Elspeth could not speak. Her mouth moved, but she could not make any words.
Gialyn laughed nervously as his cheeks reddened. He looked about ready to go and hide. Scratching his ear, he stood behind his father.
Elspeth gulped and coughed away her speechlessness. “Why are you embarrassed? That was incredible. How…?”
Gialyn sighed. “You have to be good with some sort of weapon to live in Bailryn. Even if you never use it, they have to know you can.”
Elspeth bit her lip. She hesitated a moment before asking. “Who are they?”
Gialyn looked over to his father. Daric just shrugged. So Gialyn answered, “Anyone who thinks you might be an easy mark. Thieves are cowards. They won’t bother you if they believe there is half a chance they might get a knife in the leg.”
“Leg? Why stick a knife in their leg?”
It was Gialyn’s turn to shrug. “Killing is killing,” he said. “Thief or not, killers get the noose, most of the time. But legs and arms are fair play to a magistrate.”
And that was the second time Gialyn had utterly surprised Elspeth with his worldly wisdom. Maybe she should stop thinking of him as just another simple country boy.
Toban coughed. “Let us not talk about killing in front of the children, please. Besides, it is nearly dinnertime.”
“Of course; sorry, Toban.” Gialyn bowed.
“No harm done. To be honest, I’m quite interested in your tales of city living. Maybe we could all have an hour or two at the inn, after supper, maybe. I hear Lanay is cooking tonight. She is very good.”
“Yes, that sounds good, Toban,” Daric said.
Everybody nodded.
“That’s settled then, I’ll look forward to it.”
Toban turned to the children. “Come on, you lot, let’s get tidied up. You’ve got school in half an hour.”
Elspeth heard the moans of the children as she followed Daric and the others back to the village. “Thank you again for your help, Mr. Toban, and you Mr. Arlec,” she said over her shoulder.
The wolf shook his head. “It’s Toban, and you’re welcome.”
Arlec nodded.
* * *
The Haingar, Illeas’den’s one and only inn, was a round construction of bleached white stone, and one of the only structures in the village with a slate roof. The three-storey building was second only to the Hall of Wolves for size. Its grounds incorporated the stables and the blacksmiths, too. The common room was unlike any Gialyn had ever seen. Which, of course, did not mean much; he had not been in many inns… three, maybe, and he was sure the needs of a wolf had never been part of their design.
Deep alcoves, like padded nooks, made the outer wall. They were high enough for wolves to lay on and see eye to eye with a “Surabhan” sitting on a chair. On the ceiling, thick beams fanned out from a central pillar like spokes on a wheel. The common room took up half of the ground space – a full semi-circle – while private dining rooms and kitchens made up the rest of the downstairs. As for the upstairs, Gialyn could not imagine who might rent what must have been a dozen rooms, if not more. Maybe some of the villagers lived there?
The common room was bright and the atmosphere seemed friendly enough, even if Gialyn had to endure stares from every other customer – curious villagers, he hoped. The staff were friendly. Clem, the landlord, was a huge man – hugely round, at any rate – with pink cheeks and a shiny head with only a whisker of a grey fringe. He was what Gialyn imagined every landlord should look like – a permanent smile on his face and a friendly banter, too… the perfect host.
Serving girls busied themselves carrying trays and taking orders. Most were pretty in their dark linen skirts and white blouses, with hair tied up to show their faces. All but one had a ready smile for Gialyn. That one was the oldest, Gialyn thought, and likely Clem’s daughter by the look of her. She took her job far too seriously for a hired hand. She seemed to revel in ordering the others back and forth.
Grady was already perched on a stool when Gialyn finally made it to the bar.
“Evening, lad. You took your time. Making yourself pretty for the ladies?” Grady asked.
“No. I was waiting for Father. He is still talking to one of the Rukin about something or other. Not sure. I think he’s asking if there are any merchant trains due in the next week or so that could take us with them to Cul’taris, or maybe even all the way to Bailryn.”
“Makes sense. It’s not like we can afford horses. Not that the Rukin have any to spare. I’ve only seen three, and two of them were Tall Horses.”
Grady squinted around the bar, taking in the many customers who were standing about drinking and laughing. A minstrel of sorts – or a local man with a talent for the harp – had set himself up on a shallow dais. Another man with a flute made his way through the throng towards him.
“Looks like they are putting a show on for us, lad. Might be dancing.” He gave Gialyn a wink and a grin.
Gialyn’s cheeks coloured. He turned to the landlord and made a show of waiting. Clem acknowledged with a wave and lumbered over. “It’s week’s end,” Gialyn told Grady while he waited for the landlord to serve him. “Maybe it is just a regular sing-a-long. You know, same as they have back at the Lesgar on Sir’tirdis.”
Grady laughed. “Lad, you’re never going to get a girl if you keep running.” He shook his head ruefully and then buried his nose in his beer.
Clem brought his smile and stood in front of Gialyn. “Evening, young master. Now, you’ll not mind the asking, but ye do be over sixteen, do ye not? If no, it’ll be lemon water, I’m afraid.” He raised his hands. “Don’t blame me; it’s the council what make the rules.”
“I’m eighteen, sir. But I will take the lemon water just the same, please.”
Clem’s eyes widened, and Grady laughed. “Gods, there is no hope for you, boy. You act older than your father sometimes.” He shook his head at Clem, who gave a throaty laugh at Grady’s comment.
“I’ll not be telling a man what to drink,” Clem said, “but it’s a might peculiar and no mistake. Most times round here, a lad can’t wait to buy a draft… or a young lady, for that matter.” He poured out a large mug of sugared lemon water. “There you go, young master, and ye can have that one on the house for being such a polite chap. Nice to see polite young folk.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Gialyn made the best job of a short bow. Then took a sip of his drink and surreptitiously peered over the rim of his mug.
Even then, people caught his eye. He found himself nodding to more than one while the mug was still at his lips. He continued to investigate until he caught sight of Elspeth sitting in the “corner” between Olam and Arfael. In fact, he saw Arfael first. Elspeth was sitting with her back to the bar.
Arfael nodded and raised his mug – which in Arfael’s hand looked like a small teacup. Of course, that made Elspeth turn around and look in his direction. She appeared pleased to see him.
Grady pretended to take a drink but mumbled into his mug. “Aye, she’s impressed with you, lad. Now don’t you go running off and hiding.”
Gialyn felt a tinge of excitement mixed with the butterflies beating a jig in his stomach.
“Well, go on, lad. She’s waving you over.” Grady shook his head again. “Gods, I’ll never be an uncle at this rate.”
“Uncle?” Gialyn said, puzzled.
“You know what I mean. Go on!”
Gialyn felt a kick on his ankle. “I’m going, I’m going.”
Most of the women smiled as Gialyn squeezed through the crowd. Some of the men grunted, and even the odd woman or two gave him a sideways look. Clearly, not everyone was as welcoming as Clem was. Indeed, there were those who looked upon their arrival as a bad omen, according to what Olam had told him earlier. Gialyn was sure he did not know the half of that story. Maybe some of the locals were just unfriendly to outsiders, omen or not. But the smiles outnumbered the frowns by a fair margin. Thankfully.
As the last g
roup of locals parted to let him by, Elspeth rose from her stool and moved to the comfortable chair Olam had vacated. In turn, Olam had moved round to sit by Arfael. Elspeth gestured at the hard wooden stool she had been sitting on. Her smile said she had considered letting him have the comfortable chair, but not for long.
“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come,” Elspeth said. She readjusted her dress – yes, a dress; she must have borrowed it from one of the Rukin – around her legs as she settled into the deep cushions.
“Father was talking to some of the Rukin. I waited, but—”
“What was he talking about? Nothing wrong, I trust?” Olam interrupted.
Gialyn paused with his mug half way to the table. “No. He was asking about merchant trains. Why, is there trouble of some kind?”
“Oh no, nothing like that, Gialyn. It is just some folk are a little… nervous.” Olam dismissed his response with a casual wave of his hand. “Nothing for you to worry about, child.”
Gialyn pulled his stool up and arranged his mug so he could lean in closer. “Why would anyone be nervous?” he whispered. He looked over his shoulders both ways to make sure no one had overheard his question.
Elspeth sighed and put her drink down with a thud. Clearly, this was not what she had wanted to talk about…
“Really, Gialyn, it’s nothing,” Elspeth said. “Just try and enjoy yourself. We are back on the road tomorrow.”
Gialyn turned to her. “If you know something is going on, then why don’t I?”
“Really… Gialyn, it is noth—”
“And here they all are, or at least most of them.” Toban interrupted Elspeth’s answer.
Gialyn turned in time to see the crowd part and allow three wolves and a tall, grey-haired Rukin man through to their table. Toban stopped a short pace in front of Arfael. “Elspeth, Arfael, Olam, Gialyn: may I introduce Arthben, Gaiden, and Ishban – the Village Council Elders.
Those sitting at the table rose to exchange bows with the three elders and Toban. The two wolves, Arthben and Gaiden, sat themselves on the high, cushioned alcove while Ishban pulled up a stool. Toban made do with a cushion on the floor Ishban had put down for him.
No sooner had they settled, then Clem came scurrying up to the table, dry-washing his hands and smiling particularly widely. Behind him, the older serving girl was carrying a tray of – well, Gialyn was not sure what it was; it could have been nuts or seeds of some kind – carrying a tray of snacks. She laid them carefully in front of the elders. She quickly curtsied and took up position by Clem’s shoulder. Now they were standing together, Gialyn was sure the girl was Clem’s daughter. Clem nodded, and then asked, “And what can I get you, good sirs? And may I say it is a pleasure to see you all here?” He bowed.
Clem had lost his country accent, Gialyn noticed. Seems the man was trying hard to impress the councillors.
Ishban, the Rukin man, nodded back. “I don’t know about anybody else, Clem, but I’ll take a mug of your fine wine, sir.” Toban and Gaiden nodded in agreement. Arthben had a look that could crack walnuts. What’s wrong with him?
Clem waved the serving girl away. “Go on, Kalina. One mug, three bowls. Quick now, go!”
Kalina’s smile abruptly fell as she about-turned and darted off towards the bar. Even from the back, she did not look happy at being ordered about. The crowd parted to let her through.
“Now, if there is anything else you need,” Clem asked, looking mainly, if not solely, at the council members, “don’t hesitate to shout… or, uh… no… just wave. I’ll keep an eye out.” With that, he bowed and followed Kalina back to the bar.
“Strange fellow,” Ishban said. “You would think he had never seen us before.” He laughed as he picked up a nut from the plate in front of him. “Get a few visitors and the whole village turns into fools.”
“I don’t know about fools,” Arthben said. “They may well have good reason to be wary.”
The wolf elder made a point of turning his head away from Arfael as he spoke. He was the largest and possibly oldest of the three wolves sitting at the table. Gialyn did not think a wolf could be bigger than Toban, yet he had seen two or three much larger in the short time he had spent in Illeas’den.
Toban rolled his eyes at Arthben’s comment. “We are not here to talk about that, Arthben. We are here to keep our new friends company.”
Arthben squared up to the Alpha. “Nothing is beyond discussion, Toban. And if not now, when?”
“I don’t disagree,” Gaiden, the other wolf elder, said. He seemed the most congenial of the three… other than Toban, of course. “But there is a place, as well as a time for such matters. And an inn is not the place.”
“Well, the time is now! Inn or not. If these revelations truly are an omen, then we must guide the Kin. It is our sworn duty… our sacred duty as Battle Brothers. We owe that much to our ancestors.”
Gialyn, who was far from enthusiastic about quarrelling, especially when listen to others, began to rise from his stool in the hope of leaving them to it.
But Elspeth pulled him back down. “You’re not leaving me here alone,” she whispered.
Gaiden continued: “As of yet, we know nothing other than we have a Kel’mai visitor. You are jumping at shadow and prophecy, Arthben. Gods, we don’t even know if he is Arlyn Gan’ifael.”
Gaiden said the name much too loud. A hush descended on the common room as all eyes turned to their table.
Toban shook his head. “There is nothing to be done one way or the other. If news reaches us, if your fears are realised, we will still have months to prepare. The Kel’madden cannot launch an invasion without every man, woman, and child east of the Drieg hearing of it within weeks…”
…The next ten minutes seemed to drag on for an hour. Arthben would not give up. Kalina brought their drinks. Toban and the others tried engaging Olam, Arfael and even Gialyn, in small talk. Elspeth joined in the talk about the hot weather. However, for all their efforts to lighten the mood…
“We don’t know how much time we have. We should send emissaries. Preparations must be made,” Arthben growled.
Toban’s mood seemed to change for the worse on hearing of emissaries. “I know of what you speak, Arthben. We will not involve the Darkin in this. It is too dangerous. Nobody has spoken with them in two generations. They have… changed.”
Arthben snorted indignantly. “That’s folly and travellers’ tales, Toban. You should know better than to put stock in such yarns.”
“They have changed. People I trust have seen it for themselves. They are twice the size they were, and rarely venture beyond the Raithby. I won’t send emissaries on a whim.”
“A whim? You accuse me of being whimsical… and at a time like this.”
“A time like what…? Nothing has happened. We have a visitor… the sky is not falling down.”
“You watch your station, Toban. We are the Council, and until war is declared, and the Battle Brothers’ Oath sworn, we are still in charge, for the good of all Rukin.”
Arfael’s fist came down on the table with enough force to crack the maple top. The silence that had accompanied the wolves’ argument was turned to gasps of surprise. Gialyn shrunk into his stool. He gulped at the sight of painted rage on Arfael’s face.
“My duty is my own,” Arfael growled. “I’m not yours to be guided.”
Whispers like a distant plague of locusts filled the common room. Feet shuffled as an arch of space opened around the table where Arfael was sitting. Even Arthben, for once, remained quiet.
And then the music began. The minstrel chorded his harp. The flutist droned a sorrowful melody. And the man began to sing:
“In Arlyn, brave Arlyn, our honour be sworn,
To fight evil ‘til the end of our days.
And not rest when we hear triumph’s horn,
Arlyn Gan’ifael, the blessed, we pray.
“Hear now, you sons of the mountain high,
Do not fail your Kin of the Isle.
Lay down your sword at the throne of your foe,
And fail the sons of Ifael.
“His voice shall sing once more in the fields,
When the Witches of Eiras do come.
The dragons’ breath brings fire upon us all,
As the Madden, they beat on their drum.
“Aye, the tales they tell of Blackwing of Old,
And the brothers wage war on our lands.
Ifael, and the kings, reign the ancient war bond,
As the children spill blood on the sand.
“The day will come, the Black Dragon cries.
His son will he give, for the coward they call.
Let the witches tremble in his bloody rage,
As the Oracle’s tears do fall.
“In Arlyn, brave Arlyn, our honour be sworn,
To fight evil ‘til the end of our day.
And not rest when we hear triumph’s horn,
Arlyn Gan’ifael… the blessed… we pray.”
A silence filled the room, filled it so completely it was deafening. A tall woman in a grey dress took a step forward. She curtsied deeply to Arfael, touched her fingers to her heart and then to her lips. “Gods bless you, Arlyn Gan’ifael.”
A large man with grey hair took a step forward and did the same. Then another, and another. Soon, every man and woman stood with a hand on heart, staring.
Arlyn – as the Rukin insisted on calling him – closed his eyes and whispered, “My name is Arfael.”
CHAPTER 25
Tears in the River
With morning came another pale-blue sky. Sharp shadows fell across the streets and alleys of Illeas’den, drawing dark pictures on the partially cobbled ground. To the east, thin wisps of cloud threaded the horizon, as the veil of early morning mist faded from view. And it was early; the birds had not long finished their chorus, yet many of the Rukin were awake and busy preparing breakfast. The smell of cooked fish, bacon and eggs wafted from the open windows and mixed with the dew-filled breeze.
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