Bulard frowned. “My parchments are a disaster. They stick together, the ink runs, I haven’t been able to write anything down, and as I mentioned at our first meeting, my head is no place to store memories of such wonderful things. It makes me feel like I’ve wasted my life locked in dusty libraries and scriptoriums. Don’t do what I did, Hadrian. You’re still a young man. Take my advice: live your life to the fullest. Breathe the air, taste the wine, kiss the girls, and always remember that the tales of another are never as wondrous as your own. I’ll admit I was, well, concerned about this trip. No, I’ll say it truthfully—I was scared. What does a man my age have to be afraid of, you wonder? Everything. Life becomes more precious when you have less of it to spare. I’m not ready to die. Why, look at all that I’ve never seen.”
“You have seen horses before, and known women, right?” Hadrian asked with a wry grin.
Bulard looked at him curiously. “I’m a historian, not a monk.”
Hadrian nearly tripped.
“I realize I don’t look it now, but I was quite handsome once. I was married three times, in fact. Outlived all of them, poor darlings. I still miss them, you know—each one. My silly little mind hasn’t misplaced their faces, and I can’t imagine it ever will. Have you ever been in love, Hadrian?”
“I’m not sure. How do you tell?”
“Love? Why, it’s like coming home.”
Hadrian considered the comment.
“What are you thinking?” Bulard asked.
Hadrian shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Yes, you were. What? You can tell me. I’m an excellent repository for secrets. I’ll likely forget, but if I don’t, well, I’m an old man in a remote jungle. I’m sure to die before I can repeat anything.”
Hadrian smiled, then shrugged. “I was just thinking about the rain.”
The trail widened, revealing a great, cascading waterfall and a dozen grass-thatched buildings clustered at the center of a small clearing. The domed-roof huts rested on high wooden stilts and were accessed by short stairs or ladders, depending on the size and apparent prestige of the structure. Occupying the very center of the clearing was a fire pit, surrounded by a ring of colorfully painted stones and wooden poles decorated in animal skins, skulls, and strings of bones, beads, and long vibrant feathers. The inhabitants were dark-haired, dark-eyed, umber-skinned men and women dressed in beautifully painted cloths and silks. They paused as Dilladrum advanced respectfully. Elder men met him before the fire ring, where they exchanged bows.
“Who are these people, do you suppose?” Bulard asked.
“Tenkins,” Hadrian replied.
Bulard raised his eyebrows.
The village was familiar to Hadrian, though he had never been there. Hundreds of similar ones were scattered across the peninsula, mirror images of each other. The rubble of eastern Calis was the last standing residue of the Old Empire. After civil wars had torn apart the west, Calis still flew the old imperial banners and for centuries formed the bulwark against the advancing Ghazel horde. Time, however, was on the Ghazel’s side. The last of the old world died when the ancient eastern capital, Urlineus, fell to the goblin hordes sweeping through the jungles. They might have overrun all of Avryn if not for Glenmorgan III.
Glenmorgan III had rallied the nobles and defeated the goblins at the Battle of Vilan Hills. The Ghazel fell back but were never driven off the mainland. Betrayed shortly after his victory, Glenmorgan III never finished his work of reestablishing the kingdom’s borders. This task fell to lesser men, who squabbled over the spoils of war and were too distracted to stop the Ghazel from digging in. Urlineus, the last great city of the Old Empire, remained in the hands of the Ghazel, and Calis had never been the same.
Fractured and isolated, the eastern half of the country struggled against the growing pressure of the Ghazel nation in a maelstrom of chaos and confusion. Self-appointed warrior-kings fought against each other. Out of desperation, some enlisted the aid of the Ghazel to vanquish a rival. Ties formed, lines blurred, and out of this tenuous alliance were born the Tenkin—humans who had adopted the Ghazel’s ways, traditions, and beliefs. For this, Calians ostracized the Tenkin, forcing their kind deeper into the jungles, where they lived on the borderlands between the anvil and the hammer.
Dilladrum returned. “This is the village of Oudorro. I’ve been here many times. Although Tenkin, they’re a friendly and generous people. I’ve asked them to let us rest here for the night. Tomorrow morning we’ll push on toward the Palace of the Four Winds. Beyond this point, travel will be much harder and unpleasant, so we’ll need a good night’s rest. I must caution you, however: please do nothing to offend or provoke these people. They’re courteous but can be fierce if roused.”
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, they had bodies 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.