The Mountains Rise

  “Ooohhh!” groaned Tyrion. “How do you learn to read something like that?”

  “It helps that we are born with the knowledge,” observed Lyralliantha who had been silent until that point. “Reading is generally all that the children of the She’Har do. It is rare for anyone other than an adult to attempt to create a new composition.”

  By adult, she meant a ‘tree’ of course. Considering the lengthy contemplation that had to go into constructing one of their compositions, he could easily understand why only someone with the time and patience of a thousand year old tree would attempt it. Still, it all fit with what he had already learned of their race. Knowledge and wisdom were for the adults, the trees; the children were supposed to make do with what they were given at birth, until such time as they were able to join ‘adult’ society. Their writing system reflected that, being in no way suited to the purposes of fast moving and short lived creatures like humans—or the children of the She’Har.

  Byovar continued teaching, giving him a list of symbols to try and memorize, but Tyrion’s attention was distracted at that point. He found himself staring at the list after the male She’Har had left, wondering if it would help him with his fight at the end of the month.

  Probably not, he concluded.

  “Are you ready to play for me?” asked Lyralliantha, “or do you need to rest for a time?”

  Sighing, he found his cittern and made himself ready to play.

  “Will you go over the last part of your trip?” she asked, referring to his goodbye with Kate.

  “Not yet, not today. Let me play you something that reflects a happy day in childhood,” he told her. “Something light and happy.”

  She did not object, and he let his mind and his fingers drift with his mind, sweeping them into a land of endless summer. A place where children lived under blue skies and chased rabbits while dogs ran with them in a never ending dance of chaotic joy.

  Chapter 46

  Tyrion checked his stone regularly the next day, but it showed only the faintest hint of dimming. It was still nearly as bright as when he had first empowered it.

  It was clear to him that written symbols, as well as spoken words, had the ability to greatly enhance the strength and duration of magic, but he knew there was something fundamental he was missing; some extra component that gave She’Har spellweaving its permanence, as well as its vastly superior durability in the face of opposing aythar.

  If I can’t figure that out, I’m going to have a hard time beating something that can create a shield I can’t even scratch.

  Mentally reviewing his fight with Syllerond, he knew that he hadn’t gotten lucky, he had beaten his foe with better timing and superior experience. If Syllerond had been a good fighter though, the outcome would have been far different. According to what Lyralliantha had told him, he would not have that sort of advantage this time.

  He spent his free time studying the spellwoven canopy. At one point he made another attempt to destroy it, this time using the wooden warden’s sword he had taken with him to Colne. First he etched the words ‘razor sharp’ along both sides of the blade, and then he marked the edges with fine lines. When he was ready, he sent his will into the blade while uttering the words, ‘be sharp’.

  I really feel stupid creating magic while uttering phrases in plain Barion, he thought. It made him feel a bit like a kid playing at being a magician.

  “Except this magic works,” he noted, studying the intensely sharp aythar that had formed around his wooden blade. It was several times denser and more lethal feeling than the blades he normally created around his arms. It should cut through almost anything.

  Bracing himself, he took a hard swing at one of the supporting pillars of the canopy.

  The magic on his sword shattered, and he felt a numbing shock run up his arm from the impact. It felt as though he had struck a boulder with a stick. The only improvement he could claim was the fact that he got no backlash. Since he had released his grip on the magic he put on the sword before using it against the spellweaving he didn’t suffer the shock when it came apart.

  That will make it easier to experiment, at least.

  He had no better luck the rest of the day, however, and it was almost a relief when Byovar and Lyralliantha appeared for his lessons in Erollith.

  ***

  That evening, when he had finished playing, Lyralliantha stayed behind him. She let her hands fall from his temples, and now they rested on his shoulders while she leaned forward, putting her weight on his back.

  He kept still, unsure of her intention. It was rare for her to continue such physical contact without some express reason.

  Her hair fell forward, drifting past his face and tickling his cheek, and he heard her let out a long sigh. He could feel the warmth of her body through his thin shirt, and her closeness was becoming increasingly distracting.

  Why does she smell so…

  He clamped down on that thought; clenching his jaw and wrenching his mind away from the path it had been traveling. Lyralliantha’s physical proximity irritated him—that was all.

  As if sensing his change in mood she pulled away, withdrawing. “Thank you for the music,” she said.

  “I do as I must.”

  If his curt reply hurt her she did not show it. “I think I am coming to understand, in some portion at least, what it is like to be human,” she answered.

  You haven’t got a damned clue, he responded silently. “I doubt such knowledge will be highly regarded,” he observed.

  Lyralliantha closed her hand, pulling it close to her chest as she replied, “It is important to me.” It was unusual for her to display any type of nonverbal cues while speaking. It was also odd for her to put emphasis on a personal pronoun such as “me”. The She’Har were proud of their ability to distance themselves from personal concerns.

  It was as if she was pretending to be human.

  Her clumsy acting angered him. It’s bad enough to be kept as a dog, but to have her pretending to ‘bark’ and trying to emulate true emotions is insulting. It’s a mockery.

  “If you’re done with me, I’d like to rest now,” he told her with ice in his words. He had no fear of insulting her. The She’Har cared little for subtext or inflection.

  She stared at him for a moment, as if thinking, before she replied, “I have news you will want to hear.”

  He faced her, giving his full attention, but said nothing.

  “The elders have granted my request for a delay. You have twenty-seven days before your match will be held,” she said.

  “Oh,” he commented dully. He hadn’t realized that the matter hadn’t been decided yet. It would have been a bad surprise if they had told her he that had to fight in just a few days. “Did you ask them about clothing?” he questioned.

  “Yes,” she nodded. “They did not like the idea. You will be required to fight as you have in the past, naked.”

  “That hardly seems fair,” argued Tyrion. “They get to create this thing with any sort of weapons or armor they want, but I have to go in bare-assed.”

  “You will both be allowed to fight only with what you were born with,” said Lyralliantha.

  “I didn’t get to choose my body, but they get to choose theirs.”

  “They will not bend on this,” she told him.

  “It sounds as if we have nothing more to talk about then,” said Tyrion.

  ***

  The next week passed quickly as Tyrion fell into a cycle of activities. Each morning he rose and ate before studying, first Erollith with Byovar, and then spellweaving in private. He had some help from Lyralliantha with the spellweaving. She was willing to produce anything he asked to see, but none of it seemed to help. He could perceive the fabric and structure of what she created down to a miniscule level that even the She’Har were incapable of seeing, but he couldn’t replicate what she did.

  He also failed to find any way to damage or destroy one of their spellweavings, and as the days passed
, he became increasingly less hopeful about his chances against the Krytek. Without a way to get past its defenses or defend himself against its attacks, his options for winning were vanishingly few. It would come down to him creating an environment that it couldn’t survive in, but it would be impossible to keep his opponent within such an area when it could destroy any confinement he could create.

  The only other possibility was that it might make a fatal mistake.

  Counting on something like that is just asking to lose.

  He spent his afternoons exercising and practicing the skills he had already learned, as well as expanding them in new ways. One of the first problems he encountered was the discovery that while spoken words could in fact enhance his magic’s effectiveness, they also made it easier for him to accidentally produce effects when he was simply talking. It was a habit he couldn’t afford to develop.

  His answer to that was to create his own language—well, it wasn’t really a language. Studying Erollith, he had a notion as to why the She’Har used a written form of language that used unique symbols for each word. He reasoned that at some point in the distant past they had learned to use their writing to create magic as he was doing, and for that purpose, using a single symbol for a concept or idea made it much easier to enhance something.

  With a phonetic alphabet, such as Barion used, each letter had no intrinsic meaning, other than a sound. The result was that a collection of letters had to be written to create a word that held any meaning, and meaning was what was needed to reinforce the purpose given to aythar.

  So Tyrion followed in what he thought was their footsteps, but instead of using Erollith, which seemed excessively cumbersome, he created new words and symbols for his own use. He began with simple and practical concepts, things such as ‘fire’, ‘water’, ‘force’, ‘sharp’, anything he had found a use for previously. In each case, he made up his own nonsense word to represent it and then created his own written symbol.

  Since the first things he found a need to use in that manner tended to be the most common, he made their vocalizations and written symbols as short, simple, and straightforward as possible. Then he drilled them into his mind, practicing to make their meaning as intrinsic to his thoughts as their counterparts in Barion were.

  “What are these odd things you keep scrawling all over your platform?” asked Lyralliantha one evening.

  “New symbols I’ve been making for myself,” he answered.

  “Why?”

  “I’ve been practicing using them to enhance my magic,” he explained.

  “Would it not be easier to use your own language, or even ours, rather than create something new?”

  “I tried that at first, but it makes it too easy for me to make a mistake. This way I have a separate set of symbols in my mind that I associate with using aythar. If I use one of our normal languages, I start getting in the habit of using magic while I’m communicating,” he said.

  Her aura flickered with emotion for a moment. “You have an idea—something that will enable you to win?”

  He looked downward, “No. At one point I thought I might, but this won’t do it.”

  She frowned, “Then why do you continue?”

  “It feels important,” he said with a shrug. “Maybe it will lead me to an idea, maybe it won’t, but I can’t help but feel that it’s important somehow.”

  Chapter 47

  The next day something different happened. Lyralliantha appeared that morning, not with Byovar, but with Thillmarius beside her.

  The sight of the black-skinned, gold-haired Prathion sent involuntary shivers down Tyrion’s spine as his body remembered the ‘punishment’ sessions the She’Har male had given him over the past five years. His shoulders slumped, and his head looked downward as his previous ‘teacher’ drew closer, only the memory of Amarah and the anger that came with it, enabled him to straighten his back and look the Prathion squarely in the eye.

  “Thillmarius has brought an interesting proposal to me, Tyrion,” began Lyralliantha, “but I have not made a decision yet. I thought perhaps I would hear your thoughts on it.” There was a complex mixture of hope and trepidation in her aura, as though she was glad of the news but anxious as well.

  Tyrion nodded but did not reply, waiting for them to continue.

  “There may be a way to avoid the upcoming arena battle,” she said, getting to the heart of the matter.

  “I thought the Illeniels stood to gain a lot of shuthsi from that battle,” observed Tyrion.

  Thillmarius entered the conversation then, “I think that would be a terrible waste, baratt.”

  “Not for the Prathions, though,” noted Tyrion.

  The Prathion trainer shook his head, “You misunderstand me. I think it would be a waste for all of the She’Har. It is my belief that there is yet more we can learn from studying you. Placing you in a situation that will only force your premature death serves no one. You may not know this, but I have been following your progress here with great interest. Byovar has told me of your progress with Erollith, and Lyralliantha has amazed me with tales of your efforts to expand your abilities.”

  “I do not understand your interest,” said Tyrion with barely suppressed anger. He felt betrayed knowing that Lyralliantha had continued relaying information about him to the man who had once tortured and tormented him.

  Lyralliantha spoke then, “The Prathions have a great deal of shuthsi now. They have offered to compensate the Illeniels for what we would lose by calling off the arena match, with certain stipulations.”

  “It is obvious that you are still growing, wildling. Your progress has rekindled interest in the ancient humans. It is clear that we have missed something. I want to understand the differences between your kind and those we have reared here in captivity…” Thillmarius wasn’t done, but Tyrion interrupted him.

  “I am not particularly interested in helping you learn better methods for training your slaves,” he said abruptly.

  “This would profit you as well,” said the Prathion. “You would be treated well. No more punishments. Your restrictions would be modified, and we would allow you to breed as you wished.”

  “As I wished?”

  “Yes. We would want you to mate with particular individuals, but as a reward, we are willing to allow you to breed at will with any of the nameless in Ellentrea. I recall you were particularly attached to one before you came…”

  “You mean Amarah!?” Tyrion was standing now, the veins standing out in his neck and at his temples.

  “Well, obviously not that one,” said Thillmarius, “but you could cultivate any of the other females you wished. We could also allow you to make patrols back to your birthplace—occasionally. You could have almost anything you desire.”

  “And the arena?”

  “I don’t think we have anything left to gain by testing you further in that regard,” said the male She’Har.

  Lyralliantha put a hand on his shoulder, “You could live a long life, Tyrion.”

  “Why is he offering this?” he asked her directly. “How is he offering this? Won’t the other groves object?”

  “The Prathions have gained much shuthsi in recent years. Thillmarius has convinced his elders to bargain with the other groves to gain their approval. He feels you will benefit them for their investment,” she explained.

  “May I speak to you privately?” he said, glancing at Thillmarius.

  Lyralliantha gave the other She’Har an embarrassed glance. It was beyond the norm for a baratt to ask for privacy from one of the people.

  Thillmarius gave her an understanding look, “I do not mind. Take your time. I will wait at a distance. Call me when you are finished.”

  When he had gone, Tyrion gave her a harsh glare, “What does he stand to gain?”

  “You,” she said flatly.

  “Me?”

  “Yes,” she answered, “The price for this is my relinquishment of ownership to Thillmarius directly.”

&nbsp
; “Why would you do that?”

  “They have offered an immense amount of shuthsi…”

  “I know you don’t care about that,” he said, cutting her off.

  “You would live,” she said in an odd tone, her face reflecting a distant sadness.

  “If that’s what you truly care about, keep me and call off the fight yourself,” he told her.

  “I cannot. The deal was made with the elders; they won’t allow me to do so on my own. The only option is if the Prathions pay the shuthsi instead.”

  “How much do they have?”

  “More than all the other groves combined, now,” she stated.

  That was interesting. He hadn’t known they were that influential. In the past it had seemed that four of the groves were roughly equal in standing while the Illeniels had fallen on hard times. Now she indicated that the Prathions had risen far above the others. Something didn’t make sense. “When did they gain so much?”

  “While you were fighting,” answered Lyralliantha, “Over the past five years.”

  “But you were still my owner. The Illeniel Grove should have gained from my wins.” Now he was confused.

  “We did,” she agreed with a nod. “But the awarding of shuthsi is about more than simply who wins. Many wagers were placed on the matches. Thillmarius was wise. Using you, he eliminated the better contenders from the other groves, allowing the Prathions to do far better in the matches overall. He also bet wisely on your battles. The Illeniels gained much, but the Prathions gained far more.”

  “And now he’s willing to pay everyone off, just to get me?”

  She nodded again. “You would have a better life.”

  “My chances of a better life died long ago. I couldn’t bear the thought of him having control over me,” said Tyrion flatly.

  Lyralliantha’s eyes looked almost pained, “Don’t you want to live?”

  “Not like that. He only wants to use me for his own gain. I would rather die for your amusement than help him learn better ways to train his slaves.”