Rite of Exile: The Silent Tempest, Book 1 by E. J. Godwin Page A

La’hegré, the Adan symbol of sacrifice? It was a little unfair to expect him to appreciate its significance in so short a time. Yet here she was, parading the same theme in front of him again.
    A deep blue line billowed and flowed out of the shadows to the left: robed dancers painted from head to toe, flinging their long white hair out and back like the wind-torn crests of a tumultuous sea. Telai studied her guest out of the corner of her eye and smiled at the inevitable awe of recognition. Another chant arose from the audience, words she knew he couldn’t understand. Yet he no longer seemed to care.
    His son was equally spellbound, squatting on the bench and craning his neck for a better view. As the blue waves flowed across the stage another group appeared, each dancer stacked upon the other or dangling precariously out at various angles. They wore several different colors, from brown and gold near the bottom to gleaming white at the top. A man with wild red hair and beard stood forward, his arm extended to point the way across the sea.
    Warren bounced on his heels. “Boat!”
    Telai stared at the child, then at his father. Caleb Stenger was too mesmerized to notice that his son had spoken in Adan—to her knowledge for the very first time on his own. Warren repeated the word, nearly shouting in his enthusiasm; Telai leaned in, covered her mouth with her hand, and he nodded.
    The ship sailed over the waves until it rammed into a wall of dancers, all clothed in gray and curled up like rocks stacked upon one another. Hull and sails alike collapsed, and arms thrashed through the blue—not wreckage but actors dressed as peasants, swimming for their lives. They climbed onto the shore and sat recovering, some with chests heaving in exhaustion, others mourning over loved ones twisted among the rocks.
    Several more scenes followed, but Warren gradually lost interest and slumped in his seat, yawning and rubbing his eyes. After a quick glance at his father, Telai draped an arm over the boy’s shoulders and let him snuggle against her. He drooped down inch by inch, until he finally wriggled around and rested his head on her lap. She lost all interest in the play, captured by the blissful vision of a sleeping child. Warren was such an affectionate boy, always ready with a smile or a hug. Yet something about him went deeper—the same, unfathomable bond she had sensed that fateful day on the plains of central Ada.
    Her gift of clairvoyance worked best when in prolonged physical contact; now he lay sleeping warm and content on her lap. Telai longed to break through his wall of silence. A part of her resisted this impulse, a faint note of discord or warning; but the opportunity was too precious to let slip by.
    She closed her eyes. The subtle sounds of the audience faded, leaving no trace beyond the occasional chant, dull and distant in her ears. Blurry, half-formed memories flashed through her mind, dreamlike glimpses of an existence far removed from anything she had ever seen or imagined. Crowds walked by in cheerless, monochromatic clothing: a thousand, ten thousand, a sea of humanity. Strange shapes roamed the sky, passing between towering monoliths of glass and metal gleaming harshly in the sun. Other visions came and went, too quickly for her to latch on to, much less understand. Yet the last one lingered as a ghostly afterimage: Warren lying across a padded table wearing a strange, helmet-like device affixed to his head.
    A chill ran through her veins, mingled with pity. Caleb Stenger had told her about his home, and how it lay beyond the stars, and she had never quite understood it. Now she did. No ship of the sea would ever reach the land of his birth, an existence bereft of all warmth and compassion except for the bond he shared with his son.
    Telai emerged from her trance in time for the closing scene: hordes of blood-stained soldiers struggling to reach Heradnora as she struck them down a score at a time. A young man ran