Redemption Of The Sacred Land (Book 3) (5 page)

“What’s a bonfire?” she asked.

“A huge fire built by piling wood up high. The Trigothians build them for celebrations and holidays. They dance around them, roast meats on long sticks by them, and they even roast nuts and seeds by them at certain holidays.”

“I was about to say how revolting it was to waste all that wood, but if they use it to cook, I guess it’s all right,” Tatrice said. “Wait, did you say they roasted meats on long sticks? You are fooling with me. I have worked in the kitchen for quite some time, and I know a fire that size would be too hot to get anywhere near close enough to hold a stick into it.”

“Heh, in this case, it isn’t a problem at all. They tie several long, skinny branches together and coat it with some kind of substance that doesn’t burn easily. They prop them up in the fire like fishing poles on the shore. The people using them don’t get near the fire. As far as the waste of wood, they use a woody bush-like tree. I forget what it’s called, but it grows at alarming rates. If they didn’t burn them off occasionally, they would be overrun with them in no time. Trigothia is a very different place than Symboria, Tat.”

“I am finding it difficult to believe this story of yours.”

“You are thinking of the trees from Symboria, my lady. These trees are much smaller and more rugged, and they add incredible flavor to meat. You’ll see.”

Tatrice looked at her marriage imprint. “I’m sorry. You are absolutely right. We are in a different land. I hope it is a bonfire ahead. What else could it be?”

“I won’t know until we get closer.” He hesitated. “Maybe you should stay back here while I investigate.”

“Bren, I am a dragon knight!”

Bren stared at her for a moment as if he wanted to say something before he diverted his eyes and nodded. “Aye. If not an inexperienced one.”

They traveled toward the village until they reached the barrier blocking the road. It was a couple of over-turned wagons. There were no bodies or horse carcasses nearby, so Tatrice concluded that the barrier was placed there on purpose. The bonfire was not being tended and was beginning to die out. Bren was right; it was not nearly as huge as she imagined.

Bren got off his horse to inspect the wagons more closely. “There is no sign of a crash. It appears these wagons were brought here and turned over intentionally.”

“I thought so, also,” Tatrice said. “What do you make of it?”

He mounted up again while scanning the area. “We need to ride on. I have heard of barriers like this being a setup point for an ambush.”

They Traveledntil they could see clouds and wisps of smoke rising from some of the buildings. A small sign at the edge of town swung back and forth on one nail. It read
Welcome to Briarwick
.

“Briarwick is known in these parts for their excellent smoking pipes,” Bren said. “I had hoped to pick up a new one while we were in town.”

As they entered the village, Tatrice noticed there was surprisingly little damage to the main buildings. The main street was empty until they were about halfway down. Villagers, seeing Bren and Tatrice’s shields attached to their saddles, began to emerge from their houses and businesses. Bren and Tatrice were approached by an elderly, white-haired gentleman wearing a dusty brown robe.

“Greetings, knights!” he said.

In Trigothia, knights were trusted and honored as protectors of the common folk.

“Ho there, what has happened here?” Bren answered the greeting.

“Bandits and cutthroats. They came in and robbed everything we had,” the old man said. “We were preparing for a wedding celebration, and the attack ruined the whole affair.”

“What was the barrier for at the edge of town?” Bren asked.

The old man appeared confused. “What barrier?”

“You didn’t wheel out a couple of wagons and make a barrier on the road?”

“It was not I, nor was it my people.”

“What’s your name, sir?” Bren asked.

“Unsel. I am the village elder,” the old man answered.

“Master Unsel, I need you and your people to get back into your homes and businesses. I don’t think the raid is over yet. I think the bandits are regrouping for another run.” He dismounted. “Tat, it’s time to don your armor.”

Tatrice and Bren had begun to unload their armor from their horses when they were approached by a man wearing black leather armor and carrying a sword at his side. He wore his black hair short cropped and he was clean shaven. His dark eyes gave away an intensity in his demeanor.

“Ho there, strangers. What business do you have in Briarwick this day?” the man asked.

Bren stopped unloading his armor. “We intend to help you with your bandit situation.”

“To what situation are you referring? I have it well in hand.”

“And who might you be, then?” Bren asked.

“Forgive me, I have not introduced myself. I am Ezra Bannon, the village reeve. It is my job to uphold the laws of Briarwick.”

“Master Bannon, I am pleased to see you. I believe you are still vulnerable to attack and . . .”

“Perhaps you did not hear me, friend. I said I have the situation in hand,” Bannon restated. “You may ride on.”

Bren studied the man’s face for a moment. “No, I don’t believe you do,
Master Bannon. I believe the attack you have already suffered was to assess your strengths and weaknesses for the main attack yet to come.”

“Nonsense. The bandits already got what they came for. I don’t see why they should return.”

“Oh, and what did they get?”

Bannon hesitated. “Who did you say you were, friend?”

“I am Bren, First of Amadace. I am a dragon knight. And this is Tatrice, First of Shadesilver, also a dragon knight.”

He chuckled before speaking “I have never heard of a female knight, friend.”

Bren grinned at the nerve of the fellow. “Well, you have now,
friend
, so why don’t you fill us in on the goings on here.”

“If you insist, I will tell you so you may be on your way,” the reeve said. “We were hosting a wedding party and the father of the bride brought along a sizable dowry. The bandits killed the imprinter and stole the gold from her. I have two deputies in pursuit of the bandits now.”

Tatrice got a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Do you know the imprinter’s name by chance?”

“Aye, Neisa or Ni’esa or something to that effect,” he told her.

Tatrice put her hand over her mouth. “Oh no, it can’t be true.”

“Did you know this imprinter?” Bannon asked.

Tatrice lowered her hand and nodded. “We knew her.”

Bannon motioned to a building nearby. “In that case, you two might as well follow me. I have a few questions that you may be able to answer.”

“Certainly, we will tell you all we know,” Bren said. “I am not sure how helpful we can be though. We only met the woman once.”

When they entered the reeve’s office, the first thing Tatrice noticed was a man sitting in a chair by the fire with his back to them. The top of the chair obscured all but the black hair on the top of his head. Puffs of grey and white smoke wafted into the air above him. Tatrice surveyed the room and decided that it needed a woman’s touch. The room was constructed entirely of wood. A quaint wood-burning stove stood in the corner. From the smell of the room the stove had a pot of bittering tea boiling on it. She could also smell the Stranger’s tabac at the fireplace. The two aromas intermingled into a pleasant, yet masculine scent. The fragrance of the tabac was a bit different than the cherry-blossom-smelling tabac of Symboria; it had a pleasing hint of vanilla. Tatrice assumed the closed wooden door at the rear of the room led to prisoner quarters or living quarters for the reeve.

The stamping and stomping sound of Tatrice and Bren’s oots made on the floor didn’t seem to alert the man smoking his pipe by the fire, which Tatrice thought was odd. She knew he was aware of them.

The reeve took off his black jacket and hung it on a hook by the door. “Please, help yourself to some bittering tea.”

“No, thank you,” Tatrice said. She turned to Bren. “Go ahead.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Bren said. He removed his leather gloves and took a tin cup from a peg on the wall near the stove. He rubbed out the cup with the tail of his shirt and poured the tea. Bren took a cautious sip of the hot liquid as he faced the chair of the stranger at an angle, just enough to see the man’s face. He swallowed the bittering tea hard as the two made eye contact.

The stranger took the opportunity to stand, taking his pipe from his lips. “No need to be alarmed. We are all friendly here.”

Tatrice gasped. The man standing from the obscurity of the chair was Toborne, or rather, the visage of Drakkius inhabited by Toborne. She recognized him from Brightonhold. Tatrice reached for her sword but realized they had left their weapons tied to their horses. She abruptly became aware of the fact they had left their horses and provisions unattended, something they would never do, especially if they were worried about bandits nearby. “Trickery. You have cast some sort of spell. What have you done?”

Toborne put his pipe back into his mouth and held his hands out to his sides, palms forward. “No tricks here. If you are worried about your horses, they are already in the stables by now, safe and sound. All you have brought to Briarwick will be safely returned to you. You have my word.”

“Your word is worthless,” Bren said.

“Oh, now that isn’t very gentlemanlike. I am not the bad man I am portrayed to be.” Toborne put his hands down. “How may I prove it to you?”

“Let us be on our way, that’s how,” Tatrice said.

“You are not prisoners, my dear, no one is keeping you here.” He puffed on his pipe and gestured toward the door. “You may leave anytime you wish. I bid you good day.” He turned to the fireplace; puffs of white smoke lifted into the air above his head. Bannon took a seat behind his polished wooden desk and began packing a smoking pipe.

The blissful aroma of the vanilla-scented tabac filled the air as Bannon lit his pipe.

Several moments passed before Toborne glanced at Bren. “Still here?”

Bren shared a look with Tatrice. She didn’t know what to tell him. Bannon took out two new briarwood pipes and pushed them across the desk. Tatrice abstained but motioned that it was all right for Bren to take one. Her husband eagerly took a pipe and began searching for his bag of tabac. “Here.” Bannon slid his pouch of tabac to Bren. “Why not try mine? It’s a special blend grown in south Adracoria.”

“Thank you, friend.” Bren took the tabac and filled his pipe. “I was hoping to pick up one of these pipes while passing through.”

“Aye.” Bannon winked. “Briarwick is famous for its fine smoking pipes. Keep it; it’s yours.”

“Thank you, but I . . .”

“Reeve,” Tatrice interrupted. “You had some questions?” She eyed Toborne. She knew he was dangerous, but the danger kept slipping from her mind. Toborne felt familiar, fatherly, and warm. She had to fight to keep her sense of danger about him.

“That can wait. Sit down and rest.” He pointed to a wooden chair in front of his desk.

“I insist.”

The reeve took a long moment. “All right. How do you know the imprinter?”

“We met her earlier this winter in Ormond’s Arch.”

“Ah,” he said, “you two are married.”

Tatrice was somehow offended by the comment. “Not by choice.”

The reeve took his pipe out of his mouth and leaned forward. “You were coerced or tricked, then?”

“Well, not exactly. We were unaccustomed to the traditions of Trigothia, and we stumbled into it by accident.” Her explanation sounded so ridiculous to her when she said it out loud. “I thought you wanted to ask about Ni’esa, not about us.”

The reeve leaned back and resumed his pipe. Toborne moved the chair he was sitting in earlier around to where it faced Tatrice, and he sat down. “So, you were imprinted by accident and you sought out Ni’esa to rectify the situation.” Toborne motioned to Bannon with the stem of his pipe. “I think that is all you need to know, sir.”

Tatrice decided to sit in the chair Bannon had offered her before. She was sitting across from Toborne, and she felt no different than if he were Ianthill or Morgoran. He was the third member of the First Trine; surely he was no different than the other two, whom she adored. He seemed pleasant enough.

“I may be able to help your situation, young lady,” he said. “I only now realized I do not know your name.”

“Tatrice, and my husband over there enjoying that tabac too much is Bren.”

Toborne puffed his pipe and let the smoke crawl from his lips. “Come now, was that a proper introduction of your spouse?”

At first, Tatrice didn’t understand, but then a calm pervaded her body. “Forgive me. I am Tatrice, First of Shadesilver, and my husband is Bren, First of Amadace.”

“That’s better. Shadesilver and Amadace, both young dragons and related, I believe.”

“You know of the dragons?” Tatrice asked.

“My lord,” Toborne corrected. “I am correctly addressed as my lord, dear. And don’t be so surprised about my knowledge of dragonkind. I am Toborne, after all.”