by E. J. Godwin
Telai stopped, for the boy was nodding. “I heard you talking out in the hall.”
She hesitated. “Everything?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he mumbled.
For all her clairvoyance, at that moment he was a mystery to her. Did he understand why she had been so afraid to see him? Or had she only deepened his pain? She realized now what Caleb meant. She needed to get past her own trauma in order to help Warren get through his. But she also wondered if an opportunity to return the favor might help purge the guilt she knew was tearing him apart.
“I won’t try to make this sound easy, Warren. We’re going to need each other to get through this.” She touched him briefly on the arm. “That is, if you’re willing to trust me.”
Warren lifted his head, the lingering ordeal of his torture so starkly clear that it rendered her speechless. “What do you mean, trust you? You saved me!”
“I’m sorry,” Telai said after a deep breath. “What I should have said was, are you willing to trust me with the truth?” He gave no reply to this, and she added, “I’m going to tell you something I told your father back in Spierel. No one else knows this besides my mother. But I think you should.”
Curiosity struck the guilt from his face. “What is it?”
She turned her gaze to the floor. Though she had already told Caleb, she knew it would always be a struggle to break down the walls she had spent a lifetime building. “Soren was nearly sixty when he died. I’m thirty-two. And though my mother looks much older than me … she was barely fifteen when I was born.”
“You mean he—they—“
She nodded quickly to prevent the obvious from being spoken. “I don’t know how it is where you come from, Warren. But in Ada, such a thing is considered an unforgivable crime, especially by a Raén. My mother was an impressionable girl in awe of a very skilled and courageous soldier. She was too naive to understand the power a woman’s love can have over a man. Afterward she was forced to make up a lie, saying my father died when I was a baby. For us, it was only a moment of weakness. Soren always treated me with kindness, even as a father might. And we realized that he needed to protect his reputation and authority, just as my mother did. But he never forgave himself. He never once referred to me as his daughter, even in private.”
A tremulous sigh escaped her lips. “My mother considered it his one cowardly act. It hurt her. And it hurt me! We loved him dearly. Yet when either of us tried to talk to him about it, he always managed to find some mission or duty that took him away for weeks at a time.”
She faced Warren again. “I’m not telling you this to make you think less of him. He was a brave and honorable man, and cared about you a great deal. And I know he loved me. I’m telling you this because you deserve the truth, and I can trust you never to tell anyone else.”
Warren did not respond at first. A sharp, intermittent sound turned their heads toward the east window. A sparrow had landed on the sill, and it was tapping on the glass, drawn there by its own reflection. For an instant it parted its beak as if in pain or shock; then it flew off in a flutter.
“She doesn’t have any influence over me now,” Warren said. “And she never will.” He drew out a cloth bundle from his pocket and offered it to Telai. “It’s hers.”
There it was—the source of so much tragedy for Telai’s people, from Urman to Grondolos to Caleb Stenger. The very sight of it, even wrapped, chilled her heart.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “It doesn’t work anymore.”
Telai let him drop the package into her hands, determined to ignore her fears and reward his trust in her. “You mean it’s broken again? Divided?”
“No. It doesn’t work at all.”
She shook her head. “No, Warren. Once somebody owns a Lor’yentré, it can’t be thrown away—it’s a part of them forever. Ksoreda told me.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know anything about that. I just couldn’t let her stay in there and hurt somebody else. Once I figured that out, it just … happened.”
“What happened?”
He pointed at the bundle. “Untie it.” Telai obeyed, her hands shaking as they revealed the two halves of Heradnora’s device.
They were both as clear as a mountain stream. A Lor’yentré without any spirit—as if it had never been used.
It took her mind a while to grasp its significance, as if it were incapable of accepting the truth. She remembered what Ksoreda said about Warren: power over the spirit. A new awareness dawned, and a new fear. In the end, this child’s gift might prove mightier than any device humankind had ever created.
She drew in a quick breath, her heart pounding. Like a thunderbolt, all of the pieces fit together.
It took her a minute to recover from it. “Warren, I’d like your permission to try something. You’ve already taken care of any threat to our people. But if Heradnora is still inside you, I might be able to find a way for you to release her—to remove any chance of her influencing you again.”
He shrank away a little, and she added, “There’s no danger—I don’t have anything close to her kind of power. I would never let anything hurt you, Warren. It’s only laroné, the gift of clairvoyance, where I sometimes see things in other places and in other people. Can I try?”
Warren nodded quickly, perhaps more afraid of what she might find than any effect her gift might have on him. Telai set the leather bundle to one side and held out her hands, palms upward. After a brief hesitation Warren placed his own in hers, and she closed her eyes.
Minutes passed until she opened them again. “Warren—do you think you can get us past the Hodyn guards at Wsaytchen?”
The boy sat transfixed. “Why?”
Telai rose to her feet and offered her hand. “To finish what Rennor started.”
18
The Careless Gods
Faith moves mountains;
but compassion moves the world.
- Caleb Stenger of the Raéni
FOUR ENEMY soldiers, their faces dark with suppressed hatred, escorted the Overseer alone to meet with Ferguen, leader of the Hodyn. Garda, her arms wrapped tight against the cold, kept her gaze on the paved flagstones with almost fanatical austerity.
She smiled grimly. Did they consider her so dangerous? Or were they affording her one last honor before her execution?
Experience had taught her that thoughts like these were only the dark fruits of grief. But she had no power to silence them. The final stand at Gortgal! She could still hear the deep crash of those massive doors as the Raéni slammed them shut. And how would she ever forget when they opened again to reveal the Master Raén’s body lying amongst so many others?—a specter of such raw indignity that it poisoned her every waking thought.
Wsaytchen rose tall above her, unspoiled but somehow less inspiring, less substantial. Was it the Palace of Dorgonan now? Better to raze it to the ground than let it suffer the clamoring feet of enemy soldiers.
She was exhausted, worn down by countless days of mounting fear and sorrow—leaving a shell of a woman with barely enough strength to represent her people, much less provide comfort or hope. She would rather sleep, the only refuge of forgetfulness remaining to her.
The tall doors clanged shut behind them, and Derré’s conspicuous absence forced her to suppress yet another bout of rage. The soldiers herded her to the right, eventually stopping at the door of a small, well-lit room she recognized as Hené’s study. A guard stood at each end of the table inside, a large map of Ada spread between them.
Ferguen sat at the center, his back to a short shelf stuffed with books and scrolls distinctly foreign and out of place. He lifted a weary face as she entered, then ordered his two men to stand guard in the hall. The soldiers who escorted the Overseer departed, the door silencing the echo of their boots as it closed.
Garda stood alone, burning with resentment. You finally got your historic moment, she told herself. The first time the leaders of these two nations have ever met.
Fer
guen gestured at the chair opposite. “Sit.”
She remained standing for a little, then heaved a sigh and sank gratefully into the cushioned seat. Ferguen cleared his throat and shoved a few papers aside. She blinked to fight off sleep, wishing he would say or do something to focus her attention.
“I hope you’re recovering from your pleasant little experience,” he said.
“So! The defeat and capture of Ekendoré isn’t enough. You must add mockery to sate your greed.”
“I saw the battlefield, Overseer, both at Krengliné and at Gortgal. As much as I detest your Raéni, I’ll never call them cowards.”
She closed her eyes, blocking the terrible images from her mind. “Spare me your degrading magnanimity. It was either fight or die.”
“See it as you will. In any case, we are in an awkward position now, both of us. I don’t know what change happened to that cursed boy sorcerer, or where he’s gone—and I know there’s a lot you’re not telling me—but the truth is, he’s no longer needed. We can dictate our own terms now.”
“I’ll burn alive on a pyre before I bow to your dictates.”
“The Bringer would probably oblige you. He’s hardly been more merciful to us.”
“If you have something to say, then say it, and have done,” Garda said. “Return me to what’s left of my people.”
Ferguen folded his hands. “Patience, Overseer. There are things you need to hear, words I wouldn’t dare say in front of the Bringer—or anyone else, for that matter.”
Garda waited in stubborn silence, and he continued, “I’ve had enough pressing duties of my own, so I let you be for a while. Without the Bringer hounding my every step I saw an opportunity to give the matter a little thought. I don’t admire this boy tyrant any more than you do. But he was a means to an end, and though it cost us more than we liked, it was the only way.”
He rubbed his bloodshot eyes, then shouted for one of the guards. “Yrgona!” he blurted as the man entered. “For two!” The soldier bowed and closed the door.
A sound of scorn was the reward for his generosity. “I’ll gag on anything I drink in front of you.”
A humorless grin curled his lips. “Spit it in my face, then, I don’t care. Just shut up and listen.” Garda’s stare widened, but he ignored it, suddenly thoughtful. “The last thing I want is another ten centuries of hatred and warfare, no matter how justified. I hold no love for your people either, and only pity your children, victims of a flawed society. But you would do well to consider another option.”
“I see. Now our children will be victims of your flawed society.”
“Hardly. I’m not here to convert your people to our way of life. If it was up to the Bringer, you would be correct—assuming he would be so generous as to spare you. Right now I would be instructing you in your position in his new society—as Overslave, I believe was his term, which I’m sure you find rather offensive. I’m offering an alternative, something better for both of us, if it can be done.”
Her curiosity was roused in spite of herself. “What alternative?”
“One simple fact remains,” Ferguen said. “We share a common enemy. You had a mission, some secret of the Prophets, I assume, which was your last hope to rid Ada of this evil.”
He leaned forward, his voice low and discreet. “With both Dorgonan and the magic of the laser in our hands, we don’t need this boy sorcerer any longer. But once we fulfill his purpose, whatever that is, we will hardly fare better than before, perhaps even worse. Some think we’d be safer under his rule, as long as we cooperate.” He sat back, shaking his head. “They’re going to find that a harder thing to swallow than they realize. As will you.”
“I sense a hidden threat here. Or typical Hodyn guile.”
He stared at her as though she had uttered nonsense. “We have no need for guile now. You’re a defeated people! Do you have any idea how much hatred he possesses for you? I don’t know where it comes from, and I really don’t care. But I’ve seen it, I’ve heard it in his voice.”
“Yes—and your people are so nobly immune to this hatred.”
Ferguen sighed. “Even before I set foot in Dorgonan I held out small hope of ever convincing you. And I’m probably wasting my breath trying to convince you that your people and mine are not so different. We till the earth, join as husband and wife, teach and nurture our children, just like you. Yes, yes, we steal,” he blurted, forestalling the vindictive response gathering on her lips, “and I won’t waste time arguing the need for it. But even a thief hates an oppressor. Do you think your lot will be any better?”
Garda straightened herself in her chair, fighting a weariness that grew with each word he uttered. “What difference will it make? If your wish comes true, and no sorcerer returns, what will you so graciously offer? Will you defy your own people’s hatred of us? Or will you only grant us the consolation of a tyrant whose one weakness is that he’s forced to work a little harder for his revenge?”
Ferguen leaned back in his chair again. “I’m not sure what is more likely—that there’s any hope to rid the world of this evil, or that you will ever see past your own hatred. In the end it might be better if you all died in battle. Yet listen to this, ruler of Ada, and hear words of grace from an uncouth Hodyn mouth.
“Half of Ada shall be yours. Dorgonan is ours again, and ours for good. Enilií as well, for we would be fools to give up its strategic advantage and natural resources. The Treth have already accepted our promises of trade. But the lands south of Eastgate and surrounding the whole of Tnesen shall be yours—your towns, your farms, even your fortresses, Garda! You can take the art of Wsaytchen with you, if you can manage it. You can expand south, west, east,” he explained, jabbing his hand at the corresponding parts of the map. “But the north shall remain ours, as it was long ago, and your greatest loss will be the city you once stole from us—and, of course, your loss of life in battle.”
The Overseer glared at him. “If!”
He nodded. “You must tell me the secret of your quest.”
A lengthy pause followed, during which Garda sat as though carved from stone. Ferguen released a snort of scorn. “Don’t you have anything to say?”
Suddenly the door opened. A slender woman entered the room, her glance bright and her face shadowed by no trace of illness. No Hodyn were visible in the hall beyond. Yet behind her, half concealed and peeking around her like a timid waif, stood none other than the Bringer of Strength.
The Overseer turned to her opponent again. “You might get your answer after all, Ferguen.”
♦
The image of La’hegré in the Hall of Memories had long vanished in the gloom behind. There were no guards, no aides, and no lights to accompany them down the passage to Larientur. Without the palace attendants who had cared for the chamber and its miles-long approach for centuries, there was no one to keep the lanterns burning. Only the solitary flame of Garda’s lamp lit the way.
Beside her walked Warren, his footsteps silent, and Telai, her steps more determined yet her heart clouded with anxiety. Ferguen walked close behind, his hand at a sheathed dagger at his side and his stony glance narrowed in suspicion.
Telai remembered the day she escorted Caleb down this very same corridor, and the tales of Urmanaya she told to distract him from his fears about the Judgment. Now she was the one who needed reassurance. She had nearly surrendered to the temptation to demand Caleb’s presence: he had every right to be here at Warren’s side. But his role in the war and his friendship with Soren made him a prime target of the enemy’s hatred, and she dared not risk this final hope for her people by rousing Ferguen’s wrath.
The Hodyn leader had peppered her with many questions. She only gave him one answer: the key to what had happened to the Bringer lay in the sacred chamber of Larientur. In exchange for this secret she demanded that no one else accompany them, and none of his threats could persuade her otherwise. If Caleb can’t be with them, she’ll be damned if any of Ferguen’s people des
erve it!
The passage finally ended at the long flight of shallow steps. The gold and silver inlays of Larientur’s tall doors barely reflected the lamp’s tiny flame. Telai led the way up to the landing, then pushed on the ivory handles.
Wavering shadows offered only a hint of what lay beyond. At her daughter’s nod of assent Garda worked her way around the chamber, lighting each lantern. The glare of all those mirrors overhead nearly blinded them until their eyes adjusted.
The massive oak chair of the Overseer still occupied its privileged circle of illumination. To Telai it looked emptier than ever. Here the loss of her city struck its deepest wound; so many of Ada’s history-changing decisions were wrought in this sacred chamber, and she heard those ancient voices gathering in a collective scream for revenge.
“Well?” Ferguen said, his voice traveling the walls. “Where is this answer you promised?”
Garda turned on the spot. “Get out!” she shouted, waving at the entrance. “If you have so little patience or respect, then get out!”
He pointed at her. “I’ve already given you more patience and respect than I can tolerate, Overseer!”
“Please,” Telai yelled, “both of you.” They stood frozen in place, and she added, “I need to concentrate. This may take a while, so you’ll just have to wait.”
Garda nodded once; Ferguen gave no assurance, but kept his peace. Telai closed her eyes in preparation, the silence only broken by the faint echoes of shuffling feet.
Her mother gasped, and she opened her eyes again.
No ghost or pearly manifestation greeted her this time. Ksoreda was simply and suddenly there, as clear as when she first met him in Tnestiri. Ferguen held his long dagger ready, but Ksoreda took no notice. He turned a slow circle, the growing surprise on his face suggesting that the last thing he expected after Telai left his domain was to be summoned to her own.
Garda stared at him. “Is this—”
“Yes,” Telai answered. “This is the man we went to see in Tnestiri.” She spoke directly to him, drawing his attention. “I thought you were forbidden to appear in our world in the flesh.”