Chapter 31

The Firasian Sea ended in the isthmuses of Jenjae, a tangled maze of salt bogs and the Myrawa Marsh. Drogan Thane held his map up to catch the last dregs of sunlight, but the trail marked on the map was little more than a faded smudge on a fading day.

He sat for a moment, stroking the horse’s neck and sorting through his feelings about the last double handful of days. The news he dumped on Guildmaster Thet’s desk had gained importance when two guild bards assigned to Bondra entered the guildmaster’s office on Drogan’s last day in Pinetar. Their stories of harassment, beatings, and outright banning of all non-court sanctioned guilds begged Drogan to investigate.

But his entrance to the city using only his diplomatic status as a prince of Kiylorone hadn’t done him the favor he hoped for. When they found he had no official business in Bondra, as a diplomat for his father, they summarily escorted him before the magistrate and from there to the western gate. Drogan glanced over his shoulder, glad he could no longer see the gated wall of Bondra behind him.

Although the worthiness of this endeavor remained as unreadable as the mark on the map, he had a mission and his ‘sense’ had never led him astray. “Let’s get on, boy. Dusk is going to squat on our camp before we can.” He flicked the reins and Zed continued to pick his way toward a small rise within the copse of vine maple and dogwoods.

As they drew closer, he found the hill proved larger than he originally thought. Drogan pulled up on the reins, and Zed stopped. Someone had cleared the top of the hill of its foliage. From what he could decipher on the map, the far side of this hill was the meeting place.

Drogan knew cresting the slope made him visible to any of the bog’s residents in the area. A clever warning system, by the time one realized they were exposed… they were exposed.

He now knew this client didn’t want to be taken unaware and they planned.

He set Zed at an angle on the downward slope, giving the campsite he spied from the top a wide berth. Not finding anything or one in the area, he walked his horse into the campsite and dismounted.

The fire ring lay deep and well seated, its rocks stained and mottled from grease and soot. Drogan knew his potential clients would make themselves known when they felt secure enough to do so. For now, he laid the fire and had water from his spare canteen heating before he turned to care for the needs of his stallion. The horse snorted as he approached.

“Sorry ol’man, I have to make ready for company.”

Zed tossed his head and snorted again, but Drogan felt the tension leave his friend’s body when he palmed him a small winter apple and gave him a quick brush down. The fire flared behind them and Drogan tensed at the shift in the air. Someone had entered their camp.

He kept one hand on his horse’s shoulder and slowly turned around. An old hag stood at the fire behind him. Her hands clasped behind her back, she stared into the flames.

“Come talk with me, Drogan Thane.” Her voice, the rasp of a tree limb creaking in the wind.

Drogan’s breath caught for a moment, but he expelled it, along with the whisper of forewarning, in a silent sigh. His hand slipped off Zed and slid home to his belt, just before his dagger hilt. He finished his turn and strode back to the fire and his waiting visitor.

“I am honored, old mother. May I serve you kala?” He reluctantly slid the hood of his cloak back, exposing his head, though he knew the protection runes wove into the fabric, only protecting what it covered.

“Ah, yes, yes, Kala is a treat,” she said, smacking her toothless gums together. “Cook mine extra-long, makes it extra sweet.”

As she leaned in and winked at him, he choked back a laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. But she didn’t speak again until he finished with the kala and she held a cup in her skeletal fingers. She sipped the steaming drink and her smile almost gave her back a semblance of humanity.

“A tasty drink and hospitality given and received,” she croaked. “Tell me now why you camp in my front yard and we shall see if the hospitality I have extended and you have received shall continue.”

Drogan’s brow arched, and he felt his jaw tighten. “Beg pardon old mother, I did not know twas upon your lawn I stood.”

The old hag shook a bony finger at him as if she scolded a young ruffian and he could feel himself bristle and stepped back. “It matters not whether it be mine or Fernget Rockicker, the outcast giant’s rook you intruded upon. It matters that you did not ask.”

Drogan heard a faint rustle high in the trees of the copse. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a double handful of eyes gleaming in the gathering dark and knew that today would be a good day to be humble.

“I would truly beg forgiveness, your forgiveness if this be your thicket and,” he said bowing deeply as he continued, “I humbly ask for traveler’s sanctuary on this eve.”

The hag seemed mollified and squatted on her haunches before the fire. She nodded encouragingly at Drogan and took a sip of her cooling kala. “And where do you travel on the morrow in this fair and verdant land?” She questioned.

Drogan opened his pack and pulled out a pouch of jerky and a small wedge of cheese and travel bread. He handed the hag a piece of venison jerky, and she gave him a toothless grin.

“You hold my skill in greater esteem than is warranted, I fear. A drooly mess is all that be worth to me,” she said, nodding toward the meat. “Perhaps a bit of bread and cheese would be appreciated.”

He sliced off a hunk of each with his dagger and handed the stack to the old woman before he spoke. “I was given this map and coin with the promise of a substantial reward for services provided. The map led here.” He smiled and popped a piece of jerky in his mouth as he watched the old hag for reaction.

She plopped the bread into what was left of her kala and set the cup on the ground next to her. Breaking the cheese into pieces, she nibbled it. A look of consideration on her puckered face.

“I have heard upon the winds the whisper of Drogan Thane’s honor. Even when dealing with, shall we say, of less station than the court in Thaneton? He is said to be a man of his word and knows when to be silent. Is this so?”

Drogan’s eyes narrowed. Was she asking him, on his honor, to keep silent about his dealing with her, he wondered. If that were the only stipulation to the contract and the services required not too onerous, he would be glad to hold these dealings in confidence, more so probably than she.

“Those whispering speak true, old mother. Tell me what you come to barter for and if I accept, it will be honoring your wishes or none. If I refuse…” Drogan shrugged. “This meeting never happened.”

The old woman nodded, picked up the cup filled with travel bread, sopped in kala and slurped it down.” I’ll just take another cup, thank you very much.” She smacked her lips, her face shining in the firelight.

“Tell me what you would have of me,” Drogan told the old woman as he handed her back the refilled cup. He felt that if she started talking, the dawn would find them still sitting around the fire and wanted to stop it before it happened.

“A little more than a double handful of years ago, I lived a different life,” she paused and the fire sizzled as she spat into it. “A life of ease, but not as a free woman. I was assigned to serve what the Enkeli and Maleki Al’far deemed an abomination. An Enkeli Al’far female and a Maleki Al’far male said to come from beyond the Rana Straits worked the ritual of binding, tying their souls together for eternity. When she was found with child, they were driven from Lowrendal and traveled into the wild highlands of Rhoaddyn.”

She paused here, taking a long sip of her kala, and Drogan had to admit she’d caught his attention with the tale. He put another log on the fire and glanced over to his horse, Zed, to make sure he fared well. Satisfied, he turned back to his guest and his host, ready for her to continue. This she obliged.

“I traveled with them, the only servant… slave they were allowed to take. They didn’t know I had orders, having not to do with the wellbeing of them or their child. They were on their way to Legacy, hoping to plead their case for recognized union by the Espiare High Council. But labor came early and we sheltered in an old cabin on the summer estate of High Councilor Urilith.

A girl child was born. We only planned to stay until spring brought the masters and their entourage back to their estate. But kalayani turned to tinandra and the big house stayed empty and the fields fallow. And I was content to let them live where no one knew of them and they bothered no one.” She stopped now, bringing her cup to her lips.

She tipped it back, draining the dregs, and ran her tongue around the edge, getting the last drops of moisture. Her bird-bright eyes peered over the top edge of the cup, and Drogan swore it was the gleam of rebellion in them as she continued her story.

“We lived and worked and grew together in that cabin and they treated me more like family than slave. The child even had a name for me.” She cackled, rocking back and forth as she talked. “I was her Nonee. But in the child’s second year, a message meant for me was intercepted. Their fear overcame the trust built over the past years and, though they had garnered mercy from me, there was no mercy in their hearts for me. I was cast out and cursed for my duplicity. The pain of their betrayal, for betrayal it was, burned in my soul.”

She sighed, poking at the inside of her cup with a bony finger. A great sadness clouded her eyes, and Drogan could have sworn a tear meandered down the wrinkled face.

“What were their names, old one?” Drogan asked, pouring ale from one of his flasks into his empty cup. He held up the flask in offering and the hag nodded her acceptance.

“Names are powerful things, Drogan Thane, prince of Kylarone. If the spirits attached to those names, wander the after-realm seeking vengeance, I would not be one to utter them and invite them for kala.”

She picked up her telling as Drogan moved closer to fill her cup. “I was outlawed, no more and no less. for not following through with the mission. I left, but not before I set their lives on the road to death as I had been instructed to do.”

“Venom of a Slither-skin scorpion from the Great Proewyr Desert is always fatal, but slow acting. With symptoms much like Blood Lung Fever. I sneaked in and smeared the venom about the insides of their goblets before leaving the area to await their deaths.”

“What about the little girl?” Drogan asked, refilling her cup “I didn’t want to kill the child. There was something special about her. Something I did not want to see leave the world. In her innocence, she would grow up without any idea of her shameful lineage… she would be just another Bien Al’far. But the fates, they be tricksy and a storm and avalanche waylaid my return. For good or ill, it was the end of Estril before I returned, only to find them gone.”

She swallowed down half of her cup of ale and swung her arm out, offering the cup for another refill before Drogan could move back to his seat. Smacking her lips, she nodded when he obliged.

After taking another sip, the old crone continued. “They were gone. The wagon and the horses were gone and their tracks covered by a handful of snowstorms. I searched the cabin for clues and from what I could glean, they musta left soon after they fell ill. And now again, the fates chose to hold me in a deathly chill and the snows kept me within the estate walls until the thaw. As soon as I was able, I searched the only road a wagon might travel upon.”

“I found what was left of a wagon off the road at the point where the river Urias divides before the Great Plains of the Theracan Horse Clans.” The old woman paused here. She drained the ale from the cup with a loud slurp and, with a slight hiccup, she held her cup back out to Drogan.

“Have you ever seen the bridge at Urias Rift Crossing, Drogan Thane?” she asked, her bright eyes snapping.

“I have indeed,” Drogan said, curious where this was leading.

“I had never seen the handy work of the stone-trolls until then, nor even heard of them. But anyway, that is another story,” she said with a cackle. “Across the bridge, there is a village of sorts called Northpoint.”

“Aye, that is what I have heard,” Drogan said, unwilling to give credence to his knowledge of the region, his trust not a thing easily given.

“It was here I heard tell of a child found by the hunters of one of the Clans in high nebril. There should have been three in the family, although only the child was found, or so I was told. But the child, the child, went with the clan when they left that Kalayani.

“How did you end up on this side of the Firasian Sea… in a bog?”

“The old hag cackled again and said, “You mean in this condition.” She folded her hands together beneath her chin with her arms winged out like a plucked fowl, and grinned a toothless grin at him.

Drogan barked out a laugh, glad his mouth had not been full of ale. The crone shook her cup upside down to show him she was without a drink. He filled her cup once more and waited for the old hag to answer his question, but glancing at her, he realized her silence was the only answer he would get. With a tip of his cup and a nod, he acknowledged her right to her secrets.

“My services, good old mother. How would you use them and what do you offer as recompense?”

The old woman sucked at her lip and stared at Drogan. He felt as if she sifted him, his worth, his skill, his life in that instant.

“Can you find the child? Born on the first of Estril, she will have seen fifteen years come this New Year.

“Do you know the name of the clan that took her in?”

“Ah, now, where would be the challenge in that Drogan Thane? Nay, I fear my tenuous welcome in Northpoint was short-lived when my means of support was tucked away in the pouch of someone quicker than I.”

Drogan cocked a brow but said nothing. His curiosity completely aroused, he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from asking what happened, knowing there was more of a chance of her handing him a fine fat bag of gold than telling him the rest of her story. He finally said, “And if I find her, what then? Surely you have not found your misplaced loyalty to your original mission?”

The old hag’s eyes narrowed. Her voice hissed, “You think to mock me for my failure?”

Drogan’s hands patted the air in a gesture of placation. “Nay, old mother, I laud you for your compassion and courage in letting the child live. And in that same vein, I would not be a party to bringing the child to her death were that your want with her.”

The hag’s face crinkled in a smile that almost swallowed her eyes. She nodded vigorously and tossed the dregs of her ale into the fire. Flames flared momentarily before settling again with a sizzle and a pop. “Hehehe, I knew I was right about you. I would not harm her. Nay, I have something for you to give her and a message for you to speak.”

Drogan frowned and said, “I sense there is more you would say, old woman. But first, I would ask you what you offer in return.”

“I have little need of the things the rest of the world craves and have a store of items and relics brought to me as gifts and tributes through the years. Take your pick. Or perhaps you would have me talk to the spirits to hear if they have heard of the plans the fates have for you. I have somewhat of a skill in that or so the denizens of this swamp claim.” The hag rocked back and forth on her haunches, her voice a singsong drone.

“Spirits spoke, yea they spoke, one after another, not a double night past,. About the flotsam and jetsam of a dragonkin boat from across the Firasian Sea and the wind’s very breath cut short in the blink of a scarlet eye.”

Drogan stood staring into the fire, listening to the woman speak. He could feel the weight of her words and knew as the pressure mounted in his chest that his friends could very well be on that boat as their last message spoke of Windy Cove. “Is there more that the spirits told you?”

“Not so fast, friend Thane. Your word has not spoken acceptance, nor has payment been bartered.”

He turned his head first left, then right, his neck cracking as he rolled his shoulders to release the tension. “So I am to find a girl about fifteen years old that was adopted into the clans on her parents’ death. If she was two, did she have a name that she could tell anyone finding her?”

“Her name is Kestrel. She knew and spoke her name and age. She was a bright child.”

“I will take the charter,” he said. He couldn’t help but wonder if Marley and Jayf might know the girl. Drogan knew Marley traveled with one of the clans a double handful of years ago. He also knew the runesmith planned to stop at the clans on his way south to warn those gathered at Four Corners of what they learned and pick up any new information. “And what payment would you seek?”

“Your ghost stories intrigue me. I would hear more, but I go to search the 10 clans and the whole of the Theracan Plains for this girl. Perhaps something a tad more lucrative would be in order. Say an artifact of…,” he paused, speculating on her commitment to see it through and her integrity not to renege upon the agreement. “Hmm, I’m not privy to what artifacts grace your collection, so I will relinquish the choice of which artifact to you along with the ghost stories and a promise to remember me kindly if we should meet again.” Drogan gave the hag a playful wink that set her off, tittering like a scullery maid at his father’s castle.

“It is agreed then.” The old woman nodded enthusiastically as she stood. “What information would you have?”

Drogan ran his hand over his stubbly face. He needed to know more about what happened along the coast. “Whatever you know or your spirit friends know about the dragonkin’s shipwreck and any unusual raiding or attacks by the… darker, more aggressive denizens.

The hag nodded as she studied him. “And one more question; you may ask Drogan Thane because you have amused an old woman this night and have spoken with honor. But ask quickly, for it comes the time when spirits speak and I must make your questions known.”

Staring into the fire, he contemplated how to use this boon. Though information for the guild flooded his mind, he looked up into the crone’s birdlike eyes and said, “The Al’far.”

The hag leaned in. “Speak aloud what you would know.”

“What has happened to the Al’far of Lowendral? If an errant breeze has whispered of trouble in the great Lowendrel forests over the past two seasons, I would know.” He felt the muscle in his jaw twitch and reached for the ale flask. After a long pull, he turned back to his guest, but she was gone.

Her voice, like the play of branch and twig in the night wind, promised to return in the morning.

Drogan chuckled to himself as he banked the fire. “She just likes my cooking,” he said to himself. His horse snorted and he wasn’t sure if it was in ridicule or agreement.