Chapter 2

Drogan motioned the longriders over to the bar. Although he didn’t recognize the younger one, the other rider, Gambel, quickly introduced his partner as his son, Taul, out on his first ride.

“You boys look ready for a short report and a long pull on an ale. Why don’t ya grab a brew? The innkeeper has lent us his office loft and food and drink will tickle your gullet before you know it,” the bard announced, clapping Gambel on the back.

Still dumbfounded over Marley’s earlier announcement, Drogan headed upstairs while the riders got their drinks. He wondered if the riders’ news would affect Marley’s plans. They’d been hunkered down in Northpoint, since just after the first snow. And although he loved the intrigue and entertainment side of working with the Echoing Note, he had itchy feet and a yearning for adventure.

The intriguing announcement of Marley’s tickled both spots. Now if they could find an essence enchanted artifact or a wench in need of saving… He was almost rubbing his hands together in anticipation as he turned back to find Jayf standing ahead of him.

With something between a curse and a chuckle, Drogan sidestepped the dragonkin. “Won’t ever get used to your way of travel, Jayf.” But his small friend, standing aside while the two longriders filed past, barely acknowledged him with a nod. Speculation raised Drogan’s brow as he studied his ally and continued. “Still, I see the advantages.”

“What advantage?” Marley asked, hitting the top of the stairs with a heavy foot.

“You’ll have to move faster than that to keep up with the conversation, let alone Jayf.” Drogan chuckled as he glanced back at the stairs, wondering if the little fairy creature held the key to the dragonkin’s distraction as of late. “Should we expect any uninvited guests?”

Marley rolled his eyes skyward and, shaking his head, blustered past and into the meeting area. “Verna and her daughter will be here shortly with food and drink. They’re invited… They have the ale. After I talk with Jayf, I’ll be ready to meet with the riders.” The runesmith’s words floated back to Drogan just as the ladies made the top of the stairs.

Drogan followed them into the office area, as Jayf once more disappeared. “Is Jayf alright?”

Marley grimaced and shook his head. “Something has happened concerning the dragonkin and their Paths but he won’t talk about it. He is skipping this meeting and going into dragon sleep until we leave.”

The group made themselves comfortable on benches made of gnarled tree limbs and thickly stuffed animal hide cushions. The pop and crackle of the fire in a massive hearth welcomed them, while bowls of savory lamb stew and fresh bread steamed from small side tables set close to the seats. After depositing pitchers of ale on a central table, the women hurried away.

“The letters and missives for Guild-master Thet, in Pinetar, are here.” He patted the satchel slung over his shoulder. “Someone needs to take them the rest of the way. We won’t be heading there.”

Drogan’s gaze ricocheted from his dinner to Gambel to Marley and back to the longrider. The man’s demeanor spoke of a story to go along with the sheaf of letters and bold statement. The bard glanced once more at Marley, expecting his friend to say something after his earlier announcement.

But the runesmith sat silent, trepidation pinching his face. Drogan wondered what he sensed. Marley had been his mentor, advisor, and friend as far back as when he was most addressed as Prince Drogan. Although he held seniority over the runesmith with the Echoing Note, between the three of them, Marley was the de facto leader. And the worry knot between his friend’s brows as he studied the boy, Taul, said this was not a time to speculate.

Gambel took another long pull on his drink and glanced at his son. “We must travel to Legacy with a vital message for the Espiare High Council. This message must take precedence over our mission for the guild.”

The runesmith leaned forward, his elbows perched on his knees and his hands laced together before him. “Tell us your story son, for I too am on a mission of deep honor and a… compelling nature,” he said, his gaze intent upon the riders.

Gambel nodded slowly, as if he gathered and organized his thoughts. And when he spoke, his voice was low and determined. “We sailed into Port at Novice Point and the Authority there instructed us to report to the office of Trade and Transportation. We found it next to the Tavir Academy of Sedd and manned by a troop of soldiers bearing the pendants of Sedd’s capital city, Bondra, along with a handful of academy weavers.” He paused, taking a drink. “They said, the north merchant road from the Academy to Treaty Falls was closed. An outbreak of some plague is what they said. Interesting, it only affects the Espaire…”

Marley interrupted him. “Only those with the ancients’ blood? What about the elementals?”

“They said they were investigating the possibility the disease came in on a ship from the elemental run city Windy Cove or from their sister city Krymac. At the academy, the soldiers we saw were Sedd regulars. Except for the Captain with the weavers, he wore the colors of Bondra city garrison. They were there to enforce the plague quarantine while the academy sought a cause and cure. Or so they said.”

Drogan grabbed Gambel’s drained mug and refilled it. As he handed it back, he asked. “What was your route, then? You made good time for all that.”

Taul spoke up while his father took a bite of his cooling stew. “The garrison there suggested we use the southern road along the Glyndin and Lowrendal border. Folks on Glyndin’s side of the border seemed awful nervous.”

Drogan noticed the junior rider’s hand shook slightly as he took a drink, but after a moment, Taul continued. “You might even say afraid. What with a foreign soldier or two strolling their streets, and the corresponding essence-weavers. They’re settin’ up recruitment shops in towns of any size.”

“What about those with the ancients’ blood living along there?” Marley asked.

“The Al’far have disappeared from all the Glyndin border towns and villages, although we saw no signs of recent sickness and the residents we talked to… well, they were scared. Whether of the soldiers or the rumored plague, they were tight-lipped.”

They had Drogan’s attention with the report of Sedd’s involvement. He wondered how much truth was in the plague report on only Sedd’s word. The past year saw that kingdom strengthening its borders and launching tentative raids into neighboring countries. He hoped the longriders’ reports gave them new insight.

The bard took a sip from his mug while considering the rider’s words. “What about Swiftwater and the ferry? Was the Al’Far stronghold deserted also?”

“The ferry still runs... just,” Gambel said around a mouthful of food. “We were outside of No-Fault when a handful of Al’Far wardens rode out of the woods to hail us. They checked our papers and although they didn’t stop us from moving ahead, they paced us from the rear.”

Gambel’s son almost shook in his enthusiasm and reached out to grab his tankard, knocking his stew onto the floor. Taul sat with his mouth hanging open and an -oh how I wish I could disappear- look on his face. He began apologizing, but Marley stopped him with a shake of the head.

“Don’t apologize, son. Scoop ‘er into the bowl and take it to the kitchen. The innkeeper’s dogs will be happy for the scraps and your dah will continue the report, while you get a clean bowl. No need to fret.”

Taul nodded, gratitude on his face. But his stature seemed to deflate when Marley said Gambel would finish the report. Still, he stooped to his job and soon disappeared down the stairs.

“When the boy learns to control his enthusiasm, he will be a shiny storyteller,” Drogan said with a chuckle.

“Indeed, I believe you are right. I will tell him you said so, if he still has that dream after this.” Gambel set down his empty bowl.

Marley grunted, surprise coloring his voice. “The way he sounded, it will take more than a route change to sway him from following that dream.”

“Perhaps I should continue the report,” Gambel said with a grim look. “When we reached Swiftwater, they told us the ferry was closed... to humans and they took us into custody. Luck must have tempered the Fate’s roll. Because the Captain, or whatever you call the Warden in charge of the Swiftwater Ferry, was one of the original witnesses to the Allied Purpose Pact. Which Drogan Thane, representing the Echoing Note, mediated and signed.” The rider paused for a drink and tipped his mug toward Drogan.

“They gave us passage up the Lowrendal River, but there were stipulations.”

“And?” Marley encouraged him, his tone now edged with impatience.

Gambel glanced at him sharply, but continued. “We must travel to Legacy, in the Thackhammer Mountains of Rhoaddyn. The message is blood-locked to the leader of the Espaire High Council, Urilith.”

Drogan frowned. “What in the name of the four Fates is a blood-locked message?” he asked, turning to Marley.

The runesmith strode over to stand in front of Gambel. For a few moments, he studied the rider. “May I see the message?”

The rider nodded. He glanced toward the balcony area, and Drogan and Marley did the same. Taul stood on the stairs, fidgeting with a rag and the bucket he carried.

“Taul, son, come here, please. If you would show them the message.”

Baffled, Drogan looked at Marley, hoping he might shed light on what was going on.

Confusion and understanding warred on Marley’s whiskered face as Taul removed his cloak and pulled up his sleeve. A string of glyphs spiraled up his arm, ending somewhere above his sleeve line. The runesmith grasped the boy’s hand, examining the writing.

“Who did you say gave him the tattoo?” Marley let the boy’s arm drop.

“I didn’t,” Gambel said. “They either fed us something or spelled us. From the time we agreed to deliver the message until we debarked on the merchant docks, just north of Treaty Falls, we have little recollection.”

“I barely felt the blade they used to bleed me,” the boy said. “And, and, I watched my blood drip into a little inkpot.” Taul scrunched up his face. “I can’t remember what the inkpot looked like.”

Drogan stood and stretched, rubbing the tension out of his neck. “Well, if no one will explain what a blood-lock is, may I see the message?”

Marley stepped aside, and Drogan took the boy by the wrist. He scanned the tattoo from as many angles as was considered polite. He poked at the tight parallel lines of script. As if poking the surface of a pond, the symbols scattered, only to draw back together moments later. But try as he might, he could not focus on the actual script long enough to read it.

He let go of Taul’s wrist and glanced over at Marley. “I’m guessing you can’t read it either. Even with all of your rune casting, essence-weaving ways,” he said, his brow arched in challenge.

Marley turned to Drogan, explaining, “A blood-lock is the most secret and imperative of ways to communicate between the Espaire races. There must be ancient blood in the sender, carrier, and receiver. Blood from the sender and the carrier mixed with ash from something of the recipient’s, a hair or nail or piece of clothing, creates the ink.

The runesmith sighed, and when he spoke, concern weighed his voice. “Taul has Al’Far blood on his mother’s side, I take it.” He shot Gambel a quizzical look. “The essence feeding the magic must come from somewhere. The essence of the ink fuels a blood-lock message… for a time. After that, it’s the carrier’s essence sustaining the message until delivered or the carrier dies.”

“I have no intention of dying on my first adventure worthy of song,” Taul said with a shaky laugh. And then his voice turned grave. “I hope you understand now why we can’t carry on to Pintar but must give it over to you.”

Gambet nodded, his pride and concern for his son a shine in his eyes as he let the satchel slide down his arm and pulled out a stack of documents. “I spent last night working on my report. I didn’t seal it, so you might read it and glean any information I might have forgotten. The rest boasts wax seals, still intact. Those that searched us did nothing to compromise their integrity.”

He laid the letters on the table and reached back into the bag, pulling out one more missive. This last one was a hasty affair. Not the more refined parchment like the others, but made from tanned animal hide. The wax, sealing the document, lacked an identifying stamp and above, scrawled in a thin spidery script, Drogan’s name.

Marley picked up this last parcel, but quickly let it drop onto the pile with a speculative glance at Drogan. “That letter has a bite.” His hand waved the air in front of his face as he gasped.

Unsure what Marley meant, Drogan plucked the piece of leather from the table. He ran the tip of his finger across the russet-colored blob of wax and then held his finger to his nose.