Tahr (The Days of Ash and Fury Book 1)

by Sean Hinn

  “Oh, I do. But there is a reason I refused the Seat. My niece is wise, and strong, and I told my brother long ago that she would make a far better queen than I would.”

  “I have never understood that, Trellia. You would have made an excellent queen.”

  “No, Barris, I would not have. I am too passionate, too blown about by my emotions. No, I belong here, in the Grove, with my Spring and my students. I am a teacher, not a leader. I refused the title of Mistress for the same reasons. The very thought of being saddled with matters of state makes my heart cringe. Terrias, however…she is not dispassionate, but she is much more capable of separating herself from her feelings. She suffered much loss while still very young, and her heart, like yours, is well guarded. It would not surprise me to know that she is completely clueless about your true feelings.”

  “I hope you are right, Trellia.”

  “Now why in Tahr would you hope that? If you two are to ever broach the topic, one of you must speak. It does not seem like you intend to.”

  Barris frowned. “It is not so simple, Vicaris. If she truly already knows how I feel, and she does not speak, then she must not share my feelings. If she does not know, then she must not be attuned at all to the notion, and therefore, does not share my feelings. How can I speak when I know that one of those realities are true?”

  Trellia fell into laughter. “Barris, you fool!” She continued to snicker, spilling her tea. “Ah, now look what you made me do.” Barris did not move to help her, fuming.

  “You mock me, Trellia. I am glad you spilled your tea. I hope it was hot.”

  Trellia stuck her tongue out at the knight. “It was not,” she retorted, still giggling as she waved her hand, the liquid evaporating into steam.

  “Explain yourself, Trellia.” Barris crossed his arms over his chest petulantly.

  “Oh, Barris. Tell me, how do you know that my niece is not sitting on her oaken seat, right now, piddling herself with frustration, thinking the exact same thoughts about you?”

  “Piddling herself, Trellia? Really?”

  “Yes Barris. Piddling. For all you know she’s in a twist right now, mooning over you like a schoolchild.”

  Barris shook his head. “I see now what you mean. I do not think a queen would use the colorful descriptions you use.”

  “Oh shut up, Barris. You’re so uptight. Now listen, and your shriveled, irreverent old friend will straighten you out. Do you not think Terrias Evanti is a woman? Of course you do, or why would you be so smitten with her? Ah…” she held up a finger, “quiet. Not another word from you. Now, if she is a woman, then she has desires just like anyone else. Do you know who for? Neither do I. So does it not make sense that it may be someone who is, perhaps, a bit shy about the matter? A bit shielded? Someone she respects, someone who is admired by her people, someone whose legendary strength and sacrifice is whispered about among children and the single women of Thornwood? Someone who is not around often enough to let the idea of love blossom?”

  “You speak of someone who does not exist, Trellia, and if he does, he is certainly not me.”

  “See? That is why I call you a fool. Look Barris, I don’t know what Terrias Evanti thinks of you, aside from the fact that she has always spoken of you in tones of awe, as we all do. One thing is certain, however, you will never know if you never ask.”

  Barris shook his head again. “And if I do ask, Trellia? And she does not share my feelings? I am not worried about her laughing at me, Vicaris. I am not worried that she will be offended. I fear that the admission will cause her to feel uncomfortable with me, and I could not bear that. I would need to resign my position, and could no longer serve Thornwood as I do.”

  “Serve Thornwood as you do? You serve Thornwood by never spending more than a few days per season in Thornwood. You either train your knights and cavalry incessantly, or ride about the land of Tahr as an ambassador of Thornwood, on errands of importance to your people. Your service does not require close contact with Terrias. Although, perhaps, if you were successful in wooing the fair queen, you might find yourself spending a bit more time among your own people. You have nothing to lose, Barris. Nothing more than your own fantasy of what may happen. If you cling to that fantasy in place of the real thing, perhaps you are not the brave knight we all think you to be.”

  There it was. The truth laid bare. The truth Barris refused to acknowledge, but knew was the heart of his cowardice.

  Barris gazed at his friend. “Trellia, I have fought battles with orcs and trolls and errant wizards. I have ridden to nearly every corner of Greater Tahr. I have been slashed, hacked, hammered and harried for almost a hundred years. We have enjoyed peace for some time, but that peace may be ending. Something wakes in this world, and when its slumber finally ends, peace will be but a memory. These things do not frighten me. Not in the least. But the thought of telling Terrias Evanti how I feel for her makes my mouth go dry and my spine turn to pudding.”

  Trellia stood and kissed Barris on the top of his head. “Well, now, don’t you feel better?” she asked.

  Barris stood and faced his friend. “Well, not particularly.”

  “A moment ago you were just as terrified to discuss the topic with me. Now your heart is unburdened. Was it as awful as you feared?”

  “No, Trellia. I should have talked with you years ago.”

  “You most certainly should have. And you now will recall that the fear of a thing is worse than the thing itself. Do you not train your knights in this concept?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, then heed your own counsel, knight. Now go. I need a nap. You wear me out.” The wisp of a lady hugged Barris, and the elf knight walked into the saccharine air of the Grove, heartened.

  XXVI: THORNWOOD TRAIL

  Aria felt her life sliding from her grasp, her very youth draining from her as if Sera were drinking from the well of her soul. The sensation was not physically painful, nor debilitating, but extraordinarily difficult to regulate. The young princess had done as her Mistress had instructed, allowing the sheath of her spirit to leak like a sieve, feeding her own consciousness and her mount’s thirst for strength. Aria struggled desperately to maintain a balance between the vitality she needed to remain awake, and the power Sera needed to ride on. The challenge, however, was immeasurably more complex than that.

  Pheonaris had done her best to prepare them in the few hours they had before they began their sprint. She explained how the Bond would allow them to open their reservoirs of elven strength, how when their mounts began to tire, the three must find the release within themselves to slowly let their energy trickle out to invigorate their horses. She had taught them that the sensation would be odd, but pleasant at first, and they must not give in to the urge to release too much too soon, until they truly understood the nature of their Bond. That understanding would come on this journey, Pheonaris had said, and if it did not, they would fail.

  There had not been time to explain how the demands on their own alertness would accelerate, and how their mounts would eventually begin to resist their urgings to continue to gallop. Mistress Pheonaris had said the words, but they did not begin to convey the true breadth of the demands on their spirits. It was not a simple matter of opening two channels and maintaining them. The first few hours were as taxing as any hard ride; the Bond was used only to help encourage their mounts, and sense the trail more acutely. Aria was already exhausted when they began, having helped maintain the protective barrier that her Mistress had erected against the rushing waters. She recovered from the effort though, as strenuous as it had been, and by the time they began their run, had begun to feel more confident that she would manage this ride without falling apart at the seams. Yet as the hours wore on, the sheer endurance required became overwhelming.

  When she had assisted Pheonaris, the energies released were extreme and intense, almost violent, and she had lost all sense of time. The period of exertion seemed to be over as quickly as it began, and while she had
been fatigued afterwards, the episode was contained within a brief expanse of time. They had now, however, been riding since noon the day before, and night had fallen hours ago. The torture of her spirit seemed unending, and the drain on her being repeatedly felt as if it were reaching a crescendo. Yet each time she felt that she or Sera would falter, she dug deeper, found more, and gave more.

  Riding during the day was hard. Riding at night, however, was excruciating. Energy was not enough. Alertness was not enough. She had to maintain a heightened sense of awareness to avoid losing her balance, unable to anticipate the swerves and jumps Sera would make. Increasingly more power was required for Sera to maintain her footing and keep a safe distance behind Pheonaris. Thirst. Hunger. Blisters. Absence of mind. Logs. Holes. Stones. Curves. Frustration. Impatience. Fear. These were her enemies, and they attacked her relentlessly. They also assaulted Sera, and the concentration required to combat them on the mare’s behalf was unfathomable.

  Yet Aria knew that she had it the easiest among them.

  Pheonaris had made clear that it would be twice as hard on Captain Mikallis. The maintenance of the Bond required a nurturing sense that came more easily to members of the Society, typically at least. The spirit of a warrior was sculpted differently. Hard edges, bursts of energy, fierce and violent releases of power – these were the tools of a warrior. Patience, longsuffering, gentleness, reassurance…a great soldier needed these skills as well, but they did not usually come naturally. Despite Mikallis’ years of training, his ability to maintain his link with Triumph had faltered repeatedly, beginning at dawn that day. Whenever it had, it was Mistress Pheonaris to rescue the Bond, strengthening and supporting mount and rider with her own added energy and sustenance. Pheonaris had reassured Mikallis that in time, he would gain the faculty to maintain such a pace without assistance, but it very possibly would take more than a three day ride to develop the ability required.

  Now, Aria felt that she was beginning to lose her link as well. She felt Sera pass through many stages this past day and a half. First, simple thirst. Then hunger. Then a pervasive weariness. Frustration. Irritability. Anger. Now, a heartbreaking pleading, a failure to understand why so much was being asked of her, and a distancing from Aria’s consciousness. An erosion of trust.

  “Mistress!” she called out over the sound of hooves pounding dirt. “I am hurting her! She does not understand.”

  “She does not need understanding, Aria! She needs comfort, and love, and power. She must be made to know that she will not be forsaken, that your need for her is virtuous and vital!”

  “I am trying, Mistress, but she feels so betrayed!”

  “Then give more, Aria! I cannot help you, I must reserve what I can for Mikallis. Delve deeper, give more! More than she even asks! You must do this! Dawn approaches soon, and it will be easier, have faith!”

  How? How do you do this? How do Barris and Phantom do this? Aria knew she must do something, now. She could not withstand the resistance against the Bond that Sera was expressing. She sensed her own resistance as well. A kind of bitterness, she felt, as she probed within herself. Resentment that she should need to feed this animal so much of herself, resentment that the sacrifice she was making was costing her seasons or even years of her own life. She did not know the eventual cost, and it frightened her.

  You are not merely giving strength to a horse, Aria reminded herself. You are sustaining a friend, and giving of yourself to your people. You must give more. Aria knew that within this idea was the answer. The answer was not sacrifice, she began to understand. It was a gift that was required. She must give freely of herself, for the good of her companion, for the good of her people. Her life was not important. Her duty was. I am a Princess of Thornwood, she reminded herself. My life is for my people.

  Aria gave. She released her life willingly into the frightened filly. Peace, Sera. Tell me what you need. I will not let you suffer. We will do this together. We are needed. All that we care for is at stake. Take what you need, dear friend. Take it all if you must. But ride with me!

  Aria finally understood the nature of the Bond. It was not sacrifice. No, it was not even a gift. It is a sharing. Aria freely allowed Sera to take what she needed. The balance she tried so hard to maintain between her own needs and those of the filly was futile. It was not about balance. It was about complete and total surrender, an unselfish release. This is how Barris and Phantom achieve such feats. This is why their Bond is so legendary. Aria realized that she could not put her own needs above Sera’s, or even alongside them. She must put Sera first, and trust that her friend would leave enough for her. As she understood, so Sera’s trust returned, and the pair no longer tore down the trail in terror and fatigue, but in harmony and faith in one another. The lifting of the emotional burden buoyed Aria, refreshing her.

  What had been nearly two full days of agony was now a joy and a wonder, and as the night sky withdrew in deference to the light of the sun, Aria sent what part of herself she could to Mikallis. She found that she still had quite a lot remaining to give.

  XXVII: THE MORLINE

  “What in bloody Fury...Garlan! Make for the southern shoreline! Rocks, on his tail!” J’arn shouted across the water to the forgemaster, and to his own navigator.

  The rafts had reached a vast clearing that stretched for a mile on both sides of the wide river as the day had grown late, giving the dwarven company and guests their first good look at the Fang, the tree line no longer obscuring their vision. What J’arn saw chilled him to the bone. Flowing from the mouth of the volcano were several great streams of molten lava, the usually thin smoke trail emanating from the mountain now a massive billowing cloud.

  “Mawbottom J’arn, this ain’t no overcast, it’s smoke!” Boot stood to better view the sky surrounding them. “It’s the whole damned world, J’arn, far as ye can see!”

  “Easy, Boot. It may be both cloud and smoke. It is difficult to tell the difference in this light.” J’arn was not convinced, however. The sky did in fact look as if it were completely blanketed in smoke and ash. The winds had not blown this day, and J’arn reasoned that the valley within which they floated could very well be trapping the smoke from the volcano. Perhaps when the winds picked up it would not look so horrifying. The rafts were drawn to a halt, and the company climbed onto the shore, legs rubbery from their extended ride on the river. Wolf made as if he would go for a run to explore his surroundings, but decided against it, and lay down on the shore.

  “Wolf’s not feeling well, are yeh Wolf?” Shyla tried to comfort the animal, sitting beside him, recognizing that the float had made her friend nauseous. “Yeh’ll feel better in the morning, friend. We are camping here, ain’t we J’arn?”

  J’arn nodded and made the announcement. “Alright, let’s get some tents up,” J’arn ordered, sensing his dwarves’ discomfort. “I don’t like sleeping in the shadow of that damnable thing any better than you do, but I like the idea of floating into molten lava in the dark even worse.”

  “Do you think the flow extends that far, Prince J’arn?” asked Narl.

  “I do not Narl, but nor do I know for sure. Best to wait ‘til dawn to find out.”

  Boot piped in to cheer the mood. “I’ll get supper then, boys, ‘tis my turn, and ye be in for a treat tonight!”

  Shyla jumped up. “I’ll help yeh, Boot.”

  “Ah, Lady Shyla, I thank ye, but ye’ll not need to worry yourself. I dunno how it is in G’naath, but cookin’ ain’t just womanwork among us folk. We all do our share.”

  “Well, in G’naath it is womanwork Boot, mostly ‘cause we’re better at it. ‘Sides, I got no other way to pull my weight. I ain’t gonna be a burden to yer company, so yeh can let me help or I’ll spit in the pot.”

  “Hah! Ain’t a little spit gonna ruin my stew, but I’ll show ye me recipe. Ye can’t be sharin’ it with no elves though now, hear me?”

  “On me word as a Lady,” Shyla bowed dramatically. “Can yeh keep an eye on Wolf, J’
arn? He ain’t feelin’ so good.”

  J’arn smiled. “I can Shyla. Blast it Narl, ye can’t carry that tent yerself! Wait there a turn, I’ll help ye…”

  The company busied themselves preparing camp, and Boot demonstrated the finer points of preparing Rotriver Stew, a soldier’s recipe he had learned from his father, passed down through the ages in his family. The hearty soup would not be ready until morning, the fish heads needing to stew overnight, but tonight they would eat the meat of the enormous riverwhiskers they had fished from the Morline that day, fried and battered in the last of the lard and breadcrumbs they had brought with them. The plan, Boot shared with Shyla, had been for the dwarves to stop in Mor the following day to trade coin for more food, and when they did, he had an even better recipe he would share with her for slow roasted cow meat, provided that they could find the right spices. Now, however, he was not so sure there would be time, as they stopped earlier than they had planned this evening.

  The tents were erected and the dwarves found logs to set around the fire on the grassy beach. Boot and Shyla distributed supper, and the dwarves shared what remained of their mead and ale. From here to Mor, it would be water and dried foods, but this night they would enjoy one more substantial meal.

  The meal was enjoyed and the fire died down, tenderly maintained by Boot just high enough to keep the stew simmering. The dwarves complained that it was chilly, and wanted more logs on the fire. “It’s all about the temperature, boys, ye gotta boil ‘er up fast, then just keep ‘er warm–”

  “What good is tellin’ us about the temperature of yer stew if ye won’t share the ingredients, ye blasted stubborn old engineer?” This from Fannor. “Tell us what’s in there, Shyla! Least ye can do!”

  “Least she can do, huh Fannor?” Boot bellowed. “She cooked yer damned dinner, she did! Now drink yer mead and shut yer hole.”