by E. J. Godwin
Soren barked a laugh. “A Treth! A Treth in the service of the Loremaster of Ada!”
“Actually, for a job like this, she prefers foreigners. It eliminates any preconceptions or prejudices.”
“That sounds just like her,” Caleb said.
Rennor kept his attention on Soren. “Wait a minute—you’re the Master Raén of Ada. You’re Soren!” He bowed. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”
Soren made no reply. Caleb introduced himself and asked, “Don’t you have a horse?”
“I lost it a while back—broke his leg crossing a river.” A brief loathing marred his features. “I had to put him down.”
“Better than eaten alive by wolves,” said Soren.
Rennor brightened a little at this comment, then glanced at the pack horse. He shifted his pack on his shoulders, grimacing. “I, um, don’t suppose I could impose on you—assuming you’re headed for Enilií.”
“Well, there hasn’t been much for our pack horse to carry these last few days,” Caleb answered. “I think we can rearrange a few things.”
The Master Raén turned a slow stare. “That is not your decision—recruit!”
Caleb squared his shoulders. “Be a friend to strangers—isn’t that how it goes? Or are you suggesting it’s no longer part of the Oath?”
Soren shifted his attention back to Rennor, his hand twitching at the hilt of his Fetra. Finally he lowered his sword. “I’d be obliged to help you if you were telling the truth. But this could be nothing more than a clever story. Unless you can offer some kind of proof, I can’t allow your company.”
“Ridiculous,” said Caleb before Rennor could answer. “Imagine how Telai will feel if we refuse to help one of her trusted servants.”
The angry flush on Soren’s weathered face was nearly lost in the reddening sunlight. “Imagine a grown man blinded by a lovesick heart!”
Caleb bridled at the accusation. “I’m as good a judge of character as you are, Soren. And I refuse to tell her I stranded her friend in the middle of nowhere—assuming I ever get back to Ekendoré. Let him ride with us, and let his deeds prove his words, the same thing you said about me in Udan!”
Soren glared at him. Caleb stood undaunted, however, and the old Raén slammed his Fetra back in its sheath.
“So be it!” he cried. “Though I have a nagging feeling I’ll regret this,” he said, facing Rennor, “you may ride with us—in front! And we’re on a critical mission. When we get to Enilií, you are under strict orders not to reveal our presence there. To make sure you obey this command, you’re to stay at the same inn until we’re gone.”
“You have nothing to worry about,” Rennor said. “And I’m hardly in a position to refuse.”
Soren opened his mouth to reply, but Caleb intervened. “Enough, Soren. There’s a limit to legitimate suspicion.”
The Master Raén mounted his horse. “Is that so?” he said, and pointed at Caleb. “You, my trusting Raéni tenderfoot, can stand the first watch by the door tonight—and I hope, by Orand, you do a better job of it than you did in Dernetondé.”
♦
The light was fading fast, and they resumed their journey with one addition to their party. The stranger rode in front as required. Caleb, however, curious about the man’s occupation and defiant of Soren’s evil stares, rode beside him asking many questions. Something about Rennor struck a note of familiarity, one he had difficulty pinning down. It was as if he had met him in a forgotten dream or a former life. But Rennor, apparently offended by the Master Raén’s distrust, only offered polite, noncommittal responses. Caleb gave it up and fell back to ride beside Soren.
After a few miles the tall oaks gave way to the more open country of outlying fields and pastures, with the amber lights of farmsteads springing to life in the dusk. Harvest was in full swing here, and they passed an occasional rider or wagon returning home from market. Caleb, still eager to learn more about Ada, watched them with fascination: a boy not much older than Warren riding a huge draft horse; migrant workers emerging from the fields after a long day of back-breaking toil; and a farmer driving a cart loaded with winter supplies, his teenage daughter hunched beside him with her arms folded and her face a brewing storm.
Midnight approached. Caleb could barely keep his eyes open. Even Soren drooped in the saddle, and Warren had already dozed off, Caleb holding him in place as their horses plodded down the road.
At last they crested a low hill to see the shimmering lights of Enilií. There were no high towers or majestic works of stone. Most every building they passed was built of cut timber or carefully joined logs, some embellished with hand-carved doors and window frames. Though loud and frenetic during the harvest, the city was peaceful at this late hour, save for the occasional raucous surge from a nearby alehouse.
An unexpected familiarity soothed Caleb’s fears. He remembered Telai’s lessons about this city and how it had taken him back to the tales of the ancient north Karla had told him about. Mostly Adan with a mixture of Treth, Enilií’s cheerful and hospitable folk consisted of traders, trappers, smiths, stone masons and miners of the Irenseni, as well as the farmers of the surrounding countryside. During the long months of deep snows they shared everything, a tradition handed down from the town’s early years of hardship—the same struggle those ancient towns on Earth had once known.
After much searching and arguing and craning of necks they found a vacancy notice posted at a two-story structure near the western border of town: the Outer Inn. Twin lanterns suspended by iron brackets illuminated wide double doors facing the street. After a ring of the bell and a long wait two servants appeared, disheveled and bleary-eyed. They took their horses to the stables on the north side of the building.
Beyond the entrance lay a wide hall, rustic and silent, with large, round tables beneath a forest of upturned chairs. The only light came from the embers of a dying fire at one end of the hall, and from a small lamp burning on a counter toward the back. No one was there. Soren led the way, threading through the maze of furniture with the others close behind. When he arrived at the counter he noticed a tiny brass bell hung by a cord.
With one yank it gave out a harsh little jingle. After a minute or two a pair of eyes peeked around the corner: a short, sturdy Trethan woman with dark, tousled hair. She blinked and yawned, adjusted her nightgown on her shoulders, then approached the counter.
“Raéni, if I’m not still dreaming. What do you need an inn for—unless you’re part of the search out of Udan?”
What search, Caleb almost said, but received a swift hard kick from Soren before the second word was out. A ribald Terran curse fell, but it was meaningless to everyone except Warren, who gazed up at his father in bleary astonishment.
“Yes,” Soren answered. “And we ask that you keep our stay here a secret, to keep from tipping off our quarry. Do you have rooms?”
“You’re lucky. With all the migrant workers from Trethrealm, we’re usually full this time of year.”
“Well? How much?”
“Six krel per night, four after the second night.”
Soren grunted. “No wonder you have vacancies.”
There was a heavy sigh. “Do you want a room or not?”
He nodded. “We’ll take one.”
“One?” the other men asked in unison.
He pointed at Rennor. “I want him where I can see him.”
“How much longer do I have to put up with this?” Rennor said, blood rising to his cheeks. “I’ll never prove myself to someone as suspicious as you.”
“Your company was not my idea,” he said, and shot an accusing glance at Caleb.
“Curse you, Soren,” said Caleb. “I can’t believe you and Telai are of the same race.”
The old Raén smoldered. Doubtless he was building up to some climactic retort, but he lost his chance.
The innkeeper reached up and gave the bell a vigorous yank. “I’ll settle this for you: there’s only one room left. And if you keep it up, t
here’ll be none!” She leaned forward to look at Warren, who had plopped down on a footstool near the wall, his head drooping. “Stop your bickering, and get that poor child to bed!”
Caleb put all his power into a dark stare, but she stood resolute. Soren dug into his pockets, muttering, while Rennor frowned, no doubt having serious misgivings about sharing the same room. But no one had the heart to go out and hunt for another inn.
The Master Raén slapped the money on the counter. “One night!”
Caleb could have argued with that as well, but decided not to push his luck. “Is there any food available?” he asked the innkeeper. “We’re famished.”
The woman gripped the counter. “It’s bad enough to wake me and my staff past midnight, but I’ll be damned if I ask them to fire up the stove, cook a meal, then clean up afterward for only four! I can give you some cold biscuits or fruit, but if you want a hot meal you’ll either have to find another inn, or wait until morning. The others will be along in a minute with your belongings.”
Caleb fumed, but there was nothing to be done about it, so they followed her down a narrow hall to a room near the back of the inn. It was one bed short, but Warren could share with his father, and both were too tired to care, anyway. The woman, more helpful than she sounded, fetched two large baskets filled not only with biscuits and fruit but with cheese, a few cold meat pies, a flask of milk and, best of all, a bottle of raspberry wine.
Warren was fast asleep in bed before the others had finished eating. They sat near the fire, the mellow flames casting shadows over their weary faces, and fought to keep their bloodshot eyes open long enough for a brief discussion.
“What did she mean by search out of Udan?” Caleb asked, his words slurring together. The strong wine was having its effects. “Is it what I think it is?”
Soren watched the fire, deep in thought. “Maybe,” he answered at last. He turned his glance on Caleb. “You were an idiot to bellow out my name like that.”
Caleb was too tired for a rebuttal. Rennor said, “If you don’t mind my asking: what’s this all about?”
Soren shook his head. “Not your concern.”
Rennor brooded for a moment before turning to Caleb. “It sounds like you know Mistress Telai pretty well.”
“You could say that. We—” he started, then shrugged. “I consider her a close friend, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Then I would be doing her a disservice if I didn’t offer to help.”
“The only help we need from you is your promise to keep quiet,” Soren answered.
Rennor blew his breath out in exasperation. Caleb said, “You know, Soren—maybe there is a way he can help. In fact, I don’t see how we can do without him.”
“Indeed!” Soren blurted. “How so?”
“Supplies. How in Ada were you planning to get supplies without being recognized?” Soren only stared blankly at him, and Caleb said, “Unless you’re considering theft, of course.”
The Master Raén’s stare blackened dangerously. “I admit we are in this together, recruit, and depend upon each other for many things.” He aimed a finger at him. ”But that does not give you license to disrespect. Remember your place!”
He turned to Rennor, letting Caleb simmer in silence. “You’re willing to do this? Get our supplies?”
“Of course. Just tell me what you need.”
Soren rubbed his eyes. “Very well. It seems we have no choice but to stay until at least the second morning. We need a day’s rest anyway. In the meantime, don’t leave the room unless it’s absolutely necessary. We’ll have our meals sent to us.”
“Are you surprised about the search?” Caleb asked.
“Nothing has been proven yet,” he said, rising. “And we’ve discussed this matter long enough.”
Caleb let the matter drop. They were safe, for the night at least. Soren made no mention of keeping watch, thankfully, and in a few minutes they were all in bed and sound asleep.
15
A Bridge Crossed
Fate has a way of rewarding the foolish.
- Allera, Second Underseer of Spierel
TELAI STIFLED a yawn as she rode, lulled by the sway of Eiveya’s broad back. The small mining town of Onayonlé, with its evening lights scattered along the eastern slope of the valley, lay behind her. To her right, past where the river Séinen tumbled out of the foothills, the Iéndrai glowed like fire in the last rays of the sun.
At the west end of Onayonlé, the road crossed the river’s dangerous rapids over an old arched bridge, built centuries ago by the masons and miners who first settled the town. Local caretakers had already lit the torch lamps along its parapets. Few folk lived past the river, or indeed anywhere along the North Road between here and Enilií. Yet as the big mare climbed the slope and left the bridge and its flaring torches behind, Telai searched the gathering dark for a familiar light.
At last she spotted it. She turned up a narrow path angling to the right, where it wound its way among the stone outcroppings and wind-blasted pines. Before long a tiny house sprang out of the gloom, the white granite slabs of its walls barely visible against the lamp shining in its window.
Telai stopped at the hitching rail and slid down from the saddle. She stretched, then grimaced and put a hand to her back.
Eiveya turned an indifferent stare at her rider. “Don’t give me that look!” Telai said. “I knew the minute we left I’d be paying for my neglect.” She wrested out her duffel bag, tied Eiveya’s lead rope to the hitching rail, and stepped to the door.
It swung open immediately to her knock. A comforting yellow light flooded out, and a tall man with a thin, wrinkled face and a white mop of hair stood grinning at the threshold.
Telai shook her head. “Anidrin, you always answer the door as if you already knew I was coming.”
“Or else I have a little house,” he said. His voice sounded as strong and defiant of his age as it did on her last visit. He noticed the duffel bag. “I’ll stable your friend out there and bring in the rest of your belongings.” He waved her inside, then shut the door on the way out.
She stopped at the center of the house, admiring its humble surroundings. A worn oak table occupied the right side of the room, and a small iron stove in the left corner radiated a level of warmth that marked an old man’s waning years. She closed her eyes and released a long sigh of contentment.
Telai placed her bag on the table, and sat in one of the narrow-backed wooden chairs on either side. Anidrin had lived in this stone shack for most of his life, a quiet, isolated existence as a local tanner in contrast to his better-known brother, Acallor. It was Acallor, Loremaster of Spierel, who had first set her on the path of historical discovery—back when she was a sulky girl of fifteen who thought the world spared no effort to make her miserable. Acallor had taught her to love her craft through patience and discipline, for which she would forever be grateful.
But he was a reserved man, unlike his older brother. Anidrin had taken an immediate liking to Telai, admiring her not as a scholar but as a promising young woman, even as a daughter. Telai could not help but respond. In the years since she had learned to trust him, revealing hopes and fears she would never dream of discussing in the cold chambers of Spierel’s ancient towers.
Some time passed before Anidrin returned. Telai knew he was treating Eiveya with the same care she always did: brushing her down, cleaning her hooves, and making sure she had plenty of grain and water.
The door creaked open at last. “Anidrin, I’m beginning to think you get more pleasure out of seeing Eiveya than me.”
“She’s a fine animal, for sure,” he said as he hung his coat near the door. “But you’re a fish calling a duck wet!”
She grinned. “I have to admit, there aren’t many people whose company I prefer to hers.”
Anidrin beamed at the hidden compliment. “Give me a minute and I’ll heat up that leftover batch of dumplings.”
Telai groaned in ecstasy. “Dumplings!
You’re a sweetheart!”
The conversation lagged as Anidrin prepared the food, but Telai didn’t mind. She stretched her legs under the table, hands behind her head, breathing in the delicious aroma. How many times had she longed for this simple life, especially this last year? But she knew it was an illusion. She could never waste away the years like that, until her passion for discovery had withered to a stale memory.
The dumplings were ready, and Anidrin occupied himself with a few chores while Telai gave all her attention to her appetite. He insisted on cleaning up afterward, and offered up the one padded chair he owned, a patched monstrosity next to where the lantern still burned on the windowsill. It was much more comfortable than it looked, and Telai nodded off almost the moment she sank into it.
The polite clearing of a throat snapped her eyes open. Anidrin sat by the table wearing a puckish grin.
“Not much company, am I?” Telai said. “I hope I’m not getting old before my time.”
“Humph! A fine thing to say to a man nearly three times your age.”
“Ah, but it runs in the family, Anidrin—at least on my mother’s side. I’d be lucky to do as well as you.” She shrugged. “If I’m still around, that is.”
The old man drummed his knobbly fingers on the table. “I suppose you’re referring to this latest news about the Medallion.”
Telai fingered a loose thread on the arm of the chair. “You’ve heard?”
“Day before yesterday. One of the Raéni messengers stopped at the relay station near the inn.”
“A dispatch rider? From where?”
“I wasn’t there at the time. But rumor has it he rode straight from Udan.”
“I don’t understand. They already sent one to Wsaytchen. Why didn’t they stick to protocol and let the Overseer relay the message?”
Anidrin shrugged. “Speaking of protocol—why has the Grand Loremaster left Ekendoré?”
She hesitated. “Isn’t it obvious? I need to confirm the Medallion.”
“You forget who you’re talking to, Telai. Any Loremaster can do that.”
