The Jewel of Tamar Preview

an excerpt from Chapter 2

Tsujatha made his way to the fountain in the village square. It was cracked across the bottom, but the water was still flowing. It poured over the broken lip of the fountain to mingle with the blood and dust in a red-brown ooze. The fountain seemed to Tsujatha to symbolize the ruin and desolation he saw all around him. In frustrated rage, he threw himself to the ground, sitting cross-legged in the dusty center of his burning village. But then he heard the sound of a horse’s whinny. Tsujatha leapt to his feet, expecting to see one of the Men who had laid waste to Sorjoba. Instead he saw a beautiful white mare standing at the edge of the square. The sunlight caught the gilding on the mare’s hooves, and he recognized her for the mare of the Vadhok daughter. He approached slowly, and the horse drew back just as slowly. Tsujatha stopped, perplexed by this strange behavior. The mare tossed her head and pranced impatiently. Tsujatha approached her more quickly then, and she turned away, heading in the direction of the Vadhok lands. She seems to want me to follow, thought Tsujatha. He followed her quickly but cautiously, his knife loosened in his belt. He followed the mare into the Vadhok courtyard, and there she stopped. For a moment Tsujatha did not understand, but then he saw the body at the mare’s hooves. He ran forward, kneeling in the dust. An Elven maiden lay before him, her rich white clothes spattered with blood. She had no visible injuries beyond a bruise on her golden neck, so Tsujatha concluded that the blood was not her own. She was gripping a bastard sword with both hands, and the blade was resting on her breast. Suddenly he noticed that the sword was rising and falling ever so slightly. She breathes! he realized. Tsujatha sat paralyzed by indecision. Ought I to touch her? She might have internal injuries. What shall I do? And even as he thought thus, in the back of his brain there sounded a note of pleasure, of belonging. The realization that she was now as alone in the world as he himself created in his mind a kinship between them that he was quick to feel, if not to put into words. But just then the maiden’s eyes fluttered open, and she stared at him, her gaze golden and unblinking as that of a hawk. “Are you all right?” asked Tsujatha anxiously, still afraid to touch her. “Are you injured inside? Are you bleeding anywhere?” The pleasure in his mind transformed easily into solicitude for this helpless maiden. “I am all right,” replied the Elf-maid. Sillara, for it was she, lay perfectly still. She could not remember how she had come to be lying in the dust. Nor could she comprehend who it was bending over her. She stared at him. He was tall, taller than any Elf she had ever seen, fully two meters, and his long limbs were thickly muscled. His black hair was matted and greasy. It was also long for a Tamari male; falling loose to his elbows, it was fully as long as the fashion for a Larenai. However, the golden tan of his skin left no doubts as to his Tamari blood. His silver eyes were wide-apart and blinking nervously. She could just make out the edge of a white scar peeking out of the neck of his once-white tunic. All his clothes were grimy, and there was a streak of dirt down the left side of his well-featured face. When no more speech was forthcoming from Sillara, Tsujatha decided that lying too long in the sun had left her dazed. He half-stood and reached out his hand to help her to her feet. She gripped his hand with her right, still clutching the bastard sword in her left. He was astonished at her strength. But as Sillara regained her feet, memory came flooding back. “Tarin! Tuälen!” She turned to Tsujatha. “You must help me find them!”