Doust nodded. “And which god sent it?”
Jhessail sighed. “None of this talk of ours matters. We’ve no way of knowing it’s to do with the gods or not. What if it’s a ghost that haunts this inn? Or a prowling monster? Or spell-sent by a wizard to hunt for something? It could be none of these things; we just don’t know. Now, if the gods want us to do something, they can tell us. Plainly. Otherwise, all this guessing is just that: our guessing. Or a priest’s guessing-and hear me welclass="underline" I’m not spending the rest of my life wondering if I should do thus and so in accordance with someone else’s guesses. Guesses that could very well be wrong. And they will be someone else’s guesses, because I’m not wasting any time trying to guess anything.”
She ran out of breath and fury at the same time, and stopped abruptly. In the silence that followed, Doust and Martess said the same thing, in untidy unison: “Well said.”
It was a far later time than Tessaril Winter, the Lady Lord of Eveningstar, was accustomed to dining. Or to receiving smiling young Wizards of War alone in her bedchamber, for that matter.
Nevertheless, her room at the top of her tower was the most private and secure place she knew of in Eveningstar, and Vangerdahast’s spy was obviously starving. She filled his tallglass again-glowfire, and a particularly fine vintage-and earned a bright smile of thanks.
The cheese, nutbread, and spicy pickles were delicious. Peasant fare, but she liked them, and kept them to hand in jars and stone coffers in her closet. Her cooks had taken to sleeping in the kitchen and pantry, and she’d rather they not know of young Malbrand’s visit. The food gave their little chat something of a blanketfeast air, as if they were gallivanting together in a forest. Like a certain young noble lady and a handsome local forester, it seemed.
“These Swords must be something, if the Zhentarim are this worried about them,” Tessaril commented, helping herself to cheese and shaking her head ruefully. She’d known she’d be unable to resist, once the viands were out and she could see and smell them.
The war wizard nodded. “They won their charter by saving the king’s life, and ride now with the young Lady Narantha Crownsilver, much against the wishes of her parents.”
“Hmm. Am I to detain the lady?”
“Neither the Crown nor the royal magician have sent instructions. Lord and Lady Crownsilver will send instructions, likely howled loudly-but they don’t know she’s still with them. Yet.”
Tessaril smiled. “I like adventurers. Matchless entertainment.”
Malbrand rolled his eyes.
Tessaril snorted. “Stop that. And tell me of this saving of Az-of His Majesty’s life.”
The young mage was beginning to get over his awe of her and embarrassment at being served a meal by a lady lord of the realm clad only in a nightrobe, not two strides from her bed. He leaned forward eagerly. “Of course.”
Sipping glowfire and lifting his brows to her in appreciative salute-which she returned, silently raising her own glass-he asked, “Now, where to begin? Ah, I suppose with…”
The next morning dawned slow and chill, a reluctant sun slowly brightening an Eveningstar beset with the drifting smoke of thick ground mists. The dew had been heavy, and most folk busied themselves indoors, awaiting the warmer full sun.
Apothecaries, however, are desired in haste or not welcomed at all. The wooden box of his satchel rode heavily on Maglor’s hip, its shoulder strap creaking, as he strode along the village roads. Old Mother Naura wanted clearthroat syrup for her ailing youngest, Beldrak’s old wounds were stiffening and needed deepfire liniment, and Two rose-robed figures came striding out of the mists toward him, talking together in low tones. Ah, yes. The other brave farers forth in any sort of weather: priests of the House of the Morning, on holy business bent.
“Fair morning,” Maglor greeted them heartily. He was not loved at the temple, he knew. Though the priests of Lathander weren’t known for selling little bottles that soothed and healed, he was probably seen as a major reason for their lack of that particular source of easy coins.
“Fair morning, Master Maglor,” one replied briskly, deep-voiced. Hamdorn the Hand-Wringer, that would be, the large, florid, balding man who comforted grieving folk of Eveningstar with empty platitudes and soothing nothings.
Which meant the other priest would be Hamdorn’s nigh-constant companion, Claerend. The two conducted much of the temple’s daily dealings with the village, and so would be a good way to begin darkening the reputations of these Swords. Right now, before they’d even been seen in Eveningstar.
A few fell falsehoods, hints of “involvements” and “they say that,” would be a solid beginning. When he was done delivering bottled comfort, a visit to the Lady Lord of Eveningstar to impart similar tidings-as a frowningly troubled apothecary, passing on what he thought she should know, overheard from gossipy passing merchants-would be a second step of even greater solidity. Solid coin, solid progress; Maglor liked solid things.
He rubbed his hands as the priests drew nearer and a plume of wet mist slid away to confirm their identities, and asked, “Have you heard the latest? Seems the king’s decided to rid himself of some troublesome sorts and have another go at the Haunted Halls, at one stroke. He’s granted a charter to a band of younglings who call themselves ‘the Swords of Eveningstar’-not that they’ve ever set boot in our fair village yet, mind-and ordered them up here, to play at being adventurers! I’m thinking we’d all best be alert, lest more than a few chickens start to go missing, if you catch my drift…”
Hamdorn and Claerend stopped dead and leaned forward, interest clear on their faces.
Maglor hid a grin. Solid progress.
Jhessail was starting to get used to the constant creak of saddle-leather and jingling of bits and bridle-rings, but she suspected the ache in her thighs was only going to get worse. By the furrows on her roommate’s brow, Martess was feeling the same pain.
“Not used to riding, hey?” Agannor had asked with a friendly grin, spurring past her on his way to the front, back when they’d been leaving the inn yard. In his wake, Bey had looked away and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Strengthens the thighs!” Well, at least he hadn’t delivered those words with the delighted leer Semoor would have wrapped them in. Dhedluk was a full day’s ride ahead, halfway to Eveningstar, but the road ran through deep forest and the sun seemed in no hurry, so the mists would cling and roll along it for most of their way.
“ ’Ware outlaws,” the grizzled leader of a patrol of king’s foresters had said, coming into Waymoot as they were riding out. The mist had beaded the ranger’s beard with water, droplets that hung along his jaw like jewels. “This-and full night-are when they’re at their worst. Show those swords of yours, and wear the shields.”
Agannor and Bey, looking seasoned and formidable in the best armor and weaponry among the Swords, had gone to the fore. With a silent jerk of her head and firm hand on the bridle of his horse, Islif had taken Semoor with her to the rear-largely to keep him away from all the lasses and so curb his tongue a trifle, Jhessail suspected.
The rest of the Swords were strung out between, riding in pairs… though, as she’d expected, Doust was falling back now, to join Semoor. Those two were as thick as Hmm. Now, was or was not Pennae a professional thief? And if she was, what sort of trouble would that land them all in, and how soon? Islif had firmly chosen to room with Pennae last night, and hadn’t said anything much this morn, but perhaps a word or two…
Alongside, Martess was riding quietly. Jhessail liked her, thus far at least. She kept to herself, but watched the world alertly from under those arresting black brows. Just as eye-catchingly ivory skin-she seemed to own only high-collared gowns and tunics of black, dark blue, and purple, that made her look bone-pale. Black eyes, that ink-black long hair; if she’d been aggressive or insolent or acted sinister, she’d be the sort folk would be quick to call a “witch.” Slender, petite, child-sized-and still largely a mystery.