The Silent Tempest (Book 2)

On sudden impulse Kate spoke up, “Thank you.”

  Lyralliantha raised one brow before answering in perfect Barion, “What for?”

  “For keeping him alive.”

  “Do not thank me too soon,” said the She’Har. “He may have pushed things too far this time. I cannot shield him from the elders.”

  “The elders?”

  Lyralliantha turned, raising her arm in a sweeping gesture to indicate the massive trees that stood some fifty yards distant. The god trees at the edge were torn, limbs damaged and trunks canted slightly. They had been on the edge of the storm, but some of them had come close to being uprooted.

  “That wasn’t him,” insisted Kate.

  “Let us hope they believe that.”

  Listrius stepped forward, gesturing behind him. The krytek along the forest edge moved as one, encircling the group of humans. Two moved to either side of Tyrion. “Chain him,” commanded the lore-warden.

  “The collar isn’t enough?” asked Tyrion with a wry smile.

  “Not any longer,” said Listrius. The two krytek began spellweaving, creating long vine-like extrusions of magic that wrapped themselves around their captive’s arms, legs and torso. When they had finished, Tyrion could no longer move, his limbs were bound, physically and at a deeper level. His body had become rigid, locked into a straight stance; he might have fallen but the magic lifted him above the ground as well, maintaining his position.

  The spellweave reached into the heart of his being as well, caging the source of his aythar, the font of consciousness, and for a mage, power. It was an effort to speak, even though that freedom had been explicitly left to him.

  “Take the humans to Ellentrea,” ordered Listrius.

  “No!” argued Tyrion. “They don’t belong to the Prathions.”

  “It is not your decision, baratt. Do not test my patience, or I will have you punished,” said the lore-warden.

  Lyralliantha stepped forward, “It is my right to decide on their housing.”

  Listrius gave her a hard glare. “You are to be brought before the elders as well. They will decide your fate. Until then Thillmarius has offered to handle the humans for us.”

  “But…” she began.

  “I trust you will not force me to have you chained as well,” warned Listrius.

  Lyralliantha closed her mouth, bowing her head before answering, “No, lore-warden.”

  ***

  Dalleth entered the small hut, glancing down at the cold form of Gwaeri. To his experienced eyes the body had probably been dead for less than five or six hours. She must have killed him not long after he brought her back, thought the She’Har trainer.

  Haley stared at him from across the room, fear and something else showing in her features.

  Is that defiance? wondered Dalleth. The thought almost made him smile.

  “Did you do this?” he asked flatly.

  Haley turned her chin up at his question, “Yes.” There was no use in denying it.

  “It appears you have learned your lesson then,” said the trainer. “Remember it when you enter the arena again—tomorrow.” He stepped back outside, and then two wardens entered, moving to take Gwaeri’s body away. They gave Haley several curious glances before leaving, but said nothing.

  Chapter 16

  Tyrion floated in an empty abyss. The world was gone, along with his body. He was alone in the darkness, naked and vulnerable in a way that only an empty soul, bereft of flesh, could understand.

  It isn’t possible for this one to have done what was observed.

  The voice was purely mental, but it wasn’t his own. It was alien. The pattern and cadence of the thought was utterly foreign. It must have been one of the elders, thought Tyrion. He was surprised at himself for thinking. His own mind had been silent for an unknowable period. He had begun to wonder, in a nonverbal way, whether he still had thoughts, if that were possible.

  This was a place replete with contradictions.

  He is stronger than any of the children, or any one of us. That voice belonged to a different elder, but somehow Tyrion knew it was a Prathion.

  Tyrion was aware of a great number of them now, numbers beyond counting. They had stripped him bare and were examining him—dissecting and discussing him in some metaphysical realm where their minds met. What might have happened to his body he could only wonder, in this place it wasn’t important. This was a realm beyond bodies, or places, or perhaps even time.

  But he is not ‘that’ strong. No individual agent could have created such a storm, nor was any movement of aythar observed. That observation was from a Mordan elder.

  The fact still remains that it has occurred twice now, said an elder of Gaelyn.

  The Prathion elder spoke again, Three times if we include the volcanic disruptions that occurred in the Grove of Mordan.

  He was nowhere near that event. The latest voice was from a Centyr elder.

  But he dreamed of it, insisted another.

  The first voice spoke again. That only indicates the possibility of precognition. Such gifts have been seen before, responded the Centyr elder.

  In a technical sense all of the events could be explained with precognition. This came from a new voice, but Tyrion knew it was one of the Illeniels. How he could recognize them amongst the vast array of others, he was unsure.

  You do not seriously propose that the events were purely natural and he was merely timing his actions to match them? argued the Mordan elder.

  The Illeniel voice responded, We have no better explanation.

  His memory of the latest windstorm indicates deliberation. The human made a decision to enter a different state of mind before the storm occurred, said the Gaelyn elder.

  It is likely that the mental change occurred as a result of information passing from the present into the past. His mind may have folded, meeting itself at other points in his continuum as is consistent with our current theories regarding precognition, responded the Illeniel elder.

  The Prathion elder scoffed, Passing information to the past, such that he could time his arrival. The very idea is a paradox.

  Everything known about precognition is paradoxical, noted one of the Centyr.

  None of this negates the danger the baratt presents, whether these events were merely his taking advantage of future knowledge, or whether he is able to manipulate the environment via some unknown mechanism. We must decide how to proceed. The Gaelyn elder gave the impression of extreme practicality.

  The Illeniel elder spoke, He should be studied further. There is much we do not understand, which is in itself a rare occurrence. We might gain knowledge that could allow for a better defense against the great enemy.

  Our current defense is sufficient, said the Mordan elder. The risk he presents is too great.

  No defense is perfect, replied the Gaelyn elder. The Kionthara might become corrupted. We cannot know how they will endure, and we have not found a new refuge to harbor us if they fail.

  The gate-guardians are flawless, there is no weakness in our creations, said the Centyr elder with a sense of indignation.

  He must be destroyed, reiterated the Mordan elder.

  Tyrion could feel a wave of assent coming from many of the elders. Their decision seemed inevitable.

  No!

  He recognized that mind immediately. It was Lyralliantha and now that he had heard her, he could almost feel her presence beside him.

  Silence, daughter, it is not your place to comment here, remonstrated the most senior of the Illeniel elders.

  One of the Centyr spoke, The examination has shown her to be suspect as well. Her memories reveal complicity. She has hidden things that should have been reported.

  She is one of the people, said the Gaelyn elder.

  You just suggested the gate guardians could be corrupted, yet you would ignore the possibility in our children? questioned the Centyr.

  We alone will decide the disposition of our children, said the Illeniel elder with authority.
r />   But you cannot extend such a provision to the animal, insisted the Mordan elder. He presents a threat to all of us. He will be destroyed.

  A feeling of agreement came from the others, including the Illeniel elders.

  No, if he dies, then I die as well, came Lyralliantha’s thought. Your decision to kill him will end my life also.

  Tyrion could feel the weight of the collected minds of the elder She’Har shifting, bearing down on her.

  The child is defective.

  She should be terminated as well.

  She was chosen to become a lore-warden.

  Dispose of the child.

  The chorus of voices came from different groves, but the Illeniel elders raised a mutual feeling of opposition. The most senior of them gave it voice, Stop. Let us analyze this. The child is valuable to us. The next message was directed purely at her, Why have you said this, child?

  Because it is the truth, she answered.

  There is no logic in your words, said the Illeniel elder. We have honored your eccentricities in the past in order to grow from whatever knowledge you may have gained. The human will be terminated, and you will remain. Do not embarrass us further by arguing against your own survival.

  He is my kianthi.

  A shocked silence ensued. That is not possible, daughter.

  It is the truth, Lyralliantha replied firmly.

  He is not one of the She’Har, not one of the people—he is a baratt. You have become deranged, said the Illeniel elder.

  Kianthi are chosen, said another of the Illeniels, and we have not chosen him. Kianthi are no longer useful or necessary.

  Tyrion could feel the power of her determination as she responded, I chose him.

  Ridiculous, children do not choose. Kianthi are chosen by the elders.

  I chose him, she said again.

  He is not She’Har. He cannot produce children. Baratti cannot be kianthi, insisted another of the Illeniel elders.

  She must be terminated, said one of the others.

  Kill me if you must, but do not harm her or my children, said Tyrion, raising his inner voice for the first time, shouting at the void.

  Chaos was the result.

  It was listening? Impossible!

  How could he be aware? His mind was fully suppressed.

  A deluge of similar thoughts flew around Tyrion, giving him the sense of being battered mentally. Eventually they slowed and resolved into a single question.

  Why would a baratt give itself for our child? said one of the Illeniels.

  He is the one! said another. Her words and his actions have proven it.

  He is my kianthi, said Lyralliantha once more. Neither of us can exist without the other.

  The voices of the Illeniel elders rose in a tumult as they argued over her words, battering at Tyrion’s mind. He fought to maintain his balance, but it was no use. The weight of their thoughts fell on him, and he found oblivion creeping over him, smothering his awareness.

  Silence it…

  ***

  Tyrion awoke to bird song. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in patterns that were already familiar to him. He lay in Lyralliantha’s bed, high up in the tree that served as her home. He had slept there many times, though not as often in recent months. He had begun sleeping in the more traditional bed in his stone house once the bedroom had been finished.

  He turned his head, but he already knew he was alone. Lyralliantha wasn’t there.

  “What happened?” he said aloud.

  A quick assessment told him that his body was whole and sound. Better than he remembered, even his scars were gone; the only marks remaining on his body were the tattoos he had placed there deliberately. It was a relief to see those still there. He would have felt naked without them. Clothes he could live without, but the enchantments he had engraved on his skin were both armor and weapon to him.

  A She’Har male was approaching, walking up the trunk of the great tree in the languid casual fashion that was normal for them.

  Byovar, he noted, recognizing the Illeniel lore-warden almost immediately.

  Sitting up, he greeted the lore-warden with a nod while reaching for his trousers. His clothes had been removed at some point while he was unconscious. “Good afternoon, Byovar.”

  “Tyrion,” said the silver-haired She’Har.

  “I seem to be missing some time,” noted Tyrion. “It was turning dark when I arrived.”

  “That is why I have come,” said Byovar. “The elders felt you would need a guide when you awoke.”

  The word “elders” brought flashes of memory back to Tyrion, and with them uncomfortable thoughts. “Where is Lyralliantha?” he asked with some concern.

  “She is still conversing with the elders,” informed Byovar. “You should not expect to see her for some time.”

  “But she is unharmed?”

  Byovar nodded.

  “Where are my children, and the woman I returned with?”

  “Thillmarius is caring for them in Ellentrea,” said the She’Har.

  Tyrion finished with his trousers and hurriedly pulled on his boots before grabbing his shirt and leather jerkin. “I don’t think the term “caring” should be applied to anyone kept in the slave camps.” He stood and made his way to the trunk, preparing to descend.

  Byovar looked amused at his statement but didn’t bother to argue the point. He contented himself with following the human. “Perhaps you should let me fill you in on the present before you leave,” he said wryly.

  “I would prefer to move while we talk,” said Tyrion.

  “Are you not hungry?”

  In fact, now that he was on his feet again, Tyrion had noticed a terrible void in his belly. He doubted he had ever been so famished in his entire life. There was also another pressing urgency. He gave Byovar an uncomfortable glance, “If you’ll pardon me for a few minutes…”

  The male She’Har nodded politely and waited while Tyrion moved back out along the platform to the special area set aside for such needs. The limbs and leaves moved around to provide a modicum of privacy as soon as he was within, a change that Lyralliantha had made years ago to accommodate his odd need for seclusion while managing his bodily needs.

  Tyrion’s urine was the color of dark cider. That doesn’t seem warranted, he thought. Some injuries had done similar things to him in the past, but normally only when his kidneys had been bruised, or he had been unconscious for long periods.

  “I need some water,” he admitted to Byovar when he returned.

  The She’Har had already poured a cup from the pitcher Lyralliantha kept on a small table near the bed. He handed it to Tyrion. “Come with me, I have food waiting at my platform.”

  Tyrion drank the water in gulps, surprised at his thirst once his lips had tasted it. Pausing, he replied, “I really need to check on the others…”

  “A few more hours, or even another day won’t make much difference,” advised the lore-warden.

  Tyrion frowned, “How long has it been?”

  “A little over a month—five weeks to be exact,” answered Byovar.

  He was aghast, and his face showed it.

  “Time moves differently for the elders,” explained the She’Har. “To converse with them, your thoughts must be slowed to a pace that will enable communication. A discussion of a few hours for us can take weeks when you speak to them.”

  “Wouldn’t it make more sense for them to speed up to our pace? What if there were an emergency?”

  Byovar smiled, “Few things are truly an emergency for the elders. Most small matters are left to us, or to the krytek. If something truly disastrous occurred they might do as you say, but it hasn’t happened for ages.”

  A few things made sense now. Lyralliantha had spoken to the elders before, and it had often been days before she returned. If what Byovar said was true, then those had been extremely short exchanges. Considering that the She’Har almost never found a good reason to lie, he had no doubt about the truthfulne
ss of the lore-warden’s revelation.

  Thinking about it, something else occurred to him, “It could be a while before Lyralliantha’s conversation is done then.”

  Byovar nodded.

  “I guess I should eat. Then I would like to visit Ellentrea,” said Tyrion with some resignation. He hadn’t wanted Kate or his children to wind up in the slave camp, but a few more hours wouldn’t make much difference, and he was starving after all. Without Lyralliantha’s presence he wasn’t certain if there would be any way for him to get them out in any case.

  Byovar gave him a sidelong glance as they walked, “You have changed, Tyrion.”

  “How so?” asked Tyrion, hoping he wouldn’t have to explain his missing scars or his regrown ear. He didn’t have answers for those questions.

  “Your patience has grown,” said the lore-warden. “When you first came to us you would not have accepted such delays so easily.”

  “It isn’t patience as much as pragmatism,” said Tyrion. Remembering his actions in Colne, he wouldn’t have described them as the decisions of a patient man. He had become practical to a fault. Patience, violence, negotiation, extortion, or even sexual persuasion, all of these were merely tools to an end.

  “You have become like us in many ways,” said Byovar.

  More than I would like, and enough that I will make the She’Har regret it, thought Tyrion.

  Chapter 17

  The food was delicious, consisting of a variety of vegetables, some fruit, and, of course, the ever present “calmuth”. Calmuth was the fruit produced by the god trees, light-gold in color it was mildly sweet and moderately juicy, with a taste that was reminiscent of a pear but less distinctive. The fruit of the god trees was unique in that it could serve as the sole source of sustenance for their children, although they usually combined it with other foods to avoid boredom.

  It also contained a substance that suppressed the growth of the ‘seed-mind’. The children of the She’Har were human in a purely physical sense, but they were born fully developed and containing an extra organ within their bodies, the seed-mind. The seed was the true product of their species, the human body was merely a vessel, somewhat like the flesh of a more ordinary fruit which existed purely to protect the seeds within it.