Lord of the Fading Lands
Page 120
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Across the room, Kolis watched through Jiarine's blue eyes as servants tended the royals, Fey, and Great Lords at the head table. He had tested the Fey numerous times tonight— sending Jiarine close to several of the warriors standing guard throughout the banquet hall—but despite the Tairen Soul's apparent ability to sense the growing Mage presence in the north, neither he nor any of his Fey entourage seemed able to detect Kolis's presence within his umagi's delectable young body.
Now the wine was being served, and Annoura's careful attention to the level of pinalle in the Feyreisa's glass told him she'd taken Jiarine's suggestion to heart. That would make things easier. The alcohol would lower Ellysetta Baristani's defenses and leave her more susceptible to the influence of his pressure spell.
He reached Jiarine's hand into the hidden pocket in her skirts, and closed her fingers around the small wax talis secreted there. The pads of her fingers stroked the wax, warming it slightly and brushing across the single strand of hair curled tight around the tiny magical charm. He wove the Feraz activation spell into her mind, directing her to whisper it beneath her breath and keep her focus on Ellysetta Baristani.
Sian and Torel left the Carthage Road and followed Wilmus Able's directions down a narrow wagon road and into a small clearing where they found Brind Palwyn's house just as Wilmus had described it. The house, a small but sturdy structure built of well-hewn logs and weathered shingles, sat in the middle of the clearing. Light shone golden from the windows and through the faintest of cracks at the bottom of the carefully fitted door. Smoke curled up from the stone chimney, carrying the scent of roasted meat. Someone was home.
As the two warriors approached the house, an arrow whooshed past, nearly spearing Sian's ear. The Fey dove and rolled for cover, shields springing into place around them.
"Peace, Goodman!" Torel called as Sian scanned the forest for their attacker. "Put your weapons down! We mean no harm!”
«There, Torel,» Sian sent. «In those trees to the left»
Torel nodded as Sian shimmered and vanished. "We're Fey warriors, not dahl'reisen. We're looking for Brind Palwyn. Wilmus from the Boar and Hound in Norban sent us." He heard the twang of a bowstring and threw himself left just as another arrow sank quivering into the ground where he'd been. "Wilmus warned us you didn't like strangers, Goodman, but he didn't mention you were so fond of bloodshed. We only want to ask you a few questions.”
"What could the Fey possibly want with a woodcutter?" a disembodied voice called out from the shadows of the trees.
"We were looking for news of a redheaded journeyman smith who might have passed through Norban many years ago, possibly traveling with his young daughter. Wilmus thought he might have done work for your parents.”
Half a dozen arrows came spewing out in rapid succession. Torel grunted in pain as one made it through his shields and caught him in the leg. He heard sounds of a skirmish in the woods, filled with curses and struggling. Moments later, a thin man clad in homespun and leather stumbled out of the darkness. Sian walked behind him, holding the man's bow and quiver and prodding him with the pointy end of a curved meicha.
Torel yanked the arrow out of his leg and threw it on the ground, spinning quick Earth over the wound to stop the bleeding. He stood up to greet the mortal, a man with an unremarkable face, a shock of brown hair, and eyes filled with an all-too-familiar sorrow.
"Brind Paldwyn? I am Torel vel Carlian. I take it you do indeed know something about a redheaded child in the forests north of Norban—say about twenty-four years ago?"
Ellysetta rubbed her aching temples. The headache from the other day was back, a slight but persistent pressure that grew stronger as the evening progressed. The footmen served course after course of rich food: shellfish on golden skewers, twelve fish, poultry, and meat dishes accompanied by a vast selection of grilled, sautéed, creamed, and casseroled vegetables, frozen sorbets to cleanse the palate between courses. Thankfully, Ellysetta worked her way through the staggering array of silverware without any noticeable gaffes.
Throughout the meal, her goblet of pinalle never seemed to fall below half full. The wine helped keep the headache at bay, and though she couldn't tell how many glasses of the stuff she'd actually consumed, she had a good idea it was several more than she should have. When a servant offered her a cup of keflee, she accepted eagerly.
She poured in enough honeyed cream to chill it, then drank it down in several quick swallows, hoping to clear her head. Instead, the warm, sensuous blend of flavors— more potent than any she'd ever tasted—hit her system with the force of a blow. Heat rolled down her body in undulating waves. Rather than clearing her head, the keflee only clouded it all the more. Feeling boneless and dazed, she melted against the back of her chair.
Her eyelids drooped, and she regarded Rain through her lashes. He was, she thought hazily, the most beautiful man ever created, saved from prettiness by the strong masculine thrust of the bones beneath the luminous paleness of his unlined flesh. Saved also by the palpable aura of danger, power, and scarcely leashed wildness that surrounded him.
Inky black hair fell back from his smooth brow, spilling over broad, well-muscled shoulders in straight flows that seemed to merge with the coal-black shadows of his leathers. In the bright glow of Fire-lit chandeliers, his hair reflected a rich dark sheen, like the glimmer of nearly grainless ebonwood. She wanted to touch it, sink her hands into its silky softness. Her fingers flexed and tingled at the prospect.
Now the wine was being served, and Annoura's careful attention to the level of pinalle in the Feyreisa's glass told him she'd taken Jiarine's suggestion to heart. That would make things easier. The alcohol would lower Ellysetta Baristani's defenses and leave her more susceptible to the influence of his pressure spell.
He reached Jiarine's hand into the hidden pocket in her skirts, and closed her fingers around the small wax talis secreted there. The pads of her fingers stroked the wax, warming it slightly and brushing across the single strand of hair curled tight around the tiny magical charm. He wove the Feraz activation spell into her mind, directing her to whisper it beneath her breath and keep her focus on Ellysetta Baristani.
Sian and Torel left the Carthage Road and followed Wilmus Able's directions down a narrow wagon road and into a small clearing where they found Brind Palwyn's house just as Wilmus had described it. The house, a small but sturdy structure built of well-hewn logs and weathered shingles, sat in the middle of the clearing. Light shone golden from the windows and through the faintest of cracks at the bottom of the carefully fitted door. Smoke curled up from the stone chimney, carrying the scent of roasted meat. Someone was home.
As the two warriors approached the house, an arrow whooshed past, nearly spearing Sian's ear. The Fey dove and rolled for cover, shields springing into place around them.
"Peace, Goodman!" Torel called as Sian scanned the forest for their attacker. "Put your weapons down! We mean no harm!”
«There, Torel,» Sian sent. «In those trees to the left»
Torel nodded as Sian shimmered and vanished. "We're Fey warriors, not dahl'reisen. We're looking for Brind Palwyn. Wilmus from the Boar and Hound in Norban sent us." He heard the twang of a bowstring and threw himself left just as another arrow sank quivering into the ground where he'd been. "Wilmus warned us you didn't like strangers, Goodman, but he didn't mention you were so fond of bloodshed. We only want to ask you a few questions.”
"What could the Fey possibly want with a woodcutter?" a disembodied voice called out from the shadows of the trees.
"We were looking for news of a redheaded journeyman smith who might have passed through Norban many years ago, possibly traveling with his young daughter. Wilmus thought he might have done work for your parents.”
Half a dozen arrows came spewing out in rapid succession. Torel grunted in pain as one made it through his shields and caught him in the leg. He heard sounds of a skirmish in the woods, filled with curses and struggling. Moments later, a thin man clad in homespun and leather stumbled out of the darkness. Sian walked behind him, holding the man's bow and quiver and prodding him with the pointy end of a curved meicha.
Torel yanked the arrow out of his leg and threw it on the ground, spinning quick Earth over the wound to stop the bleeding. He stood up to greet the mortal, a man with an unremarkable face, a shock of brown hair, and eyes filled with an all-too-familiar sorrow.
"Brind Paldwyn? I am Torel vel Carlian. I take it you do indeed know something about a redheaded child in the forests north of Norban—say about twenty-four years ago?"
Ellysetta rubbed her aching temples. The headache from the other day was back, a slight but persistent pressure that grew stronger as the evening progressed. The footmen served course after course of rich food: shellfish on golden skewers, twelve fish, poultry, and meat dishes accompanied by a vast selection of grilled, sautéed, creamed, and casseroled vegetables, frozen sorbets to cleanse the palate between courses. Thankfully, Ellysetta worked her way through the staggering array of silverware without any noticeable gaffes.
Throughout the meal, her goblet of pinalle never seemed to fall below half full. The wine helped keep the headache at bay, and though she couldn't tell how many glasses of the stuff she'd actually consumed, she had a good idea it was several more than she should have. When a servant offered her a cup of keflee, she accepted eagerly.
She poured in enough honeyed cream to chill it, then drank it down in several quick swallows, hoping to clear her head. Instead, the warm, sensuous blend of flavors— more potent than any she'd ever tasted—hit her system with the force of a blow. Heat rolled down her body in undulating waves. Rather than clearing her head, the keflee only clouded it all the more. Feeling boneless and dazed, she melted against the back of her chair.
Her eyelids drooped, and she regarded Rain through her lashes. He was, she thought hazily, the most beautiful man ever created, saved from prettiness by the strong masculine thrust of the bones beneath the luminous paleness of his unlined flesh. Saved also by the palpable aura of danger, power, and scarcely leashed wildness that surrounded him.
Inky black hair fell back from his smooth brow, spilling over broad, well-muscled shoulders in straight flows that seemed to merge with the coal-black shadows of his leathers. In the bright glow of Fire-lit chandeliers, his hair reflected a rich dark sheen, like the glimmer of nearly grainless ebonwood. She wanted to touch it, sink her hands into its silky softness. Her fingers flexed and tingled at the prospect.
