Torrin murmured to her under his breath and she was reminded of the night they traveled through the tunnel into Pellaris. She listened with a small smile on her face as she descended into sleep, warmed as much by his quiet voice as by the heat of his body.
She awoke as Torrin placed her gently on the ground. Bereft of the warmth from his body, she began to shiver again but didn’t have the strength to open her eyes. She heard Dalemar’s soft voice and felt his warm hand touch her forehead. A hot tingling sensation spread through her, flowing out to her fingertips and down to her toes. The pain in her body disappeared.
She fell back asleep.
A rocking motion woke her a second time. She found herself wrapped in a blanket and nestled in Torrin’s arms once again as he rode. Dense trees passed by on both sides and mid-morning light filtered down through the canopy. Nathel rode in front of them and she caught a glimpse of Hathunor’s dark form further ahead.
Torrin looked down. “How are you feeling?”
She smiled sleepily. “Better, thank you.”
“Dalemar was able to heal most of your wounds.”
She nodded. “And you? How are you?”
“We are all tired and in need of sleep.”
“That is not what I meant.”
The muscles in his jaw jumped, and he swallowed. His blue eyes were very dark. “There is so much I should have said to you in Pellaris. When I thought I might not ever be able to tell you how I felt, I realized how wrong I’ve been.”
Rowan’s heart quickened but she kept silent.
“I’ve been trying so hard to keep from reliving the pain of seven years ago when Emma and the girls were taken from me that I lost sight of the truth. To lose you without saying what I needed to say, without letting you know how I feel would have been unbearable.” Torrin searched Rowan’s eyes and took in a deep breath. “I have loved you from the moment I first looked into those challenging green eyes of yours, standing alone and barely keeping yourself upright with five strangers surrounding you. I spent the time since trying to deny it, fighting the way I feel – telling myself it was the message you carried, the mission that was important, but that was my fear speaking. I love you.”
Rowan closed her eyes, tears close to the surface – something deep within shifted, as though a part, missing all the years of her life was set into its rightful place. Torrin.
“And I love you,” she whispered. “I realized it fully the night we entered Pellaris. Like you, I think maybe I have always known but the message was too important. There was no room for my feelings. I knew you were wrestling with your past and it did not seem there was a chance for more.”
He traced a fingertip down her cheek. The tension left him and his eyes sparkled as a smile transformed his face. “Can you ever forgive a fool for fearing to look beyond the ghosts of his past?”
Rowan grinned. “You may be many things, Torrin, son of Ralor, but you are no fool. Stubborn perhaps would be a better description…”
He chuckled and reached back down to his reins, guiding his big black horse around a fallen tree.
Rowan sighed drifted off again, content, caught between blissful dreams and semi-awareness of the movement of the horse and Torrin’s presence next to her.
No doubt the future held more terrible struggles, but for the moment all was right upon Erys’s wide world.
Traitor's Chance
Galen looked out the window toward the city’s walls, but saw neither the late afternoon light on the rooftops nor the birds that circled the dome. He rarely spent time this high up in the Temple and the tiny room he was occupying felt like a cell. Though Galen could hardly compare it to the black hole in which the patriarch must be locked, deep in Pellaris Keep. The dungeon, under Cerebus rule, was rarely used for the kind of dreadful things that occurred there in the past – but the waste of it was intolerable. The patriarch was needed here. Galen hissed as a wave of frustration and anger washed through his chest.
He turned from the small window to the desk that had been brought up for him. The high commission members would come here to him until it was safe for him to leave the confines of this room. Cerebus had posted castle guardsman throughout the temple after they had conducted an extensive search for him. But the Temple of Erys offered much in the way of protection for its priests. The secret passageways between the walls had been more than adequate to hide Galen. The priests had led him back through areas that the guards had already searched to hide him again.
Eventually the guards would be recalled to help defend the city and if not, then they would be taken care of once the coming plans were put into play. The discovery of the tunnel beneath the Temple by Cerebus and Torrin was not a surprise. Galen had expected a thorough search to uncover the passage. Fortunately, the second tunnel leading from the city beneath the great Temple, was known only to Galen. Palior had confided the location to him – a secret kept by the patriarchs of Erys. And its value was soon to be tested.
The hard part was going to be getting Tihir N’Avarin out of Pellaris keep’s dungeon. Galen was working on a plan but he was having difficulty with the high commission. There was great outrage within the ranks of the Priesthood over the treatment of the new patriarch, but little will to act.
Galen sighed, if he couldn’t have N’Avarin here now, at least the man’s ambition would be tempered in a cell for a while. Once he rescued the priest, his influence over N’Avarin would be secure as well. But members of the commission were pushing hard for an interim patriarch to be elected to lead the Priesthood until N’Avarin was released.
Galen picked up the list of candidates that had been given to him by the commission secretary and scanned the names once again. None of the men on the list were ones he would support. For now, Galen was directing the commission and the Priesthood – a situation that needed to be maintained until his plans were accomplished. To install someone unfamiliar in the office of Patriarch now, someone Galen couldn’t control, would be disastrous. Much depended on timing and quick decisions; he needed to give orders and have them followed without question.
Cerebus had acted faster than he had expected. After Elana regained consciousness and imparted what she had learned, Galen thought the king would take more time to search for him before moving so openly against the Priesthood. Now with N’Avarin locked away awaiting a trial that might never happen, Galen had to consolidate his position before the high commission became too restless.
He dropped the sheet of parchment back onto the small desk.
None of Galen and Palior’s plans and communications with the Rith Miroth were known within the high commission; there were some who would openly oppose those plans. He was regarded with approval for his tireless work on behalf of the Priesthood and many would not question him, but he needed a way to be sure of the commission’s support.
He picked up the large leather-bound volume of the Priesthood of Erys’s Theocratic Laws and Edicts. The book was already opened to a page that gave him his best chance at seeing a positive outcome for the Priesthood and Pellar. Tracing his index finger down the page to the paragraph at the bottom, he reread the text, carefully weighing all the implications. By invoking the Precept of Wartime, Galen could legitimately ask for and receive fealty from the members of the Priesthood. The hard part was going to be convincing them that he had the right to invoke what only the patriarch could. If N’Avarin passed temporary authority to Galen, then he could legitimize his role as leader of the Priesthood.
Galen placed the heavy tome on the desk and lowered himself into the chair. He reached for a fresh piece of parchment and dipped his quill into the ornate inkwell he loved so well. It was one of the few things he had brought with him from Pellaris keep. Now ink from that well was going to be taken back inside the walls of the fortress. The message had to be cryptic in case it was intercepted. Galen thought for a moment; something only Tihir would understand … carefully he placed his pen to the page and began to write. The pen scratched across th
e smooth surface of the parchment as his precise hand grew sure and swift, committing to this new strategy.
The Keeper
Rowan woke in the early evening, in an already-set campsite within the dense thicket. Yawning and stretching, she felt only a little soreness in her leg and arms.
“Welcome back.” Torrin sat beside her with his back to a tree trunk, mending a torn buckle on her breastplate. Rowan smiled up at him and cuddled deeper into the blanket. Her friends were busy about her, mending gear and cleaning weapons.
She inhaled the smell of something wonderful Borlin was cooking and her stomach rumbled loudly. She hadn’t eaten in almost two days.
Nathel eyed her from across the fire. “Borlin, you’d better get some food into Rowan before she gives away our position.”
Dalemar chuckled, exhaling pipe smoke.
Rowan’s arms and hands shook as she accepted a large wooden bowl full of savoury stew from the Stoneman. She leaned back and relaxed for a moment before trying to wield the spoon. Food had never tasted so good. Borlin’s little pouches of spice had worked magic on the simple meal.
Before she knew it, Borlin was bending over her, his brown eyes twinkling. “Perhaps I’ll just put a wee bit more in yer bowl. The wood doesn’a taste as good as the stew, ye know.”
Rowan smiled sheepishly as he took the bowl she had been scraping clean and refilled it with another helping. She leaned back against the tree with Torrin and concentrated on actually chewing her food as she ate. “How was it in Pellar when you left? How is Queen Elana?”
“She is better,” said Torrin, “though it will take awhile for her to rebuild the blood she lost. It was Chancellor Galen or Tihir N’Avarin who assaulted her.”
“Galen? I would never have though him capable of something like that.”
“Galen is missing; it was he who copied the bailey key that allowed the men who attacked you to gain access to your room. That is what the queen discovered in his study before you found her unconscious. Cerebus had N’Avarin arrested for conspiracy and treason. We found the tunnel they took you through under the Temple of Erys.”
Rowan nodded, watching his strong fingers deftly thread a line of sinew through her tooled leather armour. “We saw N’Avarin leading the impostor soldiers.” Rowan glanced across at Nathel. “Your brother and Borlin fought ferociously. It was a close thing wasn’t it? The wound I saw him take –”
Torrin’s hands paused as he looked at Nathel. “Yes, it was close. I don’t know if he would have made it if Dalemar and Hathunor had not been able to help him.”
Rowan swallowed and closed her eyes as she remembered losing touch with Nathel’s back under the swarm of enemy.
Torrin placed her mended breastplate beside her. “Rest for a while. There are things we need to discuss after we eat.” He reached to pick up something else from beside the tree.
It was her sword.
She sighed. “Oh, Torrin, I had not dared to hope you might have recovered it. Thank you.”
He held it out hilt-first with the flat of the curved blade resting on his forearm vembrace. He had replaced the soft leather wrappings on the hilt for her. The metal gleamed in the setting sun as she reached out to take it. Its weight felt good in her hand – complete.
*
“I’m the slayer?” Rowan rose to her feet and looked around in disbelief at the calm faces of her companions.
Dalemar nodded, a smile on his face. “Don’t you see, Rowan? The slayers – all of the ones that I found reference to – were from Myris Dar, and some were women. The slayers the seers refer to were indeed found in Pellar but none of them were Pellarian. I wouldn’t be surprised if they too were sent by the Seers of Danum as messengers to warn of the Wyoraith’s return.”
“But wouldn’t the Seers have known the identity of the slayers? Even if the Seers didn’t know the slayers were Myrian at first, surely they would have made the connection by now.” Rowan frowned. How could this be possible?
“Perhaps they couldn’t tell you for fear of altering the course of events. If you had known from the start you were the slayer, would you have acted the same way you did, made the same decisions?” Dalemar asked.
Rowan sighed and shook her head. “No, I suppose not. I likely would have gone in search of the summoner instead of traveling to Pellar.”
“Perhaps the time you spent traveling through Eryos to Pellaris was important for something,” said Dalemar, “to find something or to gain strength and knowledge before you went after the summoner.”
Dalemar’s last words rang through her head. She looked at Torrin and sank slowly back down onto the log she was sitting on. He returned her gaze steadily. Perhaps he was what she needed to find. She looked at all her friends, each of them watching her. Perhaps she had needed to find them all. She rubbed her temples – it was crazy! “Even if the past slayers were Myrian, that doesn’t mean the one we’re looking for is me. You are basing all this on a single reference in an ancient book. What if the slayer was one of the Myrians I came here with? My cousin Dell was a renowned warrior – it could have been he who was meant to slay the Wyoraith, or Lesiana.” She turned to look at Torrin and Nathel. “It could be either of you. I was sent to find the slayer in Pellar, a man – the Seers could not have been this wrong.”
“We did find the slayer in Pellar – you,” Torrin said calmly.
“You truly believe this?”
Torrin nodded. “When Dalemar told me, it was like learning something I had always known but had never fully realized. It also explains why you are so drawn to Krang.” He nodded as her eyebrows rose. “I’ve seen you gazing east, looking for the distant Krangs even when they could not be seen. During the council, your mention of taking the fight to the summoner resonated with the deepest truth whether you knew it or not. It is written in your words and deeds, Rowan. You are the slayer.”
“But that was conjecture. When I said I would go after the summoner during the council, I – I meant as a last resort. Only if the slayer wasn’t found.”
Torrin snorted, his dark brows lowered and his eyes glinted in challenge. “Now you’re reaching, Rowan. You and I both know how seriously you took the proposition. I heard it in your voice that day. Search your heart; you will find the truth there.”
Rowan stared at him.
“How long has that symbol been in your family?” asked Dalemar, pointing towards the repeating motif that covered her armour and sword.
Rowan glanced down at the vembraces her brother Andin had made for her. The symbol was something she had always taken for granted. “It is the Mor Lanyar family crest. I have no idea how long it has been in my family.”
“Rowan, I found that symbol inscribed into a book describing the last few thousand years of Kathornin history. It was labelled as the insignia of slayers,” said Dalemar, frowning. “There cannot be any doubt that you are linked to the keepers.”
“You’ve referred to the slayers as keepers a few times now — why?” asked Rowan.
“It has to do with an error in translation. I think whoever translated the text I found mistook the word Chelvir, which means keeper in an obscure dialect of Kathornin for Chavor – slayer. All subsequent referrals to and translations featured the word slayer rather than keeper,” explained Dalemar. “I have no idea, though, what a keeper of the Wyoraith is supposed to do to stop its coming.”
“How did you figure out that this obscure word meant keeper?” asked Rowan.
“It was in another scroll that was correctly translated into Kathornin. I came across the same language – ‘Mo ranithea a chelvir’. It was translated into ‘Guard the Wyoraith and its keeper.’ It made sense,” said Dalemar. “Why would the Wyoraith need protecting if a slayer was meant to kill it? And then I remembered your sword’s name.”
Rowan barely heard Dalemar’s last words. The phrase he had spoken in that ancient language resonated through her with strange familiarity like a forgotten memory or a childhood song. Her whole body w
ent still as she listened for something she could not identify. “My sword –” She looked at Torrin as the implications sank in.
“Mor Ranith,” he said quietly.
“The name of your sword is almost the same as the word meaning Wyoraith in that language,” said Nathel in surprise.
“It is possible that one is a derivative of the other,” said Arynilas.
Dalemar was looking at Rowan with expectation. “I believe ‘Mo’ might be the root of ‘Mor’. Perhaps your name, your sword’s name, Mor Ranith, means literally to guard or guardian of the Wyoraith.”
Rowan reached up and pulled her sword from its leather scabbard and ran her fingertips along its surface. “I had always assumed that Mor Lanyar was ancient Myrian, a dame name no one remembered the meaning of. But if it isn’t Myrian at all … ” Rowan trailed off as she gazed at her weapon. “I have no idea how old this sword actually is.”
“Maybe ye had an ancestor way back who was not from yer homeland,” suggested Borlin.
Rowan nodded absently, studying the etched script that led down the blade’s length. She had an impression of this same sword in the hands of all the keepers, marching back through time. Gooseflesh rose along her arms and back and she shivered.
“It makes a poetic sort’ o sense, lass.” Borlin stood and bent over the fire to pour a cup of tea. “I can feel it in me bones that ye had a greater role te play in this.” He passed the cup to her, his amber eyes gleaming with affection and respect.
Nathel accepted a second cup from Borlin, looking at her over the steaming brim. “If anyone can be the slayer or this keeper, its you.”
Rowan frowned; she wasn’t in the mood for his joking but his expression was as serious as the afternoon in the square where they fought for their lives.
Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1) Page 46