“Sorry, Zoden,” he said as he let himself out, pausing only long enough to reset the house wards. “I tried to tell you. I work alone.”
Chapter SEVEN
Sar, Therendor 21, 998 YK
Stepping outside of Aruldusk’s so-called East Gate-actually on the city’s northeastern side-Andri was overwhelmed by a hundred shelters in a dizzying array of colors, fabrics, and shapes, encroaching on either side of the Orien trade road like fantastical weeds. The camp boasted everything from waterproof tarps barely large enough for one person to sleep in, to tents made of stitched animal hides, to great pavilions streaming rainbow ribbons into the breeze. The tents housed both people and businesses, organized in roughly concentric circles. As might be expected with a race so sensitive to scent, the more aromatic trades-trappers, butchers, and tanners-were located downwind, on the fringes of the settlement, along with the livestock pens and horse corrals, while the herbwives and sellers of produce and breads were located closer to the center. Closer still, clothing and weapons could be found, and in the center of the encampment, two large pavilions faced each other over a group of fires-a temple to Balinor and the quarters of Ostra Farsight, the shifter leader. It was to this tent, the plainer of the two, that Irulan led him.
“Ostra doesn’t follow the Flame,” Irulan warned him as they walked towards the tent, “so don’t expect him to cooperate simply because you’re a paladin. You’re going to have to convince him to help us, and the fact that you’ve been sent by Cardinal Riathan isn’t necessarily going to weigh in our favor.”
Riathan was known as a shifter supporter, but his sympathy was largely theoretical. When it came to helping the shifters in any meaningful way, the Cardinal’s voice was often conspicuously silent. If Andri were a shifter, he wouldn’t think much of anyone who’d been sent by Riathan, either.
A tall shifter with black hair stood guarding the open tent flap. Vivid red and yellow tattoos twined up through the thick fur on both arms to disappear beneath a sleeveless leather jerkin. Twin scabbards rode his hips, and long fangs protruded over thin lips that pulled back in a grimace when he caught sight of Irulan.
“Thorn,” Irulan said, nodding her head at the larger shifter.
“Irulan,” he replied, returning the gesture but not looking especially pleased to see her. “I see you’ve returned from Flamekeep.”
“Yes. And I’ve brought a gift for Ostra, from the Keeper herself.”
“A gift? From the Keeper?” That got his attention. “What is it?”
“Not what. Who.” Irulan jabbed a thumb in Andri’s direction. “Him.”
The inside of Ostra’s pavilion was as plain as the outside. Heavy linen curtains divided a small sitting area from the rest of the tent. Unpadded wooden chairs sat around an unlit brazier in the middle of a swept dirt floor. Thorn ushered them in then disappeared into the deeper recesses of the tent to fetch Ostra.
“So I’m a gift, now, am I?” Andri asked, genuinely amused.
Irulan’s cheeks colored. “Well, I’m sure your parents think you are,” she said, trying to cover her embarrassment with humor.
Andri felt the mirth drain from him like wine from a spilled glass. If his parents had thought anything of him in their last moments, it certainly wasn’t that he was a gift-quite the opposite.
“My parents are dead,” he said, earning him an unreadable glance from the shifter. Her parents were dead, too, he remembered, feeling a sudden surge of sympathy, followed quickly by a wave of shame. A lot of people had lost their families in the War. The loss did not make him unique, even if the circumstances of his bereavement did.
Much to his relief, Irulan ignored the comment, continuing on in a more serious tone. “The camp shifters consider themselves a tribe, however loosely organized and fluid their numbers might be. And you never approach a tribal leader empty-handed, unless you plan on leaving the same way.”
“Unusual wisdom from one of our more ‘fluid and unorganized’ members,” a sardonic voice said, and Andri and Irulan turned as one to see a shifter silhouetted in the tent opening.
“Ostra!” Irulan exclaimed as the old shifter stepped into the tent, closing the flap behind him. As he did, Andri caught a glimpse of black, red, and yellow beyond-Thorn, returning to his accustomed duty. Apparently the wily elder had left the tent by another exit and lingered outside the opening to judge the merit of the Keeper’s “gift” for himself.
“Irulan, my child. I am pleased to welcome you back to the fire.” He extended a hand, and Irulan rose from her chair to grasp it, then she bowed low and touched his claws reverently to her forehead. As Ostra withdrew his hand, Irulan straightened.
“I am grateful to find it still burns, Father,” she replied, apparently completing some tribal ritual. Then she returned to her chair and waited while Ostra looked them over.
Andri returned the favor, studying the old shifter even as the camp leader assessed him. Like Thorn, tattoos covered both his arms, but where the colors of the younger shifter’s decorations were still distinct and vivid, Ostra’s markings were faded and blurred around the edges, reminders of the glories of a youth long passed. He had lanky brown hair, with thick gray sideburns framing a strong face, and wore plain clothes. Though he bore no visible weapon, Andri knew that no shifter was ever truly unarmed, thanks to the legacy of their lycanthropic forebears. His only badge of office appeared to be a three-stranded necklace with a set of claws on each strand-rat, wolf, and bear, if he knew his shifter lore. The wolf claws at least he was sure about. They matched the set of werewolf claws he wore about his own neck.
“I understand you’ve brought me a small token of honor, Irulan?” the old shifter said, his keen glance having already taken the measure of that gift.
Irulan rose, gesturing for Andri to do the same.
“I present Andri Aeyliros, paladin of the Silver Flame and chosen of Jaela Daran. A brother to the shifters, he is descended from those who hunt the moontouched.”
Ostra’s lips twitched, and he stepped forward, reaching out one clawed hand to lift Andri’s chin. Andri stiffened, but did not pull away as the shifter scrutinized him. He half expected the camp leader to check his teeth, as if he were some prize stallion Ostra was considering putting out to stud.
“So, he’s to be my personal manservant? My bodyguard?” Ignoring Andri’s dark look, Ostra dropped his hand and turned to Irulan. “No? My cook, then? I could use a good cook-Leata always burns the meat.”
Irulan frowned, taking her seat once more. After a brief hesitation, Andri followed suit. “Aeyliros is not the gift. His services are. He’s come to help us prove the shifters are not behind these murders.”
“Ah.” Ostra’s twitch grew into a smile that was not entirely pleasant. He turned his bright gaze back to Andri. “Flamekeep has sent the shifters an advocate, then?”
“I am an advocate for the truth,” Andri said. Ostra was trying to provoke him. And very nearly succeeding.
Ostra’s smile widened to show pointed teeth, and Andri realized that the old shifter was enjoying himself. And he was just getting started.
“Real truth doesn’t need advocates, paladin. It is like the sun, the moons, or the earth upon which we tread. It abides without regard for the smallness of the beings who try to comprehend it. To think that one could be its sole possessor or its chosen defender is, indeed, the height of arrogance.”
“Hrazhak!” Irulan spat the word out at the old man before Andri could respond. She came to her feet angrily, and much to Andri’s surprise, she had shifted, her claws now twice as long and thick as they had been. He half-rose from his own seat, looking from her to Ostra and back again, confused. Hrazhak was a shifter game, he knew that, played on a sort of combined obstacle course and battleground. Which, he supposed, was not too different from this conversation.