The Protector of Esparia (The Annals of Esparia Book 1) (12 page)

The opening of the surgery door interrupted Ophir’s tale.  John walked out, followed by Alberod, the animal preptor.  John was silent, his face showing no sign of emotion, but Alberod was all smiles.  He addressed Jeema’s mother.  “Kayta, you can go in now.  Jeema will be all right.  Your husband’s blood gave him back his life.”  The woman wasted no time in rushing through the open door.

The High Older offered the two healers chairs at the table and Geilin busied herself with serving them.  From now on, Alberod would always be referred to as a healer.  

“Please, continue,” Gaylee urged Ophir.

“Segal was foolhardy.  He marched into the heart of the country in his efforts to kill you and your family.  It didn’t take long for us to rally the people.  We surrounded Segal.  Victory came swiftly, but still he managed to slip away.  For five years we gathered and trained anyone willing to fight for freedom.  Hundreds of thousands rallied to Haesom.  I personally finished his training and served as his bodyguard while Gammet organized our defenses.  Like a man possessed, Gammet worked day and night, knowing Segal would return. 

“When Haesom turned nineteen, Segal attacked again, with a force of five hundred thousand.  He built his army through flattery, bribery, coercion, and alliances.  Many of our people deserted over to his side, lured by hollow promises of power and wealth.”  He gave a mirthless laugh.  “As if Segal would share any of it.  The war lasted eighteen long, brutal months.  The end came at Blue Mountain.  With the enemy defeated, we stormed the fortress.  We found Segal’s body in the courtyard; he’d been stabbed to the heart.  To this day, no one has any idea who did it.  Maybe Daenon killed him.  Who knows?” Ophir shrugged.  “At least he was dead.  Daenon and the seventh bars fled with most of the Demar desert warriors when they saw they were about to be captured.”

“What of Naydeen, Segal’s wife?” Gaylee asked.

Ophir shook his head.  “We never found her, nor has she been seen since that time.  I’m sorry.”

Ophir’s emotionless telling of the story finished and a sober mood fell over the occupants of the room.  Gaylee went to John.  She placed her hand on his shoulder.  “This man is John Ernshaw.”  Unmistakable pride filled her voice.  “He is a great healer and my son-in-law.”

“Son-in…is your daughter here also?” Geilin asked. 

Gaylee shook her head. “No, Shallenon died ten years ago.  However, my granddaughter is here, somewhere in the Southern Greenwood.  That is one of the reasons for my return.  She precedes us by a day and we don’t know where she is.  We're on our way to Ramadine to find out what Healer Larone may know concerning her whereabouts.”

Ophir jumped to his feet.  “Your granddaughter!  You should have said something.  I’ll waste no more time, My Lady.”  He headed for the door.  “I’ll search for her immediately.”

“No Ophir, wait.  I’m very concerned for her, but she’s not alone.  Larone sent a great warrior to protect her.”

Ophir raised his eyebrows at this news.

“A warrior named Varnack.” She said.

Ophir’s mouth dropped open.  Nearly everyone in the room gasped. “Varnack, you said?” Ophir asked.

“Yes,” Gaylee looked from Ophir to the High Older, who had the same open-mouthed look on his face, and back again.

“We searched for signs of them.”  John spoke for the first time.  “But it rained between our two arrivals, so all traces vanished.  We came here hoping to arrange transportation to Ramadine, where Larone is.  Gaylee thinks her uncle is our best hope for locating my daughter.”

Eagerly, every person in the room offered some sort of aid.  “I shall have my own carriage prepared to take you there,” the High Older insisted.  The two soldiers, Garrett and Mica, volunteered to accompany the carriage to ensure its safety.  The young women offered to prepare food and drink and Ophir promised he would still search for Jessica. 

“However,” he added, “if Varnack is with her, then she is better protected than with ten of our warriors.  Since it’s night, Varnack will be well hidden and I would never find them.  I must search by the light of day.”

“Ophir, who is Varnack?”  Gaylee asked.

“He’s a Trigal Hound.”

This time Gaylee gasped.  “Healer Larone has a Trigal Hound for a companion?”

“Yes, a golden one.”

“What’s a Trigal Hound?” John asked.

Gaylee thought hard before answering his question.  She chose her words carefully.  “Visualize a dog the size of a small horse, but with different colored coats and eyes to match their coats of red, green, blue, orange, white, gold, et cetera.  Now picture this animal, not as an animal, but with the intelligence of a human, minus our capacity for speech.”

“I would very much like to meet this Varnack,” John commented.  “He must be quite a guard dog.”

“No John, not a dog, but a warrior.  A Trigal hound,” Gaylee reiterated.  She knew John well enough to realize he was just barely containing his sarcasm.  To her relief he simply nodded.

“It’s been a long day,” John exhaled, then turned to the High Older.  “Thank you for the offer of your carriage, we gratefully accept it.  We’d like to leave in the morning, after I’ve checked on my patients.”

“Come,” Ophir opened the door to the shop.  “I’ll take you to Lyrista’s house, it’s not far.” 

Gaylee reached for her cloak.  Once in the open square, John rubbed his face with both hands and asked, “Who’s Lyrista?”

“Reese’s aunt,” Ophir answered.

“You know, the attractive blond woman who threatened you earlier,” Gaylee prompted.

“Ooooh, yeah. Her.”

Poor John, Gaylee chuckled to herself.  It really has been a long day.

Lyrista’s home was one of many two level, stone dwellings on the street.  A small, neatly clipped yard edged with lush miniature ferns and robust coral flower bushes attested to the woman’s gardening abilities.  A three-foot high stonewall marked the property boundaries.  Lyrista answered Ophir’s knock and told him to take John upstairs to her father, Gammet’s room.

“I’ve prepared this room for you, My Lady.”  Lyrista led Gaylee to a comfortably decorated chamber on the main floor. 

“It's more than adequate,” Gaylee said.

“Good night, Lady Gayleena.”

After the day’s long march and the emotional histories, Gaylee fell into a deep sleep moments after her head hit the feather pillow. 

* * *

John woke to the smell of hot bread.  He found shaving equipment on a table next to a small sink in the bedroom.  When he turned a metal tap, he smiled at the running water.  He remembered Gaylee’s pride when she spoke of the pressurized plumbing.  He cleaned up, then went looking for the source of the wonderful smells filling the house. 

He found Lyrista in a tidy kitchen.  Close to the doorway stood a square, wooden table, covered with a yellow cloth whose edges were embroidered in bright pink and green flowers.  Four sturdy wooden chairs surrounded it.  Four settings of glass plates and cups, Palium metal knives and two-pronged forks were neatly arranged on the cloth.  A large metal pitcher of lavender juice he assumed to be dandleberry, along with a wooden bowl of hairy, green diamond-shaped fruit Gaylee had called palanto was placed in the center. 

John lingered in the doorway for a moment, contemplating the slim, well-toned woman.  Her straight, white blond hair was cut short and he remembered from the night before that there had been flecks of green in her hazel brown eyes.  She moved with grace around the room.  Dressed in gray pants and a light brown shirt, she would have looked like any ordinary woman pulling a pan of brown, round biscuits from a fire driven oven if it weren’t for the deadly dagger attached to her leather belt.  He cleared his throat to attract her attention. 

“You’re awake.  Good morning,” she said pleasantly. 

“Good morning.  It certainly smells good in here.  Is there anything I can do to help?”  He entered the cooking center.

“No.  Just have a seat, everything’s ready.  Reese should be up soon and I think I heard Lady Saylon earlier.” 

“Reese?  Is he here?”

“He’s over there,” she pointed with a wooden spatula to a long, cushioned bench, easily seen from the kitchen doorway.  “He never made it to his bed, just collapsed in the front room and fell right to sleep.  I thought it best not to move him.”

The couch was in the center of the room, facing a large stone fireplace.  John was so exhausted the night before he never noticed the boy resting there.  Entering the living space, he noted how cozy and inviting Lyrista’s house felt.  The front area had a thin, light yellow and chocolate brown rug on the wooden floor, nearly covering it from wall to wall.  Richly carved, red wooden tables flanked the couch while two large, wooden chairs, accented with deep green cushions, were placed, one beside each table.  Three tall, wrought iron candleholders were positioned close to the furniture.  Robust looking green and yellow grass plants completed the decor.  Bright morning light streamed in through a large, yellow curtained picture window, located next to the front door. 

Being careful not to wake him, John examined the boy.  His color had dramatically improved from the night before and his temperature felt normal.  No infection showed around the stitches and all but one wound had completely ceased to ooze.  This was remarkable, if not impossible.  John was thoroughly amazed.  He had never seen anyone heal so rapidly. 

Reese’s dark, curly hair had dirt and dried blood matted into it.  His uniform looked more like a pile of rags than soldier’s attire.  John shook his head.  He hoped the wounds were just physical.  He could only imagine the horrors this kid had seen.

Going back to the kitchen, he slumped into a chair at the table.  If war was truly imminent, he pitied the poor guy who would have to run it.  All war was terrible.  He wouldn’t want to be the one sending some young kid to his death.  Afghanistan was all the battle he ever wanted to see.  When he reached for the Palium pitcher, Gaylee, looking thoroughly refreshed, walked into the room.  Her home world certainly agreed with her.  “Sleep well?”  he asked.

“Very,” she answered.  “It smells wonderful, Lyrista.  Thank you for your hospitality.”

Lyrista.  John pondered the name.  She dropped some fried eggs onto his plate.  Yes, he liked that name very much.  He ate quickly, anxious to go to Alberod’s shop and check on Jeema.  Of the two patients, Jeema was, by far, in the worse shape and John had left orders he not be moved.  When finished eating, he excused himself from the ladies and walked out the front door into the crisp, morning air.

Ophir sat on the short stonewall surrounding Lyrista’s building.  His back was to the house.  John wondered if the man had been there all night.  “Ophir.”  The warrior turned at his name and smiled at John.  It was a warm smile that lit up his eyes.  “Could you direct me to Alberod’s?  I want to check on Jeema.”

“His parents transferred him to their home this morning.  It’s not far from here; I’ll show you the way.”

“What?  This morning?” John frowned.  “They felt he was strong enough to be moved?”

“His mother was anxious to have him home.”

Annoyed at the blatant disregard this mother held for his orders, John set off at a brisk pace.  The two men did not go far before John became keenly aware that nearly every person they passed, man or woman, bowed to them. 

“You must be quite an important man to receive such respect,” he commented. 

Ophir stared at John in genuine surprise.  “It’s not me to whom they bow, but to you!  Word has spread.  The entire Hoffle knows what you did for Jeema and Reese.  The High Older has been busy throughout the night making certain everything is ready for your journey to Ramadine.  He has turned away hundreds of offers to help.  Here we are,” he motioned to a moderately sized, wood and brick house, “this is Jeema’s home.”

After a quick exam, John commended Jeema into his mother's care.  As with Reese, the young man was making a remarkable recovery.  Leaving the house, he wondered that if he were wounded, would he heal as fast in this environment? 

When John entered Jeema’s home, he left Ophir on the street, empty handed.  The aging warrior now held the bridles of two beautiful, white horses in his hand.

“Where did you find those?”

“I told you, hundreds offered to help.  The Second Older’s servant insisted I take these and present them to you.  He’s not a man one says no to.”

“The Second Older?”

Ophir shook his head.  “The servant.”

John took one of the leather reins. He stroked the animal’s neck.  A knot formed in his stomach when he realized the creature was for him.  Facing enemy fire or jumping from an airplane in full combat gear never fazed John, but the thought of riding on a horse filled him with dread.  John did not like horses, or rather, he felt horses did not like him.  Though he had ridden only twice before, disaster struck in the form of blood and bruises during both of those equestrian experiences.  Riding in a carriage to Ramadine was a form of travel John could live with, but the prospect of riding a horse the entire way was not a pleasant one. 

“What’s his name?” 

“Fireguard.  Come, I’ll show you Ider Hoffle” Ophir swung easily up on to the second animal.  Swallowing hard, John mounted his large stallion.  He tried to relax while Ophir took him on the brief tour.