The Mountains Rise (38 page)

“Release me
,
but don’t dispel it. I want to see if I can cut it,” he told her.

Her lips quirked into a faint
smile
, “You are welcome to test the truth of my words.” The spellweave unwound from his
body and straightened out, forming a long snakelike rope over twenty feet in length.
She continued to keep one end in her hand.

His first attempt was an utter failure. Tyrion stood several feet away and tried
fire and wind first. He hadn’t thought they would work
,
but he wanted to see how they interacted with the material of her spellweave. It
was completely unaffected, although the wind did cause it to stir a bit.

Imagining a finely honed blade of force
,
he sent his thought outward in a slicing arc, putting
a modest amount of
power into
it. He was surprised when his attack failed to do the slightest damage. He might
as well have struck the spellweave with a wooden stick for all the good it had done.

“That makes no sense,” he muttered. “My attack was far stronger than it
is
.”

“It is not a matter of strength,” she replied, “but rather a matter of form. Raw
magic is too ‘soft’
,
for want of a better word. It is unformed in the most basic sense, being contained
only by your constant mental attention. When it comes in contact with a spellweave
,
it is no more effective than water striking a stone.”

A shield made like that would render virtually all of my attacks useless.
He glanced down at his arms, staring at the lines on them. “Let me try something
else,” he said.

She nodded
,
so he created a blade of force around his right arm, using the line of scar tissue
to form the aythar as tightly as he could. He knew from past experience that it would
be stronger than his previous purely mental attempt, but he had never needed it for
anything other than making his attack easier and more efficient to form. He put his
full strength into it
,
and then struck the spellweave again.

The backlash as his blade of force came apart sent him reeling backward. It felt
as if knives were stabbing into his skull.
For a split second he had thought his spellblade might succeed
,
but the spellweave was yet unharmed
,
and now he was left with a splitting headache. He sat down heavily.

“Do you understand now, Tyrion?” asked Lyralliantha. Her tone was cool
,
but her aura reflected a subtle hint of sympathy. “There are some things that simply
are not possible, even for you.”

Her condescension irritated him more than he dared to admit. “No, I don’t understand.
What is possible and impossible, those are things I must learn, but I refuse to accept
defeat yet.
This
way may not work, but that does not mean there isn’t one.”

“Will you try again then?” she asked with no hint of mockery.

He groaned, “No, I think that’s enough for now. I need to rest—and think. Would
you like me to play for you tonight?”

“Later,” she answered. “Rest for a while
,
and I will return. I prefer your music when your mind is clear and at ease.”

“As you will,” he told her
,
and then she left.

He watched her leave, letting his mind linger idly on the sway of her hips as she
walked gracefully away. The uniquely feminine way her body moved was mesmerizing
,
despite her cool demeanor
,
and it reminded him of Kate.

Despite her alien way of thinking
,
her body still moves much like any human woman’s would.
He had always assumed that women’s hips swayed because of some feature of their personality,
but now he wondered if it wasn’t the result of some difference in their hip bones.

Those
thoughts led him to remember
his last moments with Kate
,
and a blush rose on his cheeks.
She was definitely wrong about Lyralliantha loving me, either as a pet or a man, but
she was right about her willingness to help.

Hungry
,
he decided to eat some of the food left in his travel bag, rather than cook that
evening. It would be a long time before he got bread again
,
and he knew he would miss it sorely once it was gone, but there was no saving it.
If he kept it too long
,
it would just grow mold.

As he dug in the sack
,
he noticed a square package wrapped in oilcloth. He didn’t remember putting it there
,
and as he pulled it out his magesight examined the inside before his fingers could
untie the twine that bound it. There were metal wires of some sort inside.

He didn’t understand until he saw them with his own eyes. Bronze strings.
There could be only one explanation. His mother had packed her extra strings inside
for him to use on his cittern. They were a valuable item
,
and
they weren’t easy to acquire
. If one of her own strings broke in the meantime
,
she would have to wait quite a while to replace them.

Something wet fell on the oilcloth in his hands and his vision grew blurry. Wiping
at his eyes he sat and cradled the package against his chest.

“You didn’t deserve a son like me, Momma,” he said quietly, trying again to dry his
eyes. His effort was wasted however
,
and eventually he gave up, sitting down and letting the evening settle around him
while he wrapped himself in thoughts of the home he could not return to.

“That doesn’t make sense,” complained Matthew.

“What doesn’t?” I asked.

“Why is he calling himself Tyrion now? His name is Daniel.”

I smiled patiently at my son. We were all tired now
,
and it was very late. “That was the name the She’Har gave him.”

“I know that, but it isn’t his real name. You’re telling it as if he believes it’s
really his name now, but he knows it isn’t. It’s just a name they made up for him,”
he argued with visible irritation.

I glanced at Moira and Lynarralla
,
but neither of them spoke, probably because they were too sleepy to care.

“Your name is the same,” I told him. “Your mother and I just made it up for you.”

“But he already had a name.”

I nodded, “I know what you’re saying, son, but his switch was his own choice. I can’t
change
his thoughts and deeds
. I can only relate them to you. At that point he was going through a lot of internal
shifts
,
and I believe he changed names to distance himself from his past
.”

“The past was nicer than his present,” said Moira with a yawn. “Why would he want
to be farther from it?”

“People will do strange things to protect their self-image. He had an idea of himself,
as a good son, a kind young man, a lover of animals and people. The things he did,
as time went on
,
were completely at odds with how he thought about himself before,” I explained.
“When he threatened and tortured the people of Colne, that was when he could no longer
reconcile his present with his past. I think he took his new name to protect his
memory of himself from who he had actually become. It also gave him the freedom to
accept his new self without the restraints that his old life would naturally impose.”

“Restraints?” asked Matthew.

“Tyrion, in his mind, was not beholden to anyone. He didn’t bother so much worrying
about good and evil, or kindness and cruelty. He simply did what he felt needed doing,
or sometimes simply what he wanted to do,” I said.

“Then why didn’t he do as he wished with Catherine Sayer when she came to say farewell?”
asked Lynarralla.

“Well,” I began, “He may have been playing identity games with himself, but he was
still Daniel, deep down, and she was an integral part of his memory of his old self.
Forcing her would have damaged the one thing
that was still precious to him;
his first love.”

“This is an awful story, Daddy,” declared Moira.

“You’re right,” I agreed. “And we’re all tired. Let’s sleep on it
,
and I’ll finish tomorrow after breakfast.”

They didn’t complain too much at that suggestion, and we were all much better the
next morning for having slept. As soon as we had eaten however, they gathered around
me like hungry predators.

“Are you ready?” asked Moira.

I looked at her in surprise, “You want me to start now? I thought you didn’t like
this story.”

“I just want to know how it ends,” she told me.

Grinning, I looked at Lynarralla, “You already know how it ends.”

Penny was waiting for Matthew to finish collecting the dishes from our morning meal,
since the chore had fallen to him that morning. She looked askance at me, “You didn’t
finish your tale last night?”

“It’s taking longer than I expected,” I said apologetically. She hadn’t stayed to
listen when I began the story after dinner and had given up and gone to bed long before
we had.

“Hmmm,” she replied, thinking. “I have some things to take care of today, so if you
plan on telling stories all day you will have to fend for yourself. I won’t be back
to make lunch.”

“I’ll tell Peter to tell the castle kitchen staff to expect us for the noon meal then,”
I said. “We should probably put in an appearance for the evening meal as well. We’ve
been keeping ourselves rather isolated of late.”

Our home was connected, via a magical portal, to Castle Cameron, where I nominally
resided as Earl and landowner. The portal was disguised as the entrance to our apartments
within the castle, but when opened by the proper hand, actually led to our hidden
mountain home, far from the castle itself.

Generally, we had our evening meals at the castle, as well as spending our days there,
but recently we had been living reclusively
; m
aking few appearances over the past few months.

Penny nodded and stretched up to give me a warm kiss on the cheek. “Make sure Matthew
finishes cleaning up in the kitchen. I need to get ready. I’ll see you at dinner.”
With that she left.

I watched her go, thinking to myself how lucky I was. My own fate could have been
nearly as dark as Daniel Tennick’s. I caught my daughter staring at me. “What?”
I asked defensively.

“I don’t want to know what you were thinking,” she said accusingly.

I laughed, “Nothing like that.” For some reason she seemed to think there was only
one thing that ever occurred to me when my mind turned to her mother. Apparently
I had set a bad example at some point in the past and she had never gotten over the
impression.
“Honestly!” I added.

“I see you smirking,” she continued. “Don’t be disgusting.”

I threw my hands up. She had me laughing now
,
and that only made her more convinced that I was guilty. “Fine, whatever,” I said.
“I can’t argue. Your mother is a fine figure of a woman. Perhaps I should go see
if we can provide you with another sibling?” When in doubt, go on the offensive.

“Ugh!” exclaimed Moira. “Stop! I’m going to go see if Matthew needs help.” She
left me alone with Lynarralla and Conall.

Lynarralla stared at me blankly
,
and Conall did the same.

I shrugged and watched
as my young
er
son imitated me, lifting his shoulders and turning his hands palms up.

“Will you take your sister outside and play with her this morning?” I asked him.
By sister I meant Irene, my younge
r
daughter, who was only seven. Conall was nine.

“I want to hear the story,” he said insistently.

I had sent him and his sister to bed the night before, judging the tale to be far
too dark for either of them. “You’ve already missed the first part
,
and I really don’t want you hearing the rest till you’re older.” I was uncomfortable
enough with some of what I had already told his older brother and sister.

It took a bit of convincing
,
but he finally conceded and took his sister out to play
. In the meantime the twins had finished the dishes
,
and we all settled into the den to finish the story.

“Where did I leave off last night?” I asked.

“He was crying because he missed his momma,” said Matthew bluntly.

I had thought my description was a bit more poetic than that, but his remark was accurate
enough. “I suppose that’s fair,” I said. “After a while, he finished unpacking
the wires
and used them to restring his cittern. He had just finished and retuned it when
Lyralliantha returned a few hours later…”

***

She approached gracefully, her limbs in perfect harmony as she moved. It might have
been romantic to
say that
she ‘glided
in
’, as was sometimes done in stories, but she did no such thing. Her motions were
natural,
athletic and sure, and they broadcast the fact that the young woman nearby was not
only lithe but very healthy.

Since Amarah’s death
,
Tyrion had ignored his normal urges, but his farewell encounter with Kate that morning
had served to remind him that he was still hearty and hale, in the prime of his youth.
Lyralliantha’s lissome steps seemed loud in his ears
,
and though he didn’t look up
,
he watched her advance
unwaveringly with his magesight.

In short, he was horny as hell.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

Ignoring the wolf rising within himself,
he answered, “I was just tuning my instrument. What would you like to hear?”

She had already learned the names of all the songs he knew, but s
he wanted something different. “Play something that fits your memories,” she suggested.

Tyrion frowned, “That’s a tough one.” Looking back over the past week
,
he had run the gamut of emotions. Happiness, nostalgia, regret, anger, remorse
,
and self-loathing; he had felt them all in just a few days. He could think of songs
that would match one or more, but none that would stay the course for what she wanted.
“I’ll play the ‘Merry Widow’ first and improvise when I get to a point where it doesn’t
feel appropriate,” he replied.

The ‘Merry Widow’ was a light-hearted song about a woman (a widow), living alone
who befriended
a songbird. The tune was sweet and poignant, rising in temp
o and becoming almost lively,
then falling to a low point when the bird failed to return one day.

“If you think it is complementary to your experience then it will be perfect,” said
Lyralliantha. She moved to stand behind him as she had done once before, resting
her forearms on his shoulders and placing her fingers lightly against his temples.

Tyrion had to consciously relax, allowing his ever present shield to dissipate, so
that her magic could reach his mind unimpeded. Her touch was gentle
,
and he soon felt a subtle presence within his head, as she observed his mental imagery
and allowed herself to share his emotions. A pleasant scent caught his nose
,
and the soft press of her body against his shoulders
only reinforced the desire that had been nagging at him before. He disciplined his
mind fiercely, but not before she saw, and felt, what had begun to course through
his mind.

He felt her pulse quicken in response, but she said nothing.
Probably laughing at my animal instincts,
he figured. Returning to his task
,
he began to play without singing, letting his mind drift back to the day he had been
reunited with his parents.

The melody flowed smoothly, perfectly matching his emotions, the loneliness and poignancy
of his first sight of home. He felt again the first touch of hope when he met his
mother and father again. The inescapable belief every child has, no matter what has
gone wrong, surely their parents can set things right. Reality soon dismissed this
irrational feeling
,
and he was left with a sense of disappointment and sadness, knowing they could not
truly help
,
and that he would soon be forced to leave them again.

He lived again the moment in the field, playing for the Catherine Sayer of his past
memories and then seeing her appear again, as if by magic.
All the emotions
returned
; his joy at meeting her, the relief he had felt knowing she was doing well without
him, and the jealousy of discovering she belonged to someone else.

The bird returned in the song as he met his daughter, Brigid, and it flew high until
it was bathed in pure sunlight, while she bounded around the hillside with
the
sheepdog.
The happiness of those few hours swelled within his heart only to inevitably darken
as a harsh tone interrupted the music. Seeing his father’s bruised and broken body
brought both sorrow and anger while his fingers left the familiar melody of the ‘Merry
Widow’ and traveled the barren road of vengeance and retribution.

Familiar faces stared at him with fear and loathing
,
and while some part of him recoiled from their censure, another part rejoiced in
the fury and rage that now filled him. It replaced the cold emptiness with a hot
fire that, for the time it lasted, gave him purpose and meaning. He desired nothing
more than their suffering
,
and the wildfire consuming his mind nearly overwhelmed
his reason. It was the face of a child that brought him back from the brink of chaos.

The notes falling from his fingers followed his heart into a declining theme of dark
regret, and it was there that Tyrion Illeniel was born, a new identity rising from
the ashes of a broken man. This new figure had Daniel’s face, but he was cloaked
in fire and shadow, a man without joy or sorrow, only hard resolve and remorseless
choices. He bade farewell to the past and took to the saddle, riding away from friends
and family. The giant trees of a dark forest rose before him, but one last spark
reached out…

Tyrion stopped, putting the cittern aside and letting his fingers rest.

“Wait,” said Lyralliantha. “What was that, at the end?”

“Nothing.”

“No there was something there,” she insisted. “You were returning, filled with a
bleak apathy
,
and something happened. Why did you stop?”

“I was tired,” he lied. In truth he didn’t want to share his last moment with Kate.
It was too private, too precious, and ultimately, too painful.

“Our bargain was that you would share your memories with me,” she stated. “Are you
reneging on our deal?”

Tyrion struggled to find a good response, “No—I just…” After a moment he continued,
“I’m just tired. I will show you the rest, but not right now. It’s too much.”

A look of sympathy passed over her normally still features, “You experienced more
in a few short days
,
than I have felt in all the years I have been alive. I will wait.”

Well, you’re only nine, what do you expect?
He kept the observation to himself, though. “Thank you.”

She had stepped away and stood a few feet apart from him now. “I will take my leave
of you, but I have a question before I go.”

“What is it?”

Moving forward she touched the spellwoven slave collar, “If this
were
gone, if you were free, what would you do?”

His mind went blank. The possibility had been so remote he hadn’t dared to consider
it before. “I’m not sure.”

“You could return,” she suggested. “Kill the one
who
stands in your way
,
and take the red-haired woman as your mate.”

“Kate?” he looked askance at her. “Her husband is my friend, and besides, if I killed
him
,
she would never forgive me.”

“Is forgiveness a necessity?”

It was at moments like this that he realized how utterly alien the She’Har perspective
was. “She wouldn’t love me if I killed the people
she
loved to get her. It doesn’t work like that.”

“She wouldn’t have to know,” said Lyralliantha. “She cannot perceive aythar. You
could kill him subtly and then take his place later.
Would you be happy then?”

It was a cold blooded thought, and it might have chilled Tyrion more if it hadn’t
crossed his mind already.
I’m almost as bad as they are.
He gave her the answer he had given himself, “If he
were
a stranger
,
I might consider such a thing, but Seth is my friend. I love him as well. I cannot
hurt him.”

“Why not?”

It took him a moment to formulate an appropriate reply. “Friendship, and love…” he
began, “… are unifying emotions. They bind you to others in such a way that they
are no longer ‘other’
;
they are a part of your ‘self’. If you hurt a friend, you hurt yourself.”

“You believe that if you killed your friend you would also die?”
The look on her face made it clear what she thought of such a notion.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Certainly not.”

“Then this friendship of yours is simply a self-delusion,” she countered, “an imaginary
construction.”

“Surely you can understand,” said Tyrion. “The She’Har do not kill one another arbitrarily.
You work together to provide for everyone.”

“You misunderstand us,” she corrected. “Before using humans, we did kill one another,
for entertainment and to select for fitness. We work together for survival. If one
must be sacrificed, for the good of the grove, we do so without regret. This female
you desire, if we had such strong attractions, such as this ‘love’ you experience,
we would kill one another for its sake.”

“Well, humans do sometimes kill one another over a lover,” agreed Tyrion, “but to
kill a friend for such a thing is self-defeating.
Friendship and love may be self-delusions, as you called them, but they are all
the more meaningful because of that. Value, quality, meaning, those things are only
found in the impermanent, the temporary, and the intangible
;
t
hings that don’t exist physically or do not last for
long. The solid, the enduring—
the permanent things of our world
…
” he illustrated by
knocking on the wood beneath him,
“
…
those things are the least valuable, because they endure. That’s why the beauty of
a flower is so cherished, because it only lasts for a short time. That is exactly
why love is of such inestimable value. We treasure it because it is intangible and
fleeting, much like our lives.”

“You have become a poet, Tyrion,” she noted, “but you still describe a mental illness.”

“Then why do you bargain with me to feel my emotions?” he returned pointedly. “Why
do you listen to my music?”

A flicker of something passed over her face
,
and she moved away, physically withdrawing from the conversation. “I do not know,”
she answered. She continued more softly, “Per
haps your madness is contagious.
”
A
nd then she was gone.