Sentinals Awaken: Book One of the Sentinals Series

by Helen Garraway

  “I’m sorry about your mother,” Jerrol said.

  The smith screwed up his face before nodding at Jerrol. “Appreciate your help last night, you took a risk running back in there. My mother said she invited you to dinner today; I think we’ll have to rearrange it for another time,” he said, his face drawn.

  Birlerion glanced sharply at Jerrol before starting his investigation of the ruins.

  “Yes, I think you have other things to worry about today. When will you be able to hold the Leaving?”

  “Just waiting on the Father; he’s not been round yet. Hopefully tomorrow at the latest. If we could get him to agree to today that would be best, but that would be two Leavings in two days.”

  “Will the Father perform the full rite? He seems to be advocating a change in the usual way of things,” Jerrol asked, worried for them.

  “He will if he knows what’s good for him,” the smith said, his face grim. “They can talk about progress all they like, but even the Father would hesitate to change the Leaving.” He scowled. “Can you believe those town idiots tried to introduce a new tithe? They graciously granted each grower another ten foot of land, which the family would have to clear, and then they upped the tithe to pay for the additional crops they would be able to grow.

  “Even though nothing edible will grow for a year or more at least, if ever, considering the timber draws all the nutrients out of the soil. It would have to be left fallow and mulched first. Nearly caused a riot! They tried to tell us we should be grateful. Grateful for them giving us forest land which is not theirs to give! To cut down the new saplings! Wait till Lord Hugh hears about it.” The smith shook his head, his shoulders drooping as he surveyed the mess. “I’m afraid they’ll pass a law or something. What do we do then?”

  “Who holds the council? Surely they have the good of the land at heart? Felling the future can’t be in their interest?” Jerrol watched the smith as he stepped over a blackened beam and kicked a pile of ashy debris.

  “The council leader is no longer the real power, he’s getting old. He was going to retire, but he changed his mind when that smarmy envoy turned up.” The smith spat to one side in disgust.

  Birlerion paused in his inspection of the ruins at the bitterness in the smith’s voice, but he smoothly bent back down at a flick of Jerrol’s fingers.

  “Envoy?” Jerrol prompted.

  “Supposedly sent by the King, he had the council hanging off his every word before the end of the first session. He says he’s the King’s voice. He seems pretty flimsy to me, spouting a load of Ascendant rubbish, trying to convince folks that they can self-rule. I doubt the King is sponsoring that message. He’s not going to do himself out of power, now is he?”

  “When did he arrive?”

  “About a month ago. He doesn’t mix much with us peasants, just sends out his lackeys with his messages, spreading them like a sickness. I never thought to see folks so gullible.” The smith sighed, glancing around the dreary ruins. “The King better start paying attention, or his people won’t have a choice.”

  “Have you heard the term ‘veil-shredder’ before?” Jerrol asked.

  The smith froze. “Don’t,” he exclaimed, glancing around. “Don’t mention them. They can hear you, you know. Hear what you say – it’s not safe.” He gestured towards the smoking beams. “A warning, don’t you think?”

  “Why would you need a warning?” Birlerion asked, brushing the ash off his hands.

  The smith curled his lip, but before he could answer his wife called his name. “The Father’s waiting for you,” she called.

  The smith turned to Jerrol and stuck out his hand. “Thank’ee again for your help last night. My mother would have been glad of your company. As it is, it’s safer not to keep company with strangers. Lady bless you both. You’d best be watching your backs, though, because the lackeys will have reported on you.”

  Jerrol clasped his hand warmly. “Protect your family. Protect the line and if possible, keep the Lady close. Don’t ever give up on her. She’ll never give up on you, I promise.” The smith nodded slowly and turned away, following his wife up the muddy street.

  Birlerion let his breath out with a whoosh. “Well,” he exclaimed, wiping his hands with a handkerchief in a futile attempt to clean off the ash.

  Jerrol held up a hand. “Not here. Let’s get our things and get ready to leave. I think we need to bring Jennery up to date and go visit Lord Hugh as soon as possible.”

  Chapter 14

  Chapterhouse, Old Vespers

  Liliian sat behind her desk and inspected the man seated before her. He had reverted to his studiously courteous manner. His brief outburst was a mere memory. But she remembered the viciousness in his expression clearly: his thin face transformed by his anger into a honed weapon, his black eyes spitting fury. In all the years she had known him, she had never seen him behave so.

  “Explain yourself,” she said.

  “Scholar Deane, I offer my sincerest apologies. I was just helping Taelia back to her room.”

  “Oh? You have been absent these three or four months, with no word, no report of your whereabouts, and the first thing you do on your return is to invade the women’s quarter?”

  “Not at all, Deane. I found her asleep in the courtyard when I arrived; I was on my way to my room.”

  “Taelia was asleep in the courtyard,” Liliian repeated.

  “Yes, Deane, on the bench by the fountain. I woke her and escorted her back to her room, and then you interrupted us.”

  “Interrupted what, exactly?”

  “I was asking her why she was in the courtyard. She didn’t remember.”

  “I must advise you, Scholar, that I will be speaking to Taelia later.”

  Torsion pursed his lips. “She said she was worried for Jerrol, but didn’t remember getting up. I suppose she must have walked in her sleep. There were enough scholars in the refectory to confirm my words.”

  “Jerrol?”

  “She was afraid for him. She said the Prince had accused him of treason.” Torsion grimaced, his eyes cold. “I’m not surprised. He was ever wont to be in trouble.”

  Liliian’s eyes narrowed. “Where have you been?”

  “I told you. I was going to Velmouth and then up to the Watch Towers.”

  “For three months? I expect a detailed report of your findings on my desk by tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, Deane.”

  “And a report of exactly what you and Taelia were talking about.”

  “Yes, Deane.”

  Liliian watched him closely. He was submissive, his anger sheathed, but she knew it was bubbling under the surface by the tension in his muscles. “What is wrong, Torsion?”

  Torsion stared at her and then exhaled heavily. He twisted his lips. “If I’d known...” He paused. “Even when he’s not here, he is.”

  “He?”

  “Jerrol. Taelia can’t see past her romanticised view of him. He is not for her. He is unreliable, absent most of the time. His hands are covered in blood, and yet she doesn’t see any of it.”

  “And you do?”

  “I’ve known him since he was an unformed child. I helped mould him into the man he is today. He is family even with all his faults, and I know them all. I wouldn’t want Taelia hurt. She could do so much better.”

  “With you, I suppose?”

  Torsion shrugged. “Why not? I would protect her.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t need protecting. You can’t force her, Torsion,” Liliian said, her voice gentle.

  “I don’t intend to. She will see sense in the end.”

  Greenswatch

  After settling at the inn, they mounted their horses. Zin’talia emanated relief at seeing Jerrol. He soothed her as they started back up the road towards Greenswatch. Trees crowded along the side of the road and made the day seem even darker and gloomier than it was. The trees were dense and the undergrowth so thick they couldn’t see into the gloom for more than a few feet.
The muddy road wound down a slight inclination before veering off to the right into what seemed like a bank of trees at the end. An illusion, or so he hoped.

  Their horses walking in step, Jennery peered around them and then up at the sky as a fine drizzle began misting down again, pooling in beads before running harmlessly off their cloaks. Jennery observed the effect thoughtfully and cast a weather eye at the sky. “The Lady must have known more rain was forecast.”

  “With the amount of rain lately, it’s not a big leap to make,” Jerrol agreed.

  “I wonder if she could do anything about the mud.”

  “You’ll have to ask her, though I’m not convinced it will be a priority. Birlerion, what did you see in the remains of the smithy? Was there anything obvious?”

  Birlerion shifted in his saddle and wiped the rain off his face. “It’s all a bit inconclusive. There was some lighter ash at the front of the building where it burnt hotter, which would match someone adding an accelerant to start the fire, but no indications as to what it might have been. The rest looked pretty standard.”

  “And no proof that the fire spread any quicker than normal, except that it appears more intense at the front?” Jerrol asked.

  “Fires generally have a spark point, where they first ignite,” Birlerion said, “and if they used oil to start it, then it would burn fiercest there.”

  “The smith thought it was a warning, though a warning against what isn’t clear,” Jerrol reminded him.

  “Yes, he shut up quick once his wife turned up. I wonder what he would have said if we had more time. The councils are certainly the mouthpiece, though whether they believe what they are spouting or are just misguided, I’m not sure. Someone is influencing them. I doubt any king would support such a message; it must be coming from someone else.”

  “The Chancellor?” Jennery suggested. “Do you think he is trying to take the crown whilst the King is ill?”

  “If Kharel thought the Chancellor could help him, he would use him. Though whether Kharel could prevent the Chancellor from overthrowing him in turn would be the sticking point,” Jerrol mused. “From what I heard at the Grove, it is more discrediting the Lady than the King. I can’t see Kharel giving up his chance at the crown that easily. Even if King Benedict is distracted, I can’t see him neglecting his duties; his belief in the Lady is absolute. He would never give her up. No,” Jerrol muttered to himself, “something else is happening.”

  The miles passed. The roads were deteriorating further as the unseasonal rain continued to fall. They resorted to cutting through the edge of the forest tracts, searching for woodland trails that weren’t so waterlogged, but getting caught instead in intractable bracken that snared whatever passed.

  As the clouds thickened, the rain grew harder, and the forest grew impassable as the light faded in the constant downpour. Jerrol finally called a stop. “We’re not going to make Greenswatch in these conditions; let’s stop and at least try to find some shelter. If I remember rightly there is a ridge just up ahead, before we reach the turnoff. Let’s see if we can find any shelter there.”

  Jennery grunted and, hunching his shoulder against the inclement weather, he kept his head down under his hood and pulled his horse behind Zin’talia’s sodden tail. The trees crowded them, blocking what little light there was and making them stumble over the first of the rocky outcrops. “This way,” called Jerrol, veering off into the darkness ahead, “there’s an overhang. It’s quite deep, not quite a cave, but enough to give us some shelter.”

  They rigged an awning to keep the worst of the rain off the horses and stacked the saddles and saddlebags in the deepest corner to keep them as dry as possible. Birlerion bent over the small fire pit he had dug and delved in his pocket for some dry lint to try to start the fire. The bracken and twigs they had collected flared into flames, and he placed a pot of water on it to heat.

  Jerrol squinted at the fire. “That was quick. I think we’ll let you do fire duty all the time. I’ll take the first watch; Birlerion, you get the middle watch; and Jennery, you take the morning. I can’t see us getting any further today.” He handed around mugs of chicory tea: not as nice as coffee, but hot and steaming.

  It was a cold and miserable afternoon. Jennery began rubbing his horse down as Birlerion started on his horse. Zin’talia started to complain. “I’m wet, it’s cold. I hate Greenswatch,” she moaned, swishing her tail. “It’s much warmer in Terolia. Let’s go there.”

  Jennery eventually soothed her as he began to rub her down. Birlerion unwrapped his bow and dried it off, before rewrapping it and then checking through his quiver.

  “Why do you strap it under your saddle? Shouldn’t you carry it on your back? Easier to get to?” Jennery asked, watching him.

  “In this weather, it’s unlikely I’ll use it. When I was in Terolia I used to carry it like this; heat can warp as much as water, and it wasn’t so obvious.”

  “What were you hiding from?”

  “Nothing, I was just trying to blend in, not be so noticeable.”

  Jennery snorted. “Before or after you turned Sentinal?”

  Birlerion gave him a brief grin. “Both.”

  “And how successful were you?”

  “Pretty much. Wrapped in scarves it’s difficult to tell one from the other.”

  “True,” Jennery murmured as he watched the Sentinal roll himself up in his blankets, trying to get some sleep.

  Jerrol peered out into the misting gloom, the soft voices comforting. All was still except for the dripping rain, pattering on soggy leaves and splatting into the sodden moss. The smell of rotting vegetation and collecting water was strong. The chill air found its way into his clothes, making everything damp to the touch and uncomfortable. Even the horses were miserable, with Zin’talia making a point to shudder when she caught his gaze.

  He was still amazed by the gentle link that connected them, comforted by its constant presence. The first time he had ever seen a Darian was when he was a child. It was the first time he had ever met his friend Torsion. His Darian was silver-grey, graceful and very intelligent. She had wrapped every single stable lad around her elegant hoof, pampered soul that she was. He hoped Zin’talia didn’t expect the same cosseting. If so, she was going to be out of luck on this journey.

  Jerrol shook Birlerion awake later that evening and rolled himself in Birlerion’s warm blanket. He soon dozed off, but was roused when he heard Birlerion changing with Jennery in turn. Jennery’s low voice carried on the damp air, complaining bitterly about catching a chill in this awful weather and why hadn’t they stayed at the inn. Jerrol commiserated. He had a valid point.

  Jerrol must have dozed off again because suddenly he was wide awake, Zin’talia screeching a warning in his head. He reached over to grab Birlerion’s arm, but he needn’t have bothered. Birlerion was awake and moving. There were faint wisps of grey streaking the inky black sky, and the rain had eased to a fine sifting mist. He slid his sword out of its sheath and rose as Birlerion melted into the darkness.

  A shadow launched itself at Birlerion, closely followed by a second, crowding Jerrol’s arm and pushing him back against the stone outcrop with a breath-stealing thud. Jerrol dropped his sword and slid out his daggers as the bite of cold steel sliced across his ribs.

  He struck upwards, hard, connecting with something soft, and parried a second thrust towards his shoulder. He twisted out of the man’s embrace and danced back towards the opening, catching a glimpse of Birlerion taking his man down with a flash of his blade; of Jennery, there was no sign.

  His opponent dropped into a crouch before sliding forward with a scything motion, trying to take out Jerrol’s legs and flipping himself back to his feet in one smooth motion. This was no amateur thug; this was someone who knew his craft.

  Jerrol feinted to the left, before twisting into a thrust towards his opponent’s chest. The daggers screeched to the hilts as he moved in counterpoint; they leapt apart and circled until his opponent collapsed to th
e ground as Birlerion slugged him in the head with his sword. Jerrol swayed, clutching his hand to his side as he watched Birlerion sheath his sword before checking the man. Birlerion grimaced, and he knew the man wouldn’t be standing up again.

  “Jennery?” Jerrol gritted his teeth as he straightened up.

  “He’s out cold, looks like they took him unawares. He is going to have a major headache on top of his cold.” Birlerion tutted unsympathetically.

  “Bring him in under the shelter; let’s make him comfortable at least,” Jerrol said as he turned away to inspect his injury. Not good. A long, jagged slice across his ribs stung, sluggishly bleeding along its length. Not down to the bone, but it would need stitching nonetheless. His jacket had blunted much of the thrust; otherwise, he would be the one lying on the floor and not rising.

  Jerrol rummaged in his saddlebag and slapped a cloth against the slice, tying the ends together and tucking his shirt in tightly to hold it in place; they needed to get in the warm and get some light so that they could tend their wounds. He squatted beside Jennery, who was very pale and beginning to groan. Hopefully, it was only a concussion, though he was wheezing alarmingly.

  “We can’t stay here. We need to get Jennery somewhere warm before anyone else finds us.”

  Birlerion peered out at the misty forest. “I’m surprised anyone found us at all in this.”

  “You can’t say they aren’t persistent. We need to get to Greenswatch, it’s only a couple of miles further on.”

  Between them, they managed to get Jennery upright and steered him out to his horse, which Birlerion had saddled. “Do you think you can stay on if I help you up?” Jerrol asked, gripping his friend’s arm to keep him balanced.

  “I’ll help him,” Birlerion interrupted. “You’ll make your side worse.” He must have seen Jerrol’s makeshift first aid. “Wait for me, and I’ll help you with your horse.”

  Jerrol leaned woozily against Zin’talia, who was nickering with concern. He had lost more blood than he had thought and was feeling lightheaded. Maybe he should return to Old Vespers and clear his name; he was beginning to get fed up with being attacked.