“And this is our Sanctum,” Toban said. “A library, meeting place, council room, and general debating chamber. It began life as a school. But nowadays our young take their classes together, wolf and human.”
Toban nodded at two men who were standing by the entrance. Both were dressed in the Rukin robes; both were well beyond their middle years, if not yet old, and both looked extremely studious with their ink-stained fingers and smooth, un-calloused hands “This is Olec and Raithban. They are two of the caretakers who help us wolves maintain the Sanctum. As you can imagine, we do not have much to do with hammer and nail.”
The two caretakers bowed low to Olam and even lower to Arfael.
Toban continued: “Please feel free to look around; Olec or Raithban will answer any questions. I must go and see to another matter. But I will be back in a few minutes.”
Toban left.
Olam gazed around the Sanctum in dumbstruck wonder. He knew he must look like a fool – mouth open, gaping like a child at the fair – but he did not care. The Sanctum was everything he had hoped it would be.
The air was cool – cooler even than the banquet hall, yet still thick with the musky aroma rising from the many pelts strewn across the floor. A faint scent of something like kalli root mixed with the musk, lightening the air a little with its vigorous perfume. In the middle of the room, an iron cradle of twelve candles stood on a plinth at the centre of a small pool. Brightly coloured petals and some kind of green herbs – maybe kalli – floated on the water’s surface – doubtless the source of the sweet smell. There were no torches on the walls; lest they set fire to the tapestries, Olam supposed. The only light came from the candles: that, and what managed to leak in through the air vents. Which was not much.
Their shadows preceded Olam and Arfael as they walked around the room.
Although the centre space was circular, the room itself was a long rectangle. A low partition separated the seating – or rather, laying – area from the outer walls. The walls themselves were of dark-stained wood – thick quarter-sawn oak tongued in vertical planks from floor to ceiling. Midway up, a rail of lighter hardwood served as a rest for hanging the many tapestries and paintings. At the ceiling, the wall gave away to a trellis, allowing a passage of air to flow from thin iron grates. Four such grates were set along each wall and kept the outer edge of the sanctum both airy and cool. Olam gave a silent nod, impressed with the design.
Lines of locked strongboxes, placed at regular intervals, ran along the base of the two longer walls. One was open. It contained scrolls. Perhaps relating to Rukin lore, Olam thought. He would have paid to read some of them – maybe later, best not push our luck.
The tapestries themselves were of three sizes: the long ones, which told a story; the tall ones, which outlined lineage, and the square ones, which depicted a single event. It was obvious the tapestries were of vastly different ages. Indeed, there were two works-in-progress in the centre of the room, on a table next to the pool. Also on the table were bowls of dyed twine, and what Olam thought must be sticks of fine charcoal. A large warped loom stood next to the table. Beneath the loom, a sketch showed the outline of what the finished article would look like. The artist – doubtless one of Toban’s caretakers – was in the process of creating the border. Ornate calligraphy and ancient runes intertwined amongst a winding line of dark twine, as though the lettering followed the branch of a tree, or a root.
Of all the hanging tapestries, four were definitely older. Olam thought they had been made elsewhere. Maybe by the Kel’mai, or one of the Gan tribes. They were truly magnificent, with artwork of such intricate skill, the making of them hardly seemed possible for mortal hands. The depth of colour rarely matched in a painting, never mind woven thread. The scenes they depicted were not all of war. One appeared to show a migration from a far-off land. Figures, not unlike the form of Arfael, were pictured leaving an ancient harbour and travelling across the seas. Arfael had spotted what seemed to be Surabhan boarding some of the ships. He pointed out his discovery to Olam.
“Oh, yes!” Olam scratched his chin. “That is odd.” Olam called Olec over to explain. “I can see this is an ancient tapestry. Why are there Surabhan boarding the ships?”
Olec looked at where Olam was pointing. “They are not Surabhan. They are Kel’mai, sir,” he said. He seemed surprised that he had to explain it.
Arfael moved closer until his face was mere inches from the tapestry. “Well, they look like Surabhan to me.”
“There are three races of Kel’mai: the Cinné’arth, of which there are very few; the Ud’fael, they appear as you do, sir.” Olec raised and lowered his hand, taking in Arfael from head to toe. “Finally, the Neath’coy, or ‘Surabhan’ types, as you call them.”
“Are you saying the Surabhan came to Moyathair on the same ships as the Kel’mai?” Olam asked.
“No, definitely not, sir.” The caretaker seemed close to sniggering. “They are all Kel’mai. The three are one! It says so at the bottom. Look.” He pointed to the long inscription on the bottom of the tapestry.
“Oh, yes. Erd Soi Daf Kaf’vala – The Three Are One.” Olam nodded in agreement.
The caretaker bowed and returned to his palace by the door.
Olam shook his head. Shrugging, he said, “That has just created more questions.”
Arfael mumbled in agreement but was already moving on.
The two continued their investigation of the Sanctum. Along the left wall stood four suits of armour: two in the shape of Surabhan, and two more designed for wolves, with long, flanking grills and a helm shaped around a wolf’s bite. All were Kun hass Olef – Scale over Leaf – the same as the one Toban had pointed out earlier. “Seems our wolf friends have played their part in your people’s history,” Olam said, pointing at the first display of wolf armour.
Before entering the Sanctum, Olam would have said he knew a great deal about Rukin history. Seems he had some catching up to do, same as everyone else.
He touched the sleeve of one of the suits of armour. Sections of scaled mail connected interlocking plates of what looked like silver. It cannot be silver, Olam thought. It is far too hard. Pulling at a section of mail, he was surprised to find it stretched around his fingers. “Amazing! This must be very comfortable armour.”
Arfael had that look on his face, the one that spoke of remembering something… or at least trying to remember.
But before Olam could ask what his friend was thinking, Toban returned.
The wolf had an agitated look about him. He growled while pacing up and down between the pond and the fireplace. With a last heavy grunt, he slumped down on one of the pelts.
“Whatever is the matter, friend?” Olam asked.
Toban snorted. “Seems the elders have some… concerns… about Arfael’s return.”
Arfael looked to Olam and then down to Toban. “Why?”
Toban stood and walked to the far end of the Sanctum, where the largest of all the tapestries hung. “This is a depiction of the battle of Barais’coi, the last stand of the witch, Vila’slae. Or so we believed.”
The tapestry was one of the newer ones. Beautiful, but not as delicately woven as those of the Kel’mai. Still, the picture was easy enough to understand; a great battle, fought in the valley between two ridges. But that did not explain what it had to do with Arfael, or why the elders were worried about his return. “Friend,” Olam said, “you must explain. We are not following.”
“I’m sorry,” Toban said. “As Rukin, we pride ourselves on the preservation of lore. Our records, as shown in this tapestry, tells the tale of Arlyn Gan’ifael. That is, you, friend, or maybe one of your brothers. During the battle, Arlyn followed the witch into the cave at Barais’gin and was never seen again; presumed dead, or so it was thought. Our history tells us that both Arlyn Gan’ifael and Vila’slae perished in the cave. The scrolls speak of a great fight, a titanic battle with the demon known as Ash’mael. But now, if you are who we think you are, it seems Arlyn Ga
n’ifael survived. Some are seeing it as an evil omen. Some are saying if you survived, maybe the witch did, too.”
“I see,” Olam said. “That would be a problem.” He knew that for an understatement. Vila’slae… alive! You did not have to be a wise man to know who Vila’slae was, or know of the carnage she wrought over Aleras’moya.
“Is there anything you can recall, Arfael? Anything that might allow us to shine a light on what really happened in Barais’gin?”
Toban sounded almost desperate. Clearly, this revelation had him worried, too.
Arfael shook his head slowly. “Waking up a long time ago. I was outside Barais, remembering nothing from before, except cloudy dreams.”
Olam added, “But as you say, he might not be Arlyn Gan’ifael. Or have you changed your mind?”
“No, nothing of the sort,” Toban said. “He may be Arlyn Gan’ifael or he may not. But we are sure, from his own words, that he is one of Aluf’muis’s children. Remember, all three should be long dea…”
Toban backed up a step and sat down. “I’m sorry, Arfael. It occurs to me that you are just now learning that you have brothers. And here I am telling you they are dead. I’m deeply sorry. Please forgive me.”
Arfael shrugged. “If they’re dead, it was the witch who killed them. Memory or not, I know enough to count her among my enemies.”
Olam rarely saw anger in Arfael’s eyes, but twice now he had seen a flash of rage. They only lasted mere moments, but they had been there. Maybe some part of Arfael’s mind did remember Vila’slae, remembered her killing his family. Olam hoped not; remembering something like that would cripple his big friend, he knew.
Toban seemed relieved he had not caused offense, but still appeared troubled. “It is hard to see how we can find the truth one way or another. I would say, no news is good news. But I’m afraid the elders can be a fretful lot, more prone than most to drama and gossip.”
Toban slinked back to the furs and sat. “Anyway, never you mind about such things. It is a nuisance that I must deal with and not a problem for either of you. You must feel you are welcome among the Rukin and pay no heed to doom-mongering.”
“Nonsense,” Olam said. “We would be more than happy to help. If you can think of any way we might assist you.”
“I don’t see what can be done. I suppose you could keep your eyes open while on your travels. Assuming she is alive, I would not know where to start looking for proof.”
“We are going back to Barais’gin,” Arfael said. “Maybe we can ask and look.”
“Ah, yes! Of course,” Toban said. “That would be a good place to begin. If you find anything, go to the market in Bailryn. Our cousins regularly trade corn oil. Ask for the Illeas Merchants. They will bring your messages.
“But either way, witch or no witch, I’d be interesting to hear of your progress, especially if you travel to Cu’ifael. Many of us speak of the Kel’mai. Knowing they are still there would be of great comfort.”
“Agreed,” Arfael said.
Toban stood and walk to the door. “Well, now that is settled, would you like to join me in the kitchen? I know where Sarai keeps the good wine.”
“Wine, yes,” Arfael said, and Olam added, “We will gladly share your wine, my friend. Please, lead the way.”
“I’ll be glad of the company,” Toban said. “And besides, she hides it out of my way, on the top shelf.” Toban gave what Olam assumed was a wolfish chuckle.
“You will get in trouble,” Olam laughed.
“Not if I blame you.”
CHAPTER 23
Ealian’s Plan
Evening descended on Illeas’den, and with it a grey shroud of mist rolled over from the eastern ridge. The moon was not yet up, nor did the full veil of darkness lie across the land. It was the still time… the quiet time… when the creatures of the sun went home to roost and the creatures of the moon were not yet awake. Little sound, if any, disturbed the peace as the mist, like a silent avalanche, kept rolling in.
Ealian was down by the lake. He told Grady he was going for a walk, wanted some time to himself. But that was not true. Someone else, something else, had told him to come here. For two days, he had felt it – whatever it was – boiling up from his gut like a poisoned wound. In the beginning, he had refused to accept the voices, thinking of them as just thin illusions of some illness he had picked up in the marsh. Maybe if he had said something, he might have been able to stop it. But now he knew it was too late. That once frail something was strong, now. Too strong. Try as he might, there was no stopping it.
Standing by the grasping rocks encircling the lake, Ealian looked towards the white ridge of the Am’ilean and the now-grey fields that lay beyond. The last flecks of dusky light clung to the oak and elm that made a border east of those fields. Despite the dark and the ever-increasing mist, he could see the Salrians hiding among the trees. The mind he now shared with whatever was inside him had known they would be there, somewhere. All he need do was keep an eye out. Sure enough…
Stupid fools, he thought. Don’t they know the wolves will find them if they stay there?
Ealian walked around the bottom of the lake, through a gate in the hedgerow, and made his way towards the Salrians’ position. He sat, hidden behind a wolfberry bush, with just a small clearing between him and the fools hiding in the trees. There he waited, watched, and listened for events to play in his favour.
After a quarter hour, the Salrians split up. Half went north; the others stayed where they were. Ealian got to his feet but remained low. Hands brushing the grass, he shuffled across the clearing. He came up on their left flank. Carefully, he eased himself in under the branches behind where they lay, then sat for a moment, looking down the small slope to where the Salrians had crouched behind bushes and laid down in the shadows. They must think themselves clever, getting this close. They truly are stupid.
“Thought you people were supposed to be hunters,” Ealian said.
Startled, the Salrians jumped to their feet and quickly turned around. Si’eth – Ealian remembered him well enough – drew his sword and settled into a defensive stance. The four other Salrians tripped over their feet in a hurried attempt to gain position. The smile on Ealian’s face grew wider as he watched them fumble for their weapons.
* * *
Si’eth stared at the boy. Even in this light, he knew exactly who it was.
“You! You’ve got some nerve sitting there like that.” He waved two of his men forward. The boy did not struggle when they grabbed him and pulled him forward. “Where is it?” Si’eth growled.
“Where is what?” the boy asked, picking at his fingernails, apparently oblivious to the two soldiers flanking him and pointing their swords at his throat.
“So, we’re going to play games, are we?” Si’eth asked. “One of you took the scroll. If you value your life, I suggest you stop this childishness and start talking.”
Si’eth brought his face up close to the boy, but the brat did not flinch. He looked calm.
“Talking. Yes. That’s precisely what I had in mind, Salrian,” the boy said in a manner and confidence beyond his ken. “I know what you seek. I’m the one who took it, and only I know where it is… for the moment. If you do what I say, I will return it to you, and only the word of a child will remain as proof it ever existed.”
“Did you open it?” Si’eth spat the words through gritted teeth.
If he had had opened the scroll, the boy would have to pay for his stupidity… child or not.
“No. I have not had an opportunity. But judging by your willingness to risk your own necks to retrieve it, I guess it is important.”
“I know no more of its contents than you. I’m just the delivery boy, that’s all. I’m here following my orders, like any loyal Salrian.”
“Don’t you think you’re telling me a little too much? I do not care what you know. I only care that you want it back.”
Si’eth eyed the boy up and down, curious as to what had gotte
n into this skinny child’s mind. Something behind his eyes spoke true, yet Si’eth could not bring himself to accept the word of such an insignificant-looking Surabhan.
“Find his tracks,” Si’eth ordered, pointing at Jern. “Trace them back; see if anyone is with him.”
Jern nodded and skulked off to the south.
“Sit him back down,” Si’eth said. “We’ll just wait here a moment. I don’t like this. I do not like surprises, and you… you, I do not trust!”
He poked a finger hard on the boy’s forehead, pushing his head back. Again, the child made nothing of it. The skinny whelp looked cold, disinterested, as though nothing much mattered. He certainly was not scared.
“Do as you will, Salrian. I’m not the one standing half a mile downwind of a village full of wolves.” The boy smiled as he spoke, nodding in the direction of the village.
“He has a point, Father.”
Bre’ach’s voice grated in Si’eth’s ears. Turning, he saw his son peering through the thicket. He was pointing east, like some twelve-year-old who had found a boar’s trail. Gods, he’s even smiling.
“We are very close!” Bre’ach said.
“As you say, Bre’ach.” Si’eth sighed. “Bring him. We will move up over the brow.”
The boy clapped his hands quietly. “Very good. But if I’m delayed too long, our… uh… partnership will be over before it has had a chance to blossom. My friends will come looking for me.”
“Enough talk from you. Stay silent until I ask you to speak.” Si’eth grabbed the boy’s shoulder, spun him around, and pushed him back up the shallow slope. “If you’re worried about timing, then I suggest you pick your feet up, boy,” he said, nodding at the two soldiers to stay with the brat.
The Dragon Oracles: Omnibus Edition (The Eastern Kingdom Omnibus Book 1) Page 25