Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy)

by Craig Saunders

  “I don’t think we will give up our only bargaining chip so easily, Dainar,” replied Shorn.

  “You have my word no man will come to harm today. I have seen enough.”

  “Then on your word, Dainar,” called Shorn, and released the guard, who stepped back warily. Renir and the others released theirs carefully, and when no reprisals for the sudden violence occurred, the guards being as good as Dainar’s words, Renir rushed to Drun’s side.

  He shook him carefully, as Drun’s eyes cracked open. “Is it safe?”

  “Yes, I think it is. How’s your head?”

  “Never better,” the old man replied gingerly rising to his feet with a helping hand from the young warrior. “How did you know?”

  Renir shuffled his feet in acute embarrassment. “A witch came to me while I slept.”

  “Well, you must thank her for me,” said Drun sincerely.

  “Peace, but it’s never dull,” said Bourninund, with a wink to Renir. “I could do with an ale.”

  “Me, too,” said Renir, and finally let himself sigh with relief. “Perhaps now I can get some sleep. I have my guardian to thank, although as to payment, I can only guess.”

  He spared a thought for Shorn. He was staring at his son, crestfallen, and his son was staring back at him openly, into cold grey eyes, so much like his own. Forgotten, to one side, stood the man who had no doubt been his father all his years. To one side Shiandra’s husband wept quietly. Of Shiandra and her father there was no sign.

  Gods, thought Renir, is the price of being a hero always so high?

  *

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Tirielle smoothed her dress nervously before rapping on the door to Library of the Secessionists. It would not do to look unrefined in this section of the city. She was dressed in the fashion of Beheth, but spoke with a Lianthre accent. j’ark spoke with a strange accent, one she did not recognise, but he wore wide breeches and a ruffled shirt, his long hair tied back. In Beheth, few wore their hair long. Unthor, keeping to the shadows outside the range of the lantern’s glow, was dressed in a similar manner. None could be marked for outsiders if they did not speak.

  It was a warm city, and its warmth dictated what could and could not be worn. A monk was expected to feel discomfort, therefore Roth could pass if it stuck to the shadows, but no monk would be seen in a secular library, with its lascivious wood cuts, and ancient vellum which no monk would touch. Besides, as much as she would have liked to bring Roth with her through the city, to feel the comfort of her large companion watching over her, she was more than safe enough from cutthroats and footpads with j’ark and Unthor by her side. Unthor had asked to be their third – the Sard rarely travelled alone, and when they did it was only out of necessity – and seemed quite happy to stand watch among the shadows.

  Tirielle didn’t mind at all. Unthor was prone to long periods of introspection, perhaps the only member of the Sard who harboured open discontent with their lot in life and the demands of their religion. Calling, perhaps, would be a more accurate description. Unthor never spoke of his disquiet, but brooded sometimes, a frown upon his broad face, sometimes stroking the side of his nose when he was in deep thought. He was not the best of company, but Tirielle had no doubts he would be watching warily tonight for anyone who followed them into the library. He would not forget his duty, even if it seemed that sometimes he found it hard to bear.

  It gave her a chance to spend the evening with j’ark. Pouring over old scrolls and parchment was not quite the activity that Tirielle would have chosen, but they would be together, even in silence.

  She caught him, rarely, in his lie. He said duty came above all else, but he could not deny that he found her attractive. She just wished he would come out and say so, or stop looking at her in that peculiar way of his that made her quiver inside.

  When she could she stole a glance at him, or tried to catch him in an unguarded smile. She wished just for one moment he would set aside all that he was, and all that she was, and speak to her like a woman. Too often for her liking he called her ‘lady’, as if abashed to feel even her name slip across his tongue.

  They were all alike, though. Stubborn, wilful men, devoured by purpose and forgetting their humanity. If they had had their way, they would be in Teryithyr already, and have left the Seer behind in their wake. She would not say I told you so, but they were outside the library tonight because the Seer had led them there. For all their talk of hope, and duty, they would never have found the right library. It was a city of books, and at least now they had somewhere to start. It was more than they had had before the Seer awoke.

  ‘Talented.’ That was what the Seer called her, that she could hear her mind-speak. What new strangeness, Tirielle wondered, would they discover on their quest? She could accept that the Seer could see futures, varied and shifting though they might be, but that she could speak directly into someone’s mind, and that she would be able to hear their thoughts, too? It was fey beyond words. Her powers were more than remarkable – she was in more danger now than ever. Should the Protectorate find the girl, they would not be so kind to grant her swift execution. Tirielle had no doubt that they would dissect her with their dark magics, make her do tricks for them to study, like a new animal, or rediscovered history.

  Danger assailed them from all sides. She would not forget. The Seer had told them as much, that they would be split before the month was through, that they might or might not reach their goal – much they could have guessed themselves – but Tirielle had grown so accustomed to each and every one of her companions that she could not imagine them apart. What change could force them to divide? They could only become weaker if they were no longer together. Would they meet again? Tirielle had asked, but the Seer had only shook her head sadly with a weight that belied her years and said, ‘that, I cannot tell.’

  The door creaked open and a librarian peered out into the darkness, myopic eyes straining to see further than an arms length. Librarians feared no violence in their halls – what thief would steal words? If only they understood the value of the words contained in these halls, the librarians would need a score of guards and the sturdiest of locks.

  “Good evening, Reader. We come seeking knowledge.”

  “At this hour?”

  “Who among us could say that we have learned enough to sleep?”

  “I suppose you have the fee?”

  Tirielle withdrew a gold coin from her belt pouch and passed it to the librarian, who weighed it with his hand, and examine the coin.

  “From Lianthre? You have come a long way on your quest for knowledge.”

  “Distance is no bar, nor expense,” said Tirielle. She was aware of j’ark poised beside her. If she could talk her way in, there would be no need for violence, but they had already agreed that their need was great enough that a few cracked heads would not hurt. The Sard had argued vehemently against the use of such force against innocents, but Tirielle had sweetly pointed out that they were skilled enough to get by with a minimum of damage to the unfortunate recipient of their blows.

  “You are welcome, of course, Lady,” said the Reader, squinting squarely into her face, seemingly unaware of j’ark beside her. He stepped aside and let them in, jumping somewhat as j’ark followed her inside.

  “Oh, forgive me, I didn’t see you there.”

  “No matter,” said j’ark, “thank you for allowing us entry at this late hour. I take it the fee is adequate for a few nights grace among the shelves?”

  “Of course, Sir, you are more than welcome, at any hour.”

  It was strange, some would think, that the libraries charged a fee of visitors, but the expense of hunting new volumes, and the competition among the many libraries for the greatest finds, was fierce. The gold in the librarian’s hand would mean more books, and it was that fact that he was calculating, not his sudden increase in wealth.

  “We can find our own way about, if you don’t mind,” said Tirielle sweetly, touching the reader
s hand. He gulped, as if unused to a lady’s touch.

  “Of course. You can find us in the main hall if you need assistance. The lists are on the first shelves, in chronological order above, in alphabetical order below, should you know what you are looking for…” at this he raised an enquired eyebrow, but Tirielle ignored it.

  “Perhaps we will call on you before the night is through, should we require anything. Anything at all, my good man,” Tirielle added this last with a cheeky grin, and the squinting reader scuttled off, his back a little straighter.

  “You seem to have brightened his evening, at least,” said j’ark.

  “And what of yours?”

  “My evening is already complete, my lady.”

  Blasted men, she thought. But there was little time to waste trying to get j’ark to open to her touch tonight. If only he were as simple to please as the reader.

  “We should stay together, I think, don’t you?” she tried.

  “We could cover more apart…”

  “What if I am attacked?” It was cruel, but she knew it would work. J’ark was only undecided for seconds.

  “Very well, we will search together. Where should we begin?”

  “We have no idea who we are looking for, the name of the work or author…perhaps, if the wizard is old enough…mmh…chronological lists? If we just find the oldest works, and work forward from there?”

  “Sound, I think,” he said with an easy smile that warmed her heart.

  She took down one of the tomes, heaving it to a nearby table, and scanned the entries.

  “How is your history, j’ark?”

  “I know only what I need. I know each and every battle fought by the Sard through the ages, but the wizard was lost before Sybremreyen’s records even began, before our order was born. I do not even know what his age would be called, less when it was.”

  “Well, the records begin in the Shard epoch, which was over 700 years ago. It is the best we can do, although I doubt there will be any mention of the old ones, or the wizard, but the Seer says we will find it here, and we have nothing left but to believe her.”

  Hefting the book high on her chest, she replaced it, and they walked down the aisle to the Shard wing, and the start of a long night.

  But at least, thought Tirielle walking on with a private smile, it will not be lonely.

  *

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Roth’s night proved to be more interesting. It prowled the streets, staying in the shadows like it was the most natural thing. Where it was forced to cross a patch of lantern light, it moved swiftly and surely, without so much as a sound.

  It stuck to darkened alleyways where it could, and was only seen once. That was because it wanted to be noticed. It was the perfect opportunity, and just what it had been looking for.

  Unmindful of the dangers, which admittedly were scarce in any city where the Protectorate roamed (aside from the obvious peril from the Protectorate themselves) a solitary drunk left his cups and tavern and started out wavering on tipsy feet along an alleyway. As Roth watched from a darkened doorway, two men followed unobtrusively behind, but Roth could tell from the way they held themselves that they were armed. One carried a cudgel within his sleeve, his hand turned inward to prevent the weapon from slipping out, the other, from his gait, was wary of a dagger in his loose fitting breeches.

  Roth followed the unlikely trio at a safe distance, remaining quiet without seeming to expend any effort doing so.

  It did not have long to wait.

  The two men quickened their pace, coming up from behind the drunk as he reached the door of his house. Roth reached them as the cudgel was in hand, but before the blow. With a snarl it knocked the thief’s arm aside, breaking the arm with the force of the blow, and smashed the man bearing the dagger to the ground. The drunkard screeched and quickly darted into his house, bolting the door and calling for his wife. He would sober quickly, and in some respects Roth was glad he would live to do so, but that was not what he came for.

  One thief was trying to gain his feet when Roth kicked him back to the floor. The other was cradling his broken arm. Roth knelt before them, pulling back the cowl of the robe it wore, and roared. The men scuttled backward, and Roth turned and walked away. As it left, it could hear them fleeing in the night.

  Roth was just as careful returning to the Great Tree.

  When it reached Quintal’s room, it knocked politely, and was bade enter.

  “It is done,” it said.

  “That should put the cat amongst the pigeons,” said the leader of the Sard with a wry grin. “Let’s hope Sia is right. Tomorrow night will be harder. Are you sure you can get away unseen?”

  Roth barred its teeth in a grin, and nodded. “It is good to be doing something again. I will be ready.”

  “Then until tomorrow. From here on, we will all be creatures of the night.”

  As Roth left, Quintal smiled and turned back to the window, staring at the moon’s gentle light over Beheth.

  Creatures of the night. The Protectorate would rise to the bait. They had to. The night would not be solely their domain any longer.

  *

  Chapter Forty

  Two thieves sat before the high magistrate, both held fast in iron chains. The man on the left, with a broken forearm, sweated profusely, his face white with pain…and fear.

  Flanked by two gaunt-faced guards, and chained as they were, there was no chance of escape. They held no illusions as to their charges. Their guards might be stick-thin, their bodies seemingly emaciated under their long robes, but they were Protocrats, the arm of the magistrate. Neither guard sweated in the growing heat of the morning.

  They were motionless, a blade poised to fall.

  Gerrard, the thief with a sore head, began to shake. The magistrate still did not look up from his report. Gerrard thought of his wife, and his young son, a mere two years of age. He prayed to Renalon, the god of paupers and thieves – he knew there were no gods to watch over the cutthroats of the world, but he was neither skilled enough to be an accomplished thief, nor had he the patience to be a beggar.

  Perhaps Renaleve would hear his plea and spare them.

  He held onto the image of his son’s face, the tuft of dark hair that sprouted from the back of his soft head, his gently brown eyes and his endearing giggle, a giggle which from time to time was followed by a high-pitched squeal of delight whenever they played peek and boo, or when tiggled under his chin.

  For him, he would die quietly. When they had been found, fleeing along the streets, the Tenthers had asked him where he lived. Even under their blows, he had said nothing. Fortunately, his partner did not know, either. They had only met a week previously, and he had been sensible enough to keep his home a secret from the man. He wouldn’t have blamed Wex for telling them. When they had twisted his shattered arm the man had screamed to wake the night. No, he would not have blamed him.

  He noticed the magistrate looking deep into his eyes. He raised his head. There was no point in trying to be submissive any longer. He would die this day. The least he could say when he passed the gates was that he had died bravely, without a whimper. No sense in begging, either. Perhaps he would soil himself, but who didn’t, faced with death at the end of a steel blade?

  “It says here your names are Gerrard and Wex? Is that correct?”

  “Ye…Yes,” said Wex, softly through chattering teeth. He was in so much pain he could not even force a simple affirmative from his mouth.

  “We are so called,” said Gerrard, more bravely.

  “And you were accosted by a rahken, you say? Here in the city?”

  “Yes, high magistrate, as big as a horse, it were. Broke my friend here’s arm, clean in two. We weren’t doing nothing to it, mind, just out for a stroll.”

  “With a cudgel and a dagger?”

  “Self-protection, High Magistrate,” said Gerrard hopefully.

  “I think not. Another man reported two men of your description attacki
ng him outside his home. We must uphold the peace, you understand? Good, I’m glad there will not be the need for unpleasantness.”

  By unpleasantness Gerrard was sure the Protocrat meant wheedling and mewling, not their deaths. That wouldn’t bother him at all.

  “Tell me more of this rahken.”

  “It were tall, and fast. All brown fur and teeth and claws. Only ever seen one once, when me and my old man were out at the lakes, fishing, but never forget it. Quick as you like it broke my friend’s arm, like a snake…a big furry snake, with arms and legs…” Gerrard realised in his fear he was rambling and broke off.

  “And, to your obviously untutored eye, did it use magic? Was their anything unnatural about it?”

  “Might have been magic, your honour, might well have been. Ain’t natural for something that big to be so fast. Ain’t natural.”

  “Very well. That will be all. You may go. Officers of the court, see them out the back gates. Thank you, gentlemen.”

  Gerrard harboured a moment’s foolish hope as he was led outside. He glanced at Wex and saw terror there, which turned his own stomach.

  If there was one thing the Protectorate loved more than pain, it was the death of hope.

  A starved smile passed the magistrates lips as he heard two soft thumps from the corridor at the rear of the room. The magistrate shuffled his papers, and made a note to double the Tenther patrols in the west of city this night. He would have to draw a patrol from another section of the city, but trouble was minor these days. His superiors would be pleased, should he bring them the head of a rahken, even if his one had no magic.

  Troubling, perhaps, that a rahken warrior could sneak into their city undetected, especially since the edict demanding their instant death, but nothing to lose sleep over. He passed the order to an aid, with his stamp and seal on it.

  To the usher he said, “Bring in the next case. My docket is full today, and I would like finish early. My wife is waiting for me.”