Opal of Light_An epic dragon fantasy

by Norma Hinkens

  A flicker of disappointment crossed Erdhan’s face. “If I could prevail upon you to tarry a night or two in Wilefur, you would be most welcome in my parents’ home, and I would be honored to show you our humble town.”

  Orlla gave him an apologetic smile. “That is gracious of you. Perhaps another time when I am passing through.”

  Erdhan reached for his mug and drained the dregs of his tea. “Then I wish you safe travels,” he said as he got to his feet.

  He paid the innkeeper and made his way over to the tavern door. Pressing down on the latch, he glanced back across the room one last time.

  Orlla’s heart fluttered unexpectedly, and she quickly looked down at her half-eaten breakfast. What was it about this unsophisticated mainlander with the striking blue eyes that affected her so strangely? There were better-looking men on Efyllsseum, but something about him got under her skin in a way that sometimes made it crawl and other times made it tingle. Brushing aside the disconcerting thought, she got to her feet and headed back out to the stables.

  The stable hand looked up on her approach. “You’re early, first traveler to saddle up this morning. Feeling better, miss?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Orlla replied, gracing him with a smile that made him flush to the ends of his misshapen ears.

  He went at once to fetch her horse, helped her saddle up, and then led the horse outside. “I kept an eye on your bow for you.” He patted her saddlebag. “An unusual piece. My father fashioned hunting bows—I’ve never seen one quite like yours around these parts.”

  Orlla gave a tight nod. Hopefully it was a detail the stable hand would keep to himself. Judging from Horace’s reaction, fear of Brufus’s spies made people wary of strangers, and anything unusual provoked unwanted attention. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about it. I bought it from a trader a while back.” She guided her horse out to the road and then raised a hand to wave good-bye. “Thank you again for everything.”

  The stable hand waved back. “My pleasure, miss.”

  Orlla rolled her shoulders and let out a ragged breath, grateful to be on the road again and more resolute than ever to do whatever it took to find Samten. She would question every traveler she met and stop at every inn and village along the road until she came across someone who had had dealings with him.

  Despite the increased danger the assassin presented, her thoughts were mostly optimistic as she cantered away from the inn. With any luck, the assassin believed Samten had been slain by the men who took the satchel and was on his way back to Efyllsseum to report the news to the king. But she wouldn’t let down her guard yet—he may have been ordered to eliminate her too.

  She pressed her lips tightly together, a foreboding feeling tugging at her. Evidently, Akolom hadn’t been able to divert the assassin at Narto. She couldn’t help wondering what had become of her beloved mentor. The Protectors would suspect he had been privy to her plan all along. For all she knew, they might have dragged him back to Efyllsseum to face a trial of his own.

  But, King Ferghell wouldn’t risk leaving the pass unprotected by Keepers. And there was no one as good as she or Akolom when it came to constructing impenetrable runes. If war broke out, the king would need their skills now more than ever—a fact that gave her hope Akolom had been allowed to remain at the outpost, at least for the time being.

  Her thoughts turned to what she would say to Samten when she found him. It wouldn’t be easy to persuade her strong-willed brother to turn himself in, but she wouldn’t relent, no matter what runes she had to resort to, and no matter how much it jeopardized her future at the Conservatory. She couldn’t leave him to fend for himself in a volatile mainland bent on war.

  A distant thundering of hooves jerked her out of her reverie. She straightened up and listened intently, every nerve tingling with anticipation. It wasn’t a lone assassin—two horses at least. They were behind her, gaining ground. She tightened her grip on the reins, casting hesitant glances over her shoulder at the approaching cloud of dust.

  Should she get off the road and find cover? She ran her fingers nervously over her bow. Her weapon wouldn’t do her any good if bandits fell upon her. Her best chance of surviving an attack would be to hide deep in the woods that edged the trail, an arrow poised to pierce the heart of anyone who threatened her.

  Her pulse drummed faster as the horses drew closer. She cantered onward, torn between staying on the road or plunging deep into the forest to seek cover. Gritting her teeth, she summoned her courage as the horses rounded the corner. She would hold her course on the off chance one of the riders had news of Samten. The ground quivered as they drew neck and neck with her.

  “Orlla!”

  Startled at the sound of her name, she threw the riders a sidelong glance, staring in disbelief at Erdhan, his arms wrapped around Arnulf’s waist on the back of the large chestnut she had seen at the stables. From the other dapple-gray steed, Horace eyed her with a hostile gleam.

  Orlla studiously ignored him, pulling on the reins to slow her mare. “I see you found yourself another ride to Wilefur.” She raised a brow at Erdhan. “Don’t let me hold you up. You appear to be in an awful hurry.”

  Arnulf grunted and flicked a glance over his shoulder. “You need to get off the road.”

  Frowning, Orlla took note of the grave looks on the men’s faces. “Has the killer struck again?”

  Erdhan shook his head, twisting his lips into a grimace as though reluctant to share whatever grisly burden he bore. “Brufus has declared war.”

  Chapter 9

  No! The reins shook in Orlla’s hands. War was finally upon them. This couldn’t be happening. Not before she had found Samten.

  “It’s all right,” Erdhan said, mistaking the fright that flared in her face for fear for her own well-being. “You can come with us to Wilefur and spend the night at my family’s home. I offered Arnulf and Horace as much in return for a ride there.”

  Orlla hesitated. She had no desire to spend any more time in Horace’s company, but if Brufus’s army was on the march from the west, no one in their right mind would stay any longer than absolutely necessary on the open road, not even her foolhardy brother. And if Wilefur was the next town, then that’s where Samten would go too.

  Orlla inclined her head. “Thank you. If your companions have no objection, I will join you.” She ran a pointedly disapproving eye over Horace.

  Arnulf glanced at his companion and drew his heavy brows together as if warning him to keep his mouth shut. “We have no objections,” Arnulf said. “But we’d best make haste.”

  For the next few hours, they rode hard, barely exchanging a word. They alternated the horses between trotting and walking to keep them as fresh as possible with the goal of making Wilefur before nightfall. Orlla was dismayed to see that the farther they left the Angladior mountains behind, the more the trees began to thin out, replaced by rocky outcrops, windswept tussock grasses, and overgrown thickets of brambles. No wonder the mainlanders struggled to farm the barren land.

  “There’s a knoll overlooking a stream up ahead,” Erdhan called out to them. “We can break to eat there and let the horses rest for a bit.” He led them a short distance away from the trail to a small hillock where they dismounted and took their steeds down to the water, before flopping down on the bank, soaked in sweat from their hard ride. Arnulf pulled out his travel sack and passed around some salted meat and a waterskin.

  “Will you stay on in Wilefur now that war has broken out?” Erdhan asked him. “You will never make it to Essexmount before Brufus’s troops arrive.”

  Arnulf chewed on a mouthful of food contemplating the question. “We’ll be conscripted either way, so it matters not if we push on or stay in these parts.” He stole a curious glance at Orlla. “What will you do in Wilefur—an unwed woman all alone in an unfamiliar town?”

  Orlla swallowed back a wave of trepidation. The only person she knew in Wilefur was Erdhan. His family would hardly want her living in their house if he was
conscripted—she was a stranger to them, to Erdhan too for that matter. But where else could she go? Dorsching? Although she knew the name of the Macobite village she had lived in as a child, she had no idea where it lay, and her memories of it had faded over time.

  “I am perfectly capable of supporting myself until the war ends,” Orlla replied icily.

  Horace snorted and looked away. He hadn’t said two words to her since they had met again on the road, and she hardly blamed him. She was somewhat ashamed of besmearing his character as she had. Although a churlish man, he seemed a decent enough sort—he had helped out the injured traveler at the inn. Still, the fact remained that he had accosted her in the stable and pried into her affairs, so perhaps he had got what he deserved.

  “Do you practice a trade?” Arnulf pressed.

  Orlla pulled an arrow from her quiver and handed it to him. “I’m a fletcher. With war underway, I can easily find work.”

  Arnulf ran his fingers over the feathers and whistled admiringly. “Never seen feathers as silky as these before. What are they?”

  Orlla could feel Horace’s eyes boring into her. The nape of her neck prickled. She gave a casual shrug. “I know nothing of their origin. I bartered for them with some swarthy-complexioned trader passing through our village—no one understood the strange tongue he spoke.”

  She shot a quick glance at Erdhan, but he averted his eyes. Orlla took the arrow Arnulf handed back to her and stowed it in the quiver. She got the uneasy feeling Erdhan knew she was lying about the feathers, but he wasn’t willing to press the issue and humiliate her in front of the other men.

  They finished their meager meal in silence and resumed their journey a few minutes later. This time Erdhan rode with Orlla. She felt obligated to offer to take him for a spell, both to give Arnulf a break, and to repay Erdhan for accommodating her yet again. “Do you have a large family?” she enquired.

  “My parents and three younger brothers. My father is the local blacksmith—the mage of metal they call him. Half the town lives in deathly fear of him and his metal magic arts. He’s also the bailiff, so that lends weight to his reputation.”

  Orlla chuckled. “Then I, too, shall have a healthy respect for him.”

  “What of your kin?” Erdhan asked.

  Orlla fought to keep the emotion out of her voice. “My father is still alive, and I have a younger brother.”

  “They must worry about you traveling so far south to trade,” Erdhan commented.

  “My father is frail,” Orlla said in a clipped tone. “And my brother is yet too young to support us. They rely on me.”

  That much she could say with conviction. A fresh wave of guilt pummeled her when she thought about how her father was faring without her. She could count on Grizel to bring him food regularly, but who would sit with him and tell him stories to pass the long evenings? He would be left to meander alone wherever his mind trapped him that day. No one had the patience to talk to a man who stared blankly at the flames twitching in the hearth, rarely offering a response or even a grunt of acknowledgement to what was said.

  Orlla scrunched her eyes shut, trapping the salty tears that threatened. Her father knew when she sat with him, even though he said little. He liked it when she held his hand as she recounted her day, and occasionally squeezed her fingers as if taking pleasure in something she said.

  “Look yonder!” Erdhan lifted his hand to point toward the horizon.

  Orlla opened her eyes and blinked to clear her vision. Off in the distance, beyond the next hill, thin spires of gray smoke drifted upward.

  “Not far now,” Erdhan called back to Horace and Arnulf. “With the wind at our tail, we’ll make it in time for supper.”

  Orlla let out a small sigh of relief. The sight of Erdhan’s home town had distracted him from enquiring further after her kin, at least for now. Her head was pounding, overwrought with emotion, and on top of that, she was saddle-weary and anxious to know if Samten had made it to Wilefur ahead of them.

  As they crested the hill, they passed a threadbare family traveling on foot. Horace and Arnulf offered to take a couple of the children ahead on horseback, but the family declined, preferring to remain together for the last couple of miles.

  Just as dusk was beginning to smother the hills, they reached the outskirts of Wilefur, a smattering of farmsteads dotted with simple, thatched homes. Tallow candles and rush lights flickered behind shuttered windows, indicating that the occupants had finished their work for the day and were already gathered around their hearths. The smell of burning oak wood and roasting game made Orlla’s stomach growl, and her cold bones ached to settle in beside a roaring fire.

  Erdhan guided the group past several farms, comprised for the most part of shacks and barns in a sorry state of disrepair, to a larger, stone house with a neatly thatched roof. A scrawny dog ran to greet them, barking loudly at the strangers until Erdhan chased him off. They dismounted and led their sweaty horses around to the back of the house and past the forge, where coals still glowed in the hearth, to a small barn with several stalls.

  A young lad started at the sight of them, slamming his axe into a chopping block as his eyes widened in recognition. “Erdhan!” he exclaimed, wiping the back of a grubby hand across his brow, before breaking into a spasm of coughing that racked his unsettlingly thin frame.

  “Franz!” Erdhan flung his arms around the boy and held him in a crushing hug for several minutes before turning to the others. “This is my brother Franz, head woodsman during my frequent absences. He can carve up a wicked likeness of any face, so don’t insult him.” He slapped his brother on the shoulder blades and grinned broadly at him. “I brought friends.”

  Franz nodded shyly around at Horace, Arnulf, and Orlla, and then gestured to the house, fighting against succumbing to another coughing fit. “Mother has a rabbit stew in the pot. You are all welcome to sup with us.”

  Orlla’s stomach growled again at the mere mention of food, and she smiled her thanks at Franz as she accompanied the others over to the house. Franz grabbed an armful of logs and followed a few steps behind.

  Inside, the house was dark with a low-ceilinged, cobwebbed roof. The rafters were blackened from the many fires that had burned in the hearth, but the space was well-appointed with sturdy wooden furniture.

  A tiny woman with a smile almost as broad as her face rubbed her hands on her apron and greeted them warmly as they ducked under the lintel. “I am Catrain, Erdhan’s mother,” she said, squeezing him with remarkable vigor for a small-limbed woman.

  In contrast to Catrain’s slender frame, Erdhan’s father, the blacksmith mage, had a wide girth and muscled arms that bespoke years of hard labor, swinging hammers and beating iron into submission. He clapped a heavy hand on Erdhan’s back. “War is upon us,” he said, his tone grim.

  “So it would seem,” Erdhan agreed, an unusually solemn look on his face.

  His father nodded to the others in greeting. “I am Josef, blacksmith and bailiff of Wilefur, and Erdhan’s father. Well met.”

  “Well met,” they mumbled in response as they introduced themselves one-by-one. Josef’s eyes lingered on Orlla, but whatever question his gaze held, he kept it to himself.

  The two youngest brothers—smaller versions of Erdhan with their milk-white curls and sapphire eyes peeking out of dirt-streaked faces—were seated on small stools next to the hearth, tiny fists pressed to their mouths. They rocked the legs of their stools back and forth on the rush-covered floor, shooting the strangers fleeting glances while keeping a close eye on the bubbling stew in the pot.

  Erdhan pulled out a couple of narrow benches from against the wall and busied himself seating everyone, while his mother tasted the stew and gave it a vigorous stirring. “Almost ready,” she said, a lilt in her voice that hinted at her joy in seeing her firstborn son home safe.

  It was obvious Erdhan got his easy manner and good humor from Catrain. Orlla decided she liked her exceedingly well. As for Josef, she would rese
rve judgement on him for now. As the town bailiff, he was likely an observant sort. She only hoped Horace wouldn’t share his suspicions about her.

  Catrain served up generous helpings of stew and Erdhan passed it out. None of the weary travelers spoke much while they ate. Horace and Arnulf shoveled steadily, not looking up between mouthfuls. Franz coughed intermittently throughout the entire meal. Under the flickering light of the tallow candles, he looked even paler and more gaunt than he had outside, and Orlla wondered how long he had been sick. She wished she could work a healing rune on him without arousing suspicion. No one seemed unduly perturbed by his coughing fits, and so she refrained from commenting as she supped her stew for fear of drawing attention to herself. Sickness was commonplace among mainlanders. A wave of guilt went through her when Akolom’s words came to mind.

  For us, the sun shines strong … we are not subject to the decay and destruction experienced in Macobin and Pegonia.

  “Have any other travelers arrived at Wilefur today?” she inquired, affecting a note of indifference in her tone.

  “A couple of families,” Josef replied.

  Orlla shot Erdhan a meaningful look as she swallowed a bite of turnip. “Did either of them have a young man with them, about eighteen years of age?”

  Josef puckered his lips. “The children were young. None with a back broad enough to work.” He slurped a spoonful of stew, studying her from beneath his brows.

  Orlla nodded, disheartened by the news but not entirely surprised. Samten may not have arrived yet if he was on foot.

  “What is your interest in this particular youth?” Josef asked.

  “A thief around that age made off with my satchel while I slept,” Erdhan explained.

  Josef furrowed his brow. “A shame to lose such a fine stitched piece. What of the knives?”

  “I had already sold most of them,” Erdhan said. He turned to his mother with an elaborate wink. “I’m more upset about losing my warm woolen socks.”