“Would you like some company?” Healer Francis asked as he slid his tray onto the table.
“Please.” Bread still in hand, Jerrol gestured to the seat beside him.
“I hope you are eating more than a bowl of soup,” Healer Francis said as he made himself more comfortable.
“I was debating about what to have. Everything needs cutting up,” Jerrol admitted. “I’ll be glad when this is off.” He waved his bandaged hand under the healer’s nose.
The healer peered at him over his glasses and nodded. “Come see me this afternoon, and we’ll take a look. Well done with Deron by the way. Just what he needed, a purpose.”
Jerrol grinned. “It was pure selfishness. I need someone to write for me. No one can read my scrawl.” He stood and returned to the serving line, selecting a second course. Plumping for the chicken, chops being beyond him, he balanced the tray and returned to his table.
“Chop the meat up for me, would you?” he asked Francis, who wordlessly leant over and cut everything up for him.
“Thanks,” Jerrol murmured as he stabbed a piece of chicken with his fork.
Deron observed the commander from his seat in the hall. He watched him struggling with his tray and accepting help, yet it didn’t diminish his authority. Every man in the hall was aware that the Commander of the King’s Justice was in the room. His difficulties only made him more human. It didn’t lessen him or the awe the men felt.
Deron mused over the fact that although the commander was not particularly tall, nor imposing, there was a presence about him. Only his silver eyes that gleamed in the dim hall, like the other Sentinals, marked him as different. He kept having to push his floppy brown hair out of his eyes, but there the difference ended. Deron struggled to identify any other noteworthy feature; he looked normal, nondescript, all except for the eyes.
Twisting his lips, Deron grimaced. And the uniform of course. The silver green jacket of the Lady’s Guard, which all Sentinals wore, shimmered as he moved, catching the eye. Maybe it was the archaic-looking uniform that drew attention instead of the man. He wondered idly why the commander wasn’t in the colours of the King’s Guards.
One of his mates slid a tray in front of him and he relaxed as he began to eat.
When Deron stomped his way back to his desk, the commander was deep in conversation with Lieutenant-Commander Bryce, his deputy. They were arguing over a piece of paper on the desk between them. The stocky officer was well respected in the palace, having stepped into the commander’s duties when the commander had been sent off on the mission to Terolia by the king. Bryce was a career soldier, originating in Stoneford Watch and had relocated to Vespers at the commander’s request.
Deron discreetly observed them. Compared to Bryce, who was the epitome of a military officer, smart and fit, the commander looked washed out. Lines of strain were apparent on his face; his cheekbones were prominent, and dark shadows like bruises curved beneath his silver eyes.
Bryce had obviously come to a similar conclusion as Deron heard him say, “Jerrol, don’t overdo it. You can’t solve all our problems in one day.”
“I know; there is just so much that needs to be done.”
“And we’ll get it done between us, but not if you make yourself ill.”
“Don’t. I already have Francis breathing down my neck. And anyway, only I can wake the Sentinals in East Watch. They have waited long enough while I recuperated. There is no reason to delay any longer. I know what I’m capable of.”
“That’s what I said, but now I know better. Fortunately, I have Olivia to keep me sensible, but what about you, Jerrol? Where’s Taelia? You need her beside you.”
“I know, but she’s busy in the Chapterhouse. I’ll see her, don’t worry.”
Bryce stood. “Make sure you do. You have to make time for yourself in all of this chaos.”
Deron concentrated on his work and began copying out the responses the commander had dictated. He would help alleviate the pressure on the commander in any way he could. Jenkins was soon running all over the palace and into the city of Old Vespers.
Jerrol’s thoughts returned to Birlerion as Bryce left, a constant worry at the back of his mind. It had been three weeks since he had disappeared, taking the Ascendants with him. Birlerion's actions were the only reason Jerrol was alive today, and his mouth tightened at the thought of what he might be suffering through, but without knowing where he was, there was little he could do.
He flexed his hand again, thankful that Chryllion’s sentinal tree had healed the worst of the injury whilst he had been recovering in Stoneford, but he still needed to strengthen his grip and toughen the skin.
His ruminations were interrupted by the arrival of Adilion, one of the younger Sentinals Jerrol had awoken in Terolia; though they were all over three thousand years old. Adilion had broken his collarbone as they had tried to help some enslaved Terolians escape a collapsing mine. Reporting back for duty, he was eager to help. He looked fresh and healthy, his silver eyes bright in his deep brown face. Like most of the Sentinals, he seemed to fill the office. His height and breadth took up all the space, along with his enthusiasm.
Jerrol was glad of the interruption. “Before you join the roster, I need you to go to Mistra and warn Maraine and Kayerille about possible retaliations. I think any threats will just be posturing, a distraction to try and divide our forces, but we need to make sure they stay alert just in case.”
Adilion nodded, his blue-black curls bouncing. “Do you want me to stop off at Marchwood and check the nursery?”
“No, don’t worry, I will be going there. You can travel with us as far as the border if you want; we’ll be leaving in the morning.” Jerrol watched the eager young Sentinal leave and turned his thoughts to the Watch Towers. Who should he send up there? He ran through the list of available Sentinals; there were so few. He called in Niallerion, who was still standing guard outside his office.
“I need a Sentinal guard for the Watch Towers, do you think Darllion would go? Who would you recommend?” he asked, frowning over the map on his desk.
“If Tianerille and Venterion are recovered, I would recommend them. Without Birlerion to advise us, Marianille ought to stay in Vespers. She was one of those closest to the Lady. She can advise the king.”
Jerrol pursed his lips considering his options. “I’ll speak to them tomorrow, good idea.” As he returned to his paperwork, Niallerion drifted back to his post.
Marianille was not only the sister of Birlerion, but also two other Sentinals; Tagerill and Versillion, and she was proving to be as astute and as skilled as her brothers were. Elegant and poised, she fit into the king’s court with ease and was as different to her brothers as she could be. She was tall, slender and undeniably beautiful. Her strength was fluid and hidden, and she wielded the broadsword as easily, if not better than the men.
Jerrol had been surprised to find out that she was older than Tagerill and Birlerion and had graduated from the rangers two years before them. She was relentless in her belief that Birlerion still lived, and Jerrol clung to her conviction; her assurance was solace to the guilt he felt, having led Birlerion into an ambush. She was also the most vocal in the need to search for Birlerion, not that there was any resistance to the request; they just didn’t know where to search.
4
Sentinal Barracks, Old Vespers
Jerrol woke, stuffing his fist in his mouth to stop the screams. The cool night air pressed in on him, drying his sweat as he lay panting, listening to the echoes of his shouts fading into the night. Had anyone heard him? His nightmares were getting worse. The images from the Terolian mines invaded his mind; the people he had sentenced to death, their pleading eyes turning to accusation and drilling into his skull. Twisted sheets trapped him and his heart rate spiked as he tried to unravel them.
Unclenching his fist, he raised his palm, allowing the glow from the shards of the bloodstone he had absorbed to illuminate his room and banish the darkness and the
remnants of his dream. He controlled his breathing, thinking about Leyandrii, the goddess who had originally sundered the bloodstone to protect the world of Remargaren, who was guiding him to find the fragments. He had found two, which now resided within him and enabled him to create a silvery flame in his hand, but there was one more piece to find.
Extinguishing the light, he rose and dressed and then, silently, made his way through the corridors. Marianille, the Sentinal on night duty, followed, watching him with concern, which eased as she realised their destination as they crossed the shadowy parade ground. The night was dark and thick; no moon tonight.
Jerrol acknowledged the salutes of the roving guards as they passed and entered the infirmary. A small light burned in the office at the end, and he hoped it would be Francis on duty.
Healer Francis looked up from the book he was reading as Jerrol hovered in his doorway. His sharp eyes inspected Jerrol for a moment. “Commander, please have a seat. I was just making some tea,” he said as he put his book down and rose. Jerrol sat, head bent, staring at his hands as Francis pottered about. He placed a mug in front of Jerrol and sat back down in his chair.
“Tell me.”
Jerrol sighed and raised his head. Where to begin? Thoughts and images tumbled in his mind. “I went to Terolia, searching for Sentinals to wake and to prevent the Ascendants from destabilising the Families,” Jerrol began. He rambled on about the Ascendants’ mind control techniques and the increasingly deserted villages. Francis let him talk until, finally, Jerrol faltered to a stop. “We found the mines.”
“What did you find at the mines?” Francis prompted.
“What I found was worse than death.” Jerrol closed his eyes. Francis was about to prompt him again when Jerrol continued. “I can’t get their faces out of my head. It’s their eyes. I’ve never seen such despair, and I couldn’t help them.” Jerrol stared bleakly at the mug in front of him, not seeing it as the memories from the mines overwhelmed him and the anguish at his failure to save the people clawed at his innards. Bitter tears welled and he blinked them away.
Taking a deep breath, Jerrol continued speaking, his voice low. “There were hundreds of them. I’ve never seen so many desperate people. They must have been clearing the villages for years, replacing people as they died. Their own people,” Jerrol exclaimed, anger colouring his voice. “They enslaved their own people and treated them worse than animals, and all for what? To dig up dirt.
“They had them digging day and night, even though there was nothing to find. They sent children down narrow shafts, in baskets, expecting them to dig while hanging at the end of a rope in the dark. The people,” Jerrol paused, his voice failing, “they were emaciated; men, women, children; you could count their ribs. The children’s bones were so fragile they could snap at the slightest touch.” Jerrol gritted his teeth and pushed out the words. “I couldn’t save them. Their eyes haunt me. Such despair, to be replaced by a flicker of hope, only for it to be snatched away at the last moment.” His eyes filled with tears again. He wiped them away angrily.
“What happened to them?”
“We were overwhelmed; there were too many of them. A mass of despairing humanity, all deserving love and care, all deserving to live. It was like they were sucking the life out of us to replenish their meagre reserves. Not deliberately, don’t get me wrong; they were desperate.” Jerrol's voice cracked as he tried to control the emotions battering him. “We couldn’t cope with them all.” He leaned back in his chair, his face strained and drawn.
“The people were so weak and downtrodden, they only needed a skeleton guard.” Jerrol laughed darkly, and Francis shivered at the lack of emotion in his voice. “A skeleton guard for a skeleton crew. We dealt with them.” Jerrol shrugged as if they were of no concern. Then he dropped his head into his hands. “I instructed the Sentinals to keep those poor people in the caves. It was too hot outside; the heat of the sun would have had them dropping like flies. They were already dehydrated. I didn’t even let them see the sky. That was all they wanted,” he said to the floor, “but I was afraid we wouldn’t be able to control them to get them back undercover. I deprived them of their one request.”
“For good reason,” Francis interjected.
“By what right did I stop them from standing outside in the sun? They were free. I had freed them. Some had never even seen the sun before, yet I still treated them as captives.”
“You treated them with care, and you were trying to protect them; it was for their own good. Once they’d grown stronger, rehydrated, then they could go out,” Francis said. “It is exactly what I would have recommended, had I been there.”
“They never had the chance,” Jerrol said, his voice low. “The Ascendants blew up the mines and buried most of them alive. We got some of the stronger ones out. They were helping us to cook up some gruel. I didn’t think they would be able to eat anything more solid after all that time.”
Francis nodded. “You know that not all of them would have survived? Malnutrition and heat are not a good combination; you were right to keep them out of the sun. You couldn’t know that the Ascendants would blow up the mines. You didn’t kill them. The Ascendants did.”
“The screams.” Jerrol swallowed as he looked up at the healer, strained and exhausted. Francis tightened his lips but let Jerrol continue speaking. “I can hear them screaming, over and over and over. Their voices cut through me; yet after the mountain collapsed, it was deadly silent; not a sound. So why do I hear them screaming?
“The mountain collapsed in on itself. We were fortunate that we had set up camp outside.” Jerrol scrunched up his face and rubbed his temples. “The smell, you know—that much death stinks. I can still smell it now. They had fortunately become used to it and didn’t notice. We should have got them out quicker. I should have helped them.”
“Jerrol, you can’t second guess yourself. You are not the monster; the Ascendants are. You provided the right help. They would have collapsed and probably died if you had let them out into the heat. It was better that they stayed in the mines. The sun would have damaged their eyes that were so used to the dark. Water was what they needed to begin with.”
“Then why do they invade my dreams? Their eyes accusing me of failing them, reliving their suffering, their screams.”
“Because you are a good man, Jerrol. You are horrified by the treatment of those people; most sane people would be. You empathised with their situation; you tried to help, and you thought you had saved them. Your reactions are normal; you’ve seen horrific things, suffered severe trauma. You feel their loss. Don’t forget that you are grieving, for them and Serillion, for Birlerion. Compounded, it is amazing that you are still functioning at all. It takes time to get over traumatic events like that.
“You can’t suppress your grief; it will just come out in other ways. Your brain is a tricky thing, very clever. The pressure must be released somewhere, otherwise you will do yourself more damage. The health of your mind is as important as your physical health, and you know that or you wouldn’t be here talking to me now.” Francis sat back in his chair and studied him. “Jerrol, don’t take the blame for actions the Ascendants took or you’ll do their work for them.”
Jerrol lifted his head, startled.
Francis continued now that he had Jerrol’s attention. “I remember once there was a terrible storm in Woodbridge, deep in the Marchwood Watch. That’s where I originally came from. I was apprenticed to the Watch healer, just starting out. There was terrible flooding; trees down, whole villages washed away. We were overwhelmed,” he said, deliberately using the same word Jerrol had. “We couldn’t cope with the injured or the dead.
“The healer set up a triage. We had to decide who was worth treating and who we had to leave to die. There just weren’t the people or the supplies. We saved who we could. That was when I first learnt the power that I would hold in my hands as a healer; power over who would live and who would die.” He peered at Jerrol. “The people we put as
ide to die—their pain and anguish haunted me for many months, and then my teacher said to me: You are not all powerful, you are just a man, but a man with knowledge and some aptitude.” Francis’ lips quirked. “If you use it right, you can save many who would otherwise have died. I decided that saving some lives was better than saving none. You can’t save everyone. Yes, it’s terrible when someone dies, but we didn’t cause it. It is not our fault. We must accept that we did our best.
“Hard lesson to learn, while not letting it dehumanise you. You must be able to help the next person. They deserve help just as much.” Francis leaned forward, his eyes shining behind his glasses. “I am not belittling your grief; what you have seen I have never experienced, but you are not alone. You are never alone, and that is your strength. Share your grief, share your burden; you will be the stronger for it.”
Jerrol heaved a big sigh and smiled tentatively at the healer. “Thank you,” he said. “I mean it. Thank you, Francis.”
The healer grinned. “Now, go back to bed and get some sleep, and let me get back to my book.”
5
King’s Palace, Old Vespers
The next morning, Niallerion stood guard in the outer office. The commander’s aide sat at his desk deep in some correspondence. Although Deron had been in awe of the Sentinals to begin with, he now routinely ignored the Sentinals keeping him company. Unless he was working himself up to ask them questions, which often were unexpectedly astute. Niallerion was sure it was because Deron found them fascinating.
“Why do you call the commander, Captain?” was Deron’s question for today.
Sentinals Justice: Book Three of the Sentinal Series Page 3