Rite of Exile: The Silent Tempest, Book 1 (9 page)

You’re not the only one desperate for hope, Caleb!

Strange how her voice sounded so much like Karla’s now.

7

Jewels in the Sand

The human heart is the most fickle of counselors.

- Tenlar, Master Raén of Spierel

A MORNING RAIN
beat softly on the tall, thick windows of Gerentesk. Caleb Stenger, alone in a small study in the northeast corner of the library, watched the blurred image of a pedestrian waver past like in a dream.
So untroubled,
he thought.
Even while walking in the rain.

Drawing a deep sigh, he returned to his cushioned seat by the table. The lamplight gleamed off the worn, gilded title of a large book:
Besir Orand’iteé
, or
The
Final Wisdom of Orand,
a collection of works by the most famous Prophet in Adan history.

Caleb placed the book in his lap. It was only a copy of the original scrolls, but he knew its value, and opened the yellowed pages with utmost care. Most of the written works in Gerentesk had been duplicated many times over the years by legions of dedicated scribes. And not merely works of lore and history. Texts on mining and law and weaponry were all to be found here, even books on Hodynese, the guttural language of their enemies.

Though he could not help but respect that achievement, he considered many of Orand’s verses to be little more than platitudes, more common sense than philosophy. What little foretelling existed was often too enigmatic for his inexperienced eyes. Orand’s boldest prophecies were like jewels in a mountain of sand, as if deliberately hidden from careless eyes.

Caleb opened the book, turning the pages to one of those rare jewels, and silently repeated the Prophet’s words in his mind:

Within Graxmoar, the rugged island, lies the agent of Urmanaya’s grief, an open window on the innermost desires, an ancient doorway to power.

Who can know its origin? The stars cry out their shame.

Shall we call the Lor’yentré evil? Innocence wielded it, ignorance created it. It found no illness it could not cure, yet it found no virtue it could not corrupt.

Forged by madness, broken by courage, now only the past shall undo it.

It found no illness it could not cure.
These same Prophets had predicted Heradnora’s fall, and even the least of their prophecies contained some element of truth. Yet Caleb’s eyes kept wandering to those six words that, no matter how many times he read or interpreted them, were impossible to erase from his mind:

The stars cry out their shame.

It was as though in the midst of an endless crowd of screaming fanatics, one quiet voice had spoken one absolute truth.

The Second Lor’yentré, the mysterious talisman that had plagued Ada’s ancestors, lay broken and useless somewhere on the island called Graxmoar. For centuries, the Raéni had hoped to find clues there to help them find the remaining source of “evil”: Kseleksten, the First Lor’yentré, apparently still whole yet hidden even from the Prophets. Whatever it was named, Caleb was convinced it wasn’t a myth, that there
had
to be some truth to it. The only thing required to take advantage of its abilities was someone enlightened enough to avoid its dangers. Someone from another world.

Perhaps his hopes were based on pure superstition. Perhaps the ancient words were nothing more than a tale of foolish nightmares masterfully written to kindle a desperate faith.

Setting the book on the table again, Caleb leaned forward and held his bowed head in his hands. Only two days had passed since his discovery, yet it already seemed a lifetime ago—back when he was still a skeptic, reading Ada’s revered tomes with none of the conviction he often heard in Telai’s voice. Now Orand’s words had touched him in a way he could not dismiss. He was beginning to believe.

His glance strayed to the empty chair to his left. He imagined his son there, his bright gaze intent upon the ancient writing, soaking in Ada’s history as fast as he could read it. Warren had loved the old tales his mother often read to him—Ulysses and Arthur and Joan of Arc, or the folktales of his Inuit ancestors. Then the vision changed. Warren was five years older, gaunt and pale, his deteriorating mind and body robbing all joy from what little time he had left.

Caleb knew he would never find Kseleksten on his own. He was still a stranger in this world, and there were too many places where his ignorance might destroy him—such as the barrier of fear Telai had mentioned, from which no man or woman had ever returned. And Adan law explicitly prohibited anyone other than a Raén or a Loremaster to come in contact with the Lor’yentréi—broken or otherwise.

There was only one way: the sacred Oath of the Raéni.

He leaped from his chair and paced back and forth, vividly imagining the look of betrayal in Telai’s face.
What the hell am I going to say to her? She’s the Grand Loremaster of Ada!
He had no choice but to keep this a secret, and from her point of view he would only be repeating Tenlar’s mistake.

He stopped at the window again.
Maybe I am.

A sound of shuffling feet from behind interrupted his thoughts. A thin, wrinkled man approached, his silver-trimmed cane suspended in one hand. In all his time here, Caleb had never seen him use it.

Ressolc’s cold glance shifted to the table. “You’re reading Besir Orand’iteé. Interesting choice.”

“I take it that means you approve,” Caleb said.

”Orand’s works are freely available—to a citizen of Ada, of course.”

Caleb drew a long, slow breath. The Loremaster’s shrill, insinuating tone always set his nerves on edge. But he had to keep his wits about him. “What about more advanced studies?” he asked.

“Is that why you sent for me?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll need to take a preliminary test to see if you qualify. And I must approve of your reasons. Have you decided on a profession?”

This was the moment of truth. Facing Telai was only the aftermath. “In a manner of speaking,” he said. “I’d like to join the Raéni.”

Caleb’s heart sank—as if some small part of him grieved over the line he had just crossed.

The old man’s eyes turned even colder. Finally he walked up and placed his finger halfway down the right-hand page.

“Translate this verse,” he commanded sharply. “Aloud.”

Caleb tensed, feeling exposed. Ressolc was no fool, and he had to tread carefully, lest some disastrous slip of the tongue reveal his true motives. He leaned on the table, his hands on either side of the book, and managed to keep the tremor from his voice:

Evil may sleep for many generations. Yet mortal efforts cannot forever prevail. The power that wakes shall be a bringer of evil for the newcomers, and a bringer of strength for their foes. Whosoever possesses the Ornament of Yrsten shall be that bringer, whether man, woman, child, or spirit.

He looked up. “Shall I go on?”

“No, that’s enough. You misread a few words—you should have said
finds
, not
possesses
, for example—but you did better than I expected. The ancient tongue of Adan lore is difficult to master.”

“Then I have your permission?”

“Not yet. I must consult with the Grand Loremaster first.” He turned to leave.

“Wait!” Caleb blurted, stepping forward. “She’s here?”

“Yes, of course. Why?”

“Perhaps it might be better if I spoke with her directly.”

Ressolc smacked the end of his cane on the floor. “Enough! There’s something you need to understand, Caleb Stenger. I only accepted you as a student because she holds you in her favor. You’ll find I hold a much higher standard for those who wish to join the Raéni!”

“Sir, I mean no disrespect,” said Caleb, seething. “But I already asked Féitseg about this. You don’t have the authority to refuse my right to take the Oath. Only a Master Raén can do that.”

“I never said as much. You may choose any library in Ada—assuming you can find someone willing to teach you. But everything between the walls of Gerentesk falls under
my
jurisdiction, not the Master Raén’s. Any appeal to the Grand Loremaster must go through me!”

He turned on the spot and walked out the door.

♦

“
Please
, my lady,” said Hedilya, her fair skin reddening. “I ask that you give this matter a little more thought.”

“I’m not sure I like what I’m hearing,” said Telai. “Are you suggesting I haven’t?”

Hedilya, administrator of the library in Welfené, shifted her large bulk in the chair on the opposite side of Telai’s desk. “I beg your pardon. A poor choice of words. I’m just worried about my students. They’re already overtaxed by the new curriculum you ratified a few years back, and our resources are limited. Now you’re asking me to expand it even more. Our more traditional fields of study are bound to suffer.”

Telai glanced past the administrator at the shelves of books and parchments typical of a Loremaster—many of them old, revered tomes Ada’s instructors had been relying on for centuries. Yet here and there a new binding stood out from the old—books on Trethan law, a collection of trade routes gathered from foreign merchants, the journal of an old historian from Keglar, a tiny country to the south at the mouth of the Quayen. There were countless shelves in Gerentesk, all of them filled with age-worn bindings, and it had grown too musty for its own good.

“Hedilya, I wouldn’t be where I am now if I didn’t value Adan tradition. That will always take precedence. But we can’t afford to let provincialism take root in the younger generation. I’ve begun an accelerated program for Ressolc’s scribes to copy the newer material for our libraries. Once that’s finished Ressolc will start training more teachers to help. And I won’t expect results until you have those resources you speak of.”

Hedilya looked crestfallen. “As you wish. Is there anything else?”

“No. Do you have a place to stay?”

She hefted her bulk out of the chair. “Already arranged. Thank you.” She turned to leave.

“Hedilya?”

“
Yes
, my lady?”

“You’ll get the help you need. That’s a promise. I don’t want to lose one of my best administrators.”

Hedilya nodded, a faint smile on her lips, and left.

Telai rubbed her eyes, rose from her chair to stretch, then walked to the east window. It was still raining. Soggy days often turned her mind to clay, but this morning was particularly onerous. She’d been staying up later and later these last few weeks, trying desperately to catch up on paperwork so she could spend some time doing actual
research
. Poring over someone else’s research papers was a poor substitute for true journeys of discovery, but it was better than slowly going mad.

“Lady Telai,” came a familiar voice through the door. “May I speak with you for a moment?”

She sighed.
What now, Ressolc? Can’t I have a few minutes to myself?

“Come in.” She painted a smile on her face and returned to her desk. “Sleep well?”

“I did, thank you,” he said, shutting the door behind. “But
you
may not after you hear what I have to say.”

Her smile faded. Ressolc had never been one for exaggeration, always preferring unvarnished candor—a refreshing change from the histrionics so common among the upper echelons. “Please,” she said, gesturing at the other chair as she resumed her own.

Ressolc leaned his cane against the table and sat down. He nodded at a pitcher and set of goblets by Telai’s elbow. “Yrgona?”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Before noon? This
is
serious.” She poured a cup and slid it across the table, furrowing a path through the clutter of papers and scrolls. She stifled a smirk as Ressolc cast a surreptitious glance at all this “unjustified chaos,” as he often put it. After all these years he still managed to preserve some small part of his role as her mentor.

He took a quick drink. “There’s just no diplomatic way to say this, so I’ll give it to you straight: Caleb Stenger wants to begin advanced studies to join the Raéni.”

Telai stared at him, her blood rising. “I don’t appreciate tasteless jokes, Ressolc. I can’t believe you just said that to me!”

“No, my lady. I would never jest with you about that sort of thing. Or with anyone, for that matter.”

A long silence followed. “What?” she whispered. “How—”

“Apparently he’s talked to Féitseg,” he said, interrupting her. “He knows his rights.”

Telai froze for a second, then shook her head emphatically. “No. There’s got to be some kind of mistake here. Are you sure he wasn’t jesting with
you
?”

“He’d be a fool for trying!”

“Then—”

“He was dead serious. In fact, he asked to speak to you directly—which I put a stop to, of course.”

Telai rubbed her aching brow, her mind racing to come up with even the remotest scenario to explain this, to convince herself and Ressolc that there was some kind of misunderstanding. “Did he say why?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“No,” he said. “And it’s not my place to ask. That falls to Lord Soren. Caleb Stenger can parade all the excuses he wants, but the Supreme Raén of Ada will know exactly how to get to the bottom of his true motives.”

“Soren’s not here. He’s in Léiff—a meeting with Boroné, I think.”

“I know that. Caleb Stenger will just have to wait.”

Telai straightened. “I’m not waiting that long. Bring him here.”

Ressolc frowned, wrinkling his face like a prune. “Far be it from me to interfere with the Grand Loremaster’s personal affairs, but I must voice my objection. This Falling Man is—”

“That’s enough!”

“—no, my lady, it is not! I cannot remain silent while this man distracts you from your duties. I am more than capable of handling the situation myself.”