Rite of Exile: The Silent Tempest, Book 1 (6 page)

“What of us, stranger from the sky?” asked one of the older members, his rheumy eyes fixed upon him. “Do you trust
our
judgment?”

Caleb Stenger took a deep breath. “Perhaps not, at least not completely. You deserve that answer. But there’s a difference.”

“How so?”

“No matter what happens here today, my son and I will share the same fate. On Earth, we would have been separated, and Warren left an orphan. As a father, my trust cannot go that far.”

“Yes,” said Garda. “You misinterpret the difference, however. You seem to think this is a matter of one court being more just than the other. But how can we convict you of a crime for which there are no witnesses? You said Ada was not your original destination. I can’t imagine what your true one is like, but I assume you would have enjoyed the same advantage. Is that not so?”

He locked stares with her again. “You’re interpreting my escape as a quest for a selfish advantage. I see it as an escape from an unfair one. Do you think I would risk depriving Warren of his surviving parent so soon after the loss of the other? If we must speak of justice let us speak of
that
, and not some cold-hearted judge or impartial law!”

Garda slowly nodded in understanding. “So you escaped. I assume someone tried to stop you.”

“Yes. With help from a few friends I stole the ship I used in my profession, and—well, you know the rest. I think my government was angrier at the loss of one of their ships than anything else.”

A dead silence fell, and the Overseer sat straight in alarm. “They’re still looking for you?”

He smiled at her reaction. “No, too many years have passed. And it’s much too far. Even I’m not sure where I am in relation to Earth, so there’s no chance of them ever finding me—supposing they would accept such an enormous burden of time and resources to find one man.”

Garda paused to consider his reply, then turned to the others, silently and one by one. Tenra appeared indecisive but kept her peace, while the rest of the Council each bowed their head in consent.

They all stood as one, as if on cue. Garda indicated with a gesture that Caleb Stenger do the same. “The Judgment is concluded,” she said. “You and your son are welcome as citizens of Ada.” She called for the attendant to open the doors.

Looking rather stunned by the sudden verdict, Caleb Stenger waited by the entrance as the other judges approached. They clasped hands with him as they passed, offering their congratulations.

A young boy fought his way through the crowd, and the Council members stepped back in surprise. His father smiled broadly and rewarded the child with a firm hug. The Council exchanged a few chuckles, then slowly drifted across the threshold, leaving the Overseer alone with Caleb Stenger and his son.

The boy gazed up at the tall Overseer, and she smiled to reassure him. “I certainly hope my interrogation hasn’t given you a false impression of us,” she said to his father.

“Of your people?—no. But I must say you are a very persistent woman.”

Her smile faded, and she glanced into the passage outside. “What you intend as a slight, I consider a compliment. Yes, I perceived something unsettling about you. It was my duty to discover it, and seek some assurance. I will not be condemned for the protection of my people—which now includes both you and your son, Caleb Stenger, not just those closest to me.”

He noticed the direction of her glance, then bowed his head. “Of course. Forgive me for implying otherwise.”

“One of the Underseers will meet with you soon to make your transition as smooth as possible,” she said. “You are an Adaian now, and I wish you well, whatever you think of me. You may go.”

♦

There was comfort in the long, gloomy passage after the unforgiving brilliance of Larientur. Telai took Caleb’s arm, while Warren, oblivious to the watershed moment his father had survived, skipped along at his side.

“Are you free for the rest of the day?” Caleb asked.

Her face brightened. “I think I can manage it. In fact, there’s a play at the theater this evening. You might enjoy the change of pace.”

“Sounds wonderful. Besides, I could use the company.”

Telai’s expression sobered a little at the flat tone of his voice. “One of the judges told me it was difficult for you.”

“I can’t deny that. She’s a formidable woman.”

The challenging glint he had seen earlier flashed in her eyes again. “And you’re not the first man to discover that.”

5

The Voiceless Dance

We speak, we listen, we sing.

Yet the greatest truths often come to us in silence.

- Kinlené, 15
th
Overseer of Ada

BY THE TIME
Telai returned to escort her guests to the play, shadows were deepening in the streets. Her steps were light and her heart untroubled; her obligations as teacher were over, and she was a Loremaster again.

Caleb Stenger and Warren were waiting outside, sitting beneath the trees on a bench across the street from the inn. “Beautiful evening,” said her former student, rising at her approach.

“Almost makes me wish the play was another night,” she replied. “Nothing better than a summer night’s walk.”

He shrugged. “Plenty of time afterward.”

“That depends. Eké gets cranky if I’m late for supper.”

“Eké?”

“My cook,” she answered.

He chuckled. “Well if that happens, I’ll take the blame.”

“You won’t have to. I told her to set three places at the table.”

She fought down a grin as he stood blinking at her. “I’m honored,” he mumbled at last.

They started up the main thoroughfare, north toward Wsaytchen. The evening breeze, rich with the scent of flowers and the deep green of early summer, mingled with the voices of folk wending their way through the park or along the road. Two teenagers sat in the shadows beneath the trees, their lips locked and their hands busy; Caleb Stenger threw Telai a glance, blushing.

A few awkward minutes passed before he broke the silence. “Just how many servants do you have?”

“Two. I’m not some strutting peacock, you know.”

He scrunched his face in a knot. “There I go again. I’m sorry. It’s going to take me a while to learn the subtleties of your culture. Yesterday the cook at the inn asked me how I liked my breakfast, and I did this.” He held his fist out, thumb extended upward. Telai’s jaw dropped. “He nearly punched me in the nose,” he added. “Dare I ask what it means?”

She squirmed a little. “Not in front of Warren.” The boy perked up at his name; Telai smiled and clasped his hand.

“But Telai—he doesn’t know your language.”

She sighed. “Remember, you asked! Your gesture was a statement about the length of his … um … proudest monument.”

“Oops. I’m building quite the reputation, aren’t I?”

They turned left at Wsaytchen and up the High Loop, a well-paved street that ran along the perimeter of the city opposite the dam. The theater, its polished marble walls and slanting, silver-beamed roof gleaming in the last rays of the sun, stood a few blocks beyond the palace gardens. The bronze likeness of a woman towered on the roof of the canopy over the doors, dressed in robes and holding forth a shallow bowl filled with flames wavering in the breeze.

Several people had gathered about the entrance. Among them were Féitseg, the Fifth Underseer, who always managed to find a kind word no matter who the recipient; Tenra, a heavy, intimidating woman nearly as fiery and stubborn as the Overseer; and Werten, the Ninth Underseer, a hesitant young man from Telené still finding his way among the political elite.

Telai kept a firm grip on Warren’s hand as she led them through the crowd. Well-dressed attendants at the doors handed out tightly-rolled scrolls of parchment. She politely refused, but nodded at Caleb Stenger to accept one.

“This is what the audience chants during the performance. I’ll explain once we get settled.”

She threaded a path through the chattering crowd in the foyer and down the center aisle of the theater. Rows and rows of cushioned benches faced a lantern-lit stage in a wide arc. The beamed ceiling slanted upward from the foyer until it peaked high over the stage, with both floor and walls angling outward in the same fashion, all decorated with painted murals trimmed in silver. The illusion of depth was so effective that it often caught newcomers unawares; Warren, gaping as usual, stumbled over his feet and almost dragged Telai to the floor.

“Warren!” his father hissed, adding a few words in his native tongue. Telai frowned, and not because of his tone. The sound of his strange language always unsettled her, like a solitary voice out of tune with the rest of the chorus.

They sat near the end of a row fairly close to the stage. “Here, Warren, sit between us,” said Telai, patting the cushion at her side. She smirked at the flash of disappointment in his father’s face.

Caleb Stenger undid the scroll, his brow furrowing as he scanned it. “Telai—I can’t read this. It’s in Urmanayan.”

“Don’t worry, no one will notice. I thought you might like it for a souvenir.”

“The chanting is part of the play?”

“More like a recognition of it,” she answered. “The dancers are members of the
Olahurali
, which means
silent singers
in the old tongue. They act out historical events using only acrobatics and costumes. The audience chants lines at certain points to honor both the performers and the ancestors they represent.”

Most of the crowd had found their seats by now. The attendants walked the perimeter, dousing the lanterns along the walls, and the hubbub of voices faded.

“What historical event will they be performing?” Caleb Stenger asked.

A few heads turned; Telai leaned in to whisper. “The tale of our ancestors, the oldest we know. It opens with Urman’s journey across the sea and ends with the victory of Grondolos over Heradnora.”

“You’ve given away the ending,” he whispered back, grinning.

She wasn’t about to surrender the advantage in their little game of revenge. “Well, you’re the only one here who doesn’t know it.”

“Really? So much for your intuitive powers,” he shot back, and pointed at Warren’s head. She wrinkled her nose in a playful sneer.

A quick hush fell. A man dressed in black, close-fitting shirt and breeches walked out onto the stage. He stood teetering on the forward edge, arms folded. Then he shot his hands high and wide, revealing a starred symbol on his chest with a gold rune at its center. Telai chanted as one with the audience, her voice flowing from years of practice:

Adru a yentré at kwali homel. Otu kali fronyé kwali hegré!

A thrill ran down her spine—the same rush of excitement she experienced whenever she found some ancient artifact or faded document. She resisted the temptation to whisper the translation to her guest:
Reveal the past to your descendants
.
Let us honor your sacrifice.
Why was his understanding so important to her? Why had she been so adamant about showing him La’hegré, the Adan symbol of sacrifice? It was a little unfair to expect him to appreciate its significance in so short a time. Yet here she was, parading the same theme in front of him again.

A deep blue line billowed and flowed out of the shadows to the left: robed dancers painted from head to toe, flinging their long white hair out and back like the wind-torn crests of a tumultuous sea. Telai studied her guest out of the corner of her eye and smiled at the inevitable awe of recognition. Another chant arose from the audience, words she knew he couldn’t understand. Yet he no longer seemed to care.

His son was equally spellbound, squatting on the bench and craning his neck for a better view. As the blue waves flowed across the stage another group appeared, each dancer stacked upon the other or dangling precariously out at various angles. They wore several different colors, from brown and gold near the bottom to gleaming white at the top. A man with wild red hair and beard stood forward, his arm extended to point the way across the sea.

Warren bounced on his heels. “Boat!”

Telai stared at the child, then at his father. Caleb Stenger was too mesmerized to notice that his son had spoken in Adan—to her knowledge for the very first time on his own. Warren repeated the word, nearly shouting in his enthusiasm; Telai leaned in, covered her mouth with her hand, and he nodded.

The ship sailed over the waves until it rammed into a wall of dancers, all clothed in gray and curled up like rocks stacked upon one another. Hull and sails alike collapsed, and arms thrashed through the blue—not wreckage but actors dressed as peasants, swimming for their lives. They climbed onto the shore and sat recovering, some with chests heaving in exhaustion, others mourning over loved ones twisted among the rocks.

Several more scenes followed, but Warren gradually lost interest and slumped in his seat, yawning and rubbing his eyes. After a quick glance at his father, Telai draped an arm over the boy’s shoulders and let him snuggle against her. He drooped down inch by inch, until he finally wriggled around and rested his head on her lap. She lost all interest in the play, captured by the blissful vision of a sleeping child. Warren was such an affectionate boy, always ready with a smile or a hug. Yet something about him went deeper—the same, unfathomable bond she had sensed that fateful day on the plains of central Ada.

Her gift of clairvoyance worked best when in prolonged physical contact; now he lay sleeping warm and content on her lap. Telai longed to break through his wall of silence. A part of her resisted this impulse, a faint note of discord or warning; but the opportunity was too precious to let slip by.

She closed her eyes. The subtle sounds of the audience faded, leaving no trace beyond the occasional chant, dull and distant in her ears. Blurry, half-formed memories flashed through her mind, dreamlike glimpses of an existence far removed from anything she had ever seen or imagined. Crowds walked by in cheerless, monochromatic clothing: a thousand, ten thousand, a sea of humanity. Strange shapes roamed the sky, passing between towering monoliths of glass and metal gleaming harshly in the sun. Other visions came and went, too quickly for her to latch on to, much less understand. Yet the last one lingered as a ghostly afterimage: Warren lying across a padded table wearing a strange, helmet-like device affixed to his head.