Storms (Sharani Series Book 2) (20 page)

“I see that, Samsin.”

Samsin gazed down into the red sands below, eyes wide, filled with the wonder which rocked through his being.

“Can you see the remnants of the viewing bridges?” Samsin said, pointing. “They’re broken and some are covered in sand, but you can still see the pattern of how they connected the viewing platforms together. And there, can you see their Oasis?”

Nikanor let out a small, soft chuckle that died off wetly. “I didn’t think you believed.”

Samsin licked his lips as the wind grabbed at his blond hair and tossed it about his face. “I didn’t. I mean, I don’t. Well, we’ve all heard the stories.”

“Let’s just hope there are people there when we get to the bottom of this crater,” Nikanor said.

Samsin studied the area around him, looking around the edge of the massive crater’s lip. He couldn’t see any way down.

“And how are we supposed to get down there?” Samsin asked. “Learn to fly?”

He shivered against the bitter cold, though his thick cloak, which lay partly in tatters, did still afford some measure of warmth. There was snow on the air; Samsin could feel the dull hum of it within his veins. There was a magic here, a deep, powerful interplay of forces left by Storm Wards of old that governed this region. Samsin had felt it for days, but here, this close to the Sharani Arena, it felt like part of it was unraveling, like a single thread pulled free from an enormous tapestry.

Nikanor didn’t respond with words. Instead he pushed away from Samsin’s supporting grip and stepped free, right at the edge of the cliff. The solid, black-haired man fell into his squared earth posture and closed his eyes. Samsin saw him sway slightly as he stood, a testament to his wounds, which had started to fester earlier that day and stank whenever Samsin eased the bandages. Nikanor breathed in a deep lungful of air and then his eyes snapped open. Nikanor thrust his hands down in a forceful motion and Samsin felt a small rumble in the earth and then the grating sound of shifting rock.

He looked down. A set of steps had appeared in the rocks. They wound down the steep side of the wall in a disorganized array, switching back and forth. Samsin turned to Nikanor, a grin on his face, but the grin slipped when he noticed Nikanor falling. Samsin rushed over and caught the man before he toppled over the edge of the cliff. Samsin reached for his powers and felt the energy, the electricity in the air, flood into him. His eyes widened in surprise at the power raging through him. He lifted Nikanor with ease and looked down the steps. It was a long way, easily a half day’s worth of meandering back and forth.

“Storms take you, Nikanor,” Samsin hissed as he gritted his teeth and stepped down onto the first step of the stairs. “You’ve gone and turned me into a believer, haven’t you?”

“Like everything in life, memory walks within us inside our dreams.”

—From
Commentary on the
Schema, Volume I

Lhaurel walked through dark, narrow tunnels, once again cognizant of the fact that she was dreaming.

What this time?

Part of her panicked, grasping at reality and trying to clamber back awake. She felt she was going mad, reality slipping away, drowning inside her own mind.

“Beryl,” Elyana’s voice said. Once again, Lhaurel experienced the dream as if she were Elyana, though she had no control over what went on.

Beryl appeared in Lhaurel’s line of sight as if she had rounded a corner. The rest of the scene resolved around her, slowly coming into focus. The room they were in was massive and dark, except for a faint reddish glow illuminating Beryl. There was a forge hammer in his hand.

“Elyana,” Beryl said in his softer, gentler voice that grated against the image Lhaurel had of the man. “Did I disturb you?”

Elyana walked around him and inspected the low workspaces, the bins, and the massive furnace. With a start, Lhaurel realized they were standing inside Beryl’s forge. The same forge through which Lhaurel had walked so many times before.

“Elyana?” Beryl asked again, setting the hammer down on the anvil next to a glowing metal rod. By the shape, Lhaurel guessed it was the beginnings of a sword. “Did I disturb you with my work?”

Elyana chuckled and picked up a long, wide-bladed dagger. It rose to Lhaurel’s eyes and turned in Elyana’s hands. “Not at all. This place is massive and my rooms far from your forge. One does begin to wonder what you are up to this late at night, however? Some task that you won’t even tell me about?”

Beryl grunted, reminding Lhaurel of the taciturn old man she knew. Elyana turned back toward him and Lhaurel saw him pick the hammer back up and then take the glowing metal rod in a pair of tongs before resuming his pounding.

“You’re ignoring the question,” Elyana pressed. She had to raise her voice over the echoing clamor of ringing metal.

“There was no question.” Beryl paused for a moment, then thrust the metal rod back into the glowing coals.

“Beryl, you’re making me pout. One does not ignore a direct request from one of the Seven Sisters, even if it is only implied.”

“What do you want of me? I am your Bondsman, Elyana, but that does not make you my conscience, nor my moral compass. I’m allowed some measure of independence, even if it is within my own thoughts.”

“Are you unhappy with your lot?” There was a genuine note of interest in Elyana’s voice. It was only upon hearing it now that Lhaurel realized the absence of it in previous conversations.

“Unhappy?” Beryl moved over to the bellows and wrapped a thick hand over one long wooden handle and began pulling. “How could I be unhappy with my lot? I have everything I’ve ever dreamed of having. My lot is far better than it has been in times past.”

By the way Beryl’s voice dropped off toward the end of the conversation, Lhaurel assumed there was something more behind the words. She was not alone in her suspicions, it seemed.

“What are you saying, Beryl?” Elyana asked, voice a mixture of curiosity and contempt. “Do your thoughts dwell on the Rahuli slaves? They’re so far below you now they’re not worthy of your concern. The prisoners, the Orinai who’ve been sentenced to live down there with them, even less so. They’re criminals of the worst sort. Why do you let thoughts of them keep you up late at night?”

Beryl heaved on the bellows and a spray of ash, sparks, and coals exploded out into the room. He released the handle and threw his hands into the air.

“Why?” he asked, his voice a low, dark rumble. “Because what our dear religion seems to forget is that we were once them. All of us started at the lowest of Iterations, the lowest level of Progression. We torture and hurt them, we punish them for being what we once were. Where is the Honor in that? It simply
cannot
be the only way to push them along in their pursuit of Harmony. There must be another way.” He cut off jaggedly and his expression darkened. “My pardon, Honored Sister. Please forgive my blasphemy. I will take what penance I must to satisfy you for my sins.”

Elyana moved forward, cutting the distance between her and Beryl in a few quick steps. She reached out. Beryl almost flinched away, but Elyana caught his hand before he could get away.

“There is a reason I chose you as my Bondsman when Serrenial passed,” Elyana said. “There was something in your eyes when you realized your past Iteration was as one of the Rahuli slaves. You are wrong though, not all of us start out as one of them, though many do. Some of us begin as simple, ungifted Orinai. But this place, this Arena, it is not a place of Honor. It is a place of death and misery. I would help them if I could.”

Beryl’s eyes widened and he looked confused for a long moment before his expression shifted to one of disbelief. “This is some sort of a trick,” he said, though he did not let go of Elyana’s hand. “A test of some sort. I had thought the ministrations of your Sisters were the final torment through which I needed to pass, but then this?”

“It is not a test, Beryl. I know you provide them with weapons in the night when you think us all sleeping. I know you dwell on your time among them in the few hours you do sleep. Dreams have always been something we all dwell within, though I would not put much stock in them. The past is a place for learning, not action, and further dwelling in your past lives will only hamper the present Iteration.” She hesitated and then continued, “We will speak more of this later. For now, come with me.”

She tugged on his hand and Beryl followed.

Lhaurel woke up.

Lhaurel’s eyes snapped open and she sucked in a deep, powerful breath. The outcast woman, Shallee, stood over her, face twisted in concern.

“Are you alright?” Shallee asked. “You were thrashing and muttering in your sleep.”

Lhaurel shook her head numbly. How could she explain what she’d just dreamed?
Was
it just a dream? It felt like something more—something much more tangible. Something real. Her heart pounded against her chest and her lungs heaved as if she’d just run a great distance.

“We all have nightmares after the Oasis,” Shallee said, patting Lhaurel on the shoulder. “My little man’s father died there. I dream about him too. I’m here if you ever need to talk.”

Lhaurel nodded, though she had no intention of discussing her dreams with anyone, not yet anyway. Not until she was sure she wasn’t going mad. She didn’t think she was, but after the Oasis, after everything, she wasn’t sure. She didn’t know if she would
ever
be sure.

“The clans all left while you were asleep,” Shallee said.

Her baby cried softly from the other bed and Shallee scurried over there to comfort him.

“Well, most of them did, at least,” she continued. “Some of us decided to stay. I don’t see why more didn’t; this is a great place to live, even with some of the rationing. I guess I did hear that was one of the reasons the clans all left, a lack of supplies . . .” Shallee continued talking, but Lhaurel stopped paying attention.

The clans had left, but some had stayed. Curiosity urged her to get up. Besides, having something to do would let her mind ignore the nagging whispers that lingered from the dream and the questions Beryl’s scrolls had giving her. Maybe she would try and find the man and figure out what he’d meant by his comment about Kaiden’s motivations.

Her knees threatened to buckle almost before she’d managed to straighten all the way. She growled, put one hand on the wall, and forced herself up.

“Why am I so weak?” she muttered aloud. There wasn’t much pain anymore, but a latent exhaustion consumed her.

“Well, dear,” Shallee said. “You did go through quite an ordeal in the Oasis. You can’t expect your body to be back to where it was in just a couple of weeks, now can you?”

Lhaurel ignored her and reached within herself, pulling on her own blood, the fuel for her magic, to have the strength to draw on the spring bubbling in the corner and the blood in the sands around her. The water did give her strength, but it was less effective, like a candle’s light was inferior to a lantern’s. Using her powers gave her an immediate surge of strength, but with it came an overwhelming awareness and pain.

Lhaurel gasped as her powers swelled within her. Such pain—it was intense, immediate, close. Lhaurel felt it, experienced it, but also realized it was not her own. She forced the magic away, pushing it out in a shower of red mist only she could see. It left her weaker than she’d begun. Her knees gave out and she slumped back onto the bed.

“How?” Lhaurel gasped. Her hands trembled and shook.

“How what, my dear?” Shallee asked. She had the baby in her arms now, rocking him back and forth as she hummed a soft little tune.

“The pain,” Lhaurel said. “How can you stand so much pain?”

Shallee looked at her with confusion plain on her features.

“I felt it, just now,” Lhaurel gasped. “I can feel the pain, feel what the baby did to your body when you gave birth. How can you stand the pain?”

Shallee frowned, but didn’t ask any questions, though Lhaurel knew she wanted to. Instead, Shallee looked down at the baby in her arms.

“He is worth it,” Shallee said simply. “He gives me the strength to keep going even with the pain. Love does that to you. It gives you the strength to do what you didn’t think you could.”

“But that pain,” Lhaurel said. “I felt the people die in the Oasis, I experienced their deaths with them. That pain, it is almost as intense as death.”

Shallee frowned again, but gave a soft little shrug. “That is what mothers endure for their children, Lhaurel. All of us do. The men think they’re tough, that they’re the strong ones. I’d like to see one of them bear a child as well as half the women I know.”

Lhaurel hugged her legs to her chest, remembering the thoughts she’d had at the day of her wedding, at the fear of becoming something less than the warrior she wanted to be. She’d been wrong. The women in her clan, she owed them all an apology, though she knew she would never be able to offer it. If they went through
that
pain with every child, they were as strong as the stones.

Lhaurel had never experienced that level of love, at least not that she could remember. Love that would allow someone to endure that kind of torture was a strength that could weather any storm and outlast the stones themselves.

Then again, maybe she had. Khari and Makin Qays had talked about how the Roterralar watched over the Rahuli people as parents would their children. Makin Qays and a large number of the Roterralar had died upholding that sense of duty. Maybe it had been more than just duty which had driven them. Perhaps it had been something deeper. Not the level of love Shallee was going through, but some form of it at least.

Lhaurel’s head hurt. She needed to get up, be moving, be doing something. She let her legs slide across the blanket and reached for her cane. Though she hated the thing, it was part of her now, as much as Cobb’s was to him. She’d seen the old man and his wife when she’d ventured out earlier, but had had no desire to stop and talk. Now she wouldn’t have to worry about that.

“Now where do you think you’re off to?” Shallee asked, glancing over at her.

“Out,” Lhaurel said simply. She hobbled over to the bubbling spring and took a drink using the ladle that hung next to it. The water helped a little, not as much as drawing on her powers would have, but she didn’t want to risk that. Not again.

Shallee continued to protest, but Lhaurel didn’t pay it any heed. Shallee had her baby to look after. Lhaurel needed to get out, clear her head, stop thinking so much, and get the images of her dream and the memories from her mind.

A normal person may have thought the passages within the Roterralar Warren were empty and silent now that the clans had left. For Lhaurel, they were back to normal and welcomed her as she limped through them. Her cane made a soft sound as it struck the ground with each step, a steady accompaniment to the muted thumps of her booted feet. She listened to those sounds, ignoring the exhaustion and latent pain running through her body. Focusing on the steps, on the sounds of metal and leather against rock, kept her mind from the dream and from the jumbled mix of emotions and thoughts bouncing around in the back of her mind.