by E. J. Godwin
An arm swung to the west. “We hid him under a bush, about a half mile away.”
“What about his sword?”
“No good. Those thin blades of theirs break too easily.”
A despairing cry interrupted their exchange. Telai shook with grief, her limbs stiffening against her bonds. She tried to control it, to deny them the satisfaction, but her grief was too potent, too sudden. Heads turned, and there was a cruel chuckle or two; Begora remained silent.
“For what it’s worth, I pity you,” he said finally. “No one under my command would dare send a woman on that kind of a mission.” But Telai was deaf to his words, and he turned away. “Keep guard over her until we’re ready to leave. Know this: if any harm comes to her, after you deal with me I’ll give what’s left of you to the Bringer.”
Terror snuffed out her grief in an instant. Heradnora. The only hope remaining to her now resided in the latent halves of the Lor’yentré: invisible now, but she could feel them pressing against her skin beneath her arm. Did they already search her for weapons? She hoped so, though she shuddered at the thought of their rough hands traveling over her.
The day began to wane. In time a pair of soldiers hoisted Telai by her arms and legs. She did not struggle, yet neither did she cooperate, hanging limp and heavy as they carried her away to the south. She tried to get a glimpse of the battle scene. But the Hodyn had dragged off and hidden all the dead, animals and soldiers alike, leaving only wide furrows and streaks of blood-soaked snow in the fading light. The sleds were broken up and scattered among the bushes, their supplies plundered. It struck a blow to her heart to think she would never have closure, never see the body of the man who surrendered his life for her—the ultimate testament of love.
Her captors only traveled far enough to keep a prudent distance from any signs of battle. Some had already gone ahead to prepare the campsite: a small clearing strewn with crude paraphernalia and a few hastily erected tents. Into one of these ragged enclosures they deposited Telai, none too gently, with a moth-eaten blanket thrown on the ground near the center pole.
They left her alone for a while. Then the flap opened again, and one of the soldiers set a tin plate of food before her. After a moment’s regard he untied her hands and stood watching her from the entrance.
Telai felt a strong impulse to refuse, a defiant spirit born of her loyalty to Tenlar. Yet it also bestowed a grim sense of duty upon her, honoring his death, and she snapped the plate up in her hands. She wolfed down the food with her fingers, then flung the empty plate at the guard.
She held her arms up, wrists together. “Get on with it!”
The soldier met her glare calmly. “There’s no point. You’re not going anywhere—at least not tonight, and not on your own.” He threw the flap wide and vanished before Telai could decipher his words.
It was not long before she did. Doubtless they had already sent word of her capture by falcon, here at the edge of desolation where there was no place to run to.
The slow winter night descended. Though the knots were too tight she managed to loosen the ropes around her legs, for they were beginning to cut off her circulation. Afterward she wrapped herself in the blanket as best she could, but the tent was ill-fitted and drafty, and she shivered against the hard ground.
Worse than any discomfort, however, was a complete and utter sense of isolation. It drained all hope, as stark and uncompromising as the frozen wasteland around her. There was no one left to aid or comfort her, not even Slink. She trembled, not from the cold but from the futility of Tenlar’s sacrifice.
Hours passed as she fought to maintain her spirits. The night seemed endless. Scattered sounds and low voices about the camp gradually faded, lights were extinguished, until only the wind ruffling the heavy canvas of her tent offered any evidence of her plight. Exhaustion fell upon her in waves, but she could not afford to sleep. Each passing minute brought her closer to her doom.
The separated halves of the Lor’yentré clinging to her side were of no use to her, especially now there was little chance of reaching her parents. And what if she could? Heradnora had killed her own mother by pure instinct, and Telai would probably meet the same gruesome end before she learned how to defend herself properly. She would be trapped forever in a prison with no door, no escape—and all in vain.
Overwhelmed by the injustice of her fate, Telai slammed her gloved fists on the ground. Rennor! Damn you! Was it worth all this?
She remembered his eyes—gray eyes haunted by a sorrow worn to familiarity by the ages. Too keenly now did she understand what it must have done to him. But she had grown cold to his suffering, lacking all sympathy for a man who might soon earn the inadvertent yet most irreversible of all epitaphs: guilty of genocide.
But no matter how she despised him, she could not ignore him. No matter what his crimes, he had discovered some secret about Warren, enough for him to endure the centuries while his daughter’s spirit lay trapped in a prison of her own.
Telai tightened her jaw, refusing to submit to fate, either Warren’s or her own. She threw off her gloves to unlace one of her boots, a difficult task with her legs tied, and yanked it off her foot. A wide leather strip lay along the bottom, cut to fit and undetectable by all but the most thorough of searches. Miles of travel and constant moisture had nearly fused it to the sole, and it took some effort to wrest it free. Then she reached in again, and breathed a sigh of relief at the touch of a cold, metallic surface.
She pried the disc away from where it lay half embedded in the leather. The only light was from a few holes in the canvas glimmering from a campfire beyond, but her fingers told all she needed to know—the finely engraved surface, the unadorned opposite almost like silk to her touch. It was like a friend to her now, and as she slipped her boot back on she thought of Yoté, and the warm memories of her home, and the familiar halls of Gerentesk.
She knew better than to repeat the same, impotent ritual she had performed so many times since Spierel. Something was lacking. Telai ran the tips of her fingers over the engraved eye, and the indentation of the tiny human figure trapped inside. Even in the dark it still unsettled her. And when she turned the disc over she still experienced that same sense of rightness, as if the eye had suddenly become an extension of her own.
The concept froze her for a moment. No! she scolded herself. You’re so desperate you’ll grab at anything that pops into your head. But the idea would not be silenced—and she had nothing to lose.
She focused her thoughts, the ritual a well-worn path in her mind. For a while there was nothing. No visions appeared, not even the vague ones she saw in Spierel—certainly nothing like her vision in Tnestiri. Yet even as a young girl under Acallor’s tutelage she had learned to pursue every rumor or scrap of knowledge if it offered any chance of discovering the truth.
With that memory, every sound of wind and fire and murmuring sleeper faded to silence.
The darkness changed—a black so deep and complete that no one would ever mistake it for the absence of light. It was a realm that had never known light, or any moment of life or love, a country ruled by no master but isolation. The loneliness was almost too intense and cruel to bear, even when she was only its witness and not its victim.
For there was a victim. She had stumbled upon a long-forgotten dungeon of the mind, where there was no flesh to touch, no voice to hear, not even the faintest breath or heartbeat.
The prisoner within the eye.
With all her heart and soul she cried the boy’s name, a silent shout into the darkness. I’m here, Warren. Answer me! Again and again she called, but there was no response.
Tears of rage spilled, a fury born of her love for the child. It was like the light of a flame, defying the void that surrounded her. Here, in this endless prison where no clues existed, where all rational thought perished under the weight of its own futility, a woman’s heart was the only weapon she had left.
A reflection of that anger glimmered. It harbored no ident
ity, spoke with no voice, and had long lost the strength to drive back the dark. No mariner of the soul would ever have seen this light. Only Telai’s fury gave it the power to shine, like a breath blown on the last ember of a fire.
Visions flashed through her mind, memories of a life not her own, much like what she had experienced in the theater with Warren asleep on her lap. How long ago that seemed now! Yet two images ran as a familiar thread through all the chaos, appearing sometimes alone, sometimes together: the faces of Caleb and Warren Stenger.
It confused her, for she thought she was witnessing the boy’s memories again. And the years were slowly turning backwards—Warren grew younger, not older. Caleb walked with a toddler perched on his shoulders, fat legs dangling and dimpled hands clasped upon his brow. Telai held Warren in her arms, his little lips working as if suckling in his sleep. She rocked him gently, overwhelmed with grief, as if longing to relive the joy of those days.
It ended with a cry—the pitiful yet wondrous cry of a newborn child.
A jolt struck Telai where the Lor’yentré rested against her body. The visions ended, and she opened her eyes.
The long winter night surrounded her again. She shivered with the cold of inactivity, having sat motionless for—how long? Had she lost track of time? Perhaps the camp was beginning to stir. Then she heard whispers and soft chuckles at the entrance, as between friends sharing a secret.
“Don’t take too long—I might want a turn.”
A chill ran through her stomach. She shoved the coin inside her coat, heart hammering. The flap opened wide, and a dark form sprang into the tent, briefly visible against the flickering light of a lone campfire some distance away. She only had time to fill her lungs before he was on her, pinning her down, a large, rough hand clamped over her mouth.
Though her legs were tied and nearly useless, Telai fought with every ounce of fury she could muster. She tried to scratch him, and a grunt or two told her she landed a few blows. But he was too close, and her lean strength was no match for his battle-hardened limbs.
“Lay still!” he whispered hoarsely.
Already exhausted from her ordeal and lack of sleep, her strength soon faded beneath his suffocating weight. Not this! Not this, when I’m so close!
She went limp. A pitiful cry arose in her throat, muffled by the hand across her mouth.
“Be quiet—I won’t hurt you!”
His promises meant nothing to her. Her mind was frozen with terror and despair, held hostage by her assailant’s scowling eyes. He had murdered the one hope she possessed. Now, not only would she suffer whatever fate Heradnora had in store for her, but she would face it robbed of her last shred of dignity.
A terrible silence fell. She waited for the worst, shuddering at his foul breath and the stench of his unwashed flesh and clothing.
“I’m going to let you go now,” he whispered, so softly she barely heard him. “First you must promise you won’t cry out.” She kept utterly still, her body as unchanging as stone, and he shook her. “A messenger falcon is already on its way. The Bringer will be here by tomorrow evening at the latest. If you want any chance to escape what he means to do to you, you’d best do as I say!”
She nodded, but only out of fear. He let go, held still for a few seconds, and sighed.
He bent closer, and she stiffened again, but he only placed his lips by her ear. “I’m Laivan, a captain in the Hodyn army—well, I used to be. You’re Telai of Ekendoré—the daughter of the Overseer, correct?”
She made no reply, and he murmured, “I need your help, Adaian. This new power that’s taken control of my people—this Bringer of Strength—is the fulfillment of a long-expected prophecy of hope. But it’s an illusion.” He withdrew a little, his eyes glistening in the dim light. “I want nothing more than to regain the lands you stole from us. I can’t deny that. But to let this kind of power rule over us only exchanges one oppressor for another, and one much harder to get rid of. If you have found some way to destroy this new evil, I would not be against it.”
Such well-rehearsed lines made no impression on Telai, who only hours ago had witnessed the death of a beloved friend. Laivan waited for her to respond, glancing back at the door now and then in increasing fear and impatience.
“If you’re only wondering whether to trust me, fair enough,” he hissed. “But at least give out a few muffled cries or grunts or something to make this encounter a little more convincing.”
Fury returned, drowning her terror. “Get away from me!”
A soft curse filtered through the canvas. “Keep her quiet, Laivan. Begora will have our skins!”
Laivan grabbed her shoulders. “You must believe me,” he whispered. “Help me!”
“Why only you?” she spat, her nostrils flaring in disgust. “What makes you so special?” A laugh fell outside the tent, quickly stifled.
“Quiet!” he breathed. “I’m not the only one. There is a small following. Up until recently I’ve been looked upon as a hopeless but harmless romantic, a dreamer. Now I’ve lost my command. Once the Bringer arrived, Gendor had the luxury of keeping only his preferred kind of men in charge. But the time will come when they all wish they had listened to me. I’ve seen the Bringer face to face. I’ve seen the greed and ambition behind those deceptive blue eyes. That intolerable little brat has to go!”
Telai took no notice of Laivan’s righteous anger. Tears slid out the corners of her eyes, wetting the gossamer-thin hair at her temples.
“I can see it matters to you, too,” he said, misunderstanding her reaction. “But you’re not going to be able to do anything by yourself—not if I’m any judge of what I’ve seen.”
Her tears ceased as quickly as they began, purged by her burning resentment over Tenlar’s death. “A lowly, outcast Hodyn soldier,” she muttered quietly. “What possible use could you be to me?”
“You’re the one with the secrets. I was hoping you would tell me.”
Telai lay quiet, battling her own indecision. “Curse you!” he said. “Do you think I like consorting with the race that murdered my mother and father? Give me a chance to get rid of this boy tyrant!”
His words puzzled her: the Hodyn had never tolerated women in the military. “Murdered your mother?”
Laivan laughed grimly, loud enough to be heard by the guards; it sounded lecherous enough, apparently, not to arouse any suspicions. “Yes, I keep forgetting. You’re the Overseer’s daughter—sheltered from the ugly side of life. You’ve never seen what a few of your more ambitious Raéni are willing to do in the name of their cursed Oath.”
He grabbed her by the coat and lifted her to within an inch of his nose. “I was only a child when my mother was captured by your oh-so-honorable Raéni,” he whispered. “My father was second in command to Gendor, so they sent a ransom note demanding the surrender of a hundred soldiers. Gendor didn’t lift a finger to help. Even back then he was a cold-hearted lizard! So my father went out alone to try to rescue her.” Telai felt him tremble with suppressed rage. “I never saw them again.”
She was caught up in his tale despite herself. “How do you know she isn’t still alive?”
He released her, her head falling back to the ground. “Twenty years, locked away in some dark dungeon? That’s what you think I should wish for?”
Sudden understanding like a bolt of lightning shook Telai to the core. A prisoner—trapped in an eternal, lightless void.
Now the echo of longing when Warren first touched her fell into place. There was indeed one last, possible hope—both for him and for her people.
“You have nothing to lose, Adaian.”
His words snapped her back to reality. The idea was utter madness, a rejection of Ksoreda’s harsh but practical strategy, and she was casting it aside like a witless fool. Telai hesitated, excruciatingly aware that her next decision might spell the doom of everyone and everything she cared for.
Laivan kept his peace, seeing by her agony that the crucial moment had arrived. He co
uld not help glancing back, however, at a pale light creeping through the gap along the bottom of the entrance. “We have no more time!” he hissed.
It was now, or never.
She reached inside her clothing for the two halves of the Lor’yentré. She paused, focusing her powers of laroné like never before. Then she fumbled around for a minute, and placed a small leather bundle into Laivan’s hand.
“Get this to Caleb Stenger, if you can,” she whispered, “and before the Bringer finds him. Tie it well, and make absolutely sure no one touches it, not even yourself.”
Laivan held the bundle close. “What is it?”
Telai lifted her head and placed her lips at his ear, all her previous loathing forgotten. So softly did she speak that he closed his eyes with the effort, his dark brow furrowed as he etched her strange words into his memory.
She lay her head on the ground again. “Write it exactly like I told you, word for word.”
Though his face filled with doubt, there was no time for explanations. He nodded.
“I have one more thing to say to you, Laivan. If you betray me, betray my people—you’d better make sure I’m dead along with everyone else.”
“I won’t fail you. I swear it.”
Before she knew it, he was gone. The entrance flapped open only long enough to reveal the guards still standing at attention, and the slow light of morning.
A morning she knew might be her last.
14
Night’s Fall
A step in the dark is one of faith or foolishness.
Our curse is to not always know which until we take it.
- from Besir Orand’iteé
IT GLEAMED in the stubborn dawn light, inescapable, both the hope and curse of Ada. Caleb Stenger could never have imagined that the secret of Tnestiri, which Telai and Tenlar had traveled so far to discover, would one day be placed in his very own hands.
Save for its transparency, it looked to be an exact replica of the Lor’yentré. Yet why only half? Like many of the mysteries surrounding Rennor, it made no sense. He closed his eyes, trying to shield his mind from the shock of this new discovery, hoping to extract some clue from what Telai and Soren had told him about the wraith-like visitor in Gebi. But the man who called himself Ksoreda would not reveal anything outside the safety of his forested domain.