Exiles From The Sacred Land (Book 2)

by Mark Tyson

  Bren raised his eyebrows. “Aye, it is. It is nice to see a place where no one goes hungry.”

  “We should go to one of the inns. The closer we get to the holiday, the more expensive and difficult it will be to find accommodations here. We should also reserve rooms for the others,” Shadesilver pointed out.

  “That sounds expensive,” Tatrice said.

  Shadesilver smiled. “I think you are forgetting who and what I am, First of Amadalea.”

  Tatrice blushed. “I thought that was just a myth. You mean your kind does hoard treasure?”

  “Like the pirates of the seas!” she joked as she pointed to a sign swinging over the inn called The Pirate’s Stash.

  Gondrial’s vision began to blur, and the pain in his gut throbbed with unbearable spasms of pain. Through trial and error, he managed to wiggle out from under the corpse of the thief. He could vaguely hear people talking in the distance as they passed the open alleyway, oblivious to his plight, but he was too weak to call out to them. He did try to bang his dagger against the stone wall of the alley to alert anyone to his presence, but again, he was too weak, and what little sound he produced faded into the background with the rest of the noises of Seabrey.

  “Don’t move around so much,” a familiar voice rang in Gondrial’s ears. He was not sure if it was real or if he was imagining it through the pain.

  He managed a feeble, gasping breath. “Who’s there?”

  “I can heal you enough to get you back, and then once you are in your bed, I can heal you completely. I still remember the old magic.”

  “I know your voice,” Gondrial said.

  “Aye, of course. Stop trying to speak. I will take good care of you.”

  Gondrial blinked through the pain as the mysterious helper began to tug at his clothes, trying to get a look at his benefactor. After a moment, he could make out the small hands and the sharp features of a small-statured person.

  “A Kylerie?”

  “The only one you know, Gondrial.”

  “Kyrie? Kyrie, is that you? How?”

  “Sssh! I told you not to speak. You are so very weak, and I will not be able to carry you to safety. I must heal the wound with fire and magic.”

  “Fire!” Gondrial said, alarmed, followed by a coughing fit.

  “Aye, I have to burn the wound closed at some point.” Kyrie frowned. “You know what? I think it might be better if you sleep.” He promptly struck Gondrial on the head with the hilt of his dagger.

  “Stop it, you fool,” Gondrial gasped. “If you can’t carry me awake, you can’t carry me asleep either.”

  “Good point.” Kyrie rummaged through his pack and brought out a bit of leather strap and some clear liquid. “Here, bite down on this leather strap.” He poured some of the clear liquid onto his dagger blade while Gondrial bit down on the leather. Kyrie said some incantation over the blade.

  “Ack, this leather tastes like you have been—” He bit down before he could finish his thought because Kyrie had used the dagger on his wound. The searing pain was almost unbearable. Gondrial felt the brief breeze-like feeling that essence was being manipulated, and Kyrie’s dagger blade burst into a hot, blue flame, which he promptly held to Gondrial’s wound. Gondrial felt searing pain followed by the sickly smell of burning flesh.

  “There we go; that should hold it until I have time to heal it permanently.”

  Kyrie held up the clear liquid. “Here, drink some of this.” Gondrial shied away. “It’s just Kylerie fire water.”

  “What the heck is Kylerie fire water? It sounds painful!”

  “Not as painful as a knife wound.” Kyrie sighed. “Don’t worry, it’s intoxicating spirits made from fermented fruits. Drink!”

  Gondrial took a sip, and the liquid burned his throat. He coughed at first but managed to take a second sip. “Good gods, that was painful, and it tastes nothing like fruit!”

  Kyrie put away the spirits. “All right, let’s see about getting you to Shey and the others.”

  Gondrial looked at the Kylerie elf with trepidation. He was barely over three feet tall. “Oh, and how are you going to do that?”

  “What, get you to the inn? I assume you are staying at an inn, right?”

  “Aye, we are.”

  “Well, I do have one way to get you there quickly, though I don’t think you will like it much, and the Kylerie do not travel by this method anymore because it is detectable by Enforcers.”

  “Please tell me you are not talking about bending!”

  “Aye, I just have to bend a space between us and the inn, and we are there in two steps, easy.”

  “Bending also takes a lot of essence and will be a beacon to every Enforcer in the city. Also, it works fine for someone your size, but it could actually kill me even if I wasn’t wounded!”

  “Aye, I told you that you wouldn’t like it. It is something I can do exceedingly well. I am sure you will be fine.” He looked around nervously. “One more issue—the healing I performed earlier, it is also a beacon, as you put it, for Enforcers. I am sure we will have them upon us shortly.” He glanced at the body of the thief nearby. “And you would have to explain him.”

  Gondrial thought he heard footsteps and shouting nearby. He wasn’t sure if it was Enforcers, but he couldn’t take the chance. “All right, Kyrie, we bend.” He held up his finger before Kyrie could start drawing essence. “But as soon as we arrive at the inn, we have to figure out how to hide or defend ourselves.”

  “I am familiar with the inns of this city. I can bend us right into the hallway with your room. Just give me the inn name and the floor.”

  As Tatrice, Bren, and Shadesilver made their way to the Winterhaven festivities, Shadesilver stepped in front of them. “One other point of contention I forgot to remind you of earlier. There is a tradition in Trigothia that differs somewhat from Symboria when it comes to Winterhaven. The weather is different here, and when the snows come, there is very little traveling about. Because people are stuck indoors, this is the last great holiday before springtime for marriages. Many of the customs and games will be played to couple up the eligible. Be very careful that you know what game you are playing before you partake.”

  Tatrice waved her off. “No one will end up coupled.” She looked at Bren.

  “Absolutely not. We will watch ourselves.”

  “See that you do, because I will not be here to watch over you. I have been stuck in this form for far longer than I care to be, and I need to stretch my wings.”

  “Be careful out there,” Tatrice cautioned.

  “We are near the water; I will fly out that way so I do not alarm any locals. I will be fine.”

  Tatrice nodded. She and Bren headed to the town square, and Shadesilver went into the woods toward the ocean.

  “I must admit that I’m excited about this,” Tatrice said. “It’s been so long since I have had any time to just enjoy myself. We can feast, dance, and mingle with people who are not so serious about life.”

  “Aye, it will be nice to get away from pressing issues for a time.”

  “Look, there is the mayor!” Tatrice’s voice was tinged with excitement.

  The festival officially began the same way it began in Brookhaven. The most prominent member of the village, in this case the mayor, stood on a petite wooden platform in the middle of the square and announced the serving of the Winterhaven feast.

  The mayor was a tall man with white hair and a white beard. He wore fine-stitched linen clothing and carried a long stem tabac pipe. “Welcome, friends.” The mayor spoke in a pleasant, masculine voice. “It is that wonderful time of year again when the harvest is in and the hearth fires are used for more than just cooking. Winterhaven is upon us.” Cheers and clapping rang out from the gathering crowd. “I invite you all to share the bounties of our harvest in a great feast in the main hall.” More cheering erupted. “After we feast, everyone come back out here for the rest of the festivities. I have talked to the seers, and there is no rain nor
wind nor cold to impede our party this night. Let the feasting begin!” He threw his arms up in the air and leaped from the platform. The villagers stepped in line behind him to enter the great hall.

  The food was lined on both sides of the hall with tables in the center. Two lines formed at either side where the villagers could take a plate and gather what they wanted from each food setting. The meat presented ranged from suckling pig to beef, chicken, goose, duck, and several varieties of fish and sea food. There were steaming pots of vegetables Tatrice had never seen before and mounds of golden-crusted bread and rolls.

  After the meal, Tatrice and Bren moved with the rest of the villagers back out into the village square. Booths were set up around the square one after the other. At the center of the square, acrobats and musicians performed. Every other booth offered some kind of intoxicating drink . Tatrice ushered Bren quickly past the kissing booth, although she didn’t really understand why it might bother her. The girl just didn’t look like she was someone Bren should kiss. Honey mead was the drink at the first stand they came to, and Bren took a couple of goblets. The next booth contained a shallow, water-filled wooden barrel with apples floating in it. Patrons could win a prize by bobbing for the apples. Tatrice grinned at the fellows bobbing and pulled Bren to the next booth, which was that of a fortune teller.

  “Bren, have your fortune read.”

  Bren hesitated. “I’m not so sure that would be a good idea.”

  “It’s all just fun, right?” She turned to the fortune teller for an answer.

  “Yes, it is all good fun. You have nothing to lose, only to gain,” the fortune teller stated.

  Bren sat down on a stool provided in front of the booth. Tatrice, excited by hearing more about Bren, stood behind him. At first she thought the fortune teller was Sylvan, but now that she got a good look at him, she wasn’t sure. “I’m sorry,” Tatrice said, “but are you an elf?” She immediately regretted asking. “I am so sorry. That was incredibly rude of me to ask.”

  “Not at all, mistress, I get asked all the time. Yes, I am an elf, but I am Siladil from Darovan.”

  “I thought so. You remind me of Sanmir the Apothecary from back home.”

  “Oh, I do?” The fortune teller seemed surprised. “Not many Siladil venture out of Darovan.”

  He closed his eyes and took Bren’s hands in his. “Forgive me, mistress. I must concentrate.”

  The fortune teller focused his attention on Bren in a way that made Tatrice feel like he was trying to change the subject. “Of course,” she said.

  “First, I must discover the past. I see dragons and the red city. Ah, you are a dragon knight.”

  “Aye, he is!” Tatrice blurted out.

  The fortune teller went on. “Now I must see the present. You have stolen something precious.”

  “I never steal!” Bren almost yanked his hands back, but the sand elf held them in an iron grip.

  “No, I speak not of trinkets, goods, or possessions of this world. What you have stolen cannot be sold, bought, or collected. It cannot be traded, but it can be given. It can destroy kingdoms or unite them.”

  “Some kind of weapon?” Bren asked.

  “Aye, the worst kind of weapon, but also the greatest hope for peace.”

  “I have plenty of weapons. I have stolen nothing, I assure you.”

  “Very well. Now I will look into your future. War, destruction, horror.”

  “Well, aye, I am a dragon knight. Battle is what I am trained for, and my charge will send me wherever I am needed the most.”

  “But I also see love, hope, family, and a marriage very soon.”

  Bren laughed aloud. “You have been convincing so far, seer, but now you have revealed yourself. I am not allowed to marry nor have a family. I would never do such a thing even if I were allowed. My knighthood would doom such an endeavor, and it would not be fair to the woman I married.”

  “Your situation is a unique one, I think.” He looked directly at Tatrice.

  “Me? Oh, now I see. We are not a couple. I am to marry another. Bren is only my trainer and mentor.”

  The fortune teller shrugged his shoulders. “What do I know? It is all in fun.”

  “And it was fun,” Bren said as he placed a silver coin on the table.

  “Ah, a silver. The knight is very generous. One more bit of advice to give the knight his full money’s worth. Do not drink too much and do not visit the booth of Ni’esa.” He pointed to a booth decorated in flowers and garland. “She is sweet on the outside but determined on the inside.”

  “Thank you for the advice,” Bren said with an obliging wink. He turned to Tatrice and whispered, “Thanks for that.”

  Tatrice giggled. “It was all in good fun. What? You didn’t find it the least bit amusing?”

  “Oh, I found it extremely amusing. Can you imagine me married and still a dragon knight? It would be . . . well . . . it would be . . . terrible, for lack of a better word.”

  “Terrible?”

  “You know, always worrying about a family at home. Who would take care of them if I were killed, or what if enemies tried to use them against me?”

  “You have enemies like that?”

  “Not that I know of, but I am never sure of what the future holds.”

  The two walked along the booths, trying different foods and drinks, even though they had just had a huge feast. They carefully avoided Ni’esa’s booth.

  As the night wore on, Tatrice noticed that Bren began to sample the beverages offered more and more. Sensing that he was nervous about something also made her nervous. She began to invent scenarios in her mind. What if he was planning on kissing her at the end of the night? So she also began to sample the mead and wines offered. It wasn’t long before her fingers were tingling and her words were slurring. It was when Bren began to sing to her, however, that she knew he was no longer tipsy but fully drunk. When his first song ended, he took another drink.

  “I know another song you may like,” he slurred.

  Tatrice said the first thing that came to mind to avoid his singing. “We might as well see what Ni’esa’s booth is all about, that is, unless you believe in the fortune teller’s nonsense.”

  “Not at all. Let’s go see what the fuss is about,” he responded.

  Ni’esa’s booth was larger than the rest and was set back away from the other booths of the square back toward the village hall.

  As they neared, Tatrice realized what Ni’esa did. “It’s an imprint booth. I have heard of these. They draw a design on your skin and then magically imprint it so it will last forever.”

  Bren nodded. “All right, I have heard of these too. I have even heard that some of the images can be imprinted in motion, like a galloping horse.

  “I would think that would be distracting, a horse always running,” Tatrice said.

  “It only runs when you command it to, otherwise it is just another imprint.” He looked into her eyes. “You have such pretty eyes. Did I ever tell you that?”

  Tatrice immediately downed her almost full goblet of mead.

  “Whoa, slow down,” Bren said in a slur. “I only said your eyes were pretty; I didn’t ask for your hand or anything.”

  Tatrice’s head was swimming. “I know,” was all she could think to say. Bren stared at her, and she could feel him scrutinizing every line of her face. She had to do something. “We should get matching ones,” she blurted out, “you know, to show we are united as dragon knights, or something like that.”

  “Comrades in arms, I like it,” Bren agreed.

  As they approached the booth, Tatrice’s hair stood up on the back of her neck. Shadesilver had warned her about something to do with the local population. Whatever the feeling was, it was quickly overshadowed by the alcohol.

  The one called Ni’esa was a pretty woman with dark, somewhat wild, hair and piercing hazel eyes. She looked like the kind of woman one knew better than to cross. She immediately came to greet Tatrice and Bren as they walke
d up.

  “Welcome to my booth, strangers. I am Ni’esa, imprint artist. The magic I use is sanctioned by the Enforcers as harmless and legal. What can I do for you two?”

  Tatrice tried not to show that the woman made her nervous. “We would like to get a small imprint to signify we are united.”

  “We are soldiers,” Bren interjected.

  “Ah, what did you have in mind?”

  “What about a dragon head on the back of our hands between the thumb and forefinger? Nothing too large, just a small dragon.”

  “Are you both quite sure about this?” Ni’esa asked.

  “Aye,” Bren said and Tatrice nodded.

  “Mo’rune, come here for a moment,” she called to the man working with her in the booth.

  The big, muscular man with greying hair complied, wiping ink from his hands on the white apron he wore. “Yes, mistress?”

  “Okay, you two, before Mo’rune and I, do you swear you want this dragon imprint to unite you?”

  Tatrice chortled uneasily. “Aye, united in the spirit of the dragon knights. I am not sure why it is such a fuss.” She almost felt the need to change her mind.

  Ni’esa grinned and patted Tatrice’s hand to comfort her. “No fuss, my dear, but the imprint is permanent. I do not wish you to change your mind tomorrow and find you cannot remove it. I do smell drink on you, and I do not wish for you to make a foolish mistake.”

  Tatrice liked the way Ni’esa talked with a distinctive western accent. “As long as the imprint is small, there is no mistake.”

  “Come in through the small wooden door to your left, and we will get started.”

  Throughout the imprint, Ni’esa talked about her marriage to Mo’rune and their five, now grown, children. Mo’rune imprinted the same design on Bren’s hand, and they put both hands side by side to compare and make sure they matched. Bren and Tatrice were offered a curious drink of western origin that was supposed to dull the pain when the imprint was magically sealed into their skin. After Ni’esa and Mo’rune finished with the artwork, they waited for Tatrice and Bren to approve the design. Once approved, they chanted a delicate poem in a language Tatrice did not understand. As the words flowed in unison from their lips, the imprints glowed and etched themselves into the skin. When it was over, Bren and Tatrice had matching, permanent imprints of a dragon head with maw opened in a ferocious roar.