Craig Saunders - Tides of Rythe

…was a warrior’s thought, Renir realised. He looked down at himself from a great height, and only when he could see himself as he was, his dreaming eyes sharper than his own, did he see himself as he had become. He was broad across the shoulder, still unscarred, but grizzly in countenance. Many would pause before attacking such a man. I have become like them, he thought to himself from his lofty perch, floating above his body. I am a warrior.

But not yet a mercenary. Never that.

Only gradually was he aware of another presence, beyond his reach, on a different plain than this.

She called to him, and he knew her voice. In his dreams, he knew her voice, but the knowledge would fade upon waking. It always did.

“We must speak. Time is ever short, as it was always destined to be short for us. Come to me…listen well.”

Renir floated, ethereal and splendid, unclothed above the sea. Below the surface he could see the seawolves, prowling the depths, shimmering underneath the waves. Foam hung on the air, blow by unfelt tides and ghostly winds. From beneath the sea a face rose, but one obscured by the depths. Try as he might, he could not make it out. Perhaps if he were to go below the surface, he would be able to see more clearly, but even in dreams he understood that to do so would be to risk death, an unclean death, rent and torn by the serrated teeth of the seawolves, gulped into their gullets and digested over days…his dream self shuddered, and on his cot his body’s breath quickened at the thought.

“No, there is no need to come down here. All you need is to hear me.”

He wished he could see more clearly. He almost remembered, but the memory was like the tides. Just as he thought he could feel the knowledge of who the woman was, the tides took it out of his reach. She was the sea, and he the shore, forever meetings, only to part again with the shifting of the moons.

He reached out to the water, but she hissed at him from the darkening depths.

“No! You must not!”

“But who are you?”

“In time, perhaps, you will know,” she said, calmer now that he had moved his hands away from the water. “For now, hear me, and listen well. You are on the precipice once again, and once more I must draw you back from your own undoing. Time and time again, throughout the ages, you have tried to fall — you are your own undoing. Again, you court death, as though you rail against your purpose, but I have not come so far to let you fail now.”

“I don’t understand. You are a witch, and yet you care what happens to one man? I know of witches. They never care for the living, they consort with the dead.”

“You know nothing but the fool rumours of men, born of the ignorance of an age. Hear me now, and hear me well. Mind me, Renir. I will rend your dreams and hound your soul if you die now. If you fear me then love me also, for I am your salvation. Now, when you wake you must remember this, if you remember nothing else…”

Renir’s eyelids twitched in his sleep, and once or twice he called out. Drun watched him through hooded eyelids, tired himself but a light sleeper. He pursed his lips thoughtfully as he watched, but he did not try to intrude. He had done so already, and he felt a barrier around Renir’s sleeping mind, as though the man were shielded from intrusion. It would not do to trespass there, of that he was sure.

Someone, something, was already there. And Drun knew without understanding why, that his presence would not be welcome. Not welcome at all.

He lay thinking as the sun slowly rose outside, unseen but sensed, his god rising in the sky to bring life and wakefulness once more to this side of the world, passing over the other, forgotten for the night.

Renir was a mystery to him. He grew in stature, it seemed, with each passing day. He awoke refreshed and alert, but his sleep was tortured, sometimes punctuated by flailing, or screaming, sometimes murmuring and laughing, but always busy. Anyone with such a rich dream life should be shattered upon waking, tired beyond belief. It was as if Renir lived a second life, in dreams.

Their passage had been strange, indeed. He was unsure as to Renir’s place in events to come. He had been so intent on watching Shorn, trying to guide Shorn to an awakening, that he had ignored their companions for too long. Renir, suddenly a warrior of some note, despite his inexperience. Renir with his childish wit and wisdom born of the heart, Bourninund, as loyal a friend as any could wish, bound, too, to Shorn’s fate, drawing into the whirlpool that Wen imagined as Shorn’s wake. Wen himself, strange, strong and just maybe insane and suicidal. Wen could no more take his own life than that of an innocent. Each man had his own reasons for joining them on this journey, there own purpose to discover along the way. They would play as large a part in whatever was to come as perhaps Shorn himself. Shorn, the Saviour, but who was he to save? Rythe? Himself? Those he touched along the way?

Drun did not know, but before he could come to any conclusions, the door opened and a guard stepped inside.

“Morning has come, old man. Rouse your companions. Court begins after you break fast.”

Another man, armed also, placed five pieces of fruit on a wooden tray inside the door and left. “Time enough to eat. I will return shortly.”

Shorn, Wen and Bourninund awoke at the voices, but Renir still muttered in his dreams. Shorn shook him until he woke. Renir looked around sheepishly for a moment, as if embarrassed, then wished them all good morning with a smile.

“Ah, fruit for breakfast. It is like living among the gods. Not a fish in sight, and for that I am thankful.”

“Wind yourself down, Renir, today we probably die.”

“What will be will be,” he said cryptically, and crunched on the sweet, hard fruit.

They all ate in silence, until the guard returned.

“On your feet,” he said.

“Thank you for having us,” said Renir with a smile. The guard merely growled, and led them along the corridor, from under the trees, into the light of a new day.

Renir stretched, and followed the rest of the men, who all walked like it was their last day on earth, to the judgement circle. The court took no chances, he saw. There were guards surrounded them, and two guards for each man. He was pushed, not roughly, but insistently, into his allotted place. He took it all in good humour.

Time enough, he thought, and turned his face to the morning sun. Only Carious had breached the horizon, and from his place in what he took to be the centre of the ship, he could see no sea. He was thankful for small mercies.

A huge man took the centre of the court, flanked by five men on one side, five women on the other. All looked stern. Renir smiled at them. Dainar scowled. A small cat, the only animal Renir had seen, sheltered from the sun beneath the fat man’s umbriferous gut.

“You are accused of breaking oath, Shorn of the Island Archive, and your companions stand with you as conspirators. The Seas know mercy, even for Landfarers. Once you were our guests, and you broke our faith. For this the court calls for your death. Do I have consent from the court?”

Five ‘ayes’ came from the men, shortly followed by affirmatives from the women.

Shorn hung his head, but remained silent. Renir saw that he caught Wen’s eye from under his shaggy hair, and Wen’s subtle nod in return. He prepared himself. Soon, it would be time. But not yet. The time must be right.

“Who accuses Shorn?”

“I do!” called Shiandra, stepping forward between the ranks of watching Feewar, head held proudly to show her bruised neck. Never tug a jemandril’s tail, and never scorn a woman. It was sound advice his mother had given him.