Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy) (22 page)

“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.”

*

Chapter Forty-One

Tirielle awoke to find the sheets tied in a sweaty bundle around her legs. The air felt heavy with moisture, but it brought no relief from the heat. Her sleep had been tortured, voices in her head unlike the dreams she often had. She could not remember what they had said, but her sleep had been fractured because of them. She had a vaguely disturbing feeling that the voices had been real. Perhaps the Seer had been dreaming. She wondered if she could hear the Seer’s dreams as she heard her voice in her mind, those wise tones so unlike a child’s. She shuddered at the thought. Her compassion for the Seer, who had been badly used all her life, was proportionate to the fear she felt at knowing what the girl knew. To see the worlds that the girl had seen, to know even a fraction of the future – it was enough to terrify even the bravest of women. Tirielle did not think she was brave. It would destroy her, she knew, to see what the Seer saw, even for a moment.

She rose, untangling herself, and splashed her face with water from the washbowl. The water was warm, but it washed away the night sweat from her brow. She took a robe from the ornate wardrobe, pulling it around her narrow shoulders, and closing and locking the door behind her headed down the back stairs to the washrooms. A bath would sooth her, and perhaps hot water would make the sticky, ill-mannered air seem more bearable.

There were only small patched of light on the back stairs, leading to the baths. No breeze could sneak through those slits, and the air was heavy with heat and damp and dust motes dancing in the sullen air.

Reminded of her time in captivity, chills crept up on her. Goosebumps stood proud on her arms as she stared at the slits. Once she had been soiled, and naked, suffered indignity and sometimes almost crippling despair – and yes, she admit freely, if only to herself – fear. She wondered how the dissidents that the Sard had released from their bondage were faring in their studies with the
rahken
s. She hoped their sanctuary still held unbroken against the might of the Protectorate. They would always be hunted, as she was, but she hoped that one day, with the
rahken
s aid, that the dissidents would rise against her hated enemy. Perhaps they would know a life of freedom. If she could, she would make the land free.

Lofty ideals, she knew, and for a fugitive perhaps impossible, but she was far from defenceless. She had powerful allies, now. Revenge against the Protectorate was still distant, but one day…one day she would see them destroyed, or she would die in the attempt.

She remembered the fear she had felt, chained with Roth in that long forgotten prison, on her way to the inquisitors. Never again. I will die before I submit to their twisted will again.

So much had come of that journey. At its end, she had found the Sard, and the Seer. Such power apart could only multiply now that they were together. Would that they could stay that way.

She shook herself from her reverie, and once more her sandals, wood and straw, clacked loudly on the stairs, audible even above the midday hum of a city breathing.

She pulled the left hand door open – the baths in this city were divided for men and women – and entered into the steamy room. To know that this heat would wash her clean was a relief. Nodding to the attendant, a young girl still in her teens, she disrobed and sank into the luxurious heat of the fresh bath the girl indicated. Coals burned underfoot, Tirielle knew from her own, long forgotten estates, in the belly of the inn, heating water that was pumped through copper pipes to the bath. She gave it no more thought, but ducked her head under the water, sluicing away the sweat of the day.

Rising, she stilled her mind as she had been taught. She felt calmness descend on her, her doubts and fears falling away, tethered to her but drifting at a great distance. Far enough that she no longer had to think through their haze, far enough that she could think without passion and confusion.

She finally took note of things she had not had the time to notice before. The steam, the delicious warmth of the water, so different to the warmth of the muggy air of the city. She had the baths to herself, and she intended to make full use of the fact. There was no rush, no duty. She could do nothing until evening fell. Time was precious, now that events were rushing toward their climax. There would be little time to relax in the days to come.

Few bathed at midday, being about their business. But her business was with the night, dusty tomes to be pored over by candlelight, with no one to ask questions of them. Last night had not been a success, though. She and j’ark had spent the night, till the dawn chased them back to their beds, searching fruitlessly. The Seer assured them the knowledge was in the Library of the Secessionist, and she had to believe in her. But where?

They had studied a mere portion of a fraction of a decade of the writings of one era. The search had been narrowed, and for that she was grateful, but how were they to find even a rumour when the world was so wide? There were treatise on the origins of the nation, in which the hand of Protocrat editors was evident and she had gleaned little knowledge she could trust, journals of politicians and travellers, one bardic tale written in the old tongue of Beheth before the Cusp had been unified with Lianthre, too many scrolls which were behind cases – special permission was required to view these documents – too many epic poems of that era, some historical in nature but too vague by far to be of any real use, a pictographic, hand-drawn account of a cataclysm rumoured at in the past, depicting mountains rising from the land and a darkening of the suns, one moon covering one sun in an eclipse, leaving only a halo of light from one sun. It seemed to be the smaller that was covered. She attached no significance to it. Eclipses were common, the last having been twenty-three years ago, when she had been born. Her father had told her of it, perhaps to make her feel special. At the time she was sure it would have worked, she had longed for his approval above all else, and he had given it, every day until his murder.

She sighed and took the soap to her legs, lathering each in turn, then washing the suds clear in the hot water.

None of the documents she had examined gave any mention of contact with lands other than her own. There
was talk of an exodus to the we
st, but no discussion of how this was achieved. If she was to travel to this land, this Teryithyr, she needed means. She knew of no ship which could travel such a distance, nor hold fresh food for long enough to make such a journey. But it seemed Sia had other plans for them, anyway.

Tonight, they would move on to weightier tomes, historical accoun
ts from before the current age
. J’ark had discovered a section of the library which predated the original construction. The stone was different, the flagstones underfoot rang with a strangely hollow thrum as booted feet str
ode on them
. Tirielle and j’ark had spent a moment examining the floors and the walls, even the ceilings, while the readers had been in other parts of the library. They had found no secret passageways, but such could easily be disguised behind one of the worn racks of shelves which covered the walls.

It was a ga
mble.
Tonight they would take candles and try to gain access to the old wing while the readers were otherwise occupied in their studies. They had not been watched last night. Tirielle thought it might be possible to explore undetected. If they were detected, the worst that could happen would be expulsion – but that would be bad enough. The Seer assured her the search was in the right location. It was enough to contend with, trying to find a mention of a history before history began, without having to break into the library, too.

She had no doubt the Tenthers would not be called in the event of a break-in, or even a theft. The librarians had no love of the Protectorate. The Protectorate were the enemies of learning. They loved schools and libraries, just as long as they could control what people took away with them.

How much had been lost? Tirielle wondered quietly to herself as she towelled her body and hair dry. What if their search was in vain, and the Protectorate had the knowledge safe in Arram, safe from human eyes, to guard until the return, when it would be too late for the people of Rythe, when the old ones would rule once again, harsher master than the Protectorate ever were.

If the Sard were to be believed – and she had no reason to suspect a lie – the return would mean slavery of a different kind, a subservience deeper than Lianthre had known for the last thousand years, pain and suffering on such a grand scale that the Protectorate would seem benevolent in comparison. What the Protectorate could gain from the return of such powerful masters, she could not comprehend. It was not for her to puzzle out. All that matter was to save the world from a deeper darkness, to keep it in the light. It was the Sard’s cause, and now it was hers. She was committed, to the end.

To be the Sacrifice? What could it mean, but her death? But what choice did she have other than to follow her road wherever it led? Was she fated to die in the end, before she could see the Protectorate tumble from power? Not if she could help it. She would watch, and learn, and when it came time for her to Sacrifice herself, she would…what? She switched herself mentally. There was no point in denying it, even in her own thoughts. If the destruction of the Protectorate took her own death, was she brave enough to pay the price?

She could only believe she was, for she still followed. If she was to die, she wished to do it well, and with purpose. If that was what was demanded of her, she would give it.

She surprised herself. She hadn’t thought on it for so long, she realised she had almost accepted it and forgotten what her quest meant for her. Now she faced it in her own mind, she felt as though an invisible burden had been lifted from her own shoulders. Faced with her own death, she felt a tumult of emotions – fear, foremost, but also anger that it should come to this. It crystallised her will. She tucked the anger away. If she could not be brave, at least she could be driven by rage. It was so much easier to maintain, in the face of all she had yet to do.

She left the bath behind feeling clean both inside and out. She was ready, for whatever might come.

*

Chapter Forty-Two

Night came all too swiftly. Tirielle still felt calm
on her way back to the library. E
ven the thick, too hot air of the night, the refuse smells drifting from the alleyways and canals, the stagnant water and the smells of decay washed over her unnoticed.

To
o
calm, she realised as she heard footsteps rushing toward them from a dark side street. She turned to see a dagger flying glinting in the lantern light, flipping end of end toward her chest. As she ducked j’ark dove in front of her, knocking the blade aside with the flat of his hand and tucking into a roll.

Four men rushed them.

Tirielle’s knives were in her hand before she could think to draw them. She slashed one man’s face, ducking a clumsy cudgel blow – she noted with a start the spike driven through the head of the club. These were no cutthroats. He overstepped, and she drove the dagger in her left hand into the back of his neck. He dropped like a stone. She whirled, ready to face the next man.