The Silent Tempest (Book 2)

by Michael G. Manning

  “Nutrients for the elders” was a phrase used by the She’Har that referred to their method of using bodies as compost to feed the god trees. Byovar’s words weren’t a threat. The She’Har didn’t threaten, they ‘informed’.

  Tyrion could feel his anger building once more, but he held it in check. Instead he bowed his head, acknowledging the command.

  “Much has changed since you came to us, Tyrion,” said the She’Har. “You are the first sentient being outside of our own species to be considered a child of the grove.”

  “Change isn’t always good, Byovar,” said Tyrion. “I was also the first Illeniel slave. Now they are planning to use my children in their games.”

  The Illeniel Grove had historically been opposed to keeping humans as slaves or pets. Lyralliantha had broken that prohibition when she had collared him to save his life. His success in the arena had given them a taste of competitive victory again. Now the debt he had created had forced them to go even further.

  “I know this isn’t what you want, wildling,” said Byovar, “but my people change slowly. There is a great debate among them now, a debate that you created. Do not give up hope. Someday we may find a common cause between us.”

  Byovar was one of the most understanding of his kind. He had originally been chosen to become a lore-warden because of his interest in humanity and his research about them and their language. That was why he had been chosen to tutor Tyrion in Erollith. If there were any among the children of the She’Har whom Tyrion thought might have a chance of understanding his emotions, aside from Lyralliantha, it was Byovar.

  Tyrion glared at him now. It was a look that would have filled a human with fear, for there was death in his eyes, but it hardly fazed the She’Har. “I would like to be alone now, Byovar,” he told the lore-warden.

  The She’Har nodded and turned, walking away without the need for a farewell.

  “How long do I have?” Tyrion asked his back.

  “A week.”

  The wind picked up as he stood there watching the lore-warden walk back to the edge of the god-trees. The skies had been clear before, but now they darkened, as if the sky were brooding. Heavy clouds passed overhead, and Tyrion struggled to control his anger.

  Breathing deeply he chanted silently to himself, I feel nothing.

  Chapter 20

  When Tyrion walked back to his white-stone house, it was with a heavy heart. The simmering hatred he felt for the She’Har had returned, coloring everything he saw and filling him with bitterness. Brigid, Jack, and Sarah were returning from the opposite direction, bringing a pair of does with them, levitating the bodies of the deer in front of them. Their faces were cheerful, almost bright, more so than he had seen from them since he had taken them from their homes.

  They were beginning to see that perhaps living here wouldn’t be as terrible as they had feared. Good food and a semblance of some self-determination could go a long way in making someone believe that, even when they were being held as slaves.

  He had wanted to do even more. He had hoped the Illeniel Grove wouldn’t make them fight.

  The day before, with Ian, his actions had been cruel and excessive. He had felt guilty, but now he knew he had been right. He could not afford kindness, not now, not yet. Someday perhaps, but by then their hatred would be fully ingrained, etched into their hearts like a scar that would never fully heal.

  And he would be the knife that carved it.

  What kindness they seek, it must not come from me, he told himself. Kate emerged from the house even as he thought it, and when his eyes fell on her, he knew the role she would be forced to play. You will be their mother, Kate. You will love them where I cannot. I will break them down, but you will keep them sane.

  She walked toward him purposefully, as though she had words for him. The music from the night before had told her more than it should. She had caught a fresh glimpse of his suffering.

  She wants to forgive me, if I will just give her some small sign that I am not insane. Even now, after everything, she wants to believe.

  “Daniel, I’ve been thinking…” she began.

  “Stop,” he ordered.

  Kate frowned, “But I…”

  “I don’t care,” he told her harshly. With his magesight he double checked their surroundings, making sure no one was within earshot. “I need to address everyone. I will explain how things will work.”

  She closed her mouth, looking at him with eyes that seemed to bore into him.

  “You aren’t going to like it. You’re going to want to argue about it with me, and you’ll probably be right, but you will need to keep your tongue,” he warned.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  He ignored her question. “Later you’ll be angry. They will too,” he said, waving his arm to indicate everyone else, even though they weren’t nearby. “They’re going to want to talk, and they’ll need someone to listen. I don’t care what you say, so long as it’s not within my hearing.”

  She gave him a confused look. “You really have lost your mind. Have you been having a conversation by yourself? Because it sounds as though you’re talking to someone who knows what the hell you’re thinking.”

  He nodded, “I probably have lost my mind, and that’s a good way for you to think about it. There are just two rules you need to remember. Never talk about the madman where he can hear you, and never argue with him in front of the others.”

  “Or what?”

  He leaned in closer, “Or you’ll wind up like Ian.”

  Kate’s eyes narrowed. She wasn’t particularly good at being threatened. Straightening, she took a firm stance. “Alright, if that’s how you want to act, fine, but don’t expect me to play along. I’m sick of your bullying, and I don’t care what you do to me.”

  “Get the others together, I need to talk to them. You have fifteen minutes.” He brushed past her, ignoring her bravado.

  Burned out ashes remained from the fire the night before. Stepping around them, he took a seat on the same log he had used then. He didn’t have to wait fifteen minutes, within five everyone was in the yard. Some of them started to sit at the other logs, but he stood and waved them away from the log benches.

  “This isn’t a ‘sit down and chat’ kind of discussion,” he told them seriously.

  “Is this a meeting?” asked Abigail.

  Tyrion glared at her, “From now on, when I call everyone together, you do not speak to me. Only two people will speak to me at one of these gatherings, the warden Layla, or Gabriel Evans. The rest of you will only speak to me if I address you first.”

  The girl swallowed and nodded, afraid to reply.

  He looked over the rest of them, “Next week, those of you whose powers have awakened will begin fighting in the arena.”

  Everyone grew still, and even the small sounds that had been filtering through the group disappeared.

  “The arena is a place wherein mercy does not exist, and therefore you will not give it. Nor will you find any mercy here at my hands. Before I brought you here, you had something that the slaves growing up in the pens have never had—a family. You had parents. Your mothers, and your fathers, or whoever the hell raised you, those people loved you. Those people nourished you. They fed you with kindness and love and helped you become the strong, vital, intelligent, young men and women whom I see here today.

  “But love will not keep you alive. Kindness will not keep a violent death at bay. That is why I am here. I will teach you the things your parents never wanted you to learn. I will teach you the art of violence. I will teach you to kill, and I will give you the cruelty to make you enjoy doing it. I will teach you to hate your enemy with a burning passion, a passion that can only be quenched in blood.

  “You will be the disciples of my hatred. I will teach you to hate me, and when you step into the arena, it will be my face you see before you as you annihilate your enemy. You will cry yourselves to sleep at night with no greater desire than to see me dead
at your hands, and when you enter the arena you will turn that anger loose upon your foes.

  “Your parents’ love has made you strong; now my hatred will take that strength and make you powerful. Your hearts will become weapons which will destroy anyone who stands before you.” And someday I will turn those weapons against those who have done this to us…

  ***

  “You wanted to see me,” said Layla, staring evenly into his eyes. She was a tall woman, big boned, she stood almost eye to eye with him. It was easy to see why Garlin had been so obsessed with her. She personified strength, although it was tempered with the native cruelty of her upbringing.

  “Thillmarius has sold you to the Illeniel Grove,” he answered. “From today forward you are my slave, my warden. Do you understand?”

  She frowned, “But you are a warden…” She left off the ending, “…like me”. But he was sure she was thinking it.

  “No, not any longer. The She’Har have chosen to elevate me. I am one of their children now, and you, along with the others, belong to me.”

  “How could such a thing be possible?” she said, her mouth gaping.

  “The ‘how’ of it is not your concern, Layla. Obeying my orders is.”

  The tall woman lowered her head in submission, and he could see her wetting her lips as she did. Her heart rate was quickening as well. “What orders would you give me, Tyrion?”

  “It’s about Kate,” he began.

  Her eyes lit up with understanding, “She is yours also. You wish me to stay away from…”

  “No, Layla,” he said with some frustration. “I’m not trying to keep you away from her. I want you to protect her from the others. She’s the only person here who will never have the ability to manipulate aythar. Eventually the young ones will realize how powerless she is, especially once I begin teaching them.”

  “We shall be yours alone, if that is what you wish, my lord,” the warden answered dutifully.

  “That isn’t what I mean,” he replied with exasperation. “I just want you to protect her. What the two of you do otherwise is not my concern.”

  The female warden was confused, but she held her questions. She could sense his frustration, and long experience had taught her the danger of questions when they were not wanted. “It will be as you say, Tyrion.”

  “There’s one other thing,” he continued.

  Layla smiled then, she had expected this. Stepping forward, she pressed herself closely against him, “I have seen your eyes on me. I will do whatever you command.”

  He shoved her roughly back, “No, damn you! That’s not what I’m after.”

  Layla colored with embarrassment, an unusual thing for a warden.

  “I want you to help me train them,” said Tyrion. “As a warden you have a lot of experience in the arena. It will be useful to have someone else to assist me in their education.”

  She sniffed, “You have shown them enough. I did not understand your speech before. Why waste your time on this?”

  “I don’t think of it as a waste. The more prepared they are, the better they will be able to survive the matches.”

  “You shouldn’t coddle them,” insisted the warden. “Let the weak die. What remains will be those who deserve to live.”

  He shook his head, once again reminded of the difference in their worldviews. Training, even cruel brutal training, was an expenditure of time and energy on people who might not deserve it in her eyes. To her, that was coddling. “Pay attention, Layla. Even the meekest child out there will become a terror in the arena when I am done with them.”

  ***

  Emma Phillips had her awakening that evening, so the next morning there were eight young faces lined up for the first lesson. Of course she was nauseous and ill from the onslaught of new sensory information, but Tyrion ignored her discomfort.

  He worked with them on shields first, having them practice close personal defense. Gabriel and Brigid, having had more time and some practical experience, did best, but the others improved quickly. Emma’s effort was sloppy, but that was to be expected given her discomfort.

  After two hours he called a stop. “Alright, that’s enough for a while. Some of you were barely passable, but the rest of you were pathetic, particularly you, Abigail,” he focused his attention squarely on the girl. “That brings us to our next lesson.”

  Stretching out his hands, he created a bright red whip between them. Most of them had seen it before in Ellentrea, although thanks to Thillmarius none of them had experienced it personally.

  “B—but Emma did worse than I did!” shouted Abigail, realizing what was about to happen.

  “It was Emma’s first day,” said Tyrion. “I expected her to do poorly.” The red whip licked out and wrapped itself around the girl’s ankle, causing her to fall as her body convulsed. She screamed for ten seconds before he withdrew it.

  “Get up, Abby,” he told her coolly. “It’s time for lunch.”

  She looked up at him with red eyes filled with fear. Her legs shook when she stood, but she found her place quickly.

  “We will start again after lunch. Until then you are free to do as you please,” turning quickly, he marched away, heading for the house, for his room. It was the one place he could be alone, without eyes on him.

  Shutting the door behind him, he shivered, fighting the urge to vomit. I feel nothing.

  He hadn’t expected it to be that hard. He had used the whip before, of course, but only when he was truly angry, and only on those whom he felt deserved it. His mind replayed Abby’s screams in his ears.

  “They need it,” he told himself, but he couldn’t fully make himself believe it. “They have to learn the fear. From the fear comes hate, and from that will come the desire to kill. Without that they’ll hesitate, and if they hesitate they’ll die.”

  Liar. You just want to torture them, his inner observer accused him, using Kate’s voice.

  “Shut up,” he shouted at the air. After a moment he sat down, trying to force himself to relax. Maybe I am going insane, he thought. This time his inner voice sounded like his own.

  Twenty minutes later he reemerged. He knew he needed to eat before resuming the training. Kate was standing in the kitchen area with Piper and Blake, and her eyes found him the moment he stepped out.

  “You!” she growled.

  Not now, please, not now, he thought.

  “Do you feel better now? Was it fun torturing that poor girl?!” barked Kate. She looked ready to launch into a full tirade as she advanced on him menacingly.

  He had warned her, but the last thing he wanted just then was another confrontation. Not Kate, I can’t. As soon as she drew close enough, his hand darted out, slipping past her head to catch her by the hair. Twisting her head around painfully, he dragged her toward the bedroom. “I’ll feel better after I’ve taught you a lesson,” he said, trying to fill his voice with more conviction than he felt.

  “Let me go!” she shouted, twisting, trying to free herself.

  “Not until you’ve learned your place, slave,” he replied, kicking the door open and shoving her through as he released his grip on her hair. Closing the door behind him, he leaned against it, taking a deep breath and shutting his eyes.

  Kate attacked, nearly breaking her hand when she slapped his shield with all the might in her slender frame. “Ow!” she yelped loudly.

  Tyrion erected a shield within the room, this one meant to prevent sound from leaving, then he released his personal defense. “Try again,” he said, offering his cheek.

  She eyed him suspiciously, “That shield hurts.”

  “I took it down…”

  Before he could finish, her other hand swung out, stinging his right cheek with a hard slap. Reflexively he rolled with it, robbing the blow of some of its momentum, but it still hurt. Kate hadn’t been holding back.

  He caught her other wrist as she twisted her body to pummel him with her dominant hand. She had made a fist with that one, more confident now that
she knew his shield was down. He then shifted his weight, partially deflecting her knee as she attempted to do even greater harm.

  She glared angrily at him as he held her at bay, “I thought you were going to let me have a couple of good shots.”

  “No,” he replied. “I brought you in here so they would think the opposite.”

  “But you aren’t going to really hurt me?” she responded sarcastically. “Is that because you’re secretly not as bad as I think, or as they think? In reality, inside that murderous, sadistic exterior, lies a gentle soul crying to be understood—is that what you want to tell me?”

  It hadn’t sounded so ridiculous in his own mind. Nor would he have described himself as gentle, but the heart of his message was something like that. “As cruel as I am, even I don’t enjoy hurting my own children,” he told her. “Nor do I like hurting you, but if you take a stand against me in public again, I won’t hesitate to do whatever is necessary to maintain the illusion.”

  He had relaxed his hold on her wrists, and she took the opportunity to jerk her arms back before spitting on the ground at his feet, “What illusion?! It wasn’t an illusion when you broke Ian’s ribs. It wasn’t an illusion when you nearly killed Layla, and it certainly wasn’t an illusion when you tortured poor Abby!”

  He took a step toward her, “Look, I…”

  She stepped back, keeping the distance between them, “No, you look! I left my son—I helped you bring those poor kids here. I kept them from running off or killing you when you were down. I believed in you, at least I thought what you were doing was a necessary evil, but this—this is sick Daniel! You’re sick!”

  “You don’t have to agree with me,” he told her. “In fact, it helps that you don’t, but if…”

  “Why does it help?” she interrupted, her eyes darting back and forth across his features, studying his face. Sudden realization dawned on her then, “Oh. You want me to be the kind one, don’t you? The mother figure to bandage their bruised pride and wounded bodies—is that it? You want me to give them some kind of false hope to keep their spirits up, so you can push them harder, so you can hurt them more!”