“Kate,” he said, giving her a serious stare.
“I know he is dead,” announced Layla. “None of them returned.”
Kate was watching them closely, understanding dawning on her rapidly as a look of concern swept over her features. Layla glanced at her before returning her attention to Tyrion.
“Branlyinti had claimed one of my children, as well as my father,” he began. “He stood in my path. I was forced to eliminate him in order to reclaim them.”
“You killed all of them?” asked Layla, her features smooth, like stone.
Tyrion nodded.
“Except the She’Har,” added Kate. “I shot him with the crossbow.”
Layla looked back and forth between them, “That was a large group, a trainer and a dozen wardens…”
Tyrion looked down, “Garlin helped me; not directly, but he told me the groves of the others before the fight began.”
“And you killed him?” she asked.
“He was first.”
Layla blinked and her cheek twitched for a moment. “He was a fool for you.”
‘Fool’ was the word the slaves of the She’Har used to describe friends, lovers, or people who were simply too emotional. Tyrion nodded, “He was a fool for you too, Layla.”
The warden blinked again, and a tear made its way down one cheek. She turned her back on them, hiding her face, and her voice was thick when she spoke again, “You will play tonight? I have not heard your music in years.” It was as much a demand as a request.
He had left his cittern in his bedroom when he left to capture his children, and he hadn’t thought of it since returning. It had been a long time since he had played for anyone other than Lyralliantha. He had become rather reclusive over the past decade.
“I will play for you,” he told her, “and for Garlin.”
Layla nodded.
***
The rest of the afternoon went smoothly. None of the children felt like arguing after what had happened to Ian. He split them up into several groups. The mundanes he split into two details, one charged with preparing something edible for everyone that evening, and the other with cleaning the stone dust and other detritus from the interior of his house to make it suitable for them to sleep in that night.
Once he had them working, he spent the rest of his time with the ones who had already awakened their mage abilities, teaching them the rudiments of shielding and a few practical tricks, such as how to keep themselves warm. Once he had accomplished that, he took them outside and marked the outlines for a new building a short distance from his house.
“What will that be?” asked Jack, noting the size of the rectangle he had marked.
“A place for you and your brothers and sisters to live,” answered Tyrion.
Ryan pointed at the lines he had marked on the ground, “Are those supposed to be the interior walls?”
Tyrion nodded.
“What’s this large area here then?” asked the boy.
“That’s a common room.”
“And that?” said Ryan, pointing to a square he had marked with cross marks.
“That will lead to the storage cellar.”
“Where are the bedrooms?” observed Ryan, squinting as he thought about the layout.
Ordinarily such questions might have annoyed him, but he could tell the boy was thinking, and he appreciated that. “They’ll be on the two floors above.”
“Where’s all the wood going to come from?” asked Ryan, looking askance at the small pile of lumber that Tyrion had set aside near his mostly completed home.
“The extra will come from the oaks over that way,” said Tyrion, pointing toward the hills, away from the Illeniel Grove, “but the building will be primarily stone, so you won’t need as much as you’re thinking. The wood will be for bracing and framing.”
“Stone?” asked Sarah suddenly. “How are we supposed to build out of stone?”
Tyrion tapped his temple, “With this. Your aythar will be your tools, it will be your carts, it will cut stone, and it will carry materials. Everything will be done with it.”
“But I don’t know anything about building,” she protested.
“You’ll learn,” he replied. “The task will help you hone your concentration and strengthen your will.”
Ryan spoke again, “If you’re going to build this out of stone, it won’t work. That space is too large, the weight of the upper floors will cause it to collapse without more interior support.”
Tyrion focused on him now, “Do you know something about building, boy?”
Ryan looked uncomfortable now that the attention was firmly on him, but he held his ground. “A little, I was apprenticed to a carpenter, but I got to see the masons working too.”
“Think you can come up with a better design?” challenged Tyrion.
“W—well, maybe just some suggestions…”
“You’re in charge of the building and its design, then,” he ordered the boy, then he pointed at Gabriel, “You’ll be in command of everyone in general, but I’ll expect you to make sure everyone cooperates with Ryan’s plan.”
Gabriel nodded calmly, but Ryan’s face was a picture of shock, “Wait, I don’t know that much. What if it falls in? I’m just an apprentice I don’t kn…”
“You know more than I do about construction,” admitted Tyrion. “If it falls down, you’ll just have to rebuild it. The sooner you get it right, the sooner all of you have private rooms to sleep in.”
“What about the stone?” asked Brigid, speaking for the first time in hours.
Tyrion smiled, “It’s in a pit, about a quarter mile in that direction.” He gestured toward the foothills.
She frowned, “There’s no way we can get enough here to build this gigantic house.”
“See that house over there?” said Tyrion, waiting for their eyes to focus on what he had just recently named ‘Albamarl’. “I built that with nothing but this.” He tapped his forehead. “I knew nothing about stonework, and very little about carpentry. I had no tools and no assistance. Each of you is strong, and once you’ve matured and exercised your abilities, you will probably be as strong as I am, or close to it. Some of you might become even stronger. You’ll build it.”
Chapter 19
The meal that evening was—interesting. The different assignments had given the teens something to occupy themselves, and they had begun to subtly compete. One of the girls, Emma Phillips, had been adamantly confident in her cooking skills and had consequently taken charge of the cooking detail.
What they had produced was edible, but it left a lot to be desired. There were beans, but they had been cooked into a flavorless paste. Roasted turnips were there for variety, but they were scorched black in places and yet still raw in the middle. The oatcakes were passable, but somehow they had been salted until they were more of a savory item than sweet.
The complaints by the others were loud and lengthy, particularly by the others who had been overruled by Emma’s decisions while on the cooking detail. All fingers were pointing in her direction, and she seemed to be on the verge of tears now, tears or a tantrum. It was hard to tell.
They sat in the open yard in front of the house, where two of them had built a large fire, and a couple of others had brought heavy logs to use as benches. It was chillier outside, but the fire made it tolerable even for those without magic.
They ate their food there, or as David put it, they “…choked down the remains of what was once known as food.” Laughter was the only spice that made the food taste better, although it drove Emma to eat inside the house rather than listen to their jibes.
Tyrion had taken a seat on one of the large logs before most of the others, and as they all came to sit and eat, it was noticeable that no one sat beside him. The log bench was nearly eight feet in length, but it remained empty while the teens, Kate, and Layla crowded onto the three other logs.
He preferred it that way.
Finishing the last of his bean-pa
ste, he rose and walked toward the house. Sleep would be welcome.
Layla rose quickly and caught up to him before he could reach the door. “Have you forgotten your promise?”
He stared at her blankly for a moment before his memory clicked and provided the answer, “Music?”
She nodded.
“It has been over a month since I played,” he told her, thinking of his time with the elders and his week traveling before that. “I may not be at my best.”
“It has been even longer since my ears have heard it,” she reminded him. “No one will criticize your playing.”
“Fine.” He went into the house and found his cittern. Emerging again a few minutes later he returned to his place by the fire.
All eyes were on him now. The conversation died away as he began to tune the strings. The children of Colne were used to music, unlike the slaves of the She’Har, but although a musical instrument wasn’t a rarity for them, it was still a welcome change from their bleak day.
He played ‘The Merry Widow’ first, hoping to lighten the mood, but the notes grated on his nerves, and his heart wasn’t in it. The light gaiety of the song didn’t suit his mood. He considered playing ‘Dana’s Lament’, but one glance at Kate sitting beside Layla across the fire dismissed that notion from his mind. It was a sad, sorrowful melody, but the romantic connotations were too much for him. He still remembered the first time he had played it for her, over fifteen years ago.
Instead, he started an unnamed tune, one he had created himself over many long evenings of playing with the strings. It had no words, and because he had crafted it himself, it was wont to change at times to suit his mood. He began softly, letting his fingers find their rhythm before increasing the intensity of the sounds.
The faces staring at him around the fire bothered him, so he closed his eyes, turning his mind inward. People were the source of his suffering. The young people he had stolen away from Colne were the result of his prior sins, and now they suffered at his hands. He hurt because of them, and they hurt because of him, an endless cycle of pain. Whenever he looked into their eyes, he saw his own failing, and he could feel the condemnation that he fully deserved.
His music was angry at first, filled with the frustration that had been his daily companion since discovering that Haley had been taken by the Mordan Grove, but as he closed his mind to the outside world the melody softened. I am not playing for them.
He played to the silence, the empty place that was within himself. The void there was cold, but it was also free of pain, free of all the things that tore at him. His music was a thing of gossamer and moonlight, but it spoke now of solitude, quiet reflection, peace—perhaps it even spoke of forgiveness.
Tyrion’s thoughts were free now, relaxed, for the music had taken the emotion. His fingers expressed the feelings that he no longer wanted, leaving his heart and mind lighter. Garlin’s face appeared in his imagination, staring at him with the same strange curiosity that it always had when Tyrion played the cittern.
The warden had been his captor, even his tormentor once, but had later become a friend—his only friend among the cruel people tainted and twisted by the She’Har. “Thank you, Tyrion, for the music,” said Garlin once more, as his mind replayed their last meeting.
The scene that followed was grotesque, but he didn’t shy from it, letting the music rise from a sad farewell to a discordant crescendo. His hands were full of fire, but his heart was empty. I feel nothing. The words floated through his mind above the chaos of his playing. They passed on, and the music continued, carrying him forward, to his parents.
Helen and Alan Tennick were there, hidden in the undertones, waiting for their chance, and once the violence of Garlin’s death had passed, they moved forward to fill the foreground with his mother’s sad eyes and his father’s tears. “I wish you’d never been born, Daniel,” said Alan once more.
The music was lost then, falling and dying abruptly, leaving a rude silence behind full of hurtful things. That’s not me, he thought. Daniel isn’t my name anymore. But the fire had left his hands, and now it was at his center, burning through his chest and running like cold cinders down his cheeks.
Tyrion opened his eyes.
The young people around the fire stared at him with dismay on their faces, or simple shock. Their short lives had not yet given them the experience to interpret what they had just heard, instead the trauma in his music had left them stunned. The only ears that had understood had been the ones hidden by a soft fall of coppery hair.
Green eyes stared at him, wet and swollen, while beside her Layla sat with her head bowed, afraid to show her pain openly. Perhaps the warden had understood as well.
Kate’s lips parted, as if she might speak, but Tyrion rose and tucked his cittern under one arm before the moment could complete itself.
“That’s enough music,” he said, turning away.
I feel nothing, he told himself, but wishing wouldn’t stop the pain. Returning to his room, he shut the door and activated the enchantment that sealed the room. No one would interrupt his slumber.
***
Morning brought a new day and with it new changes. In particular the cooking crew rebelled and deposed Emma Phillips as the head cook. Anthony Long emerged as the next in the chain, and he supervised a much better batch of oatcakes for breakfast. He also asked Tyrion for permission to send some of the others out to hunt.
“We’ll send some of the ones on the building crew,” responded Tyrion. “It will be a good experience for them using their abilities.”
Byovar showed up not long after that, walking carefully along the worn path that led out from the edge of the Illeniel Grove and across the field to Albamarl. Tyrion sensed him coming and was waiting outside before he arrived.
“Morning, lore-warden.”
“Good morning, Tyrion,” returned the She’Har. “I have news for you.”
“Will Lyralliantha be back soon?”
Byovar shook his head, “I don’t know. My news is about something different.”
“Let’s walk then,” said Tyrion. “I need to stretch my legs.” He took a circuitous route, leading Byovar out around the edge of his stone house and through the lightly wooded areas beyond.
“The elders have sent word that they will support your decision,” said the lore-warden.
“My decision?”
“To capture your offspring, to bring them here.”
Tyrion coughed, “Don’t you mean Lyralliantha’s decision?”
“My people do not deal in falsehoods, Tyrion. One of the details that became clear during your examination by the elders, was that you are indeed making decisions. Lyralliantha has chosen to support them, but the choices have often been yours. In fact, bringing the younglings back here, instead of leaving them with Thillmarius is a prime example.”
“Do you disapprove of my bringing them back?” asked Tyrion.
Byovar sighed, “No, but that is not the point. Thillmarius informed me of your taking them after you had already done so. He also told me that the Prathions have decided to respect your bond with Lyralliantha.”
Tyrion nodded, but remained silent, unsure what to say.
“Word came from the elders last night that you will be treated as a child of the grove,” added Byovar. “The other groves will respect their decision as well.”
He stared at the lore-warden, uncertain if he properly understood what the other man had said. “Are you trying to say I’ve been made an honorary She’Har?”
Byovar frowned, “You cannot become an elder, but they will treat you as a child until your death.”
“A child—like…”
“Like myself, or more particularly, like Lyralliantha,” clarified the lore-warden. “You are not a baratt any longer. You are like the krytek, a child that cannot grow and will someday die.”
“What about this?” he asked, pointing at the slave collar.
“As part of the Illeniel Grove, we no longer require
it, but it will be Lyralliantha’s decision whether to remove it or not.”
“And my children?” pressed Tyrion.
“Are still baratti,” replied the She’Har. “Your new status does not affect them at all. In fact, that is the other matter I have come to talk to you about.”
“They belong to me,” warned Tyrion. “If I am no longer a baratt, then they are mine, or at least Lyralliantha’s.”
“You are a child of the grove, you are Illeniel. They belong to the Illeniel Grove,” corrected the lore-warden. “If you wish to remain as you are, you will submit to the will of the elders.”
“What do they want?”
“Your recent fighting, with the wardens and some of the children of the other groves, has been costly. We have given much shuthsi to balance the debt you created.”
Tyrion’s brow shot up, “The grove paid for the wardens I killed?”
Byovar nodded, “The wardens, three children of the groves, and the warden you took yesterday. Your actions have greatly weakened the Illeniel Grove’s standing.”
He narrowed his eyes, “The elders didn’t have to do that. It would have been simpler to disavow me, even if that included Lyralliantha. Why would they…?” His mind followed the thought to its logical conclusion. “No!”
“They will fight in the arena, for the greater good of the Illeniel Grove,” said Byovar coolly.
The words chilled him. He had been afraid of this outcome, but he had hoped that by keeping them under the Illeniel Grove’s control he could avoid it. It was somewhat ironic that it was his fighting to make it so that resulted in them being forced to fight. Tyrion’s knuckles had gone white. He was clenching his fists too hard. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax his hands and arms.
“You understand?” asked Byovar, watching him with some concern. “They will fight,” repeated the lore-warden.
“If they will just let me talk to…”
“There will be no negotiation, Tyrion. They were clear in their message. Your children will fight, or you and Lyralliantha will become nutrients for the elders. There is no other way, and your offspring will fight, whether you train them or whether someone else is forced to the task.” Byovar’s face was empty of all expression.
The Silent Tempest (Book 2) Page 18