The Call of the Crown (Book 1)

by T. J. Garrett

  “I don’t see it’s any of your business, Re’adh.” Ealian gave him a resentful stare. He curled his lip and creased his brow, as if asking what right Gialyn had to question him. Yes, Ealian was definitely spoiled. The boy just couldn’t see what he was doing was wrong.

  Of the two of them, Ealian was by far the most pretentious—the gods knew Elspeth could be bad enough. Ealian had clothes any nobleman’s son would be proud to own and his own horse! He always had money to throw around, usually at girls. Gialyn was sure that was the reason some girls kept company with him. It always seemed to be the poorer girls; those with money of their own never looked at him twice. Elspeth, on the other hand, appeared not to care for such things. How ever misguided her motives, all she appeared to be interested in was honour and duty. Gialyn had always liked that about her.

  “You should stop picking on your—”

  “I don’t recall asking for your assistance, Re’adh.” Elspeth interrupted. “I can deal with my brother by myself. Or do you think I’m useless, that I need you to fight my arguments for me?”

  Gialyn squirmed. “Ah… well, no I was… I was just—”

  “Just, nothing,” Elspeth barked. “If I need your help, Gialyn, I will tell you. In the meantime, I expect you to tend to your own affairs.”

  Gialyn could feel his face redden. It was time for him to make a study of the trees, again. Gods, why didn’t I listen to my father and keep my nose out of her business?

  “Now you’ve done it,” Ealian said, laughing at Gialyn. “She will be like this for days.”

  “I have not finished with you yet, broth—”

  “ENOUGH!”

  Gialyn, Elspeth, and Ealian jumped at the sound of Daric’s shout. Gialyn’s father was standing ten paces in front, feet apart, arms folded, with a disapproving scowl on his face. “You think this a game?” he asked, snarling. “Do you think we are going on a picnic, or to spend the weekend camping by the river?”

  Elspeth squared up to him. “We were only—”

  “I can see what this game is, Elspeth Tanner. I played it myself… when I was five!” Daric unfolded his arms, put fists on hips, and took a step forward. “At best, this journey is five weeks. If we hit weather, it could take seven. Either way, we are together until midsummer at the earliest. I tell you now,”—he paused and pointed at all in turn—“I will not have this constant childish bickering. It grinds at my teeth and burns at my guts. I will have your word it will stop from this moment on, or by the gods, I will send you back home and be done with you.”

  For a second, Gialyn wondered if he meant him, too. That hardly made it a threat, he wanted to go home.

  “We will just take another path,” Elspeth said. She shuffled her feet and raised her chin defiantly, nodding towards the south, towards the Eurmac road.

  “There is no ‘other path,’ unless you want to go south and take three months reaching Bailryn.” Daric starred at Elspeth, waiting for a response. None came.

  Elspeth looked… puzzled. Even though she didn’t partake of the finer things—clothes, jewellery, fine perfume, and so on—she was still an emissary’s daughter and expected a measure of respect. Gialyn thought it was quite humorous watching her fidget and struggle for words. Truth is, though, they were both spoiled and both held too much regard for their family status. A family status that—to a guardsman like Daric, well used to dealing with royalty—would mean next to nothing.

  Daric eyed them both as if he now had the measure of the pair. “The Salrians are all but ten miles north, the south is blocked, the Rukin are six days southeast, and a wrong turn in the marsh will lead to our starvation. You will not become baggage for me to carry. You will help, and you will smile while doing so. Now, do I have your word?”

  “Yes, sir!” Elspeth gave a sarcastic salute.

  Daric sighed but accepted her oath with a nod—for now. Gialyn knew his father would always give folk one chance to prove himself.

  “And what say you, Ealian Tanner,” Daric asked. Ealian shook his head while raising his palms as though wondering what he had done to deserve this. Daric walked menacingly towards him. “I will have your answer, boy.”

  Ealian raised his hands and took a step backwards. “Yes… uh… sir, yes!”

  Gialyn surprised a smile, which quickly turned into a biting his lower lip when his father turned his attentions on him. Daric folded his arms and raised his chin.

  “Sorry, Father. I promise.” Gialyn said. He looked down at his boots, and then quickly glanced at Ealian. The emissary’s son looked too annoyed to poke fun at Gialyn’s apology.

  It was no good arguing with Daric. Whether the quarrel was any of Gialyn’s fault or not, his father wouldn’t be lenient just because he was his son. He would have to be twice as careful as the Tanners were.

  “Good,” Daric said. “I do not expect to have this conversation again!” He gave a stern gaze, taking in all three of them.

  * * *

  Daric kept his eyes on the three, even as he turned and resumed his place next to Grady—who had a smile on his face that wouldn’t settle. Daric’s friend bit his quivering lip and kept his eyes to the front.

  “I thought that went well,” Grady said, laughing under his breath. “Did you get the troops in order, or are we in for a court marshal?”

  “Don’t you start, sergeant.” Daric managed to raise a laugh yet was clearly annoyed. “I thought I would get at least three days before I had to make that speech. This is going to be a long couple of months.”

  “Yes, so it would seem, captain,” Grady said with a grin.

  The two men continued along the path. With order now restored, Daric allowed himself a moment to breathe the fresh country air. It was an easy afternoon, warm but not stifling. The quiet footfalls and effortless breeze soon calmed his churning mind. A moment’s peace, he thought as he looked around at the scene. His heart lightened at the sight of it.

  The grassland of the eastern Geddy region spread down almost to the southern horizon—an ocean of green, peppered with splashes of colour provided by the many islands of Quaker Grass and Knapweed. At the far south, the Arandor Break, a creased ridge of rock that sprang up to the heavens, stood veiled in a blue-grey mist. Pulled from the ground by Ein’laig himself—so the locals believed—yet it was neither deep, nor particularly high; however, it was sheer and long and why nobody in the Geddy had a good reason to travel southeast.

  North of the track, the patchwork grasslands of the Baralan Heath made up the full measure of land between the eastern road and the northland borders of An’aird Barath. The border ran along the base of the Speerlag Cliff—some eight miles to the north. The heath continued eastwards for the full sixty miles to the marshes of Am’bieth. The Baralan heath was of little use to anyone—bar the occasional grazing goat—a sparse patch of land, too hard to farm and too rough for cattle.

  In front of them lay the road—or rather the track—they would be following for the next three or four days. Sometimes it was the width of a cart, sometimes all but invisible. Its pitch undulated like a calm tide, occasionally rising slightly yet just as likely to fall. Overall, it was quite unremarkable. The track eventually settled in a circle and came around south back to Beugeddy once it hit the marsh—but that was still days ahead. Right now, Daric was content to stay in the moment and enjoy the peaceful sunny evening.

  Of course, no sooner had he settled down to the peace…

  “So why do you think they wanted to join us?” Grady asked.

  “Sorry, err… what? Who?” Daric was away, daydreaming. “Ah, you mean the big man and his friend. They seem genuine enough to me, I suppose.”

  “I don’t know, Daric. I’m not so sure about them. True, they helped back there, but”—Grady scratched at his ear and creased his lip—“if I’m to travel with strangers, I would at least like to know what they are. He is no Surabhan.”

  “That is the soldier in you, Grady. I choose to take him at his word, until otherwise proven
wrong.” Daric squinted along the track to where the strangers were. “But I see your point. They are a long way ahead.”

  “Maybe they are sick of the children, too!”

  “Then we would be in agreement over that much at least.” Daric shuffled his pack and took out his waterskin. “It may be just as he said, better to travel together.”

  “Yes, but a stranger is one thing. That… Arfael is something else altogether.” Grady shook his head. He appeared unable to reconcile himself with such a mysterious creature.

  Daric took the waterskin from his lips. “There is little of great wonder in Ealdihain, nor much more in the way of mystery in Bailryn, or the rest of Aleras for that matter. But beyond that, the Eastern Isles, Eiras, and Toi’ildrieg”—he counted off some of the strange places he knew on his fingers—“or the Northeastern Straits, who knows what may be out there? They say there is a ‘whole new world’ beyond the Culamar. We should not strike him as different. He may well be quite normal in some parts.” Daric took another sip of water. “If the truth be known, Grady, we know little enough of our own neighbours, beyond occasionally fighting with them. Nobody I know has travelled to Barath or north of the Speerlag or even beyond Monacdaire for that matter, to say nothing of the Eurmac Canyon.”

  “You’re probably right,” Grady said. “Still, I will be sleeping with one eye open until they earn my trust.”

  “That may well turn out to be a wise precaution,” Daric said. “Though, of the two, I’m more cautious of the other. Yes, the big man bothers me, but the other… He has a way with him, a mind that strikes a little too clear for my liking, a little too confident. It seems he is in control of… uh… I do not know. Most disturbing of all, I like him, which is never a good sign.”

  “What?” Grady looked at his friend with a quizzical gaze.

  “He read me, knew exactly what to say, how to act to put me at ease. He is no simple traveller, of that I’m certain. He reminds me of royalty somehow, that… certainty, which only comes with power. It may only share this road a while and then part, never to meet again, but as I say, of the two, he will be the one I will be watching.

  * * *

  The first hints of dusk fell as they approach the copse of trees Olam had suggested for their first campsite. The sun lay large at their backs; it would soon be touching the crest of the Brion Spur. Yet the curtain of darkness lay slowly in late spring, time enough for camp to be set within the small wood of Birch and Elm.

  “Here we are, my friends,” Olam said. He was the first to venture the few yards down to the tree line.

  Daric followed. “I suggest we go down closer to the stream, where the ground is flat,” he said. “We will be close to water and—” He realised his suggestion was a little self-evident.

  Daric began to take charge of the proceeding, guiding the younger members down to a clearing by the stream. He suggested that they—the younger ones—set up their bedrolls in the centre, near where the fire would be.

  Elspeth had already started to unravel her bed underneath a small overhanging rock. “If you ask me, we should sleep under here,” she said. “It will keep us dry if it rains.”

  Daric stared at her. “All right, fine,” he said, waving his hands in the air. “Leave them to it, Daric. Get on with your own bed, Daric,” he muttered to no one in particular.

  Elspeth kicked her bedroll into shape and pushed her pack underneath the overhang. Then, looking at Gialyn, she spoke. “You can set yours down here by me,” she said, gesturing to a space at the side of her bed.

  Gialyn’s jaw dropped. “Really… me!” he said and immediately coughed on purpose, as his reply was ludicrously high in pitch.

  Ealian looked up at him, huffed, and slowly shook his head in mockery.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Gialyn asked.

  “The look on your face, Re’adh. Don’t you go reading into things. She suggested you sleep there so the wolves might get you first.” He laughed.

  Elspeth glanced sideways at Gialyn and laughed, probably at his vacant expression.

  Gialyn put his hands on his hips, then folded his arms, then put one hand under his pit. He changed his position four times before nibbling at his fingernails with the other hand behind him. “Well… do you want me to sleep there or not?” He knew it was a stupid, defensive thing to say as soon as he opened his mouth. Gods, that’s twice now. Treat her like a friend. Treat her like a friend. That’s what father said. Oh no, she’s looking at me again. What now? And what is he sniggering at? Stupid Ealian, camping in a white—”

  “Calm down,” Elspeth said. She stood up with her hands clasped in front of her and a doe-eyed expression on her face. “Would you please sleep by me, Gialyn, protect me from the nasty, nasty wolves?” she asked, playing the damsel.

  Her playact put Gialyn more at ease. He was relieved they shared a joke—even if it was at his expense. He rolled out his bed a few feet to the side of Elspeth’s and dumped his pack by the rock next to hers.

  “Fool,” muttered Ealian under his breath.

  The next hour went quickly. Everyone attended to his or her duties—as prescribed by Daric.

  The late evening turned to early night. Near darkness fell on their camp beneath the broad leaves of the birch and elm. The fire was up and burning well, reflecting an orange glow all about their comfortable grotto. The youngsters sat patiently while Daric prepared their fish supper.

  Daric had brought a lot of fish, nearly a full bag of them—seems he really did like fish. Either that or he didn’t know how to make anything else. Whatever the reason was, the fish smelled good. Everybody was hungry after their first long day.

  Grady, too, had brought supplies, mostly bread and sweetroll—plenty for the first few days, at least. Gialyn was particularly pleased with him for bringing the sweetroll.

  They settled down in front of the bank and ate their first meal together. Things were good. All were happy.

  Halfway through their supper, Arfael got up and lumbered down beyond the stream—doubtless to answer nature’s call. Grady seized the opportunity to ask Olam about his remarkable friend.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, Olam, and I will understand if you choose not to answer… Your friend, Arfael, where does he come from? Who are his people? I have never seen his like.”

  The Albergeddians all stopped eating and looked at Olam. The question was on everybody’s mind. Even Daric—who would normally pride himself on keeping out of other people’s business—hitched up a bit closer so he could hear better.

  The question was expected. Indeed, by most accounts, Olam would have expected it to be asked much sooner. He gave a little sigh at the predictability of it. Smiling, he turned to Grady. “My friend, I cannot answer without betraying a trust, sorry.”

  “Of course, it is your business, sir. Pardon me for asking.” Grady looked disappointed and backed off to his original seat.

  “I will say one thing. So far as I’m aware, there are no others like him, at least not in Aleras.” Olam settled his plate on the ground, picked up his waterskin, and waited for what was bound to be more questions.

  “So where does he come from, then?” Grady asked.

  “East,” Olam replied without raising his head.

  “That is it… east.” Grady looked around as though gauging the interests of the others. He knew he was pushing for an answer and didn’t want to be rude.

  Olam drew the waterskin away from his lips. “Yes, east,” he said.

  “How long have you known him?” Grady persisted.

  Olam dropped his shoulders. He seemed a kind man and, so it appeared, quite a talkative one, but Gialyn got the impression the old man was trying to decide what to say without being too rude. “A long time, Grady, since before you were born, judging by the look of you.”

  Grady’s mouth opened wide. A resounding mixture of oohs and ahhs swept across the camp, as though the mystery of their illustrious giant was indeed a worthy enough tale for campfire talk. />
  “How did y—”

  Olam interrupted Grady. “Sir, I’m sorry, but Arfael can speak for himself. I do not feel comfortable talking about him in his absence.”

  “That is all right, Olam.” The booming voice of Arfael came from just beyond the tree line. He walked up into the firelight, every move followed intently by the Albergeddians. “We are together for two months. They can know some.”

  Arfael sat next to his friend and picked up his bowl of something that looked like cheese and some very dense bread.

  Olam bowed to his friend. “If you’re sure…”

  Arfael nodded.

  The rest of the travellers put down their plates and turned their attention to Olam.

  “I met Arfael around fifty years ago in—”

  “Uh… Beg your pardon, sir.” Elspeth interrupted. “But you barely look fifty. He definitely does not.”

  Olam smiled at her. “We all have our stories, Elspeth my dear, but, alas, I can only tell one at a time.”

  Elspeth nodded apologetically.

  Olam carried on. “I came across Arfael fifty years ago. My bridal had snapped, and Arfael was working as a blacksmith at the time, living in a small camp just outside Barais’gin, about twelve miles east of Aldregair, almost on the coast. As soon as we met, I felt a bond. I couldn’t explain it at the time and chose to ignore it. One of the villagers told me not to bother talking too much to him, as he couldn’t remember folk beyond a week or two after meeting them, and that it was ‘a waste of time trying to get to know him.’ Still, I stayed and talked. Indeed, I stayed for nearly a week, but then I had to leave.

  “It was not until five years later that my travels brought me back that way. I went to see Arfael as soon as I arrived, and to our mutual astonishment, he remembered me! Why he remembers me, I do not fully understand. As time passed by, a strong bond developed between us. We decided to travel, see if we couldn’t come up with some answers to the mystery of who he was and where he came from.”

  “Sir,” Daric said. “If you do not mind, I have a question.”