The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy (65 page)

While Nundle wondered who or what the Mataan were, Talulot gazed at the sun, seemingly basking in its glow before saying, “The wind carries a shadow on its breath, Fingard. A dark and grim shadow.” Dropping its gaze to Broedi and Nikalys, the thorn added, “These two shine bright enough to cast light into the blackest of holes. The Mataan will understand that when they see them.” Facing Nundle’s group, Talulot whistled, “The time to leave is now. We shall wait for you in the trees.”

The thorn turned abruptly and shuffled toward the tree line, dragging its wooden limbs through the sand, barely lifting them off the ground. Fingard shot one last, hard look at the group and turned to follow Talulot.

When the pair was a dozen paces away, Broedi turned and, in a quiet voice, rumbled, “Sergeant? Captain? Gather the men and supplies. We are following them.”

The longlegs strode away without question, heading toward the huddled group of Shadow Mane soldiers, shouting orders as they went.

Left alone with Broedi and Nikalys, Nundle asked, “Am I right in assuming Buhaylunsod is a place?”

With a slight nod, Broedi answered, “In Argot, it might mean ‘Living City’. Or ‘The City Has Arisen.’”

Nikalys asked quietly, “Did you know Wren Aembyr was there?”

Broedi shook his head, rumbling, “I did not. While Nelnora showed me Wren amongst a tree city of the buhanik, she did not name which one.”

“Then Nelnora lied,” said Nikalys. His words were spoken with complete conviction.

“How so?” asked Nundle.

“All the luck in Terrene could not have brought us here at a more perfect moment,” said Nikalys. “To find a thorn who wishes to take us straight to Wren Aembyr? The Gods
are
meddling, I have no doubt.”

“I agree,” said Nundle. “Which leads me to wonder what else she lied about.” He eyed Broedi carefully as he added, “Or kept from us. At the moment, I feel as if I am reading a book with missing pages.”

The skin around Broedi’s eyes tightened slightly, confirming Nundle’s suspicion that the hillman was hiding something. Still, the White Lion remained quiet. Whether it was wise or not, Nundle decided to push a little further.

“You know, I’ve been thinking perhaps I should go back to the Seat of Nelnora and ask her some more questions. And now that we have arrived on dry land, I could easily port—”

“No!” interrupted Broedi. “We do
not
go back.”

“Why not?” asked Nikalys with a frown.

Broedi stared out at the sea and let a soft sigh slip past his lips.

“There are reasons.”

“I see,” said Nikalys. “And those reasons are…?”

“Not ones I can share with you now.”

His frown deepening, Nikalys asked, “Truly, Broedi? More secrets? Here?
Now
?”

The hillman continued to stare at the ocean, perfectly silent.

“Broedi?” muttered Nundle. “We know you are withholding something.”

“Of course you do,” said Broedi. “I did not expect to hide the obvious from you. I am surprised, however, that it took you so long to mention it.” Pulling his gaze from the sea and resting it on them, he rumbled, “Yet you should know I will not share more than that. It is not yet time.”

Nikalys crossed his arms and sighed.

“So, what then? We just nod our heads and follow you?”

“If you will,” rumbled the hillman. “For a while longer, please.”

Nikalys glanced to Nundle, a thin frown on his face, and lifted an eyebrow, apparently asking for Nundle’s opinion. Holding the young longleg’s gaze, Nundle asked the obvious.

“What else are we going to do?”

After a moment, Nikalys looked back to Broedi, nodded his head, and said, “Lead on.”

“Thank you,” said Broedi. “I appreciate your—” He cut off as a loud shout rang out over the beach.

“Turn around, you blasted fools!”

Jumping at the cry, Nundle spun around to find Captain Scrag standing in the surf, water up to his calves, waving his arms and screaming.

“Go back to the blasted ship!”

Looking out to where the Sapphire was anchored, Nundle spotted two other shoreboats rowing toward the beach, filled with sailors.

Nikalys mused, “Probably coming to come help us when they saw Talulot.” He paused, then added, “The large and scary version, that is.”

Turning back around, Nundle stared up at Broedi and asked, “How is it they did that? I’ve never heard of a Weave capable of doing what we saw.”

“It is a variation of one that Wren discovered. One he used on plants, shaping them as they grow. I expect he has refined the pattern and taught it to the Titaani Kotiv-aki.”

Nikalys asked, “And how did you get them to stop the attack?”

“I told Fingard that if he did not release the Weave that I would kill him.”

Nundle stared at Broedi, surprised at the response.

“You threatened his life?”

Broedi fixed his brown-eyed gaze squarely on Nundle.

“Would you prefer I had reasoned with him? It would have taken longer, I think.”

With the shriek of the massive thorn echoing in his mind, Nundle shook his head.

“No. I suppose your method was just fine.”

Hearing voices approaching, Nundle turned to find Nathan and Captain Scrag walking back toward them, the soldiers trailing and laden with packs of supplies. Out on the sea, the other shoreboats were in the midst of turning back to the Sapphire.

Nikalys said, “It seems we’re ready.”

“Then let us go,” rumbled Broedi. “We have a long walk ahead of us.” He turned and began to stride to where Talulot and Fingard waited by the forest’s edge.

As Nundle hurried to follow, he said a silent prayer that he would be able keep pace with everyone over the next few days. Scurrying across the sand, he mumbled, “I wish I had my horse.”

13
^th
of the Turn of Maeana, 4999

Jak awoke, the scent of charred oak smoke filling his first conscious breath.

As he drew in a second breath to confirm, he noticed the persistent popping and cracking of logs aflame. Without a doubt, there was a fire burning. A detail he found odd as his room did not have a hearth. Through the fog of leftover sleep and pain, he noted that he was lying down, but not in his own bed. His mattress was a straw one, scratchy and cold. This bed was soft and warm. He lifted his right hand and grazed lightweight blankets that would be much too thin to hold back the chill of his room.

Apparently, he was not in his room. He considered opening his eyes to inspect his surroundings, but the pounding in his head warned against additional sensation. He wondered if there had been a festival last night. Perhaps he had too much wine. Like a barrelful too much.

To his right, he heard the clink of pottery followed by a soft sigh. He was not alone.

Through dry and crusty lips, he groaned, “Where am I?” His tongue felt it was stuck in mud.

He heard a sharp intake of breath, followed by the quiet rustling of clothes as someone hurried to his side. Now he smelled rosewater.

A woman whispered, “Jak?”

Her voice sounded familiar, but the fuzziness coating his thoughts prevented him from placing it.

“Gods, my head hurts,” he mumbled.

“Don’t move,” ordered the woman.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” croaked Jak.

The woman moved away immediately, her light footsteps hurrying past the foot of his bed. A door creaked open.

“Go get Chandrid, please. He’s awake.”

A man replied, murmuring, “Thank the Gods.” The relief in his voice was clear.

Heavy footsteps hastened away, echoing as if they were in a long, stone hallway. The sound of boot heels striking stone was loud enough that Jak winced with each one. It felt as if someone was tapping his temples with a small hammer. When the door shut with a soft thud, muffling the retreating steps, Jak relaxed, grateful for the quiet. Footsteps approached him again, different from the first set, softer and somewhat hesitant. Stopping beside his bed, a little girl spoke, her voice full of worry.

“Are you all better, Jak?”

This time, Jak instantly recognized to whom the voice belonged. “Not at the moment, Helene.” Hoping to put the little girl at ease, he added, “But I will be.”

The woman by the door moved to his side as well, stopping beside Helene and bringing with her a second waft of rosewater. The scent, along with Helene’s presence, helped Jak place who she was.

“Sabine?”

“Yes,” replied Sabine, her voice soft and reassuring. A hand rested atop his, through the blanket. “And you’re right, Jak. You’re going to be fine. Absolutely fine.” It sounded as if she were trying to convince herself, not him.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he mumbled. Keeping his eyes closed, he turned his head to face them. The pounding in his head swelled. “It’s only a headache. A very bad headache.”

A quiet moment passed before Sabine asked, “Do you remember what happened to you?” She sounded concerned.

“Did a festival happen to me?” asked Jak, his dry lips turning up into a slight smile. “Too much wine?”

Sabine paused again before answering, “No, Jak. There was no festival.” The concern in her voice had grown, which in turn, worried him.

He tried to crack open his eyelids to look up at her, but only succeeded in opening his right eye. Something was keeping his left shut. The Moiléne sisters were by his side, staring at him. Wooden rafters lined the ceiling above them.

“What’s wrong with my eye?”

With panic swelling in his chest, he tried to extract his right hand from the blankets but Sabine gripped it, stopping him.

“Wait for Chandrid.”

He attempted to pull away, but Sabine clamped down harder.

“Please, Jak. Wait.”

Tossing back the covers from his other arm, he reached up to find a thick, soft cloth wrapped over his left eye, ear, and forehead. His heart rate increased, which only made the pounding in his head worse.

Running his hand along the path of the bandages, he asked, “What happened?”

“You
will
be fine, Jak,” insisted Sabine. “Chandrid says they are only temporary.” Her words were encouraging, but worry still colored her tone.

Looking back to Sabine, Jak demanded, “Tell me what—” His voice cracked and gave out. He choked softly, sending his head pounding anew. “Gods, I’m so thirsty.”

Helene spun around immediately and scurried from the bed to a small, round-topped table. She returned a moment later, carrying a small pottery cup.

“You can have my tea, Jak. It’s still hot. Sabine just made it.”

She lifted the cup to the edge of the bed and steadied it there, waiting for him to take it.

Jak smiled and murmured, “Thank you, dear. That’s very kind of you.” He went to move his right hand to take it, but Sabine was still holding it, her grip surprisingly tight. He tugged, but she would not let go. Glancing up, he asked, “Can I have my hand, please?”

Releasing him, she said, “Sorry.”

Extracting his arm from the blanket, Jak reached for the cup, but stopped short, grimacing as his entire right side began to throb. It felt as if had been punched in the ribs a few dozen times. Lying flat again, he whispered, “Yeah. So that hurts.”

“Here,” said Sabine. “Let me help you.”

She scooted around Helene, moved to the head of the bed, and assisted him in sitting up. With his back resting against the cold stone wall, he looked around the room, still not recognizing where he was.

A fire burned in a recessed hearth on his left. Straight across from him, past the foot of his bed, was an oak door. The dim gray light shining through the lone, small window in the room told Jak that it was either dusk or dawn. Two blue cushioned chairs sat next to the table a half-dozen paces to the right of the bed. A glass lamp, two pots, and an open book rested on the tabletop.

While he wanted to know what had happened to him, his parched throat demanded satisfaction first. Accepting the cup from Helene, Jak lifted it to his lips, took two quick sips, and swallowed. The hot and gloriously wet tea coated his scratchy throat.

Helene said, “I put a lot of honey in it.”

Jak could tell. It was thrice as sweet as he liked it, but he was not about to complain. Smiling at the little girl, he said, “It is very good. Perfect, in fact.”

Helene held his gaze but did not smile back. Jak found that odd. He rarely saw Helene without a grin on her face. Before he could spend more than a moment wondering at the cause for Helene’s melancholy mood, the door opened and Lady Vivienne swept inside, bringing a cold draft of air in with her from the hallway. The baroness moved straight to the foot of the bed and stopped, her gaze dancing over Sabine and Helene before settling on Jak. A courtly blue dress hung from her shoulders and a more-than-determined expression rested on her face.

Jak stared at the noblewoman, surprised and confused as to her presence. Sabine had sent for Chandrid, the hillwoman mage and resident healer of the enclave. Again, his wondering was cut short as the seven-foot-tall hillwoman entered next wearing plain brown robes, cinched at the waist with a turquoise belt. A leather bag hung from her shoulder, much like the one Broedi often carried, although the beads adorning her satchel were both greater in number and more colorful.

Gamin marched in behind Chandrid, also with a bandage wrapped around his head, although his looked smaller than Jak’s felt. The mage fixed Jak with a steady stare as he moved to stand beside the baroness.

Chandrid strode to Jak’s left, stopped beside the bed, and rumbled, “What do you think you are doing? You should be lying down.” She shifted her gaze to Sabine. “I told you not to let him move if he awoke. At least three times, if I recall.”

“I know,” said Sabine. “But he was thirsty.”

“I gave him my tea,” added Helene.

Eyeing the cup in Jak’s hand, Chandrid frowned and asked, “Only tea?”

“With honey,” replied Sabine and Helene simultaneously.

“Honey?” asked Chandrid, her frown deepening. “How much did he drink?” She did not sound pleased.

“Just a few sips,” answered Jak. “That’s all.”

“Fine,” rumbled the hillwoman. “But
no
more. Drink only water for now.” She reached out, took the cup from Jak’s hand, and handed it to Sabine. “Put that down and then help me get him lying down again.”