Tides of Rythe trt-2

by Craig Saunders

  “I know how that goes,” interrupted Renir.

  “And I, too,” said Wen. “Who could blame a man? One thing led to another, and then Shorn refused her hand in marriage. There was nothing else Dainar could do — he set us ashore, and the rest is history. Shorn left to become what he could, me, well, I set out to make amends. But sometimes the past is something that drags along behind you, weighing you down. And here we are, facing the past again.”

  Drun opened his eyes, looking at Shorn’s back. “Sometimes we must lay the past to rest before we can fully explore the future. Every action has consequences, even those which we do not take.”

  Shorn had no doubt about who Drun was addressing his comments to. “Sometimes you make my bowels ache, priest,” was his only retort.

  Slowly, carefully, the men talked into the night. Not one mentioned the court to come, or what they would do. They knew they had no weapons, but they did not need to plan — if Shorn was to die, then they would die fighting to save him. Sometimes, duty is plain enough.

  Renir wondered if he would die well. Fighting like the heroes of old, with nothing but his fists against a bow. Perhaps he could catch an arrow in his hand, or fight his way to a sword before he was slain. He did not know how to wield a sword, but surely it was better than bare fists against a weapon. Was he fast enough to duck an arrow, swift enough to gain a weapon, or lay low an opponent before he died? He did not want to die badly, not when he was surrounded by such men as these. He knew they would fight well, and die for each other…he only hoped it would not come to that. But, he resolved, whatever happened, he would not be put to sea. He would die fighting, not drowning or eaten alive. Better the blade…

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  …was a warrior’s thought, Renir realised. He looked down at himself from a great height, and only when he could see himself as he was, his dreaming eyes sharper than his own, did he see himself as he had become. He was broad across the shoulder, still unscarred, but grizzly in countenance. Many would pause before attacking such a man. I have become like them, he thought to himself from his lofty perch, floating above his body. I am a warrior.

  But not yet a mercenary. Never that.

  Only gradually was he aware of another presence, beyond his reach, on a different plain than this.

  She called to him, and he knew her voice. In his dreams, he knew her voice, but the knowledge would fade upon waking. It always did.

  “We must speak. Time is ever short, as it was always destined to be short for us. Come to me…listen well.”

  Renir floated, ethereal and splendid, unclothed above the sea. Below the surface he could see the seawolves, prowling the depths, shimmering underneath the waves. Foam hung on the air, blow by unfelt tides and ghostly winds. From beneath the sea a face rose, but one obscured by the depths. Try as he might, he could not make it out. Perhaps if he were to go below the surface, he would be able to see more clearly, but even in dreams he understood that to do so would be to risk death, an unclean death, rent and torn by the serrated teeth of the seawolves, gulped into their gullets and digested over days…his dream self shuddered, and on his cot his body’s breath quickened at the thought.

  “No, there is no need to come down here. All you need is to hear me.”

  He wished he could see more clearly. He almost remembered, but the memory was like the tides. Just as he thought he could feel the knowledge of who the woman was, the tides took it out of his reach. She was the sea, and he the shore, forever meetings, only to part again with the shifting of the moons.

  He reached out to the water, but she hissed at him from the darkening depths.

  “No! You must not!”

  “But who are you?”

  “In time, perhaps, you will know,” she said, calmer now that he had moved his hands away from the water. “For now, hear me, and listen well. You are on the precipice once again, and once more I must draw you back from your own undoing. Time and time again, throughout the ages, you have tried to fall — you are your own undoing. Again, you court death, as though you rail against your purpose, but I have not come so far to let you fail now.”

  “I don’t understand. You are a witch, and yet you care what happens to one man? I know of witches. They never care for the living, they consort with the dead.”

  “You know nothing but the fool rumours of men, born of the ignorance of an age. Hear me now, and hear me well. Mind me, Renir. I will rend your dreams and hound your soul if you die now. If you fear me then love me also, for I am your salvation. Now, when you wake you must remember this, if you remember nothing else…”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Renir’s eyelids twitched in his sleep, and once or twice he called out. Drun watched him through hooded eyelids, tired himself but a light sleeper. He pursed his lips thoughtfully as he watched, but he did not try to intrude. He had done so already, and he felt a barrier around Renir’s sleeping mind, as though the man were shielded from intrusion. It would not do to trespass there, of that he was sure.

  Someone, something, was already there. And Drun knew without understanding why, that his presence would not be welcome. Not welcome at all.

  He lay thinking as the sun slowly rose outside, unseen but sensed, his god rising in the sky to bring life and wakefulness once more to this side of the world, passing over the other, forgotten for the night.

  Renir was a mystery to him. He grew in stature, it seemed, with each passing day. He awoke refreshed and alert, but his sleep was tortured, sometimes punctuated by flailing, or screaming, sometimes murmuring and laughing, but always busy. Anyone with such a rich dream life should be shattered upon waking, tired beyond belief. It was as if Renir lived a second life, in dreams.

  Their passage had been strange, indeed. He was unsure as to Renir’s place in events to come. He had been so intent on watching Shorn, trying to guide Shorn to an awakening, that he had ignored their companions for too long. Renir, suddenly a warrior of some note, despite his inexperience. Renir with his childish wit and wisdom born of the heart, Bourninund, as loyal a friend as any could wish, bound, too, to Shorn’s fate, drawing into the whirlpool that Wen imagined as Shorn’s wake. Wen himself, strange, strong and just maybe insane and suicidal. Wen could no more take his own life than that of an innocent. Each man had his own reasons for joining them on this journey, there own purpose to discover along the way. They would play as large a part in whatever was to come as perhaps Shorn himself. Shorn, the Saviour, but who was he to save? Rythe? Himself? Those he touched along the way?

  Drun did not know, but before he could come to any conclusions, the door opened and a guard stepped inside.

  “Morning has come, old man. Rouse your companions. Court begins after you break fast.”

  Another man, armed also, placed five pieces of fruit on a wooden tray inside the door and left. “Time enough to eat. I will return shortly.”

  Shorn, Wen and Bourninund awoke at the voices, but Renir still muttered in his dreams. Shorn shook him until he woke. Renir looked around sheepishly for a moment, as if embarrassed, then wished them all good morning with a smile.

  “Ah, fruit for breakfast. It is like living among the gods. Not a fish in sight, and for that I am thankful.”

  “Wind yourself down, Renir, today we probably die.”

  “What will be will be,” he said cryptically, and crunched on the sweet, hard fruit.

  They all ate in silence, until the guard returned.

  “On your feet,” he said.

  “Thank you for having us,” said Renir with a smile. The guard merely growled, and led them along the corridor, from under the trees, into the light of a new day.

  Renir stretched, and followed the rest of the men, who all walked like it was their last day on earth, to the judgement circle. The court took no chances, he saw. There were guards surrounded them, and two guards for each man. He was pushed, not roughly, but insistently, into his allotted place. He took it all in good humour.

  Time enou
gh, he thought, and turned his face to the morning sun. Only Carious had breached the horizon, and from his place in what he took to be the centre of the ship, he could see no sea. He was thankful for small mercies.

  A huge man took the centre of the court, flanked by five men on one side, five women on the other. All looked stern. Renir smiled at them. Dainar scowled. A small cat, the only animal Renir had seen, sheltered from the sun beneath the fat man’s umbriferous gut.

  “You are accused of breaking oath, Shorn of the Island Archive, and your companions stand with you as conspirators. The Seas know mercy, even for Landfarers. Once you were our guests, and you broke our faith. For this the court calls for your death. Do I have consent from the court?”

  Five ‘ayes’ came from the men, shortly followed by affirmatives from the women.

  Shorn hung his head, but remained silent. Renir saw that he caught Wen’s eye from under his shaggy hair, and Wen’s subtle nod in return. He prepared himself. Soon, it would be time. But not yet. The time must be right.

  “Who accuses Shorn?”

  “I do!” called Shiandra, stepping forward between the ranks of watching Feewar, head held proudly to show her bruised neck. Never tug a jemandril’s tail, and never scorn a woman. It was sound advice his mother had given him.

  “And what oath did he break?” demanded Dainar of his daughter, as if he did not already know.

  “I was his promised, and he denied me.”

  Anger accompanied each word, and Renir could sense her hurt pride in every syllable. It must be galling for such a beautiful woman not to get the man she coveted, but he could find no sympathy for her. He could see she was poison, now that she knew better.

  “That is a lie,” shouted Shorn above the murmuring crowds. “I made no promise, but a lover’s promise in the night.”

  “Liar!” she screamed, her face scarlet with rage.

  How embarrassing, Renir thought, to be caught out in front of so many people. So Shorn was not going quietly, he was pleased to see. But he knew it would come to blows yet.

  Bide, he had been warned, or waste it all. He waited, at the ready.

  “I bedded you, and you made no complaints then.”

  Shiandra screamed in incoherent rage, and leapt for Shorn, but a guard was there to hold her back.

  “The Landfarer insults my blood for the last time!” cried Dainar. “To death, I call.”

  “Aye!” came the replies from each side, and Shiandra screamed her joy, as Shorn spun on his heel, thumping a rigid foot into the guard behind him. Bourninund and Wen both took their guards with fists, and Renir took his moment to smash his fist into the pumice-stone guard behind him, laying him low, and took the other guard around the throat as the other fell to the floor insensible.

  The others had subdued their guards, and each held one hostage, apart from Drun, who stood serenely.

  Now was the time. Let us see who blinks first, thought Renir.

  “Tell us all the real reason for your ire, Shiandra, tell us in front of your husband, or does it shame you still?” Renir’s words were like a spear in her chest. He saw her pain, and then her rage.

  “Silence him!” she cried, but he thought he could see panic in her eyes. “Kill them!”

  A woman’s scorn, thought Renir. Thank god she wasn’t his wife. Once was enough, he thought. In Hertha, he realised, he had had much to be thankful for, even if she had been a harridan most of the time, but never had she been vengeful.

  “Ask your daughter, Dainar, ask her well!”

  Dainar held up a hand to the archers surrounding Renir’s companions and their hostages. Renir could feel his own captive’s throat gulping beneath his forearm. And well he should be nervous. It hung in the balance.

  “Well, daughter? What is he talking about?”

  “Nothing. He lies!”

  “Do I? Do you shame yourself with further lies? Would you lie always to your father, to your husband, your son? Would you lie in front of your son’s father?!”

  Shock rippled through the crowd.

  “What is the meaning of this!? Shiandra, what does he mean?” The speaker stepped forward from the crowd, a strong man, handsome in his own way, but his face drawn in confusion. Following him was a young boy, no more than twelve. Renir hated himself then, but there had been no other choice. Sometimes his dreams were nightmares, and sometimes, he thought, the nightmares followed him into the waking world.

  More lives ruined in their quest. One day, he prayed, the destruction would end.

  “Liar! They lie, husband! Kill them!” she screamed.

  Dainar kept his hand held high, indecision on his face, drawing his pudgy lips together in a tight embrace. Should that hand fall they would all die. But it was Shiandra who decided it for them. Opening her eyes wide a stream of ice coalesced in the air, an icicle flying through the air at Shorn’s heart. Before it could get there burning yellow light blazed from one side — Drun — who had been silent and still throughout. The yellow fire met the ice, and steam hissed into the air, ice and fire growing until there was a small cloud of steam between the court and the captives. Shiandra screamed in her anger, and renewed her efforts to kill Shorn, tendons on her neck standing proud, as though she were pushing physically against the assault, but Drun redoubled his power, his face calm as the air, serene as the suns.

  Renir’s captive strained against his arm, but Renir held tight and watched. It was out of his hands now. The contest ended abruptly when a guard behind Drun finally clubbed him to the ground. But it was enough. Shiandra’s assault halted as her son jumped in front of her.

  “Stop, mother! You’ll kill him! Grandfather!” called her son. “Father!” the boy cried out, but looked not at Shiandra’s husband, but at Shorn. Shiandra crumpled visibly in front of her son, an open admission of her lie, and the ice fell to the ground. Tears stood out on her cheeks, and she hung her head in shame.

  Dainar spoke above the shocked whispers of the gathered crowd.

  “Enough! Shiandra, cease this now. I would speak to you alone. Court is in recess. Let no man harm the prisoners, and in return I would appreciated it if you men would let your hostages go. No one will be harmed until I return.”

  “I don’t think we will give up our only bargaining chip so easily, Dainar,” replied Shorn.

  “You have my word no man will come to harm today. I have seen enough.”

  “Then on your word, Dainar,” called Shorn, and released the guard, who stepped back warily. Renir and the others released theirs carefully, and when no reprisals for the sudden violence occurred, the guards being as good as Dainar’s words, Renir rushed to Drun’s side.

  He shook him carefully, as Drun’s eyes cracked open. “Is it safe?”

  “Yes, I think it is. How’s your head?”

  “Never better,” the old man replied gingerly rising to his feet with a helping hand from the young warrior. “How did you know?”

  Renir shuffled his feet in acute embarrassment. “A witch came to me while I slept.”

  “Well, you must thank her for me,” said Drun sincerely.

  “Peace, but it’s never dull,” said Bourninund, with a wink to Renir. “I could do with an ale.”

  “Me, too,” said Renir, and finally let himself sigh with relief. “Perhaps now I can get some sleep. I have my guardian to thank, although as to payment, I can only guess.”

  He spared a thought for Shorn. He was staring at his son, crestfallen, and his son was staring back at him openly, into cold grey eyes, so much like his own. Forgotten, to one side, stood the man who had no doubt been his father all his years. To one side Shiandra’s husband wept quietly. Of Shiandra and her father there was no sign.

  Gods, thought Renir, is the price of being a hero always so high?

  Chapter Thirty- Eight

  Tirielle smoothed her dress nervously before rapping on the door to Library of the Secessionists. It would not do to look unrefined in this section of the city. She was dressed in the fashi
on of Beheth, but spoke with a Lianthre accent. j’ark spoke with a strange accent, one she did not recognise, but he wore wide breeches and a ruffled shirt, his long hair tied back. In Beheth, few wore their hair long. Unthor, keeping to the shadows outside the range of the lantern’s glow, was dressed in a similar manner. None could be marked for outsiders if they did not speak.

  It was a warm city, and its warmth dictated what could and could not be worn. A monk was expected to feel discomfort, therefore Roth could pass if it stuck to the shadows, but no monk would be seen in a secular library, with its lascivious wood cuts, and ancient vellum which no monk would touch. Besides, as much as she would have liked to bring Roth with her through the city, to feel the comfort of her large companion watching over her, she was more than safe enough from cutthroats and footpads with j’ark and Unthor by her side. Unthor had asked to be their third — the Sard rarely travelled alone, and when they did it was only out of necessity — and seemed quite happy to stand watch among the shadows.

  Tirielle didn’t mind at all. Unthor was prone to long periods of introspection, perhaps the only member of the Sard who harboured open discontent with their lot in life and the demands of their religion. Calling, perhaps, would be a more accurate description. Unthor never spoke of his disquiet, but brooded sometimes, a frown upon his broad face, sometimes stroking the side of his nose when he was in deep thought. He was not the best of company, but Tirielle had no doubts he would be watching warily tonight for anyone who followed them into the library. He would not forget his duty, even if it seemed that sometimes he found it hard to bear.

  It gave her a chance to spend the evening with j’ark. Pouring over old scrolls and parchment was not quite the activity that Tirielle would have chosen, but they would be together, even in silence.