“The Protectorate do not have that kind of power…at least, I hope not. Not yet.”
“We cannot stand in the final battle without our powers,” said Dainar, puffing loudly. “Our salvation will be the end of us.”
Wen, who had been watching the exchange with a thoughtful expression, eyes clearer without the Seer’s grass that he had not smoked for at least a week, shook his head and spoke in a low, gruff voice.
“I am surprised that you cannot see it. It seems obvious to me.”
“What, Wen? You have an idea?”
“Magic is linked to the land, or the sun, or the sea…human magic, it seems, is born of nature. From what I know of the Protectorate, their magic is fuelled by the baser emotions, it feeds on it. Magic needs a focus, does it not?”
“That is my understanding,” said Drun, watching Wen carefully.
“Then take the seas with you.”
Dainar seemed as confused as Drun. “We cannot take the sea ashore. It is too large.”
Wen laughed. “Not all of it, man. Just enough. Wear a vial, or carry a pouch of seawater. That is my suggestion.”
“Ha ha! That is brilliant!”
Wen sniffed. “Obvious.”
“It could work. Would it be enough? The power of the seas would not be there, but it might be enough. Enough to focus. My powers can work by the light of the moon, but they are weaker…I wonder…”
“Only one thing for it,” said Wen with a toothy smile. “Try it.”
“Thank you, Wen. It gives me hope.”
“Don’t thank me till you know it works,” said Wen, and got up to leave. Brushing the door aside, he let himself out into the moonlit night.
“Forgive me, Drun Sard, but my stomach is shrinking while the women eat. It would not be fitting for me to be smaller than a woman. A leader must be larger than life, no?”
Drun smiled. “I am sorry to keep you from a meal, Dainar. I forget, sometimes, that we all need our fuel.”
“Then, shall we? I bet it has been long since you tasted Yellow Fin soup?”
“Not long enough,” said Drun truthfully.
*
Chapter Forty-Seven
Shorn wandered to the living quarters, seeing few people on the way, and those he did skirted around him in the pale light of the twin moons. He stroked his beard sometimes as he walked. Sometimes his fingers traced the deep scar dividing his nose. He was unaware he did so. But in the eerie glowing moonlight, the pommel of his sword watchful above his shoulder, few thought to barge him as he passed. Even the youngsters, often keen to make a name for themselves, gave him a wide berth.
What did he have to say to a son? What kind of man was he to say anything, especially to a boy he did not even know. He had little experience of talking to children. He knew children were resilient, braver than many men in war. True, they screamed, and cried, but when the battle had passed, they picked themselves up and carried on, unlike their parents, who mulled over their loses and cried themselves to sleep.
He tried to hope that his son was brave, strong and fearless. He found that he actually cared, cared about hurting a boy of his own blood that was nonetheless a stranger to him.
He had only one glimpse of him, during court, two days ago. He remembered his eyes, pale and grey like his own, and that the boy had been tall, but then what did he know of the height of boys?
Nothing, he admittedly to himself ruefully. I know nothing about children, and even less than nothing about my own son. What right did he have to do what he must?
His frown made people walk away from him quickly, and as he knocked at the door jamb outside his son’s dwelling his frown deepened.
He took no notice of the red mark on the canvas covering the hut, or the way the boughs of the trees formed a perfect roof. He had no appreciation for the finer points of the tree carvers work, did not notice the door open and the boy’s face peer out.
The boy took a step back in surprise.
“No, no!” said Shorn, forcing his face into an ill-practised smile. “I need to talk to you, Poul. Is your mother and…father there?”
Poul was watching him warily. Good start, thought Shorn, absentmindedly stroking his fearsome scar as the boy watched him.
“Father! The landfarer is at the door.”
Poul made no move to invite him inside. Shorn was not accustomed to feeling so uncomfortable, except when Drun was lecturing him.
Poul’s father appeared beside the boy in the doorway. “What do you want, Shorn? We do not need you. Already Shiandra is taking her punishment. What more could you do to my family?”
“I am sorry. I truly am.” The words felt strange passing his lips. “It happened so long ago…but…” he paused and reassembled his errant thoughts. He had not thought it would be so difficult. “I would not have come, but for need. I do not mean to hurt your family more, but I need to speak to your son.” No sense in calling the boy his own son. He was not. He was his blood, but this man before him had raised him. Shorn had taken stock in an instant. He was a gentle looking man, and Poul looked to him for his next move. Poul respected him, even though he now knew the man was not his father. There was love between the two of them. That much was as plain as Shorn’s scar.
“I’ll not keep him long.”
“I don’t want to, father.”
“Go on, son. We talked about this.”
“And I didn’t want to then,” said the boy, as if Shorn was not standing there.
“And my decision is the same now as it was then. Talk. No one is going to take you away from me.”
“That is not my intention…” said Shorn carefully.
“And nor could it be. Your wishes make no difference to us. You are not his father. Oh, you may be blood, but he is my son. Besides, he cannot live on land, and you cannot live on the sea.” To his son, he said, “Go ahead. Go and speak with him. I will be waiting.”
The boy bowed his head, defeated, and closed the covering behind him as he stepped out of the candlelight, letting his father’s hand go.
He looked up at Shorn, his gaze challenging.
“No use in looking at me like that, Poul. I’m not here to take you away, or to fight you, but to tell you what you need to know.”
“You’re a great warrior. So mother tells me. We have no wars.”
“I know more than war, and you’re wrong. War is coming. You need to be ready.”
“We are at peace with the seas. That is all there is, all there ever will be.”
“Do you know the future?”
“I know. A landfarer’s child will lead us to land. People are already talking. They talk about me. I don’t want to be a leader. I want to be a spear carrier, to take fish from the deep, to hunt like my father. One day I will marry,” he added, as if to admonish Shorn, “and I will not leave my children.”
“What I did or didn’t do when I was young matters not at all. I am here to tell you of your future, and to warn you. You will listen, or you will not. You are not my child for scolding, but perhaps you are sensible to know good advice when you hear it.”
“I want nothing from you except to see you go. You have caused enough pain.”
The boy seemed mature beyond his years. If Shorn had been expecting adoration, or forgiveness, he was not going to get it.
He sighed, and took a breath. His calm wavered, but he was better at controlling his temper than he used to be. He remembered enough of children to know that they could be more irritating than mites.
“Shut up,” he said low in his throat. The boy looked angry, but held his tongue.
Good, thought Shorn. He knows enough to listen, and he has heart, also.
“You will lead the Seafarers home, whether you like it or not. I will not be there to help you…my own destiny is as set in stone as yours. But, you cannot flee your fate. You must make yourself responsible for your own actions. You must do what you know to be right, and stand true against all that comes your way…” Shorn realised he wa
s talking to himself as much as the boy.
“You cannot fight fate, but you can fight your fear. You can fight your enemies, with your very last breath.”
“I’m no warrior.”
“Nor do you have to be. You are a leader. Often as not, leaders tell others what to do, warriors are told. Know this, if nothing else. To fail is human. To give up, without trying…that is for cowards. There is no room for cowards come the end of days. Are you a coward boy?”
“You have no right to call me anything!” spat Poul. “I’m as brave as any man!” Anger flushed his face, and that was good.
“I am glad. But what right have you to call yourself brave?”
“Who are you to ask?”
“Just answer the question, Poul. I did not come to fight.”
“I fought a Naiad once. Gransalds and Naiads attacked the Diandom, clambering up the bays. The men fought them off with sword and spear, but I had no spear, only my gutting knife. I stabbed at a Naiad, but it grabbed me, and pulled me into the water. Father dived in after me, but it was too deep…I thought I was going to die. I could not breathe. I stabbed it many times, but it remained strong. I could only just see the light, and I became confused. I kicked and stabbed and eventually I broke free. I was drowning, but I kicked toward the light. I thought my lungs would burst. I was scared of dying,” he admitted with painful honesty.
“How did you survive?”
“I did not give in. I fought to reach the surface, and when I did, my vision was black, like a tunnel. After that, I remember the suns, and being sick. I was sick for days afterward, kept to my bed. I didn’t want to go back into the water, but my father made me. He said I could not be a Seafarer if I could not swim. I hated him, for a time, for throwing me in. I screamed, and cried, but I have never been afraid since.”
Shorn nodded in the gloom, and smiled at the boy. He was pleased. There was no boast in the boy’s words, just simple honesty. It was good enough.
“That is all I wanted to know. I could never be your father, and I expect you do not want to be my son, but I will be proud, knowing that you face what comes with your neck held straight and fire in your blood. The legends tell that ‘the last wizard will stir, the revenant will awake and the land will shake in the thaw…’ It is for you to see your people safe. Hold onto your courage, no matter what. That is all any man can do, even when his fears try to drown him. Remember what it is to breathe the air, to burst when your lungs are crushed and flooded. That is what courage is. To rise above and breathe again. I wish you well, Poul, and your people, too. I am sorry that you must do this. You are so young.”
“I need no sympathy,” Poul bristled.
“And I give none. I wish you well. Your father seems a good man…I am glad.”
The boy paused, looking thoughtfully at the warrior. Eventually, after his examination, he asked, “Will you try to take me from my father?”
“No, boy. I have taken to many sons away from their fathers in my years. I would not take another. Go to him. I am sure his is waiting for you.”
Poul touched Shorn’s hand, and held it for a moment. Shorn nodded, once, then he turned and walked away.
Poul watched him go, and stood long after the warrior had gone. Eventually, determination on his face, he turned and went inside.
*
Chapter Forty-Eight
In the market of Beheth the costermongers and fishmongers harangued the passersby with promises of luscious fruits and succulent fish, in much the same way as the negotiable ladies on the balconies cried out to the men in the square ‘try my wares, am I not luscious too?’ The cosseted merchants lounged on balconies of their own, overlooking the market place, marking the flow of people, betting on the sale of goods that day, as they gamble on everything else, from the rare rains which sometimes flooded the canals, whether their horse would win at the races, even if they would be bitten by a mite, despite the attentions of their servants fanning air around their bloated bodies.
The recent rains meant meats and fishes would undersell, the frogs in the marshes and marshlands further to the south plentiful enough to make other meats obsolete, at least for a while.
Iraya Mar’anthanon watched the bustle, listened to the caterwauling in the market with boredom evident on her face. Once, she had found pleasure in the gambling at market, as an inexperienced maiden may find satisfaction with the innocent fumblings of a first love. Her maiden days were long past.
Then, she was merely a talented gambler, with an eye for money and a lust that could not be sated by the usual suitors. Now, she had become a dame, a woman of many talents. She had to be, to be a counsellor in the Kuh’taenium, the seat of human governance throughout Lianthre. She also laid claim to an extensive merchant empire, ruling the city of Beheth, and being a friend to the Protectorate. The last was the most difficult, and to her, the most satisfying. The rest was just juggling. No trick to it. Just keep an eye on the balls, anticipate their fall, flick the wrist in the right way to keep there arc true. Just as there was little challenge involved in ruling a subdued people – she never had to worry about an uprising, or political intrigue. Who would plot against her? Most of the wealthy merchants in the city were happy with their weekly gaming, high priced whores and cushioned beds. They did not understand the true meaning of power, its thrill, its wet allure.
They mattered little. Not one of them could remove her from power. Not while the Protectorate supported her.
But what fun in that? True, it allowed her to live a life of excess – she had whomever she wanted to her bed chamber, a stream of young, malleable men, who she prized for their stamina and looks above their ability to converse above the level of a child. Her home was vast, and to keep up appearances she had her own guard, loyal to her in every respect. Her flagstones were of the most expensive white-veined marble, her gardens tended daily by only the best gardeners. She kept ten fine horses for racing in her own private stables, and rode when she could. None of that mattered – they were rewards. It was the game that kept her playing.
The game granted her time. It was her most valuable commodity, one she would not trade away. But when she travelled to the north to Lianthre, she travelled with all her home comforts, and an entourage of forty-two people – handmaidens, bodyguards, soldiers, cooks…it made travelling, which could be so boring at times, something of a pleasant excursion.
There was no conflict of interest. Counsellors were allowed personal wealth – indeed, many of them were wealthy beyond belief – but they were not permitted to carry out the whims of the Protectorate within the Kuh’taenium. The Protectorate’s remit was security, and the ongoing, never-ending hunt for magic users, who could undo the security of the nation. Iraya did not care for magicians. She had never seen one. She could not imagine what kind of threat they posed. But sometimes the Protectorate asked for other things – a manuscript bought discreetly and couriered to their halls at Arram; a man killed, where their own hand would not be detected, a quiet murder in the man’s home, while his wife and children spent a day out at the races, perhaps; more often than not it was information that the Protectorate craved. She had her own agents provide them with a steady stream of information. Always their interest centred on people. If they were a threat, she often wondered, why not just have them killed? It was the most expedient way to deal with little irritations.
But it had not worked for her this time around. She had been told to inform her network to be on the lookout for Tirielle A’m Dralorn, disgraced counsellor, here in her own city. As it turned out, it would be the easiest gold she ever made. Tirielle had come to her! A letter, with no address marked, telling her what she already knew about the Protectorate – a catalogue of evil, abuses and abasements…a canker eating the heart of Lianthre, a parasite feeding on the people…it was not news to her. But she had found long ago that she did not care. The people were cattle, and if the Protectorate herded them for her, well, that just made life so much easier. They did not trouble her in
her dealings, she did not trouble them.
But what a prize! To be able to hand them Tirielle A’m Dralorn’s head, unmarked, preferably. A message and some gold passed into the right hands, and it would be done.
It always had, in the past, but her assassins had not returned, and she still did not have Tirielle’s head on a platter. She did not waste time on puzzlement. The second night she had had her assassins followed, and her man had watched as they had been slaughtered. His account of the short fight had been detailed, and she had rewarded him richly. She appreciated good work, and besides, she had saved money when her assassins had failed. She would just have to pay someone else, instead. Not that the money mattered…money was not all that was at stake.
Now, she thought she should begin to worry. Tirielle was in the city, but Iraya had not informed the Protectorate. If they found out that she had kept her from them, just to line her own pockets…she had no choice now. She had set her targets. She had to kill her. If she succeeded, she would be well placed, and the Protectorate would reward her well.
If she failed…
She found she was delighted, and excited, as goose bumps raised on her arms despite the heat. To be balanced on a knife edge. It was what she lived for.
Each night Tirielle travelled to the Library of the Secessionists. Iruliya was mildly curious as to what Tirielle was hunting, but that was not what she was being paid for.
The woman had bodyguards while outside, and had taken over the whole of her lodgings with her men – by all accounts most capable men. She would have to be killed inside the library while she was unguarded. It would be no great challenge for Lunan. He was the best for a reason. It was time to put him into play. He had never failed her. He would not fail her now.
Lazily batting aside a mite, she went inside, into the shade. It would not do to get too much sun, it dried the skin and aged a woman before her time. But a little sun replenished her when she found herself too pale. Men seemed to appreciate a little colour in her face, when they could compare it to her pale body. When they were appreciative of something, they worked all the harder for it…but she was distracting herself. Time enough for that when evening fell.
Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy) Page 17
