Fate Defied: The Silent Tempest, Book 3 (4 page)

The doors swung open, flooding the hallway with daylight. The company passed into a high chamber curving nearly halfway around the tower’s outer wall. A long, massive table of dark marble stood at the center, its opposite side slightly curved to match the arc of the chamber. The walls recalled the austerity of ancient times: large, well-laid granite blocks of faintly varying hues; a few faded banners marked by icons of the earliest Overseers, with crude lanterns hung from iron brackets between; and several bright, tall windows that reduced the flames to pale insignificance.

Well-dressed men and women of various ages stood in small groups about the hall, and they fell silent as the door guard announced the new arrivals. The assembly bowed and murmured formal greetings to both Soren and Tenlar. Telai received the same courtesy, though she noticed that a few voices were a little late joining in.

She took a deep breath. Acallor stood at the back of the crowd, disheveled and out of place as usual, as if he had been rummaging through the archives all day. The sight usually made her smile. Now he sent an awkward little nod in her direction and turned away as if something had distracted him. She mingled with the small crowd gathered about Soren and Tenlar, making an effort to be friendly despite a profound sadness creeping into her heart.

Soren was clasping hands with a short, middle-aged man dressed in flowing robes, whose receding hairline somehow heightened his charm.

“Welcome to Berrensal, Lord Soren.”

“Thank you, Homim. You might not welcome the news I bring.”

“So I gather. Normally we would honor our guests with a feast before council, but ...”

“This is too urgent a matter. Perhaps later.”

“Of course. But we took the liberty of setting out a few rolls and some wine—if only to mollify our Master Chef. He gets querulous when we hear bad news before eating. Ruins the palate,” he ended with a wink.

Homim stepped out to whisper something to the guard, then turned to the crowd as the Raén shut the doors with a boom. “To all noble Underseers, wise Loremasters, brave Raéni, and honored citizens,” he cried. “I, Homim, First Underseer, now call this third council of the seventh hundred and seventy-seventh year since Spierel’s founding.
Otu Etrenga au’itée eydra kalai giri lon atréi
, may Etrenga’s wisdom guide our words and deeds.”

Soren aimed for the nearest chair as the crowd gathered, while Telai took the one on his left. Homim stood at the head of the table to their right. Once the council members found their seats he introduced each one, running clockwise until he finished with Tenlar at his side.

“The Master Raén of Spierel has summoned us on a matter of grave urgency,” Homim said. “Even I do not know what news he brings, as Lord Tenlar merely sent word ahead requesting a council.” Tenlar’s eyes narrowed, and Telai wondered if any criticism lay behind the Underseer’s words. “Therefore I ask that he explain this new peril to us,” Homim ended, and lowered to his seat again, bowing his head at Tenlar.

Tenlar remained in his chair, expression grim. “Yes, it is a matter of grave urgency. Unless a strange new hope is fulfilled, it may be the end of Ada as we know it.”

Several members of the assembly cast doubtful glances at him or exchanged murmurs. Tenlar raised his hand to quiet them. “This is not grandstanding. Nor do I countenance pessimism. When the Supreme Raén of Ada fears for our future, I take notice. And since he has been involved in this tragedy from the beginning, I call on him to speak.”

“It is no new peril, but a very old one resurrected,” Soren said. “May Hendra grant us the strength to defeat it.”

A long hour passed as Soren’s audience listened without distraction or interruption, save for a few exchanged whispers. When he finished with the incident at Gebi, however, they fell into a heavy silence, their faces pale.

“It seems there is no counsel to give,” said Homim, his voice sounding old and tired. “How can we possibly fight this?”

“There is the promise of this ghost, this Ksoreda,” said a heavier man seated on Tenlar’s right. He wore a rim of white hair around a glistening dome, which lent an air of sagacity to his broad features.

“Of course, Olo,” Homim replied. “But that is a simple question of choosing the right people. What I speak of is here—in Ada. Even if all our hopes rest upon this strange promise, shall we sit idle, waiting for its fulfillment? We must prepare the best defense possible.”

“Against such power?” Olo blurted incredulously, leaning forward. “What defense? Evacuation is our only option.”

Cries of disagreement ran up and down the assembly. Telai looked askance across the table. Acallor sat still, a quiet shadow in an angry storm, his rheumy eyes desperate with pleading. She knew what he was asking. She was the Grand Loremaster. Now was her chance to restore her tarnished reputation and help Ada when they needed her the most.

Telai forced herself to stand. The voices slowly faded, yet several members, especially the Underseers, stared at her as if shocked or offended by her audacity. She squared her shoulders in defiance. “The home of the lowliest servant is every bit as worthy to be saved as the most honored treasure in Wsaytchen,” she cried in a steady voice. “To leave them now to be ravaged by the Hodyn is to spit in the face of every one of our ancestors who gave their lives for us!”

Everyone rose up in a clamor. “Our ancestors did not sacrifice themselves so we could be slaughtered,” shouted Olo, his heavy cheeks reddening. “How can the dead honor the dead?” Homim slapped his palm on the table in a vain attempt to restore order.

Soren rose and placed his hand on Telai’s shoulder. “You certainly know how to make an impression,” he whispered in her ear. She turned a sheepish smile at him and sat down.

“Caleb Stenger,” Soren called out, as if summoning him to the council. A quick silence fell as they resumed their seats, exchanging quizzical looks. “The Falling Man—the one Joásen mistakenly believed was the Bringer of Evil. There are more of those Earth weapons inside his ship, unless Heradnora has plundered it somehow. He can help us more than any Raén alive. Before Gebi, upon my life I never would have touched one of those things. But now?”

He reached to his side, and the others jumped as his charred and discolored sword clanged onto the table. “May Etrenga forgive me—even a Fetra is not much use anymore.”

No one stirred. At last a woman at Telai’s left broke the silence, speaking in a dry, wheezing voice that emphasized her years. “From what you have told us, Lord Soren, even the Falling Man’s devices might not be enough. No matter how well the battle goes against the Hodyn, Heradnora will always be waiting for us.”

“I hear you, Allera,” Soren answered. “But Heradnora’s strength may be put to the test against so many, as when Grondolos defeated her. Even the powers of land and sea have their limits.”

Olo nodded emphatically. “Against which we are equally helpless, my lord. All things have their limit, even the combined might of Ada. We can choose to cloak this with our pride, but it changes nothing. In the end, the outcome will be decided by the limit of our strength, not our courage.”

“Indeed it will,” Soren answered, “because courage is a strength all its own. Evacuation? Of the children, of the sick and elderly, perhaps. Of the fighting men and women of Ada, whose ancestors paid the ultimate price for these high walls? Not while I command. Not while I am the last to stand!”

The chamber echoed with shouts of praise and encouragement. Homim tried to restore order again, but Olo merely held up a hand until the clamor tapered off.

“Lord Soren, I owe my life and my freedom to those brave men and women you speak of, yourself not the least. Yet my loyalty is no less steadfast than yours—only less dramatic. My weapons are the written and spoken word, which is perhaps why they go so unheeded at times,” he said, scanning a few faces. “Yes, victory requires courage. It also needs a plan. Right now we have none, nor is there time or knowledge enough to design one.”

A younger woman with short, dusty-blond hair turned toward him. “You’re right, Olo—not all who fight for Ada wield a sword. But I must disagree with you. No matter how great the Bringer’s power, we don’t know yet what form it will take. There might be a weakness we can exploit. And don’t forget the hope that awaits us in Tnestiri. Whoever we send to find it, how would they rescue a land emptied of its people? Give fate, and Ada, a chance.”

Olo sighed. “Lord Soren … you have the authority to choose by my counsel or in spite of it, and my profession of loyalty becomes a vaunted lie if I fail to honor your decision. Yet hear me. I beg of you to set a limit on our time of hope, at the end of which we abandon it and begin our evacuation, at least of the northern cities.”

Soren sheathed his ruined sword. “You are the Third Underseer of Spierel, Olo. I will always value your counsel. But other than the old and the young, I cannot recommend such abandonment while there are any left to stand and fight.” He stood straight, his hand upon the blackened hilt of his Fetra. “I, Soren, Master and Supreme Raén of Ada, command this.” He resumed his seat, and the assembly bowed their heads in silent assent.

Olo’s shoulders drooped a little. “Who should we send to Tnestiri, then?”

“I would like to make the first suggestion, if I may,” Homim said. “I’m sure Lord Soren wishes to take charge of the defense, to which I heartily agree. Therefore it’s crucial that we choose someone familiar with his journey, as well as all our lore and history besides. This makes the Grand Loremaster of Ada the obvious choice.” He rose and bowed graciously to her.

Another wave of murmurs ran up and down the table. Telai barely felt the chair beneath her. After what Anidrin had told her, the last thing she expected was an acknowledgment of her achievements—from the First Underseer of Spierel, no less.

There was no time to think. She cleared her throat and said, “I’m honored to serve.”

“Indeed my place is in the defense of Ada,” Soren said. “Therefore I also suggest someone, whose military skill rivals mine: Tenlar. There’s no telling what dangers the Loremaster may encounter, and he would be a worthy guide and protector.”

Telai stared at him in disbelief.
You fool of an old man! Why in great galloping Hendra did you choose him?

A few hemmed agreement, but others frowned, including Tenlar. “Respectfully, my lord, I must ask that you select another to go in my place. Though this mission is of the highest calling, I am not the Master Raén of Spierel for nothing. My duty lies in the defense of the city and the lands about.”

“Indeed your skill and leadership will be missed,” Homim said. “Yet this battle will be like none before it, and Ekendoré and Udan will suffer the first blows, or at least the strongest. We may discover that our best strategy is simply to buy time. If this quest turns out to be the only hope we have, it will comfort us to know it rests in the capable hands of a Master Raén.”

Tenlar shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Telai in helplessness. “I will go to Tnestiri, then,” he said. “But shouldn’t there be more than two?”

“I can’t predict what dangers you’ll face, other than the weather,” Soren answered. “But secrecy will be your best defense. Two will be enough.”

“Let the preparations be made, then,” Homim said.

“Wait!” Telai commanded. Everyone turned their heads. “Aren’t we forgetting someone?”

Soren shook his head. “Caleb Stenger cannot go, Telai.”

She slapped her hand on the table. “He has lost his only child, Soren! He has every right to go on this quest.”

Shocked silence followed, and she glimpsed the disappointment in Acallor’s face. She had committed a serious breach of protocol to speak thus to the Supreme Raén, especially in council.

A gentle touch diverted her attention. “Indeed he has a right,” Allera murmured. “So do you, I think. Or is your wish to save this boy any less than his father’s?”

The veined and wrinkled hand felt so soft and warm against her own. Yet it took courage to meet Allera’s fading sight—eyes that had witnessed so much more of life, slowly gathering the wisdom to accept what she could not change.

The old woman smiled, kindness wrapped in wrinkles. “Let Caleb Stenger remain, Telai. Let him help both Ada and his son the best way he knows how.”

By now many in the assembly were shifting in their seats. Telai dared not speak to end their discomfort. The next word might send her over the edge and make a complete spectacle of herself.

At last Homim stood to draw their attention. “If there are no more objections, let Telai and Tenlar depart the second morning hence. I would offer them a longer stay, of course, but Ada’s last hope far transcends hospitality. The sooner they begin, the less chance our enemies will discover it.”

♦

Telai was the first to leave, anxious to escape their whispers and incriminating stares. She crossed the high, open walkway to the central tower, her arms wrapped close and her lips tight with choler. She had never dreamed of going on such a journey, especially without Caleb. Tenlar was the worst possible choice her father could have made. Now she was trapped by an obligation that forced her to abandon Caleb when he needed her the most, spending days upon days with a man she no longer loved—a constant reminder of what she might lose again.

Yet to the Master Raén of Ada, Tenlar was the best possible choice, and as she entered the tower and wound her way down the stairs she tried her best to accept it. The true threat to her happiness had nothing to do with Soren, or anyone else at the council. Her people needed her as much as Caleb did, and she had to embrace that duty with all her heart. When healed of mind and body, Caleb must do the same.

She found him fast asleep in a lower chamber of the infirmary. Eya sat quietly in a chair nearby. She smiled warmly, then rose to leave as Telai seated herself on the edge of Caleb’s bed.

His arms lay outside the blankets, with his right one, closest to her, wrapped in a clean white bandage. Though his color had improved somewhat, exhaustion still darkened the hollow of his eyes. For a long while she sat nearby, her hands restless in her lap, fighting the urge to hold him again.