Betrayer's Bane

by Michael G. Manning

  His daughter sighed but said nothing more. A quarter of an hour later they were back on the dormon and winging their way back toward home.

  As soon as they were off the ground Tyrion released the stone-mind. Emma had maintained her hold on his arm and she felt the change as his mind retreated back into itself. Once she was sure he had regained himself she felt the pain and turmoil that seemed to constitute ‘normal’ for Tyrion return. She withdrew her hand but for a fleeting second before she broke contact she felt his reluctance. Don’t leave me alo…

  She started to put her hand back but her father shrugged her off, “That’s not necessary now.”

  Emma felt a mixture of emotions, but the primary one was relief. She hadn’t been sure if she could handle any more of the biting cold that burned through his soul. That feeling was followed immediately after by a sense of guilt. She felt bad for him, but she couldn’t bear to stay any longer than necessary.

  “Why didn’t you want to see the slaves from the other groves?” she asked, shifting her mind away from uncomfortable lines of thought.

  “We have others with their gifts. It may be that they have been abused, but that isn’t my concern. It was apparent that we wouldn’t have any time alone there, so rather than waste any more time I thought we should leave,” he answered succinctly.

  “At one time you were concerned about freeing all the remaining people…,” she began.

  “Before I understood they had no hope of being part of the future!” he interrupted, stopping her short. “I only have so much energy to spare. I can’t afford to spare it on the living dead.”

  “By that logic our entire trip here has been a waste then.”

  Arguing was a far more comfortable mode of conversation for him. Glancing over his shoulder disdainfully he replied, “We will land just beyond their grove. Jordan can fix a location there. We will be back within a week to pick up C-1 and the others.”

  “C-1?” said Emma, mystified.

  Tyrion smiled, “I name the test subjects according to their grove of origin. The first Centyr we capture will be C-1, the second will be C-2, and so on.”

  Emma thought about the She’Har women imprisoned near Albamarl, in a prison she had constructed. Suppressing a shudder she put that thought aside. “How are your experiments going?” she asked.

  Tyrion’s eyes shot a warning to her before darting toward Jordan. Reaching out he took Emma’s hand and she felt his mind connecting to hers. Oh no, she thought as the cold washed over her.

  They are going well, Tyrion told her, but I don’t want to risk talking about it in front of him.

  Have you succeeded? she asked.

  He nodded but kept his face neutral, Yes.

  She had known he meant to find a way to neutralize the seed mind, but she wasn’t entirely sure what he expected to do after that. What’s next? she asked.

  For a split second she heard the wailing of a woman’s voice again in her mind and then her father withdrew his hand.

  “What?” she asked aloud.

  “The less you know, the less you will feel responsible for later,” he replied.

  “What does that mean?” she demanded, but he refused to respond.

  The rest of their trip was silent and uneventful, other than a brief stop at the edge of the Centyr Grove. Emma spent much of it studying the back of her father’s head. So much pain, so much guilt.

  ***

  Thillmarius was waiting for them when they landed.

  “Tyrion!” said the lore-warden with some excitement.

  Tyrion was somewhat less enthused. He had been hoping to avoid another meeting with his old trainer. Glancing at Jordan he ordered, “Go ahead and take Emma back with you. I’ll be along as soon as I deal with this.”

  “If you don’t mind,” interrupted his daughter, “I’ll stay with you.”

  Tyrion looked at her and then Jordan, “Stay then, both of you.” He left unspoken the fact that he expected one of them to remain with the Mordan mage, to make certain he was put back in ‘storage’ until he was needed again.

  “I took your advice,” said Thillmarius, ignoring their exchange. “Come and see.”

  Tyrion fought down an involuntary surge of nausea as the Prathion drew closer. “See what? I don’t remember giving you any advice.”

  Thillmarius waved at the three of them, “Follow me.” He refused to say more until they had done as he asked. They walked for several minutes until they reached an open area near the building that had once served as the lore-warden’s training center for those that would be blooded before entering the arena.

  Emma noticed the extra tension in her father’s shoulders as they crossed the open space. She knew he didn’t like the Prathion lore-warden, but she didn’t know what had once happened there.

  Tyrion still remembered the thin red-headed girl he had choked the life from. She had been the first, and while he might have forgotten many of those who came after, he never forgot that day.

  Today however, the small training arena held a very different occupant.

  “Isn’t she beautiful?” remarked Thillmarius.

  Tyrion stared blankly at the lore-warden, “It’s a cow.”

  Thillmarius nodded, “Yes. Do you think she is a good one?”

  He didn’t know nearly as much about cattle as he did sheep, but from what Tyrion could see the cow looked healthy. What he didn’t understand was why the She’Har had it in the former training yard. “I’m no expert on cows, but I think so.”

  “I went back to Lincoln, to acquire more flour,” explained Thillmarius, “and while I was there I took your advice.”

  “I advised you to buy a cow?”

  “Butter!” said the lore-warden. “I tried it while I was in Lincoln and I was so impressed that I found someone to show me how it was made. After that I simply had to have a cow of my own. I understand it is best when fresh and in any case it only stays good for a few days.”

  Emma struggled to contain a sudden giggle.

  “You plan on making your own?” said Tyrion, still in shock.

  Thillmarius looked proud, “Indeed. Mistress Waycomb was kind enough to show me how to milk her, how to let the milk sit until the cream had risen, and how to work a churn.” The She’Har’s eyes were twinkling. In a conspiratorial whisper he added, “I made my own butter churn as well. I have it stored in the building over there. I should be able to try it tomorrow.”

  Tyrion tried to imagine the somber She’Har trainer churning butter, but his mind came up blank. “Show me,” he said at last.

  Thillmarius nodded, “Just you, though. I think your daughter is laughing at me already.”

  Emma had her hand over her mouth.

  Tyrion followed his past torturer to the small building and sure enough there was a wooden churn within. It lacked the normal carpentry joins such a device would have, probably because Thillmarius had had it grown rather than manufactured. Otherwise it looked eminently functional. “That is a churn,” he said noncommittally.

  “When I finish my first batch I want you to try it,” said Thillmarius.

  He said nothing, but he did give a slight nod of acceptance. A powerful She’Har, gifted with near endless knowledge and power, and he intends to spend his leisure time making butter, he thought to himself.

  “Some of my fellows think I’ve gone a little mad,” confessed Thillmarius.

  “They lack your vision,” said Tyrion dryly.

  “Well, as you know, most of my people eschew eating the flesh of animals, so the thought of purifying milk fat and spreading it on bread seems odd to them, but I am confident they will see the light.”

  For some reason that statement reminded Tyrion of the dead squirrel Lyralliantha had once brought him to eat when he had first been captured. “I am sure they will learn from your example.” He turned away, preparing to walk back to Emma and Jordan.

  “Tyrion,” said Thillmarius suddenly. “Before you go back. I wanted to give you some advice
as well.”

  The seriousness in his tone sent fresh chills down his spine. No matter how friendly he became, his body would never forget the fear, not after what he had endured. Working hard to keep his breathing steady he turned back, “About what?”

  “You’re planning to bring some of the humans from Baratrea back, is that correct?” asked Thillmarius.

  He nodded.

  “Don’t leave them alone with the others in Albamarl. In fact, I would advise you to keep them entirely separate,” said the lore-warden.

  Once again Tyrion felt awkward. The last person he wanted help or advice from was Thillmarius Prathion, and yet there it was. He kept his tone neutral when he replied, “Why do you say that?”

  Thillmarius stared at him seriously with the gold eyes that so often haunted his nightmares, “I think we both know that you have some knowledge of the Centyr abilities, perhaps more than most would expect. Trust that information. Of the five groves, they are the most feared.”

  Aside from the Illeniels, Tyrion almost added. “I fought many Centyr mages in the arena, as you should recall. I think I have a good measure of them.”

  “The slaves you fought never had the subtlety to develop their most dangerous skills,” argued Thillmarius. “And besides, the Centyr are most dangerous at peace, not war. You met Ceylendor.”

  He shrugged, “So long as they do not have his level of ability I believe I can keep them under control.”

  The lore-warden shook his head, “Violence is simple, Tyrion, but control is far more difficult. Even stunted examples of the Centyr, like these humans you are adopting, they will have many more tools at their disposal than you will. Do not underestimate them.”

  “Why are you so concerned?” asked Tyrion at last. “Why do you want to help me so much?”

  “I have told you before,” said the Prathion. “I am not proud of what my people have done, nor what I have done. I do believe we can create a better world together.”

  “What do we have to offer the She’Har?”

  Thillmarius arched one of his golden brows, “Bread and butter alone would have been worth it. We have much more to learn from your people than can be seen yet.”

  Chapter 21

  He sat on the edge of the bed, turning the cittern over in his hands. It was the same instrument he had created himself, during his captivity years ago. He had considered making another over the years, but he couldn’t find the energy for the task.

  It probably wouldn’t be as good anyway. When he had made this one he had been desperate for something to do to occupy his time. Despite a lack of proper tools or materials he had spent weeks and weeks building this one. Boredom and loneliness had driven him to expend every effort in making it as good as it could possibly be.

  He simply couldn’t devote the time to do such a thing again.

  Tyrion plucked the strings idly and then took up a proper melody. He played alone today. In the past his family had requested, no demanded, that he play for them every evening, but that was no longer the case. Since he had eaten the loshti they had gradually lost enthusiasm for his music.

  It had been gradual. At first a few of his children would drift out once dinner was done, having other things to occupy them, but over time more and more of them had had other things to attend to. Eventually it had been obvious to him. When he picked it up, everyone scattered, and no one ever asked him to play.

  He could tell his music was different, but he couldn’t put his finger on what was wrong. So he played alone to save the others from being forced to smile and pretend they enjoyed it.

  The door opened and Kate stepped in, her eyes falling to his instrument.

  Tyrion stood and moved to set it aside. “It’s alright, I can do this later…,” he began.

  A flash of guilt flittered across her features, but then she stopped him, “Actually, I’d like you to play for me.”

  “You don’t have to pretend, Cat. I know no one enjoys my playing anymore,” he told her.

  She opened her mouth, about to deny it, but then she closed it again. After a moment she spoke apologetically, “It’s different, but it isn’t bad.”

  He sighed.

  “Play for me anyway,” she prodded.

  “Why?”

  “There’s something I want to hear,” she said tenderly. “Do you remember that tune you played for me on the mountain when we were just teenagers?”

  Tyrion frowned, “You’ll have to be more specific.”

  “The day I brought you lunch,” she reminded. “The first time I ever brought you lunch. You were playing when I came up the hillside and when I got there you just kept playing as if I wasn’t there. Do you remember that?”

  He smiled, “And you started dancing a jig.” It was a pleasant memory. Glancing up he could see her looking at him, no—watching him, with the expression that had first bewitched him so long ago. Her green eyes seemed to sparkle with either a question, or amusement, he never knew which.

  It was the same look she had held on her face that day when she danced on the mountainside.

  “Will you play it for me?” she asked.

  For a moment he forgot the present, forgot the intervening years and all the horror he had been forced to live. All he wanted was to play for her.

  And it simply wasn’t there. Despite his yearning, he had no memory of the music he played that day. He could relive the moment with crystal clarity, remember every word they had shared, the way the light had set her hair on fire, but the music that had flowed from his fingers was nothing more than a hazy feeling.

  “It wasn’t a tune that I learned, Cat. It was something I made up as I went along. I did a lot of that back then, to fill the time while I watched father’s sheep,” he apologized with a shrug.

  She smiled, refusing to give up, “It doesn’t have to be the same exact melody, just play the feeling for me. Play what was in your heart that day.”

  For an average musician, that was a ridiculous request. Music was structure and harmony, trying to create it without a plan generally produced something disjointed or unpleasant. But Tyrion knew he had been able to do just exactly what she had asked for. He had spent so much time playing that he had been able to forget the structure and let his feelings lead him away.

  But he hadn’t been able to do such a thing since he had eaten the loshti. When he did something strange happened and his music turned odd, rigid—cold. Even when he played songs that he knew by heart, somehow they were tainted by the unforgiving rules that seemed built into his mind now.

  “I can’t.”

  “You can. Just remember how you felt,” she insisted.

  He remembered how he had felt. He simply couldn’t remember the music he had played. Everything else about that day, about every day, in all honesty, was sharp and clear. Only the music was fuzzy, as though time had made the memory blurry.

  Since he had eaten the loshti his mind had changed in a number of ways. One of the most striking was his memory, and not just the memories he had gained, but his own memories. He forgot nothing. Oh, he could be forgetful, but anytime he tried to recall a specific event, or anything else, it came to him perfectly. Whatever the loshti had done when it implanted the memories of the She’Har in him, it had also given him perfect recall. Perfect recall of everything, except for music.

  Why only that?

  Because the She’Har never had music, he realized. The She’Har elders couldn’t hear at all. Music had always been foreign to them.

  The loshti had improved the way his brain stored information, but however it did that, it had done nothing for his ability to recall music. The perfect, crystal clarity of everything else made his knowledge of music seem dim and obscure.

  They had given him the knowledge of ages and stolen his very heart. Glancing up at Kate he saw her still watching him intently and the frustration made him want to cry.

  “I don’t know what you’re thinking, Daniel, but forget whatever it is and just play for me,” s
he told him earnestly.

  That’s it! He blinked, looking at her with sudden hope. “I’ll try. Don’t say anything, just let me play. No matter how it sounds.”

  She nodded and he closed his eyes.

  Remembering that day on the hill didn’t help, it was too bright, too clear. Instead he attempted to think of nothing at all. Beneath everything else, his feelings still resided, quietly smothered by a mountain of knowledge, information, and recollection. He held on to the feeling of that spring day and tried to block out all the actual memories of it, and at the same time, he tried to play without remembering all the minutia that surrounded his playing.

  His finger plucked a string, letting a single note fill the air. He focused on that note, a single pure thing that existed outside of himself. When it began to die away he picked another note and listened to it, ignoring everything else.

  Something was stirring within him. Something hazy and indistinct, yet still powerful. More notes followed, simple and innocent, as though a child had picked up his cittern and was experimenting with the pure joy of making sounds.

  He was no child, however, and his fingers knew more, his heart knew more. He found himself strumming chords and then a melody formed. He almost stumbled a few times, as memories intruded, making his fingers trip over the strings, but as he relaxed and kept his mind blank his hands found their rhythm.

  The air in the room became taut with emotion as his soul tore free from the chains his brain had woven around it. His skin felt hot and sweat began to bead on his brow, soon his entire body was damp. It was as though his hands had taken on a life of their own and were playing with a desperation he hadn’t suspected existed.

  The music triggered new memories but if he let them take the forefront his hands would begin to trip up again, so he fought to keep his mind clear. But clarity did not equal empty. The music pouring from the cittern carried with it all the things that had been hiding within him, sorrow, sadness, anger, rage, and overlaying everything else, horror. Horror at what he had become, what he had done, what he was doing, and most of all, horror at what he intended to do. Guilt threaded through it as well, along with the fear and uncertainty that hid from his waking mind.