Sentinals Justice: Book Three of the Sentinal Series

by Helen Garraway

  “Halt,” Jerrol whispered as the air vibrated, caressing his skin. “Get your light out. I need my hands.”

  Jerrol laid his hands flat on the rock and pushed. The silver light from his hand spread in front of him and, once it had covered the wall, began to shimmer. He stepped through. Taurillion tested the wall and ducked through behind him. His eyes skittered around him as if expecting he would be refused entry. The wall continued to undulate behind them.

  Jerrol searched the cavern. A natural space below the ground, once filled with water or, from the striations on the wall, ice. Jerrol stood, head bent, his senses questing through the cavern as Taurillion stared around him in amazement. Crystal formations glittered above them, refracting the light of his lantern; the result of centuries of slowly dripping water.

  “They are not here,” Marguerite whispered.

  “Are you sure about that?” Jerrol extended his thoughts further, questing down fissures and cracks and through long-forgotten tunnels.

  “It has been too long. I petrified them all, and now they are lost.”

  “No, don’t give up, Marguerite; we have only just begun. They must be nearby. We just have to find them.”

  “I can’t feel them, yet they are within me so I should be able to.”

  “You said you petrified them. That casing might be blocking your sense of them, and their sense of us. Maybe they have turned inwards to survive.”

  “I failed them,” Marguerite said.

  “Marguerite, stop it, you haven’t failed them, but if you give up on them, you will. If we work together, we may have a chance.”

  “Together?”

  “Isn’t that what the Oath is about? Binding us to each other as one?”

  Jerrol staggered as the ground trembled. Taurillion flung out a hand to steady him as the ground buckled beneath their feet and they dropped. Jerrol snapped his hand open as Marguerite gathered them in and brought them to a stop before a copse of tall petrified trees. Taurillion gasped out loud.

  The air was soft and warm in her embrace, and Marguerite’s voice resonated through Jerrol’s bones. “Together, my Oath Keeper, see what needs to be seen, touch what needs to be touched, hear those who do not call.”

  Jerrol almost folded under the weight of her presence. Taurillion braced him as he flinched back. Her essence ran through him, tangling with his own, blending and searching until she finally sighed in his ear and settled, calmly waiting.

  “Um, are you staying?” Jerrol asked, concerned.

  “You said we were one,” she said, an edge to her voice.

  “True,” Jerrol admitted. “I didn’t expect you to take up residence, though.”

  Her laugh tingled in his ears. “Now, feel,” she commanded.

  Jerrol reached out and touched a smooth trunk. His hands, sensitive to Marguerite’s will, felt the vibrations beneath, faint and muffled but present. He tried to sink his thoughts into the trunk.

  “Don’t fight it. You can’t separate us; we’re stronger together.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Marguerite’s laughter peeled out, and Taurillion gasped, turning his head to see her, his arms still supporting Jerrol.

  “Marguerite?”

  “I see why my sister likes having a Captain. She’s already got one. I think you should be mine.”

  “I’m not sure the Lady or Taurillion will agree to that.”

  “True.” Marguerite smiled as she caressed Taurillion’s face.

  Taurillion stiffened as the sensation coursed through his lean body. He twisted around. “Marguerite?” he breathed.

  “Stop teasing him, now is not the time.”

  Marguerite sighed, but dutifully turned her attention back to Jerrol. Jerrol grinned as he sunk their combined will into the sentinal before him. “Allarion? It is time to wake.”

  Jerrol felt a tendril of thought reach for him, much diminished. He grasped the debilitated Sentinal, embraced him in the will of the Land, and drew him out of the petrified sentinal tree. He immediately knew that this man would not survive much longer. He threw their thoughts through the Land to Marchwood Watch and drove up through the roots of one of the remaining sentinal saplings in the nursery. He ever so gently laid the grey-faced man inside. Gold strands immediately began to swirl around the man and brightened as the strands thickened, and Allarion disappeared in a glowing golden cocoon.

  “Laerille? I need you,” Jerrol called the Marchwood Sentinal who had assisted him when he had rescued the Terolian Sentinals. Many were now close friends of his and had been trapped in a similar situation. It was fortunate that there were still four saplings waiting in the nursery at Marchwood, watched over by the Watch’s forestry men.

  Marguerite pulled him back, and he reached for the next Sentinal. The trees were fossilised, petrified in place, and non-responsive. It was a miracle that the men and women cocooned within were still alive; a miracle of the Lady, Jerrol assumed as he sunk their will into the next tree, shattering the casing that held it in place.

  “He’s not here!” Marguerite exclaimed.

  “Who’s not here?”

  “Lorillion. Brave, brave Lorillion.”

  “What was he doing when the Lady sundered the stone. Where was he?”

  “He was the link; the anchor for the Sentinals. He was the focus for Leyandrii. He survived; I am sure he survived. I remember pulling him out.”

  “I would say he never came to this sentinal. There is no sense of him having occupied it. Did you place him elsewhere? Did the Lady take him?”

  “No, he should be here.”

  “We’ll find him, Marguerite. Let’s move to the next one for now.” Jerrol exhaled as he felt a diminished essence languishing within the neighbouring petrified tree.

  “Captain?” Laerille’s surprised voice interrupted him.

  “Laerille, I have Sentinals for you,” he gasped as he reached. He hesitated. “This Sentinal is more viable,” he murmured. “Marguerite, we need to release this tree.” He placed his hand on the trunk and sank their combined thoughts through the petrified wood. “Livarille?” He whispered directions to Marchwood. The tree trembled as the casing cracked, the noise rebounding off the cavern walls as the pieces fell to the floor. The sentinal’s leaves spread and he began to shake. Lorillion’s tree shuddered in response and then they both shimmered and disappeared.

  Laerille gasped in his head. “They just arrived.”

  “They have been petrified, frozen under the ground in Elothia. They will need help.”

  “We’ll look after them. We have space now, since the others transferred to Terolia. Captain, where are you? We were told you were missing, presumed dead.”

  “False report,” Jerrol replied, gritting his teeth as he reached for the next sentinal and sank their thoughts in deep, shattering the casing.

  “Davion?” he said, searching the fossilised trunk for signs of life. The tree was frozen and unresponsive, but a wisp of interest caught his attention. Sensing a mere thought, Marguerite rushed to revive it. The thought strengthened and Jerrol’s will combined with Marguerite’s cocooned it as she transferred it to a sapling in Marchwood, where the sentinal tree embraced the man who had once lived in another time.

  Jerrol sagged against the final tree and gasped out his breath. He frowned and broke the link to Laerille. This last one felt different. He took a deep breath as Marguerite hovered, and he concentrated one more time.

  36

  Tower of Leyarne, Elothia

  “Marguerite? This one is aware.” Jerrol paused and then called as Marguerite hovered behind his eyes. “Serenion?”

  The mists coalesced, and a very young Sentinal hesitantly stepped forward. He was a gangly youth, long-limbed and lean. His cheeks were hollowed and led down to a pointed chin. His long black hair was tied in a queue, and alert silver eyes inspected them. Serenion’s mouth dropped open as he stared at Taurillion in confusion, his youthful face openly showing his surprise.

  “Tauri
llion? What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be with Marguerite?”

  Taurillion grinned. “I am with Marguerite; she needs your help.”

  Jerrol still couldn’t get used to seeing a smile on Taurillion’s face. Marguerite’s talk had turned him into a different person; someone comfortable with himself, centred. It seemed she had managed to talk him into forgiving her and himself. Jerrol supposed that wouldn’t be too difficult for a deity like Marguerite. He heard a petulant sniff in the back of his mind and smiled. She was a demanding taskmaster, but Taurillion seemed to like it.

  Serenion shuffled back a step. “My help?” He looked around him and rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Where are we?”

  Jerrol studied Serenion. He was fresh-faced and awkward as if he hadn’t completely grown into his body yet. He didn’t look old enough to be a Sentinal, and yet he had an air of competence about him.

  As Jerrol discreetly observed him, an ash staff appeared in his hand. He looked much younger than even Birlerion when he had first met him, and he had been just nineteen, or so he had thought. He shied away from thinking about how Birlerion was faring.

  Jerrol stepped forward. “We are below the Tower of Leyarne. The Lady has been protecting you for a long time, but now it is time to return to the world of Remargaren.”

  Serenion stared at Jerrol and then snapped to attention. “Captain?” he said.

  Jerrol waved his hands. “No, no, I do not claim to be the Captain in Elothia. I am the Oath Keeper, here to help find Marguerite’s missing guardians.”

  Taurillion smirked. “Yaserille told you; no matter what you say, you will always be the Captain.”

  “But, I can’t be, Marguerite said …”

  “You have the Lady’s mark. It is subdued, yes, but it’s still there; you can’t get rid of it,” Serenion said, his gaze jumping between Taurillion and Jerrol.

  “But the Lady forsook me and instructed me to forsake her. I can’t be the Captain.”

  “Well you’re doing a terrible job of forsaking her, then,” Taurillion chuckled.

  “It’s not as easy as it sounds,” Jerrol bit out.

  Serenion held his hand up. “I don’t understand. Why would you want to forsake the Lady?”

  “Because she told me too.”

  “But why?”

  “Because the Ascendants are searching for me and I need to hide.”

  Serenion grinned. “It’s not working.” He raised an eyebrow at Taurillion as Jerrol groaned. “Yaserille? Is she here too?”

  Jerrol waved a hand in permission as Taurillion began explaining to Serenion the current situation.

  “Three thousand years?” Serenion repeated numbly, when Taurillion had finished.

  “Yes, it is the year 4125. Remargaren is now comprised of four Kingdoms. Grand Duke Randolf the fourteenth rules over Elothia, King Benedict rules over Vespiri and Terolia, and Emperor Geraine rules over the Island Empire of Birtoli.”

  Serenion blinked. “Island Empire?”

  “Yes, much has changed.”

  “So it seems,” he said, gazing into the distance.

  “I’m sorry, Serenion, but we have little time; we have to get moving,” Jerrol said.

  Serenion nodded. “Of course.” His brief grin was strained. “At least they can’t accuse me of being a kid anymore.”

  Jerrol grinned. “Not at all,” he agreed. At least the boy was trying. “Just how old is he?” he asked Marguerite as they began climbing the steep stone stairs leading back up to the surface.

  “Seventeen, but he is so good! It would have been a shocking waste to make him wait,” Marguerite murmured.

  Jerrol led the way up the stairs, pausing at the top to catch his breath. Serenion pushed passed him, drawn to the fire. He hesitantly spread his hands before the heat, mesmerised by the flames. Jerrol glanced over the neatly stacked provisions on the table. He wished there were self-stocking towers located across the other territories as well. He collapsed into a chair and waved his hand at the table, dropping it as it shook and exhaustion overtook him.

  “Take what you need,” he said to the Sentinals, as a flush of warmth spread through him and he straightened as Marguerite restored him. “Thank you,” he thought.

  “My apologies, I should have realised it would have taken a lot more effort.” Marguerite replied. “Please my tower provides to those who ask.”

  Standing, he selected what he needed and stuffed it into a rucksack and then lifted a fur-lined coat off the peg. “Taurillion, go get Yaserille. We’re leaving. Serenion, your friends have been transferred to Marchwood to recover. Your sentinal ought to relocate, but until we know where he should relocate to, will he be alright remaining where he is? Or we could give him directions to Marchwood if he can transfer and prefers to wait for you there. At least he will feel the sun on his leaves.”

  Serenion’s youthful face froze as he communed with his sentinal. And just as fast, his face firmed and refocused on Jerrol. “Once we have left, he will transfer to Marchwood with the others and wait for me there, if you would be so kind as to give him the directions.”

  Jerrol nodded. “Consider it done,” he said as Marguerite’s voice whispered to the sentinal. He sent a warning to Laerille to expect another sentinal tree to appear.

  Serenion’s face lit up as he heard her voice. “Marguerite?” He blushed as she whispered a soft welcome in his ear.

  She was interrupted as Taurillion and Yaserille returned, bringing a gust of cold air with them. Yaserille engulfed the boy in a heartfelt hug. She stood back, holding him by his shoulders. “By the Lady, let me look at you,” she grinned, her silver eyes shining.

  She was slightly taller than him, but he laughed at her scrutiny. “I’m not far off now, Yas; I’ll catch you soon.”

  She nodded ruefully. “That you will, but not today at least.”

  “Lorillion is missing. Do any of you know where he was near the end?” Jerrol asked, watching the three tall Sentinals.

  Yaserille frowned in thought, her brows creasing. “He was in Vespers with you, Taurillion, wasn’t he?”

  Taurillion grimaced. “Yeah, he was at the palace with Leyandrii, last I saw. Birlerion and I were ambushed and got trapped in the basement of the administration building in Vespers. I didn’t see what happened to him.” He faltered. “Marguerite, you only saved me. Why didn’t you take Birlerion too?”

  “Leyandrii needed him,” Marguerite said sadly. “But he managed to escape on his own. He did what was asked of him, and he did it well. As he will again.”

  “What did he do?” Jerrol asked.

  “What was needed.”

  Jerrol could tell from the tone of her voice that she wouldn’t say anything more. Why would no one say what had happened?

  “We will meet again, my Oath Keeper.” Jerrol felt a soft kiss on his cheek and her presence faded from his awareness. He exhaled a relieved breath as the weight lifted from his mind. Taurillion’s face fell as she whispered her farewell.

  Jerrol cleared his throat and stared at the Sentinals. “Well, we need to go to the Summer Palace.” He glanced around the room. “I think it’s time to arrange our diversion.” He looked at Yaserille. “Travel with us as far as Morstal and then cut down through Tierne to the border. You’d better go and tell them what we need. Ask for Tagerillion. He’ll take you to Lord Jennery.”

  “Why can’t you go? They are more likely to do what you say.”

  “If I go, they won’t let me come back.”

  “But you’re the Lady’s Captain,” Taurillion protested.

  Jerrol looked at him and Taurillion grimaced. “Yas, you’ll have to go. They won’t believe me, I haven’t got the silver eyes! You do.”

  Yaserille cursed under her breath. “You know Tagerill better than I do. And anyway, what makes you think they’ll let me come back?”

  “Tell Jennery that if they prevent you from returning, Commander Haven will be most angry with him and he’ll hit him over the head with a ladl
e. Got it?”

  “Umm, are you sure that’s what you want me to say to a Lord Guardian of the Watch?” Yaserille asked.

  Jerrol nodded. “Word for word.”

  Rolling her eyes, Yaserille sighed. “Alright. When do we want them to attack? And where?”

  Jerrol leaned over the map. “It will take us a week to get to the Summer Palace, a day to get in position, so eight days from now along the Tierne pass south of the Summer Palace. It will draw attention from both Adeeron and Retarfu. Make sure you warn them that the Chevrons are at full strength in Adeeron. They must ensure their east flank is reinforced.

  “This is only a diversion. They mustn’t overplay their hand, and they need to have a retreat strategy. If the Chevrons are engaged, it will be full out war. Make sure they warn Stoneford what they are doing; we don’t want Jason piling in as well.”

  Yaserille looked at him, bright-eyed. “Are you sure we can stop them? The incursions have been going on for months, and they are just waiting for an excuse. This might not be the best strategy.”

  “You got any better suggestions?” Jerrol asked, as he straightened.

  Yaserille looked at Taurillion and shrugged. “We’ll do it your way, but I reserve the right to make an alternative suggestion when I think of it.”

  Jerrol grinned. “Deal,” he said. He folded up the map and took a moment to kneel before the fire. “We give thanks to Lady Marguerite for all that we received and thank you for your gift of fire and shelter.” The fire flared briefly before it began to die out. Taurillion replenished the wood basket and refilled the jugs with water. Yaserille filled a vase with green foliage, and the orchid stood resplendent against the rich backdrop.

  Jerrol stood, checking the sword at his belt and the daggers sheathed next to it. He shrugged into his rucksack and followed the Sentinals down the stairs, thanking Marguerite for his warm winter coat as the bitterly cold air blasted him as he left the Tower. They all hunched against the icy wind and began the long trek along the top of the Unworthy Man’s Drop and down towards Morstal.