The Tales of the Wanderer Volume One: A Book of Underrealm (The Underrealm Volumes 4) Garrett Robinson (poetry books to read TXT) 📖

stood a small dais—nowhere near so grand as the king’s, as I knew from personal experience, but imposing enough. And upon that dais was a chair, where sat the Rangatira. He was a little older than I was, with a thick and braided beard that reached the middle of his chest. Some grey flecked that beard, as well as his temples, just like mine. He had extensive tattoos on his cheeks and chin. Upon his brow was wisdom, and in his eyes burned the fire of courage. His arms were thick with both muscle and fat, and he was clothed in practical garments that were fine enough for his office, but not ostentatious. I felt myself instinctively straightening my posture, standing like a soldier in formation. This was a leader, and no mistake.

“You address Conrus of the family Matara, Rangatira of Opara and of southeastern Calentin,” said the page.

I bowed with a fist to my forehead, and after seeing me, Mag did the same. After I straightened, I went to Dryleaf and carefully guided his hand to his forehead. But before I helped him bow, Lord Matara raised a hand.

“That is not necessary,” he said. His eyes shifted to the page. “That will be all, thank you.”

The page bowed, fist to her forehead, and left. The chamber settled to silence as Lord Matara studied us. At last he beckoned to Victon.

“Greetings, old friend,” he said. “I see you have finally brought that which you owe me.”

Victon beamed his most charming smile and approached with the wine. “And it is my pleasure to do so.”

The Rangatira smiled in return and came down from the dais to accept the bottle. He turned it over in his hands once before placing it on a table near his chair, and then he came over to us, studying us with keen eyes.

“You are the ones who have come to ask a boon?” he said.

“We are, my lord,” said Mag, bowing again.

He turned to her, clearly assuming that she was our leader—which suited me just fine. “My duties keep me rather busy, and so I must be brief,” he said. “How may I help you?”

“We were hoping, lord, that we could inquire as to whether there has been any unusual activity in Opara of late?”

Lord Matara frowned. “You shall have to be more specific. Odd goings-on are all I seem to deal with. That is the lot of a Rangatira.”

Mag gave me a quick glance. How to inquire without tipping our hand?

“Rangatira,” I said. “Has anyone, by chance, reported any sightings of a rogue weremage? A Calentin woman of about my years?”

The effect on him was immediate. His dark face grew darker still, and he glanced quickly back and forth between the two of us. “A weremage? I cannot say that I have heard of one, no. But that is a matter for Mystics. Are the two of you redcloaks in disguise?”

“We are not,” said Mag quickly. “But we have a special interest. Have there been any crimes recently, mayhap, something outside of petty theft or a street brawl, where the perpetrator has not yet been caught?”

“Nothing that has come to me,” said Lord Matara. “Though I could make some inquiries. But what do the two of you want with a rogue weremage? You would do better to turn this matter over to the Mystics and let them track her down, if you can give them a report as to the crimes she has committed.”

I sighed and reached for my right sleeve, drawing it up to the elbow. There, on the inside of my forearm, was my family’s mark. I showed it to Lord Matara.

You will already be familiar with noble marks. The family Telfer’s is made of three arrows pointing down, and behind them lies a bow. It is somewhat reminiscent of the Mystics’ symbol. There mine sat, etched into the skin with black ink.

“We have come from the family Telfer,” I told Lord Matara. “We have pursued this weremage a long way, and Lord Telfer’s grudge against her is quite personal. For that reason, we would rather not involve the Mystics. The redcloaks would not allow us to pursue our hunt, but would take it upon themselves. We would prefer to handle things quietly.”

I could see Victon’s surprise. Of course, he knew I was a Telfer. But he also knew that I had not been home in many years, and this story was rather different from what we had told him. But he was wise enough to play along.

The Rangatira, for his part, suddenly looked rather stony. Instead of answering, he turned and walked back to his dais, climbed the stairs, and sat down upon his chair. The message was clear: this was no longer a personal matter, a favor bestowed by him upon his friend, Victon. This had just become official business.

“Why did you not tell me this before?” he said sternly.

“As he said, we wished to handle this matter quietly,” said Mag.

He kept his gaze fixed upon my face. “I do not know that I know you,” he said, “though you have the Telfer look.”

“I do not know that I know you either, Lord,” I replied, “though you look like a Matara.”

The words were mayhap brazen, but they drew a small smile from him. “What is your name?”

“Kanohari.”

His gaze slid past me. “And she?”

“This is Chao,” I said, pointing to Mag. “She is an old friend of the family, and a loyal companion in a fight.”

“And the other?”

I frowned, though I tried to hide it. When it came to matters of Rangatira and rangers, I did not know why he should be so interested in my companions. “He is Dryleaf. An advisor, and one with much expertise in the matter that drew us from home.”

“The matter of wizards, you mean,” said Lord Matara.

“I do,” I said. “Forgive me, Rangatira, but why do you ask? By which, I only mean that so many questions tell me something is amiss here in Opara.”

Lord Matara