Good, she thought. He’s angry. This should be fun.
“They are not late, Bredeth. Phathas made arrangements for them to meet us three Stardays hence, and the last I checked,” she said, looking out of the stained glass window to her left, “it is still Starday.”
“I have wandered the streets and the situation is even worse here than in the other cities,” the noble replied. “My country is suffering. My people are exhausted. Nyrond is but an echo of the great nation it was. And we—” he leaned over and stabbed his finger violently down on the table before him—“who have a plan that can help restore the country to its former glory, have to wait on the whim of two foreigners who are probably sitting in a brothel right now laughing at their good fortune.”
“First off,” retorted the bard, “these are not your people. You are cousin to His Majesty, and a distant one at that. Your head, however inflated with its own sense of importance, will never, gods’ willing, wear the crown. And second, Phathas himself chose these ‘foreigners’. If he believes that they offer us our best chance of success, then I shall not gainsay him.”
“Such insolence.” Bredeth nearly spat as he drew closer to the bard. “If we were in my father’s castle, I would have you beaten and cast out with the other criminals.”
“I pray that I never fall so low as to have to ply my skills for a family of tone-deaf boors who couldn’t appreciate a song if it came from Olidammara’s own mouth. With any luck, I’ll never find myself near the drafty wreck of a keep where you were born.”
Bredeth recoiled as if he had been slapped, and Majandra wondered if perhaps she had gone too far this time. The young noble drew even closer to her, his perfect teeth clenched tightly. “You have noble blood in you, Majandra,” he whispered, “and that has protected you so far. But don’t ever forget what other blood flows through your veins.”
At this, the bard’s hand absently pushed aside flowing strands of red hair to finger the ever-so-slight point of her ear.
“Some may find you exotic,” Bredeth continued. “Others…” He tilted his head to the side and shrugged. “Well, let’s just say that not every noble family regards marital infidelity as a romantic gesture.”
The bard sat stunned, unable to even phrase the crudest of retorts. She had always known that the events surrounding her birth were fodder for the sitting rooms of bored nobles who had nothing better to do than gossip away the hours of the day, and she had dealt with the whispered imprecations and sidelong glances that accompanied her adolescent years. Until this time, however, no one had ever confronted her directly with the shame of her mixed heritage.
Anger rose up inside of her. This may have started as a game, a way to pass the time as she waited for the two of whom Phathas spoke, but it had become quite real. She refused to be judged by this petulant spoiled brat, and she was about to tell him so when another voice broke into the conversation.
“Peace,” it commanded. “Both of you. Phathas is at rest and will need all of his strength for the coming journey.”
As one, Bredeth and Majandra turned to face the source of the voice. Vaxor stood in one of the suite’s many doorways, his mouth, surrounded by a silvering black beard, drew down into a frown, his deep-ridged brow furrowed. Even beneath his flowing robes, Majandra could see the man’s solid build bulked even further by a layer of chainmail. His left hand was wrapped around a silver medallion in the shape of a lightning bolt, the symbol of Heironeous.
The bard pushed down her anger for the moment. There would be ample opportunity to spar with Bredeth on their journey. The young noble, however, obviously felt no such restraint. “An insult has been dealt my family,” he continued, this time turning toward the priest for support, “and I demand that it be redressed—”
“Enough, Bredeth,” Vaxor’s deep voice interrupted the man’s tirade. “We have more important matters to deal with besides a slight to your honor.” He fixed both of them with a stern gaze, and it became clear to Majandra why this man had risen so high within the church of the Arch-Paladin. She could feel the power of his presence like a palpable force.
“Our guests will arrive soon,” the priest continued, “and we should be prepared for them.”
Bredeth snorted, either unaware of the intensity in Vaxor’s gaze or just too stupid to heed it; Majandra couldn’t decide which.
“I don’t even know who our ‘guests’ are,” the noble said, “but since they have not arrived yet, I am beginning to doubt whether or not they could actually guide themselves into a harlot’s skirts.” Majandra began to protest again, but the young man held up his hand, cutting her off. “Then where are they?” he asked.
“I can’t be sure,” broke in a fourth voice, its bright timbre carrying clearly across the room, “but I think that we are right behind you.”
Majandra hid a smile at the look on Bredeth’s face.
The interior of the Platinum Shield was every bit as elegant as its exterior suggested. Rounded teak and cherry oak tables stood upon a floor of polished wood, while masterful carvings decorated the inn’s paneled walls. The design of the common area, with its sweeping lines and softened corners gave the impression of depth yet still retained an intimate atmosphere. A set of stairs, complete with a runner made of thick red carpet, led up to the sleeping rooms above, and another door led downstairs to the Shield’s famous wine cellar.
The taproom itself was empty except for the small group assembled around a wide table close to the marble-mantled fireplace. Majandra ran a lazy finger across the exquisite horn cup that held her pint of ale, gazing at the giant of a man that sat across from her. After a few tense moments of silence in the suite above, Vaxor had taken charge, rousing Phathas from his rest and assembling the group in the common room of the inn. Introductions were hastily made and the six of them now sat talking in subdued tones.
The burly human had a kind face, with deep-set eyes and a strong nose. Thick black hair ran in waves just short of the man’s broad shoulders; the leonine mane accented a sharply defined jaw. But it wasn’t Kaerion’s stunning looks that drew the bard’s attention. Rather, it was the haunted gaze that leapt from his eyes when he thought no one was looking, the way he obviously carried an aching wound so deep that it had settled into his bones. She found her hand almost tingling with the desire to caress his brow, offering what comfort she could. There was a bitter tale here, and nothing compelled Majandra so much as the promise of a tale—the more tragic the better.
His companion was another matter entirely. The gorgeous elven ranger had introduced himself with the grace and charm befitting a royal courtier, his silver tongue lapsing into the most beautifully accented Elvish that she had ever heard, in order to pay her a particularly “adventurous” complement. She had smiled and accepted his words gracefully enough, and she had found herself responding despite everything she knew about such rakish folk. And this line of thinking wasn’t helping her concentrate on the matter at hand at all.
She watched as Vaxor stood, helping Phathas to his feet. The ancient mage wore his power like a cloak. Majandra could almost see the eddies of arcane energy swirling about him. Eyes that were gray as the clouds of a summer storm looked out from a face of harsh angles. Like many wizards, he wore a beard, silvered by time but thick and curling in the heated room. Unlike many of his noble colleagues at the University, who groomed their beards almost obsessively with silvered combs, often weaving the hair into thick braids, Phathas’ beard resembled a wild bird’s nest of tangles and knots.