“But I think you’re right—about the Triad that is,” Trell concluded. “I do as the Emir asks of me, but while I’ve never lost sleep over battling Nadori infidels, some part of me cringes at fighting the men of Dannym or Veneisea, as if I know I’m slaughtering my own blood.”
Unthinking, Trell’s hand found its way to the sword at his hip, a sleek blade with a silver hilt and sapphire pommel stone, a brilliant gem whose clarity and vibrant color made even the Bemothi traders envious. The sword was his only possession, his only connection to the life he’d once led, and though it served as merely another mystery, Trell considered himself blessed to have it.
High above the Sand Sea, the six dragons had completed their midair rendezvous—or whatever the purpose of their gathering—and were breaking away into pairs again. They flew north, west, south, but not east, for there the Nadori army waited on the far side of the vast sea of dunes.
The war had gotten bloodier in the past fortnight, though the enemy dared not try to retake Raku again—not after the slaughter on the Khalim Plains. Trell had ridden through that wasteland of death, and he shuddered at the memory. Now the Emir’s forces were deployed along the Sand Sea escarpment, and so long as the Veneisean army remained trapped across the River Cry—which duty had been assigned to Trell’s company of Converted until their unexpected reprieve two days past—then the Emir’s troops had only to concern themselves with their northern flank.
“Do you think we’ll win?” he asked Ware without removing his eyes from the dispersing dragons.
The Agasi shrugged and wiped an arm across his sweaty brow. “Who can say? I’m not even certain what you’d call a victory. How do the Basi put it? ‘As long as the land has been blistered by the Kutsamak the mountains have played host to war. ’Tis more apt to call them the haunted mountains—Raine’s truth, we’re like to be walking on the dust of the dead even now.”
A whistle of alert from one of the men called their attention back to the ridge, where a turbaned Basi was scampering down the steep incline. Trell recognized the holy man Istalar, who would be their guide through the shrine. “The time comes,” someone commented, referencing Istalar’s return from watching the position of the sun.
Trell and Ware exchanged a look and then dismounted. Trell grabbed his satchel with his few possessions and slung the strap diagonally across his chest. Then he turned toward the jutting cliffs in front of them wearing an uneasy frown.
More unsettling than the scent of magic that permeated the air those days, raising the hackles of any self-respecting soldier, was the feel of the place they were about to go. Trell had sworn no oaths to the Emir’s desert gods—he wasn’t Converted—but he was the first to admit that something sentient resided in the shrines of the Kutsamak.
The holy man came to a dusty halt in front of them. An elder member of the Emir’s own tribe, he wore a silver and black-striped turban, one fold of which was pulled across his nose and mouth. This he removed to speak, revealing a heavy grey beard. “It is time, A’dal,” he reported to Trell, using the desert word for leader. “We are allowed to enter now to receive a blessing on your quest.”
Trell nodded wordlessly.
The holy man led away, skirting the ridge toward the sheer cliff at its end. Trell glanced to left and right and then followed, but he couldn’t help feeling exposed on the open mountainside, even dressed in his earth-hued tunic and britches that blended so well with the sand…even with the Mage’s dragons patrolling the sky.
A shadow befell them as they walked, and Ware looked up as a pair of Sundragons flew between them and the sun, casting them into blessed shadow. “Never thought I’d be grateful for those beasts,” the Agasi muttered.
Trell matched his gaze, peering in his intense way. “I still wish Graeme could’ve seen them.”
“Graeme was a good lad, true enough,” Ware remarked, “and I know he was your brother-in-blood, but he wouldn’t have appreciated these creatures as you do.” The dragons moved on and the sun returned, and Ware settled Trell a discerning look. “Graeme was not your equal, my friend. Few men are.”
Trell barked a laugh. “Save your honeyed words for the ladies.”
Ware made to respond but seemed to change his mind, perhaps when he noticed that Trell’s expression had quickly sobered. Ware often criticized Trell for spending more time in his head than was prudent; even in battle he maintained a sort of pensive composure, an attribute all of his men had commented upon. Ware peered at him curiously. “What’s going on in that head of yours today? You’re even more aloof than usual.”
Trell shot him a sideways look. “I am never aloof.”
Ware held his gaze. “You know what I mean.”
Trell turned profile again and frowned, because he did know what the other man meant. Dare I tell him? Raine’s truth, I’m desperate to talk to someone. But could a man like Ware understand the constant torment of not knowing one’s own memory? Could he understand the fear Trell harbored over his unknown past or the feelings of frustration and duty that drove him to embark on his current course? To his own shame, Trell didn’t trust that Ware could. He said instead, “I heard you might be going on mission for the Emir’s Mage.”
“Aye, that’s so.” Ware’s gaze in return spoke plainly of his wish to know what Trell would be doing now that their company had been pulled from the lines—it would take a dimwit indeed not to wonder what sort of fell assignment Trell had been given that it required a god’s blessing. But Ware would never question his A’dal, even if the question was burning his tongue. “I think everyone’s grateful to be away from the Cry,” Ware answered, turning in profile to frown at Istalar’s back, “though some of these younger fools can’t believe anyone could tire of battle and glory. But since the Khalim Plains…”
He glanced out across the Sand Sea, his gaze darkening perhaps with the memory of what had transpired among the maze of dunes. “Well, I’ve seen enough of death for a while, and the Mage is rumored to have many errands he needs run—chancy quests, they say, ripe with danger. Sounds like my kind of entertainment,” he added with a wink.
“No doubt.” But Trell’s smile didn’t quite match his gaze.
“I dunno…” Ware continued as if compelled to explain himself. “After what the Emir’s Mage did for us on the Khalim Plains, well…men are lining up to serve him. I guess I’m one of them.”
Trell arched brows. “Lining up? I hadn’t heard that.”
Ware scratched at his beard and regarded Trell shrewdly. “They say when the Mage speaks, even the Emir listens.”
Trell pulled off his cap and pushed a hand through his dark hair, dislodging wavy locks that seemed perpetually tousled despite having been beneath a hat all day. The Emir’s Mage…he thought with narrowed gaze.
The man had arrived at the front six moons ago seeming little more than the Emir’s shadow at the time, a quiet stranger with a genteel manner and a compelling gaze. Six moons…and now the Emir fell silent at his command?
The Mage unsettled Trell in other ways also. Since the man’s arrival, Trell had found the Emir too often cloistered behind locked doors—and himself excluded from his usual confidence.
Clenching his cap in his fist, Trell turned to look full at Ware. “Have you ever met the Mage?”
“Not yet. You?”
Trell frowned. “Briefly, once.”
“And you’re suspicious,” Ware declared. Then he goaded, “You’re sure he means to take over the world and is using the Emir to achieve his own nefarious ends.”
Trell opened his mouth to protest, but when he caught the teasing glint in Ware’s eyes, he assumed a sheepish look instead. “You know I’m suspicious of everyone.”
“That’s just about the only thing you have in common with the rest of these degenerates, Trell of the Tides.” Ware clapped him on the shoulder. “No one has to teach a soldier to be suspicious of magic, or of those that work it.”
They were coming to the end of the trail where bare
rock face edged a deep ravine. Even as Trell was assessing the high mountain cliff, there came a raucous cry, and then a second in answer. A searing wind buffeted the men as the same pair of Sundragons that had passed earlier swooped down from the sky and alighted atop the cliff before them. The beasts folded their massive wings, wrapped serpentine tails possessively around the rocks, and peered down with predatory stares.
“Look, Trell,” Ware noted dryly as he squinted at the creatures, “even the Sundragons have come to honor you. You truly are the hero.”
Trell gave him a withering look.
But it did seem as though the dragons had come to say their farewells.
Farewell. It seemed a wondrous word. Trell was still trying to absorb the truth himself: that he was leaving the Emir’s service after so many years; leaving at the Emir’s own insistence and with his blessing; leaving to live a future that might help him uncover his past. And leaving in the middle of a war…that was the most unbelievable part of all.
Trell hadn’t been able to bring himself to tell his men, though he knew they would support him, even congratulate him; yet he felt a deserter for abandoning them. That his doing so was at the Emir’s command lessened nothing of his guilt—war was war, and they needed every capable hand.
But he has the Mage now to help him, Trell thought more bitterly than he would’ve liked, his own memory of that night on the Khalim Plains springing to mind. What need has the Emir of an orphan with a few new tactics when the Mage can turn entire armies to dust?
Yet for all his resentment at being excluded of late, Trell wanted to believe what the Emir had explained to him, wanted to trust that the war was nearing an end.
They were walking beneath the dragons’ shadows with the beasts veritably towering over them, golden eyes staring down with fierce intensity, when the holy man Istalar passed a rocky outcropping, turned abruptly, and disappeared into the mountainside.
Only when one stood directly before the cave entrance could it be seen—a jagged grey-black parting just wide enough for a man to pass between. Trell followed next, then Ware and the rest, save two who held the watch outside.
Violet glass globes set in carved niches illuminated the cave with reddish-plum light. How the candles stayed perpetually lit was quite beyond Trell, but such held true for all the sacred shrines. As he stood there letting his eyes adjust to the dim light, it occurred to him that this might be the last time he entered one of the sacred places, and the idea held both relief and unexpected sadness for him.
Globe after globe marked the way deep into the mountainside, and Istalar led with quiet resolve. Already Trell noticed a difference in the air—the feeling was akin to walking into a den where a beast lay in wait. Something dwelled there, some…entity. Trell didn’t know what gods he believed in, but he didn’t doubt the existence of a force larger than himself, and it was just such a force that inhabited those hallowed hills—it was this very force to which the Emir had sent Trell in order to gain divine favor on his journey.
In silence then, Trell followed Istalar into the bowels of the mountain, set upon a task that he both dreaded and desired. He was accompanied by a contingent of men he had grown to respect, yet this very fact troubled him, knowing he might never see them again. So he hid this truth from them as surely as his own truths were naught but distant dreams as yet unformed.
Trell’s eyes were well adjusted to the light by the time the passage opened onto a boundless cavern. Trell stopped short, for he’d never seen a shrine the likes of this. A roaring waterfall fell from the shadowed ceiling, and its spray of chill mist formed a shimmering veil of color and light. An iridescent spirit seemed to dance within the pale shaft, shifting hues with every movement. The water lit the cavern, yet its light did not pass without the hallowed walls, for Trell had not seen the light until he entered the cavern itself. The effect was beautiful, and yet so obviously arcane that Trell shook off the ghost of a shudder.
Istalar walked to the water to kneel and make an opening offering and prayer, while Trell waited apart from the rest of his men. Mist collected on his clothes, his hat, his cheeks. He pulled out a kerchief and wiped his eyes as he scanned the faces of the others. They were not so bothered as he—mostly they looked bored—but Trell knew they would not be making an offering to the god of this place, as he would, and they would not be hoping to receive a divine blessing.
As he watched Istalar at the water’s edge, Trell felt a surge of apprehension knowing he would soon be kneeling there in his place. He wondered what sort of response he was likely to get from the god of the shrine—him, who wasn’t even Converted. Trell would have been all too happy to go on his way without visiting the shrine at all, but the Emir was having none of that. He was a religious man, Emir Zafir bin Safwan al’Abdul-Basir, and while he might have a foreign Mage working for him, he certainly didn’t want his kingdom’s gods working against him. Ritual offerings were necessary any time one wanted a blessing, and the Emir wanted a blessing for Trell, his near-adopted son.
Istalar finished his prayer and beckoned to Trell. Feeling as nervous as he had that day five years ago when he was first presented to the Emir, Trell walked to the water’s edge and knelt on the wet stone beside Istalar. “Now,” said the holy man, “you must make your offering and your prayer.” Trell must’ve looked miserable, for Istalar encouraged, “Fear thee not, Trell of the Tides; the god of the shrine is benevolent toward you.”
Trell turned to him wanting more than anything to know how he could be so certain, but all he managed was a humble, “I don’t know the right words to say.”
The holy man’s steady gaze seemed the embodiment of faith. “The gods know our hearts, Trell of the Tides. Words mean nothing to them. Open your heart in prayer. They will answer you.” With that, he rose and took seventeen steps away from the water—one in honor of each of the desert Gods—before straightening.
Trell wet his lips and looked at the water, a luminous pool of liquid light. He reached into his satchel and retrieved a dagger that had once belonged to Graeme and was thereby special to him. His only other possession of value was his sword, and it was too precious to part with, even for a god’s pleasure. He hoped the dagger would suffice.
Catching his bottom lip between his teeth and feeling ridiculous, Trell let the dagger slide from his fingers into the water. It was swallowed by the light.
Now what? he thought. He had no idea how to pray.
‘Open your heart’ Istalar had said.
Trell drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes.
His heart held painful things: feelings of loss and the frustration of years of not even knowing his own heritage. His heart held mixed emotions: it seemed a lifetime’s dream of discovering the truth of his past, and yet that same dream stirred such fear in him. What if he discovered that he wasn’t the man he thought he was? What if in his prior life he’d been an outcast, a bastard, a thief…a coward?
His heart held grief…and guilt.
Trell was trying to think of what else his heart held when he heard someone whisper. He wiped the accumulated mist from his eyes and turned a glance over his shoulder, but no one was near; indeed, the men were clustered far away from him involved in their own affairs. Feeling faintly unsettled, Trell turned back to the water and closed his eyes again. At once he heard the voice again. Trell strained to understand it, but the harder he tried, the more the words eluded him.
Frustrated, he dutifully recalled the torments of his heart instead, though it pained him to dwell on them so. Only then, as he surrendered to the powerful pain of his deepest feelings, did the ethereal voice speak and his heart receive its message. Thusly do the gods impart their blessings: spirit to spirit, like the faintest breath of wind…
Follow the water, Trell of the Tides.
Trell sprouted gooseflesh from head to toe.
His chest ached, his throat constricted—it was as if his whole body was trying to keep his soul from escaping—and he knew; knew with certaint
y that not only a god had spoken to him, but also that his soul had resonated with its blessing.
Follow the water, Trell of the Tides.
For the space of that moment, Trell thought there was no sound on earth except that soul-capturing, melodic whisper.
Then there was only the roar of the waterfall and the low hum of male voices engaged in their usual vulgar commentary.
Overcome by the experience, Trell rose and backed away from the water in the same manner he’d seen Istalar follow. The holy man was waiting for him seventeen steps away. Trell straightened and turned to face him, looking troubled but feeling both fulfilled and strangely hollow, his soul still yearning after a touch—a presence—that had vanished beyond its reach.
Istalar smiled crookedly through broken teeth, yet his was a genuine smile. Trell had always liked him. “What did Naiadithine tell you?” he asked.
“Naiadithine?” Trell hadn’t known this was her shrine, but once he thought of it, he realized that he should’ve guessed from the outset. Naiadithine, Lady of the Rivers, had claimed Graeme for her own when he fell into the Cry, never to resurface. It only followed that the Emir would send Trell to her for a blessing. “I think…I think she told me…” he pulled off his cap again and pushed a wet hand through his hair. “She told me to…follow the water.”
Istalar nodded sagely. “Follow the water, Trell of the Tides,” the holy man echoed.
Trell gave him an uneasy look, and another chill scurried down his spine. “Yes,” he whispered, feeling far too close to arcane dealings for any sort of comfort. “That exactly.”
Istalar took Trell by the arm and pulled him further away from the water and the men. “The Emir looks upon you as a son,” he said then, “and he would be bereaved should harm befall you. Before you journey into the West, there is something he wants you to understand.”
Trell didn’t quite like the sound of that. “Which is?”
Cephrael's Hand: A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book One Page 13
