The Terolians set up an impromptu camp, and Jerrol and his companions were invited to sit at their hearth. They also topped up their water, which Birlerion had been most pleased about. Jerrol remembered a conversation with Jennery when they had first met Birlerion. Birlerion had said that he tried to blend in. He did with ease. As Birlerion’s silver eyes swept the town square, bustling with a lively market, he seemed as cool and fresh in his robes as Nil’ano did.
Jerrol caught his eye, and he scowled as Birlerion tried not to smile at his discomfort. Birlerion offered the water canteen again, and Jerrol knew better than to refuse.
“I recommend we take rooms at the Oasis,” Nil’ano suggested as he scanned the market. “It is the best boarding house in Ramila.”
Jerrol nodded. His throat was excruciatingly dry. He tipped the canteen back, and the warm water trickled down his throat and straight out of his pores. He wished he acclimatized as easily as Birlerion. He looked like he belonged.
Gesturing for Nil’ano to lead the way, Jerrol dismounted and led Zin’talia through the busy thoroughfares. The market was in full swing, making the most of the morning hours before the heat of the day closed everything down. They would have to come back out in the evening and find Nil’ano’s contacts. He observed the new slave pens in the north-east corner of the square, the sordid stink recognizable even from this distance. The tight family units had previously frowned on slavery.
Jerrol moved up next to Nil’ano. “Since when was slavery a market trade in Terolia?”
Nil’ano shrugged. “Exchanges started about a year or so ago; youngsters mainly, unwanted kids, orphans, though it wasn’t so desperate as this. It was supposed to be a trade of resources from families who had a surplus to families who had suffered losses. But once started, it evolved. It is now just trafficking, no care for the people. The Medera tries to shut them down, but as soon as we move on, they spring back up again. Considering the smell, I shouldn’t think anyone in that pen is disease-free.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust as they finally passed out of the square.
The Oasis was a large boarding house that proudly owned the southern corner of the town. It was built around a small oasis, which was fed from the central watering hole via underground springs. The open eating area was tastefully situated around the water, the fountains adding moisture to the air, the tang of water mingling with the fresh green aroma of a wiry Sentinal towering over the two-storey buildings.
Jerrol let Nil’ano do the talking. He booked them rooms, stalls in the stables, and a table for the evening meal under the Sentinal. He flourished a well-filled purse to pay the resulting bill. Jerrol followed a young boy dressed in a flowing white tunic, who led them to their rooms. On the way, the boy indicated the resources available to guests, making sure they were paying attention when he pointed out the door to the communal baths.
Eyeing the entrance to the bathing room, Jerrol followed Birlerion round the curved passage until they reached their rooms. Zin’talia crooned over her haynet, a happy murmur in his head. The net was scattered with stalks of Baliweed, and she was happily occupied picking them out.
Jerrol sighed with relief when the door closed behind him, and he dropped his saddlebags to the floor. His room was lit by subtle lanterns, casting a gentle glow. The curtains gleamed in the soft light, a glimmer of silvery green edging the material. The room was blessedly cool, and he shed his clothes in relief. Leaning his sword against the wall, he could sense its reluctance at being parted from him, but he was eager to shed his sweaty robes. Hanging on the peg on the back of his door was a thin cotton robe, which he wrapped around himself before heading straight for the baths.
The shower was divine. He scrubbed his skin with the scented sands provided for the guests. He slicked his hair back and eased his shoulders as he wrapped the robe around him and headed back to his room, where he began to sweat again.
He dressed in a clean shirt, a light linen vest, which reached his thighs, and loose trousers he had found to be comfortable on previous visits. He had taken the opportunity to stock up. Inevitably, they shimmered into a silvery-green sheen as he slipped on his boots.
The gentle pull of the sentinal tree led him out of the building. The sentinal had been calling ever since they had arrived. He walked around the fountain and paused, peering up at the wiry trunk. It was much thinner than the trees in Vespiri. He could probably reach all the way around the trunk if he tried, but it was the same smooth silver wood with deep emerald green pointy leaves branching out overhead. He checked the eating area. The open pits were dark and unattended, the candles unlit on the tables. The staff had not yet prepared for the evening business. He placed a hand on the trunk and relaxed into the exuberant welcome.
An insistent voice intruded, repeating his name. “Jerrol! Jerrol, are you alright?”
Jerrol returned to the present, reluctantly releasing the warm embrace of the Sentinal, staring at Birlerion, who had pulled him away from the tree. “Captain? People are staring. Come, we have a table reserved. Let’s sit.”
Jerrol flushed as he realized the area had come alive around him without his noticing. Fire pits burned merrily. Lanterns lit the courtyard, the sentinal tree throwing soft shadows across the seating area. Each low table had a glass bowl containing a flickering candle. Taking a deep breath, he followed Birlerion to their seats.
The Sentinal had been so pleased to meet him. Few had visited over the millennia. He had been enthusiastic in the sharing, and Jerrol was still reeling, overwhelmed by Sentinal Tarenion’s revelations. The fact that a man existed at the core of the sentinal, poised to act at Jerrol’s command, was strangely terrifying. Fortunately, Tarenion had understood the need for discretion and would wait for Jerrol’s word before revealing himself.
Jerrol sat where Birlerion pushed him, on a cushion in a shadowed alcove. Birlerion sat opposite him, blocking the view of the other guests. His intent gaze came to rest on Jerrol, having glanced around the open courtyard full of inquisitive guests. Jerrol looked over his shoulder wincing at the number of tables that were still looking in their direction.
A waiter approached their table and bowed. “Your order, sirs?” he asked in a softly sibilant voice.
Birlerion ordered the house special; a platter of assorted dips, pastries, and breads, followed by lemon and herb marinated chicken skewers and flatbreads. He also ordered a light resinous wine to go with the food and a pitcher of water. As the server left, he finally spoke. “You need to be more careful. We are trying to blend in.”
Jerrol snorted. “It's not so easy.”
“You’d be surprised.” Birlerion grinned, reminding Jerrol how young he was. He kept forgetting. The Sentinal always seemed so self-assured.
“How old were you when you joined the rangers, Birlerion?”
Birlerion screwed up his face as he hesitated. “Fourteen?” he said after a moment.
“Fourteen?” Jerrol gaped at him. “You don’t sound too sure.”
Birlerion tensed, and Jerrol thought he wouldn’t answer, but when he did, Jerrol was sure it wasn’t what he was originally going to say. “Tagerill and I share a borning day, though he is a year older than me.”
“That’s right; you are brothers, aren’t you?”
“His family adopted me, so we’re not true brothers, but Tagerill won’t hear it said otherwise.” Birlerion’s face softened, his features hidden in the shadows. “Guerlaire saved me from the streets; the Lady gave me purpose and the Descelles gave me a home.”
Jerrol stared into his glass, trying to hide his shock. “You were living on the streets of Vespers?”
“Yeah. Serill always said that I was dying on the streets, not living. He and Tagerill knocked that chip off my shoulder when we met in the cadets.”
“Sounds like you were fortunate.”
“Extremely.” Birlerion sipped his wine. “Did you wake Tarenion?” His voice grew firm as he changed the subject.
Jerrol put down his glass. “How did y
ou know it was Tarenion?”
“I could sense him.”
“Is that normal?”
Birlerion shrugged. “I met him when I was stationed out this way. Maybe it’s because we met?”
“He was lonely,” Jerrol said, gazing at the distinctive tree. “His Guardian is not aware.” He relaxed into the cushions, thinking how much Taelia would enjoy it here. The contented voices carried on the balmy evening air, the scent of roasting meat and spices combining with the sharp tang of water. Taelia would have a sensory overload.
As if his thoughts had conjured her up, Taelia shimmered into sight, seated on the cushions opposite him. She lurched and Birlerion steadied her. She gave him a brilliant smile and turned to Jerrol as he gasped.
“Tali! How did you find us?”
“It doesn’t matter. Jerrol, you have to find the slave pens. Someone is calling on the Lady.” She leaned across the table and hesitated. “Oh my, what is that wonderful smell?”
Jerrol started to laugh. “I was just thinking about how much you would love this. A balmy evening, exotic scents, delicious food.”
Birlerion placed a sticky nut-covered pastry in her hand. “Try it,” he said.
Taelia inhaled the rising aroma and took a bite, and she relaxed into the enjoyment of the food, closing her eyes. “Oh mmm, this is delicious.”
“I promise, Tali, I’ll bring you back here so you can enjoy an evening Terolian style.”
“Terolia? You’re in Terolia? What are you doing there?” Taelia opened her turquoise eyes wide.
“The Lady’s bidding. Just as you are,” Jerrol replied.
Taelia straightened. “Take care, Jerrol; there is much uncertainty on the horizon, and that usually means there’ll be conflict of some sort. Trouble comes. Please be careful.” She reached and gripped Birlerion’s hand. “That means you as well, Birlerion, do you hear me?”
“I hear you, Taelia,” Birlerion replied, squeezing her hand in return.
“Good. Now give me another one of those things before I have to go.”
Jerrol chuckled before selecting another pastry and placing it in her questing hand. “Why don’t you try the wine as well?”
“Wine? My, you do live well, don’t you?”
Jerrol gave her his glass and watched her expressive face as she sipped. It was like enjoying the wine all over again as her face lit up in appreciation. “How lovely. It’s fresh, yet sweet.” She then shimmered out of sight, taking his glass of wine with her.
Jerrol stared at the spot where she had been sitting and then released a deep sigh. An evening with her in this exotic location would have been perfect.
He stirred as footsteps approached. Nil’ano arrived, his face wreathed in smiles. “Apologies for my tardiness, gentlemen. The waters seduced me. You have found our local nectar, and here is the food.” He folded onto the cushion before descending on the aromatic delights the waiters had brought out. His platitudes prevented any further discussion, and they concentrated on the food instead.
27
Mistra, Terolia
Their pleasant evening was interrupted, as Taelia had foretold, by the arrival of four strident men, who cut through the Oasis’ evening calm straight to Jerrol’s table.
“You, up,” the lead man said, pointing his finger at Birlerion.
Birlerion raised an eyebrow and didn’t move. The light pooled around him as he ignored the command.
Jerrol leaned back on his cushion, his face in the shadows. “And who might you be?”
“The people who matter in this town, and I told you to stand up.” The man glared at Birlerion.
“Why?” Birlerion asked, shifting his position.
The man snapped his fingers, and his companions grabbed Birlerion and dragged him upright. Birlerion relaxed in their grip at Jerrol’s signal.
Nil’ano rose. “Gentlemen, this is quite unnecessary. I am sure there has been some misunderstanding. We have only just arrived.”
“You have but to explain why. There is no reason to resort to violence,” Jerrol added, keeping his voice calm.
“The Elders want to speak to him.”
“By all means, we will gladly speak with the Elders,” Jerrol said, observing the visible tension running down the cords of Birlerion’s neck. “Tell us where the Elder’s offices are and we will attend first thing in the morning.”
“The Elders decide when, not you.”
Jerrol’s eyebrows rose as the man snarled a command and the grip on Birlerion tightened. Birlerion’s eyes were narrowed, his face calm, and yet Jerrol sensed the singing tension in the air; the expectant pause before the strike.
“Birlerion, go with them for now. Nil’ano and I will speak to the Elders,” Jerrol said, meeting Birlerion’s eyes. Birlerion gave him an imperceptible nod and the tension faded as he was dragged out of the eating area.
Jerrol glanced around him. The patrons were studiously avoiding his gaze. “Ni’lano, who are the Elders in Ramila? I think they owe us an explanation.”
Nil’ano scowled after the men. “Terolian hospitality has changed in the short space of time I have been absent. I can assure you, I will be placing a complaint. They had no right to take Birlerion like that.”
“This was not the place to start a fight,” Jerrol murmured. “Innocent people could have been hurt. It is better we talk to them first.”
Nil’ano snorted, flinging his hands out. “They didn’t look like they wanted to talk. Why did you let them take him?”
“Because they might lead us to those we seek.”
Once outside the Oasis, the men bound Birlerion’s arms behind his back, and hustled him down the street as if aware of the coiled power prepared to obliterate them. They arrived at a two-storey building built out of local stone, situated on the edge of the marketplace. The guards slammed Birlerion against the wall as one of them fumbled with a bunch of keys. He managed to get the door open in time to prevent a tongue-lashing from his boss, and the guards shoved Birlerion onto a chair in the middle of a room, wrenching his arms behind him.
A grey-haired man slowly walked around Birlerion as the lanterns were lit, his brown robes swirling around his ankles. The golden light cast the lines on his scowling face into sharp relief. His black eyes were hard and determined.
“So,” the Elder snapped. “You thought you could just waltz into Ramila and tell us what to do?”
“I thought no such thing, I can assure you,” Birlerion replied, his gaze flicking around the bare room.
“You expect me to believe that?” The man circled him as his guards chuckled.
“Why should you not? I am but a visitor to your pleasant town, enjoying a meal with my friends. You can’t just take me off the street. I have rights!”
“All innocence, I suppose. And yet, you lie. Tell me what is planned and you won’t get hurt.”
“Planned?”
“Yes, did you not understand the question? Maybe you need some assistance to remember.”
Birlerion’s head snapped back as one of the men hit him and he hissed out his breath. “I do not need your help to remember anything,” he said.
“Tch, tch, you are not listening,” the man said from behind him. “I am in charge here. I can do what I like. Tell me, who are you and what are you doing in Ramila?”
“Is this how you greet all visitors to Ramila?” Birlerion asked, gasping as a fist jabbed him in the side.
“Name.”
“Who’s asking?”
“I ask the questions, not you.” The man circled him. “Tell me why you are here and we might go easy on you.”
“Elders represent the family and Family Law. You have no family mark; you are no Elder. You have no right to detain me.”
“You are in no position to protest. Answer my questions or pay the consequences,” the man replied, stepping back and giving his men space.
Birlerion squinted at the Elder and rocked back under another blow. He spat out blood.
“You�
��re the Lady’s Captain.”
Birlerion laughed. “Me? Sure, I’m the Captain.”
“Var’geris is searching for you. You’ve got the silver eyes. What are you doing in Ramila?”
“Var’geris? Who is he? And what does he want with me?”
The man sighed. “You’re not listening to me,” he chided. “You should pay attention. You want to answer my questions, truthfully. You will answer my questions. Why are you here?”
“We were enjoying the scenery, until you arrived.”
“Have you woken the Sentinal?”
Birlerion’s laugh was cut off as a fist crunched into his jaw. His lip split, a sudden sting distracting him from the pacing man. The man’s attempts at Mentiserium were pathetic. Birlerion hissed his breath out, trying to gauge where the men were. He twisted his wrists, heat tingling his fingertips as he rubbed the rope.
He wondered how long it would take Jerrol to realize these men were no Elders.
The man was speaking again. “We caught you, and we’ll pass you up the line. Var’geris will make you speak.”
“As you wish.” Birlerion cringed back in the chair, trying to protect his ribs from another stunning blow and allowing the momentum to topple him and the chair over onto the floor. The rope parted and he rose with predatory grace as he pounced on the guard nearest him, striking swift and sure. Leaving the man to collapse, he turned to the next. He got in a stinging blow before more guards arrived and he was forced down to the ground under a heaving mass of humanity.
“Enough,” the grey-haired man barked, glowering down at Birlerion. “Get him up.”
The guards dragged Birlerion upright, and he stood hunched over after another blow.
The man peered at him in sudden doubt. He scowled as he rubbed his mouth. “If you’re not the one we want, then tell me where the Captain is and I’ll let you live.”
“It’s me you want,” Birlerion whispered after a moment’s deliberation. He licked his lip, the metallic taste of blood on his tongue. His lip stung. His body ached. He restrained the need to growl in frustration.
Sentinals Rising: Book Two of the Sentinal series Page 23
