Rite of Exile: The Silent Tempest, Book 1

by E. J. Godwin

  “As long as you understand you won’t be treated more fairly.”

  “I wouldn’t expect to be. For one thing, the primary duty of a Raén is to destroy Kseleksten. I’d like to find a way to reach Graxmoar, if anyone can help me.”

  Soren raised his brows. “The Broken Lor’yentré! You aim high, newcomer. How will you succeed where so many others have failed?”

  “Maybe because of my unique perspective,” Caleb answered. “Or maybe I’m too ignorant to realize it can’t be done.”

  The old Raén turned a sly grin. “Of course. Such a deed would remove all doubt in Ada regarding your ability or allegiance.”

  “You make it sound like a bad thing. Besides, I’m not so naive to think there aren’t any other obligations to fulfill.”

  “Indeed there are other things.” Caleb heard the faint ring of steel, and found himself staring at a burnished, engraved sword a mere hand’s breadth from his nose. A stranger walking by paused in his stride, brows raised, then hurried along. Soren barked. “Could you take this blade and plunge it into the vitals of a man you’ve never met—not to save yourself, not to save your son, but simply for the good of Ada? Could you, stranger from the sky?”

  Caleb stepped back from the fire in Soren’s eyes, nearly stumbling over the park bench, his instincts quicker than his will. “Perhaps. But if I didn’t, it would be out of simple fear or reluctance, and not from lack of loyalty.”

  Soren sheathed his Fetra. “An honest answer. The first lesson of any soldier is to know where his fears lie. The second is to overcome them—and a strengthening of loyalty is one of many ways.”

  “Of course. But I don’t see how I can prove my loyalty until I join the Raéni.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Caleb pointed at Soren’s weapon. “You seem to place a lot of emphasis on wielding a Fetra. A citizen isn’t allowed to use one, or engage in any combat other than defense.”

  “And if you had the opportunity?”

  Caleb shrugged. “A moot point.” Soren stood fast, and he added, “Are you saying—”

  “You’re very good at clever answers. Time to put your words to the test.”

  “How?”

  “Follow me,” he answered, and headed down the path.

  “Wait,” Caleb said. “I need to let Telai know first.”

  “She already does. Follow!”

  Caleb took a deep breath and obeyed. Soren led the way out of the park at a brisk pace, heading for the side street flanking the right side of the inn. Caleb made a show of keeping up, marching alongside over the sun-baked cobblestones, his clothes soon soaked in sweat and his dark locks plastered over his brow. Had Telai’s visit been a setup? After that scene in Gerentesk he could picture her cooperating with whatever test of loyalty Soren had in mind. But it didn’t really matter. Caleb was determined to see it through.

  Heading west through a few twists and turns they arrived at Ekendoré’s market grounds: a triangular plot bustling with a colorful myriad of tents and their merchants, bickering customers, and crates and crates of blackberries. From there Soren turned left over an arched wooden bridge, where the Quayen churned between granite walls on its way to the Tarn.

  They soon arrived at a long, one-story building of plain gray stone on the right-hand side; a stranger would have passed it without a second look. Two guards snapped to attention as Soren approached. They swung the doors open at his command, casting furtive glances at Caleb as he followed. The interior was equally plain, a low-ceiling hallway and adjacent room separated by a wide arch, each dimly lit by free-standing torches. A collection of battered old chests lined the floor along the walls of the room, with an array of bows and scabbards hanging from iron hooks.

  “Wait here,” Soren said with hardly a break in his stride, and disappeared through a smaller arch at the end of the hallway. Only a minute passed before he returned, accompanied by a short, middle-aged woman. Scars lined her face, and there was a rigor about her that told Caleb she was no less loyal or courageous than her superior.

  “This is Edai, the Weaponmaster of Ekendoré. There’s a good chance you’ll be training under her, so mind your manners.”

  Caleb bowed, half in respect, half to hide his reaction to Soren’s patronizing. “My lady.”

  Edai stepped forward. “If you’re lucky enough to earn Soren’s approval, you’ll soon realize I am no lady.” She turned her back on him. “My lord, I must protest. I cannot allow anyone but a Raén to wield a Fetra, much less this man.”

  “If I may speak—”

  “You may not!”

  Soren placed his hand on Edai’s shoulder. “I believe your armory holds other blades besides the Fetra—ones still sharp enough to kill.”

  A shiver ran down Caleb’s back. “Sir—”

  “—another word, and your hope of joining the Raéni dies!” Caleb glared at him, but nodded.

  Edai headed for one of the chests along the wall, muttering. She flung the lid open, and after rummaging around for a bit straightened and returned to Soren.

  A dagger with a charred hilt and a long, tarnished blade exchanged hands. “Good enough for the job. And no one will care if it goes missing,” she added with a sideways glance.

  Caleb fumed as the Master Raén stuck the dagger under his belt. “Shouldn’t we bring two?” he asked, forgetting Soren’s warning, but the old soldier ignored him and headed back out into the sun.

  After a few more turns they halted at another single-story building, much like the armory, standing all alone at the southernmost end of town.

  A tall, iron fence surrounded a wide yard of brown, foot-worn grass; a pair of Raéni guarded the gate on each side, the first one unlocking it at Soren’s command. The second one escorted the visitors down the brick-laid path toward the doors. Caleb stopped. Two words in the common tongue were stamped above the lintel: Military Prison. He wiped the sweat from his face, read the sign again to make sure, then hurried forward, his stomach in knots.

  Another set of guards unlocked the door; beyond, crude lamps lit the walls of a large foyer. Several corridors branched off in different directions, iron-clad doors on either side receding into darkness. A table and two chairs stood at the back near a row of hooks and dangling keys.

  An old man with a stubble of grizzled hair, presumably the turnkey, lifted his wiry, knob-jointed frame and approached. “Your visit on such a hot day honors me, my lord.”

  “Your service honors us all, Fdarel,” Soren replied. “Do you still have the Hodyn prisoner we captured a while back?”

  “My lord?”

  “The spy we found hiding in one of the towns in the valley.”

  “Ah, yes, that one. Do you wish to interrogate him?”

  “No,” Soren answered. “I wish you to give me the keys to his cell, and forget about our visit after we leave.”

  “I see,” Fdarel said, casting a doubtful look at Caleb. “Your command is law, my lord.”

  Keys jingled, and Soren led the way down the nearest corridor, lamps along the wall throwing his shadow this way and that as Caleb followed. They stopped at the last door on the right. Soren drew his sword, then struggled with the key for a moment until it clanked into place.

  Hinges squealed, and the door swung wide to reveal a room barely ten feet square. Long scratches and faded graffiti covered the walls, dimly lit from a tiny candle burning on a stone shelf. The heat was stifling, and a tall metal bucket in the corner stank of urine and feces.

  A short, heavily muscled man sat hunched on a low cot of straw against the opposite wall. Chains trailed from his feet to a large iron ring in the middle of the floor. His wide face, grimed and half covered in a mop of black hair and wiry beard, looked as if it had never smiled, never known anything but the hatred so evident in his deep-set eyes.

  “What an honor,” he croaked in a hoarse voice. “The Master Raén visits a lowly Hodyn prisoner.”

  Soren ignored him. He faced Caleb, drew the dagger from his b
elt, and presented the charred hilt. “You know what needs to be done.”

  “I thought this was going to be a fight to the death or something,” Caleb said. “You’re asking me to kill an unarmed man!”

  “Then your profession of loyalty means nothing. This is a Hodyn spy, the worst of the lot. An enemy who directly threatens our citizens deserves to die.”

  “The Supreme Raén of Ada shows his true colors,” the prisoner muttered. “Be careful what kind of friends you make, Falling Man.”

  Caleb nodded. “So it would seem. Is this what justice means to your people, Soren?”

  “You keep using words instead of deeds,” he answered. “Either do as I ask, or go back and look for another line of work.” He shrugged. “Your choice.”

  Minutes passed as the Master Raén waited with the dagger in his outstretched hand, his cold stare fixed and unwavering. The prisoner waited too, his glance darting from face to face.

  Caleb took the weapon into his hand. The vision of Warren reappeared, his intellect restored, a swiftly growing teenager with his whole life ahead of him. Yet as the years passed the slow realization that Caleb had saved his son’s life through an act of murder would poison every word between them, every chance for reconciliation for the deeds he had done on Earth, until not even a father’s love could breach the wall between.

  He flicked the dagger into the opposite corner, where it clanged against the bucket like a death-knell. “I won’t commit murder, Soren, not for the Raéni, not for you. If that’s what the Oath really means, then it’ll never pass my lips.”

  The following silence lasted so long he wondered if Soren had misheard him. “I don’t believe this,” Caleb said. “Was this some kind of trick?”

  “Yes—one a lot easier to see through than what this fellow is capable of,” said Soren, jabbing a thumb to one side.

  A string of spittle arced away from the cot. “Shove your little compliments up your noble ass, Adaian!”

  Soren leaped toward the prisoner, blade held high. “You’re lucky Caleb Stenger isn’t a murderer. Neither am I. But one more word out of that hole in your face and I’ll make an exception.”

  Caleb took a long breath as Soren resumed his place. “So you’ll let me take the Oath?”

  “So it seems,” he said, sheathing his sword. “But I have a question. Every recruit must choose where the ceremony takes place, a location symbolizing his loyalty to Ada. What is your answer?”

  “I don’t have time to decide?”

  Soren shook his head. “This shouldn’t be that difficult.”

  Caleb had assumed he would take the Oath in Wsaytchen, or some such hallowed place. Now he had an important decision to make. Or was this another trick? He raced through the memories of all those lessons, looking for that one unmistakable symbol of Raéni tradition.

  “Krengliné. Atop the Old Wall.”

  “Very well—assuming you’re not just buttering my bread. The ceremony will take place a week from today, at noon.”

  “In one week, at noon,” Caleb repeated, all civility again.

  “One last thing. The ceremony requires you to acknowledge the sacrifice of your civilian life.” He stepped close, his stare like ice. “Make damn well sure you’re the only one who bears that sacrifice.”

  They walked out, and Soren turned to shut the door. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Caleb asked.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Fdarel won’t take too kindly to leaving a dagger with one of his prisoners.”

  Soren blushed for a moment, cursing. Then he wiped it out with an evil smirk. “You threw it away. You get it. Consider it another test of loyalty.”

  Caleb stepped through, looked around in vain … and the prisoner let out a long, harsh laugh.

  9

  Leap of Faith

  No one should utter these words

  without a little fear in his heart.

  - Etrenga, author of the Oath of the Raéni

  THE FALLING MAN woke to the grumble of an old storm—a fitting end to a restless night, and to a long week of doubts and soul-searching battles.

  By noon a blustering wind had driven the last of the storm into the west. High above the grass, Caleb stood atop Krengliné like a cadet at attention, dressed in skillfully embossed leather tunic and breeches. An empty scabbard hung at his side.

  A crowd of people surrounded him, drawn by either curiosity or necessity. Ceremonial clothes rippled angrily in the breeze. Telai waited to his left wearing a long, alabaster gown, Warren’s hand in hers. Soren and Hené stood opposite, the honored Raéni witnesses, their polished scabbards glinting in the sun. Féitseg stood directly in front, his sandy hair accentuating an amber, ankle-length vestment trimmed with embroidered runes.

  Caleb drew deep breaths to slow the pulse of his heart. He dared not look at Telai. Another glance at the hurt in those eyes would destroy his resolve.

  “Caleb Stenger, have you made your decision?” asked Féitseg. “Do you wish to become a Raén of Ada?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Do you accept this duty without reservation?”

  Caleb struggled for a moment. His lips would not obey him. When he gathered his courage and forced out an answer, his voice seemed to travel the length of Krengliné.

  “I do!”

  “And does Lord Soren, Supreme Raén of Ada, waive the right to refuse Caleb Stenger this honor?”

  Soren’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the hilt of his sword. “May all Raéni accept him as I do.”

  The Underseer took a step back. “Caleb Stenger, I ask your closest companion to present the Fenta té Esiré, the Gift of Farewell.”

  Caleb shut his eyes for a moment, then turned stiffly. Telai approached, a small box of silver-bound wood in her hands. “Caleb Stenger, you leave the life of a citizen and enter a world of high honor and duty,” she said, her voice quavering. “I offer this gift of farewell as a promise that my friendship will never die.”

  He took the case, passed it to a servant, then leaned forward briefly to place his left cheek against hers. “I accept your gift, and the friendship it represents.”

  The shadow of pain in her face said what her voice could not: Do you, Caleb?

  Féitseg stood before him once more. “Caleb Stenger, to whom do you bestow the honor of the Fet’anidaré, the Presentation of the Blade?”

  “Soren, Supreme Raén of Ada.”

  Another servant, dressed in jet black with a wide belt of gray, approached bearing a long wooden case. Soren opened it to reveal a curved sword, much like the Samurai wielded in ancient Japan, but with a wider cross-guard. Its hilt was chiseled from ivory, while its blade, polished yet unadorned by any rune or symbol, flashed brilliantly in the sun. With slow, careful motions, Soren took two pure-white cloths, one in each hand, and lifted the sword from the box by its ornately crafted hilt and razor-sharp point.

  The Master Raén faced Caleb squarely, the sword held level before his eyes. “Caleb Stenger, behold the Fetra. Since it emerged from the fire it has never been touched. It is untested and deedless, as are you. Do I have your promise that this will change before the seasons have turned full circle?”

  “You do.”

  Soren extended the sword. Caleb took it by the cloths, turned the flat of the blade toward him, and placed the cold metal against his lips. Dropping the cloths, he clasped both hands around the hilt and aimed the sword at the blue sky, its sharp edge to the east.

  In the name of Ada, and of Orand,

  and of Etrenga the first Overseer and the first Raén,

  I swear this Oath:

  To follow and subdue evil, and all the enemies of Ada

  to the uttermost parts of the world,

  To destroy them where they seek to destroy,

  To confound them where they seek to confound,

  And to honor the Fetra, the symbol of the Raéni,

  And keep my skills forever as sharp as its edge.


  May I give aid to all Adaiani in their need,

  Protect them from wrongdoing,

  Be an ally to allies, a friend to strangers,

  And respect all living creations.

  Should fortune show me a way to Kseleksten,

  May I not shirk this duty,

  Nor turn aside to any other thing,

  Until my death, or until Kseleksten is destroyed.

  Let my fellow Raéni hear my words.

  I, CALEB STENGER,

  by great Hendra, and for the

  prosperity and happiness of all Ada,

  swear this Oath.

  Caleb sheathed his Fetra with swift confidence, never taking his eyes off the horizon. He had practiced it endlessly these last few days, determined to make a good impression. Yet the following silence was almost more than he could bear. He wanted to scream, to race down the Old Wall like an escaped lunatic. But it was too late. He was a Raén.

  “Caleb Stenger, I welcome you to the full honors and duties of an Adan soldier,” Soren said. “May your deeds be surpassed only by your dedication.” He grinned devilishly, and with a gripping hug whispered in his ear: “Which you will need when you train under my watchful eye for the next two months!”

  The assembly began to disperse, treading one by one down a long set of steps behind the wall. Caleb felt a hesitant touch on his arm.

  Telai wore a smile—her pain, for the moment at least, nowhere in sight. “I hope you return to Ekendoré from time to time.”

  “Of that you can be sure, Telai.”

  She peered over his shoulder. “Will you open your gift?” She shrugged. “It’s not much.”

  “Of course.” He took the box from the servant’s hands, and opened it to reveal a small oval of yellowish-brown, transparent material, presumably amber. It baffled him at first, then he saw the firefly suspended at its center.

  “Do you know what it is?” she asked.

  He only nodded, powerless to speak. She bent to place a kiss on Warren’s cheek, and Caleb caught the tiniest flash of gold chain peeking over the neckline of her gown. After one last smile, wistful yet unsullied by any bitterness, she followed the assembly down the steps, a sunlit promise of life and love fading from his sight.