Loghain reached into his belt pouch and removed a bit of something, a piece of which he bit off and began to chew thoughtfully.
Trell gave him a curious look.
“I have a…tempestuous stomach,” the Whisper Lord confessed. “Chewing ginger root soothes it. Do you need some?” he held out the cleaned root.
Trell raised a hand. “No, thank you.”
He shrugged. “Sometimes Balaji’s cooking comes back to bite you in the night. He keeps ginger root in a jar on the dining table, should you have need of it later.” With that, Loghain stood. “Well, I’d best be off while the night is young.”
Trell got hastily to his feet. He noted then that Loghain had changed into traveling leathers as black as his skin, and he had a pack at his feet. “What, you’re leaving tonight—now?”
“I prefer to travel in the dark,” the Whisper Lord said, flashing the shadow of a grin, “and I have a long road to travel in a short span of time.” He held out his hand to Trell in parting, and Trell took it at once. “Fare thee well, Trell of the Tides,” Loghain said as he released Trell’s hand. “As the First Lord bade you, take care to leave when the moon is full and not before. These are ill times, and dark workings are afoot; ’tis best that you embark upon your journey beneath the good will of Fortune’s eye.”
Trell broke into a rueful grin. “Somehow, I don’t think I shall be allowed to leave any sooner.”
Loghain laughed. He had a rich, buoyant laugh, the sort of laugh you’d expect to hear from a man with a warm heart and a generous spirit. “I hope that should we meet again, we will find each other on the same side of this great battle. You strike me as a good man, Trell of the Tides. It would grieve me to have to kill you.”
Trell grinned. “Not nearly so much as it would grieve me to die.”
Loghain barked another laugh, his golden eyes glittering as they regarded Trell. Then he leaned to retrieve his pack, tossed it over his shoulder, nodded a last farewell, and headed off along the crest of the hill.
As Trell watched him go, it occurred to him that he was among people who harbored great wisdom. Balaji, Vaile, Loghain…these Wildlings—if that’s what they all were—did not view life in the same way as the rest of mankind. As he made his way back to the Mage’s tent, Trell wondered what Loghain meant by ‘this great battle.’ Somehow he did not think the Wildling referred to a war between nations.
The next morning, Trell took his pack and headed off into the hills—with Balaji’s blessing—to explore the surrounding mountains. He needed to know if he was well and truly recovered, and there was nothing better than a long uphill hike for determining one’s level of health. Trell spent that night atop the highest ridge watching the sun set behind distant, snow-capped peaks that could not be any part of the Kutsamak range.
Stranger and stranger…
He returned the following afternoon, reaching the complex of tents as the sun was setting again behind the valley’s green hills. Trell ducked inside the tent and discovered that the sa’reyth had once again gained some new tenants. To his left, in a plush sitting room viewed through beaded curtains, two women dressed in sumptuous desert gowns sat upon a settee with knees pressed together, talking in whispers. Trell only glanced at them long enough to note that Vaile was not among them and then moved on through the curtained partition.
The next room also hosted new arrivals. In a near corner, two dark-haired men were engrossed in a game of Kings. Judging from the placement of the carved marble pieces, which were scattered across the black and white chequered game table positioned between their armchairs, they’d likely been there for a while. The slighter of the two men, who was facing Trell, could have been Balaji’s older brother with his sleek, dark hair and pale golden eyes.
In the opposite corner, yet another of Balaji’s raven-haired cousins sat reading a book upside down—at least it seemed upside down to Trell, who could make no sense of the strange, scrawling script on the pages open across the man’s lap. The stranger’s black-nailed fingertip followed vertical lines from the bottom of the right-hand corner, up a line of incomprehensible symbols until it reached the top of the page, then crossed to the bottom of the next earlier line, and so on.
Trell didn’t realize he was staring until the stranger glanced up. He broke into a welcoming smile. “Ah, you must be the man Rhakar and Ramu found in the well,” he said.
Rhakar and Ramu—names at last! Trell committed the names to memory. He wondered if they would be there tonight, his faceless rescuers.
“Glad to see you well and recovered,” the man added in his friendly way.
They are all quite amiable, Balaji and his brothers, Trell thought, and for some reason, he was made wary by this very fact. People who could afford to be friendly to strangers usually had reason not to fear them. “I’m Trell,” he said, approaching.
“Trell,” repeated the stranger with an approving eye. “That is a sound naming. I am Náeb’nabdurin’náiir, but you may call me Náiir.” He indicated the chair across from him with a smile of perfect teeth and leaned to remove some large books that had been resting there so Trell could be seated.
“You are related to Balaji?” Trell inquired as he moved toward the chair, noting that Náiir wore the same loose desert robes in the deepest black. He dropped his pack beside the chair and sat down. It was heavenly to sink into soft, over-stuffed leather after sleeping on hard-packed earth.
“You might say that,” replied Náiir as he carefully set the books down beside his chair, one at a time.
Trell remarked, “I cannot hope to repeat Balaji’s name, but I assume yours has a meaning as well?”
“Indeed,” Náiir confirmed with a smile. “In our language, my name means Chaser of the Dawn.”
“And what language is that?” Trell asked. The curiosity in his tone was more than mere idle interest by then. He’d been trying to guess Balaji’s race since his arrival, though it was only instinct that told him the youth and his brethren were other than human.
Náiir leaned sideways to rest an elbow upon one chair arm. “Ours is an ancient language. You would likely not have heard of it.”
“Is that it written there?” Trell nodded to the book in Náiir’s lap.
Náiir frowned down at the book, closed the cover on his finger to mark his page, and held up the cover for Trell to see. “This book?” he inquired.
Trell blinked and leaned closer. The cover read, Codex & Inscriptus of the Fallen Races. “But…” he said, taken aback, “but inside…”
Náiir opened it to the page he’d been reading and turned the pages to Trell. He could clearly make out the words in the written style of the Common tongue. Trell sat back in his chair, perplexed. “That’s not the language I saw scribed there when I walked in,” he insisted.
Náiir regarded him with veiled amusement. “This is one of the Mage’s books,” he offered helpfully, “which is another way of saying it is a magic book, and that is why it may have shown itself differently to you both times you’ve looked upon it.” He closed the book and set it down in his lap again. Folding black-nailed fingers upon it, he noted, “It is my experience that people of magic like to own things of magic, just as they prefer to associate with other races of magic.”
“Why do you think that is?”
Náiir shrugged. “It is a natural instinct, is it not, to associate with those that look the same and think the same?” He waved a hand absently as he continued, “Common realities—even common ostracism—result in common understanding and thereby a sense of community. These sa’reyths are a perfect example.” He opened his hands, palms up, to the room at large. “Everyone here has no place of their own in this world. Everyone here has made loneliness an ally, and isolation a retreat.” He settled Trell an arch look. “But surely I am not telling you anything you didn’t know.”
Indeed, Trell knew exactly what Náiir meant. How often had he wished for someone who shared his unique dilemma, someone who understood th
e anguish of a past that eludes their best efforts to remember it? How often had he sought the companionship of isolation rather than endure the torment of having his loss ground in his face by those who knew their heritage and remembered their childhood, their families, their upbringing?
Too often, was his answer. Every day for five years, in fact.
But what set the hairs to rising on Trell’s arms and the back of his neck was wondering how this stranger could know these innermost thoughts—for clearly this was Náiir’s implication.
Náiir was gazing at him neutrally, waiting for a reply. Trell held his gaze, wondering how to respond, until it occurred to him that Náiir would likely welcome any response without questioning it. “No,” Trell admitted, choosing truth in the end, “I quite understand you,” and Náiir acknowledged him with a nod of approval.
“Rhakar and Ramu,” Trell said then, his mind jumping to a subject it had never really left. “Will they be here tonight?”
“Ramu is attending the Mage,” Náiir answered, “but Rhakar is that man there,” and he nodded to the man Trell had noticed playing Kings.
Trell was surprised and excited to find that one of the men responsible for his rescue was close at hand. “I should thank him,” he said, and rose to do so.
Náiir propped one elbow upon the chair arm and rested chin in hand. His eyes followed Trell as he stood. “You can certainly try,” he noted with quiet amusement.
Puzzled by this statement but hardly discouraged, Trell approached the two men in the opposite corner. Rhakar’s raven-haired opponent lifted dark green eyes as Trell neared, but there was no friendship in his gaze. Rhakar did not look up from his assessment of the board at all, though he clearly took notice of Trell, for he muttered, “What do you want?”
His harsh manner caught Trell off guard. “I’m the man you pulled from the well,” he offered in reply, thinking that perhaps Rhakar didn’t recognize him.
Rhakar lifted his yellow-gold eyes from the board and leveled them on Trell. There was no kindness in his gaze, and even less interest. He asked again, emphasizing every word, “What-Is-It-You-Want?”
“Only to thank you,” Trell told him, trying not to let the man’s rudeness arouse his ire. “Just to thank you for saving my life, you and Ramu.”
“We didn’t save your life,” Rhakar muttered as if the mere mention of it was an insult. “The Mage did that. We just pulled you from the water.” His eyes flicked over Trell as he added, “I didn’t even get wet. You can thank Ramu for that part. If you like.” He turned his attention back to his game and seemed to forget Trell altogether.
Trell glanced at Rhakar’s opponent, who was watching Trell with a distinctly smug expression. There was something decidedly unnerving about the other man, something that inspired nothing if not distrust. Trell arched a brow in direct challenge, made a point of turning his back on the man, and rejoined Náiir.
The latter was suppressing a grin, but his manner was so amiable that Trell wasn’t offended. He even broke into a chuckle as he retook his seat, and Náiir shared in his amusement.
“A bold attempt, Trell,” Náiir complimented. “I applaud your tenacity.”
Trell sat back in his chair, still smiling in bemused wonder. “I cannot say you didn’t warn me,” he admitted.
“Not what you expected, eh?”
Trell shook his head. “Everyone else here has…well…exceeded expectations of hospitality.”
“The Mage keeps good company,” Náiir agreed. His gaze flicked toward the stranger sitting with Rhakar, whereupon he added as an afterthought, “That is…more often than not.”
“Speaking of the Mage…” Trell broached a subject he’d been meaning to mention to Vaile when he saw her next—for Balaji had too easily evaded Trell’s attempts to elicit explanation. “Loghain called the Mage something different when last we spoke. The First Lord, I think he said. Do you know what he might have meant by that?”
Náiir waved a dismissive hand. “Mages go by many names to many people. That you knew he was speaking of the Mage when he named him so, this is all that matters, I should think.”
“Why not answer him truthfully, Náiir?” came a familiar voice from behind Trell. He craned his neck to see Vaile standing there. “Náiir would have you believe he knows nothing of the term,” Vaile told Trell, “which serves no purpose, it would seem to me, save to dangle a carrot before your eyes.” She turned her emerald gaze on Náiir, looking disgusted. “You drachwyr and your mysteries. You are so stingy with your knowledge.”
Náiir burst into laughter. “And your kind are any more forthcoming, Vaile?” he inquired through his mirth. “Oh, no. That’s right,” he added, pressing a forefinger across smiling lips, “only when it suits your motives.”
Vaile gave him a black look. As if to prove him wrong, she turned to Trell and explained, “The title of First Lord is an ancient one, translated from Old Alaeic, the mother language of your northern Common tongue—ma dieul tan cyr im’avec, ” she supplied, “which means something akin to my first and only lord, owner of my heart. It is a title we all use for the Mage—a name he is more widely known by, actually.”
Trell glanced from Vaile to Náiir, who was looking amused, and back again. “I thank you for the explanation.”
Leveling a cool look at Náiir, she replied, “It was nothing.”
Náiir chuckled.
Vaile came around to stand beside Trell so he might better eye her appreciatively. She wore a black silk gown of the same revealing cut and design as her green one before, yet her lithe form looked far more elegant in the black. Strange that a simple change of color could have so profound an effect, but then, women of all races were experts in his art of subtle manipulation. “You look lovely, milady,” Trell complimented.
Vaile arched a brow, and her green eyes flicked to Náiir. “He thinks me a lady. I have tried to correct him, but he seems incorrigible on the matter.”
Náiir was relaxing with chin in hand again. “There are worse crimes,” he murmured, and winked at Trell.
Vaile grunted in a manner that sounded unconvinced. “If you are finished here with this charmer of snakes, Trell of the Tides, there is someone I should like you to meet.”
Trell looked to Náiir. He waved him to depart. “I hope we shall have time to speak again, my new friend Trell,” Náiir said, echoing Balaji. Perhaps it was a ritual saying among their race.
Drachwyr. At least Trell had a name for them now.
He stood and looked to Náiir. “Thank you again for the warning,” he said in parting.
Náiir winked, smiled. “Any time.” He returned his attention to his book.
“Come Trell of the Tides.” Vaile took his hand with the usual tingle at her touch, and he followed obediently.
Noting Trell’s gaze as they passed the hostile pair playing Kings, Vaile arched a brow and murmured knowingly, “I take it you met Rhakar.”
Trell glanced back at the man over his shoulder before following Vaile through the parting of drapes. “Not an especially hospitable fellow is he?” he muttered as they headed into another tent.
“Srívas’rhakarakéck.” Vaile said the complicated name with ease. “His name means The Shadow of the Light. He can be…difficult.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Trell muttered. He was just about to ask her what sort of race the drachwyr were when she pushed through a curtain of colorful glass beads into another tent. Trell recognized the sitting room where the two women had been seated earlier, though there was only one woman seated there now, writing in a small book.
“This is Jayachándranáptra,” Vaile said, holding a hand to the woman who was carefully penning her thoughts and so far ignoring their entrance. “Her name means Rival of the Sun.”
Trell thought he could see why. The woman had flame-gold hair like the burnished color of the setting sun, and it was piled atop her head and held with tiny, opal-studded pins. She wore a desert gown of
tangerine silk, ornately beaded along the wide hem and embroidered with thread-of-gold, and a delicate headdress that dangled tiny citrine stones across her forehead.
At last she finished her sentence and glanced up at them, whereupon Trell saw that the yellow-orange stones perfectly matched her eyes. Her face was pretty in an odd sort of way, for she had a long and slightly rounded nose and almond-shaped eyes set beneath artfully arched brows. Her smile, however, was perfection; it filled her face with light. “Vaile,” she greeted. She set her book and quill aside and stood to receive Trell’s raven-haired companion.
“Jaya,” returned Vaile.
They embraced.
Withdrawing, Jaya shifted her peculiar yellow-orange eyes to Trell with curiosity.
“Jaya, this is Trell of the Tides,” Vaile introduced, holding a hand to him. Then she flashed a devilish grin and added, “Or perhaps we should call him Trell of the Well?”
Trell gave her a pained look.
“Oh, that one,” Jaya murmured, eyeing Trell with new appreciation. “Ramu wasn’t sure if you’d make it when he pulled you out of the water. He said you were quite blue.” She looked him up and down with one arched brow, as if surprised that he was that color no longer. “It seems the Mage took a liking to you,” she decided. “This is great luck for you, Trell of the Tides.
“Yes, my lady,” Trell murmured. Everyone was telling him how lucky he was to have gained the Mage’s favor. Either it was true, or a lot of people wanted him to believe it was.
Jaya offered a hand to Trell to take a chair across from her. The she took Vaile’s hand and pulled her down beside her on the settee. “Did you just arrive?” Jaya asked Vaile, to which the latter nodded. “My, what a long week it has been,” Jaya lamented with a shake of her bejeweled head. “I have only just returned myself. The battle intensifies, you know.”
Cephrael's Hand: A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book One Page 18