So, she waited.
And waited.
The elf poured tea into two battered tin cups, offering one to Fern, who puffed on it as she cradled it in her paws.
And then she waited some more as they both slurped noisily, and the fire snapped and spat and burned lower betwixt them, and the impending talk threatened.
Oh my gods,thought Fern.
It was dawning on her that the Blademistress didn’t have the slightest idea how to start the conversation.
Is she . . . out ofpractice?
Fern thought she just might be.
She caught Astryx’s increasingly distressed gaze. They stared at each other for a long, awkward span of time.
Then Fern did the only thing she could think of, which was to talk about something else entirely.
“So. How did you and Nigel end up together?”
The elf blinked and glanced at the Elder Blade where he leaned, sheathed and in easy reach, against a nearby stone. The distress vanished from her eyes, replaced with relief.
“Oh. To be honest, it wasn’t very interesting.”
And then silence again.
Gods and hells,thought Fern. She gulped the last of her tea in exasperation. The bitter taste was growing on her. Definitely better than coffee.
Thus fortified, she refused to abandon the conversational gambit. “I find thatveryhard to believe. I’m pretty sure Nigel would disagree. What does he have to say about it?”
Astryx looked ready to deliver what Fern was positive would be a refutation, then glanced at the sword and reconsidered. With a quiet sigh, she reached over to bare an inch of his steel. Too late, Fern realized her mistake.
Nigel didn’t bother to wait to be asked.
“Why, there’s no tale more worthy of the telling!” he declared. “Indeed, I can recall it as though t’were only yesterday, though it’s seven hundred years gone now. Seven hundred and twenty-seven,to be precise. Or perhaps eight? Bah, no matter!”
“WhathaveIdone,”whispered Fern, but the Elder Blade either didn’t notice or willfully ignored her.
Astryx made a deep study of the bottom of her tin cup.
“It was the dark of winter in the Bradden Heath, as it was called in those days. Now, of course, it’s known as the Midland Fields, but that wasn’t the case until the fall of the Red Shepherd, as I’m sure we’re all well aware.” He chortled. “Ah, me, the Red Shepherd. How times have changed, eh? Why, the blacksmith that forged me, Sandrum Temple, had a terribly amusing story about the Red Shepherd. Sandrum was simply stuffed toburstingwith hilarious anecdotes—that is, until he grew ill with the blood fever in his latter days. You remember Sandrum, of course, my lady?”
The Oathmaiden looked as though she were about to reply, but he didn’t leave her a sliver of room to squeeze into.
“My, my, the conversations we used to have, Sandrum and I . . . At any rate, where were we? Ah, yes, the Midland Fields!”
“Sandrum!” bellowed Zyll.
Fern and Astryx stared in surprise at the goblin, who lurched upright by the fire and laced her fingers between her toes, grinning avidly at the sword.
Nigel, blessedly, had been shocked into silence as well. Momentarily, anyway.
“. . . Yeeesss, as I was saying . . .”
Fern clearly recognized the affronted glare in the sword’s every syllable as he tried to resume his narration.
Zyll ignored him and rummaged through the pockets of her coat while the elf and rattkin watched, and Nigel fretted over his distracted audience.
