Chains of Mist (27 page)

Lerana’s words felt like a pulseknife in Roger’s side. He felt bitterness and anger twist through him. It was as if the universe were offering him hope, only to dangle it just out of reach. The thing the Traika wanted—the thing that might secure his freedom—was the one thing he could not give them. And this time no amount of quick thinking and clever wordplay would change that.

Lerana appeared not to have noticed the reaction her offer had wrought in Roger. She leaned forward, her eyes glittering like tiny green gemstones. “If you give us this mighty gift, we will set you free. We will grant you immunity from the wrath of the
Dar’katal
and his warriors. We will even lead you to Kil’la’ril and help you reunite with your
wi’zerd
friend. All that you ask for and more will be yours. Just give us the ring.”

Roger met Lerana’s gaze. From her joyous expression it was obvious that she legitimately thought that she had just saved his life. She had no idea how cruel her offer really was; reacting with anger would only serve to drive her off entirely. He managed to keep from screaming, but only barely. “I can’t.”

Lerana froze. Dismay flickered across her face. “What do you mean?”

Roger felt his voice rising in anger and frustration. “I mean I
can’t
! I’ve tried to take it off—believe me, I’ve tried! But I can’t. The damn thing might as well be melted on.”

Lerana tilted her head, her gaze flicking back and forth across Roger’s expression, searching for signs that he might be lying. “I believe you, Roger,” she said at last. “But this is an unfortunate turn of events. The
kat’ara
—and the
to’laka
—will not be pleased to hear this.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet.” Roger was unable to keep the bitterness from his voice, and he spat out the words like acid. “But that’s the way it is.”

“Indeed.” Lerana thought for a moment. “The
to’laka
desire your power. Desire it
greatly
, I might add. We would prefer for you to hand it over willingly. But if that fails, then we will take it by force.”

Roger felt a surge of fear. “What about the story you told me before? About the guy with the lightning amulet?”

“The Sky Prince?” Lerana’s mouth contracted to a thin line, perhaps insulted by the idea that she might have forgotten one of her people’s sacred tales. “We remember the amulet of Meskar. The
to’laka
are still wary; they suspect that there is more to your ring’s powers than you have told us. But that will not stop them for long. They are clever and very skilled in their power. They will find some way to separate you from your ring. That much I can promise you.”

Roger knew with cold certainty that she was telling the truth. Unfortunately for him, his ring—unlike the lightning-storm-producing talisman of the aforementioned Espirian deity—had no defensive capabilities that he knew of. Once the Traika shamans overcame their wariness and decided to act that would be the end of it. He would die, alone and unmourned, on this distant, backwater world.

And he would never find out why the Blood Legion had stolen his memories from him.

Anger flooded through him at that thought, a rush of heat driving aside the icy grasp of fear.
No! I will not give up! I will not die here! I’ve come too far for that!
Roger harnessed that anger, turning it into cold, clear focus. As far as he could see, Lerana was his only hope of getting out of this alive. So far, she had been the only one to offer him any sort of kindness, to treat him like a human being rather than some kind of rabid beast that needed to be put down. He considered himself a fairly good judge of character—anyone who couldn’t spot a liar or a con artist from a kilometer away didn’t last long on Vellanite or any of the host of other cutthroat neighborhoods where Roger had spent the past five years—and her compassion seemed genuine. And he thought he had seen something in her expression when she had implied that her fellow magic-users would kill him for his power—a glimmer of regret, perhaps even anger at the measures to which her brethren would go to get what they wanted. Maybe he could work that emotion, convince her to help him. Convince her, somehow, to set him free.

Or maybe he couldn’t. Maybe her sympathy was all an act, a ruse designed solely to gain his trust. Maybe her loyalty to her tribe and her clan was too strong for him to sway. But it wasn’t like he had any other options.
If I’m wrong, then I’m dead anyways. Might as well give it a try and see what happens.

So he met Lerana’s gaze with his own. He put on his most earnest expression and adopted his most persuasive tone, strengthening it with urgency and just a touch of desperation. “Let me go. You know what they’ll do to me. You know—”

Lerana cut him off abruptly. “No. I cannot help you, Roger. Or rather I will not. I may disagree with my fellow
to’laka
and the
kat’ara
on some matters, but on this one we stand agreed. The Traika need your power. And we will have it—one way or another.”

Her voice rang with conviction, but Roger was hardly going to give up that easily. “Why do you need it?”

Lerana’s expression hardened. Determination glinted in her eyes like cold steel. “We are at war, Roger. For decades, we have fought and bled and died against our neighbors. We have no allies, and enemies close in on us from all sides. They will not stop until we are destroyed, and we will not stop until they are. Your power would turn the tide of battle.” She sighed, and her face grew suddenly sad. “Or perhaps it would not. Perhaps it would only hasten our end. But even that, I think would be a kindness. Better a quick end than more winters filled with nothing but hatred and suffering.”

Lerana’s statement gave Roger new hope.
She’s tired of war—maybe I can work on that.
“Why so many wars?”

Lerana sighed again. “It is the mountain, Roger: Kil’la’ril. Our legends told of the power locked within the mountain, but we thought them only legends; for countless generations, that power lay dormant, inaccessible. Such was the case when I was young. However, some time ago—twenty-two winters—there was a
stirring
within Kil’la’ril. The mountain’s power enhanced us—our people grew stronger, tougher, faster; more children were born, and of those more survived their first winters. Our
to’laka
became very powerful under the influence of Kil’la’ril. Our tribe rapidly grew strong, far stronger and far more numerous than any other.” She sighed. “We did not know it at the time, but the lives of all who live between the seas changed on that day. The other tribes grew distant from us; tensions grew, sparking wars that did not end. I would like to blame the hostility on them alone, but the truth is that we were as much at fault. We gloried in our newfound power, believing ourselves superior. When they struck at us, we struck back harder. There were atrocities committed by every side, atrocities that would make the gods weep. The initial fierceness of new war soon faded, but by then the damage was done. There were too many wounds, too many blood feuds…there could be no more peace. And there has not been, ever since.” She fell silent, lost in brooding contemplation.

As Roger listened, he found his mind returning to what Talan had said aboard the ship: “
Forces that have long lain dormant are now awakening.
”
He knew the question he had to ask. “Have you felt another of these
stirrings
recently?”

“Yes.” At first, Lerana seemed surprised, but she quickly recovered her composure. “Of course you have felt it too. Your own power must be affected as well. Yes, once again Kil’la’ril is shaking from her slumber—far more powerfully this time. The sensation—” she shuddered with ecstasy “—it is truly invigorating, Roger. I was too young to fully appreciate the change last time, and it was far less pronounced. This, however…there are no words to fully describe how I feel. It is as if I had been living my whole life within a thickly wooded grove, and then suddenly stepped out and saw the full glory of Kat’aia for the first time.” She took a deep breath, then continued, her voice growing stronger. “I can feel the heartbeat of the earth beneath my feet, hear the waves crashing against the shores. I am connected to all living things; I am
invincible
—” Suddenly she stopped, chagrin coming to her face. “But I am not,” she continued, her voice soft. “I am still mortal. And I know my limits.”

Do you, now?
wondered Roger. “And what are those limits?”

“The Traika remember the lessons of the past. We—” Lerana broke off, and when she continued her voice was worried. “We will not repeat our mistakes. We will not abuse our power. What is happening is not our fault; we are being
forced
—”

“Forced to do what?”

Lerana hesitated. “Attacks have intensified. We have so many enemies, and for years our numbers have been slowly chipped away. The other tribes have become more brazen, daring even to attack us within our lands. They were pushing us back—we were becoming desperate. When Kil’la’ril gave us new power, what choice did we have but to retaliate? To save ourselves, we had to fight back—swiftly,
decisively
—”

“Forced to do what?” repeated Roger, more firmly this time.

Anger flashed across Lerana’s eyes but then was replaced by sadness. “We fought back. We took the fight to them.” She looked away. “And we did what no tribe has ever done to another. We killed them all…and burned their village to the ground.”

Lerana fell silent, obviously overcome with the horror of what had happened. Roger was left confused. To him, what had happened seemed to be a common instance in war. Tragic, but common. Lerana’s reaction to telling of it, however, indicated otherwise. “In all of your wars, this has never happened before?”

“We do not fight for slaughter, Roger,” said Lerana sharply. “We fight to stay strong. Wars are fought in skirmishes, small engagements far from the villages. They end with treaties and celebrations…never with annihilation. Never with so much death—” The shaman broke off abruptly.

Roger allowed Lerana a few moments with her thoughts. “So, what now?” he asked finally.

Lerana looked back at Roger. “Now, one war is over. The Seramor are no more. But other wars continue: the Edala, the Gher’ana, the Kastria. And it will escalate from here. They will see the destruction of the Seramor and enflame themselves with more anger towards us. They will strike against us, and we will fight back, and all of us will realize that the old customs of battle no longer apply. It can only end either when they are destroyed…or we are.”

There was an ominous glint to Lerana’s final statement. The despair over the destruction of the Seramor still hung heavy in the shaman’s voice…but beneath it was determination.
Determination that her people will not suffer the same fate.
“You’ll kill them all,” Roger said.

“I do not like it,” replied Lerana. “I wish there was another way…but I do not see it. War is not new to us; the stakes have simply been raised. Now we fight for our survival. We are only doing what every other tribe is doing.” But she seemed unsure of herself. “What will happen next is not our fault! They brought this upon themselves!”

Roger tried to say something, but Lerana cut him off. “Do we not have just as much right to live? If we have the power to save our children, do we not have the right to use it?”

Roger was almost afraid to answer. Lerana’s voice was raised—not in anger, but in
fear
, and there was a pleading look in her eyes.
Even as she uses this newfound power to save her people, a part of her rejects it. She knows that there will be a price to pay for her actions, she just doesn’t know when or how it will come due. Right now, she’s looking for a way out…but she’s afraid there won’t be one. She’s afraid that the Traika have already gone too far down the path of destruction to return.

And I think she may be right.

Roger again remembered what Talan had said when they had first looked down upon Espir. “
The magic of this world is strong beyond anything else
…
strong, and
dominant
. In the presence of such power, all other magic—and magic-wielders—must eventually submit…or die.
”
Lerana seemed to want to resist, but a part of her had already submitted.
And how long before the rest follows? Not long…and I don’t want to be here when it happens.
“You can still stop this,” Roger said, looking Lerana straight in the eyes. “Release me. I am going to Kil’la’ril, and I will stop its power before it destroys you. You can feel it happening—you know, don’t you, that this power will not save your people. Let me go, and I will end it—”

“No!” Lerana’s voice was high-pitched, almost hysterical. “Kil’la’ril gives us strength. Without it, we would be destroyed. We can control it; we
will
control it. You will see, Roger.” She stood suddenly. “We have not gone too far. And we
will
not.”

She began to leave, but suddenly hesitated. In that moment, Roger saw terror lurking within the shaman’s expression, a last, silent plea…

The moment passed, and Lerana was gone.

* * * *

“All right, soldier.” Drogni fixed Makree with the look that had been the terror of the Tellarian fleet for twenty-five years. “Start talking.”