Craig Saunders - Tides of Rythe

“And what oath did he break?” demanded Dainar of his daughter, as if he did not already know.

“I was his promised, and he denied me.”

Anger accompanied each word, and Renir could sense her hurt pride in every syllable. It must be galling for such a beautiful woman not to get the man she coveted, but he could find no sympathy for her. He could see she was poison, now that she knew better.

“That is a lie,” shouted Shorn above the murmuring crowds. “I made no promise, but a lover’s promise in the night.”

“Liar!” she screamed, her face scarlet with rage.

How embarrassing, Renir thought, to be caught out in front of so many people. So Shorn was not going quietly, he was pleased to see. But he knew it would come to blows yet.

Bide, he had been warned, or waste it all. He waited, at the ready.

“I bedded you, and you made no complaints then.”

Shiandra screamed in incoherent rage, and leapt for Shorn, but a guard was there to hold her back.

“The Landfarer insults my blood for the last time!” cried Dainar. “To death, I call.”

“Aye!” came the replies from each side, and Shiandra screamed her joy, as Shorn spun on his heel, thumping a rigid foot into the guard behind him. Bourninund and Wen both took their guards with fists, and Renir took his moment to smash his fist into the pumice-stone guard behind him, laying him low, and took the other guard around the throat as the other fell to the floor insensible.

The others had subdued their guards, and each held one hostage, apart from Drun, who stood serenely.

Now was the time. Let us see who blinks first, thought Renir.

“Tell us all the real reason for your ire, Shiandra, tell us in front of your husband, or does it shame you still?” Renir’s words were like a spear in her chest. He saw her pain, and then her rage.

“Silence him!” she cried, but he thought he could see panic in her eyes. “Kill them!”

A woman’s scorn, thought Renir. Thank god she wasn’t his wife. Once was enough, he thought. In Hertha, he realised, he had had much to be thankful for, even if she had been a harridan most of the time, but never had she been vengeful.

“Ask your daughter, Dainar, ask her well!”

Dainar held up a hand to the archers surrounding Renir’s companions and their hostages. Renir could feel his own captive’s throat gulping beneath his forearm. And well he should be nervous. It hung in the balance.

“Well, daughter? What is he talking about?”

“Nothing. He lies!”

“Do I? Do you shame yourself with further lies? Would you lie always to your father, to your husband, your son? Would you lie in front of your son’s father?!”

Shock rippled through the crowd.

“What is the meaning of this!? Shiandra, what does he mean?” The speaker stepped forward from the crowd, a strong man, handsome in his own way, but his face drawn in confusion. Following him was a young boy, no more than twelve. Renir hated himself then, but there had been no other choice. Sometimes his dreams were nightmares, and sometimes, he thought, the nightmares followed him into the waking world.

More lives ruined in their quest. One day, he prayed, the destruction would end.

“Liar! They lie, husband! Kill them!” she screamed.

Dainar kept his hand held high, indecision on his face, drawing his pudgy lips together in a tight embrace. Should that hand fall they would all die. But it was Shiandra who decided it for them. Opening her eyes wide a stream of ice coalesced in the air, an icicle flying through the air at Shorn’s heart. Before it could get there burning yellow light blazed from one side — Drun — who had been silent and still throughout. The yellow fire met the ice, and steam hissed into the air, ice and fire growing until there was a small cloud of steam between the court and the captives. Shiandra screamed in her anger, and renewed her efforts to kill Shorn, tendons on her neck standing proud, as though she were pushing physically against the assault, but Drun redoubled his power, his face calm as the air, serene as the suns.

Renir’s captive strained against his arm, but Renir held tight and watched. It was out of his hands now. The contest ended abruptly when a guard behind Drun finally clubbed him to the ground. But it was enough. Shiandra’s assault halted as her son jumped in front of her.

“Stop, mother! You’ll kill him! Grandfather!” called her son. “Father!” the boy cried out, but looked not at Shiandra’s husband, but at Shorn. Shiandra crumpled visibly in front of her son, an open admission of her lie, and the ice fell to the ground. Tears stood out on her cheeks, and she hung her head in shame.

Dainar spoke above the shocked whispers of the gathered crowd.

“Enough! Shiandra, cease this now. I would speak to you alone. Court is in recess. Let no man harm the prisoners, and in return I would appreciated it if you men would let your hostages go. No one will be harmed until I return.”

“I don’t think we will give up our only bargaining chip so easily, Dainar,” replied Shorn.

“You have my word no man will come to harm today. I have seen enough.”

“Then on your word, Dainar,” called Shorn, and released the guard, who stepped back warily. Renir and the others released theirs carefully, and when no reprisals for the sudden violence occurred, the guards being as good as Dainar’s words, Renir rushed to Drun’s side.

He shook him carefully, as Drun’s eyes cracked open. “Is it safe?”

“Yes, I think it is. How’s your head?”

“Never better,” the old man replied gingerly rising to his feet with a helping hand from the young warrior. “How did you know?”

Renir shuffled his feet in acute embarrassment. “A witch came to me while I slept.”

“Well, you must thank her for me,” said Drun sincerely.

“Peace, but it’s never dull,” said Bourninund, with a wink to Renir. “I could do with an ale.”

“Me, too,” said Renir, and finally let himself sigh with relief. “Perhaps now I can get some sleep. I have my guardian to thank, although as to payment, I can only guess.”

He spared a thought for Shorn. He was staring at his son, crestfallen, and his son was staring back at him openly, into cold grey eyes, so much like his own. Forgotten, to one side, stood the man who had no doubt been his father all his years. To one side Shiandra’s husband wept quietly. Of Shiandra and her father there was no sign.

Gods, thought Renir, is the price of being a hero always so high?

Tirielle smoothed her dress nervously before rapping on the door to Library of the Secessionists. It would not do to look unrefined in this section of the city. She was dressed in the fashion of Beheth, but spoke with a Lianthre accent. j’ark spoke with a strange accent, one she did not recognise, but he wore wide breeches and a ruffled shirt, his long hair tied back. In Beheth, few wore their hair long. Unthor, keeping to the shadows outside the range of the lantern’s glow, was dressed in a similar manner. None could be marked for outsiders if they did not speak.

It was a warm city, and its warmth dictated what could and could not be worn. A monk was expected to feel discomfort, therefore Roth could pass if it stuck to the shadows, but no monk would be seen in a secular library, with its lascivious wood cuts, and ancient vellum which no monk would touch. Besides, as much as she would have liked to bring Roth with her through the city, to feel the comfort of her large companion watching over her, she was more than safe enough from cutthroats and footpads with j’ark and Unthor by her side. Unthor had asked to be their third — the Sard rarely travelled alone, and when they did it was only out of necessity — and seemed quite happy to stand watch among the shadows.