Kaavl Conspiracy (37 page)

The company halted in the open doorway and waited to be greeted.

“Kitran, old boy!” A fat, balding man jogged into view. “You haven’t changed a bit. And Mentàll!” His tone lowered in reverence as he shook the Dehrien Chief’s hand. “It’s wonderful to see you again. I trust we’ll have more time to talk this time?”

Mentàll bowed slightly, “Of course. I regret that my last trip was so hasty.”

The little man smiled and nodded, and turned his attention to the remainder of the group. “Kitran, introduce me to your team.”

Kitran introduced the Rolbani team, and Methusal found her hand squeezed warmly by the short man. She felt like she towered over him.

His direct green gaze smiled a welcome. “I know your father, Methusal. A fine man, and I see he has produced a fine daughter, as well! I have a daughter about your age, but unfortunately she has no interest in kaavl.” He sighed noisily. “What’s a man to do?”

Not sure how to respond, Methusal smiled, infected by his warm gaiety. As the man moved down the line, welcoming each visitor, she slowly followed the others inside. With wonder, she surveyed the great interior of the building.

The hall was at least twenty-five lengths long and fifteen wide, with a roaring fireplace imbedded in each of the two longest walls, which suffused heat and light throughout. Rows of tables occupied the center area, and located at the far end were the serving tables and a raised speaking platform.

“Come in, come in!” With an energetic arm, the stout little man waved the remainder of the group inside. “We have a table prepared for you.”

Delicious, strange aromas assailed her nose as they zigzagged around throngs of people to a table located near the serving area. One of the great fireplaces blazed to the left. The weary travelers dropped their packs on the benches.

Friendly Tarst faces looked on as they followed Pan to the serving tables. Methusal’s spirits lightened. What a wonderful place this seemed to be.

With a plate resting lightly in her hands, she stepped up to the first steaming dish on the serving table. Displayed in an artistic, scalloped pattern were thin cuts of meat seasoned with unknown leaves and savory juices. Methusal speared up two pieces with a serving stick when it was her turn.

At least ten dishes, all different, and each smelling delicious, filled the serving table to overflowing. She was starving, and everything looked delicious. By the time Methusal reached the end of the line, her plate was heaping. She walked carefully, holding the heavy platter in one hand and a mug of dark liquid in the other. She had no idea what the drink was, but it smelled heavenly.

At the table she sat between Lina and Behran. Their plates were piled as high as hers, so her guilt at taking so much food eased.

“Eat!” Pan waved a hand. “I’ll make a speech after everyone’s been served. Don’t let your food get cold!”

Methusal did not need another invitation, and tucked in with gusto. The meats and vegetables were recognizable, but the tastes were not. Everything was absolutely delicious! The foods were seasoned with unknown leaves, herbs, and crushed seeds.

“I wish we could have food like this at home,” Lina exclaimed.

“I know.” Methusal chewed on one side dish that looked completely unfamiliar. It consisted of long, thin strips of a chewy substance—bark?—soaked thoroughly in a sweet, sticky sauce. It quickly became her favorite, and as she chewed, a thought struck her.

Why
couldn’t
they eat like this in Rolban? Maybe the Tarst would share their cooking secrets. Perhaps this was answer to the boring winter food problem in Rolban! Sims had told her that the basic foods had to stay the same, but their preparations did not. Her gaze darted around the room, and she wondered who the cook was.

She sipped at the unfamiliar, tangy drink. It deliciously cooled her taste buds before sliding down her throat.

The last of the Tarst filed to their tables with their loaded plates in hand. A good number of them were shorter and heavier than the Rolbanis or Dehriens.

Pan Patn nimbly sprang up the steps to the speaking platform. “Ahem.” The dull roar of voices continued. Loudly, he cleared his throat. “Ahem!”

The dining hall gradually quieted.

“It is my pleasure to welcome the Rolbani team of five, led by Kitran Mehl, and the Dehrien kaavl team of seven, led by the honorable Chief of Dehre, Mentàll Solboshn.
We are proud that you have chosen to visit our humble village
, and we’re glad you will participate in our annual Kaavl Games. May your stay here be profitable and joyous.”

Beaming and nodding, he descended from the platform amid hearty applause, and joined the visitors at their table. He quickly fell into an animated conversation with Kitran and Mentàll.

Methusal glanced at her Dehrien companions across the table, wondering how they felt about the warm welcome. Sneers curled the mouths of several. Hendra sat quietly, speaking to no one.

As the evening passed, Methusal’s eyelids grew heavy. The combination of good food and eight hours of strenuous exercise were taking their toll. The warm fire didn’t help, either. She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand and closed her eyes. That wasn’t enough, so she rested her chin on her palm, and tried to ignore her aching head.

“Looks like your team is exhausted, Kitran!” Pan’s jovial tones jolted her from the edge of sleep. She blinked guiltily, but she wasn’t the only one who looked tired. Lina and Retra’s nonstop chatter had slowed, and both looked glassy-eyed.

“I’ll show you to your quarters. Afterward, any who’d like to come can join me for a drink at my house.”

Most of the Tarst still sat clustered at their tables, enjoying the evening social hours. They looked a bit surprised to see their visitors leave so early.

Cold night air froze into Methusal’s pores as they headed across the courtyard, which was dimly lit by a few small, scattered bonfires. Pan led the group to several small buildings on the west side of town. One cabin was especially small, and Pan pointed to this one first.

“That cabin is for the girls, and the one next door is for the Rolbani men. The next one is for the Dehrien men.
Mentàll will have a cabin of his own, since he’s Chief of Dehre
. It’s near my own home, across the square.” He glanced at them expectantly. “Why don’t you get settled, and then those who’d like to may come to my house. It’s the one with the double wide doors.” He pointed across the courtyard. “My wife and daughters will be glad to meet you.”

Methusal stepped into the small room after Hendra, Lina and Retra. The quarters resembled those at Dehre in layout
and size, but there the resemblance ended. Warm furs covered
the four cots and the floors, and two lamps warmly lit the cramped room. A bowl of fresh smelling red flowers rested on a small table in the corner, giving the room a delicate fragrance, and a small window near the door was shuttered closed for the night. It felt warm and cozy.

Sinking down onto a cot near the door, Methusal pulled the pack from her shoulders. The fur that covered her cot felt soft to the touch, although it appeared to be bristly wild beast fur. How had the Tarst softened it? They were full of surprises.

“I like it here,” Retra commented.

Lina settled down on her own bed with a yawn. “Me, too,” she sighed. “Much better than Dehre. Then she cast a guilty look at Hendra. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” the Dehrien girl murmured. “It
is
nicer here.”

“You can say that again.” Retra flopped back on her bed. “No offense, Hendra, but except for you, every Dehrien I’ve met acts like a whip beast—all scaly and slithery and mean. I don’t like them, and I don’t like Mentàll, either, even if he did win the Primary level.”

“I don’t, either.” Methusal couldn’t stop the shudder that rippled through her. She’d tried to push his threats from her mind, but feeling sleepy like this, it was hard to keep up her armor.

“We’ve seen the way he treats you,” Retra sent her a keen glance.

Methusal laughed shortly. “I wish he’d leave me alone.”

Hendra averted her face, obviously feeling uncomfortable with the topic of conversation.

“Why are you so nice, Hendra?” Retra asked. “I mean, if your cousin and everyone else you know are mean…why are you so different?”

Quietly, the blond girl said, “My mother was the warmest, most self-sacrificing person I’ve ever known. I have friends, too, who work with me at the orphanage. They’re nice, too.”

“What about your father?” Retra asked.

Hendra’s expression closed.

“Retra, you’re nosy,” Lina said.

“It’s okay,” the Dehrien girl murmured. “I don’t mind telling the truth. He was…cruel. He had fits of rage, and he took them out on us.”

“You don’t mean…” Horror slid through Methusal.

“He beat us,” Hendra said softly.

She felt sick. “I’m so sorry.”

“That’s why I first learned kaavl. So I could escape from him, like Mentàll did.” Pain lurked in her brown eyes. “I’m tired. Lights out?”

Tarst

Fifthday

A dense mist
enveloped the little village the next morning. Methusal awoke before the others. She hadn’t slept well. Partly because it was a strange new bed, and partly because she wondered if she’d overhear a strange conversation again. But mostly because she’d had an odd sense that disaster was looming on the horizon. And it was all tied up with the Dehrien Chief. Maybe she was imagining things. After all, she wasn’t empathic, like her mother or Deccia.

Still, the Dehrien Chief was up to something. Time was slipping away, and she had the uneasy feeling that soon it would be too late for Rolban…for them all.

Methusal quietly left the cabin and slipped through the thick fog toward the dining hall—at least, she hoped it was toward the large gathering hall. She couldn’t see a length in front of her. It was eerily quiet.

The mist pressed cold, damp kisses to her face. It was peaceful and quiet. She felt alone, but not frightened.

A short, bulky shape rose out of the mist. It was a man wearing a fur tunic. Her pulse spiked, and she stopped in her tracks.

An old man. He stood very still, as if waiting for her. Mist swirled about his face, obscuring his features, and his short tufts of white hair blended into the fog. His hair contrasted with his deeply tanned skin. The man held a staff in one hand, and he looked like he belonged in the wild, rather than in civilized tents.

Was he real? Or a ghost?

“You are a seeker.” His deep voice took her by surprise. It sounded earthy and strong, as opposed to his body, which looked like an apparition.

He didn’t appear to be dangerous. With caution, Methusal stepped forward. The old man’s black, lively eyes appeared to size her up. “Seeker?” she repeated.

“Of the truth.”

The thick fog seemed to press in harder, enveloping the two of them in a silent cocoon of white. “What do you mean?” How could he possibly know about her investigation?

“You want to know the truth.”

Cautiously, she said, “Yes.”

“You seek answers in the wrong place.”

“Where should I look, then?”

“You look to earth.” A gnarled finger rose to the sky. Overhead the mist brightened to a light, crystalline white. The sunshine was fighting to break through. “Beyond the dross of earth lie your answers.”

“I don’t understand.”

The wise eyes turned to her, and a hint of amusement glimmered. “Don’t you? Are you not seeking The One, Methusal Maahr of Rolban?”

A light prickling sensation ran over her skin. “How…” How could he know her name? She swallowed hard. “Are you the Prophet?”

He smiled, but did not answer. He did not need to. “Seek him while he may be found, Methusal.”

“But how?” Methusal could barely believe she was speaking to the fabled Prophet.

“When he speaks, listen.”

“He hasn’t… Wait. Maybe he did. I had a strange dream. The One said to follow him.”

The old man nodded, as if he already knew.

“But he didn’t tell me
how
to follow him, or what to do. He just showed me the dark, trapped end for me if I don’t.”

“That dream will become clear in time, Methusal. I do not have that word for you yet. But for now, I do have one word.”

“You have a word for me? From
The One?
” It still seemed unreal that she was speaking to the Prophet. But to think The One might have a personal word, just for her? She felt slightly dizzy.

“Of course. Is that so hard to imagine? He loves us, and wishes to speak to each of us. If only we would listen.” He smiled. “Are you ready to listen, Methusal?”

Listen. In her dream, The One had told her to listen. “Yes. Of course.”

“Pray for those who mistreat you.”

“Who do you mean?”

“You know of whom I speak.”

Methusal felt hot, and then cold. She breathed, “But he’s a
danger
to me. And to Rolban!”

“True. I have already given him a word.”

“What word?”

“All who draw the sword will die by the sword.”

That certainly sounded ominous. “What is he going to do? Do you know?”

“That is for you to determine. And others of faith and courage.”

“How? What am I supposed to do?”

The Prophet smiled, but did not reply. He had already told her. Pray.

But what good would praying do? Unless she was supposed
to ask The One to smite Mentàll before he could hurt Rolban.

Somehow, she didn’t think that was what the Prophet meant.

His smile widened. “So you do understand. But you think my words are foolish.”

“They don’t make sense to me.”

“Accept them or not, as you please. Always, it is your choice.” He went very still. After a moment, he blinked and gave her a piercing look. “I have a final word for you, Methusal Maahr.”

His deep voice intoned, “Take note. This is only the beginning.”

“The beginning of what?”

“Trouble. For all of Koblan.”

“The whole continent?” she said in disbelief.

“Mmm.” He looked off into the thick white mist, as if trying to penetrate its secrets…or perhaps trying to see into the future.

Her dream flashed to mind again, and she felt alarmed. “War, do you mean?”

“Yes. If it comes to that.”

“When? When will the worst trouble come?”

“I cannot say. One year… Maybe three.”

“What else can you tell me?” she said urgently.

“Goodbye, Methusal. We will meet again.” He melted into the swirling mist.

War? Her dream must have been a prophecy, which astounded her. But who would start the war? Mentàll? A sick feeling twisted through the pit of her stomach. The Prophet had told her of no way to prevent the coming catastrophe. He’d only told her to pray for her enemy now.

But what should she pray for him? That good things would happen for him? Never! Everything within her rebelled at that thought. What, then? For his deliverance from evil? For the redemption of his soul?

Methusal wanted to laugh. It sounded so foolish. Maybe she should pray, but instead for Rolban’s deliverance from the Dehrien’s underhanded plots.

She’d never tried to pray to The One before. Could it be as simple as in her dream? Just talking to him?

Feeling self-conscious, Methusal cleared her throat. But who was around to listen? “The One.” Her voice sounded loud in the thick, quiet fog. She felt a little silly. Was he listening? But she had to try. More softly, she said, “Please protect us from Mentàll’s plan, whatever it is. Save us. Stop him, and the thief, before it’s too late.”

Her words whispered to nothingness in the mist. A prayer, true. But it was for herself, Rolban, and Koblan. Not for Mentàll or for the murdering thief, both of whom were her enemies. Did the Prophet want her to pray for
both
of them? Everything within her rebelled at praying for either of them, including their deliverance from evil. Eternal torment by whip beasts and wild beasts seemed too good for the man who had murdered Renn and Liem.

And if Mentàll was planning further crimes against Rolban,
well, she wanted him to suffer every consequence he deserved, too.

Even if The One loved people like them, she could not. She didn’t want to listen to the Prophet’s words. And yet who was she to ignore God? She did want to do what was right. If only it didn’t feel so wrong. Maybe she could pray that they would forsake their evil paths. Yes. That would be a prayer that would benefit all of Koblan. She directed that prayer heavenward, and hoped it would do.

Feeling unsettled, she headed toward the dining hall. Bits of the conversation with the Prophet replayed through her mind. So did his seeming acceptance that The One had spoken to her in a dream.

If by some chance the dream was prophetic, then her new arch enemy, the Dehrien, would play a prominent role in it. A role where he would hunt her to the end, unless she listened to The One. So maybe she had better listen.

Maybe later.

The mist cleared a little, revealing the double-arched doors of the gathering hall just ahead. Thank goodness. At least she’d walked in the right direction. Methusal pushed open a door and a rush of heat enveloped her like a soft blanket. She hadn’t realized how chilled she’d become until she stepped inside. She rubbed her hands together. Delicious breakfast smells permeated the air.

The serving line was short because it was still early. Few people populated the tables. The Dehrien Chief’s blond hair caught her eye. Pan sat opposite him, and they appeared to be deep in discussion. The Dehrien laughed at something Pan said, but something about that harsh chuckle rang false to Methusal. Calculation hardened his features. He was playing some sort of game right now; she’d bet on it.

“Stop him,” was all she could think to the Almighty, should he still be listening to her rebellious heart. “Stop him before it’s too late.”

She slipped over to the steaming serving tables. The Tarst cooks must have risen early to put together such a feast. Scrambled flying beast eggs, fried strips of apte beast, and soft warm loaves of bread. Berry preserves. No porridge in sight. Quickly filling her plate, she found an empty table and sat alone until her Rolbani teammates joined her. No Dehriens appeared, which probably explained the light-hearted atmosphere.

Everything tasted delicious. She was just finishing her last bite of the sweet, rich bread when Pan Patn trotted up to the table. A wide grin dimpled into his flushed, round face. “Good morning, my Rolbani friends! I see you’ve had a taste of our morning mist. Never fear. It’ll burn off within the hour.” His dark gaze darted around the room. “The Dehriens haven’t arrived yet?”

“No.”

“Enjoy your meal. I think I’ll fetch myself a plate!” He trotted away.

The Dehriens straggled in soon after. Finished with her meal, Methusal slipped away on a mission of her own.

She dumped her dirty dishes in a bin and approached a rosy-cheeked, matronly woman who was overseeing a girl replacing an empty plate of eggs.

Hesitantly, she said, “Excuse me.”

Bright eyes looked up and a smile flooded the wide, ample
face. “Aren’t you Methusal? Kitran has told us so much about you! I’m Pan’s wife, Aenill. So glad to meet you.”

Methusal smiled warmly, surprised by such an enthusiastic welcome. “I’m glad to meet you, too. I wanted to compliment your cooks. The food is delicious.”

Aenill dimpled, clearly pleased. “Thank you. Just old family recipes, tried and true.”

“They’re wonderful. I noticed that you add different leaves, herbs, and seeds to the food for flavor. Would you mind if I ask what they are?”

“Of course not. Don’t you use them in Rolban?”

Methusal shook her head. “We have the same meats and grains, but we don’t use many seasonings.”

“How awful!” The older woman’s brow wrinkled, looking genuinely distressed. “How dull that must be. Come with me, dear, and I’ll show you what we use.”

Pleased with her good fortune, Methusal slipped behind the serving tables and trotted after Aenill to the pair of wide wooden doors in the back corner of the dining room.

“In here, dear.” Smiling, Aenill ushered her inside.

A blast of warmth and baking smells assailed her as she slowly stepped inside. It was a huge kitchen, and bustling with energy.

Three giant cooking stoves and scattered preparation tables furnished the room, and two fireplaces flanked the left and right walls. Pots of a delicious, steaming substance simmered over one, and a large wild beast smoked over another.

Aenill saw her staring at the beast. “The hunters brought it in this morning.” She smiled. “It ought to make a good lunch, don’t you think?”

Methusal had no doubt the wild beast would taste even better than the one in Dehre. The Tarst seemed to work magic with everything they set their hands to. Clearly, they were an inventive and hardworking people.

The older woman scuttled to the right, where a row of clay pots lined a wooden table. “Here we are, then. They’re labeled. Let me get you something to write with.” Aenill found a parchment leaf and a sharpened charcoal writing stick, and then left Methusal to copy down the names of the seasonings. When she was finished, Aenill returned and gave her a few pointers, and indicated which herbs and spices worked especially well with different meats and grains.

Methusal quickly wrote down those notes, too. “Thank you. I’ll be sure to tell our cook about your ideas. I want to make the porridge at home taste better.” She made a face. “Although I shouldn’t complain. Next year, we may not have enough.”

Aenill frowned. “Why is that?”

“Someone stole a bag of seed grain.”

“An entire
bag?
Why?”

Should she tell Aenill her suspicions? Methusal’s conscience
prickled. She had no proof, but if the Dehriens were up to no good, shouldn’t the Tarst be warned? “I’m not sure. But I think it went to Dehre.”

“Why do you think that?”

“They served us gruel one evening, and porridge the next morning. Strange thing is, their grain crop pretty much failed last year. So where did they get it?”

“They certainly didn’t get it from us. Do you think the Dehriens stole it? By Mentàll’s orders?”

Methusal was surprised by Aenill’s rapid questions. “I don’t know. But I don’t trust him.”

Aenill’s gaze sharpened. “Why not?”

Methusal felt uncomfortable to speak about this topic. “Well…”

Aenill’s expression softened, and she patted Methusal’s hand. “I can see that it’s hard for you to talk about. But if it’s important that we know, please tell me.”

“Well…” Methusal bit her lip. “He’s threatened me several
times.”

“He’s threatened you? How?”

The rattling memories of the Dehrien’s deliberate intimidation flooded her mind. “He gets too close to me.” For a second her voice trembled. “He touched my face once, just to scare me. And he’s warned me not to cross him, more times that I can count.”