“At least Greens is still there,” she murmured.
“It’s called Greenswatch now.”
“Greenswatch,” she repeated, concentrating on pleating Birlerion’s sleeve.
“Adilion, neither you, Peterion nor Roberion have family marks. Why not?” Jerrol asked, in an attempt to steer the conversation onto safer ground.
“When we became Sentinals, we gave up the Families and became one with the Lady. We wear her mark now,” Adilion said, raising his chin.
Jerrol nodded. “Makes sense. What was it like in Berbera?”
Adilion rolled his eyes, his curls bouncing as he sat up. “Boring. A small place on the border near East Mayer. Nothing ever happened. You couldn’t tell where Terolia ended and Vespiri began. It was all the same. Every day was the same. Couldn’t wait to leave for Vespers when the call came. I took to the rangers' life, as if I’d always been part of it. Of course, Birlerion brought all the excitement; the trouble he caused when he first came to Berbera.”
“I did no such thing,” Birlerion exclaimed, sitting up out of his lounge in the cushions.
“Ha!” Adilion snorted. “A right greenhorn, who proceeded to show us all how to manage in the desert. I’ll bet Tiv’erna would say differently. He even let you take his Darian; that’s unheard of.”
Birlerion hugged a cushion tight and rested his chin on it. “He was a good friend.”
Adilion’s face fell. “I’m sorry, Birlerion. I didn’t think. You must miss them.”
“It’s in the past; we all have someone we miss,” Birlerion replied, and he clamped his lips tight.
“I can’t wait to see Tagerill and Serill,” Adilion said, changing the subject. “Joining the rangers and then becoming a Sentinal was like being part of a family.”
Jerrol nodded. “I know what you mean about joining up. I felt the same. Although I enjoyed my time with the scholars and the skills I learnt were useful, I felt right at home in the rangers. I couldn’t see myself doing anything else. Peterion, what about you? Are you from Il Queron?”
“Yes, though it was much smaller then, barely an outpost. We guarded the pass through the Kharma ridge. It was the shortest route cross country. Otherwise, you had to travel all the way south, virtually to Mistra to go around it. Only other alternative was to sail down the coast to Fuertes, but Roberion could tell you more about that, the waters were rough through the straits.”
“Something to check, but I believe the pass is still there. Was it marked on your map, Birlerion?” Jerrol asked.
“Not that I remember, we’ll have to look, maybe it was lost in the upheaval.”
“Maps don’t tend to be very accurate in Terolia,” Adilion said. “The sands shift all the time.”
Jerrol nodded. “Niallerion, your turn.”
Niallerion grinned. “Guerlaire called me an artificer because I always wanted to understand how things worked. I like making things.”
“Don’t leave anything lying around, Niallerion will dismantle it for you,” Birlerion warned with a small smile.
“You can tell us how you made Guerlaire’s bridge now,” Marianille said. “No reason to keep it secret anymore.”
Niallerion shrugged. “Guerlaire did most of it. It was his bridge.”
“But still, he had you tinkering with stuff, most days. You must know,” Marianille insisted.
“It was his gift to Leyandrii. It’s not for me to say how it was made,” Niallerion replied.
“And nor should he, Marianille. The not knowing is what made it special,” Birlerion said pulling Marianille back down on the cushions.
Niallerion flashed him a smile of thanks.
Jerrol hurried to speak before Marianille could insist. “The Lady amazes us every day. We should enjoy what she offers. Thank you all for sharing, I appreciate it. Tomorrow relax, get your bearings, the day after we leave for Mistra.”
“The Atolea are camped to the south of Mistra. We need to warn them about Var’geris’ speech,” Birlerion added from his cushion.
“Good point. Very well, there’s enough for us to think about. We can plan tomorrow. I am going to retire, and I’ll see you all in the morning,” Jerrol said as he rose. “May the Lady bless your sleep.”
The Sentinals rose as well. “I think it’s time we followed the Captain’s example,” Adilion said as he stood. “Lady’s blessings, one and all.”
Jerrol allowed the Sentinals the day to explore Il Queron, soothe the towns people out of their suspicions, and generally relax. He called them all together as dusk fell, borrowing Erissia’s courtyard again. “Right, Peterion will remain here. The rest of us need to be in Mistra within three days. Var’geris is due to speak on Lady’s day.”
“Could we not use the Waystone?” Adilion asked.
“No, because we don’t know where it is, and don’t you go trying it out. I don’t want to lose you again under a hundred feet of sand and rock, understand?” Jerrol said, glaring at him until he nodded. “You can search for it once we arrive and check it’s open. It could be anywhere after all these years.”
Adilion grimaced in agreement.
“Mal’em is sourcing us some more camels. Make sure you stock up on water. We’ll be camping out in the desert for the night unless we can find the transit post. It tends to move, or so I’m told, so if it is too far out of our route, we will have to give it a miss.
“Once we get to Mistra, I need to speak to Medera Maraine. Birlerion and Adilion will accompany me. I want the rest of you to scout the city, check the mood, find out who is in charge. Adilion, you can search for the Waystone after we meet with Maraine, in case we need an escape route back to Il Queron. Il Queron is the only Waystone we have apart from the one in the salt flats.
“Make sure you keep a low profile. We don’t want to alert anyone to the fact that the Sentinals are waking in Terolia,” Jerrol said, though he thought it was already too late.
The Sentinals nodded.
“Very well. Once we’ve spoken to Maraine, we can plan further. The rendezvous point will be the Atolean camp. Get a couple of hours’ sleep if you can. We leave at tenth chime. Peterion recommends we sleep at the height of the day and travel through the night, so that is what we’ll do.”
They left once night descended and the air cooled. The dull tones of the camel bells echoed into the night as Mal’em waved them off.
31
Deserts of Terolia
The journey took three days, and they ended up camping in the desert as there was no sign of the transit point.
Jerrol listened to the Sentinals chat as the moon rose and the stars came out. Under that sparkling vista he could have imagined he was back with them in their time, in 1124. Especially when Marianille tripped over the end of a rug and Birlerion created an onoff so she could see what she was doing.
Even Marianille had stood shocked, staring at the silver orb suspended in the air, casting a bright glow over their camp. Her voice was dangerously low as she stood over her brother, hands on hips. “Since when have you been able to do that?”
Birlerion grinned up at her, a glint in his silver eyes. “Since Leyandrii taught me how.”
Niallerion reached for it, and Marianille slapped his hand away. “Get your own, that one’s mine.”
Jerrol couldn’t help but laugh at the outraged expression on Niallerion’s face.
“Don’t you want it understand how it works?” Niallerion asked.
“It’s magic, we don’t need to understand it,” Marianille replied, tapping the orb on and off.
Birlerion swirled his wrist and a second orb appeared. He threw it at Niallerion. “I doubt you’ll be able to explain it,” he said as Niallerion plucked it out of the air and began to examine it.
“Leyandrii never let me have one,” he murmured, his attention already intent on the puzzle.
Birlerion grinned. “That should keep him quiet until we get back to Vespiri.”
“But what is it made of?” Jerrol asked, mesme
rized by the glowing light.
“Pure magical energy. It will drain over time, and then it would have to be recharged. Leyandrii and Marguerite used to make them for the palace, or for the scholars at the Chapterhouse when they had time.”
Adilion peered over Niallerion’s shoulder. “They are quite rare. I’ve never seen one.”
“Leyandrii’s were gold,” Niallerion said. “The light was much softer.”
“Don’t ask me why mine are silver, because I have no idea, they just are.” Birlerion said before Niallerion could voice the thought.
Marianille laughed at Niallerion, plucked the orb out of the air and sat next to her brother. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and she leaned against him. “What were you doing to have so much excess energy, brother mine?”
“Whatever Leyandrii asked of me,” he murmured in reply.
“You weren’t on the raids with Tage and Serillion,” Niallerion said frowning at the onoff. “This thing doesn’t have any seams; you can’t get in it.”
“I told you it’s magical energy.”
“What was the purpose of the raids?” Jerrol asked, smiling as Niallerion rotated the orb searching for a way in.
“The Ascendants kept building out these crystals arrays, a way of focusing their power,” Niallerion explained. “It made them much stronger, able to do a lot damage. Leyandrii could sense where they were by the lack of feedback. She called it dead space, as if it wasn’t there. So Guerlaire would take a unit with him and deal with it, take it out. Tagerill and Serillion went on most of them.”
“Now both of them have lots of energy,” Birlerion said. “You can see it crackle off them, same with Guerlaire, and you Captain. They had to work it off in the sparring ring.”
Niallerion tilted his head. “You can see it?” he asked.
Birlerion nodded.
“Interesting,” Niallerion mused, staring at the onoff.
“Why is it interesting?” Marianille asked.
Niallerion shrugged, lifting his gaze to rest on Birlerion. “Oh, nothing.”
Jerrol grinned as Marianille huffed. “I doubt there is so much energy around now, with the Veil dampening everything.”
“You’d be surprised,” Birlerion replied, twisting his wrist, and a blue flicker slid over his skin.
Marianille smoothed her hand over his. “It nips,” she said in surprise as the flicker faded.
“Mmm, magic always has a bite,” Birlerion said. “That’s why Leyandrii took care to contain it.” After that, Birlerion would say no more and eventually Niallerion went off to relieve Roberion who was on guard and they all gave up badgering him and settled down to rest.
They arrived in Mistra late the next day, dusty and tired, none of them having slept well in the suffocating heat.
Birlerion lifted his head, sniffing the air, and veered off towards a barren rocky ridge.
“Where are you going, Birlerion? Mistra is over here,” Adilion called, waving his arm in the other direction.
The others trailed up next to him as he sat and stared out at the expanse of golden sea, shifting and glinting in brassy yellows and reds under the relentless sinking sun.
“What’s wrong?” Jerrol asked, watching the Sentinals in concern. All their faces had paled to a sickly beige under their scarves.
Birlerion just pointed.
“Birlerion, tell me what’s wrong.”
“The sea,” he said, his voice strained.
“What about it?”
“Mistra was not on the coast. It was many miles inland,” he managed to whisper.
“Oh,” Jerrol uttered, understanding spreading through him. “I’m sorry,” he said, not knowing what else to say. He waited as Adilion dismounted and stared both ways up the coast, peering down over the cliff edge.
Adilion gripped Birlerion as he stared blindly at the other Sentinals, a sheen of tears over his silver eyes. “What of Alora and Tinian?”
Roberion cleared his throat. “It seems Mistra is the new coastline.”
Although Jerrol was glad of the sea breeze drying his sweat at last, the Sentinal’s expressions made his gut tighten. The shock and dismay at such loss and destruction that must have occurred all those centuries ago, and they hadn’t been able to stop it.
Jerrol waited until Birlerion turned his horse away. “It is what it is,” Birlerion said, his face carefully calm, and he led the way towards the outskirts of the sprawling coastal town of Mistra.
Zin’talia pulled at her reins as the Atolean camp came into sight. They had circled the town of Mistra, giving the Sentinals time to absorb the changed landscape, and approached the Atolean camp from the south. “Wait,” Jerrol thought. “We haven’t been invited in yet.”
“They will let us in, though. I am a Darian,” Zin’talia said.
“What difference does that make?”
“They have to offer hospitality to a Darian. It is the law of the Families.”
“Why didn’t you say?”
“I thought you knew; anyway, Birlerion or any of the others could have said,” she said smugly.
Jerrol gritted his teeth and urged her to the front of the caravan. As she said, the guard took one look at her and bowed them in, though their companions were held at the gate.
“We are together,” Jerrol said.
“I am sorry. I cannot allow them to enter without the Medera’s permission.”
“Very well. Birlerion, set up camp. I’ll be out shortly,” Jerrol instructed, turning back to the Atolean camp. He allowed Zin’talia to lead him to the water and dismounted, making sure she didn’t drink too much. “You’ll give yourself a tummy ache,” he said, nudging her away and scooping a handful to rinse his face. He shook his robes out, trying to remove as much sand as possible, before handing the reins over to a wizened man, who reverently stroked Zin’talia’s neck. It wouldn’t take long for everyone to know that a man not of the Family had ridden in on a Darian.
Zin’talia nudged Jerrol. “Don’t be too long. I’ll be listening.”
Jerrol approached the large canvas tent in the centre of the camp. Two heavily armed Atolean’s glared at him as he stopped outside the entrance.
“I am Jerrolion, here at the invitation of Maraine, Medera of Atolea.”
“Wait,” one of the men said, raking him with a keen inspection before ducking under the tent flap.
He waited patiently, counting the number of weapons the remaining guard had stashed about his person. Jerrol idly wondered how many weapons there were that he couldn’t see.
“Leave your weapons outside,” the returning guard said. Jerrol handed over his daggers and waited to see if they would comment on his sword, but they didn’t. He was escorted into an outer chamber. There, he was told to remove his sandals and, barefoot, he was led into the presence of Medera Maraine.
The Medera was a tiny woman. Tightly coiled brown hair sat on the back of her head and sharp brown eyes inspected him from head to foot. Jerrol thought she found him lacking. His lips twitched as he looked down at her. He felt ungainly and clumsy, knowing that was her intent.
She indicated the cushions beside her. “Please sit, Jerrolion of Vespiri?” Her voice was silky smooth, though raised as a question, and he could hear the hint of steel that underlay it. This was not a woman to underestimate.
“Indeed, I am Jerrolion, Commander of the King’s Justice, Captain of the Lady’s Guard, here at the request of King Benedict in response to your message to him.”
Maraine stared at him. “All those titles must be heavy to bear,” she said.
“Some more than others, Medera.”
“What makes you think I sent a message to King Benedict?”
“I don’t think he would send me here if you hadn’t, and I came by way of Ramila and Il Queron, who confirmed the fact that Atolea is the voice that speaks the loudest. I am accompanied by some people you may be interested in meeting, but they were denied entrance without the Medera’s word.”
“Who did you bring with you to overpower the reservations of the Medera?”
“As the Lady’s Captain, I thought you might like to meet Sentinal Adilion of Berbera or maybe accompany me into Mistra to meet Sentinal Kayerille at her post.” Jerrol doubted Birlerion would mislead him as to who was in the Mistra sentinal tree, and he had seemed very eager for her to be awakened.
“Sentinals?”
“Yes, I have a story if you are interested in hearing it.”
“I can’t just walk through Mistra unnoticed.” The Medera ignored his offer.
“I am sure the Medera can do whatever she wants.”
Maraine snorted. “As if.” She clapped her hands and a small child brought in a tray loaded with a silver jug and three mugs; her arms trembled with the weight. The child clumsily placed her burden on the low table beside the Medera and gave her a worried look. “Perfect,” the Medera said, and the child flashed her a brilliant smile, her black eyes sparkling before dashing out of the room. “My youngest. She wanted to serve the water before she went to bed. My husband will join us soon. He went to meet your Darian first.”
“I understand she has caused quite a stir.”
“I think you’ll find it’s her rider who will cause a bigger stir,” a deep voice said from the tent’s entrance.
Jerrol made to stand, but the man waved him back down. “Please sit. You youngsters bouncing up and down exhaust me.” He eased himself into the chair next to the Medera. “My joints won’t let me lounge on those lovely cushions anymore. If I sat down there, I wouldn’t get back up.”
“Now, don’t go making the young man feel sorry for you,” Maraine said as she passed a glass to Jerrol and then her husband. “My Sodera, Viktor, as I am sure you’ve surmised.”
“A pleasure, sir, Jerrolion.”
“Jerrolion; now that’s an old name.” Viktor inspected him intently. “A Sentinal’s name,” he continued. “Been long overdue.”
“The Lady did tell me I was late,” Jerrol admitted.
“I’ll bet she did.” Viktor laughed. “And gave you a Darian to speed you on your way.”
Sentinals Rising: Book Two of the Sentinal series Page 28