Ciarrah's Light

by Lou Hoffmann

“Okay, then,” he said in a low voice meant to reach nobody’s ears. “Not going in there. Nope. Not now.”

  By the time he was back outside, the sun had risen above the trees and its warmth seemed to drive away the remainder of the funk that had been haunting Lucky. When he mounted up, Zef tossed her head as if eager to move instead of just hang around the Hold, and Lucky hit on the idea of riding out to the Oakridge, which he decided was within “the Sisterhold proper,” but was also far enough from the manor and its surrounds to feel like going somewhere.

  Though it was still early, the sun threw down a lot of heat, but a cool breeze swept through now and then, keeping Lucky from boiling in sweat. A small, low bridge took him across the stream that wandered almost aimlessly across the Hold and on past the orchard, where it eventually found the Altiron River. Once he’d crossed the stream, he’d entered the Behlvale—the long depression half bisected by the Oakridge, a close neighbor to the smaller Sisterhold Valley. Lucky turned Zef to walk along the far bank for a short side trip. The sight of daisies and grasses bobbing in the wind like small, overpolite people repeatedly bowing to one another made him laugh, and his spirits lifted still further. Sure, there was trouble in the world, but it could be fixed. Watching the stream flow, he thought the Sisterhold—and the Sunlands, and all of Ethra—would continue on course, going around obstacles or running them right over, just like water sparkling over stones.

  Hearing his own thoughts, he scoffed at the idea of Luccan the philosopher.

  He left the seriousness behind, idly wondering if the stream had a name.

  This world is supposed to be my home, but I really don’t know much about it at all. Not even about this one tiny part of it.

  After his dalliance on the banks, he turned back to find the well-worn path to the ridge, and decided that when things didn’t seem so crazy, he’d apply himself to his studies, which he admitted he hadn’t done before. He’d resented the schooling Thurlock had set up for him last year—childishly, he now thought.

  What a difference a year makes. Because now I get it. When I’m Suth Chiell, I might be holding people’s lives in my hands. Knowing stuff might make a difference.

  Boring, though.

  Knowing boring stuff might make a difference.

  The path from the valley floor up to the top of the ridge wasn’t at all horse-friendly, so he left Zef to graze at the bottom. He enjoyed the physical exertion of climbing. It pushed worries further toward the back of his mind, and by the time he got to the top he was feeling more lighthearted than he had at any time since leaving Morrow’s farm—which had been either weeks or months ago, depending on whose time you counted by.

  Lucky walked along the ridge toward the northern end. The ridge was bare of tall trees there except for the single oak that gave it its name. Probably the upthrust granite that formed most of the upland on this end, coupled with constant crosswinds sluicing down from the hills on all sides, kept all but the strongest of trees to a low, aromatic scrub. Once there had been more tall, broad trees, though, or at least one more. A long-ago fallen log made a perfect bench for someone who wanted to enjoy those breezes, take in the panoramic view, and be alone with his thoughts.

  Lucky settled onto the log and looked out over the Behlvale, which stretched miles across, and many more miles long in both directions. It seemed vast, and the solitude of it peaceful. But after a few minutes of gratefully breathing air he didn’t have to share with anyone, he admitted that honestly, he didn’t want to be alone. He wanted to be with Rio.

  Rio, the youngest of Stable Master Morrow’s seven sons, was the only real boyfriend Lucky had ever had, and he hoped it would stay that way. He was young, and who could know what would happen? He could have lots of boyfriends before it was all over. But he loved Rio—loved for real—and Rio loved him back, and Lucky didn’t want to move on. If keeping what he and Rio had meant missing him and being lonely, he was willing to do it.

  That didn’t mean he had to like it, though. He remembered running his hands through Rio’s thick black curls, caressing his cheek with its maturing black beard, kissing him. He thought about looking into Rio’s eyes, putting an I love you into real words, walking with him and holding hands. When he imagined these things, he thought he felt an echoing ping against his heart, and he decided to believe Rio was thinking of him too.

  It wasn’t more than seconds before the sweet joy of that thought turned into blue loneliness, but minutes passed before he realized that the darkness creeping into the corner of his vision to the northwest wasn’t the product of his sorrowful reverie. Peering into the distance, he saw several men moving about in a place where a series of tall, narrow stones stood in no discernible pattern. One man wore white robes, and magic disturbed the air around him like a vaguely purple heat mirage. Where the man faced and gestured, pillars and curtains of shadow were taking shape, anchored in or suspended from the stones, billowing and blossoming like fountains from the ground.

  And they looked hauntingly, alarmingly familiar.

  “Uncle Han? Can you hear me? It’s important!”

  HAN STOOD with Thurlock, watching Luccan walk away toward his few hours of freedom before he was destined to spend days in the constant company of the wizard. He struggled not to feel sorry for the lad. But then he scolded himself.

  How ungrateful could I possibly be?

  Thurlock had been everything to him for two centuries—almost, but not quite, a father to replace his own, an extraordinary teacher, and an employer who made working for him more like partnering with him. Thurlock had taken care of him when he was a grieving child, provided him comfort and grounding whenever he’d needed it throughout his life—even within the last few days. Truth was, Luccan would benefit from the having Thurlock’s less-divided attention, and certainly if there was anyone who could—and would—keep Luccan safe better than he himself, it was Thurlock.

  Admit it, Han Shieth, he told himself. This attitude of yours is mostly childish resentment about Henry.

  It was that, mostly that, but Han also didn’t like Thurlock questioning the military wisdom he himself had nurtured in him for two centuries just when the Sunlands needed it most. He didn’t relish another confrontation about it, but with the strange, truncated report he’d received from Henry last night, and other disturbing news from the Fallows that had come via messenger this morning, he felt stronger than ever that he needed to go down there himself.

  Not that he didn’t have misgivings, what with the things the alien had shown Luccan, and—

  “I get a sense that you are unhappy with me, Han.”

  Han rolled his eyes, and for a moment he said nothing. Then he thought of that Earth proverb, “nothing ventured, nothing gained,” and decided to give the conversation a whirl. “Sir, I’ve had some disturbing reports about the Fallows—”

  “Han, we already did this.”

  “By the gods’ bloody whiskers, Thurlock!” Han realized what he’d said, and to whom, the moment it was out of his mouth, and sorry didn’t even begin to tell the whole story about how he felt about it. “Oh, sir, I… I apologize—” He stopped abruptly. He’d planned to explain himself, but Thurlock had turned his back and stepped two paces away, and now stood there, shoulders shaking, making the occasional odd noise.

  Han thought, He couldn’t have gotten so angry it caused some sort of stroke. But no. He was… laughing?

  “Sir?”

  Thurlock turned around, trying desperately to tone down his amusement. “Han, forgive me. But if you could see your face….” He dissolved into laughter again.

  This time, Han had to laugh too, although not quite so enthusiastically. But when Thurlock finally calmed down, he decided that perhaps it would be easier to talk to the old man if he put a cup of tea in his hands.

  “Come back inside, sir? I’ll fix you some tea.”

  “No,” Thurlock said, reassembling his dignity. “Thank you. It’s a kind thought, and I would love it. But I need to make my way ove
r to the Hold—things to do before….” He never finished the sentence, instead issuing an invitation. “Walk with me. We’ll stroll, and you can tell me the dire news, and ask me what you want to ask me.”

  Han sighed resignedly and then fell in step beside Thurlock. “And you’ll listen?”

  “And I’ll listen, yes.”

  So Han told him about Henry’s curtailed report, and about a message from Gerania, who still struggled in and out of unconsciousness and sleep troubled with dark dreams. With help from a Droghona light-worker—Olana’s youngest son—she was making progress toward full recovery, and she’d gathered some statistics about a disturbing attrition of Guard soldiers. “People have been disappearing, sir. When they’re out on patrol, they’re with the squad one moment, and nowhere to be seen the next. A few have disappeared from the tents, or the showers. Sometimes their bodies are found later, strangely marked. Most are never found at all. One exception, and it’s disturbing.”

  Han let silence fall, hesitating to speak more because of how awful the words would taste in his mouth than because of any reluctance to tell Thurlock.

  “Do tell, Han.”

  “Sir. Well, that one soldier went missing on a Wednesday while out on parole. That Friday, another patrol ran into a band of Shilloah warriors—”

  “Excuse me. Shilloah warriors? From the East March?”

  “More than likely, sir.”

  “Yes, of course. My point is, what were they doing in the Fallows?”

  “Of course, I don’t know. I’ve got Tennehk sending some of his folks in that direction to try to find out. But, strange as that is, what I’m trying to tell you about is even stranger.” He waited to see if Thurlock would interrupt or take exception to his tone, but the wizard only bobbed his eyebrows. “The Friday after this soldier disappeared while on patrol, this band of Shilloah tribesmen ambushed another patrol, and the Guard soldier was with them.”

  “Our soldier? Truly?”

  Han couldn’t blame Thurlock for having a hard time getting his head around the idea—he’d felt the same. But….

  “That isn’t all, sir. Fortunately, the patrol that day had no real trouble beating the ambush, and all the soldiers who had gone out came back. And they all told the same story. They all said the Guard soldier who had disappeared didn’t look like she was alive.”

  “Didn’t…?”

  “They said she was a corpse, sir. A walking, sword-wielding corpse.”

  “I see.”

  “And do you also see why I think, now more than ever, that I need to go to the Fallows myself?”

  Thurlock blew out a hard breath, leaned on his staff, and sank his face into his free hand. He looked very tired as he rubbed his eyes, and he said, “I think my blood pressure may be slightly high, Han.”

  Han sighed, Thurlock’s words cracking open the shell of pique into which he’d locked up the deep empathy and love he felt for this singular old man. “Deep breaths, sir,” he said quietly.

  “Let’s step into the kitchen,” Thurlock said, reviving a little. “Maybe I’d like cup of tea after all.”

  A few minutes later they sat at a small table in a corner of the ground-floor sunroom in the manor house. Tall, sectioned windows, some panes set with stained glass, spoon-fed them sunlight in gentle, colorful portions. Thurlock with his tea, Han with coffee, it could have been an idyllic rest, even respite. But what Han had told Thurlock, and what Thurlock was now telling Han, refused their hearts any sort of ease at all.

  “I’m afraid, Han. That may be a hard thing to hear from the most powerful wizard in the land, but it’s true. I will start by telling you that no, as awful as the troubles at the Fallows are, I can’t let you go, not now, not yet. The Sisterhold absolutely needs you here if I go, and even if I don’t—”

  “You might not go, sir?”

  “I haven’t decided, but there is a chance I won’t. I do feel I might have better luck with my research in the city, and perhaps more importantly I’d like to look up a few of the better wizards and witches—see if I can’t get some allies who can back me when… if… when we end up in battle. But Lucky’s doings with the Terrathian… they nag at my mind. I have a vague sense that the Sisterhold is in danger, first and foremost, and we’re quite vulnerable here if we’re taken by surprise.”

  “True,” Han said, thinking about the current low numbers at the garrison, and the general lack of martial readiness.

  “I’m meeting with Rose. I’ve asked her to help me with some scrying—she’s far better at it than I, and I hope to glean some real intelligence about our—”

  “Wait!” Han tried to pass Thurlock an apologetic look. He held up a hand and hoped Thurlock understood he was listening to something only he could hear.

  “Uncle Han? Can you hear me? It’s important!”

  “Luccan? Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, but come to the Oakridge. Can you find me? I’m hiding.”

  “I can find you. But you’re not in danger?”

  “I…. Come quick!”

  Nothing more was forthcoming, so Han was left perplexed and alarmed. “Luccan,” he told Thurlock. “He wants me to come to the Oakridge.”

  “In danger?”

  “I don’t know. I… lost contact, so I’m thinking yes. And he said he’s hiding.”

  Thurlock started in with beard scratching, concentration putting a scowl on his face. After a sigh, he huffed out an annoyed breath and said, “I shouldn’t have let him go.”

  Han shook his head, wanting to dismiss the comment, but he had no time to spend on it. He said, “I’m on my way, sir. Will you—”

  “Yes. I’ll be right behind you. In your judgment, would it be wise to gather some troops and bring them?”

  “Absolutely. There’s always a squad on readiness. Start with them and ask my sergeant to sound a general order to stand ready just in case.”

  “I’m on it. Thank goodness you know what you’re doing, Han. Take care of our boy, and I’ll see you shortly.”

  Han had, by an instinct he couldn’t explain but didn’t question, dressed as if for war that morning. He’d long been perfectly comfortable in light armor, and during the interim he’d almost forgotten he had it on. Now he was glad for it. He’d also belted on Chiell Shan in its scabbard and armed himself with his bow and a quiver of arrows before leaving the house that morning. He didn’t think he had any kind of gift for seeing the future. Rather, he’d been uneasy, and being ready helped him steady himself in the face of uncertainty.

  As soon as Han stepped out of the manor house, he whistled for Simarrohn, then jogged out to the place behind the buildings where the trail to the Oakridge started and whistled once more. Within scant seconds, he heard her pounding hooves, and then she was there. She had a halter and lead, but no saddle, bridle, or reins. It didn’t matter, because when Han rode Sim, they were one in purpose and motion.

  He let her know how urgent the situation was, and she fairly flew beneath him. They arrived at the Oakridge in seconds, and found Zefrehl grazing, but nervous. Han left Sim with her and climbed to the top of the ridge from there, but he couldn’t see his nephew.

  “Luccan,” he mentally called.

  No response came.

  He tried again, and then risked calling out loud, “Luccan!”

  Nothing. And not only did he hear nothing, he didn’t sense Luccan’s mind anywhere.

  “Oh, lad,” he muttered to himself. “Where in all the gods’ great worlds are you?”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: If Life Wasn’t Life

  LUCKY SAT concealed behind a rock and a clump of fragrant brush that made his nose itch a little. He did the best he could to also conceal his thoughts. He figured the guy doing all the gestures and producing magic was certainly a wizard, and who knew what he could do?

  Actually, he looks a lot like that Mahros guy.

  Lucky had taken to heart Han’s warning that he wasn’t the only person around who could read a person’s mind, so he
opted for a little extra caution. But why was it taking Han so long to get there?

  The shadows the wizard who might be Mahros was making were growing, and although they weren’t making any real sound, Lucky thought of them as getting louder.

  “Come on, Han,” he said aloud.

  Maybe it was the sound of his voice that jarred his brain, but suddenly he knew exactly what had been keeping Han. Really stupid, Lucky, he scolded himself, but then left any further chastising for later. He unblocked his thoughts.

  “Han? Are you coming? Are you—”

  “I’m here! At the Oakridge. Where are you…? No, never mind. I’ve located you.”

  Possibly two minutes later, Han came up behind Lucky, moving almost silently as usual, despite the fact that he was armed and armored. Why is he armed? Lucky thought.

  “I can’t really tell you why. I just thought it was a good idea this morning. What’s happening here?”

  Han didn’t wait for an answer before asking another question, this one out loud. “Were you shielding your thoughts from me?”

  “Um… yes,” Lucky said, answering the second question first. “I mean, not from you. Just shielding them. You told me to, remember?”

  Han looked up as if asking some heavenly deity for patience and sighed heavily. Lucky deduced he was in a bad mood.

  “I did tell you to shield them,” Han said. “But not when you want me to find you! How could I do that when you were mentally trying to make everyone—me included—think you didn’t exist? You’re too damn good at that, anyway. It’s disturbing.”

  “Well,” Lucky said, starting to lose patience himself. “Sorry, okay? But look.” He moved, scooting over so Han could peer with him through an opening in the brush. “Out there. That’s a wizard, right? And he’s doing something to make those mist-shadows. Do you remember those, Han? From when you were in my head, I mean.”

  “Mm,” Han said, his attention focused on what he was seeing. Then, distractedly, “So do you remember all about those dreams now?”