by Kari Cordis
“He seeks to use your past as a barrier against your quest for Il, to fill your mind with despair, with worthlessness, to convince you that nothing so full of goodness, of purity, of righteousness as Il would ever take you as His.”
They weren’t questing for Il, he wanted to say…and he really wasn’t sure that’s how he thought of Il to begin with. But still, part of that…part of it was scraping salt over a raw wound. They were talking about that deepest of weeping sores, that inadequacy and self-revulsion inside of him, and he stared at her, facing things in his vulnerable dream state that he’d put a lot of effort into burying in the waking. He didn’t want to talk about this, not now, when for once in all these long months he was supremely happy.
But then she leaned closer, until the warm strength of her eyes seemed to ensconce him in a bubble of memory. He was a toddler again, laughing and loving thoughtlessly and being loved in return, in a sunlit clearing of green, by the most beautiful women in the world. Elusive and fleeting, her scent came to him, and another wave of recognition intense and sure swept through him.
“Fight him,” she whispered, and the world was her eyes.
“What?” he asked, bemused. “Fight who?” His voice cracked as he vaguely caught what she was referring to. How? How did you fight despair? What was he supposed to do with this inconvenient disaster of his life?
As if reading his thoughts, she said, “With the only thing stronger than he—the power of Il. Use His strength, His resoluteness, His unending and unshakeable love for you, to stand against that wish to demolish you. The Destroyer will reduce you to a bitter, pathetic, useless mess of a man.”
“Hope,” she whispered, and was gone.
For the next couple of days, they angled steadily downhill, although not near as dramatically as that first night. The jungle grew denser, bigger, louder, more stifling and more intimidating with every hoof step. The trees soared forty yards into the air, though you usually couldn’t tell, what with the matted screen of smaller trees, branches, and endless leagues of snaking vines that hid them. Their path was fenced by ferns and groundcover that towered at the unlikely level of their heads—Ari had never seen such enormous plant life. In fact, everything seemed oversized. Birds flew by with streaming tail feathers longer than his arm. The mosquitoes were as big as his thumb, their sting a sharp jab of pain—forget the itch. The entire jungle seethed and churned with scuttlings and scurryings and flittings, a constant, humid slurry of sounds and motion that had them benumbed from the pure sensory overload. Even the dangers began to seem unreal, part of an unending dream that defied sense.
By their second day within the Copper Torque, Cerise didn’t even jump when a family of chicken-sized cockroaches trundled busily past her mount. Rodge didn’t bat an eye when an enormous, vigorously pink flower barely missed closing around his head. The heat and ceaseless bombardment of sound and threat sucked the energy from them. They were in fear for their lives most of the hours of the day and settled on a strategy of conserving their really animated terror for those exceptional moments. Hair limp and dripping, clothes clinging to them in sodden, grimy, sour swathes of fabric, alternately dozing dully or wide-eyed in clenching panic, they weren’t the most engaging of companions for the Sentinels. They’d left their saddlebags with their changes of clothes and cleaning things at Jagstag, and no one even complained about that.
Though Rodge did point the fact out, rather drearily, one day to Melkin.
“We’ll pick them up on our way back,” he was told shortly.
“I don’t have the best grasp of geography,” Rodge said after a minute, “but wouldn’t it make more sense to just continue the way we’re going and cross the mountains up near Archemounte? I mean, it would just save WEEKS backtracking through this maze of horror. We might actually get back before term’s over,” he added wistfully.
Melkin, unconcerned with one student’s misery in the face of the rising of the Sheel, had already moved away, but Rhuq solicitously responded for him. “That way lies deep danger…” he remonstrated gently.
“Versus this way,” Rodge observed with dull sanguinity.
“That is where the Wolven dwell. And other things unspeakable and unknowable. And beyond them lies the Crystal Pass, where only the wild things and the Fox dare venture. Neither skill nor strength nor numbers will help you there.”
“Swell. That’s great. Just wondering,” Rodge sighed.
The constant alertness that had marked their first couple of days in Cyrrh faded steadily in the face of the inescapable, soggy heat and the monotony of the saddle. The permanent, deafening assault on their eardrums became a litany of screaming mindlessness. Except, of course, to Ari, who was entranced. What set off the man-eating flowers? Which mongoose stared fearsomely from the brush, baring its little teeth, and which black-masked, long-limbed exotica scurried away through the branches? He was a man with a mission, avid interest compounded by a new determination. He didn’t know if it had really been a dream, that night vision of the woman he thought of as his mother—it had been so piercingly real—but it had forged a new resolve regardless. The resolution itself was a trifle ephemeral…but then, so was the dream and the blissful glow that came with that it.
Since that charming little catastrophe of the Kingsmeet, his dreams had been saturated with memories of his childhood. It was always the same, the same clearing, the same exuberant running or crawling through his garden, only now the sense of his having left something was almost overpowering. He searched, it seemed, for hours, night after night, driven to find something he couldn’t even name. It was ridiculous, as if the lost toy or whatever it was had become the single most important thing in the world. But this latest dream had been completely different…so vivid…and for once he’d found something. Arguably, his greatest treasure, a confirmation of his sole, blooming joy. Complete with thorns.
But then, when had his life last been simple?
At any rate, he was alert, relative to his droopy companions, filling his days with eager scrutiny and storing away a thousand details with the single-mindedness of the explorer. That was how he came to be aware enough, several days into the jungle, to register that prickling of his sixth sense. A shift in the air around him, a sibilant hiss of a body along the damp jungle floor, and then his stag dropped underneath him, launching forward so fast that Ari thought his upper body would be separated from his lower. The straps cut deep into his thighs, and the whiplash yanked his head and neck so far back over the stag’s haunches that he actually had a view of their rear trail through the Sentinels behind them.
What he saw made no sense. A thick, streaming, solid column a full yard in diameter, bright blue, hairless…and moving so fast along the ground that it was a nothing but a blur. It had just barely missed the last stag. They thought the stags had been running that first night, but it was nothing like this rocketing sprint. The first few steps his stag dropped so low in the hindquarters and pushed off so powerfully that Ari flopped like a rag doll in the saddle, unable to stabilize against the raw force of all that propulsive torque. The straps bit again and again into his thighs and the saddle’s high cantle smacked against his lower back until it was numb.
The difference was that this was over almost as soon as it had begun. The stags, though trembling and wide-eyed, ears flicking nervously, quieted quickly back to a wary walk, high-stepping alertly. Ari looked around at his friends’ white faces and huge eyes, wondering if they’d seen the same thing he had. In unspoken consent, they all turned to look at Rhuq.
“Big Blue,” he said succinctly.
“I thought their prey was small, youngish animals,” Cerise noted in an admirably steady voice.
“He was molting, my Lady. Makes them cranky.”
Loren looked at Rodge. Rodge looked back at him. Cranky, they mouthed to each other.
At the head of the group, Traive turned in his saddle to look at them. Cerise’s face lightened. Even Ari thought he was concerned about them this time.
Instead, he announced cheerfully, like an obtuse tour guide, “The Sirensong.”
As if they hadn’t just almost been swallowed whole by a monstrous, ill-tempered serpent.
For the first time since turning downhill all those days ago, the trail leveled out. On their left, the sullen, greyish-green waters of a dark river slunk sluggishly out of sight to their front and rear. All along its banks, wherever the choking green growth of the jungle flattened into sandy spits, crocodiles slid creepily into the water at their approach.
The Northerners managed to keep their enthusiasm under control.
The good news was that they slept inside that night. It was only late afternoon when a turn in the trail brought them suddenly to a high green wall. At first it looked like mossy stone dotted picturesquely with large, pale flowers, but as they drew closer, it became apparent that the entire structure was a depthless mass of twining green vinery, some of it as thick around as Ari’s leg. The pale spots were enormous, lighter green thorns.
“Watch the wall,” Rhuq warned them. “A little fangvine will numb the skin, but when it’s this size it can stop your heart.” The Northerners, appalled, shrunk into themselves as they passed through what seemed a very narrow portal. Rodge rubbed his arm.
According to Rhuq, the various Tors were almost all alike. Only someone who’d stood Sentinel for years amongst them could really tell much difference. But, since their first experience had been somewhat distracted by external and unrelated events, the Southern Tor, Bronze Torque, was essentially their introduction to the non-botanical structures of Cyrrh.
This one was outfitted with the same dimly remembered courtyard behind its stone façade, bare of even a tendril of green on the interior and closed off from the exterior by a heavy gate of iron-plated wood. Stretching until it was swallowed by the jungle on either side of the entrance, tall walls of stone rose into the air, graced by a beautifully-carved wooden walkway near the top. Bright, hot sun poured down on their surprised faces, undeterred by the looming, uncivilized riot of flora that had marked their last several days’ experience in Cyrrh. Here, for many yards in both directions from the entrance, the jungle had been scrupulously (and probably frequently) cleared. Even the branches overhanging the Torque wall had been neatly dissected, looking like another dappled wall of pruned trunks and branches soaring far overhead.
The Tor itself rose over the entranceway, a thickened bulge in the wall that was dwarfed by the immensity of the jungle around it. Though it looked broad and squat compared to the surrounding trees, it was actually quite high, and large enough to hold the hundreds of Sentinels that pulled duty in this part of the world. The Northerners found out it also held their mess hall and kitchen, a crude water purifying room that pumped the dingy river water through a series of filters, a stable big enough for the mounts of passing stagriders as well as the few that the Tor kept as messengers, an armory, an infirmary, and a large, formal briefing room befitting the main Southern Gate.
“The Torlord here is a high-ranking Sentinel,” Rhuq explained, companionably accompanying them on the tour. “Since this has always been the main route into Lirralhisa.”
“For visitors?” Rodge said in disbelief.
“For invasion. He is the Torquelord, which means all the other Bronze Torlords report to him. Only the Gold and Silver Torquelords stand between him and the Captain of the Sentinals himself.”
While Rodge looked a little cross-eyed at all this jargon, Loren said as he absently watched clean water trickle out of the purification room, “That’s who Traive must have gone to report to…”
Cerise was also watching the water, and to no one’s surprise, begged—that is, imperiously demanded—a bath. The sergeant holding forth on the wonders of the Tor offered them to everybody, adding, “Clorvause here will do out your laundry while you’re at mess.”
“Oh, that’s alright,” Ari began graciously, but was firmly cut off.
“REALLY. He won’t mind.” A very young-looking private turned red and mumbled something acceding. “Maybe it’ll help him remember when his guard shift starts.”
At which point Cerise began explicit and lengthy instructions on the care of her riding clothes. The private stared, bug-eyed, gap-jawed, and Rodge leaned over to the sergeant.
“If you want to have punishment ready at a moment’s notice, consider keeping her on. She excels at tormenting man—you might say, she’s a natural.”
The loaned clothing given them while Clorvause was laboring punitively over theirs turned out to be a wonder, the indeterminate-colored stuff the stagriders wore. It was perfect huntwear: tough, light, breathable, and mottled softly like shadow-and-light jungle. Ari and Loren, fingering it appreciatively as they settled into the crowded mess hall, could have been mistaken for Sentinel privates, dressed identically all over the hall.
It was an active place, the mess hall. Unique to this meal were the invasion of lizards racing undisturbed over the walls, across the ceilings, underfoot. They were like a strobe rainbow, a dozen vivid colors, darting and scurrying in flashes of sleek bodies and long, flicking tongues.
“Do any of them ever fall in the soup?” Rodge asked, half-disgusted, watching one athletic fellow run the full length of the ceiling.
“Only the purple ones,” a nearby private answered, dead serious.
Loren grinned. “I love this place.”
“Good,” Rodge said. “You stay. I’ll go.”
Like with the Fleetmen those long weeks ago, a busy, all-consuming silence settled on the diners as soon as the food was served, and didn’t lift until most were done. Then the slow talk began, stories began to float around, camaraderie thickened.
They’d had ‘blue fillet,’ which tasted like chicken, wasn’t even faintly blue, and was so rapturously seasoned that Ari and Loren had split a third one and were slowly forcing it into their happy gullets. Some of the privates were explaining to Rodge the subtle indicators of Sentinel rank, which explained why the stagriders were treated with such reverent awe, when Ari became aware of the amiable stare of the tall private across the table. He looked up at him, and the Sentinel said with quiet friendliness, “My brother’s friend is a Jagscout—or was.”
Everyone around quieted down. Ari and Loren, forks halfway to their mouths, stared, wondering if this was somehow significant.
“He was scouting for a squad that went after that big troop of Redfangs outside Choletta Tor when they got really bad a couple of years ago.”
“We came through Choletta,” Loren said.
Half the table in each direction chuckled. “We heard,” the private said. “Probably what’s left of those Redfangs was what escorted you to the gate.” There was more subdued mirth, but the young man was still looking amicably at them, evidently something on his mind. He settled back comfortably, with the undeniable air of a man going to share a story, and everyone leaned in closer.
“This squad of my brother’s friend, Dreu, seriously underestimated that troop and ended up tail-between-the-legs, beating feet back to Copper. Dreu couldn’t keep up with the stags, of course, and his cat wouldn’t leave him, so the Redfangs caught up with them and were toying around with them. You know how sometimes they’ll play around a little first. They’d killed his cat and had mauled him pretty bad when suddenly he heard these shouts—loud, human shouts.”
There was total silence at their end of the table, the other privates enjoying the story, the Northerners with identical, frozen looks of horror on their faces. The last bite that had gone into Ari’s mouth was still there, savor turned to chalk and forgotten.
“Well, he shouts back, to let any rescuers know there’s what’s left of a human in with all that ape fracas, and the Redfangs get mad and fling him at the Torque wall.”
Rodge’s chin hit the table. He said quickly, in a strangled voice, “Can we talk about something else?” Ari and Loren, too stunned to speak by the mental picture of a human impaled on fangvine thorns, gaped.
Oblivious of
the effect of this reminiscing on his tender listeners, the private companionably continued, “Someone dashed into him at the last moment, knocking him off course, and when he lifts his head he sees, tossed against the wall and tumbling down it in slow motion…Sylvar.” He rolled his hand ominously down an imaginary bumpy wall and the surrounding privates made low, appreciative sounds.
“Silver?” Rodge said, clueless and a little desperate to change the subject.
“Sylvar. You know, the Dancer. Then there’s more shouting—there’re two others and they’re tearing into the Redfangs. Just the two of them. White steel glowing, crying, ‘the Light, the Light!’ they chase off that whole troop.”
“Dreu is pretty out of it, one arm half torn off, one leg not working, weak from loss of blood, and he loses consciousness. When he comes to, Vashti and Nerissa are bending over him.” A hum of approving murmurs, as if, surely, that just topped everything, spread around the table. Several knowing grins were directed at the private, as if some had already heard the story or knew the punch line or something. The Sentinel next to Ari leaned over and primed him, “He’s got a thing for Nerissa. Got a picture of her and everything.”
“Hey, keep that quiet,” the private telling the story hissed, shooting a nervous glance up to the front of the room, where Melkin and Cerise and Traive were sitting with the Torquelord.
Ari finally managed to get that last bite of blue fillet down his too-small throat, several things becoming clear.
“Whiteblades,” he whispered, a little hoarsely. Rodge and Loren looked at him blankly. “Where did you get a picture?”
“The Book of Ivory, of course,” the private whispered back, barely moving his lips.
“You tore a picture out of a book?!” Rodge hissed indignantly. He looked around at an unmoved mass of spectators. He could care less about Dreu or dead Whiteblades, but a book? Nobody just defaced those kinds of things.
“I normally charge five tirnal to see it,” the Sentinel confided, “but since you all are guests…”