The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy (72 page)

The muscles in Fingard’s jaw and neck rippled as he ground his teeth.

“No.”

“Then you do not know if they will be pleased or not, do you?”

The hillman glared at the thorn, a quiet anger simmering in his eyes.

“No. I do not.”

Nikalys’ gaze danced between thorn and hillman. The relationship between the pair was puzzling. Talulot was the leader and Fingard the follower. That much was apparent. Whatever Talulot asked of Fingard, the hillman would do. As there was no sense of solidarity or friendship between the two, Nikalys reasoned that Fingard was more servant than companion. Yet, that conclusion did not feel correct, either.

Turning away from Fingard, Talulot shifted its black-eyed gaze to Nikalys and said, “I will now lead you into Buhaylunsod. Light-From-The-West, you and Shining-Cat-From-The-Sea shall trail me.” Talulot refused to call either Nikalys or Broedi by their names and used the odd titles instead. “While we see the Mataan, your followers shall remain here with Fingard.”

Nikalys’ eyes narrowed. Such an arrangement was unexpected. A glance at Broedi revealed the White Lion was surprised, as well.

In an attempt to be tactful, Nikalys said, “We would prefer to remain together.”

“So you mean to stay here, then?”

“No,” answered Nikalys. “That is not what I meant.”

The thorn’s glassy eyes remained blank.

“What did you mean, then?”

Realizing he would need to be explicit, Nikalys said, “We would all like to travel into the city. Together.”

Tilting its head to the side, Talulot said, “Fingard has been correct with his persistent reminders. The Mataan do not permit strangers within Buhaylunsod.” It looked between Nikalys and Broedi. “You two are unique while your followers are not. The reaction to their presence would be severe.” It peered about the assembled Shadow Manes, adding, “You look too much like the men of the Chosen to expect anything but hostilities.”

Nikalys was about to protest further, when Broedi rumbled, “We accept your terms, Talulot.”

Nikalys stared at the hillman, surprised at the quick agreement.

“We do?”

Nodding, Broedi said, “We do.” He looked back to the thorn. “As long as Talulot assures the safety of our companions while we are in the city.”

Talulot tilted its head to one side, turned to Fingard, and said, “Protect those that remain here. With your life if necessary.”

Glaring at the thorn, Fingard replied, “Your request is beyond unusual.” His tone was terse, his words clipped short.

“Obey, Fingard,” whistled Talulot. “It is your place.”

The thorn’s word choice prompted Nikalys to share a quick glance with Nundle and Sergeant Trell. Both appeared to have also noticed the odd phrasing, as did Broedi. The White Lion was peering intently at the thorn, a troubled expression on his face.

Talulot stared at the tattooed hillman, seemingly waiting for a response. Fingard held the thorn’s gaze for a moment before dropping his head. When the hillman had remained silent for a few moments, Talulot spoke again.

“Fingard? You must obey. I am buhanik. You are aliipin.”

A moment had skipped past where Nikalys was wondering at the strange word when a low and angry growl rolled forth from Broedi. Nikalys, along with everyone atop the ridge, jumped at the feral snarl and swiveled to stare at the hillman. Broedi’s normal stoicism was gone, chased away by intense rage.

Nikalys reached for his sword while scanning the ridge top, searching for an enemy. All he saw were trees, bushes, and rocks. Looking back to Broedi, Nikalys found the hillman glaring at Fingard. Most of his typical impassivity had returned, yet his eyes remained angry.

Nundle asked warily, “Broedi, is there something—”

Interrupting the tomble, Sergeant Trell stepped forward and asked quickly, “Nundle, would you come help us set up camp?”

Nundle looked up and stared at the sergeant.

“Pardon?”

“I would like your help on finding a suitable place for camp.” His eyes flared. “Now, please.

Puzzled, Nundle said, “But what was—”

Captain Scrag stepped bent over, put a firm hand on Nundle’s shoulder, and muttered, “Time to go, bucket-man.”

Nundle eyed Broedi carefully, his brow furrowed. Nodding his head, he mumbled, “Of course. I’d be happy to help.” He did not move, however.

Talulot had watched the entire exchange, its black, lidless eyes wide as always. It seemed oblivious to the burst of emotion.

“Things are satisfactory, then?”

Unsure of how to answer the question, Nikalys peered at Broedi, deferring to him.

“Are they?”

The White Lion was like a statue, still and quiet, his gaze locked on Fingard. The native hillman had dropped his stare and was peering at a nearby bush. He almost looked ashamed. Broedi pressed his lips together, turned his glare on Talulot, and rumbled, “Take us to Wren Aembyr.” His eyes narrowed. “
Now
.” The word reverberated over the ridge top.

“Then we shall begin our descent,” whistled Talulot. “Follow me.” The thorn turned and began to tread down a small path cut into the cliff’s edge.

Keeping his voice low, Nikalys asked, “Is everything—” He cut his question short as Broedi moved past him, taking three long strides toward Fingard. Stopping before the tattooed giant, the White Lion stared eye to eye with Fingard and asked a short, clipped question.

“How long?”

Fingard met Broedi’s gaze but remained silent. Broedi spoke again, his tone more insistent this time.

“
How long
, Fingard?!” demanded Broedi.

The tattooed hillman spoke in a quiet, almost sad voice.

“For Titaani Kotiv-aki? Over a century.”

“A
century
?!”

Nodding, Fingard rumbled, “For the tribe, yes. For me, however, my entire life.”

Broedi tilted his head back and stared into the sky. After a moment, he turned his back to Fingard and walked toward the path, his jaw clenched and his face rippling like a pond during a breezy day. Without looking over, he rumbled, “Let us go.”

Nikalys looked to the others, hoping someone might have some insight as to what had just happened. To a man—and tomble—almost everyone seemed equally perplexed by Broedi’s behavior.

The moment Broedi slipped from sight down the path, Sergeant Trell hurried to Nikalys’ side, grabbed his arm, and whispered in his ear, “You need to keep an eye on him.”

Pulling back to gawk at the sergeant, Nikalys whispered, “
Me
keep an eye on
him
?” The statement was absurd. “Do you know what that was about?

“Not at all,” muttered the sergeant. “Just watch him, please.”

Stepping closer to them, Captain Scrag leaned in and whispered, “He’s right. I’ve known Broedi for thirty years.” His gaze shifted to the ridge’s edge. “And that’s as angry as I’ve ever seen him.”

From below, Broedi’s deep voice boomed, “Now, Nikalys!”

Glancing back to Sergeant Trell, Nikalys nodded.

“I’ll do what I can.”

The sergeant patted him on the back and Captain Scrag gave him an encouraging smile as he hurried to the path. He shot a questioning look at Fingard as he passed, but the tattooed hillman did not meet his gaze.

Nikalys started down the path, careful to watch his footing as he went. One wrong step and he was going to reach the bottom quicker than he would like.

Staring at the hillman’s broad back, he muttered, “Keep an eye on him, huh?” A frown spread over his lips. “Wondrous. Just wondrous.”

Everett tilted his head back, resting it on his chair, and stared at the crisscrossed, oaken rafters overhead. The hunting hall’s roof was tall and rose to a peak thirty-five feet above him. Banners hung from the ceiling, long and colorful, although the limited light provided by the floor-level torches lining the room blanched some of the hues.

With his hands folded in his lap, the Great Lakes’ duke closed his eyes and let out a long and weary sigh. This gathering had started as an inconvenient necessity, quickly evolved to being irritating, and was now utterly tedious. At this point, Everett would have enjoyed having a glowing fire poker jammed into his eye over this.

“My Lord? Are you going to answer my question or not?”

Everett bit down so hard that he nearly cracked a tooth. The questions had started the moment he entered the room and had not stopped. He had put the nobles off as long as he could, but they were getting antsy. If he did not start providing answers, they might leave.

The soft and sultry tone of a woman’s voice drifted from his right.

“Oh, Everett, just give the wolves something to gnaw on. It should not be much longer now.”

After taking a moment to steady himself, Everett dropped his head, opened his eyes, and stared at the purveyor of the question. Halfway down the banquet table on Everett’s left, Baron Yarrow was leaning forward, his elbows on the tabletop. The noble was glaring at him from beneath thick, overgrown brown eyebrows.

Everett muttered, “You want an answer, do you?”

Baron Yarrow nodded firmly, his bushy eyebrows bouncing.

“Yes, my Lord. Yes, I do.”

With a sigh, Everett straightened in his chair and leaned forward, matching the baron’s posture. Reaching out to grip his wine goblet, he said, “Fine. I suppose you deserve one on this matter.”

“Wondrous,” said Baroness Monnard, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “And might you provide that answer today?” Her eyes, along with every one of the lords and ladies here, were firmly locked on Everett. “Or shall I leave a man behind to bring it to me when you are done?”

Everett shifted his gaze toward the woman. He did not like the baroness. Then again, he did not much like any of the nobles sitting at the table. But he definitely disliked her the most. Since he had taken the Sovereign’s Chair from his father, every interaction with her involved her complaining about one thing or another.

Leveling a steady glare at the woman, Everett said, “Ask a few more impertinent questions such as that and see how long I keep you waiting.”

The skin around the noblewoman’s eyes and lips tightened noticeably.

“As the civil questions were not working, I thought you might better understand the impolite ones—” she hesitated briefly, her upper lip twitching “—my Lord.”

The minute pause before his deserved honorific irritated Everett even further. He opened his mouth, ready to retort when the woman to his right spoke again, murmuring, “It’s not worth it, Everett.”

Looking over, he found Raela lounging comfortably in her chair, absentmindedly rolling a white grape between her thumb and finger, a bored expression draped over her perfect face. Yet again, Everett wondered how she could remain so calm. This experience was excruciating for him.

He shut his mouth. Raela was right again. Arguing now would be a waste of time and breath.

Every one of the Great Lakes’ baronies was represented today, nine ruling lords and ladies sitting at the table in Deartfield’s great hunting hall. Knight-General Ober of the Red Sentinels was the lone non-noble here other than Raela. The soldier was a compliant soul who had never questioned a single order, but Everett felt it best he attend today’s meeting. It would make things easier.

Eyeing the assembled, Everett said, “Now, while I am under no compulsion to explain why I have withdrawn the Great Lakes from the Oaken Duchies, I will nonetheless share my reasons.”

He paused, enjoying the fact that everyone was staring at him.

“When I ascended to the Sovereign’s Chair, eight dukes and duchesses sent missives full of flowery platitudes and sweetly worded well-wishes. They were nice, yes, yet they rang hollow to me the moment Duke Vanson strode into my hall to offer congratulations in person. Since then, I have counted Duke Vanson a true friend. To me and to the Great Lakes. And if the First Council is going to make wild, unfounded accusations against my friend—
our
friend—we will stand with him.”

“And what of our history, my Lord?” asked Baroness Heraa. “Our tradition? The Oaken Duchies have been united for centuries.”

Everett shrugged.

“Things change.”

“Things change?!” exclaimed Baron Yarrow. “Do you understand the difficulties your action has placed on our citizens? On
trade
?” He reached out, grabbed a parchment from the table, and held it up. “This is a letter from the Southern Porters saying they plan to charge Great Lakes’ merchants double their previous rate to carry goods.
Double
, my Lord!”

“People will manage.”

The baron gaped at him.

“How can you be so blasted cavalier about this?”

His eyes narrowing, Everett said, “If I were you, I would adjust my tone. I am the—”

“Hold a moment,” interrupted Baron Hed, a portly man with a thick red moustache. “I am still stunned by your earlier statement. Am I understanding you correctly here? You are withdrawing from the Oaken Duchies because Duke Vanson was
nicer
to you than the other sovereigns? Are you mad?”

Everett turned to glare at the man.

“
What
did you say?”

“What? Must I speak louder?” asked the baron. “Perhaps you did not hear me over—” he jabbed a finger to indicate Raela “—her soft whisperings filling your ears!”

If Raela cared about the baron’s harsh words, she did not show it. She yawned wide, slowly placed the grape in her open mouth, and chewed. After a moment, she began to stretch, reaching her arms high over her head, appearing as though she were awakening from a nap. Completely ignoring the others in the room, she glanced over at Everett.

“They are here.”

Everett felt a wash of relief rush over him. Had this gone on much longer, he would have had a revolt on his hands. Turning to the baron sitting on his left—the man to whom this hall belonged—he asked, “Your servants will not cause any problems, will they?”

Baron Treswell, former representative to the First Council, shook his head and replied in a soft, meek voice.

“No, my Lord. Your instructions were clear.”

Everett gave a quick nod.

“Good.”

Turning back to the rest of the assembled nobles, Everett said, “If you will all remain patient for a few more moments, everything will be made—”