Rite of Exile: The Silent Tempest, Book 1 (25 page)

THE BUMP
and sway of the saddle shot unrelenting waves of pain through Caleb’s chest. But he endured it in silence as Soren led a determined pace out of Tnestiri.

The high canopy of trees thwarted the waxing moon, blackening the forest floor to a treacherous maze. Caleb dared not use his flashlight, for he had no wish to challenge the creature again with another of his “abominations.” H
e couldn’t understand why it had appeared at all when the forest was already so well protected. Such a brutal yet magical beast seemed out of place, not just for Tnestiri but for all of Ada as well. It was as if some mysterious force was at work, one far older than even the first Raéni expedition to Graxmoar. Up until now he had always reserved a little skepticism for Ada’s ancient legends, regardless of his hopes for Kseleksten. Now he wondered if there was more to it than even Telai knew.

At last the pale light of dawn filtered through the trees. Soren guessed they were nearing the western border. Though they were allowed a full day to escape they had not forgotten Gur’alyreiv, and they hurried forward, hoping to break the evil barrier ahead by sheer momentum.

Caleb, ever more grateful for Soren’s willingness to lead the way, braced himself when a wall of light shone between the dark columns. But they cantered into the wide and windy expanse of familiar grassland with their horses under full control.
After riding a safe distance away they
halted in the broadening daylight, and looked back. Caleb could hardly believe their fortune. The forest marched north and south like a battlement, massive and foreboding, yet devoid of any threat.

Fear had driven them through Tnestiri without rest; now a surge of relief brought their exhaustion crashing down on them. T
hey rode only far enough to find a place out of sight of the forest, ate a small meal out of sheer necessity, then rolled into their blankets and immediately fell to sleep.

♦

They woke abruptly at noon, all at once. A sense of danger had invaded Caleb’s sleep, and he sat up straight, eyes and ears alert. Only when he rose to their feet did he know whence it came: Gur’alyreiv.

The horses stamped and fretted, and Caleb and Rennor hurried to restrain them. Soren, Fetra in hand, looked to the east.
With an Adan curse muttered under his breath, he snapped into a brisk walk toward the trees. Caleb stared in amazement at the man’s audacity.

He stopped on a low rise, gripping his sword in defiance of the invisible barrier ahead. Caleb watched as the Master Raén struggled to take another step; but he could go no farther. It was as clear to him as it was to Caleb that
Gur’alyreiv had grown much stronger, sealing off their escape.

Soren returned to the others.
Far to the south the Erthair glittered in the sunlight, its quick, cheerful waters strangely out of place. It pointed to their destination: Oné’en.
Tnestiri was forbidden to them now, but their immediate goal remained.

They broke camp and headed west, chewing on a few strips of salt-cured pork as they rode.
Though their rest had been short and their hurts lingered, they made good speed as the day progressed. The fearful presence behind soon faded, as if satisfied now that they were headed in the opposite direction. A rolling terrain, scattered with thick patches of tangled trees or low scrub, slowly descended toward the blue, wind-tossed waters of Oné’en. It looked thoroughly cold and inhospitable, and Caleb dreaded the prospect of navigating the cresting waves on some rickety raft.

Soren, tight-lipped as usual, had apparently forgotten their bitter quarrel from the other evening. His relationship with Caleb had resumed an illusion, at least, of its former status. Rennor was more of a mystery. Caleb could not help but trust the man, despite his clumsy masquerade as Telai’s assistant. Even Soren treated him with quiet tolerance now. But Caleb suspected that the old soldier was merely biding his time, waiting for an opportunity to expose him.

Afternoon passed into evening, and they stopped to camp at the northwestern corner of the lake
. As the others tended the horses or prepared the meal, Warren ran up and down the black sand of the shore, skipping stones over the dying waves. Caleb smiled. Though they had left Ekendoré only three weeks ago it seemed much longer. He missed Telai’s companionship, which more resembled a pleasant dream now than a memory. And if he were ever to see her again, what would her eyes tell him—that she still loved Caleb Stenger, the father of the Bringer of Evil?

The morning dawned cold and clear.
Once they started the shore bent sharply to the south, and they caught sight of Graxmoar, a faint gray-blue hump on the southeast horizon.
Caleb glimpsed something like a tiny spire or tower atop its round summit, but at this distance it was hard to tell.

Several dead poplars stood along the lake, ideal for what they needed, and they halted for the day to build their raft. The island looked too rugged for horses, so they fashioned a smaller vessel, enough to hold three men and a boy with minimal comfort. Caleb worried about leaving the horses, but Soren assured him they would instinctively stay together, and Tellahur would come at his call when they returned from Graxmoar.

Caleb swung an axe as well as anyone after a little practice, and Soren’s skill at ropes was unsurpassed. Rennor, the odd third man, kept hopping from place to place, more of a hindrance than a help. In time he gave up this pretense and entertained Warren by the lake, while Soren and Caleb hitched the animals to the finished raft and dragged it to the shore. They relaxed for the remainder of the day, lounging in the bright sunshine while their horses nibbled at the cool grass.

♦

No complaint escaped Caleb’s lips as Soren woke them at the first hint of dawn. He hated the idea of riding a raft even more than a relleté, but reaching Graxmoar was too important to let his phobia get the better of him. They ate a cold meal, set the horses free, then loaded the raft with three days’ worth of supplies. The rest they hung from a rope strung high between two trees.

With Warren planted safely in the cargo, they shoved the raft across the dark shore into the water and clambered on one by one. Caleb and Soren took up the twin sculls. After much fumbling and arguing they maneuvered it in the right direction, toward the faint smudge on the horizon beyond miles of waves crowned amber in the rising sun.

Morning was well on its way before the mainland shore began to dwindle. Soren grumbled about their slow progress. Rennor sat fore to help balance the weight, but even so the ungainly vessel tipped alarmingly as the waves angled in on the port and aft sides. Caleb, more nauseated by the hour, grappled with the scull until his muscles ached. He endured this wrestling match a little longer, then asked Rennor to take his place. Rennor’s mouth fell open in surprise, but he could hardly refuse, and with a frown stepped gingerly toward the back. He was a clumsy navigator at first. Caleb gave no heed to this, however, or to the Master Raén’s scowl of disapproval, and sat down by Warren to rest.

The hours dragged. The spire-like feature Caleb had descried slowly resolved into a gaunt, narrow pine, standing alone or else towering above the others, like the ragged survivor of an ancient forest. Just as he made up his mind to take Soren’s place the old Raén spat a curse, ordered Caleb to take his place at the scull, and retrieving the axe from the baggage, cut the bonds at the end of the first log on the starboard side.

“What in Ada are you doing?” Caleb shouted.

“Watch, and you will know!” Soren answered.

Caleb obeyed, sitting down again as Soren began splitting one end of the log into long, crude planks. The heave of the little vessel made this maddeningly difficult, but eventually he produced several planks, one especially long and thick. He released what was left of the log into the water, retied the ropes, and at his gesture Warren vacated the spot at the center.

At last Caleb jumped to a guess. Leaving Rennor to navigate the raft, he helped Soren drive the largest of the planks down between the logs, wedging it in place with scraps of splintered wood. Soon they had a rough frame for a sail, two sets of rather shaky yardarms extending to either side. There was no canvas, nor any leather large enough to make a sail, but Soren used a thick blanket—Rennor’s—and secured it to the frame.

The clumsy device creaked and wobbled with the force of the wind. Soren was forced to guide the sail with ropes tied at the yardarms, lest the whole contraption break free or tilt at a useless angle. To Caleb it looked twice as much effort as the scull, but their speed improved noticeably—though anyone foolish enough to sit near the front soon got soaked from the chop and splash of the restless waves.

After an hour or so the island sharpened, and the shore behind faded to a hazy blue line. But the sun arced westward as it ever did, and Soren cast up anxious glances, shading his eyes.

♦

By the time the western sky had colored, the tall pines of Graxmoar loomed above them.

The shore was laden with enough rocks and tall boulders to thwart any landing. Soren gathered the rope he had been holding, the last remaining to them, and tied the raft to the nearest tree. But the waves battered the raft against the rocks, and it took a deal of effort to get the baggage onto dry land without losing everything in the lake. Caleb felt as if the island were heaving up and down beneath his feet.

All was safe at last, and they climbed to drier and less treacherous ground beneath the first trees. Soren perched himself on a tall boulder fringed with twisted pine roots and studied the dense woods rising above. They assumed their goal was at the center—which, judging by the size of the island as seen from afar, was only two or three miles away. A few hours of light remained. So after they divided the baggage amongst the adults, Soren struggled through the tangled branches, the others following close behind.

The thick pine growth eased at the top of the first rise, but the rugged terrain slowed their progress. Soren was often forced to wait for the others, especially Rennor. Caleb held a steady enough pace, and the unburdened Warren stepped lightly over the stones and fallen limbs, eager for adventure as always. But Rennor sweated and puffed in the cool, windy air. After two long waits spent grumbling at the top of a ridge, Soren accepted the inevitable and slowed his pace.

As they drew closer to the center of the island the lone pine at its top increased in size and clarity, a massive tree dwarfing all the others. It had suffered from years of wind and storm, and it looked barely alive, its ruined crown stark against the evening light. Beyond this they saw nothing unusual, no hint of where the Broken Lor’yentré might be found, only hills, trees, and rocks, and an occasional glimpse of the lake far off in the haze. Perhaps the ragged tree marked their destination somehow. But it seemed too easy, and Caleb feared they had missed some clue, that their goal lay in an unexpected part of the island.

He glanced behind him. “It’s ahead,” Rennor said between breaths. “I feel it.”

Caleb frowned. Though the gift of laroné was not a casual topic among the Adaiani, it was his understanding that no foreigner was ever known to possess it. Soren merely led the way without comment, sure of his direction. But Caleb could not shake the notion that everything that had happened so far—Warren’s strange behavior, Gur’alyreiv, the stone creature, even Rennor—were all connected somehow.

Ridge after ridge they climbed. At last they halted at the foot of the very last hill, its rocky summit bereft of any growth save for the lonely sentinel at its top. Caleb scanned the area for a marker of some kind, but in vain.

“Do you think we’ve come to the right place?” he asked. Soren only nodded.

“There must be an underground chamber nearby, and an entrance,” Rennor said.

Soren glowered. “I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself.”

Caleb hated to side with Rennor, but this was too important. “Orand did say that the broken Lor’yentré lies
within
Graxmoar, Soren.”

The old Raén stared at him as if he had lost his mind, then began scouting about the base of the hill, shaking his head.

Rennor followed, searching intently; Caleb took the opposite direction, Warren trailing. He saw only stones and grass, and fallen trees stripped and bleached by the sun and snow, their branches angling at the sky like bony fingers. To Caleb the place held a faint air of tragedy, and he bent his gaze to the ground as if by a spell or an unseen weight.

He spotted a half-buried branch a little whiter than the others. At first he gave it no more than a passing thought. Yet he kept glancing back at it, and with a puff of agitation reached down and pried it from the tangled grass.

It was a bone. It was brittle and old, ancient even, and about as long as his forearm. He turned it over, puzzled. Since he had first set foot on Graxmoar he had seen no animals larger than a squirrel.

His eyes flew wide, and he dropped it with a shout.

Soren ran up. “Well, man from the sky? What is it?”

Caleb, silently cursing himself for his weakness, picked up the bone and handed it to Soren. The old Raén studied it for a moment, then laid it back down and started digging around the area with a large stick.

He stood. A broken object lay in his hands: part of a skull, the jawbone gone, its sockets and nostrils packed with dirt.

“Someone’s been here before us,” Caleb said.

Soren nodded. “Raén.”

Rennor had joined them, his attention fixed upon the skull. “How can you be sure?”

“Who else could it be?” Soren answered. “In any case, perhaps we should interpret his remains as a warning.”

“Perhaps we shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” said Caleb.

Soren glared at him. “Or let hidden motives cloud our judgment.”

The accusation brought Caleb’s blood to full boil, but he kept it under control. With the first step towards healing Warren close at hand, he was not about to risk a confrontation.