Flight To Exile

by Chris Reher

  “And Chenoweth?”

  “People. Humans. Mortals like you and me. Separated from the Homeworld just as Thali was three hundred years ago. They are Descendants like your people, only far more powerful.”

  “Are you telling me that we have no gods here?” Aletha said angrily. “Chenoweth is a place of warmongers and the La’il is just an ordinary woman? The gods we pray to are just... people? People like you? It is all for nothing?”

  “No!” Galen said. “Don't say that. You need your gods. I am only telling you that the La'il is not one of them. She is just an adept with a talent so great that she can do the most incredible things with—”

  “And so she is a goddess!” Aletha exclaimed. “That is what gods do, after all, isn't it? They make the impossible happen?” She glared at him, despising him for revealing the unknowable.

  Galen closed his eyes, suspecting that he had bungled this assignment in a rather spectacular way. “All right, Aletha, maybe she is. I'm sorry if I upset you. I didn't think you believed in all that, anyway. You were joking about your priestesses just yesterday. You pray because everyone else does. You called these people superstitious and simple-minded. You live in fear of their priests.”

  “Well, I don't believe, not really,” she said. “I just don't want to be proven right!”

  “I would have thought you'd be pleased.”

  “Pleased? About what? That there are no gods? That we're only here because the Old Ones, my own people, left Thali to fend for itself? That there is no purpose in our being here and when we die we don't even get to see Chenoweth?” Aletha struggled against her tears. “You tell me our goddess is just a woman, from what I've seen not a very kind one. And you expect me to be pleased?”

  Chor peeled the bloodstained rags from Galen’s back and threw them into the fire beneath one of the tubs. Galen stood up and held his hand out to her. “I am sorry. I don't understand your ways. Come with me.”

  She wiped her face. “Where?”

  “I'll show you my gods.”

  Aletha rose without relying on his offered hand and followed him and Chor out of the bathhouse. The twins stepped off the path to leave the beautifully tended formal garden and led the way through some shrubbery into the kitchen yard. It was darker here and Aletha’s steps faltered when they continued past a small plot of vegetables into the orchard. Neither twin seemed to notice that she was less and less willing to follow them into this remote corner; either they did not care or they had a fair estimation of her curiosity. Finally, near the end of a row of fruit trees, one of them sat down on a stone bench while the other continued to move about, his arms slightly raised, his face tilted upward as though listening for something. At last he beckoned for her to join him.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  He smiled. “Look over there.”

  She peered into the dark beyond his outstretched hand. “What?”

  He hesitated, remembering the La’il’s cautions, before he moved to stand behind Aletha. He reached around her waist to pull her against himself and placed his hand over her forehead. She gasped and strained against his loose embrace. “Relax,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “I won’t hurt you. I’ll make you see.”

  “But—”

  “Shhh,” he whispered, close to her ear. “Don’t speak. Don’t think. Open your mind to me, look for my thoughts.”

  “You are reading my thoughts?”

  “No, but I can feel what you feel. If you let me.” She felt him shake his head. “No, don’t think of me. Not of me.” He said nothing more and they stood unmoving in the light drizzle until Aletha was able to turn her mind from the unsettling pressure of his body to whatever it was that he was trying to show her. At last, he raised his hand toward the orchard wall. “Look,” he said. “Then see.”

  “Dazai’s mercy!” she breathed. “What is that?”

  Near the base of the garden wall something moved. She felt it more clearly than she saw it; a definite something, drifting up from the ground like a piece of fog that hovered momentarily, then dissipated into the night air. It had no color, no shape but it was strangely real, strangely familiar.

  “Chiaro,” he said, the word a gentle exhalation against her ear. “That is the magic you can feel sometimes. It is the fuel that lets you use the talent you were born with. The wind in your sail.” He stepped away from her. “Watch.”

  She gaped in silent astonishment when he lifted a hand and the emanation drifted toward him to envelope him completely. He smiled. “This is the magic these people fear so much. It is nothing more than the power of this moon, as it is the power of the Homeworld and the power of Chenoweth. It is the power of the La’il. Some of us can learn to shape this chi’ro to suit our purpose. It is earth power, sun power, but it isn't magic and it isn't evil. We can’t conjure something out of nothing. We can only affect what already exists, and then only if we have the skill and the chi’ro to do so. Look!” He pointed at his brother. Almost at once, the stone bench began to rise from the ground, carrying Chor with it until it was level with the treetops. Chor grinned and jumped off. When the bench descended again, he pushed it as easily as a boat in water to restore it to its former location. “We can shape chi’ro, move it, push it around with our thoughts. We can use it to transform things. And while we are exposed to it, it enhances our minds to sharpen our senses.”

  “But it must be magic,” Aletha marveled. She raised her hands toward Galen, palms out. “I can feel it around you now, like you’re wearing it!”

  “Chi’ro is everywhere, all the time. It sustains us and all living things like the air we breathe. It exists in such small quantities, especially on this moon, that only a few of us can do anything useful with it, like keeping a door locked. We call that ambient chi’ro. But in places like these, random spots, the chi’ro is concentrated in much greater masses. We call these places risers. Look closely.”

  She bent toward the arm he held out and saw that whatever it was that surrounded him was keeping the rain from his skin as well. Then, with a twist of his hand a fragment of the substance danced over his fingers, suddenly glowing brightly to illuminate this corner of the garden. Aletha gasped and clapped her hands. “That is amazing!”

  “It can be very powerful,” he said. Chor bent to pick up a fallen branch and lobbed it into the air only an instant before Galen flicked his fingers to hurl the ball of light after it. The branch exploded in a shower of sparks before it reached the orchard wall. “These flares are really a waste of chi, since so much is used up to create light. It does the same damage without the sparks, but doesn’t impress quite as much. This is how I got this scar.” He placed a hand over the seared, twisted flesh at his side. “An argument with another adept.”

  Before she could react, he touched her arm and the chi’ro flowed over her like a warm breeze, softer than anything that had ever touched her skin. “It feels familiar,” she whispered. “I’ve felt this before but I didn't know what it was.”

  “It isn’t magic. You, too, can use this. And for more than to keep the rain off! You are an adept, one who can shape this matter and put it to use.” He turned halfway and gestured at the ragged tear on his shoulder. “Heal this,” he said.

  She raised a trembling hand and held it above the wound, as she sometimes did when using her talents to heal. Not knowing what he expected, she thought only of stopping the pain. She could feel something, some contact between her hand and his shoulder. She knew that the pain was gone, the nerves soothed and the healing begun as the flesh started to knit itself together again. “By the Gods, this seems easier now!”

  “This is a gift from our planet, these moons,” Galen said, his voice a low murmur. “These are our gods. Down on the Homeworld you will feel this almost everywhere.” He closed his eyes and tilted his head back to savor the contact with this magic. “Feel it, Aletha! Why would you need gods in human form if this is the true power of these worlds? Of what purpose are your temples and sh
rines when none of the gods ever answer your prayers?” He turned to her and grasped her arms. “And this is nothing compared to what can be found on the Homeworld! You will be part of that, Aletha. You will learn how to use this element to suit your purpose.”

  His energy-infused presence suddenly seemed overwhelming and she pulled away from him. “So you say. I just hope my only purpose is not just to fight some war!”

  Chapter Four

  The nervous clip-clop of many feet hurrying along the vaulted passage echoed against ancient stone walls, repeating and amplifying until the space seemed filled with the sound, assaulting his eardrums with its discordance. The emissary resisted an urge to order everyone to remove their footwear and proceed in bare feet along the damp stone slabs toward the lobby of the priory. The ancient breezeway seemed to stretch on forever, one side open to the central gardens where several slaves toiled in the drizzle. He snarled at the sight of them, shoulders hunching ever tighter as if he were prepared to ram head-first into the first obstacle that dared present itself. Their acolytes and novices ought to be tending the gardens, not some hapless souls appropriated without pay, forced to work while the apprentices grew fat and lazy.

  His subordinate emissaries huffed and panted behind him, trying to keep pace with their leader, mindful of the acid mood that had taken hold of him when he had arrived this morning. He had come unannounced with only two attendants and no guards, having ridden a day and a half from the delta with barely a moment of rest. Their mounts had been near collapse, the riders filthy and exhausted from the arduous journey. Tsingao had insisted on seeing the new captive immediately.

  The entire enclave here in Phrar had been shrouded in silence since their chief emissary had learned that the woman was not safely confined in the cells below. No one had dared so much as whisper since the priest, white-faced and barely able to suppress his rage, had listened to the housemaster’s stumbling report that the Descendant had disappeared in the night. When the bearer of these news began to babble about dark magic and witches who flew with the dawn star light, Tsingao had struck him across the face and marched out of the room. After ordering a search for the magic user, he had retreated to his chambers and the enclave had sunk into a dismal mood, only the constant drip of water daring to infringe upon the silence. Those without sufficient excuse to leave the compound anxiously waited for their master to emerge, the punishment for their neglect decided upon and ready to execute.

  Then, by some strange fortune, a witness had arrived. Someone who could offer some explanation, perhaps deliver enough useful information to satisfy the chief emissary to the point of leaving Phrar, hopefully for a very long time. A delegation of emissaries had hurried to Tsingao’s private rooms to inform him of the arrival of the witness and then raced back with him, having little time for anything but the furtive exchange of bewildered glances. Their leader was not known for public displays of enthusiasm; the escaped Descendant was either another obsession for an obsessed man or a matter far more significant than they had imagined.

  The group came to an untidy halt in the vestibule of the enclave’s public area, walking up each other’s heels to avoid colliding with their leader. Tsingao frowned at them, as if seeing them for the first time. “Bring him into this room.” Without another word, he stalked through an intricately carved door and into the small sanctum beyond.

  Once inside and alone, Tsingao strove to calm himself, pacing slowly across the room and back again, straightening his impeccable blue robe and running a hand through his closely cropped black hair. Murmuring some prayers under gradually calming breath, he finally stilled himself and stood gazing out of the arched window by the time the door opened.

  A novice emissary entered and behind him came another man, this one dressed in ill-used trousers and blouse covered by leather armor. His weapons had been confiscated but there was no mistaking the look of a mercenary about him. Not a particular successful one, judging by the quality of his clothing and the scars on the visible parts of his body. Tsingao’s instant distaste for the man did not appear on his face; few things ever did. He nudged the window to allow the fresh garden air into the room.

  “You requested a meeting,” the chief emissary said, dispensing with niceties. The acolyte withdrew without having raised his head to look at his leader.

  The soldier nodded absently, his eyes taking in the rich décor of the room, likely unaccustomed to seeing such splendor. The carvings and woven straw tapestries nearly succeeded in relieving the gloominess of the stone walls but there was no mistaking the dire warnings of the allegorical frescoes above the prayer benches. A single small shrub grew in a pot along one of the walls, somehow imbuing the austere room with life and color. He smiled at a lively display of crystals hanging in the window and pointed at it, about to comment. Then he seemed to remember where he was and dropped his hand again. He bowed awkwardly. “Sire, yes, sire.”

  The emissary lowered himself onto a wooden bench but did not offer a seat to the visitor. “You have it,” he said, keeping his impatience well hidden. Feet flat on the flagstones, hands splayed loosely on his thighs, spine perfectly straight, he waited.

  The visitor licked his lips, unnerved by Tsingao’s equanimity. The emissary regarded him with black almond-shaped eyes that seemed to be gazing through him as if the wall behind the soldier held some revelation for him. The broad face was unmarred and even, as if painted. Neither its soft contours nor the full lips eased the mercenary’s suspicion that something dangerous lurked behind that mask of indifference. It occurred to him that coming here today had been the gravest of errors. “When I heard you had come to Phrar I came at once,” he said. “Them other ones here, they don’t listen to folks like me but I know you’d be wanting to know what I seen. What happened.”

  “What did happen,” Tsingao said.

  The man took a step closer to Tsingao, realized this, and stepped back, again licking his lips nervously. “The demon that got away. We was hired to watch her. In some room in the north end. Ufer and I was to be watching her all the time, make sure she got her medicine and stay quiet. Then a few days on, boss took us to Ichi’s Tavern, in behind near the creek. Some folks there looking for slaves, but he wasn’t getting any offers he liked much. Till later, when someone else shows up. Dark man, Inlander maybe. He was interested but they didn’t make no deal. But he came after us, with another one to help waylay us. Killed Ufer, killed the boss. I got knocked about some, but I lived to see the day. As you can see for yourself, sire.” He chuckled uneasily.

  Tsingao pondered this after first prevailing over his irritation that the Descendant’s escape had become common knowledge. “Describe her.”

  The mercenary leered. “Small thing, black hair all curled up. Boss made her wear a little dress so he could sell her better. Delicate, but some good parts on her, if you understand me. Was going to have me a piece of that but boss put a stop to it. Was too drugged up to be much good, anyways.” He paused his monologue when he noticed a look of disgust on the emissary’s face. “She had a tattoo on her arm. Jungle folk, but she didn’t look it.”

  “Did she at any time use magic in your presence?”

  The man blinked. “Uh, no. Don’t think so. I think she was getting to that but then the stranger showed. I didn’t see nothing.”

  “Describe him.”

  “There was two of ‘em. Twins. Big fellers, with long hair going gray. Quick with a knife.”

  “That wharf scum is thicker than a school of broadfins,” Tsingao said, wondering what this peasant wanted. Nothing he had said so far was of much importance to the emissary. “No doubt some of her friends succeeded in rescuing her.”

  “Wasn’t no harbor rabble,” the mercenary said. “Costly gear on them both. Talking like no one around here. Not the sort you see moving about Phrar. But they weren’t just foreigners.” The witness paused for effect, clearly enjoying the drama of the moment. “Magic users, both of them.”

  “They were Descendants?
How do you know?”

  “Seen it! One of them put his hand on me, right here, see? And down I went, like a coin tossed to Hella’s whirlpool. I woulda played dead, anyway, but I couldn’t move a single limb ‘till long after the watch found us lying there. The demons put some questions to the boss and I hear’im scream about Descendants before they killed him. Tore his throat right out with their bare claws! Then disappeared into the night with the witch.”

  “Hardly much evidence,” Tsingao said, gripped by a surge of new hope and excitement. Two more true Descendants in Phrar! This was it, then, unfolding the way the Gods had described. He was so close now; surely this time she would not slip through his fingers. He returned his attention to the man before him. “How did the woman get to that room in the north end? Were you not paid to break in here and take her there?”

  “No! I swear it! She was brought to us.” He lowered his voice. “You see, Eminence, that’s why I come here. Something else needs knowing. Something you want to hear for certain.”

  “Is that so.”

  The mercenary’s eyes shifted about the room, flicking fretfully from the tapestry to the window and back to Tsingao. “I was wondering if the news I have isn’t worth a bit of coin, sire. I’m not a wealthy man – surely a small reward for my trouble is in order…” He shuffled his feet and waited for the emissary to respond.

  Tsingao’s expression remained immobile, his black eyes resting on the mercenary with the same cold patience he had exhibited throughout the interview. “Surely,” he said. “Continue, please.”

  The man nodded uncertainly, surprised by Tsingao’s quick acquiescence. “Yes. Well, all right. There was another man. He was the one brung her to the boss and gave him the potion they use to keep the Descendants feeble.”

  Tsingao leaned forward. “Who was he?”