The Call of the Crown (Book 1)

by T. J. Garrett

  The Cren settled back. “That is it, all done.” The tall man settled back on his heels, a satisfied look in his eyes and a smile of contentment on his lips.

  Grady looked to each of them in turn. “All done? Is that—is that it? He is going to be all right?”

  “I think so,” Perrin said. “The Raic is out of him at any rate, and he is still alive. We will have to see. He will be sick and weak for a long time yet, but I’m sure he will recover—eventually.”

  Grady’s broad smile thinned at the last. “What do you mean eventually?” he asked.

  “He may be up and walking tomorrow, but you should not be surprised if it’s a week before he has much strength.”

  “Oh well, never mind that. At least he will survive. That is the main thing. Stone me, I was sure he was a goner. You two have worked a miracle, a bloody miracle!”

  The two Cren exchanged knowing glances with each other, as though they hadn’t told the whole story.

  “What is it?” Grady asked. His eyes were wide as he looked back and forth between them. “Don’t tell me there is a catch. Is he going to get well or not?”

  Perrin dropped his gaze and busied himself with clearing up. “The main thing is that he’s alive.”

  “No… what is wrong with him?” Grady folded his arms and tapped his foot impatiently.

  “Nothing’s wrong with him!” Perrin answered. “He is just… different. He has a Raic inside of him—a good Raic, yes. However, he will have changed. He will not be the same boy you knew. It may well be a shock for him. He is very young to have such a responsibility.”

  Grady sat on the ground and shook his head. “Come on! Do I have to drag it out of you? Stone me, speak plain, will you?”

  “It was a Crenach Raic that we gave Ealian, not an Am’bieth Raic. Am’bieths are ancient. The one that inhabits Olam probably lived a millennium ago, maybe even before language. He may have an impression of what is going on in his mind and the Raic may well influence his movement, teach him how to track beasts, give him affinity with certain animals, or a great understanding of herb lore.

  “The Crenach Raics are different. They are not ancient and your friend will be able to talk clearly with him. Until Ealian is older, the Raic may sometimes control him completely. It depends on who it was.”

  Grady shook his head again. “What do you mean, ‘who it was?’”

  “The Crenach Raic represents the essence of a single person.” Perrin turned more fully to Grady. “You haven’t met our leader Kirin’thar. Well, ‘Kirin’ was the name he was born with; ‘Thar’ is the Raic. They both live inside, share the mind and body.”

  “Oh no,” Grady said. “And I suppose you can’t take him out again.”

  “No! This is an honour! Most Cren study and train for a lifetime before taking a Raic. They are considered a blessing and treasured amongst our people. All of our council are Cren’raics.”

  “Well, I can think of somebody who isn’t going to be too pleased to hear that!”

  CHAPTER 28

  The Morrdin Line

  The moon rose one night past its full and cast a shimmering light from the southeastern sky. Winsome blankets of vivid starlight lay delicately against the dark, lightening the forest to a sea of dusky emeralds. The last mist of eventide soaked slowly to the river, blanketing the Raithby with a covering of silver down. It would be a bad night for the owls now hooting in the branches and for the tree fox Gialyn could hear scurrying. Their prey wouldn’t be coming out tonight, not in this much light.

  The travellers followed their Cren guides southwards along the forest’s edge, down the sloping grassland and along the riverbank. They marched in single file through the thin trees that appeared to want to slant over the water’s edge. Their pace was quick despite the night, as all could see the track Cal followed. The sharp rock and hard shale made the going firm underfoot and level. Yet they remained mindful of their footing; a pace to the right would see them down a steep slope and into the fast-running river. Gialyn, in particular, was mindful. He knew, should you fall in, the river wouldn’t give you up for a long ways yet.

  The pace remained steady for the first hour and more. Steady and quiet, nobody wanted to talk; all seemed determined to get the task done. Not even Elspeth bothered to look at the scenery. She undertook the by now familiar chore of looking no farther than one pace ahead. Then Cal, the head woodsman, stopped abruptly. He raised his hand and called Daric and Olam forward. Daric squeezed past Arfael. Olam was already there.”

  “What is it, friend?” Olam asked.

  “There are tracks here.” Cal pointed to the ground near a clump of wild berry and lemon-leaf bushes. “By the pattern, I would say many men spent the night.”

  “Yes,” Daric said. “That would be the Salrians. Seems they went on ahead of our party and laid in wait for us at the gully.”

  Cal nodded but didn’t look convinced. He kept walking anyway. Maybe that was a problem for another time, or maybe he just didn’t care. His long, relaxed stride ate up the trail. The Cren’s movements seemed slow, though it was hard for the travellers to keep up. He moved with headless ease, swaying around branches and under bows, while the travellers trod carefully, mindful of every obstacle, wary of trips and scratches. The other Cren, Mateaf, walked at the rear of the procession and laughed quietly to himself at their fumbling.

  They followed the river for near on an hour. Uneventful but for the remarks made as they passed the point where the wolves rescued Daric and Gialyn. They crossed the river at a staggered causeway and turned south. The trail dwindled to a trace as the forest thickened around them. The once-bright moon faded to flashes of silver, stilted by the thickening canopy. Still, there was enough light to continue at a fair pace.

  After a further hour, Elspeth, who was at the back of the line, one in front of Mateaf, heard a noise amongst the broad-leafed plants and bushes to the right of the trail, a whelping “hoot” and the clamber of soft feet on soggy ground. She pulled back the wide leaves as though opening a window into another world. A deep ravine, completely hidden from the trail, lay before her. A thin waterfall plunged ten spans into a beautiful, clear pool. She could make out shapes in the darkness. Maybe six or seven long, thin creatures, with sleek fur coats and puppy-like faces, busied themselves by the side of the water. Two seemed at play, while two more were perhaps fishing. The rest lay idle on the bank.

  She took a slow step forward, cracking a twig underfoot. The creatures playing by the bank looked up and hooted, as though saying, “Hello.” They appeared to smile at her. Elspeth couldn’t help but smile back. “What beautiful creatures,” she whispered.

  “They’re Culb’coi, err… forest otters. I’m not sure if you have a translation,” Mateaf said.

  “Yes. They look like otters, I suppose.” Elspeth moved to the side so the tall Cren could see more clearly. “But they’re so big, the size of small horses, with shorter legs, of course.”

  “Many creatures here grow to an unusual size,” Mateaf said. “Some say it is because of the aorand. I think it is the forest. I mean, not all animals eat fruit.”

  Elspeth looked sideways at Mateaf. “Fruit… strange fruit, I can’t see how.” She turned back to the otters. “Whatever it is, it is incredible.”

  Mateaf smiled kindly, as though glad of her appreciation of the forest. “I would tell you more of it, but we should move on. We will get left behind.” He nodded along the track to where Gialyn and the others had all but disappeared around a particularly thick clump of trees.

  “Oh… Yes, gods, I don’t want to get lost in here.” Immediately, she realised that was a fool thing to say. It wasn’t as if Mateaf wouldn’t know where he was going. She turned to hide her reddening cheeks and set off at a pace to catch up to the others.

  It was approaching midnight when Daric and the others noticed things had turned for the worse. The trees changed to a kind that the travellers hadn’t seen before. Long, straight, branchless trunks rose high up to a
flat, horizontal canopy that all but covered the sky. No light at all made it through, and no life lived on the ground, either, save a few small tufts of moss and the odd—very odd—mushroom. Cal told them the trees were the Morrdin, a line of ancient broadleaf that ran the length of Crenach’coi. Starting at its northernmost point, near Taris, south past the Raithby, and then east, very nearly all the way to the Cuanmor Sea—nearly three hundred leagues in all. Yet the band of Morrdin was only three or so miles wide at its thickest. The roots of the looming, menacing trees followed a parallel route along the ageless line of the Eurmac Canyon. As though that rip in the earth was their only choice for home.

  “Keep close in here,” Cal said. “And stay on the path. It is easy to get lost, even for Cren.” Cal stopped abruptly and turned to address them, as though suddenly remembering something. “And mind your thoughts. Dwell not on melancholy. Talking to each other helps.”

  “What do you mean? Why should we mind our thoughts?” Olam asked.

  “The Morrdin breed despair, my friend. They will have you on your knees, at your wits end, if you let them.”

  “I don’t doubt it!” Daric said as he looked about at the miserable landscape.

  The travellers stumbled, hand to shoulder, through the relentless vertical lines of trees, each a perfect copy of the last. The sinewy bark oozed black sap that would make the eyes water of anyone who got too close. The roots… the roots were nowhere to be seen. They must have dug vertically straight down into the earth. The ground between the trees was as flat as a good village green—though not at all green, more an earthy shade of yellow—and virtually lifeless, apart from those hideous mushrooms. Where did those things come from? Thick, sweaty, deep-purple monstrosities, they smelled nearly as bad as the tree sap.

  Olam and Arfael had handed out short lines of string, normally used to tie off their food bundle. All had fastened them at the wrist or about their waist. They fumbled on in near pitch darkness for ten minutes before Elspeth remembered her little lantern. She took it from her pack and was about to strike a Tup-stick when…

  “You should not do that, Elspeth.” Mateaf took her gently by the wrist and pulled her hand away from the striker.

  “Why not? It’s only a little wax lantern, just a candleholder, really,” she said.

  Mateaf brought his mouth to her ear and whispered. “As with most kingdoms, Elspeth, it is the evil things that like the dark.” He cast a wary eye into the forest and patted Elspeth reassuringly on the shoulder.

  “Ah… I see,” she whispered back with an expression that said she wished she’d never asked. She put away the lantern and quickly caught up to Olam.

  Daric and Gialyn walked side by side. Daric had a line on Arfael, who seemed to be able to see quite well in the dark. Gialyn decided to take Cal’s advice and try talking. He wasn’t feeling any ill effects, but the Morrdin were… unnerving. “What do you think Mother would say if she could see me now?” he asked.

  “What would she say to you?” Daric laughed. “Nothing. She would be too busy beating me around the head with a cook pot.”

  Gialyn laughed. His heart was high with the newly found respect his father afforded him. “I don’t know about that. Look where we are: in a strange forest, walking behind a hero of Blai’nuin, being led to a mysterious village by one of the Cren. We have survived attacks, bitter weather, and kidnappings. Stayed the night in a wolf village and travelled halfway across Aleras.” Gialyn giggled at the absurdity of it. “If we told half of that to any of the folk back home… I wouldn’t change anything, except for poor Ealian, of course.”

  Again, Daric appeared surprised by his attitude. “You are still glad you came, despite all that has happened.”

  “Yes!”

  “I wish I had not!” Elspeth said. She’d been eavesdropping.

  “Why?” Gialyn asked.

  “Do you have to ask?”

  Gialyn’s cheeks flushed. How could he be so stupid? “Sorry. Uh… I—I should have thought.” He put hand to heart and bowed. “I’m sure your brother is going to be fine, now that the woodsmen are helping.”

  Elspeth became sombre and swallowed down a sigh. Since entering the Morrdin, her nerves had stretched to near breaking; she could feel the pain of earlier events. “That’s not the worst of it,” she whispered. She was about to continue, about to tell them what had happened in Be’olyn. “Never mind,” she said, shaking her head and backing up a step.

  Daric slowed and came level at her side. “Are you all right, Elspeth?” he said. “What has happened? And don’t say it is nothing. I can see you are troubled, and it isn’t just Ealian.”

  The image of the man she’d killed flashed before her eyes. The hole in his boot—why could she not get the image of that bloody hole in his boot out of her mind? Elspeth didn’t know whether to speak of it or not. It had pinched at her wits since the cellar in Be’olyn. Now the Cren were treating Ealian, it was free to come to the fore. Dwell not on melancholy. It was too late for that. Those foul trees had her snared. The images were beating away in her head like a living nightmare. The pangs of guilt and vivid memory burned into her soul. Her mind spun with a thousand thoughts, but none was clear enough to grasp. Quickly, she turned to despair that lay beyond all hope and understanding. Her breath hastened; a panic reached into her chest and throat. Then… finally, “I killed a man today!” she said in a squealing, crying whimper.

  Daric stopped dead in his tracks. “Hold!” he shouted. The procession came to a standstill. “Come with me.” He pulled Elspeth off to the side.

  “Quickly, explain!” he said. His mood was urgent and quite unlike any she had witnessed.

  She gathered herself and began. “Grady was being attacked.” She sobbed. “And it happened so fast! The knife was above the man’s head and I… I just…” Tears streamed from her eyes. “And I just had to! I had to! I had to do it!” Her knees gave way and she fell forward. Grabbing hold of Daric, she pushed her crying eyes into his shoulder.

  Daric looked to the heavens, his face full of compassion and regret. Regret for her. As far as he was concerned, she was the victim. He knew Be’olyn, or at least he knew the type that lived there. “You poor child,” he said. “You should have said something earlier.” Daric pushed her hair to one side and kissed her forehead. “You know you saved a good man’s life.” He cradled her head in his hands and looked squarely into her eyes. “I’m proud of you, Elspeth Tanner! By the gods, I’m proud of you. What you did took great courage.

  “Nothing but time will ease your mind, Elspeth. And there are certainly no kind words I can say to ease your suffering. But know this: one day you will look back and understand there was no choice. You may hate the man for forcing your hand, or curse the day you chose to go to Be’olyn. Mark me, the pain will not stay forever. Maybe when that big lummox of a friend of mine has children, you will look at them and realise, if it weren’t for you…” The two of them stood for a long moment in a silent embrace, Elspeth sobbing while Daric shushed away the fear.

  “Are we going?” Cal shouted.

  Daric straightened and squared Elspeth up by her shoulders. “Come. Let’s get this errand done and get back to your brother.”

  Elspeth smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Re’adh.”

  “It is my pleasure, Miss Tanner.” He made a bow fit for a regent.

  Elspeth laughed while wiping away her tears.

  Gialyn, Olam, and Arfael, having heard much of what was said, made a show of not making any more fuss. Gialyn shuffled his feet; Olam feigned an interest in a clump of the weird mushrooms, Arfael… Arfael—who could see her well enough in the dark—put out a hand and squeezed her shoulder gently. “Come, little one. You walk with me. Tell me about Albergeddy,” he said.

  She took his arm and they carried on through the darkness.

  CHAPTER 29

  Kirin’thar’s Message

  Gialyn tried not to think about Elspeth. He tried not to imagine what she must have been going thr
ough. She killed a man! Whether it be self-defence or not, things could never be the same for her. And how could he talk to her now? Gods, she’s a bloody hero! How could he compete with that? No, not compete. How could he ever hope to understand? A stab of shame hit his gut. He was doing it again—worrying about himself, worrying how these things affected him instead of caring about how they might hurt others. He hated that, hated how shallow it made him feel.

  Suddenly, Gialyn remembered the Morrdin, remembered he wasn’t supposed to dwell on melancholy. He forced down a nervy gulp and put his hand to his mouth, as though he’d spoken his thoughts. Abruptly, he realised he felt normal. “Are we out of those trees?” he asked.

  “Just,” Cal said. “There is still the odd one or two, but we are out of the worst of it. It will be getting lighter soon.”

  Gialyn sighed with relief, loud enough for Daric to notice.

  “Are you all right, son? You aren’t feeling—”

  “No, no. I’m fine, really. I—I just couldn’t see, that is all,” Gialyn answered.

  Daric gave his son a sideways glance. “So long as you’re sure, son.” Gialyn’s father looked over his shoulder and spat an inaudible curse back along the track. “Bloody hateful things. I hope they plan on bringing us back during the daylight.”

  “Would that make any difference?” Gialyn asked.

  “Well, it can’t be worse. At the least we might get through it quicker.” Gialyn nodded.

  The group kept good order for the next two hours, until finally they approached an area of thin brush land. From its edge, they could see the neat roofs and chimneys of their destination: the Cren village of Brae’vis.

  Cal led the group along a wide path that cut through a copse of oak and birch. At its edge, a short, steep dip wound its way into a narrow gully. A sturdy wooden footbridge crossed the wide, fast-moving stream. Once over, another short path wound back up the bank and then immediately stopped at a thick but low gate.