The Call of the Crown (Book 1) (39 page)

CHAPTER 29

Gialyn tried not to think about Elspeth. He tried not to imagine what she must have been going through.
She killed a man!
Whether it be self-defence or not, things could never be the same for her. And how could he talk to her now?
Gods, she’s a bloody hero!
How could he compete with that? No, not compete. How could he ever hope to understand? A stab of shame hit his gut. He was doing it again—worrying about himself, worrying how these things affected him instead of caring about how they might hurt others. He hated that, hated how shallow it made him feel.

Suddenly, Gialyn remembered the
Morrdin, remembered he wasn’t supposed to dwell on melancholy. He forced down a nervy gulp and put his hand to his mouth, as though he’d spoken his thoughts. Abruptly, he realised he felt normal. “Are we out of those trees?” he asked.

“Just,” Cal said. “There is still the odd one or two, but we are out of the worst of it. It will be getting lighter soon.”

Gialyn sighed with relief, loud enough for Daric to notice.

“Are you all right, son? You aren
’t feeling—”

“No, no. I’m fine, really. I—I just couldn’t see, that is all,” Gialyn answered.

Daric gave his son a sideways glance. “So long as you’re sure, son.” Gialyn’s father looked over his shoulder and spat an inaudible curse back along the track. “Bloody hateful things. I hope they plan on bringing us back during the daylight.”

“Would that make any difference?” Gialyn asked.

“Well, it can’t be worse. At the least we might get through it quicker.” Gialyn nodded.

The group kept good order for the next two hours, until finally they approached an area of thin brush land. From its edge, they could see the neat roofs and chimneys of their destination: the Cren village of Brae’vis.

Cal led the group along a wide path that cut through a copse of oak and birch. At its edge, a short, steep dip wound its way into a narrow gully. A sturdy wooden footbridge crossed the wide, fast-moving stream. Once over, another short path wound back up the bank and then immediately stopped at a thick but low gate.

Cal opened it and led the travellers into a circular courtyard.
Roughly twenty well-ordered, immaculate huts lay in a full circle around its circumference. Doors and shutters were closed against the night, even though it wasn’t especially cold. Maybe it was to keep thieving animals from raiding the kitchens. In the middle of the court, a single aorand tree grew. Every branch was heavy with the peculiar, bitter fruit.

The eastern horizon had only just begun to lighten. It was an hour yet until dawn and three hours until a sensible breakfast time. Most in the village were still in bed.

On the other side of the court, across from the aorand, a light flickered in the one open window. The window belonged to the largest house—or hut. Indeed, this one
did
look more like a house, despite it being on stilts. The travellers had just passed the tree when the front door opened. A tall, thin man stepped quietly out onto his porch. Kirin’thar had a stately look, even with his rustic clothing. His thick black hair was greying at the temples. Despite his obvious age, his greyish-blue eyes looked young and alert. His face, like Cal and Mateaf, was carved and angular. Gialyn wondered if any of these folk were overweight or ugly.

If the travellers were expecting a big welcome, they would be disappointed. Kirin’thar clearly didn’t want a fuss and certainly didn’t want to waken anybody else. He gingerly took the few steps to the ground, gave a quick nod to Cal, and then gestured kindly for everyone to follow him into the house.

*  *  *

Arfael had begun to notice a tightening in his stomach, even before he entered the village. Now, a curious sensation had come over him. A scent of something familiar and foreboding clouded his mind to the exclusion of all else. He couldn’t hear Kirin’thar’s welcome or the stream behind him or the early chirping of the imminent dawn chorus. His eyes were set; something was down there, down behind the huts, farther along the path. The smell drove him to fits. He dropped the waterskin where he stood and knelt down with nose to the dry dirt. Whatever it was smelled stronger here, carried in the tracks spread all around the court. He got back up and staggered towards the eastern gate.

Kirin’thar was on the steps of his house, smiling at Daric and Gialyn who were just then climbing the steps to his porch. He heard Arfael’s low moaning and turned quickly to see the big man lurching his way towards the gate. As if knowing the reason, he quickly placed himself between Arfael and the gate. “You should no—” Arfael swept Kirin’thar to the side like a wayward branch.

Olam stepped forward. “What is it, friend?” he asked. He, too, tried to coax Arfael away, only to have his grip wrenched from the big man’s arm. Kirin’thar raised his hands; he looked nervous. Olam shrugged. “What is going on?”

Arfael carried on, mindless of his friend’s remark. He sniffed at the air and began to breathe heavily. Sweat rolled from his brow. The growl became more constant with each breath. His eyes grew bright as they pierced though the darkness along the track that lay beyond the fence. He started to lunge forward. Olam grabbed his arm again, but he spun free of it. The big man jumped the gate in a single bound and ran up the path to the east of the village.

With the others close on his heels, Arfael entered a clearing and began to scrape at the ground where Tor, the dragon, had lain. An almost frantic, uncontrolled shudder came over him as he ripped at the grass and snatched at the nearby branches.

“Oh no, gods, not now!” Olam mumbled loud enough for all to hear. “We must calm him!”

Kirin’thar ran to the fore. “
Cinnè’arth!” he bellowed. “
Iffrae lient eddret noist
, Arlyn!”

It had an immediate effect. Arfael turned his attentions to Kirin’thar. “What have you been doing? Where is it
?” he growled. His tone was menacing, with no reverence for his host, just anger. The shaking continued; his fists began to clench.

“No good can come of this, Arlyn Gan’ifael. He has left. Been gone for hours now,” Kirin said.

Elspeth was pacing back and forth, dry-washing her hands, nervously tsking at Daric, who had barred her from getting any closer. Suddenly, she ran forward and put her hand on Arfael’s face. She pulled his face towards her and smiled. “It is me, Arfael, your little one. Come back to us. Don’t do this, please.” She calmly stroked his cheeks and hugged his waist-thick arm.

Arfael looked down at her face and saw fear in her eyes. The sight of it cut deep at his heart. With a determined effort, he slowed his breathing. The panting and growling slowed down to a steady, deep breath. He closed his eyes and calmed his mind. There was no enemy to fight
. If he changed now, likely as not, one of his friends would be the victim of his anger. She wouldn’t forgive him that.

“Come sit, sit down a minute.” Elspeth led him to what looked like a picnic area. Arfael sat down on one of the log benches. He dipped his head between his knees and curled his huge hands around his neck. He continued his steady, slow breaths
—and waited, like a man waiting for a sickness to pass.

Elspeth turned to Kirin’thar, her eyes stark and angry.

Kirin’thar sighed at the sight of him. “How, by Ein’laig, am I going to get him to Braylair now?” he whispered.

*  *  *

It took the better part of an hour for Kirin’thar to get the travellers into his home. Dawn had broken while they were in the clearing, and still they sat, waiting. Arfael seemed reluctant to go anywhere but stay by Elspeth’s side. It wasn’t until she agreed to go that he rose from his seat and followed. Even then, it wasn’t without a fiery stare for the Old Cren leader.

Kirin’s “hut” was quite the ornate picture: beautifully carved mantels and coving decorated the walls and ceiling on every edge; intricate trellises of lightly shaded hardwood separated the rooms; in the centre, a large table stood in front of a wide, round fireplace. Of all things, carpets lay all about the floor. They must at least do
some
trading with the north; the pattern looked Kalidhain, and not the cheap ones at that. Maybe they were a gift. What could the Cren have to trade with Surabhan?

Kirin’s wife, Loreanna, had prepared food. The table was set for eight. She was almost as tall as her husband—seven feet if she was an inch. If that weren
’t enough, her long yellow hair, tied in a bun at the top of her head, added another hand to her height.

“Goodness, where have you all been?” she said. Kirin’thar gave her a look that she—and she alone—knew the meaning of. “Oh…
never mind.” She turned and picked up a bowl of fruit. “Anybody hungry?” she said with a smile.

Daric bowed. “Ma’am, I think I speak for all when I say yes.” He turned to Kirin. “But we are also very tired. Can we talk while we eat?”

“Of course,” Kirin said. “Please, take a seat. Maybe you at the end there, Arlyn… sorry, Arfael.” Kirin looked to Arfael and pointed to a large chair at the end of the table. Arfael stared at the Cren, showing no indication he had heard a word of what was said.

Elspeth took Arfael by the arm and led him to the chair.

Kirin shrugged off Arfael’s affront with a quiet sigh to himself. “And you, Toban. I hope you do not mind. We have a cushion here for you.” Kirin pointed to a wide crate with a large red cushion placed on top. Next to it, a water bowl sat on another crate. “If we had known you were coming, we would have done better. My apologies.” Kirin’thar bowed respectfully and didn’t raise his eyes until Toban answered.

“Not at all, sir. This is fine. Thank you,” Toban said.

Kirin’thar waited for everyone to find a place and then gestured towards the table. Slowly, the travellers began serving themselves from the wide array of foods on offer, most of which looked freshly picked. Only the meats were cooked; the rest were green, yellow, or red vegetables of one sort or another. Gialyn picked up a long red one that looked like a small cucumber but tasted like a tomato.

Once they were settled and eating, Kirin’thar began. “First of all, I’d like to welcome you all to Brae’vis. Before we get to the point, I think a brief history lesson is in order—for those of you who were not around at the time, or maybe have heard
different
versions of history.” He cleared his throat and made an eye at Daric in particular.

“Before the time of the
Eiras’moya, any man who found himself stood on a few miles of free earth would call himself king. Fighting was rife amongst the many tribes as they tried to protect their little kingdoms. Much was lost to pointless feuds amongst the clan’s wasteful battle over lines in the sand.” He paused to look around the table. Maybe to make sure everyone was listening. “The threat of Eiras changed all that. Old enemies united from both north and south. Kindred spirits rose under the same banner and battled long and hard against the armies of Toi’ildrieg and the Kel’madden. Many died, including nearly all of the Great Southern Dragons.

A hush descended on the room. The travellers looked to each other with expressions of bewilderment. Daric, as usual, found the one obvious question. “What do you mean
nearly
all?”

For a moment, Kirin’thar looked like a man hanging out his smallclothes for all to see. He drummed his fingers on the table and bit his lip, all the while giving Daric a “you would bring that up
, wouldn’t you” stare. After a sigh, he continued. “There are about a dozen Gan Dragons remaining. They live to the northeast in a secluded valley. For a hundred years and more, they have stayed silent, waiting for the time to be right.

“And what time would that be?” Olam asked.

“Please let me continue,” Kirin said, drumming his fingers again. “We will get to your questions, I promise.” He waited a moment for acknowledgement and carried on. “As I was saying, many died. Eventually, the Eiras were defeated. It seemed that even Vila’slae herself was dead.”

“What do you mean
seemed
?” Daric asked.

Kirin’thar tsked and his shoulders dropped. “Please! We’ll never finish at this rate.”

Olam laughed. “You’ll have to excuse my friend. He is very quick-witted.”

Kirin bowed, conceding to the Surabhan’s apparent wit, and continued, again. “Anyway, once Eiras and the Madden where defeated, the victors split north and south. Although some, like the Rukin and Cren, decided to stay independent. The others joined together either side of the Speerlag/
Aldrieg border: the Surabhans to the south and the Salrians to the north.”

Kirin shuffled in his seat. “And then the inevitable happened. With unity came power, and with power came ambition, and with ambition came war. And instead of taking advantage of a once
-in-a-millennia opportunity for peace, the two sides fought over another…
longer
line in the sand.”

Daric grumbled at Kirin’s version of events. Like most royal guardsmen, he was of the firm belief that the recent wars with the Salrians were entirely
the northerners’ fault. Hang anyone who said any different—literally, in some cases. He settled quietly, for the moment at least, and let Kirin’thar continue.

“So
, as the Surabhan and Salrians turned in anger towards one another, both sides slowly lost sight of the Eastern Isles. Unfortunately, our mutual enemies have used their time more wisely. Vila’slae, or someone very like her, has quietly rebuilt her armies and is even now in Northeastern An'aird Barath, preparing to attack.”