Nearly everyone here looked like Wynn!
Fine boned, though round cheeked, the people of the Romagrae Commonwealth weren’t as tall as the Numans of Malourné, Faunier, or Witeny, nor quite as dark-skinned as the Sumans. Nearly all walking past wore pantaloons and cotton vestments or long wrap dresses of white and soft colors. But they all had olive-toned skin with light brown hair and eyes.
Chap knew Wynn had been left as an infant at the gates of the guild’s Calm Seatt branch. He now wondered if her parents had come from here, and how she had ended up being abandoned so far north. Some answers were never found, but still he wondered.
Thinking of her filled him with sharp urgency to move onward.
Soráno’s streets were clean, most cobbled in sandy-tan stones, and small open-air markets were all along the way. There were many solo stalls, tents, and booths here and there. Almost any necessity—and some minor fancies—were available within a short walk from every side street. Everyone appeared to be some kind of merchant or farmer or crafter or artisan, and all appeared to have the freedom to set up “shop” wherever they pleased. The result was somewhat overwhelming.
Arrays of olives, dried dates, fish, and herb-laced cooking oils were abundant. Of course, though, it was past dusk, and many vendors were now closing up for the night.
“They are a friendly and polite people,” Chane rasped. “But do not wander off. It disturbs them when animals are seen unattended.”
Chap refrained from making a sound. Yes, he had forgotten that Chane had been here before with Wynn and Shade. He also did not like how “thick” Ore-Locks was with Chane; the young stonewalker was not to be trusted too much because of that.
Still, Ore-Locks now had his uses.
—What now?— ... —A caravan?—
Ore-Locks paused in the street, looked down at him, and then to Chane. “The majay-hì asks if we should seek a caravan headed our way. I pondered the same thing.”
Chane turned, halting the mule. “What other choice is there?”
“We both know the way. I say we buy a wagon and team for ourselves.”
Chap thought that sensible enough. Much as the orbs were locked up and well guarded, he did not care for the idea of traveling with them among strangers.
“I would agree,” Chane said, “if we had enough coin left.”
Ore-Locks shook his head slightly and waved off the objection. “I have coin. Master Cinder-Shard made certain before I left.”
Both Chane and Chap blinked in surprise.
Ore-Locks shrugged. “It did not come up until now.”
After another pause, Chap offered a single huff.
“Very well,” Chane said. “We are all in agreement ... for once.”
As with most needs in this place, it was not long before they found a stable. They summoned the owner from within a small sandstone domicile attached to it. Ore-Locks took to doing the talking with the middle-aged man before he even stepped out.
Chane glanced down at Chap and whispered, “If you have never before seen a dwarf haggle, you may as well sit. This could take a while.”
And it did. The poor stable master began to grow red in the face amid the bargaining.
Chap sighed at almost the same instant as Chane.
“Wait here,” Chane whispered, dropping the mule’s lead next to Chap. “I will go back to the main street and find supplies before all of the vendors are gone.”
He walked away before Chap could consent. And by the time Ore-Locks finished, the poor stable master looked exhausted. That was how Chap felt in just sitting there while pinning down the mule’s lead with his rump.
Chane returned with an armload of goods as Ore-Locks gave in on trading both the mule and money for a wagon and two bay mares, as well as full harnesses and several folds of canvas in the bed. Even so, when the dwarf produced a pouch with strange silver coins, each had a hole punched through its center.
The stable master balked at the sight of those, until he bit each one—several of them twice—to test their metal.
“That was still quite an amount of coin,” Chane observed as they loaded the stores, chests, and all of their belongings into the wagon.
Ore-Locks merely grunted and shrugged, heaving another chest onto the wagon’s bed.
“You know my people value iron more,” he said. “Or even copper, tin, and steel. And I did not want the poor man to have a stroke on the spot.”
“Do we leave tonight?” Chane asked, pausing and looking down at Chap.
As curious as the city was, Chap worried what might have become of Wayfarer and Osha—and his daughter, Shade—in all of this time. And after that, there was still more distance to cross beyond the forests of the Lhoin’na.
Chap huffed once in agreement. The sooner, the better.
Chapter Nine
Osha once again headed toward the barracks of the Shé’ith on the outskirts of a’Ghràihlôn’na, the great city of the Lhoin’na, though he did not want to. His days here were like a mist-laden sleep caught between a dream and a nightmare. And he could not awaken until Leanâlhâm—Wayfarer—chose to let him, wherever she was. He so rarely saw her now.
The two of them and Shade had traveled with a caravan as far as a fork in the inland road, where they were directed to take the northward path. Leaving the caravan, they had traveled on foot. Where that path finally broke from the woods, they halted before an open, grassy plain.
Tan stalks with traces of yellow-green gently shifted in the breeze. For a moment, Osha had forgotten his bitterness at the sight of the forest beyond the plain.
The trees were so immense; perhaps more so than in the homeland he had lost. Welcome as the sight was at first, it then left him so sad. It was not his home, that of his people. Wayfarer had finally pulled him onward with Shade lagging behind, and they took a few steps along the road through the plain.
The sound of hoofbeats grew louder before Osha stopped and spotted three riders headed their way at a gallop. He pushed Wayfarer back behind him as Shade rounded forward on his other side.
The two rear riders held their reins in one hand and gripped long wooden poles in the other. The leader appeared to hold only a bow in his free grip.
Osha quickly shrugged his own bow off his left shoulder and into his hand, but he did not draw an arrow yet. As the riders raced nearer, he made out their hair and eyes.
Oversized and teardrop-shaped—like those of his own people—their amber-irised eyes sparked now and then in the light of the falling sun. Their triangular faces looked much like those of his own people, though perhaps not as darkly tanned. Instead of white-blond hair, their sandy and wheat-colored hair was pulled up and back in high tails by single silver rings at the back crown of their heads. They had the same ears as his own kind.
Garbed in tawny leather vestments garnished with swirling patterns of steel that matched the shoulder armor, each bore a pale golden sash diagonal over his chest. When they were near enough, Osha saw the long, narrow, slightly curved sword hilts protruding over their right shoulders.
Shade rumbled, and Osha dropped his other hand to shoo her back.
He knew exactly who these riders were by the illustration in the sages’ book that Wayfarer still carried. However, to see the Shé’ith with his own eyes was something else.
The riders neared to a stop before all three dismounted. The two leveled their poles as the third, the leader, closed in. Any stern challenge on that one’s face faltered at the sight of the trio before him.