The Call of the Crown (Book 1) (17 page)

Ealian laughed as if he were his old self again. “I was collecting firewood, silly! I woke up in this… place”—Ealian looked about as if not knowing where he was—“and saw the fire was nearly out.”

“Place?” Elspeth said, making one eyebrow while backing away a pace. “Don’t you remember walking here yesterday?” She put her hand to Ealian’s forehead. It wasn’t as hot as before, and the clamminess was gone. There was that to be thankful for, at least, but why couldn’t he recall coming to the woods?

“Last thing I remember clearly was that place with the rocks. After that, everything is hazy, distant, like a dream.” Ealian put the wood down and said a cheerful good morning to Daric and Grady, who were just rising. Then he turned to say the same to Olam. He started to mouth the words but then simply nodded, as though the sight of Olam was a surprise. He blinked, and for a moment, he staggered as though about to fall.

“Are you all right
?” Elspeth asked. “You should sit. You were very sick last night.”

“I’m fine
, really. I just—I just wanted to get some wood.”

“Well, wake me up, whatever the reason. Please, brother!” Elspeth pulled Ealian’s forehead to her and gave him a quick kiss.

*  *  *

Olam was sure now
. He needed to talk to Daric. He waited until after breakfast and followed him to the water’s edge, where he found him kneeling, filling up the waterskins in a fast-flowing stream.

“My friend, we have a problem
,” he said, his head bowed and hands clasped as though praying for guidance. He hoped he wouldn’t need any.

“What is it, Olam?”

Olam huffed out a long, anguished sigh. How was he going to explain this? “You remember I told you about the good and evil of Am’bieth and about the Black and the White?” Olam bit his lip, wondering whether continuing was the right course of action.

Daric took in a deep breath and shook his head. Pulling a waterskin from the water, he slapped the top back on and got to his feet. Head back and teeth clenched, he spoke. “You are going to tell me that you are infected with
the White, aren’t you?” Daric put down the waterskin and gazed knowingly at Olam, waited for an answer.

“How did you—”

“It’s simple.” Daric interrupted. “Firstly, the tracking through the forest without slowing. Secondly, the exploding apple, or whatever that was. Then there’s ridiculously detailed knowledge of almost every blade of grass we came across—not to mention your strange affinity with certain animals! And finally, there is the
real
reason why Arfael can only remember
you
once parted from his company. Am I getting close?”

“Daric, you really are a clever man, but you need not fear me. It’s a blessing! Not a curse.”

“I can see that,” Daric said. “I’m not a weak-minded man. If anything, I’m jealous!”

Olam was surprised at his admission.

Daric continued. “Why do we have a problem?” He picked up the waterskins and began walking back to camp.

“Well, my friend, my
condition
is not what I wanted to discuss, though I am glad to hear your opinion on the matter. It is Ealian. I’m convinced he has the Black in him, and although I wouldn’t bet my life on it, I have seen enough to be
almost
certain.” Olam put his hands to his heart. “The gods know I hope I’m mistaken.”

Daric came to an abrupt h
alt and pondered Olam’s words for a long moment. “What can be done?” he asked and then sighed heavily. “Gods, we should have checked on him, too. We should have checked everyone.”

“It would have made little difference—maybe worsened the situation. I do not know what can be done
. There was a man back west who knew far more of such things than I, but I have no idea where he is now, or even if he is alive.” Olam felt a pang of anger at himself for not knowing more. He knew the likely outcome if it turned out he was correct. The thought of such a thing left him hollow.
He is only a boy!

“What about those tree folk you spoke of?” Daric moved back away from the path, checking that no one was within earshot.

“You mean the Cren? The Crenach’dair? They may be able to help, but there is no finding them, not if they don’t want to be found.”

“They live in Crenach’coi,” Daric said. “We have to pass there. In fact, we walk along the northern edge for maybe two, three days. Perhaps we can find a way to leave a message, or you and I could go looking for them.”

“We can try, but it is unlikely. I fear also that if Ealian is infected, they would just as soon kill him as listen to our woe.” Olam was mindful that none of his tidings were of any use. “I’m sorry. I do not know everything on this matter, far from it. Let us just hope I’m wrong.”

“Is that likely?” Daric asked candidly.

“No. Not really.”

Daric looked to the ground. He looked like a man with a hundred thoughts pull
ing at his mind, but no answers. “For now we say nothing. I can see no good reason why we should burden him, not until we are sure of it or it becomes obvious. Or indeed, if we have a definite answer. If they knew, they would all but insist on going home, and that would take us farther away from these Cren. It would all but mean the end for the boy! Agreed?”

“Yes,” Olam said.

They walked silently back to camp. Olam knew what must have been going through Daric’s mind. Ealian was his responsibility, and though he didn’t ask for it, he would take it hard if anything happened to him.

It would be down to the Cren now
; Olam knew that much for truth. The boy’s life was in the hand of a people who would do all they could to avoid contact. Why didn’t he check the rocks? Why didn’t he say something?

CHAPTER 12

Two hours passed since leaving
Am’ilean Oasis. The sky above grew dim; it was looking like rain. One by one the travellers gazed to the heavens, hoping to see those dark clouds moving on. Rain in the marsh was the last thing anybody wanted, and the darker it got, the more audible became the prayers to An’gael, asking her to send the storm front away—maybe up north to An’aird Barath or south to the Eurmac, anywhere but here.

It was a little past midmorning when the first droplets of rain hinted that their prayers had been in vain. The gods teased them for another two hours: starting, stopping, starting again. By noon, there was no doubt; the gods were not going to help
. The billowing western front, so often the cause of flooding back in Ealdihain, had saved its watery cargo especially for the Am’bieth, and it was wasting no time letting the marsh have it all.

The travellers found shelter for themselves under a large, fallen tree—a thick, dead sycamore, uprooted by erosion. The makeshift shelter arched over a small patch of candleberry bushes. Candleberries, when added to the wax, made for sweet-smelling candles, or could be made into a salve to ease aches and pains. For now, though, the bushes made a good windbreak, thick as they were, which, at this point, was more important than smelling nice. The dead sycamore made a decent enough roof, too.

Gialyn, Elspeth, and Ealian had the best of it; they sat in the middle, covered back and front by the others. Daric and Grady stayed perched at the rim, with their packs adding to the natural windbreak of the bushes. Olam and Arfael sat themselves at the rear, under Arfael’s huge blanket.

Elspeth took her own blanket from her pack and tried covering herself and the other youngsters with it, but to no avail. The wind funnelling from the front of their “shelter” proved too much for her to hold against. The blanket blew off and landed in a muddy pool ten feet back from the fallen tree. Olam ran to fetch it and promptly tripped in a pothole. He fell onto his hands, the mud and water very nearly coming to his elbow. He scurried back with Elspeth’s sodden, muddy blanket held at arm’s length in front of him. He told her she could sw
ap with him if she wanted. It wasn’t a difficult sell. Elspeth snuggled herself up under Arfael’s blanket, while Olam joined Daric and Grady behind the packs at the front.

And there they sat for a further two hours, miserable, in the near horizontal rain. While all around, their path was disappearing beneath the dancing, bubbling waters of the evermore
-flooded Am’bieth. The sheer pace of the rain stung the skin of any who left themselves open to it. Misty waves of fine, storm-beaten raindrops followed the wind like flocks of starling or sparrow, darting first one way, then the other. At this rate, it wouldn’t be long before they would need a boat to move forward. The path was long gone, hidden under inches of water.

The travellers began to wonder how long they could stay there. Would the waters reach their low island of candleberry? Moans started to rise amongst the youngsters concerning what was to be done. For all the searching eyes, there appeared to be no way out.

Daric ventured across what was the path to get a better view, but was gone barely a minute. “There is nothing else out there. It is here or the open, I’m afraid.” Nobody much liked that idea. At least they were dry, relatively speaking. He settled back down in his spot behind the backpacks.

“Can’t you see anything?” Grady asked.

“Barely fifty feet, and that’s only because I know what is there. The water is flowing fast southwards, though. We won’t get flooded if we wait here.” Daric pulled the blanket back over his head and resumed his position.

After two more hours, it stopped. The winds eased to a mere stiff breeze, and the rain petered away to a drizzle. The travellers remained undercover for a further twenty minutes before venturing out
. So organized were they in their “shelter,” they were reluctant to leave. Not until they were sure the rain wouldn’t start up again and force them back undercover.

They were all soaked to the skin, but the waters had indeed run off to the south, and the path, as much as remained, was beginning to open up again.

Daric was the first to venture out. He was the closest to the exit. “We are three hours from Am’cherc, and that is on a good day, and we only have four hours of daylight left,” he said, looking around at the bedraggled group—all were shivering. Even Arfael looked, for the first time, unhappy with his lot. “We have a choice: risk Am’cherc or stay here?” Daric’s question led to an almost synchronous moan.

The travellers looked at one another, no one appeared willing to suggest either
.

Olam moved forward. “There is another track. It takes us south, but it is only an hour… two at the most, even in these conditions. There are trees there and safe harbour, I’m sure of it.”

“Is it safe?” Elspeth said, and Gialyn nodded anxiously in agreement. “You know… the black thing.”

“Yes, Olam, is it safe?” Ealian repeated the question. His tone seemed terse, if not completely arbitrary. Safe… unsafe…
It didn’t appear to matter to him one way or the other.

Olam gave Ealian a sidelong stare from within his hood. Turning his head, he directed his answer to Elspeth. “It is too far south for that, child. Besides, I do not recall there being any rocks about.” Olam looked at Daric, who must already know the only answer he could give, but, nonetheless, he still mused over it for a long moment.

“As you say, Olam, my friend. Once more it is up to you to lead the way,” Daric said, but he didn’t look particularly happy.

Olam spun his pack onto his shoulder. “We will have to go back about a half
mile and then cut south at that large pool we passed. Hopefully it won’t be flooded over.” He picked up his staff and waited for the others.

The travellers readied themselves. Indeed, they looked a dishevelled bunch. After a few minutes, and with Olam leading, they made their way back along the track towards the large pool. Hopefully, it was still just a pool and not a lake.

The path was treacherous under foot. Every couple of steps forward led to one step sideways. They teamed up for support: Arfael and Ealian, Grady and Elspeth, Daric with his son, leaving Olam—and his staff—out front guiding them. The marsh was more of a dismal sight than ever. The grass lay flat and limp after its beating at the hands of the storm. The biting wind, though not so strong, had a northeasterly chill in it that weakened their already cold limbs. Their progress along the slippery path was pitiful; one taking three steps, then waiting while the other caught up. Nearly three hours passed before they caught site of the trees Olam had mentioned.

After twenty more minutes
’ effort and many a “thank you” to An’gael, the travellers, once again, found themselves safely underneath a canopy of alder and sycamore. The relieved sighs were almost as loud as they had previously moaned, and a few cheeks were cracked by easy smiles.

It was surprisingly dry; the thick broad leaves of the close-knit trees formed a tight canopy. Only the edges of the wood were truly damp. In the centre, the storms effects were hardly noticeable at all. They had no trouble at all in finding a reasonably large clearing, perfect for a camp.

“You all know what to do by now,” Daric said as he slowly eased his pack from his shoulders and knuckled his back. He pinched at his clothes and pulled the soaking linen away from his skin. “And let us hope there is enough dry wood for a fire.”

Grady waved Gialyn over. “You need to find a few large branches, with plenty of hanging room on them. We must get these clothes off and dried, or it’s the marsh chills for all of us!” Grady tugged at Gialyn’s collar as he spoke.

“What! All of them?” Elspeth asked. She blinked a half dozen times and rubbed at the back of her neck. When Grady looked at her, she made a study of her feet.

“No time to be shy, Elspeth. Getting the chills in this place could be the death of you. Even a fever will slow us all down, force us to leave supplies and carry you out.” Grady’s expression was stern and direct, as though he’d had some personal experience
with what he spoke of.

Elspeth shuffled and sighed but said nothing. Her cheeks were red, though, and she kicked at the stones under her feet.

Grady leaned his own pack against the others and turned to Olam, who was cleaning the mud from his boots with the end of his staff. “How much longer until we are free of this accursed marsh?”

Olam straightened his back and spoke with the same lecturing tone he used whenever anyone asked him a question. “My friend, there is one long march between us and the grasslands of Northern Taris—if it is clear… a full day, maybe seven hours.”

“Well, let’s hope it clears in the night, then.”

Grady started to unpack, taking out his soaking spare clothes and blanket, ringing them of
excess water, of which there was a lot.

“Even so, I suggest drinking plenty of water, best to be up before dawn and use every minute of light,” Olam said.

“Indeed, my friend. Wise as always.”

*
  *  *

Elspeth watched nervously as Gialyn and Arfael went off to find wood.
Gods, he can’t be serious. I’m the only girl! It’s not right!
She sat by the edge of the clearing, knees up tight to her chest, her arms wrapped around them. She nibbled on her thumbnail while watching the
men
go about their business like nothing was wrong.

For ten minutes she sat. Occasional glances came her way, but strangely enough, nobody asked her why she wasn
’t helping.
Why would they do that? Are they waiting to see me embarrassed? Maybe I can hide in that bush over there.

Five more minutes, and Gialyn and Arfael came back with a fair heap of firewood.

She watched as Arfael dropped the huge armful of wood he was carrying. He picked half of it up again and took it to the edge of the clearing, where two small trees made a doorway to a smaller space. He went to his pack and pulled out his enormous blanket. Then tied two corners across the small trees, making a perfect partition. He collected some more wood and placed it by the “extra” fire that he asked Olam to make. It was already burning well.

What is he doing? Making a tent for himself?
Elspeth thought.

He looked around as though checking all was well, then walked over to Elspeth. He stretched out an open hand to her. “For you, little one, nice fire and blanket.”

Elspeth was—for the first time in anyone’s memory—speechless. She stood and hugged the huge man. And with a hint of a tear in her eye, she grabbed up her things and moved to the other side of the blanket, where she could dry her sodden clothes with some dignity.

Gialyn looked on with an expression that said he wished he had thought of it.

*  *  *

The travellers—the men, that is—sat around the big fire. Some chose to use a cloth or bag to
retain their modesty. Behind them, all their clothes and blankets were arranged along the limbs of a few large branches that Gialyn and Arfael had dragged near to the fire. They sat laughing and joking about their predicament. Daric and Grady prepared the last of the fish that had survived the raid by the Salrians. Olam dressed a rabbit that Grady had caught the previous day. Water was on the boil and a broth on its way to warm the bellies of the weary.

All were in good spirits, despite the horrendous day they had endured. At least now they were warm, dry, and fed a hot meal. They began to talk of their travels and adventures.

Daric, being the only one other than Arfael that knew the truth of Olam’s “condition,” chose not to lead them in conversation. If he had questions, they would have to wait. Besides, he wasn’t much for telling stories.

Instead, he listened as Grady regaled the others with tales of their exploits while serving as guardsmen at the royal palace. Young Gialyn listened intently and appeared to be moved by Grady’s expressive and passionate storytelling. It was obvious to all that Grady’s time as a guard was full of good memories. Maybe Gialyn would change his mind about applying for the post. That would certainly please his father, but probably not his mother.

Grady told a tale of his first week in the guards. “Daric decided to climb on the roof to fetch the chicken, just as the master at arms walked under the gangway.” Grady could barely talk for laughing. “He threw the chicken down the side steps and asked me if all was clear below? Now, I saw the master was approaching but still gave the all clear. Daric landed right on top of him.” Grady fell on his side in fits, which actually looked funnier than the story he was telling. “And that wasn’t even the funny part. The master chased Daric round the quad for ten minutes, waving his sword in the air, shouting, ‘Come here, Re’adh. You dented my helmet.’” There were tears in Grady’s eyes. “Dented his helmet. He was a funny man, the master, and didn’t even know it.”

Daric didn
’t look amused. “I had weeks of kitchen duty for that! Imagine, an officer cleaning the plates of his men! I cursed the day Grady joined, believe you me. The man was always getting me in trouble.” Daric raised his goblet to his friend. “But they were indeed good days.”

Olam raised his mug, too. “Here’s to good days!” he said.

“Here! Here!” Daric and Grady both raised their mugs in salute.