“The traeggars are being watched,” she whispered breathlessly in his ear. “We have to find another way.”
“Only other way is by trevloc, but he’s probably got eyes on those as well.”
They looked at each other for a moment, their hands still clasped together.
“There’s no other way,” Farrus said, reluctantly letting go of her hand. “Go to the inn. Get Enaya and Sim to the trevloc landing, right away. If they aren’t packed, tell them to leave their things behind.”
“And what will you do, Master Farrus?”
“I’ll do what I must,” he said rising to his feet, pulling the hood of his cloak over his head. “If I don’t make it to the trevloc in time to depart, forget me. I’ll do my best to find you in Nal’Dahara.”
Givara gave him a nod of respect, then turned on her heels and ran up the street toward the inn. Farrus took a deep breath and made his way to the main street, watching Givara sprint away. He couldn’t remember the last time he had kissed a woman. The taste of her lips stayed with him. His hand caressed the taut leather cords that wrapped around his sword hilt. It had been awhile since he had truly used his weapon. He wondered if he still could. With a mind full of doubt, Farrus turned left and did his best to focus.
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The heat was really beginning to bother Navan Prianhe. It was still relatively early in the morning, yet his shirt was already damp with sweat and sticking uncomfortably to his back. As he walked along the cobblestone streets of Carleton, he found his right hand frequently reaching behind his back to pull at his shirt. It was annoying.
Every day since he had come to this miserable tropical island had been worse than the day before. Constant, unbearable heat blazing down from a cloudless, unforgiving sky. How do people live like this he wondered? His own kind dwelled on the plains of Altrega, a land that had all four seasons. His home in Castle Desirmor saw its share of snow in the winter as well as rain in the spring and fall. Doesn’t it ever rain here? It was all so unnerving.
It really wasn’t the heat that was bothering him as he watched every person that passed him along the street. It was the young trival. There was something about him, something different that he couldn’t place. He’d sensed it as soon as he’d happened by the Kelmor Inn nearly a week ago. An informant had told him the sailor was likely to stop at the inn when he came into Dell, so Prianhe had decided it was worth a look. Watching the boy sweating in his garden that first afternoon, Prianhe became intrigued without reason. What a surprise it had been to find out the young man was a trival. And unregistered, he was certain.
Tracking the young man had proven fruitless. The road out of Dell was well worn from travel, making it impossible to distinguish footprints. Even his sense of smell, his strongest tracking asset had failed him. Between the pungent wheat fields, and the ever present ocean breeze bringing the nauseating smell of fish, Prianhe had been unable to detect even a hint of the young man’s presence. He had chosen Carleton because he assumed the trival would attempt to leave the island, and a fast moving traeggar seemed the best choice for passage away from Caramour. He had given a description of the man to every dockworker and shipmaster in the port, but none had any information to give. Perhaps he had guessed wrong. The young man had probably lived on Caramour his whole life. It was possible he had friends amongst the farmers across the plains or a fisherman along the coast. Maybe he had chosen to hide with a familiar face.
Prianhe wasn’t sure he could handle staying in the tropical climate any longer. A search of all the farms and shore huts could take weeks. It was making him furious. Enough of this, he thought to himself. With a mind to find an inn and soak in a cold bath, Prianhe turned on his heels and started back the way he had come.
After only two steps, he bumped into a beggar wearing a tattered gray cloak with the hood pulled over. Prianhe lost his footing on the uneven cobblestone and fell on his back, landing only a few feet from the beggar. As he spun his head around to give the man an earful, he noticed the sword coming free of its sheath and arcing towards his head. Reflexively, Prianhe freed his own sword bringing it up to defend against the attack. The beggar had swung with too much force and as the two swords met just inches from Prianhe’s neck, the man fell forward awkwardly. He landed on top of Prianhe, his weight pushing the sword blade closer to his neck. Prianhe struggled to keep the blade away, using all of his strength to push back against his attacker. A crowd of onlookers began to form on the street, average citizens wondering if the duel would end in blood. Prianhe got his knees up and planted a foot in his attackers gut, pushing him off and to his side. Both men quickly moved for their feet, but Prianhe was faster. He was up and had his sword at the man’s throat before the man could get off of his knees.
Prianhe stood before him, letting the man wait for his death. Then Prianhe saw his attackers face, and he froze. He knew those dull gray eyes. He knew that scar that split the man’s face from mouth to ear. It couldn’t be him.
The man saw an advantage and didn’t hesitate. He slapped the sword away from his throat with his own sword and bull rushed Prianhe, grabbing him around the hips and thrusting him into the gathered crowd. Not willing to keep the fight going, the man turned and ran down the street, disappearing into the crowd.
A burly dockworker reached a hand out to Prianhe to pull him to his feet. For several moments, all Prianhe could do was stare through the crowd in shock, wondering if his eyes had deceived him. With the matter resolved, most of the onlookers began going about their business leaving Navan Prianhe standing alone, his sword still in his hand, the tip resting on the cobblestone street.
He knew it was impossible. It had to be impossible. It had been twenty-five years since he had seen the face of Bale Farrushaw, but he was certain it was him.
“Bale is dead,” he said aloud, to no-one particular. “I watched him die.”
Slowly he began to think things through, and his mind kept coming back to the young trival. This is no coincidence, he thought. Bale must have something to do with the trival. He doubted, now that they were discovered, that they would try to leave on a traeggar, as the boarding process would take too long. When he’d arrived in the morning, Prianhe had seen a trevloc flying overhead. That meant there was a resting platform somewhere in the city.
He grabbed the first person that came by, a wide-eyed young man who looked native to the city, and asked about the trevlocs. The young man nervously pointed to a spot on the northern end of Carleton, a hill just barely visible above the rooftops. Prianhe threw the young man aside and started at a dead sprint for the hill. The thrill of the hunt surged within him. He would have the mysterious young trival, and then he would take care of a ghost from his past.
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The boy was a vexing situation. True, he was only three years younger, but he was stubborn, foolish, and impossible as well. Then again, Enaya thought to herself, all men were stubborn, foolish, and impossible. Her mother had been right about that.
Enaya wasn’t sure why she awoke that morning thinking of her mother, but as soon as she opened her eyes, her memories overtook her thoughts. There she was, a child of eight, sitting at her desk, straight and proper of course, with a felt pen and parchment, learning to write. Her mother’s honey-colored hair tickled the back of her neck as she copied lines. Isagelle Relador always hovered over her shoulder when she did lines. She could smell the lavender soap her mother used to wash her hair. Back then Enaya could only dream of being a woman as graceful and elegant as her mother. To Enaya, her mother seemed capable of solving any problem, ending any debate. She was infallible.
She remembered riding lessons when she was ten. Horses had always been a joy to ride, and Enaya was proud of the ease she had in commanding her mount. One day, riding beside her mother, the Earth began to quake and tremor, throwing Enaya from her saddle. Her horse began to thrash about f
earfully, kicking his legs chaotically as Enaya lay on the ground in danger of being trampled. Isagelle never seemed to panic. She used the trivarial power to quickly calm the horses and took control of the reins on Enaya’s mount. That’s what Enaya admired most about her mother. She never panicked. She was always in control. Enaya wished that she was more like her mother. Isagelle Relador was a woman to be reckoned with.
She wondered if destiny had chosen the wrong woman. Last night’s meeting with Farrus had been troubling. If Farrus was correct, then the Creator herself was living within the soul of a young girl, who had grown up sheltered in the very same inn that Siminus Kelmor had grown up in. That alone was a disturbing thought. If that naïve, helpless man-child had learned all he knows of the world in that inn, what hope was there for this girl, Maehril? At least Sim had Enaya to direct and guide him. What chance did Maehril have? She was a teenager, alone in the world for the first time. The situation was dire. Enaya could feel herself panicking. She wished there was a way to ask her mother for advice. Wishing didn’t do any good.
Givara had left some time ago without saying where she was going. Enaya still wondered sometimes about their relationship. Was she in charge or was Givara? Most of the time Givara dutifully performed every task asked of her, the very definition of a willing, obedient servant. Other times, like last night, she took charge making quick decisions and giving orders to be followed. Enaya was not accustomed to following orders. She had grown up wealthy with servants and attendants at her beck and call. She liked being the one giving the commands. She felt like a puppy with its tail between its legs when she had to take orders.
But the nature of her relationship with Givara was never fully explored. On the day of her fourteenth birthday, Givara had arrived at the door with a story nearly too impossible to believe. One of the three queens of legend, back from the underworld, to act as her guardian. What sane person would believe such a thing? Though Enaya had been skeptical, her mother had accepted Givara without question as though she was expecting her arrival. From that day, Givara had stayed by her side, always. She was there when she woke up in the morning, there throughout her lessons during the day, and by her door standing guard when she went to sleep at night. At times it could be frustrating having someone around you all the time, but Enaya had come to accept Givara as more than a guardian. She was family.
Family was a very important idea to Enaya. Her family had made countless sacrifices over the generations to ensure that the Alexidus bloodline endure and remain a secret. The names of relatives who had given their lives to protect the family secret had been taught to Enaya with the same importance as math or reading. To know now, without question, that the sacrifices had ultimately been made in her name was a daunting burden to carry. She had to succeed. She had to see the prophecies fulfilled. She had to be a woman worthy of her destiny. She couldn’t help but feel ashamed for doubting herself. Her mother would have been the better choice.
Enaya stood up and looked down at the green and yellow silk riding dress she had been wearing now for four days. In their rush to leave the city of Dell, they had been forced to leave behind all of their belongings. Years of constant travel had taught Enaya to travel light and simple, but she still missed a few of the garments she’d left behind. Roughing it was one thing. Enaya could handle long, difficult travel. But she still liked to present the best face possible at all times. Looking beautiful was work at times, but confidence was the reward.
She looked at the empty plate of sausages and eggs that Givara had left her for breakfast and wondered if Sim had eaten. Fool man was probably too thoughtless to feed himself.
She went to his door and listened outside for just a moment before loudly knocking several times. Even though she could clearly hear him rustling about within the room, it still took him far too long to answer the door.
He looked flustered when he finally let her in. His room was a mess. The linens from the bed were strewn about the floor. Water from the wash basin was pooling in a spot towards the back corner of the room, slowly soaking into the ashy gray wooden boards.
Sim didn’t look her in the eye when she entered, but turned and went to his bed, sitting hunched over with his elbows resting on his knees. He was perspiring. Enaya looked over his shirtless body, glistening and sweaty, tight corded muscles stretching the skin of his back and shoulders to the point of bursting. For a moment she forgot why she’d even come to his room as her eyes drank in his tan form. Agonizingly, she pulled her eyes away from him and noticed the empty porcelain plate stained with streaks of dried yolk sitting upon a stool by his bed. At least he had eaten, she thought to herself, trying to figure out what had happened in the room.
“What’s all this?” she said to him at last, waving her hands around the room. “Why are you so sweaty?”
He didn’t seem to hear her. His back and shoulders heaved rhythmically as he took heavy breaths, a sign that he was winded. The gem necklace which she had yet to see him take off lay on the bed next to his leg.
Finally he raised his head and considered her. His gray-green eyes looked tired, but that’s how they had looked every day since they had left Dell. Sim grabbed the necklace looping it on over his head as he stood up and faced her.
“Well, boy? What do you have to say for yourself?” Enaya asked.
His face darkened. “That’s the last time you’ll call me boy.”
Enaya smiled. She loved it when men tried to show some backbone. This was a game he wouldn’t win. She smiled sweetly. “Alright. What shall I call you then, boy?”
To her surprise he smiled. “So be it then,” he said, turning his back to her.
Enaya wasn’t done. “Well?” she teased. “What shall I call you, boy?”
The force Sim used was sudden and unexpected. Before she could react, Enaya was upside down, suspended in mid-air with the hem of her dress hanging down to cover her startled face.
“I asked you not to call me boy,” Sim said calmly.
All she could see were his boots. She grabbed at the fabric hanging in front of her face and angrily pulled it back so she could see the whole room. Her hair was reaching down, caressing the dusty floor beneath her head. That was embarrassing enough, until she realized with fright that her undergarments were partially exposed around the divided hem. Worse, Sim was noticing, and she convinced herself that he was leering at her delicate areas.
“HOW DARE YOU!” she screamed. “Siminus Kelmor. You put me down right this minute!”
Sim’s over exuberant laughter just made her blood boil even hotter. He got down on one knee and craned his neck in a mock effort to look her in the eye. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”
“PUT ME DOWN!” she roared, flailing her arms in hopes of catching him with a stray fist.
“Hmm. Let me see,” he said with an ear to ear grin. “You really want me to put you down?”
“You put me down this instant.”
“If you want to get down, you’re going to have to agree to a few changes.”
“Mark my words, Siminus Kelmor. If you don’t put me down right this instant, I swear I’ll make you regret it. Do you hear me?” Her mind was full of images of slapping the smile off of his face.
“Agree to my terms, and I’ll let you down,” he said calmly. He was still on his knees trying to meet her eye to eye.
Enaya tried kicking her legs about violently but found that it didn’t do any good. Whatever he had done, she was at his mercy. Unless…
“Don’t bother Enaya, it’s not working.” She had tried to use the trivarial power to lift him upside down, but she couldn’t make her power work. She wondered how he had known.
“Fine. What do you want?” Her stomach clenched at the idea that her hair was touching the dirty floor.
“My name is Sim, not boy. Is that clear?”
“Is that all?” she pouted.
Sim looked at her thoughtfully, a victorious smile on his stubbly face.
“You could tr
y being a bit nicer to me.”
“Very well.” He had caught her off guard with his display of power, but this would not happen again. “I will not call you boy again, and I will try to be nicer.”
Sim seemed to accept her word. Gently, she spun in the air until her head was upright, then she softly floated to the ground. She stepped awkwardly at first, her balance still trying to adjust. Sim stood in front of her, both arms folded across his chest, eyeing her as though she would try to gain revenge right away. Not a chance she thought, smoothing her dress and fixing her hair. I’ll pay him back when I’m ready, and he’ll wish he’d never been born.
“Think you’re clever, do you?” she scolded. Her hand was itching to slap the coy smirk off of his face. He had seen her delicates. If it wouldn’t have seemed like a weakness, Enaya could have vomited just thinking about him leering at her exposed areas.
“Relax Enaya. I just gave you a taste of your own medicine.”
“My own medicine?” she asked incredulously.
“Come on.” He really thought it was all some grand joke. “You’ve been riding me for days. Every other word out of your mouth is ‘fool’ or ‘child’. A man can only take so much.”
She wanted to scream at him, make him pay for shaming her and laughing about it. Taking a page from her mother’s book, Enaya chose instead to bite her tongue. There would be opportunities to pay him back.
She took a deep breath wrestling down the stress he caused her. “How did you do that, Siminus?”
He pointed to the gem around his neck. “I’ve been trying all morning. If I concentrate on an object, I can make it move…like the way you made the chair move in my room that night before the city was attacked.”
The Innkeeper's Son Page 16
