Chains of Mist

by T. C. Metivier

  Lerana accepted that statement without question. The possibility that this wi’zerd might be somehow shielding himself from the Jo’ma never entered her mind. The old woman’s power was absolute; none could hide from her spirit gaze. “What is to happen to him?”

  “The Dar’katal has already spoken before the kat’ara. He has invoked the Seventh Rule of Den’ja and demanded the blood of the trespasser as payment for his crimes.”

  Lerana was unsurprised. Lorann, Dar’katal of the Traika, was a vengeful man who was fiercely protective of the warriors under his command. He would advocate ferociously for the death of the one who had killed two of his own. “And what would you advise, revered Jo’ma?”

  The old woman gave a dismissive wave of her skeletal hand. “The Dar’katal is a fool. He sees only long-handled spears and sharp-fletched arrows. He does not comprehend the true nature of power. He does not see what a boon this stranger could prove to be. For his own pride, he would kill the thing that might be the salvation of our people.”

  Lerana felt suddenly uncomfortable. Custom and informal law placed the to’laka above all secular authorities, so she and the Jo’ma could speak ill of the Dar’katal without fear of repercussion. But just because one could do something did not necessarily mean it was wise or right to do so. “And the kat’ara?”

  “The kat’ara will accede to the Dar’katal’s demands. They also desire the stranger’s death.” Disgust was heavy in the Jo’ma’s voice. “They also cannot think long-term. They scurry around, blind as newborn chakkata, unable to comprehend that something might exist beyond the dirt beneath their feet.”

  Again, Lerana refrained from echoing aloud the Jo’ma’s criticisms of the ruling council of elders. The old woman said no more. Instead, she turned back towards the firepit, stoking the flames with a trickle of invisible power.

  Lerana waited respectfully for a while, but eventually she could wait no longer. “What is it that you wish of me, revered Jo’ma?”

  The old woman looked back at Lerana. “Go to the prisoner. Find out who he is and what he wants. His real purpose, not the lies he weaves around himself like strands of juraa silk. Gain his trust, and use that trust to learn the secrets behind his power.”

  “It will be done, revered Jo’ma,” replied Lerana immediately. Then she paused, suddenly uncertain. “But why me? Are there not others better suited to this task?”

  The old woman eyed Lerana thoughtfully. “Perhaps there are. But I have devoted much thought to the matter, and every time I search my e’tana for guidance the answer is the same. You have an…earnestness, an openness, about you that the elder members of the to’laka do not. He will more readily trust someone nearer to his own age, I think.”

  Lerana did not share the old woman’s confidence. Her life was one of magic and meditation; she had no experience in the art of persuasion. Yet she offered no more protests. Who was she to argue with the will of the Jo’ma? “I will do my best,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady and not entirely succeeding.

  “I know that you will,” replied the Jo’ma. “Go now, my child. The fate of the Traika may rest on your shoulders.”

  Lerana swallowed. Fear and panic crashed through her, but she did not allow them to control her. The Jo’ma would not have chosen her for this task if the old woman did not think she could succeed. “Thank you, revered Jo’ma,” said Lerana, rising to her feet. “By Ja’nal, I will not fail.”

  * * * *

  Roger was taken to a small rectangular hut near what appeared—from his admittedly limited vantage point—to be near the center of the village. A pair of Traika affixed the spike to which he was tied firmly into the ground so that he was facing away from the hut’s sole entrance, then left him alone. Roger tested his bonds but found them very strong; he wouldn’t be able to break free. Besides, even if he did, he would be recaptured immediately by the guards who he couldn’t see but could tell by their muted conversations to be standing just outside. Sorry, Talan. Looks like I’m letting you down. Again, he wondered if the wizard was still alive; if he was, would he come looking for Roger? Roger suspected that he would. When he talked about the confrontation that he said will happen here, he said that I would have to be there. Not him—me. He made it sound like, of the two of us, I was the more important. He won’t just abandon that, will he?

  Roger wasn’t sure. Either way, the more time passed, the more likely it was that Talan was dead. Which means I can’t count on him coming to get me. If—no, when—I get out of here, it’s gonna have to be on my own.

  Dammit, Talan—what have you gotten me into?

  At regular intervals, one of the guards came by to give him water but no food. The Traika warrior stared at Roger with eyes of loathing, as if he would like nothing better than to kill Roger right then and there. Roger couldn’t blame him. I killed a few of their warriors, and now the rest want to return the favor. Only the word of the kat’ara—whatever the hell that might be—is keeping me alive…but how long before this guy or one of his buddies decides to kill me anyways and risk the consequences?

  Night came, and eventually Roger slept. His dreams were restless. He saw Talan standing before a panel of twelve individuals of various species, his shoulders hunched as though in defeat. A female Denebali called out something that Roger couldn’t understand. Talan extended his hand, and the air suddenly shimmered, revealing a cavern that seemed to be made of black glass. A dais of bone stood atop a mound of rock, and shackled to it was a man whose face Roger couldn’t see. Then abruptly the dream changed, and now Talan knelt amidst a pile of shattered stone. A man with eyes of fire advanced on the wizard, shadows billowing around him. Lightning crackled from his fingertips, lancing out towards Talan—

  Roger awoke. He was panting and covered in sweat, and his hand felt like it had been dipped in the core of a star. He knew immediately that those had not been mere dreams. Premonitions. Visions. Of what? Events in the past? Or things still to come?

  Now that he was awake, the pain in his hand receded quickly. He heard footsteps and was suddenly very aware of his inability to see behind him. If someone comes to kill me, I’ll never see them coming. I don’t like that. When I die, I want it to be staring my killer straight in the eyes.

  A woman entered Roger’s field of vision and seated herself comfortably on the ground. At first glance, she seemed to be barely older than he was. Her reddish-brown skin was smooth beneath a breathtaking mosaic of intricate tattoos that seemed to quiver faintly as if alive, and her dark hair was thick and lustrous even in the hut’s dim light. But her steady, calm gaze held a maturity far beyond her years. Roger knew instinctively that she was a magic-user; the serene wisdom her saw in her violet eyes reminded him of Talan and Fa’ix.

  The woman regarded Roger calmly for a moment. Her expression, interestingly, seemed devoid of malice. Then Roger again heard a voice in his mind. “Greetings, stranger. I am Lerana.”

  There was no hint of subterfuge in the woman’s voice. Still, Roger was wary. There’s no reason to think she’s anything other than a tool of the kat’ara. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than the woman spoke again. “Do not worry, stranger. I am here with the permission of the kat’ara, yes, but I come of my own accord.”

  Roger considered this. He still suspected that she might be lying. On the other hand, if I’m gonna get free I’ll need a friend on the inside. Maybe it’ll be her. “I’m Roger.”

  Lerana laughed, a totally unexpected reaction. She almost immediately raised her hands to her mouth to stifle the sound, and Roger saw that her hands were scarred with the same latticework of tiny burn marks as the man who had spoken to him before. “Greetings, Roger. I admire your determination, but you will find no allies among the Traika. I am here to talk with you only—I will not free you.”

  Roger narrowed his eyes. “If you guys can read my mind, why did your buddy tell me that I had to speak aloud for him to hear me?”

  “Haimar was simplifying the proce
ss,” replied Lerana immediately. “Although my clan and I can read your thoughts directly, doing so is difficult. The mind does not merely contain one thought at a time—there are dozens, disjointed and incomplete. It is hard to focus on any one individually. Sometimes we are able to detect a full thought, but usually we hear only fragments and whispers. When you speak aloud, your mind hears your words and concentrates on them, which in turn allows us to hear them without having to sift through the chaos. That is what Haimar meant when he said that he would hear the echo of your words in your mind.”

  Makes sense, Roger admitted to himself. Lerana’s openness was confusing and seemed a bit contradictory. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “The initial hostility between us was due at least in part to an inability to communicate.” Lerana spoke as if the answer to Roger’s question were obvious. “I see no gain in making the same mistake twice.”

  “Yeah, maybe not, but you gave away one of your advantages,” replied Roger, realizing that, by telling Lerana this, he was doing the same thing. But she’d pick my brain for it anyways, sooner or later. “You could’ve gotten all kinds of stuff from me if I didn’t know that you could read my mind.”

  “Perhaps,” admitted Lerana. “But you would have figured it out eventually. Besides, when the kat’ara decides to interrogate you, all of your secrets will be ours, regardless of how you try to defend them. When the to’laka are working in unison, we will be able to separate all of your thoughts whether you speak them aloud or not.”

  Roger had figured as much. Some flash of insight—or maybe a side effect of the magic that allowed him and Lerana to communicate—told him that ‘to’laka’ was a collective term for the Traika magic-users, while kat’ara seemed to be some sort of ruling body. But it was the first thing that Lerana had said that sent his spirits plummeting. “When they decide to interrogate me? You mean it’s already been decided?”

  “Yes,” said Lerana. “You will be called before the kat’ara for questioning. You cannot avoid that.” She seemed surprised at Roger’s confusion. “You are a prisoner of war, stranger. You killed two of our warriors, and the penalties for that are clear. Perhaps the commands of the gods are no longer heeded in your lands, but the Traika are still obedient servants of the Most High Ja’nal.”

  Roger definitely didn’t like the sound of that. Butting heads with secular authorities was one thing; doing so with a sacred religious mandate was something else entirely. “Then why not just get it over with?”

  “The kat’ara is very busy,” replied Lerana. “The Traika have many enemies who demand our immediate attention; one lone prisoner of unknown tribal allegiance is of low concern to them. Besides, I think you misunderstood me, Roger. I said that you would be interrogated. I did not say that you would be executed. Your fate has not yet been decided.” She shrugged. “To be sure, it is probable that we will kill you. Our Dar’katal and his warriors want you dead, as retribution for killing two of their own. The kat’ara wants you dead, believing you to be a spy of our enemies. However, my fellow to’laka and I have stayed their hand…something that it would serve you well to remember.”

  The last statement was spoken simply, with no hint of a threat. But it is one just the same. My life rests in her hands. “Why would you defy the kat’ara for me?”

  Lerana raised an eyebrow. “We are not defying anyone, Roger. The kat’ara values our opinion, and will rarely act in opposition to us. And we are certainly not acting out of consideration for you. As I said, it is probable that we will eventually cede to the kat’ara’s wishes.” Now her eyes narrowed. “The fact remains that you did kill two of our warriors. And that means that your life is forfeit.”

  Roger felt his spirits sinking. He was beginning to think that this conversation was a waste of his time; Lerana was making it very clear that Roger was alive only as a stay of execution. But she’s left the door open, at least. “Why are you keeping me alive, then?”

  “You intrigue us, Roger. It is obvious to the to’laka that you are a stranger in these lands. If, as the kat’ara believes, you are a spy for one of our enemies, you are the most inept one I have ever encountered—you cannot speak to or understand us without our help. What useful information could you bring back? But if you are not a spy, then what are you, and what is your purpose in our lands?”

  “Like I told your buddy, I’ve got to get to Nembane Mountain, to meet with—”

  “Yes, your friend,” interrupted Lerana. “An interesting story, and one that obviously caught our attention. Our warriors are the best in the world, but they are not the reason why the Traika are the dominant force between the seas. We are invincible because our to’laka wield the power of Kil’la’ril. Within our lands, we are as gods—no enemy force has ever invaded our village and survived, because of us. And within our lands, we can sense all other magics. Upon hearing of your wi’zerd friend, we communed, casting our gaze out towards Kil’la’ril. And do you know what we saw, Roger? Do you know what we sensed? Nothing. Either your wi’zerd friend is dead, or he never existed in the first place.”

  A shiver of fear ran through Roger, fear at what the Traika might do to him if they thought that he had lied about Talan. But it passed quickly. If they were going to punish me for that, they would have. This is something else. An intimidation tactic? At the same time, Roger did not share Lerana’s confidence that the Traika shamans’ inability to sense Talan’s presence meant that the wizard was dead. Admittedly, he didn’t know much about where Talan fell on the continuum of relative magical strength, but something told him that the old man was pretty far up. Farther up than these Traika magic-users? He didn’t know, but there was a way he could find out. “You’re sure about that?” he asked. “You didn’t sense anyone on the mountain at all?”

  “That is correct, Roger,” replied Lerana. “Like I said, your friend—if he ever existed—is dead.”

  Roger kept his face and thoughts carefully neutral, lest Lerana pick up on what had just happened. From Lerana’s own mouth, Roger now knew that the ‘god-like’ magic of the Traika shamans wasn’t as powerful as they thought. Even if Talan was dead, there was still someone on the mountain—the guys who had killed him. The Traika clearly didn’t know that there was a base of space-age individuals located right in the heart of their territory.

  Which begs the question: who exactly are they? And how are they able to hide from the Traika’s magic?

  If Lerana was suspicious of Roger’s sudden silence, she didn’t show it. “Your wi’zerd friend intrigued us, but you are of far more interest. Specifically, the fact that you declined to tell the kat’ara that you are to’lak. A fascinating omission. Were you hoping to keep it secret from us? Did you really think that you could bring such powerful magic into our lands without us knowing about it?”

  Lerana spoke with the voice of triumphant certainty, and at first Roger was confused. Magic? What mag—oh yeah. The ring. “No, I guess not.”

  “Clearly. Once we sensed the source of your power, we debated what to do about it. Many of us feared allowing such a talisman to remain in our lands, especially one in the control of an unknown entity. At the same time, we were afraid to kill you. We remember the tale of the magic amulet of the Sky Prince Meskar, which was said to erupt with a storm of lightning at its wearer’s death. We also remember the story of the Most High Ja’nal and the Helion. The Helion were a tribe who grew resentful of the gods. They began to abandon the old ways—rituals and days of worship were forgotten and customs were broken. So the Sky Lord took on mortal form and walked among the Helion, searching for any who still believed in the gods. Not only did he find none, but the Helion sentenced him to death for his actions. They killed his corporeal form—but his divine spirit, being immortal, came down upon the Helion from his heavenly home in Lai’kar, killing every man, woman, and child among them.

  “The tale of the Helion is a warning never to turn away from the gods. But it is also a warning never to kill in haste. We do not kn
ow where you have come from or why you are here. All we do know is that you possess a power that is beyond us. The fact that you were captured so easily confuses us. The to’laka do not think that you are a god…but the fact remains that we do not know what you are. In the end, we will probably kill you. But we think that it would be a good idea to find out what you are first.”

  Lerana fell silent, her eyes watching Roger carefully for a response. Once again, however, Roger was struck speechless. His mind raced, trying to internalize everything that Lerana had said…and to turn it to his advantage. If Lerana had never come by, or had told me nothing at all, I would’ve been all but dead. But now…now I’ve got something to work with. And that’s all I need. I’ve gotten out of worse situations that this. “I appreciate your generosity.”

  “But certainly,” said Lerana. “The Traika are not animals. You may be our prisoner, but that does not mean you do not still deserve respect.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  Lerana tilted her head, looking at Roger with curious eyes. “It occurs to me that this respect need not simply extend to granting you a humane execution. As I mentioned before, the kat’ara is very busy. They have many demands on their time. They do not want to waste their energy debating what to do with you. And the support for your death is not universal. There are those on the kat’ara who do not wish to see you dead. If you were to prove your usefulness to the kat’ara, to offer them something of value, it might convince them to spare your life.”

  Roger looked up sharply. He sensed a trap, but his options were somewhat limited. He might as well see where this led. “Like what?”

  A subtle change came over Lerana’s expression—a slight flushing of her cheeks, a glimmer of greed in her lavender eyes. Roger knew immediately what she was going to say, and a chill spread through him. “Your power,” breathed Lerana, her voice soft and eager. “Show us how it works. Reveal to us its secrets, and we will give you great honors.”