Vaile’s smile vanished. “Tell me.”
Jaya squeezed the other woman’s hand. “We lost Abu’dhan.”
“No! When?”
“Last night. Now Radov’s army marches on the Qar’imali.”
This was terrible news, though not as terrible as if Raku itself was threatened. Still, the Qar’imali was an important stronghold that ensured the safety of the Emir’s supply lines.
Vaile shook her head. “I cannot believe Abu’dhan fell. What happened?”
“A team made it past the lines beneath the protection of a glamour,” she paused to purse lips as if to hold back a curse, adding in a quiet hiss, “Radov’s wielders have begun to put their talents toward truly appalling uses. The team were all hunted down and slain, but not before they succeeded in poisoning the spring.”
Trell felt as if a cold fist clenched around his heart. “But the well at Abu’dhan serves everyone traveling the Kairo-Lubaiyd road.”
Jaya turned him a tragic look. “Just so, Trell of the Tides.”
Trell worked the muscles of his jaw and tried not to think about the ramifications of a poisoned well that was a major water source for thousands. Vaile meanwhile asked, “What’s happening along the Cry?”
“The Converted are still firmly ensconced in the hills. Without the bridges at Orlan and Fayle, the Veneisean army remains on the west bank. They’d need to retrace their steps all the way back to the Haden Gorge to gain the eastern side—a fully untenable step for an army of that size—knowing all the while that they would meet the same opposition once they regained their current position. The commander of the Emir’s Converted is a bright man. I am told he ordered his team to destroy the bridges at Orlan and Fayle only seconds after the last of the Emir’s troops had crossed the Cry, long before the Veneiseans marched from Tregarion. A gifted man, to have such vision.”
Trell felt relief wash over him upon hearing that Raegus’ men were holding their own. Of course Jaya had no idea that she’d just complimented him, and he wouldn’t think of mentioning it.
“Surely the Veneiseans won’t risk the trek back to the Haden Gorge,” Vaile said. “Not this late in the season.”
“Indeed not,” Jaya confirmed. “Baron d’Lacourte has ordered his men to rebuild the Orlan bridge near Corinth Falls instead.” She shook her head. “It is another massacre waiting to happen. What is it about these Northmen that makes them so careless in sacrificing their men? Does the gift that is life mean nothing to them?”
Neither Vaile nor Trell had an answer for her.
Jaya sighed. “Radov’s wielders, Veirnan hal’Jaitar and his minions, are proving troublesome and beleaguering but pose no real threat to us, as there are none among them who can work the fifth.”
“The fifth, my lady?” Trell inquired.
Jaya turned him a puzzled look. “Why, the fifth strand, of course,” she supplied, as if this explained everything. Then she frowned at him.
“This is all news to me,” Vaile said, regaining her attention. “The last I heard, the battle was stalemated.”
Jaya grunted. “At the Sand Sea perhaps. But the fighting along the southern escarpment between Dar’ibu and Chamaal is terrible—so many are dying each day, and the Nadoriin attack anything that moves! Livestock, refugees, innocent children! They have no respect for the established trade routes followed by the nomadic tribes, even though these routes have always been held inviolate. Only the Silk and Ruby Roads are safe to follow, providing one can reach them. Radov should be beheaded and befouled for allying with that Saldarian prophet, Bethamin. The Veneiseans and Northmen are tenacious, but at least they deploy honest men who respect the old ways. But these Saldarian mercenaries are treacherous heathens whose only interest is in the rape and plunder Radov promised them. I cannot abide it—many of the victims are Radov’s own people!”
“What does the Mage say?”
Jaya tossed a jeweled hand into the air. “The Mage refuses to do anything about it, of course, when just a simple command from him could…” She bit her lip even as she bit back the words and scowled down at her lap instead. “He has his reasons, I know…” she whispered. Her eyes lifted to fasten on Vaile again, and both expression and voice were tormented. “But what does he expect from us, Vaile? We cannot win all of these battles for him! And it seems such a futile war. I do not understand its purpose.”
“It is a holy war, my lady,” Trell advised, whereupon Jaya shifted her gaze to him. Radov’s alliance with Bethamin hadn’t changed the conflict so much as contributed to its escalation. “The Kutsamak is sacred to the Basi, and the Nadoriin exploit their riches. They destroy and desecrate sacred shrines with their mining—all to feed the Northmen’s greed.”
Jaya arched a pale brow. “It seems to me that the Northmen hold no monopoly on greed, Trell of the Tides.”
“Perhaps not, my lady,” Trell admitted, “yet the Northmen’s desire for the riches of these mountains seems insatiable.”
Jaya’s look changed to one of surprise. “But you’re a Northman yourself!”
Vaile explained, “Trell has spent the last five years in service of the Emir.”
“I see. Then you are Converted?”
“No, my lady.”
Jaya really looked puzzled then.
“Trell remembers nothing of his past,” Vaile told her. “He heads to the west in search of it.”
Both of Jaya’s wispy brows rose that time. “Indeed,” she murmured. She considered him for a moment then, looking him up and down with those strange, tangerine eyes. Then she sighed despondently, and leaned back on the settee. “I do not like wars,” she complained. “That we were recalled from isolation and set to this task chafes at me.”
Vaile cast her a dry grin. “No doubt the Mage hopes to keep the six of you out of trouble.”
“Trouble,” she grumbled. “Trouble! Malorin’athgul wander the land and he wants to keep us out of trouble!” She shook her head and narrowed her gaze in vexation, muttering again, “I do not know what the Mage hopes to accomplish with this war.”
“The shrines—” Trell tried once more to explain.
Jaya cut him off with an upraised hand and a flash of orange-gold eyes. “Spare me your propaganda, youngling,” she returned bluntly, surprising Trell with her change in manner. “There are reasons for wars, and then there are reasons for wars.” Turning back to Vaile, Jaya muttered in a frustrated tone, “Balaji knows the Mage’s mind, but he will not say.”
“Balaji is too often close-mouthed,” Vaile agreed. “I have long wondered if he took lessons in the art of ambiguity from the Mage’s zanthyr, or if the Mage’s zanthyr took lessons from him.” She rolled her eyes heavenward and added, “The Creator knows both are older than the sun.”
Jaya looked sour. “They are equally infuriating creatures.”
But Trell couldn’t get past her last words. Vaile had meant it figuratively, but he could have sworn that Balaji was little more than ten and six at best. He blurted before he could stop himself, “Impossible! Balaji can’t be any older than me.”
Both women gave him such a look of wide-eyed wonder…and then they burst into laughter, leaving Trell perplexed and embarrassed while he watched them fall into each other’s arms consumed by mirth. Their enjoyment lasted far too long for Trell’s ego, which had taken quite a blow.
“Oh…oh my,” murmured Jaya as she finally straightened and dabbed at her eyes with ebony-nailed fingertips.
Vaile released her only to fall back on the settee in another fit of laughter. “You…haven’t…the…gift…” she managed as she tried to catch her breath. “You haven’t the gift at all, Trell of the Tides!”
Eventually Jaya took pity on him, perhaps noting the dejected look in Trell’s grey eyes. “Oh…in all truth, young Trell,” she said rather breathless but still smiling, “we are not sure who is older—Balaji or Ramu. Nor are we sure which one is our leader, for sometimes Ramu takes orders from Balaji, and sometimes Balaji takes orders fr
om Ramu. So we listen to both, as should you, if ever they bid you to task.”
She sobered then, and straightened the lay of her silken gown across her slim knee. “Speaking of Ramu…he and Rhakar have just been given new assignments,” she told Vaile, “which leaves the rest of us with twice the area to patrol. It is difficult enough as it is.”
“More is expected from the talented,” Vaile observed with a droll smile.
Jaya settled her a sooty look. “You would not be so tolerant had your own task been less appealing.”
Vaile’s grin softened beneath a flush of her creamy cheeks. “Admittedly.”
Trell took advantage of the break in conversation. “I am told Ramu was responsible for my rescue,” he said. “Will he be coming here tonight, my lady Jaya?”
“Ramu is attending the Mage,” Jaya replied, glancing curiously at him. “There is no telling when he will return, though I do expect him before morning. But Rhakar is here now, and he also aided in your rescue.”
“Our Trell of the Well has met Rhakar already,” Vaile advised.
“Oh?” Jaya looked to Trell expectantly.
“Yes,” he admitted, “I met Rhakar, but our conversation went…poorly.”
“Rhakar is volatile,” Vaile observed sympathetically.
“He’s temperamental,” Jaya corrected. She gave the other woman a disapproving look. “Moody. Not volatile. We are none of us volatile. The malorin’athgul are volatile. Whisper Lords are volatile.” She eyed Vaile up and down. “Your kind are volatile.”
Vaile gave her a feral sort of grin. “True.”
Trell wondered of which ‘kind’ Vaile was. Jaya must certainly be one of the mysterious drachwyr, but what was Vaile?
Why not just ask them? he wondered. Yes, but would either of them tell me if I did?
Their conversation continued while Trell sat in thoughtful silence, immersed in his own questions and mysteries. In the end, he decided to watch and listen and ask no questions of the ladies. Whisper Lords, ‘Vaile’s kind,’ and Malorin’athgul—whatever in Tiern’aval they were—might be volatile creatures, but it was Trell’s experience that there was nothing more volatile than a woman whose dignity had been insulted by a poorly phrased or ill-conceived question, no matter how innocent or of good intent the hapless man that posed it.
Thirteen
‘If you live in the river, make friends with the crocodile.’
– Bemothi adage
Trell’s evening after leaving Vaile and Jaya went splendidly. Náiir invited him to dine with him, after which they played a close game of Kings and shared far too much siri even for Trell’s head—which said a lot for Náiir’s capacity for the drink. Trell retired around midnight with the siri warm in his belly and a promise from a triumphant Náiir for a rematch when Trell was ‘feeling better.’
Trell climbed into the Mage’s bed and shut his eyes with great relief, but to his surprise, sleep wouldn’t come. It was his last night at the sa’reyth. Tomorrow the moon would be full, and he was meant to be away, and his mind could not be at rest. His head was full of questions, of thoughts of the people he’d met and the things he’d heard. A comment Náiir had made earlier kept teasing at him. ‘…it is my experience that people of magic prefer to own things of magic, just as they prefer to associate with other races of magic.’
Trell got out of bed and turned up the lamp. He looked at all the books stacked in piles on the floor, on chairs and chests, on the ornate table the Mage used for a desk. Balaji had given him leave to read any of those books…the Mage’s books. Magic books. Somewhere, in one of them, might lay the key to the identities of the mysterious drachwyr, one of whom was said to be ‘older than the sun.’ Now that his departure was nigh, Trell wished he’d spent more time perusing those books.
He wandered to the table and looked over the volumes there. He saw from their spines that many were written in Agasi, which he spoke fluently—it was just one more disjointed piece in the puzzle that was his life. He was quite surprised to discover that the language of those books didn’t change when he picked them up. In contrast, those that were written in obscure tongues shifted to the common tongue the moment he opened them.
Fascinating, he thought. The books know I can read Agasi, but they also know it’s not my native language. It wasn’t a huge surprise—most everyone he met thought he was from Dannym or Veneisia—but it was a boon to have a thing of magic confirm it thus.
And then Trell realized the significance of these thoughts and chuckled to himself. A thing of magic... Imagine, trusting to such a thing to tell him about himself. If only Ware and the others could see him now…conversing with drachwyr and Whisper Lords and reading magic books that belonged to the Emir’s Mage.
Trell moved to the Mage’s desk. The first two books he picked up were the heaviest books he’d ever held, especially for their small size. They shocked his hand the moment he opened them, actually making a spark that singed his fingers and drew a muted curse, and since they were just full of drawings of strange designs, he put them right down again—albeit more carefully.
He next reached for a pile of matching books bound in blue leather, each with a strange entwining pattern embossed on the front, but upon opening one he got a different kind of surprise. The journal was written in Agasi in a smooth, flowing script. The words at the top of the page captured him immediately, but they also brought a flush of embarrassment as he realized this was the Mage’s personal journal.
I would regret the lives snuffed like candles by the rising west wind had I only the time for such indulgences; I would apologize deeply for denying these men choice, had I still the luxury of remorse. They are needed. Were mercy my solitary guide, I might excuse them from their duty, for surely they’ve paid penance in loss enough. But the need is too dire, the moment nigh after so many years of waiting and all I may allot to them now is my compassion.
Feeling guilty about reading even that much, Trell closed the book and gently put it back on its pile. He was sure these writings were not meant for his eyes, no matter what Balaji said. It would be dishonorable to read any more… yet he felt so strong an urge to do so that it disturbed him.
Glancing down, Trell saw the corner of another blue book, this one open on the desk beneath a large canvas inscribed with a jumble of intersecting black lines. He pushed aside the canvas and read the open page. It began in the middle of a sentence.
…so different in temperament, yet they are brothers to the core. One has the mind of a master tactician; his skills need polishing, but the talent is there. The other has Returned, and has been long awaited. Much is expected from him. The next line read: The time has come to hone them both, these, my kingdom blades. They can no longer go on being mere pieces; they must become players.
There was no more, and the next page was blank. Trell pushed the canvas back in place and leaned back in the velvet-upholstered armchair, pushing one forefinger to his lips. He felt…unnerved. Who were the two men the Mage referred to as his kingdom blades, and why did he feel so certain that one of them was him? And if I am one of the two of whom he speaks, then I have a brother…somewhere.
As he was pondering this, he heard voices outside.
“Thank Epiphany you’ve returned!” a woman exclaimed from just beyond the draperies that formed the exterior walls of Trell’s tent. Trell thought at first it might be Jaya, but he soon realized it was another. “You cannot let them do this. The sa’reyths are sanctuaries for all!”
“Which is why these traitors must not be allowed to enter, Mithaiya,” replied a male voice that Trell didn’t recognize, though there was something about it that caught his attention.
“How can this not be skirting the boundaries of Balance, Ramu?”
Ramu!
Trell came alert upon hearing the name. More than anyone, he wanted to meet this Ramu, the apparent leader of the drachwyr.
“Mithaiya,” Ramu returned, sounding vexed, “I haven’t time for a philosophical di
scussion on cosmic disparities.”
“But the Balance—”
“Amithaiya’geshwen,” Ramu rumbled, and that time there was an edge to his tone that brooked no argument. Gaining her silence, Ramu continued more gently, “Trust me, dear one. The First Lord knows what we are about this night.”
There was a pause, and then the woman submitted. “Cuithne,” she whispered. “Ythllia’nea ma dieul im’avec.”
“I know,” he whispered gently. “Now, let me go. There is someone I must see.”
Trell listened for more, but none came. He jumped into action. If he was going to speak to Ramu, it would have to be now, knowing how these drachwyr vanished on a wink and a whim. As he made a frantic search for his britches, he heard Jaya’s voice from outside his tent, asking, “Where are they now?”
And Balaji replied, “They were spotted on the trail in from Jar’iman Point. Rhakar and Vaile have gone to apprehend them before they can claim sanctuary.”
Still tying the laces of his britches, Trell rushed for the heavy drape closing off his room—and drew up short, face to face with a man who was just reaching for the drape from the other side.
The stranger had the same dark hair and features as his drachwyr brethren; though unlike Balaji and Náiir, he stood of a height with Trell, and his eyes were as dark a brown as any Basi’s. There was something else different about him, too, something Trell noticed immediately: the man held himself with an air of authority that the others did not affect.
“Oh good, you’re awake,” said the stranger in that commanding voice Trell recognized as the one that had so captured his ear. “Náiir told me I might find you here.” He extended his hand and locked wrists with Trell in greeting. “I’m Ramu. The Mage thought you would be awake despite this late hour. I am ashamed to say I doubted him.”
Trell came alert as he shook Ramu’s hand. “The Mage? He’s here?”
“No. I have just come from attending him.”
“Then how could he know…?” Trell let the words fall away, for Ramu was smiling at him.
Cephrael's Hand: A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book One Page 19
