by Rae, M. C.
M.C. Rae
CALIFORNIA 2012
For Mandy
Tallis
M.C. Rae
Copyright ©2012 by M.C. Rae
All Rights Reserved. Except as specified by U.S. Copyright Law, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or media or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without prior written permission of the author.
Tulipe Noire Press
P.O. Box 815, Palo Alto, CA 94302
www.tulipenoirepress.com
First Print Edition, April 2012
First eBook Edition, April 2012
This work represents a work of fiction. All characters, and all incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
ISBN: 978-0615610047
On a late summer’s evening, not far from the Cliffs of Karmahan, Tallis sat in silence, though not alone.
Her guest glimmered as the light from the fireplace fell upon her. The trait was typical of the Paradite personage. With hair long and metallic in hue, Juno was gifted with eyes that shone as she looked out from silver irises. Skin the color of pale ivory and pulled taut over a slim body, her graceful form suggested a regal air. To enhance her figure, she wore cream-colored silk, cut as a gown, which flowed like a lulling wave down her legs, as far as the floor. She was like the sea during a storm made flesh. Not unlike that unyielding mistress that her appearance evoked, her kind was known for sudden, unprovoked turns of demeanor. Within the scope of their tempest, anyone caught would be rocked to the very core. Like the sea, however, the Paradites could also pass hours in lurid placidness, barely moving except to the extent necessary to sustain life. This was the manner of Tallis’s guest now. The guest knew that in the company of her host, any violent lashing of passionate argument would hit upon the rocks without crumbling the fearsome front of the cliff.
And surely, Tallis was the cliff. A sharp contrast, the humble host lacked sophistication to the lazy observer. Whereas the Paradite’s appearance seemed to be designed for the sole purpose of catching the eye, the Loren held herself in a manner to avoid such attention. Her hair was equally long, but black, her skin, olive. The only break between the earth and night sky that lit her features was her eyes. Green, green as the grasses that grew on the plains of Kêrsium. With a bit more mass to her than her diminutive guest, and with a wardrobe which sought to conceal any feminine allure her figure might boast, one might have mistaken her for an adolescent boy, if not for those eyes. They yielded an elegant and understated beauty to her countenance that was only appreciated with study. The mark of youth striving to attain majority defined her features, though any of those knowing her history would immediately note the falsity of assuming her to be young. In truth, to the ignorant observer, she appeared barely more than a maiden who had only recently abandoned her childish ways.
The abode in which they sat spoke both of a desire for privacy and a tendency towards thrift. The ashmum was perched high atop the rocky, northern shores of the island of Lorelei. The traditional Loren home hung like a lantern from the cliff face, and could only be visited by those lacking the ability to fly after a dangerous descent down a rope ladder anchored on the summit. The location made it a difficult hike for outsiders, though Lorens, with their powerful, feathery wings, were not so challenged by craggy topography. Most of Tallis’s countrymen, however, knew that she was a solitary figure, and rarely entertained uninvited guests. If one should dare to make the attempt, however, shortly before knocking on the door, a rude surprise awaited them. Tallis, after all, had long ago mastered the ways of magic. If a sojourner should suddenly find himself transported to a location a day’s walk away from the goat markets, instead of at her hearth, he would not be long in searching for others who had shared such a fate.
Juno was a tolerated guest, even if Tallis sometimes seemed distant or distracted in her presence. Tolerated, but tonight, not entirely welcome. Tonight, Juno was on an errand and had come with a purpose, a request to which the Paradite expected a hostile response. She had waited through the dinner her host had provided, chatting away in a lopsided manner on the events of the empire with only passing commentary by the Loren. After a lull in conversation, the Paradite tired of aimless chatter. She leaned in across the meager oak table.
“You must know why I’m here.”
Tallis took a sip of her tea before setting the cup down. Her leisurely manner was deliberate. She sighed. “I suspect. I am the gilteren, the one who knows.”
“Solas,” Juno responded, as though that word held all the world’s meaning in it. “We all need to be there. You, especially.”
Infamous for her outward emotional passivity, Tallis resolved to be neither surprised nor combative. Though the results of her sorcery were often drastic, in conversation and demeanor, she was considered a stoic. Outsiders did not understand that this was the way of most Lorens. Logic and deductive thinking were foundations of their culture. Emotional and irrational tendencies were culled like purple-flowered thistles, and at a young age. Except in the privileged classes, who only paid lip service to the practice. Hence, when a moment had passed and the echo of fear and anger overtook Tallis’s features, Juno was not certain at first what to make of it. The emotion was a foreign entity to her mind.
“I shall not go,” Tallis declared in a voice that fought to belie opinion. “I cannot.”
“But it is prophecy, Tallis, and we are powerless to defy it.”
“Prophecy!” Tallis scoffed, turning away from Juno and staring into the crackling fire across the room. “I have no faith in such devices. This prophecy binds me to evil. May I not fight for the purity of my own soul? And why are you so eager to believe it, when it means your own demise?”
Juno’s hands shook. Her lips drew two tight lines across her face. “The prophecy says nothing of your soul, nor does it bind you to evil. It says only that you will be the last of the immortals, not the cause of our downfall. Neither does it make known the day, nor the hour.”
Silence then, until the green gaze of her host re-focused.
“We do not fear death,” Juno offered at last. “How could death threaten us, when life promises so much worse?”
“Indeed.” Tallis sat back, folding her hands into her lap. “Nor do I. But what a fate is this? I care not for myself, but for the others. The destruction of an entire race, one whose very defining feature is immortality, must trail in the shadows of a monumental shift. Besides, the cause of this congress is folly. The empire has been held in trust by the Great Council of Client Kings for centuries. No one of worth has denied their rule. Why, now, do we need a sovereign?”
“You know the answer to that as well as I.”
Tallis closed her eyes, as though steeling herself for the frank pronouncement. She swallowed hard. “Because otherwise, he would see himself as ruler.” Juno’s silence served as endorsement. “He wishes us to hold dominion over mortals, yet there is nothing to be gained in doing so. Men seek power because they believe it will stave off death, and in the process, waste their lives trying to attain it. His lust for power confounds me. I do not believe, however, that enthroning a monarch will serve as a deterrent to his ambition.” She paused, turning to Juno, her gaze wary. “Even if I should be that monarch.”
Juno nodded. “A man who’s grown drunk on wine will not seek water. But Tallis, you are the fairest, most equitable and wisest of women I know. Who better to claim the throne?” She paused a moment, before adding sheepishly, “Beside, did not Andresa create you as the first immortal? That you might rule after her death? Would you deny Andresa’s dying wish?”
“So she said, and so she did. But there are truths which others know not, tha
t lead me to question the wisdom of her actions.”
Truths Tallis did know. She cursed the fact that she knew; and that she was bound by a promise to the perishing ruler to hold in confidence. Andresa knew, even as she faded from the world, that the very Gods who had once enthroned her eyed her empire with malicious intent in the shadow of her death. Andresa understood all too well the corruption that power, and the desire for power, instilled.
The perished Empress’s father had been Hyrol, King of Solas, and claimed as his due the hands of two women. Both queens were taken with child at the same time, but Andresa had been birthed one hour before her half-brother, Tirone. Hyrol had held hope that the first-born would be a son, an heir to whom he could endow his crown and fortune. He feared letting his kingdom be claimed by whomever would one day wed his daughter. She remained, ever so meekly, the first in line to his seat. Solas was for the Solasians. As tradition gave him no recourse to remove his daughter’s claim to her inheritance, he conspired instead to have Andresa’s mother smothered as she lay in recovery, the sleeping babe in her arms.
He reported to his people that both had perished during childbirth. Despite his cruel ways, Hyrol had humanity and pity enough to spare the infant girl’s life. He gave the babe over to a wet nurse and exiled them into hiding. Hyrol did not know that the nurse was a peasant witch, who raised Andresa with knowledge of the old ways. It was said that by the time she’d gained ten summers, Andresa could rattle off spells in the ancient tongues as well as her numbers and letters. In time, Andresa grew strong enough to overthrow her tyrant of a brother and claim her birthright. By that time, Hyrol and Tirone’s fearful and overly reactive ways had instigated war. All of the islands were in combat resulting in the near extinction of entire populations.
It had taken the entirety of the Empress’s life to negotiate the peace, forge an empire to deter further war, and secure its prosperity. All feared her, as it was rumored that her witch nurse had also bestowed a dangerous knowledge: two forbidden words of the ancient tongue, one for life, and one for death. While sorcery was powerful, the ability to invoke these words and direct their effects unto another could only be projected outwardly. Andresa could not save her own life by sealing it with eternal youth, it was said, so she sought to find one worthy of the gift. She looked for a custodian of the words who would use their power to strengthen the throne and keep the empire–and the peace–intact.
In possession of these two words, Tallis should have been the only one to be feared, the only own who could kill by a simple word. But, despite Andresa’s wishes, the Loren had refused the crown. Twice.
Her shoulders fell with a sigh. Turning to Juno, she conceded. “All right, then. I will accept. On the morrow, I shall go to Solas.”
*******
Juno knew Tallis had no intention of making her way directly to Solas. No intention at all. When she awoke in the morning, the emptiness of the ashmum hardly surprised her. Only a note and the rising sun remained to bid her good morning.
Friend: I promise to be there, but I have unfinished business at the Cove. Winds fare you well.
Juno bit her lip in frustration. It had been her duty to assure that the Loren made way to the congress. Now, if indeed she was off to the Cove, the task would fall to Lenu. Lenu was nowhere near as amiable an immortal to Tallis as the Paradite, but he could be persuasive when he wanted to be.
And he must be, Juno thought. If they were to see through their objective and be certain Tallis took the throne, she must make her way to Solas in time. The fate of the immortals depended on seeing the Loren overthrown. The only way to destroy Tallis was to allow him to face her. Tallis knew both the words for life and death, but there was one other who knew the later.
Knew it, because once upon a time, Tallis had used it to kill him.
The darkness clung to the bell tower at the Cove like dew. The celestial soldier, the sun, marched its first light across the valley like the opening blows of a battle.
The peaceful solemnity belied the chaos that would soon ensue. Such are mornings at a facility of learning: hand-rubbed eyes, laden with the dust of sleep, late hours kept in pursuit of knowledge. With the sun, the purpose of pursuit is born anew. The world remakes itself once more, pushing away all that happened on its last visit. The day is a newly hatched egg, its surface smooth and white. The bell of the tower rings, the rooster calls, the egg cracks. All must rise, all must to their duties keep. Each pupil must pull his share.
With a stretch and a yawn, Tarameen carried himself to his wardrobe. The red robe he donned signified his senior place amongst the students. He smoothed it over the pale, youthful skin of his shoulders. Only fifth year apprentices were allowed the bold colored cloth. Such students were in the last year of formal studies. Tarameen could hardly believe that a space of so many years was soon to pass. When first he’d stood on these hallowed grounds before the Masters, he’d been afraid and uncertain. He was a boy of just sixteen years then. He was late in arriving to this discipline, and older than most of the other new students by several years. The discovery of his ability for magic had come as a surprise mostly to himself, as none other in his family possessed the gift. Such random endowments were known to exist - the odd fisherman or lowly servant who, out of the blue, would discover the ancient words obeyed their call. Never before, however, had such an anomaly come to one of the commoners of his country.
At first, the overwhelmed boy was certain a mistake had been made. In those early days, Tarameen’s temptation was to deny his gifts. He found it shameful that he should be so blessed, where others who still struggled in hard labor to earn a keep were not. In time, he allowed disbelief to give way to humility. He was hardly a common man anymore, and not a trace of the child remained in him. Instead, a confident and nearly-trained man of magic looked back at him from the mirror’s image. Soon his instruction would be complete, and if he was able to prove his aptitude to his Masters, he would be sent back home to serve the people as a healer and shaman.
Magic helped the plants grow, and the sick to heal. It was an endeavor which filled one with pride and honor. Tarameen knew his post back in Systerium would earn him favor amongst his people, as well as benefit the lives of many. Society held sorcerers in high esteem. He would be welcomed by the most prestigious families, and could have his pick of any bride, if he so wanted. He should be eager at the prospect of returning, and honored by the opportunities presented to him. He should also feel obligated to return and be of service to his people.
He should be, but he wasn’t.
Tarameen slipped the golden armband, a sign of his high ranking marks amongst his covemates, over his sleeve, and reminded himself that what his heart truly desired was not only selfish, it was also impossible. To think that she would ever see someone like him as anything other than a student, albeit a prodigy, was ridiculous. Better to give up his desire for her and move on. After he left the Cove, she would no longer be part of his life, and probably never see him again. After all, what purpose would she ever have to come to Systerium, and would possible reason would he have to leave it?
The Loren was beyond his reach.
Tarameen made his way to the common hall for breakfast, resolving to keep his mind to his studies, where the outlook was far more encouraging.
The Masters sat at the head table, some dozen or so in number. Most were immortals, but a few mortals rounded out their ranks. Tarameen had always found this imbalance bothersome. For certain, the immortals were older, wiser. They knew more of the ancient language than most mortal wizards could study in a lifetime. Still, they did not appreciate the cycles of mortal life, from waking in the morning to the setting of the sun, the way the others did. Each day only filled a void that might be just as well occupied with archery or palace parties or horseback riding. What drove an immortal to improve himself? he wondered, or did they not deem themselves capable of improvement? The mortal man lived his life in resistance to an impending death. For what end did the immortal
man live his? What did he fear when death held no threat?
A low-level buzz, grumbles and chatter, customarily filled the space. Hence, when Tarameen entered to find only hushed whispers in the otherwise silent room, intrigue overtook him. Something was the matter, only what? As eyes turned to him, then quickly flashed away, he wondered exactly how the hubbub pertained to him.
A friend, Clove, motioned to an empty spot next to him on the well-worn bench.
“Did you hear?”
Tarameen bit into the roll he had snatched from the basket and shook his head. Clove’s expression brightened. He wore a grin only he who first announces a heated rumor can wear.
“Word just came this morning by way of the traders. The Gods are going to name a new ruler. An immortal, everyone supposes.”
With a clatter, the metal mug from which Tarameen had just drawn drink found the floor, sending a jangling reverberation and extracting the attention of all. As he sputtered and choked, the wet bread clogging his throat while frantic thoughts clogged his mind, Tarameen’s insides were in danger of imploding. His pulse raced.
Clenching a fist, Clove whacked his friend’s back, attempting to free up his airway. As though choking were the imminent danger, Tarameen thought sarcastically as he fought to find his breath and composure. Tarameen caught sight of the Masters’ table. Each of the teachers eyed him, either with concern or disgust, though none of them deigned to rise and assist.
The red robe offered an apologetic bow as he regained his equanimity. Tarameen settled back down onto the bench, trying to divert his gaze from theirs, hoping they couldn’t see the knowledge in his eyes.
He knew what this meant, and they did not. All at once, the apprentice knew why. When the Masters warned that the price of knowledge is knowing, they had been right. Everything was about to change.