The Silent Tempest (Book 2) Read online

  In fact, in times past, on other worlds, the She’Har children had been born with bodies that were not human at all. The She’Har could tailor the bodies of their offspring to match their environment. The Krytek were an excellent example of that, for the father-trees often used varied forms from their history on other worlds to produce the short-lived soldiers that protected them.

  Calmuth served as the primary sustenance of the children of the trees, and it also kept their inner ‘seed’ from germinating. If calmuth became scarce, presumably from a lack of elder She’Har, or an overabundance of their children, then the seeds would begin to mature, the children would take root, and new elders would spring forth.

  As far as Tyrion knew, the calmuth had no ill effects on normal humans. He had been eating it for many years with no trouble, but he still yearned for a meatier diet. When he had the time to spare, he often hunted to satisfy his tastes.

  An odd question occurred to him, “How does this compare to the taste of the loshti?”

  Byovar’s brows shot up.

  “Lyralliantha told me that she was chosen to become a lore-warden,” he explained, to give his question some context.

  The lore-warden nodded in understanding, “I see, however I cannot remember the taste.”

  “But you had to eat it, correct, in order to become a lore-warden?”

  “Of course,” said Byovar, “but the experience that came immediately afterward drove trivial details, such as the taste of the loshti itself, from my mind.”

  “What was it like?” asked Tyrion.

  Byovar spread his hands wide, as if he were trying to encompass the world around them, “My world expanded. No, it exploded. The knowledge I gained was so much greater than that which I possessed before, that it shattered my previous self-conception, and when the process was over I felt as though I had been reborn.”

  “Because it filled your seed-mind with the information of the past?”

  “Not the seed directly,” corrected Byovar. “The loshti is designed to alter the working mind. Our seed-minds are passive, merely recording our experiences until the day that they germinate. The seed remains quiescent in our daily lives, except for the purpose of spell-weaving.”

  Tyrion frowned, “What would the loshti do in an ordinary human then?”

  Byovar’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “What you describe would be an abomination, a dead end.”

  “Dead end?”

  “The knowledge would die with the host, rather than passing to a new generation…” Byovar paused, searching for the words in Barion that would convey his meaning. “It would be like the burning of one of your libraries.”

  That was a new word for Tyrion. He might have thought the term originated in Erollith if it hadn’t been for the way Byovar had used it. “I’m not familiar with that word.”

  “Library?” asked Byovar, but then he understood. “I should have known better. Your kind have not had them since the great war between our races. It was a place of knowledge, where humans stored their collected wisdom. A much cruder method of preserving information than ours, but effective nonetheless. Humankind had thousands of years of history, science, and philosophy stored within them.”

  “And your people burned them?”

  “Yes and no,” said Byovar. “We did destroy many of them during the war, but when it was over, we preserved as much of the information that they contained as was possible. The She’Har learn from their enemies. The last remaining libraries were studied, and their useful knowledge recorded before they were demolished.”

  “That sounds like a simple ‘yes’ to me,” observed Tyrion.

  “Well the phrase ‘burning libraries’ is one I borrowed from your history. Humans regarded it as a great sin, but they made war upon each other in the past, before we came, and sometimes the conquerors would burn the library of the defeated as a means of destroying their past. What we did was different,” said Byovar.

  “In what way?”

  “We preserved the knowledge,” said Byovar, tapping his temple, “the parts we could understand at least.”

  “I thought your race was far superior,” said Tyrion sardonically.

  “In most respects, yes,” agreed Byovar, missing the sarcasm completely, “but your species was mechanistic in their search for understanding. While our science is superior, your race’s way of thinking was very foreign, making it difficult for us to grasp the finer points of many of your conceptual models.”

  “If you weren’t careful, Byovar, I might think you meant to compliment my kind.”

  The lore-warden ran his hand through his hair, smoothing it after a sudden breeze, “The war for this world was the hardest we ever won. We came close to losing, despite the fact that your kind was crippled by its inability to manipulate aythar. Humans were our second greatest enemy.”

  “Second greatest?” said Tyrion. “If we were the second greatest, how could this have been the hardest war you ever fought?”

  “Not fought, Tyrion,” corrected Byovar. “The war for your world was the hardest that we won.”

  “So the She’Har lost one?” That was the first he had ever heard of something like that.

  The lore-warden’s voice became more serious, “Almost.”

  Tyrion chuffed, “How do you almost lose a war?”

  “We are still alive, and we believe the great enemy cannot threaten us here. Someday we will find the means to defeat them and take back what was lost,” stated the She’Har with the utmost gravity in his tone.

  “It’s hardly a war if you aren’t fighting,” said Tyrion. “When was the last time you encountered this enemy?”

  “When we abandoned our last home, millennia ago, before we came here.”

  “That was a long time ago. Maybe they’ve forgotten your people.”

  Byovar’s cold eyes stared into the empty sky, “They do not forget.”

  ***

  Thillmarius smiled when he saw Tyrion enter the room. It was the same room he had once used to forcibly take samples from Lyralliantha’s wild human slave, and the sight of it still sent shivers down Tyrion’s spine.

  “I have looked forward to your visit,” said the Prathion She’Har. “I was pleased to hear that the elders had decided to continue your experiment.” Something approaching a genuine smile took shape on his lips.

  “My experiment?”

  “You are still alive,” said the lore-warden. “I regard that as a great success.”

  The Prathion trainer’s positive attitude irritated him. “Would you have me believe your opinion is part of the reason for my continued survival?” asked Tyrion.

  Thillmarius shook his head, “Not at all, it was Lyralliantha’s brilliance that saved you. What she did has changed everything. I am not even sure how to address you now.” The She’Har was practically bubbling with enthusiasm, or at least with the closest She’Har equivalent.

  “Baratt or wildling usually sufficed before now,” said Tyrion dryly.

  “You cannot be a baratt if you are Lyralliantha’s kianthi,” stated Thillmarius firmly, “nor can you be She’Har, since you cannot spellweave. You have become a delicious paradox.” The Prathion actually licked his lips as he said the last.

  “Semantics,” said Tyrion. “It doesn’t change the fact of my biology at all.”

  “True,” replied Thillmarius, “but it is far more than semantics. Never before has a sentient creature disrupted the boundaries of our definitions. In the past the most basic categorization for my people has been that of She’Har and baratti. You no longer fit in the second category, but we cannot admit you to the first.”

  “Sounds like a problem for the elders,” stated Tyrion. “I could care less what your people think of me. I am here to claim my family.”

  “Your family?”

  “The woman and the children I brought here.”

  Thillmarius nodded, “Yes, I understood the ‘who’ of it, it was the use of the term “family” that confused me. The youn
g ones are your offspring, but the woman—she is no relation to you.”

  “Don’t try to distract me, Thillmarius. I wish to take them back to the Illeniel Grove.”

  “They have no place to keep them, no wardens to mind them,” said the Prathion She’Har. “I am housing them here as a favor to the Illeniel Grove.”

  Tyrion didn’t budge, “That is no longer your problem. I will have them regardless.”

  “As a warden, as a slave, you have no standing to make such a demand,” explained Thillmarius. “On what authority do you make such a claim?” Something in the Prathion’s expression hinted at some sort of anticipation on his part.

  Tyrion glared at him for a moment before answering, “On Lyralliantha’s authority…”

  “She is not here, nor has she been away from the elders to order any such thing,” said Thillmarius immediately. He moistened his lips before repeating himself, as if anxious for something, “On what authority do you make this request, Tyrion? Lyralliantha is not here, and we both know your owner has given you no instruction on this matter. Be specific, where does your right to demand them come from?”

  Tyrion was confused. He wants me to say something. But what? His blue eyes locked onto the Prathion’s red ones as he thought furiously.

  “It’s just semantics, Tyrion,” hinted Thillmarius.

  It clicked then, “As Lyralliantha’s kianthi, I demand you release her property to me now.” He felt uncomfortable using the term, but he couldn’t think of anything else the She’Har trainer would want him to say.

  “Since you put it that way, I have no choice,” agreed Thillmarius, smiling slyly. “Follow me, I will show you where they have been kept.” He stood and made for the door, but he said one more thing as he walked. “Don’t forget this lesson.”

  Tyrion had spent years under the Prathion trainer’s control, tortured at times until his sanity had left him. Even now, a decade later, just the sound of the She’Har’s voice evoked a primal fear response that made his stomach twist. He had learned to deal with the fear, but he had never succeeded in banishing it. It was too deeply embedded in his psyche.

  That fact made it hard for him to understand the Prathion lore-warden’s true intentions. Paranoia and anxiety clouded his thoughts. Yet he still wondered, Why is he helping me? Is he helping me? What is his purpose in this?

  At one point he had been convinced that Thillmarius was evil incarnate, and then the She’Har had helped save his and Lyralliantha’s lives after his last arena battle, hiding them until they could recover, and she could replace his slave collar. Now the Prathion was giving thinly veiled hints and helping him to remove his prized acquisitions from the control of the Prathion Grove.

  Nothing he does makes sense.

  “Five of them have awakened their gifts since coming here,” Thillmarius mentioned as they left the large central building in Ellentrea.

  “Which ones?”

  “Three of the males and two of the females.”

  He had expected the answer to be phrased like that, but another realization came with the statement. They haven’t been blooded, otherwise he’d have names for them. “You haven’t fought any of them yet?”

  “My orders have been strict. Nothing has been done with your offspring, Tyrion, aside from feeding them.”

  Tyrion stopped, staring at the trainer’s back suspiciously, “Why?”

  Thillmarius turned, “I am not your enemy, Tyrion. I only wish to learn from you.”

  He gaped at the ebon-skinned She’Har. “Learn what?”

  “Since you came here wildling, you have been a mystery. You have been nothing like our own baratti, and I have seen in you the same spark that made your ancestors such a formidable foe. Yet we do not understand why. Why are you so different from the others? At every turn you have insisted that we know nothing about properly rearing and training your kind, but it is hard for my people to believe that such large differences are the product of something so small as the methodology of your upbringing.

  “Did you know that your other child, the one taken by the Mordan, has already begun fighting in the arena? Gravenna has won five matches,” finished the lore-warden.

  Tyrion had known none of that. “Gravenna? That’s the name they chose for her?”

  Thillmarius nodded.

  “Your people have terrible taste in names.”

  “The point,” continued Thillmarius, “is that she has already defied the odds. The question is, whether it is purely because of your genetics or whether it is due to your short visit with her?”

  “It probably has a lot more to do with her life before she was captured,” observed Tyrion.

  “Eventually I hope to tease out those factors as well,” said the She’Har trainer. “I have begun a small project within the slave pens here in Ellentrea. I’ve had some of the younglings kept in a separate area, to be reared by their mothers after weaning, rather than putting them in the general pen.”

  He knew that Thillmarius had always been deeply interested in the subject of human beings, that was why the She’Har had become a trainer, and why he had been elevated to lore-warden, but he hadn’t expected to hear something like that. “How is that going then?” he asked.

  The Prathion grimaced, “Several of the younglings died, killed by their mothers, but the remaining five are doing quite well.”

  The She’Har’s words hardly bothered Tyrion anymore, though they sounded callous, there was no true malice behind them. Thillmarius talked about people in much the same way his father had once spoken of sheep. He hopes to improve his herd.

  Thillmarius sent the first two wardens that he encountered to begin collecting the Illeniel slaves while they waited in a small open courtyard. The two men returned a few minutes later with fifteen very pale and shaky looking teenagers. Some of them looked as though they had lost weight, and none of them looked like they had been enjoying their stay in Ellentrea. Squinting and blinking at the sun, they stared at Tyrion with recognition and perhaps some hope.

  “Have they been outside at all?” he asked the She’Har trainer.

  “Yes, of course,” said Thillmarius. “I’ve had them out to be exercised and make sure they got some sun on their skin.”

  Two of the boys, Ryan and Ian, looked positively ill and Abigail Moore was almost skeletal. “Have they been eating?”

  “Some of them have,” said Thillmarius, “but one of the females has been refusing to eat for the past few days. I have to admit, Tyrion, I don’t think they’re doing well. I’ve had them all checked to make sure they really are your offspring, but they don’t seem to be as hardy as you were.”

  “I nearly died of a fever when I first came here,” reminded Tyrion.

  The lore-warden nodded, “Yes, but you improved after Lyralliantha remanded you into my care. Your children have gotten worse. I have begun to doubt my choices. The wardens have suggested that their soft treatment may be the problem. Do you think whipping would stimulate their appetites?”

  “No,” said Tyrion immediately. Except in the case of complete refusal to eat, he thought, looking at Abigail. Of course, I think I can come up with better solutions than that. “Where is the woman?” he asked, noting Kate’s absence.

  “Do you really want that one back?” asked Thillmarius. “It may take a while to find her. She was put in with the nameless servants. I could easily replace her with one or two others if you just need labor to help care for them.”

  Dread filled him. The nameless were the lowest of the low in Ellentrea, those without enough ability to be considered for the arena, to win a name. Technically, his children were still counted as ‘nameless’, but they had been segregated and marked for special treatment. He could only imagine what Kate might have gone through.

  “Allow me to find her,” suggested Tyrion. “I know her aythar well enough to spot her at a distance, and I’m very familiar with Ellentrea.”

  “There’s no need,” said Thillmarius. “I can send the wardens.�
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  “I will be quicker.”

  “Very well,” agreed the lore-warden. “I will have them keep the children here while you search. I have other things that need attending to. If you have any difficulty finding her, or if something has happened, please feel free to take two others to repay Lyralliantha.”

  “You are too kind,” said Tyrion, suppressing his budding anger. Letting his emotions get the better of him would be counterproductive as well as pointless. He opened his mind to its fullest, scanning the auras of the hundreds within range of him. His legs were moving already, taking him in the direction of the large communal huts that housed the nameless.

  That proved to be a dead end. Kate was not there, so he was forced to begin a long circuitous walk around Ellentrea. It was half an hour before he found her. She was in one of the private huts of the wardens. That alone would have upset him. Other than cleaning, there was only one reason one of the nameless would be in one of the wardens’ homes.

  One of them had decided they needed a new toy.

  Unwanted visions entered his mind, of Kate, beaten and forced into… No, I’m not going to think about that. I just have to get her out. He had picked up speed as soon as he had spotted her and was drawing closer at a jog.

  She was with someone, someone with a strong aythar, most likely the warden who lived there.

  Another quarter mile and he would be there, but his mind was so focused on Kate he could hardly maintain enough awareness to keep from stumbling as he ran. The warden was holding her, their heads close together. With a flash, he realized that the warden was a woman, and it was someone he knew, Layla.

  Layla was almost a friend. She and Garlin had been frequent playmates, although neither of them would have used a word as strong as ‘friend’ to describe their relationship. Tyrion knew better though, Layla and Garlin had been as close as wardens could be. She would mourn Garlin’s death.

  He was close enough now to see exactly what they were doing, and talking had little to do with it. During his time in Ellentrea he had seen many things, and the ‘favors’ that were traded amongst its inhabitants were frequently between members of the same sex, perhaps not quite as often as between opposite genders, but it was by no means unusual.