Fhionna’s eyes flashed, but then she reconsidered her anger and looked gently upon her sister. Much to Trell’s disappointment, she stepped away from him, leaving his body aching for her touch. “You are right, Aishlinn. It is unseemly of me. I do apologize.”
“Not to me—to him,” Aishlinn hissed.
“Yes, to Trell,” Fhionna repeated, looking back to him. He thought he caught more than a hint of invitation in her eyes, but then she was clasping her hands before her and bowing her head. “I entreat thee for forgiveness, Trell of the Tides. I fear I have enchanted you without your awareness, and it was wrong of me.”
Trell arched brows. It was the last thing he expected to hear. “You…enchanted me?”
“Yes,” declared Aishlinn. “She cannot help it, and yet she must,” and this latter was stressed with a stare of reprimand. “Please, Fhionna.”
Fhionna turned away from Trell without another word, but she did spare one last glance over her shoulder, and this time there was little doubt of her desire for him. As he watched the women turn their backs politely, Trell scratched at his muddy hair and wondered how he kept stumbling into such unusual companions.
He made haste to finish cleaning up. He hung his soiled clothes to be washed in the river in the morning, dressed again in his usual dun-hued desert pants and a clean, knee-length tunic, and gathered up the bundle he’d brought before joining the sisters.
They shifted positions at his arrival, making space among them, and he held up the bundle as he folded his legs to sit. “Dinner, my ladies.”
They let out exclamations of joyful surprise as Trell set down the bundle and unwrapped it. Within were strips of lamb, hunks of goat’s cheese, heavy unleavened flatbread, some dates, figs and olives, and a paste of beans and spices wrapped in palm leaves. Trell helped the ladies to their share and then sat back to eat his own.
While they ate, Trell posed the question that had been foremost on his mind since meeting them. “If I may ask, Fhionna, Aishlinn, where are you from? Clearly Tal’Shira is not your homeland.”
“I was born in Malchiarr,” Fhionna said.
He stared at her in wonder. “Malchiarr, truly?”
She nodded with an elusive smile. “Yes, Trell of the Tides.”
“I’ve never met a woman from Malchiarr.”
She gave a throaty sort of laugh. “We do exist, I assure you.”
He continued, still holding her gaze, “But I have met a man from Malchiarr. He was speared through the heart in the Emir’s palace. He laughed as he died.”
“Death is only the beginning,” she murmured.
Trell eyed her curiously. “Yes, that’s what he said. The thing is…this man looked uncannily like the Emir.”
She leaned back on one hand and regarded him coolly. “Did he? And did you see his death?”
“I am the one who speared him, my lady.”
She laughed. “How bold of you.”
He cast her a rueful grin. “Yes, as I discovered. I was almost beheaded. Fortunately, the real Emir arrived in time to prove my valor instead of my treason.”
“You were young, I suspect,” she said.
He settled her a curious look. “I was. How did you know?”
“The young ones often see Geshaiwyn for the Shapeshifters they are,” she returned. “The eyes of the young are as yet unveiled by the horrors of the world. They don’t try to trick themselves out of believing the impossible. Men too often wear sackcloth before their eyes, seeing only what they want to see, the mind inventing explanations where none exist.”
Trell regarded her steadily. “You’re not like him then. Not Geshaiwyn?”
She shook her head, still smiling.
One race down. A dozen more to go…
“And you, Aishlinn? You were born elsewhere, I take it?”
“I was born near Mount Pisah,” she replied endearingly.
“Our mother traveled widely in her youth,” Fhionna supplied. “She visited many Wildling communities.”
“Choosing suitors in each,” Aishlinn said with a suggestive smile.
Trell was beginning to think himself somehow in a den of wolves wearing sheep’s guise. What had become of the innocent, helpless women he’d met that afternoon? They’d seemed to grow fangs with the fall of night. All, that is, save the diminutive Lily.
“And you, my lady?” Trell asked her. “What is your story?”
“Oh,” she flushed. “I am…I haven’t a story to tell, really. My mother is dead and my father is…not.”
“Why not tell us of yourself, Trell of the Tides?” Aishlinn cut in. “How came you to know the desert tongue and walk the Emir’s palace?”
Trell drew in a deep breath and looked at the sisters as he slowly exhaled. He’d hoped to avoid discussing his history and current quest, but he felt obligated to share something of his story in kind. So Trell told them how he’d awoken in Duan’Bai knowing nothing of his past, how he met Graeme and Ware and came to run with a company of Converted, and how upon Graeme’s death, he’d left to find his past. He made no mention of his close relationship with the Emir, nor of his role in the war, for these were truths better left unspoken.
The women listened, captivated, and when he was finished, Aishlinn spoke. “Would that we had a ’reader among us,” she murmured.
“A reader?” Trell repeated.
“A Truthreader,” she clarified. “They have ways of helping people remember such things. If your memory is merely occluded and not hindered by physical damage, then a Truthreader could help you.” She quickly added in response to her sister’s arched brow, “Cast me not that look, Fhionna. I am the first to admit the fourth-stranders have their uses.”
“Even were it possible, milady,” Trell replied, staying well clear of the sisters’ private conflicts, “I think I would have to refuse.”
They all looked surprised to hear this, and Lily asked, “But why?”
Trell gave her a soft smile. “A friend of mine once told me that a man who can sleep before an important journey has nothing to gain from the trip. By this he implied that my journey is just as important—if not more so—than the prize I seek at its end.”
Fhionna regarded him quizzically. “Do you truly believe that, Trell of the Tides?”
Trell gave her a solemn nod. “Indeed, milady, and based on my experiences thus far, I am starting to think that I shall not find the one without the other.”
“You speak with great wisdom,” Aishlinn said, giving him a kind smile. “We are blessed to have you among us.”
Ever uncomfortable with praise, Trell gave her a modest nod of thanks and then got to his feet. “I must take leave of you now, my ladies. My shift approaches.”
“You stand watch tonight?” asked Fhionna.
Trell nodded. “There are always bandits about after a storm, hoping to catch people unawares. Sleep well. We’ll leave at first light.”
With five men to share the night hours, Trell’s watch went quickly, so that when he awoke to the first grey light of approaching dawn, he didn’t feel lacking for sleep. He tended to Gendaia and then went down to the flooded stream to wash his clothes. He was still there when he heard the women coming out of their tent. A muted commotion soon followed, with exclamations of surprise—though he’d told them the dry rock bed would flood with the storm, they apparently hadn’t expected to find a rushing river where only dirt and stone had been on the eve before.
Trell returned to camp still wringing out his clothing and found the women lined up along the hill waiting for him. They looked a bit rumpled but otherwise seemed in good spirits. “Good morning, ladies,” he greeted them. “How did you sleep?”
“Well, thank you,” Fhionna answered for the group. “This was the first night in many that I’ve not been plagued by ill dreams.”
“Truly,” Lily agreed. Then she teased with a smile, “You must have dosed our water to make us sleep so soundly!”
“’Tis the water of Jai’Gar,” a passing Sayid commented,
his deep voice adding an unexpected richness to his words. The tallest of the four Khurds, Sayid had a competent air about him, and his dark gaze was compelling.
The women followed him with their eyes as he continued on toward the horses. Then Lily whispered, “What did he mean?”
Trell explained, “The water from the springs of Jai’Gar is said to heal the ills of mind, body and spirit, milady. That is the water you carry in your flasks.”
“And you think this is why we slept so well?” Lily sounded skeptical.
“I didn’t say it was the water, milady,” Trell replied, casting her a shadowy grin. “You did.” With that, he bowed to the women and made his exit, following in Sayid’s footsteps to the post where Gendaia was tethered. To his surprise, Fhionna came after him with Lily in tow.
“Do you believe it’s true?” Fhionna asked as her long legs easily matched his stride. “Does the water heal?”
Trell turned to her and opened his mouth to reply, but her unanticipated beauty once again captured his breath. “…I don’t know,” he managed after an embarrassing pause.
“You don’t subscribe to the desert beliefs, do you?” Lily inquired, leaning around Fhionna to peer at him with her lovely dark eyes.
“That’s the thing about Jai’Gar, milady,” Trell remarked, glancing her way, “He doesn’t require that you believe in Him before He works His miracles. I haven’t seen the spring-water heal, but I have seen other things that I cannot explain.”
“Like what?” Lily asked with keen interest—perhaps too keen.
Trell shook his head. “A story for another time.” With that, he managed to extract himself from their company and went instead to help the Khurds break camp.
The orange-gold sky had faded into pale blue by the time they departed, with Sayid and Kamil leading everyone up out of the canyon before turning westward to ride along the rim. The wind was chill and brisk on the open ridge, and the autumn sun held little warmth. Trell almost missed the fire of the Nadori desert. The canyon-lands surrounding the Bashir’Khazaaz were higher and colder than the eastern Kutsamak, and it would get colder still as they neared the Cry on their way into Sakkalaah.
Gendaia was as surefooted in the pebbly soil of the canyons as she had been along the rocky paths of the Ruby Road, and Trell felt her a boon companion. A bond was already growing between them; Trell was learning to read Gendaia’s signals, and she was responding to his in kind. Hallovian steeds were known and bred for this trait, but Trell had never had the privilege of riding one before—at least not that he remembered.
‘The man you seek…he also rides a Hallovian steed.’ Trell thought of Balaji’s haunting words.
Was it insane that he’d left the sa’reyth without at least trying to find out if the Mage spoke of his true heritage? Should he have tried to learn something more about the stranger mentioned in the Mage’s journal? Would any other man have walked away from the knowledge, especially when he might’ve gained it by simply turning the page of a book? Trell asked himself these questions repeatedly, but the fact was that it didn’t matter what other men might have done; his own honor forbade it.
Which led him to wonder….Who had instilled in him such an unshakable sense of right and wrong, such that he always knew which choice to make even under difficult and confusing circumstances? It wasn’t the Emir, though Trell admired him as a generous and noble leader, but often times Trell’s idea of the moral right was not the same as the Emir’s. Much of this was due to the teachings of Jai’Gar, which were laden with consequence and spare on compassion, but beyond this, there was a definite difference in the way he looked at honor and the way the Basi viewed it.
His thoughts turned to the other man again, the second of the Mage’s kingdom blades. What kind of man was he upon whom so much depended? And he thought of his brother from the tower, whose eyes were as grey as his own.
Where are you now, my brother? Trell wondered as he rode into the west, and what is the game in which we both play?
Twenty-three
‘A man makes his own luck, but it never hurts to pray on the off-chance
somebody is listening.’
– Fynnlar val Lorian, Prince of Dannym
Tanis woke with a start right at the crack of dawn. He sat up feeling grateful for the dawn, relieved to be free of the dream that had him in its clutches just moments before. Still sandy-eyed, he climbed out of bed and shuffled over to his nightstand to wash his face. Beyond his window, the sky was flamed a solid orange-rose, and birds chirped in welcome of the day. Tanis glared out at them several times as he threw on a grey-blue tunic and charcoal leggings and cloak and fought with the laces of his boots. But if the birds saw his scowl, they cheerfully ignored it, as if knowing that Tanis wasn’t a morning person.
Unlike Her Grace. No matter what time Tanis woke—and it had taken years to train himself to wake before noon—Her Grace was already at work in her infirmary, or studying some dusty text in her solar, or out for a morning ride. She called herself a morning person, but Epiphany save the hapless fool who tried to converse with her before she’d finished her first cup of tea.
Emitting a tonsil-baring yawn, Tanis shuffled down the hall to check on Ean, wandering into his room in such a daze that he nearly collided with the prince, who had just climbed from the bath and still wore a towl about his loins. The lad squealed in surprise, and Ean reached to calm him.
“Whoa—sorry there, Tanis. You okay then?” As Tanis nodded, Ean clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here. You can help me with this mane I seem to have acquired,” and he shook his cinnamon head like a wet bear.
So tasked, Tanis retrieved scissors and razor and a pan of warm water and helped Ean trim his hair and shave his beard. When this was done, the prince opened the package of clothes Tanis had purchased for him in town.
“I hope they fit,” the lad said, looking sheepish. “It was all the tailor had on his shelf, and your other clothes were quite ruined.”
Ean had the britches on already and was slipping into a loose, forest-green tunic. “They’ll do nicely, Tanis,” he said with a look of appreciation as he laced the shirt. He threaded his belt around his waist and then held out both arms. “Well? How do I look?”
Tanis was impressed. As Ean stood there in his new tunic and britches, clean and shaven and with his cinnamon hair brushed back, he seemed a different person altogether. Royal even.
“Look better, do I?” Ean observed with a grin.
Tanis nodded. “Do you leave us then, my lord?”
Ean must’ve caught the disappointment in his tone, for he gave him an apologetic look. “I wish I could stay, Tanis, but I’m well and healed, thanks to your lady, and in light of what’s happened, I cannot justify further delay no matter how I’d like to stay and relax here in your pleasant home.”
Quite without warning, Tanis felt an overwhelming desire to ask Ean to take him with him, just anywhere…wherever he was going. Something about being in Ean’s company made Tanis want to remain there, like he would be safe so long as he stayed near the man. He knew he could trust Ean, despite the secrets he was keeping; in fact, he’d never felt so strongly that anyone could be trusted—trusted the way one trusts a father or a brother. Both relations Tanis had never had. These feelings were quite inexplicable, and Tanis made a mental note to ask Master o’Reith about them.
Yet for all the strength of these desires, the lad had no idea how to request such a thing, even should he find the courage to do so. He lowered himself onto the edge of the chair and asked instead, “Will you be waiting to say good-bye to Her Grace? I don’t know where she is. She’s usually up by now.”
Ean was sitting on the bed donning his boots, which the maids had cleaned and polished. He paused long enough to exhale a sigh. “I doubt she has much interest in seeing me off.” He shot the lad a perplexed look. “Is she always so… unpredictable?”
Tanis shrugged. “Pretty much.” He thought of Her Grace rushing past him in
tears in the hall the day before and wondered…“What did you do to upset her so, sir?”
Ean cast the lad a rueful look. “Oh, I've managed to start off our relationship with my typical explosive charm.” He rubbed his shaven chin, looking thoughtful. “You’d think I’d committed one of the Veneisean Cardinal Sins, though to save my life I couldn’t tell you what it was. All I did was tell her how sorry I was—and am—about your seneschal passing, and she just…” and he shrugged.
“Farshideh was a great lady,” Tanis said. He felt the great burden of her loss as a mountain of stone upon his chest. “She was like a mother to Her Grace.” And to me. “It’s been hard on us seeing her health failing this past year. Her Grace…well, I think she feels responsible for being unable to help her.”
Ean regarded him with honest sympathy. “’Tis a terrible thing, our impotence against the wishes of Fate,” and from the inflection in his tone, Tanis knew that Ean felt this truth in a personal way. They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, as if both pondering Fate’s capricious desires. Then the man pushed to his feet and made a show of walking in his new clothes. “Well, they’re a little big, Tanis, but I think I’ll manage. Thank you for all of this.”
“You’re welcome, sir,” Tanis said glumly. He wished he was brave enough to ask what he so desired, but the words just wouldn’t come.
Ean tucked thumbs into his belt and fastened his grey eyes on the boy. “You know…she said something odd to me yesterday before she left all in a flurry of skirts.”
“What was that?”
Ean frowned. “She said if I’d never come, Farshideh wouldn’t have died. It seemed like there was more than mere spite behind the statement. Do you know what she could’ve meant?”
“I’ve no idea, sir.” Tanis pushed hands solemnly between his knees. “As I said, Farshideh’s health was poor, and after seeing that zanthyr, well…” He paused and caught his bottom lip between his teeth. “Well, she just seemed to fade away…”
Ean considered the lad for a moment and then placed a warm hand upon his shoulder. “Will you come and show me to my horse?”
Cephrael's Hand: A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book One Page 34
