Craig Saunders - Tides of Rythe

Gurt blushed slightly. He was never good with women.

“Tama, I am glad to see you. You look well. How is the baby?”

Tama beamed. “She’s fine. Six months next week. She’ll be fine for a while. I’ve just put her back to sleep. Hardly sleeps at all. But she’s so fine.”

“I’ll see her before I go.”

“Going already?”

“Not yet, Tama. We’ve business to do first.”

“Men’s business, I guess from the impatient look on my husband’s face. I do hope it involves no subterfuge. He’s but a simple man.”

Sventhan took the criticism without a retort, just smiled lovingly at his wife and patted her on the behind. “As you say, wife. Now leave us for a while.”

“So masterful!” she cooed, fanning her face in mock excitement. Gurt remembered. Sometimes she could seem like a little girl.

“Go on, woman,” said Sventhan, but kindly.

She kissed him on the cheek and with a wave goodbye she returned to her rooms.

“She’s a good woman. You’ve been doubly blessed.”

“And you have been a man of duty all these years. Are you sorry you were called?”

“Not at all,” Gurt lied. Often he wondered what his life would have been like had he married, instead of serving a councillor.

The two men fell silent, a gulf between them. Neither would speak of it again.

Gurt picked up his hot tea, and Sventhan waited. He never spoke while food or drink was being consumed, Gurt remembered. Strict adherence to the Omerteran in all things. Gurt was not so strict, but he still followed the principles. It was in his blood. To forget his duties would mean he was no longer a builder, one of the largest family on the whole continent, and if the lore was true, outside it also.

The room was cool enough to forget the heat outside. The shutters allowed a little breeze into the room. Gurt looked around, eyes alighting here and there — a fat, low candle, thick Pluan table, scarred from long use. An elaborately carved chest between two soft chairs, facing a cold fireplace. The furniture was not expensive, but of good quality. All the builders eschewed the gaudy, and made do with the functional. It was their way, despite their wealth.

Gurt knew the chest was an heirloom. Sventhan would never squander his own money to buy such a piece. He would save his wages. Save them for times such as these.

Gurt turned his gaze back to the big man. Tea finished, Sventhan broke the silence.

“It is good to see you. I was at first pleased that you wrote. Saddened, too, that it has come to this.”

“I am sorry I had not written for so long, cousin,” said Gurt sadly. “Would that it were in better circumstances.”

“But we build with the stone we are given. I have read your letter carefully. The family is doing what it can. I fear it will not be enough.”

“How much does the Imperator know? Does she know what transpires in the heart of the Conclave, or of the threat to the Kuh’taenium?”

“She knows enough. She has hired a bodyguard. She does not know me. I’m not sure she would believe, or if we could make her. Our brothers and sisters watch her from afar. Where we are able, we watch the other council members. Unfortunately, two have been murdered. We were not in place in time to prevent it. Reih Refren A’e Eril called on you, but if you were to tell her of our family…”

“How many councillors are under our protection?”

“All but thirteen. We do not have enough family to watch everybody, and even those we do watch cannot be protected all day and all night. Outside, they are as safe as we can make them, but we cannot go inside their homes unless hired, or open ourselves to them. We would make direct enemies of the Protectorate, and there are not enough of us builders to withstand their enmity should we be exposed.”

“Then what would you have me do? Do you think it is not enough just to protect them? I had thought it would be sufficient, but perhaps I have been away too long from the fold of the family. Since Tirielle’s disbarment I have not seen how serious the threat is to the Kuh’taenium. I thought the Imperator’s letter was strange, but I come. Now I fear it is too late.”

“I hope that is not so. But as to what we can do…I think it best if you begin our return into the light. You are known to the Imperator. She knows enough of the threat, and she contacted you. Perhaps you can talk to her. Perhaps we can be hired on the Councillors’ guard, or know the names of those Protocrats who attack the Kuh’taenium…I do not know. I thought it was a good idea, but now you are here, I am not so sure. We have remained a secret for so long…and I confess, I am afraid for our family. We cannot stand against the Protectorate.”

“If I cannot speak to the Imperator, I will…I too, am known. If I am seen by the Protectorate they will suspect Tirielle has a hand to play here…I wish I knew where she was. It must be in secret. We must not expose the Imperator, but also, for now, we must not expose the family. We could do no good should we be hunted to the death.”

“In secret…hmm. I think there may be a way.” Sventhan smiled thinly. “But I have news for you, too. I think I may know where Tirielle was. I cannot promise she is there now. One of our sisters has seen her — in Beheth. It seems she has been stirring up trouble in the city.”

Gurt bashed the table, forgetting his pain for a moment. “Blasted girl. She should be laying low!”

“She is her father’s daughter. What else would you expect?”

“I’d expect some sense from her. Still, what’s done is done. I can do little to protect her here. Reih Refren A’e Eril is our concern now.”

“Then you will introduce us? It is time I told her of her heritage. I believe we may be facing the dissolution. We have no choice but to reveal ourselves.”

“I will tell her,” said Gurt reluctantly. “I only wish you were wrong. I fear we are no longer strong enough to make a difference.”

“Then what little difference we do make must be of the greatest import,” said Sventhan, reaching across the table to take Gurt’s shoulder. “We will stand for the light come the end, whether we perish or not. The secrets of the builders may be lost, but as always, others will come after us.”

“I hope it will not come to that,” said Gurt, rising. “Time is wasting. I will find a way to contact Reih, if you can but get me inside. You will have your meeting.”

“Thank you, Cousin. You will stay here, of course.”

“I have taken rooms…”

“I won’t here of it.”

“It endangers you, to have me in your home. Think of your family, Sventhan.” Gurt spoke kindly, but did not have the heart to refuse. A room would be welcome now.

“They are builders. We carve the stone. We are strong enough. Now, I’ll hear no more about it. Tell me more of Tirielle. We may as well pass the night away. It may be a day or two before we can find the old ways into the Kuh’taenium. They are buried now, and built over, but we will find a way in.”

“May your hammer ring true, Sventhan. Thank you.”

“And yours, cousin. Now, tell me about the girl. She makes waves already…I wonder if her fate is somehow tied to ours?”

“I wonder, too,” said Gurt. “She is brave. There was a time when thieves got past the gate guard, and she was alone inside the estate…”

Gurt talked long into the night, Sventhan merely listening with a thoughtful smile on his face. Both men found themselves enjoying the tales.

Gurt could not forget his duty, but for a time, at least he could forget his pain.

It was as good a way as any to pass the time. Wen, Drun and Bourninund watched from the back of a steadily growing crowd as Shorn and Renir trained.