Rite of Exile: The Silent Tempest, Book 1 (2 page)

To his left, the ship’s skin glared in the early sunlight. To his right, past the scorched and battered stern, a long scar marred the rolling grassland for half a mile at least. Far beyond, a solitary peak hovered like a dark cloud above the mist-cloaked horizon.

Warren knelt in the tall grass a short distance from the hatch, digging at something that had caught his attention. The joy of even a partial recovery brought a lump to Caleb’s throat.

Puzzled, he glanced back through the open hatch, then walked over to his son. Warren’s nose was smeared with dirt where he had rubbed it. It triggered a flood of memories: a tiny hand gripping Caleb’s finger, the long hikes across the vanishing tundra, the boyish hug that always welcomed him home. But no spark of intelligence remained in those bright blue eyes, no recognition of the disasters they had survived—both here and on Earth.

Caleb’s brief hope drowned in a wave of bitterness.
Some leftover fluke of his mind opened the hatch, nothing more. Get a grip on yourself!

Warren pointed to the ground by his knees. A silver gleam caught Caleb’s attention, and he bent close.

“Nothing wrong with your vision, that’s for sure,” he said, struggling to quell his voice. “Let’s see what you’ve found.” The grass was stiff and dry, and he forced his fingers down to extract the object out of a tangle of roots.

It was a large coin. At first Caleb smiled, and almost pocketed it without thinking. Then he stared and brought the disc closer.

One side was engraved with the outline of a man standing beneath a pine tree, his arms raised wide as if in invocation. He turned the coin over, but the opposite side was as plain and flat as unpolished steel.

Caleb lifted his gaze to the horizon, his hopes restored.

Civilization!

He looked down at his son. Warren sat motionless, his dirtied hands around his knees, the line of his sight barely above the waving stems of grass. There was an air of abandonment about his posture that tugged at Caleb’s heart.

He sat beside Warren and held out the coin. “All right if I keep this a while?”

Warren curled up in his lap and nodded.

Caleb held him, silent, his mind a battleground between gratitude and despair. Warren could still feel emotion, and even understand speech. Yet what could a father give him now before his inevitable decline robbed all joy from his life?

He patted his son on the back and helped him to his feet. “Looks like we might find a life here after all—if we can find whoever made that coin. But first we’ve got to find something to eat!”

Keeping Warren close at hand, Caleb reentered the ship and headed for the last room down the corridor, which served as a small staging area for the nearby cargo hold. He opened every closet and cabinet, making sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. Besides the synthetic, short-sleeved jumpsuits they had worn during hibernation, any clothing disintegrated at the slightest touch. Yet other, more mechanical necessities had survived: a knife, a flashlight, an antique compass inherited from his great-grandfather—and a laser pistol small enough to hide in his pocket, one of dozens stored both here and in the hold. Besides needing a weapon to hunt with, there was no guarantee they would meet friends on this planet.

A quick inspection of the cargo hold told him what he already knew: all the food supplies had disintegrated beyond recognition. Any other items he found were either too large or of no use to him, so he returned to the corridor, keeping a firm grip on Warren’s hand.

He crossed the threshold to the bulkhead door, and stopped. Something didn’t feel right—as if they were being watched.

Caleb looked back down the length of the hold, to where their footprints wound through the dust. Nothing unusual about that. Yet there appeared to be many more of the larger prints, as if he had somehow traversed the distance more times than Warren.

He puzzled over this oddity for a while, then breathed a curse and punched the control to close the door. There was no time to solve mysteries, even if his active imagination wasn’t to blame. His hands were starting to shake, both from fatigue and the low blood sugar typical of extended artificial hibernation. They needed food, and soon.

They sat outside the hatch and ate what they could from the emergency kits, like a father and son sharing a picnic. The synthesized meal bars had turned stale and tasteless, but Caleb knew they wouldn’t get far without them. The wind-swept grass and multitude of wildflowers were remarkably similar to Earth’s, but he dared not make any assumptions. The demands on his strength and courage had just begun.

A high-pitched giggle diverted his thoughts. A butterfly had perched on Warren’s arm, its tiny yellow wings folding and unfolding as if in welcome. Caleb tried to echo Warren’s smile, but memories of happier days sabotaged it.

I won’t give up, Karla. If there’s a way to save him, I’ll find it.

He stood and faced the hatch. Closing it should have been the easiest thing to do. But they were stranded like no one on Earth had ever been.

Warren, having lost his little friend and ready for the next adventure, tugged at his father’s hand. After a last glance at the crashed vessel and the long trench it had gouged in the soil, Caleb set off toward the horizon, his son tramping alongside like a soldier following his captain.

2

Premonitions

To forget the path behind

is to darken the one before us.

- Telai, 13
th
Grand Loremaster of Ada

A SOUND LIKE
thunder rocked the clear dawn sky.

Always sensitive to the slightest omen, Telai woke instantly. Wrapped in her blankets on the cold, dew-speckled grass of her campsite, she watched a stream of fire cleave its way between the fading stars.

She extracted herself and jumped to her feet. Save for a coal-black mare stamping out her nervousness against the turf, no other sound or movement disturbed the empty solitude.

The line of fire narrowed, the rumble mellowed. At last it faded into the glow of the horizon, leaving nothing but a trail of fume to mark its passing.

Telai waited breathlessly, every nerve tensed. A faint, echoing report reached her ears—a vicious, unforgiving sound, as if the land had been violated. It sent a chill into her bones no warmth of daylight would soon cure.

A deep nicker from Eiveya, her companion for many years, broke the spell. Telai, her braided, platinum-blond hair tangled from sleep, approached and spoke a few words of comfort. She had served as Grand Loremaster of Ada for only two years, and age had not yet mellowed her passion to discover the secret behind Ada’s long history of war with the Hodyn. Now, as she traced the smoky path of this fallen star, she wondered if anything from the past mattered anymore.

Telai inspected her hands, noting the calluses earned by endless miles of riding—a testament to her search for the truth. On her right hand, a dark ruby set in a silver-trimmed gold ring reflected the growing light. She had earned that, too. But she knew a decision lay in her future, when she must risk everything to become the first Loremaster in history who dared challenge her country’s most cherished beliefs—or else accept her place as only one more historian in a long line of successors.

She clenched her hands and looked up. Her instincts seldom failed her. Somewhere beyond the fiery path across the sky, she would finally cross that line.

She gathered her belongings, only lingering to give Eiveya the attention she deserved: food and water, a quick brush-down, lifting those saucer-sized hooves to check for stones or loose horseshoes. Telai knew her quest depended on these brief delays. Yet before the first limb of the sun brightened her troubled brow and lit the fire of determination in her light brown eyes, she had saddled Eiveya for another day’s ride.

One soft word was all it took to urge the big horse forward. Telai let Eiveya set her own pace, shifting the reins now and then to keep their course to the east. To their right, beyond a quick-flowing river, a lonely summit broke the rolling green of the central plains—a grim, barren cone that after all these years still cast a pall of fear, a hint of some primal memory best left undisturbed. Telai, who cared nothing for these unspoken taboos, had slept nearly in its shadow.

High winds stretched the trail of smoke across the sky until it faded. Clumps of heather, small groups of trees, here and there a trench carved deep by spring storms, all slowly passed as she rode, their shadows shrinking then growing again as the sun arced overhead. She let Eiveya drink at every opportunity, conserving the animal’s strength for whatever fate lay ahead.

The sky had mellowed with the approach of evening. Eiveya stopped, suddenly and without a word from her rider.

“What is it, girl?”

Eiveya neighed and tossed her head. Telai peered ahead at a gap between two distant patches of woodland.
No
, she told herself.
If any Raéni scouting party allowed the Hodyn to get this far into Ada, Soren would never let them forget it.

She dug in her heels and resumed the journey. The saddle-like gap between the woods widened, took on clarity. A distant gleam on the edge of grass and sky beyond caught her attention, and she urged Eiveya into a trot.

Again the horse jarred to a stop, forcing Telai to grip the saddle horn to keep her balance. She stifled a curse and scanned the horizon from north to south. Beyond the inexplicable gleam yellowing in the westering sun, she saw nothing to explain Eiveya’s caution.

Telai dropped from the saddle, stretched, then reached inside her saddle bag for the hard wafers she often carried on long journeys. She took a few steps toward the distant reflection, chewing thoughtfully.

Another nervous whinny interrupted her. Telai walked back and stroked the animal’s muscular neck. “Trying to get my attention?” she asked, her voice mingling with the breeze. “We’ve got to work on our communication skills, sweetheart.”

The mare perked up her head and ears and stared directly toward the woods to their left. Telai’s smile faded to a puzzled frown.

“What in Hendra’s name has gotten into you?”

Eiveya turned on the spot and tore into a gallop, neighing fiercely. The impact of the horse’s flank knocked Telai to the ground, where she lay for a moment gasping for breath. Then a strangely accented shout brought her back to her feet in an instant.

A man approached from the direction of the woods, his steps cautious, hands spread wide in a gesture of peace. Close at his side walked a boy nine or ten years old, presumably his son. They wore gray, full-length body suits with silver and blue emblems at the left breast; the child’s hung like a tent, while the man’s suit was torn and stained with blood along the sleeves and ankles. He sported a stubble of beard beneath a dark glance and tangled, medium-length brown hair: decidedly rugged and handsome. The child was an endearing picture of sandy locks, and blue eyes widening in mingled fascination and dread.

The man spoke again, a complex, burdensome string of syllables alien to her experience. But she heard the desperation in his voice, and noticed how he kept the boy close to him.

A sudden tumult of galloping horses turned their heads. A cohort of Raéni soldiers had rounded a corner of the woods to the east, speeding directly toward them. The man leaped in front of his son, and the riders came to a stop, churning the soil.

With a shock Telai recognized their leader: Soren, Master Raén of Ada. No higher military authority existed beyond the Overseer’s.

He wore leather leggings and a short tunic, with small, colorful badges along the sleeves. His hair, white yet not quite the white of age, lay thin and straight upon his shoulders. In his weathered face sparked eyes keen as a winter storm. It was a face Telai had seen many times since her childhood—a message of pride, bravery, and a loyalty that would not shrink from taking a stranger’s life if duty required it.

With wiry hands gripping the saddle he slid to the ground. Two others followed, a young man of average height and a dark-haired, sturdy woman, while the remaining pair rode wide to the left and right to prevent escape. The stranger blanched as the Raéni swept out their swords, curved blades burning like gold in the sun as they surrounded him.

The newcomer glanced at Telai as though she represented his one hope, her trust already established. Soren harshly demanded the stranger state his purpose, but the man only offered a few unintelligible words, shaking his head in frustration. Soren’s fingers twitched on his sword while the other two Raéni stood behind the stranger, ready to carry out their master’s command in an instant.

The boy, trembling, sent a glance of his own at Telai—one that mesmerized her. She stepped forward, her struggle between truth and myth forgotten, and placed her hand on the old man’s shoulder in a silent plea for mercy.

“You haven’t seen what I’ve seen,” Soren replied. He turned and pointed, and Telai followed his arm to where the gleam that had first caught her interest was fading into the dusk.

“Do you know what it is?”

“A metal ship of some kind, one that fell from the sky,” he said. “It’s badly damaged.”

“A ship? This far from the ocean?”

“It had windows in front like a captain’s cabin—so it’s only a guess.”

Telai studied the gleam on the horizon again, then turned and approached the newcomers.

“Have a care, daughter of Garda!”

“They’re only afraid, Soren. I would be!”

Telai stopped a few steps away, careful not to alarm them. She saw the emblem on the man’s clothing in more detail now: a blue, marble-patterned disc, circled by three green arrows joined head to tail. Sharply-formed, metallic runes or letters underscored the emblem in a neat row, flashing amber in the sun.

She met the man’s brown gaze and offered a tentative smile. “Telai,” she said, placing a hand on her chest.

The stranger must have heard the tremor in her voice, but he did not smile or appear to take any comfort in it. A short nod was the only sign he recognized her words as a greeting. He sent a meaningful glance at the blade in Soren’s hand.