“I didn't find you. Hunters did.”
Hunters. The word sent a twinge of sadness through him. Brohmin was the Hunter. And if Brohmin had not survived this, what impact would that have on the Conclave? Did they require the Hunter among them?
“Where am I?”
Nessa continued to minister to him, rubbing her hands over his arms and legs, and pain flared up anew. This time, the salves smelled different. There was less of a pungent odor to them and more of a floral scent. As the burning pain faded, it was replaced by a cooling sensation, a warmth that seemed to start deep within his muscles and work its way outward. As she rubbed along his legs and moved to his arms, the cooling sensation continued. It seemed as if she healed him as she went, but that was something only the Magi would claim.
“Where are you?” Nessa said as she worked. She huffed briefly and turned her attention back to rubbing his shoulders. She placed her hands on either side of his face, and Endric felt a flare of pain through his cheeks that washed up into his head. The pain lasted for a moment, long enough for him to bite back a scream, yet a moan still escaped his lips. When the pain passed, so did the discomfort in his skull. The nausea eased. Whatever it was that she was doing seemed to be working. Endric needed to be thankful of that.
“You are in Farsea,” Nessa said.
Endric racked his brain to remember the maps that he had studied during his time with the Denraen. Part of his studies as a soldier had required him to learn geography. That had only intensified when he had taken up the mantle of en’raen, forcing him to learn even more about the geography of the lands. Endric struggled to come up with where he might be.
“I'm not familiar with Farsea.”
Nessa grunted. She started again on his feet, working her hands up his legs. This time there was no burning pain; there was only a cooling sense. The scent of the salves she used changed again, neither pungent nor floral, now minty, reminding him of the teas some men drank in Vasha.
“No surprise that you don't know Farsea,” Nessa said.
“Why? Where is Farsea?”
Nessa grunted again. “Farsea is an Antrilii city.”
Endric's breath caught. Antrilii city? The Antrilii didn’t have cities. They were nomadic wanderers. If they had cities, that meant they were something else. That meant they were more than the nomads they were rumored to be.
How much of this had his father known? How much had Tresten? Was this why the Mage wanted him to learn about the Antrilii?
“How did I get to Farsea?”
Nessa squeezed his head between her hands, and the pain surged once more before fading. “Rest, then we can talk. Then you can tell us more about how you know of the groeliin, how you know of the creatures only the Antrilii know.”
5
Endric awoke to less pain than he had felt when he had fallen asleep. Muscles ached, but with none of the same agony they had had before. Now it was more of a stiffness, something that he felt as similar to the type of stiffness after a long ride, or after practicing with the sword for long periods of time. This was not the same pain, the searing, burning kind of pain that he had experienced when he had first awoken.
Endric moved his head cautiously, hesitant to sit up. When he last tried to move his head, he had felt waves of nausea, but those seemed to have passed. He was left with a memory of it, but none of the same horrible sensation that he had experienced when he tried moving while sitting with Nessa.
Now that he could turn his head, he looked around. Walls of canvas surrounded him. Surprisingly, Endric noted that they were brightly colored, not drab as he would've expected. The Denraen preferred browns and grays for their tents. This was orange and red, colors that reminded him of the sunrise. A hole cut in the roof allowed for a trail of smoke to drift outward.
Carefully, Endric sat up, rubbing his arms, trying to bring feeling back into them. He found a thick, pasty ointment on his arms, and when he sniffed at it, he noted a hint of the same mint that he had smelled when he last remembered Nessa working on him.
There were no injuries, nothing that he could find that was obvious, only patches of pink skin. Pale flesh that appeared as if it had once been ripped open and had somehow healed in the time that he'd been here.
How long had he been here? Could it be that he had been here long enough to fully heal? Had he been unconscious for most of it? That seemed both blessing and a curse. It would be a blessing not to remember the pain of his wounds healing, remembering all too well what it had been like when he had recovered after the folly that was his attempt to challenge his father. Yet he worried about how long he had been out. If he had been unconscious for the weeks that it would take for him to fully heal, what had happened to Brohmin in that timeframe?
Could he have survived?
Nessa had seemed surprised that there were as many dead groeliin around him as there must've been. Endric remembered how many he had killed, knowing that he had struck them with both sword and knife, resorting to using his boot knives before he completely passed out.
Endric bent his legs, pulling them into his chest. They were bare, much like his arms, and covered in the same white ointment as his arms. Endric ran hands along his legs, feeling for injury, but felt only the same achiness that he felt throughout the rest of his body. There was the stiffness, soreness that came from a hard day’s work, but nothing more than that.
How was it possible that he had survived this attack with little more than stiff muscles? Could the Antrilii healing be that skilled?
That seemed unlikely. The Antrilii were nomads. They didn't have the same knowledge and scholarship found in places like Vasha or Thealon. More likely than not, he wasn't as injured as he had first suspected.
Endric stood, cautiously testing his legs, trying to determine whether they would hold him. A surprising amount of strength remained, and he was able to bounce on his heels, feeling the stiffness slowly resolve. He continued to balance, shaking his arms, drawing strength back into himself.
He looked around the space he was in. They had laid him on a flat, elevated cot. The sheet that had been used to cover him now rested on the ground, likely tossed during his restless sleep.
But had it been restless?
Endric felt more refreshed than he had in some time. Maybe the stiff muscles and pain that he felt came from the fact that he'd been sleeping as long as he must've been.
A folding table rested near the head of the cot, and on top of the table were several jars of creams. Endric picked up the first jar, a wide-mouthed one, and twisted the top off, bringing it to his nose. It was a brownish-white paste and stunk, carrying the same pungent aroma that he remembered from when Dentoun had healed him on the plains. This was the first salve that they had used on him, and the first cream Nessa had used to help him recover.
Endric replaced the top and swapped it for the next one. As he opened it, he noted the same floral aroma that he recalled. That ointment had left his flesh burning but then had followed with a soothing sense. It was pale white, almost milky in appearance, and seemed greasier than the other.
Endric replaced the top to this jar and moved on to the next. As he lifted it, he expected the minty-scented salve that he had noticed when Nessa had rubbed it on his face and arms, but this was not that one. This had a distinctly bitter aroma to it. The ointment was not white or even brownish white; this was gray, verging on black, and there was something vaguely unsettling about it. Endric sniffed at it and debated reaching in to touch it, but held back.
He set the jar back on the table, leaving it next to the other.
He scanned the others, but each of them was smaller than those three main jars. Most were a similar shade to the others, all white or creamy in appearance. On the shelf below the table, Endric noted a roll of leather, so he unfolded it, noting that it contained a neat line of needles.
Had they stitched him? Had his wounds require that much repair?
Dentoun had stitched him when injured the last time and
had done so with a steady hand. There didn't seem to be the same pain—or itchiness—that Endric would expect were he to have required his recent wounds to have been stitched.
He made his way toward the opening of the tent. As he did, he realized that he was dressed only in his small clothes. If he was in the north and in Antrilii territory, he expected it to be cold. Surprisingly, Endric was not. The air had a warmth, almost a heat to it that came from more than the fire glowing to the one side of the tent could account for.
Endric grabbed the sheet that had fallen to the ground at the end of the bed and wrapped it around his waist.
Where was his sword? If the Antrilii had found him, would they have found his weapon? After what he'd been through, everything that he had faced while dealing with Urik, he valued the teralin sword.
And he felt naked without his boot knives. Well, he felt naked without any of his weapons or clothes. Wrapped in only the sheet, he felt unprepared for whatever he might face on the other side of the tent flap.
Endric untied it, pushing out, and ducked his head through it.
He was taken aback at what he saw.
The Denraen didn't possess maps beyond the northern mountain range. Most considered the lands uninhabitable, nothing but ice and emptiness all the way to the sea. It was much like the lack of maps detailing the Unknown Lands.
This was nothing like what he had expected. There was a city around him. Wooden buildings that were simply—but stoutly—made were arranged in a neat and orderly fashion. A few trees dotted the spaces between the buildings. Lush, thick-bladed grass covered the ground, slightly browned but still with enough green to told Endric that the season hadn’t fully changed here. In the distance, he saw the mountains stretching higher and higher before reaching the snow-peaked tops. Wispy bands of clouds surrounded the mountaintops. The sun was out, but only as a smear of yellow.
Had they drawn him back south?
If they had, why would the Antrilii settle south of the mountains? How would they have avoided detection there?
Endric shook his head. That didn't make sense. They wouldn't have been able to avoid detection there. That meant that rather than south of the mountains, he was north of them. Which meant that as he stared toward those peaks, he was staring south.
As he looked around, he wondered how that was possible. How could there be such lushness this far to the north? How was it that these lands had been unexplored, lands that clearly were habitable but seemed untouched by any other than the Antrilii?
Footsteps approached, and Endric turned. A young girl, possibly no older than ten or eleven, looked at him with wide eyes. She had dark hair braided much like Nessa’s. She was dressed in simple leathers, and Endric recognized them as the same type of leathers Dentoun and Nahrsin had worn.
“You shouldn't be out.”
Endric attempted to smile, hoping that he could disarm the girl, but felt as if his smile only looked like a frown. “No? Where should I be?”
“In the healing tent. You haven't fully recovered.”
Endric glanced back, looking at the tent. Considering all the buildings—and the permanence—that he saw around him, the tents seemed surprising. Why had they healed him in a tent rather than in one of the buildings?
“I’m better. Otherwise, I wouldn't have managed to make my way out,” Endric said.
The girl watched him and then went running off.
Endric stared after her, wondering whether she was the same girl he had overheard in the tent when he was recovering. He decided that it didn't matter. All that mattered now was figuring out where he was, and then… then he needed to see what he could learn about the Antrilii. That was his entire reason for coming here.
Yet, even with that understanding, a part of him worried. If Brohmin had not been found with him, that meant he had either been captured and dragged off by the groeliin, or he had not been as injured as Endric had thought. Maybe he had escaped. But if he had escaped, why hadn't he brought Endric with him?
There were too many questions for him. It left him unsettled, not knowing what he needed—and should—be doing.
He considered wandering through the town, but that felt like a violation of the Antrilii trust. They already were skeptical of him. He had gathered that from the fact that they were suspicious he had faced the groeliin, as well as the strange reaction from the Antrilii they’d encountered to the south of the mountains. But he didn't understand why.
Maybe the best answer would be for him to simply return to the healing tents and wait for Nessa to return. She was his only contact in Farsea so far, though from what he could tell of the town, there were many Antrilii here. Would they all view him with the same skepticism as Nessa? Worse, if he revealed who he was and where he came from, would they all view him as the same as the Antrilii they had encountered out near the lower foothills?
As Endric stood there, he became aware of sounds within the village.
There were no sounds like he expected in a village, nothing like the hammering of a blacksmith, the playful running of children, or even the stream of merchants. Since Endric hadn't known that Farsea existed, he suspected merchants didn't either. Even if they did, how would they reach a place like this on the other side of the mountains? Doing so would be incredibly difficult.
He turned in a slow circle, and when he completed his circle, a woman stood in front of him. She wore an orange dress striped with red and yellow. Deep black hair was braided into three thick braids that went over each shoulder and down her back. Colorful ribbons were woven into the braids. Endric recognized her eyes, the dark, deeply lined eyes that watched him.
“Nessa,” he said.
“Lynn tells me that you have recovered. That you think that you are well enough to leave the tent.”
Endric shook his head. “I'm not sure how much I've recovered, but I feel well enough to be out of that tent.”
Nessa grunted. “Perhaps. Or perhaps you have not fully recovered, and you should remain resting. You were severely injured. A man like that requires time. You are not as robust as the Antrilii.”
Endric thought that a strange comment. What did it mean that he wasn't as robust? He didn't feel as if he were less robust.
“As I've told you, I am Antrilii.”
Nessa laughed, a sound that seemed both amused and mocking at the same time. “You? Antrilii? When you were saying that when injured, I thought it a statement of a delirious and injured mind.”
“Maybe delirious. Definitely injured. But it's true.”
Nessa eyed him a moment and then motioned him forward. They started through the streets and passed by some of the buildings. As they did, Endric began to see movement within them. He heard boots along floorboards in one. As he passed another, he smelled the smoky aroma of meats and breads being baked. In another, he heard steady hammering, that of a blacksmith he hadn't noticed before. He saw only one other person besides Nessa, and that was another young girl, her hair braided much like the first—Lynn—and wearing similar leathers.
“This is Farsea. Few men”—and Nessa seemed to make sure to emphasize the word men—“have ever reached Farsea. The mountains are too difficult to cross, and those who do manage to reach the pass find that the way is often blocked with unpleasantness.”
“You mean the groeliin.”
Nessa glanced over at him, a hint of a question flashing in her eyes. “Yes. The groeliin. Most who attempt to come through the mountain passes find the groeliin descending on them and pray for death when that happens.”
“Why would they pray for death?”
“Because the alternative is worse.”
They stopped near what must be the edge of the city, and Endric looked inward, noting how neatly organized the row of houses and buildings were. Each seemed placed perfectly. From here, the ground sloped gradually away, overlooking the village itself. As he did, he realized this was not a city that would rival anything like Vasha or Thealon, but was far larger than anything he coul
d have imagined. How many people lived here? How many Antrilii were there?
“Then again, you would have known that, were you Antrilii.” Nessa crossed her arms and looked at him.
Endric had a sense that what he said next would determine his fate. If he said something wrong, he suspected that she would banish him from Farsea. Without a horse, without a sword or knives, he doubted he would make it very far on his own. And if what she said about crossing through the mountain pass was true—and he had little reason to doubt that it was not—he didn't like his chances of survival.
She watched him, an unreadable expression on her face.
He hesitated only because of what the first Antrilii had said to him. If they didn’t care for Dendril, what would they make of the fact that he had come here? Would they allow him to stay?
This was a woman who had healed him, who had brought him back from injuries that should have taken his life. Endric owed her an explanation, even if it was one that he feared would bring some sort of backlash and more questions.
And without sharing with her, and without telling her the reason that he came, he wasn't certain that he would learn what he needed.
Wasn't the reason that he had come this way to discover more about his people?
It had been, up until the point when he met the Antrilii on the near foothills. That had made Endric begin the question and worry that perhaps he needed to be more cautious with what he shared.
“I come looking for an Antrilii by the name of Nahrsin,” Endric said.
Nessa's eyes twitched, barely at all, but enough that he could tell that she recognized the name. “How is it that you know Nahrsin?”
“Nahrsin helped me once when I was gravely injured.”
Nessa shook her head. “That happens to you often?”
Endric laughed. “Not often, but he was there the last time.”
“It must be more than that, outlander. Why is it that you seek Nahrsin?”
“Because,” Endric began, his gaze surveying the Antrilii homes. If the village of Farsea were transported anywhere else, set down in the planes of Saeline, or even outside of Thealon, he would have been at home there. Farsea could have been any other northern town. “His father, Dentoun, is my uncle.”
Soldier Sworn (The Teralin Sword Book 3) Page 4