of the night, the refuse smells drifting from the alleyways and canals, the stagnant water and the smells of decay washed over her unnoticed.

  Too calm, she realised as she heard footsteps rushing toward them from a dark side street. She turned to see a dagger flying glinting in the lantern light, flipping end of end toward her chest. As she ducked j’ark dove in front of her, knocking the blade aside with the flat of his hand and tucking into a roll.

  Four men rushed them.

  Tirielle’s knives were in her hand before she could think to draw them. She slashed one man’s face, ducking a clumsy cudgel blow – she noted with a start the spike driven through the head of the club. These were no cutthroats. He overstepped, and she drove the dagger in her left hand into the back of his neck. He dropped like a stone. She whirled, ready to face the next man.

  The remaining three men were already down. Two silent and one gasping for air, hands clawing at a crushed windpipe.

  J’ark’s face was stormy. “I wanted to keep one alive, but I was clumsy. Now we will never know who sent them.”

  “Perhaps they were just cutthroats?” said Tirielle hopefully.

  “No, dogs of the Protectorate, perhaps. They intended death tonight, not purses. Assassins. If the Protectorate know we are here, though, why not send Tenthers? Why this amateur attack?”

  Tirielle stooped and wiped her blades on a dead man’s shirt.

  “I do not know, but I think you are right. We have been making contacts. Not all humans despise the Protectorate. Some have done well out of their masters. They have human eyes and ears, too. But if they truly knew who we are, I cannot believe we would still be breathing.”

  “Perhaps, it may be a plot of their allies. But we have made many allies ourselves. There is no knowing whose hand is behind this. We must be gone. We must find what we seek soon. The city has become unfriendly.”

  Tirielle spun again, hearing a man dashing toward her from behind, but turning, she found it was only Disper, who had been following at a discreet distance to ensure they were not followed.

  “What happened here?” he asked, knuckling his drooping moustache.

  “Assassins,” said j’ark before Tirielle could reply.

  “Deplorable men,” said Disper with a stern frown.

  “No,” said Tirielle with a sad shake of her head. “They were just men. The deplorable men don’t live in the slums. They live in their towers and watch from afar. No matter. We can go no faster. The Protectorate must still be unaware of who we are. But this complicates matters. We must be more vigilant than a mouse.”

  The clatter of iron shod boots sounded from the street parallel to theirs.

  “Tenthers!” hissed Disper.

  They walked as swiftly as they dared to across the alleyway toward the library.

  In the distance behind them they did not heard the patrol’s reaction at finding the dead men. Tirielle could not imagine it was shock. More likely amusement, and perhaps a report to their commander. It would slow them, anyway, and give them time to reach the library. They would not search. What did a murder matter to them?

  She had hoped that no humans would lose their lives in the battles to come, but she would not wish death at the hands of the protectorate on anyone.

  “Be wary,” j’ark warned Disper.

  “Always,” said Disper, and melted back into the shadows.

  Tirielle rapped on the door. Her heart’s pounding gradually subsided, the shaking of her hands that followed sudden violence fled, and as the door was answered she managed a warm smile.

  “Good evening, Reader,” she said by way of greeting, and flashed a gold coin. She was pleased to see her hand was already firm.

  *

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Roth prowled the rooftops as Tirielle explored by candlelight. A ten passed in the street below. It dropped to the cobblestones, landing on all fours in the midst of them.

  Before it returned to sleep, only one remained, one knee shattered and the face of rahken rage burned into his mind.

  Roth slept easy the next day. For the Tenther, sleep would never be easy again.

  *

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Clouds rolled serenely past the mighty ship, pristine against cyan, cold skies. Hern’s ghost rode a herringbone trail laid in the air. Carious burnt the seas as it sank below the horizon and Dow followed its brother to sleep the night away.

  Renir and Bourninund stood at the edge of the ship, watching the great fish dancing in the calm ocean. A dark shape flashed from the water, spouting water from a breath hole. Renir smiled. He had heard of such creatures from Quef, a southlander he had met once on a trip along the Spar in search of a shallow shoal. Renir had never been comfortable in the deep seas, but Quef had claimed there were fish that breathed air and had no gills. They lived in the deep, he said, and to see one close to shore was rare. Spitting fish, he had called them, but seeing their graceful dance above and below the surface, Renir thought the name ill-fitting.

  They toyed with the air, as if dissatisfied with the sea alone. They burst from the seas, twisting playfully in the air. Seamirs, he thought to himself. It seemed more appropriate.

  They gave him comfort, as he watched their dance around the ship. A good thing, he thought, since he had seen the shadow under the water, as long as one of the seafarer’s boats, moving lazily like it was hunting, just an elongated shape under the water. He did not want to see more. He was not so curious as that. A beast that size could capsize a boat. He thought of his little fishing boat back at the village, rotting slowly. A fish that size could eat his boat, he had thought with a shudder. A leviathan, perhaps, out of fishermen’s stories, that ate the boats that strayed too far from shore, jealous that men could sail on the waves it wanted for its own. The leviathans were ever hungry, said the old fishermen, and hated men for taking their food. Go too far out, they said, and the beast will take you out of spite, and teach you a lesson. The bigger your boat, the
tastier you will be.

  If it was a leviathan, what the old fishermen said was surely true. But even the greatest fish in all the sea would not be able to swallow this ship, this Diandom. He had felt fear, but it had passed on, and the Seamirs had come in the giant beast’s wake, guiding the ship ever north.

  They had been assured that it was moving steadily north. There was no tell-tale motion, though. The seas did not speed past. The ship had no prow to speak of. It was circular, but the north side of the ship always pointed north; exactly like an island. Renir could only tell by the motion of the suns, and the stars at night. Carious always set in the west, and Dow a little way north of him. The ship might seem motionless, as steady as a rock, but it was moving on, of that he was sure.

  It was such a strange vessel, so much like land but for the absence of dirt, and so far beyond any experience Bourninund or Renir had ever had.

  There were fresh water ponds, full of rainwater. Fronds grew from the depths, spreading their leaves on the surface to drink in the sunlight. Flowers in the trees, fungus and fruit growing where it should be impossible. People fishing from their boats, or with spears and nets from the edge of the ship, where it lay low in the water like a natural bay. The swimmers did not seem bothered by the leviathan. Perhaps they were too small for its mountainous teeth. There was no way Renir would swim in this sea, this sea that was new to him, full of wonder and perils that lived in the deeps.

  Some of the fishes that were brought in with the catch were marvellous, brightly coloured or strangely shaped. Some of the catch could never be called a fish. There were things that looked like cucumbers, and tentacled things, some with beaks and eyes, some translucent, or even shifting in colour to match the hand that held it, or the wood on which it lay. Renir did not try eating one of those, but everything else he sampled with his evening meal. Most he kept down, but once or twice he had hurled, green faced, in lee of the gentle wind and over the side of the ship, returning the catch to the sea. The seafarers laughed, which was fortunate, for if they had taken offence he was not sure he could have changed anything.