Sentinals Rising: Book Two of the Sentinal series

by Helen Garraway

  “That she did.”

  Viktor glanced across at Maraine. “Invite his companions in. They should eat with us.”

  “We number six in total.”

  “Then you should definitely come within our perimeter. The sands are not safe anymore, though I expect six Sentinals wouldn’t need much protection.”

  Jerrol grimaced. “Sometimes they get a bit eager, especially the younger ones, the enthusiasts. It has been a long time since they held their swords in their hands, and much has changed. But I would prefer to keep them secret for as long as we can.”

  “Our secret weapons. I like the sound of that,” Viktor grinned.

  Maraine rose and went to speak to her guards. “They will join us shortly.”

  “Are you sure you want all of us in here in our dirt?” Jerrol asked.

  “It will be fine. It will give the children something to do tomorrow,” Maraine replied. “Before they arrive, though, you were right. I did send a message to King Benedict, a fact I would prefer wasn’t bandied about too much. The other Families wouldn’t understand. We are reaching a crisis point.

  “My family is reasonably secure, but I watch with horror the dis-integration of the Solari, and the Kirshans hold themselves aloof and stir trouble elsewhere. The Lesser Families mirror the greater Families.” Maraine paused and looked earnestly at Jerrol. “I don’t understand it. Families are ignoring the Family law, abandoning their kin. I tried to call a Master Conclave but they ignored me. If we can’t resolve our differences internally, then an external force must be brought to bear. They must see sense before they destroy Terolia.”

  Jerrol leaned forward. “Have you heard much about the Ascendants? The likes of Var’geris and his brother, Ain’uncer?”

  “Apart from the histories, you mean?” Maraine glanced at her husband. “No, nothing recently.”

  “Var’geris is due to speak tomorrow in the central market square in Mistra; that’s why I am here. He is an Ascendant, and they are practising something called Mentiserium. It is a way of persuading people to do things they wouldn’t normally do. A mind spell, if you like. People are coming from all over the region to hear him speak, and they will all be enspelled if we don’t stop him; your family included, if they attend.”

  Maraine gripped her husband’s hand. “Is that the root of all this turmoil? Have our Families been enspelled? But surely the Lady would protect us?”

  “She will if you ask her. But if you walk away, then you close the door and she can no longer help. People have forgotten the ways of the Lady; what she did to protect us and why. Three thousand years is a long time, and we have forgotten what we should not have. She does not demand worship or obedience, but she will provide love and shelter to those who ask for it.” Jerrol stopped speaking, taking a deep breath as a disturbance at the door heralded the arrival of his Sentinals.

  Viktor watched Jerrol closely. “You don’t have to convince us, lad. We believe you.” He met Maraine’s eyes. She nodded in agreement and rose as the Sentinals entered.

  Any remaining doubt that Maraine or Viktor may have harboured fled at the sight of the four men and one woman, who entered. Uniformly tall and silver-eyed, their appearance shouted ‘Sentinal’ to those with the eyes to see. They could see the Lady’s mark as clearly as if it had been tattooed on their faces.

  “Sentinals, please be welcome in our home. Lady bless all who enter,” Maraine said, opening her arms wide.

  Marianille smiled. “We thank you for your welcome, Medera. May the Lady bless your Family.”

  They sat around the low table, and the Medera called for more water and glasses.

  “Let me introduce everyone,” Jerrol said, and he went around the circle giving their names.

  “It is an honour to be in such company,” Viktor said, inspecting his guests. “I imagine the Lady has called you forth for a reason, and not just to respond to our request?”

  “Unfortunately, there is a threat to all of Remargaren.” Jerrol replied. “It just happens that the focus is currently on Terolia. A group calling themselves the Ascendants are trying to bring down the Families, so they can rule Terolia. They intend to enspell all your people to follow their rulings without thought. They want to remove free will and replace it with blind obedience.”

  “But how?” Viktor frowned. “They will not find it so easy. Our warriors are not to be underestimated.”

  “It is not through force. They preach in the market square and enspell your mind. You don’t even know you are enspelled.”

  “We have to stop them!” Maraine said, horrified.

  Jerrol grinned wryly. “We have to find them first.”

  “Stopping Var’geris will be a beginning,” she said.

  “That it will,” agreed Jerrol, and the conversation moved on to how they would stop him.

  They finally agreed on a plan of action. They would disrupt the speech. Whenever it seemed that there was a command or people seemed enspelled, they would heckle and disrupt the flow, making them start the spell over. If there were enough of them and they kept moving about, they should be able to prevent the spell from ever being completed. People would start to get restless and hopefully begin to disperse. Maraine had sent out an order that none of her family was to attend the speech unless she told them to, and she explained why in detail so that no one could mistake the order.

  Jerrol and Adilion slipped out of camp that evening; Adilion to check out the Waystone, Jerrol to wake up Kayerille. Birlerion followed silently, a shadow at Jerrol’s shoulder. They split up and went their separate ways, Adilion heading off into the desert and Jerrol soon lost in the swirling mass of people taking advantage of the cooler evening air. Zin’talia contentedly muttered in the back of Jerrol’s mind as she picked out stalks of sweet grass, her favourite Baliweed. Her soft contentment infected him, helping him relax.

  Birlerion’s company was an unexpected comfort, easing tight shoulders tensed against expected attacks as they wound their way through the narrow streets. Their stride quickened as Birlerion took the lead, passing open spaces with buzzing cafés oozing people and enticing aromas. He cut through the streets, interspersed with quieter residential areas, as if he knew where he was going, until they reached a quiet square in the older section of the town.

  A small fountain graced the centre, and Birlerion paused by the grey stone statue adorning the top. It was weathered and worn and lacking water; his fingers brushed the stone surface as if he knew it. A sentinal tree dwarfed the stone buildings and the small domed temple beside it. Its canopy provided a filter and bathed everything in soft green light. The temple doors were open, the dim interior inviting. Jerrol glanced in briefly but stopped before the tall tree. He laid his hand on the trunk, and a beautiful woman shimmered out of the mist.

  “Kayerille, welcome.”

  “Captain,” her husky voice matched an exquisite golden brown complexion framed with thick, lustrous black hair, which trailed down her back. A wickedly curved blade sat on her hip, ornate daggers in her belt. “I have been waiting for you.”

  “Come, some of your friends are with me. They are eager to see you again.”

  Her eyes brightened with interest. “Who?” she asked as she stepped out into the street with him. Breathing in the warm spice-scented air, she veered towards the open door of the temple. She saw Birlerion and pulled him towards her with a rich laugh. “Birlerion, I’ve missed you. I am so glad you are here.” She stood back and stared him in the eyes. “You did fine. I said you would.” She chuckled. “Ah, Lady’s blessings, I’ve missed this place. I am glad to see it is still here.”

  Birlerion gripped her shoulders. “I am so sorry, Kayerille, but there is much else that is different now. Time has passed, and your brother, sisters, and Tiv’erna are all gone now; gone as if they never existed. It has been three thousand years; their memories are lost in time as, eventually, our grief will be too.”

  Kayerille stilled and then shuddered in his arms. “You know,
I thought something wasn’t right these last few months; awake but not awake, everything just out of reach.” Her voice was low, thick with unshed tears. “I should never have asked Tiv’erna to wait.” And then the tears did flow, and Birlerion held her.

  Jerrol turned his back and watched the street, shielding their privacy as they grieved for a loss that was beyond his comprehension.

  Kayerille finally stirred in Birlerion’s arms. She lifted her face. “Captain, who else is awake?”

  “Peterion is in Il Queron, Tarenion in Ramila. Here with me in Mistra are Marianille, Adilion, Niallerion, and Roberion,” Jerrol said as she approached the temple. He waited for her by the door. Birlerion stood beside him, calm and composed, his face unreadable.

  She did not take long in the temple; enough time to give thanks and to commune for a moment before she rose and joined them by the door.

  “Everything changes,” she murmured. “Show me the new Mistra.” She tucked her arm through Birlerion’s.

  Jerrol led the way back through the quieter streets into the busy squares. Kayerille observed everything and in turn, garnered a lot of attention. She smiled brightly as a young man leered at her, her hand resting on her sword. “You could try,” she invited, patting her sword. The man’s friends laughed and teased, before turning back to their games.

  She went quiet as she observed the sparkling bay and the single-masted fishing boats bobbing at their moorings. Bare chested men, tanned ebony by the sun, worked on the nets and coiled ropes. Their cheerful voices floated on the warm breeze that eddied around them, and Kayerille shook herself and turned away.

  Jerrol led her into the Atolean camp and the guards waved them through. Returning from scouting the eastern edges of the town, Adilion grinned widely at Kayerille. “My pretty, awake at last. Give us a hug.”

  “Adilion,” she cried in delight, accepting the hug enthusiastically.

  “Captain, the Waystone is open. It’s actually nearer Kayerille’s sentinal, just on the outskirts. To the east.”

  “Excellent, I’m sure we will need it at some point. Come, let’s introduce Kayerille to the Medera,” Jerrol said, leading the way to the tent. Kayerille followed, her gaze flickering around the encampment as if searching for something or someone.

  Maraine welcomed Kayerille to her tent and watched in delight as the Sentinals were reacquainted. The evening meal served under the clear night sky by the light of many gleaming lamps, was loud as Maraine introduced her family and many Atoleans vied to sit next to a Sentinal, especially Marianille and Kayerille, who fended them off, laughing.

  Kayerille breathed a sigh of relief as the meal finished, and they returned to the relative privacy of the Medera’s tent. It had been an overwhelming homecoming, one that each Sentinal had braced themselves for in their own way; the rich food, the excitable company, the heady scents. It was the same but different.

  Jerrol kept an eye on Birlerion, who seemed to grow quieter as the Atoleans got rowdier, and by the end of the night, he excused himself and disappeared.

  32

  Mistra, Terolia

  Kayerille and Adilion collapsed onto the cushions in the Medera’s tent and laughed at themselves. “Who would have thought we’d be spending the evening in the Atolean encampment?”

  “Where has everyone else gone?” Jerrol asked.

  “Niallerion was trying to persuade Marianille to dance, though he was also eyeing the wagons, so maybe he was angling for an introduction so he could inspect how they worked. Birlerion was trying to teach the youngsters how to make a sling. Did you know he has a wicked aim with a sling?” Adilion asked, suddenly diverted. “Roberion, walked down to the harbour.”

  Kayerille smiled, her eyes distant. “Birlerion taught my sister to make a sling so she could teach the other children. A way for her to make friends.”

  “Jerrol?” Zin’talia whispered a catch in her voice, and Jerrol sat up. “He’s crying.”

  “Who is?”

  “Birlerion. He was visiting the horses when he saw a Darian mare and he just collapsed.”

  “Leave him be,” the Medera said, her voice soft. “He is grieving.”

  Jerrol glanced at her. Birlerion never cried; even with Kayerille, he had been stony-faced but dry-eyed.

  The Medera’s eyes widened as her Darian explained. “He grieves the loss of his Darian.”

  Adilion stiffened. “Ascendants’ balls. I never thought.”

  “Never thought what?” Jerrol asked as Adilion fell silent.

  “Kafinee,” he said at last. “She was his Darian. They were inseparable. You know what it’s like having a Darian, being that close to one another. Imagine having that ripped away? I’ve been told it’s like losing a piece of your soul.”

  Jerrol’s stomach roiled just at the thought of losing Zin’talia.

  “I’m here; you won’t lose me,” she reassured him instantly.

  “With so many Darians around, it must be excruciating.” Adilion winced in sympathy.

  “That explains why he avoids me all the time,” Zin’talia murmured.

  “Kafinee is an unusual name for a Darian,” Maraine said with a sad smile, her eyes distant as she listened to her own Darian.

  “He didn’t know she was a Darian when he first got her. He named her Kafinee for the colour of her coat. Turned out it was very close to her true name, Kaf’enir. It was our second year at the academy; he and Tagerill arrived with their horses, as all students do. Edril, a cadet from Tesene, over on the east coast, said she must have Darian bloodlines as she understood what Birler wanted before he even asked it of her. Still, it wasn’t until Birler was posted to East Mayer on the borders with Terolia that we found out she was a true Darian.”

  Adilion flicked a careful glance at Kayerille. “Tiv’erna, a son of the Atolea was out on patrol. They came to check who was riding a Darian.”

  “Tiv’erna, son of Janis and Arkan,” the Medera murmured and happened to look across at Kayerille. “Oh,” she said, understanding dawning on her face. “Kayer, oh my dear, I am so sorry,” and then she stood, her face paling as her knowledge of the Family history retrieved the name. “And Birler.” She looked at her Sodera. “A son of the Atolea.”

  Kayerille stiffened. “I doubt he believes that anymore.”

  Maraine stared across the room. “Once a son, always a son. Especially when it is scribed in the book of the Family for all to remember.”

  “You should tell him,” Viktor said.

  “Tell him what?” Jerrol asked, worried there was more bad news for Birlerion.

  “I think we should tell him first.” Maraine patted his knee. “Don’t look so worried. For once, it is a little good news.” She caught Kayerille’s eye. “Why don’t you go and find him, my dear. I expect you understand his loss more than most.”

  Kayerille rose and left the tent.

  She found Birlerion surrounded by Darians, his face hidden in the mane of a particularly elegant, creamy brown-coloured mare. Kayerille faltered, tears springing into her eyes as her throat tightened, and she swallowed the lump that threatened to take root. He looked so young and vulnerable. The man who had saved her life.

  Wordlessly, she pushed the Darians out of the way and pulled him into her arms. She held him just as he had held her, offering comfort when there was little else to offer.

  There was silence in the tent for a moment after Kayerille left, and then Maraine let out a deep sigh. “So sad. You can’t imagine what they are going through. Sorry, Adilion, what you are all going through. It must be just as difficult for you.”

  Adilion twisted his lips. “Saw it, lived it, breathed it. Birler took to the Families as if he’d been born here.” He frowned. “He is quite restrained now, in comparison. He and Tiv’erna were like brothers. Tiv’erna even lent him Kin’eril when Kafinee was too exhausted to continue.

  “We were attacked by the Ascendants outside Melila. They had a crystal array in the mountains, which they used to enhance their power
s. Birler went into the Telusions and stole the lodestone, preventing the Ascendants from attacking us again. They had already decimated us once. He led them away from us; the only reason we survived.”

  “Where are the Telusions?” Jerrol asked, knowing there was much more to the story than Adilion was telling.

  “What’s left of them are on the southern seaboard. In the end, the fire mountain erupted and blew out the top of the mountain. Left a huge crater and little else,” Viktor said in his calm voice. “The sea rushed in. A boiling cauldron it was described as a place to be avoided. The land threw up a new mountain range in its place.”

  “The Ascendants have found more crystals. Do you think they could still be mining those mountains?”

  Adilion shrugged. “It’s possible.”

  “The Kirshans patrol that area. We would have heard if any strangers were taking up residence,” Maraine said.

  “Not necessarily.” Birlerion’s quiet voice came from the tent entrance. “They use Mentiserium. If they can persuade people to leave their homes, they can certainly persuade people to lie about what is happening. If they were in the mountains, you wouldn’t know.”

  Jerrol inspected him keenly. He was pale but composed. Only his eyes gave him away; deep pools of despair. Jerrol marvelled at the strength he must have to bury his loss so deep that none of them had even suspected.

  It was a window into the complex person that was Birlerion. Jerrol barely knew him; every day, he learnt something new, yet he trusted him with his life, implicitly, no matter what Torsion implied. He had proved that trust many times over.

  These Sentinals had already lived full lives, and now he was asking them to live another. Well, the Lady was asking, and they had answered without hesitation. If he had known, he would never have agreed to Birlerion coming to Terolia, but then he hadn’t asked him. Birlerion had insisted, and he wondered why.

  “Birlerion, please accept our apologies for our lack of welcome. Welcome home, son of Atolea,” Maraine declared.