Caught in Crystal: A Lyra Novel by Patricia Collins Wrede Page A

what will happen if the Circle of Silence hears of it. And it wouldn’t matter to them if they started another war.”
    “We understand,” Varevice said. Kayl nodded her agreement. Barthelmy scowled angrily.
    Evla put a restraining hand on Barthelmy’s arm. “You know it is important,” the healer said gently.
    “Yes, but cooperating with Varnans?”
    “The alternative would be worse.”
    “Well… all right. I’ll go.”
    “Then you’re all agreed.” Mother Anaya looked pleased. “I’ll let Mother Dalessi know. You’ll have a few days’ rest before the Varnan group arrives; make the most of it.”
    “How many of them will there be?” Kayl asked.
    “Three wizards, and five slaves.” Mother Anaya’s mouth wrinkled again, as if she found the word distasteful.
    Barthelmy started to object again, but Kayl frowned her into silence. “And their names?”
    “They didn’t give us the names of the slaves. The wizards will be Beshara al Allard, Glyndon shal Morag, and Kevran ker Rondal.”
    The fire was almost out. Stiffly, Kayl rose and knelt on the stones of the inn’s hearth. Her fingers traced the familiar shapes, feeling for the hidden latch. When she found it, she hesitated. Then she scowled at her own indecision and pressed the catch.
    For a moment she was afraid that the mechanism had rusted or jammed during the years it had gone unused. Then, without so much as a click, the stone in front of her dropped three fingers’ breadths into the floor and slid to one side. Kayl leaned forward and picked up the heavy, cloth-wrapped bundle in the cavity beneath it.
    The hidden cache extended under the other hearthstones, and the bundle was a tight fit. Kayl had lost the knack of removing it quickly; she had to work it carefully back and forth until she found the angle that allowed her to lift it free. She set it gently on the hearth in front of her, and hesitated once more. Then she reached out and turned back the thick folds of oilcloth.
    The dying fire gleamed golden from the hilt of a sheathed sword and sent back shining splinters from a rod of dark, oiled wood. The rod was a slender, unmarked cylinder; Kevran had never been one for decorations. The sword was a wicked-looking rapier with a hilt made of silvery metal. The hilt was inlaid with an eight-pointed star, with a milky stone at its center.
    Kayl reached out and took the hilt of the rapier in her hand. It felt cool and familiar, and at the same time a little strange, like a half-forgotten dream. She drew the blade and stood, hefting it. Then she swung it in a hard, flat arc.
    The air sang softly as the sword cut through it, then was silent. Slowly, Kayl lowered the sword. She could feel the unaccustomed weight pulling at her muscles. Too much of that and she’d be sore tomorrow. The hilt pressed against her hand in all the wrong places; her calluses came from brooms and buckets now, not weapons.
    It was foolish to think she might go back. Swordplay was a game for younger women. Kayl was thirty-six; even if she had kept in training, she would be starting to lose her edge. Experience could compensate for slowing reflexes and muscles that tired more easily, but her experience was nearly fifteen years in the past.
    And even if she could harden her muscles and hone her reflexes once more, what could she do with Mark and Dara while she trained—and afterward? The life of a wandering warrior was hardly suitable for raising children. The Sisterhood would help, if she went back to them, but they would not be able to do anything about the separations that would be necessary when she had to go to Toltan or Rathane.
    Kayl stared down at the sword. Then, even more slowly than before, she stooped and replaced it in the oilcloth bundle. Carefully, she set the bundle back into its hiding place beneath the hearth. Her fingers touched the latch, and the stone slid smoothly back into place. She stood and banked the fire with mechanical precision, then left the room