The Search for Kä Read online

  “Quiet!” I shouted. “I said QUIET!”

  Voices trailed off into silence.

  “Sit down,” I said. I realized I spoke sharply, so I added, more gently: “Please, everyone, sit down.”

  When they were all settled again—I wouldn’t describe any of them as relaxed—I said: “Have you noticed that you’re all glaring at me now, instead of one another?”

  Thymas, for whom glaring at me was far from a new experience, spoke up. “Make your point, Captain—if you have one.”

  I sighed and looked around the room. All four of them looked exceedingly uncomfortable, only Tarani retaining some composure because she hadn’t verbalized her feelings.

  “I had hoped you would see the point without explanations,” I said, and waited.

  It was Dharak who broke the silence this time. “I see that each of us accepted blame for ourselves, but defended the others. Are you trying to teach us that we care for one another?”

  “That’s part of what I’m trying to say,” I agreed. “You all know that, of course—but how often have you and Thymas mentioned it to one another lately?”

  Neither Dharak nor Thymas, who sat across the room from his father, would meet my eyes.

  “I noticed,” Shola said, “that the lady Tarani said nothing in anyone’s defense.”

  “I have to admit to being a little unfair, Shola,” I said. “Tarani had some warning about all this. She didn’t know what I would do, but she did promise to keep out of it. What do you suppose she was feeling, while you were accusing her of destroying your family?”

  Shola started to say something, then merely shook her head.

  “Tarani,” I said. “How did you feel?”

  “I was afraid,” Tarani said, her voice pitched low but clearly audible. “I was desperately afraid that she was right. Certainly, your suggestion that Shola accept responsibility for Dharak’s stubbornness and Thymas’s self-doubt was preposterous. If their trouble began with Dharak’s wound, then I am indeed at fault.”

  Shola was staring at Tarani, who was looking at her hands, lightly clasped in the lap of her golden gown.

  “You won the match, Shola,” I said, beginning to be very uncomfortable in my role as devil’s advocate. “She admits it. Doesn’t that make you happy?”

  “Yes—no. Captain,” she said, the tightness of the skin around her eyes speaking her distress, “I recall what you said this afternoon, that I might be blaming Tarani rather than Dharak or Thymas. I feel your point is that I am the one who caused the break between father and son and, rather than face so bitter a truth, I have placed Tarani at fault. Am I—can I be such a coward?”

  Dharak rose from his seat, starting to speak, but I put my hand on his shoulder and walked past him to kneel in front of Shola. The pain and fear in her face were terrible to see. I took her hand and pressed my cheek against it.

  “Is it cowardly,” I asked gently, “to love Dharak and Thymas so much that you want them to be happy?” She shook her head, her eyes on our joined hands. “Of course not. The question is, can you make them happy? If they persist in being argumentative and misunderstanding each other, is that your fault?”

  Shola’s shoulders began to tremble. Gandalarans are physically unable to weep emotional tears—part of the water conservation system in their bodies—but they display sadness in a very human fashion. A choked, whimpering sound came from Shola’s throat as she started to sob.

  “Rikardon, in Zanek’s name …”

  Dharak pulled me away and put his arms around his wife. Shola leaned sideways in her chair to press her face against the Lieutenant’s chest. Dharak stroked the light brown headfur and made comforting sounds.

  Thymas grabbed my arm and turned me toward him.

  “The point, Captain,” he demanded. “Now.”

  I felt a more gentle hand on my shoulder, and looked around to see Tarani standing beside me.

  “I know I promised not to speak unless asked, Rikardon, but I believe you are making your point to me, as well?”

  I put my hand over hers and smiled at her. Shola’s burst of emotion had passed, and she and Dharak, still clinging lightly together, watched Tarani expectantly.

  “I believe Rikardon has tried to show us that we cannot forgive ourselves for mistakes which are totally understandable in others, and that we attribute the failure or unhappiness of those we care about to our own mistakes.”

  “And that we are, each of us,” I added, “always ready to believe we have failed.” I faced Thymas directly. “You still think we would have caught Gharlas in Dyskornis if it hadn’t been for you and Ronar, don’t you?”

  The boy nodded, the muscles along his jaw tensing and relaxing.

  “So, in order to avoid telling your father about your imagined failure, you don’t tell him anything at all—a silence which he interprets as deliberate and antagonistic. He trusts and admires you, so he assumes you have a good reason for not trusting him—therefore, he has failed in some way. Meanwhile, Shola watches her family falling apart and figures it’s her fault.” I paced across the room, my voice rising with real anger and impatience. “All you have to do, for pity’s sake, is talk to each other.”

  I stopped in the corner of the room, picked up a ceramic figure of a sha’um and turned it in my hands, not even looking at it. “You may wonder how I know so much about this,” I said. “I’m good at recognizing self-imposed guilt because I came face to face with my own in Eddarta.” I put the figurine down and looked at the others. Dharak, Tarani and Thymas were standing, and Shola was still seated, leaning against Dharak. They all watched me expectantly. I walked toward them, extending my hand. Tarani met me and took my hand.

  “I promised I would tell you what happened after Thymas and I left Thagorn, looking for Tarani. I want you all to know—especially you, Shola—that some of that story is very personal for Tarani, and that she has given me her permission to share it.”

  Tarani came into my arms briefly, then turned aside and found a seat. Thymas and Dharak took the cue and sat down again.

  “I learned all this in bits and pieces, but I wouldn’t want to try to tell it the same way, even if I could reconstruct it for you. The story really starts more than a year before Tarani was born… .”

  “So that’s how it stands now,” I said. “After Yayshah has delivered her cubs, the next step is to find Kä and the other sword. Any ideas?”

  It was nearly midnight. My voice had roughened after the hours of talking, and I felt totally wrung out. The others had listened more or less quietly. Thymas had said a word or two of sincere sympathy to Tarani when I had described Lonna’s sudden death at the hands of Obilin. There had been tension in the room at the beginning of the story, but it was gone now. Everyone’s physical attitude betrayed a relaxed fatigue. Dharak and Shola held hands in the space between their armchairs. Thymas sat cross-legged on the floor. Tarani was half-reclining on the stone ledge underneath the windows. I was sprawled in an armchair.

  “Dharak,” I said, when no one responded, “when you gave me the Captain’s uniform, you said that the boot style and sash embroidery were traditional, copied faithfully since the time of the Kingdom. I had hoped the Sharith might have kept the knowledge of Kä’s location—?”

  Dharak shook his head. “You must remember, Captain, that the loyalty of the Sharith is to Serkajon, not to the kings. That is the only reason I can give you for our not knowing about the other sword of rakor, the Kings’ sword—you are sure it exists?”

  “I’m sure,” I said. “It’s not surprising that, with Rika physically close and totally unique today, the memory of the other sword would fade. It was only in Eddarta, where the Lords have a rare talent for holding grudges, that the Kings’ sword became a symbol of betrayal, important enough to be remembered through all these years.”

  “All these years—Kä,” Dharak murmured. “Rikardon, you realize this may not be possible?”

  “It’s possible,” I said, and stretched m
y arms wide to cover the shiver of doubt that followed that positive-sounding announcement. “If the Sharith have no further information about Kä, then there is only one other choice—I must consult a Recorder.”

  Dharak rubbed his eyes, another reminder of the late hour. Gandalaran lamps stood on shelves and small tables around the room—faceted glass chimneys that made the most of the light of the candles inside them. The candles were stubby; one flickered and went out while Dharak was speaking.

  “There is a Recorder in Omergol,” the Lieutenant said, talking through a half-suppressed yawn, “but I know nothing about his skills.”

  “His skills?” I echoed. “Forgive my ignorance, but I thought all Recorders do—what Recorders do.”

  “All those who have never had need of one think as you do, Captain,” Dharak said. “There was an occasion in my youth in which my father sought out a Recorder, and I learned then that there are degrees of skill and special interests among them. You will require one of great skill who has some experience with the time of the Kingdom.”

  Maybe that’s why Tarani refused to use her Recorder training to find out if the sword exists, I thought. She might have thought she just didn’t have what it takes.

  “Who is the Recorder in Omergol?” Tarani was asking Dharak.

  “His name is Somil,” the Lieutenant answered, and laughed. “The caravan master who mentioned him—just a few days ago, in fact—does not prize him as a customer. It seems this Somil drives a hard bargain.”

  “I have heard of Somil,” Tarani said, the awe in her voice causing us all to look at her. “At Recorder school, he was spoken of in whispers, as very old and highly skilled, but slightly scandalous. At that time, he lived—in Sulis, I believe. I wonder what brought him to Omergol?”

  “I’ll ask him,” I said, standing up and stretching. “Day after tomorrow, in fact.”

  “You cannot force Keeshah to leave Yayshah now!” Tarani protested.

  “Do I look that insensitive?” I asked, smiling and winning a return smile. “It sounds as if Somil may be able to help us and, if he has been moving around, it makes sense to try to catch him while he is in Omergol. There is only one problem—I’m not sure Keeshah will consent to my riding second on Ronar.”

  Thymas sat up straighter. “You want me to go with you?” he asked.

  “If Ronar and Keeshah don’t object,” I said.

  Thymas smiled ruefully. “I see; it is a test,” he said. “Ronar’s reaction to the idea will tell you whether I truly think of you as Captain of the Sharith.”

  “That’s true,” I said, “but as long as you’re looking for reasons, let me help. I might want to give Dharak the opportunity to re-establish the command lines that have been stopping with you. I might want to get some distance between you and Dharak, to give you both some time to think. I might have some reservations—foolish and insulting as they would be—about leaving you and Tarani together in Thagorn overnight. I might want the chance to get to know you better, without interference from the rivalry connected with Tarani or the memory of friction that Dharak and Thagorn keep fresh in our minds.”

  My voice had risen. I took a deep breath and made an effort to be calm, rather than angry and impatient.

  “I might just need to go to Omergol, and want your company,” I said.

  Thymas stood up. “What time tomorrow?” he asked.

  “After lunch?” He nodded. “And no uniforms.”

  8

  Thymas was right about one thing: I was trying to read Thymas through the actions of his sha’um. When Ronar stopped before Dharak’s house and crouched to let me mount, I was half surprised and more than pleased.

  Ronar was slightly smaller than Keeshah, but broad and sturdy. I eased my leg over the cat’s hindquarters, tucked my knees into the angle formed by Thymas’s, and used pressure against Ronar’s flanks to ease the weight of my body on his pelvis.

  Tarani and Dharak had walked out with me, but Shola had disappeared. She came out the front door of the house now, carrying leather pouches strapped together with rope. The Sharith called them travel packs; privately, I thought of them as saddlebags. She handed them to Thymas, who arranged the ropes across his thighs, laughing.

  “This much food would see us all the way back to Eddarta,” he said, then caught his mother in a warm hug. It took her a moment to react, then she hugged him back. When she stepped away from him, her face was glowing, and she flashed me a look of thanks that transferred some of the glow.

  Dharak stepped up to us and put one hand on Thymas’s shoulder, one on mine. “The Sharith wish you a safe and profitable trip,” he said. “You will both be sorely missed.”

  I squeezed Dharak’s arm. “Five days—six at the most,” I promised.

  Thymas grabbed Dharak’s shoulder and said: “Father, when I get back …”

  “We will do as the Captain suggests, son,” Dharak said softly. “You and I will talk to each other.”

  We let Dharak go, and Tarani stepped up to take his place. Tarani and I had spoken our farewells during the night. Now she put her hands on my shoulders and kissed my cheek lightly, then repeated the gesture with Thymas—who brought his hands up as if to hold her, then lowered them without touching her.

  Tarani moved around Ronar, tracing ridges of skin and patchy fur. “He is well healed,” she said, and stroked the cat’s jaw. “Care for them well, Ronar,” she said, and stepped back.

  At Thymas’s silent command, Ronar stood up. Thymas and I rocked with the surging motion, then readjusted our positions for our own comfort and the cat’s. I felt a little embarrassed that I had not even considered Ronar’s recent injuries, especially since the earliest of them had been inflicted by Keeshah’s claws and teeth. But the sha’um moved easily—if carefully—as he started for Thagorn’s gate at a walk. Thymas and I waved at the group in front of the Lieutenant’s house, then turned our faces forward.

  Thagorn was busy, as usual. Repair crews worked at the wall of one of the barracks buildings that lined one side of the main avenue. Guards walked the upper level of the wall. From behind us, across the river, we could hear the noise of children playing and the barked commands of the cubs drilling their sha’um and themselves. People moved around, going to and from lunch, to and from duty stations.

  All that confrontation last night was good for me, too, I thought, as I watched the activity we passed. I feel more at ease, now that I don’t have to worry about who knows what part of the story, and I guess it’s true that “confession is good for the soul.” When I finally admitted to Dharak and Thymas that it was my screw-up that lost us the Ra’ira, I stopped feeling so guilty about the past and started living frontwards again. I still haven’t told anyone the truth about their “Visitor,” but at least I’m down to only one lie—one that isn’t hurting anybody, I hope.

  As Thymas and I rode toward the gate, I recaptured some of the sense of belonging I had missed the day before. As I became more in tune with the day’s activities, I became aware of something not quite right, and searched through the moving people for that source of oddness. I saw it not twenty feet from the edge of the avenue—a man sprawled face-up on the ground. People were walking around him without a second look.

  “Thymas, stop!” I said.

  The boy turned his head in that direction, then leaned forward. Ronar started moving faster.

  “What are you doing?” I demanded, leaning forward to keep my balance, but keeping my eyes on the man.

  I found it hard to believe that the Sharith, who showed only fierce loyalty and caring to their own, were walking around what might be a corpse without a second look. As we passed the spot, I was relieved to see the man move his head, turning a sallow, ravaged face toward me. A scar stood out darkly on his right cheek.

  “Thymas, it’s Liden! He’s sick. Stop!” I tugged at the boy’s waist. Instead of calling Ronar to a stop, Thymas urged his sha’um to a faster pace, and freed one hand from Ronar’s shoulders to grab tightly to my
arms—effectively forestalling my half-formed plan to let go and just fall backwards.

  Ronar’s burst of speed took the gate guards by surprise. Though they put more muscle into swinging back the big double doors, the opening was barely big enough to let us pass when Ronar barrelled out of Thagorn.

  I struggled against Thymas’s hold, nearly upsetting us both. “Let it be, Captain!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Liden would not welcome your help.”

  “But he’s ill!” I shouted back. “Why won’t anyone help him?”

  “His illness is too much barut,” Thymas said. Ronar was slowing, and I had stopped struggling—but not arguing.

  “That’s impossible,” I snapped, remembering the times I had wanted to get drunk and couldn’t. “His body wouldn’t let him do that.”

  Thymas was silent for a moment while Ronar came to a complete stop. There was sadness in the boy’s voice when he said: “Cheral left for the Valley during the night. Liden’s mind is—you probably understand better than I what he is going through. He is suffering, potentially violent. No one will help him until he asks—in a day or so. The shock has overcome his instincts for the moment, but they will not let him totally destroy himself.”

  During my last visit to Thagorn, I had met one or two “absent” Riders—men whose sha’um had left for the Valley, and who had taken residence and duty among the work crews for that year. They had been sad and subdued, haunted by the fear their sha’um would not return. I thought of Liden—tough and scrappy, full of laughter and pride—caught up in that despair, and shuddered.

  How odd that I didn’t remember those men while I was in Eddarta and Lingis, struggling with the same feelings, I thought. I guess I expected more of myself—maybe I was lucky to have a real need for action to pull me out of that emotional morass.