He walked slowly forward, Telai close at his side, until he was within arm’s reach of the youthful image that consumed his every thought. Like Telai had witnessed from so long ago, she was the absolute last thing Warren expected, a picture of beauty, even of innocence. Rennor, the beguiling stranger who had briefly won even Soren’s grudging trust, was here in his daughter plain to see. It completely sabotaged the boy’s desire for revenge.
It was not to be borne. He wanted to flay the thing, tear it to shreds, inflict on it a portion of the terror and hopelessness she had perpetrated on him. But he could not. He could not dole out such punishment without becoming evil himself.
Telai felt his anger building. It so overwhelmed her that her body shivered with it. She tightened her grip, knowing his rage was too powerful and dangerous to suppress.
“It’s all right, Warren,” she whispered. “Let it go.”
Warren dropped to his knees and screamed. Telai fell with him, her arms wrapped tight as he released the anger poisoning his soul—a poison she knew all too well. She felt herself sinking, sinking, immersing herself in Warren’s thoughts. It terrified her, knowing who shared his mind. Yet still she held on, her heart breaking, knowing Warren’s pain was far greater than her own.
The chamber fell silent. All else vanished save the girl. And from somewhere deep inside Warren’s thoughts came a burst of pride and joy, and of unconquerable strength and love.
The prisoner within the eye.
With it he accepted the duty he was meant to fulfill. He gave no word of warning. A shock entered Telai’s arms, severing her connection to Warren, and she released him, crying out.
The device at the girl’s waist flashed from red to amber; then she slumped down into a heap, startling the others. Long they waited in dread anticipation as she lay silent and motionless on the floor.
Garda was the first to recover. She walked over, knelt beside the girl, and after a brief hesitation placed an ear against her chest.
“She’s alive.”
Ferguen wore a puzzled frown. “Asleep?”
Warren stood next to the Overseer, his face calm, his fury spent. “That device on her belt—maybe Rennor put it there to keep her unconscious after I—” he began to explain, then fell silent.
“We need to carry her outside so we can bring her to Ksoreda,” Garda said, rising, “and the sooner, the better.”
Ferguen sheathed his knife and stepped forward. “I’ll do it.”
The Overseer stretched out her hand to bar the way. “Those aren’t mere words, Ferguen—they’re a promise!”
“I make promises to
my
people, not yours. Do you think I want this evil child in my land any longer? Stand aside!”
She stood glaring at him, then stepped out of the way. Ferguen lifted the girl into his stout arms with ease, and followed Garda back into the passage, Warren and Telai close behind.
Telai pressed the lighted switch near the opening. Darkness fell about them again, relieved only by the wavering lamp in Garda’s hand. Telai faced the blank wall and shouted the old man’s name, burning with wrath at the injustice Warren had suffered.
Larientur’s brilliance flooded their sight once more. Ksoreda stood in the exact same spot, as if they left him only a moment before. His mouth fell open at the young girl draped across Ferguen’s arms. Then he spotted the glowing amber light at her waist, and beckoned them forward.
“Bring her to me.”
They stopped a few paces away. Ferguen grunted in surprise as the girl floated from his arms, her limbs slowly straightening until she hung suspended at Ksoreda’s side. Her snug clothing betrayed the slow rise and fall of her breathing, and her eyes darted beneath their lids as though witnessing a dream—or a nightmare.
“What will you do with her?” Telai asked.
“I don’t know what Rennor’s plans were at this point,” answered Ksoreda as he studied the child. “I had no idea she was this young. She must have used her device to keep herself this way for ages.”
Telai reached inside her coat for the leather bundle Warren gave her. She stepped forward, and without hesitation lifted Ksoreda’s hand and slapped the Lor’yentré into his palm.
“I thought I’d never hear myself say this,” she said, “but I feel sorry for her. Whatever you decide to do with her, remember that she’s not responsible for her father’s crimes—or yours! And make sure you take this with you,” she added, nodding at his hand.
“Mistress Telai,” he said gravely, shaking his head, “you must take it from this world yourself, or you will suffer her fate. I thought you understood that.”
She only returned his gaze unblinking. He undid the bundle, gasped, then snapped his head up, his face red with indignation.
“You never used it? Then how—”
“It’s not mine.”
He paused, his face a struggle of doubt and confusion. “How can that be?”
Before Telai could answer, Warren stepped up and stared Ksoreda in the eye, all trace of childish insecurity gone. He held out his own Lor’yentré, divided it in two, and after a moment’s concentration dropped it into the man’s outstretched palm.
A gasp escaped both Telai and Ksoreda alike. There, indistinguishable from Heradnora’s, rested the two halves of the Lor’yentré Telai had given to Warren—as transparent as the day Ksoreda had given them to her.
The significance of this grew like a storm, until it overwhelmed them. Ksoreda went gray as ash, unable to accept the evidence of his eyes.
“I know I have no right to ask this of you, Warren,” he said, “but you may well be the answer to a curse my people have endured for thousands of years.”
Warren Stenger, mover of spirits, stood in the bright chamber of Larientur stunned by the crushing burden Ksoreda’s plea had placed upon him. If it had gone on much longer he might have fled the room in a panic. But the Overseer approached and confronted the old man, shielding Warren with her arm.
“You disgust me,” she said. “To expect a child who suffered at the hands of your people to shoulder the responsibility for your crimes! If there’s one thing Ferguen and I share, it’s knowing where our greatest enemy lies. If you or any of your people ever set foot in this land again, either in flesh or in spirit, if it is within our power we will destroy you on sight.”
He glanced at Ferguen. The Hodyn leader nodded slowly, his dark stare no less compromising than the Overseer’s. Ksoreda drew a sigh. “So be it.”
“Be sure you understand my meaning,” Garda said. “These portals, or whatever you call them—they’re to be removed as soon as you are gone.”
“Please, Overseer. You don’t know what that means for your people.”
Ferguen lifted his arm to point. “You will swear it, old man!”
“And you’re never to reveal what you know about Warren,” Telai added.
Ksoreda opened his mouth to speak, but could not find the words. “I swear it,” he muttered at last.
A long moment of silence followed, after which Ferguen led Garda and the others to the landing outside. They turned to observe the old man standing all alone by the massive table and its rainbow of chairs; then he was gone.
And with it, and for all time, Larientur.
The light of the lamp’s small flame revealed the same featureless black wall as before. When the Overseer finally spoke, the passage carried her voice in echoes that seemed to travel the whole of Wsaytchen.
“You have your answer, Ferguen.”
The man nodded, his eyes fixed on the darkened stone where the hallowed chamber once stood. “And I will honor it.”
One by one they descended the stairs, stunned prisoners released from years of ignorance. Telai stood last, in a moment like the passing of a lifetime, seeking forgiveness for what Rennor had done.
“Goodbye … Hendra,” she whispered.
The name flashed for a second, then vanished. The black wall stood fast, unchanged. Telai knew it would never open again. Yet she spared no tears for the tragedy she had witnessed, and left to follow the one child she had saved from it.
19
Ascending Man
I once searched for a cloudless sky
before I learned to love the rain.
– Karla Ataciara Stenger
THE LAST
treasure-laden cart had long passed the tower-crowned gate of Spierel. The stone memory of Ada’s heroic sacrifices, transported from Wsaytchen with great labor and cost, now spread its wings in the courtyard beneath the open sky.
Like their treasures, many of Ekendoré’s survivors had reached the safety of the high mountain fortresses; the remainder had gone either to help rebuild cities destroyed in the war, or to seek forgetfulness in the humbler life of Ada’s villages. No enemy invaded south of Eastgate, nor did any citizen or Raén travel the roads of southern Ada in fear. But the knowledge of what they had lost haunted every leaf and blade, voiced itself in every brook. And no clearer did it speak than to one lone soldier riding several miles north of Tnesen.
The majesty of Ada that first enthralled him had returned, and the warmth and life of spring filled the air. Like a soul-stirring requiem, its beauty was not diminished by the sorrow it evoked, but strengthened. The Iéndrai were a blue haze in the north, Illvent was a lonely summit to the west, the rolling hills a chorus of wildflowers beneath—and the memories of Earth a harsh gleam in his eyes.
In all the vast refrain it was the one remaining voice of dissent. He halted awhile, staying in the saddle. Nothing stirred in his heart, no homesickness, no longing for his former world. The giant beast lying before him was an alien thing, a mar in the land, a desecration. And when at last he dropped to the ground he saw it as Telai once did, with a certain revulsion.
The hatch slid open, and he entered. Old clothes and discarded Raéni gear littered the hallway to the bridge. He ignored all of it. He stopped at the console, paused a moment to recall knowledge he would never use again, then typed it out on the dusty keyboard beneath his leathered hands.
A buzzer sounded, and he jumped. After a frown he proceeded. When he finished a display at his fingertips flashed brightly, and he nodded in grim satisfaction.
Next, he rummaged through his pack. First his flashlight, then his compass, now a plastic comb—all the synthetic stuff of Earth fell clattering to the floor.
At the exit he paused and looked back, first at the pulsing red lights along the wall, then at the floor in silent thought. Memories—all those memories were counting down to destruction. In a few hours there would be nothing left.
He walked briskly out into the Adan sunshine, leaving the hatch open to the elements. His horse waited patiently, but he did not return to the saddle. He headed toward a low rise, where the verdant growth of spring had already encroached upon the collapsing remains of an unlit pyre.
Not for long did he stand at this shrine of bravery. He had learned much from that old man, not the least of which was to guard against the burdens of past griefs and mistakes. And Soren had already been honored. Caleb would never forget the tall flames rising from the crest of Sonién, a host of defiant Adaiani standing in silence while their captors waited in mounting frustration to escort them from their beloved city. But he could not leave this place without paying his own final respects, not as a soldier or a citizen, but as a friend.
He returned to his horse and mounted. The ship sat silent, patient, ignorant. He felt no sorrow, no remorse. There was nothing left he cared about in that alien machine, and he wheeled around and headed to the southeast without ever a glance behind him.
Miles passed. Hours passed. The vessel of Earth shrank to a flicker on the green horizon. Then it swelled to a blinding flash.
It was no apocalyptic explosion. Only a small cloud rose into the atmosphere. When the blast eventually reached him it barely ruffled his hair, and a distant rumble faded to silence like an old storm in the last of its throes. But as he witnessed the largest display of Terran destruction this world would ever know, he knew his anger had finally spent itself. Like the roiling cloud on the horizon it slowly drifted away, leaving nothing but a black scar that would eventually heal with the patient workings of time.
He resumed his journey, setting a leisurely pace, traveling the same path as before. Wind swept the grass into green waves spangled with buttercups. He camped, slept long and soundly, and rose again, the next day as unhurried as the last.
Telai had felt it her duty to spend many days with Acallor and Ressolc to oversee the construction of a new library in Spierel. But her long absence brought no loneliness to Caleb’s heart. He knew her duties would lighten someday, and he was no longer the same man who let fear blind him to the love they shared.
Yet he could not live in those high stone towers, no matter how much more he revered them. Many in Ada would for years look upon the Falling Man and his son with bitterness and resentment. Though he might be able to endure their hate and suspicion, he wished no such thing for Warren, and for a time would seek the shelter of village life like many others, gaining friendship and trust one neighbor at a time. Yet of all the villages in Ada, some might have questioned Warren’s choice.
At last Caleb halted in sight of the glittering expanse of Tnesen. The wind was from the east, and he could already hear the faint sounds of the village. He turned, not bothering to take the cart-road by the shore, his contemplative journey forgotten. He was eager now to resume a life with his son, to witness day by day the long, slow healing and acceptance he knew he could not hasten but only reinforce by his quiet presence and unassuming trust.
The shore angled closer, and the village neared. The random staccato of hammers echoed down the street. Beyond a few squat homes to his left a half-dozen men were nailing planks over the freshly installed rafters atop the mercantile store, the sweat on their faces shining in the warm spring sun. Alongside them, plying his new-found trade with a zeal that had soon won their respect, knelt Warren.
Caleb sat nearby in the saddle, saying no word. None sufficed. Not one of his son’s intellectual achievements or even the mysterious power Rennor discovered would ever compare to the triumphant sight before him now. He shed no tears. This was no fulfillment of a promise sworn in secret over the fading words of a Prophet’s long-dead hand. This was the vindication of a child’s simple proclamation:
My mind and my body are my own.