Adjacent to the shelter was a lean-to providing just as primitive protection to a rug-covered horse tethered to the wall. Jennery drifted over to the unfamiliar mare, admiring her sleek lines visible even under the grubby rug. He gently rubbed her nose in greeting. “Where did he find you?” he murmured as she tossed her head. Jennery sighed as he glanced around. “A bit of luxury for a change. I’d forgotten what it was like.”
Jennery observed the bowman hovering by the door, half in and half out. He looked lean and dangerous, his face sharp and observant, his eyes never still, watching. He made Jennery feel on edge as if something terrible were about to happen.
A soft snort from behind him showed him how much sympathy he was going to get. “Stop complaining,” Jerrol said as he threw over a bundle of cloth. “Get changed. I want to know why you were with those bandits and attacking innocent strangers as well.” He shook his head. “I thought you would come in by the Port road.”
“I did come in by the Port Road, for what it’s worth,” Jennery grunted as he peeled off his sodden clothes. He used them to rub the mud off his muscular body, but they didn’t help much. He gave up, dropping them on the floor. “But the port was closed. The dockers were protesting about something or other, so I tagged on to a mule train.” He struggled to get a clean shirt on over damp skin, the cloth muffling his voice. “From the tone of your very short and uninformative message, I guessed you didn’t want to advertise our presence here?” He ended with an upturn of his voice. He looked across the shelter at Jerrol, who was kneeling over a small fire pit, trying to coax a spark out of his flint.
The man in the doorway gave a soft exclamation. He was watching Jerrol with a strange expression on his face, but Jennery didn’t think it was a conversation gambit, so he looked back at Jerrol, pausing as he watched the spark catch and the flames grow. He continued with his report. “The Chancellor posted guards at all the entry points; he controls the wharves and the headland. The King won’t get support from the dock hands when their livelihood is at risk.”
Jerrol sighed as he rested the tin pot over the fire. “I know,” he replied, glancing up. The flickering flames slanted a soft yellow light across his face, which was drawn and strained. The dark shadows under his eyes made him look a lot older than his twenty-two years, but his grey eyes were clear and sharp.
Jennery’s mouth tightened with concern. Jerrol was thinner, having lost weight in the few months they had been apart. The arms master had raised his slight build as a concern when he had first been inducted into the rangers, but his wiry, stubborn constitution had always proved true.
He rubbed his chin, remembering the one time Jerrol had managed to beat him in the sparring ring. The scar was an annoying reminder. Their foster mother, Hannah, had had conniptions sewing him up, berating both of them for their carelessness. “What happened?” he asked as he squatted next to the tiny fire and inhaled the intoxicating smell of coffee. “Coffee,” he exclaimed, “you’ve got real coffee?”
The bowman shifted as the aroma reached him, his eyes brightening. “Kafinee?” he murmured.
Jerrol grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling as his face eased. “The last bag. I couldn’t get any more so make the most of it. I hope you brought some money with you as I’m just about out.” He handed a mug to the bowman and then one to Jennery.
“Bliss.” Jennery communed with his mug and sipped the steaming black coffee. It was pungent but smooth, and more importantly hot. He relaxed as the warmth crept down his limbs.
The unusual bowman hovering in the doorway drew his attention. Even with the coffee in hand, he held himself alertly. He looked as if he could deal with whatever came through the door. His silver eyes never stopped moving, continually scanning the surroundings. He wore an archaic silvery-green uniform, with a high-necked collar, which made him look mysterious, foreign. The material shimmered even though there was little light.
“Who’s this in the fancy get-up?” Jennery jerked his head at the man at the door.
“I don’t know.” Jerrol stared at the dark-haired young man. “I first saw you in the temple in Old Vespers. Who are you?”
The man ducked his head. “The Lady bid me protect you; you have too many enemies, Captain.”
“You’re a Sentinal, aren’t you?” Jerrol said slowly. The man stilled, and Jennery gasped.
“He can’t be. They all died,” Jennery blurted, and the man flinched, his face paling.
“No, they didn’t. The Lady encased her guards in the sentinal trees to protect them. You’ve been sleeping, haven’t you? You’re Birlerion. One of the forgotten.”
The man deliberated, staring at Jerrol, his face unnaturally stiff. “Yes, the Lady named me Birlerion. I am one of her Guards.”
“But that would mean he’s over three thousand years old,” Jennery gasped, his mouth dropping. He didn’t believe it; it wasn’t possible. Birlerion stepped back, his eyes flitting around him.
“Why didn’t you come forward before?” Jerrol said, his voice calm.
Birlerion flicked a glance out the doorway. “If they didn’t know I was there, easier to take them out.”
Jennery scoffed, watching the man who looked ready to flee. “And how many have you taken out?” he asked with morbid interest.
Birlerion clamped his lips shut and turned away.
“Enough, Jennery, drink your coffee.”
Jennery dragged his gaze away from the strange Sentinal and looked at Jerrol. His friend was on edge and greatly worn down. His uniform was grubby, mud-splashed, and unrecognisable except for the
