Defenders of The Sacred Land: Book One of The Sacred Land Saga (7 page)

“Mother, did you not sleep last night?” Dorenn asked, stopping his mother in mid stride.

”Oh, Dorenn, no dear, I tossed and turned all night. I hate the thought of you going so far away. Anything could happen to you out on the road.”

“I have gone to Symbor before and to places far more dangerous.”

“And I worried the whole time you were gone those times too.” Dellah smiled and shook her head. “Don’t worry about me, my son, I will always worry when my child is so far away from home. It is the way of mothers.” She hugged him tightly, and Dorenn was glad there was no one around to see. “Now, go and have a safe trip, son.”

“I will, Mother. I promise to bring you some of that perfume you love so much from Symbor.”

“Oh, Dorenn, that would be lovely of you.” She smiled.

Dorenn left the kitchen and discovered he was the only one not ready to leave.

“It’s about time,” Rennon laughed. “I thought we were going to have to leave you.” He turned and shouted, “All ready to move out?”

“Aye,” replied the two guards on horseback.

“Move out!” Rennon commanded as he slightly snapped his reins. Dorenn grabbed the side step rail bar, pulled himself aboard, and seated himself beside Rennon. Trendan galloped ahead, bow by his side and quiver on his back. The two disguised guards brought up the rear.

As the party left the front gate of Brookhaven, the guard, Thaq, bowed and bade them good riding, and the party of merchants ventured out onto the open southern road to Symbor. For the rest of the day, events unfolded as expected. Dorenn considered jumping down to gather some of the blooming wild flowers for Tatrice but discarded the idea when he realized she would probably reject them since she was still mad at him. Tatrice served lunch, and Rennon watered the horses. After he had eaten, Trendan busied himself with scouting out about a league or two ahead to clear any obstacles from the path and to watch for any suspicious travelers from Symbor. Tatrice still kept her distance throughout lunch, and Dorenn wondered how she could still be mad at him now that she was coming along on the trip. He vowed to ask her when the travelers stopped to make camp for the night.

The evening sun had barely made its way across the western horizon and the Jagged Mountains still loomed in the distance far behind them when Trendan spotted a suitable camp sight about two leagues farther. It was close enough to the road to afford them shelter under a nice gathering of budding trees and far enough from the road to hide them from passersby.

As they entered the small clearing, they dismounted and began to make camp. Rennon unhitched the wagon team, and the horses began to graze on the tall green prairie grass from a nearby field.

The camp setup went smoothly enough; Tatrice and Shey built a small fire for cooking while Rodraq established a perimeter for night watch. Vesperin and the two guards pitched four cloth lean-to tents to sleep under: one for the women, one for Rodraq and the guards, and two for the boys.

Tatrice and Lady Shey prepared a beef and vegetable stew while the elf maiden made skillet biscuits. Dorenn was surprised that Lady Shey was so eager to help. She did not act like any royalty he had ever seen or read about in stories. She moved with grace but also was not afraid to work.

“Lady Shey?” Dorenn asked after the party had eaten the hearty beef stew and biscuits.

“Yes, Dorenn?”

“I know it isn’t proper to ask, but I was wondering, how did you come to have a fair elf serve you?”

“Serve me?” With a smile growing on her face, Lady Shey looked at the elf maiden sitting beside her, and the two of them suddenly burst out into laughter.

“Did I say something amusing?” Dorenn asked, feeling a little foolish.

“Yes and no, Dorenn.” She caught her breath and inhaled. “I suppose now is as good a time as any. This is Sylvalora,” she said, “but she is not my servant.” She paused to catch her breath again. “She is more like a good friend.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Sylvalora said in a voice so melodic Dorenn was awestruck for a moment.

“It seems you have a devious nature about you, Lady Shey,” Rennon stated bluntly.

“Oh, how so?” Lady Shey asked.

“You are nobility but now pose as a merchant, and you have concealed a friend masquerading as a servant. What other deceptions have you to tell us?”

“I am full of deceptions, but your knowledge of them would jeopardize centuries of planning.”

“Centuries?” Vesperin said surprised.

Lady Shey winked. “Aye, cleric, centuries.”

Rennon stood from his seat on a fallen log and tossed his empty plate and bowl into the cauldron of water Tatrice had prepared for the dishes. “I will not sit here and listen to this nonsense. If the Enforcers were around to hear you speak this way, they would take all our heads. Filthy wielders, every one of you!” And he stormed out into the field.

A somber look replaced the amusement on Lady Shey’s face. “You would think after this long I would take this outlawing of magic more seriously, Sylvalora.”

“I had hoped you would, Lady Shey. You have always had a quick tongue, dear, and sometimes it is quicker than your brain.”

Lady Shey flinched like a child just scolded by her mother. A hush came over the camp.

After Tatrice and Lady Shey washed the dishes and put them away, Dorenn found Tatrice drying her hands near the wagon. He swallowed hard and approached her, hoping to make up. “Beautiful night out tonight,” he said.

Tatrice glanced up at the sky. “I suppose.”

Dorenn searched for a way to get back in Tatrice’s good graces. “Look at the stars; they sure are clear and bright; how about taking a walk with me?” It was the best he could come up with.

“It’s bedtime,” she answered without looking at him.

“Are you sure? We could talk about how I made you angry and…”

Dorenn stopped cold as Tatrice shot him an even angrier look. “Do not start with me, Dorenn Adair. If you still have not figured it out by now, you never will.” She handed him the drying cloth and stomped away. Reluctantly, he followed her until Sylvalora appeared from behind the red ale wagon.

“Let her go, lad.”

Dorenn leaned against the wagon and tossed the drying cloth over the rear wheel. “Am I that thick in the head? I have no idea why she is so angry.”

Sylvalora chuckled. “Even the wisest men are confounded on such matters as the behavior of women. It is best if you let her come to you when she is ready. And when she does come to you, you must apologize even if you don’t understand why she is angry.”

“If you say so,” Dorenn said, his mind shifting to Sylvalora. “May I ask you a personal question?”

Sylvalora sat down before him, patting the ground in a gesture for him to join her. “Come sit and we will talk.”

He sat on the ground next to her.

“Are you Arillian?”

Sylvalora smiled gently. “Not exactly, but that’s close enough.”

“Have you lived as long as the elves then? I do not mean to offend,” he added, “but Trendan is half-elven and he is forty-two seasons old. By elven standards, he is still considered young.”

“Does all that really matter to you, Dorenn?” Sylvalora asked, and Dorenn wondered if his question had gone too far.

“No, I guess not. I was just curious.”

Sylvalora’s tone softened even more as she spoke. “I am not older than the elves, although I am somewhat older than Lady Shey, if you must know. In fact, I watched her grow from a child. I stayed with her while she apprenticed to Morgoran, and I was there at her wedding.”

Dorenn gasped. “Lady Shey is married? She was Morgoran Cleareyes’ apprentice!”

Sylvalora laughed. “She was not born noble, child, she married into it, and yes, she apprenticed to Morgoran. It was a long time ago, before he became known as Cleareyes.”

“Where is her husband?” Dorenn asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Sylvalora’s expression became somber. “He was not a wielder nor was he an elf, and he passed from this world long ago.”

“How long do wielders live?”

Sylvalora shrugged. “As long as they want to. They do age, of course, although very slowly. The essence that fuels all things is timeless.”

“Lady Shey couldn’t teach her husband to wield so he could live as long as her?”

“Not everyone can touch the essence residing in all things, and fewer still can draw upon it to wield.” She shook her head. “No, Lady Shey’s husband could not be taught to wield.” Sylvalora put her hand on Dorenn’s leg and smiled at him. “Enough questions.” She kissed Dorenn lightly on the cheek, and afterward, she rubbed it in with her hand. Gradually she pulled herself up and strolled off toward her lean-to, leaving Dorenn to contemplate her words.

Dorenn sat beside the wagon for a moment before deciding he was not tired despite his long day. He had too much to think about and he wanted to talk to Vesperin or Rennon. After a quick search of the camp, he found Rennon sitting under a tall oak, gazing at the stars and smoking a long-stemmed clay pipe.

“Rennon, there you are.”

“Aye, here I am. You have found me,” Rennon said sarcastically.

Dorenn grimaced even though Rennon could not see him do so. “I have known you too long for Lady Shey’s comments to bother you like this. What is the matter?”

“It isn’t any of your concern, Dorenn. You could not possibly understand.”

Dorenn noticed Rennon move the bag of Sanmir’s bittering tea out of his sight. “Why don’t you let me decide that for myself?”

Rennon coughed uneasily. “Because you can’t keep a secret. I remember when I told you a secret when we were younger and you told Trendan, Tatrice, and who knows all.”

“We were only four seasons old, Rennon, and you told me you were turning into a wolf. You scared me half to death with that beaver fur you put on your arms. I thought you were going to eat me alive.” Dorenn laughed.

Rennon chuckled in spite of himself. “No, not that time. The time I told you I saw my dead grandmother sitting at the end of my bed at night.”

“I didn’t think you were serious.”

“I still see her, Dorenn,” Rennon said somberly.

“Okay, Rennon, I made a mistake when we were six. I think I can keep it to myself now,” he paused. “Why do you think you still see her?”

Rennon stood and brushed the dead leaves and twigs from his backside. “Another time perhaps, right now I just need to sleep.”

“Rennon, you can’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Leave me in the dark like this.”

“I am truly sorry, Dorenn, but I can’t tell you, not yet anyway. Just let me come to you on my own,” Rennon said, and then he walked back to camp.

“I have been hearing that a lot lately,” Dorenn muttered to himself.

The next morning, after a breakfast of dried beef and bread, the party packed up and moved back onto the southern road. The guards and Rodraq cleared the campsite so well that it was difficult to see any signs that anyone had made camp there at all. Trendan hoped they would reach the first village from Brookhaven at around midday, and indeed, as the midday summer sun beat relentlessly on their backs, the party reached Soldier’s Bluff, which meant they were making good time.

Up until the last four leagues or so, the terrain had been mostly flat with occasional rolling hills topped with green and golden grasslands. Now the hills became much steeper and trees became more prevalent. Sharp stones began to appear on the road, and despite Rennon’s excellent inspection of the horse’s hooves before they had left Brookhaven, some of the rocky terrain had damaged one of the mount’s shoes. The damage was not severe, but it did require a blacksmith. Dorenn knew that Rof’s blacksmith shop was not far off the main road, just beyond the guardhouse. He had not been to Soldier’s Bluff in quite some time, but he was sure nothing had changed much. The village was not large, just a collection of two or three shops and a handful of houses, but it was a clean and pleasant place. As the party approached the guardhouse, a stout man in rusty chain mail called a halt, and Rennon complied.

“What business do you have in Soldier’s Bluff?” the pig-faced guard asked in a gruff voice.

“We are merchants bound for Symbor from the village of Brookhaven,” Rennon replied.

The guard studied Dorenn for a moment, and then he saw Tatrice step out from behind the wagon. “It’s okay, Feyon; this is Master Lourn’s son and a summons group from Brookhaven.”

The stout man perked up immediately. “Mistress Tatrice. It is good to see your fair face again. Are you well?”

“I am well, Feyon, but I am in a bit of a rush as one of our mounts is in danger of losing a shoe. We need to get to Rof’s shop.”

The stout man stood aside. “Aye, Mistress Tatrice, you may pass at once, and welcome to Soldier’s Bluff.”

“Thank you, Master Feyon,” Tatrice said, bowing slightly and stepping back onto the wagon.

As the wagon lurched past the guard, Tatrice blew him a kiss and he blushed furiously.

When Rennon drove the ale wagon around the first corner, Dorenn was surprised to see Fadral’s wagon unhitched and stowed away neatly, as if it had not been used for quite some time. “Rennon, is that Master Fadral’s wagon?” he asked.