But as the words replayed in his head, something caught his attention.
“Return?” he asked. Then as, an afterthought—no sense angering his father now that he had won his freedom—”Exec?”
If the Commander-General noticed the slight, he didn’t show it. His face was calm and even pleased, despite the dark circles under his eyes. “From the southern islands,” he said.
Arad blinked. His head felt suddenly heavy.
“My scouts tell me that there are a fair number of dissidents—calling themselves colonists, of course—still on the island. Civilian casualties were, of course minimized; as a result of this . . . compassion, there are groups of Lordslanders calling themselves “island defenders” hiding in the hills, causing problems for us.
“The precept currently commanding the garrison established there is having some issues dealing with them, so I am pulling him. You will replace him,” he declared.
“What—for how long, exec?” Arad asked woodenly.
“Until the job is done,” his father replied matter-of-factly.
Arad shook his head slowly, trying desperately to find a way out; he couldn’t think of one. “I—I don’t know anything about the southern islands, exec,” he said, exasperated.
“That may be so,” his father agreed, frowning. “But you spent a year in Benn’s Harbour, and are known by the common folk of the Lords’ Lands as a champion and hero.” Somehow, the words rang like insults in Arad’s ears. “You also gained the respect of a Lord from their Council,” he went on, “and you worked closely with Front-Captain Gallord-Smit, a prominent officer of that realm. I have no doubt,” he continued with a humourless smile, “that with your experience in dealing with these people, you will find a way to convince them to give up their cause. Failing that—well, you are a well-trained officer possessing of great skill and intelligence, and should have little difficulty eliminating them as a threat to the garrison we are setting up. And to the colony soon to be established,” he added, apparently as an afterthought.
Arad swallowed. “When do I leave, exec?” he asked. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. Had his father planned this all along? Was this the reason for that ominous smile a moon earlier? Or was there yet another dark plot in the works that he couldn’t begin to fathom?
He was stunned by how easily his father had played the game, manipulating him in the situation perfectly. He would be escorted to the coast, now, with soldiers all around him at all times, no doubt the officers and guards with orders to make absolutely certain he did not wander off. Once on the ship, there would be no escape, and on arrival at the southern islands—was he to be an unwitting tool in his father’s war? Was he to become a hated figure in the Lords’ Lands, blamed for the extermination of noble island defenders simply trying to survive or avenge the deaths of their loved ones?
Would the Lords’ Lands respond, putting him into a battle to the death against an enemy he did not wish to fight, on an island far from the woman he loved?
Well, it wasn’t a perfect plan; he simply would not go. The officers and guards watching him couldn’t be perfect; he would lull them into believing that he was completely focused on the mission, pouring over maps and inspecting supplies. Then, when they were no longer watching him closely, he would go left—desert—and disappear forever. Disguise his appearance, find his way back, and find Sayri. He caught himself nearly nodding at the plan; it would work, he just had to be patient. Perhaps, he thought, his father’s plan to send him away would actually end up being the precise opportunity he needed to escape. He was, after all, still somewhat of a hero among the men; none would distrust him as much as his father wanted. Or as much as they should.
His father was watching him closely. “You will leave tomorrow, at dawn,” he replied. “Incidentally,” he said suddenly, “your previous instructor Win Wal wished me to express his condolences. He hoped to see you before your departure, but is unfortunately occupied with training maneuvers outside the township for the next tenday.”
Arad frowned. What was the point of this? Was his father threatening to harm Win Wal if he didn’t go? That would hardly work; his father didn’t have power to execute someone without cause, and Win Wal was an important figure in the garrison, despite being a civilian. He had served the Overlord Yalcin Rex himself, training his personal guard prior to Sherzi’s coming to power. His father couldn’t act against the man without clear cause, without endangering his own position.
What was he playing at?
“I understand his woman—Ooji is her name?” His father didn’t wait for him to confirm; he knew. “She misses him horribly when he is away. They are quite aged, after all. It must be hard for the old woman. However,” he continued, his eyes sparkling, “I’ve heard that she has a house guest of late.”
Oh, no.
“A young lady who—so I’ve heard—traveled a long way to visit her. Some company while her man is away on duty.” He nodded, feigning a smile as he spoke. “And, of course, it’s much safer for the young lady, staying with her, with so many of our soldiers about. We can’t keep them all under control, after all—who knows what might happen if she wandered about alone? In any case, it’s nice to see that the old lady has someone to take care of her—as long as she requires. Perhaps permanently, if need be.” Having seen what he needed in Arad’s expression, his father turned absently back to his maps. “I’ll send someone periodically to check on them,” he finished, in quiet acknowledgement of his victory.
Arad didn’t know how he left his father’s war room, and later recalled no further exchange of words. Had his father dismissed him, and watched in black humour as Arad stumbled away? Or had he said more, gloating with the power he held over his son?
Arad had no awareness of how he left the great stone headquarters building, or of crossing the courtyard to the barracks, but the next thing he realized he was sitting on the pallet in his quarters, two guards outside his door.
Oh, Sayri. I brought you here to keep you safe . . . but you’ve only joined me as a prisoner. I won’t be coming for you, not now. Perhaps not ever.
He held his head in his hands, and cried.
28 SAYRI
The first time she had passed through the town, she had been sitting on the front bench of a wagon, and had seen the townsfolk and warders clearly; they, in turn, had seen her clearly, and had stared tactlessly at her golden yellow hair. In retrospect, she imagined it would have been wise to hide it; if Arad’s father had known who she was, no doubt she would have been spotted. She quietly chastised herself for sloppiness, and vowed not to make a similar mistake in the future.
Ooji was not so foolish; once she had gathered all her belongings, she wrapped Sayri’s head in a bright red scarf that fully concealed her hair, and then dug out a hideous green dress and would not sit still until Sayri pulled it over her traveling clothes. The resultant wrinkled mass of clothing, though hot as a furnace in the high afternoon sun, was adequate to completely eliminate any interest whatsoever from any warders who saw her. The old woman, however, wasn’t done; she frowned at her, saying she was “still too pretty”. To Sayri’s horror, she then looked around searchingly after muttering her displeasure in having no hog manure on hand, but after smearing some dust on the young girl’s face she nodded grudging approval.
Passing the gate, which had concerned Sayri considerably since entering, was a brief, uneventful affair. Ooji grinned in fake excitement and then charged at the guards, trying to drag them over to meet the beautiful young daughter of her friend, who was a skilled swine breeder in the town. Sayri had never seen men shy from her like that, and hoped not to again—unless she needed to escape another enemy garrison, which she likewise hoped would be never.
Win Wal had not accompanied them. He had been intending to, as far as Sayri understood—the old couple only spoke to each other in their queer foreign tongue, of which she couldn’t decipher a word—but shortly before they emerged from their small private quarters,
a warder had arrived at the door bearing a message. The local Somrian dialect was nearly as confusing to Sayri as Win Wal and Ooji’s language, but she had managed to pick out enough to understand that the old master had responsibilities outside the town teaching warders. It hadn’t been on his schedule, and the old master was suspicious of the orders, but had no choice but to obey; Ooji would have to escort Sayri to their home without him.
Sayri had of course been much more worried about passing the gate warders without his help, but Ooji had proved more than up to the task. After her performance, Sayri imagined they could pass the gate a hundred times without a word from the nervous warders manning it.
They passed quickly through the town rather inartistically named “North Garrison”, attracting little interest. Ooji did receive some stares for her dark skin colour, but she showed no concern and it amounted to nothing; apparently the townsfolk were accustomed to strangeness, or had seen Ooji and Win Wal there enough times; the old woman herself seemed oblivious to the attention.
They very nearly arrived back at the undulating climb Sayri had come in on, and she was about to ask if they would be leaving the town when Ooji abruptly turned right and began walking along a partially hidden trail that wound its way through great rocks and stunted trees along the base of the ridge.
There were no structures built near the slope, but orey wandered freely, nibbling at what dry grasses they could find, and she saw several flocks of strange, giant birds nearly as tall as she was. Ooji warned her to stay away from them, as they could be quite aggressive. The warning was unnecessary, as Sayri found them quite menacing and had no plans to approach them without an extremely good reason.
Sayri was already sweating heavily under her heavy layers when they approached their destination. The house belonging to the old couple was a dilapidated brick shack not much larger than Dol Vi’s home had been, but it had a voluminous wooden deck that was larger than the house itself, outlined neatly with an attractive stone wall. Despite the structure’s run down appearance, the interior was quite attractive and well kept, and there were three sleeping pallets neatly lined up against one wall.
“You no see ugly outside,” Ooji muttered as she showed her the patio. “Arad want paint house pretty colour, but silly old Win Wal say that if house all pretty, somebody move in when we away. Silly old man,” she repeated. “So Arad build patio and stone wall instead. Nice, you think?”
The old woman had been babbling, but she stopped when she saw Sayri, who was standing in the centre of the patio with tears in her eyes. Ooji shuffled over to her, and held her shoulders, telling her not to cry.
“Where is he?” Sayri asked, struggling to compose herself.
Ooji clucked. “He fine, girl. He fine. You see. He at the headquarter, big stone building middle of army base. His father keeping him in room like bad child, but he can’t do forever. Come, girl,” she said, taking Sayri’s elbow, “Come inside, I make you tea. You stop worry, old Ooji and Win Wal find how bring you young lovers together.”
Sayri laughed then, the sun sparkling through a multi-hued blur of tears in her eyelashes, and she followed Ooji inside.
・
In the early evening, Ooji’s ‘wall’ produced elongated shadows across the base of the ridge, so that the lands dominated by orey and strange giant birds vanished before the brightly lit orange buildings of the town. Sayri had taken a nap in the late afternoon, having been even more exhausted from the day’s emotional stress than from physical work, though there had been plenty of that as well.
The pallet was firm and lumpy, but she took great comfort in knowing that it had been Arad’s, and she slept soundly and dreamlessly. When she emerged out onto the patio—without the voluminous green sack of a dress, but with her hair still safely concealed under the same red scarf Ooji had given her—she did not at first see the old woman anywhere.
She did find a basin of fresh water outside the front door, though she couldn’t have imagined where Ooji could have gotten it from. Sayri had tried to use a rag to wipe the dirt from her face before resting, but she had accomplished little more than spreading the filth around, and was pleased to have the chance to wash her face properly.
Once she was properly clean, she strolled to the far corner of the balcony nearest the town; from there, she spotted Ooji. The old woman was seated about a hundred paces away surrounded by a field of long, yellow grass that had somehow escaped the attention of wandering orey, who seemed intent on consuming all they found in the area.
Sayri stepped off the patio and walked in Ooji’s direction, frowning as she did; how had the grass escaped the notice of the pack animals? In an irregular square around where the old woman sat, it grew to nearly knee height; beyond, it was cropped low to the ground.
As she reached the outer edge of the tiny field, Sayri saw what might be the the key to the puzzle; a thick line of reddish dirt dividing healthy grass from cropped. She kneeled and put a finger into the powder that was mixed in with the soil.
“Wicha,” Ooji said from where she sat a good ten paces away. Sayri jumped; the old woman hadn’t looked up—how had she noticed Sayri’s approach? Even when she wasn’t trying to walk stealthily, no one heard her coming these days, and seeing Ooji at peace with her eyes closed, Sayri had stalked up quiet as death, so as not to disturb her.
“I’m sorry?” she asked cautiously. Had the woman spoken to her?
“Wicha,” the old woman repeated. “It spice from old land. Orey hate it. Win Wal hate it too, so lots around in bag. Only have to dump more after rain or big wind. It not rain much here, and wall stop wind, mostly,” she added.
“Wicha,” Sayri repeated, bringing the spice to her nose. The scent was overpowering, bringing her eyes to water, and reminded her of manure; she brushed it quickly off her hands.
“You no like, either? Bad taste, just like Win Wal. Maybe you both come from orey,” she mocked.
Sayri laughed. “Oreys can’t breed,” she replied pointedly, remembering what Arad had told her about the beasts in Yalcinae.
Ooji chuckled. “Smart girl,” she said. “Maybe orey find way for old, stupid krakari and young, stupid, smart girls.”
“Ooji,” Sayri smiled, impatiently; she wanted to know how had the old woman had noticed her approach.
“Come, girl,” Ooji replied before she could voice the question.
Sayri moved closer, and sat when the old woman motioned for her to do so. The grasses came up to her chest when sitting, and provided a private sanctuary from the rest of the world. It was comforting, somehow.
“How did you—” she began again.
“Noise,” Ooji replied.
Sayri frowned, then smiled. “But—”
“Not that noise,” Ooji muttered impatiently. “That noise,” she said, pointing at Sayri’s head.
Sayri nodded slowly; she remembered what the Proselyte had said about silencing the mind to receive messages from the Great Link. If Ooji could tap into that, she wouldn’t need to hear Sayri’s approach.
Ooji was watching her with interest. “You understand?” she asked with some surprise.
“Yes,” Sayri confirmed. “I met a Proselyte, when—”
“No matter,” the old woman interrupted.
Sayri shut her mouth. Clearly Ooji wanted her to listen, not talk. She nodded, and waited.
“Watch,” the old woman said. She picked a long blade of grass and held it up before her eyes. A gentle evening breeze was playing along the ridge, so it bent slightly away from her. Ooji smiled lightly and closed her eyes, and began to slowly recite words in her native language, each word a heartbeat apart, like a chant.
Sayri found herself lulled by the words, though she understood none of them. Ooji continued the chant, and a few dozen heartbeats passed. Or perhaps longer; it was difficult to judge as time was swept away by the old woman’s strange, hypnotic lullaby.
“There,” Ooji finally said softly. Sayri opened her eyes, then, and saw that though th
e grasses surrounding them were bent away from Ooji, lazily waving in the gentle breeze, the one in her hand was bent the opposite way, directly toward her forehead, and did not move.
Sayri gasped. “You can do it, too,” she whispered.
Ooji’s eyes came slowly up until she stared directly forward, then her head rotated slowly until she met Sayri’s eyes. “Who else do this?” she asked quietly. The grass held it’s delicately poised position.
With a soft curl at the edges of her lips, Sayri plucked several grasses from the ground and held them up before her, where the breeze blew them sideways across her gaze.
As the Proselyte had taught her, she emptied herself of everything, and welcomed the universe. It flooded into her immediately, much more easily than it had the first time, back in that prison in Benn’s Harbour. She sensed herself as if seen from outside. She sensed Ooji, and the house, and ridge, and the town. She saw it all from above.
She focused her intent, and the view collapsed on her. Over the red scarf on her head and over her shoulder, she saw the grasses. She willed them to act on their own, and they did.
Ooji was leaning across in front of her, her own blade of grass forgotten, when the grasses stopped drifting before the young girl’s eyes, and snapped perfectly erect in absolute defiance of the breeze.
The old woman gasped and laughed, clapping her hands. Sayri released the grasses, and they blew from her hand and settled to the ground.
“How long you study learn that, girl?” the old woman asked.
“It took a while,” Sayri replied. “The Proselyte visited me when I was—well, it took at least half the evening. But I did it better, this time,” she added proudly.
Ooji was shaking her head slowly, her eyes clouded. “Fifty summers,” she muttered. Then, when Sayri frowned at her, “Fifty summers before I do this. Only a few kodo—Elders—do this. It very special. But you—” Her eyes widened in disbelief. “—you something . . . different, girl.”
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 32