Solus nodded in appreciation. "Very impressive."
Tresslar looked to Illyia, who now stood completely and unashamedly naked. He opened his mouth to echo the psiforged's comment-though with an entirely different meaning-but then Hinto, as if his short time as Solus's companion had granted him telepathic powers of his own cut off the artificer.
"Don't you dare say it!"
Tresslar scowled at the halfling while Illyia laughed.
Yvka prepared to send the mystic quill streaking into Zivon's heart, and damn the consequences. Either the Grand Hierarchs of House Thuranni would understand or they wouldn't, but whatever final judgment they might render upon her, she wasn't going to die at the end of a glutton's fork.
She danced aside as Zivon swiped his improvised weapon at her, but in so doing she lost her grip on the quill, and the enchanted feather fell to the floor. Zivon tried one more strike, this one coming closer to landing, and the elf-woman barely avoided being skewered.
"Bilge-rot!" Yvka swore, and reached into her pouch to find another weapon. But as her fingers rifled through the remaining objects within, Zivon lunged at her a third time, the tines of his fork aimed for her jugular.
Yvka prepared to throw herself to the side to avoid Zivon's strike, but she felt a sudden burning sensation on the inner flesh of her left forearm, and she winced, momentarily distracted by the pain-but a moment was all Zivon needed.
But before Zivon could plunge the fork into Yvka's neck, a patch of darkness appeared in front of the man's face and sealed itself tight to his features, as if it were an ebon mask. Zivon broke off his attack, dropped his fork, and clawed at the darkness clinging to his face. He staggered backward. His foot landed on some kind of bright-red glop that Yvka thought might have once been sorbet, and his legs flew out from under him. He fell backwards and landed on his rump with a tailbone-jarring thud.
Yvka realized then that the sounds of fighting-angry shouts, cries of pain, blows landed by fists, feet, and utensils-had ceased. The Fury was over.
The dark mask covering Zivon's face was gone, and he sat looking up at Yvka as if he didn't quite recognize her, his expression no longer contorted by madness, his features calm, if confused.
The burning sensation on Yvka's forearm had subsided somewhat, but it still hurt. She rolled back her sleeve to examine her forearm, and for a moment she stared in stunned disbelief at the stylized blue mark on her flesh.
Sovereigns! She'd manifested a dragonmark! She recognized it as the Mark of Shadow, one of the dragonmarks carried by both House Phiarlan and House Thuranni.
Zivon recognized the mark, too, and smiled. "Well, well, well… the Hierarchs will most definitely be interested in this development!"
Zivon held out his hand and, after a moment's hesitation, Yvka reached out to help him up.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Two dagger wounds and an arrow in the back… and not one of the blows came from an enemy." Ghaji shook his head in disgust. "If someone is ever foolish enough to write our adventures, Diran, I hope they leave this chapter out."
"I'm sorry, my friend, but I had no choice."
Ghaji brushed Diran's apology aside with a gesture. "Of course you didn't. I would've been upset if you'd done anything else. I am, however, grateful that you took the time to heal me before I bled to death."
While divine magic could raise the dead, priests of the Silver Flame refused to perform that particular feat and nothing could get them to consider otherwise. The Purified believed that once a spirit departed the world of the living, it joined with the Silver Flame. That joining was, in the view of their religion, the Ultimate Good and much to be desired-though of course one's death should never be intentionally hastened to fulfill this destiny, wondrous and beautiful though it might be. Ghaji knew that as much as Diran cared for him, the priest would never raise him from the dead, and while Ghaji didn't share Diran's religion, he respected the priest's views and accepted them.
Diran, Ghaji, and the rest of their companions stood outside in the inner courtyard of Calida's palace. Though the air was chilly, the sky was clear and the sun bright. Statues of rabbits being chased by a fox encircled a fountain. Clear water burbled from the top of the fountain to splash into the basin below. Despite the temperature, the water remained warm so that it wouldn't freeze. According to Tresslar, this was due to the presence of a minor fire elemental that was contained within the fountain. The animal statues were tall as halflings, and they stood on their hind legs, as if they weren't true representations of a fox and hares, but rather people wearing costumes. Ghaji hadn't seen any books during his time growing up in the Eldeen Reaches-who would waste time trying to teach a dumb half-orc to read? But the statues made him think of the illustrations one might find in tales written to delight children.
The animals certainly seemed to amuse Taran. The boy-dressed in a fur-lined doublet, trousers, boots, and a warm cloak-ran laughing from one statue to the next, climbing this one, pretending that another spoke to him in words only he could hear, running to the edge of the fountain's basin and scooping a handful of water to splash on another. The boy played as if he'd never played before in his life, and Ghaji supposed that he hadn't.
Calida stood watching her son, smiling, her eyes moist with tears. The woman had begun crying when Diran first brought Taran to her, and she hadn't stopped since. Ghaji was surprised that she still had any tears left to shed. But then, Calida had been storing her tears for a long time.
"Words cannot express the depth of my gratitude, Father."
Ghaji was taken aback to hear Calida refer to Diran that way, though as a member of the Order of Friars, the appropriate honorific for Diran was Brother. Sometimes Ghaji forgot that his friend was a priest, and that his position inspired a certain amount of deference from others, even from the non-Purified.
"Words aren't necessary," Diran said gently. "Your tears of joy and your son's laughter speak more eloquently than words ever could."
Calida still appeared tired and weak, but her color had improved, and she was no longer listless. She wore a long fur-trimmed robe, with a hood and large sleeves that, when put together, functioned as a muff. There were no guards within the inner courtyard to keep watch on the Baroness and her son. The courtyard was completely enclosed, and Calida-though she hadn't said so directly-obviously trusted her visitors to ensure the safety of herself and Taran.
Ghaji glanced at the others. They stood a dozen yards from where the half-orc and the priest spoke with the Baroness, watching Taran play and speaking in low tones. Ghaji had been relieved when their companions reached the palace unharmed. According to reports from the city watch, many people hadn't been so fortunate when the full, unfettered force of the Fury had been unleashed on Kolbyr. The watch was still tallying the number of dead. Ghaji had been especially glad to see that Yvka had suffered no injuries, though he'd tried his best not to appear unduly concerned about her when she'd arrived at the palace. Yvka could take care of herself just fine, and she expected Ghaji to respect that-and he did, but he'd still felt like giving her a fierce bear hug when she'd entered the courtyard unharmed.
Tresslar, Hinto, and Solus were also none the worse for wear, though for some reason the artificer seemed distracted, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. Probably worrying about his lost wand, Ghaji decided. Ironically, of all the companions, only Ghaji and Asenka had sustained any serious injuries during the Fury. Ghaji had taken dagger blows from Diran, and then an arrow in the back from the priest who'd arrived to help at the last moment. The man sat by himself on the edge of the fountain's basin, looking down into the pool of water within, lost in thoughtful solitude. Ghaji wondered if the priest, who evidently was an old acquaintance of Diran's, was praying. The man, named Leontis, seemed too grim, and somehow too sad to be praying, though.