Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Trilogy)

by Craig Saunders

  Jek tutted. “Now Klan, you know you can’t go scaring the locals.”

  Klan smiled back. He could not be punished for threatening Arram. Even an ascendant would have been unable to manage the feat.

  “I’ve been reading in your absence and found some fascinating…I’m sorry, are you interested in this?”

  “Please don’t try my patience, Klan. The Ordanals can shed no light on the disappearance, it’s like the Shorn has vanished. Nothing. The Saviour roams free on Sturma. The Prognosticators read no future. Tirielle A’m Dralorn continues to prove bothersome. The only grace we have is that they are so far behind. And I’ve just had to cane one of the aspirants. I’m not sure my mood will hold.”

  Klan pulled the door shut behind him and came out from his room. He pulled his hood up to shut out some of the light from his still glowing skin and put his hand out, palm down, in a conciliatory gesture.

  “I am ready for my punishment, Speculate. Then, I beg you, let me tell you a tale…I believe I know where Shorn is heading.”

  “Klan, believe me when I say, it had better be a good tale.”

  “Yes, Brother. I only hope I am also able to bring a certain something to the telling.” Klan bowed low.

  I will bow to no one, he thought, quietly.

  *

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Garner and Turpy, two of the former prisoners, gave in to Tirielle only after a heated argument over a lunch of fried mushrooms and bulbs from the woods and cold meats from the caravan. Garner and Turpy, more able than the others, took the initiative from the rest of the prisoners and petitioned Tirielle while the Sard were absent. They tried in vain to persuade her that the group of prisoners were not equipped to survive the journey back; even if they did they would soon be picked up by the Protectorate, only to face the same trials again. But Tirielle would not, could not, be shifted. While she could empathise with their plight, even with the aid of the Sard there was no way they could also take responsibility for this group. They were so weak they would only prove an additional burden. Generations of subjugation to the Protectorate had diluted the magic in humans to such an extent that even the ones the Protectorate picked up seemed wane.

  Tirielle noticed how they all had peculiar eyes, with little white, or off-white where the colour of the iris seeped out beyond its borders. Quintal had explained the eyes to her, that it was a sign of potential, not necessarily power. She saw scant potential among the users here. She wished she could have given some explanation to ease the disappointment; she could see mistrust growing in the prisoners’ eyes while they watched her argue, and that hurt worse than anything else. Some understood why they had been taken – they had quietly been using varying talents for many years, although some were completely unaware of anything different about themselves. They were the hardest. Their imploring looks said ‘but what have I done wrong?’ People stripped of dignity everywhere, she thought. They seek to blame themselves first.

  Eventually she persuaded them that they could not come, but that she would speak with the Sard and give them all the assistance that she was able. They agreed, but petulantly, tainted by fear of the lonely road ahead. Tirielle wished she could tell them why her path was one too narrow for their company. She consoled herself with the thought that at least on their own they stood a chance.

  With the group calmed, if not satisfied, Tirielle returned to speak with the Sard, gathered around the girl in her tent. The seer somehow contrived to stare at the sky through her blindfold and canvas.

  The girl was still absent from her mind, and the Sard were at a loss as to what to do.

  Tirielle had made the decision that while the girl lived they would not abandon her. They would make for the library at Beheth, the largest repository of human knowledge on the continent of Lianthre, or anywhere known on Rythe (and there were many places upon Rythe Lianthrians were as yet unaware of), to look for answers among the scholars there.

  The Seer had to come first, or else why was she doing this? It’s not all about me, she had to tell herself for the tenth time that day.

  Cenphalph, it turned out, was the most skilled in the healing arts among the Order. He insisted that neither he nor anyone else in his Order save one they called the Watcher would be able to do anything for such an unnatural malady as that suffered by the seer. Long examinations revealed no physical injury save that which the girl inflicted on herself, occasionally writhing and thrashing around, hitting whatever was near to hand. They had tried strapping her down but this only served to aggravate her more. Now they just kept anything hard out of her reach in case she hit herself against it.

  The stricken girl moaned indecipherably through the day, while Tirielle waited, missing Roth’s company, for evening to fall. The Sard had promised her an explanation. The girl’s strange condition had not eased, to the consternation of the Sard, for they could do nothing for her. Tirielle could feel their kind hearts go out to the girl at each cry. She gently stroked the Seer’s fair hair away from her burning forehead.

  Disconcerting light of an unnatural red hue sometimes bled out between the girl’s eyelids and through the blindfold to drift toward Tirielle’s hand. She always snapped her hand back. The glow receded into the Seer then and the moaning resumed.

  Tirielle resolved to find a way to cure the girl. The torment painted on the smooth young face demanded it.

  *

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Nobody spoke for a moment. The sound of the sea lapping against Sturma’s shores was the only sound.

  “How old were you?” asked Renir, finally.

  “Just a boy. I lived on an island to the north of their lands. My people travelled and traded and collected. We collected books, knowledge. The library was the greatest in the whole of the eastern world, far greater than anything you could imagine, Renir. Greater, even, than the library of Beheth, on the Protectorate’s home land. In that country war has never struck, and the people build. Where this land is covered by endless abandoned fields and monuments to forgotten ancestors, where the wild has grown to cover the ancient places, Lianthre, as their country is called, is overgrown with cities. It is an enormous place, far larger than Draymar, a thousand times larger than Sturma. I don’t know why, but they decided it was not enough. My people, the library, everything sucked into the Protectorate and swallowed whole.” He laughed a hollow laugh. “And some in pieces.”

  “And they are here now?” Renir asked Drun.

  Drun stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Shorn has already seen them and I am not mistaken – they move on Shorn already. They have been to most places on this world and perhaps some other places. My Order has fought them through the ages and in every land known to us. I do not know for sure but reason suggests there are here in Sturma, too.”

  “Then it’s high time we got a move on.”

  “Soon, Renir. I doubt they could move fast enough to find us here already. But they won’t stop until we’re dead. It won’t be easy but we must find a way to meet the First, Tirielle A’m Dralorn. The three must be together when the end comes. We are something the Protectorate fear. Is that not a fate worth having, mercenary?"

  Shorn listened thoughtfully all the way through his monologue but when Drun was finished talking he looked at the priest dubiously. "Perhaps it is. I can think of worse futures than that for a man like me. No offence though old man, but it's a bit flimsy."

  "Isn't it? But, with the key that unlocks the answer to their designs..." Drun placed his plate slowly in the sand. “Sybremreyen, our home, remembers everything, Shorn. There is no mistake.”

  “What? A home remembers?”

  “Yes, it always has. The Sard leave through death and return to Sybremreyen as babies. All had a life before and none remember ever again. The Caretaker, Sybremreyen remembers for us. The history of the world is written there, the lore, the very first word…it begins at the dark and chronicles the rebirth of light. It ends with us, Shorn. The Protectorate know the future, too
. No matter where you go they will hunt you. If you come with me their gaze cannot see you. There is the trade off; you will need me to live, Shorn.”

  "You really believe all this?”

  “Yes. Only together can we awaken the red wizard, a being of power unlike any seen in the age of man. He alone can oppose the Protectorate. They long for the return, the return of the lords of this world – and others. A pure race, undiluted as the hierarchs and the more powerful than you could imagine. They would rule the whole of Rythe. Man would be no more than slaves, if they were allowed to exist at all. The wizard, our only chance for salvation, is in Teryithyr. There is no other way for us. It is written, and you cannot change it.”

  It was all too much for Shorn to take in. The mercenary was accustomed to solid reality. Fate for Shorn was merely death at the end of a blade. He had never contemplated another end.

  “What do you think, Renir?"

  Renir put down a bone, which was now clean. "How do you know their designs are bad? Who says the signs are a harbinger of evil?"

  "The Protectorate are evil. Even were it not written in stone, their actions cannot be denied. That this is a future they desire bodes ill for all people. Shorn, you think your actions evil? I know you do. Then imagine the death on your hands when you reach the eternal plane."

  “I understand you and Renir think I am evil…”

  “Not evil, thoughtless. This war you are a part of will cost thousands of lives. And to what end? For you to line your pockets with coin? What do you fight for Shorn? Money is no goal.”

  “A priest I am not. I make no excuses for my actions.”

  “No, you will not. Excuses do not negate misdeeds, only action can do that. I never understood why the light wanted you on its side. But you will be, whether you like it or not. You know the Draymar will head across the Northern Passes into Naeth and beyond. The Thane will be destroyed. Sturma will be finished. But now, aside from destruction, you have a purpose.”

  Shorn threw his bowl down. “What makes you think I’ll do anything for you? What has any of this to do with me?”

  “You do this not for me, or them, but for good. For Rythe. And you’ll come with me because you owe me.”

  Shorn let out a breath as Drun said this. He looked furious. “My life? You think my life is worth that!”

  “Your life is to be for good. Whether you like it or not.”

  "Whoa! Hold on.” Renir took a chance and laid his hand on Shorn’s arm to stay him before he could attack the old man. “What's your definition of good then?" Renir remembered who he was talking to and winced inside. Old man who not two days ago had slaughtered a band of Draymar in his sleep. He added, "Sorry – if you don't mind."

  "Don't be silly, Renir. I am no different to anyone here. I told you I’m not a wizard. Go on."

  "Well, it all sounds like religion to me. You're asking us to believe yours is better than the Hierarchy you talk about, yet they've been ruling this place for eons and both them and the Lianthrians are still there so..." He tailed off.

  "It is a fair point. It is true, but all life on Rythe exists only at the whim of the Protectorate. The Hierarchy are merely figureheads. The Protectorate, however, live on the life of this planet. The Lianthrians are cattle."

  "Well, that doesn't answer the question. Why are you better than the other option, them?"

  "Why are you worried about whether it's good?"

  "Because...I don't know."

  "Because, I think good exists as do you and I. I think you know why you would choose to fight for Rythe. The returning race are evil. They were driven out of this world once before. They hunger for it again. They have always hungered for it. Sybremreyen remembers. Shorn, you know that there are certain undeniable tenets on which our lives are based. Because we try to impose a sensible, logical order on the world and cannot. Because the dark comes from the chaos and serves nothing but an imploding abyss. The return would feed that chaos, and light would be but a memory. We strive for good, Renir, because good is. Chaos is not and yet it is the largest part. We hold back the tide."

  "That's entirely circular. I could say exactly the opposite and it would be equally true."

  Drun chuckled and sighed.

  "That's exactly it."

  Shorn stormed off slowly. “I think I’ve had enough company for one day.”

  It wasn’t true. Renir found him rambling and pacing on his crutch.

  "So North then?” He didn’t seem especially thrilled at the prospect. Renir saw Shorn finger the scar through his nose for the first time. The scar had freckles. Funny, he thought, I’d forgotten all about it. “Through the Protectorate,” Shorn continued, “into the most inhospitable land I know. And we don't know where this wizard is…"

  “Why don’t you want to go to Pulhuth?” asked Renir when Shorn paused for breath.

  “Because there’s someone I don’t want to meet who stayed there. When I first came to these lands that is where I landed, and I vowed never to return. It is desolation ten-fold. On top of that you know what’s involved. There’s no crossing but by sea. The Seafarers do not do favours lightly, and few know where they are…”

  Drun walked silent up behind Renir. “But you do, don’t you Shorn?” Drun watched Shorn’s face. The man looked troubled. He desperately wanted a way out of this. Renir looked around behind him. He noticed Drun left no footprints in the sand.

  All Renir could offer was: “The chances of meeting someone that far north after all this time are next to none.”

  “See…” Shorn was pacing erratically, “That’s what people don’t get about chance. Do you think chance doesn’t have a sense of humour? Ask someone who has been a saint all their lives – when was the last time you heard of a saint living out their life in peace? Chance only works where good and bad are uninvolved. Then it gets all skewed.” He poked the ground to accentuate his point, the wood of his crutch bent. “Bad holds all the cards, Priest. Don’t you realise that? I thought you were ‘learn-ed’. And what’s all this about a caretaker telling prophesies about this woman and me? And you?”

  Drun held back an answer and listened patiently while Shorn ranted against the idea of heading of north. Drun knew he would eventually convince himself to go and that whether he liked it or not they would hunt for the wizard in his frozen tomb.

  Shorn argued anyway. He didn’t want to be seen giving in too easily.

  Renir got the impression he would have complained at this point about going south on general principle of it being a direction in its own right. He let him rant and drifted into thoughts he didn’t want to think. The argument slid into a background drone and his thoughts attacked him with all the vigour of a stellar purge. The banter went on, growing heated, until Renir, so lost in the world of his own thoughts, muttered absentmindedly, "This is stupid."

  “…not necessarily ‘a saviour’, Shorn. We don’t know – that’s why we have to find the wiz…”

  ”All I know is I don’t want to go north!”

  “Well we have to!”

  Shorn and Drun untangled their sentences to focus on Renir. Renir paled a little at the sudden attentions of the scarred man and the worn man, but added, "Well, it is."

  Breakfast was finished. Renir stood suddenly.

  He already knew she was gone but he had say goodbye properly. "Come on, let's get this over with. Shorn, you know you’re going to go anyway so stop arguing."

  Renir went into his house, got his sand shovel and walked off into the rolling dunes.

  *

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  The campfire crackled back from the woods as the Sard sat down for the evening with Tirielle. They insisted even the Protectorate could not move fast enough to reach them tonight, but come morning they would pack up and leave, whether Roth had returned or not. Tirielle was arguing with Quintal. It did not cross her mind to think her words might be overheard among the former dissidents, sitting at their own campfires huddled to protect themselves from the nigh
tmares that would surely come.

  “Give me some food and a horse and I will go south myself. If you cannot save the girl as you claim, saying you have no powers although I do not believe it – then I will not run off on some fool errant quest for you.”

  j’ark sighed. They had explained much about her destiny already, but she was stubborn. Unknown to them, Drun was having much the same trouble across the sea.

  “Lady, we have already explained. Our magic power is non-existent. All that is invested in the Third, the Watcher. It was his duty to watch and when the first threat rose to call on us. Our powers are not magical Tirielle, not the magic you understand.”

  “I do not care,” she said stubbornly, standing up. “When Roth returns we will leave. The Protectorate rise and that, j’ark, is what I don’t understand. Now the world needs paladins to protect it from the dark you would journey to a land with no people, this Teryithyr, and leave them behind. Well, I will not. The people need you, and if you will not lend your…talents…then the people will have to settle for myself and Roth.”

  Typraille puffed his cheeks and glanced slyly at Cenphalph. “Very well, where you go, we go. Perhaps along the way, if it should just so happens that we end up in Teryithyr, well, who can help that? Eh? And by the time the seer is cured you’ll owe us.”

  “I do owe you, you saved my life. I am grateful, Typraille. All of us? To Beheth? You should take the prisoners, we should take the girl. Beheth is far too easy a place to be found in, you would be exposed – I would be exposed, the girl wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “Well, if you go without us, you’ll be dead inside a week. To ordinary eyes we are ablaze, but to those magical – the Protectorate’s eyes – you will be all but invisible. Without us…” Typraille shrugged, “you’ll be a turtle in the sand.”