Auguries of Dawn Read online

The man whose name was not Lendiv Vakli was watching the diviner carefully, and completely without her notice. He was, above all things, a skilled actor, but her obvious concern regarding her last words was making his proficiency in this area rather moot—indeed, the young woman’s eyes remained fixed upon her fortune ball as if trying to convince herself she’d seen a lie.

  The man wasn’t foolish enough to consider an untruth, for fortune balls were not misread by diviners, particularly Savannon diviners, but he was rather concerned regarding any possible explanation it might show to her. Clearly, Madilaine Savannon recognized the name Oliveah Oslund, and that did not sit well with him at all. Regardless of the confidentiality clause that would bind her lips against telling anything that was revealed during a session, he would not rest easily if the ball told too much.

  “Where can I find this Oliveah Oslund?” he asked, continuing to watch the face across from him for any signs of deeper revelation. He saw none, at least not yet, and so felt free to give a couple quick moments of thought to the name she’d just given. The Oslunds were well known throughout Dhanen’Mar, thanks to their large and prosperous vineyard, and he worked to dredge forth every detail he had ever heard of them. He was left with little besides a shaky confidence that Oliveah was Lord Ean Oslund’s eldest daughter.

  The diviner finally glanced up to meet his eyes, a mixture of expressions lining her features. There remained surprise, and confusion, but hesitation now eclipsed them both. Not hesitation over what else she may have read in the fortune ball, though—it was his question that was plaguing her.

  “Well, diviner?” he snapped, aiming to keep her off her guard and unbalanced. “Where can I encounter this woman?”

  Madilaine Savannon looked briefly down into the ball again before she answered.

  “I see the signpost of a local tavern,” she revealed, her tone as hesitant as her look.

  “Which tavern?” he demanded. He would gain this knowledge and be gone. He could not risk being in the diviner’s presence a moment longer than necessary lest she see too much. Indeed, he had only chanced this reading at all in the hopes of finding some sort of resolution, and the ball had given it to him. Apparently, this was not a secret meant to stay buried.

  She finally gave him his answer.

  “The Rejoicing Rooster,” she said, toneless and looking pained.

  The man rose to his feet and stood looking down at her. “She is there now?”

  Madilaine Savannon bit her lower lip and stared back up at him in silent torture.

  He withheld a sigh and took pity, for he understood her concerns.

  “I intend no harm, diviner,” he told her, his hand rising to clasp his Arts medallion. “Upon Ardin’s name, I vow this.”

  The young woman deflated visibly with relief, a long breath issuing forth silently from her lips. “She is there now,” she confirmed.

  He left without another word, pausing on the other side of the beaded curtain to settle his fare. A young, black-haired man, clearly another Savannon, stood waiting to take his payment.

  The man whose name was not Lendiv Vakli tossed over a pouch containing fifteen gold—a fare higher than what was required, but low enough not to be remembered or remarked upon—with an easy smile.

  The Savannon man made note of the payment as well as the look.

  “It appears fortune favored you this day, friend,” he commented with a nod.

  “Indeed,” the man replied. Fortune? he then further thought to himself. Not remotely. The diviner’s conclusions had, in fact, done just the opposite. But he would follow the path he’d been shown, no matter the consequences—although these consequences would not be his alone to shoulder.

  “I would ask if you could aid me in one further matter,” he then went on. “I am to meet up with some friends at a tavern by the name of The Rejoicing Rooster, but I fear I have only just arrived in Tyrell and do not know the way.”

  The Savannon man began nodding. “Of course. That is one of the city’s most popular establishments. But I do hope your friends saved you a seat, or you may find yourself unable to even get past the door. This is the first night of the festival, after all.”

  He feigned interest in this blather and prompted, “You can direct me, then?”

  “Certainly. Head north three blocks, then west for two more. You can’t miss it.”

  The man spoke his thanks and left the shop, turning north as directed. The streets, if at all possible, were even more crowded and boisterous than they’d been when he’d arrived for his reading, and he fought his way through the throng. It had been some years since he’d attended the festival of Ardin’s Pride, but all his past memories of it were returning to him now. And the Savannon man was right; at this time of night, he’d be lucky to even get close enough to peek in the door of The Rejoicing Rooster, or any other half-decent tavern in the city.

  But his Birth medallion might just lend some help to this. Although not a known resident of the city, or a famous troupe performer, this was the week of Ardin’s Pride, and anyone showcasing an Arts Birth medallion, at least in Tyrell, could expect certain privileges this week.

  As predicted, he found the tavern without incident. Also as predicted, he could scarcely get near to its front doors, much less through them. Clearly, it was now time for a little help from his Birth Patron.

  Feigning a mild, excited intoxication rather than outright drunkenness, he maneuvered his way into the thick crowd about the doors. Most were swaying to the music pouring forth from inside, and he smoothly caught the rhythm and joined in.

  “You’re an excellent dancer,” a voice said just a few moments later, very close to his ear.

  He turned slightly, keeping in time, and regarded a pretty young woman of about eighteen as she pressed up closer against him.

  “Only in certain company,” he answered, giving her a slanted grin. Truth was, he could likely outmaneuver even the best of dancers gathered here in Tyrell this week. Of course, revealing so would be unwise.

  The girl giggled and continued swaying with him, her hands now resting lightly upon his hips. She was a fair dancer herself, and also wore an Arts Birth medallion.

  “Sure is thirsty work, though,” he commented as they moved within the crowd. Try as he might, he couldn’t seem to get them any closer to the doors than they already were.

  Her eyes dropped briefly to take in his medallion, and her smile widened. “They’re not letting anyone inside without an Arts, but it looks as though we’re both covered. Come with me,” she said, slipping her hand into his.

  He followed, noting with interest that the girl seemed to have little trouble opening a path for them. Within moments, they were past the threshold and within The Rejoicing Rooster.

  “What’s your secret?” he asked her, really quite curious. Her gender and looks alone didn’t explain it—Tyrell was currently slopping over with attractive women.

  She spun to face him, giggling again. “I’m a tumbler with The Moriss Tipley Troupe,” she explained, still attempting to dance with him despite the even denser push of bodies within. “We opened the festival.”

  The man nodded in sudden understanding. Anyone belonging to that troupe would have a free pass anywhere in the city the entire week. He briefly wondered at his luck for having chanced upon her, and then wondered how deep that luck actually ran. Following his instincts, he chanced it.

  “So you must know Oliveah Oslund, then?” he nearly shouted. The musicians currently on stage were making so much noise that the entire tavern seemed to be vibrating.

  The girl’s look darkened slightly at his question, but at seeing this reaction, he felt only a tingle of victory.

  “Of course I know her,” she said, a little shortly.

  He took that to mean both were a part of the same troupe. Destiny was definitely on his side this night—just another sign that he was meant to be following this path. He thought quickly.

 
“I was speaking to her friend, Madilaine Savannon, earlier this evening, and she asked that I give Oliveah a message for her, should I happen to cross her path.”

  The girl’s look of disgruntlement only deepened at mention of the diviner, but she then seemed to consider further and evidently found no reason to be jealous.

  “Well, Oliveah’s right over there,” she said gesturing to one of the busiest and noisiest tables in the tavern. “She’s the one in the white blouse. Why don’t you go and deliver your message while I gather some refreshments for us?” she smiled.

  He nodded, returning her smile, and then waited until she’d spun away toward the bar before promptly vanishing himself into the crowd. He had no further use for the girl, and saw no reason to entangle her any deeper into his business. For if his intentions here were discovered, not only would he lose his head, but it was quite likely anyone who’d been seen in his recent company would suffer the same fate.

  He began trying to circle the table that held the one he sought. He was not ready to approach her now, not with so many witnesses about, but he was a patient man and could wait for his opportunity.

  After about an hour, he lucked out and snagged a stool after watching its previous occupant keel over from it, dead drunk, to lie passed out upon the floor. He stepped smoothly over the man and settled himself down. After a few minutes of subtle positioning, he again had a line of sight to Oliveah, although gyrating revelers constantly came and went to obscure his observation.

  He noticed with interest but not surprise that another had now come to join Oliveah and her companions. His eyes upon the diviner, he watched as her head swiveled suddenly in his direction. They locked gazes, and, unflinching, he stared back at her.

  She would not warn her friend of him. In fact, she would make no mention of him at all. Her oaths as a diviner prohibited it.

  He did not sense challenge in her gaze though, but rather a steady acceptance. He pondered on this for several moments before understanding it.

  Of course, a diviner’s true and only purpose was to help place people upon Fate’s path, and the ball had shown her his—as well as Oliveah’s. The two were meant to speak, and at his oath that he would do the young woman no harm, he’d actually gained an ally in Madilaine Savannon. It would be interesting to see how this would play out.

  His opportunity did not come for several more hours. It was closing in upon Fourth-hour before the tavern appeared cleared of even half its occupants. Performers still held the stage, at only a slightly lower volume than earlier, and drunken bodies slept in stupors on the floor and even upon some on the tables. Others still went strong, drinks in hand as they danced to the ceaseless music. Typically, Tyrell’s taverns closed at Second-hour, but this was the week of Ardin’s Pride, and no tavern owner would be so foolish as to enforce such a law now. Even the members of the Legion of Justice turned a blind eye, so long as basic civility remained; they had enough to occupy themselves with just watching the streets.

  There were few left at Oliveah’s table, now. One, naturally, was the diviner, another a dark-haired man who appeared to have an amazing capacity for ale, and two other young women who were just now getting to their feet. He watched the two depart, and through the thinning crowd, locked eyes with Madilaine Savannon again.

  Her face gave absolutely no expression as she held his gaze. But when she turned away, she broke out in a sudden smile and grabbed the hands of their male companion. She hauled him from his seat and began leading him toward the dance floor. Laughing, he went with her.

  Watching this, the man had no trouble understanding the favor that had just been done him, and he didn’t intend to waste it. Oliveah was now alone, and he approached her without further pause. With no telling how long the diviner would be able to keep Oliveah’s male companion occupied, he would have to be as quick and efficient as possible.

  Unfortunately, he still had very little idea of where to even begin. How this woman was connected to the web of deceit he was now aimed at penetrating and unraveling he did not know, and having to keep her ignorant of his true purpose only complicated matters even more.

  “May I?” he began, smiling as he paused before her table and sipped casually from his mug.

  She’d been watching the two who’d left her to dance, and turned to him in surprise. A quick appraisal had her taking in his Arts medallion before she returned his smile and said, “Certainly. My name is Oliveah.”

  “Oliveah,” he repeated thoughtfully while dropping into the seat across from her. “Oliveah Oslund? I thought I recognized you. You were a part of the opening ceremonies.”

  “That’s right,” she affirmed. She did not appear overly curious at his appearance and request to join her, likely assuming that he was merely looking for company as his own friends, by this late hour, had either retired or passed out. Or possibly that his intentions were to woo her.

  His next words, chosen very carefully, were not nearly as random as one might have assumed. Because the one he truly sought, the one whom Oliveah was apparently able to somehow lead him to, wore a War Birth medallion, he knew questioning her over professional acquaintances would be a waste of time. Whatever their connection, it would be of a personal nature, which meant she had either encountered him while traveling about Dhanen’Mar with her troupe, or there was somehow a family connection. The fortune coin he’d just surreptitiously pulled from his pocket and flipped into his palm without her notice prompted him to pursue the family angle.

  “I believe I am acquainted with your lord father, then. And might I say, your family’s vineyard produces the finest wine in all of Dhanen’Mar—if not the very world.”

  He had her interest now, and perhaps the faintest hint of suspicion. She was not so easy to read as the diviner.

  “Forgive my rudeness,” she came back, watching him, “for not asking your name sooner, stranger.”

  “The slight is mine, and I offer my apologies for not immediately introducing myself. The name is Elvin Vikdal.” Another anagram; he had a hundred, and could think of a hundred more in moments if he had too.

  Oliveah appeared to give serious consideration to his name before slowly shaking her head. “I’m afraid I do not know you.”

  He gave a casual wave. “You would have little cause to,” he replied, fingering his Arts medallion while giving a self-deprecating shrug.

  She paused, then asked, “I’m sorry, how do you know my father?”

  “I was on the road, passing by Lord Oslund’s vineyard, not long ago, and he was kind enough to offer me a night’s meal and lodging in exchange for a performance. I am a storyteller, you see,” he smiled.

  Oliveah visibly relaxed at his words and returned his smile. “My father does have a love for performers of all kinds. Although Arts is only his Secondary, he is gifted with a beautiful singing voice.”

  The man whose name was not Elvin Vikdal rapidly reassessed the woman before him. While it was entirely possible that her father’s Secondary was in fact Arts, and that he displayed his Choice Patron openly, her words had been a bait. And indeed, anyone attempting to fool her would likely have taken it. Fortunately, however, he was not just anyone, and far cleverer than most.

  “Well, I regret that I did not receive a performance in kind,” he laughed, “but it is now clearly of no wonder that he spoke of you with such pride. Sometimes those born to the arguably less exciting Patrons, such as Harvest, take vicarious victory in their progeny’s abundant talent. Particularly if that talent is one they themselves share.”

  Although still smiling, he now held his breath. Given Lord Oslund’s vocation, Harvest had been a fair bet as to his Birth Patron. Unfortunately, Commerce would have been just as logical, and he’d only gone with Harvest after another subtle toss of his coin. But if the coin had mislead him, he’d just announced himself a liar; for anyone who had spent the night at the Oslund vineyard would have assuredly made note of their host’s Birth
medallion.

  But Oliveah took in his words and, evidently, found no untruth in them. “I am glad to hear he is so courteous to those of our kind. However, I do hope he is being cautious as well. Not all who travel the roads are as good-natured as you and I.”

  His mind raced. Oliveah Oslund was definitely no fool; despite her easy expression, she was continuing to test him. He had no choice but to carry on where she’d led, and could only hope Destiny still had some hand in this—a very real possibility, for although it was not his Secondary, thanks to the diviner, and the fact that Oliveah was not attempting to conceal her Choice medallion, he knew it to be hers. Therefore, he simply decided to follow the thread of her conversation, throwing in one of the scant details he knew regarding the one he sought, while hoping for the best.

  “I would not worry much over your family’s security,” he came back reassuringly, after only the briefest of pauses. “That young man, of about your own age—well, there was little doubt he knew how to use that sword he carries.” As any male born to War would, of course.

  A quick frown line appeared in Oliveah’s smooth forehead. “You mean Taleb? Or Nathon?”

  Despite the sudden explosion of excitement that erupted within him, he shrugged back at her. “You know, the one with the War Birth medallion.”

  Her features melted into a faint laugh. “Well, that could be either of them. And both are equally deadly with their swords, in case you were curious.”

  He willed his racing pulse to slow, commanded himself to think. “Recruiting your security from the warlord’s keep? I didn’t realize the Oslund vineyard was under such threat of invasion.”

  She at last appeared sure of him, and gave a casual wave while sipping from her goblet. “Actually, both were acquired as slaves, many years ago, but given their aptitudes with the sword my father quickly put them on security detail. Which they both now head, sharing the master-at-arms position.”

  He could barely keep his thoughts coherent, so many now tumbling about in his mind. Acquired as slaves—yes, that could fit. Both boys had been incredibly lucky to have been purchased by the Oslunds, a family well known for their fair and warm-hearted treatment of their bought workers.

  “However, both are quickly approaching the conclusion of their tenth-year of service, and as much as he’ll miss them, my father will soon need to grant them their freedom,” she went on, her eyes back upon the dance floor and her gyrating companions. Clearly, any and all of her suspicions of him had by now passed.

  He, in turn, was frantically trying to devise a way of distinguishing which of these two young men—Taleb or Nathon, she’d named them—was the one he was searching for. He then rapidly surmised that any further attempts to do so would only raise her suspicions again, and quite possibly create a myriad of other problems that he would have to deal with in the future. Although his interest could lie in either Taleb or Nathon, he now had a name, and, just as importantly, a location. He would take his victory and think on how best to proceed later.

  “Well, Oliveah,” he said, rising to his feet and affecting a yawn, “I think it best I now call it a night.”

  She looked somewhat surprised at this abrupt turn in conversation, but simply nodded.

  “I thank you for your company, and know it is pleasing to see that the grace and courtesy of your line is not exclusive to a single generation.”

  “I will be certain to let my father know you said so, when I return home next week,” she replied with a smile.

  He was actually hoping that she instead forgot the entire encounter and did not mention it to her father. But in any case, he’d be back in Aralexia by then, and it was extremely unlikely anyone here would ever put a name to his true identity even if the Oslunds did uncover his lie.

  “You’re too kind,” he told her, giving her a final nod before turning away and starting for the door.

  The diviner remained on the dance floor, engaged in a raucous three-step, and he met her eyes one final time before exiting.

  Never doubt a Savannon diviner, he thought as he stepped out into the darkness just preceding the dawn.

  This night, at least, Destiny had been done.

  Chapter 4