“I have never heard it,” Elspeth said.
“That’s because you’re too busy sharpening your knives to listen, sister.” Ealian carried on eating as if oblivious to the effect of his words.
Toban glanced sideways at Aleban and then flicked his head surreptitiously towards Ealian, as if saying, “Keep an eye on that one.” Aleban nodded faintly in acknowledgement.
“Arfael, do you have any questions for us?” Toban asked.
“I need some time, but thank you for this, my friend.” Arfael bowed at both Toban and Aleban.
Daric put his goblet down. “What now for you, Olam? Seems much of your mystery has been solved.”
Olam sighed, though he had a big smile on his face. “I’m not sure, my friend. We still have to find his people.” He turned to Toban. “Do you know any more that may help us?”
“Oh, yes! The Kel’mai tribe hail from the far eastern isles, two hundred leagues past the Toi’ildrieg, a place called Ca’ifael, on the island of Toi’ifael. Arfael’s people are few in number, but as far as our lore tells it, they have lived there for two thousand years, the first to settle in Moyathair by all accounts. They came from far across the ocean, so it is said. I myself know nothing from that far back. Maybe our historian will be able to help more.”
“Are they there now?” Arfael asked.
“We have heard nothing either way for over a century, my friend. Sorry. I cannot tell you more than that,” Toban said, and he did look sorry. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of them yourselves. Surely the tales of their deeds are in the songs of the Surabhan.”
“Well,” Daric said, “Eidred was a woeful monarch. He would have written history in his favour.”
“Oh,” Olam said. “That would explain why we had to come to a place of independence to hear the truth of it,” he said. “I have to admit that I have heard of the Kel’mai. Whisper and gossip mostly, but I have heard of them. Unfortunately, not having an image to go by, I didn’t tie them with you, my friend.” Olam placed his hand on Arfael’s forearm, begging his pardon.
“No fault, friend,” Arfael said. “I’m happy now. Think I will travel back to Barais’gin and then maybe prepare for a trip to Ca’ifael. You are welcome to join me.” Arfael bowed back at Olam.
“I would be honoured, my friend, very honoured indeed.” Olam turned to Daric. “So… it would seem we are destined to stay together for a little while longer. We will come with you to Bailryn and then on to Barais’gin. With your kind permission, of course.”
“No need to ask. We would be glad of your company.”
Daric begged a question of Toban. “Sir, is there a quicker route through your lands? We came up short at the marsh. Not saying there’s a great rush, but we do not want to wander in circles either.”
“It is simple, Daric. Go south along the eastern edge of the ridge, all the way down to the river. Turn east and follow the bank for three days, maybe four, if you go slowly. You will come to a gully by a waterfall. It is not steep there. Once at the top of the gully, move along the fall tributary until it is safe to cross. Then straight in front, less than a mile away, is the western edge of Crenach’coi. You should find your way back to the Northern Road from there, and it will save you three days circling the cliffs.
“Thank you, Toban. Again, you have been a great help. If there is ever anything I can do for you,” Daric said.
“Actually…” Grady raised a hand. “I was thinking maybe we could stay an extra day.” He tried not to look at Ealian. “I would hate to rush off in the morning. If nobody has any objection.”
The travellers looked around at one another. None raised an argument. Daric looked to Toban. “It would seem that nobody wants to leave.” He looked around at the smiling faces and then back at Toban. “If that is all right with you, sir.”
“No, no, please. You are welcome for as long as you wish to stay.” Toban stood. “Now, friends, please rest, or wander at your will. Or there is more food if you are still hungry.” He turned to Arfael and Olam. “Would you mind if we talked a little more? I would like to show you the Sanctum and discuss something that I will doubtless be asked later when I meet with the council.”
Arfael bowed. “As you wish, Toban. I’m in your debt.”
The travellers rose from the table. Daric and Grady paid their respects to their host and went back to their rooms.
After they finished eating, Gialyn and Elspeth were given permission to explore the village—with Sarai as guide. Ealian joined them, after some persuasion from Elspeth.
Toban left the table and spoke with his friend Aleban. For a long moment, they stood deep in whispered discussion. Occasionally, Aleban would steal a sideways glance at Arfael. Whether he be part of the conversation or whether Aleban couldn’t help but look at the legend was not clear.
Olam waited patiently with Arfael. He drummed his fingers on the table. “I wonder if they have any pre-Moyan scrolls in there,” he said. Arfael could doubtless sense his friend’s excitement. But he just sat quietly waiting for Toban to finish.
* * *
“Are you ready? Would you like to see the Sanctum?” Toban asked Olam and Arfael.
Olam’s eyes lit up. “That would indeed be my honour,” he said, gushing with anticipation. For all his travelling and adventuring, he could think of naught more exciting than snooping around in a secret library
Arfael, too, had a smile on his face, yet that didn’t mean much. By this point, Olam thought Arfael would have looked excited about cleaning the kitchens.
“That’s settled, then, my friends. If you will follow me, I’ll show you the way.”
Toban led Olam and Arfael through a wide, oak-framed arch, hidden in an alcove behind a large tapestry, then on down a narrow, dark-wood passageway that ran the length of the great hall. From it, they descended a twisting, iron-forged staircase, and after following another passage, they entered a large room situated directly under the main banquet hall.
“This is our Sanctum: a library, meeting place, council room, and general debating chamber. Please feel free to take a look around.” Toban nodded towards two men who stood waiting by the entrance. Both were dressed in the Rukin robes, both were well past their middle years, if not yet old, and both looked extremely studious with their ink-stained fingers and smooth, un-calloused hands “This is Olec and Raithban. They are two of the caretakers that help us wolves maintain the Sanctum. As you can imagine, we do not have much to do with hammer and nail.” The two caretakers bowed low at Olam and especially low for Arfael. “Please feel free to ask questions. I must go and see to another matter. But I will be back in a few minutes.”
Olam gazed in wonder around the Sanctum. The air was cool, cooler even than the banquet hall, yet still thick with a musky aroma rising from the many pelts strewn across the floor. A faint scent of something like kalli root mixed in with the dense musk, lightening the air a little with its vigorous vapour. Directly in front of the door, an iron cradle of twelve candles stood at the centre of a small circular pool, which itself lay in the middle of the circular floor. Flower petals and herbs—maybe kalli—floated on the surface on the water, doubtless the source of the sweet smell in the air. There were no torches on the walls, lest they set fire to the tapestry. The only light came from the candles in the centre. That and what managed to leak through the air vents. Their shadows followed Olam and Arfael as they walked around the room.
Though the centre floor was circular, the room itself was square. A low partition separated the seating—or rather, laying—area from the outer walls. The walls were of dark-stained wood—thick quarter-sawn oak, tongued-in vertical planks from floor to ceiling. Midway up, a rail of lighter hardwood served as a rest for the frames of the many tapestries and paintings. At the ceiling, the walls coved away into trellises, allowing a passage of air to flow from grates. Four such grates were set along each wall and kept the outer edge of the sanctum both airy and cool. Olam gave a silent nod, impressed with the design. L
ines of locked strongboxes, placed at regular intervals, ran along the base of the two longer walls. One was open. It looked to contain scrolls, maybe relating to Rukin lore. Olam would have paid to read some of them—maybe later. Best not push their luck.
The tapestries themselves were of three sizes: the long ones, which told a story, the high ones, which outlined lineage, and the square ones, which depicted a single event. It was obvious that the tapestries were of vastly different ages. Indeed, there were two half-finished tapestries in the centre of the room to the left of the pool. Bowls of dyed twine lay on a table next to a large warped loom. Beneath the loom, a sketch of around four square feet lay, showing the outline of what was to be weaved. The artist—doubtless one of Toban’s caretakers—was in the process of creating the first edged border. Ornate calligraphy and ancient runes intertwined amongst a winding thread, as though the lettering followed a tree branch or root.
Of all the hanging tapestries, four were definitely older. Olam and Arfael rightly thought them made elsewhere. Maybe the Kel’mai or the Gan tribes of the east had created them. They were truly magnificent! Artwork of such intricate skill, the making of them hardly seemed possible for mortal hands. A depth and perception barely matched by the greatest of painters, never mind by woven thread. The scenes they depicted where not all of war. One appeared to be of a passage from a far-off land. Figures, not unlike the form of Arfael, pictured leaving an ancient harbour and travelling across the seas. Arfael spotted what seemed to be Surabhan boarding some of the ships. He pointed out his discovery to Olam.
“Oh, yes!” Olam scratched his chin. “That is strange.” Olam called Olec over to explain. “I can see this is an ancient tapestry. Why are there Surabhan boarding the ships?”
Olec looked at where Olam pointed. “They are not Surabhan. They are Kel’mai, sir,” he said. He seemed surprised to be explaining it.
Arfael tilted his head at the tapestry. “I don’t understand.”
“There are three races of Kel’mai: the Cinnè’arth, of which there are very few, and not all of them are fully, uh, ‘Kin.’ The Ud’fael, they appear as you do, sir. And finally, the Neath’coy or ‘Surabhan’ types, as you call them.
“Are you saying the Surabhan came to Moyathair on the same ships as the Kel’mai?”
“No, definitely not, sir!” Olec nearly laughed. “They are all Kel’mai. The three are one! It says so at the bottom. Look.” He pointed to the long inscription at the bottom of the tapestry.
“Oh, yes. One race.” Olam nodded in agreement.
The caretaker bowed and resumed his position by the door. Olam shook his head at Arfael. “That has just created more questions, my friend.”
Arfael nodded in agreement.
The two continued on their investigation of the Sanctum. Along the left wall stood four suits of armour, two in the shape of Surabhan and two more that were wolf in design, with long flanking grills and a helm designed around a wolf’s bite. All four were Kun hass Olef—Scale over Leaf—the same as that from the main hall upstairs. It now seemed obvious to both Olam and Arfael that the wolves played a larger part in the battles of Blai’nuin and Barais’coi than even they could have guessed. Olam was most surprised, as before entering the Sanctum, he would have said that he knew much of the Rukin. Seemed he was catching up, same as everybody else. Olam touched the sleeve of one of the suits of armour. Sections of scaled mail connected interlocking plates of what looked like silver. It cannot be silver, Olam thought. It is far too hard. Pulling at a section of mail, he was surprised to find it stretched around his fingers. “Amazing! This must be very comfortable armour.”
Arfael had one of those looks, the ones that spoke of remembering, or at least trying to remember. Before Olam could ask, though, Toban returned. He had an agitated look about him. He huffed a little and paced up and down, eventually circling and nesting on one of the pelts.
“Whatever is the matter, friend?” Olam asked.
Toban huffed again. “I have just come from a meeting with some of the elders, a very short meeting. They are… concerned at the return of Arfael.”
Arfael looked to Olam and then down to Toban. “Why?”
Toban stood and walked to the far end of the Sanctum, where the largest of all the tapestries hung. “This is a depiction of the battle of Barais’coi, the last stand of Vila’slae. Or so we believed.”
Olam shrugged and shook his head. “Friend, you must explain. We are not following.”
“I’m sorry,” Toban said. “As Rukin, we pride ourselves on the preservation of lore. Our records, as shown in this tapestry, tell the tale of Arlyn Gan’ifael. That is you, friend, or maybe one of your brothers. Arlyn entered the cave at Barais and was never seen again, presumed dead, or so it was thought. Our history tells us that both Arlyn Gan’ifael and Vila’slae perished in the cave. The scrolls speak of a great fight, a titanic battle with the Drieg that left you both dead. Now that you are alive, some are seeing it as a bad omen. Some are saying maybe Vila’slae survived as well.”
“I see,” Olam said. “That would be a problem.” He knew that for an understatement. Vila’slae… alive!
“Is there anything you can recall, Arfael?” Toban asked him. He sounded almost desperate.
Arfael shook his head slowly. “Waking up a long time ago. I was outside Barais, nothing from before, except cloudy dreams.”
Toban was at a loss. “It has been one hundred and twenty years. If the evil has returned, some news of it would be about, a rumour, something! Yet nobody has heard anything of her. Even so, it has the elders worried. Maybe because our records were wrong all these years—something that would annoy them to no end—or maybe a genuine worry. It is hard to see how we find a resolution. I would say to them to be grateful for good news. I would urge them to take heed of the past century, to be mindful of the absence of word concerning the witch. But I’m afraid they are a fearful lot and more prone than most to succumb to drama and gossip.”
Toban slinked back to the furs and sat. “Anyway, never you mind about such things. It is a nuisance that I must deal with and not a problem for either of you. You must feel that you are welcome among our people and pay no heed to doom mongering.”
“Nonsense. If there is anything we can do to help, we would be more than happy to assist.” Olam looked at Arfael, who nodded in agreement.
“I don’t see what can be done, other than remaining mindful while on your travels. If there is anything to the elders’ fear, then we must hear of it sooner rather than later. Truly, I believe it to be a fruitless errand. As I say, we would know something if the witch were alive.” Toban scratched the back of his ear. “Honestly, I wouldn’t know where to start looking for proof, even if there were reason for suspicion.”
“We are going back to Barais. Maybe we can ask and look,” Arfael said.
“Ah, yes! Of course,” Toban said. “That would be the obvious place to begin, wouldn’t it? Indeed, if you could do that and then send word, if there is any to send. There are traders in Bailryn that deal with our cousins. You can find them in the main square I believe. Send message through them.
“But either way, witch or no witch, I would still be most interested to hear of your progress. Especially if you travel to Ca’ifael. Many among us speak of the Kel’mai. Knowing they are still there would be a great comfort.”
“Agreed,” Arfael said.
“Thank you, Toban, for your kind interest. We will of course send you news of our travels. Only a shame you cannot come with us.”
“I fear that would be ill advised. If the residents of Bailryn discovered what a personable, pleasant soul I am, we would be overrun in a matter of weeks.” He laughed a barking chortle.
Olam and Arfael both joined in. “Yes, indeed, my friend. Your cover would be blown. You’ll have visitors before you know it. It is a fine place you have here, a beautiful place of symmetry and grace. It should be preserved if possible. I for one would look forward to a return, once our curren
t quest has met with satisfactory conclusion, of course.
“Kind words indeed, Olam,” Toban said. “One more thing, if I may be so bold. Are your companions aware of the dragon kin?”
Olam and Arfael shared a stare. Both knew what Toban meant by ‘dragon kin,’ but neither really wanted to bring it up. “They are good folk,” Olam said, “no question, but the kin is not something that one brings up in idle chatter with those you have just met. It is fair to say, before too long, we will say our farewells to these friends, probably to the end of our days. Talk of it seems pointless.” Olam took in a sigh and continued. “There are problems with the kin. My friend’s current state of mind leaves him ill equipped to control the bond, if that’s the right word for it. It is something we avoid. Strongly avoid! Indeed, the righting of it is among the answers that we seek. I long for the day when my friend can once again be whole. And I say to you fairly, you have provided more help in the last hours than I have mustered in the past thirty years. Again, I cannot tell you how important this is to us both. Arfael’s future is a quest to which I am wholly invested. A good end to it is as important to me as if we were speaking of my own fate.”
Toban bowed deeply, remaining there for a long moment. “It is my honour. I never dared to believe my own story would be as tangled in legend as it now appears to be. You have truly given this wolf a fine tale to tell his grandchildren, even if this day is the end of it.”
Arfael bowed to Toban. Then with his huge hand, he patted him on the head. Toban looked… surprised. Arfael bent down close. “This is my best day. Thank you.”
With that, the friends moved towards the door and out. “Do you have more duties this day, Toban?” Olam asked.
“Yes, I have one thing to take care of. Hopefully it will come to nothing. I have sent Aleban off on an errand. Some news may come of it yet. I will inform you if anything of importance arises.”
Toban led the two travellers up the stairs. “Now… I know where Sarai keeps the good wine. Do you want to join me in the kitchen?”
The Call of the Crown (Book 1) Page 21