“Iwillbe ready.”
Why were they like this? I’d be well and truly thrilled when my time with the people of the shale was completed. I’d not been so mercilessly teased since the last time I spoke with my father.
The meal progressed in silence, the king excusing himself to attend to other matters concerning the ceremony for Umeris. I pushed the greens and pear slices around my plate. One of the twins, Dulgar, belched, sat back, and then eyeballed my still-full plate.
“Why don’t you eat some of the kidney pie if those greens ain’t appealing?”
“Druids don’t eat the flesh of animals,” I replied curtly. Smuta, pausing from picking at some meat stuck between her teeth with a small dagger, spoke up.
“So why do you have leather boots?”
They were observant. “My boots were crafted from the hide of a red stag found dead in the woods. No beast gave its life for my footwear.”
“Ah.” She spat the sliver of kidney to the floor and folded her arms under her large breasts, pushing them up so far they nearly cushioned her chin. “That makes sense. I ain’t had too many sit-down meals with druids, nor elves for that matter, and none so fine as this.” She looked around the solarium.
“I don’t dine here often either,” I replied, poking at a pear slice with my finger. “Mostly, I spend my time away from the castle. Riding, exploring, mapping.”
“Mapping sounds almost as much fun as swiving your sister,” Narub tossed out and got a sound laugh from the others.
Asdren patted his belly and then rose. “We’re off to find a bed in town, a willing whore, and a few pints of good ale. No offense to the king, but this sweet wine tastes like donkey piss.” He looked right at me. “Dawn, in the bailey, and bring warm clothes. We ain’t going to be frolicking about on the beach in our short clothes. We’re going into the Witherhorns where the Stonefather rules with a cold, heavy fist and little patience for twiggy elves with no meat on their bones.”
“I will be ready,” I stated yet again. The foursome seemed to be doubtful but filed out in a line, talking to each other in a guttural language I knew to be Dwarven. My ear for languages was good. Alone in the lush solar, I sipped some wine and made a face. The dwarf was right. This wine was far too sweet. Perhaps the son of a murderous bandit had more in commonwith the outspoken stone folk than he ever could hope to have in common with the noble elves.
Leaving my food behind, I slipped out of the solar to find Le’ral Fylson striding down the corridor.
“Ah, Beiro, I was hoping to catch you. If you could grant me a few moments before you go off to the scouts’ quarters to wash up and rest for your dinner this eve with the ambassador, it would be most appreciated.”
“Yes, of course, Grand Advisor Fylson.” I moved along in his wake, the scent of orange-apple tea and sweet berry cookies wafting behind the king’s now lone advisor. I didn’t ask how he knew of my dinner plans. Le’ral knew all.
We made our way to his office, a large, airy room with a thick door filled with a long, long lifetime of memories and mementos. As soon as I entered the room, the subtle charge of a spell moved over my skin, the smell of the barrier spell tickling my nose with the aroma of energy, like the air right after a lightning strike. It was an old spell in place here, protecting this room from magical surveillance. Who had cast it, I did not know. “Sit, now we’re alone and unable to be overheard with a basic crystallomancy spell, we can discuss your upcoming mission in full. Cookie?”
“Yes, thank you, Shadow Master.”
