The harrowing journey through Lor Danith had kept her moving and running almost every waking moment with no time for anything else. Now, trekking across Klyssen with her companions, the desperation of the last weeks was finally receding.
Borlin trotted his mare up on her other side. “Say lass, I’ve got another good one fer ye!”
Nathel groaned. “Give over, Borlin. Didn’t you tell her enough stories last night to get us all the way to Pellar?”
“Don’t worry yer thick skull Nathel,” replied Borlin. “This is the Tale o’ the Wall!”
“Oh well then, onward, but don’t let Tor know you told it again, or he’s like to split your head for you, little man.” Nathel leaned across toward Rowan and whispered, “It changes every time he tells it.”
Rowan hid her grin as the Stoneman launched into the setup for the exciting story of yet another battle fought in during the Ren Wars. “An Nathel was in dire straights! Enemy closin’ from all sides an ’im wounded in the shoulder so as e’ couldn’a swing ’is sword full. Well I tell ye lass, it looked like ’e was finished. Then and there, we was set to mourn fer the rascal. And suddenly a mighty bellow sounded from atop o’ the wall! ’Twas so loud that the battle stopped completely as ever’one turned to look up. And there ’e was, standin’ like the Lord o’ Battle hisself, Torrin. ’E launched hisself down at the melee with that great sword a’ spinnin and I swear te ye that time stood still! Thirty feet high it were, if it was an inch to the top o’ that wall, and Torrin jumped off te save ’is brother.”
Nathel slapped his thigh and laughed out loud. “Borlin, I swear you missed your calling. With your flare for the dramatic, you could have had led the King’s Players in Pellaris.”
Borlin winked at Rowan. “Poor lad ‘s soft in the head. ’E canna remember anything clearly any more. Ye know that truth makes fer the best tales.”
The rest of the day passed quickly for Rowan as the Stoneman’s story telling transported her into the world of Eryos and her companions. “The Warlord’s Conclave” told of how Torrin had been able to get the Ren Warlords to agree to tentative peace terms when they wouldn’t step into the same room with each other. “Dark Treachery” was Borlin’s story of how Torrin lead the companions to uncover a plot that would have trapped them in an ambush. Nathan’s quips added to the flavor, and Rowan was so content; even the wind ceased to bother her.
Borlin also spoke of his homeland in the Black Hills and his adventures in mountaineering. His description of stone sculpting and masonry – something he missed a great deal – was passionate and informative. When she asked him about the famous blue glaze the stonemen use on their pottery, Borlin shook a finger at her and tisked with a grin. “Stoneman’s secret.”
That night they set a fireless camp in a shallow depression. Rowan sat and worked an oiled rag over her sword, watching the last of the setting sun glint from its edge.
Absorbed in her task, she started when Torrin spoke beside her. He sat with his back against his saddle, a cup in hand. “So how high was the wall this time?”
Rowan smiled and tucked her cloth away, sliding her blade back into its scabbard. “Near thirty feet high by Borlin’s telling of it.”
“That’s not too bad. If I recall correctly, he had me fighting a dragon once as well.”
The next frosty morning, Borlin lit a small, almost smokeless fire made from a tightly woven grass log he’d fashioned with deft fingers. Then he cooked them a warm breakfast with hot tea to dispel the night’s chill.
The stout Stoneman was a surprisingly good cook. “Borlin, this is amazing!” Rowan complemented him between mouthfuls of cereal. “What is in it?”
“Why the grass seed is ripe an’ perfect. Harvested me a bag full last night and cooked em up with a little bit o’ herbs and such.” He chuckled at the look on her face. “When ye enjoy food as much as Stonemen do, ye learn how te cook it properly.” Borlin waved at the rest of his friends. “As fer this lot, they couldna boil an egg to save their lives!” A hunk of biscuit, thrown by Nathel, came sailing towards his head; the Stoneman caught it nimbly and popped it into his mouth.
“You’re a mystery, Borlin,” teased Nathel. “Maybe you should be wearing a dress instead of armour. Make sure no one sees you cooking in Pellaris or you might get whisked off to the local women’s guild.”
Rowan frowned. “Why should he wear a dress?”
Dalemar closed his book and looked at her with interest. “Women are the ones who cook in Eryos, Rowan, with a few,” he looked pointedly at Borlin, “a very few exceptions.”
“Ach! Tabor ’as male cooks.” Borlin waved a hand at the world. “I canna help it if the rest o’ the world is backward.”
“Are you saying that men are not allowed to cook?” asked Rowan.
“It is not that they are not allowed, but it is just not socially acceptable for men to cook,” answered Dalemar. “It is backward, I know, but it is the way of things here. Men and women have traditional roles that they adhere to. As you have already discovered there are no women in the armies and men fulfill all the leadership roles. Women’s duties fall more toward the domestic, like raising children and keeping the home.”
Rowan was no longer hungry. Setting aside her food, she got to her feet and took a deep breath, her chest tight; she had a strong sensation of being smothered. She had gleaned much through her travels in Lor Danith but hadn’t known that the same views were so widely spread throughout the rest of Eryos. Rowan looked around at the faces of her companions. “On Myris Dar, you choose to do with your life what you want, regardless of whether you are a man or a woman. How can you take away a person’s right to make their own choices of who and what they want to be?”
Torrin stood up, his expression gentle. “It is the way it has always been and change comes very slowly to Eryos, Rowan. This continent has been covered in darkness for centuries and still is in many places. You must be prepared for the affect you will have on the people you meet. There will be disapproval and, in some places, outright animosity.”
Rowan wrapped her arms around herself as the wind began to pick up. “I cannot change who I am, just to fit in, just to make others more comfortable. I will not.”
“No one is asking you to, Rowan. We just want you to be prepared,” explained Dalemar.
“There is more you should know,” said Torrin quietly. “Ren women are considered the property of their fathers and then their husbands.”
Rowan shuddered. “Then young girls must hope to marry a man who is fair and kind.”
Nathel snorted. “Scarce traits in the men of Ren.”
“What about the other realms of Eryos. Are there no laws?”
Torrin shrugged. “Some, but they are seldom upheld.”
“But none of you are like the people I have met,” said Rowan. “You have accepted me and what I do. Why are you all so different from the rest of Eryos?” she asked.
Nathel chuckled, “Well look at us, Rowan. Even if there had been a women in our company before you came along, do you think Borlin would have let her cook?”
“The last few weeks have not been without adjustments, as I am sure you have noticed.” Dalemar smiled as he cast a look at the others.
“We are an unusual company, Rowan,” said Torrin, “Our renown comes as much from that as it does from our fighting record.”
Rowan sank down to finish her breakfast as the others prepared for another day of travel.
Arynilas crouched in front of her, his sapphire eyes gleaming. “You are like a pebble dropped in a pond, Messenger. The ripples of your being here will open minds and eyes that have long been closed.”
*
Torrin stood at the edge of camp in the cold morning air and watched critically as Rowan sparred with Arynilas. The Tynithian’s use of his twin blades was very similar to how Rowan used her sword and dagger. They had been training together in the mornings for several days now. The lithe Tynithian was closer to Rowan’s size and made an excellent
sparring partner. But while Rowan emphasized her sword over her dagger, Arynilas was completely ambidextrous. The Tynithian was also a master at misdirection – a technique he termed the “Vanishing Sword.”
Torrin had trained with Arynilas himself and he knew how artful and deadly the Tynithian was. Arynilas’ hands were so fast that before you even realized your mistake, his knife was already thrusting from a completely unexpected direction. It was very unnerving.
Torrin dropped his gaze to Rowan’s feet and noted with approval that she never over extended herself. Her stance shifted and flowed but was always shoulder width apart, and she balanced on the balls of her feet. When pressure came towards her she would glide with it and allow it to pass her, like a dancer with a deadly partner.
They had all taken the time to practice with Rowan in various campsites, eager to learn more about the use of redirection in her fighting style. And considering that their current adversaries were much larger and heavier than any of them, anything that could give them an advantage was important.
Torrin watched closely now, as Arynilas tested her with redirection and surprise. She was barely a beat behind the Tynithian. Arynilas was not holding back, yet Rowan was managing to get her weapons up in time to protect herself.
Sweet Erys she was good. Torrin had never seen anyone even remotely keep up with Arynilas, including himself, and already she was beginning to anticipate his thrusts. Their breath puffing white in the brisk air, the pair twisted and spun with a complexity that was hard to follow.
Her athletic grace was fascinating – distracting. He frowned, intent on trying to understand her technique. If he could keep his head from getting in the way, he knew there was no one in the world that had more to teach Eryos than this woman.
With a last look, Torrin turned away to help with the horses. As he picked up his saddle and walked toward the picket, a loud pop sounded behind him. He spun, dropping his gear and reaching for his sword.
Dalemar stood with his hand touching Hathunor, while the Raken directed a stream of magic at the ground. After a moment a bubble of water began to seep from the soil. It spread out and soon there was a shallow pool filling the small depression.
“Ha! Wonderful, Hathunor,” cheered Dalemar. “Nathel! Come and water the horses.”
Torrin shook his head in wonder and turned to retrieve his saddle. It was quite remarkable to see the effortless feats Hathunor could perform with only a trickle of power. Dalemar was learning his own craft at an exponential rate – the Rith could see what Hathunor did with the magic and then make attempts of his own.
Unfortunately, Hathunor controlled the flow of magic through sheer instinct. As a result, Dalemar’s lessons became a form of “trial and terror,” as Nathel had taken to calling them, with the small party either howling with laughter or bolting for their lives as a spell went awry. Dalemar’s rapid progress was remarkable, his skill growing daily along with his confidence.
Hathunor seemed to have recovered immediately from his battle with the Drae Raken. He had submitted to Dalemar’s experiments in directing magic with good nature. In fact, he seemed to delight in wielding magic and had begun to play harmless pranks on everyone, blaming them on the Rith. Torrin wondered now how he could have ever mistrusted their giant companion.
*
Sweat pouring down her face, breath coming in gasps, Rowan got her sword in place barely in time to defend before Arynilas moved to the next attack. She danced to the side, deflecting another blow; no time for counter attack. She thought she had his pattern figured out but he changed tactics again, leaving her struggling to catch up.
Rowan spun to keep the rising sun from blinding her, making Arynilas follow her. She slashed at his flank but found his blade there, turning hers aside even as his other one cut towards her middle. She leaped back just in time.
They broke apart and Rowan bent over to catch her breath, feeling like an inexperienced child.
“You are very quick for a human,” Arynilas said quietly. “Do not forget that I have had a much longer time to perfect my skill than you have.”
Rowan nodded and wiped at the sweat on her brow. “It is true, time helps but it is not necessarily hours spent practicing that makes a master what he or she is. I have studied under the Myrian staff-master Ronithu. Students of different ages come from all over Myris Dar to study under him. I myself spent almost a year under his tutelage when I was twenty. At the time Master Ronithu was fifteen years of age.”
Arynilas’ dark eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Truly?”
Rowan nodded. “At the age of seven he was one with the staff, better than people three times his years who had practiced with it every day of their lives.”
“A virtuoso.” Arynilas smiled. “There are those among my people who have extraordinary talents innate within them from birth. As time passes, the gap between those who are born with talent and those who have practiced an activity to perfection narrows. It is said that within each of my people, there is a master of all crafts and only time is required to uncover them.”
Rowan laughed. “If only I had a thousand years to practice the sword!”
“You do well enough as it is, Messenger.”
Rowan sheathed her sword and dagger and rubbed at her burning shoulders as she and Arynilas made their way back to camp. This time spent with engaging people she trusted, learning their various fighting skills and teaching them some of her own, eased her longing for her homeland.
Their friendship helped bear the weight of the message she carried and her role as emissary from Myris Dar – the first of her people to visit Eryos for hundreds of years. She’d felt honoured when Nathel, in one of his more solemn moments, told her they were proud to accompany her — especially in view of the role women filled here in Eryos.
Her chest tightened. She was not very good at diplomacy and politics. Her cousin Dell had been picked for their mission because he was a diplomat. He would have known exactly what to say and how to behave among strangers. As a man, he would have had an easier time as well.
She prayed to Erys that it would not be too late to deliver the information the Seers had entrusted to her, that it could be understood in time to stop the coming of the Wyoraith. And that she would be able to navigate the uncharted waters of foreign ideologies and beliefs without alienating everyone she met. The hope of Eryos as well as her own beloved Myris Dar depended on it.
Balor
Foul weather set in and the companions were wet as often as they were dry. Early one afternoon, a brief flare of sunlight had slipped out behind the clouds to illuminate the world and Rowan watched the feathered heads of the curved grass stalks glowing around her. She glanced to the horizon, revelling in the sunlit gold of the plain against the bruised purple and grey of the gathering storm. Closing her eyes, she lifted her face to the warmth of the sun, knowing that it would be a short interlude.
“Ye ’ave told us very little of yer home, Rowan,” Borlin said, plucking her from her reverie. He nudged his mare closer. “Perhaps I’ve bin telling too many of me own stories of late,” he winked at her. “’Twould be good to hear somethin’ new.”
Rowan thought for a moment before replying, “Myris Dar is about the size of…”
“No,” Borlin interrupted. “Tell us of yer home. Where ye grew up an what yer parents were like. What did ye do as a child, besides play wi wooden swords?”
Rowan heard Nathel snicker from behind them and turned in her saddle to direct a mock scowl at him, but he presented her an entirely innocent countenance. She glanced at Torrin who rode next to his brother. He met her gaze briefly before resuming his constant scan of the horizon. Borlin was still waiting patiently for an answer to his question.
Home.
Rowan’s thoughts flew over the blue-green waters of the Eryos Ocean toward the mountainous isle, passed the terraced fields, winding roads and villages, to the steep footpath that led up to the stone house with its wide, concave sloped roof, the carved wooden a
pex beam and the beautiful finials her father had made. This was the house where she was born. This was where her mother and brother still lived. “I grew up on the slopes of Mount Kori, a few miles from the village of Heria. My home, my mother’s house, is perched on an outcrop of volcanic rock and looks out over the Eryos Ocean. My parents raised two children: my brother and myself. We could…”
“What is his name, your brother?” Torrin broke in.
Rowan turned in her saddle. “Andin. He is younger than I and a great mischief-maker.” She glanced meaningfully at Nathel, who grinned back without remorse.
“Are yer parents still liv’n?” asked Borlin.
“My mother yet lives. My father died when I was fourteen during a pirate raid on Heria.” Rowan took a steadying breath as the familiar mix of guilt and pain washed over her.
“Pirates? I thought ye Myrians were legendary for yer fight’n skills. Why would yer island be target fer pirates?”
Rowan had only been fourteen but she had fought beside her father and mother, a child’s drilling sword in her hand. “It is not unlike a master swordsman being challenged by those who want his title. Myris Dar is a lush island and there is great wealth in its land and people. For that reason alone, many a fool has been incited to make an attempt at conquest. It is partly why Myrians have shunned the outside world and fallen out of memory.
“There was a time though, in the distant past, when my people were like sheep at slaughter. Myris Dar was ripe for picking – anyone with strength could land on the island and take what was there. The ancient Myrians would not raise a finger to defend their property or themselves.”
“Are you sure we are talking about the same place you come from?” asked Nathel sceptically. “You don’t strike me as someone who will stand down when threatened, what with all the throwing people around and such.”
Borlin threw Nathel a glare. “Hold yer tongue lad, an’ let the lass finish.”
Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1) Page 16
