Craig Saunders - Tides of Rythe

She had no doubt the Tenthers would not be called in the event of a break-in, or even a theft. The librarians had no love of the Protectorate. The Protectorate were the enemies of learning. They loved schools and libraries, just as long as they could control what people took away with them.

How much had been lost? Tirielle wondered quietly to herself as she towelled her body and hair dry. What if their search was in vain, and the Protectorate had the knowledge safe in Arram, safe from human eyes, to guard until the return, when it would be too late for the people of Rythe, when the old ones would rule once again, harsher master than the Protectorate ever were.

If the Sard were to be believed — and she had no reason to suspect a lie — the return would mean slavery of a different kind, a subservience deeper than Lianthre had known for the last thousand years, pain and suffering on such a grand scale that the Protectorate would seem benevolent in comparison. What the Protectorate could gain from the return of such powerful masters, she could not comprehend. It was not for her to puzzle out. All that matter was to save the world from a deeper darkness, to keep it in the light. It was the Sard’s cause, and now it was hers. She was committed, to the end.

To be the Sacrifice? What could it mean, but her death? But what choice did she have other than to follow her road wherever it led? Was she fated to die in the end, before she could see the Protectorate tumble from power? Not if she could help it. She would watch, and learn, and when it came time for her to Sacrifice herself, she would…what? She switched herself mentally. There was no point in denying it, even in her own thoughts. If the destruction of the Protectorate took her own death, was she brave enough to pay the price?

She could only believe she was, for she still followed. If she was to die, she wished to do it well, and with purpose. If that was what was demanded of her, she would give it.

She surprised herself. She hadn’t thought on it for so long, she realised she had almost accepted it and forgotten what her quest meant for her. Now she faced it in her own mind, she felt as though an invisible burden had been lifted from her own shoulders. Faced with her own death, she felt a tumult of emotions — fear, foremost, but also anger that it should come to this. It crystallised her will. She tucked the anger away. If she could not be brave, at least she could be driven by rage. It was so much easier to maintain, in the face of all she had yet to do.

She left the bath behind feeling clean both inside and out. She was ready, for whatever might come.

Night came all too swiftly. Tirielle still felt calm on her way back to the library. Even the thick, too hot air of the night, the refuse smells drifting from the alleyways and canals, the stagnant water and the smells of decay washed over her unnoticed.

Too calm, she realised as she heard footsteps rushing toward them from a dark side street. She turned to see a dagger flying glinting in the lantern light, flipping end of end toward her chest. As she ducked j’ark dove in front of her, knocking the blade aside with the flat of his hand and tucking into a roll.

Four men rushed them.

Tirielle’s knives were in her hand before she could think to draw them. She slashed one man’s face, ducking a clumsy cudgel blow — she noted with a start the spike driven through the head of the club. These were no cutthroats. He overstepped, and she drove the dagger in her left hand into the back of his neck. He dropped like a stone. She whirled, ready to face the next man.

The remaining three men were already down. Two silent and one gasping for air, hands clawing at a crushed windpipe.

J’ark’s face was stormy. “I wanted to keep one alive, but I was clumsy. Now we will never know who sent them.”

“Perhaps they were just cutthroats?” said Tirielle hopefully.

“No, dogs of the Protectorate, perhaps. They intended death tonight, not purses. Assassins. If the Protectorate know we are here, though, why not send Tenthers? Why this amateur attack?”

Tirielle stooped and wiped her blades on a dead man’s shirt.

“I do not know, but I think you are right. We have been making contacts. Not all humans despise the Protectorate. Some have done well out of their masters. They have human eyes and ears, too. But if they truly knew who we are, I cannot believe we would still be breathing.”

“Perhaps, it may be a plot of their allies. But we have made many allies ourselves. There is no knowing whose hand is behind this. We must be gone. We must find what we seek soon. The city has become unfriendly.”

Tirielle spun again, hearing a man dashing toward her from behind, but turning, she found it was only Disper, who had been following at a discreet distance to ensure they were not followed.

“What happened here?” he asked, knuckling his drooping moustache.

“Assassins,” said j’ark before Tirielle could reply.

“Deplorable men,” said Disper with a stern frown.

“No,” said Tirielle with a sad shake of her head. “They were just men. The deplorable men don’t live in the slums. They live in their towers and watch from afar. No matter. We can go no faster. The Protectorate must still be unaware of who we are. But this complicates matters. We must be more vigilant than a mouse.”

The clatter of iron shod boots sounded from the street parallel to theirs.

“Tenthers!” hissed Disper.

They walked as swiftly as they dared to across the alleyway toward the library.

In the distance behind them they did not heard the patrol’s reaction at finding the dead men. Tirielle could not imagine it was shock. More likely amusement, and perhaps a report to their commander. It would slow them, anyway, and give them time to reach the library. They would not search. What did a murder matter to them?

She had hoped that no humans would lose their lives in the battles to come, but she would not wish death at the hands of the protectorate on anyone.

“Be wary,” j’ark warned Disper.

“Always,” said Disper, and melted back into the shadows.

Tirielle rapped on the door. Her heart’s pounding gradually subsided, the shaking of her hands that followed sudden violence fled, and as the door was answered she managed a warm smile.

“Good evening, Reader,” she said by way of greeting, and flashed a gold coin. She was pleased to see her hand was already firm.

Roth prowled the rooftops as Tirielle explored by candlelight. A ten passed in the street below. It dropped to the cobblestones, landing on all fours in the midst of them.

Before it returned to sleep, only one remained, one knee shattered and the face of rahken rage burned into his mind.

Roth slept easy the next day. For the Tenther, sleep would never be easy again.

Clouds rolled serenely past the mighty ship, pristine against cyan, cold skies. Hern’s ghost rode a herringbone trail laid in the air. Carious burnt the seas as it sank below the horizon and Dow followed its brother to sleep the night away.

Renir and Bourninund stood at the edge of the ship, watching the great fish dancing in the calm ocean. A dark shape flashed from the water, spouting water from a breath hole. Renir smiled. He had heard of such creatures from Quef, a southlander he had met once on a trip along the Spar in search of a shallow shoal. Renir had never been comfortable in the deep seas, but Quef had claimed there were fish that breathed air and had no gills. They lived in the deep, he said, and to see one close to shore was rare. Spitting fish, he had called them, but seeing their graceful dance above and below the surface, Renir thought the name ill-fitting.