Rite of Exile: The Silent Tempest, Book 1 (21 page)

Great was the puzzlement on the Master Raén’s face when he opened the door an hour later to reveal an empty-handed Rennor. When he followed him to the stable yard for an explanation, his expression darkened to anger.

Next to an old mule laden with packages stood a huge hulk of a man wearing a toothy, uneven grin beneath a dark shock of hair. Rennor had accepted the grocer’s offer to haul all his supplies to the inn in one trip. Soren brooded but kept his peace, and helped stow away the supplies near their horses. Only when the grocer departed and they returned to the room did he vent his wrath.

“The next time just blow a horn and shout our names up and down the street!”

“Blast you, Soren!” Caleb shot, fed up with his criticisms. “The man did us a favor. The least you can do is thank him. Do you think we could have done any better—with our faces?”

“The more people see us, the greater the risk,” he said. “There was no reason for him to meet us in the yard like that.”

Rennor winced. “I’m sorry, he was so insistent. But it might have been worth it: he told me about the Raéni search.”

That caught their attention, and they scooted their chairs together and sat down. “What did he say?” Caleb asked.

“I’m fairly unknown this end of town, so I saw no harm in asking the grocer
if he’d heard about Raéni from out east being in the area.
Indeed there are
, he said.
Searching for the Master Raén of Ada, no less. The Overseer has issued a warrant for his arrest, and they’re to bring him back to Ekendoré.
I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, like you said, so I didn’t ask further. I don’t think he knew much more about it, anyway.
He kept fussing about how the Raéni don’t pay any heed to
us common folk
. He couldn’t possibly have recognized you, Soren.”

“Even so, he knows a Raén when he sees one, by Orand, and now he might realize you weren’t so innocently curious as your questions suggested!”

“But he was so grateful for everything I bought from him,” Rennor explained, his voice rising. “I don’t think he gets much business. I couldn’t refuse his help without sounding like I was hiding something—which of course I was! In any case it was impossible to carry it all here in one trip.”

Soren glared at Rennor a moment longer, then relaxed. “You did as well as could be expected, I suppose.”

“Thank you.”

Caleb shook his head. “Garda wants you arrested? Why?”

“It’s only a rumor,” Soren muttered.

“I don’t know. The grocer’s story has too much in common with what the innkeeper said.”

A long, doubt-filled silence followed. Rennor leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“I’m already halfway in,” he said. “You might as well tell me the rest.” Soren blinked at him, apparently caught off guard by this realization.

Caleb nodded, a cynical grin on his face. “Actually, it ties directly in with your profession.” After a glance at Soren to make sure he approved, or at least voiced no objection, Caleb took Warren’s coat from the hook by the door, fished through his pockets, and placed the Medallion in Rennor’s outstretched hand.

Rennor inspected it closely, then gave it back. “Perhaps it would’ve been better if I
had
walked.”

Caleb grunted in reply. “You’re not the only one with regrets.”

A hollow, clunking sound distracted them: Warren sat on the table, kicking his feet back and forth in his boredom as he gazed out the window. An inexplicable look of puzzlement creased Rennor’s brow. “I assume you’re here by no choice of your own?”

“We left in a hurry, you might say,” Caleb replied. He followed with a quick recount of events at Udan.

“It would seem to lend weight to the rumors,” Rennor said afterward. He turned to Soren. “You’re sure the warrant isn’t from the Overseer?”

“And in any case isn’t it your responsibility to investigate and find the truth about this?” Caleb added.

The old Raén shifted his icy stare between them. “There
is
no truth to this. Not even Garda has the authority to arrest the Master Raén of Ada, not without the approval of the Council. Féitseg alone would never agree to such a thing. Let me see the warrant with my own eyes, stamped with their seal and delivered by a trusted messenger,
then
I’ll believe it. Besides, the search for Kseleksten outweighs all other duties.”

“Even your duty to the Overseer?”

“Enough! First you accuse me of evasiveness, then try to trap me with clever logic. Kseleksten calls, through the Broken Lor’yentré. As I already explained, I am bound to thwart any evil to the best of my ability. I can’t do that in Ekendoré.” Suspicion entered his eyes, and he asked, “Why are you questioning me like this? I thought you wanted a chance to clear your name.”

Caleb turned toward the fire. “Sorry,” he murmured.

Soren kept staring at him. Caleb braced himself for an interrogation, but Rennor saved him the ordeal. “The Second Lor’yentré!” he cried, and they turned their heads. “You’re headed for Graxmoar!”

Caleb shrugged. “That’s the plan, anyway.”

“This is too much of a coincidence,” said Rennor.

The door shook with a vigorous knock before the others could demand an explanation. They all glanced at each other in alarm. Caleb crept to the door, cracked it opened enough to peek through, then relaxed and swung it wide. It was the innkeeper.

“It’s two o’clock. Either pay for another night, or get out!”

Soren rose, frowning darkly, and produced the night’s rent. As she turned to go he halted her with a question.

“Why are you so unfriendly to us? We’ve caused you no great inconvenience.”

She stood glancing from face to face. “Because I know who you are—I guessed it even before this fellow here blurted out your name,” she said, jabbing a thumb at Caleb. “I don’t like harboring fugitives, especially well-known ones.”

“Then why are you letting us stay?” Caleb asked.

“I said I didn’t like it,” she answered, closing the door behind. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to hand you over like traitors. That sort of thing could get around and ruin business.”

“And harboring Raéni fugitives won’t?”

“My inn does well because the customers trust me not to ask questions. A habit you might want to consider adopting,” she said, pointing at Rennor. “That grocer is known for his big mouth.”

“Are you saying we’re in danger here?” Soren asked.

“I’m not sure.
I’ve spoken to a few soldiers here and there. There’s some bickering going on among the local Raéni—other soldiers horning in on their jurisdiction, that kind of thing. It might be why they haven’t found you yet.”

“What else have you heard?” Caleb asked.

“Bits and pieces. Some drivel about Orand—the usual gloom and doom that crops up every now and then. I’ve never understood all that fuss about prophecies.”

“Is that so?” piped Soren.

Her lips twisted in scorn. “Only fools believe in prophecies. And since they usually mope and sit around doing nothing, they’re the ones most likely to make it happen.” She scrutinized Caleb. “You’re that Falling Man, aren’t you? I heard you got your name because you fell out of the sky.”

Caleb tried to reduce the significance of the event with a shrug. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Do you believe any of this prophecy stuff?”

He hesitated, but Soren had already heard his doubts. “I’m not sure. I agree with what you said, in general at least.”

“Then we’ll be safe here tonight?” the Master Raén queried. The innkeeper nodded reluctantly, and he added, “We’ll need to be out before sunrise.”

“I’ll have your horses ready,” she said. “Though I can’t promise anything, I’ll do what I can to keep the Raéni off your scent.”

Soren thanked her. After she left, he crouched by the hearth to stir the coals with a poker, his face troubled.

“A woman to be trusted, I would think,” Rennor said. “And I’m sorry if I risked blowing your cover. But I was wondering—how were you planning to get through the barrier?”

The others stared blankly at him. “Barrier?” they asked at once.

“Gur’alyreiv, of course.”

Caleb, crestfallen at the reminder, sighed into his chair and waved his hand toward Soren. “You’ll have to get that answer from the Master Raén.”

Soren returned his gaze to the fire. “We might find a way through,” he murmured.

“But I was about to explain earlier,” Rennor said. “I know of something that might help.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Something Mistress Telai discovered a few years ago. Perhaps she spoke to you of this?” They only sat gazing at him, and he shrugged. “Late last year she sent me a letter describing an old, faded document she had found. Apparently a small group of early Adan colonizers wanted to settle some place less contested by the Hodyn. They left for lands far to the north past Lrana. But other than this document, she found no further mention of them.”

“I don’t see how this helps,” Caleb said.

“Even if there’s any truth to it,” Soren added.

“Please, hear me out. She asked me to look into it. I had just completed the mission when I lost my horse and met you. Though I often go on long journeys, it’s rare to find something this significant.” He shifted into a more comfortable position. “They call themselves the Kerlans. It’s a tough climate so far north of Ada, as you can imagine, so they only live in a half dozen villages scattered around the northern end of the lake. But they’re well aware of their association with Adan history.”

“Ridiculous,” said Soren. “We would have heard about this by now. Miners have scouted almost the entire length of the Irenseni, and they’ve never met anyone other than a few lone trappers or hunters.”

A rush of blood darkened Rennor’s face. “Believe me or not as you like, Soren. If you want, I can stop right here and leave you to guess what I discovered!”

The Master Raén returned his stare but said nothing, and Rennor paused to let his anger cool. “It took me a while to gain their trust, but eventually I learned something of their folklore, preserved by the elders from their first wanderings. Their own beginnings are quite different from Ada’s. Their hair is much darker, for one thing, like the Treth. They’re descendants of a race who lived near Urmanaya, so long ago they’ve forgotten most of their history. Yet they still remember Grondolos.”

“What could they possibly know about him, especially after all this time?” Soren asked.

“In total, far less than you do. But there’s an old story they tell their children about a sorcerer king named Grondolos, and how he came here long ago to prepare the land, to make it beautiful and more plentiful. Apparently this sorcerer discovered the root of all the sorrow and famine in the land, and trapped it inside a magical shield.”

“Gur’alyreiv?”

“I presumed as much.”

“Interesting tale,” Caleb said. “There might even be some truth to it. But I still don’t see how it helps.”

“There’s one more thing,” said Rennor. “The story ends with a promise. Three people from different races will break through the shield one day and remove the last remnant of evil from the world.”

“I suppose you think that’s us.” Soren replied. “You forget that the last remnant of evil is Kseleksten, the First Lor’yentré, not the Second—the
broken
one.”

“Don’t ask me to make sense of it. I just thought you should hear it, now I know where you’re headed.”

Soren peered at him for a moment. “You’re coming with us.”

“Good,” he said, then drew back in surprise. “I am?”

“Yes. You know too much. You may be found and questioned by these errant Raéni, or whoever they are.”

“What are you suggesting, Soren?” said Rennor. “That I’d betray you?”

“Not of your own will, perhaps.”

A chill settled into Caleb’s gut. He changed the subject, hoping his instincts were wrong. “What are we going to do about the horses?” he asked Soren. “We won’t have enough to carry all those supplies with Rennor riding one.”

“If I’m generous, I think I can find a horse the innkeeper won’t mind parting with.”

“Do you believe his story?”

“Frankly, I don’t know. It sounds too clever by half. But I’d be shirking my duty to the Oath if I didn’t give it a chance—or if I left him here to blab about us.”

“I’d be shirking my
own
duty,” Rennor said. At Caleb’s questioning look he added, “Throw away a chance to find the greatest artifact in a thousand years? She’d never forgive me!”

“Hold on,” Soren said, raising his hand. “I didn’t say anything about accompanying us all the way to Graxmoar. Civilians aren’t allowed there, except for Loremasters.”

Rennor looked crestfallen, and Caleb said, “Um, Soren—I think that law refers to the Lor’yentré itself, not Graxmoar. Besides, we need all the help we can get, no matter how small.”

“Strange how you remember that law so precisely, yet you misread Orand’s prophecy. But I don’t see how having one more mouth to feed helps us.”

“Don’t worry, Soren, I’m a light eater,” said Rennor, brightening. “And I’m sure the innkeeper is willing to sell us a few extra supplies along with the horse.”

Caleb smiled. “Excellent idea.”

“Yes, excellent,” Soren remarked, “when you don’t have to pay the bill.”

♦

Later that afternoon they bargained with the innkeeper to augment their supplies and to purchase an old but sturdy bay mare as a packhorse. Tedium ruled the balance of the day. Soren would not allow anyone to leave the room save for bodily necessities or to tend the horses, and they spent the hours twitching at every loud voice or slamming door.

At last the light through the window faded to dusk. A lingering weariness overcame their fears, and they slept soundly—until a few hours past midnight.

A harsh pounding at the door roused them all from their beds. Caleb sat up and blinked like an owl, while Rennor mumbled and tossed. Soren was already on his feet, tense and alert.

The pounding continued. “Open up!” came a faint demand through the door.