Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1

by Daniel J. Rothery

  Thus, every time they visited a manor, Gallord-Smit imagined having the chance to engage someone of importance, but he always left with having done no more than indulge in a quiet stay on a luxury estate. He was beginning to feel that the entire trip would amount to nothing more than travel time, and he would find himself in Yalcinae having made no headway at all in deflecting Sherzi’s irascible intent to put their two nations at war.

  Which would most likely be, now that he glumly considered his rash plan to free Lord Perrile on his own initiative, not only completely futile, but also suicidal.

  So it was they made their way down along the coast in the direction of the capital. Rena told him that it would take several tendays to get there; the travel was not hard and the way not so far, she said, but obligations would slow their progress. If she did not keep up her social obligations, she explained to him patiently, it would incite questions as to whether she traveled at her own pleasure or as his hostage, which was obviously undesirable. Gallord-Smit, therefore, grudgingly accepted these diversions with a mixture of frustration in delaying his plans to free Lord Perrile, hope that he might befriend one of Rena’s influential associates, and contentment in spending time with his beautiful Somrian mistress.

  The first of these diversions came eight days into their journey. They arrived at a sizeable town on the coast—Rena called it a town, but Gallord-Smit thought it a city, being nearly the dimensions of Benn’s Harbour—that she said was called Jara’Kanta. It was a pretty place with great bushes and trees overhanging every street and children running free on the main thoroughfare. There were many amphitheatres along the main way as well, with great signs advertising plays and dance troupes; there was even an arena, which made Gallord-Smit think of Arad, who had probably wrestled there at some point—on a whim, he asked if Rena had heard of Arad, but she shrugged and explained that she wasn’t interested in sport. The town was a hub of entertainment, Rena explained, a destination sought out by minstrels and poets where they could perform for the wealthy and powerful and perhaps, if they were lucky, find themselves a benefactor. She was interested in culture, and gazed longingly at the theatres as they rode by, though she said they didn’t have time for such dalliances, needing to arrive at their destination by nightfall.

  Not surprisingly, the town was surrounded by vineyards; wine seemed to be a great deal in Somria, at least along the coast and among the wealthy and cultured. In the hills beyond the township, they rode up a rocky outcrop to a sprawling mansion that overlooked endless rows of vines; Rena announced that it was the home of the Charrod family, one of the most important in Somria’s exports, particularly (unsurprisingly), in wine.

  They rode up the winding path to the mansion, then past it and to the guesthouse that lay a good distance behind, well embedded in the estate gardens. Gallord-Smit was pleased to discover that many of the trees in the gardens surrounding the guesthouse were familiar to him; apparently the owners had an affinity for fauna indigenous to the eastern continent where the Lords’ Lands lay, and had filled their gardens with trees from those lands. He was further pleased with the anticipation of being able to actually meet with someone of influence in the Overlord’s political circle; perhaps he might accomplish something of merit on the trip, after all.

  The guesthouse was as luxurious as any they had visited, with great, white columns holding up a roof far grander than needed, a deep, clear swimming pool decorated with lily pads and a blue-painted floor, and a patio upon which dining, lounging, and sleeping implements were all placed. The pleasant weather along the east coast of Somria, generally sunny and warm with only the occasional night of cool rain, was evidently equally kind in winter; to Gallord-Smit’s continued pleasure, many of the guesthouses were open to the elements.

  He was trying desperately to keep his focus on Lord Perrile’s interests when Rena dropped her saddlebags on the floor of the patio (she insisted on carrying her own, against his protestations), followed them with her clothes, and strode out into the sun, the skin of her body glowing in its golden warmth. When she plunged into the cool water and turned on her back to beckon him to her, with her firm, pink nipples mischievously protruding above the surface of the water, his duties vanished from his mind completely and he collapsed joyfully into indulgence.

  ・

  Gallord-Smit’s eagerness to be entertained by their hosts was further kept at bay by their absence. Rena refused to send word via the servants, though he nudged her several times as the day wore on. When she finally decided they had been there long enough to indulge their hosts—another incomprehensible nuance of the complex society through which she roamed—she informed the servant, a young man named Relf with a strange accent and skin the colour of his, that she had arrived with a companion and was properly rested, thank you.

  Word came back some time later that the lord of the house was not at home, and was expected on the morrow. Gallord-Smit flopped on one of the sloth-inducing lounges in frustration, drawing a smile from Rena, who clicked her lips and shook her head, and climbed on top of him. After that the waiting wasn’t so bad.

  Rena was up early the next morning, which wasn’t typical; he found her standing by the pool in nothing but a short, lacy white skirt that barely covered her bottom, watching the sun rise. She smiled as he wrapped his arms around her, but the moment was disturbed by another servant, this one a young girl with red hair, who announced that the master of the estate would be pleased to accept the lady and her escort in the house, to break fast together. Gallord-Smit went immediately to the dressing room and was ready within a thousand heartbeats, but Rena took so long to dress that he wondered if the morning meal would still be served. When she finally appeared fully clothed in a regal, flowing garment, blood red in colour and intricately layered, he was practically jumping with impatience.

  Showing no signs of his discomfort, his attractive young mistress went to the entrance of the guesthouse and allowed the young man waiting there—a good-looking fellow in black tunic and leggings—to escort her to a small, orey-drawn wagon. The wagon only sat one; with no direction otherwise, Gallord-Smit took up a position behind it as it rolled in the direction of the estate mansion.

  Their patron’s house was actually a series of houses, each large enough to lodge a good-sized family, in Gallord-Smit’s eye. Each structure, similarly to those on Rena’s estate, seemed to serve a specific purpose. The building they stopped before was a simple square of ornate white pillars with a trellis atop it, wound with dense vines. Beneath was a small, square, stone platform atop four posts which served as a table, and four chairs in twisted iron and padded in green leather.

  Two of the chairs were occupied, one by an older man, perhaps Gallord-Smit’s age, or a few more summers. He was dressed in a robe almost entirely white, matching the painted stone of the building and table, with threads of what looked like argent woven into it (Gallord-Smit imagined it was actually argent, considering the wearer). The man, who had long, greying hair down to his shoulders and a white square cap atop his head, had a typically Somrian look to him, with a coppery-brown skin tone, clean-shaven face, and somewhat large and squarish nose. His eyes were moderately pulled at the corners, and seemed not unkind.

  Beside him, perfectly upright and unmoving, sat a young man of perhaps ten summers. He was wearing a heavy, red jacket with copper clasps and a black skirt, and his head was shaved bald. The boy had a frown on, and appeared to be trying to look quite serious.

  Rena glided to the table, drew together the pleats of her impressive dress, and sat without a word, astounding Gallord-Smit. Was he to do the same?

  His uncertain pause proved a brilliant stroke of luck; the master of the estate glanced at him, then at Rena, then smiled and said, “You do me honour, lady. Your man is welcome to sit.” He motioned to the fourth chair.

  Rena turned to Gallord-Smit and smiled, gesturing likewise to the chair. “You are ma guest, Pilaeos,” she said, with deep elegance.

  Hiding his confusi
on behind a mask of serenity, a skill any officer learned quickly, Gallord-Smit bowed and sat. The host was momentarily startled by his bow, which was obviously quite foreign to him. Despite his place as a leader in Somrian exports, Gallord-Smit wondered if the man had actually ever left his own country.

  Rena and their host began exchanging pleasant conversation, obviously intended to show a congenial comfort between their two families. It clearly was not his moment to speak yet, so he listened quietly. He noticed the boy staring at him, so he winked. The young lad started, then suppressed a laugh.

  “Peace, introduce ya companion,” their host said when he noticed this.

  “This Gallord-Smit El, Pilaeos, Front-Captain of na Lordsguard in na Lords’ Lands,” Rena said. “He was chief military advisor ta Lord Perrile, who sits on Lords’ Council na that land. The lord is, sadly, being held accountable for attack on na Southern Island by Commander-General Sherzi.”

  Gallord-Smit was stunned by her directness. He had assumed that his identity as a supposed enemy of the state would be best left unmentioned until some level of congeniality had been demonstrated by a potential ally, but she had tabled it with the clarity of a state prosecutor announcing the charges against him. He opened his mouth to speak, but was uncertain what to say.

  Rena spoke again before he could, however. “Pilaeos, this Singdon Ardfred Charrod El, Johon, sire of the Charrod house.” After speaking the introduction, she stood and curtseyed deeply, holding both hands to her chest; he hadn’t seen her do that before.

  Gallord-Smit likewise leapt to his feet and bowed again, deeply. When his eyes rose to Charrod, he was shocked to see the man’s eyes tearing over.

  “Allisondrei Baccala El, Renallie, ya bring such honour to ma house, I am overwhelmed.” He stood, performed a deep Somrian bow, then motioned for all to sit, dabbing at his eyes with his service cloth. “After na dispute between our two families, and years of economic tension, to come before me this way, bringing with ya na prisoner of war—” He seemed again about break into tears, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. When he looked at her again, they were full of warmth. “Ya uncle knows nothing of diplomacy compared to ya. Nothing,” he repeated, swinging the service cloth as though it were a flag of truce.

  Rena smiled back at him, and reached over to squeeze Gallord-Smit’s hand. He had no idea what had happened, but it seemed good. She had brought him to the house of a family enemy? It seemed a move of madness, but somehow she had made it work. He gazed at her in amazement and fondness.

  “Tell me, girl. How do ya come to this man, who sit a’fore me?” Charrod asked.

  “It is a sad story, Johon-uncle. He was vera nearly killed defending’s lord against Sherzi’s soldiers. Despite such honourable deed, Sherzi saw ta sell him. I’d first option, na took him to m’ estate na healed him. Of course,” she added with another squeeze of his hand and a warm smile, “I freed him as well.”

  “Of course,” Charrod agreed. Gallord-Smit blinked in confusion. It had been expected that she free him? He couldn’t help but smirk at her at that, though she was focused on their host.

  “Johon-uncle, a sad story and brutal one; Sherzi had outstepped himself,” she went on. “The island was na colony, not military. The people there, murdered.”

  Charrod stared at her. “Truly so? I never imagined Sherzi engage na such atrocity. It is unacceptable!” He slapped his hand on the table.

  Gallord-Smit had nearly forgotten the boy sitting with them, he had been as silent and unmoving as a statue. But now he suddenly stood and bowed in formal Somrian style to Rena. “Begging the lady’s release,” he said.

  “Granted sadly,” she replied, barely glancing at him. Then to Charrod, “We hoped ya might see this so clearly, Johon-uncle. Might we pray on ya help in showing such clarity at the Overlord’s hospitality?”

  Charrod stood, bowed again formally, and replied, “Ya may assume so.”

  Rena stood and returned the gesture, though her curtsey was far less grand and she seemed distant. “With sorrow ya depart,” she said.

  Charrod nodded, and turned away without looking at Gallord-Smit again. He strode out to the wagon that had brought Rena over and climbed aboard, the young driver carefully picking up the trails of his robe as he had Rena’s dress, before mounting the driver’s bench and spurring the orey to pull the wagon away.

  Watching it go, Gallord-Smit shook his head in astonishment. He could not believe how confusing the traditions of this land were, but he also could not have hoped for a better outcome.

  “Well, that went well. You were brilliant,” he complimented her, touching her shoulder affectionately.

  She shied away from his touch angrily, though. “Brilliant? Oh, Pilaeos, I must teach ya rudiment of Somrian custom,” she said, shaking her head slowly, her voice sad. “Was best we could hope for, all.”

  “Best we could hope for, Rena? I never imagined the man would agree to help me!” Gallord-Smit exclaimed happily. “If we find not one more man to speak to the Overlord about this—” he began.

  “He will na help us,” she interrupted. “An we must leave immediately.” She picked up her skirts and strode towards the guesthouse. “He could na at least leave me the wagon,” she grumbled.

  Gallord-Smit stood there for a moment, then strode down the steps and caught up to her, matching her heated pace; a simple feat for a military man. “He won’t help us? But he said—”

  “Ma Pilaeos,” she sighed, stopping and taking his hands in hers. “I had na hope of breaching na gap between our families. He can na help me, or ya through me, without loss of his family honour. I could only hope that bringing ya to na meeting would be enough compliment that he might mention ya plight to his associates, at least those distant enough to be uninvolved with our two families. I believe I may achieve this, I may.” She took hold of her dress and started walking again, but at a normal pace this time.

  “Why did he say he would help us then, if he won’t?” he asked, pacing alongside her again.

  She laughed sadly. “Oh ma Pilaeos, ma benumb Pilaeos from na far way land. Don’t ya have sarcasm in na Lords’ Lands?”

  ・ ・

  Rena changed to her traveling clothes immediately upon arriving back at the guest house; she had her saddlebags packed in less time than it had taken her to dress, astonishing Gallord-Smit, who rushed to keep up with her frenetic pace. She called in the servant waiting outside—showing some surprise that he was still there—and demanded he supply them with fresh foods and wine for the road. The servant ran—quite literally—to the kitchens and was back with a traveling pack of food in the time it took for them to load their horses. Apparently Charrod wanted them off his land quickly, indeed; Gallord-Smit felt deeply indebted to Rena for putting herself out as she did, and he didn’t imagine it would be the last time, by far. She was, he began to see, an extraordinary woman, who was willing go to almost any lengths in the name of love.

  When their horses were packed and the servant had left (apparently deciding for himself that he needed indulge them no further), Gallord-Smit turned to Rena and took her by the shoulders.

  “How can I repay you for the grandness of your sacrifices for me?” he asked sincerely, his eyes sad.

  She didn’t even blink. “Say I’m ya woman,” she stated flatly, her face serious.

  He frowned. “Surely, something more—”

  “Say I’m ya woman,” she repeated, stepping back and placing her hands on her hips with her lips pursed.

  “You are my woman,” he said, nodding.

  “Say I’ll always be ya woman,” she said, stepping closer to him, and reaching up to lay her hands gently on his shoulders.

  Gallord-Smit smiled, and sighed lightly. “Rena, I never thought I’d love again. My life had become training and war, nothing more. But you . . .” He stroked her long, dark hair gently back, then, realizing he meant every word he was saying. “You have captured my heart in a few short tendays. You will always be my woman,” he
said, gazing deeply into her dark eyes, “and I your man.”

  He kissed her then, long and deep, until they both felt complete, evicting host be damned.

  26 SAYRI

  The wagon ride was far less pleasant than the coach ride had been, and much longer. Her driver, a short, thick-bearded man with a long nose and beady eyes, was gruff bordering on rude; he mumbled to her in his unintelligible dialect, making no effort to be more clear. When they stopped for a break or to camp, he didn’t tell her which it was, and in the morning he didn’t come looking for her, so she had to stay near the wagon at all times. The first night she slept around a campfire with a group of older Somrian women who kept to themselves, but were at least cordial to her. In the morning she woke up when all the wagons started rolling, and she had to throw her belongings in her pack, chase down her wagon, and jump in while it was moving. Thereafter she slept in the back of the wagon, on top of the stacks of boxes and crates the driver was shipping to the North Province; she didn’t know what was inside, but nothing stank or made noise, so she made herself comfortable.