Fate Defied: The Silent Tempest, Book 3

by E. J. Godwin

  The towers of Wsaytchen rose dark against the paling sky. At the entrance to the garden, Soren sent a few Raéni to scout the perimeter, then turned to view the situation at the Old Wall. Though the first streaks of dawn bloomed on the horizon, any activity or details were lost in the distance and the lingering darkness. Yet in time he saw faint lights twinkling, creeping like evil ants along the familiar paths of Hendra’s Valley.

  Soren turned away and approached the palace doors, his heart sinking. He knew there was no way to help his fellow Raéni. But to abandon them to the wrath of Heradnora was the hardest thing he had ever done. Hené, Fouvé, and Caleb Stenger—all dead.

  The tall doors swung open. For once Derré showed no hint of protest at his intrusion, livid with fear. “Quickly,” she said breathlessly. “The Overseer is waiting.”

  Accompanied by Edai and the other Raéni, Soren followed as Derré sped along the main passage of Wsaytchen as fast as her aging limbs would allow. Darkness veiled the myriad of paintings and runes in the high vault above, and the sculptures in the long Hall of Memories beyond loomed over their heads like dark phantoms. Yet a small light at the far end of the hall broke the gloom, and by the time they reached it Soren knew it was Garda, hurrying with Onné at her side to meet them at the doors.

  They stopped and faced one another beneath the marble image of La’hegré, the Adan symbol of sacrifice. The giant bird and its long, spear-like arrow flickered in the light of a tiny oil lamp in Garda’s hand, while she cradled a haphazard bundle of scrolls and folded documents in her opposite arm. The silence of the great hall fell over them like a tomb.

  Soren bowed quickly and spoke, his voice sharp with fear and impatience. “I’ve returned as promised. Do what you must, then accompany us with all speed to the caverns.”

  She glanced past him at the Raéni waiting in anxious confusion. “And you were wise enough to bring what I neglected to think of: witnesses.”

  “Swords, my lady—to deliver you safely to Gortgal.”

  Determination entered Garda’s features. “Onné, Edai, Derré—bear witness. I hereby declare Soren, Master Raén of Ada, as my replacement as Overseer, effective immediately.”

  They all gasped, then cried out in protest. Soren merely sighed with relief. “Are there others left to be evacuated?” he asked.

  She shook her head in reply. Without preamble Soren grabbed her by the arm and propelled her into a run toward the exit. The Raéni followed close at their heels, exchanging looks with one another, while poor Derré struggled to keep up. Once past the entrance she insisted on bestowing one last honor upon Wsaytchen by closing its doors. Yet to Soren the slamming of those doors beneath the dark, abandoned towers was like a death-knell.

  Up the steep cobblestones they fled, climbing ever higher into the upper regions of the valley, the white plumes of their breaths trailing in the wind. By the time they reached the massive, half-closed doors of Gortgal, the cliffs were washed in the light of dawn. Many of those who had preceded Garda from Wsaytchen stood at the threshold, watching the fall of their city with faces blank with shock. What was left of the Raéni had taken up defensive positions about the entrance in a wide arc, while archers climbed devious paths to the top of the cliff to defend the approach.

  Ressolc, as well as Féitseg and the other Underseers, stood clustered together just inside the doors. Soren threaded his way through the crowd and stood before them, Garda at his side.

  “We will delay the Hodyn as long as we can,” he said. “But I cannot leave you without any defense of your own. Everyone must move inside. We must shut the doors.”

  Garda seized his arm. “What are you doing? You are the Overseer now. Your place is in here, with your people!”

  Voices rose in confusion, demanding an explanation. “Hold, hold!” she cried, attempting to restore calm. “Now that our survival is at stake I’ve appointed Soren as my successor, effective immediately. Edai and the others here can bear witness.”

  Werten, who had sat at Caleb’s Judgment, turned blood-red with indignation. “My lady, I must protest this. Now is not the time!”

  “Indeed it is not,” interjected Soren before she could respond. “Garda has in truth named me Overseer. What she neglected to take into account is that I still hold the position of Supreme Raén as well—the first since Etrenga!” he ended with a shout, raising his sword high.

  Garda’s arms shook as if ready to strike him. “This is a betrayal, Soren!”

  “Not so,” he answered, sheathing his Fetra. He faced the Underseers. “If I fall outside these doors this morning, I hereby name Garda of Wsaytchen as my successor.”

  A hush fell. She clenched her hands. “Damn you!”

  He stepped close as the echo of her cry faded. “I will not assume the mantle of Overseer just to save my life for you, Garda.”

  Soren made to turn away, then stopped. That same hint of fear returned, and suddenly, before Edai and Onné and the entire gathering of Underseers, he held Garda’s face in his blood-stained hands and placed his lips against hers.

  It was over in a flash. So shocked was she by this act that by the time she recovered, a score of Raéni were pushing against the stone doors, ordering any remaining civilians inside. Yet Garda and all the other folk spoke not a word as the massive doors ground shut, extinguishing the first rays of the sun.

  16

  Awakening

  The moment we enter this world

  is at least as terrifying as the moment we leave it.

  - Derrién, 5th Overseer of Ada

  TIME PASSED. Distant, muffled sounds invaded Caleb Stenger’s mind, as to a man only half awake. He thought of Warren, remembering how the boy preferred to play holomovies without using the sensory implants. But it puzzled him. He didn’t recall seeing a holoprojector anywhere on the ship.

  The sounds grew stronger, sharper. Some kind of war movie. Why was it taking him so long to wake up? His legs felt numb. Perhaps he still lay in artificial hibernation, and the equipment had revived Warren first. Yet it didn’t seem to fit—his son watching a holomovie in casual disregard while his father slept away the years.

  What, you’ve disowned me now? I did what I had to do, son. Time to get past it and move on.

  Caleb opened his eyes. Ragged hulks of broken stone loomed about him. The sun had cleared the horizon, and through the torn remnants of the Old Wall, dust-brightened shafts of amber light brought the vast extent of the destruction into terrible contrast. Hodyn soldiers were dispatching the last of the Raéni lying amongst the stray crags; beyond, creeping like a dark tide against the brightening snow, hundreds more made their way up the valley toward the doomed city.

  He lifted his right hand, and winced. The bandage was gone, the arrow torn from his arm. Blood streaked his skin all the way to his fingers. Yet below the waist he felt nothing—as if half his body no longer existed.

  Terror engulfed him. He forced his growing stare down, down—to where a twisted mass of bloodied flesh and protruding bone lay across the shattered limestone.

  A boy called out his name—not Dad or Father, but Caleb Stenger.

  He turned his head, grimacing with the effort. Warren stood tall against the sky, his tawny hair like gold in the sun. Only in his shadow did any hint of Heradnora’s evil glow reveal itself.

  Caleb could not even weep. The achingly familiar sight of his son, mentally raped, a gloat of victory on his young face, ripped through his soul beyond any power of his body to express.

  “You remain alive for one simple reason,” said the voice.

  Caleb tried to shout his words, yet all he managed was a wheezing effort. “What do you want?”

  “You know damn well what I want. Your pretty little girlfriend was smart enough to give up her half of the Lor’yentré to save herself. I squeezed the rest of her secret out of that traitor, Laivan. I know she sent the other half here. Where is it? Who has it?”

  Caleb lolled his head in refusal.

  “I’m not g
oing to waste my time on you,” said the Bringer, and turned. “Begora! Bring her here.”

  The nearest soldier stepped into view, his hands gripping the bound arms of a woman. She was tightly gagged, and her clothes hung in tatters; her face was covered with swollen bruises and streaks of dried blood, and her hair was so matted and grimed that she looked more like a wild thing than the proud daughter of the Overseer.

  She stumbled to a jarring halt above Caleb as Warren leveled his arm to point. “Tell me where the other half is, and I’ll let her live.”

  Hope drained from Caleb’s heart. Is this my fate—to watch every person I love die unless I turn traitor?

  Telai shrieked through the gag, hunching forward with her knees bent double. Begora grunted with the effort to keep her upright.

  Her muffled screams tore into Caleb, a pain greater than his wounds. The boy he once called son crouched beside him; a young, familiar hand gripped his jaw. The same clear blue eyes that had once welcomed Caleb home stared into his with an insatiable lust for power.

  “That’s just a taste. There’s lots more where that came from. Make your decision! Tell me who owns the Lor’yentré, who it was intended for, and I’ll let her go.” He shook his head slowly. “You don’t even want to know what I can do to her.”

  Caleb’s sight dimmed. His flesh grew cold. There was little time left. Telai’s screams faded, but she still crouched, alternately gasping and holding her breath against the pain.

  His voice came out in a guttural rasp. “Stop what you’re doing first.”

  The Bringer released him, then glanced at Telai. With one last cry she started breathing easier, and gradually straightened to a stand.

  Using his left arm, the only limb he could use, Caleb groped toward his chest and searched clumsily inside his coat.

  The child’s jaw dropped. “You? You have it? Your parents died ages ago!” He laughed. “I don’t believe it. Twice now you had the chance to get rid of me and threw it away.”

  Caleb turned his fading eyes to the only undefiled love he had left. Tears were coursing a path through the grime and blood on Telai’s face, but he paid them no heed. Her candid, light brown gaze drew him in like so many times before, speaking words only his heart could hear.

  Caleb … please trust me.

  Without hesitation, he handed the leather bundle into Heradnora’s waiting grasp.

  The boy unwrapped it, his grin an abomination of triumph. He reached inside his own coat, and brought out the other half.

  The body twitched, as if a jolt of electricity had passed through it—and the spirit of Hendra stared aghast at the new Lor’yentré gripped by hands that were not her own.

  ♦

  In the deepest part of his mind, a young boy called himself Arthur. And Ulysses. Even Joan of Arc.

  Anyone but Warren Stenger.

  Imagination was his only friend, his only refuge. It shielded him from the harsh, hopeless reality only a thought away. It kept him from begging his pitiless captor to end it all. Outside that shield, there was nothing—no welcoming arms, no glimpse of a smile, no trace of light or life or love. Curled up inside the ancient tales of Earth, he was safe. Lost inside heroic stories told in a beloved voice, nothing could hurt him. He was home again, wrapped in the cocoon of his mother’s arms, where a world turned cold and cruel could not reach.

  Until now.

  His father was dying at his feet—a reality so harsh that not even a mother’s love could protect him.

  The last spark of Warren’s independence trembled with the need to cry out—to tell his father that he no longer resented him for bringing him here. How he wished he could tell him that he understood all too well the gift he gave to his mother in that hospital room! And he knew the pure hatred in those fading eyes for what it was: a final testament of love from a hero—one no less brave than the ancient heroes of Earth.

  An unexpected burst of anger grew in Warren’s heart—a mote, a tiny flame in an endless void.

  Be still!

  The return of Heradnora’s loathsome voice ended his wandering thoughts. It seemed years since she had last spoken to him. After those first few days of taunting she had grown weary of it, pressed with more urgent matters.

  Witch! Let Warren go!

  A shiver ran through his body. Who is she talking to? Am I going mad? This has to be a dream, that’s it. A nightmare within a nightmare!

  Warren! It’s not a dream!

  Terror seized him. Is this what it was like in the hospital? All these voices? Did she go mad like this before she died?

  The spark grew into a soundless wail, a release of fury long kept in check, flaring wide in the darkness.

  Stop it, stop it! Warren cried.

  That’s right, boy! Don’t pay attention to her. I’ll share power. It was foolish of me to take control of you like that!

  The shout of anger spread, overtaking him, burning down the walls of his prison.

  What’s happening? Who is that?

  No one! Hendra cried.

  Is it … is it her? How can that be? Dad! Help me!

  The cruelty in Hendra’s voice transformed to desperation, a young girl pleading for her life. You don’t need their help. I’ll be your friend! Please—let me stay. I can’t bear to go back!

  The flames spread, overwhelming his thoughts. The voice weakened to a murmur.

  No … you don’t know what it was like …

  A whisper.

  … so lonely …

  Silence.

  The flame exploded, shattering the darkness, an eruption of triumph nearly unbearable in its intensity. Power filled Warren’s mind, a strength of will over his flesh like he had never known. And with it came the knowledge that he had escaped his prison but not its chains. Like Grondolos in ages past, his fate rested solely—and literally—in his own hands.

  One Lor’yentré snapped in two and fell to the ground. Another became whole.

  And the scream of a young boy split the morning air.

  17

  Treasures

  A strong house to keep a child safe—

  for this any old tree would gladly fall to the axe.

  - Etrenga’s final words

  AT FIRST TELAI recoiled, certain that Heradnora had completely abandoned herself to fury, ready to slay and consume everything left of Ada and their way of life. Yet the child kept screaming for his father, and at last she understood.

  Begora, who had stood transfixed by the boy’s transformation, stepped forward with his knife and cut the ropes from Telai’s arms, and removed the gag from her mouth. Even he had seen enough slaughter and inhumanity for one day.

  Telai fell to her knees beside Warren, there in the middle of a vast field of crushed Raéni soldiers and wrecked stone. She comforted him as best she could. His tortured face looked as though it would never be sweet and beguiling again, as if Heradnora would forever darken his days and thoughts by the mere force of her memory. But the hurt she felt for him was nothing compared to the sight of the broken body lying before her.

  Hope began with a touch on her arm. Warren, still shaking from his ordeal, nodded at the dark talisman clutched in his hand—now whole, his own, while Heradnora’s lay broken on the snow. After exchanging glances, a wealth of words beyond the power of voice, the boy turned to his father.

  There was no effort to it. The healing power of the Lor’yentré mocked the skill of an ordinary surgeon. Caleb Stenger returned from the brink of death, shrieking as his shattered bones fused and his body surged back to strength.

  It was as if all the vestiges of his past, all the false hopes and the obsessions and the fears, were being purged from his flesh in one brutal yet utterly liberating moment.

  It was over. He lay recovering, his breath a heavy rasp, sweat pouring from his body. Telai fell at his side, her heart nearly bursting with joy. Then the pain and terror of the last few days overwhelmed her, and the dream-like vision of the two people she loved most, framed against the ru
in of Krengliné beneath the blaze of dawn, became the last memory of that day.

  ♦

  A blood-reddened glow seeped through her eyelids. It was not the light of morning. It felt strange, as if it held no kinship with the sun that had shone over the wreckage of the Old Wall. How long had she slept? Or was she still dreaming?

  Telai opened her eyes in a squint, then shut them at once. She lay near a window, and a noon sun refracted through the beveled panes directly onto her head. She shifted away, her limbs stiff, vaguely annoyed at whoever had placed her in such an awkward position.

  A soft, hesitant voice spoke her name. She turned, and a valiant smile crossed her lips. “Hello there,” she croaked.

  “Telai!” the voice said again in a shout, and Garda sprang from her chair by the table.

  Minutes passed as Telai lay basking in her embrace. But even a mother’s comfort could not shield her from the horror. Gruesome memories rushed in, and the walls seemed on the brink of caving in. She held her mother tight, desperate to keep the nightmares away.

  At last Garda straightened, and sat on a stool by the bed. “You’ve been sleeping for more than two days. You must be starving.”

  Telai noticed how pale and drawn her mother looked, and the sorrow lurking behind her eyes. “When was the last time you slept?” she asked, but her dry throat brought a spasm to her face.

  Garda helped her sit up against the headboard, then filled a cup with water from a nearby pitcher. “I haven’t slept much at all, to be honest,” she answered as she handed the cup to Telai. “But that’s not your doing. I’ve had other concerns to attend to, as you might imagine. Besides, Caleb Stenger’s been sharing the duty of keeping watch over you.”

  Telai nearly choked on a mouthful of water. She couldn’t believe she had forgotten about him. “Caleb!” she spluttered. “Is he all right? Is he—”

  “Peace, daughter,” she said, halting the inevitable barrage. “He’s fine—physically, at least. You’ll see him in a few hours. You need to eat something first.”