The Call of the Crown (Book 1)

by T. J. Garrett

  Gialyn and the other travellers stood for a while at the entrance. Expressions of wonder and bewilderment covered their faces as they gazed around the wide courtyard. Children and wolf cubs played on a small green. Mothers, both wolf and Surabhan, gossiped by a well. Old men in rocking chairs and grey-chinned wolves chatted on verandas. Wolf and cart carried produce along the wide streets, while men, labourers most likely, shared food with their wolf workmates. All went about their daily routine with no thought of how strange a union they held.

  Toban turned to the travellers, especially Arfael. “If you do not mind, follow me to the Hall of Wolves. It is large enough for all. The only other place is the inn, and it is a bit early for that. You are likely to cause a bit of a fuss, my friend.” He gave a smile and a nod to Arfael. Aleban looked at him and huffed, as if his leader had just made a monumental understatement or a wolfish joke. “Please, keep walking. And do not worry.”

  As it was, Toban appeared to be the only one worrying. Daric and Grady sniffed and looked at each other as though puzzled by Toban’s manner. Olam didn’t look as though he’d heard anything. His eyes darted from one scene to the other, jaw wide enough to catch corn flies. Arfael just nodded. Elspeth stood by him. She seemed strangely protective of their large friend. Gialyn wondered how that had happened. But of course, Arfael’s chivalry would play well with Elspeth. And she wants to be a soldier! Strange how she appreciated being treated as the damsel. Ealian picked his fingernail with a twig!

  Toban took the centre route on their way to the large, ornate building at the far end of the village. He was in no hurry. It was as if he wanted everyone to see who was with him. The wolves sat talking, and those about their business stopped and stared. Murmured whispers, even disapproving growls, came from the onlookers. Stares of confusion, bewilderment, and even anger, passed amongst the expressions of outright astonishment.

  Despite all that, Toban seemed almost proud to be leading Arfael through the courtyard of the Hall of Wolves. He strode in front with head held high, bowing to those of his kin standing aghast at the sidelines. A procession of wolves tucked in behind the travellers as they passed around the shallow pool in front of the steps. Near twenty Surabhan and twice that number of wolves walked slowly behind the group.

  Gialyn caught some of their whispers, though he wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. “Kel’mai” and “Arlyn” were the most common. However, by far the most troubling: “Has he come back?”

  Toban climbed the steps of the Hall of Wolves and waited while all the travellers filed in behind. The veranda was deep, high, and supported by elaborately carved colonnades of dark polished oak. The columns reached the full two stories to the roof and stretched a good three paces from the front of the hall. The entrance was a large arched door, similarly carved in polished oak. The thickly shorn wooden walls, painted in pale shellac, contrasted the bright-white trim. The windows were sash with eight panes in each, fit enough for the best Beugeddy manor house. The Hall of Wolves was looking more like the town hall. Another question for later maybe, Gialyn thought, if someone else asks it.

  Toban turned to address the followers. He barely managed a word before the baying and howling started. Shouts came from every quarter. “Have they returned?” some would say. And from elsewhere, “Is that Arlyn?” And more than one person—or wolf—asked, “Did you know about this, Toban?”

  Toban bowed and waited for silence, occasionally raising a paw at those who persisted. After a long moment, he spoke. “I know you all have questions. I, myself, am barely a few hours into this tale. I will be talking to the elders shortly. When I know more, I will speak of it. Please be patient.” With that, he turned and led the travellers into the hall. Muffled, agitated murmurs followed them inside.

  Several wolves and a few Surabhan stood just inside the entrance. They must have heard the fuss and come to meet their guests by the door. The wolves amongst them bowed low as Arfael passed, then immediately looked to Toban for answers. He nodded in acknowledgement of their query and carried on, saying nothing. Politics was a game of all sorts, so it seemed. Gialyn certainly got the impression that Toban was enjoying himself.

  The high panelled entrance hall was plain enough. Indeed, it looked like a cloakroom, brass pegs lined up neatly on the sidewall and a bench for boots underneath. Two more wolves and another Surabhan were waiting in the anteroom. Toban walked directly to the woman stood on her own in the centre of an intricately woven circular rug. “Could you prepare food for our guests and make ready the rooms behind the kitchens: bedding, blankets, and water? Please, Sarai. You know what to do.”

  Sarai was a Surabhan woman. A little beyond her middle years, she appeared handsome, rather than pretty. She reminded Gialyn of his Aunt Maddie from Bailryn, especially the grey hair that touched lightly at her temples and added an air of authority. If it were not for the apron, Gialyn might have guessed she was in charge. Certainly, by the way she scowled and huffed at Toban, she was nobody’s servant.

  “What is all this?” she asked. “All this fuss, baying, howling, folk shouting questions in the courtyard. You have brought me trouble haven’t—” Sarai’s eyes widened as Arfael ducked into the anteroom. Unfolding her arms, she unconsciously began straightening her apron.

  Toban smiled. “I think you have an idea, my old friend. I know you have seen inside the Sanctum. You must recognise him as a Kel’mai.”

  Sarai nodded, not wanting to admit that she had seen inside the wolves’ sacred meeting hall. “Yes. I will—uh, I will see to the rooms.” She quickly gathered up two of her fellow Surabhans and headed towards what must be the kitchens.

  Gialyn watched Sarai vanish through one door, while Toban led the others through another. The short corridor opened directly into the great hall. Gialyn waited patiently as, one by one, everyone else in his group stopped at the threshold to admire the room. Even Ealian paused. Gialyn didn’t think he cared about anything. Usually, when Ealian came across something impressive, he would make an offhand remark. “It’s not a good as so and so.” Or “The one in Beugeddy is better.” The Tanners lived in Beugeddy before their father became emissary to Albergeddy. Ealian could write a book about those things in Beugeddy that were “better.”

  The ceiling was the first thing Gialyn noticed. The room took in both stories, and with the open apex, the ceiling was at least twelve paces above the floor. Thick polished beams, carved in the same style as the colonnades, held the ceiling, the beams secured by eight pillars of solid oak. Two balconies, again of dark oak, ran the length of the hall on each of its longest walls. Access to the balconies was by way of a pair of elaborately worked spiral staircases, each twisting around the corners before meeting at the centre of the floor at the far end of the hall. Above that, three large windows matched the door arches for scale, each filled with fine leaded glass.

  Tapestries adorned the walls in between the columns. Images of old unions and what Gialyn assumed were long-since forgotten battles were depicted in the fine but slightly faded thread. A magnificent table took pride of place, maybe eight paces long and three wide. Again made of oak and as highly polished as the beams, if not more so. The same feathered-leaf carving covered the legs. It took Gialyn three attempts to realise it was supposed to be leaves. For two coppers, he would have agreed it looked more like scales. Beyond the table, at the opposite end to the stairs, a grand stone hearth cradled an open fireplace laid beneath a thick granite mantel. A tapestry representing the family tree of the “Alphas of the Age of Illeas” hung above the mantel. The roots traced back some four hundred years to the founding of Illeas’cu and the Clan Rukin.

  Toban turned to the travellers, and after a brief welcome to the Hall of Wolves, he explained. “When Sarai comes back, she will show you to rooms where you can wash and rest. If you have need of anything, please ask any of the kitchen staff. Sarai will see to your clothes and blankets—she will have them cleaned or mended, if needs be. While you are waiting, you can use the garments of the Rukin.
They are not very fashionable, I’m afraid. Most of our young will only wear them on feast days—and then only to please their parents.” He glanced apologetically at Elspeth. “We will eat early this afternoon. Until then, it would be best if you remained in your rooms or in this hall. There is a lot of fuss going on outside. As you may have gathered, your arrival has met with great excitement. Please allow me to control rumour and introduce you properly.”

  Daric took a pace forward. “I know I speak for everyone when I say thank you, sir, for your kindness. But if you do not mind answering a question… What is going on?”

  Toban grinned—as much as a wolf could. “The return of the Kel’mai is foretold. Your friend’s presence stirs old memories. No, that is not the right word. Nobody is alive today that witnessed the battles of Barais’coi and Blai’nuin. Our stories of the deeds of the Kel’mai are folklore round here. Many among us will be wondering at the omen and whether or not it is good or ill.” Toban scratched his ear. He suddenly looked a little nervous, as though he were speaking out of turn. “It is a long tale. For now, please take rest and see to your needs. We will talk more of it later, after dinner maybe.”

  Daric bowed again. “As you say, Toban. But we will need to talk.”

  Toban nodded.

  Sarai returned to the hall with the other two Surabhan “maids.” Both carried piles of robes in their arms. “Please take these,” Sarai said, after a short curtsy. “Leave anything that needs cleaning or mending in the basket by the door. There is one for each of you.” She paused a moment while waiting for everyone to take a robe. “Now, if you will follow me, I will show you to your rooms.”

  She gestured with open hand back the way she came. Once everyone began to move, she led the travellers to the kitchen, past the cooking tables and fires, and through another doorway leading to a covered passage connecting the hall with a smaller building.

  “There are only four rooms, I’m afraid, but each has two beds. Please use them as you see fit. The room on the end is the largest.” She turned to Arfael. “I suggest our Kel’mai guest use that one. We can extend the bed to suit your needs, sir.” She made a curtsy fit for a king and blushed through a faint smile when Arfael nodded back. After the travellers took turns in thanking her, Sarai left the way they came, with just a word about when lunch would be ready.

  The guest rooms were clean and welcoming. A couple hours’ rest and chance to wash, even just lying on a bed, sounded good to Gialyn.

  Everyone was in good spirits, apart from Ealian, who was far too interested in the many tapestries decorating the hallway to have paid any attention to Sarai. He gazed at them as though a memory were stirring in his mind. Now and then, he would shake his head after staring intently at a particular depiction. He would drop his head back, scratching his chin, and then stand with his hands on his hips, head cocked to the side, as though working on a puzzle. In the end, Grady had to drag him away, or he might have stayed there all day.

  Elspeth took the first room—happy to be on her own—and the rest paired up: Daric with Gialyn, Ealian with Grady, while Olam and Arfael took the large room at the end, as suggested.

  * * *

  Gialyn emptied his pack onto the floor at the foot of his bed and began sorting through his clothes. Normally, he would have thrown them into piles, tossed them around the room, but his father was there, and he was being very organised, as usual. For a second—and barely a second, at that—he had thought of asking to share with Ealian, but all that came of that thought was a much more favourable opinion of sharing with his father. Still, it was awkward; he’d had his own room since he was six.

  “So what do you make of all this?” Gialyn asked, gazing at his crumpled-up smallclothes. He could hardly believe he was actually starting a conversation with Daric. What was next? Playing cards with the man and sharing a pipe. He had to do something, though; the silence was too uncomfortable.

  “Son, I’m barely able to keep up,” Daric said, folding his shirt and putting it in the wash basket. He actually folded dirty clothes? “I’m glad we’re safe and should be thankful to our hosts for that. Let us leave the questions for another time and have a day’s peace.”

  “But Arfael… he is a god, or something.”

  “Not a god, a legend! Though to wolves, there may be little to split the two. Arfael’s people and the Rukin have history; there is naught so sure as that. What part Arfael played in all this we may never know. Unless they speak of some deed or other that stirs a memory. Or have some potions or witchcraft to heal him.” Daric stopped folding yet another dirty shirt and gazed at the stove. “That Toban was quick to say he was “cursed.” Maybe he knows more than even our Olam.” He sighed and then continued with his laundry. “I don’t know. Let us take this chance at rest and be thankful for their kindness. Clean clothes and good food sound as good to me as any tale of the heroes of old. Plenty to settle my mind of questions for the time being, and so should it!”

  “Yes, Father, I’m glad of their hospitality, too. It is just… You spoke of adventure before we left. I never thought for a minute that we might actually be in the middle of one. It scares me, but I also feel… lucky, if you know what I mean.”

  “Indeed I do, son. I’m pleased to hear you speak of it in that way. I had hoped this trip would strengthen your spirit a little. If nothing else, it has to be better than staring at mountains or spending your days fantasizing about… certain things.” Daric raised his chin and gave Gialyn the I-told-you-so look he did so well. Why do parents do that? How do parents do that? Daric laughed as he continued to empty his clothes on the bed. “Though, to be fair, I could have done without the arrows!” He laughed.

  “Yes. That is true. But they were aimed at you!” Gialyn joined in the laughter; better that than argue over who said what and why. And he wondered why I didn’t want to come.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, Grady settled in his room with Ealian. Like the other rooms, each had a bed either side of a small stove. Clean soft-wool blankets lay at the bed ends. Everyone had their own water bowl for washing, placed on small tables either side of the door. The rooms were plain and clean. The single round window, opposite the door, let in just enough light but didn’t provide much of a view. Grady could barely make out the trees atop the western ridge.

  He busied himself with unpacking, occasionally sniffing at his clothes to determine which needed washing. After a few moments, he gave up that endeavour and threw the whole lot into the basket. Leave them for Sarai to deal with. It isn’t as if we are going to get another chance at cleaning or mending before Bailryn.

  Grady heard Ealian muttering to himself. The young Tanner boy was leaning back against the wall with his feet up on the narrow feather mattress. A dirty pale shirt in one hand and a pair of socks in the other, he didn’t appear to notice he was holding either one. “They were there, I’m sure of it.” His muttering was faint but clearly understandable. “Or at least he was. And if he is here…” Ealian stared vacantly into the cold ashes of the stove. His brow creased in concentration. He began biting his thumbnail—socks still in hand—as if working something out in his mind. “Blai’nuin. The Eiras. Barais’coi. How can it be them? Where have I been? The Kel’madden and the dragon… The Dragon! The Kel’mai… and that traitor Tor… Tor! Where is everyone?”

  Grady stood up straight, boots in hand, staring at the boy. “What, by the gods, are you talking about, lad?”

  Ealian blinked and then shuddered, seemingly snapping out of his daydream—or whatever it was. “Oh, uh, sorry. I—it’s—those tapestries.” He quickly pointed to the hall. Grady knew that wasn’t the case, but he left it to Ealian to dig his hole and jump in. “I was remembering history, remembering something I was schooled.”

  Fair enough. Lie if you want, boy. I’m too tired to care. “Well, I will say this. You must have liked school. You were getting quite excited there for a moment.” Grady put his pack at the end of the bed and began unravelling his socks, throwing them
one by one into the basket. “Phew, if we ever come across the Salrians again, I’ll just throw one of these at them.”

  Ealian laughed as though back to his old self. Scooting to the end of his bed, he, too, began sorting through his washing. Grady had to stop himself sniggering at the amount of brightly coloured shirts. Has his father never taken him camping?

  “Strange goings on, aye?” Grady said. He didn’t really want to talk to the boy, but what else could he do? He was stuck in the same room with him. “I expect you’re quite worried about all this trouble, Ealian.”

  “Not really. I think you and Mr. Re’adh have everything under control.” Ealian tugged at his blanket. In their rush to move on, he had stuffed it—unfolded—into his pack. He wrenched it free and pulled it out, along with half the contents of his bundle. Grady shook his head. Ealian gathered everything in a pile, then started plucking dead leaves and twigs from the blanket.

  Grady finished with his clothes and stood washing himself at the half-full water bowl on his side of the room. “Thanks for the compliment, Ealian, though I doubt we would have fared so well had it not been for our Olam.”

  Ealian mumbled something inaudible. Whatever it was, it didn’t sound very complimentary. Grady turned his head and squinted through the soapy lather covering his face. “What was that, boy?”

  Ealian continued with his sorting, absently tossing clothes into the basket. “What do you really know of him? What do you know of them? You must be curious.”

  Grady, his head over the bowl, rinsed off the soap. He fumbled for the towel. Spreading it over his face, he spoke through it. “I know we would be in a fix without them. What do you mean?” The boy wasn’t answering. Grady lowered the towel to dry his neck. Eyes still half closed, he turned to face Ealian. “What do you mean ‘curious?’” Opening his eyes, he jumped back a pace. Ealian sat at the edge of his bed, back straight and hands clasped on his lap. His brow was drawn low, eyes fixed on Grady. Something was wrong; they were not the eyes of a young man.