Tides of Rythe trt-2

by Craig Saunders

  It seemed overly harsh to Renir. He was sure none of the rafts ever found land, just as he was sure the seafarers didn’t truly think that this was the case. But he said nothing, holding his tongue. It wasn’t for him to try to change the people. They had enough strange ways that he could spend a lifetime at it.

  Once, when he had first started out on his journey, he had thought everything strange and sometimes stupid. People everywhere believed differently, their gods had unusual names that he didn’t know. But, he knew now that his gods were as strange to them as theirs were to him.

  It was no wonder Wen, and Bourninund and Drun were stared at so openly. The probably though they were old ones, returned from the peaceful land. Just so long as they didn’t try to put them on a raft, he supposed it did not truly matter. Wen and Drun knew about it already — there seemed little Drun did not know — but Bourninund had taken to snarling at people who stared at him.

  “I’m not that bloody old,” he had said when he found out, his teeth grating.

  “Old enough to be my grandfather,” said Renir with a straight face.

  The old warrior had bristled, and sputtered, until Renir had laughed and patted him on the shoulder. “I’m just tugging your beard, Bear. You don’t look a day over sixty.”

  “Bloody sixty! Cheeky groat. Wait till your beard grows in and I’ll teach you some respect.”

  “My beard’s as full as any man’s!” blurted Renir, and then turned his back on Bourninund’s satisfied smile. “Point taken,” he had said with a chuckle.

  That morning they had practised their weapons once again, slowly, as they were using real blades. It had loosened knots he hadn’t know were there. Also, it had gained him a few female admirers. The seafarer women made parts of him ache he had long forgotten, even if they were only looking. With a wink, often, it was true, and sometimes a playful hitch of the skirt. Long, lithe, tanned legs, dark hair and blonde…remembering Shorn’s predicament, he kept himself to himself. And for wonder, so did Bourninund.

  As Dow reached the horizon, he wondered what Shorn was doing. These last two days he had missed the surly warrior’s company.

  He was already turning down the attentions of fine looking women. Next, he would be asking Wen to share his evening meal.

  “Shall we dance on the seas, Bear? There are no women for us this night…” He put an arm around Bourninund’s shoulder, winking, and laughed more heartily than he had in days as the bear shook him off disgustedly.

  It was just one surprise after another when a man was too long at sea.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  The river trickled over the stone beside the hut. Further to the north, the trickle was a roar, to the south a sweet suggestion of the sea. The windows cast a toad-green glow inside, warm as summer. The windows themselves could barely be seen through.

  In his cabin, Gurt read the letter again, more thoroughly, eyes watering in the dim light of a low candle.

  So it was not Tirielle who had called on him, but his own blood?

  He shook his head, and with his aching hands held the letter over the flame. He could not put it off any longer. It was time to leave.

  Duty was a strange beast. It wore many guises, hid behind many cloaks. His had two heads — one, his blood, the second, his promise to Tirielle’s father. But he could not deny his blood, and he had to admit it to himself, Tirielle was gone.

  He did not know if she was even alive, or dead in some ignoble town like her father before her, her ideals proving no more protection from an enemy’s blade than the vagaries of the wind.

  He could wait no longer for his mistress. He could not deny his blood.

  Reluctantly, with more than a hint of apprehension, he buckled on his armour, wincing at the tight buckles on his sword. He closed the door to the cabin behind him, and led the horse out into the night. Wey snickered loudly.

  At least the mare was pleased to be on the road again.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Shorn frowned at Dainar through the candlelight. As far as he could tell, the fat man had not changed one whit. He was still a fool. Perhaps a little more girth, and maybe an extra chin or two.

  How long, Shorn thought to himself, until you go in search of the peaceful land?

  He said nothing. He needed his approval. Dainar might not kill them, now that his daughter’s shame was revealed, but he could be obstinate.

  The rest of the council were persuaded, but Dainar led the council. Without his say so, they would be ferried back to the closest shores. The seafarers did not like to travel the northern seas. They had been stuck in ice floes for the whole of the winter before, but it was summer now. Shorn could not understand his reticence to help them, unless Dainar, too, felt shame at his daughter’s betrayal. But he would take little more.

  If he had to kill him to get his way, he would. He would find a way. The anger that lived under the surface strove to rise like bile in his throat. With a great effort, he fought it back, the only way he knew how. Gradually it subsided. Words came back to his ears as the sound of rushing blood faded and he regained his calm. Drun’s influence was a good thing, sometimes. It paid to place thought before violence. He could see the sense in the old man’s words.

  He calmed his breathing, as Wen had taught him. It was a lesson he had never forgotten. Both Wen and Drun had a hand in shaping him, but one was fire, one water. He could only hope he would not crack between them. But he knew he was pure steel inside. He could take the stoking, and the dousing. When he was finally forged he would be stronger for it.

  “You must understand, the north is far more dangerous than it ever was. There are ice mountains drifting even as far as Jagged Cove. Floes break from the great ice sheets and drift south. We cannot force a path through ice so thick. Our boats would not fare so well if holed. Even we cannot survive should we be forced to swim such icy waters back to the Diandom.”

  Shorn stopped himself from growling at a raised eyebrow from Drun. The old priest was trying to rein him in, as though he could read his private thoughts. I’ll do what I must, old man, he said within his head, and looked at the old man to see if he really could read his mind. Sometimes Drun worried him. He was an unknown quantity, something Shorn could not claim to understand. Usually, if he did not understand something, he hit it, or stabbed at it until it went away. If he was tired, he might just curse it soundly.

  He turned his face away from Drun and spoke to Dainar instead of letting his thoughts run away with him.

  “I’m not the kind of man to gnaw at stones, Dainar. You’ll help us go our way, or you won’t. Drun has told you all you need to know, and don’t pretend you don’t know of him. He is the watcher, and your people hid him long years, supplied him, even. If his word is not good enough for you…” Shorn opened his hands, as if such a simple gesture would suffice in the place of words.

  “But we have not found land. None of our ships have beached on the forgotten shores — the signs are just not there.”

  “I know your prophesies as well as you, I think, Dainar,” said Drun in his irritatingly calm tones. “You will not find land until the last wizard boils the seas away, and raises the land to the heavens. The signs are yet to come. The seas will toil, old lands will be rear once more, and the new will sink below. The skies will turn to ash. These things I know for I am the watcher — I have seen it in my dreams, and the first stones of my temple were laid with the prophesies carved into them. But also I know that a child of the seas, sired by a landfarer, will herald your new beginning. For these things to come to pass, frightening though they may be, you must speed us on our way. Shorn is the boy’s father, and of that there is no doubt. He has his eyes, not his mother’s, or her husband’s, but Shorn’s. The boy is the child of the seas. He is the herald. Shorn is the Saviour, Dainar. This I know, as well do you, so stop this obstinacy now and send us on our way. Let go your fear. Let what will be, be. The child will lead you to land.”

  Dainar sighed and knuckled his t
emples. “It is true. I am afraid. If Poul is the one, my own grandchild will see the end of our old ways. We will find land again, and forget the seas. I am scared, and the people are scared. They know the prophesies as well as you or I. But Watcher, if I send you to Teryithyr, they will know the time has come. There will be such upheaval as we have never seen.”

  “Prophesy is never easy, Dainar,” said Wen more softly than Shorn would have imagined possible for his old master. “But it is time. You can be in no doubt, and if you stand in its way it will crush you. Be prepared, and save those you can. Lead them, and guide Poul, make him a man. He too, must be ready. The end draws near and we will not all survive to see the new world born from the old. You know it.”

  “I do,” sighed Dainar. A look of resolve that Shorn remembered well, one fitting a leader, fell across his broad face. He nodded firmly, his chins taking their time to catch up. “Very well. Very well. We will take you. Then we must prepare. The seas, I fear, are about to turn against us, as land once did. We are doubly cursed for our betrayal.”

  “That is old, and will be forgotten when the child leads you. The debt has long been paid. There is reason to fear, but a new life beckons. For that, you should be grateful. It is a chance, and the only one there is.”

  Dainar merely nodded to Drun. If he was surprised that Drun should know so much of the Feewar’s ancient mythology, he did not show it. “I thought as much, anyway. We have been travelling north since Shiandra persuaded me to hold you. We will be in sight soon enough, then we will take you ashore. But it will be cold, and you will not have our magic to calm the ice. Ice is too thick-headed to influence, though we can calm the sea itself. I can send no men to aid you on your quest. I am sorry, but they would die. Below the ice rests dirt, this far south. None could survive it.”

  “We need no men,” said Shorn. “”We are all there is, and it has been enough for now. We will do what needs to be done, and so should you, Dainar. Teach the boy all you know of leadership. He should be given the chance to lead well, when the time comes. Perhaps he can take lessons in stubbornness from you,” Dainar made to protest, but Shorn held up a hand to stall him. “I mean he will need it. A leader must know his own mind, and sometimes needs to stand against persuasion, even in the face of sense. He is the one to lead you, he will know sense when he sees it.”

  Shorn rose. “Thank you, Dainar. Calm seas, still winds, my old…friend.”

  There was only a small pause. Perhaps he was not a friend as Shorn would think, but he found he was still glad the Sea Captain had come around. He thought Drun might have preached at him some more had he killed the Captain out of spite.

  “I must go and speak to my son. I will leave you to it.”

  He stepped out, and Drun watched his broad back until the canvas flapped closed.

  “He is a wilful man,” said Dainar. “I would not want him as an enemy.”

  “I don’t know,” said Wen. “I’ve had him as an enemy. He’s not so bad.”

  Drun smiled. “If nothing else, he is learning to control his rage.” He paused for a moment, relaxing into the seat which hung from the ceiling of intertwining branches. “Tell me, Dainar, what do you know of magic?”

  Dainar seemed surprised by the change of topic, but shrugged, and answered anyway. It was getting late, and he wanted to sleep. Worry always took his energy away. He needed food, and sleep. But he would not be ungracious, not after subjecting his guests to so much.

  “It is a work with purity, of thought, absolute clarity. It requires the talent, firstly, but a calm soul to guide the trees, and to still the seas or finesse the winds. The calmest among us can even turn a storm aside, though there are only one or two on this boat who have such power. Our magic is different to yours, however. Why do you wish to know?”

  “Simply that. It is difficult for a man with a soul such as Shorn to understand, but when your heart and head are in turmoil…I fear many will lose the ability when it is most needed. This will be a trying time for your people. They will need to remain calm in the face of Rythe’s rage. Thought itself is a world. Panic and fear can make it a world of hate and pain. Will your gifted be able to cope when this world tears itself asunder? Will you be able to survive, and fight again when those who were responsible for the expulsion come to find you again?”

  “They do not know we even live. Perhaps they have heard rumours, but our magic hides them. They cannot travel the seas. The oceans belong to us. We have nothing to fear from them.”

  “Not so, I am afraid. When your land rises once again, they will find you. Theirs is dark magic, drawn from confusion. Much easier to use, the only difficult part is to focus that energy. They draw on fear, and their magic flourishes with human suffering. Everyday, I fear, they grow stronger. Few humans are able to deal with the power. Will your Seafarers be able to fight, when they must? When fear makes their heads pound, and their knees weak? As they see their loved ones die?”

  Dainar took the time to think. He knuckled his temples again, as though a headache was coming on. After a time, he broke the silence.

  “Our casters magic is born of the sea. It encompasses so much of what they are. They live for it, surrounded by it, day in, day out. It has seeped into their very souls. I’m not sure their magic would work if we ever find our land.”

  “I had feared as much. Just as mine would not work under the light of the moon. You would be all but defenceless, when they come against you. And I am sure that they will.”

  “Then we are thrice doomed. We lose our land, then our seas, and then we are to be destroyed. Few know of the old tales, of the Hierarchy, of the Hierophant.”

  “Hush, let us not talk of the Hierophant. The stories you know are old beyond reckoning. The Hierarchy no longer venture from their towers, but their dogs, the Protectorate, roam far and wide. It is they who would destroy you, or cage you for their pleasure. But you must fight. If they destroy you, the seas will no longer be free. Your trees will grow just as easily for them.”

  “But they have power we cannot even dream of. They will surely wipe us out. The Seafarers have not seen a battle in a thousand lifetimes, but they remember the tales of warfare well enough. One caster can destroy an army.”

  “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.