“Do you know ought of their history, sir?” Ealian’s tone was beyond him. “You are a soldier, are you not? How can you trust a stranger so readily? You should be more wary, my friend.”
Gods, the poor boy’s got the shakes! Bloody hell! That is all we need. Grady walked slowly towards Ealian, his hand outstretched. “It’s all right, son. Nobody is going to hurt you. You are safe here. I promise you that. You trust me, don’t you?”
Again, Ealian seemed to snap back to normality. “Sorry, I was just—uh. It’s—nothing. Nothing. Never mind. I don’t know what happened.” Ealian pushed his palms into his eyes and gathered himself. He looked dizzy.
“I think I do, son.” Grady gave a smile. Best to get him at his ease. The bloody shakes, hateful disease. “Don’t you worry. There’s no shame in it. Sometimes when bad things happen, things can be difficult, for a while. I have seen men twice your size suffering with it. All you need is rest. I will see about staying here for a day or two. You will be fine with a few days’ peace behind you.”
Of all things, shock! Shock covered Ealian’s face. “No, no. You must not! Please. Oh no, please do not tell anyone. I will be fine. I will take care, I promise.” Ealian’s wide eyes were pitiful.
“It can be a dangerous thing, lad. The shakes, I mean. It can be dangerous for all of us!”
“But… uh… I-I couldn’t stand the shame.”
Are those tears in his eyes?
Ealian gulped. Grady passed back and forth. The best thing would be to tell. He knew that. Get the boy some rest for a few days. But shame is a hard thing to live with, too. It might do more harm than good. Bloody hell, this journey is turning into a campaign. “I tell you what I will do, lad. I will ask for a day for myself. But the first sign of trouble…”
Ealian clasped his hands to his lips as though praying. “Thank you, sir. Thank you.”
Grady nodded. Bloody simple journey. They never bloody are.
CHAPTER 16
Dinning with Wolves
Considering the heat of the mid-afternoon sun, the banquet room—if that is what they called it—in the Hall of Wolves was surprisingly fresh and cool. Maybe they kept it that way to protect the tapestries. There were more than enough vents along the walls to take advantage of even the slightest breeze. The grey limestone tiling and whitewashed walls added to the cool feel. It was a pleasant place for Arfael to spend an hour studying the wall mountings. Most were generic, the weaver’s depiction of long-forgotten battles, stories told and retold a hundred times before reaching their creator’s ear. A few were more out of the ordinary. In particular, the two on the left wall, showing images of the dragons of Aldrieg. Fascinating because Arfael knew they were the Aldrieg dragons! He was still peering at them when Sarai called through to the others. It was time for lunch.
Olam was the first to emerge. The Rukin robe looked surprisingly natural on him. If he had brought his staff, he really would have looked the “wizard,” Arfael thought. Olam saw Arfael, nodded, and changed his course.
The “wizard” wore a big smile as he gazed at the tapestry Arfael was studying. “Anything interesting, my friend?” he asked. Maybe he thought it held some secrets. The man had been giddy, like a child at feast day, ever since they entered the village.
“I’m not sure. But that looks like home,” Arfael said, pointing his tent peg-sized finger at the far right of the tapestry.
“What do you mean ‘home?’” Olam moved to Arfael’s right. He squinted at the elaborately weaved image of the Karan Ridges—or rather, the eastern end of the Karan Ridges.
Arfael continued. “I cannot be sure, but look at that cave. Is it not the same as Barais’gin?”
Olam moved closer and made one eyebrow as if struggling to see where Arfael was pointing—the tapestry was the largest of three, but the cave weaving was no bigger than his fingernail. “Yes! Yes, I think you are right. And there”—Olam pointed farther to the right—“is that the eastern cliffs of Karnui?”
“Yes! I was there. All of this, it was where I lived.” Arfael gestured along the length of the tapestry. “There is Cul’mida, Aldrebaras; that is Bara’cui, I think. That, I do not know,” he said, pointing at a cave on the far left.
Olam moved to his left and squinted at the cave. It opened into a long valley that appeared to have a stream running along its centre. “Aye, I’m not sure, but I think I have seen that valley before, at the far western end of the Karan Ridge. I may be wrong. There must be dozens like it. Yet that ridge, the one that looks like a saw tooth…”
“Look,” Arfael said, “the dragon at the opening, the black dragon. The horns, his wings. I was looking at him before. I am sure I know him, but…”
Arfael could feel a headache coming on. The harder he looked, the worse it became. There was something there, something important, but grasping the memory was like holding a fistful of fresh air.
Olam put a hand on his shoulder. “Let us go eat. Maybe it will come to you later, my friend.” Arfael didn’t think his friend needed an explanation; he was obviously struggling.
“Yes, you’re probably right.” Arfael took one last look at the tapestry and sighed. “It is only a tapestry. How can I recognise anyone from a tapestry?”
* * *
Gialyn swiped at the hand tugging at his shoulder, the hand that was waking him from his comfortable, restful sleep. “Another ten minutes, Mother. Please.” Lying on his side, he opened one eye. That is not my wall… Of course. I’m not at home, am I? He rolled onto his back and pulled himself up onto his elbows, then laughed at the site of his father dressed in one of the Rukin robes. Light brown with white trim, it could be a monk’s robe if it were black and not cut so well.
“I don’t know what you’re laughing at.” Daric grinned. Another robe hit Gialyn in the face. “Come on. Sarai has called us through for lunch. We do not want to leave our hosts waiting. It’s rude.”
Gialyn swung his legs around and pulled the robe over his head. It was soft, like lamb’s wool. “They could have made it dinner and left me here a few more hours.”
“If you sleep now, you will be up all night, and we’re off tomorrow. Up with you now. I’m not going without you, and you know I hate being late.”
“Yes, Father. Sorry.” Gialyn got to his feet and shook the robe down to his ankles. “It is a bit big.” He put his arms out in front and waved the excess sleeve round in circles.
Daric laughed. “Fold your cuffs over and use the belt to hold it up.” Daric straightened his own robe and waited, foot tapping on the floor and hands on hips. “Ready? Good.”
Gialyn followed his father out of their room just as Elspeth was leaving her own. She looked at him up and down and held her mouth against a laugh. Her shoulders shook in silent mirth.
Gialyn tsked while straightening his… skirt. “I see they managed to find you one that fits.” And it did fit. Gods, is that what she looks like in a dress? Despite himself, he couldn’t help a gulp as he blinked at the sight of her. Elspeth patted her hair. Is she blushing? No. She must be embarrassed. I hope I’m not blushing.
“Come on, you two, we’re late. Grady and the others are already there,” Daric said. The irritation in his voice was more than familiar to Gialyn. Elspeth, on the other hand, gave a stare as she watched Daric disappear into the kitchen.
“He’s always like that. Sorry. He would just as soon not turn up as be late.”
“Well, doesn’t he know a woman is supposed to be late?” Elspeth said defensively, though that didn’t stop her trying to catch up.
Gialyn raised a brow. Good… it isn’t just me. My father annoys everybody.
Toban and Aleban stood in front of the unlit fire at the far end of the long banquet table. Each wore a sash with what looked like a badge of office sewn onto it. Toban’s was wider—well, that only seemed natural, him being the leader and all—and dark green, with a golden medallion of what looked like a wolf’s head. Aleban’s sash was dark blue, and he wore a silver medallion.
The same design but smaller, again.
Nine blue-white porcelain plates were set neatly at the far end of the table—that could have easily seated forty. One of the Surabhan, with a rope-edged tray perched on her forearm, floated around the chairs, placing goblets and cutlery carefully around the plate settings, all but the two in front of the wolves. They had neither cup nor cutlery. It took a second for Gialyn to realise why. Yet again, he felt the fool. Of course, wolves do not use a knife and fork. Idiot! Another Surabhan, a man this time, was ushering people out of the way as he carried long trays of steaming-hot, covered bowls out from the kitchen. No sooner had he set one down than he turned and ran—ran—back to the kitchen for another. Seems they liked their food hot in Illeas.
“Please sit where you will,” Toban said, nodding at the table. Toban sat, along with his second, on a raised platform, doubtless so they could meet their Surabhan guests eye to eye. Gialyn could see similar platforms pushed underneath the table. Obviously, wolf and Surabhan dined together a lot.
Daric, Olam, and Arfael sat on the left-hand side, facing the door. Daric always did that. Gialyn knew why, but surely, he wasn’t expecting an attack from these folk. Daric did many things mechanically. It was doubtful even he realised himself. Some things just had to be done a certain way. Gialyn sat opposite next to Grady and closest to Toban.
The last time Gialyn was “served” food was at the officer’s mess in Bailryn, the day his father retired from the guards. He didn’t know quite what to do with his hands then, either. Elspeth was no help, for all her supposed finery and upper-class upbringing. She sat, elbows on table, looking vacantly left to right. No help at all, she looked more out of place than a goose in a chicken coup. The ridiculous robe didn’t help much, either. How did women manage without moving their legs? Gialyn sat perched like a sparrow on a branch. No, a sparrow would do better. Nervously, he twitched his feet and drummed his fingers, wondering what came next. Ealian had no such reserve. He immediately reached for his goblet, straightened his plate, and sat with arms folded, eying up the food, waiting for the order to begin.
Sarai and her two “maids” brought in the rest of the bowls: fruit, bread, biscuit-rolls, and other cold foods. Two plates of filleted meat were placed in front of Toban and Aleban. Along with bowls of water—maybe wine—that, strangely enough, they placed on the floor beside them. No! I’m not going to ask! The travellers waited for a sign from their hosts to start eating.
“Rak ar gra ou-rao,” Toban said and then explained that it was a simple thanks and good wishes for guests of the Hall of Wolves.
All the “guests” bowed and nodded in appreciation.
“Ust loag fe lae’doi.” Olam recited an Eurmacian greeting. Then he bowed again.
“Thanks for the food!” Daric said. “Sorry, just plain common here.” A wry smile crossed his lips.
Toban laughed. “Please eat. There’s more if needed.”
At last! Gialyn’s stomach was beginning to do somersaults. He had to stand to reach the pot of steaming vegetables. Cauliflower, beets, and carrots were in one, while the other contained lashings of mash potato dusted with mint and chives. The meat—beef, he thought; he hoped—thickly covered in a lush, dark sauce, spicy, but not too much. He quickly filled his plate and sat back down to eat. His hunger for the good food was too much for him to eat in a dainty fashion. Mother wouldn’t be pleased; shovelling food in your mouth was something she frowned on, even when there was no company. And the chance to sit at a table, not balance his plate on his knee, only added to the pleasure.
Elspeth looked around the room, eyes wide, as though admiring the carvings and the tapestry as well as the formidable beams and arches. “You and the Surabhan must have been friends a long time?” she asked Toban.
Toban raised his head from his drinking bowl. “Yes, near on three centuries now, but we do not call our kin ‘Surabhan.’ Yes, most do hail from Southern Aleras, not far from Eurmac, in fact, but we call them Rukin, same as us.”
Olam raised his fork. “Speaking of Eurmac, do you know of a friend of mine, Elim E’limb? It would be thirty some years ago now.”
Toban and Aleban looked at each other. “The Wool Man?” Toban nodded. “Yes. Elim married a Rukin. He moved back to Eurmac with his wife.”
“Oh, I see. Shame. I would have liked to have seen him again. Never mind. Married… that is a surprise. He never crossed me as the type. Thank you for telling me.” Olam raised his goblet.
“If you come back in a few months, you will catch him on his way through. He trades wool for our seed oil. We do not have sheep. The cows and pigs are indifferent, but penning sheep near a village full of wolves… Poor things, they don’t like it.” He gave a laugh. A chortled giggle circled the table. “Yes. He will be back the first moon past high summer. Well, within a few days of it, anyway.”
“Thank you, sir. If it fits in with our journey, I will do my best to be here. At least, with your permission, I would like to leave him a note.”
“Yes, of course. Give it to Sarai. She handles all of the Hall’s paperwork.”
“Are they your slaves?” Ealian asked. His question, and the way he put it, raised everyone’s eyes from their plates.
“Ealian! That is rude!” Elspeth banged her fork on the table and cast a daggered stare at her twin brother. Even Grady jumped.
“Why do you ask that?” Toban said. He didn’t look the slightest bit angry. Maybe Elspeth should take lessons.
“Because they serve you,” Ealian said.
“My boy, they serve us because we have no thumbs, not because we are their masters. All are considered equal at birth. We progress as we will. Rank and title can be earned by either Rukin. Indeed, the current head of the village council is a… Surabhan, not a wolf.” Toban looked up at his friend Sarai, who nodded back in agreement.
“Are you going to say sorry, Ealian Tanner?” Elspeth’s face was red. She bit her lip to stop it shaking.
Ealian paused for a long moment. That vacant stare was back again. What was wrong with him? Suddenly, he snapped out of it. “Sorry, uh, yes, sir. I do beg your pardon!” He actually stood—yes, stood—and bowed.
“Never mind, my boy,” Toban said. “I imagine it is a little strange for you to witness our ways.”
Toban looked to Arfael. “Sir, if you do not mind, I would like to talk a little of your history. It is our custom to speak at the table, but if it does not suit you, please say so. We won’t be offended.”
“Don’t speak much,” Arfael said. “But yes, if you want.” His billowing voice didn’t sound too enthusiastic, though.
“Do you recognise any of the paintings and carvings? Your people made the old ones behind me. If you ask me, they are the most beautiful. The Rukin have tried to copy their techniques for over a century, but have never quite managed to match the workmanship.”
“If I may,” Olam said. “When I first met Arfael, he was the blacksmith for a local community far to the east at Barais. His work was wonderful!”
“I do not doubt it.” Toban nodded towards a suit of armour standing in the corner. “That was made by the Kel’mai. Dragon armour: light, strong, and beautiful. Again, our folk have tried to match its quality, but alas…”
“Kun hass Olef.” Arfael said the words without thinking, dragging them up from the depths of his mind, buried and forgotten behind a veil of mystery.
“Kun hass Olef. Yes! That’s the style—Scale over Leaf. You must be older than you look to have remembered that, my friend.” Toban nodded to Sarai. She brought over a tray and laid it down in front of Arfael: a knife, a broached silver rank insignia, a gauntlet, and an arrowhead. All covered in fine oil and laid carefully on top of a deep-red velvet cloth. “Do you recognise any of these?” Toban asked.
Arfael looked at the items. Immediately, his eye fixed onto the silver insignia. The others were meaningless. The small broach, however, was significant in some way. He couldn’t pull a connection for its importance from his memory.
Yet so familiar was it, he felt his heart lift simply by the site of it. A wave of deep feeling came over him, as though he were going to roar to the heavens. He picked up the broached insignia, cradling it in his huge hand. Gently, he ran a finger around its edge. “Aluf’muis.” He spoke so quietly, so eloquently that Olam let out a gasp.
“Arfael… what is it?” his friend asked.
“Aluf’muis Gan’ifael. This belonged to my father. My father! I saw him for a second, as clear as if he sat where you are. I saw him!” Arfael put the broach to his forehead and muttered a few words.
Toban gave a nod to Sarai. She took away the rest of the items. “If that was indeed your father’s, then you must be one of the Kel’mai that fought at Bren’nui, for that broach belonged to a chieftain of Toi’ifael. A great man, Aluf’muis was a true hero to our people. All that remains is to discover which son you are. Our lore on the matter is not complete, though it does state quite clearly that Aluf’muis had three sons. But we could be wrong. Up until now, it was thought all three had perished in the caves of Barais’gin. If you are indeed Arlyn Gan’ifael, then this is a great day for all Rukin, not to mention a long night for our keeper of records. You should be dead, Arfael!”
Silence fell in the great hall.
Daric put his hand to his mouth, wide-eyed in disbelief. Grady was much the same, while Gialyn sat with a wide grin on his face, as though watching a play or some other marvellous fiction. Elspeth had tears in her eyes at the hearing of Arfael’s vision of his father.
“Gan means dragon, does it not?” Ealian asked in a very matter-of-fact manner.
The two wolves set their gaze quickly upon him. “How did you know that?” Aleban asked with a voice calmer than his expression.
“I have heard it somewhere before. My father is an emissary. We have many travellers visiting our home.”
The Call of the Crown (Book 1) Page 20