Daughter of Light (Follower of the Word Book 1)

by Morgan L. Busse

  Caleb paused to consider. “About four to five. Not too many. I do not want to attract attention.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll have them sent to your tent within the hour for briefing.”

  Caleb nodded and walked away, his mind already going over what he would need to pull this off. And pull this off he would. He had never failed at a mission before, and he would not start now.

  • • •

  Avonai. The capital city of the eastern coast and the people of the sea. Caleb lay on his belly from a nearby hilltop to the south, his body hidden by the thick brush and trees that grew along the coast. The sky was dark. Nearby, the moon had just begun to rise over the ocean. He could hear the dull roar of the waves. Cold salty air flowed up from the sea.

  Caleb pulled out his eyeglass and studied the city. Tall, thick walls surrounded Avonai. There were four gates along the walls. He could see two Avonain guards at each gate. Inside the walls, Avonai sparkled with the reflection of countless lamps and windows. The streets jutted out from the main one like spokes on a wheel. The castle stood on the far side of the city, overlooking the sea.

  He slowly swung his eyeglass around. Outside the walls lay the port, a crisscross of wooden walkways, ships, and rundown pubs. Crates were stacked along the walls and boardwalks. A few people wandered the walkways, but most of the port lay empty.

  Feeling his muscles beginning to cramp, Caleb stood and slowly stretched. He had seen all he could from here. It was time to gather information from one of the taverns below.

  Beside him, were five other men dressed in dark clothing.

  “Time to move out.” Caleb stuffed his eyeglass into his pack. “We’ll split up, three to a group and check out the pubs below. Find out what you can, then meet back here later tonight. Let no one see you coming or going from this hill. We’re supposed to be sailors just in from a stint at sea. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” they replied.

  “Good. I’ll take Raul and Daleth with me.” Two men stepped forward at the mention of their names. He turned toward them. “Let’s go.”

  Carefully they made their way down the hill, through the thick brush, onto the walkway.

  Lamps hung from poles every couple of feet, creating pools of light across the boardwalk. Rats scurried under the crates as they approached. The smell of salt and rancid fish hung in the air. Water lapped gently beneath the walkways. The few people out that night ignored the Temanins, their heads bent as they hurried along with their business. Caleb ignored them as well and headed down the nearest pier. At the end was a dilapidated pub. He and his men would start there.

  A large grimy window graced the front of the tavern. Above it swung a solitary sign. Caleb glanced up. In faded letters it read The Seagull. Looked good enough for him.

  Caleb pressed down on the rusty latch and pushed forward. The door swung inward with a loud groan. The inside of the tavern reminded him of a den of filth. Smoke filled the inside, mixed with the scent of unwashed bodies and sour ale. Wrought-iron chandeliers hung from a stained ceiling. Crumbling bricks lined the walls. A bar counter stood to his left with a portly man behind it. Pewter mugs hung from a low hanging rafter above the counter.

  Caleb took a step inside and felt something crunch beneath his boot. He looked down in disgust, but could see nothing on the dark wood floor. He shook his boot and made his way across the tavern.

  Round tables filled the rest of the small, cramped room. Most of them were occupied with men from every corner of the Lands—tall dark Honts from the south, Nordics with tattoos across every visible patch of skin, and a couple of Thyrians who looked worn and tired. He noted a couple of Avonain soldiers in the far right corner, and he selected a table farthest from them.

  Caleb smiled. He had chosen well. No one would notice a couple of foreign sailors here, since they all were strangers. Not even those Avonain soldiers. He pulled off his dark cloak, revealing the usual pale white shirt and dark pants of the common sailor. A gold chain hung across his chest with a matching gold hoop in his left ear. He placed his cloak over the back of his chair and sat down. Raul and Daleth sat down in the other two chairs.

  A heavyset Avonain approached, his strange blue-green eyes glittering under a mop of dirty blond hair. “What can I get for you?” the man asked in a reedy voice.

  “Whatever you’re serving tonight,” Caleb replied.

  “Let’s see your gold first,” the Avonain demanded.

  Caleb shrugged and dug out his coin purse. He flashed a handful of gold coins. The man’s eyes glittered even more than the coins. “And a couple mugs of ale as well.”

  The man hurried away without a word. Caleb put away the gold. He took note of the man’s greed, his experience telling him the Avonain could be bought.

  From the corner of his eye, he could see that Raul and Daleth were already taking in the room and judging its occupants. Good, they weren’t inexperienced after all.

  A short time later the Avonain returned with steaming bowls of fish stew and dark crusty bread. Caleb took one sniff of the stew and felt his stomach turn. The ale was even worse. But he wasn’t here for the food or drink. Drunken men had loose tongues and even looser pockets.

  Caleb picked at the stew and kept his ears open for any tidbit of news. Nearby he heard the Thyrians muttering amongst themselves.

  “Never seen such a thing,” one of the sailors muttered.

  “Everyone rounded up and taken up to Cragsmoor.”

  “Glad we got away when we did.”

  He found the conversation interesting. Apparently something had happened in Thyra. But Thyra was not his mission at present, so he tucked the sailors’ words away to dissect later.

  After a couple of minutes, the Thyrians stood and left. Caleb pushed the bowl of stew away and took a sip of the ale. He spit the ale back into his mug and wiped his mouth. How could anyone drink this swill?

  “Don’t like the ale?” Raul asked before taking a huge swig from his own mug.

  “No.” Caleb pushed the mug next to the bowl of stew and glanced around. It was late now and many of the men had consumed more than their share of the pungent brew. Daleth got up and sauntered over toward the bar and began to talk with one of the sailors from Hont.

  Caleb heard raised voices to his left.

  “King Alaric has no right to send us to war.”

  “King Alaric can do whatever he wishes.”

  Caleb slowly turned and watched the four Avonain guards in the corner. The one closest to Caleb was a skinny young man who looked barely older than twenty. The two guards on either side of him were middle-aged, one short with a receding hairline, the other with a face that reminded Caleb of the pet monkeys some of the nobility kept in Azar. The farthest guard was an old man with a droopy grey mustache.

  “King Alaric is only doing it so his son can bond with Lady Astrea. He isn’t concerned about the war,” the young guard said.

  “Who cares?” The old guard took a sip from his mug. He wiped the froth from his mouth, missing the bit that clung to his mustache. “We won’t be called to fight. That’s what peons are for. They sure aren’t good for anything else.”

  The other two guards laughed.

  “You mean you don’t care if good men die?”

  The old guard pursed his lips thoughtfully. “No, not really. You see, Tristan, we’re not talking about good men. We’re not talking about men at all. Those fishers just take up space and make the city filthy. Seems better to put them to use to me. Have them fight the war for us.”

  “But they’re human—”

  “They’re fishers!”

  Interesting, Caleb thought. Looked like a fight was simmering amongst the guards. Perhaps he could use it to his advantage. He kept a covert gaze on the table, watching for an opportunity to present itself.

  “You don’t actually like fishers, do you, Tristan?” the monkey-faced guard said.

  Tristan muttered something that Caleb couldn’t hear.

  The o
ld guard sat back and laughed. “No way! Boys, we have here a fisher lover. Tell me, Tristan: Was your mother a fisher? Is that why you defend them? What was she like?”

  “I bet she was easy,” the other guard said. “They all are.”

  Tristan sat rigidly in his chair. “Don’t say that about my mother.”

  “How about a sister? You have a sister? She a fisher too?” The three guards laughed.

  Caleb watched Tristan’s hands ball up on the table.

  “I know what I’d do if I got a hold of a little fisher—”

  “Not another word.”

  The three men stared at Tristan. The Nordics at the next table broke out in song. The older guard smiled and said something.

  Tristan stood up and kicked his chair back. He leaned toward the other guards, hands firmly planted on the thick wooden table. “Don’t ever call my family that again.”

  The Nordics sang louder. Caleb strained to hear what the old guard said.

  Tristan’s face turned purple. “That’s it,” he shouted. He swung his fist and caught the old guard in the nose. Immediately blood spurted from the wound. The Nordics stuttered in their song. They turned to watch.

  A look of rage and surprise spread across the old guard’s face. He clutched his bloody nose and stood. He glared at Tristan “You’ll pay for that.” The other two guards stood alongside him.

  Suddenly, as if realizing what he had done, Tristan began to back away from the table. His face drained of color.

  “You’ll never work in Avonai again!” The old guard advanced around the table toward Tristan. Blood dripped down his chin. “Did you hear me?” He swung his fist back and caught Tristan in the stomach. Tristan bent over and clutched his midsection, groaning in pain.

  Caleb saw his opportunity. In three strides he was next to Tristan. “Are you all right?”

  Before Tristan could reply, the old guard was in Caleb’s face. “Get out of the way, sailor!” He raised his fist. “This isn’t your fight.”

  Behind him, Caleb could hear the barkeeper yelling something about nobody fighting.

  Caleb chose to ignore both of them.

  With lightning reflexes Caleb reached out and grabbed the bloody guard, holding the man at arm’s length.

  The old guard struggled against Caleb’s grip. “Do you know who you’re dealing with?” the guard yelled.

  Mentally Caleb thought the same thing, but instead he replied, “No.”

  “I am second in command of the city guard.” The old guard tried to twist out of Caleb’s hold. Caleb tightened his grip. The guard switched tactics and reached for his sword.

  Caleb suddenly hauled the guard toward himself, lifting the man off the ground. “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” Caleb said in a low, dangerous voice. He watched the old guard’s eyes dart toward his companions, only to discover the other two were being held by Raul and Daleth.

  “No fighting!” The barkeeper came panting to Caleb’s side.

  Slowly Caleb lowered the old guard but kept a firm hold on his shirt. “A good leader never attacks his subordinates,” Caleb said coldly. He released the man.

  The old guard stumbled back. He brushed off his shirt and wiped his face, smearing more blood across his cheeks and mustache. “Come on, men,” he said to his companions. “Let’s go.”

  Caleb gave a small nod, and the two Temanins released their hold.

  The guards headed toward the door. Caleb turned to assist Tristan. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the old guard spin back around.

  Instantly Caleb had a dagger in hand, ready to throw if the old guard did anything.

  The old guard didn’t notice. “If I find you in Avonai, sailor,” he said, looking directly at Caleb, “I will have you arrested so fast your head will spin.” Then with a final glare, he and the other two guards left.

  Caleb pushed the dagger back into the small sheath that hung at his side. He held out a hand toward Tristan.

  Tristan took the hand and straightened up. “Thanks, sailor,” he said with a sheepish look.

  “Let me get you a drink. I’m sure you could use one.”

  “Yes, I could.” Tristan followed Caleb to the counter. Caleb shook his head slightly toward his companions. He wanted to handle the young man himself. Nodding, Raul and Daleth each turned and moved toward different tables.

  The barkeeper watched Caleb with a wary eye and filled two more mugs of ale. Caleb poured a handful of gold out onto the counter. The barkeeper’s expression brightened.

  “So you’re against the alliance,” Caleb said, more as a statement than a question.

  Tristan reached for one of the mugs. “What? Oh, that—right.” His expression darkened. “By signing that treaty, King Alaric is sending us to war.”

  “What do you care?” Caleb ran a finger around the rim of his own mug, “You’re a guard. You won’t be sent in to fight.”

  “No, but my younger brother will.” Tristan lifted his mug. “Because, after all, we’re just fishers, right? Who cares about us?”

  Caleb watched Tristan drain his mug. He knew that, if he played Tristan right, he would be able to attain all the information he needed for his mission. Caleb felt a slight twinge of guilt for using the young man, but he quickly smothered it. He had no time to deal with these base feelings of morality when he had a job to do.

  So Caleb ordered more drinks and began questioning Tristan, using every bit of sympathy and companionship he possessed to draw the man out. By the end of the night, Caleb had all he needed and more to accomplish his mission.

  17

  Captain Lore heaved a sigh of relief as the tall walls of Avonai came into view. Though not expecting an attack on their traveling party, he had feared one nevertheless. There was something about this trip that had him on edge, a sixth sense that something was going to go wrong. But here they were, after a week of travel, approaching the city, and still no sign of Temanin. They had made it.

  The sand colored city stood out amongst the evergreen trees and fields that surrounded it. Not as magnificent as the White City, but just as ancient, the city of Avonai had stood centuries on the edge of the Illyr Sea, greeting any seafaring traveler to the land of the north.

  Overhead, the call of gulls greeted his ears, and already Lore could hear the dull roar of crashing waves. His heart began to stir, surrounded by these reminders of the sea. It was said that salt water ran in the veins of Avonains, and perhaps it did. The coastal people were as connected to the sea as one could be without dwelling within its depths. Lore felt the pull of the ocean and the Avonain blood in his body stirred. He was home.

  Lore took a deep breath of the cool salty air. He felt his eyes begin to change, taking on the mood of the sea. Today it was calm. He shuddered slightly under the change. Being so close to the sea caused the change to be more powerful. Lore took another breath as the ocean’s mood swept over him, then he urged his horse forward until he came up next to Lord Gaynor.

  Lord Gaynor looked solemn as he gazed at the large city ahead. He turned toward Lore. “Have I done the right thing?” he said in a low voice. Conflicting emotions danced across the older man’s face.

  Lore paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully. The last residual effects of the change passed. “You didn’t force Lady Astrea into this agreement. You gave her a choice, and this is what she chose.”

  “I know, I know, but what kind of life will this be? Will she find love in this bonding?”

  In that moment, Lore caught a glimpse not of a high lord, but of a father concerned for his daughter. It was a side of Lord Gaynor that few ever saw, and Lore felt privileged to be given a glance of the high lord’s human side.

  “Prince Evander is an honorable man,” Lore said. “And your daughter is a lovely and kindhearted woman. They will find love if they choose to look for it.”

  Lord Gaynor stared at Lore for a moment. “You are very wise, Lore. Much like your father was. I’m not sure if I’ve ever told you this,
but I am honored to have you serve as my captain.”

  “Thank you, milord.”

  Lord Gaynor turned his gaze back toward the city.

  Lore sighed and he pulled his horse back, letting Lord Gaynor ride ahead of him. There were so many burdens on the shoulders of the people around him, what with this war, the treaty, and life. He could feel his own burdens weighing heavily on his heart. His eyes slid toward Rowen. At least there was one burden that had been lifted.

  Rowen was smiling at the moment, her horse close to Lady Astrea’s. The two were talking about something. Then Rowen reached over and placed her hand on Lady Astrea’s arm.

  Rowen had changed.

  Lore had first noticed it the day after he had ordered Rowen away from the training room. When she had left, the look on her face had made him feel he had just thrust his sword into her heart. But the next day he had found her sitting quietly in the library, curled up in a chair near one of the windows. They had talked briefly. And when he had looked into her eyes, he’d realized the look of death was gone. There were still deep stirrings within those blue eyes, but the pain he had seen earlier had disappeared.

  However, duty had called him back before he could ask her about it. When Lore left, he had felt a small measure of peace steal over his heart. He never wanted to see that dark look in Rowen’s eyes again.

  Lore turned his attention back toward Avonai. Walls the color of sand encircled the city. Ahead of them was the western entrance. Broad wooden doors were wide open. Deep sea green banners with a ship and anchor fluttered in the breeze. Long narrow buildings, beige with white shutters, lined the main street inside the entrance. A large crowd of people dressed in dark clothing stood just inside the gate.

  Lore frowned. Was Avonai expecting them?

  He got his answer a moment later when horns began to blow.

  “What in the Lands?” he heard Lord Gaynor exclaim. Bright color streamers filled the air and the people began to cheer.

  Rowen looked back at Lore with a puzzled expression. Lore motioned to Justus to take his place beside Lord Gaynor, then he urged his horse forward toward the two women ahead.