“As the Lady wills.” Jerrol coughed, trying to clear his throat. His voice sounded like a whetstone rasping across rusty steel.
“That’s as maybe,” Birlerion snapped, “but you don’t have to help her.”
Jerrol sat back down on the cobblestones; his legs were trembling again. Reaction, he supposed. His body cooled as the internal greenness dampened all heat and soothed his scorched skin.
“You risked your life for nothing,” Birlerion continued, his voice strained. “She was dead when we untied her.”
“Ah no.” Jerrol bowed his head in grief. “Never for nothing.” He gripped Birlerion’s arm. He knew he had given him a fright. “Not now,” he said clearly and lay back down on the cobbles, closing his sore eyes, shuddering intermittently. He steamed in the short silence.
Birlerion stood. “He can’t stay there,” he said, exasperation in his voice. “Bring his fool horse back here, and I’ll take him back to the inn and get his burns treated.”
The smith hovered next to Jerrol, hesitantly reaching for his shoulder. “Thank’ee for trying.”
Jerrol opened his eyes. The grimy face of the smith wavered in front of him. “Later,” he rasped. “We’ll speak later.”
The smith stared at him before nodding. He returned to his wife’s embrace. They held each other as they walked back towards the street.
The sound of horse’s hooves clopped into the yard as Zin’talia arrived, nostrils flaring and eyes rolling at the still-burning ruin. Jerrol opened his eyes, gritty with smoke and ash, as her fear reached him. Birlerion helped him stand, and he leant against her shoulder for support. Waves of concern rolled off her. He shuddered as his body tried to assimilate the Guardian’s parting gift, and Birlerion’s grip tightened as the tremors shook him.
“Ready?” Birlerion murmured in his ear, as he prepared to shove him into the saddle. Jerrol sagged forward against Zin’talia’s neck, clutching her mane; he was thankful for Birlerion’s firm grip on his leg, keeping him balanced, else he was sure he would have slithered straight off the other side.
Chapter 10
The Grove, Greenswatch
Birlerion eyed him as he began to lead him back to the inn. “You’re still smoking, you know,” he said, as he led the horse up the street.
“Yeah.” Jerrol’s voice came from the vicinity of Zin’talia’s neck. He was flopped over as if he hadn’t the energy to sit upright. “Wait,” he croaked, “turn back. We need to go to the trees. The s-sentinals.”
“Later, we’ve got to get you cooled down.”
“N-now,” insisted Jerrol, preparing to swing his leg over.
A grumbling rumble interrupted them, echoing up the street, as the rest of the hostelry collapsed to the ground. Ashy motes sparkled in the moonlight until they settled, sifting to the ground, the gleams fading away by sunup.
“Jerrol, you can’t even stand, stay on the horse, man!” Birlerion gripped him to keep him still.
“Now,” Jerrol repeated.
Releasing a long-suffering sigh, Birlerion reversed his direction, leading them towards the towering sentinals. All Captains were the same, stubborn through and through.
The sentinals greeted them like an array of flag poles waving their deep green leafy flags. Their leaves rustled, even though there was little wind – a blessing for the other houses in the village which could have been engulfed by the fire.
Birlerion paused under the first overarching sentinal. Lifting his face, he listened to the murmurs in the leaves. The echoes of the collapsing hostelry were somewhat muffled in the still air. “What now?” he asked, watching Jerrol as he continued to shudder in his damp wrapper of grimy sheets, which still steamed.
Birlerion’s face pinched as he took in Jerrol’s glazed eyes, huge in his flushed face. This was not merely the effect of getting scorched in a fire. His mouth grew taut as Jerrol tried to dismount. He caught him before he fell: a tattered figured covered in ash and sweat.
Jerrol staggered towards the nearest tree, trembling hands blindly questing before him. He embraced the tree, his arms spreading wide as he stilled and closed his eyes. In the soft green light, Jerrol seemed to relax into the tree, fading from sight until a stray shaft of silvery moonlight pierced the shadows and caressed his body, silhouetting him in the gloom.
“Ahhh.” Jerrol breathed a sigh of relief. Birlerion watched as he inhaled an uninterrupted breath of air that shimmered down his limbs and straightened his cringing spine. Birlerion knew the Sentinal soothed the crazy castanet of shudders, and Jerrol’s shoulders dropped as the tension caused by the battle raging in his body died away. He sagged against the tree and breathed.
All was still, not a sound in the grove.
The Lady approached silently out of the gloom, her exquisite face illuminated by a subtle glow. She reached out and cupped Jerrol’s face. “The journey is just beginning,” she said. “It has been long arriving, but the first step has been taken. The forgotten are waiting, and the Guardianship must be protected.” Her face was serene. “My Captain. With protectors like you, we will succeed. Do not be afraid to ask. We are all in this together.” She dipped her head and kissed him lightly on the lips.
He inhaled sharply as she breathed into his mouth. “You are mine,” she said with a small smile, and she turned to Birlerion and caressed his face. “Birlerion, you serve your Captain well. I thank you.”
Birlerion swayed as her regard embraced him. “My Lady,” he choked, his throat tight as he watched her with some desperation; she looked just the same. Some of his distress eased as Leyandrii’s touch spread through his body, wrapping him in her love.
She tutted, her fingers tracing his jaw. “Always blaming yourself, after all these years! You’d think you’d learn.”
A slight movement caught Birlerion’s eye. Someone was approaching along the path, but when he looked back, the Lady had gone, and Jerrol appeared transfixed by his communion with the tree and surprisingly was still standing. The figure drew closer, and Birlerion recognised her as one of the smith’s daughters: the elder, he thought.
When he glanced back at
