She almost dropped the book at a sudden cough from Astryx, leaping to her feet in concern.
The curve of the Oathmaiden’s lip was unmistakable.
It hadn’t been a cough. It sounded like pebbles in a clay pot, but Astryx One-Ear waslaughing.
As Fern relaxed and moved to settle back onto her stool, the elf’s hand reached out and squeezed her forearm, gently, just once.
“Good storyteller. Keep going. Please.”
Fern made it through four chapters before Burdock shooed her away.
On the fifth day, as Fern slipped into the stable to visit Astryx’s horse, she discovered a new resident. A sturdy dun pony nosed curiously over her stall at a skeptical Bucket.
Further investigation revealed a brightly colored wagon parked beside the stable. From the little round windows in the sides—with curtains—it looked like somebody lived in it, although a rap at the rear door received no response.
“Huh,” mused Fern aloud.
The mystery didn’t survive long.
By silent and mutual agreement, Fern and the monks had fallen into the habit of leaving space between each other at mealtimes so they didn’t have to endure her conversational gambits, and she wasn’t embarrassed when they failed.
So, it was a surprise when, just as she was about to dig into her meal, someone plunked their bowl and cup decisively beside her and dropped onto the bench.
“You don’t look much like a monk,” said the dwarf, with a brilliant smile and an extended hand. Her black hair was pinned back with a jeweled clip, she wore a burgundy doublet with intricate gold stitching, and she had an open, earnest face.
“Um. No,” replied Fern, and couldn’t help but smile back. She took the offered hand in her own paw and shook. It looked like her conversational horizons were about to widen. “Definitely not. Fern.”
“Staysha. Actually, Silver Sparrow is my traveling name. Maybe you’ve heard of me?”
“Well . . .” Fern hedged.
“Ah, never mind.” Staysha laughed. “It’s usually best for my sort not to ask questions like that.”
“Your sort?”
“Bards. Minstrels.” The dwarf mimed strumming a lute, then bumped her shoulder against Fern’s. “So, you ran afoul of the bridge, too, eh?”
Fern blinked. “You could definitely say that.”
“Whew, that monster of a horse in there can’t beyours,though. You didn’twalkhere, did you?”
Laughing, Fern replied, “No. Absolutely not, I—”
But Staysha didn’t let her finish. “Gods, I’m glad you’re here.” She leaned in close and held a hand beside her mouth before whispering, “Now, there’s somebody to notice if I go missing. More tentacles around here than expected.”
Her grin didn’t seem overly worried, despite her words.
They chatted animatedly over their meal, although the dwarf held up her end, and then some. It turned out she’d been traveling west toward Bycross for some sort of long-running gig at a tavern there before she’d stumbled upon a bunch of monks inspecting the ruins of the bridge. One of them had escorted her to the abbey to resupply and reconsider her route.
When Staysha excused herself to retrieve her instrument from her wagon—“The cold’s a beast for it!”—Fern made sure to let her know where the library was so she could find her later.
It occurred to her as she left that she’d never once breathed a word about Astryx or Zyll.
Although Staysha struck her as eminently likable, Fern thought she’d keep it that way.
29
“Remarkable,” whispered Burdock, delicately probing Astryx’s ribs on either side of her wound, while the elf hiked her shirt up to give him access.
