Craig Saunders - Tides of Rythe

“Very well,” she said with a sad smile for Roth. “Let’s go.”

Tirielle felt a moment of excitement to be setting out, with just j’ark for company. She counselled herself to caution. There was no room for girlish fantasies left in her life. She sighed loudly as they descended the windowless stairwell. J’ark turned, a question on his face, and Tirielle waved him on with mock sternness. He shrugged and pushed open the door, letting in the stale smoke-filled stairs. Typraille, who was sipping a mug of warm milk, nodded to them as they passed. They exchanged no words, but it was good to be so well protected, thought Tirielle, even if her guard of honour were without their armour. Typraille was as solid as rock, as unbending as the grand oak.

It was his duty on this, their third day in the city, to watch the door. No one would pass unbidden to their rooms without his say so.

The other members of the Sard were all without, each hunting their goal in their own way. There were many within Beheth who would aid them. It was as human a city as there was on the continent. The Protectorate still prowled the streets, but there was something in Beheth that was apparently anathema to the Protocrat’s ranks of wizards. They had no presence on the city streets, and only the Tenthers roamed. The Sard were more than capable of dealing with the Tenthers, should the need arise, but there had been no need so far. Without their armour they could easily pass for any other city dweller. They roamed the city streets largely unhindered, but Tirielle was not fooled by the apparent ease of their passage. One careless word, one action out of context — it would not take much to bring the Tenthers to their door. Such attentions they could well do without. Even among the human populous, there were those who served the Protectorate. Their otherworldly master had ruled for so long that some people did not even see them as an enemy any longer. People often saw only what they wished. Their masters had cowed them long ago, with the promise of an easy peace. It was a strange world indeed, mused Tirielle, when one wished for war that brought freedom over peace that bred mute contentment.

Tirielle watched j’ark’s back as she strode the city streets. Her gown was no more elaborate than many merchants’ wives, and she fit in well. She told any that asked that she was from the north — there was little else she could do, her accent marked her Lianthrian, even though her clothes were of a southern cut. Flowers were embroidered at the hems of her dress, the sleeves left wide. It was one of few dresses this far south with sleeves wide enough to allow her easy access to her wrist blades.

She saw a cutthroat with a bulge under his cloak move down a side alley. The bulge was undoubtedly a cudgel. Unconsciously she fingers her daggers through the thin material of her dress, moving on.

Shortly the man was forgotten. J’ark set a fair pace and she trusted him enough to take in the sights rather than wasting her energy looking for threats. She knew he would take in everything they passed without seeming to look. All that marked him as a bodyguard was ease of his walk and the looseness of his shoulders. She relaxed, and concentrated on walking. She thought she could find her way back to the inn, but j’ark was in the lead today, and she was content to let it be so.

It was a good city to lose oneself in. There were enough people there to find some who were uncomfortable with Protectorate rule to find friends. She had already made tentative contact with some allies who still remembered her from her years in the city so long ago. Too few allies, though. There was so much to do, and such responsibility could not be shared. Within a city of over thirty libraries, it was their duty to find mention of the fabled wizard, the one being with the power to thwart the return and save humanity from slavery. If rumour and legend could be believed. So much was resting on the memories of the Sard’s stone temple. There was just too much they didn’t know. What if the wizard was dead? Or worse, insane from long years of waiting for his time to come again? Could he be strong enough to take on the might of the Protectorate?

It was all so much to take on chance, and here she was, a fool for the gamble. One thing she thought the Sard were forgetting popped into her mind but she pushed it down swiftly. They were overlooking the Hierarchy, and such oversight could well prove to be their downfall, even should all the other possibilities fall into place.

Tirielle suppressed a shudder at the thought.

Perhaps they were meant to be slaves, thought Tirielle as she strode through the wide streets, but not all were slaves. She spared a thought for Sturma, her friends there she had yet to meet. It was a free country. One day, she vowed, she would make Lianthre free, too.

That still was still too far into the future to see. Unimaginable, almost, to think that they could overthrow the power of an age, their rulers for the last millennium. She did not have the gift of foresight. All she had was prophesy and legend. They needed the Seer. They needed to see the road ahead.

The strange girl, whose name Tirielle had never known, was secure at the Great Tree, their inn, insensible to the world. The Sard told her that the Seer’s boundaries had been shattered, that she was currently living in all worlds (Tirielle’s mind swam at the notion that there could be more worlds than this — the idea alone was too huge to hold. She could not dream of the torment of the Seer if her mind was truly spread so wide, as wide as all the stars in the night sky). Yet Tirielle held out hope for her. Her body was still working.

Tirielle took it upon herself to clean and feed the girl — she imagined what it would be like for the girl were she to wake when one of the golden eyed Sard was cleaning her. She would be mortified herself, and she remembered girlhood. She had been much more modest.

She had asked where she could, and been sent to various healers. It was a chance, and not the last, but there was nothing for it. She had to take what chances arose. So much of her life seemed dependent on luck these days.

Where she fumbled for the words when trying to explain the Seer’s malady. j’ark was far more adept at describing the unnatural and the magical. He had a gift for it. Tirielle was glad to have him along, in more ways than he would ever know.

“This must be it,” he said, pointing at an understated sign hanging from a crooked door. They had already tried the only hospital in Beheth, and two wise women. This was their second to last lead. Tirielle did not hold out much hope. There were no human wizards left in the cities — the Protocrats had seen to that long ago. All that remained were wise men and wise women. Perhaps some could use a degree of magic, but few were stupid enough to do it openly. If any magic remained on the continent of Lianthre it had been subdued for so long it was a mere shadow.

The street they stood in was filthy, and if it seemed strange for a healer to ply his arts among the grime and muck Tirielle would not have said so. They were desperate. Although the Seer might never know it, it was Tirielle’s promise to her to find a cure and bring her back to some semblance of a life.

She hoped this would be the one.

The sign simply stated ‘Scholar and healer, Reyland Uriwane, Beheth.U, Mar. CS’

Tirielle did not have the first idea as to what the initials stood for, but she did not have time to be fussy.She reached out, made a silent wish, and rapped on the door.

After an age the door creaked open against its warped frame, and a voice came out of the darkness, as cracked and as old as the wood.

“Who is it?” called the disembodied voice.

“We have need of a healer,” said j’ark. “We understand that you are gifted in such…arts.”