“You’re right, but I can’t figure out what his connection to the plague is,” said Kalas, shaking his head. He was studying the map.
“I don’t think a man like Quinn Laurel cares how many Humans die,” said Parish.
“No, but it affects Stravad even more,” said Dolan. “This still must be linked to the Nazar. Quinn had to know why Jarrett went to Temeron; therefore, he was determined to disrupt any communication between you and the Stravad Leader.”
Kalas tapped his fingers against the table. “Or more likely, he was trying to find out what pass they would be taking.”
Dolan didn’t like that thought, but it was probably true.
“Something else really bothers me, been bothering me even before we left Sarkisian.”
“What?” asked Parish.
“Jax Paden was Temerian born and raised, land locked.”
“Right.”
Kalas fingered the edge of the map. “When he came to Kazden, he got his first look at the ocean. He’d never seen it before. He certainly had never ridden on it in a boat.”
“Most likely.”
“And yet he sails to a remote island by himself?” He lifted his eyes and fixed them on Parish. “Someone had to teach him to sail.”
Parish sank back. “Quinn Laurel’s going to figure that out as well.” He pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll have my men search the docks for anyone who was seen with a Stravad.”
Kalas nodded. “Good. Someone ought to check the boat sales records as well.”
“Done.”
Kalas breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s a start,” he said.
* * *
“You weren’t kidding about them Stravad,” said Able, stretching his legs out on his porch. His hands were clasped and resting on his belly, his chair tilted back and braced against the siding of his cabin. “They are mighty efficient.”
Jarrett watched the Stravad clearing away the remains of supper. The tents were pitched, the yard swept, and a fire ring built. A few of them were taking seats, pulling out flutes or drums, prepared to pass a few hours in storytelling or song. Since the journey began in Temeron, not a night had passed without some form of entertainment.
“They’re nothing like the Nazarien.”
Jarrett ran his hands along the rough wood of his chair and shifted a little to face the other man. Tyla had retired into the house shortly after supper, leaving Able and Jarrett on the porch. The air was cool, the stars were out, and the Stravad made a comfortable barrier between the night and them.
“Tell me about the Nazarien, Able. How did you know they were Nazarien?”
Able motioned at Jarrett’s clothes. Lantern light spilled out of the screen door on the cabin, illuminating a circle right outside the entrance. Moths fluttered in and out of the beam, occasionally slamming into the screen and falling onto the wood planks of the porch.
“They had uniforms like that,” he answered.
“Did they speak Nevaisser?”
“’Course they did. Told me they were camping here and they need supplies. I offered to barter with them, they had a nice bow I liked, but they refused. Next thing I know, they’re cooking my chickens. I was so furious, I ordered them off my land, but they were already setting up their tents. Two of them grabbed me by the arms and dragged me to the root cellar. They threw me down there and barred the door.”
Jarrett frowned. “How did you get out?”
“I found a small hand spade and started digging at the hinges. Must have been rotted, ‘cause I was able to pry them loose. It was already morning by the time I got out. They were gone, except they left me the bones of my own chickens.”
“How many were there?”
“Six, seven. Never could count them. They were sneaky devils, sliding in and out of my trees. One minute I thought there was three, then all a sudden there was more.”
“Did they have a leader?”
Able shrugged. “Couldn’t prove it by me. Didn’t seem to be one of them who stepped out of the bunch. ‘Course I didn’t spend much time with them. They had me locked in the root cellar straight off.”
Jarrett looked out into the yard, his jaw clenching. He felt pretty sure he knew these men, but he couldn’t figure out why they would be sneaking around a homestead in the Groziks, unless…
He glanced over his shoulder at the house, trying to tamp down on the uneasy feeling that rose inside of him. Able shifted in his chair as well. “She sure is something, that little gal. Not much bigger than a pin, but those eyes and that hair. I ain’t never seen such a beautiful woman before.”
Jarrett forced himself to relax in the chair. “She’s something, all right?”
“A woman like that would make a man never ask for more. A man could die happy with that woman.”
Jarrett studied the other man’s weathered face, then he looked down. The medallions in his ear pressed against the side of his neck, reminding him of what he’d had and lost. He reached for Kerrin’s rock and ran it through his fingers, letting the smooth surface remind him of what he’d found.
“She sure didn’t eat much. She feeling all right?”
Jarrett slid the rock back into his pocket. “It’s been a long journey,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction. “That’s why I wanted her to have a bed to sleep in. Thank you for that.”
“S’no problem.” He waved off Jarrett’s gratitude. “Likely, I’d be willing to give her anything she asked of me.”
“She has that way about her.”
“Yes, she does.”
Jarrett gave the Stravad camp one last look, then pushed himself to his feet. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to pull up a chair outside her door and sleep there.”
“Sleep in a chair?”
Jarrett nodded.
“Suit yourself. See you in the morning.”
Jarrett turned toward the door. “Thank you again, Able.”
“Night.”
“Night,” he answered and pulled the screen door open. The entry led to a parlor with a wood stove. Able had a couple of rocking chairs and a sturdy metal table, but no other furnishings. Jarrett grabbed one of the rocking chairs and carried it into the hallway. To the left was a corridor that led to a kitchen. Jarrett could just see the sink from where he stood. To the right were two doors. He knew Tyla was in the one furthest down the hall.
He settled the chair next to the door and arranged the two pillows that had fallen onto the seat. Tyla’s door opened just as he was finishing. She stared at him and then at the rocking chair. Jarrett marked that her hair was damp and that she’d scrubbed the trail dust from her face. Still, he didn’t like the dark circles under her eyes or the hollows in her cheeks.
“You aren’t going to sleep in that chair, are you?” she said with a frown.
“I am.”
She wore a thin, cotton robe and her feet were bare. Standing before him, she barely came to the center of his chest. “To protect me?”
He shrugged. He knew she wouldn’t like the truth.
Still, she saw through him. “Honestly, Jarrett, I think I’m capable of protecting myself.”
“Let’s not dance this dance, Tyla…”
“I didn’t think Nazarien danced,” she interrupted.
He drew a calming breath and deliberately exhaled. “You’re right, of course.” He sank into the rocking chair, realizing he was tired, and he sure didn’t want to fight with her again.
“You’re getting too old to sleep in a chair, Jarrett.”
“We’re nearly the same age.”
She gave him an arch look. “I’m not sleeping in a chair.”
He fought the smile that threatened, reminding himself that Nazarien did not smile, but damn this woman. She played hell with emotions he wasn’t supposed to have. “Good night, Tyla.” He used his most dismissive tone, the one sure to anger her. It did. Her eyes flashed and she spun back around, grabbing the handle on her door.
“Fine. Sleep in a chair. Not my problem
when you can’t straighten up in the morning.”
The door slammed at her back.
Jarrett slid down in the rocking chair, folding his hands on his belly. As the dark in the hallway settled over him, he did permit himself just the briefest trace of a smile.
* * *
“Jarrett,” came Allistar’s voice outside the screen door.
Jarrett carried his mug to the entrance and peered out. Allistar’s body was in silhouette beneath the shadow of the roof, but beyond him, the yard was in full sun. Five riders were coming up the trail to Able’s homestead.
Pushing open the screen, Jarrett stepped onto the porch and squinted against the bright light. Able and Tyla followed him out. The riders entered the yard in a line and the first drew rein before the porch stairs, saluting Jarrett where he stood. They all wore the blue of Adishian.
Jarrett inclined his head in greeting.
“Nazar,” said the man, whipping the cap from his head. He was completely bald beneath, his head shining in the sunlight. “I’ve come from Lord Kalas of Eastern Nevaisser.”
Tyla moved to his side and the man’s eyes shifted to her.
“Stravad Leader, I am grateful to see you.”
“Where’s my brother?” she asked, curling her hands around the porch post.
“He’s in Kazden, Your Highness,” he said, obviously remembering her previous rank in Adishian. “He anxiously awaits your arrival.”
“He got my messages?”
The man frowned. “I’m sorry?”
“The messages I sent him about the plague.”
“There were no messages as I understand it. He received word of the plague from a Cult member when he was in Sarkisian. He made haste to Kazden and sent us out under the Baron’s command to find you and escort you to Kazden.”
Tyla exchanged a look with Jarrett. Jarrett shrugged.
“How bad is the plague in Kazden?” she asked, turning back to him.
The man shifted in his saddle. “It appears to be spreading. There are a number of reported deaths.” He looked around at the Stravad. “Whenever you are ready, we’ll escort you to His Majesty. He’s been very concerned about your arrival.”
“How did he know we were coming if he didn’t get my messages?”
“The Cult member reported that the Nazar had been summoned to Loden. It was believed you would come here. The Baron dispatched squads throughout the passes in the Groziks trying to intercept you and offer our protection.”
“Protection? From what?”
The man’s eyes shifted to Jarrett. “A band of renegade Nazarien are believed to be operating in the Groziks. I have no other information than this.”
“I told you,” said Able behind them. Jarrett looked over his shoulder at the man, then shifted his gaze to Tyla. He wasn’t completely sure what was going on, but between the soldier’s comments and Able’s story, he was becoming concerned.
“What’s he talking about?” she asked, switching to Lodenian.
“I told you that I made some changes in the order that weren’t popular. Some Nazarien broke away. I think they are the ones who attacked Able. We should probably take the added defense.”
Tyla’s eyes searched his face, but she let it go. He was just as glad. He wasn’t ready yet to tell her what a failure he’d been as Nazar. It made everything they’d sacrificed seem so pointless. Tomlin had demanded he become something that he wasn’t and he’d failed. He’d lost the woman he loved and ten years with his son – all for nothing. If he thought about it too much, it made rage burn inside of him.
“Give us time to pack up,” Tyla said to the soldier. “We’ll be ready within the hour.”
The soldier inclined his head and turned his horse around, moving back with his men. Tyla shot one last look at Jarrett, then pulled open the screen door.
* * *
Tyla rode through the gates of Kazden, feeling the acute disappointment she felt whenever she came here. The streets were narrow and refuse scuttled by on the marine breeze. Hawkers sold wears and ragged people bought the offerings with rusted coins. When they finished, they tossed the wrappers and papers into the street.
Fewer prostitutes and roughs lined the alleyways than before, but the general neglect of the buildings hadn’t changed. Signs were faded or missing, awnings were torn or hung slanted, and the gutters had rotted through, the orange of their rusted edges showing.
Her hand crept to the emerald and her thoughts turned to her father. She tried to imagine a young Talar wandering through the refuse, begging for scraps. It made her throat tighten. She shifted in the saddle, wishing the time might pass more quickly. Her body ached again and she felt light headed. She probably should have eaten more before leaving Able’s homestead.
Although she was confused by everything that she’d been told this morning, she was grateful for the escort. Still it made traveling the busy, crowded streets slow. They turned east and wound toward the cliffs. She knew Kalas had a large manor home at the edge of the ocean, but she’d never been there before. In the ten years since she left Sarkisian, she’d never wanted to return.
Kalas came to Temeron once a year, around the celebration of Valhall. He only stayed a month, but she and Kerrin looked forward to that visit. He never asked them to come to Sarkisian. He sensed she never would. She would never have returned to Kazden if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.
As she studied the people around her, she couldn’t detect any signs of illness. No coughing, no spitting of blood. It eased some of her anxiousness, but didn’t dispel it. The soldier had made it clear Kazden had been infected.
The bald soldier slowed his horse until he came abreast of her. “His Majesty’s home is there,” he said, pointing to the top of the road where it dipped over the horizon point. The peaks of a multi-gabled house were just coming into view.
The streets around them gradually widened, the cobblestones smooth and polished. The houses still crowded shoulder to shoulder, but they were larger with covered porches and occasionally a garden, sporting flowers in rainbow hues.
As they crested the top of the hill, Kalas’ home spread out before them, hugging the very edge of the cliff. Behind it, Tyla could see the glistening ocean and hear the roar of the waves. White ships dotted the line of the horizon, tacking toward the wharfs in the lower part of the city.
A spiked iron fence ran across the front of the house, but through it Tyla could see a curved drive, lined by flowerbeds with a wind-blown cypress dominating the center of it. The tree’s gnarled branches reached out to shade the front courtyard and hide the rest of the house from view.
The gate was manned and Tyla could make out the soldiers that patrolled around the perimeter of the yard, armed and alert. The bald soldier reined to a halt at the gate and saluted the men behind it. They returned the salute, then one of them moved to open it.
As Tyla and her company passed through, the two guards bowed low. “Your Majesty,” said the one closest to Tyla. She inclined her head and followed the soldier up the drive.
As they curved around the cypress, the double doors on the house opened. Parish stepped out, followed by Dolan. Tyla searched for her brother as she slowed her horse. A moment later he appeared in the entry, stepping out onto the porch. A sling swathed his arm and Dolan turned to offer him assistance, but he waved him off, moving toward the stairs.
Tyla dropped out of the saddle, fighting a grimace as her feet hit solid ground. She patted the horse and moved around her. Before she could stop him, Kalas caught her in an embrace. “I’m so grateful you’re safe,” he whispered against her hair.
Tyla pulled back, but he wouldn’t release her. “What happened to your arm?”
“It’s a long story,” he said, forcing a smile.
Tyla caught the dark circles under his eyes and drew further away. “Have you been sick? Kalas, what happened to you?”
He smiled at her, but his eyes drifted away. She looked over her shoulder.
Jarrett
had stepped up behind them.
“We have a lot to discuss,” said Kalas.
Tyla turned back to him with a frown. There was an odd timbre in his voice. He released her and held out his hand for Allistar. The two of them began speaking in rudimentary Lodenian, making arrangements for the Stravad warriors. Kalas offered the service of the bald soldier to see them settled and Allistar accepted. Tyla knew he was exhausted.
Suddenly, Parish was before her, catching her in a bear hug. She couldn’t pull away.
“Thank Eldon himself that you’re safe,” he said.
She gave him a quick hug and pulled back. Her eyes shifted to Dolan. He nodded, but came no closer. Age sat well on her brother’s second in command. Once advisor to Tarnow, now indispensable to Kalas, Dolan looked hale and fit.
“What happened to my brother?” she asked them.
They didn’t answer.
Kalas moved back to her side, slipping his arm around her shoulders. “Let’s get inside where we can talk freely.”
Tyla allowed him to guide her toward the stairs. As they reached the bottom, an enormous Nazarien stepped out. By his tattoo, Tyla knew he was Cult. He snapped to attention and dropped his head in respect. On his heels was a woman, tall and slender, chestnut hair caught up in a tail at her neck. She stepped out of the door and stumbled to a halt. She was Stravad, obviously Nazarien.
Her eyes moved over Tyla and came to rest beyond her, fixing with a startled expression. Tyla had never known any Nazarien to display such stark emotion. Both Tyla and Kalas halted and looked back.
Jarrett stood in the middle of the drive, staring at the Nazarien woman in return.
Kalas’ arm slid off Tyla’s shoulder and she saw his hand tighten into a fist. “Curious,” he muttered.
“I want to know what’s going on, Kalas,” she demanded.
Kalas motioned to the interior of the house. “Let’s go in. I think I need a drink, then we’ll talk.”
Tyla knew by the set of his shoulders that he wasn’t going to give her any more information. She followed him up the stairs, past the two Nazarien and into the cool interior of the house. The entrance hall was a vaulted room flanked by floor to ceiling windows. A huge chandelier hung in the exact center. Potted trees and luxurious sofas circled around the perimeter. Moving across the polished marble, Kalas led them to a wide hallway, lined with landscape paintings of the ocean at various times of the day and during all the seasons of the year. There were tempestuous seascapes with violent waves and dark, menacing colors, followed by waters that sparkled like glass with sunbeams dancing across the foam.
The World of Samar Box Set 3 Page 68
