Tides of Rythe trt-2

by Craig Saunders

  “There is just so much. How will we find it?”

  “It is a scroll, so that narrows our search. It rests inside a golden tube, sealed against the air. It should not be too difficult to find.”

  “Then,” she said sadly, knowing that once it was found she was unlikely to return here, and that this knowledge could never be spoken of lest the Protectorate found it and destroyed it, “Let’s get to it. The night is already full, and there are so many books.”

  “I know,” said j’ark. “It makes my head swim.”

  ”But we have little time. Typraille will no doubt be getting bored, too. At least, I hope he has not found himself a fight.”

  “No fear of that. He can be as unobtrusive as a mouse if he wishes.”

  She nodded, and walked around the room, pulling scrolls from the shelves at random, blowing the dust from their protective covers, or rubbing them with her sleeve. Each she found that was golden, she took to the chair to read.

  The night passed far too quickly. Without the motion of the moons to tell time by, it seemed as though she had been reading until sunlight. She sat and rubbed her eyes. She had read until the candle wax blossomed. An hour, at the most.

  Tirielle sat back in her chair and stared at the candle burning low, insane dribbles of wax standing in stark disobedience against the regimented backdrop of tidy manuscripts and scrolls neatly packed into alcoves and dark wood shelves. All around her a millennia’s worth of noble thought stood idle, waiting for the writer’s progeny to find the words again. Not one looked happy to be forgotten.

  “We’ll never find it, even though we know it’s here.”

  “I never thought I’d see you despair,” said j’ark uncertainly. “You seem to find strength where others of us merely fail.”

  Tirielle stretched her back and stifled a yawn. “There’s just so much. It could take an accomplished reader years to find it.”

  “We’ll find it, don’t worry. Here, this is the last of them.” He placed a gold-covered scroll beside the others on the desk. There was a considerable mound. The ones she had finished with she had returned carefully to their tubes, and placed on the floor beside the desk. Too many in one pile, not enough in the other.

  “I’ll join you. Between us, we should be able to read these before daybreak.”

  “I hope so…I don’t think we have much time left.”

  “Time enough. There’s always enough time for what really matters. It’s everything else that gets in the way.”

  He placed his candle on the floor and sat cross-legged beside it, pulling a scroll from its cover. He fell silent, and began to read. Tirielle watched him for a minute. Always time for what really matters, she thought to herself, and turned her eyes to the scroll she was reading.

  Outside, Hren hid Gern from sight, and the moonlight was muted. A pane of glass fell to the street above them, wrapped in cloth, unheard by Typraille or the readers. They were too engrossed in their task.

  Time passed, and Tirielle felt she had laboured hard all the night. She was on her second candle, and that too had burnt low. She glanced at j’ark. He seemed tireless. As she watched he set one scroll aside, and took up another. He did not even take a break to rub his golden eyes. Tirielle’s eyes were almost too sore to continue. Meagre candlelight was not good enough for any but a reader to read by for a long time. But then, as she was about to take a break, a name leapt out at her.

  CAEUS…

  She did not know why, but the name resonated within her, a distant memory, a memory of some long forgotten tale heard in the crib, or perhaps whispered in the night. It was a name to instil fear, but instead she felt…hope. She bit her lip and carried on.

  There was a note rolled up inside the account. It fell out onto the floor, and she bent to pick it up. Her back ached from long inactivity. She took the time to stretch out her creaking spine as she read the note.

  This is the true and accurate account to the last days of the wizard, penned by Ir Mar Surillion.

  Finally, she thought with a grin, she had found it!

  She read on, eager and silent.

  Great was the sundering of the world. The Sun Destroyers were driven from the world by a mere trick. A band of wizards, of a race known only by the title Sun Destroyer, committed the ultimate act of treason against their own kind. The only knowledge of this time comes from oral tradition of the people of Sarth Island. Its people have been long forgotten by civilisation, but they have not forgotten civilisation.

  There is much evidence to support this story, although as a scholar I must be wary of convenient explanations. The remnants of the Sun Destroyers people, the Hierarchy, although rarely seen, remain upon Rythe. They have little to do with the day to day life of mankind, remaining aloof in a city of minarets, far to the north. The city is called ‘til’a’thon’ by the barbaric peoples of that distant region. In the common tongue of scholars, this translates to ‘stone tree home’ — there is no word for tower, or even city, among those people. Yet their tradition of story telling is far the richer for the lack of vocabulary.

  It is a common tale among the Sarth Islanders that tells of the end of the old world, and the beginning of the new. A great wizard, whom they refer to as ‘the blood wizard’ stole his masters’ power, who fed off the light of the sun, making the world dark. He banished them to the pits of hell (quite an imaginative alternate realm, considering the backward nature of the people. I could go into the supposed nature of this realm, but to do so fully would require considerable commitment. Should I complete my studies on the legends of the Sarth Islanders, I might devote another year to the study of their fascinating mythology) for all eternity. From this pit the Sun Destroyers scheme to return to the world of Rythe one day, and feed once more on the glory of the sun, bathing the world in darkness and ruling over mankind. There are several interesting points thrown up by this tale. It is both a creation and destruction myth, cyclical in nature. There is no mention of the ‘red wizard’ in the tale, his fate, when asked, is unknown. In three hamlets which I visited none of the elders could tell me where he is supposed to have gone.

  Finally, it is worthy of note that throughout the story, there is no mention of a second sun, even though their language is able to express gender, varying degrees of honourable address based on age, and tellingly, plurals.

  I, for one, intend to examine the legend more closely, for I feel that the study of the origins of the world can, like the sun to which the myth alludes, shed light on the future of the world.

  Tirielle put the scroll down and smiled to herself. At last, a mention of the red wizard. Now she had a name. There was value in these scrolls. But, she thought, glancing into the shrouded gloom on the underground chamber, the night must nearly be done.

  “j’ark, I’ve found his name. The red wizard. He is called Caeus.”

  “You’ve found it! Does it say where he rests?”

  “I haven’t read it all yet,” she replied, and set the scroll down, taking care to keep it clear of the candle.

  “Whatever it is, must be fiercely interesting,” said a voice from the stairway. The words slithered like sidewinders over burning dunes, and Tirielle spun to face the doorway. J’ark was quicker.

  She had been so engrossed in the scroll she had not heard the assassin.

  As she spun, knocking the chair aside, she let a knife fly toward the voice, but heard nothing but the clatter of her steel. The stairway was dark once again. The assassin must have put out all the candles as he descended. They were in the light, he was in the dark. He had all the advantages.

  J’ark seemed momentarily confused — the assassin was not there. Then a whip-crack broke the still air, and j’ark tumbled to the floor, holding his neck. His hand then fell limp against the flagstones, and his breath stopped in his throat. The assassin leapt from his hiding place, against the roof of the stairwell, spinning to his feet. In his hand was what looked like a whip — in the gloom it was easy to miss — but it was no whip,
but a long, thin snake. It undulated along its length, dancing as the light danced around it. Tirielle drew another blade and crouched, ready.

  “I’ll kill you for him!” said Tirielle through gritted teeth.

  “Oh, he’s not dead. Just paralysed. It’s you I came for. I don’t kill people I’m not paid to kill. Poor form.”

  “Bastard!” spat Tirielle, keeping her eye on the snake, not the man. If j’ark could snatch an arrow from the air…she pushed thoughts of j’ark from her mind. She could not afford the distraction. “Who paid you? At least let me know that.”

  “I’ll waste no more words,” he said with a shake of his head. The man was smiling. He had a thin face, narrow shoulders, and was as still stone for a moment, watching her with that superior look on his face.

  But when he moved he was like the snake.

  His shoulder bunched, and Tirielle reached for calm, as Dran had shown her.

  Fear, hatred, grief…all were washed away in an instant. Motion slowed — the snake’s long fangs flicked toward her, but she was moving already. Her muscles screamed at her from sitting still so long, pain almost cracking the void, but she moved with lightning speed. He was fast, but she had no distractions. Every concern was but a raindrop falling on a pond, rippling across her consciousness but never touching deeper than the surface. He was like the snake, she was like the sand — touched, but never changed.

  Her blade struck, slicing through the neck of the snake, and she caught it with her free hand. In one smooth movement she threw it at the assassin’s face. She only had a moment. He screamed and fell to his knees — she had no idea how long the paralysis lasted, but knew it was quick.

  He was unbelievably fast. His dagger was in his hand, and she had not seen him move, even in the void, but he fumbled it at the last moment. She had no time for pity. She, too, did not waste words. She crossed the room in bold strides and thrust her dagger deep into his neck. The assassin’s lifeblood sprayed out on the floor.

  Her calm crumbled. She looked down at the blood covering her sleeve and felt herself gag. Slowly, she forced her gall back down. She had seen blood before — much of it — but never would she become accustomed to its sickly tang, the metallic odour or its sticky feel on her skin.

  And she prayed she never would.

  “j’ark! j’ark!” She shook him, as though to awake a sleeper. His eyes roved within his head, but he could not move a muscle. They could waste no more time. If the assassin had found them, others could, too.

  She smelled faint smoke and turned to see the scroll alight. She had knocked her candle onto it, and dry for a thousand years it was burning fast.

  “No!” she cried as she leapt to the table. She batted at the flames with her hands, knocking them out, but it was badly burned.

  She wept then, in long, uncontrollable sobs. But as always, it was j’ark who came to her aid in her darkest moments.

  “No matter, we take what we can,” he said, voice cracking and full of spit.

  “j’ark, you’re alright!” Tirielle forgot about the scroll and was by his side in an instant. She took his head in her arms and cradled him against her chest, rocking softly, more to consol herself than to comfort him.

  “Not really. I can’t move. Damn, but he was quick.”

  “I thought you were dead. I could not bear to lose you.”

  “Nor I you,” said j’ark, and Tirielle thought she would burst with joy at this admission, although its power was somewhat muted as he could not move his face.

  If I can’t do it now, I’ll never get the chance again, she thought. Before she could lose her courage, she craned her head down to his and kissed him on the lips. She held him for a long time, praying that the moment could last forever. But she knew she could not take what she wanted. He had to give it. She broke away, tears in her eyes and her lips tingling from his touch.

  If only he could feel as she did.

  When she drew away, she could not tell if it was a smile on his face, or a grimace.

  “Take the scroll, and pull me up. I think some of the feeling is coming back already. There’s no time to waste. We have to get out of here.”

  Time moves ever on, Tirielle thought, but at least for one perfect moment she had felt his lips, even if he would never know the feel of hers.

  She wiped a tear aside and gathered up the burnt scroll. She rolled it, and stuffed it in its case. Only then did she put it inside her dress.

  She fumbled in the darkened stair well for a moment, until she found her second blade, and then pulled j’ark to his feet. He tried to aid her as much as he could, but he had little strength, and he was unbelievably heavy. At first he slid back to the floor, his legs like stone, but she would not give up. Not now. Not when they were so close, and he had been given the gift of life.

  She grunted with effort, but she managed to pull him upright. She looked in despair at the stairs, but she faced them as she did everything else. She faced them as she knew her father would have — with courage, and steadfastness, and most of all, stiff, unyielding pride.

  The climb took longer than she would have imagined, but she made it to the top. By the time she reached the old library, she was sweating and her chest was heaving with exertion. Leaving j’ark to rest against a wall, she kept to the shadows as she walked forward. Keeping to the shadows was easy — the assassin had doused each light in the hall. Only moonlight filtered through the windows along the west wall — one of the windowpanes was missing, she noticed. An easy climb down from the windows. Perhaps the snake had been watching them, waiting all night for the right moment.

  She walked softly, searching for Typraille. There was a crumpled shape stirring on the floor at the archway, and she moved swiftly to it.

  “I’m glad you’re alright, Typraille,” she said with obvious relief, pulling him to a sitting position. Still her eyes scanned the shadows, searching for enemies. In her imagination they lurked everywhere, but she knew she was being foolish. The assassin had not struck her as a man that liked company.

  “I’m a fool,” coughed Typraille. “Snuck right up to me. Didn’t hear a thing.”

  “I only heard him because he wanted to gloat, I think. j’ark’s alright, but he can’t move, either. I can’t very well carry the two of you.”

  “The feeling’s coming back,” he said. “Look, I can move my hand. If I have to I’ll crawl out of here. Did you get it?”

  “I did,” said Tirielle with a smile. “Time to move on.”

  “High time,” said Typraille with a grin. “Give me a good stand up fight any day. I hate assassins. All that skulduggery gives me gripe.”

  Tirielle laughed easily as j’ark approached them on unsteady legs.

  “He got you, too, then?”

  “Aye, he did, and good. I can’t feel my legs yet.”

  “My arms are still numb, but I can walk. Come on, Tirielle, between us I’m sure we can make it.”

  “Wait!” whispered Tirielle, and ran to the bookshelf. Only when she had once again concealed the secret room did she return.

  “If I leave it open, and the readers find it, the Protectorate will one day find the secrets within. All would be lost. If we can, we will return. I don’t know when,” she added ruefully.

  J’ark nodded. Typraille tried to add his agreement, but his head merely flopped loosely against his chest.

  Slowly, painfully, they walked. j’ark and Tirielle carried Typraille between them, past stunned readers, ignoring their questions. It was far from a common sight in the halls of the library. Tirielle was glad she had spared them the discovery of the dead man.

  Typraille grumbled about the indignity of it all from one end of the library to the other.

  “The feeling’s coming back. I think I can walk on my own, now,” said Typraille as they reached the door. J’ark was dripping with sweat from his own efforts. “Bloody head’s pounding, though.”

  “We’ll be fine by the time we get back. Let’s hope Carth and Unthor can
give us a shoulder to lean on.”

  “I hope so, too,” said Tirielle, rubbing her sore shoulder. “You’re far too heavy.”

  “All that good tavern food,” said Typraille with a grin that showed he was beginning to feel back to his old self.

  Tirielle opened the door into the night. She stepped out, laughing, and a blow crashed against her head.

  The red robed warriors were too fast for j’ark and Typraille. Unarmed, unarmoured and weakened as they were, they were no match for the soldiers, who held their arms without much difficulty, no matter how hard they struggled. Tirielle found herself pulled roughly upright, her arms tight against her back. She writhed and bucked, using all her strength, but could not budge his grip. She finally stopped her struggling and looked up. Her heart sank instantly.

  Unthor and Carth were held fast by the arms before them, and Typraille and j’ark in their state were no match for the wiry soldiers that held them. They strained against their captors nonetheless.

  “Cease your struggling, dissidents,” barked one of the Protocrats, drawing his blade and holding it against Unthor’s throat, “or I will wash the streets with this one’s blood.”

  “Kill him for me,” growled Unthor, rage in his eyes.

  Tirielle saw Carth nod, almost imperceptibly, out of the corner of her eye.

  She saw what they were going to do, and she had no way to stop it. All she could do was help. Her heart plummeted, and silently she wished Unthor luck.

  Typraille’s head reared back and knocked one captor away from him, who screamed, clutching his broken nose. Everything happened in an instant. It was all too fast, and Tirielle could not find the calm that had saved her earlier.

  As Typraille swung on his other captor, the Protocrat who held the knife against Unthor’s neck shouted, “Kill him!” But he would not get the chance. Unthor bucked in his grasp, pulling himself forward to free his arm enough to reach his captor’s sword. j’ark roared in anger as Unthor moved, as if feeling his pain. Somehow Unthor’s hand was freed, and he flicked a blade from its scabbard into the air. Tirielle watched it tumble for a moment, but before she had moved she saw an all too familiar arc of blood, black in the moonlight. Spray from Unthor’s torn throat.