The Call of the Crown (Book 1)

by T. J. Garrett

“Thank you, Olam. Thank you for admitting that much.” Elspeth raised a haughty chin to Daric and Grady.

  “So… stay away from rocks and we’ll be safe?” Gialyn asked. He was already loaded up and ready.

  Olam was helping Arfael shoulder their pack. “Yes. It cannot survive in the ground. It sinks through the earth and disperses harmlessly. Have you noticed, every so often, we come across an area of black soil?” Olam stopped and looked around for a moment. “Over there, by that bank, do you see the dead earth, about the length and breadth of a man?”

  “Yes, I do. Now you mention it, I have seen quite a few,” Elspeth said, and Gialyn nodded.

  “It is thought those marks are where an evil man lay down to die, and his essence, the Black, sank through the soil, poisoning it for eternity. But that is all just talk. Nobody really knows much about it, apart from maybe the Crenach’dair. And they’re not going to tell anyone.”

  “You know I’m going to ask, Olam.” Elspeth had her arms folded. She still hadn’t shouldered her pack. By now, her mood had changed from one of raging annoyance to that of mild interest.

  “Ask your questions while you walk, girl,” Daric told her. “Or do you want to be left here? Two minutes and we’re going.”

  Olam gave Daric another stern look. The man had the patience of an old fisherman. Daric listened while he answered Elspeth’s question. “The Cren are the woodsmen of the kingdom of Crenach’coi. To be honest, I thought you would have known.”

  “And why would they know anything?” Gialyn asked.

  Olam chuckled to himself. “Where there is evil, there is always good. It is the balance of Ein’laig—and the other gods, too.”

  Elspeth huffed as she hefted her pack over her shoulder. “And what precisely do you mean by that? Honestly, a straight answer, that’s all I want.”

  “The White… obviously,” Olam said. He didn’t look at all annoyed at Elspeth’s tone—he definitely had more patience that Daric. “It endows its host with the wisdom of the ages and gives them an enlightened sense of the lands and all contained within: animals, plants, herb lore, weather, everything. I have heard the woodsmen harvest the White and infect themselves with it in order to gain wisdom. However, the details are far from certain. They are a very secretive people.”

  Everyone was ready, Daric noticed, but he couldn’t help asking a question of his own. “Excuse me, Olam, but how do you know so much?”

  “It is a tale told around these parts, a tale I heard… an old… fisherman… years ago.” Olam’s tone became coy. He sounded like a man who had said too much and wanted to change the subject.

  Elspeth sighed and flapped her arms in the air. “Argh, for the love of… This is just getting worse by the minute: secret nations, tales from old fishermen. Let us just be gone from this place.”

  The travellers followed Daric out of the rock island, mindful—very mindful!—of not touching anything on the way.

  Elspeth looked back. “Come on, brother, we’re moving on.”

  * * *

  Ealian stared at the small, green frog trapped beneath his boot. The animal squirmed, its shiny, green arms flailing about in desperation. Ealian felt a grin crease his face. He was taking pleasure in watching it suffer—he was enjoying it. He didn’t know why. The feeling was… wrong, but he didn’t care. He felt his heart quicken, and for a moment, he could have laughed out loud.

  He heard Elspeth calling. “Coming,” he shouted back to her in an oh-so-natural voice. He pushed his weight forward onto the ball of his foot, squashing the frog to death. He smiled, and as he did so, he felt a rush of cold wash over his eyes. A dark curtain pulsed across his vision like waves on a rocky shore. It lingered for a moment and then disappeared, soaking away like the darkness before a new dawn. He turned, picked up his pack, and ran to catch up with the others.

  * * *

  It was late afternoon. The sun warmed the already stagnant pools that lay away from the main waterways—not that there were many waterways; at this point, the marsh looked more like a shallow lake, with the odd protrusion of land poking about the surface. Yet there were still pools, stranded in the many dips and hollows of the Am’bieth since the furious torrents of early spring had flooded the area. By now, the smell was putrid: a mix of oil and rotten vegetation. The eye-watering stench filled the air all around. Some of the larger pools smelled so bad they would cause Elspeth to retch.

  “Is it going to be like this all the way through?” she said, one hand on her stomach, the other over her mouth. Gods, Gobin’s pigsty doesn’t smell as bad as this.

  “The middle of the marsh isn’t so bad,” Daric said. “It slopes away south to the Am’firth. There’s not so much standing water.” Daric didn’t seem to mind the smell, or if he did, it didn’t show.

  “Ugh… How long?” Elspeth asked him.

  The sickness was rolling up to her throat. Any moment now, she thought she would have more use for the pan hanging from her pack. Swallowing, she tried to breathe through her mouth. That’s what they say. “Breathe through your mouth.” It didn’t help.

  Olam must have heard the fuss. He was making his way back to Elspeth. While he walked, he poured a liquid onto a cloth that he’d taken from his pack. He reached out to her with cloth in hand and told her to tie it like a mask around her face.

  Elspeth took a whiff before doing so. The relief was immediate. “Oh, praise the gods, Olam! That is better. What is it?” She tied the cloth over her mouth and nose, all the while breathing deeply of the sharp, musky aroma.

  “Kalli root. It is oil used to alert the senses, usually for when one is tired or in need of a clear head, but it is also strong enough to hide foul smells.” Olam bowed. “Don’t keep it on too long. Ten minutes on, ten minutes off.”

  “Thank you so much!” she said. Her mind quickly cleared. The effect of the kalli root lifted her spirit and brightened her senses. Even her step seemed to lighten a little.

  * * *

  Ealian ground his teeth as he watched Olam prancing about like some wise man of old. Come to the girl’s rescue, would you, Raic’tien! Part of him knew the hatred he bore the old man made no sense, but the other part thought it as natural as breathing. The part that still liked Olam didn’t understand his own lack of conscience. But the part that hated him was absolutely certain of it. It was primal—feral, even—as if his soul had a tear.

  Whose soul?

  He bore a powerful urge to attack Olam where he stood. He could barely resist, though somehow he still knew it was wrong, but only just.

  Still too weak. Must wait!

  He carried on walking, breathing deep of the marsh air as though it were nectar. So deeply he would stagger to the side, unbalanced and dizzy. Arfael—

  I know you, Cinnè’arth. Don’t think you can hide from me.

  Arfael offered a hand in support, but Ealian refused, brushing him off with an uncouth, “Leave me be,” muttered under his breath. Ealian didn’t know what was happening to him, but he was sure he didn’t want any help, especially not from Olam or Arfael. It was hard enough to look at his sister without wanting to push her in the water. Those two… Those two, he wanted to kill.

  * * *

  Before long, and seemingly to their mutual relief, the travellers reached Am’ilean Oasis, a rare copse of sturdy, ancient trees within an otherwise barren Am’bieth Marsh. The travellers threw off their packs at the first sign of flat, dry earth.

  The trees were of alder and sycamore. Both loved the wet conditions, and both had broad, dark leaves with thick, strong trunks and long branches beneath, all of which helped create the perfect hooded sanctuary. The tails of pale-white flowers hung from the branches, filling the air with the sweet welcome smell. Their stems reached down through branch and root and clung to the water’s edge like leaching tendrils. Dry moss and thin, patchy grass covered the ground and gave a sure sense of solid earth beneath their feet. Once inside, the travellers could be forgiven for thinking that they had somehow turned
themselves around and were back at Herann’coi—no sign of that drab, dreary mash anywhere, except maybe the smell, but even that was faint.

  Daric gave instruction to clear ground for a fire. Elspeth saw to that, while Gialyn and Olam collected some fuel from the many broken branches that lay nearby. Ealian sat on his pack, apparently oblivious to their toil, circling his eyes around the scene as though bewildered by it all.

  “Can you collect some stones, Ealian? For the fire base,” Elspeth asked him.

  Ealian gazed at her, slack-jawed and eyelids drooping. He looked bemused, as if unable to comprehend her words. Daric wondered if he could even hear her.

  “Ealian, some stones? Please.” Elspeth persisted.

  Ealian appeared to snap from his stupor. “All right, uh… yes! Sorry!” he said, as though back to his old self. He rustled around the base of the trees and found a few rocks. Slowly, he gathered the rocks and took them to the fireplace.

  Daric was about to go about his business when he heard a shout.

  “Ay… What was that?” Gialyn cried.

  Daric dropped the bedroll he was making and searched for Gialyn. Once he saw him safe, his eyes swung back to Ealian. The boy was stood with a rock in hand and appeared as though ready to throw it. “What are you doing?” It wasn’t a question, and Daric didn’t mean it as such. It was more of a “drop that bloody rock before I drop you, boy!”

  He was about to grab the boy when Elspeth put herself between them.

  “Just a minute, Mr. Re’adh,” she said, or more like ordered, with her hand barring his advance. She moved closer to Ealian. The boy’s skin appeared clammy, and his mouth was half agape, as though drooling. “Are you all right, brother?” Elspeth put her hand on his head. “He is burning up!” she said, turning to Daric, who was by now stood beside her, orders or not.

  “Yes, he doesn’t look well at all!” Daric tugged Ealian’s pack out of the pile and pulled out his bedroll. He quickly rolled it out close to where the fire was to be. “Best get him down and rested,” Daric said. “I suppose he’s had the worst of it today.”

  Elspeth coaxed Ealian towards his bedroll. He followed as though unaware of his movement. Once on the ground, he curled up like a baby, with his knees to his chest and arms wrapped around them. Elspeth took his blanket and covered him with it. She knelt by his side. Daric didn’t think she looked much better.

  “We’ll leave him quiet for the night and hope the rest heals him,” Daric said. “Put some water close to hand. We will save him some food in case he feels better later.”

  Elspeth carefully brushed his matted hair from his eyes. “You’re always the one getting into trouble, aren’t you, brother?” she whispered. His eyes stared vacantly—pools of yellow fixed with indifference to her touch. She sighed. “Don’t you go getting sick on me, Ealian. This is no place to be ill.” Carefully, she pulled the blanket up to his chin and patted it down. Daric handed her a waterskin, which she put close at hand.

  “Let him be, Elspeth,” Daric said gently. “I’m sure it is just shock. Rest is what he needs.”

  Elspeth nodded. “Yes, of course. I hope you’re right.”

  Gialyn and Olam came back to the camp, hands full of sticks and dried branches. They each gave Ealian a puzzled look.

  “What is wrong with him?” asked Gialyn “Why did he throw a rock at us?”

  Elspeth gave him an accusing stare. Then just as quickly, she relented. It wasn’t his fault. Daric and Elspeth began quietly explaining, at least as much as they suspected.

  Daric listened while Elspeth explained away Ealian’s actions. It sounded plausible enough, but Daric was worried. He’d seen how stress and fear can affect even the best-trained soldier and wondered if Ealian wasn’t suffering from the same.

  He noticed Olam gazing at Ealian. The old man looked scared, like he’d seen a ghost. And when Daric looked, Ealian was staring daggers. Hatred filled his eyes, hatred for Olam. Daric had seen that look before, many times. Usually just before one man killed another. What could Olam have done that made the boy so angry? This was going to be a long night. Already the strain was beginning to show, and they were not yet a week into their journey.

  However, the night did pass quickly and quietly. All were ready for sleep, tired, and more than grateful for the rest after their long, eventful day. There was little said in the way of conversation, for fear of disturbing Ealian. After a brief supper, they laid down their heads and slept sound in the comfort of Am’ilean.

  * * *

  Elspeth woke, feeling as though she had barely slept for an hour, troubled as she was by her brother’s illness. She sat up and looked around. Grady and Olam were also just rising, as though all three had woken at the same instant. Elspeth kicked Gialyn. He stirred, then immediately shot upright, mindful of the last time Elspeth had tried to wake him.

  “What is wrong? What is it?” he said, eyes still half closed.

  “Nothing,” Elspeth said, laughing. “Just wanted you awake.”

  “Oh, thank you very much. I was having a dream, thought I was home having dinner.” Gialyn stretched and opened his eyes. He looked over to the fire.

  “So where has Ealian got to now?” he said.

  “What!” Elspeth jumped up. “Ealian… Ealian!” she shouted, and once again woke everybody.

  Daric was out of bed and standing before she had stopped her call.

  “He’s gone again!” Elspeth was up on her feet, too.

  Daric rubbed his eyes and got back to bed. “He is behind you, girl.” He lay back down and wrenched the blanket over his head.

  Elspeth turned and saw Ealian standing behind her, hands full of wood. She ran to him and flung her arms about his shoulders. “Don’t do that! Don’t you go running off without telling me, you fool!” She felt like kicking him, but the relief put that idea to the back of her mind.

  Ealian laughed as if he were his old self again. “I was collecting firewood, silly! I woke up in this… place”—Ealian looked about as if not knowing where he was—“and saw the fire was nearly out.”

  “Place?” Elspeth said, making one eyebrow while backing away a pace. “Don’t you remember walking here yesterday?” She put her hand to Ealian’s forehead. It wasn’t as hot as before, and the clamminess was gone. There was that to be thankful for, at least, but why couldn’t he recall coming to the woods?

  “Last thing I remember clearly was that place with the rocks. After that, everything is hazy, distant, like a dream.” Ealian put the wood down and said a cheerful good morning to Daric and Grady, who were just rising. Then he turned to say the same to Olam. He started to mouth the words but then simply nodded, as though the sight of Olam was a surprise. He blinked, and for a moment, he staggered as though about to fall.

  “Are you all right?” Elspeth asked. “You should sit. You were very sick last night.”

  “I’m fine, really. I just—I just wanted to get some wood.”

  “Well, wake me up, whatever the reason. Please, brother!” Elspeth pulled Ealian’s forehead to her and gave him a quick kiss.

  * * *

  Olam was sure now. He needed to talk to Daric. He waited until after breakfast and followed him to the water’s edge, where he found him kneeling, filling up the waterskins in a fast-flowing stream.

  “My friend, we have a problem,” he said, his head bowed and hands clasped as though praying for guidance. He hoped he wouldn’t need any.

  “What is it, Olam?”

  Olam huffed out a long, anguished sigh. How was he going to explain this? “You remember I told you about the good and evil of Am’bieth and about the Black and the White?” Olam bit his lip, wondering whether continuing was the right course of action.

  Daric took in a deep breath and shook his head. Pulling a waterskin from the water, he slapped the top back on and got to his feet. Head back and teeth clenched, he spoke. “You are going to tell me that you are infected with the White, aren’t you?” Daric put down the waterskin and gazed k
nowingly at Olam, waited for an answer.

  “How did you—”

  “It’s simple.” Daric interrupted. “Firstly, the tracking through the forest without slowing. Secondly, the exploding apple, or whatever that was. Then there’s ridiculously detailed knowledge of almost every blade of grass we came across—not to mention your strange affinity with certain animals! And finally, there is the real reason why Arfael can only remember you once parted from his company. Am I getting close?”

  “Daric, you really are a clever man, but you need not fear me. It’s a blessing! Not a curse.”

  “I can see that,” Daric said. “I’m not a weak-minded man. If anything, I’m jealous!”

  Olam was surprised at his admission.

  Daric continued. “Why do we have a problem?” He picked up the waterskins and began walking back to camp.

  “Well, my friend, my condition is not what I wanted to discuss, though I am glad to hear your opinion on the matter. It is Ealian. I’m convinced he has the Black in him, and although I wouldn’t bet my life on it, I have seen enough to be almost certain.” Olam put his hands to his heart. “The gods know I hope I’m mistaken.”

  Daric came to an abrupt halt and pondered Olam’s words for a long moment. “What can be done?” he asked and then sighed heavily. “Gods, we should have checked on him, too. We should have checked everyone.”

  “It would have made little difference—maybe worsened the situation. I do not know what can be done. There was a man back west who knew far more of such things than I, but I have no idea where he is now, or even if he is alive.” Olam felt a pang of anger at himself for not knowing more. He knew the likely outcome if it turned out he was correct. The thought of such a thing left him hollow. He is only a boy!

  “What about those tree folk you spoke of?” Daric moved back away from the path, checking that no one was within earshot.

  “You mean the Cren? The Crenach’dair? They may be able to help, but there is no finding them, not if they don’t want to be found.”

  “They live in Crenach’coi,” Daric said. “We have to pass there. In fact, we walk along the northern edge for maybe two, three days. Perhaps we can find a way to leave a message, or you and I could go looking for them.”