Sentinals Rising: Book Two of the Sentinal series

by Helen Garraway

  SENTINALS RISING

  BOOK TWO OF THE SENTINAL SERIES

  HELEN GARRAWAY

  Copyright © 2021 by Helen Garraway

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without express written permission of the author.

  Published by Jerven Publishing

  Cover by Jeff Brown Graphics

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used it. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-8381559-3-3

  Print ISBN: 978-1-8381559-4-0

  Sign up to my mailing list to join my magical world and for further information about forthcoming books and latest news at: www.helengarraway.com

  First Edition

  Created with Vellum

  For Jennifer

  I love you

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY

  Love Mum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Acknowledgments

  Also By Helen Garraway

  1

  Chapterhouse, Old Vespers

  Darkness crept over the chamber walls as the wax candle guttered in the lantern. Long fingers of shadow absorbed what little light illuminated the parchment Jerrol was skimming. Unable to read any more, he straightened up and stretched his aching back, his bones cracking in time with the creaking of his chair. That was his last candle, and he was getting nowhere; there were too many false trails and misleading references. But then, if he was trying to hide something, he would have done the same.

  The stone walls of the musty room pressed down on him, and he flipped the manuscript shut and rubbed his eyes. How the scholars spent hours at a time buried underground amazed him. He had always preferred to work in the open cloisters. Though he supposed, if he were a true scholar, he wouldn’t notice, but then he wasn’t a scholar.

  Rising, he straightened out the silver robes of the Lady’s Order of Remargaren, which he wore over his silvery-green uniform of the Lady’s Captain, picked up the lantern, and grimaced at the shimmer of the material poking out from the sleeves. He wore the same uniform the Sentinals wore, which was an unexpected side effect of his encounter with the Lady Leyandrii, who had claimed him as her Captain.

  What that meant was yet to be determined. Still, Jerrol thought that it didn’t bode well if the deity who protected their world believed she needed a new Captain, especially as the last Captain had so spectacularly disappeared with her when she had sundered the Bloodstone all those years ago.

  At the same time, she had encased the men and women of her personal guard in a protective sleep within their sentinal trees for over three thousand years. Jerrol had accidentally woken one, a young man called Birlerion. At his behest, Jerrol had figured out how to wake more Sentinals, all of whom now reported to him as Leyandrii’s Captain. One of which, Tagerill, stood guard at the top of the stairs.

  The Sentinals were adamant that he should be guarded at all times; a duty Birlerion and Tagerill had taken upon themselves. Not that he was complaining; they were a reassuring presence behind his shoulder. He was only just beginning to discover who the Lady’s Sentinals were as he watched them adapt to a strange world, coping with unimaginable losses. It was surprising how well they were adjusting, but then their last memories had been of war, so maybe just waking up was a miracle in itself.

  He shivered.

  The fact that there were men and women still protected by their trees, waiting for him to awaken them, terrified him.

  Raising the lantern, Jerrol checked he had everything. As he turned to leave, the dying candle revealed a symbol over the door to the chamber that he had never noticed before; an engraving of a sentinal tree with the crescent moon curving underneath. It was a complete image; the tree’s roots and branches reaching for the moon. A sentinal and the Lady, as one.

  Instead of climbing the steps, he swung around and descended to the next level of chambers below. The stone corridor wended its way into the shadows and he lifted his lantern to inspect the walls. Peering above the doors, he found the same symbol. A thought struck him, and he continued walking through the long corridor to the dead-end that had been stumping the scholars. He raised the lantern and there it was.

  He reached for the ceiling, but he was too short. Casting about for something to stand on, he remembered seeing a stool in one of the upper rooms. Returning with the stool, he leant against the wall and touched the engraving. The walls around him immediately began to shake.

  A low rumble grew, echoing in the narrow corridor, which culminated in the floor collapsing, taking Jerrol and his lantern down into the gaping darkness below. The high-pitched splintering of glass amongst the deep thudding of the stone slabs descending around him, marked the demise of his only source of light.

  The fall took his breath away as he tumbled down a steep staircase, his shoulder taking the brunt of his landing. He slammed against a wall and came to an abrupt halt, gasping for breath. Tagerill, the Sentinal guarding him, called out in alarm from above as falling rubble blocked the narrow staircase, as well as all light and sound.

  Heart racing, Jerrol untangled himself and choked on the dust as the ground settled. He rotated his shoulder, wincing at the twinge; at least it wasn’t broken, though he knew it would be stiff later.

  Cautiously, he felt around him; the darkness was absolute. He closed his eyes instead of straining them when there was nothing to see. He concentrated on his other senses as his friend Taelia always told him to do. She always said he depended too much on sight. He guessed she should know, seeing as she had been blind from birth. Well, here was a chance to test himself.

  Jerrol listened, but all was silent except for the occasional shifting of debris. He shuffled around on his knees. If the steps were behind him, then the wall must be in front of him. He extended a trembling hand and bumped into the wall. Running his fingers over the smooth stone, he realized he wasn’t facing a wall; it was a stone table.

  The sides of the table were engraved, and his hesitant fingers explored the indentations, but he couldn’t make sense of the patterns; Taelia was the expert on engravings. He levered himself up and ran his hands over the rough surface of the table, which was at waist height for him and much lower fo
r a Sentinal.

  Jerrol explored the table but couldn’t discover anything except that it was stone and engraved. He fumbled for the wall and continued his tactile search, but his fingers weren’t sensitive enough to tell him what he felt. Frustration ended his search and he groped his way back to the table. Placing both hands flat on the surface, he brushed the grit and debris off, sneezing as rising dust drifted in the air.

  A flash of light blinded him for a moment, and then a vision of a black-haired warrior kneeling before the Lady filled his mind. They were surrounded by a grove of ancient trees, gilded by the full moon overhead. The Lady wore a long green gown, and her gilt-edged blonde hair curled around bare shoulders. Her emerald green eyes were focused on the man as she bestowed a sword on him, it looked ornate and heavy. The blade gleamed in the moonlight, and when the man stood and first took the weight, he adjusted his stance as he brought the sword up in front of his face in salute.

  The light of the blade illuminated the distinctive curves of the man’s face. A striking mix of angles and strength, with dark winged eyebrows that met above a straight nose. The expression of awe on his face morphed into one of acceptance. He reminded Jerrol of Birlerion, though he wasn’t sure why. The man’s deep green eyes met Jerrol’s, and as their gaze locked Jerrol knew it was Guerlaire, the Lady’s Captain before him. Guerlaire saluted Jerrol before handing the sword out toward him, hilt first.

  Jerrol’s hand rose of its own accord, and he braced to take the weight as Guerlaire had done, but it wasn’t heavy. The blade shone, its edge promising a crystal sharpness that Jerrol knew would cut anything. The hilt of twisted silver fit his palm, and engraved just below the cross-guard was the symbol of the sentinal and the moon—the mark of the Lady.

  His awareness of the chamber flooded back into his senses as the grove faded, and the velvety darkness engulfed him. Muffled voices called his name. They sounded rather anxious. As he turned back towards the stairs, the sword faded from his view, and a familiar weight pulled on his belt. He wondered if it would be visible when he returned to the light.

  Ari popped into view; a shimmer of silver in the darkness. Chittering in excitement, he hovered above Jerrol’s head; a small, furry cat-like creature with the reptilian features of a scaly tail and wings. Jerrol coaxed him down to his shoulder. “You heard the Lady, huh?”

  Ari chittered and rubbed his face against Jerrol’s cheek, making him grin. The muffled voices of his rescuers were getting more anxious.

  “I’m fine,” he shouted. His lips quirked at his definition of fine, considering he was trapped in a dark cell underground and on his own. He jumped back as more stone and gravel descended as his rescuers began to shift some of the rubble.

  “Jerrol? Do you have room to move back? Some of these slabs are rather large.” Torsion’s voice penetrated the rubble, edged with concern.

  “Yes, I’m fine. I’m in a chamber down here. Carry on.” Jerrol wasn’t surprised that his friend and mentor was one of the first on the scene. Torsion had been watching over Jerrol for years, ever since Jerrol was a raw child grasping at life’s choices. If it hadn’t been for Torsion introducing him to the scholars and a fortuitous meeting with a King’s Ranger showing him a taste of ranger life, he would never have considered leaving Stoneford and pursuing the opportunities in Old Vespers. Torsion had only been passing through, but he had taken Jerrol under his wing and set his feet on the path he now trod. He had much to thank him for.

  Jerrol frowned. Now he came to think of it, the first time he had met Torsion, he had been chasing someone. He had ridden straight into an ambush, even some of the Stoneford guards had been injured. He pursed his lips; if he remembered right, his friends, Jennery and Bryce, had been involved. He’d have to ask them what they remembered. Had the Ascendants been searching for the means to overthrow Leyandrii and the king’s rule even back then?

  “Stay in that chamber, Jerrol. Don’t explore any further.” Scholar Deane Liliian sounded stern; she knew him well. Jerrol winced. As the head of the Remargaren Scholars, he was sure she had more important things to do than dig him out of a hole.

  “It’s pitch black down here, and I can’t see a thing. I’m not going anywhere!” Jerrol shouted.

  “Once we make a hole, we’ll lower a lantern. This could take a while,” Liliian warned.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jerrol called back. He stroked Ari. “Tell Tagerill I’m fine.”

  Ari meeped and disappeared.

  Jerrol sat with his back against the table and set to wait as patiently as he could. His mind drifted over recent events, and he rubbed the silver scar on his left palm, remembering the crystal he had found beneath the ancient Watch Towers. The Lady had led him to the first piece of the crystal, which had greedily drunk his blood before sinking into his hand. Maybe she would help him find the others.

  He was an idiot! He had forgotten the benefit from absorbing the piece of crystal was that he could now hold light in hand. He opened his left palm and a silvery glow hovered in the air above it. Twisting around, he inspected the table by the soft light. The engraving could be words, but not in a language he recognised.

  Shifting to his knees, he massaged his aching thigh, a reminder of the injury he had taken rescuing King Benedict from an Ascendant plot to overthrow him. Since then, he had been wading through old manuscripts in the Chapterhouse archives, recuperating and waiting for the king to return to Old Vespers and grant him an audience.

  Tagerill distracted him as he called his name, and a dim glow marked the top of the mound of rubble. “Captain, we’re going to lower a lantern.”

  “I’m ready,” Jerrol shouted, positioning himself at the foot of where he thought the stairs were. He reached for the lantern and unhooked it. The rope slithered back up the rubble.

  “We’re lowering some water,” another voice called. Jerrol thought they could have supplied something a bit stronger but called back an acknowledgement and waited for the bag to descend. He untied the bundle and retreated to the table. Climbing up onto the surface, he placed the lantern beside him as he unwrapped his package, revealing a flask of water and a meat-stuffed bread twist. He took a swig of water to clear his dust-clogged throat and started on the bread; he was starving.

  Inspecting the sword in the lamplight, he admired its sharp edge, the fine workmanship and how well the hilt fitted his hand as if it had been created just for him. At least the sword was real and not just a dream. Though how he would explain how he’d come by it and whether they would let him keep it was another matter. The sword vibrated in his hand, and a sense of possessiveness pervaded his thoughts. Maybe the sword had other ideas.

  Lifting the lantern, he peered around the chamber. Lines carved in the stone ceiling crisscrossed above him. They appeared to be the same gridlines he had seen in the ceilings at the Watch Towers, and he almost overbalanced as he tilted his head back. The reclining chairs in the towers suddenly made sense. He jumped down from the stone table, re-sheathing the sword, and moved towards the wall.

  The symbol on the ceiling in the far corner beckoned in the lamplight. Until he had a search party on hand, that symbol would remain untouched. He turned back towards the steps, as more rubble clattered down. They had a way to go yet before he would be getting out.

  Placing the lantern at the head of the table, Jerrol climbed up and lay down. He stared at the ceiling, conscious of the sword at his waist and the cold stone beneath his back. The chill faded from his awareness as he focused on the lines crossing the ceiling; the junctions glowed in his mind.

  And then he tensed as an overwhelming expanse of space and twinkling stars surrounded him; an unending vista of night-black darkness dotted with bright sparkles, flickering in the distance. Only it wasn’t empty. A swathe of light comprised of glowing, questing strands stretched out above him. The Veil, wrapping their world in a protective sheath, preventing harmful magic from returning.

  He was drawn towards the swaying tendrils, drifting seductively above h
im. He relaxed as the Lady whispered his name, sensing other minds tinged with age and weariness; guardians watching through the millennia.

  “My Captain, follow the trail. Find those who have lost the way. Help them,” the Lady beseeched him.

  “Who must be found?” Jerrol asked, frowning in confusion.

  “You will know. There are others here; it is not safe to speak.” Her voice faded along with the vast emptiness, and Jerrol returned to the sound of voices and light and someone shaking his arm. He opened his eyes to be blinded by a lantern held over his face.

  “I suppose it makes sense to sleep if it is dark, but you’d think he would notice his rescuers have arrived,” Torsion’s voice said from above him.

  Jerrol sat up and swung his legs over the side of the table. His body dragged at him; a familiar heaviness after the unexpected vastness of the beyond.

  “Took your time, didn’t you?” He grinned at his rescuers, relieved they had arrived. Led by his friend Torsion; tall and muscular, his broad shoulders draped in scholar’s robes.

  Torsion’s grip tightened on his arm; his fingers digging deep. “I wish you wouldn’t make it so difficult for us to help you.”