The Emerald Storm (The Riyria Revelations #4)

The physical appearance of the Tenkin always impressed Hadrian. Staul was a crude example of his kin, and these men were more what he remembered. Lean, bronzed muscles and strong facial features that looked hewn from blocks of stone were the hallmarks of the Tenkin warrior. Like the great cats of the jungle, their bodies were graceful in their strength and simplicity. The women were breathtaking. Long dark hair wreathed sharp cheekbones and almond eyes. Their satin-smooth skin enveloped willowy curves. The civilized world never saw Tenkin women. A closely guarded treasure, they never left their villages.

The inhabitants showed neither fear nor concern at the procession of the foreigners. Most observed their arrival with silent curiosity. The women showed more interest, pressing forward to peer and talking amongst themselves.

“I thought Tenkins were grotesque,” Bulard said with the casual manner and volume of a man commenting on animals. “I had heard they were abominations of nature, but these people are beautiful.”

“A common misconception,” Hadrian explained. “People tell tales that Tenkin are the result of interbreeding between Calians and Ghazel but if you ever saw a goblin, you’d understand why that’s not possible.”

“I guess you can’t believe everything you read in books. But don’t spread that around or I’ll be out of a job.”

When they reached the village center, the Vintu went about their work and began unpacking. They moved with stoic familiarity. The party waited, listening to the hiss of rain on the fire and the mummer of the crowd gathering around them. With an expectant expression, Dilladrum struggled to see over their heads. He exchanged looks with Wesley but said nothing. Soon, a small elderly Tenkin entered the circle dressed in a leopard wrap. His skin was like wrinkled leather, and his hair gray steel. He walked with a slow dignity and an upturned chin. Dilladrum smiled, and the two spoke rapidly. Then the elderly Tenkin clapped his hands and shouted. The crowd fell back and he led the crew of the Emerald Storm into the largest of the buildings. It had four, tree-sized pillars holding up a latticework of intertwined branches overlaid with thatch. The interior lacked partitions and stood as an open hall lined with tanned skins and pillows made from animal hides.

Waiting inside were four Tenkins. Three men and a woman sat upon a raised mound covered in luxurious cushions. Their leopard-clad guide bowed deeply to the four and then left. Outside the rain increased and poured off the thatched roof.

Dilladrum stepped forward, bowed with his hands clasped before him, and spoke in Tenkin, which was a mix of the old imperial tongue and Ghazel. Hadrian had mastered a working knowledge of the language, but the isolation between villages caused each to develop a slightly different dialect. Even villages separated by only a few miles might speak remarkably different variations. While Hadrian missed a number of Dilladrum’s words, he recognized that formal introductions were being made.

“This is Burandu,” Dilladrum explained to the Emerald Storm’s crew in Apelanese. “He is Elder.” Dilladrum paused to think then added, “Similar to the lord of a manor, but not quite. Beside him is Joqdan, his warlord—chief knight if you will. Zulron is Oudorro’s oberdaza.” He gestured at a stunted, misshapen Tenkin, the only one Hadrian had ever seen. “The closest thing to his office in Avryn might be a chief priest as well as doctor, and next to him is Fan Irlanu. You have no equivalent position for her. She is a seer, a visionary.”

“Velcome peoples of Great Avryn,” Burandu spoke haltingly in Apelanese. Despite his age, betrayed only by a head of startling white hair, he looked as strong and handsome as any man in the village. He sat adorned in a silk waistcloth and kilt, a massive broad necklace of gold, and wore a headdress formed from long, brightly colored feathers. “Vee are pleazed to ’ave you in our ’ome.”

“Thank you, sir, for granting us invitation,” Wesley replied.

“Vee enjoy company of doze Dilladrum brings. Once brothers, in ancient days past—ez good to sit, to listen, to find each other. Come, drink, and remember.”

Zulron cast a fine powder over a brazier of coals. Flames burst forth, illuminating the lodge.

They all sat amid the pillows and hides. Royce found a place within the shadows against the rear wall. As always, Thranic and Defoe kept their distance from the rest of the party. They sat close to the four Tenkins where the sentinel watched Zulron with great interest. Bulard invited Hadrian to sit beside him.

“This explains a great deal,” said the old man, pointing to the decorations in the hut. “These are people lost in time. Do you see those decorated shields hanging from the rafter with the oil lamps? They used to do that in the ancient imperial throne room, and the leaders mirror the imperial body, represented by a king and his two councilors; always a wizard and a warrior. Although the seer is probably an addition of the Ghazel influences. She is lovely.”

Hadrian had to agree, Fan Irlanu was stunning, even by Tenkin standards. Her thin silk gown embraced her body with the intimacy of a liquid.

Food and wine circulated as men carried in jugs and platters. “After eating,” Burandu said to Wesley, “I ask you, Dilladrum, and your second, to meet at my Duro. I discuss recent news on dee road ahead. I fear dee beasts are loose and you must be careful. You tell me of road just traveled.”

Wesley nodded with a mouthful of food, then after swallowing added, “Of course, Your, ah…” He hesitated before simply adding, “sir.”

Bulard looked at the sliced meat set before him with suspicion. Hadrian chuckled watching the old man push it around his plate. “It’s pork. Wild pigs thrive in these jungles and the Tenkin hunt them. You’ll find it a little tougher and gamier than what you’re used to back home, but it’s good—you’ll like it.”

“How do you know so much about them?” the old man asked.

“I lived in Calis for several years.”

“Doing what?”

“You know, I still ask myself that.” Hadrian stuffed a hunk of pork in his mouth and chewed, but Bulard’s expression showed he did not understand. At last, Hadrian gave in. “I was a mercenary. I fought for the highest bidder.”

“You seem ashamed.” Bulard tried a bit of fruit and grimaced. “The mercenary profession has a long and illustrious history. I should know.”

“My father never approved of me using my training for profit. In a way, you might say he thought it sacrilegious. I didn’t understand then, but I do now.”

“So, you were good?”

“A lot of men died.”

“Battles are sometimes necessary and men die in war—it happens. You have nothing to be ashamed of. To be a warrior and alive is a reward Maribor bestows on the virtuous. You should be proud.”

“Except there was no war, just battles. No cause, just money. No virtue, just killing.”

Bulard wrinkled his brows as if trying to decipher this. Hadrian got up and went to sit next to Royce, to escape Bulard’s questions.

“Wanna try the wine?” Hadrian asked.