Redemption Of The Sacred Land (Book 3)

by Mark Tyson

  “Unsel. I am the village elder,” the old man answered.

  “Master Unsel, I need you and your people to get back into your homes and businesses. I don’t think the raid is over yet. I think the bandits are regrouping for another run.” He dismounted. “Tat, it’s time to don your armor.”

  Tatrice and Bren had begun to unload their armor from their horses when they were approached by a man wearing black leather armor and carrying a sword at his side. He wore his black hair short cropped and he was clean shaven. His dark eyes gave away an intensity in his demeanor.

  “Ho there, strangers. What business do you have in Briarwick this day?” the man asked.

  Bren stopped unloading his armor. “We intend to help you with your bandit situation.”

  “To what situation are you referring? I have it well in hand.”

  “And who might you be, then?” Bren asked.

  “Forgive me, I have not introduced myself. I am Ezra Bannon, the village reeve. It is my job to uphold the laws of Briarwick.”

  “Master Bannon, I am pleased to see you. I believe you are still vulnerable to attack and . . .”

  “Perhaps you did not hear me, friend. I said I have the situation in hand,” Bannon restated. “You may ride on.”

  Bren studied the man’s face for a moment. “No, I don’t believe you do,

  Master Bannon. I believe the attack you have already suffered was to assess your strengths and weaknesses for the main attack yet to come.”

  “Nonsense. The bandits already got what they came for. I don’t see why they should return.”

  “Oh, and what did they get?”

  Bannon hesitated. “Who did you say you were, friend?”

  “I am Bren, First of Amadace. I am a dragon knight. And this is Tatrice, First of Shadesilver, also a dragon knight.”

  He chuckled before speaking “I have never heard of a female knight, friend.”

  Bren grinned at the nerve of the fellow. “Well, you have now, friend, so why don’t you fill us in on the goings on here.”

  “If you insist, I will tell you so you may be on your way,” the reeve said. “We were hosting a wedding party and the father of the bride brought along a sizable dowry. The bandits killed the imprinter and stole the gold from her. I have two deputies in pursuit of the bandits now.”

  Tatrice got a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Do you know the imprinter’s name by chance?”

  “Aye, Neisa or Ni’esa or something to that effect,” he told her.

  Tatrice put her hand over her mouth. “Oh no, it can’t be true.”

  “Did you know this imprinter?” Bannon asked.

  Tatrice lowered her hand and nodded. “We knew her.”

  Bannon motioned to a building nearby. “In that case, you two might as well follow me. I have a few questions that you may be able to answer.”

  “Certainly, we will tell you all we know,” Bren said. “I am not sure how helpful we can be though. We only met the woman once.”

  When they entered the reeve’s office, the first thing Tatrice noticed was a man sitting in a chair by the fire with his back to them. The top of the chair obscured all but the black hair on the top of his head. Puffs of grey and white smoke wafted into the air above him. Tatrice surveyed the room and decided that it needed a woman’s touch. The room was constructed entirely of wood. A quaint wood-burning stove stood in the corner. From the smell of the room the stove had a pot of bittering tea boiling on it. She could also smell the Stranger’s tabac at the fireplace. The two aromas intermingled into a pleasant, yet masculine scent. The fragrance of the tabac was a bit different than the cherry-blossom-smelling tabac of Symboria; it had a pleasing hint of vanilla. Tatrice assumed the closed wooden door at the rear of the room led to prisoner quarters or living quarters for the reeve.

  The stamping and stomping sound of Tatrice and Bren’s oots made on the floor didn’t seem to alert the man smoking his pipe by the fire, which Tatrice thought was odd. She knew he was aware of them.

  The reeve took off his black jacket and hung it on a hook by the door. “Please, help yourself to some bittering tea.”

  “No, thank you,” Tatrice said. She turned to Bren. “Go ahead.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Bren said. He removed his leather gloves and took a tin cup from a peg on the wall near the stove. He rubbed out the cup with the tail of his shirt and poured the tea. Bren took a cautious sip of the hot liquid as he faced the chair of the stranger at an angle, just enough to see the man’s face. He swallowed the bittering tea hard as the two made eye contact.

  The stranger took the opportunity to stand, taking his pipe from his lips. “No need to be alarmed. We are all friendly here.”

  Tatrice gasped. The man standing from the obscurity of the chair was Toborne, or rather, the visage of Drakkius inhabited by Toborne. She recognized him from Brightonhold. Tatrice reached for her sword but realized they had left their weapons tied to their horses. She abruptly became aware of the fact they had left their horses and provisions unattended, something they would never do, especially if they were worried about bandits nearby. “Trickery. You have cast some sort of spell. What have you done?”

  Toborne put his pipe back into his mouth and held his hands out to his sides, palms forward. “No tricks here. If you are worried about your horses, they are already in the stables by now, safe and sound. All you have brought to Briarwick will be safely returned to you. You have my word.”

  “Your word is worthless,” Bren said.

  “Oh, now that isn’t very gentlemanlike. I am not the bad man I am portrayed to be.” Toborne put his hands down. “How may I prove it to you?”

  “Let us be on our way, that’s how,” Tatrice said.

  “You are not prisoners, my dear, no one is keeping you here.” He puffed on his pipe and gestured toward the door. “You may leave anytime you wish. I bid you good day.” He turned to the fireplace; puffs of white smoke lifted into the air above his head. Bannon took a seat behind his polished wooden desk and began packing a smoking pipe.

  The blissful aroma of the vanilla-scented tabac filled the air as Bannon lit his pipe.

  Several moments passed before Toborne glanced at Bren. “Still here?”

  Bren shared a look with Tatrice. She didn’t know what to tell him. Bannon took out two new briarwood pipes and pushed them across the desk. Tatrice abstained but motioned that it was all right for Bren to take one. Her husband eagerly took a pipe and began searching for his bag of tabac. “Here.” Bannon slid his pouch of tabac to Bren. “Why not try mine? It’s a special blend grown in south Adracoria.”

  “Thank you, friend.” Bren took the tabac and filled his pipe. “I was hoping to pick up one of these pipes while passing through.”

  “Aye.” Bannon winked. “Briarwick is famous for its fine smoking pipes. Keep it; it’s yours.”

  “Thank you, but I . . .”

  “Reeve,” Tatrice interrupted. “You had some questions?” She eyed Toborne. She knew he was dangerous, but the danger kept slipping from her mind. Toborne felt familiar, fatherly, and warm. She had to fight to keep her sense of danger about him.

  “That can wait. Sit down and rest.” He pointed to a wooden chair in front of his desk.

  “I insist.”

  The reeve took a long moment. “All right. How do you know the imprinter?”

  “We met her earlier this winter in Ormond’s Arch.”

  “Ah,” he said, “you two are married.”

  Tatrice was somehow offended by the comment. “Not by choice.”

  The reeve took his pipe out of his mouth and leaned forward. “You were coerced or tricked, then?”

  “Well, not exactly. We were unaccustomed to the traditions of Trigothia, and we stumbled into it by accident.” Her explanation sounded so ridiculous to her when she said it out loud. “I thought you wanted to ask about Ni’esa, not about us.”

  The reeve leaned back and resumed his pipe. Toborne moved the
chair he was sitting in earlier around to where it faced Tatrice, and he sat down. “So, you were imprinted by accident and you sought out Ni’esa to rectify the situation.” Toborne motioned to Bannon with the stem of his pipe. “I think that is all you need to know, sir.”

  Tatrice decided to sit in the chair Bannon had offered her before. She was sitting across from Toborne, and she felt no different than if he were Ianthill or Morgoran. He was the third member of the First Trine; surely he was no different than the other two, whom she adored. He seemed pleasant enough.

  “I may be able to help your situation, young lady,” he said. “I only now realized I do not know your name.”

  “Tatrice, and my husband over there enjoying that tabac too much is Bren.”

  Toborne puffed his pipe and let the smoke crawl from his lips. “Come now, was that a proper introduction of your spouse?”

  At first, Tatrice didn’t understand, but then a calm pervaded her body. “Forgive me. I am Tatrice, First of Shadesilver, and my husband is Bren, First of Amadace.”

  “That’s better. Shadesilver and Amadace, both young dragons and related, I believe.”

  “You know of the dragons?” Tatrice asked.

  “My lord,” Toborne corrected. “I am correctly addressed as my lord, dear. And don’t be so surprised about my knowledge of dragonkind. I am Toborne, after all.”

  “Forgive me, but I will not be addressing you as my lord, or any other title. You have yet to convince me of your good intentions.” She took Bren’s pipe from him and sniffed the bowl before handing it back to him. “Is it the tabac?” Tatrice caught an almost imperceptible flash of anger from Toborne, but he recovered before she could be sure.

  “Such mistrust and paranoia. The tabac is simply tabac with a hint of vanilla from the elves of Darovan. The southern Adracorians grow this tabac with great pride and tradition. There was no tampering with it from my end, I assure you.”

  “Why do I get the feeling you are harmless when I know you are not? I saw you at Brightonhold. I saw you steal the Silver Drake. I saw you send two black dragons after Ianthill, Dorenn, and Gondrial.”

  “You have a grand memory, my dear, but your facts are not entirely accurate. I sent the dragons to protect the Silver Drake. I stole nothing from my brothers.” He called out toward the wooden door. “Dear, we have guests in here, you may remember. Why don’t you join us?” There was no answer. “Sylvalora?”

  The wooden door opened, and out stepped a woman with blonde hair and twinkling blue eyes. She wore the blue dress Tatrice had seen Sylvalora wear, but this woman looked nothing like the elf maiden Tatrice remembered. “Tatrice, how wonderful it is to see you.”

  Tatrice scowled. “I don’t know you! Who are you supposed to be?”

  “It’s me, Sylvalora. I used to look like an elf maiden, I know. It’s supposed to be a gift from the gods. Every time I take the form of the Silver Drake, I return to a different visage. I will return to the elf maiden form again someday.”

  “You remind me of someone I know, familiar somehow, but I don’t believe for one moment you are Sylvalora.”

  The woman took Tatrice’s hand in her own and looked at her imprint. Tatrice tried to pull back, but the woman gently persisted. “In Cedar Falls, at the bathhouse, Lady Shey and I advised you to marry for love, to marry because you felt that it’s right, not because it is expected of you.”

  “I certainly failed to heed that advice!”

  “Did you?” She looked at Bren, who had a hurt expression. “He unquestionably loves you.”

  Tatrice met Bren’s gaze. For the first time, she let herself feel his love without immediately turning her thoughts to Dorenn. “No, this is a trick. The tabac makes everything seem happy and safe. You are not Sylvalora; she is an elf. You are manipulating my feelings, my thoughts.”

  “I am Sylvalora,” the woman insisted.

  “Then tell me my mother’s name. My father once told me that they were married at court in front of the Silver Drake. You would know her name. Tell me.”

  “Why would your father keep her name from you?”

  Tatrice lowered her head and looked at her hands. “He loved her but couldn’t bare talking about her. He told me her name once, when I was small, but I am ashamed to say I have forgotten it. He would get so upset talking about her, I never asked him again. I would know it if I heard it.”

  “Are you sure you are ready to learn such knowledge?”

  “Aye. I’m ready.”

  Toborne stood from his chair and put his hand on Sylvalora’s shoulder. “I don’t think that would be wise. Besides, knowing her mother’s name will not prove to the girl that you are Sylvalora.”

  Sylvalora gave Tatrice a sympathetic stare. “I disagree. I think it would prove it to her. Your mother still lives, and I think it would be better if she were to tell you. It is tragic that you don’t know your mother and your sister doesn’t know your father.”

  “My sister. I have a sister?” Tatrice stood up.

  “You do have an older sister, aye. And your mother’s name is Valloney, just like your mid name.”

  Tatrice contemplated what she was hearing. “Toborne was right. I can’t trust anything you say to be true. You can’t prove who you are to me with words. My mother, my sister, it could be all a ruse to manipulate me for all I know.”

  “How may I convince you, then?”

  Tatrice suddenly saw an opportunity. “Prove it. Change into the Silver Drake.”

  “If I do, I will not return to the visage of the elf maiden. I will look like someone else.”

  “That matters little to me. Once I see the Silver Drake, I will know you speak the truth.”

  Sylvalora backed away from Tatrice and began to change form.

  Toborne put down his pipe on the reeve’s desk. “No, Sylvalora!”

  Tatrice reacted instinctively. She seized the Silver Drake as soon as she changed form and pointed the living statue at Toborne. “You get back!”

  The Silver Drake screeched.

  “Silver Drake, I direct you now. Break the spell of whatever it is in this room that is fogging our minds,” Tatrice commanded.

  “I wouldn’t do that, fair Tatrice,” Toborne warned.

  “Aye, you would!”

  “Listen to me, she doesn’t like to be told how to use her magic. Believe me, I have been at this far longer than you. Direct commands are not good.”

  The Silver Drake pulled herself from Tatrice’s grasp and turned on her. The drake let out a deafening screech.

  “You see. She isn’t exactly pleasant in this form,” Toborne said as he moved to stand behind the high back of the chair. “The Silver Drake is a creature of free will. I would suggest you ask her nicely to return to the form of Sylvalora, and swiftly.”

  Tatrice quickly realized she did not have the situation in hand. “Please, Silver Drake, I believe you. Let me talk to Sylvalora, please.”

  The Silver Drake screeched, and Tatrice dropped it. The living statue landed on the floor and began to change, returning to the appearance of a woman. This time, she had raven black hair and sapphire blue eyes.

  “Forgive me, dear, the Silver Drake and I are two sides of the same coin. I am very different in that form, which is why I choose not to stay in it,” she said.

  “Sylvalora?”

  “Aye, it is me.”

  “But you look just like an older Lady Shey now.”

  “No dear, Lady Shey looks like a younger me.” She went to the nearest window to look at her reflection. “Aye, this is how I looked when I gave birth to her.”

  “Lady Shey?”

  Sylvalora turned to Toborne. “Why is that always the reaction?”

  “It is the price of revealing secrets, my dear.” He picked back up his pipe and went back to his chair. “Allow me,” he said. “Sylvalora is a living, breathing woman. The goddess of life, Loracia, gifted the Silver Drake with life. She is as much a woman as you are.”

  “She is more than
that; she is the matron of dragons,” Bren stated, and bowed before her. “Fawlsbane’s gift to the Silver Drake. She is the revered one of the dragons.”

  Tatrice stood before Sylvalora, stunned. “Why reveal all this now?”

  “Well, I see we have much to discuss,” Bannon said. “We might as well retire to my living quarters, and I will have my servant cook us a meal.”

  Sylvalora winked, and Tatrice had to blink to make sure she saw it. Just go along with everything I tell you and be strong, Tatrice heard Sylvalora say in her head, but the woman did not actually speak.

  “Come along, Tatrice,” Sylvalora said. “We will talk over the meal.”

  Tatrice followed Sylvalora through the wooden doorway.

  Chapter 4: The Promise of Spring

  Sanmir signaled for Trendan to follow. He crossed the dark, dank corridor toward the more secluded cells of the dungeon. Trendan hoped Sanmir knew where he was going this time. He had already gotten them lost twice. It seems from when he spent time here at Lux Enor until the present day, some changes had been performed on the castle dungeons. This far underground, even the guards were loath to patrol, so Trendan was relatively sure they would not be detected. The stench was a bit unbearable, though. Some of the prisoners this far down were probably left to die rather than kept fed. It would make sense that Naneden would want to imprison Kimala down in this part of the prison. It would be a cruel fate worse than a quick death. On the other hand, she was nowhere to be found. Maybe he disposed of her to be rid of her. “Sanmir, are you sure he didn’t just execute her?” Trendan whispered.

  “It’s not his style. An execution is simple and painless. Naneden likes to make his enemies suffer and linger on. He will most likely have her tortured when he gets around to it.”

  “There are not many people I wish ill upon, but he is definitely one of them.”

  “He wasn’t always that way. I knew him when he was still an apprentice. He used to be as noble and kind as you, Trendan.”

  “I find that extremely hard to believe. What happened to him?” Trendan asked.

  “Madness. Something made him lose his mind. It didn’t happen all at once. It was a slow, painful ordeal. A very sad affair. Ah, here we are.” Sanmir pointed ahead. “The lower fifth, the most detestable dungeon ever built.” He took down one of the snuffed-out torches. With a flick of his wrist, a flame danced across his finger and engulfed the torch. “Follow closely now. There is no telling what might be lurking down here in the lower fifth. Some say it is haunted and guarded by the same kind of spirits that used to roam Signal Hill in Symboria.”