Craig Saunders - Tides of Rythe

“I’ll waste no more words,” he said with a shake of his head. The man was smiling. He had a thin face, narrow shoulders, and was as still stone for a moment, watching her with that superior look on his face.

But when he moved he was like the snake.

His shoulder bunched, and Tirielle reached for calm, as Dran had shown her.

Fear, hatred, grief…all were washed away in an instant. Motion slowed — the snake’s long fangs flicked toward her, but she was moving already. Her muscles screamed at her from sitting still so long, pain almost cracking the void, but she moved with lightning speed. He was fast, but she had no distractions. Every concern was but a raindrop falling on a pond, rippling across her consciousness but never touching deeper than the surface. He was like the snake, she was like the sand — touched, but never changed.

Her blade struck, slicing through the neck of the snake, and she caught it with her free hand. In one smooth movement she threw it at the assassin’s face. She only had a moment. He screamed and fell to his knees — she had no idea how long the paralysis lasted, but knew it was quick.

He was unbelievably fast. His dagger was in his hand, and she had not seen him move, even in the void, but he fumbled it at the last moment. She had no time for pity. She, too, did not waste words. She crossed the room in bold strides and thrust her dagger deep into his neck. The assassin’s lifeblood sprayed out on the floor.

Her calm crumbled. She looked down at the blood covering her sleeve and felt herself gag. Slowly, she forced her gall back down. She had seen blood before — much of it — but never would she become accustomed to its sickly tang, the metallic odour or its sticky feel on her skin.

And she prayed she never would.

“j’ark! j’ark!” She shook him, as though to awake a sleeper. His eyes roved within his head, but he could not move a muscle. They could waste no more time. If the assassin had found them, others could, too.

She smelled faint smoke and turned to see the scroll alight. She had knocked her candle onto it, and dry for a thousand years it was burning fast.

“No!” she cried as she leapt to the table. She batted at the flames with her hands, knocking them out, but it was badly burned.

She wept then, in long, uncontrollable sobs. But as always, it was j’ark who came to her aid in her darkest moments.

“No matter, we take what we can,” he said, voice cracking and full of spit.

“j’ark, you’re alright!” Tirielle forgot about the scroll and was by his side in an instant. She took his head in her arms and cradled him against her chest, rocking softly, more to consol herself than to comfort him.

“Not really. I can’t move. Damn, but he was quick.”

“I thought you were dead. I could not bear to lose you.”

“Nor I you,” said j’ark, and Tirielle thought she would burst with joy at this admission, although its power was somewhat muted as he could not move his face.

If I can’t do it now, I’ll never get the chance again, she thought. Before she could lose her courage, she craned her head down to his and kissed him on the lips. She held him for a long time, praying that the moment could last forever. But she knew she could not take what she wanted. He had to give it. She broke away, tears in her eyes and her lips tingling from his touch.

If only he could feel as she did.

When she drew away, she could not tell if it was a smile on his face, or a grimace.

“Take the scroll, and pull me up. I think some of the feeling is coming back already. There’s no time to waste. We have to get out of here.”

Time moves ever on, Tirielle thought, but at least for one perfect moment she had felt his lips, even if he would never know the feel of hers.

She wiped a tear aside and gathered up the burnt scroll. She rolled it, and stuffed it in its case. Only then did she put it inside her dress.

She fumbled in the darkened stair well for a moment, until she found her second blade, and then pulled j’ark to his feet. He tried to aid her as much as he could, but he had little strength, and he was unbelievably heavy. At first he slid back to the floor, his legs like stone, but she would not give up. Not now. Not when they were so close, and he had been given the gift of life.

She grunted with effort, but she managed to pull him upright. She looked in despair at the stairs, but she faced them as she did everything else. She faced them as she knew her father would have — with courage, and steadfastness, and most of all, stiff, unyielding pride.

The climb took longer than she would have imagined, but she made it to the top. By the time she reached the old library, she was sweating and her chest was heaving with exertion. Leaving j’ark to rest against a wall, she kept to the shadows as she walked forward. Keeping to the shadows was easy — the assassin had doused each light in the hall. Only moonlight filtered through the windows along the west wall — one of the windowpanes was missing, she noticed. An easy climb down from the windows. Perhaps the snake had been watching them, waiting all night for the right moment.

She walked softly, searching for Typraille. There was a crumpled shape stirring on the floor at the archway, and she moved swiftly to it.

“I’m glad you’re alright, Typraille,” she said with obvious relief, pulling him to a sitting position. Still her eyes scanned the shadows, searching for enemies. In her imagination they lurked everywhere, but she knew she was being foolish. The assassin had not struck her as a man that liked company.

“I’m a fool,” coughed Typraille. “Snuck right up to me. Didn’t hear a thing.”

“I only heard him because he wanted to gloat, I think. j’ark’s alright, but he can’t move, either. I can’t very well carry the two of you.”

“The feeling’s coming back,” he said. “Look, I can move my hand. If I have to I’ll crawl out of here. Did you get it?”

“I did,” said Tirielle with a smile. “Time to move on.”

“High time,” said Typraille with a grin. “Give me a good stand up fight any day. I hate assassins. All that skulduggery gives me gripe.”

Tirielle laughed easily as j’ark approached them on unsteady legs.

“He got you, too, then?”

“Aye, he did, and good. I can’t feel my legs yet.”

“My arms are still numb, but I can walk. Come on, Tirielle, between us I’m sure we can make it.”

“Wait!” whispered Tirielle, and ran to the bookshelf. Only when she had once again concealed the secret room did she return.

“If I leave it open, and the readers find it, the Protectorate will one day find the secrets within. All would be lost. If we can, we will return. I don’t know when,” she added ruefully.

J’ark nodded. Typraille tried to add his agreement, but his head merely flopped loosely against his chest.

Slowly, painfully, they walked. j’ark and Tirielle carried Typraille between them, past stunned readers, ignoring their questions. It was far from a common sight in the halls of the library. Tirielle was glad she had spared them the discovery of the dead man.

Typraille grumbled about the indignity of it all from one end of the library to the other.

“The feeling’s coming back. I think I can walk on my own, now,” said Typraille as they reached the door. J’ark was dripping with sweat from his own efforts. “Bloody head’s pounding, though.”

“We’ll be fine by the time we get back. Let’s hope Carth and Unthor can give us a shoulder to lean on.”

“I hope so, too,” said Tirielle, rubbing her sore shoulder. “You’re far too heavy.”

“All that good tavern food,” said Typraille with a grin that showed he was beginning to feel back to his old self.