The elemental creature's attention became distracted to something outside their calm pocket. "There's Fraz, an old nemesis I haven't seen for an eon…." The elemental globe began to slip through the edge of the bubble. "We have a score to settle." With that, the creature disappeared.
"Wait! Don't leave us here!" cried Pteros, starting to follow. "Let it go. If s not going to help us," muttered Khisanth. The old dragon whirled on her. "No thanks to you! We could have been home by now if your greed hadn't gotten in
the way."
"My greed?" Blood pounded at Khisanth's temples. "Whose was it that brought us here in the first place? Tvly, what a nice
gem that is, Khisanth/ " she whined, mimicking Pteros. " 'If there's one thing I know if s magic' "
Pteros looked more smug than chastised. "I believe I told you more than once that I'd rather you'd left me alone to pol shy;ish my gems." He looked around sadly at the empty settings in his diadem and necklace. "Now I have nothing."
"So this is my fault? — Oh, never mind," Khisanth sighed at last. She was letting her temper and frustration control her. Khisanth closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing, drawing in long, slow breaths to calm herself. When the blood slipped at last from her temples and freed her mind to think, she said, "We've got to figure a way out of here." She opened her eyes and looked at Pteros. The older dragon was just short of wringing his claws, his eyes wide with apprehension. Khi shy;santh ventured, "What about teleporting?"
"Not powerful enough, I'm sure, to get us to a completely different plane of existence." Pteros scratched his wrinkled brow. "There is a gate spell, but I've never used it. I'm afraid I'm feeling a little too shaky to try it."
Khisanth knew it was hopeless to try to talk him into it. "We got in here, so there's got to be a way out. Didn't the elemental say the quasi-plane of lightning adjoins the plane of air? We'll just find that border and keep going until we find one that bumps into the Prime Material plane."
"I don't know…" hedged Pteros.
"Have you got a better plan? We can't just sit in this bubble forever." She peered anxiously around.
"I'd be willing to consider it," muttered Pteros, settling him shy;self as if for the long haul. "At least if s quiet in here, and we aren't likely to bump into Talon."
Khisanth's brow furrowed. She contemplated the ever-pre shy;sent lightning beyond the bubble. "What troubles me is that we're likely to bump into something far worse."
Chapter 12
Sir Tate Sekforde squeezed the shears. Snip! The last straggle of his pale mustache drifted to the rush-covered floor. Still peering closely into the polished brass plaque, the Knight of the Crown smoothed his whiskers against his upper lip. His mustache had grown back thicker, even a shade darker, in the year since the fire that had singed it from his face. He frowned at his yellow-tinged image in the plaque as three fingers traced the faint scars on his left cheek, white against his tanned skin. Tate hoped the nose of the woman who had forever marked him thus looked as bad. If she was even still alive…
It was Misham, the fifth day of the week, the one he had chosen for his holy day. It meant that as a candidate for the Order of the Sword, Tate could not do battle, earn profit, or speak harshly to anyone this day. He must also spend at least
three hours in silent meditation and prayer to Kiri-Jolith, the patron god of the Order of the Sword. Lore said Kiri-Jolith was twin brother to Habbakuk, who was the patron of Tate's current Order of the Crown. When, as Tate hoped, he became a Knight of the Sword, the meditation to his new patron would grant him clerical spells. Until then, Tate secretly felt that it served primarily to slow down progress on his task of rebuilding Lamesh Castle. Four hundred fifty miles away in his tower in Solamnia, the High Clerist of the knights, who would decide whether Tate was fit to wear the sign of the sword, might never see him violate the rule, but the god Kiri-Jolith would know. And so every seven days, Tate complied.
As ranking knight of Lamesh Castle, Tate stood alone, the last to rise in the modest barracks he shared with his men. Not one to stand on formality, he nevertheless donned the off-duty attire of a man of his social standing-green- and yellow-checked tunic, green hose, and soft-soled, rawhide shoes. Last, he draped a black silk baldric, made by his lady mother, from right shoulder to left hip to carry the sword he never went without, holy day or not.
Thoughts of his family threatened to sour Tate's already somber mood, so he strode from the barracks and into the inner courtyard. The knight headed for the bake house located farther to the west along the north wall. Though the day was supposed to be spent in fasting, Tate believed that even the god Kiri-Jolith could not expect him to pray with any fervor on an empty stomach.
Abel, the baker Tate had brought with him from Solamnia, was a stout man who looked like he enjoyed his own pastries too well. He was doing his part to support the rebuilding of the castle into a Solamnic outpost. His ovens ran day and night, making a variety of baked goods that fed the workmen inside the castle, but were also sold to the people who were resettling the village beyond the castle walls.
The knight stepped into the man's domain just as Abel was using a long wooden paddle to retrieve a dark, round loaf from the stone oven. "What'll it be this morning, Sir Tate?" the baker asked, his chubby face flushed from the heat
of the oven. "I've got a nice, big loaf of rye here."
"No thanks, Abel. Just a sticky bun, if you please." Tate winked conspiratorially. "I'm supposed to be fasting today, you know."
The baker retrieved a bun from a bowl on the table and handed it to Tate. "So it's Misham, again, eh?" Shaking his head, he poured water from a pitcher onto a mound of coarse-ground flour in a wooden bowl and began to stir so vigorously the meal spewed onto the table. "You work me so hard out here in the boondocks, I can scarcely keep track of the days."
Tate smiled, knowing the crusty baker would have it no other way. "And well I appreciate your sacrifice, Abel. Are you getting the flour as quickly as you need it?"
Abel snorted. "Barely. That fool in the granary-what's his name, Dol? short for Dolt, no doubt-he's as slow as molasses in the month of Newkolt."
"Now, Abel, he's doing the best he can. Especially when you consider he knew nothing about milling grain before we recruited him to operate the grindstone."
"Still doesn't, if you ask me." The baker let a handful of flour sift through his fingers. "Look at how coarse this is. Chunks as big as your head-"
Tate clapped the baker on the back to curb the man's favorite tirade. "I'll speak to him about it tomorrow, Abel," the knight promised. "Thanks for the bun," he added as he stepped back into the coolness of the courtyard, chuckling.
The knight chided himself; he should have known better than to ask the persnickety Abel such a question. In truth, Tate didn't mind dealing with complaints. He spent many a day resolving conflicts between the craftsmen who were working to repair and rebuild the ruined castle. The majority of the debates were sparked when a local craftsman ques shy;tioned the opinion of one of the skilled artisans he'd brought from the more civilized region of Solamnia. He needed all of his diplomatic skills to solve those conflicts without obvious bias, which could cost him the craftsman. Tate needed every available hand to prepare the castle for the coming winter.
Before entering the temple to Kiri-Jolith for his three hours of prayer, Tate climbed the steps of the northeast tower and paced the walkway on the walls. The day was unusually warm for late autumn, the sky as blue as a sapphire. He wanted to enjoy a few moments of the last good weather they would have before winter turned the landscape bleak.