The Dragon Oracles: Omnibus Edition (The Eastern Kingdom Omnibus Book 1)

by T. J. Garrett

  “Please sit where you will,” Toban said, nodding at the table.

  Toban sat, along with his Second, on a raised platform – doubtless so they could meet their Surabhan guests eye to eye. Gialyn could see similar platforms pushed underneath the table. Wolves and Surabhan must dine together a lot, he thought.

  Daric, Olam and Arfael sat on the left-hand side, facing the door – Daric always did that. Gialyn knew why, but surely his father was not expecting an attack from these folk. Probably not. But then again, Gialyn also knew Daric did some things without thinking.

  Gialyn sat opposite, next to Grady and closest to Toban.

  The last time Gialyn was served food was at the officers’ mess in Bailryn, at his father’s retirement banquet. He had not known what to do with his hands then, either. And Elspeth was no help. For all her supposed middle-class upbringing, she sat with her elbows on the table while gazing vacantly from left to right. No help at all. And if that was not bad enough, Gialyn’s robe had cut off the blood to his feet. How did women manage without moving their legs? Gialyn hitched forwards and sat perched like a sparrow on a branch. No, a sparrow would do better. There he sat, waiting for whatever came next. Food, he hoped. Please, gods, we can do without speeches.

  Ealian had no such reserve. He immediately reached for his goblet, straightened his plate, and sat with arms folded, eying up the food, waiting for the order to begin.

  Sarai and the two maids brought more bowls: fruit, bread, biscuit-rolls, and other cold foods. Plates of what looked like filleted meat were placed in front of Toban and Aleban. Bowls of water – or maybe wine – were put on the floor beside them. No! I’m not going to ask!

  Once done, and the seemingly endless procession of food had stopped arriving from the kitchen, Gialyn waited for a sign from their hosts to start eating.

  “Rak ar gra ou-rao,” Toban said, and then explained that it was a simple Thanks and Good wishes for guests of the Hall of Wolves.

  All the guests bowed and nodded in appreciation.

  “Ust loag fe lae’doi.” Olam recited what Gialyn knew was a Eurmacian salute, then bowed again.

  “Thanks for the food!” Daric said. “Sorry, just plain common here.” A dry smile crossed his lips.

  Toban laughed. “Please eat. There’s more if needed.”

  At last! Gialyn thought.

  He had to stand to reach the pots of steaming vegetables. Cauliflower, beets, and carrots were in one pot, while the other contained mashed potato dusted with mint and chives… so Sarai had said. The meat – beef, Gialyn hoped – was covered in a lush, dark sauce and smelled of spice, but not too much. He quickly filled his plate and sat back down to eat.

  His hunger for the good food was too much for him to eat in a graceful manner. His mother would not be pleased. Shovelling food in your mouth was something she frowned on even when there was no company. But, fortunately for Gialyn, Mairi was not there; and the chance to sit at a table, not balance his plate on his knee, only added to the pleasure.

  Elspeth looked around the room, eyes wide, as though admiring the beams and arches. “Have you and the Surabhan been friends for a long time?” she asked Toban. “I mean, no offence, but wolves did not build this Hall of Wolves.”

  Toban raised his head from his drinking bowl. “Yes, near on three centuries now. But we do not call our kin ‘Surabhan.’ Most do hail from Southern Aleras, not far from Eurmac, in fact, but we call them Rukin, same as us.”

  Olam raised his fork. “Speaking of Eurmac, do you know of a friend of mine, Elim E’limb? It is thirty some years since we last visited, but I wonder if maybe he had come back by himself. I remember him saying he would. Something about a… woman.” Olam smiled. He looked a little embarrassed.

  Toban looked at Aleban. “The Wool Man?” Toban nodded, and then Aleban said, “Yes. Elim married a Rukin. He moved back to Eurmac with his wife.”

  “Oh, I see. Shame, I would have liked to see him again. Never mind. Married… that is a surprise. He never struck me as the type. Thank you for telling me.” Olam raised his goblet.

  “If you come back in a few months, you will catch him on his way through. He trades wool for our seed oil. We don’t have sheep. The cows and pigs are indifferent, but penning sheep near a village full of wolves… Poor things, they don’t like it.” He gave a throaty cackle that must have been a wolfish giggle. “Yes, he should be back on the first full moon after high summer, give or take a few days.”

  “Thank you, sir. If it fits in with our journey, I will do my best to be here. Would you mind if I left him a note, just in case I cannot return in time?”

  “Yes, of course. Give it to Sarai. She handles all of the Hall’s paperwork.”

  “Are they your slaves?” Ealian asked. His question, and the way he put it, raised everyone’s eyes from their plates.

  “Ealian! That’s rude!” Elspeth scowled at her twin brother.

  “Why do you ask that?” Toban did not look the slightest bit angry. Maybe Elspeth should take lessons.

  “Because they serve you,” Ealian said.

  “My boy, they serve us because we have no thumbs, not because we are their masters. Here, we consider everyone equal at birth. We progress as we will. Either Rukin can earn rank and title. Indeed, the current head of the village council is a human, not a wolf.” Toban looked up at his friend, Sarai, who nodded back in agreement.

  “Are you going to say sorry, Ealian Tanner?” Elspeth’s face was red. She bit her lip to stop it shaking.

  Ealian paused for a long moment. That vacant stare was back again. What was wrong with him? Gialyn had always known how pompous and annoying he could be, but the last few days…

  Suddenly, Ealian stared wide-eyed at the wolf. He looked shocked to be there, never mind the centre of attention. “Sorry, uh, yes, sir. I do beg your pardon.” He stood – yes, stood – and bowed.

  “Never mind, my boy,” Toban said. “I imagine it is a little strange for you to witness our ways.”

  Ealian sat. And for a long time, nobody spoke.

  * * *

  Arfael was still thinking about the tapestry when Toban spoke to him.

  “Uh, Mr. Arfael,” the wolf said. His voice was low and hesitant. “We could talk about you and your kin. If that suits you? But if you would rather speak in private…”

  “I don’t mind,” Arfael said. “But I’m not much for talking, Olam usually does all that.”

  Arfael had been waiting for this. The wolves knew him… or at least, they knew of him. But what were they going to say? And after all this time, did he really want to know?

  “Do you recognise any of the paintings and carvings? Your people made the two behind me—” he gestured towards the two tapestries hung either side of the fireplace. “If you ask me, they are the most striking. The Rukin have tried to copy their techniques for over a century, but could never match the workmanship.”

  Arfael could only shake his head. Yes, they were familiar – he had seen lots of tapestries in his travels with Olam – but no more so than any of the others. And they certainly did not remind him of his past. If they were Kel’mai relics, he would just have to take Toban’s word for it. Still, they were the most beautiful of all the tapestries hung in the dining hall. He was proud of that much, even if he did not recognise them.

  “If I may,” Olam said. “When I first met Arfael, he was the blacksmith for a local community far to the east, at Barais. His work was magnificent! Folk would travel from miles around, even if only to have him mend a cooking pot.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Toban nodded towards a suit of armour standing in the corner. “That was made by the Kel’mai. Dragon armour: light, strong and beautiful. Again, our folk have tried to match its quality, but alas…”

  “Kun hass Olef?” Arfael said the words, but did not know where they had come from. Dragged up from an old memory, maybe. Something from before the witch had woven her curse… although that was doubtful; he rarely remembered anything fr
om back then.

  “Kun hass Olef. Yes!” Toban said. The wolf shot Arfael one of his wolfish smiles – all teeth and gums, more like a snarl, really. “That’s the style – Scale over Leaf. You must be older than you look to have remembered that, my friend.”

  Toban nodded to Sarai, who brought over a tray and laid it down in front of Arfael: a knife, a broached silver rank insignia, a gauntlet and an arrowhead; all covered in fine oil and laid carefully on top of a deep red velvet cloth. “Do you recognise any of these?” Toban asked.

  Arfael looked at the items. Immediately, his eye fixed onto the silver insignia. The others were meaningless. The small broach, however… A wave of deep emotion came over him; he had to stop himself from raising his head and roaring to the heavens. Picking up the broach, he cradling it in his hand and gently ran a finger around its edge. A vision entered his mind. A vision of a man on horseback, leading a line of infantry. The soldiers were not Surabhan or Salrian; they were Kel’mai, he knew. But not like him. These Kel’mai were more human in appearance. But still, he knew they were kin. Just as surely as he knew the man on the horse was his father. “Aluf’muis.”

  He heard Olam gasp. “Arfael… what is it?”

  “Aluf’muis Gan’ifael,” Arfael whispered with a smile on his lips. He wanted to shout, yell his father’s name at the top of his lungs. He took a deep breath and continued, “This belonged to my father. My father! I saw him for a second. Clear, like he was sitting where you are. I saw him!” Arfael put the broach to his forehead and quietly muttered an old prayer. To have this connection to his father… it was almost more than he could bear. How had the wolves come by it? What had really happened to his family?

  Toban gave a nod to Sarai. She took away the rest of the items.

  “If Aluf’muis was indeed your father,” the wolf said, “you, too, must have fought at the battle of Bren’nui, for that broach belonged to a chieftain of Toi’ifael. A great man, Aluf’muis was a true hero to his people, and ours.

  “But he had three sons. Until now, we thought all three had perished in the caves of Barais’gin. If you are Arlyn Gan’ifael, as your necklace suggests, then this is a great day for all Rukin, a great day. And not to mention a long night for our Keeper of Records – you should be dead!”

  Silence fell in the great hall.

  Daric was shaking his head, wide-eyed in disbelief; Grady was much the same. Gialyn sat with a wide grin on his face as if watching a play or some other marvellous fiction; Elspeth had tears in her eyes.

  “Gan means dragon, does it not?” Ealian asked in a very matter-of-fact tone.

  The two wolves snapped their heads around and glared at Ealian.

  “How did you know that?” Aleban asked with a voice that belied his expression.

  Ealian shrugged, not even looking up from his plate. “I heard it somewhere. Father is a Royal Emissary – travellers visit our home all the time.”

  “I have never heard it,” Elspeth said.

  “That’s because you’re too busy sharpening your knives to listen, sister.” Ealian carried on eating, seemingly oblivious to the effect his words had had on the others.

  Toban glanced sideways at Aleban, then flicked his head surreptitiously towards Ealian, as if saying, “Keep an eye on that one.”

  Aleban nodded faintly.

  Toban then turned back to Arfael. “Do you have any questions for us?” he asked.

  Arfael looked at the rank insignia resting in his palm and shook his head slowly. “I need some time to take all this in. But thank you for this, my friends.” He closed his fist around the broach and raised his hand in a salute to the wolves.

  Daric put his goblet down. “What now for you, Olam? Seems much of your mystery has been solved.”

  Olam sighed, although he had a big smile on his face. “I am not sure, my friend. We still have to find his people.” He turned to Toban. “Do you know any more that may help us?”

  Toban swallowed the piece of meat he was chewing, then said, “Oh, yes! The Kel’mai tribe – I think they call themselves a ‘tribe’ – hail from the Eastern Isles, two hundred leagues past the Toi’ildrieg. A place called Cu’ifael, on the island of Toi’ifael. Arfael’s people are few in number… or at least they were, a hundred and twenty years ago. But as far as our lore tells it, they have lived on that island for two thousand years. By all accounts, they were first to settle in Moyathair. Originally, so the story goes, they came from far across the ocean. I know nothing from that far back. Maybe our historian will be able to help more with that.”

  “Are they there now?” Arfael asked.

  With all the talk of war and battles, he was not sure he wanted to know the answer. But he had to ask.

  “We have heard nothing either way for over a century, my friend. Sorry. I cannot tell you more than that,” Toban said. And he did look sorry. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of them yourselves. Surely the tales of their deeds are in the songs of your Surabhan Minstrels.”

  “Well,” Daric said, “Eidred was a woeful monarch. Those who know are well aware that he had rewritten much of our history in his favour.”

  “Oh,” Olam said. “That would explain why we had to come to a place of independence to hear the truth of it. I have to admit, I have heard of the Kel’mai. Whisper and gossip mostly, but I have heard of them. Unfortunately, not having an image to go by, I did not tie the Kel’mai to you, my friend.” Olam placed his hand on Arfael’s forearm, begging his pardon.

  “No fault, friend,” Arfael said. “I’m happy now. Think I will travel back to Barais’gin, and then maybe prepare for a trip to this Cu’ifael. You are welcome to join me.”

  In fact, he was hoping Olam would come along. He was not looking forward to what might greet him. Surely some of my people have survived.

  “I would be honoured, my friend; very honoured indeed.”

  Olam turned to Daric. “So… it would seem we are destined to stay together for a little while longer. We will come with you to Bailryn and then travel on to Barais’gin. With your kind permission, of course.”

  “No need to ask. We would be glad of your company.”

  Daric begged a question of Toban: “Sir, is there a quicker route through your lands? We came up short at the marsh. Not saying there’s a great rush, but we don’t want to wander around in circles, either.”

  “It is simple, Daric,” Toban replied. “Go south along the edge of Illeas Ridge, all the way down to the river. Turn east and follow the bank for three days… maybe four, if you go slowly. You will come to a gully by a waterfall. The climb to the Taris Upland is not as steep there. Once at the top, move along the fall tributary until it is safe to cross. Then straight in front, less than a mile away, is the western edge of Crenach’coi. You should find your way back to the North Road from there, and it will save you three days circling the cliffs.

  “Thank you, Toban. Again, you have been a great help. If there is ever anything I can do for you,” Daric said.

  “Uh… If I can just…” Grady raised a hand. “I thought maybe we could stay an extra day. I’d hate to rush off in the morning. If nobody has any objection. Besides, my… uh… hip is hurting, after our… altercation with the neighbours.”

  The travellers looked around at one another. None raised an argument.

  Daric turned to Toban. “It would seem nobody wants to leave.” He looked around at the smiling faces and then back to the wolf. “If that’s all right with you, sir.”

  “No, no, please. You are welcome for as long as you wish to stay.” Toban stood. “Now, friends, please rest, or wander at your will. Or there is more food if you are still hungry.” He turned to Arfael and Olam. “Would you mind if we talked a little more? I’d like to show you the Sanctum and discuss something that I will doubtless be asked later when I meet with the council.”

  Arfael bowed. “As you wish, Toban. I’m in your debt.”

  The travellers rose from the table. Daric and Grady paid their respects to th
eir host and went back to their rooms. Gialyn and Elspeth were given permission to explore the village – with Sarai as a guide. Ealian joined them, after some persuasion from Elspeth.

  Toban left the table and spoke with his friend Aleban. For a long moment, they stood deep in whispered conversation. Occasionally, Aleban would steal a sideways glance at Arfael. Whether he was part of their conversation, or whether Aleban just could not help but look at the legend was not clear.

  Arfael waited patiently for Toban to finish talking. But Olam appeared eager to get on…

  “I wonder if they have any pre-Moyan scrolls in there,” Olam mused. He began tapping his chin and humming to himself.

  Arfael could have laughed. Olam was always searching for knowledge. With one problem solved, it seemed his old friend could not wait to find another mystery to work on.

  CHAPTER 22

  The Sanctum

  Olam drummed his fingers on the table impatiently. He had been waiting for this since the moment he had heard about the library. And not just a library; a Sanctum hidden deep within the bowels of the Hall of Wolves

  “Are you ready?” Toban asked.

  “Indeed we are,” Olam replied. For all his adventuring, he could think of nothing more exciting than snooping around a secret library.

  Well, not snooping; that would be rude.

  Arfael, too, had a smile on his face. But that did not mean much. At that point, his big friend would have looked excited over cleaning the kitchens.

  “Then, my friends, if you will follow me, I’ll show you the way.”

  Toban led the way through a wide, oak-framed arch, hidden in an alcove behind a large tapestry. Then on down a narrow, dark-wood passageway that ran the length of the great hall. From it, they descended a twisting, iron-forged staircase. And after following another passage, they entered a large room that Olam figured must be directly under the main banquet hall.