The next day something different happened. Lyralliantha appeared that morning
,
not with Byovar, but with Thillmarius beside her.
The sight of the black-skinned
,
gold-haired Prathion sent involuntary shivers down Tyrion’s spine as his body remembered
the ‘punishment’ sessions the She’Har male had given him over the past five years.
His shoulders slumped
,
and his head looked downward as his previous ‘teacher’ drew closer, only the memory
of Amarah and the anger that came with it
,
enabled him to straighten his back and look the Prathion squarely in the eye.
“Thillmarius has brought an interesting proposal to me, Tyrion,” began Lyralliantha,
“but I have not made a decision yet. I thought perhaps I would hear your thoughts
on it.” There was a complex mixture of hope and trepidation in her aura, as though
she was glad of the news but
anxious
as well.
Tyrion nodded but did not reply, waiting for them to continue.
“There may be a way to avoid the upcoming arena battle,” she said, getting to the
heart of the matter.
“I thought the Illeniels stood to gain a lot of shuthsi from that battle,” observed
Tyrion.
Thillmarius entered the conversation then, “I think that would be a terrible waste,
baratt.”
“Not for the Prathions, though,” noted Tyrion.
The Prathion trainer shook his head, “You misunderstand me. I think it would be a
waste for all of the She’Har. It is my belief that there is yet more we can learn
from studying you. Placing you in a situation that will only force your premature
death serves no one.
You may not know this, but I have been following your progress here with great interest.
Byovar has told me of your progress with Erollith
,
and Lyralliantha has amazed me with tales of your efforts to expand your abilities.”
“I do not understand your interest,” said Tyrion with barely suppressed anger. He
felt betrayed knowing that Lyralliantha had continued relaying information about him
to the man
who
had once tortured and tormented him.
Lyralliantha spoke then, “The Prathions have a great deal of shuthsi now. They have
offered to compensate the Illeniels for what we would lose by calling off the arena
match, with certain stipulations.”
“It is obvious that you are still growing, wildling. Your progress has rekindled
interest in the ancient humans. It is clear that we have missed something. I want
to understand the differences between your kind and those we have reared here in captivity…”
Thillmarius wasn’t done
,
but Tyrion interrupted him.
“I am not particularly interested in helping you learn better methods for training
your slaves,” he said abruptly.
“This would profit you as well,” said the Prathion. “You would be treated well.
No more punishments. Your restrictions would be modified
,
and we would allow you to breed as you wished.”
“As
I
wished?”
“Yes. We would want you to mate with particular individuals, but as a reward
,
we are willing to allow you to breed at will with any of the nameless in Ellentrea.
I recall you were particularly attached to one before you came…”
“You mean Amarah!?” Tyrion was standing now, the veins standing out in his neck and
at his temples.
“Well
,
obviously not that one,” said Thillmarius, “but you could cultivate any of the other
females you wished. We could also allow you to make patrols back to your birthplace—occasionally.
You could have almost anything you
desire
.”
“And the arena?”
“I don’t think we have anything left to gain by testing you further in that regard,”
said the male She’Har.
Lyralliantha put a hand on his shoulder, “You could live a long life, Tyrion.”
“Why is he offering this?” he asked her directly. “How is he offering this? Won’t
the other groves object?”
“The Prathions have gain
ed
much shuthsi in recent years. Thillmarius has convinced his elders to bargain with
the other groves to gain their approval. He feels you will benefit them for their
investment,” she explained.
“May I speak to you privately?” he said, glancing at Thillmarius.
Lyralliantha gave the other She’Har an embarrassed glance. It was beyond the norm
for a baratt to ask for privacy from one of the people.
Thillmarius gave her an understanding look, “I do not mind. Take your time. I will
wait at a distance. Call me when you are
finished
.”
When he had gone
,
Tyrion gave her a harsh glare, “What does he stand to gain?”
“You,” she said flatly.
“Me?”
“Yes,” she answered, “The price for this is my relinquishment of ownership to Thillmarius
directly.”
“Why would you do that?”
“They have offered an immense amount of shuthsi…”
“I know you don’t care about that,” he said
,
cutting her off.
“You would live,” she said in an odd tone, her face reflecting a distant sadness.
“If that’s what you truly care about, keep me and call off the fight yourself,” he
told her.
“I cannot. The
deal was made with the elders;
they won’t allow me to do so on my own. The only option is if the Prathions pay
the shuthsi instead.”
“How much do they have?”
“More than all the other groves combined, now,” she stated.
That was interesting. He hadn’t know
n
they were that influential. In the past it had seemed that four of the groves were
roughly equal in standing while the Illeniels had fallen on hard times. Now she indicated
that the Prathions had
risen far above the others
. Something didn’t make sense. “When did they gain so much?”
“While you were fighting,” answered Lyralliantha, “Over the past five years.”
“But you were still my owner. The Illeniel Grove should have gained from my wins.”
Now he was confused.
“We did,” she agreed with a nod. “But the awarding of shuthsi is about more than
simply who wins. Many wagers
were
placed on the matches. Thillmarius was wise. Using you
,
he eliminated the better contenders from the other groves, allowing the Prathions
to do far better in the matches overall. He also bet wisely on your battles. The
Illeniels gained much, but the Prathions gained far more.”
“And now he’s willing to pay everyone off, just to get me?”
She nodded again. “You would have a better life.”
“My chances of a better life died long ago. I couldn’t bear the thought of him having
control over me,” said Tyrion flatly.
Lyralliantha’s eyes looked almost pained, “Don’t you want to live?”
“Not like that. He only wants to use me for his own gain. I would rather die for
your amusement than help him learn better ways to train his slaves.”
“I have never been amused at the thought of your death.”
“What do you want then?” he challenged.
“Why did you leave your home?” she countered with another question.
“What does that have to do with it?”
Lyralliantha’s face grew wistful. “Since you came here, I have learned much about
your family and your life before, and yet you left it all behind. Why did you leave?”
He touched his collar.
She shook her head. “No, the first time, before you found me. Why did you leave?”
Tyrion frowned. “Because staying would hurt them. I left to protect them, from me
.”
“Even though you knew it would hurt you?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Something of that feeling has affected me,” she explained. “I do not wish to see
you die, even if that means I must give you up.”
“Are you saying you’ve been contaminated by human feelings?” he said incredulously.
“I hardly believe that.”
Her aura flickered, going from soft and diffuse to an angry energetic vibration.
“Perhaps you doubt it, but the elders do not. Sending you away might serve to clear
my mind.”
Tyrion was confused by the chaos in Lyralliantha’s aura. She seemed to have several
emotions swirling through her, and that
,
combined with the strangeness of her words made it difficult to understand her.
Was she trying to save his life, or remove an unwanted distraction from her own?
Either way, he knew one thing—he never wanted to be at the mercy of Thillmarius Prathion
again. He focused on that and let his anger speak for him.
“I won’t accept this deal,” he told her flatly.
“It is not your decision…” she responded with acid in her voice. After a second she
added, “…baratt.”
His nostrils flared
,
and he felt his blood rise. “Decide what you will, if you pass me to Thillmarius
,
neither of you will know peace. I won’t cooperate. I’ll kill every person he sends
to give me instructions or even to feed me. I’ll keep killing until he sends enough
wardens to put me down. I’ll be dead within a day
,
and I’ll make certain to cause as much damage as I possibly can before I die.
”
Her eyes narrowed, “You think you can subvert his will that easily? He won’t let
you have your easy death. Behave and you can live well. Don’t throw this chance
away.” There was anger and something else in her reaction. Fear?
Why would she be afraid? Is she afraid for herself—or for me? I haven’t threatened
her,
he thought.
She had him thinking, though. Her words were accurate. If he rebelled, even if he
killed half
a
dozen wardens, Thillmarius wouldn’t execute him. He’d have him subdued
,
and then it would be time for ‘retraining’. He would spend however long it took
until he had broken his new pet’s will. Tyrion felt his skin crawling as he thought
of Thillmarius’ punishment. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead
,
and he felt an almost uncontrollable urge to hide.
In an instant
,
he made his decision. Taking one step to the right
,
he moved to Lyrallianth
a
’s left side and caught her hair in
his left hand while bringing his right arm up in a sweeping motion as he jerked her
head back. He stopped just before the blade of force that he had summoned reached
the tender skin of her neck. “It’s your choice. Attempt to sell me
,
and I’ll have your head first.”
She stared at him from the corner of one eye. “Killing me won’t prevent it. Nor
would it necessarily earn you the death you seem to desire.” Her aura flickered as
she considered using her aythar.
He tightened his grip on her hair, “Don’t. I can kill you before you can blink.”
He knew from repeated observation that even the fastest spellweavings took at least
a half-second to begin
,
and he was far too strong for her to dislodge him using a surprise attack with raw
magic.
“Would you really rather die than accept his offer?” she asked. There was no fear
in her, only curiosity.
“Yes.”
“Then I will refuse him,” she said suddenly. “Release me.”
In a human such a response, given under duress, would have been highly questionable.
Coming from a She’Har, it was a simple statement of honest intent. He had never known
them to lie, even Thillmarius. He released her and stood back, although his body
did fall into a defensive crouch.
She arched one brow, “Do you fear reprisal?”
She had not bothered to raise a defense of any kind, which left Tyrion feeling slightly
foolish.
“Most of my learning among the She’Har has been about fear,” he answered.
Those words did evoke a response from her, though she gave it no voice. Instead
,
she stared at him with something like pity in her eyes. “I will speak with Thillmarius.
The deal is unacceptable
,” she said after a moment, turning away from him.
“Will you be wagering on my fight?” he asked suddenly.
“I had not planned to do so. Few will bet with such long odds.”
“Bet everything you can on me,” he told her.
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to win.”
Thillmarius didn’t return, which was fine with Tyrion.
He spent his days practicing Erollith, studying the examples of spellweaving that
Lyralliantha produced for him, and attempting to find some way of producing something
similar of his own, or at the very least
,
finding a way to get around what seemed to be an enormous disadvantage.
There were only eleven days left before his arena match when he began trying to replicate
small portions of the spellwoven canopy over his platform. He wasn’t able to produce
anything so fine or delicate, but he could create the same shapes on a larger scale.
Most of his efforts were complete failures. He would create glowing hexagons in the
air, complete with their internal symbols, but as soon as he diverted his aythar to
something else, they began to fade.
He had tried many variations of the same thing, using different sizes, different portions
and symbols, but nothing seemed to work. Before he could finish any sizeable chain
of the hexagons
,
the first ones were already fading away.
They look similar to something written in Erollith, but they aren’t. They don’t branch
the same
,
and the words don’t follow a path from past to future, relaying information. They
just describe what is being created as a brute fact.
The hexagons also linked in tube-like patterns,
but the numbers varied
, forming three dimensional shapes.
That was something entirely different than the pattern Erollith used when
s
omething
was written
. On a whim he tried imitating the structure the hexagons were linked in.
His first attempt was with a short section of five hexagons, but before he could complete
the rest of the supporting hexagons
,
they began to separate. He tried again, this time using only one and creating five
more linked to it in a ring. Once they were joined it was a composite of six hexagons
,
and viewed on a cross-section
,
they formed another hexagon. He stopped at that point, waiting.
Nothing happened.
The
y
sat on the floor of his platform, glowing and independent of everything else, and
they showed no sign of fadi
ng. He waited an hour, practiced
his music, and when he checked them again they were unchanged.
“Is that it?” he wondered aloud.
He studied the spellweaving overhead again. Many parts of it didn’
t have hexagonal cross-sections;
some parts were triangular
although they were more limited, primarily because they couldn’t repeat. The hexagons
would interfere with one another. He was unable to continue his
six-sided tube as well.
I
t was too tight for another group of six hexagons to connect to it properly.
Theirs are done in larger sections, but I can’t create that many at one time before
I lose the first ones.
It seemed that
,
as he didn’t have
their mechanism for spinning out vast swaths of self-supporting hexagons simultaneously
,
he would be limited to being able to create
only
singular rings of six at a time, and he wouldn’t be able to join them to other rings.
He continued to fiddle with them
,
but he only grew more frustrated. It was annoying to have discovered what seemed
to be a basic unit, but be unable to do anything with it.
Even worse, assuming he did manage to create anything larger or more complex, there
was no way he could manage it in the arena. His latest insight was worse than useless.
The next two days he made more large, awkward
,
and ultimately worthless spellwoven rings. He never managed to create anything greater
than a six hexagon ring
,
and it took him almost a half-minute to construct even that. To go beyond it would
require mixing shapes or creating larger collections of hexagons, something he simply
couldn’t stabilize long enough to hold it all together until it could be completed.
It was the morning of the third day when he finally gave up.
“They’re right. This isn’t something a human mind can accomplish. I might as well
try to grow wings and fly,” he told himself.
Actually, a Gaelyn wizard could grow wings and fly, but that isn’t the point.
My hexagons are big and clumsy
,
and I can’t hold them all in my mind while piecing it together. It would be a lot
easier if they worked with simpler shapes like triangles.
He stared into the air.
Why not do it with triangles? Just because they don’t use them
,
doesn’t mean they won’t work.
His first attempt
was to make
a simple tetrahedron with four triangles, something he had done in a more basic way
in the past. This time though
,
he formed each triangle separately and joined the edges in the same way he had done
with the hexagons. The end result was stable. It would take a day or two to be sure,
but he could feel its balance.
Next he constructed triangular tubes using sections of six triangles at a time. By
joining them in pairs
,
he could create square sections that then balanced one against the other in a triangular
cross-section. Since they would fit neatly against another identical section he could
easily create longer and longer segments.
“Ha!” he said, to no one in particular.
Now
,
if I were to make this do something I’d want to plant my new symbols, one within
each triangle.
The more he worked with the triangles
,
the more he realized he didn’t know. There were deeper mathematical principles involved.
Until he discovered those he would only be able to progress through trial and error,
but he felt that he could probably accomplish a lot using just the simple triangular
structures he could build now.
When Lyralliantha came to listen to him play that evening he k
ept his new insights to himself. T
he next morning he set about revising his new set of magical symbols
,
so that each of them would fit neatly within a triangle. The first two he redesigned
were his symbols for ‘sharp’ and ‘force’, and once he was ready
,
he fashioned them into as small
a
form as he could. The individual triangles he created were no larger than a ladybug
. H
e folded them together into long sections, alternating the two symbols within each
piece until he had a three dimensional structure almost two feet in length.
Tyrion intended to test it against one of his older hexagonal rings (they were still
lying around), but he nearly lost a finger when he went to lift his newly created
construct. It cut a deep wound into his thumb and index finger. It happened painlessly
,
and it might have severed his index finger completely if he hadn’t seen the blood
before trying to lift it. The flesh was open to the bone.
“Shit!” he exclaimed and then began stitching his flesh back together. It was a task
he had gained a lot of experience with during his years in the arena.
In less than a minute the only sign of his wound was a fine silver scar across his
thumb and forefinger.
After that he added a new section to one end of his ‘razor switch’ as he decided to
name it. The newer part used the symbols ‘force’ and ‘smooth’ and he worked until
he had a serviceable handle for his weapon.
That done, he tried it against one of his hexagon rings and felt a satisfying discharge
of power as it met some resistance and then cut through the older construct.
“Now I just have to learn how to remake something like this in just a few seconds,”
he
said
to himself, shaking his head. It had taken him several hours of intense concentration
to create his razor-switch.
Two more days passed
,
and while he refined his method for creating his modified version of spellweaving,
it was still a slow and painstaking process. He could envision it being used to create
any number of useful permanent magics, but it would never be suitable for battle,
not the way the She’Har used it anyway.
Given time and preparation he could imagine making any number of potent implements
that he could use in a fight, b
ut being forced to fight naked—
with nothing but what Mother Nature had given him—he could see only one outcome.
He was exercising on the ground one day when a familiar rider passed by, giving him
a careful look. It was Garlin.
Tyrion raised one arm and waved
,
and the warden circled around, reining in his horse a few feet away.
“Tyrion,” said the warden with his usual brevity, but the familiarity in his voice
made it an almost warm greeting, at least by the standards of Ellentrea.
“Garlin,” said Tyrion. “I have no
t
seen you in some time. I trust you are well.”
“I still breathe,” answered the other, “for now. I heard you are to be sent back
to the arena.” There was a note of disapproval in his words. Being elevated to warden
was considered the greatest reward a human could receive
,
and the fact that Tyrion was now being sent into the arena again was bound to make
the other wardens worry.
It was an unwelcome reminder that no matter what anyone thought, they still lived
at the whims of the She’Har. Garlin’s hand tightened on the reins, drawing Tyrion’s
eye.
He noted again the dark lines of Garlin’s name tattooed there
in Erollith
. Tattooing was a common practice among the wardens, an outward sign that not only
did they have names
,
but they were reasonably sure they would be around to enjoy them in the near future.
It was an affirmation of identity.
In the past Tyrion had thought the symbols were merely decoration, but after he had
begun learning to read the She’Har language he had realized that they were marking
themselves to make certain anyone that saw them would know they had been named. He
doubted that any of the warden’s had learned to read Erollith, though.
“Their decisions about me are unlikely to affect the rest of the wardens,” said Tyrion,
hoping to reassure the older man.
Garlin’s brow furrowed. “Your death will not be welcome news.” It was the closest
the man could come to saying that he would miss him.
Tyrion smiled, “I have not resigned myself to defeat yet, but I am told there is little
hope.”
“Against one of the Krytek? None,” said Garlin, answering his own question. “You
should have gotten your name inked while you had the chance.”
Tyrion laughed. He had never had any desire to take up that particular custom. He
had only recently come to accept his new name. The idea of having it permanently
marked on his skin
still didn’t appeal to him. His eyes suddenly widened.
“Garlin!” he said with emphasis, as if worried the other man might leave already.
“I’m still here,” said the warden dryly.
“Who does the tattoos that the wardens get?”
“Most of us do them ourselves,” said Garlin. “Why? Are you wanting to do yours before
your final battle?”
“Maybe,” lied Tyrion. “Can you tell me how it’s done?”
***
Lyralliantha glanced curiously around his small platform when she came to see him
that evening. There were scorch marks and charred bits of wood, along with
a strange smell.
The platform itself, or more to the point… the tree, was undamaged, but her curiosity
was aroused.
“What is that?” she asked, sniffing the air.
“Alcohol,” said Tyrion truthfully. The wardens were occasionally given small quantities
of spirits as a reward
,
so the substance wasn’t unknown among them, but it was uncommon.
“You have never shown a desire for it before,” she observed.
“I’m going to die in a few days,” he responded. “I thought I should try something
new.”
“Will you be able to play?” she asked.
Tyrion laughed, “I’m not drunk. It tastes terrible. My musical ability is still
intact.”
“Will you play of your last meeting—with her?”
She hadn’t mentioned it in a few days, but he knew the subject was still one o
f importance to Lyralliantha; e
ven more so now that his time was growing short.
He gave it a moment’s thought. Tyrion still didn’t want to share it with her, it
had been too intimate, too close to his heart, but he needed time and privacy to work
on his ideas before the appointed battle.
“I don’t want to see you again after I show you that,” he told her.
“Why?” she asked bluntly.
He had several reasons
,
but he chose to tell her the most difficult one. “It’s a very intense memory. I
will be embarrassed to face you afterward—I think.” It was a half-truth, but it served
its purpose.
“You wish me to avoid visiting afterward?”
“Let’s make it a farewell,” he said. “Our last moment together before the arena match.”
Lyralliantha bit her lip in a most uncharacteristic gesture of anxiety. “I do not
plan to attend the event.”
“Too dirty for your high moral standing?” asked Tyrion sarcastically.
A flash of anger emanated from her, “Don’t presume to judge my motives.” She paused
before continuing, “I don’t want to see
your death
.”
Sometimes she seems almost human. I’ve let her study me too much.
“One final lesson then,” he replied. “I’ll show you the secret of my heart
,
and we can part here.”
She nodded and moved to stand behind him, in her accustomed spot while he played,
placing one hand on either side of his head and slipping her fingertips underneath
his hair.
He waited a second only, until he felt the touch of her mind against his, and then
he began, letting his fingers have their way, improvising a melody both soft and sweet.
The image he had withheld from himself for so long swelled to command the foreground
of his
mental space. Catherine Sayer
stood before him on the road, defiant and sad at the same time.
Once again he lived it, feeling his heart ache
at her beauty, being surprised by her assertiveness as she knocked him from his horse.
Their conversation replayed, but it was an interplay of emotions rather than words.
Lyralliantha would see the images and feel the moving tide of sentiment flowing between
them, but the actual words were missing. It was no loss, for they were secondary
to the meaning that arose from their meeting.
Love, regret, a touch of anger, and a deep abiding sorrow that followed th
eir last lingering kiss, a
ll of these he played for her, with his hands and with his soul. By the time he neared
the end he had lost all sense of himself
,
and as the music receded and his hands became still he felt the cool tracks that
his tears had left on his cheeks.
Lyralliantha was bent over him, her head resting partially against his own
,
and her arms were around his torso, tightening with all the strength her slender
frame could bring to bear. Her hands pressed into his shirt, almost painful where
her nails pulled against his skin, while her body shook. She was crying, sobbing
in the honest, uncontrolled, and deeply embarrassing way of a small child.
Tyrion kept still, s
hocked by her reaction and unable to formulate an appropriate response to it.
He wai
ted, unmoving, almost fearful, u
nsure how the She’Har woman would deal with the excess of emotion once she resumed
her senses. His instincts told him to embrace her, to turn and comfort her, as he
would have done for a friend, a family member, or a lover. She was none of those
things, though. Ultimately, she was alien, and at the ugly heart of the matter, she
was his owner.
“You are a rapist,”
she had told him before. Any attempt to return her gesture might be misunderstood.
Eventually her weeping slowed and faltered to an awkward end. Straightening, Lyralliantha
released him and took a small step back. “I am sorry,” she said softly.
He didn’t turn. “No need, what’s done is done,” he replied.
“No,” s
he said insistently. “Not that.
I meant for all of it. For my people, I apologize. This past month, I have seen…,”
her words trailed off. “They didn’t understand your kind. Even I only understand
a little, but I know now, it was wrong. What we did
, it was wrong.”
Does she mean enslaving humanity or stealing our world?
Either way, nothing she could say at that point would heal the damage done. “The
past cannot be changed,” he told her. “And in a few days it will no longer matter
to me. You weren’t even alive back then.”
“I am one of the She’Har. I am part of my people. The guilt is on all of us, a black
stain, whether we understand it or not,” she said.
Tyrion had had enough. The last thing he wanted that evening was the apologies of
one of the She’Har. He gave a slight bow and gestured toward the trunk, the path
that she would take to leave. “It is late
,
and I am tired. Farewell, Lyralliantha.”
A new pain appeared in her aura
,
but she quelled it as rapidly as it arose. Moving to leave
,
she said one more thing, “I will not forget what I have learned. Wh
atever I can do for your people,
I will do.”
Tyrion listened to her words with some bitterness.
Too little, too late,
he thought. “If you would do something to pay for your people’s wrongs, bet on me.
Bet everything you have.”