The Call of the Crown (Book 1) (24 page)

“If I may,” Olam said. “When I first met Arfael, he was the blacksmith for a local community far to the east at Barais. His work was wonderful!”

“I do not doubt it.” Toban nodded towards a suit of armour standing in the corner. “That was made by the Kel’mai. Dragon armour: light, strong, and beautiful. Again, our folk have tried to match its quality, but alas…”

“
Kun hass Olef
.” Arfael said the words without thinking, dragging them up from the depths of his mind, buried and forgotten behind a veil of mystery.

“
Kun hass Olef
. Yes! That’s the style—Scale over Leaf. You must be older than you look to have remembered that, my friend.” Toban nodded to Sarai. She brought over a tray and laid it down in front of Arfael: a knife, a broached silver rank insignia, a gauntlet, and an arrowhead. All covered in fine oil and laid carefully on top of a deep-red velvet cloth. “Do you recognise any of these?” Toban asked.

Arfael looked at the items. Immediately, his eye fixed onto the silver insignia. The others were meaningless. The small broach, however, was significant in some way. He couldn’t pull a connection for its importance from his memory. Yet so familiar was it, he felt his heart lift simply by the site of it. A wave of deep feeling came over him, as though he were going to roar to the heavens. He picked up the broached insignia, cradling it in his huge hand. Gently, he ran a finger around its edge. “Aluf’muis.” He spoke so quietly, so eloquently that Olam let out a gasp.

“Arfael… what is it?” his friend asked.

“Aluf’muis Gan’ifael. This belonged to my father. My father! I saw him for a second, as clear as if he sat where you are. I saw him!” Arfael put the broach to his forehead and muttered a few words.

Toban gave a nod to Sarai. She took away the rest of the items. “If that was indeed your father’s, then you must be one of the Kel’mai that fought at Bren’nui, for that broach belonged to a chieftain of Toi’ifael. A great man, Aluf’muis was a true hero to our people. All that remains is to discover
which
son you are. Our lore on the matter is not complete, though it does state quite clearly that Aluf’muis had three sons. But we could be wrong. Up until now, it was thought all three had perished in the caves of Barais’gin. If you are indeed Arlyn Gan’ifael, then this is a great day for all Rukin, not to mention a long night for our keeper of records. You should be dead, Arfael!”

Silence fell in the great hall.

Daric put his hand to his mouth, wide-eyed in disbelief. Grady was much the same, while Gialyn sat with a wide grin on his face, as though watching a play or some other marvellous fiction. Elspeth had tears in her eyes at the hearing of Arfael’s vision of his father.

“
Gan
means dragon, does it not?” Ealian asked in a very matter-of-fact manner.

The two wolves set their gaze quickly upon him. “How did you know that?” Aleban asked with a voice calmer than his expression.

“I have heard it somewhere before. My father is an emissary. We have many travellers visiting our home.”

“I have never heard it,” Elspeth said.

“That’s because you’re too busy sharpening your knives to listen, sister.” Ealian carried on eating as if oblivious to the effect of his words.

Toban glanced sideways at Aleban and then flicked his head surreptitiously towards Ealian, as if saying, “Keep an eye on that one.” Aleban nodded faintly in acknowledgement.

“Arfael, do you have any questions for us?” Toban asked.

“I need some time, but thank you for this, my friend.” Arfael bowed at both Toban and Aleban.

Daric put his goblet down. “What now for you, Olam? Seems much of your mystery has been solved.”

Olam sighed, though he had a big smile on his face. “I’m not sure, my friend. We still have to find his people.” He turned to Toban. “Do you know any more that may help us?”

“Oh, yes! The Kel’mai tribe hail from the far eastern isles, two hundred leagues past the Toi’ildrieg, a place called Ca’ifael, on the island of Toi’ifael. Arfael’s people are few in number, but as far as our lore tells it, they have lived there for two thousand years, the first to settle in Moyathair by all accounts. They came from far across the ocean, so it is said. I myself know nothing from that far back. Maybe our historian will be able to help more.”

“Are they there now?” Arfael asked.

“We have heard nothing either way for over a century, my friend. Sorry. I cannot tell you more than that,” Toban said, and he did look sorry. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of them yourselves. Surely the tales of their deeds are in the songs of the Surabhan.”

“Well,” Daric said, “Eidred was a woeful monarch. He would have written history in his favour.”

“Oh,” Olam said. “That would explain why we had to come to a place of independence to hear the truth of it,” he said. “I have to admit that I have heard of the Kel’mai. Whisper and gossip mostly, but I have heard of them. Unfortunately, not having an image to go by, I didn’t tie them with you, my friend.” Olam placed his hand on Arfael’s forearm, begging his pardon.

“No fault, friend,” Arfael said. “I’m happy now. Think I will travel back to Barais’gin and then maybe prepare for a trip to Ca’ifael. You are welcome to join me.” Arfael bowed back at Olam.

“I would be honoured, my friend, very honoured indeed.” Olam turned to Daric. “So… it would seem we are destined to stay together for a little while longer. We will come with you to Bailryn and then on to Barais’gin. With your kind permission, of course.”

“No need to ask
. We would be glad of your company.”

Daric begged a question of Toban. “Sir, is there a quicker route through your lands? We came up short at the marsh. Not saying there’s a great rush, but we do not want to wander in circles either.”

“It is simple, Daric. Go south along the eastern edge of the ridge, all the way down to the river. Turn east and follow the bank for three days, maybe four, if you go slowly. You will come to a gully by a waterfall. It is not steep there. Once at the top of the gully, move along the fall tributary until it is safe to cross. Then straight in front, less than a mile away, is the western edge of Crenach’coi. You should find your way back to the Northern Road from there, and it will save you three days circling the cliffs.

“Thank you, Toban. Again, you have been a great help. If there is ever anything I can do for you,” Daric said.

“Actually…” Grady raised a hand. “I was thinking maybe we could stay an extra day.” He tried not to look at Ealian. “I would hate to rush off in the morning. If nobody has any objection.”

The travellers looked around at one another. None raised an argument. Daric looked to Toban. “It would seem that nobody wants to leave.” He looked around at the smiling faces and then back at Toban. “If that is all right with you, sir.”

“No, no, please. You are welcome for as long as you wish to stay.” Toban stood. “Now, friends, please rest, or wander at your will. Or there is more food if you are still hungry.” He turned to Arfael and Olam. “Would you mind if we talked a little more? I would like to show you the Sanctum and discuss something that I will doubtless be asked later when I meet with the council.”

Arfael bowed. “As you wish, Toban
. I’m in your debt.”

The travellers rose from the table. Daric and Grady paid their respects to their host and went back to their rooms.

After they finished eating, Gialyn and Elspeth were given permission to explore the village—with Sarai as guide. Ealian joined them, after some persuasion from Elspeth.

Toban left the table and spoke with his friend Aleban. For a long moment, they stood deep in whispered discussion. Occasionally, Aleban would steal a sideways glance at Arfael. Whether he be part of the conversation or whether Aleban couldn’t help but look at the legend was not clear.

Olam waited patiently with Arfael. He drummed his fingers on the table. “I wonder if they have any pre-Moyan scrolls in there,” he said. Arfael could doubtless sense his friend’s excitement. But he just sat quietly waiting for Toban to finish.

*
  *  *

“Are you ready? Would you like to see the Sanctum?” Toban asked Olam and Arfael.

Olam’s eyes lit up. “That would indeed be my honour,” he said, gushing with anticipation. For all his travelling and adventuring, he could think of naught more exciting than snooping around in a secret library

Arfael, too, had a smile on his face, yet that didn’t mean much
. By this point, Olam thought Arfael would have looked excited about cleaning the kitchens.

“That’s settled, then, my friends. If you will follow me, I’ll show you the way.”

Toban led Olam and Arfael through a wide, oak-framed arch, hidden in an alcove behind a large tapestry, then on down a narrow, dark-wood passageway that ran the length of the great hall. From it, they descended a twisting, iron-forged staircase, and after following another passage, they entered a large room situated directly under the main banquet hall.

“This is our Sanctum: a library, meeting place, council room, and general debating chamber. Please feel free to take a look around.” Toban nodded towards two men who stood waiting by the entrance. Both were dressed in the Rukin robes, both were well past their middle years, if not yet old, and both looked extremely studious with their ink-stained fingers and smooth, un
-calloused hands “This is Olec and Raithban. They are two of the caretakers that help us wolves maintain the Sanctum. As you can imagine, we do not have much to do with hammer and nail.” The two caretakers bowed low at Olam and especially low for Arfael. “Please feel free to ask questions. I must go and see to another matter. But I will be back in a few minutes.”

Olam gazed in wonder around the Sanctum. The air was cool, cooler even than the banquet hall, yet still thick with a musky aroma rising from the many pelts strewn across the floor. A faint scent of something like
kalli root mixed in with the dense musk, lightening the air a little with its vigorous vapour. Directly in front of the door, an iron cradle of twelve candles stood at the centre of a small circular pool, which itself lay in the middle of the circular floor. Flower petals and herbs—maybe kalli—floated on the surface on the water, doubtless the source of the sweet smell in the air. There were no torches on the walls, lest they set fire to the tapestry. The only light came from the candles in the centre. That and what managed to leak through the air vents. Their shadows followed Olam and Arfael as they walked around the room.

Though the centre floor was circular, the room itself was square. A low partition separated the seating—or rather, laying—area from the outer walls. The walls were of dark-stained wood—thick quarter-sawn oak, tongued-in vertical planks from floor to ceiling. Midway up, a rail of lighter hardwood served as a rest for the frames of the many tapestries and paintings. At the ceiling, the walls coved away into trellises, allowing a passage of air to flow from grates. Four such grates were set along each wall and kept the outer edge of the sanctum both airy and cool. Olam gave a silent nod, impressed with the design. Lines of locked strongboxes, placed at regular intervals, ran along the base of the two longer walls. One was open. It looked to contain scrolls, maybe relating to Rukin lore. Olam would have paid to read some of them—maybe later
. Best not push their luck.

The tapestries themselves were of three sizes: the long ones, which told a story, the high ones, which outlined lineage, and the square ones, which depicted a single event. It was obvious that the tapestries were of vastly different ages. Indeed, there were two half-finished tapestries in the centre of the room to the left of the pool. Bowls of dyed twine lay on a table next to a large warp
ed loom. Beneath the loom, a sketch of around four square feet lay, showing the outline of what was to be weaved. The artist—doubtless one of Toban’s caretakers—was in the process of creating the first edged border. Ornate calligraphy and ancient runes intertwined amongst a winding thread, as though the lettering followed a tree branch or root.

Of all the hanging tapestries, four were definitely older. Olam and Arfael rightly thought them made elsewhere. Maybe the Kel’mai or the
Gan
tribes of the east had created them. They were truly magnificent! Artwork of such intricate skill, the making of them hardly seemed possible for mortal hands. A depth and perception barely matched by the greatest of painters, never mind by woven thread. The scenes they depicted where not all of war. One appeared to be of a passage from a far-off land. Figures, not unlike the form of Arfael, pictured leaving an ancient harbour and travelling across the seas. Arfael spotted what seemed to be Surabhan boarding some of the ships. He pointed out his discovery to Olam.

“Oh, yes!” Olam scratched his chin. “That is strange.” Olam called Olec over to explain. “I can see this is an ancient tapestry. Why are there Surabhan boarding the ships?”

Olec looked at where Olam pointed. “They are not Surabhan. They are Kel’mai, sir,” he said. He seemed surprised to be explaining it.

Arfael tilted his head at the tapestry. “I don’t understand.”

“There are three races of Kel’mai: the Cinnè’arth, of which there are very few, and not all of them are fully, uh, ‘Kin.’ The
Ud’fael
, they appear as you do, sir. And finally, the
Neath’coy
or ‘Surabhan’ types, as you call them.