The Village It was perpetually twilight. The jungle's canopy blocked what little sunlight managed to penetrate the rain clouds. A hazy mist shrouded their surroundings, and intensified the deeper they pressed into the jungle. Exotic plants with stalks the size of men's legs towered overhead. Huge leaves adorned with intricate patterns and vibrant flowers of purple, yellow, and red surrounded the party. It left Hadrian feeling small, shrunken to the size of an insect, crawling across the floor of a giant's forest.
Rain constantly plagued them. The sound of water danced on a million leaves, sounding like thunder and when actual thunder cracked-it was the voice of a god. Everything was wet. Clothes stuck to their skin and hung like weights. Boots squished audibly with every step. Their hands wrinkled like old men's.
Royce rode on the back of a Gunguan, what the Vintu called the pack ponies. He was awake but weak. A day had passed since the attack, because Wesley had insisted on burying Staul. Their new captain proclaimed he would not allow the beasts to have a taste of any of his crew and insisted on a deep grave. No one complained at the strenuous work of cutting through the thick mat of roots. Hadrian doubted Wesley really cared about the fate of Staul's carcass, but the work granted Royce time to rest, kept the crew busy, and affirmed Wesley's commitment to them. Hadrian thought once again about the similarities between the ex-midshipman and his famous brother.
Royce traveled wrapped in his cloak, the weight of the rain collapsing the hood around his head. It was not a good sign, at least not for Thranic and Defoe. Until now, Royce had played the part of the good little sailor, but with the reemergence of the hood, and the loss of his white kerchief, Hadrian knew that role had ended. They had spoken little since the attack. Not surprisingly, Royce was in no mood for idle discussion. By now Hadrian guessed his friend had imagined killing Thranic at least a dozen times with a few Defoes thrown in here and there for variety. Hadrian had seen Royce wounded before and was familiar with the cocooning-only what would emerge from that cloak and hood would not be a butterfly.
Thranic, Defoe, and Levy traveled at the end of the train and Hadrian often caught them whispering. They wisely kept their distance, avoiding attention. Wesley led the party, along with Dilladrum who made a point of not taking sides or venturing anything remotely resbling an opinion. Dilladrum remained jolly as always and focused his attention on the Vintu.
Hadrian was most surprised with Derning. When Royce was most vulnerable, his shipboard nemesis had come to his aid rather than taking advantage. Hadrian would have bet money that, on the subject of Royce's guilt, Derning would have sided with Thranic. Wyatt never had the chance to find out his reason for volunteering, but now more than ever Hadrian was convinced Derning was not part of Thranic's band. Antun Bulard was part of Thranic's troop-of that there was no doubt-but lacked the ruthlessness of the others. He was merely a resource and, having shown an interest, Hadrian became Bulard's new best friend.
"Look! Look there." Bulard pointed to a brilliant flower blooming overhead. The old man took to walking beside Hadrian, sharing his sense of discovery along the way. "Gorgeous, simply gorgeous, have you ever seen the like? I dare say I haven't. Still, that isn't saying much, now is it?"
Bulard reminded Hadrian of a long-haired cat; his usually billowing robe and fluffy, white hair deflated in the rain leaving a remarkably thin body. He held up a withered hand to protect his eyes as he searched the trees.
"Another one of those wonderful long beaked birds," the historian said. "I love the way they hover."
Hadrian smiled at him. "It's not that you don't seem to mind the rain that amazes me, it's that you don't seem to notice it at all."
Bulard frowned. "My parchments are a disaster. They stick together, the ink runs, I haven't been able to write anything down, and as I mentioned at our first meeting, my head is no place to store memories of such wonderful things. It makes me feel I have wasted my life locked in dusty libraries and scriptoriums. Don't do what I did, Hadrian. You're still a young man. Take my advice, live your life to the fullest. Breathe the air, taste the wine, kiss the girls, the never forget that the tales of another are never as wondrous as adventures of your own. I'll admit I was, well, concerned about this trip. No, I will say it truthfully-I was scared. What does a man my age have to be afraid of, you wonder? Everything. Life becomes more precious when you have less to spare. I'm not ready to die. Why, look at all that I have never seen."
"You have seen horses before, and known women right?" Hadrian asked, with a wry grin.
Bulard looked at him curiously, "I'm a historian, not a monk."
Hadrian nearly tripped.
"I realize I don't look it now, but I was quite handsome once. I was married three times in fact. Outlived all of them, poor darlings. I still miss them, you know-each one. My silly, little mind hasn't misplaced their faces, and I can't imagine it ever will. Have you ever been in love, Hadrian?"
"I'm not sure. How do you tell?"
"Love? Why, it's like coming home."
Hadrian considered the comment.
"What are you thinking?" Bulard asked.
Hadrian shook his head. "Nothing."
"Yes, you were. What? You can tell me. I am an excellent repository for secrets. I will likely forget, but if I don't, well, I'm an old man in a remote jungle. I'm sure to die before I can repeat anything."
Hadrian smiled then shrugged. "I was just thinking about the rain."
The trail widened, revealing a great, cascading waterfall and a dozen grass-thatched buildings clustered at the center of a small clearing. The domed-roof huts rested on high wooden stilts accessed by short stairs or ladders depending on the size and apparent prestige of the structure. A central fire pit occupied the very center of the clearing surrounded by a ring of colorfully painted stones and wooden poles decorated in animal skins, skulls, and strings of bones, beads, and long vibrant feathers. The inhabitants were dark-haired, dark-eyed, umber-skinned men and women dressed in beautifully painted cloths and silks. They paused as Dilladrum advanced respectfully. Elder men met him before the fire ring, where they exchanged bows.
"Who are these people, do you suppose?" Bulard asked.
"Tenkins," Hadrian replied.
Bulard raised his eyebrows.
The village was familiar to Hadrian, though he had never been there. Hundreds of similar ones were scattered across the peninsula, mirror images of each other. The rubble of Eastern Calis was the last standing residue of the first empire. After civil wars tore apart the west, Calis still flew the old imperial banners and for centuries formed the bulwark against the advancing Ghazel horde. Time, however, was on the Ghazel's side. The last of the old world died when the ancient eastern capital of Urlineus fell to the goblin hordes sweeping through the jungles. They might have overrun all of Avryn, if not for Glenmorgan III.
Glenmorgan III had rallied the nobles and defeated the goblins at the Battle of Vilan Hills. The Ghazel fell back, but were never driven off the mainland. Betrayed shortly after his victory, Glenmorgan III never finished his work of reestablishing the kingdom's borders. This task fell to lesser men who squabbled over the spoils of war and were too distracted to stop the Ghazel from digging in. Urlineus, the last great city of the Old Empire, remained in the hands of the Ghazel, and Calis had never been the same.
Fractured and isolated, the eastern half of the country struggled against the growing pressure of the Ghazel nation in a maelstrom of chaos and confusion. Self-appointed warrior-kings fought against each other. Out of desperation, some enlisted the aid of the Ghazel to help vanquish a rival. Ties formed, lines blurred, and out of this tenuous alliance the Tenkins were born-humans who had adopted the Ghazel's ways, traditions, and beliefs. For this, Calians ostracized the Tenkin, forcing their kind deeper into the jungles where they lived on the borderlands between the anvil and the hammer.
Dilladrum returned. "This is the village of Oudorro. I've been here many times. Although Tenkin, they are a friendly and generous people. I have asked them to let us rest here for the night. Tomorrow morning we will push on toward the Palace of the Four Winds. Beyond this point, travel will be much harder and unpleasant, so we will need a good night's rest. I must caution you, however, please do nothing to offend or provoke these people. They are courteous but can be fierce if roused."
The physical appearance of the Tenkin always impressed Hadrian. Staul was a crude example of his kin, and these men were more what he remembered. Lean, bronzed muscles and strong facial features that looked hewn from blocks of stone were the hallmarks of the Tenkin warrior. Like the great cats of the jungle, their bodies were graceful in their strength and simplicity. The women were breathtaking. Long dark hair wreathed sharp cheekbones and almond eyes. Their satin-smooth skin enveloped willowy curves. The civilized world never saw Tenkin women. A closely guarded treasure, they never left their villages.
The inhabitants showed neither fear nor concern at the procession of the foreigners. Most observed their arrival with silent curiosity. The women showed more interest, pressing forward to peer and talking amongst themselves.
"I thought Tenkins were grotesque," Bulard said with the casual manner and volume of a man commenting on animals. "I had heard they were abominations of nature, but these people are beautiful."
"A common misconception," Hadrian explained. "People tell tales that Tenkin are the result of interbreeding between Calians and Ghazel but if you ever saw a goblin, you'd understand why that's not possible."
"I guess you can't believe everything you read in books. But don't spread that around or I'll be out of a job."
When they reached the village center, the Vintu went about their work and began unpacking. They moved with stoic familiarity. The party waited, listening to the hiss of rain on the fire and the mummer of the crowd gathering around them. With an expectant expression, Dilladrum struggled to see over their heads. He exchanged looks with Wesley but said nothing. Soon, a small elderly Tenkin entered the circle dressed in a leopard wrap. His skin was like wrinkled leather, and his hair gray steel. He walked with a slow dignity and an upturned chin. Dilladrum smiled, and the two spoke rapidly. Then the elderly Tenkin clapped his hands and shouted. The crowd fell back and he led the crew of the Emerald Storm into the largest of the buildings. It had four, tree-sized pillars holding up a latticework of intertwined branches overlaid with thatch. The interior lacked partitions and stood as an open hall lined with tanned skins and pillows made from animal hides.
Waiting inside were four Tenkins. Three men and a woman sat upon a raised mound covered in luxurious cushions. Their leopard-clad guide bowed deeply to the four and then left. Outside the rain increased and poured off the thatched roof.
Dilladrum stepped forward, bowed with his hands clasped before him, and spoke in Tenkin, which was a mix of the old imperial tongue and Ghazel. Hadrian had mastered a working knowledge of the language, but the isolation between villages caused each to develop a slightly different dialect. Even villages separated by only a few miles might speak remarkably different variations. While Hadrian missed a number of Dilladrum's words, he recognized that formal introductions were being made.
"This is Burandu," Dilladrum explained to the Emerald Storm's crew in Apelanese. "He is Elder." Dilladrum paused to think then added, "Similar to the lord of a manor, but not quite. Beside him is Joqdan, his warlord-chief knight if you will. Zulron is Oudorro's oberdaza." He gestured at a stunted, misshapen Tenkin, the only one Hadrian had ever seen. "The closest thing to his office in Avryn might be a chief priest as well as doctor, and next to him is Fan Irlanu. You have no equivalent position for her. She is a seer, a visionary."
"Velcome peoples of Great Avryn," Burandu spoke haltingly in Apelanese. Despite his age, betrayed only by a head of startling white hair, he looked as strong and handsome as any man in the village. He sat adorned in a silk waistcloth and kilt, a massive broad necklace of gold, and wore a headdress formed from long, brightly colored feathers. "Vee are pleazed to 'ave you in our 'ome."
"Thank you, sir, for granting us invitation," Wesley replied.
"Vee enjoy company of doze Dilladrum brings. Once brothers, in ancient days past-ez good to sit, to listen, to find each other. Come, drink, and remember."
Zulron cast a fine powder over a brazier of coals. Flames burst forth, illuminating the lodge.
They all sat amid the pillows and hides. Royce found a place within the shadows against the rear wall. As always, Thranic and Defoe kept their distance from the rest of the party. They sat close to the four Tenkins where the sentinel watched Zulron with great interest. Bulard invited Hadrian to sit beside him.
"This explains a great deal," said the old man, pointing to the decorations in the hut. "These are people lost in time. Do you see those decorated shields hanging from the rafter with the oil lamps? They used to do that in the ancient imperial throne room, and the leaders mirror the imperial body, represented by a king and his two councilors; always a wizard and a warrior. Although the seer is probably an addition of the Ghazel influences. She is lovely."
Hadrian had to agree, Fan Irlanu was stunning, even by Tenkin standards. Her thin silk gown embraced her body with the intimacy of a liquid.
Food and wine circulated as men carried in jugs and platters. "After eating," Burandu said to Wesley, "I ask you, Dilladrum, and your second, to meet at my Duro. I discuss recent news on dee road ahead. I fear dee beasts are loose and you must be careful. You tell me of road just traveled."
Wesley nodded with a mouthful of food, then after swallowing added, "Of course, Your, ah…" He hesitated before simply adding, "sir."
Bulard looked at the sliced meat set before him with suspicion. Hadrian chuckled watching the old man push it around his plate. "It's pork. Wild pigs thrive in these jungles and the Tenkin hunt them. You'll find it a little tougher and gamier than what you're used to back home, but it's good-you'll like it."
"How do you know so much about them?" the old man asked.
"I lived in Calis for several years."
"Doing what?"
"You know, I still ask myself that." Hadrian stuffed a hunk of pork in his mouth and chewed, but Bulard's expression showed he did not understand. At last, Hadrian gave in. "I was a mercenary. I fought for the highest bidder."
"You seem ashamed." Bulard tried a bit of fruit and grimaced. "The mercenary profession has a long and illustrious history. I should know."
"My father never approved of me using my training for profit. In a way, you might say he thought it sacrilegious. I didn't understand then, but I do now."
"So, you were good?"
"A lot of men died."
"Battles are sometimes necessary and men die in war-it happens. You have nothing to be ashamed of. To be a warrior and alive is a reward Maribor bestows on the virtuous. You should be proud."
"Except there was no war, just battles. No cause, just money. No virtue, just killing."
Bulard wrinkled his brows as if trying to decipher this. Hadrian got up and went to sit next to Royce, to escape Bulard's questions.
"Wanna try the wine?" Hadrian asked.
"It's not time for drinking yet," the hood replied.
When the meal was over, three Tenkin boys held large palm branches over the heads of Burandu, Wesley, Dilladrum, and Wyatt as they ventured out into the rain. With the Elder gone, formalities relaxed. The Vintu headed out to resume camp preparations before all daylight was lost. Across the hall, Thranic and Levy spoke quietly with the oberdaza, Zulron, and all three left together. Poe, Derning, and Grady helped themselves to a jug of wine and reclined casually on the pillows.
"How you feeling?" Hadrian asked Royce.
"Not good enough."
"You need to get the dressing on your wound changed?"
"It can wait."
"Wait too long and it will fester."
"Leave me alone."
"You should at least eat. The pork is good. Best meal you'll have for a while I think. It'll help you heal."
There was no reply. They sat listening to the wind and rain on the grassy roof and low conversations punctuated by the occasional laugh and clink of ceramic cups.
"You are aware you're being watched?" Royce asked. "The Tenkin on the dais, the one Dilladrum called Joqdan, the warlord. He's been staring at you since we entered. Do you know him?"
Hadrian looked at the bald, muscular man wreathed in a dozen bone necklaces. "Never seen him before. The woman next to him-she looks oddly familiar."
"She looks like Gwen."
"That's it. You're right, she does look just like her. Is Gwen from-"
"I don't know."
"I just assumed she was from Wesbaden. Everyone in Avryn who's from Calis is from there, but she could be from a village like this, huh?" Hadrian chuckled. "What an odd pairing you two make. Maybe Gwen's from this very village. That could be her sister up there, or cousin. You might be meeting the bride's family before the wedding, just like a proper suitor. You should brush your hair and take a bath. Make a good enough impression, and the two of you could settle down here. You'd look good bare-chested in one of those kilts."
Hadrian expeced cutting retort. All he heard from his friend was a harsh series of breaths. Looking over he noticed the hood was drooping.
"Hey, you're really not doing too good, are you?"
The hood shook.
Hadrian placed a hand on Royce's back. His cloak was soaked and hot. "Damn it. I'll convince Wesley to extend our stay. In the meantime, let's get you dry and in a bed."
With a flaming brand, the oberdaza led Thranic and Levy toward a cliff wall at the edge of the village where the great waterfall thundered. Somehow, even the plunging water felt foul as it splattered against rocks casting a damp mist. Thranic continually wiped the tainted wet from his face. Everything about the village was evil. Everywhere stood signs that these humans had turned their backs on Novron and embraced his enemy-the hideous feathers they wore, the symbolic designs in the pillows, the tattoos on their bodies. They did not whisper, but rather shouted their allegiance to Uberlin. Thranic could not imagine a greater blasphemy, and yet the others were blind to their transgressions. If given the opportunity, Thranic would prefer to burn the whole village to ash and scatter the remains. He had tried to prepare himself for what to expect even before the Emerald Storm set sail, but now, surrounded by their poison, he longed to strike a blow for Novron. While he could not safely put a torch to this nest of vipers, there was another profanation he could rectify, one that these worshipers of Uberlin might even assist him with.
The powder the oberdaza used to ignite the braziers had caught his attention. The Tenkin witchdoctor was also an alchemist. Zulron was not like the rest of the heathens. He lacked their illusionary facade, their glimmer of false beauty. One leg was shorter than its partner, causing Zulron to shuffle with a noticeable limp. One shoulder rode up, hugging his chin, while the other slipped low, dangling a weak and withered arm. Singular in his wretched appearance, this honest display of his evil made him more trustworthy than the rest.
As they reached the waterfall, Zulron led them along a narrow path around the frothing pool to a crack in the cliff face. Within the fissure was a cave, its ceiling teamed with chattering bats and its floor was laden with guano.
"This is my store room and workshop," Zulron explained as he pushed deeper into the cavern. "It stays cooler here and is well protected from wind and rain."
"And what prying eyes can't see…" Thranic added guessing at the truth of the matter. Years of dealing with tainted souls left him with an understanding of evil's true nature.
Zulron paused only briefly, to cast a glance over his low-slung shoulder at the sentinel. "You see more clearly than the rest of your brethren."
"And you speak Apelanese better than yours."
"I'm not built for hunting. I rely on study and have learned much about your world."
"This is disgusting." Levy grimaced, carefully picking his path.
"Yes," the oberdaza agreed. He walked through the guano as if it were a field of spring grass. "But these bats are my gatekeepers, and their soil, my moat."
Soon the cave grew wide and the floor cleared of filth. Here in the center of the cavern was a domed oven built of carefully piled stones. Surrounding it were dozens of huge clay pots, bundles of browned leaves, and a vast pile of poorly stacked wood. On shelves carved from the stone walls rested hundreds of smaller ceramic jars and a variety of stones, crystals, and bowls.
Zulron reached into one of the pots and threw a handful of dust into the mouth of the oven. Thrusting his torch at the base, fire roared to life, which he fed with wood. When the oven was sated and he had finished lighting a number of oil lamps, he turned to Levy. "Let me see it."
The doctor set his pack on the floor and withdrew the bundle of bloody rags. He took th bandages and studied each, even holding them to his nose and sniffing. "And you say these belong to the hooded one among you? It is his blood?"
"Yes."
"How was he wounded?"
"I shot him with a crossbow."
Zulron showed no surprise. "Did you not wish him dead? Or are you a poor hunter?"
"He moved."
Zulron raised a dark brow. "He is quick?"
"Yes."
"Sees in the dark?"
"Yes."
"And you came by ship, yes? How did he fare on the water?"
"Poorly-very sick for the first four days I hear."
"And his ears, are they pointed?"
"No. He has no elven features. This is why we need you to test the blood. You know the method?"
The oberdaza nodded.
Thranic felt a twinge of regret that this creature was so unworthy to Novron. He sensed a kinship of minds. "How long?"
Zulron rubbed the crusted bandages between his fingers. "Days with this. It is too old. If we had a fresh sample-it could be quick."
"Getting blood from him is nearly impossible," Levy grumbled.
"I will start the test with these, but I'll also see what I can do to get fresh blood. He will need treatment soon."
"Treatment?"
"The jungle does not abide the weak or the wounded for long. He will summon me or die."
"How much gold will you want?" Thranic asked.
Zulron shook his head. "I have no need for gold."
"What payment then?"
"My reward will not come from you. I will reap my own reward, and it is no concern of yours."
The Tenkin granted them the use of three sizable huts, and Wesley divided his crew accordingly. The accommodations were surprisingly luxurious, subdivided by walls of wide woven ribbons that gave the impression of being inside a basket. Carpets of tight-threaded fibers inlaid with beautiful designs covered the floor. Peanut-shaped gourds hung from the rafters, burning oil that provided more than enough light.
Having convinced Wesley to linger in the village, Hadrian watched over Royce, who looked worse with each passing hour. Royce's skin burned and sweat poured down his forehead even as he shivered beneath two layers of blankets.
"You need to get better, pal," Hadrian told him. "Think of Gwen. Better yet, think what she'll do to me if I come back without you."
There was no reaction. Royce continued to shiver, his eyes closed.
"May I enter?" a soft voice asked. Hadrian could only see the outline in the doorway, and for an instant he thought it was Gwen. "It 'as been said 'e grows worse, but you 'ave refused Zulron to see 'im."
"Your oberdaza has been keeping close company with the man who nearly killed my friend. I do not feel comfortable letting Zulron treat him."
"Vill you allow me? I am not as skilled as Zulron, but know some dings."
Hadrian nodded and waved her in.
"I am Fan Irlanu," she said, dipping her head into the hut while outside two other women waited in the rain, holding covered baskets.
"Hadrian Blackwater, and this is Royce."
She nodded, then knelt beside Royce and placed a hand to his forehead. "'E 'as fever."
She motioned for the oil lamp and Hadrian pulled it down, then helped her open Royce's cloak and pull back his tunic to reveal the stained bandage that she carefully removed. Irlanu grimaced as she peeled back the cloth and studied the wound.
She shook her head. "Et ez dee shirlum-kath," she said, pressing lightly on the skin around the wound causing Royce to flinch in his sleep. "See 'ere?" she scraped a long nail along the edge of the bloody wound and drew away a squirming parasite the size of a coarse hair that twisted and curled on her fingertip. "Dey are eating 'im."
Fan Irlanu waved to the women outside who entered and deposited their eside her. She spoke briefly in Tenkin, ordering them to fetch other items that Hadrian was unfamiliar with, and the two dashed from the hut.
"Can you help him?"
The woman nodded as she took out a stone mortar and began crushing bits of what looked to be dirt, leaves, and nuts with a pestle. "Dey are common 'ere vis open vounds. Left alone, dee shirlum-kath vill devour 'im. 'E die soon vis out help, so I make a poison for dee shirlum-kath."
One of the women returned with a gourd and an earthen pot in which Fan Irlanu mixed the contents of her mortar with oil, beating it until she had a thick dark paste that she spread over Royce's wound, packing it into the puncture. They turned him over and did the same to the exit wound. Then she placed a single large foul-smelling leaf over each and together they wrapped him in fresh cloth. Royce barely woke during the procedure. Groggy and confused, he soon passed out once more.
Fan Irlanu covered Royce back up with the blankets and nodded approvingly. "'E vill get better now, I dink. I brew drinks-more poison for dee shirlum-kath and a tea for strength. When 'e wakes up, make 'im drink both, eh? Den 'e feel better, much faster."
Hadrian thanked her, and as she left, he wondered what was it about Royce being near death that always summoned beautiful women.
When Royce woke the next morning, the fever was gone and he was strong enough to curse. According to him, the draught Fan Irlanu provided tasted worse than fermented cow dung. The tea he actually liked. By the following day, he was sitting up and eating, by the third he was able to walk unassisted to the communal ostrium for his meals.
No one complained about the delay as the rain continued. Seeing Royce in the ostrium that morning, Grady winked and asked Hadrian if it might be possible for Royce to have a relapse.
"'E ez good?" Fan Irlanu asked, coming to them after the evening meal concluded. Her movement was entrancingly graceful, her dress glistened like oil in the lamplight. All eyes followed her.
"No-but he's feeling a lot better," Hadrian replied. His mischievous grin left a puzzled expression on her face.
"My language is perhaps not-"
"I am very good, thank you," Royce told her. "Apparently, I owe you my life."
She shook her head. "Repay me by getting strong-ah, but I do 'ave a favor to ask of your friend, Hay-dree-on. Joqdan, varlord of dee village asks dat 'e speak vis you at dee sarap."
"Me?" Hadrian asked, looking across to where the man in the bone necklaces sat. "Is it all right if Royce joins us? I'd like to keep an eye on him."
"But, of course, if 'e ez up to et."
Hadrian helped Royce to his feet and, as the rest watched with envious stares, the two followed Fan Irlanu out of the ostrium. The sun had not yet set, but for what little light the jungle permitted it might just as well have. Oil lamps hung from branches, illuminating the path, decorating the village like a Summersrule festival. The rain still poured and they left the lodge under the protection of palm branches. Hadrian knew sarap translated to, "meeting place," or "talking place." In this case, it was a giant Oudorro tree from which, he recently learned, the village took its name.
The tree was not as tall as it was round. Great, green leaves thrived on many of its branches despite the fact that the center of the trunk was completely hollow. The space within provided shelter from the rain and was large enough for the four of them. A small ornately decorated fire pit dominated the center of the floor and glowed with red coals. Around this, they took seats on luxurious pillows of silk and satin. The interior walls were painted with various ocher and umber dyes smeared into the wood, apparently by stained fingers. The images depicted men and animals-twisted shapes of strange visions. There were also mysterious symbols and swirling designs. Illuminated by the glowing coals, the interior of the tree felt eerily talismanic creating a sensation that left Hadrian on edge.
Joqdan was already there. He had not waited for a boy with the palms, and his bare head and chest were slick with rain. They all exchanged bows respectfully.
"Pleezed am I," Joqdan greeted them. "Mine speech…ez, ah…not good as dee learned. I varrior-do not speak to out-side-erz. You are…" he paused for a moment thinking hard, "Special. Am honored. Velcome you to Oudorro, Galenti. I…" he paused thinking again and quickly became frustrated and turned to Fan Irlanu.
"Dee Varlord Joqdan regrets dat language skills are not good enough to honor you, and 'e asks dat I speak words," Fan Irlanu told them as she removed her wet wrap. "'E says dat 'e saw you fight in dee arena at Drogbon. 'E 'as never forgotten et. To 'ave such a legend 'ere ez great honor. As you do not wear dee laurel, 'e dinks you do not vish be recognized. 'E 'as asked you 'ere to pay proper respect in private."
Hadrian glanced briefly at Royce who remained silent but attentive. "Thank you," he told Joqdan. "And he is right-I would prefer not to be recognized."
"Joqdan begs permission to ask a question of dee great Galenti. 'E would like to know vie you left."
Hadrian paused only a moment then replied. "It was time to seek new battles."
The Warlord of Oudorro nodded as Fan Irlanu translated his words.
At that moment, something about Fan Irlanu caught Royce's attention and he rapidly approached her. She did not move although, given the ominous manner of his advance, Hadrian guessed that most anyone else would have at least taken a step back.
"Where did you get that mark on your shoulder?" Royce asked indicating a small swirling tattoo.
"That is the mark of a seer," Zulron declared, startling all of them as he entered.
Unlike the other men of the village, Zulron wore a full robe. Made from a shimmering cloth it was open enough for them to see his misshapen body covered in strange tattoos. The one that spread across his face resembled the web of a spider.
"Fan Irlanu is a vision-walker," he explained, staring admiringly at her. "It is a talent and a gift bestowed by Oberlin upon those endowed with the hot blood of the Ghazel. Few are born each age, and she is very powerful. She can see the depths of a heart, and the future of a nation." He paused to run his fingers gingerly down the side of her cheek. "She can see all things except her own destiny."
"You don't suffer from a language barrier, I see," Hadrian said.
Zulron smiled. "I am the oberdaza. I know the movement of the stars in the Ba Ran and the books of your world. All mysteries are revealed to me."
"Is it true that you are a visionary?" Royce asked Fan Irlanu.
She nodded. "Vis dee burning of dee tulan leaves I-"
"Give him a demonstration," Zulron interrupted, causing her to look sharply at him. "Read this one's future," he said, gesturing toward Royce.
A puzzled look crossed her face, but she nodded.
Joqdan put a firm hand to Zulron's shoulder and spun him around, but spoke too quickly for Hadrian to understand. The two argued briefly but all he caught was one word of Zulron's reply, "Important."
When he turned back, Zulron's eyes fell on Hadrian, who he openly studied. "So, you are the legendary Galenti." He raised an eyebrow. "Looking at you I would say Joqdan is mistaken, but I know Joqdan is never mistaken. Still, you don't look like the Tiger of Mandalin. I'd thought you would be much bigger." He turned abruptly back to Fan Irlanu. "The leaves, burn them."
As Fan Irlanu moved to a stone box, Zulron asked them to take seats aroundthe glowing coals of the fire ring.
Hadrian took Royce aside. "Perhaps we should go. I can't say I like Mister Witchdoctor's attitude much, seems like he's up to something. The fact that he's been spending time with Thranic doesn't help."
Royce glanced at Fan Irlanu. "No, I want to stay."
"What's all this about?"
"The tattoo-Gwen has the same one."
Reluctantly, Hadrian sat.
Fan Irlanu returned with several large dry leaves. Even withered and brittle they were a brilliant shade of red. She held them over the coals and muttered something while crushing the leaves and letting them fall onto the embers. Instantly, a thick white smoke billowed. It did not rise, but pooled and drifted. Fan Irlanu used her hands to contain the smoke, wafting it, scooping it, swirling it into a cloud before her. Then she bent and breathed in the ashen mist. Repeatedly, she swept the smoke and inhaled deeply.
The last of the leaves burned away and the smoke faded. Fan Irlanu's eyes closed and she began swaying on her knees, humming softly. After a few minutes, she reached out her hands.
"Touch her," Zulron instructed Royce.
Royce hesitated briefly. He looked at her the way Hadrian had seen him eye an elaborate lock. The greater the potential treasure behind the door, the more tension showed in Royce's eyes, and at that moment he looked as if Fan Irlanu might hold the secret to a fortune. He reached out his fingers. At his touch, she took hold of him.
There was a pause, then Fan Irlanu began to moan and finally shake her head, slowly at first but faster and faster the longer she held on. Her mouth opened and she groaned the way one might in a nightmare, struggling to speak but unable to form words. She jerked, her eyes shifting wildly under closed lids, her voice louder but saying nothing distinguishable.
Joqdan's face was awash with concern, making Hadrian wonder if something was wrong. Fan Irlanu continued to struggle. Joqdan started to move, but a quick glare from Zulron held him back. At last, the woman screamed and collapsed on the pillows.
"Leave her alone!" Zulron shouted in Tenkin.
Joqdan ignored him, rushing to her side. Fan Irlanu laid on the ground thrashing. She cried out, then became still.
Joqdan clutched her, whispering in her ear. He held her head and placed a hand near her mouth to feel for breath. "You've killed her! " he shouted at Zulron and, without another word, lifted the seer in his arms and ran out into the rain.
"What's going on? What's happening?" Hadrian asked.
"Your friend is not human," the oberdaza declared. Zulron stepped up to face Royce. "Why are you here?"
"We're part of the crew of the Emerald Storm on our way to deliver a message to the Palace of the Four Winds," Hadrian answered for him.
Zulron did not take his eyes off Royce. "For three 'zousand years the ancient legends have told of the Day of Reckoning, when the shadow from the north will descend to wash over our lands."
Derning, Grady, Poe, and Bulard entered. "What's going on?" Derning asked. "We heard a woman scream. And saw the big guy carrying her away."
"There was an accident," Hadrian explained.
Both Derning and Grady immediately looked at Royce.
"We don't know what happened to her," Hadrian continued. "She was doing a kind of spiritual demonstration-reading Royce's fortune or something, and she collapsed."
"She collapsed?" Derning said.
"She was breathing tulan leaf smoke. Maybe it was a bad batch."
Zulron ignored their conversation and continued to glare at Royce, "The Ghazel legend, preserved by oral memory from the time of the first Ghazel-Da-Ra, tells of death and destruction, revenge unleashed, the Old Ones coming again. I have seen the signs myself. I watch the stars and know. To the north, there have been rumblings. Estramn›s active, and Avempartha has been opened. Now here is an elf in my village where one has never walked before."
"An elf?" Derning asked puzzled.
"That is what killed Fan Irlanu," Zulron told them. "Or at the very least has driven her insane."
"What!" Hadrian exclaimed.
"It's not possible to use the sight on an elf. The lack of a soul offers up only infinity. For her it was like walking off a bottomless cliff. If she lives, she will never be the same."
"You're the village healer. Shouldn't you be trying to help her?"
"He wants her dead," Royce finally spoke. Then looking at Zulron added, "You knew."
"What did he know?" Bulard asked, tense but fascinated. Grady and Derning also leaned forward.
"You knew I was elven, didn't you? But you told her-no-coerced her to do a reading," Royce said.
Outside there were sounds of commotion, running feet and raised voices. Hadrian heard Wesley saying something over the heated shouts of Tenkins.
"Why did you want her dead?"
"I did nothing. You are the one that killed her. And killing a member of the village, especially a seer, is an unpardonable crime. The punishment is death." Zulron gave a smile before stepping outside.
The rest of them followed to find a gathering crowd.
"There he is!" Thranic shouted the moment Royce stepped out of the tree. He pointed and said, "There's your elf! I warned you about him."
"He has slain our seer, Fan Irlanu!" Zulron announced, and repeated it in Tenkin.
Burandu, Wesley, and Wyatt pushed their way through the mob.
"Is this true?" Wesley asked quickly, his voice nervous.
"Which?" Royce asked.
"Are you an elf, and did you just kill Fan Irlanu?"
"Yes, and I'm not sure."
The crowd grew and Hadrian could pick out words such as justice, revenge and kill among the many Tenkin shouts.
"By Mar, man!" Wesley said fiercely but quietly to Royce. "What is it with you? I should let you hang just for the amount of trouble you've caused." He took a breath. The crowd pressed in and lightning flashed overhead while thunder boomed. "What do you mean when you say you're not sure?" Wesley asked. He was speaking quickly, wiping the rain from his face.
"The murderer must pay for his crime, Burandu," Zulron declared in Tenkin. "His soullessness has killed our beloved Fan Irlanu. The law demands justice!"
"Where is Joqdan?" Burandu asked.
"Paying his last respects to his dead would-be wife. If he was here, he would agree."
"He lies! Zulron is to blame," Hadrian spoke in Tenkin, which drew a surprised look from everyone.
"What are they saying?" Wesley asked Hadrian.
"The oberdaza is pushing for our deaths and Burandu is buying it."
"Bring them all!" Burandu shouted.
The warriors of the village descended and Hadrian considered for a moment whether he should draw his swords, but decided against it. He shot a look at Royce to indicate he should not resist.
They were driven to the village center, where Dilladrum was shouting, "Let go of me! What are you doing?" When he saw Wesley he asked, "What did you do? I told you not to offend them!"
"We didn't offend them," Hadrian explained. "We killed their beloved seer."
"What!" Dilladrum looked as if he was about to faint.
"Actually, it is a misunderstanding, but I'm not sure we'll get the chance to explain," Wesley put in.
"At least Thranic will die with us," Royce said loud enough for the sentinel to hear.
"A martyr's death is a fair price to rid the world of you and your kind."
Lightning flashed again, revealing the pallid faces of the crew in its stark light.
Grady was shoved to the ground and reached for his sword› "Grady, don't!" Hadrian said.
"That's right," Wesley shouted. "No one draw weapons. They'll slaughter us."
"They will anyway," Derning replied.
Poe and Hadrian pulled Grady back to his feet. All around them, the ring of warriors formed a wall, behind which churned a crowd of shouting faces and raised fists. The rain-drenched mob pushed and cried its words lost in a roar of hatred. Lightning flashed once more, and a single voice rang out, "You knew! "
Instantly the crowd fell silent and parted. Only the pour of rain disturbed the stillness as Fan Irlanu entered the circle, Joqdan at her side carried a deadly-looking spear, his eyes grim and focused on Zulron.
"Burandu, it is not the strangers fault. It was Zulron who asked that I do the reading. He knew this one had elven blood. But I am still alive!"
"But-no…how could you…" Zulron stammered.
"He is not an Old One," Fan Irlanu said. "He is a kaz! There is humanity in him-footholds, Zulron, footholds!"
"What's going on?" Wesley asked Hadrian. "Isn't she the one Royce killed? What's she saying?"
"She seems a might upset," Grady said.
"But not at Royce," Poe remarked.
"Who then?" Grady asked.
"Zulron has tried to kill me. I have known for some time his ambitions were great. I saw the treachery in his heart, but I never expected he would go so far."
"Joqdan, what say you. Is what Fan Irlanu says true?" Burandu addressed his warlord.
Joqdan thrust his spear into the chest of Zulron.
The long blade passed fully through the oberdaza's body. Those nearby jostled backward, everyone moving away. Joqdan advanced the length of his spear's shaft and gripped Zulron by the throat. Holding him with strong arms, he spat in the witchdoctor's face. The light faded from the oberdaza's eyes, and Joqdan withdrew his spear as Zulron fell dead.
"I think that answers your question," Poe remarked.
Burandu looked down at the body, then up at Joqdan, and nodded. "Joqdan is never wrong. I am pleased you are safe, Fan Irlanu," he said to her. Then the Elder addressed Wesley and the others. "Forgive dee dishonor of evil Zulron. Judge us not by 'is actions. You too 'ave such men in your vorld, eh?"
Wesley glanced at Thranic and Royce.
Burandu shouted to his warriors and they dispersed the crowd. Many paused to kiss Fan Irlanu who stood weakly, leaning against Joqdan. She offered a strained smile, but Hadrian could see the paleness of her face and the effort in her breathing.
The Elder spoke briefly with Joqdan and Fan Irlanu, then Joqdan lifted the seer once more and carried her to one of the smaller dwellings. Zulron's body was dragged away and with him went most of the Tenkins.
"That's it?" Grady asked.
"Wait," Dilladrum said as the leopard-skinned man approached. They spoke for a moment then Dilladrum returned. "The village of Oudorro asks our forgiveness for the misunderstanding and begs the honor to continue as our host."
They looked at one another skeptically.
"They are sincere."
Wesley sighed and nodded. "Thank them for their kindness, but we will be leaving in the morning."
"Kindness?" Derning muttered. "They nearly skinned us alive. We should get out now while we can."
"I see no advantage in venturing into these jungles at night," Wesley affirmed. "We will leave at first light."
"And what about Melborn?" Thranic hissed.
"You, Doctor Levy, and Seamen Blackwater and Melborn will come with me. The rest I order to quarters to get as much sleep as possible."
A young Tenkin trotted up to them and spoke to Dilladrum, his eyes watching Royce.
"What is it?" Wesley asked.
"Fan Irlanu has requested Royce and Hadrian."
Before Thranic could object, they both nodded and offered an "Aye, aye, sir."
Fan Irlanu lay on a bed beneath a thin white sheet, as a young girl patted her forehead with a damp cloth rinsed repeatedly in a shallow basin. Joqdan remained at her side. His great spear, still covered in Zulron's blood, stood by the door.
"Is she really all right?" Hadrian asked.
"I vill be fine," Fan Irlanu replied. "Et vas a terrible shock. Et vill take time."
"I'm sorry," Royce offered.
"I know," she told him. Her face was sympathetic to the point of sadness. "I know you are."
"You saw something?"
"Vere I to touch Joqdan's 'and vis dee tulan smoke in me, I could tell us vaat 'e ate for dee midday meal yesterday and vaat 'e vill eat tomorrow. If I touched Galenti's 'and, I could name dee woman 'e vill marry and ou vill outlive dee other. I could also tell dee precise events dat vill surround 'is death. So clear ez my sight dat I can see a life in detail, but not you. You are a mystery, a cloud. Looking into you ez like seeing a mountain range in a thick fog-I can only see dee 'igh points vis no means of connecting dem. You are kaz in dee Ghazel tongue-in your language a mir, yes?-a mix of 'uman and elven blood. This gives you a long life." She paused to gather some strength and Joqdan's brow furrowed further.
"Imagine looking down a road, you see most dings clearly, dee trees, dee rocks, dee leaves. But vis you, et ez as if I am standing 'igh in dee air staring out at dee 'orizon-very few details. My sight can only span so far and dat does not include dee lifespan of a kaz. Dere ez too much."
"But you saw something."
"I saw many dings. Too many," she told him. Her eyes were soft and comforting.
"Tell me," Royce said. "Please, I know a woman. She is very much like you, but something troubles her. She won't speak of it, and I think she has seen things like you have-things that trouble her."
"She ez Tenkin?"
"I'm not sure, but she bears the same mark as you."
Fan Irlanu nodded. "I sent for you because of vaat I saw. I vill tell you vaat I know and den I must rest. I may sleep for a long time, and Joqdan vill not allow any to disturb me. So, I must speak now. I am certain I vill not see you again. As I said, I saw much, but understood little-too much distance, too much time. Most are vague feelings dat are 'ard to put in words, but vaat I sensed was powerful."
Royce nodded.
She paused a moment, thinking, then said, "Darkness surrounds you, death ez everywhere, et stalks you, hunts you and you feed upon et-blood begets blood-dee darkness consumes you. In dis darkness, I saw two lights beside you. One vill blow out and in dat same breeze, dee other flickers, but et must not go out. You must protect dee flame against dee storm.
"I saw a secret-et ez ah…et ez 'idden. Et ez covered, dis great treasure. A man 'ides et, but a woman knows-she alone knows and so she prepares. She speaks in riddles dat vill be revealed-profound truths disguised for now. You vill remember veen dee time comes, dee path laid out for you-in dee dark."
Joqdan spoke something in Tenkin, but Fan Irlanu shook her head and pushed on.
"I saw a great journey. Ten upon dee road, she ou vears dee light vill lead dee vay. Dee road goes deep into dee earth, and into despair. Dee voices of dee dead guide your steps. You walk back in time. Dee three 'zousand year battle begins again. Cold grips dee vorld, death comes to all and a choice ez before you. You alone stand in dee balance, your veight vill tilt dee scales, but to vich side is unclear. You must choose between darkness and light, and your choice vill affect many." She paused, shaking her head slowly. "Like trees in a forest, like blades of grass-too many to count. And I fear dat in dee end you vill choose dee darkness and turn your back to dee light."
"You said she," Royce questioned. "Who did you mean? Is it Gwen?"
"I do not know names. Dey are mere feelings, glimpses of a dream."
"What is this secret?"
"I do not know, it ez 'idden."
"When you say there are two lights and one blows out, does that mean someone will die?"
She nodded. "I dink so-yes, et felt dat vay. I sensed a loss, so great I still feel et." She reached out and touched Royce's hand and a tear slipped down her cheek. "Your road ez one of great anguish."
Royce said nothing for a moment, then asked, "What is this great journey?"
She shook her head. "I vish I knew more. Your life-your whole life 'as been pain and so much more lies ahead. I am sorry, but I cannot tell you more dan dat."
"She rests now," Joqdan told them. From his firm tone they knew it was time to go.
They walked out of the hut and found Wyatt watching out for them.
"Waiting up?" Hadrian asked.
"Didn't want you to step into the wrong hut by accident." He gave a wink.
"The rest bunked down?"
He nodded. "So, you're an elf," Wyatt said to Royce. "That explains a lot. What did the lady want?"
"To tell me my future."
"Good news?"
"It nearly killed her. What do you think?"