The Silent Tempest (Book 2) (16 page)

“A few more hours, or even another day
won’t make much difference,” advised the lore-warden.

Tyrion frowned, “How long has it been?”

“A little over a month—five weeks to be
exact,” answered Byovar.

He was aghast, and his face showed it.

“Time moves differently for the elders,”
explained the She’Har. “To converse with them, your thoughts must be slowed to
a pace that will enable communication. A discussion of a few hours for us can
take weeks when you speak to them.”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense for them to
speed up to our pace? What if there were an emergency?”

Byovar smiled, “Few things are truly an
emergency for the elders. Most small matters are left to us, or to the krytek.
If something truly disastrous occurred they might do as you say, but it hasn’t
happened for ages.”

A few things made sense now. Lyralliantha
had spoken to the elders before, and it had often been days before she
returned. If what Byovar said was true, then those had been extremely short
exchanges. Considering that the She’Har almost never found a good reason to
lie, he had no doubt about the truthfulness of the lore-warden’s revelation.

Thinking about it, something else occurred
to him, “It could be a while before Lyralliantha’s conversation is done then.”

Byovar nodded.

“I guess I should eat. Then I would like
to visit Ellentrea,” said Tyrion with some resignation. He hadn’t wanted Kate
or his children to wind up in the slave camp, but a few more hours wouldn’t
make much difference, and he was starving after all. Without Lyralliantha’s
presence he wasn’t certain if there would be any way for him to get them out in
any case.

Byovar gave him a sidelong glance as they
walked, “You have changed, Tyrion.”

“How so?” asked Tyrion, hoping he wouldn’t
have to explain his missing scars or his regrown ear. He didn’t have answers
for those questions.

“Your patience has grown,” said the
lore-warden. “When you first came to us you would not have accepted such delays
so easily.”

“It isn’t patience as much as pragmatism,”
said Tyrion. Remembering his actions in Colne, he wouldn’t have described them
as the decisions of a patient man. He had become practical to a fault.
Patience, violence, negotiation, extortion, or even sexual persuasion, all of
these were merely tools to an end.

“You have become like us in many ways,”
said Byovar.

More than I would like, and
enough that I will make the She’Har regret it,
thought Tyrion.

The food was delicious, consisting of a
variety of vegetables, some fruit, and, of course, the ever present “calmuth”.
Calmuth was the fruit produced by the god trees, light-gold in color it was
mildly sweet and moderately juicy, with a taste that was reminiscent of a pear
but less distinctive. The fruit of the god trees was unique in that it could
serve as the sole source of sustenance for their children, although they
usually combined it with other foods to avoid boredom.

It also contained a substance that
suppressed the growth of the ‘seed-mind’. The children of the She’Har were
human in a purely physical sense, but they were born fully developed and containing
an extra organ within their bodies, the seed-mind. The seed was the true
product of their species, the human body was merely a vessel, somewhat like the
flesh of a more ordinary fruit which existed purely to protect the seeds within
it.

In fact, in times past, on other worlds,
the She’Har children had been born with bodies that were not human at all. The
She’Har could tailor the bodies of their offspring to match their environment.
The Krytek were an excellent example of that, for the father-trees often used
varied forms from their history on other worlds to produce the short-lived
soldiers that protected them.

Calmuth served as the primary sustenance
of the children of the trees, and it also kept their inner ‘seed’ from
germinating. If calmuth became scarce, presumably from a lack of elder
She’Har, or an overabundance of their children, then the seeds would begin to mature,
the children would take root, and new elders would spring forth.

As far as Tyrion knew, the calmuth had no
ill effects on normal humans. He had been eating it for many years with no
trouble, but he still yearned for a meatier diet. When he had the time to
spare, he often hunted to satisfy his tastes.

An odd question occurred to him, “How does
this compare to the taste of the loshti?”

Byovar’s brows shot up.

“Lyralliantha told me that she was chosen
to become a lore-warden,” he explained, to give his question some context.

The lore-warden nodded in understanding,
“I see, however I cannot remember the taste.”

“But you had to eat it, correct, in order
to become a lore-warden?”

“Of course,” said Byovar, “but the
experience that came immediately afterward drove trivial details, such as the
taste of the loshti itself, from my mind.”

“What was it like?” asked Tyrion.

Byovar spread his hands wide, as if he were
trying to encompass the world around them, “My world expanded. No, it
exploded. The knowledge I gained was so much greater than that which I
possessed before, that it shattered my previous self-conception, and when the
process was over I felt as though I had been reborn.”

“Because it filled your seed-mind with the
information of the past?”

“Not the seed directly,” corrected
Byovar. “The loshti is designed to alter the working mind. Our seed-minds are
passive, merely recording our experiences until the day that they germinate.
The seed remains quiescent in our daily lives, except for the purpose of
spell-weaving.”

Tyrion frowned, “What would the loshti do
in an ordinary human then?”

Byovar’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “What
you describe would be an abomination, a dead end.”

“Dead end?”

“The knowledge would die with the host,
rather than passing to a new generation…” Byovar paused, searching for the
words in Barion that would convey his meaning. “It would be like the burning
of one of your libraries.”

That was a new word for Tyrion. He might
have thought the term originated in Erollith if it hadn’t been for the way
Byovar had used it. “I’m not familiar with that word.”

“Library?” asked Byovar, but then he
understood. “I should have known better. Your kind have not had them since
the great war between our races. It was a place of knowledge, where humans
stored their collected wisdom. A much cruder method of preserving information
than ours, but effective nonetheless. Humankind had thousands of years of
history, science, and philosophy stored within them.”

“And your people burned them?”

“Yes and no,” said Byovar. “We did
destroy many of them during the war, but when it was over, we preserved as much
of the information that they contained as was possible. The She’Har learn from
their enemies. The last remaining libraries were studied, and their useful
knowledge recorded before they were demolished.”

“That sounds like a simple ‘yes’ to me,”
observed Tyrion.

“Well the phrase ‘burning libraries’ is
one I borrowed from your history. Humans regarded it as a great sin, but they
made war upon each other in the past, before we came, and sometimes the
conquerors would burn the library of the defeated as a means of destroying
their past. What we did was different,” said Byovar.

“In what way?”

“We preserved the knowledge,” said Byovar,
tapping his temple, “the parts we could understand at least.”

“I thought your race was far superior,”
said Tyrion sardonically.

“In most respects, yes,” agreed Byovar,
missing the sarcasm completely, “but your species was mechanistic in their
search for understanding. While our science is superior, your race’s way of
thinking was very foreign, making it difficult for us to grasp the finer points
of many of your conceptual models.”

“If you weren’t careful, Byovar, I might
think you meant to compliment my kind.”

The lore-warden ran his hand through his
hair, smoothing it after a sudden breeze, “The war for this world was the
hardest we ever won. We came close to losing, despite the fact that your kind
was crippled by its inability to manipulate aythar. Humans were our second
greatest enemy.”

“Second greatest?” said Tyrion. “If we
were the
second
greatest, how could this have been the hardest war you
ever fought?”

“Not
fought
, Tyrion,” corrected
Byovar. “The war for your world was the hardest that we
won.
”

“So the She’Har lost one?” That was the
first he had ever heard of something like that.

The lore-warden’s voice became more
serious, “Almost.”

Tyrion chuffed, “How do you
almost
lose a war?”

“We are still alive, and we believe the
great enemy cannot threaten us here. Someday we will find the means to defeat
them and take back what was lost,” stated the She’Har with the utmost gravity
in his tone.

“It’s hardly a war if you aren’t
fighting,” said Tyrion. “When was the last time you encountered this enemy?”

“When we abandoned our last home,
millennia ago, before we came here.”

“That was a long time ago. Maybe they’ve
forgotten your people.”

Byovar’s cold eyes stared into the empty
sky, “They do not forget.”

***

Thillmarius smiled when he saw Tyrion
enter the room. It was the same room he had once used to forcibly take samples
from Lyralliantha’s wild human slave, and the sight of it still sent shivers
down Tyrion’s spine.

“I have looked forward to your visit,”
said the Prathion She’Har. “I was pleased to hear that the elders had decided
to continue your experiment.” Something approaching a genuine smile took shape
on his lips.

“My experiment?”

“You are still alive,” said the
lore-warden. “I regard that as a great success.”

The Prathion trainer’s positive attitude
irritated him. “Would you have me believe your opinion is part of the reason
for my continued survival?” asked Tyrion.

Thillmarius shook his head, “Not at all,
it was Lyralliantha’s brilliance that saved you. What she did has changed
everything. I am not even sure how to address you now.” The She’Har was
practically bubbling with enthusiasm, or at least with the closest She’Har
equivalent.

“Baratt or wildling usually sufficed
before now,” said Tyrion dryly.

“You cannot be a baratt if you are Lyralliantha’s
kianthi,” stated Thillmarius firmly, “nor can you be She’Har, since you cannot
spellweave. You have become a delicious paradox.” The Prathion actually
licked his lips as he said the last.

“Semantics,” said Tyrion. “It doesn’t
change the fact of my biology at all.”

“True,” replied Thillmarius, “but it is
far more than semantics. Never before has a sentient creature disrupted the
boundaries of our definitions. In the past the most basic categorization for
my people has been that of She’Har and baratti. You no longer fit in the
second category, but we cannot admit you to the first.”

“Sounds like a problem for the elders,”
stated Tyrion. “I could care less what your people think of me. I am here to
claim my family.”

“Your family?”

“The woman and the children I brought
here.”

Thillmarius nodded, “Yes, I understood the
‘who’ of it, it was the use of the term “family” that confused me. The young
ones are your offspring, but the woman—she is no relation to you.”

“Don’t try to distract me, Thillmarius. I
wish to take them back to the Illeniel Grove.”

“They have no place to keep them, no
wardens to mind them,” said the Prathion She’Har. “I am housing them here as a
favor to the Illeniel Grove.”

Tyrion didn’t budge, “That is no longer
your problem. I will have them regardless.”

“As a warden, as a slave, you have no
standing to make such a demand,” explained Thillmarius. “On what authority do
you make such a claim?” Something in the Prathion’s expression hinted at some
sort of anticipation on his part.

Tyrion glared at him for a moment before
answering, “On Lyralliantha’s authority…”

“She is not here, nor has she been away
from the elders to order any such thing,” said Thillmarius immediately. He
moistened his lips before repeating himself, as if anxious for something, “On
what
authority do you make this request, Tyrion? Lyralliantha is not here, and we
both know your owner has given you no instruction on this matter. Be specific,
where
does your right to demand them come from?”

Tyrion was confused.
He wants me to
say something. But what?
His blue eyes locked onto the Prathion’s red
ones as he thought furiously.

“It’s just semantics, Tyrion,” hinted
Thillmarius.

It clicked then, “As Lyralliantha’s
kianthi, I demand you release her property to me now.” He felt uncomfortable
using the term, but he couldn’t think of anything else the She’Har trainer
would want him to say.

“Since you put it that way, I have no
choice,” agreed Thillmarius, smiling slyly. “Follow me, I will show you where
they have been kept.” He stood and made for the door, but he said one more
thing as he walked. “Don’t forget this lesson.”

Tyrion had spent years under the Prathion
trainer’s control, tortured at times until his sanity had left him. Even now,
a decade later, just the sound of the She’Har’s voice evoked a primal fear
response that made his stomach twist. He had learned to deal with the fear,
but he had never succeeded in banishing it. It was too deeply embedded in his
psyche.

That fact made it hard for him to
understand the Prathion lore-warden’s true intentions. Paranoia and anxiety
clouded his thoughts. Yet he still wondered,
Why is he helping me? Is he
helping me? What is his purpose in this?

At one point he had been convinced that
Thillmarius was evil incarnate, and then the She’Har had helped save his and
Lyralliantha’s lives after his last arena battle, hiding them until they could
recover, and she could replace his slave collar. Now the Prathion was giving
thinly veiled hints and helping him to remove his prized acquisitions from the
control of the Prathion Grove.

Nothing he does makes sense.

“Five of them have awakened their gifts
since coming here,” Thillmarius mentioned as they left the large central
building in Ellentrea.

“Which ones?”

“Three of the males and two of the
females.”

He had expected the answer to be phrased
like that, but another realization came with the statement.
They haven’t
been blooded, otherwise he’d have names for them.
“You haven’t fought any
of them yet?”

“My orders have been strict. Nothing has
been done with your offspring, Tyrion, aside from feeding them.”

Tyrion stopped, staring at the trainer’s
back suspiciously, “Why?”

Thillmarius turned, “I am not your enemy,
Tyrion. I only wish to learn from you.”

He gaped at the ebon-skinned She’Har.
“Learn what?”

“Since you came here wildling, you have
been a mystery. You have been nothing like our own baratti, and I have seen in
you the same spark that made your ancestors such a formidable foe. Yet we do
not understand why. Why are you so different from the others? At every turn
you have insisted that we know nothing about properly rearing and training your
kind, but it is hard for my people to believe that such large differences are
the product of something so small as the methodology of your upbringing.