David Farland - Beyond the Gate

“But the humans of Tremonthin created these people,” Gallen objected. “You owe them!”

“Since we created them, doesn’t it stand to reason that they owe us for the blessing of life?” Ceravanne countered. “Think of it. Do we owe them more than we owe our own children? Even for our own children, we make no guarantees. We make no promises of love or acceptance or wealth. No society can promise all of these things to its individuals. Happiness comes as a reward for a life well lived. It cannot be an entitlement.”

“But …”

“There are no buts,” Ceravanne said. “Gallen, all of your thoughts, all of those confused feelings, those are just the Inhuman talking. Those notions don’t make any sense when you look at them closely. But the dronon want you to believe them. The dronon want you to believe that their Golden Queen will take care of us. But you’ve seen what the dronon offer on other worlds. They want to feed off us, as parasites. Gallen, the dronon showed you the lives of a few folks. They told you a story, providing the sights, the smells, the emotions. They told you a lie.

“But more importantly, I want you to realize that you are spouting dangerous dogma that doesn’t necessarily follow from the information you’ve been given. Think about it, and you’ll know I’m right. The dronon are teaching you on a subconscious level, altering your thought patterns. The memories they feed you only serve to cover the deeper alterations, and to make you think that you changed your mind on your own.”

Gallen was stunned. She had all the answers, all waiting in her hand like needles to prod him with. It seemed obvious that she had argued against the Inhuman before. He felt confused, and a buzzing sounded in his ears, sounded so loudly that he had a hard time thinking. He wanted to speak against her, but he could not think what to say next. The room seemed to be spinning, and Gallen found himself wanting to take Ceravanne by the throat, shake some sense into her. For the moment he seemed certain of only one thing: she was his enemy.

He grabbed her neck and pushed her against the wall. “Liar! Deceitful little vixen!” he said, and the room spun mightily so that he wondered if he could even stand. In his mind, her presence registered only as some hateful creature, a woman with long skeletal hands, groping for him.

Ceravanne hit the stone wall and slid down, her mouth open as if she would cry out, her eyes wide with fear, and Gallen knew that if she spoke again, he would have to silence her. Lightning struck outside-once, twice, a third time.

But the Tharrin only sat heavily in the ivy leaves. For a long moment, she only breathed, and Gallen’s anger began to pass. The room quit spinning, and Gallen’s mantle whispered, Seek shelter below, next to Maggie, quickly! And suddenly Gallen knew that the Inhuman had been communicating with him, trying to download its arguments directly into his mind.

Gallen stood gazing down at Ceravanne. “Don’t hurt me,” she pleaded, and she folded her arms, sat gazing up at him, a helpless child.

Gallen found that his sword had unaccountably appeared in his hand. Some time in the past minute, he had drawn it. And he’d been prepared to kill her, without thinking.

He shoved it back into his scabbard, and he wanted to run then, wanted to rush down the stairs and hide in the woods for what he’d almost done. He felt terribly embarrassed.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, white shock registering in his brain only as numbness. “The Inhuman can be … subtle.”

“You’re forgiven,” Ceravanne said with a tiny nod. She reached up her thin hand, so that he could help her up.

He took it, pulled her to a standing position. His heart was hammering with fear, and something else … The air in the room was moist and closed, and Ceravanne’s scent was thick. She was trembling, frightened, and he wanted to ease her mind. So he kissed her hand, looking into her eyes. She was small and pale, like a porcelain figure. Her hand, when he kissed it, tasted sweet. He’d almost forgotten how sweet the taste of a Tharrin could be.

Ceravanne reached up, and she was shaking, leaning against him. Her whole body trembled. She gazed deeply into his eyes. “You see,” she whispered desperately, “that I was right when I told you that I needed your heart. If you do not give it to me, the Inhuman will take it. Gallen, give me your heart!”

She kissed his chin experimentally, then brushed her lips against his. A burning passion rose in him, and Gallen kissed her full on the lips, pulling her close. She drew tight against him, her flesh folding into his like a lover’s, her arms embracing him. All thought retreated, and for one moment, there was only that passionate kiss blossoming like a field of wild poppies in his mind. Every nerve in his body tingled, her touch was lightning, and she groaned, tried to pull him to the floor there among the ivy.

Desperately, he pushed her away. “No!” Gallen cried. “I am married to Maggie!”

And he fled across the room from her, stood by the doorway. Ceravanne was on her knees now, breathing heavily, gazing at him, stunned. “No man has ever rejected me,” she said, hurt in her voice.

He turned for the door, and she said, “If it is Maggie you want, then be faithful to her, Gallen-remain as faithful to her in Moree as you have been tonight.”

Gallen hurried down the stairway, almost running. When he reached the bottom he found the fire still going. Tallea was hunched over it, putting in some more dry dung. Everyone else had gone to sleep, but Gallen stayed awake for the rest of the night while the others rested. He stared off into the rain, letting the full powers of his mantle keep watch while he remained on guard duty.

And through the night, ghosts came, the memories of people long dead, and they took him on journeys he could not sleep through and could not hope to escape. He felt like a child on a sandy beach, with water rushing in upon him with tremendous force, and with each crashing wave, the sand beneath him would shift, so that he felt as if something essential were being dragged away.

It did not matter where he stood in that little room. It did not matter that his mantle tried to block the signals. The Inhuman was overpowering him moment by moment, so that sometimes while the others slept, Gallen sobbed or cried out softly.

Long before morning, Gallen woke the others, and they headed south.

* * *

By dawn the companions were on the road again, and Tallea felt … decent for the first time in three days. She was able to sit with little pain, and in fact could feel herself mending, and to her it seemed miraculous. As a Caldurian, she tended to heal fast anyway, but the Immortal’s blood had worked wonders on her wounds.

More importantly, the support that these people had given her was working wonders on her spirit. A year earlier, when Ceravanne’s other self had come to Babel, Tallea had hired on with her band, had led them into the wilderness of Moree, and there she lost them to the Tekkar. At the time Ceravanne had not announced herself as the Swallow. Indeed, Tallea had only thought her to be a beautiful woman, traveling as a companion to the valiant swordsmen who sought to destroy the Inhuman.

But one night, when they had neared Moree, the Tekkar ambushed their small band. Many good men died before their swords cleared their scabbards. Tallea herself had been sorely wounded and left among the dead. And Ceravanne, beautiful Ceravanne had been carried away into Moree where the Tekkar would do unspeakable things to her.

For a year Tallea had been serving on ships, waiting for a new band to make its way into Moree. And this time, she vowed, they would slay the Inhuman. For a year she had suffered alone on the ships, refusing to bind herself to anyone. It was an untenable situation for a Caldurian, and only her training, her devotion to the ways of the Roamers, had helped her survive.