Staring at his grey eyes, at the shadowed lines connecting cheek to jaw, Trell didn’t see the scholar that his friends Ware and Graeme claimed. He just saw a face, a face that answered to a name but had no history; a face that might resemble someone else’s or might not; a face that had two makers somewhere that had contributed eyes and nose and chin…but which came from his father and which from his mother?
Letting out a heavy sigh, Trell frowned at himself and pushed wet hands through his hair. “Who are you?” he asked the face in the mirror.
Silence followed, only the mystery declaring its rule over his life. He shook his head and turned to find something to wear.
To his surprise, his clothes had been washed and new boots laid out for him. Everything was there—his sword, even his satchel. Trell stared blankly down at all of his belongings. How had he made it through a river and swum up a well with all of that weighing him down? It was a fair miracle. Perhaps it had indeed been Naiadithine’s blessing that bade him to follow the water.
He dressed slowly, all the while straining to catch something of the muted conversation continuing beyond the heavy drapes, but no words ever floated clearly through to him.
When he was ready, Trell inhaled a deep breath to the fullness of his lungs, and exhaled as he walked to the heavy drapes, found the parting, and pushed through. The quiet conversation stopped abruptly as he stepped from bedroom into parlor and found himself in the company of three others.
The young man seated in the wingback armchair appeared lean and boyish, with glossy black hair smoothed back from a widow’s peak, flawless caramel skin, and pale amber eyes. He wore a long tunic over loose britches in the desert fashion, the fine linen dyed a cerulean blue that seemed especially vibrant against his tanned skin, and he greeted Trell with a smile of pleasant surprise.
The woman sitting sideways on the divan with long legs crossed at the ankles could have been a statue for her perfection. To call her lovely would be an insult to her beauty, though her sculpted features were far from soft. High cheekbones, full lips of graceful line, and a strong nose flowing smoothly into arched ebony brows framed intense green eyes that studied Trell with obvious candor. She wore a fitted gown of heavy emerald silk split up the sides, and slim suede knee-boots dyed to match, and her sleek raven draped around her shoulders like a shawl.
The third man, who stood behind the woman with arms crossed, was not a man at all; this Trell knew at once, for he had met his like before. The man’s skin was leathery and as black as pitch, and his long, hooked nose and furious scowl seemed the caricature of a mummer’s mask. His golden eyes were fixed on Trell with undisguised malice—though Trell rather suspected this was a result of the man’s ill-disposed features more than any personal disregard. Utterly hairless, and dressed in loose black garments bound at the joints by leather straps, he was called a Wildling at best, a Whisper Lord by race, and though he was not wearing any daggered gloves, he was no less frightening—nor, as Trell suspected, less deadly.
“Be welcome,” the youth greeted in the desert tongue, drawing Trell’s eye back to him. “Please…” he motioned Trell approach their circle.
Trell noticed other things about the room then: the plush carpets, the tall glass lamps fringed with strands of gemstones that gleamed alluringly in the room’s muted light, and a mysterious breeze that stirred his hair and cooled his neck yet had no obvious source. “Where am I?” he asked, also in the desert tongue, which he spoke fluently—not that this was any measure of his past either, for he’d learned through the years that he also spoke Agasi, Veneisean, and the Triad common tongue with equal ease.
The young man leaned sideways in his armchair, propped ankle over knee, and twined fingers in his lap. He was barefoot, and his toenails shone black. So did his fingernails, Trell then noted. “Why you’re…” the youth began, but then he seemed to reconsider his answer. “You’re in the mountains west of Jar’iman Point. Three days by horse to Raku.”
Trell lifted brows. Amazing to think he’d traveled that far on an underground river, but then the river set its own course, while a horse did not. “I’m…very grateful to be here,” Trell said, feeling unusually awkward among these strangers. He glanced from the glaring Whisper Lord, to the unreadable woman, to the youth. “You—did you…?” Devil’s wind…where do I begin? “I was in a well,” he managed.
The youth smiled and nodded, though there was something about the gesture that made it seem more than a simple response. It was a generous smile, bright and…sharp, if such a word could be used to describe the way the youth’s wide mouth ended in crisp corners. “You were in a well,” the young man confirmed, seeming amused by this. Then he spread his arms. “And now you are here. Feel welcome. We are all guests in this marvelous place.”
Trell approached tentatively. “Did you find me?” he asked. “Do I have you to thank?” He glanced at the room’s other two occupants, but instinct told him they’d had nothing to do with his rescue.
The youth broke into another of his wide smiles, though this time Trell was sure there was something secretive about it. “No doubt you are quite curious how you came to be here,” the youth observed agreeably, and he glanced at his two companions.
The woman stood with slow grace, all the while focusing her catlike green eyes on Trell. Then, saying nothing, she turned and left the room.
The Whisper Lord cast Trell another malignant glare—or it could have just been a noncommittal look; it was hard to say with Whisper Lords—and followed the woman through the parting of drapes. He pulled them closed behind him, shutting Trell in the room alone with the youth. “Please join me,” said the latter. He indicated an armchair near his own. “I am called Balaji.”
Trell nodded as he sat. “I am Trell.”
“A strong name,” Balaji noted with approval. “Trell of the Wash was one of the great swordsmen of old. You likely know him as Trell of the Longshore. Trell d’Bouvalais was the famed sorcerer who established the first Ring of Mages in the Citadel on Tiern’aval, and then there was Nach Trell dan’Eliar, called Trell the Terrible by the western Kings, who conquered all of far eastern Avatar beyond the Fire Sea in the time known as The Before, in the uncharted years preceding the Fourth Age of Fable.” He paused and eyed Trell with his head tilted slightly to the side as if assessing him. “But you are likely named for Trell Tavenstorm,” he decided, “the wielder who helped forge the pact that formed the three allied kingdoms known as the Triad. A great man—all of them great in their own right.”
Trell had never heard of any of these people—at least not that he could remember. His name was fairly common; he hadn’t realized it had noble roots. “And who are you named for?” he asked conversationally.
Balaji broke into that same secretive smile. “Me?” he asked, looking amused again. “My full name is Dhábu’balaji’şridanaí, which means ‘He Who Walks the Edge of the World.’ ”
“That’s a bold naming,” Trell observed.
Balaji barked a laugh. “So it is!” he agreed, as if the notion had only just occurred to him. “So it is!”
Balaji’s gaze was drawn to the drapes then, and Trell leaned around in his chair to find the Whisper Lord returning. He carried a silver tray set with two crystal goblets and a full decanter of clear fluid, all of which he set on a table nearest to Balaji.
“How kind of you, Loghain,” Balaji said.
The Whisper Lord Loghain handed a goblet to each of them, replying, “I thought you might be thirsty.” Then he withdrew, all the while wearing that furious scowl.
Trell followed the man with his eyes until the Wildling had disappeared through the curtains again. Then he leaned back in his chair and frowned.
Balaji just looked amused. “Often things are not as they seem, my new friend Trell,” he observed, “and especially in this place.” He held up his goblet and offered, “To Freedom, however she grace thee.”
Trell joined him in the toast, though he found the tribute unusual,
in keeping with the rest of his experience thus far. The drink was made from the fermented juice of white grapes, known locally as siri. It was cold enough to make the goblet sweat, and Trell thought the drink had never tasted better.
“Now,” said Balaji as he lowered his goblet with a satisfied smack of wet lips, “to your questions.”
“I was in a well,” Trell repeated. “It’s the last thing I remember.”
Balaji nodded. “Yes, yes. You were near death when you arrived. Had not the Mage worked his power, you’d be having conversation with your gods right now.”
“The Mage?” Trell found the revelation both startling and curious. “You do mean the Emir’s Mage, do you not?”
“Indeed.”
“But why would he have gone to such lengths for me?”
Balaji shrugged. “Who knows the inner working of a Mage’s mind?”
Trell frowned. “But how did the Mage find me in a well?”
Balaji took another sip of his siri, eyeing Trell over the rim with his strange eyes that seemed to reflect the fields of wheat whose color they’d claimed. “He has eyes and ears in these mountains, my new friend Trell. Surely you did not think your Emir would hire the Mage simply to strut around like a preening peacock, as if to strike fear into the hearts of your enemies by his presence alone?”
Trell managed a sheepish smile. “No,” he agreed.
“Ah, there’s hope for you yet,” Balaji teased, raising his goblet to Trell. “The Mage then. He brought you in on the back of his horse three nights ago. Those who pulled you from the well knew the Mage had the power to resurrect you should he so desire. Near death you were when you arrived with him, all blue and stiff with shock. I’d never seen a man turn such a color. After the Mage worked his Healing upon you, he sat by your side all the night and through the next day, until you were out of harm’s reach.”
It seemed a strange fortune, this chance rescue. There were some who claimed it was never lucky to gain a magician’s eye. Trell wondered what interest the Mage could have in saving his life. “Is the Mage here now?” he asked Balaji.
“Alas, his duties called him elsewhere.”
“Am I…” Trell wasn’t sure how to phrase the question. “Am I being…held here?”
“Assuredly not!” Balaji declared. “Though the Mage has recommended that you enjoy our hospitality until the moon is full.”
“Why?” Trell tried not to sound suspicious, but his first instinct was distrust. Did the Mage want something from him in return for his life? One of Ware’s mentioned quests, perhaps?
“Having healed you, I suppose,” Balaji meanwhile offered, “the Mage has some insight into your true condition. He knows how deeply your injury was felt, and how long before your stamina is truly restored.”
Trell admitted this could be true; he knew that Healers had to create a deep rapport with those they were Healing.
“Then again,” Balaji added with a grin and a shrug, “who knows the inner workings of a Mage’s mind?”
“Yes, you said that once already,” Trell remarked sourly.
Balaji regarded him with good-humor. “Enjoy your time of relaxation, my new friend Trell,” he offered in his agreeable way. “We are each of us guests here, and you have the best of the rooms—the Mage’s own. Read his books, explore our lovely valley, join us for dinner—tonight will be a banquet in honor of Loghain’s departure—and introduce yourself to the others who come and go; you never know when friends made here will come in handy,” and there was a twinkle in his strange golden gaze as he said this last. “Then be on your way in a few days when the moon is full,” Balaji finished. “That is always the best time to begin a journey.”
“How do—” Trell began to ask, but Balaji stood and smiled down at him. The youth seemed amiable enough, but there was something about that sharp smile that set Trell’s teeth on edge.
“Perhaps we can converse more at a later time,” Balaji suggested, and there didn’t seem to be much in his tone inviting question on the matter. “Alas, the day grows on, and I have duties. If you will permit me…” he motioned to be away, and Trell could do little beyond nod—Balaji was nothing if not polite, and Trell had never found it in himself to respond with outright rudeness. He did scowl after the youth as he left, however. Then he downed the rest of the siri, pushed out of his chair rather heatedly, and returned to his rooms.
Trell spent some time looking over the furnishings of the Mage’s quarters, examining the many books lying around, peering through the glass lamp shades, plucking at the dangling gemstones…and wondering why the Mage left so many priceless and personal things lying about for Trell to see. He puts a lot of faith in a man he doesn’t even know, Trell thought. By midday, he was overcome with restlessness. Launching off the bed, he belted on his sword, slung his satchel diagonally across his chest, and headed out.
The tent complex was immense, and the way out confusing, but at last he emerged into daylight and pushed a hand over his eyes to shade them from the brilliant day. He stood midway on the hill of a forested valley. Long grass softened the gentle slope that descended toward a wide stream studded with large, bleached rocks, while evergreens and hardwoods adorned the higher hills. There was a fragrance, too, that Trell remembered, and now he could place it: it was the sweet smell of grass, an entire valley of it.
Trell knew immediately that he was not in Akkad-held lands. And more than a three-day ride back to Raku, that’s for certain. The Kutsamak Mountains were arid and bleak from Raku westward to the Haden Gorge, the lands not becoming fertile with vegetation until one neared the mountain city of Sakkalaah. All this greenery placed him far from Raku.
So. Had Balaji lied to him? Or could the youth have erred in estimating how long the ride would take?
All Trell could decide was that either he’d come a lot further in that underground river than seemed possible, or the Mage’s horse could fly.
So where have I seen a view such as this? Trell wondered as he turned his gaze back out across the valley. For he knew that he had; it just felt too familiar. He’d spent the past five years in the Akkad, with only an occasional jaunt through the jungles of Bemoth or eastward to the Fire Sea, but he recalled all of those landscapes with perfect clarity. No, this one resonated against a much deeper memory, one of rolling hills and white-capped mountains.
Perhaps it really is time for me to get out into the world, he reasoned, still trying to justify away his pangs of guilt. The Emir was right to send me away. Nothing about the Akkad stirs memories for me, but here, beyond the desert…these trees, these mountains…something awakens.
He was quite absorbed with these musings when a frenetic click and clattering sufficiently jarring to his ears pulled him from his thoughts.
Trell looked to the west, where a quiet stream disappeared into a copse of hardwoods, itself nestled in the bosom of two hills. The sound was coming from that direction, so he set off across the open field and into the wood. He wasn’t long among the trees before he came upon the source of the noise: two of his fellow guests practiced swordplay in an open grove—that is, if you could call such a battle practice.
The Whisper Lord Loghain was stripped to his waist and wearing only his baggy pants, which were secured with black leather straps at thigh, calf, and ankle. His leathery pate gleamed with the sheen of sweat, and the skin of his pitch-black muscled chest, was streaked with tiny cuts that bled as true as any human’s. He now wore the Whisper Lords’ characteristic fitted gloves, and the long daggers extending from each finger of his gloves flashed with deadly precision as he fought his opponent.
She was equally impressive, wearing only a bodice of sheer green silk that covered her torso but left her long legs bare, at least as far down as the slim green suede boots, which hugged her calves at the knee. Her long raven hair was caught up in a heavy bun, but many strands had come loose during their sparring. She was also perspiring, and in places that revealed aspects of her femininity which other ladies would h
ave deemed mortifying.
Trell, of course, was quite appreciative.
He settled onto a fallen tree to watch them—though mainly he watched her. She had legs like a fine-bred mare, long and lean-muscled and spectacular. She was slender yet curvaceous, but more impressive than her physique was that she fought as fast and as furiously as the Wildling. Instead of deadly gloves, she sparred with two short swords, each of them with hilt and blade as black as her opponent’s skin.
The Whisper Lord dodged, darted, lunged and spun. She snaked between knives, blocked his advances, made a few of her own, and escaped like the wind. Their blades moved too quickly to follow with the eye, and the sound of their meeting was the rapid scraping of a master chef sharpening his knives.
Their dance continued a little longer, and then the woman darted between the Wildling’s crisscrossing blades and scored a long, thin gash across his chest before dodging away in a backward flip to land with her booted feet at an angle of attack. Trell blinked, trying to remember what she’d done—trying to reason out how she’d done it.
The action stilled.
The Whisper Lord backed away, still wearing that furious scowl. And yet, now that Trell had a moment to study him, he noticed a subtle difference in the Wildling’s eyes as he looked upon the woman. Trell thought he saw approval in Loghain’s gaze, and certainly appreciation. “Caalaen’callai, Vaile,” he said in a voice that was the whisper of sand across glass. He bowed to her.
She smiled and bowed in return. Then they both turned heads and looked at Trell.
Who felt immediately the intruder, though surely they’d known he was there for quite some time. He got to his feet. “Your pardons,” he was quick to say in the desert tongue, “I hope I’m not—”
“We were finished,” interrupted the Whisper Lord quietly in the common tongue. “She has beaten me again.”
Cephrael's Hand: A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book One Page 16