His scream filled the small cabin, leaving a deeper silence in its wake. But the babe made no sound. The Bar’dyn only stared. On the stoop and roof, the patter of rain resumed, like the sound of a distant waterfall. Beyond it, Tahn heard the gallop of hooves on the muddy road. More Bar’dyn? His friends?
He couldn’t wait for either. In a shaky motion, he drew his aim on the creature’s head. The Bar’dyn didn’t move. There wasn’t even defiance in its expression.
“I’ll take you and the child. Velle will be pleased.” It nodded at its own words, then raised its blade between them.
Velle? Dead gods, they’ve brought a renderer of the Will with them!
Tahn’s aim floundered from side to side. Weariness. Cold fear.
The Bar’dyn stepped toward him. Tahn’s mind raced, and fastened upon one thought. The hammer. He focused on that mark on the back of his bow hand, visually tracing its lines and feeling it with his mind. A simple, solid thing. He didn’t remember where he’d gotten the scar or brand, but it seemed intentional. And it grounded him. With that moment of reassurance, his hands steadied, and he drew deeper into the pull, bringing his aim on the Bar’dyn’s throat.
“Put the child down.” His voice trembled even as his mouth grew dry.
The Bar’dyn paused, looking down at the bundle it carried. The creature then lifted the babe up, causing the blanket to slip to the floor. Its massive hand curled around the little one’s torso. The infant still glistened from its passage out of Wendra’s body, its skin red and purple in the sallow light of the fire.
“Child came dead, grub.”
Sadness and anger welled again in Tahn. His chest heaved at the thought of Wendra giving birth in the company of this vile thing, having her baby taken at the moment of life into its hands. Was the child dead at birth, or had the Bar’dyn killed it? Tahn glanced again at Wendra. She was pale. Sadness etched her features. He watched her close her eyes against the Bar’dyn’s words.
The rain now pounded the roof. But the sound of heavy footfalls on the road was clear, close, and Tahn abandoned hope of escape. One Bar’dyn, let alone several, might tear him apart, but he intended to send this one to the abyss, for Wendra, for her dead child.
He prepared to fire his bow, allowing time enough to speak the old, familiar words: “I draw with the strength of my arms, but release as the Will allows.”
But he couldn’t shoot.
He struggled to disobey the feeling, but it stretched back into that part of his life he couldn’t remember. He had always spoken the words, always. He didn’t release of his own choice. He always followed the quiet intimations that came after he spoke those words.
Tahn relaxed his aim and the Bar’dyn nodded approval. “Bound to Will,” it said. The words rang like the cracking of timber in the confines of the small home. “But first to watch this one go.” The Bar’dyn turned toward Wendra.
“No!” Tahn screamed again, filling the cabin with denial. Denial of the Bar’dyn.
Denial of his own impotence.
The sound of others came up the steps. Tahn was surrounded. They would all die!
He spared a last look at his sister. “I’m sorry,” he tried to say, but it came out in a husk.
Her expression of confusion and hurt and disappointment sank deep inside him.
If he couldn’t kill the creature, he could at least try to prevent it from hurting her.
Before he could move, his friends shot through the door. They got between Tahn and the Bar’dyn. They fought the creature. They filled his home with a clash of wills and swordplay and shouted oaths. Chaos churned around him. And all he could do was watch Wendra curl deeper into her bed. Afraid. Heartsick.
The creature out of the Bourne finally turned and crashed through the cabin’s rear wall, rushing into the dark and the storm with Wendra’s dead child. They did not give chase.
Tahn turned from the hole in the wall and went to Wendra’s side. Blood soaked the coverlet, and cuts in her wrists and hands told of failed attempts to ward off the Bar’dyn. Her cheeks sagged; she looked pale and spent. She lay crying silent tears.
He’d stood twenty feet away with a clear shot at the Bar’dyn and had done nothing. The lives of his sister and her child had hung in the balance, and he’d done nothing. The old words had told him the draw was wrong. He’d followed that feeling over the defense of his sister. Why?
It was an old ache and frustration, believing himself bound to the impressions those words stirred inside him. But never so much as now.
CHAPTER ONE
OLD WORDS
“It is the natural condition of man to strive for certainty. It is also his condition not to find it. Not for long, anyway. Even a star may wander.”
—From Commentary on Categoricals,
a reader for children nominated to
Dimnian cognitive training
TRANQUIL DARKNESS STRETCHED to the horizon. Small hours. Moments of quiet, of peace. Moments when faraway stars seemed as close and familiar as friends. Moments of night before the east would hint of sunrise. Tahn stepped into these small hours. Into the chill night air. He went to spend time with the stars. To imagine dawn. As he always had.
There was a kind of song in it all. A predictable rhythm and melody that might only be heard by one willing to remain quiet and unmoving long enough to note the movement of a star. It could be heard in the phases of the moons. It was by turns a single deep sonorous note, large as a russet sun setting slow, and then a great chorus, as when showers of shooting stars brightened the night sky. They were harmonies across ages, heard during the brief measure of a life. But only if one paused, as Tahn did, to watch and listen.
He stood at the edge of the High Plains of Sedagin. The bluff rose a thousand strides off the flatlands below. Stars winked like sparkling bits of glass on a dark tablecloth. His breath clouded the night, and droplets hung like frozen tears from low scrub and sage.
He looked east and let his thoughts come naturally. Deep into the far reaches of the sky he let them wander, his emotions and hopes struggling for form with the stars. He traced the constellations, some from old stories, some from memories whose sources were lost to him. A half-full moon had risen high, its surface bright and clear. The pale outline of the darkened portion appeared a ghostly halo.
Tahn closed his eyes and let his thoughts run out even further, imagining the sun; imagining its warmth and radiance, its calm, sure track across the heavens. He imagined the sky changing color in the east from black to violet to sea blue and finally the color of clear, shallow water. He pictured more color as sunlight came to the forest and touched its leaves and cones and limbs. He envisioned those first moments of dawn, the unfurling of flower petals to its light, its glint on rippling water, steam rising from warming loam. And as he always did at such a moment, Tahn felt like part of the land, another leaf to be touched by the sun. His thoughts coalesced into the singular moment of sunrise and another hope risen up from the night, born again with quiet strength.
He opened his eyes to the dark skies and the foliate pattern of stars. In the east, the first intimation of day arose as the black hinted of violet hues. A quiet relief filled him, and he took a lungful of air.
Another day would come. And pass. Until the beautiful, distant stars returned, and he came again to watch. Until someday, when either he or the sun would not rise. And the song would end.
He lingered, enjoying a moment’s peace. They’d been on the road more days than he could remember. Chased by the Quiet. Chased since the night he’d let Wendra down, failed to shoot when she’d needed him, when the Quiet took her child. Tahn shook his head with guilt at the memory of it.
And now here he was. Weeks later. Far from home. Just tonight they’d climbed this plateau, arriving after midnight. After dark hour.
He took a long breath, relaxing in the stillness.
The sound of boots over frost-covered earth startled him. He turned to see Vendanj come to join him.
> Even the shadows of night couldn’t soften the hard edges of the man. Vendanj wore determination the way another does his boots. Carried it in his eyes and shoulders. Vendanj was a member of the Sheason Order, those who rendered the Will—that melding of spirit and body, energy and matter. The Sheason weren’t well known in the Hollows, Tahn’s home. And Tahn was learning that beyond the Hollows, the Sheason weren’t always welcome. Were even distrusted.
Vendanj came up beside him, and stared out over the plains far and away below. He didn’t rush to clutter the silence with words. And they watched together for a time.
After long moments, Vendanj eyed Tahn with wry suspicion. “You do this every morning.” It wasn’t a question.
Tahn returned the wry grin. “How would you know? You follow me everywhere?”
“Just until we reach the Saeculorum,” Vendanj answered.
They shared quiet laughter over that. It was a rare jest from Vendanj. But it was a square jest, the kind with truth inside. Because they were, in fact, going to the Saeculorum—mountains at the far end of the Eastlands. Several months’ travel from here.
“For as long as I can remember,” Tahn finally admitted, “I’ve gotten up early to watch the sunrise. Habit now, I guess.”
Vendanj folded his arms as he stared east. “It’s more than a habit, I suspect.”
And he was right. It was more like a compulsion. A need. To stand with the stars. Imagine daybreak.
But Vendanj didn’t press, and fell silent again for a time.
Into the silence, distantly, came again the sound of footfalls over hard dirt. The chill air grew . . . tight. Dense. It seemed to press on Tahn. Panic tightened his gut. Vendanj held up a hand for Tahn not to speak. A few moments later, up the trail of the cliff face came a figure, unhurried. Directly toward them.
Soon, the moon brought the shape into focus. A man. He wore an unremarkable coat, buttoned high against the chill. No cowl or robe or weapon. No smile of greeting. No frown. It was the man’s utter lack of expression that frightened Tahn most, as if feeling had gone out of him.
Twenty strides from them, the other stopped, returning the bluff to silence. The figure stared at them through the dark. Stared at them with disregard.
Softer than a whisper, “Velle,” Vendanj said.
My dying gods.
Velle were Quiet renderers of the Will. Like Sheason, but followers of the dissenting god.
The silence stretched between them, dawn still a long while away.
Into the stillness, the other spoke, his voice soft and low. “Your legs will tire, Sheason. And we will be there when they do.” He pointed at Tahn. “Send me the boy, and let’s be done.”
“It would do you no good,” Vendanj replied. “If not the boy, there are others.”
The Velle nodded. “We know. And this one isn’t the first you’ve driven like a mule.” The man’s eyes shifted to Tahn. “What has he told you, Quillescent?”
Tahn didn’t really understand the question, and didn’t reply. He only took his bow down from his shoulder.
The Velle shook his head slowly in disappointment. “You don’t have the energy to fight me, Sheason. You’ve spent too much already.”
“I appreciate your concern,” Vendanj said, another surprising jest from the usually severe man.
The Velle hadn’t taken its eyes from Tahn. “And what about you, with your little bow? Are you going to ask your gods if I should die, and shoot me down?” The expression in the man’s face changed, but only by degrees. More indifferent. Careworn to the bone, beyond feeling.
He knows. He knows the words I speak when I draw.
The Velle dropped its chin. “Ask it.” The words were an invitation, a challenge. And the chill air bristled when the Velle spoke them. Grasses and low sage bent away from the man as though they would flee.
Vendanj held up a hand. “You’ve strolled onto the Sedagin plain, my Quiet friend. A thousand swords and more. Go back the way you came.”
A slow smile touched the Velle’s face. A wan smile lacking warmth or humor. And even that looked unnatural, as though he were unaccustomed to smiling at all. “I don’t take care for myself, Sheason. That is a man’s weakness. And there’ll be no heroes this time.” He raised a hand, and Vendanj let out an explosive exhale, as if his chest were suddenly being pressed by boulders.
In a single motion, Tahn raised his bow and drew an arrow. I draw with the strength of my arms, but release as the Will allows.
The quiet confirmation came. The Velle should die.
Tahn caught a glimpse of a more genuine smile on the Quiet’s lips before he let his arrow fly. An unconcerned flip of the Velle’s wrist, and the arrow careened high and harmless out over the bluff’s edge.
Vendanj dropped to his knees, struggling against some unseen force. Tahn had to disrupt the Velle’s hold on the Sheason somehow. But before he could move, a deep shiver started in his chest as though his body were a low cello string being slowly played. And with the resonance rushed the memory of his failure to shoot the Bar’dyn that had come into his and Wendra’s home, taken her child.
Except it seemed more raw now. Like alcohol poured on a fresh cut.
And that wasn’t all. Other memories stirred. Lies he’d told. Insults he’d offered. Though he couldn’t recall them with exactness. They were half formed, but sharpening.
He was maybe seven. A fight. Friends. Some kind of contest to settle . . .
Tahn began to tremble violently. His teeth ached and felt ready to shatter. His mind burned hot with regret and self-loathing. He dropped face-first beside Vendanj, and curled into a ball against the pain.
Vendanj still wasn’t breathing, but managed to thrust an open palm at the Velle. The Quiet man grimaced, and Vendanj drew a harsh-sounding breath, his face slick with sweat in the moonlight.
Tahn’s own inner ache subsided, and the quaking in his body stopped. Briefly. The Velle dropped to both knees and drove its hands into the hard soil. Blackness flared, and the Quiet man looked suddenly refreshed. This time, it simply stared at Vendanj. The earth between them whipped, low sage tearing away. But Vendanj was prepared, and kept his feet and breath when some force hit him, exploding in a fury of spent energy. The Sheason’s lean face had drawn into a grim expression, and he began shaking his head.
The Velle glanced at Tahn and tremors wracked his body again. With them came his insecurities about childhood years lost to memory. As if they didn’t matter. As if he didn’t matter, except to raise his bow and repeat those godsforsaken words, I draw with the strength . . .
As the Velle caressed him with this deep resonant pain, a shadow flashed behind the other. Light and quick.
A moment later the Velle’s back arched, his eyes wide in surprise. Tahn’s tremors stopped. Vendanj lowered his arms. The Velle fell forward, and standing there was Mira Far, of the Far people. Her pale skin awash in moonlight. Only a Far could have gotten behind a Velle without being noticed. Looking at her, Tahn felt a different kind of tug inside. One that was altogether more appealing.
For the third time that morning, boots over hard earth interrupted the dark morning stillness. A hundred strides behind Mira three Bar’dyn emerged on the trail. At first they only walked. Then, seeing the downed Velle, they broke into a run, a kind of reasoned indifference in their faces. Their massive frames moved with grace, and power, as their feet pounded against the cold earth.
Tahn reached for an arrow. Mira dropped into one of her Latae stances, both swords raised. Vendanj gasped several breaths, still trying to steady himself from his contest with the Velle. “Take the Bar’dyn down,” he said, his voice full of hateful prejudice.
Tahn pulled three successive draws, thinking the old words in an instant and firing at the closest Bar’dyn. The first arrow bounded harmlessly off the creature’s barklike skin. But the next two struck it in the neck. It fell with a heavy crunch on the frost-covered soil.
The remaining two descended on Mira first. She duc
ked under a savage swipe of a long rounded blade and came up with a thrust into the creature’s groin. Not simply an attack on its tender parts, but a precise cut into the artery that ran alongside them—something she’d taught him during one of their many conversations.
The Bar’dyn shrugged off the blow and rushed onward toward Tahn. In a few moments it would grow sluggish from blood loss, and finally fall. Tahn had only to keep a distance.
The other Quiet pushed ahead faster, closing on Tahn. Mira took chase, but even with her gift of speed wouldn’t reach it before it got to him. Tahn pulled a deep draw. The Bar’dyn raised a forearm to protect its neck, and barreled closer.
“Take it down!” Vendanj began raising a hand, clearly weakened. The Sheason had rendered the Will so often lately. And he’d had little time to recover.
Tahn breathed out, steadied his aim, spoke the words in his mind, and let fly. The arrow hit true, taking the Bar’dyn’s left eye. No cry or scream. It stutter-stepped, and kept on. Its expression was as impassive as before—not fury, reason.
Tahn drew again. This arrow struck the Quiet’s knee, as he’d intended. But it shattered against the armor-hard skin there. It was almost too close to fire again, but Tahn pulled a quick draw, Mira a half step behind the creature, and fired at its mouth. The arrow smashed through its teeth and went out through its cheek. The Bar’dyn’s face stretched in a mask of pain. Then it leveled its eyes again and leapt at Tahn.
It was too late to avoid the Quiet. Tahn braced himself. The massive creature drove him to the ground under its immense weight. Tahn lost his breath, couldn’t cry out. He could feel blood on his face. The Bar’dyn shifted to take hold of him.
It propped itself up with one arm, and stared down at Tahn with its indifferent eyes. “You don’t understand,” it said with a thick, glottal voice.
The Bar’dyn began to roll, pulling Tahn with it, as if it might try to carry him away. A moment later, it stopped moving. Mira. She pulled her blade from the creature’s head. Then she turned on the wounded Bar’dyn, who was now staggering toward them, weak from loss of blood.
The Sound of Broken Absolutes Page 9