Hope Betrayed: The Silent Tempest, Book 2

by E. J. Godwin

  “Before I die, you mean. You say you seek the truth, but won’t speak the ones you already know.”

  “I meant no offense, Master Prophet. I just—”

  “—felt sorry for me.”

  He clamped his mouth shut. The old man was always trying to provoke an argument, and he was getting tired of it.

  The Master Prophet drummed his fingers on the table. Then he reached for the nearest lamp and tipped it on its side.

  Géihtser shot to a stand as the flames spread across the stone. “What are you doing?” he shouted. The old Prophet merely observed him, a smirk deepening his wrinkles.

  The big man cast about for something to douse the fire, and spotted a washing bowl half full of water. He leaped over and threw its contents on the table—only to stare in shock as a portion of oil rode the surface and threatened to carry the flames over the edge. With a barroom curse that deepened the smirk on his mentor’s face, Géihtser tore off his shirt and stamped out the rest of the fire.

  At last he sank into his chair, wisps of steam curling from his ruined shirt. “Sir, I mean no disrespect,” he said between breaths, “but I have no tolerance for pranks at a time like this!”

  “Understandable. But if a wrong word spoken in a moment of frustration sets the flames of disaster spreading across the world, how intolerant will you find it then?”

  Géihtser’s blood rose, and the old man continued, “You think that just by honing your talents, or by working harder and longer than anyone else, you will earn the right to sit in this chair one day.” He shook his head. “You cannot be master of anything without first becoming master of your own passions.”

  A long minute elapsed as Géihtser struggled to salvage his pride. “Who will answer the summons, then?”

  “I never said you wouldn’t. Your ego has been sufficiently bruised, I think. If it arises again, remember this: better to be humiliated by the hand of an old man than the hand of fate.”

  “I’ll do my best, Master Prophet. But no one’s ever been to Tnestiri, or at least no one I know. How will I—”

  “—force your way through Gur’alyreiv?” A shrug lifted the white curtain of hair on his shoulders. “If this is truly a summons, it won’t be necessary.”

  The young man frowned. “Then what? Wait and see what happens?”

  “It seems you need a lesson in patience as well as humility.” He gestured toward the door. “And make sure you’re equally prepared for the weather. Nature is fate’s closest kin.”

  Géihtser rose, placed his hands over his eyes in the traditional gesture of respect, and parted the curtain.

  As he entered the corridor a young woman jarred to a halt, her jaw dropping as she scrambled to rescue the basket in her arms. He glanced down at his barrel-like chest, then at her sudden grin. He smiled back as he passed. There was more than one way to cure a wounded ego.

  He headed back to his room, each step a new thought, a new possibility. I could break that frail stick of a man in two without even trying. But he still managed to win the fight.

  14

  Warren

  Nothing is louder than the silence of a forgotten child.

  - Gargáed, 9th Overseer of Ada

  CALEB, TELAI and Warren sat in the pilot’s room, each in their own chairs, each quietly observing the storm. Having spent a full year in Ekendoré, Caleb was already familiar with Ada’s unpredictable winter. The temperature had risen during the night, exposing a few scattered patches on the hills. Now a blizzard whipped across the battered plains, a featureless white wall obliterating everything in sight.

  No one had slept much except Warren. The boy had collapsed into his bed exhausted, either from the power that had gone out of him or from sheer emotional strain, and thus had condemned his father to a night of fearful speculation. Yet Caleb was loath to begin a discussion of what had happened the evening before. He wanted to forget about it, and go on with life as usual.

  “We may be marooned here for a while,” said Telai.

  Soren, wrapped in a blanket, entered the room with a characteristic glint in his eyes. “Where are my clothes? My sword? I need some familiarity in this cursed place.” Caleb blew out his breath in relief: the old Raén’s tart demand was proof of his identity, that the man and not some strange apparition had appeared the night before.

  Telai hurried from the room, and returned with Soren’s ragged pants and shirt; any other clothing had suffered the same or worse. The others turned their backs while he dressed, and afterward Telai held out his belted scabbard and Fetra.

  Soren’s leathered hands closed in upon his treasure. “I thank you,” he said to Warren. “Though you can’t possibly understand what you’ve done, I’m grateful for your devotion, at least.”

  Warren sat fidgeting with his hands in his lap, his head lowered. Soren fastened the scabbard to his waist, then stepped up to the window to study the storm. “Do we still have any of the horses?”

  “Yes—thank Hendra,” Telai answered. “All but one of the enemy’s horses are gone. I kept it to replace Caleb’s.”

  “Eiveya?” Caleb asked.

  Her faint smile of appreciation warmed his heart. “I couldn’t picket them near the ship in the full force of the storm, so I hid them in those woods we passed.”

  “Better stolen than killed, I suppose,” Soren replied. He turned to Warren. “Tell us how you discovered this power.”

  The boy cast a doubtful look at his father.

  “We’ve got to know, son.”

  “I’ll try,” he said, swiveling his chair to avoid the Master Raén’s stare. “All I did was align the ends, and it became one piece. I just knew what to do—like I’d only forgotten somehow.”

  “And then you tested its powers?” Caleb asked.

  “I remembered seeing the laser-cuts on the hull. I stood outside, ready to bust my head trying to figure it out. But I only had to think about it, and it happened. When I ran my hand over the hull, it felt perfectly smooth—no cuts or scratches or anything.” He stopped, shuddering a little. “Anyway, after that I was … more sure of myself, I guess.”

  “You returned to the pyre?” Telai asked.

  Warren hesitated. “Yes,” he whispered.

  “Was that harder for you than fixing the ship?”

  He hunched his shoulders together, as if suddenly cold. “I sensed something inside me. Something invisible but alive.”

  Telai reached for the boy’s hand, her expression mellowing into a smile; but he squirmed at her touch, and she withdrew. “Don’t be afraid, Warren. We’re here to help.”

  He shrugged. “All I did was say his name, and—”

  “Foolishness!” Soren barked.

  Telai glared at him. “Let him speak!”

  The Master Raén snapped into a brisk walk and left the room. Warren watched him disappear down the corridor, his chin tightening, tears threatening his eyes.

  “Keep going, Warren,” Caleb said. “Soren will be all right.”

  “But Dad—he was so helpless! I forgot to heal his body—he had no place to live!” He bowed his head again, arms wrapped tight.

  Telai crouched near, placing a hand on his arm. “But you took care of that. You healed him, or he wouldn’t be here right now.”

  The boy wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I know. But he kept screaming. I thought I made a terrible mistake, like it wasn’t him or something. I ran to the ship, I was so scared.” He shrugged. “Sorry about—um—walking in on you like that.”

  “Warren,” Telai said softly, resuming her seat, “where is the Lor’yentré now?”

  His distress melted away in an instant. “In my pocket,” he answered coolly, as though affecting innocence.

  “Do you think you can resist using it again?”

  “Why should I?”

  Caleb’s jaw dropped. “Why? Listen to yourself! Can’t you see how dangerous this thing is? No, Telai, I will not keep quiet about this anymore! Warren, I know you don’t think much of
me right now. But I’m asking you to give it up—please! Or at least don’t use it until we’ve learned a little more.”

  “No, no! I’m the one who found it. It’s mine to use when I need to!”

  “Warren!” Telai whispered.

  “But what if somebody’s in danger again?”

  “No, Warren! I’m a Loremaster. I know these things. The Lor’yentré is far more dangerous than anything else that might come our way.”

  “Please listen to her,” Caleb begged, his voice trembling. “Remember, only a Raén or a Loremaster can lay hands on the Lor’yentré. You gave it up once before. You can do it again.” He waited in vain for a response, then said, “What do you think your mother would be telling you right now?”

  Caleb instantly regretted his gamble. The bizarre, feral look the boy gave his father froze both adults to their seats. He let out a snort of pure scorn, jumped from his seat, and stalked out of the room.

  Caleb groped blindly for Telai’s hand, a terrible ache settling into his heart. He knew he had no choice now but to take matters into his own hands. Whether he succeeded or not, he was sure the battle he was about to wage against his own son would destroy all hope of reconciliation.

  He rose stiffly. Telai stood beside him. “I’ll go with you, Caleb. You’re right, we can’t wait.”

  As soon as they took the first step, a harsh, muffled shout sounded from down the hall. Caleb exchanged stares with Telai; then they both sprang forward, running from the bridge.

  They came to a halt at the second door, the one to the hibernation room. It was closed, and the Master Raén braced himself against the frame, breathing heavily with his sword in his hand. The right side of his jaw was scraped and beginning to bleed.

  “Soren!” Telai gasped.

  He waved a hand to silence them. “No good. I tried to take it from him. Something hit me like a battering ram.” He stumbled to the opposite wall, holding his side. “You must get the Lor’yentré from him. You’re his father, he’ll listen to you.”

  Caleb faced the door, barely aware of Soren’s words. The display above the keypad told him it was locked. He could override the lock, and with a little luck surprise the boy and overpower him, but that would probably end in disaster. What in the mind of an eleven-year-old child had ignited such hostility? Something else was at work, something beyond resentment, feeding his anger like a cancer.

  “Warren,” he called out. He tried to wait, to not give in to fear, but the silence only fueled his rising panic. “Answer me, Warren!” he cried. Still no response. “You’re not old enough to handle this, it’s too powerful. Remember Earth!”

  “A different kind of power ruined Earth,” said Warren, his voice muffled by the door. “With this I could have stopped it. Stopped a lot of things!”

  “No, Warren. Some things come with too high a price, even when they help the people you love. That doesn’t mean you give up. You just find another way.”

  “Like me? You want me to be stupid again?”

  “No, no—that’s not what I meant—” he began, but his voice failed him. Tears stung his eyes. “Telai … help me,” he whispered at last.

  He felt a touch on his arm, and stepped aside. “I’ll do what I can, Caleb.”

  Telai set her hands against the door, as though to project her warmth through it. “Warren, thank you for saving my … for bringing Soren back to us. But it came close to going very wrong. You don’t have the maturity to resist this power.”

  “And you do? Would you have stopped yourself?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe if … ” Telai paused, shaking her head in frustration. She reached for Caleb’s hand, and he gripped hers tightly in return.

  “Warren, I’ve been hoping you would accept me as … as your father’s companion,” she continued. “All that is threatened now. The Lor’yentré will take away any chance of your coming to terms with that, or with the choices he’s had to make. You’ll think you won’t need to. But it will be a lie. It will only push away everyone who cares about you.”

  They waited and waited. Finally the door slid open. Warren stood with his head bowed, gripping the Lor’yentré as if he would never let it go.

  “Give it up, child,” Soren demanded, though not unkindly. “You have no right to it.”

  “I can’t!” Warren answered. “I—I’ll die or something if I give it up.”

  Caleb stepped closer, his son’s fear strengthening his resolve. “It’s lying to you. Just like Telai said. Please, hand it over—to any of us, it doesn’t matter.”

  Trembling, as though it took every ounce of his will, the boy slowly held out the Lor’yentré toward his father. Caleb reached out a hand. The muscles of his arm knotted.

  He could not pull it free.

  “Don’t play games with me. Let it go!”

  “I can’t!” Warren cried.

  Leaning back, Caleb pulled on the Lor’yentré with all his might. Its power grew tenfold, a blue-green, lurid glow casting their shadows over the walls like lurking giants. It would not budge.

  “Enough!” Soren cried, and placed a vise-like grip on Warren’s wrist.

  Both men flew backwards to the opposite wall. The Master Raén gasped and slid to the floor, gripping his chest, while Caleb scrambled to his feet.

  Warren’s face twisted in fury. “All that talk was nothing but lies!”

  Caleb leaped for his son, then yanked his hand away as the door slid shut on his fingers. He punched the code to unlock it, ignoring the pain of his skinned knuckles. No use. Again and again he tried, until finally he leaned forward with his fists against the cold metal, head bowed.

  “Warren!”

  He barely felt Telai’s trembling grip on his shoulder. Every thought, every sensation was lost to the silence beyond the door.

  15

  Final Capture

  We build statues of snow, and weep when they melt.

  - from an unknown author on Caleb Stenger’s home world

  THEY ALL WANDERED back to the bridge, Soren limping behind the others. He had suffered a few bruised ribs, but endured it as he stood against the wall, staring out at the relentless storm.

  “We leave in the morning, no matter what the weather.”

  Telai shook her head emphatically. “Soren, I want to leave as badly as you do. But Caleb needs another day’s rest, and so do you.”

  Soren gave no indication at first that he had heard her. “The following morning,” he said at last. “No later.”

  They spent the rest of the day avoiding each other, until the tension mounted to nearly intolerable levels. Soren didn’t know what to do with himself; Caleb felt like he was quietly going mad. Warren sequestered himself in the hibernation room, seldom appearing except when hunger or other necessities demanded it. Only Telai seemed to know her purpose, staying near Caleb to seek some reassurance and provide it as well.

  Night passed to morning, and the snow mounted higher. Soren worried about overtaxing their horses. With Caleb’s help he ventured out to collect several branches from the woods, then after soaking them in water for several hours constructed four crude pairs of snowshoes, using lengths of rope cut to fit.

  Telai and Caleb tried repeatedly to coax Warren out of his room. His only response was a promise to come out when they were ready to leave. Caleb’s helplessness grew to a burning frustration. There was no predicting what future disasters the child might trigger in his naiveté. His one comfort was the supply of laser pistols and power packs, which he retrieved from storage to hide in his belongings. He offered Soren one, but only received a scathing rebuke for his efforts. Telai’s support was too important to him to risk asking her.

  By next morning they were snapping at one another over every trifle. Despite Warren’s promise, it took some time to convince him there would be no further attempts to take the Lor’yentré, and at last he emerged, silent but cooperative.

  They put on their heaviest clothes and ventured out, prepared to battle the storm.
Yet the snow had already tapered off to scattered flakes flying in the wind, and Soren led the way southeast beneath somber gray clouds. The horses plowed through the drifts, and their riders were obliged to walk much more than anticipated. Before a few hours passed they realized they would never reach Spierel without help from one of the villages along the lake.

  True to form, Soren had resumed his role as leader, bracing the weather like an old moose, sure of his skill and instincts. Caleb and the others trudged behind, their legs aching from the unfamiliar strain of working their snowshoes. The first day brought them to a comfortless and forsaken bivouac; they were so exhausted they scarcely had time to feel uncomfortable with each other before they all fell asleep.

  There were times when Warren acted more like himself, other times when he lapsed into spells of fear or anger. Caleb was inclined to dismiss it at first, for the grueling journey demanded much of their stamina and mental discipline. But near noon on the second day Warren fell to the snow, bringing his gloved hands to his head. Telai noticed it first, crying out to the others, and Caleb floundered back, nearly tripping over his snowshoes.

  He flung them off and dropped to his knees. “Warren! What’s wrong?”

  The boy gripped the hood of his coat. “Something’s there!”

  “What’s there? What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know,” he cried. “It’s like a fight going on inside my head. I can’t stop it!”

  Soren and Telai stood near, powerless to help, their shadowed faces locked in fear. Caleb gripped his son’s shoulders.

  “The Lor’yentré, Warren. Give it up!”

  “I don’t know how!” he shouted.

  Soren crouched beside the boy and slapped him on the back. “Get yourself up, Warren! We need food and shelter.”

  The Master Raén’s harsh pragmatism helped Warren regain a measure of control, and the spell passed. They resumed their journey. Telai and Soren took turns leading Warren’s horse, while the boy plodded alongside his father, his young face a constantly shifting battle between terror and determination.