Flight To Exile

by Chris Reher

  “Maybe, if she happened to be looking for me. Not sure what good that would do. There isn’t any— someone’s coming. Get lost.”

  Galen slouched tiredly, like Chor assuming a dazed expression when a group of men approached from the starboard side of the ship. Soldiers among them, but emissaries for the most part. A few crewmen were along, carrying lamps. The small crowd stopped several paces from where the twins were tied to the rail and one of the soldiers stepped forward to kick Chor’s leg, although not with the force they had used earlier. “On your feet, wizard.”

  Galen pulled himself up, feeling every bone and muscle in his body as he did so. Chor tried to get up but collapsed again. One of the emissaries in the front of the group gestured impatiently, ordering him to remain on the deck. “Why were these men beaten?” the priest said sharply, his question directed at the captain of the guard.

  “Killed nine of my men! More below, grievously injured! Broken, blinded, torn to pieces! Likely to lose two more before dawn. The lads had more than they could stand from these demons.”

  “Your lads,” the emissary said pointedly, “are undisciplined. Did you think we came to admire the scenery?”

  “This is not the first demon chase I’ve led,” the Captain glowered. “None of them ever turned savage like these before.”

  “I did not promise an easy hunt.” The emissary took a step toward Galen but carefully stayed outside the reach of his chain. A quick glance at the empty bowl on the deck assured him that the strangers’ evil talents had been subdued. “I am chief emissary of Chenoweth, Tsingao,” he told Galen. “By these witnesses to your abominable acts, you are accused of blasphemy in the eyes of our Gods, by defying the laws granted to us by the sovereign deities. Let all of us hear your reply: Are you a Descendant?”

  Galen cocked his head as if in scrutiny of a particularly interesting piece of art. Like the others, the priest was dressed in blue, his robe cleaner and of better quality. His pale face was broad with full lips and flat black eyes that offered no insight into his current mood. He carried a strong presence that continued to blaze from his small, wiry frame even when Galen briefly turned his head to study some of the other emissaries. These were not the sort of common clerics that patrolled towns like Phrar in search of demons. There was more here than that.

  Galen shrugged with an indifference he did not feel. “Of course I am.”

  A murmur ran through the assembly as people commented on the belligerence with which Galen was meeting this solemn court. At this point most would expect to hear emphatic denials or desperate pleas for mercy. This particular demon seemed fearless and unrepentant – no wonder the chief emissary himself had come to judge him.

  Galen jerked a thumb at Chor. “He is, too.” He gave Tsingao a friendly smile. “As are you.” A collective gasp rose from the crowd. The chief emissary glanced quickly at the soldiers bracing his prisoner. Galen looked at one of the other emissaries standing nearby. “And that one,” he gestured at the man. “Hmm, not you, although you wish you were.” Galen was about to point out someone else when a soldier stepped forward and clubbed him. He toppled to his knees, dazed.

  “Bring him below,” Tsingao barked. “If he speaks again, if he so much as steps on your foot, throw the other one overboard.”

  His ears ringing from the blow he had received, Galen was manhandled down the companionway and dragged along a dark passage into one of the ship’s cabins. There he was shoved onto a narrow bench running along the wall and made to wait while some of the emissaries stood in whispered conversation by the door. A few of the soldiers stood guard over him, waiting for their orders. Galen moved back into the corner of the bench and raised one leg onto it, as much to ease the stabbing pain in his side as to appear unconcerned. He placed his bound wrists onto his drawn-up knee and studied the cabin. Escape was not among his options at the moment. The small window would never allow him to squeeze through and the single door into the hall was crowded with guards. This wooden bench and a low table with some uncomfortable-looking cushions placed around it were the room’s only furnishings.

  “You know,” he said conversationally. “A bit of paint would go a long way to making this place a little more hospitable. Or maybe a nice rug.”

  The soldier closest to him sneered but said nothing. The emissaries at the door had turned as he spoke. The man called Tsingao came into the room, followed by two of his fellow priests. He motioned to the guards to leave and waited patiently until they had obeyed. The three emissaries arranged themselves on the far side of the table, not speaking, taking their time. Galen found it strange that they would seat themselves below their prisoner, surely an unusual interrogation technique. But there was something oddly effective in their approach. They knelt at a comfortable distance from each other, hands loosely clasped on their thighs, clean blue robes draping neatly into correct folds. The table before them, although of rough construction and without adornment, was scrubbed to a mellow gleam. A single overhead lamp cast a static pool of light onto its bare surface and left their victim in shadows. While they sat composed and patient, Galen slouched in his corner, dirty, bleeding and bedraggled, clearly a creature beneath their station. While he felt ill and agitated, they seemed perfectly at ease, exuding an air of tranquility. Galen smiled, appreciating the strategy. No doubt their finely honed air of self-assurance would unnerve most opponents. He, however, could feel their tension and uncertainty like smoke hanging in the room.

  The emissary nearest the door turned and picked up a bottle made of the hazy substance that passed for glass on this moon. Placing it on the table, he said, “Water?”

  “Chibane?” Galen replied.

  “Certainly.”

  “Already had some, thank you.”

  The emissary shrugged and left the flask where it was.

  Another long pause followed; no doubt he was expected to at least start fidgeting. Instead, he tipped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, again feeling for any nearby source of chi’ro. There seemed to be some of it, but so distant that he could not even begin to get a grip on it. Its presence, however, gave him some hope. He peered through half-closed lids at the emissaries, who still had not moved. None of them seemed to have noticed his efforts to reach out to the riser.

  Tsingao spoke at last. “Where is the woman?”

  “What woman?”

  “The one that was traveling with you. The witch.”

  “I don’t know any witches.”

  Pause. It was beginning to irritate Galen. He resolved to make a note of this. He raised his hands to push the tangled hair from his face but then realized that it might be taken as a sign of nervousness. He bit back a comment he was about to make and decided to play along.

  “You were seen with her at that floating pig sty near Riva Sound.”

  “Was I,” Galen said flatly.

  They seemed to wait for him to say more. Galen kept his eyes on the emissaries, offering nothing. They heard water sloshing in the bilges below and the massive timbers around them creak in response to a shift in the sails. Some voices were briefly raised in a distant cabin and then fell silent again. Galen saw one of Tsingao’s eyes twitch but the man remained composed. At last the priest pointed at the emissary to his left. “You called this man a Descendant, earlier. Why?”

  “I did not,” Galen said. “I called you a Descendant, and him.” He gestured at the man to Tsingao’s right. “You know he is.”

  For the first time, the chief emissary’s composure seemed to slip. “I know no such thing!”

  “What is it that you know, then? Why is it that some of you can detect the presence of a Descendant, and others cannot? Your talent is limited; you can only perceive the strongest of us and even then only in the vaguest way. If it were any other way, all of the Descendants would have been wiped out by now. Something guides you, something allows you to sense our presence. And the only reason for this is because you are one of us.”

  “Blasphemy!” t
he emissary beside Tsingao hissed angrily.

  His superior placed a calming hand on his arm. “This demon hardly warrants your anger, Torbyn.” He turned back to Galen. “Yes, something guides us. Our Gods guide our steps to root out the magic users and heretics who flaunt their evil ways, an abomination in the eyes of Chenoweth. We need no other guide and certainly not your sinful magic. Those who live in contravention of Their laws must be stopped.”

  “Murdered.”

  “They are demons. Chenoweth demands it.”

  “Why?”

  “It is written.” Tsingao reached into a pocket and withdrew a thin volume of bound pages carefully enclosed in a leather envelope. Taking his time, he paged through a few sheets of vellum and then placed the book onto the table in front of him. “‘After the storms abated,” he intoned, “the Gods of Chenoweth banished the magic users to the Homeworld. They gathered a cadre of agents and entrusted them with the fate of Thali moon. None henceforth may draw forth from the ground the essences that belong to the Gods. To do so is death. Let the emissaries of Chenoweth guard this decree and pass their duty on to the generations that follow.’”

  Galen whistled. “Well, that’s pretty clear. What storms?”

  “A great destruction caused by the wantonness of the magic users. They were punished.” Tsingao touched the edges of the book as if caressing a much beloved companion. “The Gods retired to Chenoweth and peace came to Thali. You are a threat to that peace.”

  “We are trying to leave this place. If you let us go we’ll be gone in a matter of days.”

  “Where would you go? Have you no more convincing lies than this?”

  “We’re magic users, remember? We have the means to return to the Homeworld where we belong. We can show you the place from which we have to leave. You can watch us disappear forever.”

  Tsingao allowed himself a thin, satisfied smile. Here was further proof that he was finally reaching his goal, that these were the demons whose quest to fly to the Homeworld must not succeed. “The Gods demand their sacrifice,” he said. “The magic you have taken from this place must be returned.” He placed a finger on the page in front of him. “‘None henceforth may draw forth from the ground the essences that belong to the Gods’,” he repeated. “You have taken this essence. You must return it.”

  “What? By bleeding it out? That isn’t how this works!”

  “These words are unequivocal,” Tsingao said, carefully stowing the book away again. “You and your brother will subject yourself to the will of our Gods. And then we will find the other one.” His gaze moved to the small window beyond Galen. “We have been searching for that woman for a long time. I’ve known of her existence for years. Only now she is becoming stronger by the day and, at last, I can follow her steps. It will not be long before her beacon shines as brightly as yours, Descendant.”

  “Even I have trouble finding her. But even so, you are a far more talented Descendant than your minions. We walked among them in Phrar for days before anyone noticed my beacon. Perhaps if you weren’t so busy murdering your fellow Descendants you could recruit more talents like yourself.”

  The emissary called Torbyn could stand it no longer. “You will desist at once,” he shouted, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “This is sacrilege!”

  Galen ignored the outburst. “I’m intrigued by the weaponry of your ships, Emissary. How is it possible to defy wind, distance and gravity to pitch a fireball such great distances, I wonder?” His eyes remained on Tsingao’s when he raised a hand and pointed at the flask on the table. “Prove me wrong, chief. Drink from that.”

  Tsingao’s already immobile face took on a granite hue, turning the man into a sculpted study of inertia. He looked at the bottle and back at the demon before him, his controlled breathing barely noticeable, his shoulders apparently relaxed beneath his robe. Only Galen noticed the tautness around his eyes, the subtle change of color beneath his nails as he pressed his hands onto the table. He forced a careless tone into his voice. “To me this is little more than water. But no doubt you will turn it to poison as I drink, demon.”

  “Then this will be the proof,” the priest at his side said. From a pocket he took a small, enameled box. He placed it ceremoniously onto the table before him and slid its lid aside. Within it lay a gnarled piece of mushroom the color of dried blood. “Only the Descendants among us will feel the effects of this,” he proclaimed, reaching up to light a long wick on the lamp suspended above the table.

  Galen sat up, his lifelong conditioning alerting him to the danger with almost superstitious apprehension. No adept regarded chibane with indifference and, although its effects where usually temporary, contact with it was considered practically life threatening. Burning even a small quantity of it in this closed room would incapacitate him for hours and would have lasting effects in the days to follow. He noticed both Tsingao and the third priest observing their companion with possibly more trepidation than he did. Would Tsingao subject himself to the poison simply to prove him wrong?

  Torbyn blew on the wick in his hand and then bent to place it onto the chibane in the bowl. Something crackled in the dead silence of the room and a flame licked along the edge of the mushroom. Galen slowed his breath, preparing to conserve oxygen as long as he could, likely better trained in this than his captors. A thin, yellow thread of smoke curled up from the bowl. Fascinated by it, Galen nearly missed the quick exchange of glances between Tsingao and his other aide.

  “Torbyn,” Tsingao said. “We have no need to prove ourselves to this demon. Don’t allow him to draw you into his schemes.”

  Torbyn looked up from his task, making no move to extinguish the incense. Although there was a moment when his eyes were unable to meet those of his master, eventually he stiffened his spine along with his resolve. “Like this demon, sire, I’ve had my doubts. Your ways confuse and frighten me. Forgive my inadequacy, but I require proof to continue to serve you.”

  Galen grinned, surprised by the audacity and completely unprepared when Tsingao’s arm shot from his lap and smashed the heel of his hand below the priest’s nose. Before the younger man’s body had even reacted to the force of the blow, Tsingao’s other hand lashed out to deliver another, this one lethal. Torbyn was thrown back against the wooden wall of the cabin. The other emissary rose and shattered the cabin window with a fist quickly wrapped in a fold of his robe.

  Startled shouts rose on the other side of the door and then it was flung open to admit the guardsmen stationed outside. “Get out!” Tsingao snapped at them and strode to where his captive sat frozen in utter surprise. He lowered his face close to Galen’s and hissed angrily, “Just because you and I share some of the same gifts and some of the same weaknesses, do not mistake me for one of your legion of demons. As long as the Gods are on our side, you and I have nothing in common. I will not have you turn my men against each other with your lies.”

  He went to the door. “He’s murdered Torbyn. Take him away. Make landfall in the morning. We’ll celebrate the dawn with a gift to Chenoweth. Two gifts.”

  And so the twins were reunited at the stern, where Galen found Chor feeling slightly better but shivering in the cold night air. Huddling close, they tapped the ambient chi’ro in an attempt to keep warm and ease some of the worst of their injuries. The promise of a distant riser was now closer but still outside their reach. A few miles more, perhaps, unless they changed course.

  Near midnight, Galen’s occasional probes into the dark finally brought some results. He sighed when he perceived the La’il, not sure if he was glad to see her or should add her among his misfortunes at this moment. Resigned, he lowered his defenses and let her image compose itself in his mind, this one neatly dressed in a plain white robe, white hair unbound and flowing over her back. She looked at once ethereal and girlish, the pallor of the display drawing attention to the opaque silver eyes that missed nothing. He sensed curiosity from her, then amusement when she understood his predicament. A derisive grin accompa
nied her thorough scrutiny of the twins’ injuries.

  “This is truly spectacular,” she said. “First you lose the girl and then you get yourself captured by a bunch of primitives. I’m very disappointed. Living without chi’ro must be a hard lesson. I don’t know how you can stand it.” She shuddered in mock sympathy. “I recall just a few months ago when you took on that Morningside adept and his scum. Over forty violators fried and sent to Tower Hill and not a single civilian caught up in the fray. And you didn’t even break a sweat. Is that nose broken?” She pointed a delicate finger at Chor.

  “No,” he growled. “You could do something to help.”

  She shrugged. “Even if I cared to, what can I do? On Thali I exist only in your head. Well, sort of. Are there no risers around there at all?”

  “Not now.” Galen relayed today’s events without disguising his revulsion and guilt over the massacre that their presence in the village had brought about. Clearly, if the emissaries were capable of tracing Descendants then the twins themselves had led them there. The La’il, however, seemed amused that they had to squander all of the carefully hoarded chi’ro to defend the villagers. She laughed when he concluded by telling her about Tsingao’s assault on his subordinate and his suspicion that, had he not dared the chief emissary to drink the chibane, the young priest would still be alive.

  “Sometimes a little compassion would look good on you, La’il,” Galen snapped. “The people in that village are Aletha’s family, for pity’s sake.”

  “A week ago you didn’t even know they existed. Now listen to yourself!” The La’il snickered. “You know, you have one major flaw that continues to stand in your way. You are one of the more powerful adepts on the Homeworld; you even exceed the design of your generation. You should be working among my most senior ministers. You could be helping us shape this world into whatever we decide, but instead you are nothing more than a hired thug, a strong-arm content to roam about the planet in search of chi’ro infractions and terrorists! And even at that you are less than effective. And do you know why?” Her hand lashed out and he felt a sharp-nailed finger stab his chest. “You’re soft, Galen! You will never be part of the machine that really drives the Homeworld because you don’t have the stomach for it. You squander your talents on trivialities. The only way I can make sure they’re not wasted is to take your strength by force and use it myself! With your spectacular reluctance to get the job done you’ll soon have no better use than to be put out to stud.”