Flight To Exile

by Chris Reher

  Galen turned to see what had startled the vendor. Four men walked toward them, one of them leading a saddled charger. They were dressed in somber clothing dyed blue, emblazoned with intricate, mysterious designs. Two wore hoods but the others displayed a bold pattern shaved into their closely cropped hair. They were engaged in conversation and paid little attention to the crowd around them, acknowledging neither the people who met them with great deference, as this vendor had, or those who turned away with barely concealed disdain. As they passed Galen, the man leading the animal raised his head to look at him, his eyes stabbing out at the Homeworlder from the depths of his hood. Meeting the hostile stare with a perplexed frown, Galen wondered why he suddenly felt noted and marked.

  It was not until the group had rounded a corner that Galen noticed that the lively clamor of the market had been subdued during their passing and now recovered with fervor defiant in its volume. Baffled, he turned to the woman. “Priests?” he guessed.

  “Emissary,” she said and described some arcane symbol in the air with one hand. “Many of them in town these days. I even heard tell this morning that the Chief himself has come to Phrar. I had not noticed their number when last I came by, this month past. I say you were not to his liking.”

  “I’d have to agree.” Galen handed her a payment for his second breakfast. “Why do you think there are so many of them here?”

  Before she had time to reply, someone came running at the cart at full tilt, barely stopping in time to avoid a collision with the brazier. Galen raised his arm, envisioning the runner, the brazier, and a load of hot coals descending upon the woman and her children. But the newcomer stopped in time, although not quite soon enough to avoid frightening everyone present. The food-seller frowned but said nothing. Her quick glance at Galen was a warning and so he swallowed the reprimand to which he was about to give voice.

  “Give us a three-count,” the young man, little more than a boy, said breathlessly. He scurried around Galen to help himself to some goods at the far end of the stall. He was barefoot and wore a long blue robe although, Galen noted, there was no priestly emblem shaved into his unruly yellow locks. “Is this all you have?” he exclaimed, rooting through her bins. “Stupid woman! I can’t be running from shop to shop, taking all day for this.”

  Galen scowled and turned to tower over the lout, a cheap yet effective use of his intimidating physique to remind the rude and obnoxious of their manners. When the boy turned back to the vendor, still complaining about the trouble she was causing him, he found himself nose to chest with the stranger. He leaped back with a squawk and dropped his purchases.

  The woman stepped quickly around Galen and bent to gather the small lumps into a pouch, her movements nervous. Galen also bent to reach for one of the dropped bits of vegetation but stopped his hand before he could touch it. He withdrew his arm and straightened again, wiping his fingers on his vest as if he had actually handled the stuff. The woman threw him a puzzled look but the youth had other things on his mind. Tossing a payment at the vendor, he ran off again, uphill.

  Galen watched the woman dart back behind her brazier, her eyes averted. “You sell poisons?” he asked, astounded. The mushroom she had sold to the youth was not even permitted to grow on the Homeworld. Those who traded in chibane risked the harshest of punishments.

  She glanced at him for only an instant before looking away again. She was trembling now. “Poison only to some,” she replied with a furtive glance along the street. Galen hoped that she wasn’t looking for a guard to raise an alarm.

  He pointed in the direction where the boy had run without taking his eyes from the vendor. “What will he do with it?”

  She shrugged. “I suppose it’s needed at the temple today.” She jerked her chin uphill, away from the harbor. She appeared to want to say something further, but then pressed her lips together and lowered her head. Her coy cheerfulness of a few moments ago had disappeared, replaced by distrust and fear.

  “I am not a monster,” he said sharply, irked by her demeanor and further annoyed when she shrank back. His eyes dropped to the frightened little girl hiding in the folds of the woman’s dress. Suddenly ashamed by his reaction he drew back, shaking his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “This is all very strange. Forgive me.”

  Receiving no response, he sighed and turned away, toward the direction those emissaries and the youth had taken. The vendor startled him by placing a hand on his arm.

  “Chenoweth has reasons for the things that are, I’m certain,” she said, barely lifting her eyes to look into his face when he turned back to her. “But the way some wield God-granted powers is beyond the grasping for the likes of me, or mine. Think not that our dread of the emissary is matched by our scorn for the Descendants, for the priests are more deserving of it.”

  Galen briefly put his hand on hers before she released his arm. Wordlessly, he tugged his cowl over his face and turned away to follow the emissaries uphill.

  Something began to seem askew, somehow, as he felt the familiar pull of chi’ro beckon him from a distance. Expecting a riser nearby, he followed his instincts into a wide street leading north along the shore. The contact with yesterday's riser after his ordeal with the La'il had restored him appreciably and he suspected that, instead of thriving on the ambient chi’ro that suffused all things on the Homeworld, here he needed direct, physical contact with a riser to sustain him properly. Perhaps Thali’s dreary weather was the cause of the risers' lack of real power. It seemed wise to take advantage of even the most insignificant source.

  Although he had left the market he was still surrounded by people, all heading in this same direction. Curious, he watched them enter a stone edifice on a rise overlooking the harbor. It was a massive building with a domed roof; by the size of it he judged it several hundred years old, patched and rebuilt when needed, with smaller doors set into the oversize entrance. This structure seemed to be one of the temples Aletha had described and he let his curiosity lead him inside.

  The vast chamber was smoky and dark in unpleasant contrast to the lively morning he had left outside. Walls of huge blocks and rows of square columns disappeared into vague shadows below the ceiling. Murals and tapestries decorated these walls, but the stories they told seemed to depict maritime heroics rather than any sort of recognizable spiritual theme. Worshippers dressed in somber clothing stood in small groups or, for lack of furnishings, sat on small rugs, their eyes on the rituals taking place on a raised dais at the far end of the hall. Not understanding the meanings of the droning chants rising to the soot-stained ceiling, Galen meandered through the throng, pretending to be a worshipper in search of a better vantage point.

  He watched robed priestesses walk about on a raised platform where they poured liquids and gestured in some sacred manner while chanting and singing. One of them took a candle from a niche in the wall and, holding it aloft, descended a few steps onto the floor of the hall. The crowd parted respectfully, allowing her and the other priestesses to pass to the middle of the room where the women formed a circle around a shallow pit. Galen peered over their heads to see the makings of a small fire there. The priestess with the taper bowed and touched the flame to the wood. The fire came alive at once, burning brightly and evenly as if the wood had been treated with some combustible oil. The assembled crowd sighed and bowed, and then most began to drift away, their rituals complete for another day.

  Galen stayed by the fire. There was something strangely familiar here. He crouched to have a closer look, squinting against the flames. Although the encircling hearth of stones and tiles was blackened and cracked, the ground beneath the burning wood looked like a black, fractured crystal, its gleaming surface unmarred by heat and smoke. This was a launch! He suddenly had no doubt that here was one of the gateways, sealed now like the others, its power only symbolized by fire. Unusable, but still venerated as a link to the gods.

  Smiling, Galen looked up as if to share his discovery with someone. But of course no one here
would either remember or admit to know about magic conduits. This building, clearly very ancient, had surely been one of the original transport stations to the Homeworld or perhaps Chenoweth. His people hadn’t erected churches in nearly a millennium and certainly would not have expended the effort to build one for this new settlement on Thali moon. These stone walls were meant as shelter for people who waited for friends to arrive, perhaps, or maybe there was some sort of immigration procedure to help new arrivals as they stepped through the conduit. Almost all of the launches on the Homeworld showed evidence of having been enclosed at some point. Of course it would have been prudent to protect the gateways so that nothing was accidentally swept into the open conduit.

  Galen backed away from the pit when he saw some of the priestesses observe him quizzically from their stage. Loitering by the dead launch for a while longer, he probed it in search of the riser he had felt earlier. But there was nothing there now. Unlike on the Homeworld, there was no abundance of chi’ro nearby to power up the launch. Had it even been a riser he felt earlier?

  He turned to leave, intending to find some private place to contact the La’il. If she could activate this crystal it would be a simple matter to sneak into the temple when fewer people were about and step through the aperture with Aletha. Instead of making the long journey back to the mountain, they would be home in mere moments.

  A small commotion demanded his attention. The people who had remained here were excited about something happening in the back of the hall, perhaps something out of the ordinary. A low, thrumming sound vibrated through the air now as some unseen acolyte strummed a drumharp to the accompaniment of low murmurs from the crowd. Galen studied their faces and saw a peculiar mixture of dread and curiosity, as if something unpleasant was about to happen. The sort of unpleasantness that always seemed to invite onlookers and thrill seekers.

  He followed their gaze to see a group of people enter the hall. A dozen men or more, dressed in long robes dyed in shades of blue, approached the center of the temple, struggling with someone held in their midst. Galen frowned when he realized that this was some sort of prisoner, obviously brought here against his will. His clothes were torn and dirty and he bled from several wounds. Galen was accustomed to dealing with criminals who violently resisted arrest, but he wondered why they would bring someone to justice inside a place of worship.

  The captive was led to the defunct launch, where he was made to stand at its edge. His hands were bound and he wore a wide metal collar attached to a long pole. It was this pole that allowed his captors to control him from a safe distance. The man stood trembling, staring into the fire still burning on the seal as though it was a bottomless pit into which he was about to be cast. Then he looked up and his eyes found Galen, standing on the opposite side of this altar.

  Galen groaned. This was an adept! Captured by the emissaries, he was about to meet his fate as these men prepared to follow the decree set out by their deities centuries ago. It had not been a riser he had felt earlier, but this man’s desperate attempts to find enough chi’ro to save himself from the zealots.

  His thoughts reached out to the doomed adept as he tried to find some way to help him escape from this nightmare. He recalled Yala’s warnings that, however unlikely, these emissaries were able to perceive chi’ro surges. If this were true, at this close range, surrounded by both emissaries and a crowd hungry for a spectacle, he would not escape detection and capture. The man was indifferent to Galen’s guarded mental nudge although there was undoubtedly some talent there that perceived it. Galen recalled the hurried purchase of chibane in the market and realized that, unless he was able to send a tremendous amount of chi’ro to the captive, nothing would help him escape his stupor.

  Helplessly, he watched one of the emissaries move toward the man, his fists raised to the ceiling, each holding a long, thin blade. After a brief incantation he crossed his arms in front of the adept’s throat and, cutting deep, uncrossed them again in a swift, savage motion. He quickly stepped aside to let his victim pitch into the fire, sending a whirlwind of sparks to the smoke-shrouded ceiling.

  Galen staggered backward, wanting only to be away from here. Turning to the entrance, he bumped into the person behind him, nearly flinging him to the ground.

  “Careful, friend,” the man said, making a point of straightening his clothes. His robes were blue.

  Galen realized now that there were emissaries everywhere, scattered among the onlookers or gathered in small groups, intent on the sacrifice. Some of them had taken notice of his odd behavior and he felt their suspicion and curiosity reach out to him. Was the hooded man in the back the same that had stared at him in the market? Several of the priests began to drift closer; someone pointed at him and whispered something to another.

  “Yago, by the Gods!” someone suddenly hissed. “Have you seen enough?”

  Galen turned to see a young emissary, his cowl thrown back to reveal Chenoweth’s sigil shaved into his hair, hurry toward them. His eyes were on the man whom Galen had tackled and his expression was one of annoyance and impatience. “It’s time to go! The others are waiting and here you are, watching them fry demons. If we don’t get to the bridge we’ll end up having to walk all the way to Topside. And Dazai help us if Tsingao finds the witch and doesn’t have enough people to capture her.”

  Upon hearing the chief emissary’s name the man named Yago turned away from Galen without sparing him another thought. “How many people has he got searching the place?” he asked, hurrying after his colleague, long robes billowing in the haste of their departure.

  * * *

  Aletha heard the front door of Delann’s home slam and then voices in the hall.

  “Aletha!” one of the twins shouted up the broad staircase. “Quick!”

  She hurried to the landing outside her room and looked down. “What’s happened?” She was alarmed by the grim expression on his face. “Where’s… your brother?”

  “He’ll meet us at the harbor, at Delann’s warehouse. Get your things. We’re leaving this place. Now.” Chor loped up the stairs to help her collect their belongings. They hastily gathered clothing and the twins’ weapons before he rushed her downstairs again, past the bewildered maid.

  “The town is infested with emissaries,” he explained at last, standing by the front entrance open just wide enough to allow him to peer outside. “Galen had a close call in town. Chenoweth priests are everywhere and some are being sent up here to search Topside.” Chor fastened a long dagger to his belt. “Who is this chief emissary? Delann is almost beside himself.”

  “Gods!” she breathed, her face bloodless. Somehow her legs seem to have lost the ability to hold her upright. “Tsingao? He’s here? In Phrar?” She held her bundle tightly in her arms as if to hide behind it. “If he’s come to Phrar then he’s got reason to be. They say he can uncover any Descendant, no matter how well they’re hidden. Chenoweth commands him and he follows only the dictates of the gods. And he won’t just execute them like criminals! His sacrifices are celebrations to Chenoweth; sometimes he waits until they’ve captured a whole group of them. There are such dreadful stories…”

  Chor grasped her arm, almost painfully. “Stop this, Aletha,” he said. “Tales grow with the telling, you said so yourself. Remembering them won’t help us get out of here.” He glanced at the door. “There is no one out there now. You’ll have to lead us down to the wharves without using the main roads. Can you do this?”

  She looked back into the safe, comfortable interior of the house before taking a deep, not quite steady, breath. Then she exhaled forcefully and gritted her teeth. “Try to keep up, Homeworlder.”

  Once outside, they slipped through the side gate of Delann’s estate and scrambled through a maze of rear gardens, service roads and bridle paths until those turned into the cobbled alleys of the lower quarters. Twice, they sensed the presence of several men rushing toward them, forcing them to hide breathlessly until the mob moved by. At last, the sound of gulls a
nd the unmistakable smell of seaside offal, hot tar, and fish in various states of existence announced that they had reached the harbor. Aletha led them past several warehouses until they arrived at their destination.

  Her young friend, Yala, loitered by the entrance, posted there by Delann as lookout. They hurried through a side door to the end of a long corridor. Delann’s office was furnished with the same dark wood and artwork that graced his home, along with a profusion of books and charts and the tools of his trade. Sunlight slanting through opaque glass cast a mellow gleam over the room. They found Delann and Galen there, bent over some maps.

  “You don’t think we can hide somewhere until this calms down a bit?” Galen was saying when they entered.

  “And risk more of her friends?” Delann replied tersely. He looked up. “There you are. I was beginning to worry.”

  Galen watched him embrace Aletha. “Delann is going to take us through the islands in one of his ships tonight, at high tide,” he explained. He tossed another of the rough-spun headscarves to Chor. “We’ll go on alone from there. I suppose they had to catch up with you sooner or later.”

  “She was doing quite well,” Delann said, not looking at the twins. “They’re after you. Two dark men, from the north, who are spreading evil magic throughout the quarter.”

  Galen cursed. “I’m sorry, Delann.”

  “Don’t worry about me, wizard,” Delann said, a bitter note in his voice. “Although you could have told me what you were. I can deal with the emissaries – some of them are well supplied from my stores.”

  Galen sighed, sad to hear the scorn in the merchant’s words. “Is the way south to the river still open?”

  “That wouldn’t get you very north, would it?” Delann’s gesture invited them to study his maps. “I know you’re not going inland. Nothing there but more emissaries. I suggest we run you across the strait and drop you with the dinghy on this side of the outer islands. Aletha knows every corner of shoreline there. The lagoons are crawling with small vessels this time of year and they can’t all be stopped and searched. You should be able to reach Riva Sound before dark. Safe after that; I can’t imagine they’ll bother chasing Descendants all the way out there. You can then thread your way through the islands northwards and come back to the mainland by crossing the open water right here.” He stabbed a pointed measuring tool at a narrow channel between some islands and the continent. “Follow the shoreline back south to Harlyn, a nice enough town where you can disappear for a while. We’ll see about laying a false trail south, as if you fled upriver to Marandha. I’ll send a message when things calm down here.”