David Farland - Beyond the Gate

“You are young yet,” Ceravanne said. “Redouble your efforts. All is not lost. I am but a lowly Domorian dancer, yet I got the Rebirth.”

The young woman looked at Ceravanne, gratitude in her pink eyes. “As one whose skin is young, but whose eyes are old, I appreciate your reassurance. But-I am considered to be a great teacher among my people. I have worked so hard. I don’t know what more I can do.…”

She abruptly drew her head back, a graceful gesture, like the movement of a deer in a forest, and Orick realized that she was not shy or reticent as a personality quirk, but that her timidness went much deeper. Her life might well be defined by it.

“Be kind and generous, as is your nature,” Ceravanne offered. “It is said that the Immortals value such more than other accomplishments.”

The albino woman lowered her eyes, blinking them as a sign of acceptance.

“Perhaps, instead more life, seek meaningful death,” the captain’s bodyguard said, pacing across the room. The guard, a woman named Tallea, was like a panther, stalking to and fro, and she spoke in quick, sharp tones, as if unable to slow her speech down. She was well muscled and wore a short sword on her right hip and a dueling trident on her left. Her decorative tunic of gray with blue animal figures was covered by a thin leather vest. All in all, her clothes seemed to be merely functional rather than protective. Despite her pacing and her bunched muscles, she seemed serene.

“A meaningful death?” Gallen asked.

Tallea paced across the room, flexing her hands. She wore many rings of topaz and emerald. “Among Roamers, death is accepted. It comes to all, even those who run long, as Immortals do. They say, is duty of young to live, to care for herd. But when you old, is duty to die, to free others from caring for you. Death, like life, should have purpose. So, seek meaningful death.”

“And how would you do that?” Gallen asked.

“Life has meaning only if serve something greater than selves. Give life in service.”

“You mean, in battle?” Gallen asked.

The woman half nodded, half shook her head. “Maybe. Or in work.” Captain Aherly laughed. “You must forgive Tallea. She is a pure-bred Caldurian, but she is also a devotee of the Roamers, with their odd ways.”

“Why do you want to be reborn as a Roamer?” Ceravanne asked.

The woman turned, her dark hair flying. “Peace. Caldurians never at peace.” She turned away, began pacing. “And what great thing do you serve?” Ceravanne asked.

The Caldurian woman shot a glance over her shoulder, a bright-eyed, mocking look. “I raised in wilderness of Moree, but I left. I serve truth.”

There was an uncomfortable silence at the mention of Moree. By saying she’d left to serve truth, the woman seemed to be openly siding against the Inhuman, and none of the others at the table would dare be so bold. The burly merchant who was sitting beside Orick spoke evenly. “My name is Zell’a Cree. I’m a trader myself. For fifteen years now, I’ve been traveling.”

“And what do you sell?” Gallen asked.

“Oh, this and that,” Zell’a Cree said. “It used to be that trade was good between continents, but now, most folks don’t want to go to Babel. I keep thinking it’s time to get out of there, come home and settle down.”

“So you are human?” Orick asked, somehow unnerved by the man. All evening, Orick had found that Zell’a Cree sat a bit too close. And now, his tone of voice was off-too mellifluous. The women had just been talking about death and hope, their deepest fears. Yet this man’s tone hinted that such things did not bother him. It struck Orick that the man lacked social graces, or some quality that Orick couldn’t quite name. At the very least, he didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.

“Yes,” Zell’a Cree said, affirming his humanity.

“Liar,” Gallen countered, unaccountably furious at the man.

The fellow raised an eyebrow, but did not recoil at the accusation. Gallen raised a hand, as if to strike him.

Zell’a Cree just looked at him calmly. His pupils did not constrict. He did not tremble or sweat.

“You’re not human,” Gallen said. “You don’t even know how to fake it. You have no fear at all, do you?”

“Here, now,” the captain said. “We all have our secrets. I make it a policy never to dig too deeply into the private lives of my passengers. A man’s subspecies is his own business. Why, I even have a pair of Tekkar aboard-the black-hearted devils.”

Gallen put his fist down, but carefully watched the burly Zell’a Cree.

“Tekkar?” Ceravanne asked, and Orick could tell by the tone of her voice that these Tekkar had a nasty reputation.

The captain’s face took on a closed look. “Aye, two of them. I invited them to dinner, but they declined, so they’re holed up in their cabin. They said that they too went to the City of Life, seeking the Downing.”

“But you think they have other schemes in mind?” Gallen asked.

“A Tekkar?” Captain Aherly laughed. “You think they would get the rebirth? Weasels will sooner get reborn as doves.”

“Is this what things have come to?” Ceravanne asked. “You knowingly transport agents of the Inhuman?”

“It’s not something I can prove or disprove,” Captain Aherly said. “I may suspect that a man is a scoundrel, but even the guards at the City of Life will turn no man back who desires the Downing. As long as we keep the gates of the city open to all, I can’t prove that the Tekkar have no business in Northland.”

“I suspect,” Ceravanne said, “that the Immortals would have closed those gates to the Tekkar-if not for the presence of the dronon. Now that the dronon have fled, the Tekkar will not be allowed into the northlands.”

“A shame, a shame,” Captain Aherly said, “that things had to come to this. Ah, it’s not like the old days, when the Tharrin judged men honestly, and there was goodwill among the peoples.”

“You believe there ever was such a time?” Zell’a Cree said. “Some say that it is a myth.”

“The harbor at Tylee has old dry-docking facilities for a hundred vessels,” Aherly said. “But I’ve never seen more than ten ships put up at any one time. There must have been more people coming and going, not too long ago.”

“It’s true. There was never such fear or animosity between peoples when I was young,” Ceravanne said. “The gates to the City of Life were unguarded, as were the ports. People traded freely, and it seemed we were rich.”

“If ever there was such a time, it is long past,” Zell’a Cree said. “You were born after the dronon came,” Ceravanne said. “Ask the old ones you meet, they will tell you. Our world was at peace.”

“Yes,” Captain Aherly said. “It’s true that we had some peace, an unequal peace. There was always peace in Northland. But even without the dronon, it was harder to come by in the south. You can’t let people like the Tekkar mix with folks like … the Champlianne here”-he waved to the albino woman-“and hope to have any peace. You might as well raise wolves in the rabbit pen.”

“Yet even the Champlianne had the faithful Caldurians to protect them,” Ceravanne said, looking up to the warrior woman who paced the floor. “And as long as the Caldurians are strong, there can be peace again. Especially now that the dronon have fled.”

“Ah, the dronon have fled but the Inhuman remains,” Aherly said. “And I fear that those who desire peace will be swept away before it. Those who have just come from the City of Life say they have seen preparations for war. Armies gathering in Northland.”

Maggie gasped, unable to hide her astonishment.

“It makes sense,” Zell’a Cree said. “With the dronon gone, someone will have to take charge.”