Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy) (41 page)

“Fate is a strange creature. It pulls men – and women – into its wake. Sometimes it has to drag them, sometimes they swim to the surface. Look to where you are, Renir.”

Renir thought hard – in his dreams he was always on the surface, looking down. Was he floating? Was this fate, this dream? Every time, the same dream, the same…was it always so?

A little light dawned on him. He found the ice melting under his feet. His hands were warmer. Water now pooled around him.

“I am on top! I am swimming!”

“You are…now. Are you ready to relinquish a little control? Are you ready to know?”

“I am swimming on top of fate! It is just a sea!” he giggled to himself, not listening to her, his guardian under the sea.

“The sea is a harsh mistress, Renir. Sometimes it pulls you under, no matter how hard you swim. It can change in an instant…listen to me!”

The power of her voice drew Renir back from his fascination with the melting seas.

“I am listening. I understand, now. You were swallowed by fate, you held me above its currents, pushed me from the undertow…” Understanding was dawning on Renir. He strove to push it away, but the witch pushed him harder.

“It pulled me under, Renir. I would not have it do the same to you.”

“Then I will pull you free. Just show me your face.”

“It is for you to see.”

“Very well,” he said. He felt his stomach cramp with fear – strange in a dream, perhaps, but the chill (no longer freezing) he felt from the melting ice was real, his apprehension no less chilling than the snow falling atop the frozen sea…no less frightening than the face beneath the ice.

“Will I still be able to swim when I come below?”

“Do you want to?”

“Very much. I am afraid to come down there.”

“It is just a matter of release. Men are often pulled below. Some men can make it to the surface again. I surrendered long ago, from birth. If you would, see me, know the past…understand your future.”

His stomach gripped him with bands of iron. What was it worth? Freedom from fate, or understanding the grand design, for surely there was a purpose…he had always lacked purpose, but would he be able to surface again, to breathe sweet air, to float?

Fear could pull a man under in the sea, he knew. It could leech strength from muscles, tighten a man’s chest.

Would he be ruled by fear? He never had. Now he knew.

And the sea was suddenly fluid again. He took a deep breath and plunged below.

He took her in his arms, her face swimming in the currents. He felt the tug of the water, pulling him deeper, but he kicked out with all his strength. It tried, he could feel it. It was like hands grasping at his shins, dragging, immensely powerful. But he was waking…waking…

And as his eyes opened, he was smiling. He had brought her smile with him, into the waking world.

“I take it this dream was a good one?” said Drun, watchful eyes boring into Renir’s.

“I think it was,” said Renir. “I have brought a friend back…”

Drun smiled, and then the world shifted with a terrible crack. The ground shook wildly, and Renir plunged through the sudden rend in the ice with a scream. The tent fell away into the crevasse, tumbling down the drop of forty feet, and the other men were taken five feet away on the other side. Renir held on, over the gap. His toes sought for purchase, his fingertips gripping the sharp edge with rapidly failing strength.

“Renir!” Drun cried, throwing himself flat on the ice, grasping Renir’s wrists.

Drun pulled with all his strength, but he was an old man, and Renir had packed on muscle over the last few months. His hands could not hold the younger man. His fingers were slipping, as were Renir’s, their grasp on ice slipping, until he only held on by his fingertips…then Drun began to slide toward the gaping tear in the ice. Renir turned from Drun’s face, looking down at the drop. He could not survive the fall, and even if he could, he would never leave the bottom. He felt all the fear he had never felt then, in one moment. His bladder loosened, and he had a moment’s happiness at the sudden warmth it brought.

Then he screamed again, only now noticing the shouts of alarm from the other men, as a massive, shaggy white face loomed over Drun’s shoulder, seeming to leer at him, with huge eyes and fearsome teeth.

Drun turned and everything happened at once. His grip gave way, Renir felt the sudden lurch of gravity’s grip on his insides, and a giant clawed hand caught his wrist in an unshakeable grip, dragging – almost throwing him onto the solid surface. He landed with a thump, his teeth clacking together painfully.

The beast reared, at least seven feet tall. Renir scrabbled back on his heels, sure he was going to be eaten. The beast merely looked at him, and then at Drun. Shorn had leapt the crevasse and stood before Renir, prepared to fight, if necessary, to the death for his friend.

“No!” Drun shouted forcefully, holding out his hands in a gesture of peace.

Stupid old man! Thought Renir…but the beast was making some kind of gestures, and Drun hands were shifting, too. The beast nodded its head, warily eyeing Shorn, and now Wen who had taken up a place beside his old pupil.

“It is friendly,” called Drun. The ground shifted again and Shorn stumbled.

The beast seemed unaffected by the grumbling ice beneath it. Renir’s relief was evident.

“What is it?”

Drun turned his attention from the monster, his hands moving before he did so, to Renir, and the other warriors.

“It is a Terythyrian – it has no verbal language, but communicates with gestures. It does not understand us, either, but its signs are similar to a race I have encountered before. I had my suspicions, but this confirms it. Everyone – meet Icewalker.”

“Well, thank it, I suppose…” said Renir, somewhat unsure of himself. He stood, rubbing some life back into his hands.

Drun translated. The beast roared, making Renir jump, but he stilled himself. He trusted Drun, even if he did not trust this creature.

Drun laughed, and his hands flew in strange shapes, while the beast watched. Then both their hands were making patterns in the air, as if deep in silent conversation.

“They have seen our enemies,” Drun said, his voice taking on a serious tone. “Our enemies are theirs. They, too, have suffered at the hands of the Protectorate. They will help us. Gather up your things. We are leaving.”

“Where are we going?”

“They will show us the way, and take us there. Their warriors will accompany us…look to the horizon.”

They looked, and there were hundreds of the shaggy white creatures, mere outlines in the snow, on the horizon.

*

Chapter Seventy-Three

The Terythyrians were tireless. Renir had been bounced and jounced all the way across the land, through plains, leaping across rends in the ground and ice, across rocky escarpments and around ravines
where water had once run free.
He had picked up some simple hand signals from Drun, but despaired of ever learning more – the language was complex and largely incomprehensible.

The Terythyrians knew of the wizard they hunted, too. He wondered at their history. He longed to know from where their kind hailed, what secrets they knew. From what he could gather their race was ancient, but they would not tell more. They would not say how they knew of the wizard. But if the wizard was a creature of myth, their memories must be long indeed to remember so far into the past.

“Some things are not meant for the knowing,” the voice in his head told him sternly. It was an ever present companion. Sometimes he wished for the loneliness of his own thoughts again, but she was now warm, where once she had seemed a harridan. He was beginning to understand that there had always been a purpose.

He had a purpose. He marvelled at it. For so long on this journey he had thought himself just a part, a small cog in a great wheel. Now it turned out he had a fate. No longer blown, he would forge his own path. How, he did not know, but he was learning all the time.

Now he watched his companions with new eyes. He watched their new allies in awe since his awakening. There was so much to learn. And learn, and grow, he must.

As the week past, the voice in his head spoke to him. He grew to love her a little, even if he did feel fear at the prospect of his own, personal quest. So much to do.

But he was committed on a course. His blood called to him. His land called to him. Suddenly he was aware of how much he missed Sturma, how much he loved the land he grew in, and how it took for him to leave that land to learn his destiny, his future, and the power of his blood.

He would be forged on foreign plains. He had to know of the world. That was his lot. To bring his land together, to hold strong. There would be a future. When the wizard awoke, it would not be the end, but a new beginning.

So he watched, and he listened. He learned much in that week. When he spoke, he learned to do so within his head. Drun questioned him, but he was not ready to share yet. He bounced, he rode the Terythyr’s back, he followed.

When the time came, the voice told him, following was a good lesson. One had to know how to follow in order to lead.

The immensity of it humbled him. One must know how to be humble to recognise hubris, the voice warned him, and he listened. On the way he discovered something else amazing. He knew love. He loved the voice, in a way he never had in life. Without the bonds of flesh binding her, and his eyes, understanding blossomed, and love grew. If only, he mused in a secret part of his mind, his wife had been so forgiving when she had been flesh and blood.

*

Chapter Seventy-Four

The mountain was falling down. The ground shook under his feet, and Klan, for all his power, could not stop it. An avalanche of rock had fallen to ground in the last quake, tumbling down the side of the mountain like a flowing river, some boulders as large as a man, snows in great waves pushing the rock forward.

He fumed in peace. He had lost base camp. Not a trace of them remained. Yet he could not take out his frustration on a mountain. Even he could not move the earth, bring back life, or hold back an avalanche. So he fumed in peace, his eyes leaking red light, but he could control himself to a greater degree now. He no longer lost his temper, or killed i
n a fit of pique
.

Instead he willed himself calm, blinked and closed his eyes. The messenger before him was not quaking, but Klan read fear in his face, in the set of his shoulders. But he would not burn him. He recognised that the soldier was no more at fault than himself.

Oh, but he longed to lash out with his ascendants power, to burn the soldier to a crisp, to drink in his pain, fuelling greater feats, to burn all his men and raze the mountains flat, melt the ice and set the world on fire…but that was the blight talking. Klan could control it. It was his power, his to wield. He would not be a tool for the blight. He could not afford a lapse. He had already lost a hundred men to the shaking mountains and the quaking lands.

Perhaps the land
quaked from fear of him?

He permitted himself a small smile. The soldier, misinterpreting that smile, began to sweat, despite the frigid air in the tent. Klan needed no heat. He burned with an inner fire.

“Leave me,” he said, and closed his eyes lest the sight of the soldier infuriated him beyond control.

He just needed some time alone. Some time to calm himself. The tent glowed red. He breathed deeply and pushed himself inside. Searching, searching the bone archive, as he often did. He found comfort, a kind of peace in the hard letters scorched onto his skeleton. The flowing words calmed him, the hunt, a hunt for knowledge. Somehow it soothed him. He did not know why. Mostly he found himself soothed by taking life, by striping a face from bone, or staring at his delegation in his quarters in Arram.

Every thinking being needed a break from their work.

The ground rumbled beneath its covering of ice, but it did not bother Klan. He was insensible to the going on of the world for a moment in time.

Blinking, the light extinguished itself, and he returned to the real world, but an instant spend with his bone archive, and he felt refreshed.