Craig Saunders - Tides of Rythe

Bide, he told himself. His time would come.

He steeled himself, and began his preparations. He clutched his meticulously written reports (he had been forced to severely reprimand his scribe for a smudge on the original. His scribe needed no tongue to write) in one blue-tinged hand. The Speculate did not allow communion, only reports in person. It was no more difficult, and in some ways more satisfying to travel in person.

He cleared his mind of all but the hall outside Jek’s door, and opened his eyes wide. Red light flowed forth, as if a dam had been breached, filling the tent with its blood-bright glow. A portal sprang into place almost immediately. The air around it crackled with unnatural power.

It galled him, but while Jek could travel at a whim, Klan still needed to summon a portal. It was the work of moments, but he could be followed, if someone were quick enough.

He rose smoothly and stepped through into the space between worlds. A whirling riot of blackness that was not quite absolute surrounded him, harangued him with disturbing noises, and sometimes the hint of a voice. He was accustomed to the unknown within the portal space, but this time, as every other, he wondered if any caster alive knew what the voices were saying, or what the colours meant, leaking whorls drifting in the nothingness held at bay by his magic.

He strode purposefully through the rift, untouched and unperturbed by its dark nature. Time seemed drawn out within a portal, but it was a tunnel, and both ends were always in sight, but only once entered. Unless you knew where a portal led, there was no way of telling short of entering the portal and looking. Even hardened soldiers sometimes balked at entering a portal. Protocrats were hammered into the hardest steel by their trails, but still many were undone by the whispering voices and the bleeding colours of the vortex. Klan found it fascinating, and sometimes the time it took to travel this way irksome, but was never fearful. Nothing within the portal could do him harm. He was an ascendant. It would take more than this inarticulate susurration to unman him.

After a time, unbothered by the eerily sentient sounds of the portal space, Klan stepped out in front of Jek’s chambers, and let the Portal close behind him. A student jumped out of the way, altering his course with a gasp of shock at Klan’s sudden appearance — none were permitted to travel within the halls, outside of the use of the portal rooms. One glance told the student that to report Klan’s abuse of the rules would mean death. He passed on without comment, straightening his robe in passing and murmuring quietly to himself about liberties, but not loudly enough so that Klan could hear.

The closing of the portal took but a moment, and it closed with a snap. He could have used the portal back at the base camp in Teryithyr, but that led to the portal rooms below Arram, and Klan did not have the patience for those murky, slippery stairs today.

He knocked politely, and waited outside, staring at the dark oak door. He had tried knocking and opening the door immediately before, but if Jek did not want the door to open, it did not. He could have tried his power on it, but to what end? Whatever Jek did in his private chambers was Jek’s business, and Klan understood that. What people did in the privacy of their own chambers was their business alone. After all, he would not want anyone to enter his chambers and disturb his congregation while they slept, or whisper sedition into their ears while he was away, turning his only true friends against him.

He resolved to take the time to visit them. He would not want them to get overly lonely while he was away on his duties.

He stilled his breathing and waited. The door remained stubbornly closed. He stood stock still and closed his blooded eyes. A muted glow seeped from his eyelids, lighting his thin face in the dusky hall. Sunlight played in the grounds outside, but little risked the interior of Arram. Its halls were shrouded in permanent gloom.

Students walked around him without comment. There were few within Arram who did not know who he was — Speculate member, the twenty-first, and Anamnesor. He ignored the staccato clack of their heels on the stone.

Klan was becoming well known within Arram, and few outside had not heard his name whispered among their ranks. Rumours abounded, and he did nothing to stop them. Let the rest of his Brethren and Sistren fear him. Fear was a useful tool. He did not take pride in his reputation. He was an ascendant, and it was right that those below him should fear him.

Not long now, he thought without a smile, and the hunt will be over. Tirielle and her pet rahken. The mythical Sard, Shorn and the Watcher — all would come to him and finally he would test his powers against someone of worth. It would be good to find out just why the Protectorate had been so afraid of human magicians throughout the ages, executing them before they discovered their powers. Klan could not imagine why in all the ages they had not fought back, if they were so dangerous. There were accounts, too numerous to mention, of human magicians, and their deaths, their tortures, and not one had put up a fight worthy of more than a passing note. His bone archive contained many such accounts from Inquistors through the years. Each was boring, dull in its descriptions and worthless. He knew no more of the threat now he had read on the matter than he did before.

He found he was drumming his fingers impatiently against his leg. He had been waiting too long. Jek had never made him wait this long. He relaxed his hand, and concentrated on his breathing. Perhaps he should go to his quarters and wait — but he would not be dismissed so easily. If waiting was what it took, he would wait. In time, Jek would come to understand just how powerful the Anamnesor had become. But this was not the time. He was not ready. Not yet.

He toyed with the idea of going to see Fernip, but to what end, he wondered? He had seen him not two days previously, and had gleaned little new from his servant. It would do no good to pester him every day. Although he confessed, if only to himself, that he enjoyed tormenting the reader. It provided a modicum of distraction from the hunt.

But it would not be today.

The door opened ponderously (strangely, their were no warning footsteps to precede it), and Jek stood before him, lips curled into an unpleasant smile and red eyes alight with magic and forbidden knowledge.

“Klan, I have been expecting you. Do you have news? Do come in.”

“No, Speculate. I am merely reporting what I have not yet found, as you insisted.”

“Do I detect a note of chagrin, Klan?”

“Of course not, Brother. I am simply being dutiful.”

“And yet,” said Jek with a frightening smile, “I suspect you wish you could do more.” He did not say more of what — whether it be the hunt, or an elevated position within the Speculate. “Come within, and we will discuss new matters that have come to my attention. I may be able to grant you a reprieved from the mundane…would that be of interest to you, or do the wastes demand your constant attention?”

Klan stepped inside as he had been bid. He looked around — there was no excess in the room, as in his own. Jek lived for his duties — where humans played, Jek plotted the lives of thousands. Klan resolved that he would, too. Already he had his troops in place, and power that once he could not have imagined.

“I must confess, the wastes have little allure for me. It is dull, Brother, dull beyond comparison.”

“Then perhaps you can send some of your Anamnesors on a small errand for me. I seem to have happened upon one of our thorns…a small irritation by the name of Tirielle A’m Dralorn, sometimes known as the Sacrifice in human prophesy, and more plainly as a pain in ours.”