The Ogre Apprentice (The Bowl of Souls Book 8), page 38
You didn’t sleep good again, the rogue horse observed.
“Yeah. Bad night.” The mattress wasn’t the whole reason for his tossing and turning. He had been having vivid dreams every night since arriving in Roo-Tan’lan.
Like Fist’s dreams, Justan’s were strange and disturbing. There were several different ones that repeated, but in the dream that stood out the most, he was surrounded by a circle of friends and allies. The circle was wide, hundreds of people standing shoulder-to-shoulder. They all had their backs to him, looking outward while he was standing in the center. It was dark and lonely where he stood.
His bonded were somewhere outside the circle warning Justan of approaching danger. He then heard something coming in from all sides, a clicking noise like the sound of hundreds of insect feet on rock. He yelled out to warn the people surrounding him, but they ignored him, keeping their stiff stance as the threat came closer and closer.
Then Justan realized that the clicking sound was coming from beneath him. He could feel it in his toes. He became sure that whatever it was would rise from the dark soil inside the circle. Justan usually awoke from these dreams as huge chitinous claws burst from the ground and, instead of attacking him, ripped into the unprotected backs of his friends.
Justan shuddered at the memory. He dearly hoped that his great grandmother was wrong about this. If his magic was using his dreams to tell him something, it wasn’t good.
Jhonate comes, said Deathclaw from his position on the roof overhead. Justan’s apartments were located in one of the interior buildings on the palace grounds and the only entrance was from the outside. Since the raptoid disliked sleeping indoors, he preferred this arrangement. This way he could watch everyone’s comings and goings and let Gwyrtha keep track of Justan indoors.
Justan focused on the Jharro ring Jhonate had given him and saw that the raptoid was right. Her thoughts were guarded, but she was coming towards him with purposeful strides. Justan slid across Gwyrtha’s back and headed to the side of the room where his things were stored.
His bedroom was wide and spacious and only sparsely furnished, which matched the attitude of the Leeth’s family. Unlike all the other nobles he had met, they preferred life clean and uncluttered. They didn’t use rugs or tapestries and the furniture itself was plain and functional.
Justan’s clothes were kept in an unusual Roo-Tan convention, something called a closet. Instead of using a wardrobe or chest of drawers, they kept their clothing in a smaller room that was separated from the rest of the bedroom by a thin curtain.
Justan opened the curtain and grabbed his nicest pair of pants off of one of the wood pegs in the closet. He began putting them on as he heard Jhonate open the outer door and enter the sitting room.
That is Jhonate, Gwyrtha verified as she did with any visitors.
“I sensed that you were awake,” Jhonate said both aloud and through the ring. Justan heard her in the other room walking over to the table and setting something down. Gwyrtha smelled oiled leather.
“Just getting dressed!” he replied as he looked through his shirts, trying to decide what to wear. He had several more now than he had when he arrived. Over a dozen of them, in various colors and degrees of finery. Xedrion’s servants brought something new in almost every day. Justan wasn’t quite sure why. No one had ever said anything about it to him. All he knew was that today his selection was important. It was the day of Yntri Yni’s funeral and he needed something appropriate.
He didn’t have time to decide before the door to his bedroom burst open and Jhonate strode in. Justan turned in surprise. She never entered while he was changing.
Jhonate was wearing the Roo-Tan version of a ceremonial warrior uniform. Long deerskin pants studded with clear green river stones and a white blouse whose sleeves were embroidered in swirling green patterns, matching the color of the ribbons in her hair. The breastplate she wore today was different than usual, made of a deep red hide and laced up the front instead of the sides. It had been shaped to fit the contours of her body and painstakingly stamped into it was an intricate scene depicting the Jharro Grove.
As for Justan, he was still only wearing his pants.
Jhonate paused for a moment as her eyes took him in, flickering across his muscles and lingering on the frost rune in the center of his chest. Then she advanced.
Justan wasn’t sure of her intentions until the last moment. She dropped her staff and reached up and grabbed his head, then leapt up and wrapped her legs around Justan’s waist. Her lips locked onto his.
The force of her attack slammed him back into the closet. Justan’s head struck one of the wooden pegs and two more dug into his lower back, but he didn’t care. He grabbed her with both arms and pulled her tightly to him. She let out a low moan and kissed him even harder, her tongue seeking his.
Justan sensed Gwyrtha’s amusement and Deathclaw’s disgust. He shut off the bond, tuning them out. He had learned to live for times like these.
They didn’t come often. Jhonate’s ardor had a slow burn. She spent so much time worried about what was proper and what her father might think that when she finally gave into her feelings, she did so in an intense way. Never before had he been half-dressed when she did it, though.
They slid to the ground, clothes falling down all around and on top of them. Several agonizingly wonderful minutes went by. Finally, Jhonate kissed down his jaw line and bit his ear hard before pulling back from him.
“What got into you?” Justan gasped, trying to dislodge one of his hands that had gotten trapped under her breastplate.
“This is the last day, my love,” she said breathlessly.
“It is?” he replied, yanking his hand free before pulling her back in and kissing her neck.
Jhonate let out a throaty laugh and allowed him a few seconds before pushing him back again. “Yes. Tonight, the nightbeast will attack and we will kill it. The final obstacle between us will be gone.”
“The final obstacle?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. In his mind that seemed a bit optimistic. “I thought that obstacle was the Protector of the Grove.”
Jhonate gave him a chiding look. “Father’s mood has been changing of late. He has been impressed by your attitude and strategic mind as we have planned for this day. Yesterday, in a meeting, I even heard him praise you to the leaders of the other houses.” She stood and, looking down at him, added, “I think he has come to like you.”
“Like me?” Justan laughed, extracting himself from the fallen clothes. “Xedrion bin Leeths?”
Jhonate retrieved her staff and looked into the room’s standing mirror. She examined her hair and began adjusting her clothes. “I believe you have won him over. All you need to do is survive the nightbeast’s attack, preferably by killing him, and father will approve our marriage,” she said as if it were a simple task. “My mother has already begun making plans.”
“Oh, that’s all I have to do?” Justan said. Of course she made it sound easy. That was Jhonate’s way.
The reality of the matter was that they were up against an assassin with over a thousand years of experience. Even with all their preparation, there was a good chance that Vahn would succeed and Justan would die. Oddly, now that the day had arrived, his anxiety level was pretty low. The prospect of his death at the nightbeast’s hands didn’t worry Justan. His only concern was what would happen to his bonded if he were to be killed.
He looked down at the mess in his closet. “I was trying to decide which shirt to wear when you arrived.”
“Choose the light blue one I had sent to you yesterday,” Jhonate said.
Justan moved a couple other shirts aside and picked up the blue one she was talking about. It had a plain front, but its sleeves were embroidered in similar patterns to Jhonate’s. He slipped it on and began buttoning up the front. “So you’re the one sending me all these clothes.”
“Some of them. The more colorful ones were sent by my mother. She is quite fond of color.” Jhonate nodded at her reflection in the mirror and ducked back into the sitting room. When she returned, she was carrying a red leather breastplate stamped in a Jharro tree design similar to the breastplate she was wearing, but it was laced up the sides, and had a solid front.
“I know you shy away from wearing armor, so I had this made for you,” she said, handing it to him. He was surprised to find that it wasn’t made of hardened hide, but was made of supple leather. “My people call it a two-chance vest.”
“Two chance?” Justan asked, looking at the vest dubiously. The reason he didn’t normally wear armor was because of his fighting style. He required a lot of free movement with his swordplay. He had tried several different types over the years, but he hadn’t found any that didn’t get in the way or weigh him down.
“The interior of the leather has been runed with blessing magic,” Jhonate explained. “The magic will absorb one blow of lethal strength before failing. The effects are limited, I know. But it could save your life.”
“Two chances to cheat death,” Justan said. He pulled the vest on over his head and tightened the laces on the side, then twisted his body, miming sword thrusts. “This moves pretty well. Thank you, Jhonate.”
She had her arms folded and was looking at him, chewing her lip. “I should give back the ring you gave me.”
“What?” Justan said, taken aback.
“For just this one night,” Jhonate specified. “The ring has protected me many times. It would do the same for you.”
Justan stepped closer to her and grasped her shoulders. “You keep it. Vahn threatened all those around me. I would feel more secure if you had it.” He smiled. “Hopefully I won’t need to cheat death more than once this night.”
“Hmph,” she said, reaching up to straighten his collar. “Put on your boots. We need to go and meet with my father to go over the last of the preparations.”
Justan retrieved his trail boots from the closet.
“Not those,” Jhonate said. “We are attending a funeral. Wear the boots I sent you last week. They are in much nicer condition and will give you better traction among the Jharro roots.”
Justan grabbed the newer boots and began putting them on even though they weren’t as comfortable. “You said that you were going to start treating me with respect, but, you still never ask me nicely. You just tell me what to do. I’m going to be your husband soon, but you still talk to me as if you were the trainer and I your pupil.”
Her eyes darted towards him and he raised a hand hastily, hoping to stave off an angry retort. “I don’t mind it most of the time, but when you do it in front of your family they give me this pitying look. I guess what I am asking is that you make suggestions from time-to-time instead of demands.”
“I . . . apologize for that. It is a habit,” Jhonate replied, her expression chastened. “My mother noticed this as well. I shall try to improve.”
Justan blinked, surprised by how readily she took that criticism. Her mother must have had quite the talk with her indeed. He belted on his swords and grabbed his bow and quiver. “I’m ready.”
Me too, said Gwyrtha, eager to get outdoors.
They walked into the sitting room and Jhonate grabbed a small bunch of bananas off of the table. She tossed them to Justan. “Here, I ‘suggest’ you eat one. There may not be time for meals until the funeral is over.”
Justan caught the fruit, peering at it glumly. “No apples? Peaches? Eggs would be nice.”
She gave him a dull look. “Not this morning. Might I ‘recommend’ we leave? My father is waiting and I have already delayed.”
Justan sighed. He had never eaten a banana before coming to Malaroo. In Dremaldria they were considered a delicacy, something only nobility could afford to eat. Among Jhonate’s people they were a daily staple. There were so many varieties, some of which were fried or baked others eaten raw.
He had been excited the first few times he had tried them, but Justan had soured on them since. Not only were the peels bitter and had to be removed fully, they were such a finicky fruit. Finding a good banana was all about timing. One day they weren’t ripe enough and the next day they were mushy.
He followed Jhonate out the door and attempted to eat his breakfast as they walked. This bunch had four long fruit. They were yellow with brown splotches just starting at the top and end. This was normally a good sign, but when he went to break off the top of the banana, it just bent, partially smooshing the flesh inside. He was forced to split it long ways and pop the fruit out. He frowned as he ate it. This one was overripe and slightly bitter.
Ooh! I’ll eat it! Gwyrtha offered. As much as Justan had come to dislike the fruit, the rogue horse loved them. He tossed the rest of the bunch to her and she scarfed them down, peel and all.
“Humans eat the strangest things,” observed Deathclaw as he jumped down to join them from the roof above. He was in the middle of his morning meal as well. The raptoid was carrying the bottom half of a small bird loosely in one hand and a gray feather was sticking out the corner of his mouth.
“Good morning, Deathclaw,” Jhonate said, not bothering to turn and look at the raptoid.
“Jhonate,” Deathclaw said and shoved the rest of the bird in his mouth. The crunching noises that ensued were enough to make Justan wince.
“Tell me, Justan,” Jhonate said as they climbed the stone steps to the palace proper. “Did Fist finally catch up with the ogre he was chasing?”
Justan had been keeping her abreast of Fist’s journey. She had become quite involved in the tale. She found the interworkings of the ogre society to be base and disturbing, but was particularly interested in the similarities between Mellinda’s magic and the evil in the mountains.
Justan reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. “In a sense he did. Actually he arrived there to find out that Squirrel had killed him.” He filled her in on the details of Beard’s grisly demise. “Fist said that the roots had grown so far into Beard’s brain that they had destroyed the section controlling his breathing. That’s what killed him.”
Deathclaw already knew the story, but let out a hissing laugh at Justan’s description. “An ogre. Killed by a vegetable.”
Jhonate’s brow rose at the description of Squirrel’s brutality, but all she said was, “A fitting end for a beast such as that one. Tell Fist to congratulate Squirrel for me. That is an impressive feat for someone his size.”
“I will,” Justan said. If he survived the night to tell him.
They walked down a long white hallway and soon reached the door to Xedrion’s conference room. Most of the doors in the palace were plain and unadorned, but his was the room where the official business of the Roo-Tan was conducted. The door was made of dead Jharro wood. Carved with loving attention by Yntri’s people themselves, it was a representation of the day that the Roo-Tan dedicated themselves to the grove. A short bald figure with elf ears stood next to a tall woman with braids. In front of them was a faceless man wearing a robe, holding out a scroll and quill.
Jhonate gave the door a soft knock. The door cracked open and a Roo-Tan guard poked his head out. Upon seeing Jhonate, he motioned them in.
The conference room was hexagonal in shape with a domed ceiling. On the far wall were six chairs made of Jharro wood, one to represent each of the Roo-Tan houses. Wicker benches lined the remaining five walls for additional parties to the meetings that might need a place to rest.
The benches were currently empty except for one that was taken up by the lounging of Jhonate’s mother. Jhandra bin Tayl was Xedrion’s favorite and currently very pregnant wife. Justan always saw her wherever the protector went. Jhandra gave Justan an approving nod. Because of his wardrobe choices, he supposed.
In the center of the room was a six sided table covered with maps. This was where everyone else was standing. The others consisted of some of Xedrion’s oldest sons, Hubrin, Sen, and Qurl, along with some of the representatives from the army and one of the grove’s ancient elves. Justan realized that he and Jhonate must have arrived at the end of the meeting because as they entered, the others began filing out.
The Protector of the Grove snagged the lead servant on his way. “Did you hand-select the wine for the feast as I asked?”
“Yes, sir,” the man said. “Twelve of the seventy-year jars, just as you requested. They were delivered to the grove this morning.”
“Thank you, Slen. You are the only one I would trust in that part of my wine house,” he replied.
“Of course. It is an honor, sir,” the servant replied and headed out of the door. Justan idly wondered what seventy-year-old Roo-Tan wine was made from.
Probably more of those bananas, Deathclaw assumed.
Xedrion bin Leeths turned to look at them. The man that faced Justan now was a different person than the man Justan had first met four weeks prior. His gray speckled hair was now neatly braided and though he didn’t look any less imposing, his eyes had lost that permanent sheen of anger.
