And, just to be clear:
Not arms like:
Arms like:
And now...
Post 1
Rusdan
Orinian, harsh King of Coriaer, preferred Darlandan slaves, as did his father
before him. “Why should our people mine, or build, or risk their lives in the
Tharsald when Darlandans can be used for those purposes?”
His
son, Kin Lash Orinian, couldn’t have agreed more. “They are worthless... are
they not, father?”
The
king replied, “Less than worthless, if that can be.”
Kin
Lash was eight years old.
Sharizeen
Cor walked the woods of the Darlandan countryside barefoot on an early summer
day, humming to herself and taking in the scents of the morning. The sun
warmed the hills she so often enjoyed. The wind shifted her sandy hair
across her face. She tucked it back behind one ear.
Sarie,
as her father used to lovingly call her, was seven years old.
She
heard a twig snap in the brush about a stone’s throw away. She was instantly alert.
It was a good thing too. A rock the size of her palm flew through the air and
swished past her ear. She’d moved aside just in time. Had she not, it would
have drawn blood.
"Boujh!"
She shouted and touched a small scar on her brow from a similar instance in the
past then narrowed her gaze determinedly on the place she had heard the snap.
Boujh Cor poked his head up from the brush with an equally focused look.
Raising a large stick aloft he quickly crossed the distance between them
and dove, swinging his would-be club at Sarie with what any onlooker would have
taken for lethal intent. He missed by an inch as she leapt up and over
him, dodging the stick and pushing his face down into the loamy soil beneath
the grass in the process. Boujh landed in a heap, and Sarie landed—almost
gracefully—on her feet, laughing.
Boujh
spun to his feet, wiped his face and took Sarie by the hands. “That’s my girl!” He swung her up
to sit on his shoulders. She kept a hold of one hand
as Boujh started walking.
Wiping
at the slightest hint of a tear, he said. “Father would be proud.”
“You
really think so, Boujh?” she asked, leaning over his head and meeting his eyes
upside down.
Boujh
was fourteen and her only family. “Yeah. I do.” he said with half a smile and
held her hand a little tighter. “Keep that up and no one’ll ever be able to
hurt you.”
Such
was the manner in which Sharizeen 'Sarie' Cor was trained from the year of her
father’s death until her brother’s.
Post 2
Twelve
years passed. Sarie Cor was nineteen and unwed, and living in the Underqwall
District. That was an uncomfortable fact. Underqwall was the lower class
district of Darlan proper just beyond the walls of Cirin Darlandan and the most
likely place to find an unwed woman of suitable age suddenly taken by the royal
guard and drafted as one of prince Aeron’s companions. Concubine was a
disparaging word. So, he didn't use it.
The
death of Sarie’s brother Boujh eight months earlier had broken her heart, but it
also afforded her time without threat—the grieving season. Boujh had found work
in service to one of the younger captains of the castle guard, Eerid Freen, and
had been working toward actually joining the ranks of the guard. Being of
dubious birth, it was easy to find a place among the fighting men, but he
wanted a better life for himself and his sister.
Having
joined Eerid on a short trip to the temple just east of Tol Darlandan
(Rivelin’s first outpost), they were set upon by bandits and Boujh lost his
life defending his employer and friend. Sarie had been living in Eerid’s home
under Boujh’s protection, but now she was alone. Eerid offered to let her
remain in his house until her grieving season ended, but only a month later, in
an unwarranted fit of jealousy, Eerid’s wife demanded that she go.
Out
of the kindness of his heart, Eerid set her up in a hostel just beyond the
walls of Cirin Darlandan so he could have his servants keep watch over her for
the remainder of her grieving season. “I am sorry for the loss of your brother,
Sarie. Would that I could have saved him. I owe him my life... purchased at the
cost of his own. The family Cor will always be remembered by me. Take this,
though it is a pittance in comparison to my debt.” He bowed then handed her a
small chest of coins to sustain her during her stay. She thanked him.
Eerid
threatened the hostel owner that if anyone took from Sarie, or mistreated her,
his establishment would pay in more than just gold. It was a needless threat,
because Sarie fell quickly into friendship with the hostel owner, a
twenty-eight year old Rud by the name of Jaren Adds. Ruds are the copper-skinned
natives of western Darlandis. He saw to it that none of his other patron’s
bothered her, citing her observance of the grieving season, and adding that,
despite her beauty, word had it she was a fighter more capable than many in the
castle guard.
In
the open bunk sleeping arrangement of the hostel, many a traveler was tempted
to press his will with her, but only once did any try. He had been a renowned
mercenary. There was no memorial for him, and all who witnessed his end told
and retold the tale until the fighting prowess of Sharizeen Cor was near
legendary in Underqwall. Though her stomach turned at the need to end any man’s
life, she was grateful for the peace her reputation provided.
The
grieving season was over and Sarie knew her time in Underqwall must be as well.
She had already witnessed two young women taken by the royal guard to serve
prince Aeron.
The
bell above the rough wooden door rang and a soldier strode in. He was castle
guard not royal guard. He looked at Jaren who stood behind the bar. “Sarie
Cor?”
Jaren
was a sturdy man and usually good at hiding his thoughts, but he knew the
danger for Sarie and flinched at the mention of her name. Sarie was just beyond
a screen across the room chopping vegetables for that evening’s stew. At the
mention of her name she stole a glance. As she did one sandy strand of her
otherwise braided hair dropped in front of her eye. Pushing it back
behind her ear she saw the guard wore a deep red cloak over a silver mail shirt
that bore the emblem of Cirin Darlandan. His sword hand rested on his hilt.
Jaren
regained himself and asked, “I’m sorry. Who do you seek?”
“Please,
Sir. Do not play the fool with me. I know the young lady resides here. It is
imperative I speak with her.”
His
tone wasn’t threatening, more imploring, but just in case Jaren grasped the
hilt of a blade kept on a shelf inside the bar. “Who is it that seeks her?”
“My
commander Eerid Freen sends an urgent message for her.”
Sarie
kept the kitchen knife in her hand and stepped out from behind the screen.
Immediately the soldier bowed then raised his eyes to her. “Good miss! I and
others in my regiment have guarded you beyond your knowledge this seven months
passed, but our duty cannot stand against the danger set to assail you today.
The king’s second son, prince Aeron, sends his men here to claim you. You must
fly from this place.” He produced a scroll bearing his master’s crest. “This he
sends with you. It will grant you the privilege to cross through the gates of
Adrel Teng beyond the reach of his majesty. The monk’s there have freedoms even
the king is bound to uphold.”
She
tossed the knife to the cutting board. It stuck tip down and quivered there.
She quickly crossed to the bunks and opening her trunk pulled out and donned a
pair of dark breeches beneath her laurel-colored surcoat, fastening them as she
answered, “I thank you, Sir. Please, hand the scroll to my friend Jaren. Do you
know how much time I have?” She slipped her two short swords—or extra short
swords as Boujh always called them—into a specially crafted sheath worn across
the small of her back to be hidden by her cloak.
“Word
was given to me nigh unto twenty minutes after his majesty the prince informed
his captain. I can only assume it is your fighter’s reputation that delays
them. They are commanded you must be taken utterly unharmed.” As he spoke she
donned her buckled boots, and began cutting off the skirt portion of her
surcoat.
She
looked at Jaren. “Had I left even a day sooner….” Her eyes said more. She had
planned to leave weeks ago and make for Billowing Pools, but she stayed for
him, hoping. There was a love between them. Not in full bloom, but present and
growing. She blamed him in her heart. Were he moved enough to wed me I would
not face this peril. But, I am just as much the fool….
Jaren
said, “I would fight for you.”
“And
you would lose. I will not have your life forfeit for me.”
Jaren
knew there was neither time nor sufficient chance of persuading her to argue
the point. He took his purse and filled it with all the gold he had on hand,
one-hundred and thirty-two durras. He placed the scroll in the purse as well,
and a small container of wine. He draped it over her shoulder and across her
chest to let it hang at her side then kissed her forehead and said tenderly,
“Be safe, Sarie. And…” he waivered, “I…” he sighed. “Don’t forget your cloak.”
She
sighed and pulled her cloak and a small pack out of the trunk and lay them on
the bed. She girded her waist with the belt her brother had worn for years. He’d
made it with sheathes for knives of varying sizes and purpose at intervals
around it. As she reached for her cloak, the soldier said, “Good miss, please…
take mine. Yours is known to the guard, and garbed as you are now you will draw
much attention. Though mine is crimson, it is not uncommon for a castle guard to
walk the streets of Underqwall alone. It may help disguise you.” She took it
and put it on, lifting her pack to her shoulders over it. He added, “Keep your
hood up and your head down. Walk with haste as though you are on great errand,
but not as though you fly from danger.”
Putting
on Sarie’s cloak he walked to the door. She called after him, “What is your
name?”
“Ryon.
Your brother was my friend, and he is missed. I must leave before they arrive,
and you must do the same.” He bowed to her and exited.
Sarie
looked at Jaren wishing something greater could have been between them, and
Jaren looked at her with regret, knowing that moment he had lost any
possibility of a future with her. Though he would liked to have proven himself
wrong, he was not the man for a woman like her and he knew it.
In
crimson, laurel, and black, and looking very much the like the warrior her
brother had always trained her to be, Sarie Cor turned away and stepped through
the door, ready to face whatever challenges would come her way.
Across
the sea a twenty year old Kin Lash Orinian faced his father and bellowed, “But
I loved her! You would send her to serve in the Tharsald?! She will die beneath
that weight. She loved the sunlight more than any person I’ve ever known, and
you sentence her to serve in darkness forever!” He advanced upon the
king.
Rusdan
Orinian held up his hand and two guards angled their spears at the prince’s
chest. He stopped in his tracks. “You would have them kill your own son?”
King
Rusdan smiled bitterly. “You would have them kill your own father had you such
power this day. I do not wish that they should harm you. Only subdue your fury
should it become unleashed. She was a harlot. She was never going to be your
wife. That is not the way of Coriaer nor has it ever been nor shall it ever
be.”
“She
was a servant. Yes. But, Lerasea was my favorite.”
“Favorites
will come and go, my son. But the mind of a king—which one day you will be—must
be set upon higher things. Things such as…?”
The
prince seethed, and let out a protracted sigh. He set his jaw and glared at the
king before reciting, “Conquest. Currency. Law. Legacy….”
The
venom in his tone was matched only by the pleasantry in his father’s. “You see?
Love is not among them, my heir. Do not be a fool. A wife will come of noble
line, and she will have her value if she produces for you an heir, but do not
be fooled by emotion. She is but another tool in your continued building of an
empire.” His tone grew severe. “An empire which will be greater in your
day than mine or you will not have a place among your fathers when you die, and
your sons will go down to their graves in shame!”
Kin
Lash growled, removed one of his golden rings, and hurled it at his father’s
throne.
“Insolence
is only tolerated for a time, my childish son. A man will take my words and
grow from them. Come not before me again until the infant in you is removed.”
Kin Lash bowed—out of duty only—and exited. As
he walked the opulent palace halls, the tears he longed to shed refused to
fall. That my heart holds sorrow and compassion, and I am capable of
love—which you are not—makes me not an infant, Father…. He turned aside to
a balcony overlooking the sea. “That is how I know I am a man. You will know me
as such and feel my fury one day!”
Post 3
Having
left just in time to avoid becoming one of prince Aeron’s concubines, Sarie Cor
made her way swiftly through Underqwall and the districts beyond to the gates
of Darlan. As promised she was met there by guards friendly to her and opposed
to the younger prince’s plans for her. At the word of Eerid Freen a horse had
been saddled and loaded with all the supplies she would need to make the
journey to Adrel Teng. It was three days ride to the east to reach the monastery.
The road leading there was weatherworn and underused. Early on the second day,
the terrain began to rise into a line of low hills. By mid-afternoon, she’d
crested them and could see The Cauldron boiling below her—or so the valley of
Adrel was called. It was more like a great crater than a valley and the wind seemed
to storm at all times through the emerald and golden trees, whipping them to
and fro and lending the surface of the forest a look not unlike a boiling
cauldron. In the center of it all was a lone hill rising above the forest. Crowning
that hill, and delved all throughout it, was the monastery of Adrel Teng.
Sarie
had to camp that night in the woods of Adrel and she was surprised to find the
trees near her did not boil with the wind. She slept not just soundly but
sweetly, her dreams full of joyful wonders. In the morning she awoke refreshed
and set off for the monastery. She was surprised by the stillness
about her. Not far off she could hear the trees whipping as if the wind raged
through them, but all around her the forest was calm—as if the trees and the
wind were making way for her.
When
she reached the base of Adrel Teng, her horse came suddenly to a halt. There in
the path before a great stone arch was a man robed in shades of blue and green like
the colors of a peacock’s feather. His hooded cowl was a dark teal and shrouded
his face in shadow. The billowing indigo robe that fell open from his shoulders
was belted at the waist by yet another shade of blue and revealed an intricate
doublet beneath. Sarie noticed the pommel of a short sword rising slightly
above his right shoulder. The man’s hands were folded together and his posture
implied authority, though not threat.
Sarie
hadn’t seen him a moment before and was startled when the horse stopped.
Slipping a knife from her belt as stealthily as possible, she waited for him to
speak. When he did, his voice held a certain kindness in it that took her back
to childhood and conjured visions of her father.
“The
trees make way for few.”
She
wanted to feel threatened to keep herself on guard, but his voice and the heart
behind it were utterly disarming. He continued, “It is a storm that most oft
meets a traveler in the valley of Adrel, but even the wind has made way. Your
coming was expected, and a room has been prepared. Come. I will show you to
your quarters then introduce you to the Scribe.”
Sarie
didn’t move. “Show me your face first—your eyes. I will not trust one who has
not met my eyes.”
“It
is a wise way.” He pulled back his hood, revealing a younger man than she
anticipated. He was less than ten years her elder with short-cropped dark brown
hair that would have fallen in waves if it were longer. He wore a beard, but it
was a young man’s beard; full, but short and trimmed in the fashion of the day.
His eyes were a brilliant blue and seemed almost to glow with the colors of his
garments. When he looked at Sarie a rush of fear ran through her, a thrill like
none she had known before. He smiled and introduced himself. “I’m Thresh
Dannan, and I am at your service.”
He being genuine when he says, at my
service. It was an
odd sensation. There was nothing unwholesome nor anything of self interest in Thresh’s
demeanor. Sarie had never met any man like that. Boujh had been like that to a
point, but only with her because of their relation. There was something about Thresh
Dannan that was utterly captivating. She cleared her throat and took a moment
to clear her mind.
“I
am—”
“Sharizeen
Cor. Yes. I am aware.”
Sarie
puzzled. “I had no idea Captain Freen had sent word so far ahead.”
“I
know of no Captain Freen.”
“Then
how do you know my name?”
Surprised she would ask, Thresh cocked his head
a little looking bemused. “From the Scribe. It was he who told me to wait here
for you each day these last two months. As I said, Sarie, your coming has been
expected—or rather foretold.”
With
a desire that conquest should drive sorrow from his heart—and his father’s
mandate Come not before me again until
the infant in you is removed driving his soul—Kin Lash boarded his ship, the
Perilous Dawn, and set sail for Western Pyree.
The
great island country of Pyree was once a garden of delight in a world of
warriors and kings. Resting halfway between Coriaer and Darlandis, it was an
ideal waypoint in ones travels between the two nations. The gold mines of Pyree
were the envy of many kings and emperors, but their generosity and peaceful
ways earned them the protection of Darlandis. For nearly three hundred
years—while the line of good Darlandan kings remained—their land prospered. The
lords of Pyree sent emissaries to other lands to learn of their cultures and
make record of them, and in time they amassed the greatest library of the
ancient world—the Library of Endbredth. Their knowledge and their wealth were
unsurpassed.
In
the days of Ellerion and the wicked kings who followed, Pyree was besieged by
one nation after another. The Darlandans who had been stationed in Pyree and remained
faithful to the good kings rebelled, taking up arms and protecting the island.
The great distance from Pyree to the nations that desired to claim it was much
of its protection. At least a month of sea travel lay before any who desired to
claim that land. After many failed attempts, the malicious enterprise of Pyree’s
enemies was cast aside, but never again did the people of Pyree send out
emissaries. The Darlandans and other foreigners who had taken up the fight, settled
and married among the peoples of Pyree. In only a few generations the peaceful island
broke into factions. Those who wished to continue building the great Library of
Endbredth migrated to the east nearer to the library. The west and its gold
mines drew those more warlike in mind. In due course war broke out and Pyree
was split in two.
In
the days of Faydregd Moree, chieftain of Western Pyree, a great cataclysm struck
the island and the whole of Eastern Pyree was swallowed by the sea along with
the library of Endbredth. Faydregd claimed his dark arts had cursed the east
causing their destruction, and all those who lived and remained faithful to the
east were either killed or joined the west. In the years that followed the
people of Western Pyree grew more warlike and hostile to any who landed on their
shores.
By
Kin Lash’s day Western Pyree was as uncivilized a nation as any in the world
and served as a proving ground for Coriaeran warriors to test their mettle.
Returning with the head of a Pyreean warrior brought great honor to any
Coriaeran who accomplished the feat, and many a young Coriaeran died in the attempt.
Kin Lash had hired or purchased the finest warriors and mercenaries that money
could buy and intended to bring back more than just the head of a Pyreean. Kin
Lash was certain he would succeed.
I will bring back the Pyreean chieftain
alive and claim the island for Coriaer. My father believes me an infant, but that
will not last long. When the peoples see I have accomplished what no king in
our history has, my father’s time upon the throne will end and I shall have
vengeance for my heart and for Lerasea.
Post 4
Sarie,
followed Thresh through the arch, along a path to a dark stone opening into the
foot of the great hill. She saw flickering torches far ahead in the dark,
narrow corridor. By the time they reached them her eyes had adjusted to the
dark. The torches were hung at the opening of a large room the walls of which
were made of perfectly smooth black bricks joined so tightly together that
their edges could scarcely be seen. Polished to a mirrors shine, Sarie saw
herself reflected in them by the light of the torches and was struck by how
warlike she appeared. Thresh stood beside her and, though prepared for whatever
battles may come his way, his visage held far greater peace than she had ever
known.
He
admired the look of surprise on her face. “It is a good heart that recognizes
its lack of peace. Your fears will be addressed in time.”
She
stiffened at the word fears. “I fear
nothing, Sir.”
“Only
the fool fears nothing, but I believe there is only one thing you fear—possibly
two.”
Her
eyes flashed with anger and she wanted to lash out. But, there was no lack of kindness when he spoke. Confound this man! Frustrated
she said, “You speak with much certainty, Thresh Dannan.”
He
bowed his head a little. “Only because I know you are no fool, and there is one
thing every man and woman fears.”
She
asked more snidely than intended, “And what is that?”
He
looked at her consolingly. “Being ever alone in heart.”
The
words brought a lump to her throat, and the sadness that nearly overwhelmed her
made her angry. Drat being alone! She
sighed and clenched her teeth in thought. But,
it is good insight.
Reluctantly
she conceded. “You speak true, Sir.”
“I
meant no offense by what I said. I simply wish to help you be ready when your
battle comes. I fear the Scribe will be more direct than I.”
“My
battle?”
Thresh
hesitated for the first time. “... Yes. But, you need not fear any actual
battles here in Adrel Teng. Truash—the Scribe—will explain far better than I.”
He hesitated again. “I… I may have already said more than I am supposed to. I
assumed I would know what to say—how to behave—when I met you, but standing
here in this room—of all places—your presence is undermining my confidence.”
It
was the honesty of his statement that struck her most. This man… is an oddity. There’s no guile in him. She smirked. “What
is it about me in this place that so unnerves you?”
Without
words Thresh took a torch from its stand, crossed to a darkened corner, and
touched the flame to a basin running the length of the wall. The oil inside
ignited and a flame quickly flowed to the other corner. It took a moment for
Sarie to understand. Along that wall, carved with the uttermost precision, were
vignettes taken directly from her past: her as a newborn in her father’s arms
moments after her mother died in childbirth; she as a toddler at her father’s
side the day he died, struck down by an arrow to the heart from a villain never
captured; her at fourteen hiding with Boujh in a cave in the woods after he had
rescued her from a slaver who sought to sell her; and the all too recent and
familiar scene of Sarie in a heap upon the floor of her quarters in Eerid
Freen’s home, weeping at the news of Bough’s death. The scenes went on. One
depicted her arrival at the arch where she met Thresh. The detail astonished her—right
down to the surcoat cut short for ease of movement and Ryon the castle guard’s
cloak. Others continued, but their locations and what they meant were unknown
to her. The last had her standing in strength and wearing a crown.
She
was pierced by emotions she usually stifled, and she was shaken. Her heart beat
rapidly, and she teetered on the edge of breaking down. How can this be? What can this mean? She was breathing in short
shallow bursts. Everything seemed to be closing tight around her. She looked
fearfully at Thresh. “What… what is this place?”
He
answered solemnly, “This is the court of Cor… beyond the gate of Sarie. This is
where it was foretold you would arrive.”
Her
mind was swimming. It was too much to take in. She asked the only question she
could form. “When?”
Thresh
saw the toll this place was taking on her, but answered despite. “Three hundred
and seven years ago by Scribe Rendelaire.”
The weight and meaning of his statement was too
much. Sarie had never lost consciousness in her life until that day.
Post 5
Kin
Lash expected a battle most fierce when he and his men landed in Western Pyree.
In truth, he expected a battle long before landing—Pyreeans were incredibly
skilled seafarers. But, no battle came. He held the Perilous Dawn back from
landing three days, awaiting any sign of the natives. He’d begun to wonder if
the island’s inhabitants had somehow perished or turned coward, but just after
dawn on the third day a bonfire was lit on a small raft made of freshly felled
trees floating not far off in a bay the Pyreeans named Timbri. A man stood on
the raft waving his arms wildly. Kin Lash sent Simlan, his second, in a skiff
to search out the reason for the fire while he and his men remained on the
alert. By the time Simlan reached the raft, the fire raged so greatly he had to
take the man aboard the skiff. As they returned to the Perilous Dawn, the raft
was fully consumed. Kin Lash noted the man wore only a blanket woven of large
leaves.
Have Pyreeans become so primitive?
As
they climbed aboard, the strange man addressed Kin Lash, breaking several rules
of Coriaeran courtesy. “Good my lord, you are a vision and a grace from the
powers on high. I am Alren Rosh—”
Several
soldiers were at the ready to strike the man down should he breach custom too
greatly. Their demeanor silenced him. Kin Lash stared at the stranger. “That I
desire information is all that keeps you from death this moment. Never address a Coriaeran prince without
first being inquired of.”
“Oh,
my lord, I knew not.” He put his hand over his mouth. “And I do it again. I
mean no offense. And I am still talking!” He was becoming frantic. “I mean no
disrespect, I simply—”
“Silence!”
Alren clapped his hand over his mouth and held it there, nodding. Kin Lash
spoke calmly. “You are not Pyreean. You are Darlandan, and that intrigues me. When
you respond to my questioning, do so at a more measured pace. Your anxiety is
unwelcome. You will not be struck down without due solemnity if your life is to
be forfeit. So, for now, know the courtesy of my ship and crew, and speak. Tell
me. Why came you to meet us upon the
water, and why do the Pyreeans not attack?”
Alren
answered as calmly as he could. “They are dying, my lord. A plague. That is why
I wear no clothing. It has all been burned and I have washed in the ocean to
cleanse myself.” Kin Lash’s men all stepped back.
Kin
Lash stood his ground, but his eyes flashed with rage, and he said sternly, “You
would board my ship and risk the lives of my crew?”
“No!
No, my lord. I and my men have not been affected. Only the natives.”
Kin
Lash narrowed his eyes at the man. “How long have your men been among the
Pyreeans?”
“Three
months. We landed without being assailed and were begged for aid. Two days
later, our ship was stolen by a group of Pyreeans who desired to escape the
plague, but those who still had strength shot arrows ablaze with a flame that
does not quench. My ship now rests at the bottom of the bay.”
“And
your men have shown no signs of sickness?”
“None,
my lord. We tend the sick and dying, but our strength and health remain.”
Kin
Lash looked to the island. “Then it is no plague.”
Coriaerans
were known the world over for their great understanding of the medicinal arts.
Coriaeran princes and captains were required to steep themselves in such
knowledge. Kin lash was uncommonly skilled as were several of the men he’d
purchased for this endeavor. I will
discover what is killing them before I take their chieftain. I must be sure I
will not bring death home in my wake—if their Chieftain yet lives…. “Alren
Rosh, is the Pyreean chief alive?”
“If
I may, my lord, my name is Alren Roshketh, and yes. He is very sick, but he
lives. It is a slow painful death they suffer.”
“Roshketh?
I know of the city of Roshketh in your country.”
“Named
for my family, my lord.”
Kin
Lash arched his brow. “Then it is Lord Roshketh?”
“It
may one day be, but while my father lives, I am only Alren.”
This quest may prove more profitable
than intended. “I
am Kin Lash. You will remain in my council.” He turned to one of his men.
“Bring Lord Roshketh some of my clothes.” He smiled at Alren. “The heavens only
can tell how long your father will live. Among my men you will be honored.”
Sarie
woke in a lamp-lit room, recalling how she’d passed out and precisely why. Her
mind was still struggling with the Court of Cor and the Gate of Sarie. She
closed her eyes a moment longer then sat up. So where have you found yourself, Sarie? The walls were rough hewn
stone, with great pillars standing in each corner and on either side of each
door. There was an antechamber off to her left. The ceiling here was also rough
hewn stone. Had the room been any smaller, Sarie would have felt trapped. As it
was, she felt more than a little too closely confined. A rough wooden door was
left open a crack and that provided the only relief she felt as she scanned the
room. I’m not caged. Most of the
furnishings were simple but well crafted: a dresser, a wardrobe, a table and
chair, the bed on which she found herself. It was hard, but no worse than her
bunk at Jaren’s hostel. There was a pitcher full of water and a washing bowl on
the dresser. The floor was covered in a thick rug woven of crimson, and in one
corner stood a tall, ornate mirror of polished metal.
Sarie
stood and went to the wash basin. Pouring the water in, she was startled by a
voice from the door. “You have woken. It is good.”
She
turned quickly drawing a knife as she did. An old man with little hair and many
wrinkles greeted her with a smile. “You needn’t worry here, Sarie. Here you are
safe, though you won’t truly believe me for some time, and that is well enough.
You have had many sorrows in your life and few men whose word could be trusted.
In time you’ll know my word can be. I am Truash.”
Sarie
returned the knife to her belt. “The Scribe?”
“Yes.
The Scribe. Though you are only repeating something you have been told and have
no real understanding of what it means.”
Though
he spoke pleasantly and wore a genuine smile, Truash was very off-putting to a
person like Sarie. “You speak true, Sir.” Her speech gained intensity as she
spoke. “Nor do I understand how images from my life are scrawled on the walls
of a chamber somehow named for my family and how you speak so freely of my
sorrows and what I will think and what I will feel!”
Truash
frowned, but the kindness did not leave his eyes. “Your temper is unexpected. I’m
unaccustomed to dealing with the feminine temperament. I have not had the need.
If this will help us communicate, I shall meet you tone for tone.” His
intensity and volume suddenly changed. “I do not know how it is possible, save
the fact that Elyon decided it should be so! I know what I know because I know
it and cannot help what I know! That your life is written in stone, I have no
control over.” he took several deep breaths, and Sarie stared at him
momentarily disarmed.
That was strange. And, he’s not good
at that.
Truash
continued with a more gentle tone. “We can communicate through raised voices
and raised defenses if you desire—it will be less efficient, but I have the
strength for it, though not the stomach.” He smiled again. “What say you and I
walk and converse like two reasonable people who would like to understand
together what this all means?”
Sarie
furrowed her brow. “I will walk with you, but allow me my right to feel unsure
of everything around me.”
“Oh,
certainly. You simply do not have a right to use those feelings to lash out at
those who have only shown you kindness—regardless of your fears. I cannot
accept you lashing out like that. It is improper.”
Improper?
She started building defenses in her mind when a thought came to her—almost
as if from somewhere else—they have taken
you in and are protecting you from the King’s second son. But, your right to be
afraid is granted. Much difficulty lies ahead. And the choice to fight your
guardians is yours alone. Sarie was unhappy with those thoughts, but she
couldn’t deny this was the one place in the kingdom she could truly be safe
from the lecherous prince. She swallowed her pride and pretended she didn’t
know she was afraid of any of this. “Truash, you’re right. I took liberty that
was not mine to take. I am sorry for lashing out at you.”
Truash
sighed in relief. “Oh good… me too. I apologize that is—for the whole raised
voice thing. I actually don’t have the strength to maintain that kind of intensity
for any great length of time at my age. I was afraid that would be the way of
things between us. I would have matched you there to the best of my ability,
but I think a day of that and I would sleep too soundly. I would have to have Ermskan
conduct the next day’s convocation.”
Sarie was warming to the man, but couldn’t decide
if he was weak or strong. The light in his eye led her to believe he was
stronger than his words conveyed.
They
walked the halls of Adrel Teng and he let her know which areas to avoid, mostly
the bathing areas. Everything beyond that and the personal spaces of the
individual monks were open to her. He said, “I understand your trepidation. Well,
understand is a strong word. Your trepidation makes sense. First discovery of
how one’s life can be wrapped up in such a larger story can be unnerving. When I
was chosen to be the scribe, I knew I’d been born with insight, but I never
knew how my life would affect others. Men and women have died at council given
by the scribes of Adrel Teng, and that I knew, but holding that sort of power
is fearful enough. However, having Elyon himself send words to me that alter
the course of lives, I am honored by that, but humbled more greatly, and I walk
with more fear than you would expect I should.”
Sarie
was uncomfortable. “I don’t really believe in such things as Elyon or words
from the heavens.”
“That’s
alright, Sarie.” They rounded a corner into a chamber filled with statues. The first
was of Sarie. It was very old. “He believes in you, clearly.”
“How…?”
“Scribe
Anderel, almost five hundred years ago—if the inscription is to be believed.”
The
statue was garbed as Sarie was that day with the exception of her cloak which
was replaced by one of the monk’s cowls. Upon the base was a date and the
inscription:
Grieving season draws to an end. Friendship
rescues endangered friend. To Adrel to learn of what must come. And there to
become what must become. ~ Scribe Anderel
Truash
took her to a passage leading outside. “Go. You are safe within the forest of Adrel.
The valley won’t allow you to be harmed. Spend some time in the air and the
sunlight. We will talk more.”
Sarie walked the corridor toward the light
pondering many things. Boujh, I wish you were here.
To be continued....
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