Sentinals Rising: Book Two of the Sentinal series

by Helen Garraway

  Birlerion flushed. “Please, that was a different lifetime. You owe me nothing.”

  Viktor snorted. “We owe you two life debts; that is hardly nothing.”

  “Life debts?” Jerrol asked, uncertain if he should pursue this line of conversation. Birlerion looked distinctly uncomfortable.

  “Life debts are very rare. Usually, when someone is attacked by a member of the Family while under our protection, the attacker forfeits their life. That life is in payment of the debt because the Family failed. Birler survived an attempt to poison him and then saved the life of his poisoner. Two lives owed and never repaid,” Maraine said, her voice quiet.

  “He didn’t mean it,” Birlerion replied. “He deliberately failed in the attempt. It’s the only reason I lived; he fought the spell.”

  “The debt is written in the book, and it is passed down to each generation to fulfil if possible; a reminder that you are owed and our family is your family. I am sorry we didn’t make the connection between Birler and Birlerion. We should have.”

  “Please, it was a long time ago. And there is no Birler anymore.”

  Viktor tapped his lip as he watched him. “Tiv’erna went to see your father, Lord Warren of Greens.”

  Birlerion froze, all remaining colour draining from his face. Jerrol tensed. He thought Birlerion might collapse.

  “We don’t wish to cause you any further distress, but you need to know. Tiv’erna made an agreement with Lord Warren. Each generation, a Darian is delivered to Greenswatch in your memory for Warren and his descendants to use as they wish; an unspoken hope that you would be found; a way to bind our fakmilies.

  “Lord Warren found Kaf’enir in Vespers and brought her home to Greens. Tiv’erna recorded that Kin’eril covered her; the first of their line.”

  Birlerion choked, and Kayerille pulled him down beside her. He dropped his head in his hands, hiding his face and leaned into her embrace as she held him close.

  “Your Darian awaits you in Greens; a descendant of Kaf’enir and Kin’eril. We wondered why he hadn’t bonded; he is waiting for you.”

  33

  Var’geris’ Speech, Mistra

  Jerrol eased back into the entrance of a narrow alley, which led off Mistra’s central market square. Mistra was a sprawling city pockmarked with market squares, providing small clearings where people could congregate. Market stalls sprung up around them, providing a range of wares and tempting aromas. Rows of terraced homes radiated out until another market square appeared, and the process of expansion started all over again. It gave the city an unstructured feel; the buildings haphazardly jostling with shops, no rhyme or reason to the layout.

  It was early morning and the crowd was growing as more and more people arrived. There was a murmur of expectation in the air; people were excited. They had been promised a spectacle. Life was generally repetitive; little happened that hadn’t been done before, but the arrival of a new face with exciting news to share—that was an event.

  The square was full of colour and noise; splashes of bright robes interspersed with duller hues. They waited in excited anticipation, their voices a growing hum.

  A raised platform stood at one end, and a tall dark-haired man in a black robe fussed with some papers. He began to circulate, handing out the papers, which advertised a speech by Var’geris the following week in Marmera, a village to the East. Jerrol tucked the advert in his robe and continued to observe.

  His Sentinals were spread out around the perimeter; even Birlerion, who had managed to retrieve his calm composure after his collapse the previous evening. Jerrol didn’t know how he managed it. He knew he wouldn’t have been able to. It had been an emotional evening for all, and he had retreated to Zin’talia for comfort.

  He shook off the memory as Maraine entered the square accompanied by two of her family; a scarf covering her face. A low buzz began in front of the raised platform. The black-robed man started to chant, waving his hands in time. “Var’geris, bring out Var’geris. Var’geris, bring out Var’geris.” The people near him began to pick up the chant, and once they’d got their rhythm, the man began to move further into the crowd, encouraging them to join the chant.

  By the time Var’geris reached the platform, the people were enthusiastically chanting, and he grinned at the loud welcome. He flapped his hands, palms down, indicating the need for quiet, waiting for silence and enjoying the attention. The crowd gradually settled down. A sea of flushed faces stared up at him.

  Jerrol observed Var’geris with interest. He looked much the same as he had when Jerrol had glimpsed him at the Watch Towers; tall, black-haired, stockier than the other Ascendants Jerrol had met, but he had that same air of arrogance. Var’geris began to speak, his voice quiet. The crowd leaned forward, straining to hear him. “We can’t hear him,” a voice called from the back. “Can you hear him?”

  Var’geris raised his voice, still not particularly loud, and a ripple of information spread as the people at the front passed the message back. He’s an Ascendant, descended from the original family, who fell as they protected the people from the excesses of the Guardians. The people nodded in agreement; eyes bright. Var’geris’ voice increased in volume as he began to expound the virtues of the Ascendants, how they strived to be the best they could be to look after those who were less fortunate.

  “The fate of the Ascendants is in your hands.” Var’geris raised his voice. “A family like yours, persecuted for believing that people are more important than the rulers.” A low murmur of sympathy rumbled around the square. “Ascendants can help you. They rise to the top because their fate is tied to yours.”

  “Rise to the top of what?” a coarse voice called out.

  “The family is important. Those of the line carry the blood,” Var’geris continued, his voice calm and even. “We carry the fate of all of us, but we need you. We are few; you are many. You can help us succeed where our forefathers failed. Join us and become one with us. You want to. You must support those of the pureblood; those who can guide your steps.”

  “We’ve already got a family, thanks. Don’t think we need yours,” someone nearer the front called out. The helper moved in and hustled the heckler out of the crowd. The gap closed. “It is the duty of the family to sustain those who lead. You must obey those who rule by right. To obey and to work.”

  “The Lady doesn’t demand obedience. Why should you?” Jerrol called out, moving as he spoke to throw the attendant off.

  A frown of annoyance flitted across Var’geris’ face at the constant interruptions. “You must obey and work to help select those who should rise to the top and weed out those who are not true. You want to work: to never slacken, to listen to my voice, to do as I say, to work hard, to work for the betterment of all.”

  “You sure it’s not just for your benefit? Why should we believe you?” a woman shouted.

  “We can help you to be the best you can be; to protect you from those who are not pure, if you work and obey. You have an overwhelming need to obey, to sign up now and join us. Come with us. We expect much of you, and you can meet those expectations by listening to me and by obeying and working.” Var’geris’ voice dropped to a croon.

  “I don’t think so.” Maraine’s shout cut through his voice, and people shook themselves and blinked. “I don’t know what you are trying to do, or where you want my people to go, but your Mentiserium rubbish doesn’t work here.” She spoke loud and clear. “My people believe in the freedom of the nomads, the strength of the Families, and the shelter of the Lady. Why would they want to obey you? Work for you? Do you want to go and work for a stranger for nothing?” she asked the crowd. “Become slaves to his voice and do what he says? Well, do you?” Her voice whipped through the people and they began to back away.

  Var’geris stood mouth agape on his podium.

  “Your mind tricks won’t work here,” she spat. “And don’t bother setting your little man on me,” she said as Var’geris’ eyes flicked to the right. “He is
indisposed. Your words are empty and worthless.” She turned to the crowd. “All of you, go home. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves. Pray to the Lady for guidance.”

  Var’geris raised his voice. “You listen to the words of a woman? Follow me and you will be free.”

  “You threaten the Medera?” a deep voice asked, and the crowd looked more closely at Maraine and then at Var’geris.

  “These people are already free. They don’t need you for that,” Maraine said as the crowd jostled closer. Var’geris glared at her, his face so rigid the cords stood out on his neck. “You’ll regret this, woman,” he hissed.

  Jerrol stepped forward. “No, you’ll regret it. You’ve threatened the Medera, and word will spread. I recommend you leave before you say something else you regret. If you step foot in Mistra again, you won’t leave.”

  Var’geris scowled at Jerrol. His eyes widened as he saw his silver eyes. “Sentinal, you do get around. Your days are numbered.” He scanned the square, realizing his situation as he took in the mood of the crowd. He retreated. Jerrol followed him until he entered a large brick building behind the slave pens. By the time Jerrol returned to the square and rejoined the Medera, most people had left.

  Her eyes were sparkling with anger. “I’ve never seen such a thing. You were right. I saw them all glazing over. They would have followed him like they would a trail beaten through the sands.”

  “The Families should spread the word and hound him out of Terolia, prevent him from causing any further damage. Maraine, you need to close those pens down. They are inhumane,” Jerrol said, his gaze distracted by a portly man dragging a small child across the square. A thin man fluttered around him, gesticulating wildly. The child struggled in the portly man’s grip, wriggling to get free.

  Jerrol cursed under his breath as the man tied the child to the post and ripped the clothes off her back. He struck the cringing child with the stick in his hand, and the child screamed. Jerrol dashed across the square and blocked the man as he raised his arm for another strike. The child cowered, weeping hysterically against the post. Jerrol disarmed him and stood between the child and the man. “You will not harm this child.”

  The man stared at him in surprise, which quickly turned to outrage. “She is mine. I will do with her as I wish. Get out of my way.”

  “She is not yours,” Jerrol replied.

  “Yes, she is. I bought her. She’s mine.”

  “By Terolian law, there is no slavery allowed. Therefore, you can’t have bought her,” Jerrol insisted.

  “Please, kind sir, he misspoke. He meant that he employs the child. He is reprimanding her for stealing,” his companion said, tugging at the big man’s arm.

  The man inspected Jerrol, and, assessing his size, pushed out his chest. “No, I didn’t. She’s mine. Move out of the way, before I move you.”

  Jerrol laughed. “You could try.”

  The man lunged, and Jerrol spun into motion. He yanked the man’s head back, holding his dagger tight under his chin as he pressed his knee into his back. A sluggishly bleeding welt marred the man’s face.

  “I suggest you go and get your money back as there is no slavery in Terolia,” Jerrol repeated. “This child does not belong to you; she belongs with her family.” He pushed the man away from him and stooped to untie the weeping child.

  The man scrambled in the dust and rose blustering threats as he brushed himself down. He watched Jerrol and his eyes narrowed as a couple of guards approached. “Guards,” he called, “this man is stealing my property.”

  The guards hesitated as they watched Jerrol shrug out of the light outer robe he wore over his clothes. He wrapped the child in it and scooped her up.

  “Arrest that man for stealing. Chop off his hand. That will teach him,” the portly man shouted.

  Maraine and Kayerille approached, horrified expressions on their faces, and Jerrol held his tongue. He murmured to the child trembling in his arms.

  Kayerille looked the man up and down in disdain. “The child is not yours. There is no slavery allowed in Terolia.”

  Maraine glared at the guards, noting the Atolean tattoo on their cheeks. “You know slavery is not allowed by Family law. These pens are to be opened and the people released. I expect you to bring the perpetrators of this slave industry before the Atolean family conclave first thing in the morning. Arrest this man for molesting a defenceless child.”

  The guards saluted. “Yes, Medera.” They latched onto the loudly protesting man and marched him out of the square, followed by the ineffective attendant flapping around him.

  Jerrol spoke quietly to Birlerion, who arrived to stand behind him. “Find out who that man is and who his agent is. I want them shut down, and be careful, Var’geris is in the tall, red building, and he knows who I am.” Birlerion nodded and, waving for Roberion to join him, the two Sentinals left.

  Jerrol strode out of the square carrying the child, Kayerille at his back, Maraine and her men beside him. They arrived at the Atolean camp and entered the Medera’s tent.

  “Maraine,” Jerrol said. “Is there any chance your daughter can join us? I think the child will be more reassured with another girl beside her.”

  Maraine raised shocked eyes. “A girl? He was whipping a girl?”

  Jerrol nodded. “Kayerille, stay. Everyone else, can you give us a moment?” he asked, keeping his voice gentle. Jerrol laid the child on the cushions. He made to rise, but her hand gripped his trousers, and he paused. “Maraine and Kayerille will help you. I’ll come back when they have treated your wounds.”

  Big brown eyes peered up at him, searching his face intently. She didn’t ask him to promise, but he could tell it was on the tip of her tongue. “I promise I will return within a half-chime,” he said. She released his trousers.

  He returned as promised. Maraine cuddled the child as they watched her youngest daughter, Mir’elle, sort through a bundle of colourful ribbons. Kayerille sprawled on the cushions, trying not scare to the child, and helping to unravel the tangled mess of ribbons.

  Jerrol sat opposite and raised an eyebrow at Maraine. Maraine hugged the little girl. “This is Tris’eril of Melila. She’s five. Her family were taken from Melila and sold. She says a lot of families were taken.”

  “It’s the past repeating itself,” Kayerille said. “My father was one who went to do their bidding, thinking he could earn good money. He never came home. You should ask Birlerion or Adilion about it. They were involved in stopping the Ascendants building the crystal arrays in the mountains.”

  Jerrol, casting an eye at the children, changed the subject. “Tris’eril, would you like to go home?”

  She nodded back at him shyly. Tris’eril had the Kirshan tattoo of the peaked mountain on her cheek.

  “Then we will take you home,” he promised as he reached for a tangle of ribbons. “Would you like one for your hair?” he asked with a smile. “Which would you like?”

  A small finger pointed at a bright red ribbon. “I agree. Good choice.” Jerrol began to untangle the ribbons. Tris slid out of Maraine’s arms and came to stand beside him. She leaned against his leg, watching his busy fingers. He finally managed to pull her chosen ribbon free, and he handed it to her. She ran it through her fingers then gave it to him and turned her back so he could tie up her curly brown hair. He scraped her hair together high on her head and tied the ribbon tightly.

  She shook her hair to make the pony-tail tickle her neck and smiled. Climbing into his lap, she rested her head against his chest and sucked her thumb, watching Mir’elle playing with the other ribbons. Tris’eril giggled at something that Mir’elle said, and Jerrol smiled, relieved she was relaxed enough to laugh.

  Another young girl entered the tent, older than Mir’elle but with enough of a likeness to claim family. Maraine smiled. “Ah, here is my elder daughter, Eli’sande. She will show the children where to sleep. Go with Eli’sande, my pet.” Maraine coaxed Tris’eril out of Jerrol’s lap. “It’s time to go to bed. You c
an share Mir’elle and Eli’sande’s room. She hugged the girls and then shooed them out, smiling at Eli’sande in thanks.

  Once the children left, her smile faded. “I’ll call another Master Conclave; the Families need to be informed of all of this. Atolea cannot solve this on our own. They need to be warned about what is eating away at them from the inside. We all need to clean house.” She bit her lip. “I’m not sure they will listen.”

  “They will listen to the Lady,” Jerrol promised. “Just get them together and I will set them straight. If they want to rule, they will listen.”

  Maraine nodded thoughtfully, watching him. “You have hidden depths, Captain.”

  “Find the forgotten. Heal the wounded,” he said, glancing at Kayerille. “It’s a start.”

  Birlerion’s shout warned him as Jerrol walked back to the guest tent with Kayerille. He deflected an arrow that ricocheted past them and raised his sword to block the downwards strike, which would have decapitated him had it connected. The impact of the blow ran up his arm and jarred his neck as he stepped back, absorbing the shock, and he blocked the following strike. Kayerille engaged behind him as more black shapes detached themselves from the shadows.

  Jerrol spared a glance and threw one of his daggers. A muffled grunt and one of the shapes fell back. His sword clashed, sparks flying as he parried another blow. Retreating under the frenzied attack, he ducked, spinning. His sword skittered off the man’s blade and screeched up its length. Jerrol pressed his advantage, forcing the man back, another dagger in his hand.

  He left the man slumping to the ground, and, gripping his bloody dagger in his left hand, he turned to meet the next attack, his sword flickering blue in the evening sunlight. Grimly advancing, he parried one blade and then the next. His blade flowed between his two opponents.

  A soft whir passed his ear and one of his opponents flinched. Jerrol took advantage of the distraction and hooked a foot, managing to trip one of them. His sword sliced the air, gleaming red as he spun into the other man, breaking his rhythm. Jerrol dropped to his knees as he rotated, his sword above his head as he slashed across the man’s stomach. The man gasped. His hands instinctively grabbed his stomach and his sword fell to the ground as he collapsed.