Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy (14 page)

Her voice was soft and low with a musical lilt, the likes of which Taran had never heard. She spoke gently, deliberately, without blurring her words together as most people did. Lovely as her voice was, however, Taran’s concern for his village and fear of embarrassment got the better of him. He was in no mood to wait any longer.

“We came here with potentially important information,” he said. “Is Major Sullyan going to see us or not? I appreciate he might be busy, but we’ve been on the road for two days. I’d rather not waste any more time.”

Her huge eyes fastened on him and a peculiar shiver ran the length of his spine. Before she could answer, however, the door burst open and a huge man, well over six feet tall, solidly muscled and florid of face, strode forcefully into the room.

At last, thought Taran, as the man he had been expecting finally appeared. The newcomer’s imposing presence and well worn combat leathers gave him a distinct aura of authority even though Taran couldn’t see any rank insignia. He stared at the man, expecting to be noticed, but the newcomer didn’t even glance at him.

“There you are,” the big man snapped, his deep bass voice filling the room. “I’ve been looking all over for you since Hanan told me you’d left the infirmary. What on Earth did you think you were doing, walking out like that? How the Void do you expect us to cope if we don’t know where you are? You know it’s far too soon to be resuming your duties.”

The woman turned her golden eyes on him. “Bull,” she said flatly.

Taran frowned; was the word a profanity? No, he realized, it had sounded more like a name.

Whichever it was, it was spoken with profound weariness. The young woman was now leaning against the edge of the table.

The big man ignored this and plowed on, his commanding voice indignant.

“Look at you, for the Void’s sake! You can hardly stand, let alone resume your duties. Be reasonable, Sully, even you must realize you’re not well enough yet. You’re drained and exhausted. Hanan says you should still be resting.”

The woman held up a hand and a glinting stone set within a gold ring on her middle finger spat fire. “Bull,” she repeated, a little louder.

Taran could hear a warning in her tone but the huge man chose to ignore it. Mistake, he thought.

The blustering tirade continued, the man’s military bearing and deep commanding voice used to full effect. Eventually, the woman held up both hands as if to ward him off and her captivating eyes snapped sparks. With an effort they could all see, she pushed herself from the table, drawing her slight body up to full height.

“BULLDOG!”

The word held real power and its echo caught the edges of Taran’s mind, causing him to shift uncomfortably. She gestured toward him and the large man’s head turned sharply, only now, it seemed, registering the presence of strangers.

His florid face went quite pale. He took a step closer to the woman, holding out a hand in apology.

“Sully, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean … ”

She leaned against the desk again and waved a slender hand. “Oh Bulldog. If you want to be forgiven, bring us some fellan. Make it strong. And send Robin along, will you?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” The big man hastily quit the room, casting a shame-faced glance over his shoulder.

The young woman walked unsteadily around the table and sank into the chair behind it, facing her guests. Cal and Rienne glanced at Taran in bemusement but the Journeyman thought he understood. He caught the woman’s gaze.

“That man, Bulldog,” he said, “he called you Sully. You’re Major Sullyan, aren’t you?”

A wry smile came to her lips. “I am. Are you disappointed?”

“I don’t know yet.” He frowned. “You’re certainly not what I expected.”

“No,” she replied, still smiling. “Bulldog was.”

Her perception made Taran blush but he was spared the embarrassment of admitting she was right because Captain Tamsen entered the room. He crossed to the table and perched on the edge, swinging one long leg. He gave Taran a brief glance before bending his head to the Major’s.

“Whatever did you say to Bull?” Taran heard him murmur. “He seems flustered.”

Her lilting voice sounded weary. “He overstepped the mark, Robin, and I will not nursemaid his sensibilities. He ought to know better. He of all people should know to trust my judgment.”

The Captain smiled. “I’m sure he’ll get over it. He’s on his way with the fellan.” He raised his head, looking inquiringly at Taran. “Now then, what was this information you wanted the Major to hear?”

Taran was feeling increasingly unsettled. He’d screwed himself up to admit his mistakes to a scornful senior officer; the last thing he’d expected was to be faced with a woman. He hadn’t known there were any serving in the High King’s forces. This shock only underlined his certainty that he shouldn’t be here. The Captain’s casual manner was one frustration too many and suddenly, Taran didn’t want him to hear what he’d come to say.

Directing his reply to the Major, he said, “I’d rather talk privately, if that’s possible.”

She gave a small sigh. “Robin is the captain of my company and Bull is my aide. Both would be involved if a response to your information was necessary, so you may speak freely in their presence.”

The door was pushed open once more as the big man, Bull, returned. He placed a tray of steaming cups on the table, giving the Major a shame-faced grin as he did so. She smiled back wearily. Her Captain reached for a cup and passed it to her, pursing his lips as she accepted it with trembling hands.

The big man then served Taran and his friends and there was silence while they all savored the hot, strong fellan. Taran frowned as Bull seated himself across the room from the Major, but he made no comment. His erroneous initial impressions had rattled him badly and he was feeling more uncomfortable by the minute.

“So,” repeated Robin eventually, “what did you wish to discuss?”

Taran glanced at Major Sullyan, but she seemed lost in her fellan, her eyes closed. He sighed; if he had to parade his shame he might at least be granted the Major’s attention.

A prickling sensation shot through his body and he glanced back at her face. Her eyes had opened and she was studying him closely. He frowned, surprised he should feel her gaze so strongly. He was sure there was a hint of amusement in her eyes.

The young Captain was waiting for a response. Taking a deep breath, Taran tried to control his nerves. He had not counted on having to explain himself to three people—one of them an extremely beautiful young woman—but as he let his breath out, he began his tale, addressing the Major.

“My name is Taran Elijah and my friend here is Cal Tyler. This is his partner, Rienne Arlen. She’s a healer.” Taran thought he heard a sharp breath from the Major as he mentioned his name, but she didn’t speak. “A friend of ours recommended we come to you.”

Interrupting him, Robin spoke casually to the Major. “The village elder, Paulus. Near Shenton.”

Sullyan made no reply, her eyes soft and unfocused. Taran was irritated by the interruption but took hold of his temper; he didn’t want to antagonize anyone.

He continued, “I’ve known Paulus all my life and have often confided in him when no one else would listen. Normally, listening is all he does, but this time his advice was to come to you, Major. He felt you might have some interest in the problem.”

Robin interrupted again. “Paulus knows a little of what we do here. He knows not to bother the Major with trivia so he must think your problem worthy of her attention. You’d better get to the point.”

Already uncomfortable, Taran was growing increasingly irritated by the Captain’s high-handed manner. He’d given the Journeyman an initially favorable impression. Since then, his attitude seemed to have changed.

To steady his nerves, Taran took a mouthful of fellan. The hot liquid ran through him, reminding him of the awful heat as he’d fled the Andaryan huntsmen. Once again, he realized that Major Sullyan was watching him, her startling eyes hooded and unreadable. At that moment, Taran decided to keep some parts of his humiliating tale—including its fatal outcome—to himself, at least until he knew a bit more about these people. He could always add it later.

He placed his empty cup on the tray and glanced at Robin. The younger man was still perched on the edge of the desk, hovering protectively by the Major’s side. There was a plainly fake expression of polite interest on his face and Taran felt a sudden urge to replace it with respect.

“I am an Artesan,” he stated abruptly. “I hold the rank of Journeyman.”

He watched for a reaction but was disappointed. The polite interest didn’t waver and the young man didn’t speak.

Annoyed, Taran proceeded.

“I was taught by my father, who reached the level of Adept-elite before his death two years ago.”

There was a moment of silence. Then:

“Your father was Amanus Elijah.”

The soft voice was Major Sullyan’s and Taran gaped at her. Her gaze had sharpened and her eyes were now huge and golden and, he thought, faintly sad.

“How do you know that?” he gasped. “Did you know my father?”

To his astonishment she dropped her eyes. “I met with him once. He is dead? I am sorry. He was a good man and a capable Adept.”

Despite his shock, Taran bridled. Her casually dismissive assessment of his father’s talents caused him to miss the obvious. “Capable? He was highly skilled,” he snapped.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Captain smile faintly, but Sullyan didn’t comment.

Stung by their less-than-respectful attitudes, Taran blundered on. “There are very few people left now who possess his level of knowledge. He might even have been the last Adept-elite.”

He saw Robin open his mouth and even heard Bull stirring.

“Be still.”

The command, though softly spoken, was instantly obeyed by the two military men. The Major raised her eyes to Taran’s. “You did not come here to discuss your father, I think, and we are all now aware of your status. To the point?”

Taran had the distinct impression his outburst had done him no favors. Mention of his father—whom he’d adored but could never please—always put him on edge.

With an effort, he thrust his indignation aside, deciding to gloss over his many failed experiments. They would never understand, so what was the point in relating them?

“Since his death,” he continued, “I have been trying to raise my rank to Adept. I knew I’d never find another tutor in Loxton, so eventually I decided my only option was to cross the Veils into Andaryon, the Fifth Realm. I knew from my father that Artesans were plentiful there and the notes he left suggested there was a way of persuading one of them to teach me.”

Glancing at Robin, Taran saw the polite interest replaced by a frown. Of course, he thought, they don’t understand what I’m talking about. He only had Paulus’ word that they might help him, although the Major’s astonishing revelation about his father seemed to bear that out. However, given most people’s fear and mistrust of Artesans—and the military’s understandable attitude toward raiding Andaryans—he knew his fears were correct. He should explain and leaned forward in his chair, readying what Cal called his ‘lecture voice’.

“Those of us born with the Artesan gift can learn to control our personal power, known as metaforce. We can use this to influence and even master the four elements,” he said. “We raise ourselves through several levels of competence by study and experiment, mostly learning from those of higher rank. That’s why I needed to find another teacher. There are hardly any Artesans left in Albia now, and my father was probably the most experienced of his kind.”