Sentinals Rising: Book Two of the Sentinal series

by Helen Garraway

  “We were lucky here, but you all saw that happened. The first keyword triggers a specific behaviour; repeating the keyword allows you to reset their instructions. I expect all of you to use this knowledge wisely and for the good of your people. Much damage has been done; work with your healers to undo it.”

  Silva stopped convulsing and was assisted back into her chair. She drooped listlessly before making an effort to straighten up. She swallowed and smiled hesitantly at the cold faces around her. “What’s the matter? Why are you all staring at me?”

  Maraine glanced around the room. “By Medera’s right, I propose that Silva and Ricard be removed from their position of head of their Family. Supported?”

  Reina stood. “First support,”

  Lila of Gusar stood. “Second support.”

  “Proposal passed,” Maraine said with regret. “The Kirshan family will need to reapply for membership of the Family conclave once new leaders have been appointed. The conclave will need proof that the Family has resolved its differences and returned to the path. The remaining five Families will be available to assist the Kirshans as needed. We will meet tomorrow to discuss further how we can help them and the best way for us to meet the Captain’s demands.” Maraine clapped her hands. “All will sign the accords before leaving. We will reconvene here at sunrise tomorrow. Agreed?”

  The rest of the leaders clapped their hands, signalling agreement, and rose. Roberion and Adilion escorted the Kirshan leaders out of the tent and held them until Maraine came out to instruct where to take them. One by one, the leaders signed the paper that Nil’ano had written. Jerrol waited until all had passed by Nil’ano’s table before signing at the bottom.

  “Make a copy. I will sign and they can resign tomorrow; a copy for them to keep. Guard the original copy with your life until you hand it to King Benedict. Until he ratifies it, it’s just a piece of paper.” Jerrol instructed before leaving the tent. Nil’ano sat staring at the papers in front of him and then looked up at the now-empty tent. He had seen history in the making and he had written out the accords. The accords that would change the world they lived in. His smile grew.

  Marianille and Birlerion were waiting for him outside the tent. “Marianille, guard Nil’ano. Those accords need to reach the king, and you will travel to Old Vespers with him.”

  “Yes, Captain. But what about you?”

  “I’ll travel with you as far as the border, but I need to visit the Watch Tower and seal the Veil before I return to Vespers. Serillion and Saerille are expecting me, and I am long overdue.”

  Jerrol walked around the tent and stopped facing out across empty golden sands. He expelled his breath. What had he done? Anger ran through his body, entwined with an exhilaration that threatened to overflow. He wanted to laugh out loud; to shout or scream; anything to acknowledge this momentous occasion. He wondered what the king would say when he found out, and he smiled.

  Jerrol relaxed on the cushions, sipping the ice-cold water Maraine handed him. His head pounded, a result of exhaustion and stress, leaving him emotionally drained. He rested his head back against the bolster behind his head and closed his eyes. The cushions dipped as Maraine sat beside him and he reluctantly opened his eyes. “What’s next, Captain?” she asked.

  Jerrol grimaced. “Report back to the king. Advise him his kingdom has expanded. Figure out the best way to defend it.”

  “And then?”

  “Follow the trail. Find the Ascendants and stop them for good.”

  “It’s not over, then,” Maraine whispered.

  “No, I expect there is worse yet to come,” Jerrol agreed, though he dreaded to think what could ever be worse than what they had just been through. “I’ll dispatch the Sentinals back to their hometowns. They will reinstate the Waystones and check their borders. They can report through Kayerille, and she can liaise with me in Old Vespers for now. I’ll leave you to clean house. Please don’t hide anything. It could help us elsewhere if we know about it.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll probably be getting too much information to begin with.”

  “Good point. I need to get some scholars on my staff. We need to send more help. Melila will need time to recover, as will Marmera and Lez,” he said, thinking about all the things that were awaiting his attention back in Vespiri.

  “A piece of well-meant advice,” Maraine said. “You can’t do everything yourself. You need to take time to build a staff you trust. Let them help you.”

  “I know. I’m just never in Vespers long enough to do it.”

  “Make time. Then you can stop worrying about everything else and concentrate on the things you need to do.”

  Jerrol grinned at her. “If there’s anyone you would recommend for my staff, let me know.”

  Maraine pursed her lips and nodded. “Actually, you could do with a liaison for all things Terolia. Nil’ano was ready to retire, though I’m sure he would be willing to travel to Vespers, I think, and train the next ambassador. I trust him with my life, and he is a true believer. In your absence, he could advise your staff and mediate with the families on your behalf. A familiar face may ease some tension to begin with.”

  “Maraine, I think you are the true ambassador.”

  She laughed and shook her head at him.

  38

  Il Queron, Terolia

  Marianille stopped and turned around, staring at the empty horizon. “We should have reached Il Queron by now,” she said, breathless in the heat of the day. She rewrapped the scarf around her face and scowled at the endless sand.

  Jerrol squinted in the bright sunshine and shrugged as he stared out at the shapeless terrain around them. “Zin’talia, weren’t you paying attention?”

  “It should be over there,” she said, tossing her head. “But it’s not. We are in the right place.”

  “This is the right place,” Jerrol said out loud.

  “It can’t be,” Marianille complained.

  “It’s that way. I can hear Peterion, but he’s very muted,” Birlerion said, pointing. “Let’s go a bit further; maybe there’s something over by that dune.”

  “We would have seen the sentinal by now,” Niallerion argued. “Going further only makes the return journey longer. We need to find shelter out of the sun.”

  “There will be something over here,” Jerrol reiterated, following Birlerion. He slid off Zin’talia, laying a gentle hand against her neck as he stood listening. If Birlerion said that Peterion was here, then he was here. Jerrol knelt and placed his hands on the burning sands. The soles of his thin sandals provided scant protection as the fine sand sifted through the straps. He shifted uncomfortably as the distress from the Land shivered through him, images of powerful sandstorms followed by a wiry sentinal tree bowing before the shifting sand.

  “They are beneath us,” Jerrol murmured.

  “Beneath us? That’s not possible! The amount of sand that would have needed to shift to cover the whole town and the sentinal is immense,” Nil’ano said, staring around him in disbelief.

  “There were sandstorms; unnatural storms,” Jerrol murmured. “The storms scoured the land for days, moving mountains of sand. The oasis is below us,” he said again.

  “Peterion is calling. They are here,” Birlerion said, dropping to his knees and beginning to scoop the sand away.

  Marianille grabbed the back of his robe. “Birlerion stop, it’s too hot to dig now.”

  Nil’ano looked horrified. “But there were hundreds of people living here. Are you saying they were buried alive?”

  Jerrol stood up. “Yes,” he said as he walked over to the southern point of the crescent dune. He stood, considering what to do.

  “We need to dig here?” Niallerion asked watching Birlerion.

  “We need to rig some shelter first; we won’t last long in this heat. Then yes, we dig here,” Jerrol agreed, turning to his saddlebags and rummaging for a sheet of canvas and his rope. He led Zin’talia over to the end of the dune, frowning at the lack of r
ocks.

  Nil’ano knelt and began digging in the sand. “The sand is heavier below. We can tie the sheet to the horse and weight it below the sand. That will shield the worst. We need to rest in the heat of the day and dig when it’s cooler,” he said, beginning to scoop the shifting sand behind him.

  “It’s unlikely they can breathe under all that sand.” Niallerion said even as he tugged the awning off the back of the pack horse. “There isn’t enough water to waste digging. We have to make all haste to Ramila and hope we can conserve enough water to get us there.”

  Jerrol ignored him. He dropped beside Birlerion and started digging. Marianille cursed under her breath and bent to help Niallerion set up their makeshift shelter. Half an hour later, Jerrol called a halt through parched lips. “Water,” he croaked, staggering over to Zin’talia and unhooking the water bottle. “One mouthful, no more,” he instructed, handing the canteen to Birlerion.

  Niallerion reluctantly took a swig of his own canteen before re-stoppering it. “We won’t have enough water to reach Mistra,” he said with concern.

  “We can refill at the sentinal,” Jerrol said through his teeth, clamping his mouth shut. “Now rest,” he said, laying back in the shade of the awning. He closed his eyes, trying to still the sense of urgency and listening to the soft sounds of the shifting sand as the others settled.

  Peterion thrummed below them, but just scraping the surface had exhausted them. The heat was brutal and would dehydrate them if they were foolish enough to expend all their energy digging now. He told himself to wait and dozed as Zin’talia muttered darkly about being used as a shelter.

  Time passed slowly. The unending blue sky deepened as the fiery ball of flame travelled across it, turning golden sands into ochre shadows. The sands shimmered in the heat as the sun beat down and dried it out further. There was no moisture anywhere and little shade deep enough to offer protection.

  He must have slept because suddenly he realized he was awake. Zin’talia crooned to herself, and as he sat up, she swished her tail, causing a slight puff of air to waft past his face. Niallerion and Nil’ano snored gently in chorus and Marianille was curled up on her side next to Birlerion.

  Birlerion watched the sunset, his face shadowed and still. Jerrol wondered what thoughts churned behind those intelligent eyes. Maraine had made Birlerion promise to return; to acknowledge them as family. Kayerille had been just as insistent, and Birlerion had promised.

  Jerrol would have to find time to allow his trusted lieutenant to go and visit. Not any time soon, though, he thought. They would stop at Greenswatch on the way home and ensure Birlerion met his Darian. That was a promise Jerrol did make to himself.

  The temperature began to drop as the sun dipped below the horizon. Jerrol shrugged back into his robe and surveyed the sands around them. He marked out the position of Peterion. They would need to dig him out first. That would be only way they would find out what happened and how they could help.

  Jerrol grinned as the Sentinals stirred. “Time to dig,” he said firmly, pointing at the ground.

  “What, no tea first?” Niallerion complained as he stood, shaking the sand out of his clothes; it seemed to creep in everywhere. He eased his shoulder, wincing, as he watched Nil’ano line the fire pit with some fibrous strands before adding some more rocks. Jerrol paused long enough to dig out his flint and tinder for Nil’ano before returning to the shallow indentation he had begun. Birlerion rubbed his fingers and lit the fire.

  Nil’ano stared at him.

  “I forgot you could do that,” Jerrol said.

  “The Lady’s magic is growing stronger.” Birlerion grimaced. “It means the Veil must be breached.”

  Marianille pounced on him. “Since when have you been able to do that? Do you mean you could do that before? Did Leyandrii teach you? Is this like those onoffs?”

  “I bet it was after Clary attacked you,” Niallerion said with a knowing glance. “You spent a lot of time with Leyandrii then.”

  “That’s right,” Marianille said, observing her brother. “She wouldn’t let you out of her sight.”

  Birlerion looked everywhere but at Marianille. “Peterion is calling, we need to dig.”

  “Don’t try and slide out of answering. Tell us how you learnt to do that. Can you teach us?” Marianille was insistent.

  “I don’t know. Can I?” Birlerion said with a twist of his lips.

  “It would be a useful skill,” Niallerion murmured, and then wilted under Marianille’s glare.

  “Later Marianille, we have more important matters to deal with. Nil’ano, could you tend the fire and make the tea. We’ll dig,” Jerrol said.

  They persevered into the night by the light of the flickering fire that Nil’ano sporadically fed with the fibrous material he kept finding from somewhere.

  Their canteens were getting desperately low when Niallerion gave a muffled shout as he brushed the sand off the green Fronds of the Sentinal. Jerrol stood, stretching his aching back. “Thank the Lady,” he breathed as they redoubled their efforts. The thin spindly trunk finally came into view, and Jerrol placed his palm against the bark and shimmered into the half-buried tree.

  “Peterion,” he called. Peterion stepped forward out of the mist, his face lined and strained.

  “Captain,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, tears welling in his silver eyes. “I-I can’t hold it much longer. I thought we were all lost.”

  Jerrol gripped his arm. “Lady willing, we can hold it together long enough to save them all.”

  “How?” Peterion asked, his voice a harsh croak. “The air is running out and the sand is so loose that when I tunnel, it all folds in on itself.”

  Jerrol grinned. “We have help,” he pointed upwards. “We need some water, though. We are just about out.”

  “Water, I have. It’s air that we are running out of.”

  “Then, if you are willing, let’s invite my companions within and plan the great escape. Il Queron needs to be reinstated; it’s just a wasteland up above. Let’s see what we can do.”

  The air shimmered and Birlerion and Nil’ano appeared in the mists, followed by the other Sentinals. Nil’ano eyes were wide as he held onto Birlerion with a tight grip. Jerrol smiled. “Welcome to Sentinal Peterion,” he said as Nil’ano sheepishly let go of Birlerion.

  Marianille gripped Peterion’s arms, a gentle smile of wonder on her face. “Peterion,” she said as they embraced.

  Peterion reached forward, his hands full of mugs of water. He held them out and Nil’ano accepted a mug and sidled up beside Jerrol. “Are we really inside the sentinal?” he asked, his eyes darting around as the mists coalesced into a circular room with a wooden table and chairs growing out of the floor in one continuous piece of living furniture in the centre of the room.

  Jerrol winced at the rasp in Peterion's voice as he said, “Please be seated. Drink. You are dehydrated.” Nil’ano sat, running his hand over the smooth, silvery wood.

  Peterion sat and grimaced across the table at Jerrol. “Over two hundred people are sheltering in the temple. It has been four days. They have no food, some water, and a dwindling supply of air. We have managed to keep them safe, but our shields are weakening. The weight is too great and gets heavier every day. We can’t keep them up much longer.”

  Nil’ano gaped at Peterion. “You are protecting how many people?”

  “Two hundred and twelve; all those who managed to reach the Lady’s temple. The storm came up unexpectedly without warning. The blackout was complete. Those who heard my voice followed it to the temple. That’s what happened to my voice,” he whispered. “I wore it out leading the people to the temple. They couldn’t see a hand span in front of them.”

  Birlerion knelt in front of him and gripped his arms. “I can help.”

  “If you’re sure,” Peterion murmured.

  Jerrol’s sword vibrated against his hip. When he glanced down, it glowed a faint blue. He snapped his gaze back to the Sentinals, startled, and fr
owned at the blue sparkle that flickered around Birlerion.

  Peterion relaxed in his arms and Birlerion stiffened. Peterion took a deep breath and sat up, flexing his shoulders, and then helped Birlerion into a chair, murmuring his thanks.

  “It is fortunate we didn’t use the Waystone,” Niallerion said, observing Birlerion with interest. “We would have ended up under this sand as well.”

  Jerrol nodded, still watching Birlerion. “It just didn’t sound right. Almost muted. Now we know why.” He smiled at Nil’ano’s expression. “The temple is right there, isn’t it?” Jerrol asked, pointing off to his left. “And the river is running below your roots, through a comprehensive network of caverns. Too deep for it to help us.”

  Nil’ano stared at Jerrol. “How do you know this? How do you know where we are? How do you even know they are alive? They are buried in masses of sand.” He looked up, a faint sheen of sweat on his face. “So are we. This is all so wrong!” He shuddered, and Marianille absent-mindedly patted his arm.

  “It is fortunate my brother is with us,” she said, glaring at Birlerion. “His hidden skills continue to surprise us all.”

  Birlerion grimaced, but didn’t reply.

  “I for one am glad he is here,” Peterion said with a strained smile. “I couldn’t hold out much longer, and he can only hold it for so long. Captain, how do we save the people?”

  “We could lead them out through your sentinal if we can dig you out far enough. But there are no resources or amenities to protect over two hundred people from the desert. We have little food with us,” Jerrol said. “I wonder, if we uncover the temple enough to provide light and air, whether they could continue to shelter there as we dig them out further?”