Hope Betrayed: The Silent Tempest, Book 2

by E. J. Godwin

  Géihtser turned to Caleb. “You must give us your solemn promise you will all keep to your room!”

  He nodded reluctantly. “You have it.”

  After a tense silence, Géihtser dispersed the crowd and left. The guard with the lantern and another man took position in the corridor, their shadows wavering against the curtain.

  “What in Hendra’s name is the matter with you?” Caleb hissed.

  Soren crouched near with his back to the door, whispering so faintly that Caleb had to lean in to understand him. “Perhaps it was a foolish venture, but it was a fruitful one.”

  “But now they’ll never show us this Secret Way of theirs.”

  “Yes they will! It’s part of their pitiful creed of non-interference. Otherwise they would have run me through.”

  “But you took an awful risk, Soren, and I need your help to get us out of this blasted country!” Soren cautioned him with his hands to keep his voice down, and the heat in Caleb’s face gradually subsided. “What did you find?”

  “Many things. The most startling of all: Rennor and Heradnora, the sorceress that Grondolos defeated, were of the same race—a race of immortals!”

  “How do you know this? How do they know this?”

  Soren shrugged. “How do they know anything? But it seems, dear Raén of Ada, that Heradnora came to Urmanaya from the skies—just like you!”

  As the shock of this revelation settled in, Caleb remembered the passage in Gerentesk that had set him on this quest. He was so sure the Broken Lor’yentré was a highly advanced device from a superior race; what he never stopped to consider was that superiority came in many forms—and not all of them good.

  “What else did you find?” he said at last, his voice trembling.

  “She was twisted—driven mad by some evil.”

  “Dad! What’s going on?”

  “Quiet, Warren,” Caleb whispered. “Soren’s discovered something important about Urmanaya. I’ll tell you about it later.”

  He gestured for Soren to continue. “This must have happened long before Urman of Old set sail and established his kingdom,” the Master Raén said. “Heradnora and her Sister Witches, as they were called back then, already held great sway over the land, and it wasn’t long before they discovered Urman’s little kingdom and destroyed it. Only a few survived during the centuries of famine and slavery before Grondolos was born.”

  Caleb glanced at the doorway. So far, their conversation had gone unnoticed. “I don’t understand. How did she come by this power?”

  “Rennor’s people—his race created the Lor’yentré, and Heradnora gained possession of it somehow.”

  It took Caleb an effort to stay calm. “Why didn’t they stop her?”

  “I never got to that point—if even the Prophets know.”

  “Humph. I’ll bet Rennor did.”

  Soren glowered. “Curse him for his lies and secrets!”

  “Did you find anything else?”

  “No. I was rather rudely interrupted, you could say. It would be worth all the treasure in Wsaytchen to bring those records to Gerentesk.”

  “I’m sorry for saying it was an awful risk, Soren. I wish you’d had more time.”

  A shuffling step turned their heads. One of the guards stood at the curtained doorway, his shadow darkening the room.

  “We’ve tempted this precious fate of theirs long enough,” Soren whispered.

  ♦

  Once morning arrived the Prophets wasted no time. Servants brought large basins full of heated water, and the three travelers woke tousled and bleary-eyed from an interrupted sleep. After their wash, the servants escorted them to the dining hall. Mindful of the journey ahead, and ravenous besides, Caleb and the others ate nearly everything they were served.

  Afterward one of the servants guided them through a maze of passages, until they passed into a large, long room rank with the smell of horses. They could hear wind whistling beyond a wide, wooden door at the opposite end. Géihtser waited beside their horses, calm and patient, giving no hint of Soren’s recent trespass. Soren thanked Géihtser, not for his apparent forgiveness, but for one last visit with Tellahur, his companion for many years. Long he stood at her muzzle in silence. Géihtser promised she would be well cared for.

  They took what they needed from their baggage, and Caleb knotted his brow as the servants placed it all into large, wide-mouthed water skins and sealed them tightly. Regular provisions and supplies, they were told, awaited them at the start of the tunnel. Once they had secured everything, strong hands pushed on the large stable door, and the travelers exited into a blinding snowstorm.

  Daylight alone would have been harsh enough after an entire day spent underground. Now they shielded their faces from a fierce winter storm slicing its way through the highlands. Several inches of snow had already gathered on the leeward side of hills and large rocks; tree trunks were plastered white.

  Warren waded through the snow, kicking the drifts. “Awesome!”

  “As long as we’re dressed for it,” Caleb shouted in English, arms wrapped tight. He faced Géihtser. “Snow, this early?”

  “We’re higher up than you think,” the Prophet yelled, “and we get all that moist air off the ocean. Wait another month or two and this entire valley will be under six feet of snow. But you’ll be out of it soon.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll see.”

  They stood at the eastern side of the hill they had entered the day before, the main entrance around to their left. In this direction Géihtser led the way, walking briskly down a path barely visible beneath the snow. Two guards followed close behind. Warren pummeled his father with a few snowballs, which Caleb gladly reciprocated, but Soren’s gruff bark of admonition soon ended the battle.

  “He’s just jealous there’s one weapon we know better than him,” Caleb whispered in Warren’s ear, and the boy grinned.

  They soon stopped at the entrance, the steps half covered in drifts; to their right the frigid water lapped against the frozen shore. Snow blowing across the lake whistled around them and over their heads.

  Géihtser stood waiting, shielding his eyes from the storm. “Where are you taking us?” Soren shouted. “I see no tunnel entrance of any kind, except to your dwelling.”

  In answer he pointed down to the water’s edge, and they noticed for the first time that the steps did not end, but continued down through the clear water, plunging into the depths.

  Caleb’s jaw dropped. “Underwater steps? Are you trying to drown us?”

  “What is this nonsense?” Soren demanded.

  “No way!” Warren shouted at his father’s translation.

  The Prophet held up a hand to stop their protest. “It’s the only way to the caverns. The journey through the water isn’t that long, less than a minute.”

  “What of the cold?” Caleb asked. “We’ll freeze to death!”

  “No. A servant has started a fire in a large place, where we can dry our clothes and warm ourselves. Your provisions await you there. Everything has been prepared. Here, tie these to your ankles.” The guards handed each of them a pair of lead weights shaped like doughnuts, with short, heavy cords tied through the centers. “If you swim you may not find the entrance.”

  The guards stood at a short distance, sealing off their escape. There was no choice but to obey.

  Géihtser shouldered a skin of luggage and took his place at the first step above the water. “Follow,” he said. He drew several deep breaths, then lowered himself into the lake. Three steps later he submerged completely; the surface had deceived Caleb, who assumed the gradual slope above ground continued below the water.

  His actions were proof enough for Soren. Without comment he placed himself at the water’s edge and hoisted his bag, and after few steps his white hair flowed beneath the surface and vanished.

  Father and son glanced sideways at each other. “Go ahead,” Caleb shouted, gesturing. “I want you where I can see you, in case s
omething happens.”

  “Dad, don’t give me that! I know how you are about the water.”

  One of the guards stepped forward. “Is there a problem?”

  Caleb shook his head.

  “Then enter,” he said, gesturing at the water. “I have no wish to stand in a blizzard all day.”

  “Maybe you’d like someplace hotter,” Caleb muttered in English. He looked at Warren. “Quit staring at me like that. Go!”

  Warren frowned but obeyed. The icy waters stifled his resentment, however, and he yelled into the swirling snow.

  Caleb, close behind, forced himself to the edge. He stepped down, bellowing as the water closed in around him and soaked through his clothes. The second step was worse. But he steeled himself, drew several long, deep breaths, and submerged into darkness.

  His eyes adjusted quickly enough, but they stung from the cold so much that at first he had a hard time keeping them open. He could just make out the wavering form of Warren directly below. Géihtser and Soren were nowhere in sight. Even with the ankle weights Caleb had difficulty keeping his feet in contact with the narrow steps. His hands and feet were already turning numb and stiff, and the bag he carried nearly slipped from his grasp.

  He fought to keep his wits, wondering if his lungs would hold out. Only the sight of his son’s vague form kept him from surrendering to his phobia, from clawing back to the surface. Soon the path leveled out and turned left across the slope, then plunged left again into a narrow opening. A few more cautious steps brought complete darkness. His chest ached from the pressure, and he battled a powerful instinct to gulp for air.

  A deep, golden light flickered above. He jerked his arms over his head. With a rush of water and sudden air he was yanked up and out, bag and all, gulping and gasping for breath. His numbed fingers grasped wildly at a rocky ledge, until several hands hauled him out of the water, and he lay shivering on the stone.

  Caleb struggled to a kneeling position. His entire body felt like lead. He smoothed his hair back, and the heat of a roaring fire struck his face.

  Warren stood between Géihtser and Soren, removing his clothes and the weights from his feet. Caleb soon followed. There was no talking, only gasps and shuddering moans and the slap of wet feet on stone as they danced like naked savages around the fire. Caleb had to be careful not to stub his senseless toes on ledges in the rock.

  The servant who had come ahead was a small, lithe man, much like Soren but younger. He draped their wet clothes near the fire over a pole laid across supports, then emptied the large skins and checked the supplies for dampness. Eventually, dried except for their hair, they all wrapped themselves in thick blankets and sat on little stools, sipping earthen mugs filled with hot cider.

  Warren flexed his fingers, his nose scrunched in a grimace. Caleb patted him on the back. “You’re one tough kid, Warren. I’m glad your mother taught you survival training at the Holodome.”

  “Yeah? I don’t remember being half drowned or my toes turning blue,” he shot back.

  Caleb laughed. “Speaking of training—we have a long hike ahead of us. It might pass the time better if I taught you the rudiments of their language. Learning the old-fashioned way isn’t loads of fun, but neither is trying to guess what everybody’s talking about.”

  Warren paused, inscrutable. “Okay.”

  Soren was talking to Géihtser. “I commend your skill. Not even the best Hodyn spies would stand a chance of finding this place.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “We can’t take credit, though, at least not our current generation. It was made in ancient times, when the Prophets were unmatched in concealment and secrecy.”

  Soren leaned forward. “This was here before we came to Ada?”

  “Long before.”

  “Built by Urmanayan Prophets?”

  Géihtser narrowed his eyes. “I won’t say any more—you’ve already indulged too much of your curiosity. Someday we’ll end our secrecy. But it will be many years, perhaps centuries.”

  “Or perhaps earlier—now that we know where you live,” Caleb said.

  Géihtser smiled. “We’re still behind the protection of Gur’alyreiv. You’ll never find this place again without our help—or anyone else’s.”

  “Yet there is the tunnel—a tunnel with an exit, I presume,” said Caleb. “What of that?” Géihtser made no reply, and Caleb’s jaw dropped. “You will show us the way!”

  “Yes, of course—but not all of it. You must travel the last few miles alone, for it is by boat. And the current of the underground river is too strong for a return journey.”

  “A boat? How in Hendra did you ever get a boat down there?”

  “That’s not your concern! Be thankful it is there, for it’s the only way back to Ada. And it’s a one-way trip,” he amended, glaring at the Master Raén.

  “So say you,” Soren muttered. “Perhaps many things will change in the near future.”

  Caleb stirred uneasily, knowing there was a limit to Géihtser’s patience. “How long is the tunnel?” he asked, hoping to change the subject.

  “It’s never been measured accurately, but in a straight line I’d say about twenty miles. Alone I can reach the boat landing in a day and a half. With you it will take longer. But the sooner you finish, the more food you’ll have left afterward.”

  The servant divided their provisions and a supply of rope from a nearby stash and stuffed it all into their packs. Meanwhile Caleb walked around to work off a lingering stiffness. From the small pool behind him stretched a large, low cave a few hundred feet wide. The ceiling peaked sharply at the center, where the smoke of the fire rose and disappeared from sight, presumably to an outside vent of some kind. Opposite the pool and running left and right along the wall stood many narrow openings, black holes barely discernible against the dim stone.

  Caleb smiled grimly, remembering Soren’s praise. Without aid, an explorer would need an unusual amount of persistence and imagination to get this far. But to choose the correct entrance ahead, if he did not starve to death after searching miles of false leads, would require luck of an uncanny nature.

  Chilled, he soon returned to the fire. The Prophets were turning their clothes, from which wisps of steam rose like a smolder. After an hour or so only a faint dampness remained, and they dressed, anxious to begin the journey. Caleb searched his pack, reassuring himself that all his belongings were there, especially the Broken Lor’yentré, and also his flashlight. He was tempted to use it here as he did in Véigen. But he thought better of it, knowing the reaction he would precipitate, and, more importantly, that they might come to a place of greater need. They had already exhausted most of its power pack, and he wished now he had thought to bring a few spares from the ship.

  At last all was ready. Each member of the party received a handful of small torches, as well as an oil lamp made of fired clay. Géihtser lit a larger one and held it as they gathered around. The other Prophet doused the fire and dived into the pool with a quiet splash. Blackness shrouded the cavern, save for the small halo cast by the mellow flame of Géihtser’s lamp.

  “I’ll set a steady pace. But if you need me to slow down, or if you’re able to go faster, you must tell me. Stay close together. We can’t carry enough oil to burn more than one lamp at a time. The other lamps and torches are in case you get separated. Let your legs and feet tell you when you’ve had enough for the day, not your pride.”

  “We already know these things,” Soren said evenly. “Lead on!”

  After a moment of silent regard, the Prophet turned and walked toward the row of entrances. He did not stop to count them, or search for a sign or clue of any kind, and plunged into an opening apparently at random. Soren followed, Warren close behind. Caleb was last. The tunnel ahead swallowed the lamp’s tiny flame, and darkness fell upon his back like an evil thing.

  5

  Fading Lights

  You know your younger days are behind you

  when the fire at your back is your best f
riend.

  - Garda, 18th and 20th Overseer of Ada

  EKENDORÉ’S HARSH winter had arrived early. The Overseer looked out the frost-rimmed windows of her study, arms wrapped tight; the evening chill somehow found its way through the glass, despite the warmth of a well-stoked hearth. Melancholy haunted her thoughts, and she saw not a city locked in snow and ice but a vast, bitter world beyond that showed no mercy to those foolish enough to challenge it.

  Derré had just left to resume her duties as door warden, but not before insisting that the ruler of Ada get out of the palace and seek some kind of distraction—whether a theater play or a simple evening of song and drink. Such well-meaning protests only added to Garda’s frustration. Yet there was always that small temptation to shrug off her responsibilities, to live the life of a normal citizen. She grinned wryly, imagining the public shock at the Overseer carousing at one of the local taverns.

  Minutes passed in silence. Suddenly she walked over to the wall to yank her coat from a large brass hook, flung the door open, and headed for the palace entrance.

  Derré’s mouth fell open at sight of the Overseer approaching without an escort. “My lady! I didn’t mean—”

  Garda held up a hand to silence her. “You’ve gotten your wish tonight, dear girl. Perhaps this will teach you not to plague me with any more of them.” She nodded at the tall doors.

  A flash of defiance darkened the attendant’s eyes, but she conquered it and obeyed. A bitter wind and a swirl of snow swept across the polished floor, and Garda, her cowl wrapped tight and her steps decisive, headed into the blustery night.

  She had walked the route to Telai’s house a hundred times. Yet tonight it seemed vaguely unfamiliar, like a glimpse into someone else’s memories. She kept a brisk pace, as much to maintain her determination as to keep warm. Though the cold was no friend to her, at least it drove people indoors, avoiding further exaggerated displays of shock and concern about her safety.

  One by one the ghostly street lamps passed. Her aging frame had begun to shiver by the time the dim façade of her daughter’s house appeared, but she forgot her discomfort at the sight of a solitary lamp shining through the small window of Telai’s private study. Garda stopped, her hopes rising. Then a tall figure walked by the lamp, and she recognized Telai’s servant, Yoté.