Kelfor- the Orthomancers

by Gillian Andrews

  It is time to grow up. I stretch my neck, to be taller. “Then I will kill for you, too.”

  She takes me at my word. “And for Torch?”

  “And for Torch,” I promise.

  “Then I thank you, Remeny of the timeworn, and I ask that you be by my side, by my son’s side, when the chance to avert our deaths arrives.” She speaks formally.

  “I shall learn how to fight.”

  Her eyes flash. “I would appreciate that. We will stand a better chance altogether if you are competent with a weapon.”

  We walk on, better pleased with each other.

  That night we sleep out under the stars. Abaloss Rift can be seen clearly, rising out of the land in front of us. The terrain has changed, too. It is gradually becoming almost alien. There are strange rock formations all around. The flash floods that rage over this part of Hethor in the aftermath of an eruption have eaten through all the rock, leaving mushroom-like shapes which we must walk under or on top of. Some form channels, some stand alone. It is very strange. Some of the time we walk on the ground; some of the time we walk on top of the strange shapes, jumping slightly to get from one large capstone to the next.

  We eat, drink some water, and then lie down to sleep on top of one of the flat mushrooms of rock. We are grateful for the carricks. It would be impossible to rest on this rock without them. There is also now no grass to hide us. The power of the water coming back down to land after an eruption is too strong; it washes any struggling shoots away.

  I am soon rocking in my carrick, soothed by the movement. But I see, just before I go to sleep, that Torch and Zivan have not joined the rest of the group. They are creeping out of the makeshift camp and seem to be heading back the way we came.

  I try to struggle out of my carrick. I could go with them. They may need help.

  Quondam Azrial is still standing. She comes over to me and bends down swiftly. “You must sleep, Remeny. They have work to do. Your turn will come. Be patient.”

  I suppose she is right. All the same, there is something I need to know. “Why did you let my mother and I work in the dome?”

  She takes a short breath. It is not a question she is expecting. She seems reluctant to reply, but I just stare at her. I know my face is accusing. I can’t quite understand. Even though my mother wasn’t timeworn, apparently, I am. The rest of the timeworn have easier jobs. Why did we have one of the hardest?

  “You know what happened to your father at the mine?” Azrial’s face seems even more wrinkled than before. “After that we were not able to intervene. We contrive only loosely behind the scenes to ensure that timeworn descendants have descendants of their own.”

  “But I am one of the timeworn?”

  “You are.”

  I glare at her. “Fimbrian is right. The timeworn have opted not to help the Inmuri people. They have simply hidden within their midst and tried to take all the best jobs.”

  “That has a grain of truth, Remeny. But it has all been for a reason, and we have broken that tradition now by agreeing to join this expedition to find Kelfor.”

  “Some of you have. Why didn’t the others want to come?”

  She shrugs. “Their skills were not needed. Some didn’t agree with the action we are taking. They wanted to continue as we had before.”

  “They would have left me in the Xenokarth.” I don’t make it a question. I already know the answer.

  She inclines her head, rather reluctantly. “They ... they might.”

  “Even though I am the last of the orthomancers?” Whatever that means.

  “Possibly.”

  “And without the orthomancers none of the Inmuri can leave Hethor?”

  “I believe not.”

  “They don’t care if all the others die as long as they themselves survive.”

  My words upset her. “It is far more complicated than that, Remeny.”

  I am angered by her condescension. “What use are the timeworn, then, if they leave the rest of our race to be slowly exterminated? You none of you know what it is like to work in the domes. I do. I shall never forget.”

  She looks sad. “What you say is true. I regret not being able to help Irizana.”

  “She DIED!” I can’t help myself. I want to shout, so I do.

  There are several groans around me. Immediately I feel guilt-ridden. I should remember; people are sleeping. My face burns with embarrassment.

  But Azrial understands. “You think we let her die. That I let her die. And I can’t deny it.”

  “You did nothing!” I am hissing now, my voice shaking.

  She puts an understanding hand on my shoulder. I flinch and turn away. I curb my impulse. She is old. I cannot strike out at her.

  Then another shadow comes up to my carrick. It is Praetor Thurifer.

  “You are wrong, Remeny. Life is never quite as simple as you seem to believe. Young people always think they are in possession of the absolute truth.”

  My stomach contracts. “And old people always think they have the right to preach!” His words make my anger burn even more brightly. He is only fanning the flames. It would be good to be able to reply with quicker and cleverer words, but I don’t know how to do that. All I know how to do is to clean domes. And I am not even great at that.

  I yawn. For some reason, all this is making me tired. My brain isn’t used to all this thinking. It is mortifying to realize that I never asked my mother to tell me more about my father: if she missed him, where the amulet came from and what it was for. The pain of all those lost chances for finding out is dividing my heart into small shattered pieces.

  Just as those thoughts come, they vanish again, leaving me now only with anger against my mother. Why? Why didn’t she tell me about being one of the timeworn, about all of this? It still feels like a betrayal.

  I sink back into the carrick. I am too tired to think. My own anger gradually drains into the night, leaving me helpless and exhausted. I close my eyes. I am able to see traces of the stars on my closed eyelids. I let my consciousness fall up to them and wink out into sleep.

  Thurifer escorts Azrial to her carrick. “You need to rest, too. You and I have to make sure we don’t slow the others down.”

  She allows her free hand rest on top of his. “You are right.” She looks back over at Remeny. Her face darkens, becoming sharper and accusing. “I never thought to see timeworn against timeworn. It is that old man’s fault! Fimbrian! He has stirred everything up!”

  Thurifer shrugs. “He is not alone in his opinions. Many think like Fimbrian. Our influence is almost over. We timeworn have waited too long, intervened too little. The Inmuri are bitter. We are no longer liked.”

  “Let them be the ones to usher in a new dawn, then. The timeworn have no future. We are done. We have failed to protect our people. The Raths overcame our will too many ancestors ago.”

  Thurifer picks up some sand and lets it gradually slip through his fingers. “We waited. As we were told to wait.”

  Azrial nods. “As we were told to wait. But there are so few of us left. So many have died.”

  “It may well be that the timeworn have buried themselves in self-preservation for too long.” Then his shoulders relax. “But we are acting now. Changing things. You and I. We have taken the first step, Azrial. That is what matters. The past must be left to the future to decide who was wrong and what would have been right. We are only required to clear our souls and prepare for the end to come.”

  “It may come sooner than we think. For you and I.”

  He looks sharply at her. “Really? Then I shall do my best to be ready.”

  She reaches out to touch his arm. “Thank you for being my friend.”

  For a moment their heads are close together. She is conscious of a desire to rest hers on his chest. She is an old lady, and she is very, very tired. But she pushes away that temptation. “Remeny is bitter.”

  “And you wouldn’t be?”

  “We should never have let Irizana be sent to
the dome.”

  “As far as I remember, both you and I spoke out against it at the time.”

  “We should have done more.”

  “What more was there that we could have done? We were in a minority. You know that.” He points up at the constellation of Serendipity, high above them. “Those stars of fortune were hanging above us that day, as they are today. Sometimes we are not permitted to unravel what luck is. We do not know where the other course would have taken us. We are not qualified to judge.”

  Azrial considers. He could well be right. If Irizana had not been sent to the dome perhaps they would all still be in the City of the Seven Karths. Perhaps that decision is what has led to this expedition.

  Her spirits rise. Might there be a favorable outcome? It seems unlikely, but it is encouraging to think it is a possibility. As augur she has been unable to penetrate the mists quite that far. They are being particularly opaque on the subject.

  “The stars are brighter here than in the city.”

  Thurifer nods. “They are shining down through fewer chains.”

  4.

  Zivan and Torch are back before the break of day. They have stolen something, for sure. They have stolen a person. They are pushing an elderly man before them, one who seems to be known to Rannyl.

  Our water provider takes a step forward. “Well, Chellin.”

  The newcomer stumbles to a stop. His hands are tied behind his back, and he is gagged. Zivan unties the gag.

  Rannyl introduces him to us. “This is Chellin, one of my fellow water hunters. He has a flock of argents. The Istak Legion uses him for their training exercises. It seems he has been contracted by them to follow us now and provide enough water for their squadron.”

  The man splutters. He is extremely angry. “With wh-what r-right d-do you think you c-can do th-things like this ...?”

  Thurifer steps forward. “With the right of the timeworn.”

  Chellin’s eyes flicker. “I has a job to do,” he says, defensively. “I be doing no wrong.”

  “The trouble is, my friend, that if you do your job too well, the trackers will find us.”

  “And if I don’t be after doing it well, my head will swing on one of the posts of Istak!”

  “Then you have a difficult decision ahead of you. You can disappear – I would recommend crossing the Boulderstone Pass with us and then skirting Abaloss Rift to the west until you reach Halfstone Pass and can cross back—”

  Chellin interrupts, his small eyes hard, accusing. “That is a death sentence! I would never be able to go back! And the Scoriats would take action on my wife, my children. I have family!”

  Thurifer simply goes on, ignoring the outburst. “Or you can come with us to Kelfor ...”

  “I wouldn’t go with you to the nearest dome!” splutters the newcomer.

  “Or you can go back to the cohort and make sure that your birds stop bringing water to the Scoriat expedition.” Thurifer is staring at his hands but his voice is cold. I am suddenly aware that this seemingly charming man could be hiding a will of stone. I almost step back myself. “Your choice.”

  Chellin has sucked in his breath. His sharp little eyes look around at us. We stare back. We don’t have to pretend to be menacing. We are all aware that soldiers without water will be forced to turn back by the time they get to the Karstik Desert. Even I know better than to appear weak at that moment.

  Nobody moves.

  Finally, Chellin rubs his hands. He glares at Zivan. “She hurt me,” he says, his tone accusing. “She didn’t have to be a’doing that, now did she?”

  It is Rannyl who answers. “She is a thief. They don’t know how to be gentle. You are lucky she didn’t strangle you and leave you for dead.”

  Chellin’s eyes slither to and then away from Zivan. “She wouldn’t!”

  Rannyl shrugs. “What makes you think your life is worth so much?”

  “I ... I ...” The man is trying, but anyone could see that he knows full well that he has little claim to a place in posterity. He tries another tack. “Thieves don’t kill!”

  Rannyl simply raises one eyebrow.

  Chellin is coming to terms with his fate. He doesn’t like it. “I can’t be stopping the birds from coming!”

  “Of course you can. You can send most of them back.”

  “First Legate Belisar will kill me!”

  “He might. Unlikely. Just tell them that these here argents are too young to fly so far, so often. Tell them you have to go back to buy more experienced birds. If you only keep, say, fifteen birds with you, the cohort will not be able to go on. It will slow the main bulk of the soldiers down for the time it takes you to return to Astakarth. And ...” Rannyl’s face crinkles with amusement, “... you’ll be charging them for thirty-five new argents when the birds are yours all along. It isn’t likely no soldier will know they are the same ones.”

  Chellin looks to one side, his eyes calculating his best chance of survival, that of his family. We can all see that the extra money he will make is a powerful argument in our favor. He ponders his options carefully before giving a firm nod. “I be doing it.”

  Thurifer walks right up to him. “If you tell the Scoriats ...” he threatens. “Just the slightest hint ...”

  “I won’t sir, I won’t ...”

  “Good, because if you did, this thief here would be sent back with a dagger like this one and instructions to place it ...” he reaches up so that the point is exactly against Chellin’s throat, “... exactly here.”

  Chellin breaks into a sweat. “Honorable sir, I will do as I have been asked, I promise. I will obey the timeworn because the timeworn must be respected.”

  “Good.” Thurifer puts his dagger away, wiping it first on the edge of his embroidered tabard. “You are a true Inmuri. Your name shall be remembered.”

  “It shall? I mean, it will?”

  “Certainly. This expedition is of the utmost importance to the Inmuri. Your small contribution may mean the difference between success and failure. We shall not forget.”

  I see Zivan glance quickly over at Thurifer. These timeworn make many promises, her glance seems to say. Let’s see how many of them they keep.

  Nothing gets past Azrial. She puts up her chin. “The timeworn honor their vows.”

  Rannyl claps Chellin on the back. “You are a good man!”

  Chellin shuffles from foot to foot. “Can I go now, noble sirs?” he asks.

  “The thief will take you back, and watch you,” Thurifer tells him. “Always she will be watching you. Remember that. The timeworn are often closer to you than you think.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Chellin bows, his bald pate shining in the morning sun. He looks faintly ridiculous. I feel sorry for him. He was only doing his job, and now he is trapped, like a fly trying to escape amber.

  I suppose we all are.

  Zivan nods to the company and then signals for the elderly water hunter to follow her. Now that he is free of bindings, they make quick work of the terrain. Soon, the two of them, closely trailed by Torch, disappear.

  Rannyl stares at Quondam Azrial. “This is a bad business,” he says. “I know that man’s family. My wife was a second cousin of his.”

  “It will get worse before it gets better.”

  Rannyl grunts. “If it gets better.” He and Ballen move to another mushroom of rock. They have to leap the distance that separates it from ours.

  Ammeline has made her way to the front of the group. “Who cares what happens to one old man?” she says. “We should be worrying about what happens to all of us. Don’t you think, Doven?”

  Doven reddens. He isn’t used to girls like Ammeline talking to him. He nods eagerly. I am not sure he has even heard what she said.

  Linnith is looking from Ammeline to Doven, and her face is rigid. I didn’t think she wanted Doven at all, but from the expression on her face now, I realize I might have been wrong. She is angry. She tries to annul Ammeline’s influence. “Doven! Could you h
elp me over here?”

  But Ammeline is smiling to herself. She won’t let him escape that easily. “Oh!” She gives a gurgle, and touches one hand to the top of her tunic, pulling it down slightly to show off more of her cleavage. I notice that her breasts are quite large. So does Doven. He swallows.

  Ammeline gives a titter. “How silly of me! I have dropped my comb, and it has fallen down into the gulley. I shall have to climb all the way down!”

  Doven is already halfway into the gulley. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it for you!”

  “Will you? How sweet!” But Ammeline is staring Linnith in the eye. See, she seems to be saying, I only have to raise one little finger and he abandons you without a thought.

  It is Linnith’s turn to blush. She turns sharply away, so she misses the look Doven gives Ammeline when he brings her comb back for her. His eyes nearly fall down the gap between her breasts. His ears have gone pink.

  She knows how to reward him. “Why thank you, Doven! How sweet of you! It is nice to know there is somebody I can rely on around here.”

  “Anything at all,” he manages, his eyes almost on stalks.

  Ammeline preens. It has taken her so very little to snare him up and bind him to her.

  Linnith is beside me, staring out along the Abaloss Rift. She has a closed, determined look on her face. She is trying not to show emotion. “She should drop the sugary sweet act. It doesn’t suit her.”

  I have been trying to commit the whole thing to memory. Maybe I will have that effect on men when I get a body. If I ever get a body. I might not. I mean, I have a body of course, but when I was made they didn’t remember to put the curvy bits in. Mama always told me that those bits would come, but I have my doubts. I am still pretty skinny.

  It must be nice to be able to just twitch one small finger and have men falling over themselves to do whatever you want.

  “She is very beautiful,” I say.

  Linnith huffs. “If you like that sort of thing.”

  “Doven seems to.”

  “Oh! Doven! Well, he is dumb enough to like anything!”