Chapter 14 Sariel
SARIEL
W ithin Arbertown, there was talk of war, and little else. Sariel failed to find his brother at either tavern, forcing him to speak with their keepers in hopes Faron had left an impression.
“You a mercenary?” the older man at the Split Trunk asked, his gaze lingering on Redemption resting across Sariel’s shoulders.
“Just a traveler,” Sariel answered. “I’m looking for my brother. His name is Faron. He has my face, only he’s larger, and his hair is shorter.”
The tavern keeper nodded.
“Aye, I did meet him. He paid for his room but then left without staying.”
Sariel held back a groan. Of course Faron had not stayed in place and waited for Sariel to catch up to him. Ever impulsive, his softhearted brother.
“Know you where he went?”
The man scratched his face.
“I don’t, sorry.” He gestured to the crowded commons room, nearly every table full of rancorous young men and women drinking the night away.
“You might ask around. His table was never shy for company when he was here. Might also check the church. Plenty of travelers like to give confessions prior to resuming their travels.”
Sariel’s mood darkened.
“Perhaps,” he said, planning on doing no such thing.
He made for the exit, then paused by the doorway to turn and rest his back against the wall.
Ignoring the guarded glare of the tavern keeper, Sariel closed his eyes and let the radiance burn stronger within him.
His hearing sharpened as his other senses faded away.
The multitude of conversations washed over him, and he heard them sharp and clear.
His mind flitted through them like a moth, dipping in and out, seeking something useful. Minutes passed, and while most talk was dull and full of confused wondering over the future of the war, his efforts were finally rewarded as he overheard an argument among several men in the far corner.
I’m telling you, it’s all nonsense. Just a lie to make her soldiers seem special.
But why lie about something like that? It don’t make sense. That’s why I think it’s true.
You believe it because the lie is so stupid? That makes even less sense.
A third voice joined the first two.
The Bastard Princess is telling tales, no different than her healing the injured or hearing the voice of the goddess. The One-Man Ram supposedly lifted an entire tree trunk on his own. Do you really believe that? No one’s that strong. No one.
Sariel opened his eyes. Oh, but there was one person who was that strong.
It seemed like Faron was already making a name for himself.
At least he had chosen his allies correctly.
His brother might be acclimating to the changes since his slumber, but he’d been smart enough not to side with Argylle’s foul king and his acceptance of Eder’s church.
“So you’ve joined Princess Isabelle?” he wondered aloud.
He’d never met the woman, only heard her outlandish claims of being chosen by the human goddess, Leliel.
It was enough to dismiss her as either a charlatan or a madwoman.
If Faron hadn’t done the same, then he likely believed he could manipulate her into serving their cause.
Not a bad assumption, he admitted to himself as he left the tavern. Given her professed disdain for the Church of Stars, they wouldn’t need much push to set her gaze eastward, toward the religion’s beating heart within the Tower Majestic.
It would not be the first religious war to bathe the entirety of Kaus in flames.
It took little effort to locate Princess Isabelle’s army.
Everyone knew of Wendway Fort’s fall. Sariel topped off his supplies, bit his tongue at the dramatically higher prices, and then started north.
He questioned the occasional traveler, each time seeking to confirm the army’s location and where they were expected to go when they moved out.
He suspected northward, to pressure the Argylle midlands, but there was always the chance that Isabelle had left a small force to hold the river and then retreated east, back into Doremy.
Sariel barely stopped to rest, and when the distant fort finally came into view, the many cook fires and multitude of tents were enough to confirm the army remained within.
The small fort could not contain all the people, and so dozens more tents were pitched in rows along the southern edge of the Wendway River.
West of the road, he saw troops practicing drills and formations, the men and women caked with sweat from both the effort and the midday sun.
Where are you, Faron? Sariel wondered, scanning the drills.
After so many lifetimes, he knew the methods Faron would use to win over the hearts of soldiers.
He would give more effort than anyone but remain humble about his strength and size.
He would not challenge any of his superiors, not until he had fought several battles, and the soldiers who fought alongside him realized his skill with a sword.
Faron could dominate a battlefield, if given the chance.
Once that happened, no soldier would choose a stubborn or incompetent superior over Faron.
One battle, and already his brother had a nickname. It would not be long before he marched at Princess Isabelle’s side, trusted and revered in equal measure.
“Halt there, stranger,” ordered a guard set to watch the road long before the rows of tents. He was a young man, his helmet resting in the grass instead of atop his head. “Passage across the river is blocked for now. You need to turn back.”
“I don’t seek passage,” Sariel said. “I seek employment.”
He glanced at the other soldier with him. The man was a little older, with a heavy black beard overhanging his jerkin. He sat in the grass, resting his legs and watching the exchange.
“You a mercenary?”
“At times,” Sariel said. “But that is not why I am here. My brother has joined your forces, and I would accompany him on the battlefield.”
“That so? Who’s your brother?”
Sariel hated the title, but he said the foolish words anyway.
“I believe you know him as the One-Man Ram.”
The younger soldier scoffed, but the older shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted.
“You do look a bit like him. All right. I’ll accompany you in.
I’m sure Sir Tristan would like a word with any blood relative of Faron’s.
You best not be lying, though. We won’t take kindly to that.
” He stood and pointed. “Leave your sword here, though. I’m not letting you march through our tents while armed. ”
Sariel met the man’s eye. Radiance flowed through his gaze and infused his reply.
“No.”
The younger soldier reached for his sword, but the other merely shrugged, capitulating immediately.
“Fine. Follow me.”
Sariel took stock of the camp as they walked the tents.
The tents themselves were a bit cheap and would hardly endure a proper winter’s cold.
They’d do fine against a bit of rain, though.
What weapons he saw were plain but acceptable, as were their shields.
Sariel suspected a tight budget stretched effectively to form this army.
No archers, he noted. Lack of time to train them, or was it the cost of bows and arrows the Bastard Princess could not afford?
Easier to put padded leather on a man, stick a sword in his hand, and call him a warrior than to go through the lengthy process of teaching him to accurately judge height, draw distance, and wind.
Instead of going into the center of the tents, his guide took him to the far western edge, to a small clearing in the grass just before the palisade wall.
To his surprise, a stone statue to Leliel had been carved there, about half the height of a man.
She was depicted as a nude woman with four feathery wings stretching out her back, those wings curling around her body to hide her nakedness.
Each wing bore four eyes along the bones, open and lidless.
Her arms were held at her sides, her palms facing upward.
Another pair of eyes opened at her wrists, these crudely carved so they more resembled gaping wounds.
A wide square base below her feet allowed worshipers to leave flowers, the type and color of flower meant to signify the desired request, such as beardtongues for safety, or yellow rock jasmines for haste.
A man in chainmail knelt before the statue with his head bowed. His right hand rested upon her bare foot. In his left, he held a red orchid. Sariel’s guide paused and waited respectfully. Curiosity got the better of Sariel, and he heightened his hearing to listen in on the softly whispered prayer.
“… placed into my hands, may I have the wisdom to know what is right, and what is just, so they may endure this coming war. May I be strong for them. May I be the teacher they deserve, and the firm hand they need, if they are to survive.”
The man placed the flower upon the statue’s feet and then stood. Upon seeing the pair waiting, his calm expression hardened and a frown tugged at his lips.
“Sir Tristan,” the young man quickly said, thudding his fist against his breast in a salute. “I’ve brought someone who wishes to join us. His name is…” He paused, realizing he’d never asked. His face reddened. “He says he is Faron Godsight’s brother.”
Sariel’s calm expression never changed, for he was too practiced at hiding his true thoughts, but the last name intrigued him immensely.
Godsight? What have you been up to in my absence, brother?
The knight crossed his arms, and there was no hiding his glare at Sariel’s overly long dragon-bone sword.
“All right. Return to your post, Adam. I’ll have a word with him.”